The compound had a rhythm — one that hummed with morning drills, midday strategy meetings, and late-night debriefs. It was easy to get lost in the pattern, to slip through unnoticed. You had always floated along the edges of it, quiet and capable. No one noticed when you started skipping meals. No one noticed when your voice went hoarse or your footsteps grew slower.

Except Bucky.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. Watched the way you flinched when you coughed. Watched the way you blinked longer, slower, like it took effort to keep your eyes open. Watched the way you said “I’m fine” too quickly — the kind of quick that meant “Don’t look too closely.”

So when he passed your room and heard nothing — no rustling, no music, no movement — something in his gut twisted. He hesitated only a moment before opening the door.

You were sprawled across your queen sized bed, limbs tangled in a blanket that looked like it had been kicked off hours ago. Your skin was pale, damp with sweat, and your breath came in shallow pulls that set off alarms in his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, crossing the room in three long strides.

You didn’t stir when he touched your forehead. Burning. Too hot. Without thinking, he slipped an arm under your back, the other behind your knees. You didn’t wake even then. Bucky rarely touched anyone — but this was different. This was instinct.

He carried you down the hallway, eyes sharp in case anyone caught sight, but the corridor was empty. His room, usually locked tight and off-limits to everyone, opened with a soft click. He never let anyone in. But he set you gently on his bed like you belonged there.

Grabbing a damp cloth, he pressed it to your forehead, then wrapped a blanket around you — a soft one, old and worn but warm. He settled in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching your breathing with the intensity of someone guarding something fragile.

He didn’t plan to sleep. Not until you woke.

Not until you were okay.