the winter guardian.

The harsh wind howled outside, rattling the windows of Wilson’s Grocery. Sam rubbed his gloved hands together, his breath forming faint clouds in the air as he glanced at the old clock above the counter.

It was already past closing time, but the chill had seeped into his bones, making the walk home less appealing than staying in the modest warmth of the store.

For generations, the Wilson family had run this grocery shop, a cornerstone of their small, snow-dusted town.

When his parents retired, the responsibility had fallen to Sam, the eldest. He hadn’t minded at first—it was comforting, familiar work. But nights like this, when the store was empty and the cold crept into every corner, left him longing for something more.

The sharp ring of the bell over the door startled him. Sam straightened, his hand instinctively reaching for the counter’s edge as a figure stepped inside.

A man cloaked in layers of thick clothing. Hood shadowed his face, and a scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, leaving only a hint of his eyes visible. Snow clung to his shoulders and boots, forming small puddles where he stood. 

"What can I get for you?" Sam asked, his voice warm despite his fatigue. He forced a smile, one he had perfected over years of running the store.

The man didn’t respond. He moved silently past the counter, his head turning toward the aisles.

Sam’s eyes followed him, noting the deliberate steps and the way the man’s gloved hand brushed lightly against the shelves as he walked. He stopped in front of the canned goods aisle and stood there, unmoving.

Sam frowned, the faint hum of the store’s fluorescent lights the only sound. Something about the man’s stillness unsettled him. Clearing his throat, “Cold out there tonight, huh? Take your time. Let me know if you need anything.”

No answer.

Sam’s curiosity tingled. He’d had his fair share of late-night customers, but something about this one set him on edge. Maybe it was the silence that followed—the kind that felt heavier than the winter air.

From behind the counter, Sam leaned to get a better view, craning his neck to see what the man was up to. The stranger lingered by the shelves, his gloved hands brushing against the cans, but he didn’t pick anything up. Instead, he stood there, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity.

Sam cleared his throat, he tried again. The sound breaking the stillness. “Need help finding something?”

The man’s head snapped toward Sam, his eyes catching the dim light for a brief moment. There was something in his gaze—something unsettling. But again, he said nothing. Sam felt a chill creep up his spine, colder than the winter night outside.

Something wasn’t right.

The store's bell jingled once more, shattering the fragile calm that had barely settled.

Sam barely had time to process it before another man stormed in, his movements erratic and desperate. The smell of alcohol and sweat clung to him, mingling unpleasantly with the faint scent of canned goods and coffee lingering in the store.

The man's bloodshot eyes darted around before locking onto Sam. He pulled out a pistol and pointed it directly at him. "Hand over the money, kid," he snarled, his voice rough and trembling with nerves.

Sam froze, his hands instinctively raising in the air. "S-sir, let's calm down. There's no need for violence. Just put the weapon down-"

"I don't wanna hear that bullshit!" the man barked, his finger tightening on the trigger. Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he braced himself for the worst.

The shot rang out.

Time seemed to slow as Sam flinched, his life flashing before his eyes. But the impact never came. Instead, there was a metallic clang followed by a sharp thud. Sam opened his eyes, his breath hitching. A knife had embedded itself in the wall inches from his face, intercepting the bullet mid-flight.

It all happened so fast, too fast for Sam to comprehend.

The mysterious man from earlier stood there, his hood and scarf gone, revealing his long, dark hair and sharp, battle-worn features.

His movements were fluid, almost inhumanly precise, as he approached the would-be robber. Without a word, he disarmed him in one swift motion, knocking him unconscious with the butt of his own pistol. The man crumpled to the floor in a heap, and silence returned to the store.

"Wait!" Sam called out, his voice shaky as the stranger turned to leave.

The tall stranger paused, and gave Sam a one last glance. He muttered something in russian that was barely audible. The man continued to walk away and stepped over the unconscious body, his boots crunching against the broken glass on the floor.

His face was partially hidden by a protective mask, but the dark paint smeared around his eyes and the cold steel of his metal arm were unmistakable.

Sam's eyes widened as his gaze caught the crimson star etched onto the metal. The pieces clicked together in his mind—too perfectly to ignore. Long hair. Black paint over his eyes. A protective black mask. And that eerie, blood-red star.

It couldn't be.

Sam's grandparents had told him stories of a ghost from their time—a supersoldier forged in war and corruption. A man created by Hydra, the organization that had once been a global shadow of terror.

They called him The Winter Soldier, a name spoken in hushed tones. He was said to be unstoppable, unaging, an assassin with blood on his hands and a legacy of destruction in his wake.

Could it really be him? The assassin who had lived through decades, emerging only to vanish again into the shadows?

Sam stood frozen behind the counter, his pulse racing as the weight of what had just happened sank in. The bell jingled softly as the door swung shut, leaving Sam alone in the quiet, snowbound night.

Sam's breath caught as he watched the man—no, the legend—disappear into the snowy night.

The unconscious robber groaned on the floor, snapping Sam back to reality. Shaking, Sam reached for his phone to call the police. But even as he dialed, his thoughts were elsewhere, haunted by the realization: The stories were real. And The Winter Soldier had just walked out of Wilson's Grocery.

The night felt colder as Sam hung up the phone, his trembling fingers barely able to press the buttons.

The police were on their way, but that was the least of his worries. He glanced toward the door where the mysterious man had vanished, the snowstorm outside already erasing any sign of his departure.

Sam leaned heavily against the counter, trying to steady his breathing. His mind raced with the fragments of the stories his grandparents had told him.

They had always described the supersoldier as a ghost, a phantom who could strike without warning and disappear just as quickly. A weapon forged by Hydra, a man turned into something inhuman.

But those were just stories… weren’t they?

Sam’s eyes fell on the knife still embedded in the wall, its handle gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It wasn’t just a knife—it was military-grade, sleek and deadly, nothing like the hunting knives he kept in the back. It was another piece of evidence that this wasn’t a dream or a hallucination.

The sound of sirens in the distance pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down at the unconscious robber sprawled on the floor. The man’s gun lay a few feet away, harmless now, but it was a stark reminder of how close Sam had come to death.

As the police arrived, Sam gave them a brief explanation: a masked stranger had intervened and stopped the robbery. He left out the details about the metal arm and the crimson star. He didn’t want to deal with their skepticism—or worse, draw attention to the man who had saved his life.

Once the police had taken the robber into custody and left, Sam locked up the store. The snow had stopped, leaving the world outside eerily quiet.

Sam trudged home through the snow, the chill biting at his skin. His breath came in puffs of white, but his mind felt like a storm of its own. He kept replaying the scene in his head—the knife, the crimson star, the metal arm. It all seemed impossible, like something out of a movie.

