The sunlight was different today. Brighter somehow. It streamed in through the tall windows like a quiet promise, casting warm, golden lines across the floor.

Charlie sat upright in bed, legs draped over the edge. Her hands were curled in the soft fabric of her sweatpants, breathing slow and steady. The healing cuts on her arms were still faintly visible, her movements stiff, but today wasn't about scars.

It was about movement. About progress.

A soft knock came before the door opened. Bucky stepped inside already dressed and ready, hair pulled back, a clean black jacket over a plain tee. He looked like someone prepared to walk through fire. But his expression softened the second he saw her sitting up.

"Morning," he said gently.

"Morning," she returned, voice still raspier than normal, but no less determined.

He moved toward her without hesitation, crouching to her eye level. "You ready?"

Charlie took a breath. Her heart beat faster than she wanted to admit. "As I'll ever be."

He held out his hand. "We go slow. We stop when you need. No pressure."

Charlie nodded and slipped her fingers into his palm. His grip was solid, warm, grounding. The first time in days she didn't feel like she was floating in someone else's body.

She stood, slowly. Muscles protested, and her knees wobbled under her weight, but Bucky was there—his arm steadying her waist, anchoring her as she found her footing.

"I got you," he murmured.

They took the first few steps together—her socked feet brushing against the smooth Wakandan floors, his steps perfectly matched to hers. The hallway outside was quiet. No fanfare. Just calm.

Just them.

Every step felt like a victory. Every breath a reclaiming.

Charlie glanced up at him, a hesitant smile curling at the corner of her mouth. "I feel like a newborn deer."

"You look better than a deer," Bucky said, lips twitching. "More grace. Less flailing."

She let out a soft laugh, leaning into him slightly. "You sure you don't want to carry me?"

He looked down at her, and for a moment, his eyes shimmered with something unspoken. "I'd carry you through the whole damn country if you wanted."

Charlie swallowed hard, emotion thick in her throat. She didn't speak—she didn't need to. She just held onto him tighter.

Together, they moved through the corridor. Every step forward felt like defiance—against the pain, the programming, the people who tried to break her.

She was still standing.
And Bucky was still holding on.

The early morning light crept through the high windows of the Wakandan training hall, painting stripes across the polished floors. Charlie exhaled slowly as she moved through a steady kata, mimicking the graceful but powerful stance Ayo had just demonstrated. Her body was stronger now—every muscle more responsive, more precise. She could break stone with her bare hands if she wanted. She'd proven that last week.

But none of that strength seemed to help with the weight in her chest.

She glanced across the room to where the Dora Milaje stood in a loose circle, murmuring amongst themselves. Charlie paused, catching her reflection in the wall-length obsidian. She looked... calm. Steady. Capable. But inside, she was cracking.

Every time she woke up alone.

Every time she looked for him without meaning to.

Every time she caught Bucky watching her from across the courtyard, his face unreadable.

They hadn't spoken about what happened. Not really. There were soft words. Muted thanks. Glances. Silence that stretched too long.

And not once had he reached for her.

Part of her had been grateful for that. She hadn't known who she was, or what was hers to give. But now… now she was starting to feel like herself again. Whoever that was. And the ache was no longer fear—it was longing.

She hadn't lost her feelings for him. If anything, they'd only deepened in the quiet. In the moments she caught him whispering her name when he didn't think she could hear.

She wanted him. She just didn't know how to say it.

From the terrace overlooking the training yard, Bucky stood like a ghost in the shadows. He wasn't sure if Charlie saw him, but he watched her anyway—watched the sharp way she moved, the way her form had grown even more dangerous, more focused. She looked like someone who didn't need saving anymore.

It made something in him ache.

Every night, he'd thought about walking to her quarters. Every morning, he told himself to give her more time. He didn't want to rush her. He'd been pushed and pulled and used. He'd been what they made her. And he swore to himself he wouldn't be the one to crowd her healing.

But he missed her like hell.

He missed the way her voice softened when she said his name. The way she looked at him, like he was still a man—not a weapon.

He didn't even know if she wanted him anymore. Maybe it had just been trauma binding them together. Maybe now that she was healing, she'd realize she didn't need him.

Still, every time he caught her looking back at him—like she was trying to decide something—it gave him a dangerous kind of hope.

He took a slow breath, watching her finish the routine and bow to Ayo, sweat glistening on her brow, her breathing steady but eyes far away. Then she looked up.

Right at him.

And didn't look away.

The training hall was silent but for the sound of her measured breaths and the soft scrape of her boots on stone. She adjusted her stance, centered herself again. Ayo stood nearby, watching. Judging. The Dora Milaje didn't hand out praise freely—and Charlie didn't expect it.

