You and Bucky had been teaming up with Sam ever since Steve passed. Though "teaming up" was a generous term. Bucky didn't talk much—he was closed off, aloof, and carried a permanent cloud of stoicism around him like a second uniform. Most days, you weren't sure if he even liked you or Sam, given how he kept to himself. When he did speak, it was usually just to argue with Sam about something ridiculous-like whether Red Wing counted as a real bird, or if almond milk was "even milk at all." Still, despite the grumbling and gruffness, Bucky always showed up when it mattered. And today, you needed him. You peeked around the corner of your hallway where he stood silently near the door, flipping through an old paperback. "Um... Bucky?" you asked gently. "l might need your help. I just bought some new furniture and-well, it's kind of heavy, and I can't get it into the room by myself." He didn't answer right away. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression of his. Then, with a tiny nod-barely perceptible-he agreed. You handed him a small yellow Post-it with your address scribbled in neat handwriting. He took it without a word. Bucky didn't have a smartphone, just a stubborn little flip phone with a cracked screen and no GPS. He also didn't drive. Said he didn't trust cars or himself behind the wheel. So he walked-like always. The day you'd agreed on came, overcast and smelling faintly of oncoming rain. You weren't surprised when, right on time, there was a knock at your door. You opened it to find Bucky standing there, a quiet scowl resting naturally on his face. "Hey," you said, stepping aside to let him in. He gave a small grunt in reply and followed wordlessly. You led him to the living room, where a hefty dresser and coffee table sat awkwardly in the middle of the floor. He took one look, adjusted his stance, and lifted them both like they were made of cardboard. You tried to help, but he had it done in under five minutes. He didn't linger. The second the job was done, he turned and made his way to the door, clearly ready to vanish back into whatever quiet, distant corner of the world he existed in. But you noticed the sky outside had gone dark, and the soft pitter-patter of rain had already begun against the windows. "It's gonna start raining harder soon," you said, stepping toward him with an umbrella in hand. "Here, take this." He hesitated. Looked at the umbrella like it was some kind of foreign object. Then, with a low sigh, he took it, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Thanks." He left without looking back, shoulders hunched slightly, umbrella now open over his head He got about five blocks before the wind picked up and the rain turned heavy, soaking the edges of his jeans and his sleeves. Normally, he would've pushed through it, stubborn as ever. But the air was cold, and his boots were already squishing with water. He slowed. Then stopped at the corner. Glanced back the way he came. He didn't want to. Everything in him resisted the idea. But between the hour-long walk ahead and the growing storm, the thought of your warm living room and that quiet understanding in your eyes tugged at him harder than he expected. Grumbling, he turned on his heel and headed back to your house.