By the time he reached his small apartment above the store, Sam convinced himself it must’ve been some kind of hallucination. Maybe he was just exhausted. He hadn’t slept well in weeks, and the long hours in the freezing store had taken their toll. But even as he tried to shake the thought, curiosity gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He shrugged off his coat and boots, the warmth of the apartment doing little to soothe his unease. The room was quiet except for the hum of the radiator.

Sam sat at his worn desk, opening his laptop. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. It felt absurd to even think about it—but he had to know.

With a deep breath, he typed: “Winter Soldier documents” into the search bar.

The results came back instantly, and Sam’s stomach dropped.

There were articles, forum posts, conspiracy theories, even grainy photos and sketches. Most of them were labeled as urban legends, Cold War myths, or exaggerated tales from old veterans.

But as he scrolled further, the descriptions sent chills down his spine:

• A man with a metal arm and a red star.

• An assassin who vanished into the shadows after completing his mission.

• Rumors of Hydra experiments creating a supersoldier lives to be immortal.

Sam clicked on an article titled “The Winter Soldier: Hydra’s Legacy”

It detailed accounts from soldiers, survivors, and even a few intelligence leaks. The stories spanned decades, from the 1940s to recent years, describing a figure who appeared in global conflicts, assassinations, and covert missions—always with the same description: long hair, black mask, metal arm.

His chest tightened as he scrolled further. One grainy photo caught his eye: a shadowy figure walking through a battlefield, his metal arm reflecting the dim light. The crimson star was unmistakable.

Sam leaned back in his chair, his head spinning. It wasn’t an illusion. It was real.

He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it. If the stories were true, then the man in his store last night was more than just a myth. He was a relic of a time long gone. A weapon. A ghost.

But why had he intervened? Why had the Winter Soldier, of all people, saved him?

Sam’s fingers hovered over the keyboard again, this time searching for Hydra.

The results were even more unsettling. Reports of their experiments, their obsession with power, and their supposed defeat at the hands of Captain America during World War II. But Hydra was like a weed—cut off one head, and two more grew in its place.

The more he read, the more questions he had. Sam stared at the screen, his exhaustion forgotten. He didn’t know what to believe, but one thing was certain: the stories his grandparents had told weren’t just bedtime tales.

And now, for some reason, he was part of it.

He glanced out the window at the snow-covered street below, half-expecting to see the shadowy figure watching him. But the world outside was quiet, untouched. Sam exhaled slowly, his breath fogging up the glass.

'What now?' he thought.

Even as he closed the laptop and tried to sleep, his mind refused to rest. The Winter Soldier was a living legend—and Sam had the feeling this wasn’t the end of their story.

—#—

The next morning arrived with a crisp chill in the air, the town blanketed in a fresh layer of snow. Wilson’s Grocery was open for business, as it always was, but something about Sam felt… different.

The regulars noticed it immediately. Mrs. Hargrove, the elderly woman who came every morning for fresh bread, squinted at him from behind the counter. "You look pale, Sam. Are you feeling alright?"

Sam forced a smile and nodded. "Just didn’t get much sleep, Mrs. Hargrove. It’s nothing."

As the morning passed, whispers spread among the customers. 'Something must’ve happened last night.' They spoke in hushed tones about last night's incident . Sam deflected their questions with vague reassurances.

The truth churned in his stomach, but he knew better than to say anything.

If he told anyone it was the Winter Soldier—the supersoldier—who had saved him, there’d be chaos. The stories of Hydra’s deadly assassin were infamous, even in a quiet town like his. People might fear him, blame him, or worse, draw the attention of someone who’d want answers Sam couldn’t give.

So, he buried the truth.

By midday, he settled into the routine of running the store. Stocking shelves, counting inventory, ringing up customers. It was almost enough to distract him from the red star etched in his mind.

Then the bell jingled, and Joaquin walked in.

Joaquin was a regular, one of the few people Sam genuinely enjoyed chatting with. He was in his late twenties, tall and lean, with an easygoing demeanor that made him popular around town. He approached the counter with a bag of chips and a bottle of soda, flashing Sam his usual grin.

"Morning, Sam. You holding up alright after all that craziness last night?" Joaquin asked as he set his items down.

Sam hesitated. Joaquin was trustworthy, but even so, he couldn’t tell him everything. Instead, he decided to test the waters.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Just… you know, long night," Sam said as he scanned the items. He paused, then glanced up at Joaquin. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what’s up?"

Sam leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "You ever heard of… the Winter Soldier?"

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. "The Winter Soldier? You mean that Hydra assassin dude? Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Why?"

Sam tried to keep his expression neutral. "I just… remembered some stories my grandparents used to tell. About him showing up in random places, doing crazy stuff. You think those stories are real?"

Joaquin shrugged. "Depends who you ask. Some people say he’s just a myth, a way to scare kids. Others swear he’s real, like some kind of boogeyman for the Cold War era. Why? Did your grandparents tell you something specific?"

Sam shook his head quickly. "No, nothing like that. Just curious."

Joaquin chuckled. "Well, if he is real, I hope I never meet him. Bro’s got a body count higher than most wars."

Sam nodded, his stomach tightening at the memory of the red star on the metal arm. He handed Joaquin his bag and forced a smile. "Thanks for stopping by, man."

Joaquin grabbed the bag, his grin returning. “No prob. Hey, if you ever wanna dive into those conspiracy theories, let me know. I love that kind of stuff.”

“Sure thing,” Sam replied, keeping his tone light.

As Joaquin left, the bell jingling behind him, Sam slumped against the counter. He stared at the rows of snacks and shelves, his mind far away. Hearing someone else confirm the stories—jokingly or not—only deepened the knot in his chest.

The rest of the day crawled by. Customers came and went, but Sam barely registered them. His thoughts were locked on the questions spinning in his head.

If Joaquin, of all people, had heard about the Winter Soldier, how many others knew? And how much of what they knew was true?

—#—

Later that evening, as the store quieted down, Sam found himself back at the counter, mindlessly flipping through a worn notebook he kept for inventory. The sound of the door opening startled him, and he looked up, expecting another regular.

Instead, a man in a heavy coat and scarf entered, his face mostly obscured by the winter gear. Sam’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to stay calm. The man walked to the back of the store, browsing the canned goods.

For a moment, Sam thought he might just be another customer. But then the man’s movements slowed, his head tilting slightly as if listening. Sam tensed, his eyes darting to the wall where the knife from last night still rested, cleaned but ready.

The man turned, his gaze meeting Sam’s. Something about his eyes was familiar—cold, calculating, and far too focused.

