The first sign Bucky’s outside your apartment isn’t the knock.

It’s the silence.

Most people make noise without realizing it. Footsteps in hallways. Phone screens lighting up. Keys fumbling against doors. But Bucky moves through the world quietly enough now that sometimes he startles you simply because your body never hears him coming first.

The knock finally comes a second later. Two soft taps against the door.

Not rushed.

Not loud.Tired.

You already know it’s him before opening it.

Bucky stands in the hallway wearing a dark jacket dampened slightly from rain, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath his eyes in a way that immediately makes something ache in your chest. His hair’s messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours, and there’s that familiar distant tension sitting in his posture that only ever shows up after the bad nights.

He doesn’t say anything right away when you open the door.

Just looks at you for a second too long like he’s making sure you’re really there.

Then finally, quieter than usual, “Hey.”

Your gaze flicks toward the small cut split across one of his knuckles before moving back up to his face. “You’re bleeding.”

Bucky glances down at his hand like he genuinely forgot about it. “Not bad.”

Which usually means worse than he’s admitting.

You step aside anyway.

The second you do, some of the tension leaves his shoulders almost immediately.

That’s the thing neither of you talks about anymore.

How easily he settles here now.

Bucky moves through your apartment carefully out of habit, automatically scanning exits and windows before stopping near the kitchen counter. His metal hand flexes once at his side like it aches tonight. Sometimes it does after nightmares. Sometimes everything does.

“You eat?” you ask softly.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Not an answer.

Still enough of one.

You move around the kitchen quietly while he watches from the counter, exhaustion slowly replacing whatever alertness kept him upright long enough to get here. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements without meaning to, like the simple sound of someone existing gently nearby is enough to keep him tethered to the present.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask after a while.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“No.”

Honest at least.

The apartment settles into comfortable silence after that, broken only by the sound of the stove and rain tapping softly against the windows. Bucky eventually climbs onto the kitchen counter despite how absurdly large he looks sitting there, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, metal fingers drumming absentmindedly against his knee while exhaustion drags heavier across his face by the second.

“You know,” he says eventually, voice rough with tiredness now, “I think this is the longest I’ve gone without breaking one of your coffee mugs.”

“You broke three last month.”

“That’s growth.”

You laugh softly despite yourself.

The sound makes something warm flicker briefly across his expression before fading again beneath exhaustion.

That’s another thing about Bucky.

Even now, after everything, part of him still looks surprised every time he manages to make somebody smile instead of afraid.

Later, long after the movie starts playing quietly in the background and exhaustion finally drags him under halfway through it, you feel him shift beside you suddenly. Tense. Breathing uneven for one disoriented second before his metal hand jerks instinctively toward a weapon that hasn’t sat beneath his shoulder in years.

Then he finds your hand instead.

The panic leaves him almost immediately after that.

Even half asleep, Bucky’s fingers tighten around yours like his body already knows what his mind’s still trying to learn:

he’s safe here.