Archive of Our Own

The Empire State Fair roared like a living thing, loud in the way summer nostalgia always was, a fever dream of gold and grit, soaked in sugar and memory. It sprawled across the Long Island fairgrounds in chaotic wonder, pulsing with light and heat, the air thick with the mingled perfume of kettle corn, diesel fuel, and sun-warmed pavement. Every inch of it buzzed: the rattle and screech of carnival rides pitching into the twilight, the shriek of teenagers hurtling through the sky, the bark of vendors hawking impossible prizes. Teen pop music bled from overhead speakers like static on an old radio, warped and warbling, but somehow perfect.

Underfoot, the ground was sticky with spilled soda and trampled funnel cake, the soles of sneakers peeling up with every step. Lines curled like snakes around corral gates and ticket booths, laughter bubbling up from their centers, rising to meet the sky. A neon Ferris wheel turned slow and dignified above it all, casting its kaleidoscope colors onto the faces below, blue, red, yellow, blue, blinking like a heartbeat.

The sky had already begun its gentle descent, bruised violet and melting into indigo, that magical in-between when day hasn’t quite died and night hasn’t quite taken over. Overhead, strings of incandescent bulbs hummed softly as they flickered to life, halos blooming around them in the thickening dusk. The fairground glowed as if the sun had merely dipped below the horizon to give it center stage.

It was the kind of night that clung to the skin and settled behind the ribs. The kind that tried very hard to convince you the world outside the gates didn’t matter. For once, Bucky let it lie. Let the noise in. Let the heat, the chaos, the ache of it all wrap around him like something earned. Like something still real.

He walked shoulder to shoulder with Yelena through the thrumming artery of the fair, hands buried in the pockets of his worn deep brown leather jacket. His gaze skimmed constantly, never still for more than a moment. He tracked exits without thinking, catalogued faces in the crowd, the shifts in movement, the angles of approaching shoulders. Old habits, old wiring. Not paranoia, just muscle memory that didn’t forget. The breeze teased at his hair, recently trimmed close to his head again, cleaner, neater. A quieter look. Civilian on the outside.

But under the soft hem of his jacket, his shoulders were tense. Not out of discomfort, exactly. It was the crowd, close and loud and beating, and the fact that Yelena was brushing his arm every few steps as they were jostled together. Not accidentally, but not on purpose either. The space between them had narrowed, not from intimacy, but necessity.

Yelena matched his pace, her expression guarded but alert. Her platinum hair was worn in a textured bob that brushed just past her jaw, the strands tousled in a way that looked accidental but wasn’t. Dark roots gave the look an edge, the same way her eyes did. She wore a cropped charcoal utility jacket, a ribbed black tee, and high-waisted cargo pants tucked into black lace-up combat boots. Black fingerless gloves hugged her hands, more practical than aesthetic, though they still fit the look. It was streetwear, technically, but it didn’t read soft. Not on her. Nothing ever did.

They didn’t speak. They moved like people used to watching each other’s backs, with the kind of unspoken rhythm that came from shared silence and harder days. Their eyes scanned in opposite directions, catching reflections in funhouse mirrors, tracking the twitch of sudden movement near the ring toss booth, the over-bright gleam of a goldfish bag being handed to a squealing child. Yelena’s eyes narrowed slightly every time someone bumped too close, though her expression never quite slipped from detached amusement. She could have been annoyed, amused, or both.

The fair glowed around them, larger than it looked from the outside, a labyrinth of motion and music. Strings of rainbow bulbs pulsed overhead, blinking across their skin in rapid bursts of red, green, blue, yellow. The smell of fried dough and hot dogs mingled with the metallic tang of old machinery. Pop music blared, distorted through old speakers that crackled with static at high notes, underscored by the mechanical churn of a nearby tilt-a-whirl grinding into gear.

And through all of it, they walked, too close not to be noticed, not quite touching, but aligned in a way that made the space around them seem like it bent inward. A few passersby glanced over, maybe assuming they were a couple, maybe thinking they looked like trouble. Neither of them corrected the assumption. They didn’t look at each other, but something in their expressions softened when the other wasn’t looking. Something reluctant, may complicated.

“I think this place is trying to give me a migraine,” she said dryly, narrowing her eyes at a passing parade of blinking LED hats shaped like unicorn horns.

