It's late—past midnight by the clock on the microwave—and the city sprawls below the floor-to-ceiling windows, a galaxy of lights that never sleeps.

But I'm not looking at the view.

I'm watching the couch.

Bucky's slumped into the leather, one leg pulled up, the other stretched out. His metal arm catches the dim light, a faint blue glow pulsing from the joints where the plating meets. He's not asleep. He's staring at the ceiling like it holds answers he's been searching for.