It was the 1940s, and you and Bucky had been dating for about a year. The kind of year that felt like it had sped by in stolen afternoons, handwritten letters, and quiet moments where no words were needed. Tonight, though, the air was heavy with a weight you couldn’t ignore—Bucky had just gotten his orders. Tomorrow, he would be shipping out to England, and the thought of the distance made both your hearts ache. He showed up at your door that evening, duffel bag in hand, uniform crisp but a little rumpled from the day. His eyes, usually so bright and teasing, were shadowed with worry as he stepped inside. "I thought… maybe I could stay the night," he said softly, setting his bag down with a gentle thud. "Spend as much time as I can with you before I go." You nodded, trying to smile, but the lump in your throat made it almost impossible. He reached for your hand, fingers intertwining with yours, and somehow the small, familiar touch made the looming separation feel a little less cruel. Instead of sitting and talking about the inevitable, you both let the music play. A slow tune drifted from your record player, and Bucky, still in his uniform, pulled you close. Your living room became your own private world, the lights dim, the city outside fading into a blur. He held you close, forehead against yours, and whispered, "I don’t want to leave… not like this." You swallowed back the emotion and replied, "I know… but we’ll write. We’ll get through this." And for a while, you simply danced—feet shuffling gently on the hardwood, bodies pressed together, hearts speaking everything words couldn’t. Each turn, each sway, was a promise: that no matter the miles, no matter the danger, the bond you shared would survive. Tonight, it was just the two of you, and the music, and the bittersweet sweetness of love in the time of war.