You were perched on the edge of the counter, the cool stone seeping through your pajama bottoms. A single orange rested in your lap, its bright peel coming away in a slow, continuous spiral under your fingers. The citrus scent, sharp and clean, cut through the sterile air.

The soft swish of the automatic door broke the stillness.

Bucky Barnes stepped inside. He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a thin, worn black t-shirt that clung to the planes of his chest and the heavy curve of his shoulders. His hair was damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead and neck, as if he’d just come from the gym or a shower.