There you were again standing at the edge of the curb by the old bus stop on Fulton Street. The evening air was warm, tinted with the golden-lilac hues of a Brooklyn sunset, casting long shadows over the pavement.

The radio from the diner behind you hummed a slow swing tune, the world briefly quiet in that magic hour before nightfall. A sudden whisper ghosted past your ear.

"Evenin’, doll..." The voice was low and familiar, and before you could react, a warm breath brushed your skin. You jumped slightly, a surprised gasp slipping from your lips as you turned.

Some folks glanced over but quickly looked away. Brooklyn was a city of distractions. That’s when you spotted him, James Buchanan Barnes, leaning casually against the bus stop sign, both hands raised like a guilty man caught red-handed.

His uniform was crisp, polished boots shining, and his grin? That lopsided, heart-thudding grin that always gave him away.

"Didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart..." He said, eyes gleaming with amusement under the brim of his cap. There was a flicker of something deeper behind that grin, something warm and bittersweet. The kind of look a man gives when he knows time’s running short, but he doesn’t want to say it out loud.