Sam cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can I help you find something?”

The man didn’t respond immediately. He approached the counter with slow, deliberate steps, stopping just short of the register. As he pulled down the scarf, Sam’s breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t the Winter Soldier—but it was someone just as intimidating.

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Sam blinked, trying to mask his panic. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man leaned closer, his presence suffocating. “Don’t play dumb. The Soldier. He was here.”

Sam’s hand edged toward the knife under the counter, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Look, I think you’ve got the wrong place—”

The man slammed his hand on the counter, making Sam jump. “Listen, kid. If you don’t want to end up like the last guy who got in my way, you’ll tell me everything. Now.”

Sam’s throat went dry. He didn’t know who this guy was, but the way he spoke made it clear he wasn’t just some random stranger. Whoever he was, he was looking for him.

And Sam had no idea what to do.

Sam swallowed hard, his hand hovering near the knife. His mind raced. Who was this guy? Hydra? A mercenary? And why did he think Sam knew anything about the Winter Soldier?

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam stammered, his voice betraying his fear.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been tracking him for weeks. He was here last night. I know it.”

Sam’s heart sank. There was no denying it now—the man was after the Winter Soldier. But what did that mean for him?

“Look, I just run a grocery store,” Sam said, trying to sound calm. “Some guy stopped a robbery last night, yeah, but he didn’t stick around. I don’t know who he was.”

The man studied Sam for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he reached into his coat. Sam flinched, thinking it might be a weapon, but the man pulled out a small device instead.

He held it up, a red light blinking on its surface. “This is a tracker. It picks up traces of vibranium. The readings led me straight here.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. Vibranium. That explained the man’s obsession—the Winter Soldier’s arm.

“You’re wasting your time,” Sam said, summoning what little courage he had. “Whoever you’re looking for, he’s long gone.”

The man smirked, leaning closer. “Maybe. But you saw him. That makes you useful to me.”

Before Sam could react, the man reached across the counter and grabbed his wrist, his grip like iron.

“Let me go!” Sam shouted, struggling against him.

The man sneered. “You’re coming with me. You’re going to tell me everything you know.”

The door’s bell jingled suddenly, and both men froze.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the snowy night. The man released Sam’s wrist and spun around, his hand reaching for a weapon.

Sam’s heart leapt as he recognized the figure. The long hair. The protective mask. The cold, piercing gaze.

It was him.

The Winter Soldier.

For a moment, no one moved. The man with the tracker cursed under his breath and drew a gun. But before he could aim, the Winter Soldier was on him.

The fight was brutal and swift. The Soldier’s movements were a blur—disarming the man, landing precise blows that left him gasping for air. The tracker hit the ground and shattered, its blinking light extinguished.

Within seconds, the man was unconscious, slumped against the counter.

Sam stared, wide-eyed, as the Winter Soldier turned to him. His mask hid most of his expression, but his eyes were hard, calculating.

“You shouldn’t have talked,” the Soldier said, his voice low and cold.

“I—I didn’t!” Sam stammered. “I didn’t tell him anything!”

The Soldier studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

He turned to leave, but Sam’s voice stopped him.

“Wait!”

The Soldier paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Why… why did you save me? Twice now?” Sam asked, his voice trembling.

The Soldier’s gaze softened, just slightly. “You were in the way,” he said simply.

And then, just like before, he disappeared into the night, leaving Sam with more questions than answers.

As Sam looked down at the unconscious man and the shattered tracker, one thing was clear: his life was no longer ordinary. He was part of something far bigger, whether he liked it or not.

Sam stood there, alone in the dimly lit grocery store, the reality of the situation crashing down on him.

The night had turned from an ordinary winter evening into a maelstrom of secrets, danger, and the extraordinary. The Winter Soldier had saved him, twice, yet he was still an enigma—merciless, distant, and unfathomable.

The police arrived again, and Sam explained what had happened, leaving out the crucial details about the Winter Soldier. How could he explain a man who had no business existing in the modern world—a Cold War relic with a metal arm? The officers listened skeptically, taking down statements and collecting evidence, but Sam could tell they didn’t believe a word of it.

After the police left, Sam closed up the store, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, caught in a bizarre, dangerous story he had no part in writing. But he couldn’t ignore it. He had seen the Winter Soldier once again, and now he was tangled up in the remnants of Hydra’s twisted experiments.

Once Sam stepped in his apartment—he locked the door and leaned against it, staring out into the snow-covered street.

The air was heavy, almost suffocating, and the city seemed eerily quiet, as if holding its breath. Sam knew he couldn’t just ignore what he had seen. The Winter Soldier wasn’t just make-believe, and whatever the man’s purpose was, it was tied to something much larger than he could comprehend.

Sam paced around his small apartment, the events of the past two nights replaying in his mind like a broken record. The crimson star, the tracker, the assassin who had grabbed him—none of it made sense, yet it all felt terrifyingly real.

He sat down at his desk and opened his laptop again, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard. If he searched too deeply into this, would someone else come looking for him? Someone even more dangerous? But curiosity outweighed fear, and soon he was diving back into the rabbit hole.

This time, he searched for connections between Hydra and the Winter Soldier. What he found only made the knot in his stomach tighten.

Accounts of secret missions, stolen intelligence, and rumors of sleeper agents resurfacing decades after they were thought to be dead. One name kept appearing alongside these stories; James Buchanan Barnes.

Sam froze. That name sounded familiar. He thought back to the stories his grandparents used to tell—the brave soldiers who fought alongside Captain America in World War II, the betrayal of Hydra infiltrating their ranks. One story had always stood out to him: a tale of a young man who fell to his death, only to be reborn as Hydra’s ultimate weapon.

Could the Winter Soldier really be him?

Sam’s heart raced as he clicked on an old photograph. It showed a group of soldiers from the 1940s, standing proudly in front of a battered tank.

His eyes scanned the faces until they landed on a young man with a confident smile and piercing blue eyes. His name was written beneath the photo: 'Sgt. James Barnes'.

The resemblance was uncanny. Though decades separated the photo from the man who had saved him, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling they were one and the same.

A knock on the door jolted him out of his thoughts. Sam’s stomach dropped. It was late—too late for a casual visitor. He moved cautiously, peering through the peephole.

No one was there.

He frowned, opening the door just a crack. A cold gust of wind swept in, but the hallway was empty. He glanced down and saw a small package resting on the welcome mat. There was no return address, just his name scrawled hastily on the top.

Sam picked it up, his pulse quickening. He shut the door and set the package on the counter, eyeing it warily.

Who would leave this? Was it from the man who had attacked him? Or was it from himself?

