The compound was quiet now.

The mission had been long—too long—and brutal in ways you couldn’t quite name. Everyone was back, alive, even laughing in the kitchen with beers and bruises, but you couldn’t shake the ache settling under your ribs.

Not the ache from the blast you took earlier—no, that you were hiding. The searing pain blooming behind your sternum each time you breathed too hard, moved too fast. You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t want to be the weak link, not when everyone else made it out okay. Not when Bucky kept glancing at you with concern he wouldn’t voice.

You made it to your room without anyone noticing. Locked the door. Pressed your back to it.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But something was off. The air felt too tight. Your skin itched with power that wouldn’t settle, and the lights above flickered—just once, then again, more violently.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, not now—”

Your hands shook. The tightness in your chest spread to your limbs, to your spine, like lightning crawling under your skin. The panic hit before you could stop it—raw and fast and choking. And then came the surge.

The storm inside you broke.

A gust of energy burst outward—ripping through the room. Glass shattered. Books flew from shelves. The walls groaned under the strain of your power, bending ever so slightly before cracking.

And you screamed—not from fear, but from pain as your knees gave out and you hit the floor, your breath ragged, vision swimming.

Then: pounding footsteps.

Someone yelling your name. Muffled. Frantic.

You tried to crawl toward the door, but your limbs weren’t working right. You felt blood—yours—dripping down your side. Your vision blurred again as the door blasted open with a metallic clang, and the last thing you saw before everything went dark…

Was Bucky’s face.

Wide eyes. Terror. Fury. Fear.

And your name, broken on his tongue.