He tells himself he’s just passing through the common room.

Just walking by. Going to the gym. Maybe the kitchen. Anywhere but here.

But then he hears Alexei laugh — too loud, too enthusiastic — and someone groan about losing in Uno, and then someone else say, “Bucky’s definitely hiding so he doesn’t have to play again.”

So he pauses.

Not because he’s annoyed. But because he’s not.

He exhales through his nose and steps inside.

“Uno’s not real strategy,” he grumbles flatly. “It’s just chaos and colors.”

“You’re just mad you lost to Yelena last time,” Walker smirks from the couch, flicking popcorn at him.

He’s not wrong.

Bucky slowly drops into the armchair like a reluctant cat joining the couch pile, arms folded, but his eyes already scanning the cards in play. He says nothing when Alexei throws a blanket at him, but doesn’t take it off either. Bob offers him a drink — something non-alcoholic, sweet, way too pink — and he takes it without a word.

Ten minutes in and he’s muttering under his breath about rules. Fifteen minutes in, he’s fully locked in. Twenty minutes in, he’s glaring at Walker like losing is a personal betrayal.

It’s dumb. And warm. And something he hasn’t had in decades.

Family.

He’s not even sure when it happened. When Ava stopped flinching. When Yelena started calling him “grandpa” just to piss him off. When Bob started asking his opinion about things like music and food and socks. When John stopped treating him like an ex-rival and started treating him like... a brother.

And Alexei?

God, Alexei. Somehow the loudest and most unbearable member of the team has become the one who makes them all feel like they’re allowed to sit down. Laugh. Exist.

He doesn’t say anything about it — he never does — but something in his shoulders softens.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s performing being okay.

He just is.