Brooklyn, 1943.

It was a Friday night - the kind that tasted like summer and freedom. The streets were busy with laughter and chatter, music floated out from open windows, and the glow of neon signs made the pavement shimmer.

Bucky was walking with {{user}} Rogers - Steve's little sister, though she hated when people called her that. She wasn't a shadow. She had a fire in her, one Bucky had fallen for a long time ago.

And tonight? She was all his.

He wore his best jacket, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. She wore a navy-blue dress that made his throat dry and his thoughts jumbled. He didn't say much at first - just glanced over at her every few steps like he couldn't believe she was real.

They were headed to Coney Island.

Bucky had spent the week scrounging up spare change from odd jobs to make sure the night would be perfect— he even skipped poker with the guys.

They rode the Ferris wheel first.

At the top, where the city stretched out below them and the lights flickered like stars, Bucky leaned in.

"You ever wonder what it would be like," he asked, "to just... leave? Run off somewhere? Just you and me?"