The scream died in her throat before it ever left her lips.

Charlie bolted upright, chest heaving, the sheets tangled around her legs like seaweed. Her heart thundered in her ears. Cold sweat clung to her skin. The dream—or whatever it was—was already slipping through her fingers, but the images left a bitter aftertaste: cold metal, red lights, voices she didn't recognize speaking in a language she should've never understood.

And that word again.

Zerkalo.

She blinked, looking at the alarm clock. 6am. She tried to steady her breath, when her eyes caught the silhouette in the chair.

Her gasp was sharp. Her body froze.

Then the shadows moved.

Bucky.

He sat with his elbows on his knees, back slightly hunched, his vibranium hand loosely clasping his flesh one like he'd been holding himself in place all night. He didn't say anything. Just looked at her. The early morning glow illuminated his worried features.

"You were dreaming," he said softly.

Charlie swallowed. "You've been sitting there all night?"

His nod was slow. "Didn't want to leave you alone. Not after earlier."

She pressed her hands to her face, trying to wipe away the leftover fear. "I don't remember all of it. Just flashes. I was in a room. There were—there were mirrors, I think. And people speaking Russian. I think I was strapped down."

Bucky flinched, barely, but she didn't miss it.

He stood, crossed the short distance to the bed, and crouched beside her, eye level now.

"You're okay," he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. "You're safe."

She shook her head. "It didn't feel like a dream."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know what that's like."

Charlie looked into his eyes and saw something there—something vast and broken and careful. A memory he hadn't spoken aloud. A truth still caged.

"Bucky…" she whispered. "What if something is wrong with me?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said quickly, voice rougher now. "Whatever this is—it's not your fault."

"But what if I did something?" Her voice cracked. "What if I hurt someone and I don't remember it?"

His jaw tensed. "Then we find out who did this to you. And we make sure they can't do it again."

Her breathing slowed, just a little. She looked at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. "You believe me."

"I've always believed you," he said.

She reached for his hand, the metal one this time, and slid her fingers against the cool plates, tracing the gold filigree like a lifeline.

"I don't want to be alone when it happens again," she said, barely audible.

"You won't be."

Charlie leaned into him slowly, resting her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, strong and steady. For a long moment, they didn't move. The only sounds were the distant hum of cicadas through the window and the low, steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew something was coming.

Whatever it was—this was just the beginning.

The sound of the shower running was a soft hum behind the closed bathroom door. Bucky stood in the middle of the bedroom, jaw tense, fists curled at his sides. Steam curled beneath the doorframe. He could hear her humming faintly—some old song she probably didn't even realize she was singing.

He looked toward the window. The early morning light was creeping in, gold and hesitant. Too calm for the way his pulse was racing.

He needed air.

He needed answers.

He grabbed his phone off the dresser and stepped out onto the second-floor veranda, moving silently, careful not to let the screen door creak. The bayou stretched out before him, thick and shadowed even in the daylight. Spanish moss swayed in the breeze. Somewhere, a bird chirped. Everything looked normal.

But none of it felt normal anymore.

Bucky pressed Sam's name. The line rang once.

"Barnes?" Sam's voice came through, groggy and confused. "You alright?"

"She had a dream," Bucky said without preamble.

"…Shit."

"Woke up in a cold sweat, babbling in Russian. Said there were mirrors. Restraints. Red lights."

Sam sighed. "That sounds like your kind of nightmare, not hers."

"I know," Bucky said, pacing now. "That's what scares me."

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Bucky stopped walking and leaned against the railing, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Last night at the club," he said, quieter now, "that guy."

"The one you clocked near the bar?"

"Yeah. He wasn't dancing. Wasn't drinking. Didn't talk to anyone."

"You think it's Hydra?"

"I don't know what I think yet," Bucky said, voice low and sharp.

"And now the dream," Sam muttered.

"Exactly." Bucky paused. "I need you to look into her parents. All of it."

"Okay," Sam said, immediately on board. "I'll pull the police reports, anything public, maybe some not-so-public stuff too. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking their deaths weren't an accident. I'm thinking someone staged it, maybe to isolate her—or to hide something they did to her. Maybe both."

"And she doesn't know?"

"No." Bucky's voice dropped. "She doesn't remember anything. She thinks it's grief. Bad dreams. I think it's conditioning."

There was a long pause on Sam's end. "You think she's… like you were?"

Bucky swallowed hard.

