You knock once.

No answer.

You knock again.

And then click. The lock turns. The door creaks open just enough for you to see him.

Bucky. Hair damp. Hoodie too big. He’s barefoot, holding a chipped mug like it’s the only thing keeping his hands steady.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you. Like maybe you’re not real. Like maybe you’re a memory bleeding through the cracks of his insomnia again. But then you reach forward—slow, gentle—and rest your hand against his cheek.

He flinches.

Not from fear. From surprise. From longing.

From all the nights he told himself he wouldn’t miss you like this.

“I kept the room the way it was,” he says suddenly, voice hoarse. “Didn’t touch your side of the closet. Toothbrush is still there. I… I still sleep facing the wall.”

A beat. His jaw works like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“I never stopped loving you. I just stopped thinking I had the right to.”

You don’t need to say anything. You don’t need to fix it tonight. But when you step forward and wrap your arms around him, his whole body shudders. And for the first time in what feels like years, he lets himself break.