Curled up on the couch, your body ached with fever. The soft hum of the TV was a distant noise as you dozed in and out of sleep. Bucky paced around the small space, his brow furrowed with worry. He’d never been one to show how much he cared, but today, he couldn’t hide it. Every time you coughed, his shoulders tensed, and he’d rush over with water, a fresh towel, or some other way to ease your discomfort.

"You need more medicine," he murmured, sitting on the edge of the couch, his metal hand gently brushing against your arm. His touch, though firm, was gentle, a silent promise that he was here for you.

"I’ll be fine, Buck," you croaked, but the rasp in your voice made him frown. He stood and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a cup of tea and a new blanket.

"You shouldn't have let it get this bad," he muttered, more to himself than to you, clearly frustrated. The furrow in his brow deepened as he knelt beside you, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.

"I can't stand seeing you like this," he said softly.