The barracks office was steeped in shadows, the last traces of daylight filtering through half-closed blinds, casting jagged lines across Major John Egan’s face. He leaned against the window, muscles taut from hours in the cockpit and rolled his neck.

The soft creak of the door didn’t startle him. Slowly, he turned, his sharp blue gaze finding yours and holding it. You took a hesitant step forward, and he raised an eyebrow, his lips curving with an ironic smile. “So, you came back,” he murmured, voice low. “Thanking me again, is it?” He’d already guessed why you’d come.

The glove slipped from his hand, landing on the floor as he stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow that swallowed yours. His presence pressed in around you, filling the small room with his scent—sharp, clean, with a trace of metal and leather. You had rehearsed what to say, but his gaze held you, unraveling your thoughts.

“I… wanted to thank you,” you said, voice soft but tense, struggling with words that felt both necessary and wrong. “For what you did. For saving him.” The last word was a weight, something you had to force yourself to say. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching the reluctance in your voice, the way the gratitude didn’t quite reach your eyes.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Not sure many would, if they knew him like you do,” he replied, his tone half-question, half-statement. He knew your husband’s reputation, the rumors, the things people said when they thought no one could hear. The stories weren’t kind.

“I know,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, shame and frustration colliding within you. “But it doesn’t make it any less… complicated.” You swallowed, feeling exposed under his steady gaze.

He leaned in. “You don’t own him this,” he said, lifting his hand, brushing lightly along your cheek—a touch so fleeting it felt like a ghost’s. “Sometimes, I wonder,” he murmured, voice taut, “what it is you’re really looking for here with me. And what you think you’ll find.”