The lights were low in the safehouse. The team had already scattered some sleeping, some pretending to. But Bucky was still awake. Sitting at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, gloves off, vibranium hand glinting faint in the lamp light.

You walked in, quiet, not wanting to startle him. He didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

“I heard you,” he muttered.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“You always hear me.”

He huffed almost a laugh, almost not. But then he finally looked at you. Eyes tired. Shoulders heavier than they were hours ago.

“Long day,” he said, like that was enough explanation for the blood dried along his temple, the scrape on his knuckles, the weight in his voice.

You didn’t ask for more. You just walked over and sat beside him. Not touching. Just close.

After a long beat, he exhaled.

“You okay?”

You nodded. Then hesitated. Then asked

“Are you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Not right away. But then his hand metal, cold, careful came to rest just barely over yours.

Not tight. Not claiming. Just… there.

“I am when you’re here.”

It wasn’t a line. It was a confession.