But she knew she was improving. Fast.

She'd just disarmed Ayo for the first time a few minutes ago. Her reward had been a single raised brow and the command to reset.

Then the door opened.

Charlie turned at the sound—and her pulse stuttered.

Bucky.

He was already looking at her, jaw set, blue eyes scanning. He wore his usual black, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tucked behind his ears. His vibranium arm gleamed as he stepped closer to Ayo. They exchanged quiet words—then both turned to her.

Ayo nodded toward the center of the mat. "You'll spar with Barnes. It is time to test your instincts in a more unpredictable fight."

Charlie didn't hesitate. She walked to the center, heart thumping for reasons that had nothing to do with combat. She took her position, dropped into a ready stance, and rolled her shoulders loose.

Bucky mirrored her.

He looked calm. Watchful. But she could read the tension in him—just barely.

"Don't hold back," she said.

Something flickered across his face. "I won't."

They moved.

Charlie struck first, feinting left and twisting at the last second, catching his side with the edge of her palm. He grunted—more surprised than hurt. She pressed forward with a flurry of calculated blows, fast and sharp, spinning low and knocking his legs off balance before darting back out of reach.

His eyes narrowed.

He came at her harder this time.

Their bodies collided in a blur of muscle and instinct—his punches fast, precise, but she was faster. Her movements were fluid, trained. Almost too trained. Like muscle memory she hadn't realized she possessed. She dodged a hook from his left side, dropped into a crouch, and swept his legs.

Bucky hit the mat.

Hard.

A beat of silence passed as she stood over him, chest rising and falling.

He looked up at her, stunned.

Then—he laughed under his breath.

"Okay," he muttered, still on his back, "that was hot."

She arched a brow and offered him her hand. "You really think I've been slacking in here?"

He took her hand and let her help him up. "No. I think you could take me now."

Their hands lingered too long. When she let go, her skin still burned where he'd touched her.

Ayo stepped forward with the faintest of smirks. "You are dismissed for the day."

Charlie turned, grabbing her towel, pretending like her pulse wasn't in her ears.

As Bucky passed her on his way to the door, he paused at her side. Close enough for only her to hear.

"You move like someone who's done this before."

She didn't look at him.

"I have," she said simply. "I just didn't know it until now."

He didn't say anything else. Just gave her a long look. Then he walked out, leaving her standing in the quiet.

Still trembling with energy.

Still aching with all the things they hadn't said.

He found her on the rooftop.

The Wakandan evening was warm and still, the air thick with the smell of rain that hadn't come yet. Charlie sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, eyes locked on the horizon as the sun slipped low. Her damp hair was pulled back in a loose braid, her training shirt still clinging to her skin from earlier.

She didn't look at him when he stepped onto the roof.

But she knew he was there.

"I figured you'd come find me," she said softly.

Bucky hesitated a few steps behind her, unsure if she wanted him to stay—but wanting to, anyway.

"You took me down pretty cleanly," he said.

She gave a faint smile, still watching the sky. "You let me."

"No," he said. "I didn't."

That made her turn. Just a little. Enough to glance at him over her shoulder.

He crossed the rooftop slowly, coming to stand beside her but not sit. She didn't seem to mind the quiet between them. Neither did he.

Finally, she looked forward again. "It scares me. That it felt familiar. All of it."

Bucky leaned on the railing. "It's okay if it does. You were trained like me. Maybe even more precisely."

"Then why do I still feel like I'm trying to climb out of someone else's skin?"

He glanced at her. "Because you are."

She pulled in a breath and exhaled through her nose, fingers curling against the stone.

"I hate that it's in me. The programming. The strength. All of it. I know it's helping me now but…" Her voice wavered. "What if I lose control again?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," Bucky said, turning to face her fully, his voice low. "I do. Because I've been exactly where you are. I've looked in the mirror and wondered if I was still him. I've felt my own hands covered in blood and wondered if I'd ever be anything else."

She looked up at him then. Really looked. Her eyes were shining, but she didn't cry.

"And what helped you?" she whispered.

He hesitated. Then sat beside her, close enough that their knees brushed.

"You," he said.

Charlie blinked. "Bucky…"

"I'm not saying that to make this harder," he said, voice quiet. "But being with you reminded me of who I want to be. Of what I can be, if I'm not alone."

She didn't answer right away. Just stared down at their hands where they rested between them—so close but not touching.

Finally, she whispered, "I don't know if I'm ready."

"I'm not asking you to be. I just want you to know… I'm not going anywhere."

