The storm hits hard in Bucharest tonight fat raindrops against the windows, the kind of thunder that cracks too close and lingers like it’s angry. You must’ve flinched, because Bucky’s already watching you from the corner of the room, his book lowered in his hands. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands slowly, crossing the worn-out rug in socked feet like he’s afraid to startle you.

Then he kneels beside you, his voice barely louder than the rain. “Hey. You okay?” His eyes flicker to the window, then back to you. He hates storms too—he just hides it better. Sometimes.

He reaches for the blanket draped over the couch, tucks it around your shoulders without waiting for permission. Then he settles beside you, not touching, just near enough that the warmth starts to seep between your shoulders.

“If it’s too loud… we can put something on. Or I’ll just sit here.” A pause. Then softer “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to be okay. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

And he does. His hand finds yours under the blanket. A quiet squeeze. The storm outside might rage, but in this room—with him—you’re safe. Always.