1943, Wisconsin.

Bucky hated the feeling of love. He preferred lust, attraction, but real feelings drove him insane.

“Now a girl like you,” he spoke to {{user}} as they both stood in the field of her pasture, at least ten feet apart.

“You’ve put in the work here. You may not look it, but you’re not weak. Your daddy probably taught you defence.”

She stood back nervously against the fence.

He wasn’t drunk. At least, she didn’t think he was.

But ever since he came back from the army, he had been different. Rougher. She supposed that could happen to a man, but not to Bucky.

Not the guy who taught her how to ride a horse when he was a teenager and she was a kid.

Not the guy who’d put band aids on her scraped knees.

Not the guy who’d come over every day to help her mother with the farm after her dad died.

“Look at you,” he gestured to her.