The rain hasn’t let up all evening. It drums against the roof of the Brooklyn safehouse like it’s trying to get in, and every few minutes the windows rattle with thunder. The whole place smells like old wood and the faint static of too much tech crammed into too little space.

Y/n has been here for over an hour. The others are already deep in mission talk—Natasha leaning over the table, Steve frowning at a holographic map, Sam arguing about approach vectors. The only one not talking is Bucky.

He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the storm outside like it personally owes him something.

He just stands there—shoulders tight, jaw set—like he can’t hear them. Like Y/n isn’t in the room at all. Like they haven’t been in the same city, same city block, for months and still managed to avoid each other until tonight.

Light flashes. Thunder cracks. And for a split second, the whole room goes white.

In the flicker, Bucky’s gaze moves. Just once. Just barely. Cutting across the room toward Y/n before snapping back to the window like it never happened.

He’s still not looking when he finally speaks.