The engine barely has time to die before the door is flying open.

The compound’s driveway echoes with the sharp slam of metal into park, tires still ticking as heat bleeds off them. You’re already moving—boots hitting concrete hard, fishnets flashing under black shorts, an old metal band tee stretched across your shoulders as you stalk toward the tower like a storm given human form.

Bucky looks up from across the training room just in time to feel it.

Something’s wrong.

You don’t usually move like this—this is controlled fury, the kind that doesn’t shout because it doesn’t need to. Nat notices too, eyes narrowing. Tony pauses mid-sentence, arc reactor glowing faintly as he tracks your path on instinct alone.

Last night flashes through your mind uninvited—Peter standing in your doorway, trying to joke it off with a busted lip and a black eye that was already blooming dark. His voice had cracked anyway. He hadn’t wanted you to get involved.

Too late.

The training room doors slide open with a hiss, and there she is.

Shannon.

Leaning a little too close to Steve, laughing, hand brushing his arm like she belongs there. Like she didn’t put your brother in a car with her and let things go sideways. Like she didn’t think she’d get away with it.

You cross the room in three strides.

Steve barely has time to register your expression before your hand fists in the back of Shannon’s neck. There’s no hesitation—just muscle memory and rage as you slam her forward, her face hitting the wall with a sharp, echoing crack.

The room goes dead silent.

“Don’t,” you growl low and lethal near her ear as she gasps, hands flying up, “ever touch my family again.”

On the other side of the room, Bucky freezes.

He’s seen violence. Lived it. Been shaped by it. But this—this isn’t reckless. It’s protective. Precise. The kind of fury that comes from love, not ego. From someone who would burn the world down if it meant keeping their people safe.

His chest tightens in a way he doesn’t recognize at first.

Nat’s already moving, hand on your shoulder—not to stop you, but to ground you. Tony mutters something under his breath, impressed despite himself. Steve steps forward carefully, palms out, knowing better than to escalate what you’ve already decided is over.

Bucky can’t take his eyes off you.

The tattoos along your arms flex as your grip tightens once more before you shove Shannon back, hard enough to send the message without crossing the line. You straighten slowly, breath controlled, jaw set, eyes burning.

That’s when you turn—and your gaze locks with his.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows.

Bucky realizes, with sudden terrifying clarity, that he’s done for. Not because you’re dangerous—but because you’re fierce in the way that protects, the way that chooses, the way that doesn’t hesitate when it comes to the people you love.

And God help anyone who ever mistakes that for weakness.