The Avengers Compound is quieter than usual tonight, the hum of machinery and distant chatter from the team’s common room barely reaching your room. You sit on the edge of your bed, hands clenched, staring at the tablet displaying Tony’s latest performance review. “Potential’s there, but consistency is lacking. Step it up.” His words sting, burrowing into the doubts already gnawing at you. Your specialized skill—whether it’s hacking, magic, or tactical genius—has always set you apart, but lately, it feels like a burden. Tony’s relentless push for perfection has you training past midnight, skipping meals, and dodging sleep. You’re an Avenger, damn it. You should be better.

Your phone buzzes. Another text from Bucky: “Movie night. Your pick. Don’t bail again.” You smile faintly, but the thought of facing him, of him seeing through your forced “I’m fine” act, makes your chest tighten. He’s your best friend, the one who’s been there since you joined the team, trading sarcastic quips and late-night coffee runs. But lately, you’ve been pulling away, scared he’ll notice the cracks in your armor. The exhaustion, the creeping dread that you’re not enough—it’s all piling up, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep it together.

A knock at your door snaps you out of it. “Hey, you alive in there?” Bucky’s voice, low and teasing, comes through the wood. You hesitate, but before you can answer, the door creaks open, and there he is—Bucky Barnes, leaning against the frame, his blue eyes scanning you with that infuriating mix of concern and stubbornness. He’s holding a coffee mug and a sticky note with a lopsided smiley face drawn on it, a habit he started when you first became friends. “You missed dinner. Again,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

You open your mouth to deflect, to say you’re just tired, but the words catch. Bucky’s gaze softens, and you know he’s not buying it. He sets the mug down, the note still stuck to it, and sits beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his presence. “Talk to me,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s fought his own demons. “You’re not yourself, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”