The mission’s over. For now.

The lights are dim, the radio is low, and Bucky’s curled up on your couch with his socked feet tucked under a blanket he definitely stole from your bed.

He looks up when you come in, lids heavy. A book’s open on his chest—dog-eared halfway.

“Thought you might want some quiet.” He shifts, makes room. Always makes room for you.

“Everyone thinks I’m stone cold now,” he says, voice soft with sleep. “But I’m not. Not when it’s like this. Not when it’s you.”

He pats the space beside him. “C’mere. Let’s just… be still for a while.”