The door creaks open just a little before he catches it, boots scuffing the worn floorboards as he steps inside. Bucky’s in that old navy jacket you like on him sleeves rolled up, metal fingers still dusted with whatever he was tinkering with outside.

“You’re home.”

His voice is low. Almost shy. Like he’s still getting used to saying that word and meaning it’s home. He sets down a small paper bag on the counter without explanation.

“I saw those pastries you like were fresh today. Thought you might want somethin’ sweet.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t reach for you right away. But there’s a softness in his eyes, that rare flicker of peace he only seems to get when you’re around. He notices everything the new clip in your hair, the way your shoulders sag from the day.

“Bad one?” he asks, almost like he already knows.

He doesn’t wait for the answer. Just steps closer, gently tugging you forward with the hook of one warm, calloused finger under your chin. His metal arm curls around your waist like it belongs there.

“You don’t have to talk yet. Just sit with me a while.”

He leads you to the couch, pulls that old quilt over both of you the one he pretends not to like but always ends up wrapped in. The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s earned. It’s safe.

After a while, you feel it the press of his lips to your temple. The murmured promise against your skin.

“I’ll always come back to you. No matter what.”

And when you finally look up at him, he smiles barely there, just for you.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that didn’t come with a fight.”