Bucky looked at her sideways with that usual flat and almost bored look that never gave much away. “You’re the one who said this was a good idea.”

Yelena turned her head as a sudden flurry of bubbles floated in from somewhere behind a snack stand. One popped against her cheek, another latched onto her temple like it had a personal vendetta. She blinked once, slowly, then waved them off with the air of someone swatting away a minor existential crisis.

“I said maybe,” she deadpanned, brushing a bubble off her shoulder. “You locked eyes with a funnel cake and forgot why we are here.”

He barely looked at her, voice even. “They smelled good.”

Yelena twisted what might’ve been a retort into a breath, lips parting, then sealing again, like the argument wasn’t worth it. A bubble popped between them, and she stepped a fraction closer, more to avoid a stroller than anything else. Still, she didn’t move away once the space opened up again.

They kept walking. A pair of teens pushed past, laughter trailing behind them, and their path curved naturally toward the noise. Soon they stopped near a water gun race booth, the air thick with the mixed scent of cotton candy, corn dogs, and sunscreen. Bright bulbs blinked along the awning in a heartbeat rhythm, and tinny carnival music chirped overhead, slightly out of sync with the sounds of cheering kids and the mechanical whirr of nearby rides.

A kid at the end of the row let out a high-pitched squeal of triumph just as a red light dinged above his numbered station. He was maybe six, with a shock of curly blond hair and grass-stained knees, his face sticky with what looked like remnants of a blue snow cone. He thrust his arms into the air as a carnie handed him a plastic sword nearly half his size. “I won! I won!”

Yelena watched the scene with a small, crooked smile, one brow arching like she couldn't quite help being amused. She kept her arms folded, but her body angled slightly toward him, like she hadn’t decided yet whether to lean in or walk away. “Very serious competition,” she said dryly. “You want to try?”

Bucky eyed the water guns, then looked at her as his brows drew together sharply. “You serious?”

She was already walking toward the booth. “What, you only like games where people bleed?”

He looked at her as her face bathed in the saturated red glow of a nearby ride sign, her brows slightly lifted in challenge, the edges of her lips curled like she knew she was prodding him and was enjoying every second of it. There was always something beneath her taunting restraint, maybe. Or hesitation.

She turned, walking backward a few paces, and nodded toward the row of cracked vinyl stools. “Davai.” she said, gesturing with a flick of her fingers. “We look less suspicious if we’re not just standing here, scowling at children like creepy government people.”

He gave her a flat look. “You’re using a potential bioweapon deal as an excuse to play a game?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “I’m multitasking. It is called field strategy.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes steady and unblinking, his face carved into a calm mask. “Pretty sure this isn’t exactly what they meant by laying low.”

Yelena stopped by the booth, one hand already on the edge of a cracked stool. She looked at Bucky, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “We are both too serious for this place full of families and tourists. You want to stand there, arms crossed, like some dark, moody guy on a rooftop? Or maybe you sit down, play dumb game, and keep eyes open for anyone trying sneak poison in a cup.”

His eyes scanned the crowd just over her shoulder, sharp and deliberate, taking in every shift and ripple of movement with quiet calculation. His jaw clenched finely, muscles taut but controlled, as if holding back a tension that was always simmering just beneath the surface.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping just a notch. “Also, I plan to win. So…you know…don’t be a coward.”

He glanced at the water guns, then at the crowd behind her once again, families, luminous lights, noise, all of it blurring at the edges. Then back to her. The way she looked at him, half dare, half grin, lit by carnival red…it should’ve annoyed him. It didn’t, though, a little unsteady.

“Just one” he said at last, voice low.

He sat beside her, placing his hands casually on either side of the mounted water gun. The barrels were chipped from use, the painted clowns above the targets slightly faded but still grinning with menace. To their left, a couple teens argued over who had cheated last round and to their right, an older woman with a stroller watched her twin toddlers smear funnel cake on each other.

“Three bucks each,” the carnie commented, barely glancing up as he rang the buzzer. Bucky tossed a crumpled bill from his coat pocket. Yelena was already locked in.

“Ready,” the speaker crackled overhead, “set…GO!”