His hands trembled as he opened the box. Inside was a single item: a black notebook, its cover worn and its pages yellowed with age. He flipped it open to the first page, and his breath caught.

The words were handwritten, precise but hurried.

“Samuel Wilson—stay out of this. For your own safety.”

It wasn’t signed, but he didn’t need a signature. He recognized the handwriting from the countless stories and clues he had dug up online.

"This is a warning,

Winter Soldier."

Sam stared at the notebook, his mind racing. He could heed the warning, step away, and try to pretend his life was still normal. Or he could keep going, digging deeper into the web of secrets that now surrounded him.

But as he looked at the warning again, he couldn’t help but feel the pull of something larger than himself.

He wasn’t sure what he would do next. But he knew one thing: his life would never be ordinary again.

The room felt smaller as Sam sat at his kitchen counter, the weight of the notebook pressing on his chest like a physical force. He flipped through the pages, scanning the cryptic notes, sketches, and diagrams inside. Most of it was indecipherable—coordinates, fragments of names, and strange symbols he didn’t recognize.

But one phrase kept appearing, scrawled in different places throughout the book: 'The Red Room'.

Sam had heard the term before, though only in passing. It was tied to rumors of an elite covert training program, one that had churned out assassins as deadly and emotionless as the Winter Soldier himself.

"Why would he leave this for me?" Sam wondered, his fingers tracing the words. Was this some kind of clue? Or was it a warning, a subtle way of saying he was already too close to something dangerous?

He slammed the book shut, his frustration mounting. He had no answers, just more questions piling on top of each other. And now, his name was in the middle of it all.

The faint buzz of his phone broke his spiraling thoughts. He grabbed it, relieved for a distraction, and saw a text from Joaquin.

Sam hesitated. Joaquin was a good friend, but he couldn’t drag him into this. Not yet.

He hit send and tossed the phone onto the counter.

The notebook sat there, silent but imposing, like a challenge he wasn’t ready to accept.

—#—

The next day, Sam tried to focus on running the store, but every little sound set him on edge. The bell above the door. The shuffle of customers’ feet. Even the hum of the refrigerators felt louder, more menacing.

By mid-afternoon, he couldn’t take it anymore. He locked up early and headed back to his apartment, the notebook burning a hole in his bag.

Once home, he poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down, and opened the notebook again. This time, he forced himself to study it more carefully.

One of the pages caught his eye. It wasn’t written in the same sharp, calculated handwriting as the rest. It was messier, hurried, and written in red ink:

“If you want to survive, find him before they do.”

Sam’s stomach turned. Him? The Winter Soldier? Or someone else entirely?

His mind was racing when he heard it again: a knock at the door.

He froze. This time, he didn’t hesitate to grab the knife from his kitchen drawer before approaching the door. Peeking through the peephole, he saw a figure in a hooded jacket standing there, hands shoved into their pockets.

“Samuel Wilson,” the figure called out softly. “I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Great. Another mess for the police to clean up.

Sam’s grip on the knife tightened. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” the figure said. “And someone who can help you. But we don’t have much time.”

The voice wasn’t familiar, but something about it felt genuine. Against his better judgment, Sam unlocked the door, keeping the knife hidden behind his back.

The figure stepped inside, pulling back their hood to reveal a young woman with sharp eyes and an air of quiet confidence.

“My name’s Natasha,” she said. “And if you’ve got that notebook, you’re already in over your head.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. Natasha. As in Natasha Romanoff? The Black Widow?

He gaped at her, trying to process what was happening.

“You need to tell me everything you know,” Natasha said, her tone deadly serious. “Because if you don’t, they’re going to find you. And you won’t be as lucky next time.”

Sam stepped back, gripping the knife tighter behind his back as he studied Natasha. She radiated authority and danger, but her gaze was calm, almost disarming.

“I don’t know anything,” Sam said quickly. “I don’t even know what’s in that notebook.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her sharp eyes locking on him. “But you have it. That’s enough to put a target on your back.”

She glanced around the apartment, her movements precise and deliberate, as though she expected an ambush at any moment. “They’ll come for you, Sam. Hydra doesn’t leave loose ends, and that notebook is full of things they’d kill to bury. You’re lucky Bucky left it for you.”

Sam’s chest tightened. “Bucky? So it was him. The Winter Soldier?”

Natasha nodded. “James Buchanan Barnes. He’s been off the grid for a while, but when he shows up, it’s usually because something big is happening.”

Sam sank into the nearest chair, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “Why me? I’m just some guy running a grocery store. What does any of this have to do with me?”

Natasha folded her arms, leaning against the wall. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Bucky doesn’t make moves like this without a reason. If he saved you, if he left that notebook for you, it means he thinks you’re important—or at least useful.”

Sam frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t even know him. I’ve never met him before that night.”

Natasha’s gaze softened slightly, her voice losing some of its sharpness. “Matter is now—you're involved in this. And if you want to stay alive, you need to start trusting me.”

Sam’s mind raced. He didn’t know if he could trust her, but she seemed to know more than he did. And she wasn’t wrong—he was in way over his head.

“What’s in the notebook?” he asked finally.

Natasha pushed off the wall and moved to the counter where the notebook lay. She opened it, flipping through the pages with practiced ease.

“Coordinates,” she said, pointing to a string of numbers. “This could lead to a Hydra base—or worse, a safe house where they’re regrouping.”

She turned another page. “This is a list of names. Most of them are aliases, but a few… these are people I know Hydra has been after for years.”

She flipped to the last page, her eyes narrowing. “And this…”

Sam leaned forward. “What? What is it?”

Natasha didn’t answer immediately. Her jaw tightened as she held up the notebook, showing Sam a crude sketch of a strange device. It was labeled with a single word: 'Rebirth.'

Sam frowned. “Rebirth? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Natasha closed the notebook and looked at him, her expression grave. “It means Hydra isn’t done. Whatever they were doing with Bucky, with the Winter Soldier program—they’re trying to start it again. And this time, it’s going to be worse.”

The room fell silent as her words sank in. Sam felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“What do we do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha’s expression hardened. “First, we find Bucky. He’s the only one who can explain why he brought you into this. After that…”

She turned toward the window, scanning the snowy street below. “We take the fight to them before they take it to us.”

Sam swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He didn’t ask for any of this, but now it was too late to turn back.

Sam stared at Natasha, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. The idea of seeking out the Winter Soldier—Bucky, as she called him—felt like stepping into the eye of a hurricane. But what choice did he have?

“Okay,” Sam said, his voice firmer than he expected. “How do we find him? He always disappears out of thin air.”

