The insomnia came in waves.

Bucky lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the compound settling into sleep. No voices. No footsteps. No orders. Just silence so heavy it pressed against his chest.

Too quiet.

His mind filled the space instead—memories he didn’t ask for, faces without names, screams that never faded. He turned onto his side. Then his back. Then sat up.

It wasn’t working.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving through the halls— barefoot— careful— like he didn’t want the walls to notice him.

He told himself it was habit— muscle memory. That he was just walking.

But his feet knew exactly where to go.

Her door was cracked open, a thin line of warm light spilling into the hallway. He stopped there, heart thudding, suddenly aware of how late it was. How wrong it might look.

He hesitated—then gently pushed the door open.

{{user}} was asleep, curled beneath the blankets, peaceful in a way he rarely felt anymore. The sight alone loosened something tight inside his chest.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want to ask for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Instead, he lowered himself to the floor beside her bed, careful not to make a sound. He lay on his side, close enough to hear her breathing, close enough to feel safe—but not close enough to cross a line.

And for the first time in days…

He slept.

Midnight crept in quietly.

And {{user}} stirred, throat dry, reaching instinctively for the edge of the bed. She blinked into the dark, confused by the unfamiliar shape blocking her way.

Something was there.

Her heart skipped. She leaned forward, squinting, and after a moment—

Bucky.

Asleep on the floor beside her bed, arm tucked beneath his head, metal hand catching a sliver of moonlight. His face was calm, almost boyish, like the weight of the world had finally loosened its grip on him.