Dead. They pronounced you dead—your plane went down, you never returned, never sent a letter, never called. Bucky had fallen apart. First Gale, now you? Who was next? Himself?

But, the moment he saw you step foot back onto the base of Thorpe Abbots, he froze. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Five months. Five whole months you were gone. And suddenly you were here.

Bucky pushed through the crowd and appeared in front of you, eyes wide, cold wind biting at his face, lump thick in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out. All you did was stare at him.

You looked so tired, so different. Sickly and skinnier than the last time. Exhausted, dark circles underneath your eyes. But you were here.