The compound still felt surreal.

You'd only been there a few hours, barely finished arranging your things in the modest but comfortable room Natasha and Steve had shown you earlier. The space now had faint touches of home—your photos framed on the dresser, the faint scent of your favorite candle lingering in the air, and a soft throw blanket you always kept draped over your reading chair.

One last cardboard box sat at the foot of the bed, filled with what you figured was miscellaneous stuff: chargers, maybe your badge, your dad's old wristwatch. You bent down and grabbed it, tucking it under your arm just as you stepped out into the hall.

The compound was quiet at the moment, the distant hum of tech and ventilation systems your only company—until you felt the light tap on your shoulder.

You turned, caught a breath.

Two men stood there. One was unmistakable—Sam Wilson. You'd seen him on the news, during briefings, and in passing earlier during your tour, but it was still strange seeing him up close like this. He had that kind of warmth in his smile that made it easy to feel like you’d known him longer than just five seconds. The other man, though…

He was taller than you expected, dressed in all dark colors, with longer hair tucked behind his ears and a metal arm that glinted slightly under the corridor lights. His expression wasn’t unfriendly—just… guarded. He was watching you with those blue eyes, cool and unreadable, like someone trained to assess threats before they even spoke. Still, something about him didn’t set off any alarms.

Sam grinned. “Hey there.”

You smiled back automatically, shifting the box in your arms a little. “Oh hi! I’m starting today. Detective {{user}}.”

The man beside Sam gave you a small nod, lips tugging into the faintest semblance of a polite smile. Not grumpy, exactly. Just someone used to not giving too much away. His voice was quiet, a little rough, when he spoke.

“Oh. Bucky Barnes. Welcome aboard.”

There was something about the way he said it that made you pause. Not just the name—you'd heard of him, of course—but the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to read something in your face. Not in a bad way. Just… curious. Introspective.

Before you could process it further, Sam’s grin widened to dangerous proportions.

“I’m hearing wedding bells!” He announced, too loudly and too proudly.

You blinked. Bucky turned his head sharply toward Sam, narrowing his eyes, but there was no real fire behind it—just the irritation of someone used to this kind of teasing.

Sam glanced back at you, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Sam Wilson.”

You shook his hand, chuckling despite yourself.

Bucky was still looking at Sam with that same narrowed, quiet frustration, but you didn’t miss the way he shifted on his feet. Like maybe his heart wasn’t entirely calm either.