The air was thick with the scent of rain and damp earth as you sat by the small radio, its soft crackling sound filling the quiet night. Outside the canvas of the tent, the distant echoes of war continued, a constant reminder of the chaos surrounding you. But here, within the dim light and the gentle melody of Frank Sinatra's "Strangers In The Night," there was a fleeting sense of peace.

You hadn’t expected anyone else to be awake. Most of the men had retired hours ago, eager for what little rest they could steal. Yet, there he was—James Barnes—his silhouette framed in the entrance, hesitant but unmistakable. His eyes met yours, blue and sharp despite the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“You mind if I sit?” His voice was soft, almost lost to the rain.

You shook your head, offering a small smile. He lowered himself next to you, his presence comforting in a way you hadn't anticipated. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound the smooth croon of Sinatra weaving through the air.

"You know," Bucky said, his voice barely above a whisper, "back home, this song would play at every dance. I used to think I'd hear it with someone special. Guess the world had other plans."

You looked at him, catching the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "Maybe it just hasn’t played with the right person yet."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost sad. "Maybe.."

As the song reached its gentle conclusion, he glanced at you, his hand brushing against yours. There was something unspoken in the touch, a silent connection amidst the noise of war. For just a moment, you weren't soldiers. You were strangers in the night, sharing a fleeting moment of something close to normalcy.