"I don't know. Not exactly. But something's off. The timing, the memory glitches, the language, the man at the club. And now the dreams." He exhaled. "This feels familiar, Sam. Too familiar."

"Alright," Sam said, voice shifting into that same mission-focused mode Bucky had relied on too many times to count. "I'll get Torres on it. See if there's any overlap with Hydra operatives in the area around the time her parents died."

"Boat accident but closed casket? Maybe there was no bodies?"

"No bodies always screams foul play."

Bucky nodded. "I want to know who handled the estate. Who signed off on the death certificates. Who was around her after that. Especially the housekeeper."

"Louisa?"

"She's been gone for the holidays. Coming back today. I met her once. Something about her rubbed me the wrong way."

"You think she's in on it?"

"I think she's watching Charlie. And I think Charlie has no idea."

A soft click behind him.

Bucky froze and turned—only to see the bathroom door still closed. Just the water turning off.

"I've gotta go," he murmured. "She's getting out of the shower."

"Keep me posted."

"Thanks, Sam."

"And Bucky?" Sam's voice softened just a little. "You care about her. I know that. But don't let it cloud your judgment. If she is tied to Hydra—"

"I'll handle it," Bucky said flatly.

"You better."

He ended the call and tucked the phone into his back pocket. The tension still hadn't eased from his shoulders. The pieces were there—scattered, not yet forming a whole—but he felt the weight of them settling. Every instinct in him screamed that this wasn't random.

Something was coming.

And he was running out of time to stop it.

The screen door eased open again as he stepped back into the room just as Charlie emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, cheeks flushed from the heat. Her eyes met his, soft and a little shy. There was still a hint of vulnerability there, hanging between them like morning fog.

"You disappeared," she said gently.

Bucky offered a small smile, careful to tuck the weight behind his eyes. "Just needed a breath of fresh air."

She nodded, tugging the towel a little tighter around herself. She was in only a towel after all. "You hungry? I can make something."

"I'll help," he said quickly.

He didn't want her out of his sight.

Not now.

Not until he knew exactly what he was up against.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and coffee.

Charlie sat at the island in one of the tall stools, her damp hair twisted into a bun, oversized cardigan sliding off one shoulder. Her mug steamed between her hands, cradled close to her chest. She wasn't saying much, but Bucky didn't mind.

She'd had a rough night.

And after everything—after the club, the dream, the way she'd clung to him in the dark—it was enough that she was here, letting him be close.

Bucky moved quietly behind her, flipping the last pancake in the skillet. He wasn't much of a cook, but pancakes were easy. And she liked them with honey and pecans. He'd remembered that.

"You know," she said softly, breaking the silence, "this is the first time someone's made me breakfast in this house."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

She nodded, still staring into her mug. "It was always Louisa. Or… me. I didn't even realize until just now."

He slid the last pancake onto her plate and set the pan aside. "Guess I'm setting the bar, huh?"

That earned a little smile. Small, but it reached her eyes.

"High," she said. "Definitely high."

He poured them both more coffee and leaned on the counter beside her, eyes tracing the soft curve of her cheek, the way the morning light filtered through the window and caught in her lashes.

"You sleep okay before?" he said gently.

She hesitated. "Yeah. Before I started dreaming."

He didn't press her.

She took a bite, chewing slowly. "It felt like I'd done it before, you know? The dancing. You. It was like… déjà vu, but deeper. Like I was remembering something someone else lived."

His hand tightened around the mug.

Before he could answer, a loud crunch sounded outside—gravel under tires.

Charlie perked up. "Louisa."

She slid off the stool and went to the front door, cardigan trailing behind her. Bucky stayed where he was for a second, finishing the sip of coffee, steel in his spine.

He hadn't seen Louisa since the night they met. She'd been pleasant enough, matronly, polite.

But now? After everything he'd seen, after the man at the club, after Charlie's dream?

He didn't trust anyone.

By the time he reached the front hallway, Charlie was already greeting her. Louisa was stepping through the open door, her long coat damp with mist, a hat tugged low over her silver-streaked hair. Her eyes went to Charlie first—warm, practiced affection—and then they flicked to Bucky.

And lingered.

"Mister Barnes," she said with a nod. "Good to see you again."

Bucky gave a neutral smile. "You too."

Louisa stepped forward, unwrapping her scarf. "You've been taking good care of our girl, I hope."

Something about the way she said our girl set his teeth on edge.

Charlie laughed lightly. "He's been amazing, Lou. Even made pancakes."

Louisa raised her brows, glancing at him with a touch of surprise. "Pancakes?"

