The bar was packed, the air thick with smoke and laughter as the men of Thorpe Abbotts celebrated another successful mission. The jukebox hummed low, barely audible over the cheers and clinking of glasses. You’d been working with these men since the war began, stitching them up, cheering them on, and tonight, they were in high spirits. But tonight, their attention had turned to you.

“Come on, we know you’re hiding something from us,” someone called out with a grin. “You’ve gotta have some kind of hidden talent!”

With a playful sigh, you relented. Stepping up onto a chair in the middle of the room, you felt every eye on you. The chatter faded as the men fell silent, their usual rowdiness replaced by anticipation. You took a deep breath, letting the quiet settle, then began to sing—a song soft and lilting, about love and longing, the kind of song that brought everyone back to the people they were missing most.

Your voice filled the room, strong but gentle, carrying over the stillness. As you sang, you glanced around, but your eyes found his, almost on instinct. Bucky was watching you, utterly still, his smile gone as he looked up at you with an intensity that caught you off guard. His usual charm had softened into something quieter, almost reverent, and the depth in his gaze seemed to say he was seeing you in a new light.

When the last note faded, there was a beat of silence before the men erupted into cheers and whistles, clapping you on the back and shouting their appreciation. But you barely heard them, your attention still on Bucky, who hadn’t moved, still holding your gaze with that same focused look. He rose from his seat and made his way through the crowd toward you, his smile returning as he drew close.

When he reached you, he looked up with a glint of admiration and something more in his eyes. “You’ve been holding out on us, haven’t you?” he said, his voice low, just for you.