The wind slices across the Avengers Compound roof, sharp and relentless, four days after Bucky left with Steve to dismantle a HYDRA splinter cell. You’d told him you’d be fine, his metal hand lingering on your shoulder as he boarded the quinjet—a silent tether to keep the ghosts of your past locked away. Those years in shadowed cells left you craving touch like air, and Bucky’s the only one who gets it: a quiet arm around you, a steady presence on the couch, his vibranium grip cool and grounding. Without him, the cracks are showing.

The team’s noticed. Wanda tried with a soft brush of her fingers over your arm, a plate of food slid your way. Clint slung an arm around you during movie night, all easy grins. Bruce, hesitant, pressed a hand to your wrist, muttering about calming techniques. It’s kind, but it’s not him—not Bucky—and the emptiness gnaws deeper. Now, the whispers from those old cages creep in—“You’re nothing. You’ll break.”—louder in the wind. You pace the roof’s edge, fists clenching and unclenching, shadows flickering in your peripheral vision. Your breath hitches; you’re unraveling.

A distant hum grows—the quinjet, cutting through the dusk. It lands hard, ramp dropping, and Bucky steps out, tac gear scuffed, a fresh cut above his brow. Steve’s behind, calling after him, but Bucky’s stride doesn’t falter, eyes locked on you. He’s at your side in seconds, dropping his pack with a dull thud. “Hey,” he says, voice rough, searching your face. You can’t answer—the whispers choke you—but he doesn’t wait. His metal arm hooks around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest, firm and unyielding, the cool vibranium seeping through your jacket. You shudder, clutching his vest, words spilling out raw. “The shadows—they’re back. I couldn’t stop them.”

He tightens his hold, flesh hand resting on your neck. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low and sure. “I’m not leaving again.”