They squeezed the triggers at the same time, streams of pressurized water arcing cleanly toward their respective targets, plastic clowns with spinning bullseyes for mouths. Yelena leaned forward with sharp precision and her eyes laser-focused. Bucky was more relaxed, but his aim was steady, his expression etched with quiet resolve.

The little indicator lights climbed above their stations, neck and neck, flashing as the pressure built. Yelena tightened her eyes. “You are drifting left,” she grumbled.

“I’m not,” he said calmly. “You’re just nervous.”

Shoulder to shoulder, elbows brushing just slightly as they gripped the faded, water-spotted plastic rifles bolted to the counter. Ahead of them, the race track lit up as ten cartoon clowns with open mouths bobbing slightly behind glass, each rigged to rise toward a finish line when enough water hit the target.

The buzzer sounded with a sharp bleat.

Yelena’s teeth grinded together softly in focus, eyes locked on her clown’s open mouth. She squeezed the trigger in smooth bursts, laser-precise. Her stream hit dead center…at first. Then it started to stutter. The water pressure hiccupped.

She let out a low, frustrated groan and wiggled the gun, glancing sideways just long enough to see Bucky’s steady hand and completely tranquil expression. His stream never wavered, boring into the center of the target like he was being graded on it.

The race lasted only twenty seconds.

The red light above Bucky’s station dinged with a bright clink. He barely blinked, just eased his finger off the trigger like he’d expected victory the whole time.

Yelena’s light stayed dark.

A speaker above the booth crackled to life. “And we have a winner!” it announced in a tinny, over-enthusiastic voice.

Yelena squinted at her station, leaned forward, then actually reached out and poked the nozzle of her water gun like it might suddenly confess its betrayal. “Clearly rigged,” she murmured. “I was hitting the target.”

The carnie, a young woman who looked just past college age, barely peeked up from her stool as she held out two options: a plush pink unicorn with crooked seams and uneven eyes, and a lopsided armadillo puppet with one ear half-detached. Her chipped black nail polish matched the scuffed STAFF hoodie she wore over cutoff shorts, and a faded ball cap shaded her eyes. She raised an eyebrow at Bucky, clearly daring him to care.

Bucky stared at both for a moment, then pointed at the unicorn. “That one,” he said flatly.

The carnie shrugged and tossed it over. Bucky caught the plush unicorn one-handed with his glove-covered vibranium hand, barely looking at it as he turned it over in his palm. His expression tightened into something between suspicion and reluctant acceptance, like the toy might explode or insult his dignity at any moment.

Yelena arched a brow, her smirk spreading slow and sharp. “Very masculine.”

Bucky’s eyes stayed on the unicorn, deadpan. “It has both ears.”

Yelena turned to the carnie, holding up a hand with two fingers raised. “Refund. That one was broken.”

The woman blinked without a hint of sympathy. “Sorry, no refunds. It’s posted on the sign.”

They both looked up. A wrinkled piece of printer paper was duct-taped to the booth’s awning, the words NO REFUNDS. NO EXCEPTIONS. scrawled in faded Sharpie, the ink bleeding from exposure and cheap lamination.

Yelena’s lips tightened. Her eyes narrowed with the precision of a knife being drawn. “Pizdets,” she muttered, low and cold.

Bucky didn’t laugh, but the idea of a smile ghosted across his face, there, then gone. “You’re picking a fight with a minimum-wage teenager.”

Before she could respond, he reached out and touched her elbow, not rough, just enough pressure to shift her weight. A quiet redirect.

She stopped. Not because of the words, but because of the contact. Her head turned slowly toward him, eyes sharp and inscrutable, like she wasn’t sure if he was anchoring her or underestimating her. That was when he realized he was still holding her.

He let go, the movement clipped but not harsh, his hand falling back to his side like it remembered itself too late.

The carnie finally looked up from her phone, raising an eyebrow at the sudden pause. Her eyes flipped between them, Yelena’s tension, Bucky’s quiet recalibration, and the space that opened and closed in a breath. Then she slid back to her screen as if she had just watched the first two minutes of a show she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep watching.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back. “Let’s go lose somewhere else.”

Yelena hesitated, eyes flipping back to the booth one last time. Then, with an unenthusiastic sigh, she folded her arms and fell in beside him, still glaring but silent. “Yeah. Fun.” she said flatly.

