The band was playing a fast, brassy swing tune, the kind that rattled the floorboards and made the air feel alive. The hall smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, perfume, and cheap punch, but the energy was pure magic, soldiers on leave, girls in bright dresses, everyone trying to forget the war for just a night.

“C’mon, doll,” Bucky’s voice cut through the music, smooth as ever. He was grinning, uniform cap tilted back just enough to make him look roguish. He held out his hand, palm open, waiting. “Get up here. Let’s dance, let’s dance.”