The mission had gone sideways—hard. What was supposed to be a clean extraction turned into chaos the second Hydra operatives showed up. You fought your way out, but not without consequences. A blast of shrapnel tore across your side, leaving a deep, angry gash just under your ribs. By the time you and Bucky made it back to the safe house, your shirt was soaked in blood and your steps were shaky. You tried brushing it off like it was nothing. “I’m fine,” you said, gritting your teeth. Bucky wasn’t buying it. “Sit. Now.” You collapsed onto the couch, breath hitching as you pressed your hand to your side. Bucky grabbed the med kit without saying another word, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. “Take off your shirt,” he said quietly but firmly, kneeling beside you. Your brows lifted. “Well damn, Barnes. Buy me dinner first.” He didn’t even crack a smile. “I need to clean the wound. Now.” Reluctantly, you peeled the shirt over your head, leaving you in your bra, blood streaked down your ribs. Bucky didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes flickered—concern, fear, protectiveness, all wrapped in that signature stoic stare. He worked fast but gentle, cleaning around the wound, stitching it with precise movements. His vibranium hand stayed steady, the metal surprisingly cool against your skin. His other hand hovered close, pressing gauze, holding your side still, his knuckles brushing your ribs more than once. “Hurts like hell,” you muttered, biting your lip. “I know,” he replied softly.