Natasha gave him a slight nod of approval, recognizing his resolve. “Bucky always leaves a trail, even when he doesn’t mean to. He’s precise, but predictable. If we follow the coordinates in the notebook, we might catch up to him—or at least figure out where he’s headed.”

Sam picked up the notebook, his hands steady now despite the storm raging inside him. “And if we do find him, what then? He’s not exactly the 'talkative' type.”

A faint smile crossed Natasha’s face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve dealt with Bucky before. He’ll listen to me.”

The certainty in her tone made Sam wonder just how much history these two shared, but he decided not to push. Instead, he focused on the immediate problem.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

“Now,” Natasha replied without hesitation. “Pack what you need and dress warm. The storm’s not stopping, and we’ll be on the move for a while.”

An hour later, Sam and Natasha were in her car, heading north along snow-covered roads. The heater struggled against the biting cold, but Sam barely noticed. He was too busy flipping through the notebook again, trying to make sense of the scattered clues.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a page with a string of coordinates circled in red ink. “This has to be important. It’s marked more than once.”

Natasha glanced at it briefly, her eyes never lingering off the road for too long. “That’s in the middle of nowhere. Could be a safe house, a bunker, or even a weapons cache.”

Sam frowned. “And we’re just going to walk into it, hoping we’re not walking into a trap?”

Natasha smirked, her confidence unshaken. “That’s why I’m here. If it’s a trap, we’ll deal with it.”

Her calm demeanor was both reassuring and unnerving. Sam wasn’t used to this kind of danger, but Natasha seemed to thrive in it.

As they drove, Sam’s thoughts drifted back to Bucky. The ghost soldier had already saved him, twice. But what's the reason? What did Bucky see in him that made him worth saving? And why leave him with this notebook, knowing the danger it carried?

“Natasha,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “Do you think Bucky… trusts me? I mean, he barely knows me.”

Natasha’s expression softened for a moment. “Bucky doesn’t trust easily. But if he saved you and gave you that notebook, it means he believes you can handle this. And so do I.”

Sam nodded, her words settling in his chest like a challenge. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this, but he wasn’t about to back down.

—#—

By nightfall, they arrived at the coordinates. The area was desolate, with nothing but snow and trees stretching as far as the eye could see. Sam pulled his coat tighter as they stepped out of the car, the frigid air biting at his face.

“There,” Natasha said, pointing to a faint outline of a cabin nestled in the woods.

Sam’s heart raced as they approached, his breath clouding in the freezing air. The cabin looked abandoned, its windows dark and its roof sagging under the weight of snow.

Natasha signaled for Sam to stay behind her as she approached the door, her movements silent and precise. She knocked twice, then stepped back, her hand hovering near the weapon holstered at her side.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the door creaked open, revealing a figure shrouded in shadows.

“Natasha,” a low, familiar voice said.

Bucky Barnes stepped into the dim light, his metal arm catching the faint glow of the moon. His expression was unreadable, his blue eyes flicking to Sam briefly before returning to Natasha.

“We need to talk,” Natasha said firmly.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

Inside, the cabin was sparse but functional, with a small fire crackling in the fireplace. Bucky sat down in a worn armchair, his posture tense.

“Why did you give him the notebook?” Natasha asked without preamble.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Because they’re after him now. I couldn’t just leave him to die.”

Sam’s chest tightened at the words. “But why me? What does Hydra want with me?”

Bucky’s gaze finally settled on him, his expression unreadable. “You’re connected to something—someone—they need. I don’t know all the details, but they won’t stop until they get it.”

Natasha stepped forward, her tone sharp. “Then we need to know what’s in that notebook. All of it.”

Bucky hesitated, and sighed. “Fine. But once you know, there’s no going back.”

Sam’s stomach churned as Bucky’s words hung in the air. Whatever secrets the notebook held, they were about to change everything.

Bucky stared at the notebook in Sam’s hands, his face a mixture of regret and determination. He gestured toward the firelight, silently instructing Sam to open it. Natasha stood nearby, her sharp eyes flicking between Bucky and Sam, ready for anything.

Sam hesitated, the weight of the moment settling heavily on him. Slowly, he flipped the notebook open to a page with strange symbols and numbers. Bucky leaned forward, pointing to the coordinates and then to the crude sketch labeled 'Rebirth.'

“This isn’t just a weapon,” Bucky said, his voice low and grim. “It’s a blueprint for Hydra’s next phase. They’ve been trying to perfect it for decades.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “Next phase? You mean more… people like you?”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed, the faint whir of machinery breaking the silence. “Worse. Hydra’s always experimented with control. Not just turning soldiers into weapons, but turning entire populations. The ‘Rebirth’ program was meant to make obedience instinctual. No trigger words, no programming—just loyalty, hardwired into their DNA.”

Natasha inhaled sharply, her calm veneer cracking. “If they’ve started this again…”

Bucky nodded. “They’ll need test subjects. People with unique genetic markers.”

Sam froze. “You’re saying… I might be one of them?”

Bucky’s gaze softened, but his tone remained steady. “Your family. Your bloodline. There’s something in it Hydra flagged years ago, long before you were born. You’re not just random. You’re tied to their work.”

Sam’s mind reeled. He thought of his grandparents, the stories they’d told of survival and resistance. Could their past have unknowingly entangled him in Hydra’s web?

Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “We can stop this, Sam. But we need to destroy whatever’s left of this program—and anyone protecting it.”

Sam swallowed hard, his resolve hardening. “Where do we start?”

Bucky stood, his towering figure casting long shadows in the dim light. “The coordinates in the notebook lead to a facility. It’s not their main base, but it’s where they’re testing the program. If we’re lucky, we can shut it down before they move forward.”

Natasha crossed her arms, her strategic mind already working. “And if we’re not lucky?”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we’re walking into a Hydra stronghold.”

—#—

The journey to the facility was tense and silent, the weight of their mission pressing down on all three of them. Natasha drove, her hands steady on the wheel, while Bucky kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning for threats. Sam sat in the back, clutching the notebook as if it were a lifeline.

The coordinates led them deep into the mountains, where snow-laden trees loomed like sentinels. As they approached, the faint outline of a compound came into view, surrounded by tall fences and guard towers.

Natasha parked the car a safe distance away, and they hiked the rest of the way under the cover of darkness. Bucky took the lead, his movements silent and calculated. Sam followed closely, his breath clouding in the frigid air.

They stopped at the edge of the tree line, surveying the facility. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their flashlights cutting through the night.

Natasha pulled out a pair of binoculars, scanning the area. “Standard security. Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Bucky pointed to a building near the center of the compound. “That’s where they’ll keep the data. We get in, download everything, and wipe the servers.”

“And the people running this place?” Sam asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Bucky’s expression darkened. “We deal with them.”