Bucky nodded once. "With pecans."

"Impressive."

Charlie reached for Louisa's bags like she always did, out of habit, but Bucky was already there, taking them from her hands. Louisa stiffened almost imperceptibly at the gesture, just for a second. Her eyes locked on him again, sharper now, like she was reassessing him.

He stared back.

And smiled.

Charlie didn't notice the tension. She was already asking Louisa about her Thanksgiving, ushering her inside, talking about leftovers and weather and if the heater in her car had held up on the road.

But Bucky didn't miss it.

The way Louisa's eyes swept the room as she walked in—not casual glances, but tactical ones. Doorways, windows, corners.

The subtle double-take she did when she passed by the staircase, like she was making note of the distance.

The faint pause at the hall closet—just long enough for a flicker of something to register in her expression before she continued walking.

Bucky followed silently behind, every inch of him alert.

By the time they reached the kitchen again, Charlie was already fixing Louisa a cup of tea and chatting about the horses. Louisa's hands moved smoothly, unpacking some dried herbs and a small bundle of linens she'd brought back.

Bucky leaned on the wall, watching.

Louisa didn't look at Charlie like a housekeeper. She looked at her like a handler.

"I'll get your room warmed up," Charlie said, already moving toward the back of the house.

Louisa's eyes followed her out. The smile on her face stayed just a beat too long after Charlie was gone.

Then, finally, she looked back at Bucky.

Their eyes locked.

"You're not what I expected," Louisa said, her voice even.

"Neither are you," Bucky replied.

They stood in silence for a beat. Her eyes flicked briefly to his left arm.

"You've been through a lot," she said softly. "But I suppose that's what makes you useful."

Useful.

Not strong. Not brave.

Useful.

"Charlie tell you that?" he asked quietly.

Louisa didn't answer.

Instead, she smiled.

"I'll stay out of your way," she said. "As long as you stay out of mine."

And then she turned, picked up her tea, and walked toward the back hallway like she owned every inch of the place.

Bucky didn't move until she was out of sight.

Only then did he reach into his pocket, pull out his phone, and send Sam a single text:

"She's back. Watch her."

The house felt heavier with Louisa in it.

Even with her footsteps muffled down the hallway, even with her door closed, something about the energy had shifted—just enough to raise the fine hairs on the back of Bucky's neck.

Charlie didn't seem to notice. She was back in the sitting room, curled up on the wide velvet sofa with a book spread open on her lap. She had her legs folded beneath her, feet bare, and a mug of now-cold coffee resting on the floor beside her.

The quiet of the morning felt fragile. Still. Like it could shatter if he breathed too loud.

Bucky hovered in the doorway a moment longer than he meant to, watching her.

The sunlight dappled through the lace curtains and hit the side of her face, catching the little flyaway strands of hair around her temple. She must've felt him there because she looked up—eyes warm and a little tired.

He offered a half-smile. "Hey."

She closed the book, using one finger to hold her place. "Hey yourself."

He moved into the room and perched on the edge of the armchair across from her. "I was thinking… we could get out of the house for a while. Go for a ride."

Charlie blinked. "Like… with the horses?"

"Yeah."

Her expression shifted, just a flicker. "You ever been on a horse, James?"

He lifted a shoulder, playing it off. "Not since the 40s. And even then, it was barely more than sittin' on one while someone led it around."

She laughed, a soft and surprised sound. "Well, if you're serious, you're gonna have to let me show you how to tack up properly. You'll end up backward in the saddle."

"Guess I'll have to trust you then."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Bucky didn't answer right away. Just met her eyes, steady.

Then: "Yeah. I do."

Charlie looked down at her book, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. She closed it and pushed up to her feet. "Okay, then. Let's ride."

They headed toward the stables out back, boots crunching over the damp grass, a hint of lingering fog still tangled in the trees beyond the fence. The horses lifted their heads when they heard them approach—Charlie's soft calls drawing them near.

Bucky waited just outside the stall as she pulled the tack out of the nearby storage closet, already moving like muscle memory. She handed him a brush.

"Start with grooming. Get a feel for him first."

Bucky nodded and stepped toward Diablo. He brushed him in quiet, long strokes while she explained where to check for burs in the mane, how to clean the hooves, where to fasten the girth strap so it wouldn't pinch. Her voice was easy, even light, and she laughed a few times when he fumbled through something or looked like he didn't trust what he was doing.

"Loosen that buckle just one more—there, good," she said, coming up beside him. Her fingers brushed his, light and warm.

