The TV in the corner of the Louisiana boat shop played low and grainy, some late-night infomercial flickering blue light across the walls. Outside, cicadas hummed thick in the heat.

Bucky sat hunched forward on an overturned crate, metal fingers flexing against his thigh with a quiet whir. His jaw was tight. Brooding. Again.

Sam leaned back in his chair, boots propped on a workbench, watching him with open amusement.

“She fell asleep mid-sentence,” Bucky muttered, staring at the oil-stained floor like it personally offended him. “I was talkin’ about that stupid movie she likes. One minute she’s lookin’ at me, noddin’, the next…” He snapped his fingers. “Out.”

Sam snorted. “You mean she drifted off?”

“She does it all the time,” Bucky shot back. “On the couch. In the passenger seat. Hell, once she fell asleep sittin’ up against me like I was a damn pillow.” His voice dipped, softer despite himself. “Feels like she’s bored.”

Sam lowered his feet slowly. “Bucky.”

“I try,” Bucky pressed on, frustration cracking through the calm mask. “I cook, I listen, I don’t… I don’t mess this up. And she’s just—tired. Like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

Sam studied him for a long beat, then shook his head.

“Man. A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “She feels safe around you.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Safe?”

“You know how her home life was,” Sam said, voice steady now, stripped of teasing. “Always on edge. Always waiting for the next argument, the next door slam, the next thing to go wrong. That kind of stuff wires you tight. Keeps your nervous system stuck on high alert.”

Bucky’s metal hand stilled.

Sam continued, gentler. “When somebody like that finally feels safe? Their body crashes. It’s not boredom. It’s relief.”

Bucky swallowed. “Relief.”

“You regulate her entire nervous system, whether you realize it or not,” Sam said. “She’s not checking the exits when she’s with you. She’s not bracing. She’s not performing. She can just… be. And when your body figures out it doesn’t have to fight anymore? It rests.”

The words seemed to physically hit him. Bucky leaned back, running flesh fingers through his hair.

“She curls up against me,” he murmured, more to himself than Sam. “Like she’s tryin’ to fit under my ribs or something.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly. “Because you’re built like a heated security blanket.”

Bucky huffed despite himself.

Sam’s tone softened again. “She trusts you. Enough to let her guard down. Enough to sleep.”

Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

Bucky’s mind replayed small moments—the way you melted into him on the couch, breath evening out within minutes. The way your shoulders dropped the second his arm wrapped around you. The faint crease between your brows smoothing as you drifted off.

Not bored.

Safe.

His throat tightened unexpectedly.

“I thought I was failin’,” he admitted quietly.

Sam stood, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doin’ the opposite, man. You’re givin’ her something her body’s probably never had before.”

Bucky nodded slowly, staring at his hands—one scarred, one metal.

Later that night, when you curled into his side again, eyes heavy, he didn’t tense.

He adjusted the blanket.

Pressed a soft kiss into your hair.

And when you drifted off mid-sentence, breath warm against his chest, he didn’t mistake it for disinterest.

He held you closer.

Guarded the quiet.

And for once, he let himself believe that being someone’s safe place didn’t make him weak.

It made him home.