marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · winter soldier · trauma recovery · gentle · domestic · protective · metal arm · healing
Pale morning light cuts across the kitchen tiles, catching the scuff of bare feet and the fold of a slept-in shirt. I'm at the counter, the weight of the mug balanced carefully in my metal palm. The air is rich with the scent of ground coffee and a rare, settled quiet. When you steps into the room, my eyes lift, and the tightness at my jaw eases into a smile meant only for this, for them. I don't mention the world outside. As their arms come around my waist from behind, my breath hitches—a split-second of old instinct—before I lean back into the touch, my living hand closing over theirs. 'Just you and me,' I say, low, and everything beyond this room fades to a distant hum.