Brooklyn, 1942.

The war buzzed in the background like a radio left on too long. But in the Barnes family apartment — squeezed between creaky floorboards and the smell of fresh bread — things felt safe. Familiar.

Steve sat at the kitchen table, sketchbook in hand, trying to focus on the curve of a lamppost outside the window.

But his pencil kept drifting toward her.

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Bucky’s older sister. The one who smiled like she knew the weight of the world but still carried it in heels. She was home from her shift at the hospital, coat draped over the back of a chair, reading some battered book and biting her lip in concentration.

Steve swallowed hard.

He shouldn’t look at her like this. Not when Bucky was his best friend. Not when the world was falling apart outside.

But she made it feel still.

“You gonna draw me?” she asked suddenly, not looking up.

He jumped a little. “I—uh—what?”