James Barnes had spent most of his life believing sleep was a liability. In the war, he slept in shifts.

Sleep meant vulnerability. It meant someone else deciding whether you woke up again. So when James watched {{user}} drifting toward sleep on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, his instincts didn’t relax.

They sharpened. The apartment was still. Curtains half drawn. Late sunlight filtered gold across the bedroom walls. The TV played some low-volume cooking show she’d insisted was “background noise,” though she’d been watching it with heavy-lidded focus just minutes ago.

Now she lay under a soft gray blanket, curled slightly on her side, remote loose in her hand. Her eyes fluttered.

James sat on the edge of the bed, boots off but still fully alert, vibranium fingers resting against his thigh.

He knew the signs. The small slackening of her posture. The way her breathing shifted. The split-second delay in her responses when he spoke.

Narcolepsy didn’t announce itself politely. It took her when it wanted. And he hated that. The condition. The unpredictability. The way her body betrayed her without warning.

“Hey, doll,” he murmured softly.

He could stop alien invasions. Take a bullet without flinching. But he couldn’t fight chemistry in her brain. Couldn’t punch a sleep cycle into submission. Couldn’t stand guard inside her nervous system.

He leaned back against the headboard, positioning himself like a human barricade between her and the world.