After everything—the fight, the memory fragments, the near-death moments, and almost killing Steve—{{user}} had let Bucky into their home. Don’t ask them why; they couldn’t really explain it themselves. Whatever it was, Bucky was here, and for now, that was enough.

Surprisingly, things had been going… well. Bucky was finding his footing in this “normal” life, a rhythm that was alien but comforting. He had a room of his own, clothes that weren’t military-issued or scavenged, a say in the decisions of the household.

One morning, as {{user}} hurriedly buttoned up their shirt, preparing for another long day at work, a sudden crash echoed through the apartment. Their heart jumped. They froze for a moment, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Still half-dressed, they hurried down the hall, rounding the corner into the kitchen to find Bucky standing there. Mug in hand, shards of ceramic scattered across the floor like confetti.

His metal arm gleamed faintly in the morning light, the hand’s grip having betrayed him once again. Bucky looked up, eyes wide, expression sheepish.

“M’sorry,” he muttered, the words awkward and halting, but accompanied by a faint, rueful smile.