The summer air in Brooklyn was thick with the smell of warm asphalt and fresh bagels from the corner bakery. The streets buzzed with chatter and the sound of kids running past with stickball bats, their laughter echoing between the brick buildings. You had always loved the city, but it wasn’t until you met James Buchanan Barnes — the boy with the devil-may-care grin and those impossible blue eyes — that Brooklyn began to feel like something out of a dream.

Everyone knew Bucky Barnes. He was the kind of boy who walked down the street and had half the neighborhood swooning, the other half calling out his name. Charming, effortlessly handsome, with his sleeves rolled up just enough to show off those strong forearms, he had the kind of swagger that turned heads. But when his gaze fell on you, you realized something — his smile could feel like it was meant for you alone.

You’d met him on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You’d been sitting on the stoop outside your family’s building, reading a worn-out paperback. He strolled by with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune, and stopped when he saw you.

“Now that’s not fair,” he’d said, leaning on the railing with that grin that could melt steel.

You blinked up at him, confused. “What isn’t fair?”

“That smile,” he teased, pointing at your face. “You should at least warn a guy before you knock the wind out of him.”