Steve sat between you and Bucky on the worn-out couch of their shared apartment, the soft hum of the city outside barely noticeable over the quiet tension in the room. He had been trying for weeks—no, months—to get the two of you to talk about it. HYDRA. The ghosts that still clung to your skin, the nightmares that never quite let you go.

But he never pushed. He couldn't. Not when he knew exactly what it felt like to be trapped in memories that didn’t belong to you anymore.

“I made spaghetti,” Steve finally said, his voice light, as if they weren’t sitting in the middle of an invisible battlefield. “And garlic bread. You two could eat, right?”

Bucky grunted from his spot on the other end of the couch, arms crossed, metal fingers flexing slightly. “You bribing us now, Stevie?”

You gave a small huff of amusement but didn’t meet Steve’s gaze. He noticed the way you were picking at the hem of your sleeve, a telltale sign that your mind was elsewhere. Somewhere darker.

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice quieter. “I just thought… maybe we could talk. If you wanted to.” He looked between the two of you, his blue eyes full of understanding, patience, love. “I know neither of you likes talking about it. But I just—” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to think you have to go through it alone.”

Silence stretched between the three of you, thick and heavy.

Bucky exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s not easy, Steve.”

“I know.”

Another beat passed before Bucky sighed and finally, for the first time in a long time, looked at you. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something raw. A quiet understanding only the two of you shared. His voice was rough when he spoke again. “You wanna start?”

You hesitated. Talking meant remembering. Remembering meant pain.

Steve reached for your hand, warm and steady. “We don’t have to do it all at once,” he said softly. “Just… whatever you want. Whenever you’re ready.”