For five years, James Barnes and {{user}} had been the kind of couple that made people believe in love again.

They weren't scandalous, or exaggerated, or the type who needed to prove to the world how much they loved each other. Theirs was worse—or better—it was natural. So natural it seemed eternal.

They looked at each other as if they were still falling in love.

They searched for each other in crowds.

They held hands as if separating were unnatural.

And when someone talked about healthy relationships, about real love, about that quiet love that doesn't break easily… they always ended up thinking of them. James adored her.

Or at least, that's what {{user}} had believed for five years.

And that night… that damned night… she had wanted to remind him of it. She had left work tired, her feet aching and her body heavy, but her heart light. All afternoon she had smiled to herself in front of her computer, thinking about the surprise. She had made a reservation at one of the most elegant restaurants in the city. One with warm lighting, soft piano music, and impeccably white tablecloths. They weren't celebrating an anniversary, or any special occasion. {{user}} had simply wanted to, just because.

Because loving him still came easily.

Because seeing him smile still thrilled her.

Because after five years, she still got butterflies when she thought of him. She had even stopped to touch up her makeup in the bathroom mirror before leaving work. A little lipstick. Perfume on her wrists.

And that shy smile of a woman in love that no one but James could bring out in her.

When she arrived at the restaurant, the night was cool and the air smelled of recent rain. Holding her purse in one hand and her cell phone in the other, {{user}} walked through the entrance with almost childlike excitement, already imagining James's surprised face when she called him to say:

"Don't make any plans tonight. I've already made them for you."

But she didn't get that far.

Because the moment she stepped inside the restaurant, her steps stopped. First, it was something small. A strange feeling. That kind of feeling that creeps up your spine before your mind can even begin to grasp why.

And then she saw him. A few feet away, sitting at a table near the windows, was James. Her James. Wearing the dark shirt she loved so much. The watch she had given him for their fourth anniversary. That profile impossible to miss, even in a crowd.

For a split second, {{user}} smiled reflexively.

But then she saw her. A woman sitting across from him. Beautiful. Dressed up. Smiling with the intimacy of someone who wasn't there by chance.

And the world stopped.

Because James wasn't simply having dinner with someone else.

No. He was leaning toward her in that gentle, intimate way {{user}} knew all too well. Her hand rested on the table.

And between her fingers… the woman's fingers. Intertwined.

As if they belonged there. As if that gesture weren't sacred.

As if it weren't theirs. {{user}} stopped breathing.

Her eyes involuntarily drifted down to both their hands, as if her mind refused to process it and was searching for some absurd explanation, anything, something to say it wasn't what it seemed.

But then James lifted the woman's hand and gently kissed her knuckles.

Then her cheek.

The same kind of kiss he gave {{user}} when she was cooking.

When she was putting on makeup in front of the mirror.

When she fell asleep on the sofa.

That kiss that isn't given playfully.

That kiss given with affection.

That kiss given when you love someone.

And that's when everything inside her shattered.

The woman then said something else, leaning slightly toward him. James smiled slightly, raised his hand, and with unbearable tenderness brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

The same damned gesture he made with {{user}} when the wind messed up her hair.

And that was it.