His hand stilled on the saddle's edge. "Like this?"

"Yeah. Perfect." She looked up at him through her lashes. "You're a quick learner."

"Only when the teacher's cute."

Her eyes sparked, and she gave him a mock scandalized look before turning back to her horse. But the color in her cheeks didn't lie.

Once they were both saddled and ready, she handed him the reins. "You remember how to mount?"

"I've got a decent memory."

She gave him space, watching carefully as he swung into the saddle—not graceful, but solid. She climbed up on hers with ease, settling into the rhythm like it lived in her bones.

"You good?" she called out, already easing her horse into motion.

"Better now."

They rode side by side through the moss-covered trees, hooves muffled in the soft earth, the occasional rustle of leaves the only sound. A few birds trilled overhead. The air smelled like sun-warmed grass and the last breath of fall.

Charlie looked more relaxed on horseback than Bucky had ever seen her—like the weight of the mansion and its memories didn't quite reach her here. Her shoulders were looser. Her smile lasted longer.

"Where are we headed?" he asked as they turned onto a narrow wooded path.

"Theres a clearing a couple miles out." she said.

"Great, we can eat there."

"You packed food?"

He shrugged. "I said I wanted to take you out."

Charlie's expression softened again, and she reached over to nudge his arm. "You're full of surprises today."

He smirked. "Maybe I'm just warming up."

They rode for another mile in companionable silence, Charlie pointing out a few plants along the trail, bits of trivia he only half-absorbed because he was too busy watching her eyes light up. But beneath it all, Bucky kept checking the tree line, scanning for signs—footprints, movement, the glint of metal. Nothing stood out.

No threat. No eyes watching them.

And yet, the tightness in his chest didn't ease.

Eventually, the trees opened up into a wide, sunlit field. Yellow wildflowers grew in little patches around the edges, and a few trees stretched long branches like shadows over the tall grass.

Bucky dismounted first, then stepped over to help her down. She took his hand without hesitation, her fingers curling around his, and for a second—just a breath—they stood close. Too close.

The air shifted.

He could feel the heat of her skin, the soft sound of her breath. Her eyes dipped to his mouth for just a second, and he nearly—

But she stepped back, letting go.

"Where's this famous picnic?" she asked, smoothing her hair behind her ear like nothing had happened.

He cleared his throat and reached into his saddlebag. "Wasn't sure what you'd want, so I brought options. Sandwiches, fruit, some iced tea."

"No wine?" she teased.

"I'm trying to impress you, not get you drunk."

She laughed and helped him spread out the blanket. Once they settled, Bucky passed her a sandwich and leaned back on one elbow, watching her.

She bit into the sandwich and let out a hum. "Okay, this is… better than I expected."

"Hey, I know what I'm doing."

"Mmhmm." She sipped the tea and tilted her head. "This your idea of romance?"

"Is it working?"

Charlie looked at him for a long moment. Her smile dimmed—not because she wasn't enjoying herself, but because something deeper crept in. A flicker of confusion. Maybe grief.

"You know… I haven't been out here since my parents died," she said quietly. "This field was my mom's favorite place. She used to bring a book, sit under that tree for hours while I rode."

Bucky sat up a little straighter. "You okay?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. It just feels like I should remember more. It's like… the memories are there, but when I reach for them, they slip away."

But before he could say anything, she jerked suddenly—her hand flying to her temple, brows knitting in pain.

"Charlie?" He was already moving to her side.

She clutched the side of her head, eyes squeezed shut. "It's like—I don't—God, it's loud—"

"Hey, hey." He crouched beside her, hands on her shoulders. "Breathe. What do you hear?"

"I don't know." Her voice cracked. "It's like static. Voices—but wrong."

She blinked, and something cold flickered in her expression. A flicker of confusion washed over her like a tide going out.

"I don't remember coming here," she whispered. "Bucky, I—why are we—?"

He swallowed, heart hammering.

"You're okay," he said softly, hands rubbing her arms. "You're safe. Just sit with me."

She blinked again. The moment passed like a shadow over water. The wildflowers around them swayed, soft and innocent.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

Then she looked at him like she hadn't spoken at all.

"Did I zone out again?" she asked.

He forced a smile. "A little."

She reached for the tea again, visibly embarrassed. "I think I'm just tired. Too many late nights."

Bucky didn't push it.

Not yet.

But as she leaned against him, eyes drifting to the sky, he kept his own wide open—watching the trees.

Listening for ghosts.