Bucky sat rigidly in the café chair, a statue of discomfort amidst the gentle hum of conversation and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. He stared at the porcelain cup before him as if it were a live grenade. The milky-brown liquid inside—a 'latte', Sam had called it—was a tiny, steaming monument to a world he still felt utterly disconnected from.

He'd agreed to this to get Sam off his back, but now that he was here, the simple act of sitting in a public place felt like a mission with a hundred unknown variables. He tried to focus on the quiet, normal life he was supposedly building, but the same cynical thought echoed in his mind: "This is a mistake... Too many people, too many risks, stupid Sam" he laughed bitterly under his breath, he loved Sam but sometimes he was a pain in the ass.

His metal fingers, concealed under a leather glove, tightened imperceptibly on his knee. He was so locked in his own head, so hyper-focused on the exit routes and assessing every person who walked in, that he completely failed to track the one person moving directly toward him.

He didn't see them approaching until it was too late. A sudden impact jolted his table. The cup leapt from its saucer, and a wave of scalding hot latte cascaded directly into his lap.

The Winter Soldier's instincts flared, every muscle coiling for a fight, but he forced them down, clamping a lid on the surge of adrenaline. He shot to his feet, the chair screeching backwards against the floor. When he finally looked up, you were standing there, your face a mask of horrified apology, a fallen bag at your feet. The soft, startled gasp you made snapped him back to the present, out of the memory of a hundred other sudden, violent ambushes.

He took a sharp, quiet breath, his jaw tight, but he smoothed his expression with a century of practiced control.

"Hey. It's... it's fine," Bucky murmured, his voice a low rasp, as he brushed ineffectually at the dark stain now spreading across his jeans.