Inside the compound, tension crackled in the air. They moved quickly but carefully, taking out guards with silent precision. Bucky’s metal arm was a blur of motion, while Natasha’s every movement was calculated and lethal.

Sam tried to keep up, his heart pounding as they navigated the maze-like facility. Finally, they reached the central lab.

The room was sterile and cold, filled with monitors and strange equipment. Natasha went straight to the computer, plugging in a flash drive to begin the download.

“Make it quick,” Bucky muttered, standing guard by the door.

Sam wandered through the lab, his eyes drawn to a glass case containing a vial of glowing blue liquid. Beneath it was a label: 'Project Rebirth - Prototype Serum'.

“Guys…” Sam called, his voice shaking.

Natasha looked up, her expression turning grim. “That’s it. The key to their whole operation.”

Bucky stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Destroy it.”

Sam hesitated. “What if… what if it’s the only way to understand what they’re doing? To stop it for good?”

Natasha glanced at Bucky, her lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s not wrong. If we take it, we can study it. Use it against them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But we need to move out now.”

Natasha grabbed the vial and slipped it into her gear just as an alarm blared through the facility.

“Time’s up,” Bucky growled. “Let’s go!”

As they sprinted toward the exit, Sam’s mind raced. He wasn’t a soldier or a spy, but now he was in the fight of his life.

Can't the guy catch a break?

And as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, he knew this was only the beginning.

The compound erupted into chaos as the alarm blared, red lights flashing in rhythmic pulses. The sound of boots pounding against concrete echoed down the corridors, drawing closer by the second.

Bucky took the lead, his instincts razor-sharp. He signaled for Natasha and Sam to follow, his movements precise and unrelenting.

“Stay close!” Natasha hissed, pulling Sam along as she unholstered her sidearm. “We don’t stop until we’re out.”

Sam’s chest tightened as they rounded a corner, coming face-to-face with a squad of armed guards.

Without hesitation, Bucky charged forward, his metal arm absorbing bullets as he slammed into the first guard, disarming him with brutal efficiency. Natasha followed, her strikes swift and surgical, leaving no room for error.

Sam ducked behind a crate, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt useless, out of place in this world of supersoldiers and assassins. But then he spotted one of the guards fumbling to raise his weapon. Without thinking, Sam grabbed a metal pipe from the ground and swung, knocking the guard unconscious.

“Nice swing,” Natasha called over her shoulder, a faint smirk on her lips.

They pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinthine facility. Sam kept up as best he could, adrenaline propelling him past his fear.

Finally, they burst out into the freezing night, their breath visible in the frigid air. The snow-covered forest loomed ahead, offering their only chance at escape.

“This way!” Bucky shouted, leading them toward the treeline.

But before they could reach cover, a deafening roar filled the air. A helicopter rose above the compound, its spotlight locking onto them.

“Move!” Natasha barked, firing at the helicopter as they sprinted toward the trees.

The ground exploded behind them as a missile struck, sending snow and debris flying. Sam stumbled but felt Bucky’s hand yank him upright, propelling him forward.

They dove into the forest, the trees providing some cover from the helicopter’s relentless pursuit. Natasha led them in a zigzag pattern, trying to throw off their pursuers.

After what felt like an eternity, the sound of the helicopter faded into the distance. They collapsed behind a large rock, catching their breath in the frigid air.

“Everyone okay?” Natasha asked, scanning their surroundings.

“Yeah,” Sam panted, his lungs burning. “I think so.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His metal arm flexed involuntarily, a clear sign of his unease.

“What now?” Sam asked, his voice trembling.

Natasha pulled out the vial, holding it up to the moonlight. “This is what they were protecting. Whatever’s in here, it’s the key to everything.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then we keep it safe. Hydra won’t stop until they get it back.”

Sam looked between them, the weight of the moment sinking in. “So, what do we do? Go into hiding? Fight them head-on?”

Natasha’s gaze softened, but her voice was firm. “We fight. But we do it smart. No one else gets hurt because of this.”

Bucky nodded, his expression resolute. “We start by finding out exactly what’s in that vial. And then we take Hydra down, piece by piece.”

Sam swallowed hard, his fear tempered by a growing determination. He wasn’t a soldier, but he was part of this now.

The journey through the snow-covered forest felt endless. The cold gnawed at their skin, and the silence was broken only by their muffled steps and labored breathing. They pressed on, navigating the terrain with a mix of determination and urgency, knowing Hydra wouldn’t give up the chase easily.

By dawn, they reached a secluded cabin nestled in a clearing. Bucky approached cautiously, scanning the area before motioning for Natasha and Sam to follow. The cabin looked abandoned, its windows frosted over and its roof blanketed in snow.

“This will have to do for now,” Bucky said, his voice low. He pushed the door open, revealing a modest interior with a small fireplace, a worn table, and a few chairs.

Natasha immediately began securing the area, checking for any signs of traps or surveillance. Sam, still catching his breath, collapsed into a chair and pulled off his gloves, his fingers stiff from the cold.

“Does this place even have heat?” Sam asked, his teeth chattering.

Bucky ignored the question, tossing a few logs into the fireplace and lighting a match. The flames crackled to life, casting a warm glow that did little to ease the tension in the room.

Natasha placed the vial on the table, its eerie blue glow reflecting in the firelight. “This is priority one,” she said, her voice firm. “We need to figure out what’s in it before Hydra makes another move.”

“And how do we do that?” Sam asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “We can’t exactly take it to a lab without raising questions.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, his metal arm gleaming in the firelight. “There’s someone I know. Someone who might be able to analyze it without drawing attention.”

Natasha frowned. “Are you sure we can trust them?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “He’s an old friend. If anyone can help, it’s him.”

Before Natasha could respond, the faint sound of footsteps crunching in the snow reached their ears. All three of them froze, their instincts kicking in. Bucky motioned for silence, his hand on the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh.

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the distant hum of voices. Hydra wasn’t wasting any time.

Natasha grabbed the vial, slipping it into her pocket. “We need to move. Now.”

Sam’s heart raced as Bucky led them out through the back door, the forest once again becoming their refuge. The tension was suffocating, every sound amplified in the stillness of the early morning.

As they moved deeper into the woods, the voices behind them faded, but none of them let their guard down. Sam’s thoughts raced as he tried to process the gravity of their situation.

He was just a shopkeeper yesterday. Now he was running from Hydra, carrying a secret that could change everything.

Bucky finally stopped, turning to face them. “There’s a safe house about ten miles from here. We can regroup there and contact my friend.”

Natasha nodded, her expression unreadable. “Let’s hope your friend is as trustworthy as you think.”

