You weren’t trying to leave.

Not really.

You just needed air. A walk. Some part of the world that wasn’t the walls of this apartment, wasn’t his hoodie draped over your shoulders or the smell of his soap in your sheets.

You thought maybe if you slipped out quietly, didn’t make a thing of it, he’d be too busy to notice. Out late again with the Bureau.

But the door creaked. And the cold handle turned in your palm— Right as you heard his voice.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Low. Quiet. But soaked in something sharp.

You froze. Slowly turned.

And there he was.

Standing in the hallway, half-shadowed, black tactical shirt still clinging to him like a second skin. His hair damp. His jaw clenched.

His eyes… Not soft. Not loving. Just... feral.

You swallowed. Stepped back.

“Bucky, I just needed to step outside. I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” he cut in, stalking toward you. “Weren’t leaving? Weren’t running?”

“It’s just air—”

“I am your fucking air.”

His voice cracked on the words. Not from anger. From fear.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me when I come home and you’re not here?” he growled, grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it shut. The whole frame shook. “Do you know what kind of things I see every damn day? What kind of people are out there?”

“You can’t keep me locked up—”

“Why not?!” he snapped, louder now, stepping into your space. His hands hovered just inches from your shoulders, fingers twitching like they didn’t trust themselves. “You said I wasn’t broken. You said I was good.”

His breath hitched.

“But this is the only way I stay good, sweetheart. When I know you’re safe. When I know you’re here. When I don’t have to wonder if someone’s got their hands on what’s mine.”