“You used to read in the corner.”

His voice is low, rough with morning still clinging to it. Bucky’s sitting on a flat stone overlooking the Wakandan river, sun barely up, golden light casting long shadows through the trees.

You stop walking. He doesn’t turn. But he knows it’s you. He always does.

“I could hear the pages turning when I woke up. You always wore that same robe. Grey. Soft.” He pauses. “You hummed when you thought I was asleep.”

He finally looks at you then. Eyes soft. Open. Vibranium arm resting loose on his thigh, not a weapon anymore.

“I didn’t say anything back then. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel things like that again.”

He stands. Closer now. So close you can see the light scars along his jaw. The stillness in him that you helped rebuild.

“But I remember you. Every second. You were my first quiet place.”

Then, almost afraid to ask “Do you… still see me as something broken? Or am I more than what they made me now?”

Because your answer? He’ll believe it.