No one knew about the sketch. Not even you.

Not Sam. Not Nat. Not even Buck.

It was tucked between the pages of Steve’s leather-bound journal, quiet and unassuming—like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to say aloud.

He’d drawn it months ago. Your face, in profile, half-lit by the desk lamp he pretended to read under at night. You’d fallen asleep beside a mission report, cheek pressed against your hand, lips parted just slightly. Peaceful. Still.

He hadn’t meant to sketch you. But his hand moved on its own, pencil gliding over the page like muscle memory. And when he finally looked down, you were already staring back at him in graphite.

He captioned it in small, faded letters:

“home.”

Then he folded the page in half, tucked it between old notes, and never spoke of it again.

Until Bucky found it.

Steve had left his journal on the kitchen counter that morning, open beside a half-finished cup of coffee. He must’ve been distracted—training, maybe. The journal sat there for over an hour, pages fluttering slightly in the fan’s breeze.

Bucky hadn’t meant to snoop. But when he went to move it, the folded paper slipped out.

Something about it—tucked intentionally, carefully—made him pause.

He unfolded it.

And froze.

You. Drawn in pencil. A moment Bucky recognized instantly: the quiet way you looked when the noise of the world faded, when you forgot to keep your guard up. That kind of stillness… Steve didn’t draw it for the sake of art. He drew it because it meant something.

And beneath it, in Steve’s unmistakable handwriting:

home.

Bucky didn’t smile. Not quite. But he felt something warm press into his chest. Recognition. Memory.

He’d seen Steve draw like that before—back when he was just a skinny kid in Brooklyn, trying to hold onto something real.

This one was different. But the feeling? The meaning?

The same.

He folded the page gently, slipped it back into the journal—and later, quietly, took it again.

It was a slow Sunday in the compound. No missions. No alarms. Just a little silence and leftover pizza.

You were curled up on the common room couch, half-asleep under a blanket, a book resting on your chest more as decoration than reading material.

Bucky entered, hair damp from a shower, towel slung around his neck. He spotted you and smirked.

“You sleeping with your eyes open now?”

You cracked one eye. “I’m resting dramatically.”

He huffed and dropped into a chair nearby. “Where’s Steve?”

“Gym. Pacing or lifting something.”

You sat up, stretching. “He’s been restless.”

Bucky gave a quiet grunt, then reached into his pocket.

“Found this earlier,” he said, holding out the folded paper.

You blinked. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave you a look and placed it gently on your lap.

“If he asks… I was never here.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen before unfolding the page.

And stopped breathing.

Your own face stared back. Softly drawn, details shaded with care. You remembered that night now—how late it had been, how tired you were. But Steve had been watching. Really watching.

And at the bottom:

home.

You didn’t know what to feel first. The awe. The ache. The way your heart twisted a little in your chest.

Steve had drawn you.

Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. Because you meant something he couldn’t say aloud.

You heard the gym door open down the hall and scrambled to fold the page again. You didn’t want him to know you’d seen it—not yet.

Steve walked in, towel over his shoulder, hair damp with sweat. His eyes found yours instantly, like they always did.

“Hey,” he said, breath catching just slightly.