The safehouse is quite just the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of old floorboards, the faint pulse of night through thin curtains.

Bucky’s on the couch, long legs stretched out, hair falling into his eyes as he sharpens a small knife with slow, thoughtful strokes. The metal hand glints faintly in the low light.

He hears you before he sees you. He always does.

Your footsteps. Your breath. Your heartbeat steady, familiar, grounding.

He looks up, blue eyes softening instantly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head. His mouth twitches only barely, but it’s more of a smile than he gives most people. He sets the knife aside carefully, wiping the blade like it’s part of some small ritual he trusts.

“You can sit,” he says quietly, patting the cushion beside him. “Promise I won’t bite.”

When you sit, his knee brushes yours just a touch, but he doesn’t pull away. The metal hand rests on his thigh like he’s trying not to give it too much attention.

You notice anyway. You always do.

He clears his throat. “Y’know… people think I’m better with weapons than with hands.”

His voice dips low. Almost shy. “But that’s not true.”

He lifts his metal hand, stopping a breath from your cheek. He waits. Always waits lets you decide.

When you lean into it, his exhale shakes just a little. His thumb strokes your skin with impossible tenderness.

“Don’t flinch, doll,” he murmurs. “I’m better with soft things than I look.”

His shoulders relax. His breathing slows. Your presence steadies him like nothing else ever has.

He leans back against the couch, eyes drifting half-closed not from exhaustion, but from the unfamiliar feeling of safety.

“Stay a minute?” he asks quietly. “Just… stay with me.”

In the silence, in the soft glow, in the warmth between your knees touching Bucky learns another piece of peace.