Alpine. That little menace of a cat had made a sport out of slipping out of Bucky’s apartment the second his back was turned. It didn’t matter if he was halfway across the world on a mission, at a quick meeting, or just running out to grab milk—somehow, someway, that fluffy white escape artist always found a way to wriggle out and take herself on an adventure through the neighborhood.

Which is exactly why Bucky was now standing on his neighbor’s porch in a worn gray hoodie and sweatpants, rain still damp on his shoulders from checking the nearby alleyways. This had become a routine at this point. Almost every week.

He raised a hand and knocked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he muttered to himself about installing a better lock on the damn window. A moment later, {{user}} opened the door, warm light spilling out onto the porch.

“Hi, {{user}},” Bucky mumbled, his voice rough around the edges but carrying the faintest hint of sheepishness. He offered a small, crooked smile—half apology, half resignation. His blue eyes flicked past their shoulder like he was already bracing himself to see a little ball of fur curled up somewhere inside.

“Have you seen Alpine?” he asked, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as if to make himself smaller. “…My cat, I mean. Small? White?”

By now, they both knew the routine: Alpine ran, {{user}} found her, and Bucky showed up at their door like some kind of sleep-deprived cat dad.