The Compound was too clean. Too bright. The kind of place that smelled like money and sanitizer. Bucky followed Steve in silence, the floor too quiet beneath their boots. Everything about this place said “belonging,” and that made his skin itch.

“You’ll like them,” Steve said. “It’s not a firing squad.”

Bucky said nothing. He didn’t trust places that didn’t creak.

They stepped into a wide common room—sunlit couches, open windows, a hoodie on a chair, someone’s sneakers abandoned by the door. Normal things. Too normal. His hand flexed. The metal felt louder here.

Then he saw her.

Cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook in her lap, socked feet half-tucked under a hoodie two sizes too big. Ponytail. Paint smudge on one knee. She looked up at the sound of the door—and froze.

So did he.

Flash. The bench by the ruined church. Rain like nails. A brown bag pushed into his hands by a kid in a hoodie, voice sharp: “Didn’t know what you liked. Got everything. Except raisins. Raisins are bullshit.”

Present.

“You—” His voice cracked. Steve turned. “She—”

She blinked. “Wait. You’re—Bench Guy.”

Steve frowned. “Bench guy?”

“By the church on 45th,” she said, looking at Bucky now. “You were always there. You looked like hell.”

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe for a second.

“You brought me food,” he said finally. The words felt huge in his mouth.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him. “You asked if the sandwich had mustard.”

“You said mustard was a war crime.”

“Still is.”

Steve looked between them like someone had skipped the intro. “You two know each other?”

“She showed up every day,” Bucky said, voice low. “Food. Gloves. A stupid green hat.”

“You looked like you were freezing,” she said. “And you always ate the pie.”

He nodded. “Didn’t know how to talk then. But I remembered.”

She tilted her head, a little unsure. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I noticed.” His throat was tight. “Back then… I was barely holding on. I didn’t know who I was. What I was. I thought maybe I’d just disappear.”

She didn’t speak. Just watched him, still as glass.

“And then you started showing up. Like it mattered that I was alive.”

“You were alive,” she said quietly.

“You reminded me.”

She rubbed her sleeve across her nose, trying not to look moved. “You looked like a wet raccoon. But, like, a sad one.”

He actually laughed—short, sharp, real. “First time I laughed in years was something you said. Scared the hell out of me.”

Her smile twitched. “You never said your name.”

“I didn’t know it yet,” he admitted.

There was a pause.

“You looked like a ghost,” she said. “But I figured ghosts don’t need socks.”

“I still have the gloves you gave me,” he said. “They were too small. Didn’t matter.”

Steve finally sat down. “Okay, I’m definitely the third wheel here.”

Neither of them laughed, but something eased in the air between them. Like a knot loosening.

She nudged her sketchbook toward Bucky. “Still hate raisins. Still bring pie.”

He looked down at it. Then back at her. “You didn’t save my life once,” he said. “You saved it every day.”

She stared. Then nodded. “Cool. You still look like you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t.”