Bucky was a super soldier. He’d fought wars, fallen off trains, been brainwashed, and survived every kind of hell known to man. But this?

This was worse.

Standing in front of a neatly painted front porch in a quiet suburban neighborhood, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The October air nipped at his neck despite the warmth of his pressed suit. He shifted slightly on the step, metal fingers brushing the edge of his jacket as you reached up, calm as ever, to adjust his tie.

“You’re sweating,” you teased, smoothing the fabric with both hands. You tilted your head, eyes glinting in amusement. “That’s adorable.”

“I’m not sweating,” he muttered, then looked down at you. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

You grinned, fixing his lapels before letting your hands fall to his chest. You could feel the nervous rhythm of his heart through the fabric.

“What if they don’t like me?” Bucky asked, his voice low, like it might break if he said it too loud. “What if they think I’m… too old? Too much?”