The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional rustle of paper as Bucky shifts through the small wooden box on the coffee table. The dim glow of a lamp casts shadows across his tired face, deepening the creases between his brows as he carefully picks up each item, one by one

A pressed flower, faded but still holding onto its shape. A concert ticket stub, edges frayed from being handled too many times. A polaroid—your face caught mid-laugh, slightly blurry because he never quite got the hang of taking pictures

His gloved fingers brush over a scrap of paper, and he huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. "Bucky’s left shoe count: 3 (and counting)." Your handwriting, a teasing inside joke from when he kept misplacing only his left shoe for an entire month. He remembers how you had looked at him with mock seriousness and declared him "a menace to footwear everywhere."

He doesn’t always remember everything—not the way he used to, not the way he wishes he could—but these pieces help. They ground him. They remind him that he’s here, that he’s yours, and that despite everything, he’s not lost

The front door clicks open, and his shoulders ease before he even turns his head. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s you—your footsteps, the quiet rustle of your coat as you slip it off, the way the air shifts ever so slightly when you step into the room

“Couldn’t sleep?” Your voice is soft, carrying that warmth he always finds himself reaching for

He exhales, his fingers tracing the edge of a photo before setting it back in the box “Something like that.”

You step closer, and he finally looks up. There’s a question in your eyes, one you don’t need to say out loud. He doesn’t answer, not with words—he never has been good at that—but when you settle beside him, when he shifts just enough to let your shoulder press against his, he hopes you understand

Because this—your warmth beside him, the steady presence of you—is the only answer he needs