Her lip trembled. She bit down on it, shook her head, and leaned slightly into him. He took that as permission, sliding his hand over hers. Her fingers twitched, then curled into his palm.

"I missed you," she said.

He smiled, even if it hurt a little. "I never stopped missing you."

They sat like that for a while. Silent. Steady.

And though nothing else was said, something between them began to mend.

The next morning Charlie adjusted the wraps around her wrists and rolled her shoulders. Her movements were clean, practiced. More precise than even a week ago. She looked stronger. She was stronger. Bucky noticed everything—the way she moved, how she calculated distance and timing like muscle memory. Like muscle weaponry.

He stepped onto the mat across from her, tugging off his jacket with a calm she didn't quite trust. That crooked smirk was already there.

"You ready?" he asked.

"I was born ready."

"Were you?" He tilted his head. "Because I seem to remember you not being able to walk straight the morning after—"

"Barnes."

She came at him fast, and he barely ducked in time. Their bodies met mid-motion, his block catching her elbow as she turned and swept his leg. He dodged again, impressed despite himself.

"Someone's showing off."

"Someone needs to shut up."

They were dancing now—spins and hits, grabs and dodges. Bucky was holding back, but only a little. Charlie didn't need coddling. Not anymore. She was sharp. Grounded. Balanced.

And maybe that was what rattled him the most.

She landed a clean kick to his stomach and knocked him back a step. Her eyes flashed, pleased. She didn't gloat, but he felt it. Saw it.

"You've been watching Nat's old tapes again," he said, circling her.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

He lunged. She twisted. Their bodies collided, his hand snaking around her back—too tight, too close—and for a second, they both paused. Breathing hard. Her chest against his. His hand on her waist. Familiar territory. Dangerous terrain.

"Let go," she said, breathless.

He did, slowly. And the fight reset.

When he came at her again, she was ready. She caught his arm, flipped him onto his back, and straddled him in one fluid, merciless move. Her knees braced his ribs. Her hand pressed to his chest. The exact position they'd been in, once—only that time, she'd kissed him like she couldn't breathe without it.

"Not bad," he said softly, his voice low.

She held his gaze. "I remember every move."

"That why you're avoiding me at night?"

She tensed. Just barely.

"Not avoiding. Just… giving myself space."

"To forget?"

"No." She leaned in, her face a breath away from his. "To survive."

Bucky swallowed hard, the heat of her, the scent of her, making it impossible to think clearly. "We're still us, Charlie."

She didn't move. "Are we?"

His hand came up, brushing her thigh, grounding himself.

"You're not the same," he said. "But neither am I. Doesn't mean we don't still fit."

Their breathing slowed. Hearts pounding. Her lips parted slightly.

But before anything else could happen, Ayo's voice echoed across the training floor.

"Enough for today. You're both sloppy."

Charlie blinked. The spell broke. She stood up, offering Bucky a hand. He took it, letting her pull him up. Their hands lingered longer than they should've.

"You're stronger than you were before," he said.

"So are you."

Bucky was still watching Charlie when Ayo stepped between them.

"You two may be stronger," Ayo said dryly, "but your emotions are a weakness on the mat."

Charlie paused, turning back with a wry smile. "Tell me how you really feel."

"I would," Ayo replied, "but we don't have time."

She looked to Bucky. "There's a gathering tonight. Your friend—Sam Wilson—is arriving. It is... a celebration, of sorts. Progress, peace. And you both are expected to attend."

Charlie blinked. "Wait. What?"

"Don't act surprised. Shuri's been planning this for days. Something about easing the tension around here." Ayo's brow quirked as she looked between them. "Clearly, it's still needed."

Bucky opened his mouth, but Ayo cut him off with a sharp glance.

"Charlie. You will come with me. You need to be fitted and properly prepared."

Charlie made a face. "Prepared for what, exactly?"

"For being admired," Ayo said simply, and then turned to Bucky. "You have... an afternoon. Try to look less feral."

Charlie let out a quiet laugh, and Bucky shot her a glance. "I'm not feral."

"Debatable," Ayo said.

Before Charlie could say anything else, Ayo was already walking toward the door, expecting Charlie to follow.

Charlie hesitated, catching Bucky's gaze one last time. Her eyes softened—just a flicker, a glimpse of something that hadn't been there a week ago. Maybe not even yesterday.

"I'll see you tonight," she said, quieter now.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I'll be there."

Charlie hesitated again, like she wanted to say something more. But instead, she turned and followed Ayo out of the room.

Bucky stayed on the mat, hands on his hips, jaw clenched.

A celebration.

He wasn't sure if it was something to look forward to—or survive.

But one thing was clear: he wasn't done with her yet.