Maybe that was why, as he came out of the elevator onto their floor, his steps were heavier than usual. Why his breath came out slow and quiet, like he was bracing for something.

And then—

Melodious laughter.

Muffled, soft. Warmth carried through the door.

Angeliki’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, followed by Sam’s deep, rolling voice, too low to make out the words.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

His fingers curled around the strap of his duffel bag, his throat tight.

That sound—God, that sound—it wrapped around him, loosened something in his chest even as it ached.

He was home.

And yet…

If they were here, if they had time to sit and talk and laugh, they could have picked him up. They could have spared him an hour, a few minutes, something.

His jaw clenched.

But before that feeling could settle, before it could fester into something uglier, another sound filtered through the door—the unmistakable clatter of pots, the scrape of metal against glass.

Cooking.

And the smell—rich, deep, layered—

Bucky frowned.

That wasn’t takeout. That was home-cooked. And not just any home-cooked meal, but something Greek. He recognized it now, the familiar scent of cinnamon, eggplant, something roasting in the oven.

Something Angeliki had spent hours making.

Her grandma’s recipe.

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip on his bag loosening.

Maybe he was an idiot.

Maybe they had been busy.

And maybe—just maybe—they had been waiting for him all along.

He sighed, ran a hand through his short hair, and finally turned his key in the lock.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit him full force—rich, savory, mouthwatering. His stomach clenched in protest, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, nudging his boots off with his toes, his duffel bag landing in the usual spot by the entrance—forgotten the second it left his grip.

From the kitchen, a faint rhythm drifted through the apartment. Slow beats, a languid melody—exactly the kind of music Angeliki liked. She always had something playing when she cooked or handled chores. And if she didn’t, she’d hum, sometimes sing under her breath, like music was stitched into her very being.

But right now, she was laughing.

The sound was clear, chiming like a bell, warm and sweet in a way that curled around him, pressing against the parts of himself still wound tight from the trip. It pulled at something deep in his chest—memories of evenings spent just like this, of meals shared, of Sam’s teasing and Angeliki’s exasperated fondness.

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders as he rolled his neck, following the scent and the soft hum of conversation that grew clearer with each step.

Bucky smirked as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

The sight that greeted him was one he never would have imagined for himself a few years ago—Sam Wilson, Captain America himself, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour, a toothy grin on his face, looking far too pleased with himself. Next to him, Angeliki stood with her dark hair tied up in a messy bun, hands on her hips, exasperated but fond. A streak of flour ran across her cheek, and Bucky had the sudden urge to brush it off with his thumb.

The kitchen was a mess. Fine white powder dusted the counter, a measuring cup teetered on the edge of the sink, a bowl full of slices of caramelized plums, and an open bag of flour sat dangerously close to disaster. The moussaka was in the oven, its rich scent filling the air, but right now, they were focused on the pancake batter.

“—Not that much sugar, Méli mou!” Angeliki’s voice rang out, firm but amused. “We’re making pancakes, not trying to put him in a food coma.”

“Hey, I know what I’m doin’.” Sam sounded defensive, but Bucky could already see the smug grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, these are birthday pancakes. Gotta put some love in it.”

“Love, yes. A whole bucket of sugar? No.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, drawing their attention. “You let him near the sugar again? Rookie mistake.”

Angeliki’s head snapped toward him, and for a split second, surprise and flecks of gold flickered in her storm-gray eyes before warmth took over, making them dance. “Bucky.”

His name came out soft, like a sigh of relief, like maybe she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Then she was moving, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing the space between them in two swift strides. She didn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. The scent of perfume from her hair—roses and argan oil, sweet and spicy—and something distinctly her curled around him.

A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left his lungs.

“You’re home,” she exhaled in a sigh.

Sam, ever the instigator, grinned at them over Angeliki’s head. “Damn, Buck. Took you long enough.”

Bucky huffed but didn’t pull away. “Would’ve been here sooner if someone picked me up from the airport.”

Angeliki pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “If we did, you wouldn’t have had a surprise waiting, gliké mou.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider it. “Still sounds like an excuse.”

Sam scoffed. “You’re complainin’, but I see you eatin’ those pancakes the second they’re done.”

Bucky smirked. “Damn right I will.”

Angeliki rolled her eyes but tugged him by the wrist toward the kitchen. “C’mon, birthday boy. If you’re gonna complain, you might as well help.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, but there was no real frustration behind it. Instead, he let himself be pulled in. He stepped up behind her, looping an arm around her waist and pressing his lips to her temple, feeling the last of his travel-worn exhaustion melt away.

Angeliki leaned into him, instinctively, chuckling and Sam watched the exchange, his brown eyes filled with an unmistakable fondness.

This warmth, this laughter, this love.

Yeah.

This was home.

And it might be his birthday, but this was the best gift he could ask for.

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