Around them, the fair continued to buzz with laughter and chatter, the air thick with the scent of roasted turkey legs, kettle corn, and hot pavement. Colorful lights shimmered overhead in uneven rhythms, washing the crowd in alternating shades of red, gold, and electric blue. Children darted between booths with sticky hands and wide eyes, while parents trailed behind, slower and wearier.

Bucky caught the way Yelena’s shoulders were a little too stiff, the refined lift of her chin, and the faint arch in her brow. He smirked to himself, just barely. “You’re real competitive for someone who says they’re here to blend in.”

He gave the unicorn a small, ironic pat, like he couldn’t quite believe he was carrying the thing. But he didn’t seem in any hurry to hand it off, either.

Yelena gave a lazy shrug, her hands sliding into the pockets of her cargo pants. “I’m not competitive,” she said, glancing at him with a mild, almost bored smile. “Losing’s just... annoying. That’s all.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, shifting the unicorn under his arm like it was listening in. “Annoying enough to glare a hole through a carnie’s head?”

Yelena scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “She had an attitude.”

“You tried to intimidate her over a water gun.”

She looked up at him, unimpressed. “I was being diplomatic.”

Bucky shook his head, something almost like a smile brushing across his face. Ahead of them, a kid sprinted past with a candy apple in one hand and a half-deflated balloon dragging behind like an afterthought. The chaos of the fair moved around them in a blur, lights flashing, music crackling through old speakers, voices rising and falling in messy waves.

His eyes focused on Yelena again, more at ease now, the edge between them shifted into something quieter. “Pick the next game,” he said, his tone low but not uninviting.

Yelena spotted the BB gun shooting gallery and gave a small nod toward it, eyes tapering like she’d just seen a challenge worth her time. The game was tucked between a corndog stand and a row of blinking prize shelves, lit by a string of old bulbs that gave the whole setup a gritty, yellowed glow. The rifles were mounted along a chipped wooden counter, their stocks slick from a hundred sweaty hands. A soft metallic clatter echoed as tin ducks and paper stars jerked along their tracks behind foggy plexiglass.

“This one,” she said, moving before he could reply. “No stuffed animals. No excuses.”

Bucky trailed behind, glancing at the game with something between wariness and amusement. “You’re really throwing yourself into this,” he said dryly.

She picked up one of the BB rifles, turning it in her hands like she was checking for a serial number. “I’m throwing myself,” she responded, flipping the sight up. “To victory.”

Bucky took the spot beside her, quietly picking up his own rifle. “This isn’t war,” he said evenly, eyes already scanning the rigged tin targets. “You’re allowed to lose.”

Yelena pulled a crumpled bill from her pocket and slapped it down on the counter without looking at the carnie. “That’s what people say right before they lose.”

The buzzer went off with a flat screech, and the targets began to roll across the backboard, jerking and sliding like wind-up toys on caffeine. Yelena fired quickly, rhythm precise, eyes sharp. Tin ducks spun off the track, one after another. She moved with the calm of someone who had handled far worse weapons in far worse places.

Bucky stood at the shooting lane with a casual ease that belied the precision of his aim. His body was loose, relaxed, every movement deliberate but effortless as if the rifle was an extension of himself rather than a tool. Each time he pulled the trigger, the shots didn’t roar but rather landed with a steady, controlled rhythm. One by one, the spinning ducks flipped over, and the tin cans wobbled on their shelves before dropping cleanly, their metallic clangs punctuating the air like a soft percussion.

The last target clattered down, a delicate bell chiming faintly above the lane to mark his victory.

To his side, Yelena’s finger hovered tensely above the trigger, her knuckles tight, mouth locked in quiet frustration. Two rubber ducks wobbled at the edge of their platform, infuriatingly unbothered by her precision. Her brow furrowed, and her green eyes tapered into a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

The carnie, perched lazily on his stool with an expression that didn’t even register their presence, didn’t looked up. His voice was flat but carried a hint of smugness. “Left lane wins.”

Yelena’s eyes darted from the row of smug, bobbing ducks to Bucky’s untouched rifle resting coolly at his side. Her jaw tightened. Lips flattened into a line so thin it might’ve disappeared entirely.

