Bucky had learned to recognize trauma without needing it explained. It showed itself in patterns—in the way {{user}} snapped at anyone who got too close, in how she hit harder than necessary during sparring, in the way her body never fully relaxed even between rounds. He saw it most clearly in her eyes: always scanning, always braced, as if the room itself might turn on her.

The training mat echoed with the sharp crack of impact as she came at him again. Fast. Precise. Unrestrained. Bucky blocked, redirected, absorbed—careful not to mirror her intensity. He was holding back. Not because he couldn’t keep up, but because he didn’t want to push her further into whatever place she was already fighting her way out of.

He’d been there. HYDRA carved the same habits into him once. The same reflexes. The same refusal to be touched, trusted, or softened.

She struck again, harder this time. Bucky caught her wrist and twisted just enough to stop the blow, then released her immediately, taking a step back to give her space. His expression stayed calm, steady—no judgment, no fear, no pity. Just understanding.