Sam glanced at the two of them, his breath visible in the cold air. “And after that? What happens when we find out what’s in the vial?”

Bucky’s gaze was steely. “Then we destroy it—and anyone who tries to use it.”

Sam shivered, and not just from the cold. He realized he was standing on the edge of something far bigger than himself, and there was no turning back.

The sun climbed higher, its light reflecting off the snow, but the frigid air still clung to them as they pushed forward. Every step through the thick forest was a test of endurance. Sam's legs ached, his breath coming in short, frosty bursts, but he didn’t complain.

He didn’t want to appear weak in front of Bucky or Natasha, who moved with the kind of precision and focus that only seasoned fighters could muster.

Bucky halted suddenly, holding up a hand. Natasha instantly dropped into a crouch, scanning their surroundings. Sam stopped too, his pulse quickening.

“What is it?” Sam whispered, gripping the metal pipe he had picked up earlier—a crude weapon, but better than nothing.

Bucky’s expression darkened. “They’re closer than I thought.”

Natasha tilted her head, listening. In the distance, the faint sound of drones buzzed through the air.

“They’re deploying trackers,” Natasha said grimly. “We’re running out of time.”

Bucky glanced around, his sharp eyes landing on a narrow ravine to their left. “We can use that to lose them. It’ll slow them down.”

Without waiting for a response, he started toward the ravine. Natasha followed, and Sam scrambled after them, his heart pounding in his ears. The steep descent was treacherous, the icy ground threatening to give way with every step.

Halfway down, the buzzing grew louder, accompanied by faint voices shouting commands.

“They’ve spotted our trail,” Natasha muttered, pulling her gun from its holster.

“Keep moving,” Bucky said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The group reached the bottom of the ravine just as the first drone appeared above the treetops, its camera swiveling toward them.

“Take it out!” Bucky barked.

Natasha fired a single, precise shot, hitting the drone’s center and sending it crashing into the snow. But the sound of the gunshot echoed through the ravine, revealing their location.

“We’ve got to move faster!” Sam shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

Bucky grabbed Sam’s arm and propelled him forward. “Run. Don’t look back.”

They sprinted through the ravine, dodging rocks and low-hanging branches. More drones appeared overhead, their buzzing growing deafening. Natasha picked them off one by one, her aim unerring, but the effort was slowing them down.

As they neared the end of the ravine, a squad of Hydra operatives emerged from the trees, cutting off their escape.

Bucky skidded to a stop, his expression hardening. “Stay behind us,” he told Sam.

Natasha moved to Bucky’s side, her knives glinting in the pale sunlight. “We can’t let them get the vial.”

Sam clutched the pipe tightly, fear and adrenaline coursing through him.

The Hydra operatives charged, and chaos erupted.

Bucky was a blur of motion, his metal arm smashing through weapons and armor with brutal efficiency. Natasha moved like a shadow, her blades slicing through the air in deadly arcs.

Sam did his best to stay out of the way, using his makeshift weapon to fend off any stragglers who got too close. He felt out of place, but the sheer will to survive kept him moving.

One of the operatives lunged at Sam, and he swung the pipe with all his strength, knocking the man to the ground. Before he could catch his breath, another operative aimed a gun at him.

Sam froze, the barrel of the weapon staring him down.

But before the trigger could be pulled, Bucky appeared, slamming the man into a tree with a sickening crack.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, his voice gruff.

Sam nodded, his chest heaving. “I’m fine… I think.”

The remaining operatives retreated, dragging their injured comrades with them.

Natasha wiped the blood from her blades, her expression unreadable. “They’ll regroup and come back stronger. We need to keep moving.”

Bucky nodded, his gaze lingering on Sam. “You did good back there. But this isn’t over.”

Sam swallowed hard, his fear replaced by a growing determination.

“Let’s go,” Bucky said, leading them out of the ravine.

The group trudged through the forest, the tension in the air heavy after their narrow escape. The snow crunched beneath their boots, and Sam lagged slightly behind, replaying the chaotic fight in his mind. His grip on the metal pipe tightened as he glanced at Bucky and Natasha walking ahead.

Natasha broke the silence first, her sharp gaze flicking to Bucky. “So,” she began, her voice carrying a teasing lilt, “you saved Sam back at the store. Twice, so I've heard.”

Bucky didn’t look at her, his expression as stoic as ever. “And?”

“Oh, nothing.” Natasha smirked, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Just noticing a trend, Barnes. That’s three times now, isn’t it? You sure you’re not developing some kind of thing for him?” She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow.

Sam’s eyes widened, and his face turned an unmistakable shade of red. “Wait, what?” he stammered, nearly tripping over a tree root.

Bucky finally turned his head, his icy blue eyes narrowing at Natasha. “It's none of your business.” he said curtly, his tone as sharp as a knife.

Natasha didn’t back down. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Oh, but I am now,” she replied smoothly, her voice dripping with mock sincerity.

Sam glanced between them, utterly mortified. “Guys, can we not—”

Natasha ignored him, reveling in the rare opportunity to get under Bucky’s skin.

For a moment, Bucky’s jaw clenched, and Sam thought he might actually snap back at her. But instead, Bucky just shook his head and kept walking. He didn’t respond, but there was the faintest hint of a flush on his cheeks—a detail Sam didn’t miss.

“See? You’re not denying it!” Natasha called after him, laughing softly.

“Knock it, Romanoff.” Bucky muttered, his voice low but laced with exasperation.

Sam groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is so awkward...” he mumbled to himself.

Natasha finally let up, though the playful grin never left her face. “Relax, Sam,” she said, glancing back at him. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Sam sighed, his embarrassment still lingering. “Next time, could you maybe not use me as the punchline?”

Natasha chuckled but didn’t answer, her attention already shifting back to the path ahead.

As they continued through the forest, Bucky remained silent, his expression unreadable. But Sam couldn’t help but wonder if, underneath all that stoicism, Bucky was just as flustered as he was.

The forest began to thin as they pushed forward, the sun casting long shadows through the towering trees.

Sam kept his head down, his cheeks still warm from Natasha’s teasing. Bucky, walking a few steps ahead, remained quiet, his focus seemingly locked on their surroundings.

Sam couldn’t tell if Bucky was still annoyed, embarrassed, or just as indifferent as he appeared. Either way, the awkward tension from Natasha’s quip hung in the air like a persistent fog.

“So,” Sam finally spoke, breaking the silence. “This safe house we’re heading to… it’s really, uh, safe, right?”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, his expression neutral. “Safer than out here.”

“Comforting,” Sam muttered under his breath.

Natasha smirked, falling into step beside him. “Don’t worry, Sam. If Hydra shows up, your guardian angel over there will swoop in to save you again.”