Then, without a word, she pivoted on her heel, boots scuffing against the fairground pavement. “Blin,” she muttered in Russian, another syllable sharp and low, spat more than spoken, a reflexive curse, thick with frustration and the sting of bruised pride.

Bucky caught the slight shift in her mood and set his rifle down gently, closing the small gap between them with steady steps. His voice eased, tinged with concern but wrapped in a teasing undertone. “You okay?”

She shot him a sideways glance, a quick flash of annoyance tempered by the shadow of complication…or maybe stubbornness. “Rigged game,” she said sharply, already walking fast to put distance between herself and the losing lane.

“Sure it was,” he said easily, his grin teasing but genuine, like he knew her well enough to call her bluff.

“I hit more,” she insisted, voice sharp but carrying a twinge of defensiveness, the slight edge of wounded pride. Her strides were quick and purposeful. No one was going to see her sulk.

Bucky matched her pace, stepping just behind her, the smirk never quite leaving his face. “I think you’re being a bit of a sore loser,” he quipped, the kind of gentle ribbing that spoke of their easy, if complicated, camaraderie.

“I am not sore,” she snapped back, but her voice lost a little of its bite. She paused, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air. Something else caught her attention. Her sharp gaze drifted to a food stall nestled a few booths down, the savory scent promising relief from her sour mood. Her stance relaxed, the fight draining away as hunger took over.

“I’m hungry,” she said simply, her tone quieter now, almost resigned.

Bucky’s half smile, sharp and knowing, edged with teasing, slowly softened. The corners of his mouth loosened, spreading just enough to become a small, genuine smile. No more playfulness, but quiet acceptance, a rare and unguarded moment shared between two warriors locked in a dance of sharp words and silent understanding.

They stopped beneath a sagging banner that read HOT DOGS in lambent red bulbs, half of which were burned out or twitching like they were on life support. The stand itself looked like it had been dragged through a war zone and polished with a napkin. Smoke curled from the flat top grill, heavy with the scent of burnt onions, grease, and something vaguely metallic. The air clung to the skin like old fryer oil, warm and thick with city grit.

Yelena slowed, eyeing the stand. Her arms were folded, mouth pursed in a way that said she was judging but interested.

“This is what’s catching your attention?” Bucky asked as he surveyed the scene.

“It smells like childhood,” she replied, deadpan, not looking at him. “Very fake childhood. Processed food, fluorescent lighting, and the illusion of suburban happiness. It’s perfect.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, adjusting his stance as he gave her a sidelong look. “I thought you were hungry. Like, actual food hungry.”

“I want something not sweet,” she said pointedly, giving him a side glance. “Unlike your sad suggestion of funnel cake.”

His brows furrowed. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. I just said it smelled good.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t bother waiting for further debate. “We are getting hot dogs.”

And just like that, she turned and strode toward the stand, not even checking if he followed.

He slipped his vibranium hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a small wad of crumpled bills, the kind of cash that spoke more to habit than necessity. She was already halfway to the stand, her platinum bob catching the light with every sharp turn of her head, purpose in every step.

He jogged forward, caught up in three strides, and reached out to press the money into her hand, quiet, practical, no formality. His fingers brushed hers for the briefest moment, warm and steady. “Here.” He murmured, not quite meeting her eyes.

Yelena shot a look down at the bills, then back up at him, an almost reluctant curve to her lips, barely there, but enough to register. A drop of acknowledgment. “How chivalrous,” she said flatly, then, before walking away, added loud enough for him to hear, “Old man manners. Cute.”

Bucky stayed behind, leaning against a nearby lamppost that had long lost its paint and dignity. He crossed his arms and let his observation drift, not toward the food stand, but around the pathways.

People moved in lazy clusters beneath strings of mismatched festival lights. Couples passed by in uneven paces, brushing arms or sharing bites of fried things from greasy paper trays. The air buzzed with low chatter, occasional laughter, and the clang of carnival bells in the distance. He watched them pass. Not out of longing, but out of habit. He had always been a watcher. That hadn’t changed.

But then his eyes found Yelena again, just past the grill’s haze. She was arguing lightly with the vendor about something, gesturing with her gloved hand, one hip cocked with impatient flair. Her tousled blond hair caught the breeze, strands lifting and falling against her cheekbones like windblown silk. She was all sharp lines and simmering motion, like a blade mid-unsheathing.

