Bucky doesn’t say a word when that guy touches your arm—just a simple brush, maybe accidental, maybe not. Bucky sees it from across the room. The laugh you give, the way you tilt your head. And that guy doesn’t know—doesn’t know the history in Bucky’s knuckles, doesn’t know how long he spent convincing himself he wasn’t too broken for someone like you.

You find Bucky outside ten minutes later, leaning against a wall, fingers twitching against the cool metal railing like he’s trying to talk himself down.

You ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t look at you right away. Just murmurs “You looked happy with him.” “Too happy.”

You scoff. He doesn’t smile.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “I’m mad that he thought he could touch something that’s mine.”

You remind him you’re not an object. His jaw flexes. His eyes soften—but not much.

“I know,” he says. “You’re not a thing. But you’re still mine.”

He takes a breath, like he’s ashamed of the heat in his own voice. But you see it—how close he is to snapping, not with rage, but fear. Fear of losing the one thing that’s ever made him feel like a man again instead of a ghost.

And when you touch his hand, he threads his metal fingers through yours like it’s instinct. “I know I’ve got no right to feel this way. But I do. And I’m not gonna lose you to some smooth-talking idiot who just figured out how to hold a drink.”

Then he pulls you close—closer than usual. His voice rough, low in your ear.

“You’re mine, doll. Say it. Please.”

And when you do? That’s when he lets go of the tension, just enough to rest his forehead against yours and let his walls fall for a second. Not all the way. Just enough to let you know he means it.