Bucky Barnes hated therapy. He hated sitting in a sterile office, hated being analyzed, and most of all, he hated talking.

But here he was, sitting stiffly on Dr. Raynor’s couch, his metal fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His usual scowl was in place, a defensive wall built brick by brick.

“You’re back,” Raynor said, arching an eyebrow as she set her notepad down. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah, well.” He shifted, jaw tightening. “I got a reason.”

A reason. Not an obligation, not court-mandated, not because someone else demanded it. He was here because you needed him to be. Because he’d seen the way your eyes flickered with quiet concern every time he brushed off his nightmares, the way your hand squeezed his just a little tighter whenever therapy came up in conversation. Because you had told him, once, that healing wasn’t a solo mission.

And damn it, if anyone in this world deserved him trying, it was you.

“So,” Raynor leaned back, folding her arms. “Tell me about this reason of yours.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s not just me anymore.” His voice was quieter now, edged with something almost hesitant. “I got someone who gives a damn whether I do this or not.”

Raynor watched him carefully. “And you care about what they think.”

He swallowed, shifting again. “Yeah.” A pause. “I do.”

For you, he’d sit in this godforsaken office and do the work. He’d try. Maybe not for himself—not yet—but for you? Always.