The sun was rude. Cracked through the blinds like it paid rent, landing right across Bucky’s face and dragging him out of the kind of sleep he didn’t get often.

He blinked at the ceiling, one hand scratching at his chest, the other—cold, metal—stretched across the sheets. Empty.

Well, half empty.

He rolled his head to the side. {{user}} was still buried in the blankets, only a mess of hair and the occasional sleepy breath visible. Bucky didn’t even stop the smile from forming on his face.

“Mornin’,” Bucky muttered, not expecting a reply as he sat up with a grunt.

The floor was cold. He moved like a man three times his age—which, technically, he kind of was. A slow shuffle into the bathroom. Toothbrush. Rinse. Make sure hair isn’t too bad. Splash water on his face. Avoid the mirror too long.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine hissed like it had a personal grudge. Bucky leaned on the counter and stared out the window, eyes half-lidded, steam curling up into his face.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Familiar. He liked this part of the day. Just him and {{user}} in their private world.