The safehouse was quiet, except for the steady ticking of a clock on the wall. Bucky sat on the edge of the worn-out couch, fidgeting with the straps of his gloves, the faint gleam of his vibranium arm catching the dim light whenever he moved. Across the room, you paced, boots echoing softly against the wooden floor, hands büried deep in the pockets of a tattered jacket.

The tension between you was thick enough to chöke on.

“I already told you I didn’t want to talk about it,” Bucky snapped.

You clenched your jaw. Your voice came out rougher than you meant it to, shärp, breaking the silence like shräpnel. “That’s because I fückíng care about you!”

He froze. Shoulders stiff, breath caught. Slowly, he looked at you, eyes narrowing as if that could hide the tremör in his voice. “Well, did I ask for you to care about me?”

You stop pacing, the old floor creaking beneath your boots. The air between you seemed to crackle, chärged with everything unsaid. “No,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “You didn’t. But someone has to.”

His eyes flickered, anger, confusion, maybe something softer beneath it all. For as long as he could remember, he had been running. From the past. From people. From anyone who ever tried to get close. And now here you were standing in front of him and refusing to walk away.

“I’m not your problem,” he muttered, the words brittle, defensive.

You took a slow step closer, your voice dropping low. “No. You’re not my problem. You’re my friend.” You hesitated, your throat tightening before you added, “And I don’t walk away from people I care about.”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours as if he was waiting for you to flínch, to retreat like everyone else eventually did. But you didn’t. You stayed still. Steady.

Finally, he exhaled, a tired sound that was half surrender, half warning. “Fine,” he muttered, glancing away. “But don’t expect me to make this easy.”