There was nothing romantic about it. But he didn’t look away.

Her hands braced on the edge of the counter as she spoke to the vendor with the same dry tone she used for interrogations and fast food alike. Her order was simple, direct. Two hot dogs, no small talk. The man behind the counter gave a grunt of acknowledgment and turned away to start on the food.

She leaned back slightly, weight shifting onto one heel, her gaze idly scanning the crowd beyond the haze of the grill smoke. That’s when her eyes caught on him. Still watching.

He hadn’t meant to stare, but his eyes had drifted, unthinking, like they always seemed to when she wasn’t looking. She stood a little apart from everything around her, lit in thew glow of the luminous sign like something pulled from a dream that had dirt under its nails and a blade in its boot. She wasn’t smiling. She never smiled when no one was watching.

Her eyes sharpened, not in irritation, but caught off guard. Like someone who didn’t expect to be seen and wasn’t sure how to feel about it. For a second, she didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Bucky adjusted his stance, trying for nonchalance, but it landed somewhere between awkward and self-conscious. He looked down at the asphalt, scuffed his boot once, then looked back.

She was still watching him.

There was something in her face he couldn’t quite read. Not softness. Yelena didn’t do soft. But something imprudent. Like the moment hadn’t made up its mind what it was yet.

Then the vendor called something out behind her. She turned toward the sound without a word, stepping forward to collect the food, a strand of blond hair falling across her cheek as she moved.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the quiet exhale cutting through the pause between them.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He reached for it, thumb dragging across the screen, the glow of Walker’s name lighting up the moment like a flare in the dark.

Still watching the hot dog stand, he rebalanced his weight and turned slightly, lowering his voice as he lifted the phone to his ear. His other hand slid into his jacket pocket, shoulders tightening with practiced ease, like someone blending into the background, not wanting to be overheard.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his tone flat but alert, scanning the crowd without moving his head.

Walker’s voice came through low and urgent, with Alexei shouting unintelligibly in the background. Somewhere between Russian, frustration, and theatrics.

“Bucky. Good. Change of plans. Biotech handoff’s happening at a Warehouse lot in Hell’s Kitchen at midnight. Ghost already confirmed she’ll meet us there.”

Bucky scanned the street again. Crowds, lights, the smell of churros and popcorn. Yelena was still at the stand, taking her time with the condiments. “We have information on who the buyer is?” he asked.

“No buyer ID yet. But they’re bringing cash, or something close to it. And they’re armed. We’re not walking into a handshake.”

Bucky’s expression hardened. “That it?”

“Transport’s in motion,” John added. “We’re a couple hours out from the perimeter. You and Belova better move.”

Bucky nodded to himself. “We’ll meet you there.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket, the buzz of the call still vibrating under his ribs. The lights around him suddenly felt too bright. And just ahead, Yelena was walking back toward him with two hot dogs in one hand, the paper trays pinched neatly between her fingers. The plastic cups were braced against her side, secured by the curve of her arm and the sharp angle of her elbow, precarious, but practiced. In her other hand, a crumple of condiment packets fanned out like a loaded deck. Her hair caught a bit of breeze as she walked, but her stare was steady. Like she knew. Like she always did.

“I got you extra condiments. In case you want to feel like you are in control of something,” she said, handing him his share.

Bucky took the food and looked down at the hot dog in his hand. The bun was already soft at the edges, collapsing slightly under the weight of a messy tangle of onions, a thick smear of bright yellow mustard, and something vaguely cabbage-like that might’ve started life as sauerkraut. Ketchup clung in uneven streaks down one side, already beginning to drip. A smear of relish pooled near the edge like an afterthought. Grease soaked faintly through the napkin at the base.

Balanced awkwardly on the tray was a paper boat of fries, golden and aggressively salted, with a messy squiggle of ketchup streaked across the top. A few fries had already tumbled loose, one hanging halfway off the tray like it was trying to make a run for it.

He blinked at the whole thing, then looked up at her. “Thanks.” he said, voice low.

Yelena tilted her head slightly, brow knitting with faint confusion. “Is this not what you were wanting?”

