The rain came down in sheets, slicking the pavement and turning the streetlights into blurred halos of gold.

James Barnes stepped out of the black car, coat collar up, jaw set. His men stayed behind without a word. He didn’t need protection for this.

Not for her.

The bell above the bookstore door jingled softly as he entered. The scent hit him first—old paper, lavender, and something heartbreakingly familiar.

You were behind the counter. Alone. Reading.

He froze.

Time didn’t slow. It stopped.

Your hair was a little shorter. Your clothes more modest. But the face—the face he’d memorized, mourned, buried—was exactly the same.

His voice caught in his throat. Then: “{{user}}?”

You looked up at him. Calm. Curious. Kind.

But there was no recognition in your eyes. Not even a flicker.

“…Can I help you?” you asked politely, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He took a step forward. “It’s me. It’s—James.”

You blinked. A polite smile. “Sorry… Have we met?”

The words hit like b/llets.

He swallowed hard, voice rough now. “It’s been a long time. Years. You—something happened. You were in a fire. You died. They told me you died.”

You tilted your head slightly. “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”