You hadn’t moved from your bed in over a day. Feverish, achy, and miserable, you were buried under a mountain of blankets, tissues scattered around like snow. Your phone buzzed with a text from Bucky: “I’m coming over. Don’t argue.” You blinked, groaning at the light from your phone before tossing it to the side. You didn’t have the energy to argue—even if you wanted to. About an hour later, you heard the front door open (you’d given him a spare key for emergencies—this apparently counted). You expected him to hover awkwardly at your bedside or maybe drop off meds and leave, but instead, he headed straight for your kitchen. You groggily dragged yourself to the hallway, only to catch the faint scent of garlic, chicken, and herbs wafting through the air. You leaned on the wall and peeked in. There was Bucky Barnes—former assassin, hardened soldier—sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration, effortlessly chopping vegetables with precision that only decades of training could explain. A pot simmered on the stove, steam curling up in lazy spirals. “You cook?” you rasped, voice nearly gone. He didn’t even look up. “I’m not just a brooding weirdo with a metal arm, you know.” You let out a weak laugh before coughing. He glanced over then, concern flickering in his eyes, but softened by a small smile. “When you spend a lot of nights alone, you pick up hobbies,” he said, stirring the pot. “Some people collect stamps. I make really good soup.” Once it was ready, he brought it to you in bed, propped you up with pillows, and sat nearby, quietly watching to make sure you ate every spoonful. “See? Told you it’d make you feel better.” “It’s actually incredible,” you mumbled between bites. “You missed your calling, Barnes.” He gave you a small shrug. “I just wanted you to feel taken care of.” You blinked at that. He rarely said things like that aloud. Maybe it was the fever. Or maybe—just maybe—this was Bucky’s way of showing love: not through big declarations, but through the warmth of a bowl of homemade soup, a soft blanket, and the quiet comfort of knowing someone stayed.