It was the little things with Bucky.

The way he always held the door open, even when your hands weren’t full. How he remembered your coffee order after hearing it only once. The gentle touch on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd, he’s overprotective over you.

And then there was the sidewalk.

You hadn’t noticed it at first. Not until one afternoon in Brooklyn, walking side by side with takeout in hand, the wind tugging at your coat and the late sun softening the edges of the city. You’d been chatting about nothing, movies you wanted to watch, a dog you’d both spotted that looked like a mop, when you stepped toward the curb without thinking.

Bucky’s metal hand found your waist in the same moment. He didn’t say anything. Just nudged you gently, shifting his body so you were on the inside, away from the street.

You blinked. “Did you just… sidewalk me?”

He looked sheepish, glancing down at his boots. “It’s a habit.”

You stopped walking. “A habit?”

He paused too, turning to face you. There was a little crease between his brows like he was trying to decide if explaining it would sound silly. But then he shrugged.

“My ma raised me that way. Said it was what a gentleman does. But I guess it’s more than that now.” His gaze softened. “It’s instinct, I guess. Just wanna keep you safe. Even if it’s just… cars or puddles or passing bicycles.”

You stared at him, heart caught somewhere between laughter and warmth.

“Bucky,” you said quietly, “I can handle puddles.”

“I know,” he chuckled. “But I’d rather take ‘em first.”

You smiled, wide, unguarded, and slid your hand into his.

He didn’t flinch. Just held on, thumb brushing over your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And as you continued walking, his body still carefully placed between you and the road, you realized it wasn’t just about protection.

It was about love. Quiet, steady, instinctive love. The kind that doesn’t need grand declarations. Just one step to the left, and someone always looking out for you.