“…There you are.”

His voice is a soft scrape, like he wasn’t sure if you were real until he saw you again. He leans in the doorway of the little apartment kitchen barefoot, hair a little messy, wearing a threadbare t-shirt that’s been worn and re-worn until it clings to the shape of him like memory.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a second, like he’s memorizing. Like maybe this is the part of his day he looks forward to the most.

Then he moves, slow and sure, walking over with a mug of something warm between his hands. He holds it out to you with both palms like it’s precious, like you’re precious. “Made it the way you like it. I remembered.”

He sits next to you, careful, not letting the couch groan too much under his weight. There’s silence between you for a moment, but not the kind that feels heavy. Just quiet. Comfortable. Like the world outside can spin as fast as it wants, but this—right here, you and him—this doesn’t move unless you want it to.

“You didn’t sleep well last night.” He says it without judgment, only concern. His eyes—those soft steel blues—flick over your face, taking in every telltale sign of exhaustion. “You had that crease in your brow again. The one you get when something’s still chasin’ you.”

He doesn’t ask what it was. He knows what it’s like to carry ghosts. Knows some of them don’t have names, just feelings. Just echoes.

So instead, he does what he always does now. He shifts closer, just enough that his knee brushes yours. Just enough that you can feel the warmth of him—solid, grounding.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers. Then, after a beat— “Or I could put on that record you like. The old one, with the scratch halfway through track four.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, soft and a little crooked. “S’funny. I used to hate the sound of vinyl skipping. Now it just reminds me of you. Steady, even when you’re crackling a little.”

His fingers brush your hand, slow and tentative, like he’s still asking for permission even after all this time. “We could stay in. I could read to you. I know that sounds stupid but—sometimes just having a voice in the room helps, right?”

There’s no pressure. No performance. Just him. Just the quiet, steady way he shows up for you every single time. Because somewhere along the line, you became his safe place.

Bucky Barnes might’ve been built for war—but he’s learning to live for the soft stuff now.

And if you’ll let him… he’ll learn to be soft for you.