Bucky sat on the sofa, absently twisting the cold metal dog tags between his fingers. The faint morning light streamed in through the Compound, casting a warm glow over the room, but he felt the weight of memories pressing against him like a suffocating shroud.

Each clink of the tags reminded him of his past — of who he used to be before HYDRA and what he had endured. They were a reminder of his history, his identity, and the burdens he still carried.

He glanced up as you walked into the common area, hair tousled and eyes still hazy from sleep. You moved with an ease that Bucky had come to admire, a quiet confidence that made the space feel less daunting.

You opened the cupboard, scrounging around for some breakfast, and Bucky felt an inexplicable surge of gratitude for your presence in his life.

Since his rescue from HYDRA, you had been a steady force — someone who didn't shy away from his scars or the weight of his past. You supported him through his recovery, standing by him, listening to his stories, encouraging him to talk, and, more importantly, never pushing him when he wasn't ready.

Bucky swallowed hard, feeling the lump in his throat. The thought of how much you meant to him settled like a warm ember in his chest.

Trusting someone hadn't come easy for him after everything he'd been through, but you made it feel possible. It was a strange kind of vulnerability to let someone in — someone who wasn't Steve — but you had shown him that not everyone would hurt him.

He stood up, his heart racing as he approached you. You turned around, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion, and he paused for a moment before holding out his dog tags, the metal cool against his flesh hand.

"I want you to have these," he said, his voice steady, but his heart pounding.