The Brooklyn air carried a chill that bit at Bucky’s knuckles, raw from the cold and the ghosts he couldn’t shake. He stood on the cracked sidewalk of his old neighborhood, the one he’d left behind in 1944 when the world was simpler and his heart wasn’t a patchwork of regrets. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows over the brownstones, and for a moment, he could almost hear the echo of laughter—his, Steve’s, and hers. {{user}}. The girl who’d tied a blue ribbon around his wrist one summer night, promising they’d always find each other, no matter what.

That was before the train. Before HYDRA. Before the Winter Soldier stole his name and his promises.

Bucky’s metal hand flexed instinctively, the faint whir of vibranium grounding him. He’d come back to Brooklyn to face the memories, not to chase them. But fate, or maybe something crueler, had other plans. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a message from Sam, warning him about whispers of a HYDRA splinter cell sniffing around his trail. He ignored it, his eyes catching on a figure across the street.

You stood under a neon diner sign, your coat pulled tight against the wind, your hair catching the blue glow like it was meant for you. You hadn’t aged a day, not really, though your eyes held a weight that matched his own. Experimental tech, you’d later explain—some SHIELD prototype that kept you in a frozen sleep for decades, waking you just in time to see the world fall apart and come back together. You hadn’t seen him yet, your gaze fixed on a tattered blue ribbon in your hands, the same one you’d tied around his wrist all those years ago.

His breath caught, the song in his head—some half-remembered melody of longing and loss—swelling like a bruise. Something blue, he thought, the ribbon a tether to a life he’d lost, a promise he’d broken without meaning to. You looked up then, your eyes locking with his, and the world tilted. Recognition sparked, followed by something sharper—hope, maybe, or pain.

“Bucky?” Your voice was soft, testing, like you weren’t sure he was real.

He took a step forward, then stopped, his heart hammering. “{{user}},” he said, his voice rougher than he meant. “You kept it.”

Your fingers tightened around the ribbon, its faded blue catching the light. “You didn’t,” you said, not accusing, just stating a fact that cut deeper than any bl-de.

He wanted to tell you everything—how he’d fallen, how HYDRA had carved him hollow, how he’d spent years trying to claw his way back to being the man you’d known. But before he could, a black SUV screeched around the corner, its headlights blinding. Bucky’s instincts kicked in, his hand reaching for the kn-fe at his belt as he stepped in front of you.

“Get behind me,” he growled, the past and present colliding like a storm.

Your hand brushed his arm, steadying him, grounding him. “We’re not kids anymore, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the fear in your eyes. “But I’m not letting you go again.”

The ribbon fluttered between them, a fragile thread in a world that wanted to tear them apart.