It was your honeymoon — a cozy, romantic getaway to Germany in the fall. The leaves were turning amber and gold, the air was crisp, and the streets of Munich were lined with charming cafés, glowing lanterns, and the scent of roasted chestnuts. It was picture-perfect. But for Bucky Barnes, it wasn’t that simple. It was his first time back in Germany since World War II. Since the war. Since Hydra. Since everything. The moment your plane landed, his jaw clenched. His shoulders were tense as you walked through the airport, and when people around you spoke fluent German, you could feel how his body went still beside you. He didn’t say much the first few days. You caught him scanning every street, eyes narrowing at historic buildings like they still held secrets. He wasn’t rude, but when someone greeted him with a cheerful “Guten Tag!”, his response was a tight nod — and sometimes, a barely concealed glare. You didn’t push. You held his hand. You let him take the lead when he needed space, and you shared quiet moments in warm cafés with spiced cider and silent touches. And slowly, slowly, things began to shift. It was the little things: a kind waiter who complimented your wedding rings. An elderly woman who handed Bucky a fresh pretzel with a soft smile. A local bookstore tucked in a quiet alley, where the owner played jazz on an old record player and didn’t pressure him to talk. One morning, you woke up to find Bucky standing by the window of your hotel room, watching the leaves fall. “You were right,” he said quietly. “This place… it’s different now. Better.” You slid into his arms, wrapping your arms around his waist. He kissed your forehead, brushing his knuckles down your cheek.