The townhouse was too big for silence. High ceilings, glass paneled staircases, framed art that cost more than most people’s rent. Even the air conditioning had that soft, soundless kind of hum. And Bucky Barnes had no idea where to put his hands. They were bruised again. Of course they were. Split knuckles from breaking up a mugging two nights ago. A dull ache in his shoulder from taking the punch meant for a kid who hadn’t even said thank you.

You always said he didn’t need to knock. So he didn’t anymore. Just let himself in and quietly toed off his boots by the door, careful not to trail dirt across the gleaming marble tile.

Your family’s house looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine. Like money had been passed down in generations instead of fought for with blood and bad choices. He never asked why you liked him. You weren’t rich in the plastic kind of way. You sat on countertops, read comics upside down, and gave the house a heart it never had.

That day, you found him sitting at the edge of your bed. The only room in the house that didn’t feel cold to him. He was staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

“You okay?”

He looked up. Didn’t smile.

“Do your parents know what I do?”

“Yeah,” you said, sitting beside him. “They know you’re the reason two guys didn’t get hospitalized last week when that gang showed up outside the deli.”

“They didn’t fight back.”

“I know. That’s why you did.”

He looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his own voice.

“I don’t belong here,” he said finally. “You could’ve had anyone. Someone who didn’t bleed on your carpets.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at your floor like it held answers he couldn’t read.