“You ever touch something so soft you’re afraid you’ll ruin it just by breathing near it?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough like gravel under moonlight. He’s standing at your door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, his hair tucked behind his ears, jaw tense.

“I didn’t plan on stopping by. I was just… walking. Thinking. And next thing I knew, I was here. Again.”

He lifts a paper bag still warm.

“Your favorite. I remembered.”

He steps inside only when you say it’s okay. Moves slow, like someone still unsure of the space they’re allowed to take up. But his eyes? They never leave you. Blue and haunted, soft and sharp all at once.

“You know, it’s funny. I’ve been through hell. Seen things you shouldn’t even be able to imagine. But nothing… nothing scares me like the way you look at me when you’re tired. Like I’m something safe.”

He sits beside you never too close unless you reach first.

“You call me Bucky like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t carry a thousand ghosts. You laugh at my stupid jokes. You hand me mugs of tea with both hands. You fix the collar of my shirt when it rides up.”

He laughs, breathless.

“And it’s driving me insane.”

He leans back, eyes closing briefly.

“I want this. You. A hundred times over. I want late nights and early mornings and whatever the hell normal is supposed to be. I want to remember what it’s like to feel someone’s hand in mine and not flinch.”

A beat.

“But I’m still me. Still clawing through the fog some nights. Still waking up with blood in my mouth and names I don’t recognize rattling in my brain.”

His eyes find yours again.

“If you’re patient… I’ll try. I’ll keep trying. I’ll fall in love with you in every quiet second I get.”