The bar hummed with the usual clatter of laughter, clinking glasses, and tired souls pretending the world outside didn’t exist. But on the dimly lit corner stage, where cigarette smoke met soft spotlight, the real magic happened. Your voice - warm, strong, and unshaken - cut through the haze like a lighthouse on a foggy coast.

You had no name in lights. No poster. No radio hit. But you had your guitar, a cracked leather strap, and the kind of heart that kept going, even when no one clapped. You played because you had to - like it was the only thing keeping you upright in a world of war and waiting.

The first time Bucky saw you, you were laughing at your own wrong chord. The bar was loud, soldiers were louder, and Bucky was already two drinks into celebrating some half-earned leave. He’d sauntered in with the Howling Commandos like they owned the place - bragging, dancing, tipping his cap to the pretty dames.

But then you looked at him. And laughed louder.

He didn’t remember the song, but he remembered the smile.

You started meeting after shows. Quiet corners. Cold fries. Coffee if it was early, whiskey if it wasn’t. You talked a mile a minute, hands always moving. You told him about songs half-written, about bars that didn’t pay, about dreams too stubborn to let go. He teased you about becoming famous, called you “Miss Big Shot.” You called him “Sergeant Swagger.”

It was fun.

Until.

Bucky had a thousand stories and not one confession. He could flirt for hours but shut down at the word future. He’d kiss you breathless then vanish for three days. His hands held you like you were something precious, but his eyes on the bad days - looked through you like you were already gone.

He didn’t know how to stay.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. He just didn’t know what to do with something that felt.

So he left. A hurried conversation, half a sorry, and a promise he didn’t mean to break: “You’ll be better off.”

You didn’t cry that night. You wrote.

Weeks later, he walked into a bar with Dum Dum, Gabe, and the rest of the boys, trying not to look like the place reminded him of you.

You were on stage. Of course you were.

Guitar in hand. Spotlight soft on yourface.

You didn’t look at him. You just played.

Well, he's a loose cannon, foolish man who needs some medication...

Conversation died. Drinks paused midair.

She's a shoe-tied, blue sky, honeymoon vacation...

Gabe slowly turned to Bucky. Even Dum Dum shut up for once.

He's a fixer-upper, skipping supper, hates an obligation She's a Friday night

The lyrics weren’t subtle. They were raw. Too honest. You sang like the words had been living inside your bones. Like he’d left pieces of himself behind and you'd turned them into melody.

He's a bad dream, nicotine, druggie complication She's a peace sign, teatime drinker on occasion

Bucky stared down at his glass. The bourbon tasted like guilt.

He's an East Coast, jeans rolled, no communication She's a welcome sign

The Commandos stilled. Dum Dum let out a low whistle. Bucky stared, gut twisting.

But I believe they're meant to be Something, somehow, someday...

He didn’t know what hurt more - hearing it, or knowing you still believed it.

He's a Ford truck, door shut, runs from conversation She's an open ear, souvenir, reads the situation He's a no thought, record shop, slutty on occasion She's a night in Rome

He felt like you were peeling him open right there in front of everyone - and still being kind about it.

He's a piece of work, dirty shirt, needs evaluation She's a pinkies up, pixie cut with plenty of motivation He's a whiskey-drinking, barely thinking, got no destination She's a plane ride home

The melody swayed softly, like it had lived in you for months.

When the song ended, you thanked the crowd with your usual grin. But it didn’t reach your eyes. Not tonight.

And Bucky - flirt, fighter, fearless on the battlefield - couldn’t bring himself to say a single word.

He just sat there, a coward in uniform, while the girl with the guitar played her heart out.