The city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in a soft blue glow. Tony was passed out on the far couch, one arm draped over his face. Steve had his sketchbook out, pencil moving in slow, tired strokes. Natasha was nursing a glass of wine, watching the window more than the room.

And Bucky was beside you.

Not quite touching. Close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him. His metal arm rested on the cushion between you, the plates catching the light.