The bathwater was ready. Warm. Calm. Filled with lavender bubbles and the faint scent of eucalyptus. A soft towel was folded neatly nearby. You’d even lit his favorite candle—amber and sandalwood, the one that made him feel grounded.

But Bucky Barnes wasn’t in the tub.

He was on the floor.

On his stomach.

Crying.

Full-body, hiccuping sobs that shook his massive frame as he kicked one foot against the tile in protest like a child.

You stood in the doorway of the bathroom, heart cracking as you watched the man you loved—this soldier, this survivor, this stubborn pain in the ass—reduced to tears by something as simple as bath time.

“I don’t want to,” Bucky wailed, fists beating once against the cold floor. “I can’t. I don’t want the water—I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna go in, please don’t make me, please—”