“Natasha.” Bucky warned, his tone sharp.

Sam groaned. “Please stop calling him that.”

“Why? It fits.” Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to admit, Barnes, you’ve taken a particular interest in him.”

Bucky stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “I’m doing what needs to be done,” he said firmly, his voice steady but his eyes flashing.

Natasha didn’t back down, folding her arms. “You always do. But I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s a little more… personal.”

Sam held up his hands, stepping between them. “Okay, okay, can we just focus on not dying right now? Please?”

The tension broke as Natasha chuckled softly, raising her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll behave—for now.”

Bucky turned and resumed walking without another word, his pace brisk.

Sam let out a sigh of relief, shooting Natasha a look. “Do you always have to poke the bear?”

“Only when it’s funny,” she replied with a wink.

The group continued in relative silence, the only sounds being the crunch of snow underfoot and the distant rustle of wind through the trees.

After what felt like hours, they arrived at the safe house—a modest cabin hidden in the dense forest. It looked as weathered and unassuming as the last one, with peeling paint and a sagging roof.

Bucky checked the perimeter before pushing the door open. “We won’t stay long,” he said, stepping inside.

The cabin was sparsely furnished, with a couple of worn-out chairs, a small table, and a wood stove in the corner. It was cold and dark, but it was shelter.

Natasha immediately went to secure the windows, while Bucky started a fire in the stove. Sam, exhausted, collapsed into a chair and let out a long breath.

“You’re holding up better than I thought,” Natasha said, her voice carrying a note of approval.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have much of a choice,” Sam replied, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

Bucky, kneeling by the stove, glanced at him briefly. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Sam hesitated but nodded, leaning back in the chair. As the fire crackled to life and warmth began to fill the room, his thoughts drifted.

The warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of the day pulled Sam into a deep sleep, his body sinking into the worn chair. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a semblance of peace. The crackling of the wood stove and the faint howling of the wind outside lulled him into a dreamless state.

But as the hours passed, his sleep wasn’t as restful as he hoped. Shadowy figures began to haunt his dreams, faceless operatives chasing him through endless forests. Red stars gleamed in the darkness, and the faint buzz of drones echoed in his mind.

Then came the whispers.

At first, they were indistinct, like the rustle of leaves. But soon, they sharpened into voices.

“Bucky…” a familiar voice said, laced with mock surprise.

Sam stirred slightly, his brow furrowing. Was he still dreaming?

“Damnit, Nat,” came another voice, gruff and unmistakably irritated. “I told you, I’m just protecting him. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Oh, uh-huh…” Natasha replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, and he realized the voices weren’t in his head—they were coming from across the room. He kept his breathing steady, pretending to still be asleep, as curiosity got the better of him.

“You’ve saved him three times now,” Natasha continued in a hushed but amused voice. “Three. You don’t think that’s a little… excessive?”

“I save whoever needs saving,” Bucky said flatly.

“Sure, but you’ve never gone out of your way like this before. Admit it, Barnes—you’ve got a soft spot for the kid.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately, and Sam could practically hear the tension in the silence.

Finally, Bucky muttered, “It’s not like that.”

Natasha stifled a laugh. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

“Nat, I swear—”

“Relax, Bucky. It’s cute.”

Bucky let out an exasperated sigh. “Just drop it.”

Natasha chuckled softly. “Fine, fine. But for the record? I think he likes having you around. Even if he’s too scared to admit it.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed, grateful, or something else entirely.

After a moment, Natasha changed the subject, and their voices became indistinct again. Sam opened his eyes fully, staring at the ceiling as the warmth of the fire enveloped him.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the conversation he had overheard, but one thing was clear—Bucky wasn’t just some stoic, cold-hearted supersoldier. There was more to him, layers Sam hadn’t yet understood.

And for reasons Sam couldn’t quite explain, that thought made him feel… safe.

Sam shifted slightly in his chair, trying to process the whispers he had overheard. He wasn't entirely sure if he should feel flattered or embarrassed—or maybe a little of both. Bucky Barnes, the infamous Winter Soldier, had gone out of his way to save him, not once, not twice, but three times.

Natasha’s teasing rang in his ears, and though Bucky had dismissed her comments, Sam couldn’t ignore the way Bucky seemed… protective.

He sat up quietly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and staring at the dim glow of the fire.

Across the room, Natasha was lounging near the window, her sharp gaze scanning the dark forest outside. Bucky sat at the small table, meticulously cleaning one of his knives, his expression stoic as ever.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Uh… thanks. You know, for earlier.”

Both Natasha and Bucky turned toward him, Natasha smirking knowingly while Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to gauge how much Sam had overheard.

“For what?” Bucky asked gruffly, not looking up from his task.

“You know… saving me,” Sam replied awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Again.”

Natasha snorted softly, muttering under her breath, “Guardian angel strikes again.”

Bucky shot her a warning glare before focusing back on Sam. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

“Right,” Sam said, nodding slowly, though he wasn’t convinced. “Well, either way… I owe you. Both of you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Bucky said firmly. “Just stay out of trouble.”

Natasha leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Good luck with that, Barnes. Trouble seems to find him whether he wants it or not.”

Sam frowned. “Hey, that’s not fair. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her smirk softening slightly. “No one ever does. But here we are.”

The room fell quiet again, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Sam shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of everything that had happened over the past couple of days.

Finally, he asked, “So… what now? Do I just go back to my store and pretend like none of this ever happened?”

Bucky paused, setting the knife down and meeting Sam’s gaze. “You don’t go back. Not yet.”

Sam’s stomach sank. “What do you mean?”

“They know who you are now,” Bucky explained. “Hydra doesn’t let loose ends walk away.”

Sam’s mouth went dry. “But I’m not part of this! I’m just—”

“You’re part of it now,” Bucky interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Whether you like it or not.”

Natasha nodded, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Bucky’s right. Hydra’s not going to forget about you. Staying at that store isn’t an option anymore.”

Sam stared at them, his mind racing. The life he had known—the simplicity of running Wilson’s Grocery, the quiet routine—was gone. And in its place was a world of danger and uncertainty, where assassins and secret organizations lurked in the shadows.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” he asked quietly.

Bucky stood, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “You stick with us. For now.”

Sam blinked, surprised by the answer. “With you? Why?”

“Because you’re safer here than anywhere else,” Bucky said. “And because I don’t plan on saving you a fourth time.”

Natasha chuckled softly, but her eyes held a hint of sympathy. “Welcome to the team, Sam.”

Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t sure how he had ended up in the middle of this mess, but one thing was clear—his life was never going to be the same.