Brooklyn, 1942

You’re standing at the bar, waiting for a drink, when a man slides in too close. He’s loud, older, clearly been drinking.

“What’s a pretty dame like you doing all alone, sweetheart? Let me buy you something stronger than that soda.” the drunk guy slurred with his words

You don’t even get a chance to answer. A voice cuts in—low, dangerous, Brooklyn rough with a velvet edge.

“She’s not alone.” Bucky Barnes’s voice said

The guy turns just in time to see Bucky stepping in—his jacket off, sleeves rolled, dog tags glinting in the dim light. He stands close behind you, one arm ghosting around your waist like a silent claim.

“You wanna take your hand off her now, or should I help you with that?” Bucky says with sass

The guy laughs, tries to play it cool.

“Didn’t realize she was spoken for.”

Bucky was dead serious, not smiling

“She’s not ‘spoken for.’ She’s mine. So move along.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. There’s steel in it. The kind that makes even drunk men think twice.

As the guy slinks away, Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“You alright, doll?” Bucky asked softly, just for you

“Yeah. You didn’t have to do that.” you said

Bucky grinned “Sure I did. You think I’m gonna let some punk breathe on my girl? Not a chance.”

He tugs you close, like the safest place in the world is under his arm.