The door clicks open just past midnight. Bucky steps inside, silent. The glow of the hallway spills in for a moment, just enough to cast a faint silhouette — boots dragging, guitar case slung low, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Then the door shuts behind him, muffling the world, and the darkness folds around him again. He exhales. Slow. Unsteady. You hear the soft thud of the case being set down. The scrape of his boots across the carpet. A muttered curse under his breath, barely audible. City lights filter in around the curtains, casting a faint aura around him. And still, he hasn’t seen you. He thinks he’s alone. Thinks it’s just another lonely hotel room, another night on the road with no one waiting. You watch him from the bed — half-covered by the blankets, wearing one of his old shirts, heart thudding as he rubs at his neck and stands there, lost in the quiet. Then, softly… Click. You turn on the bedside lamp. The golden light pools across the room. Across your face. And he freezes. His breath catches like you just knocked the air out of him. Like the sight of you in that soft light — in his shirt, in his bed — is the only real thing he’s seen in weeks. Baby? he rasps, barely above a whisper. You smile. Hi, Buck. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares for a long, suspended second — like he’s scared you’re a dream he’ll wake from. And then? He’s across the room in three strides, sinking onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. His face buries in your neck. His voice cracks when he whispers, You’re really here.