The first night you scream, the whole compound hears it.

The second night, only Bucky does.

It starts low. Then it fractures into something sharp and animal. He’s moving before he thinks, boots pounding down the hall.

“{{user}}.” His voice is tight. “It’s me.”

Something crashes inside. Your breathing turns ragged.

The handle doesn’t budge.

The next scream tears through him and he slams his shoulder into the door. Wood splinters. The lock gives.

You’re already off the bed. Eyes wide but empty. A shard of ceramic clenched in your hand.

He knows that look.

“Easy,” he says, palms open. “You’re safe.”

You don’t see him.

You lunge.

The shard slices his shoulder. Your fists follow. You’re not fighting him. You’re fighting whatever HYDRA left behind.

He doesn’t restrain you. Doesn’t raise his voice.

“Wake up,” he murmurs. “C’mon. It’s me.”

Your hand stalls mid-swing. Your gaze finally focuses.

Him. The broken door. Blood blooming through his shirt.

You recoil like you’ve touched fire.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re fine,” he says immediately.

But the way you stare at the blood says you don’t believe that.

The door is fixed by morning. Seamless. Like nothing happened.

You still don’t come out.

But that night, when the nightmares creep back, there’s something new in the hallway.

Boots against the wall.

The quiet shift of metal.

Bucky sits outside your door. Not knocking. Not speaking. Just there.

On the third night, you open the door at 2:17 a.m.

He’s asleep sitting up, head tipped forward, exhaustion etched into every line of him.

You hesitate. Then lower yourself to the floor beside him. Close. Not touching.

His eyes open instantly.

They soften when he sees you.

Neither of you speak.

After a long moment, he shifts, shoulder brushing yours. Careful. Testing.

You don’t move away.