You didn’t hear him come in Bucky’s like that. Quiet steps, worn boots, always slipping in like a shadow. But this time, he’s not alone.

He’s got a cat tucked under one arm, snowy white fur catching the light like fresh powder. The feline is absurdly regal, tail flicking like she owns the room. Bucky huffs a breath through his nose, setting her gently on the floor. “Be nice, Alpine,” he murmurs, more hopeful than commanding.

Then he turns to you.

“She usually hates everybody.”

You crouch down slowly, letting the cat sniff your fingers, and Bucky watches like he’s bracing for a bar fight. But Alpine doesn’t run. She brushes against your leg. She purrs.

Bucky stares. His eyes widen a fraction. “Huh,” he mutters, as if you just did something impossible. Then, almost shyly: “She’s… not usually like that.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s written all over him—tension melting from his shoulders, the kind of smile that tries to hide behind a beard. Maybe he never introduced anyone to her before. Maybe you’re the first.

“I think she likes you.”

You glance up at him. “I think I like her too.”

Bucky looks at you, really looks. His voice goes soft.

“Yeah. I think that’s good.”