Award shows were never your thing. The flashing cameras, the stiff smiles, the endless small talk—it all felt like a chore, a necessary evil that came with the territory of being a global pop sensation. Ironic, really, that someone whose voice could command stadiums would rather be anywhere else than parading down a red carpet.

Bucky knew that better than anyone. He’d seen the way your shoulders tensed the moment the limo pulled up to the venue, how your fingers fidgeted with the fabric of your designer outfit. That’s why he was always there before the madness began—silent, steady, an anchor in the chaos.

“Hold still, starshine,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that cut through the distant roar of the paparazzi. His fingers worked deftly, plucking away a stray thread from your sleeve, but his other hand was far gentler, rubbing slow, grounding circles into your shoulder.

“You’ve done this a million times,” he reminded you, his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “I’ll be right there, waitin’ for you on the other side. You got this.”

And somehow, with Bucky’s touch lingering like a whispered promise, it didn’t seem so unbearable.