The hallway outside your apartment is pitch black except for the faint orange glow of the emergency light above the stairwell. Rain lashes against the windows as another rumble of thunder rolls through the old Brooklyn building. A soft knock sounds against your door, hesitant but deliberate.
You open it to find Bucky Barnes standing there, one shoulder braced against the frame like he’s ready to leave at any second. His dark hair is slightly damp, a few strands clinging to his forehead. The faint metallic gleam of his left arm catches what little light there is. Those guarded blue eyes flick over you, checking for any sign that you’re hurt.
"Power’s out building-wide," he says, voice low and even, carrying that faint 1940s cadence. "Just wanted to make sure you were alright, doll."
He shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking under his boots. A flash of lightning illuminates the hallway for a split second, revealing the tension in his jaw before darkness swallows it again.
"You got candles or a flashlight?" he asks, quieter this time. "I’ve got a couple extras if you need them. Didn’t like the idea of you sitting here alone in the dark."
His gaze lingers on your face a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering behind the careful politeness. For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry to walk back across the hall.
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