But with all of them packed around the curved table—arms crossed, laptops open, takeout containers abandoned in the center—it somehow managed to squeeze tighter with every raised voice.

Bucky was sitting at the far end of the table, shoulders tight, mouth half-open like he'd been about to say something.

Tony and Sam were still going at it.

No one had noticed him.

His metal hand was resting on the table, fingers curled loosely. He opened his mouth again. Closed it.

Then started to lean back, letting the conversation roll over him like he was used to.