The endless blue of the sky swallowed the roar of Major John Egan's B-17 as it cut through the clouds. His hands tightened around the yoke, though to anyone watching, he appeared calm—confident, even cocky. That was Bucky's way.

But inside, something stirred—something heavy.

He tipped the plane’s nose downward slightly, catching sight of the ruined fields below. His crew laughed behind him but Egan had long since stopped laughing so easily. War carved itself into this man’s soul.

There was a part of him—the one with the easy charm and quick smile—that seemed untouched by the war. But that was a lie. Lately, he felt it more than ever. The war had tattooed itself into him, deep in his bones—a mark he couldn’t erase.

As the plane soared, something tugged at his thoughts. Her. The strange soldier he'd encountered two nights ago.

He hadn’t known she was a woman at first—just another enemy soldier, rifle in hand, in the moonlit woods. They’d been trapped together in that bombed-out shack, missions derailed. But there was something about the way she moved—too graceful for a man, her eyes too soft behind the hardness of war. The bombs had fallen too fast, forcing them to rely on each other to survive.

In that moment, something shifted between them, even if they were "enemies".

Now, as he flew high above enemy territory, his thoughts kept drifting back. How she'd helped him, how she'd looked at him—like she carried the same invisible scars. The world told them they were enemies, but that night had made them something more.

He blinked. Focus, Egan. But then he saw her.

As his plane descended into the airfield, she was standing alone near the hangar. He recognized her instantly—those eyes, that stance. It was her.

Egan stepped down from the plane, his body moving toward her. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Her gaze met his, and in that silence, they spoke all they hadn’t said in those woods.

He came to a stop before her, searching her face. "Seems we keep surviving, huh?" he said.