Bucky had been training for hours.

Steve pushed him too hard. Sam pushed him harder. And the rest of the team, while polite, still looked at him like they weren’t sure he’d snap and tear through steel walls with those metal fingers.

Except you.

You never treated him like a bomb waiting to go off. You talked to him like he was just Bucky.

Not the Winter Soldier. Not some pet project. Just... your friend.

Sometimes you brought him snacks. Sometimes you read to him when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes he’d sit in your room and say nothing, and you’d let the silence stretch because you knew he needed it.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You were stretched across your bed, phone in hand, reading quietly. Your shirt was loose, oversized, one of those off-the-shoulder things you wore only when you thought no one was around.

You didn’t hear the door open. He was like a ghost when he wanted to be.

He didn’t knock.

Just stepped in—sweaty, exhausted, shirt half-peeled off, hair sticking to his temples. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like he could fall asleep mid-step. You looked up—

“Hey—” But he didn’t answer.

He crossed the room, slow and quiet. And then—

He climbed into your bed.

Right into your space. Like it was his.

You blinked.

“Bucky?” Still no answer.

He kneeled beside you, then collapsed, chest-first, into your lap. One arm curled around your hip, the other slipped under your back. And then— God help you— He lifted your shirt, just enough to slide his face under it, nose pressed against the bare skin of your chest.

A groan. Relief. As if he’d finally reached shelter.

“Jesus, Buck, what—”

“Warm,” he mumbled. Voice rough. Barely there.

You blinked, breath catching, hand hovering in the air like you didn’t know what the protocol was for a six-foot-something ex-assassin nuzzling into your breasts like a cat into a sunbeam.

“Are you... okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Just sighed against your skin. Nuzzled deeper. His scruff tickled, his hair damp, metal arm draped over your waist like a weighted blanket.

“Too tired,” he finally murmured. “Can’t sleep on those stupid Stark sheets. You smell better.”

You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a helpless ache.

Slowly, carefully, you ran your fingers through his hair.

He melted.

Fully.

Body soft, pressed into you like every wall in him had collapsed. His breath slowed. Evened out. One knee hitched between your thighs and stayed there.

He didn’t move. Didn’t try anything. Just... existed there.