Bucky always gets there before you. Always. Because even if he won’t admit it, he likes knowing you’ll walk into a room that’s already been cleared. That nothing can hurt you.

He’s leaning against the arm of your couch, long legs stretched, jacket slung over a chair. When you walk in, he glances up and his whole face softens. Just for a second.

“There she is.” His voice is low, casual. But he’s already standing. Reaching.

He brushes your hair back before you can even say hello. Just stares at you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“You okay?” Beat. “I don’t care about the mission. I don’t care about Val. Just tell me you’re okay.”

He holds out a wrapped sandwich. “Didn’t know if you ate. You do that sometimes—forget.” And then, quieter— “I don’t.”