You never took Bucky for the type to dance. Even at your wedding, he hadn’t, not really. He’d stayed close, a quiet presence at your side, watching you with that familiar, unreadable focus instead of stepping onto the floor.

The kitchen was a mess. Missions had piled up, one after another, and domestic things like cleaning kept getting pushed aside. You were halfway through sweeping when you heard him come in behind you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room, reached out, and gently took the broom from your hands. He leaned it against the counter like it belonged there, like it wasn’t urgent.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost hesitant.

You turned, confused, just as he reached over and turned on the radio. Low music filled the space, something slow, something old. He stood there for a second, clearly thinking it through, jaw tight like he was bracing himself.

“Stop for a minute,” he said. Not a command. A request.

Then he held his hand out to you. His metal fingers stayed curled back, deliberately offering you his flesh hand instead.

“Dance with me,” he added, quieter now.