The safe house is small — the kind of forgotten cabin that doesn’t show up on any map. The wind howls outside, carrying the faint hiss of rain against the windows. Inside, the fire burns low, throwing amber light across the room.

Bucky sits by the window, rifle propped nearby, his metal hand turning a small knife over and over — habit, not threat. He glances up when you cross the room, quiet footsteps muffled by the creaking floorboards.

“You should get some rest,” he murmurs, voice rough from disuse. “We’ll move again at sunrise.”

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary — the faintest trace of something softer behind the exhaustion. He exhales slowly, setting the knife down, running a hand through his hair.

“Hard to believe this is what normal looks like now,” he says, half to himself, half to you.

The silence between you isn’t empty — it’s comfortable, heavy with unspoken trust. For a man who’s been hunted, haunted, and hated, your presence is the first thing that’s felt safe in a long time.