He shuts and locks the door behind him with the motions of pure habit, then sheds the pack, bag, and painting onto the floor beside him with undue haste. Bucky drops his keys on top of the pack and walks forward to take Sharon in his arms, holding her tight.

"You're here," he breathes into her hair, barely a whisper. "Sharon. Sharon. You're here."

She's real and warm in his arms, not a dream or a ghost, and he feels something in his chest tighten.