When you first moved into the old Brooklyn apartment complex, you didn’t realize your new neighbor was him — James Buchanan Barnes. You’d heard whispers about the mysterious man who lived at the end of the hall, the one who kept to himself, barely spoke, and had a stare sharp enough to cut glass. You figured people were exaggerating… until you met him. The first encounter was anything but friendly. You had accidentally parked in his spot — an honest mistake — and he’d knocked on your door with a low, unimpressed expression, his jaw clenched tight. “That’s my spot,” he said flatly, voice deep and gravelly. No introduction, no small talk, just that. You apologized and moved the car immediately, but the glare he gave you lingered longer than it should have. From that day forward, Bucky Barnes made it very clear he didn’t like you. It wasn’t dramatic — just cold. He avoided conversation, never returned your greetings, and seemed to grow tense whenever you passed in the hallway. The few times you tried to be neighborly — offering a wave, a smile, or even cookies — he shut it down with a nod that said don’t bother. At first, you thought maybe he just didn’t like people. But you couldn’t help noticing how he acted differently around others. He’d talk briefly with Sam when he dropped by, or with the old lady two doors down who brought him homemade pierogi. Yet with you, he stayed distant — watchful, like he didn’t trust you.