The Compound was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled in after midnight when even the night owls had given up and gone to bed. Y/n sat alone in the common room, a half-cold cup of coffee forgotten on the table in front of them. The TV was muted, casting pale blue light across their face.

Three weeks. That's how long it had been since they'd told Bucky Barnes they loved him. Three weeks of side-stepping each other in hallways, of carefully timed meal schedules, of pretending everything was fine while something between them quietly bled out.

The elevator doors at the far end of the room slid open, and the soft whir of servos broke the silence. A figure stepped out, moved toward the kitchen.

He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair loose around his face. For a second, he just stood there, caught between the elevator and the kitchen, like a man who'd walked into the wrong room.