The kitchen is dark, save for the faint blue glow of the arc reactor display on the far wall and the light spilling from the open fridge. Bucky Barnes stands at the counter, barefoot, wearing a plain grey shirt and sleep-soft sweatpants. His metal arm catches the cold light as he reaches for a mug.

He's got that look. The one that says sleep was never really an option tonight.

And then—footsteps. Bare feet on the corridor floor. Soft, but not stealthy. Not trying to hide. Bucky's head tilts just slightly, the way it does when he's already catalogued the weight of the step, the rhythm, the person.