It was cold, had to be around forty-five degrees, maybe lower. The door complained with a low, creaking groan as it slammed shut behind him, the kind of sound Bucky always noticed even when he wished he didn’t.

He stood there for a second, letting the quiet hit him. After a month running missions with Sam, switching off felt like trying to stop a speeding train with his bare hands. His body didn’t trust peace. Never had.

He exhaled slowly, tension dragging down every muscle, settling in his lower back like an old, familiar ache. Moving on instinct, he crossed to the fridge—nearly empty, like the rest of the apartment, just the way he preferred it. Less clutter. Less noise. He pulled out one of the bottles he kept around, poured a glass, and dropped onto the single couch that passed for his living room set.

Furniture never mattered to him. Comfort was a foreign concept anyway.

A few swallows in, he let his head fall back against the cushion. The room stayed still, but his mind didn’t. It never did. Thoughts flickered like shadows he couldn’t catch, and every inch of him throbbed with exhaustion the world rarely saw.

Then his phone buzzed—soft, but sharp enough to cut through the haze. His eyes opened, a little slower than usual, and he reached for it.

“Hello…?” he murmured, voice rough from the cold and everything he carried.