The room is dim quiet, except for the steady tick of the old clock on the wall.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might tell him what to do next. The metal plates of his arm catch the faint glow of the lamp gold veins through shadow.

You step closer, slow. He doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for something.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He exhales through his nose slow, uneven then finally looks up. His eyes are tired, rimmed with that soft blue that always seems to hold more pain than he lets anyone see.

“I don’t…” His voice cracks, then steadies. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You move to kneel in front of him, your hand resting gently over his. For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe. His gaze drops to where your fingers rest on the metal, and something flickers fear, disbelief, awe.

He swallows hard, eyes closing as he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. The words come out like confession, raw and low.

“…But I can’t let go of you either.”

You feel his hand twitch beneath yours restrained, trembling before he finally lets it turn, palm up, curling around your fingers like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t.

“People don’t stay,” he murmurs. “Not after they see what’s underneath all this.”

You whisper his name, and that’s enough to break whatever wall was left. He breathes in, shaky, and you can feel it the tremor in his chest when he whispers against your hair

“You make me feel like I can stop running.”

He stays like that forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof that he’s still here. Still warm. Still capable of holding something good without breaking it.

And for the first time in a long time, he believes it.