The gala was a glittering blur of lights and soft jazz, Valentina’s big night to honor New York’s heroes —though you knew half the people here were only interested in cameras and connections. Still, the room was beautiful, and you couldn’t deny that Bucky Barnes cleaned up almost unfairly well in a suit.

You spotted him near the edge of the dance floor, nursing a glass of something dark, his eyes already on you like you were the only person in the room. He smiled, the kind of soft, secret grin he reserved just for you, and made his way over.

“Hey, {{user}},” he murmured, offering his hand. “Dance with me?”

You gave him a playful, teasing smile. “Here? With all these politicians watching?”

“Don’t care,” he grinned. “Come on. Let me show you how we did it in the ‘40s.”