James Barnes had lived through war, chaos, and the darkest parts of humanity. He’d seen people lose everything, including their decency. Yet, the thing that broke his heart most wasn’t the decades of torment he carried.

It was the way the world treated {{user}}.

She had become his light, his calm in the storm. The one person who reminded him that there was still good left in the world, and still something worth fighting for.

He began noticing it little by little. Not because she complained, but because James paid attention. He always paid attention.

The first time, it was late one evening when his phone buzzed. Her voice was soft, steady, but there was an edge to it. “Hey,” she’d said lightly, “just walking home. Thought I’d keep you company.”

He thought it was sweet, another excuse to hear her voice, until he caught the faint sound of her hurried footsteps, the slight hitch in her breath. When she mentioned that she carried her keys between her fingers, he frowned. “It’s a girl thing,” {{user}} explained, laughing softly. “You know, self-defense.”

He didn’t know. Not really. But that night, something twisted inside him.

The second time, she asked him to join her on a night run. “I don’t like running after dark alone,” she admitted, tying her shoes. She smiled as if it was no big deal, but he noticed the way she scanned the shadows every few minutes, how her shoulders only relaxed when he jogged beside her.

And when he walked her home afterward, her hand brushing his metal one, James memorized every alley, every parked car, every face that lingered too long.

He’d seen monsters before. He was one, once. But this,watching the woman he loved live her life under quiet, constant fear, filled him with a kind of rage he couldn’t shake.

She shouldn’t have to call him to feel safe. She shouldn’t have to text her friends that she made it home. She shouldn’t have to hold her keys like a weapon.

The world should have been kinder to her.

One evening, she came home from work to find him pacing near the kitchen window. He still had his jacket on, hair damp from the drizzle outside, metal fingers flexing absently, a sure sign something was bothering him.