The bell above the door chimed softly.

Bucky almost turned around.

The restaurant was warm— too warm. Not in temperature, but in feeling. Low lights, wood paneled walls, soft music humming in the background. It didn’t feel like a place meant for someone like him. No shadows to hide in. No exits memorized yet.

“Relax,” Sam muttered, already sliding into a booth. “It’s just dinner.”

Steve smiled like he knew something Bucky didn’t. “You’ll like it here.”

Bucky grunted and reluctantly followed anyway.

They weren’t supposed to be here.

At least, that’s what Bucky had told them when Sam had knocked on his door earlier and declared: You’re leaving the apartment. Tonight.

Steve had also backed him up with a gentle but immovable: You need to live a little, Buck.

So here he was.

Ambushed.

Again.