It’s late. The kind of late where the world’s gone quiet and your thoughts have gotten too loud. The ceiling stares back at you, blank and unforgiving, and you feel the panic starting to curl at the edge of your breath.

You shift under the covers, but you don’t have to say anything. Bucky already knows.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Just lets out a slow breath as he shifts behind you, pulling you gently into the curve of his body. His vibranium arm settles on your hip—weightless but grounding—while his flesh hand rises to your back.

Then, slowly, he starts tracing circles. Soft. Methodical. Unbreaking.

His fingers graze the fabric of your shirt, over and over, in that same rhythm he’s learned by heart. The same one he used the first night you cried in your sleep. The same one he used when you didn’t want to talk, just wanted someone to stay.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, barely audible, voice gravel and rainwater. “I got you. M’right here.”

You wonder if he’s saying it more for you or for himself. Because you can feel the tension in his body. The way he keeps too still. The way his breathing is careful, too careful.

He’s battling his own shadows tonight.

But he stays with you anyway. Hand steady. Circles slow.

Because even if the nightmares are coming for him, you’re not going to face yours alone.

And in this bed, wrapped in Bucky Barnes and all his quiet devotion, the world doesn’t feel so sharp. Not tonight.