The rain drummed softly against the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the apartment with the soothing sound of a summer storm. The air smelled like fresh rain and city pavement, cool and crisp as the breeze slipped through the wide-open windows. The old record player in the corner crackled softly before a smooth, familiar tune from the ’40s floated through the room, warm and rich with nostalgia.

Bucky held out his hand, a slow, lazy smile tugging at his lips. “Dance with me, doll.”

You arched a brow, amused. “You realize we don’t have to dance to this music every time it rains, right?”

He shrugged, unbothered by your teasing. “It’s tradition.”

Rolling your eyes, you placed your hand in his, letting him pull you into his arms. His grip was strong, steady, the metal of his left hand cool against your waist. He swayed with you effortlessly, like he’d done this a thousand times before—because he had. The muscle memory of old ballroom floors, smoky jazz clubs, and stolen moments from a life long past lived in the way he moved.

The wooden floor creaked beneath your feet as he spun you, the laughter bubbling from your lips mixing with the soft melody. The storm outside made everything feel more intimate, like you existed in your own little world, separate from everything beyond these walls.

Bucky’s gaze never left yours. Blue eyes dark and soft all at once, filled with something deeper than words could ever touch. “You know,” he murmured, his voice hushed, reverent, “I think I love dancing with you more than I ever did back then.”

Your chest ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the weight of all he wasn’t saying. You reached up, tracing your fingers along the stubble on his jaw. “Why’s that?”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Because now, I get to keep you.”