The war hadn't come yet. Not really. Not the way it would. But Bucky Barnes could already feel something shifting in the air—like the weight of a storm pressing on his chest.

For now, though, there was peace.

Their little apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. A single lamp cast a golden pool of light across the living room. The record player crackled softly, and then—there it was.

"La Vie en Rose."

The moment the first notes floated into the room, Bucky turned from the window. He didn't say anything—he didn't need to. {{user}} was already watching him from the worn couch, a smile ghosting over her lips.

He offered his hand.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Barnes?” he asked, his Brooklyn accent soft around the edges.

She took it without hesitation. “You always may, Mr. Barnes.”

He drew her in close. His arms wrapped around her like the world might fall apart if he ever let go.