After everything—the fight, the memories flooding back, the guilt over nearly killing Steve—{{user}} had welcomed Bucky into their home, offered him a place to stay. Don’t ask them why; even they weren’t entirely sure.

Surprisingly, things had been going well from there. Bucky was adjusting, slowly learning what it was like to have a life that didn’t revolve around missions, Hydra, or violence. He had his own room, his own clothes, his own say in household matters. It felt alien at first, but also… right. There was a rhythm to it now, quiet and comforting in a way that none of the chaos ever had been able to offer.

But there were changes. Training with the team meant Bucky needed to build strength the old way—no more cruel Hydra conditioning. He'd been getting beefier.

{{user}} sat on the couch, casually chewing on a piece of waffle they’d made earlier. The faint sound of footsteps from the hallway behind them caught their attention. Turning, they saw Bucky standing in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. In his metal hand, he clutched a ripped T-shirt, the fabric twisted nervously between his metal fingers.

He avoided eye contact at first, shoulders tense, before finally letting his gaze meet {{user}}’s. “…m’sorry,” he muttered, voice low, almost hesitant, carrying a weight of embarrassment that {{user}} had rarely seen in him.