There was no bite in her voice, but something uncertain beneath the question. Her eyes searched his face like she was trying to catch up to a shift she hadn’t seen happen. Two minutes ago, he’d been watching her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. Now, there was distance. Quiet.

Bucky hesitated. His grip adjusted on the food, fingers tightening slightly on the warm, grease-soaked wrappers. Then his gaze dropped to the ground, jaw working in silence.

He could tell her. End the night now. Call it, get moving. The mission was real, the window short. Ghost. Hell’s Kitchen. Reinforcements. Alexei yelling. John pacing. Everything waiting to snap into place.

He should have said it.

But when he looked up again, Yelena was sipping her drink, watching him over the rim of the plastic cup. Her eyes held his with that same maddening steadiness, unflinching, unreadable. Not prying. Just... there.

He didn’t look away.
He should have.

Something in his chest pulled taut, a quiet ache he wasn’t ready to name. So he blinked, clearing the weight in his look, and shook it off with the ease of someone practiced in pushing feelings down where they couldn’t touch anything important.

He skimmed around the carnival plaza, eyes moving over the crowd. The air buzzed with chatter and fried sugar. Somewhere nearby, a kid shrieked with glee as a stuffed panda was won. Families drifted past them in warm clusters, arms full of prizes, napkins, and sticky fingers.

“Where are we sitting?” he asked, shifting the weight of the drink in his hand.

Yelena looked up from her work, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek as she scanned the area. There was a string of empty benches near the edge of the lights, half-shaded by a crooked banner for funnel cakes. Less crowded. Fewer eyes.

She motioned with her head. “There. Unless standing meals are your thing now.”

Bucky followed her gaze, then gave a nod. They walked in step without meaning to. She took a long drink from her cup, the straw squeaking faintly with the pull. He kept his eyes forward, but he was aware of her and how close her shoulder brushed his when the crowd got tight, how her presence seemed to cut through the noise like a blade through fog.

They reached the picnic table, one of the older ones tucked near the edge of the plaza, its surface scratched and weathered by time and restless hands. They sat across from each other, the wood cool beneath them, paper trays set down between elbows and glances.

Bucky leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, posture still and guarded in that quiet way he carried when he didn’t want to take up too much space. His shoulders were square, but his gaze was steady, grounded.

Yelena sat more casually, one leg folded beneath her, elbow resting on the table’s edge, her drink cupped loosely in her hand. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and studied her hot dog like she was preparing to perform surgery.

Bucky stared down at his own, assessing the structural instability of the overloaded bun with the kind of quiet intensity usually reserved for disarming explosives. Then, with a small breath, he reached out with his vibranium hand, steadier, more controlled, and carefully gripped the base of the hot dog like it might detonate if tilted wrong. The bun sagged under the weight of mustard, ketchup, onions, and a smear of sauerkraut, but he kept it together, just barely, fingers adjusting with surgical precision to avoid spillage.

She noticed. A glint of amusement sparked in her eyes as she popped a chip into her mouth, chewing lazily. “You hold it like that, you’re going to lose half the toppings in your lap.” Her smile surfaced slow and crooked, unbothered, like she was enjoying the view and didn’t care if he caught her.

He bit into his hotdog, warm, salty, the vinegar kick of kraut doing just enough. His expression was unreadable at first, then gave the slightest shrug, like it wasn’t bad…but wouldn’t be his first choice.

They ate in silence for a stretch, the kind that didn’t need filling. Around them, the fair was beginning to wind down. The air hung heavy with the smell of grilled meat, fried sugar, and old popcorn, blending into something warm and oddly comforting. Far behind them, the carousel churned through a slow, wheezing tune, its lights dimming just slightly with each pass, like it too was tired and ready to call it a night.

Children clung sleepily to their parents’ hands, stuffed animals dragging along the gravel as souvenirs of impossible shots and sugar highs. A teenager walked by licking melted ice cream from his wrist, someone called out for a ride they were going to miss, and over it all was the hum of speakers muffling announcements no one listened to.

Yelena chewed thoughtfully, brows raised as she gave a nod, as if to say okay, this is not terrible. Bucky caught it from across the table, halfway through a bite of his own. He mirrored the gesture, lifting his brows slightly and offering the barest incline of his head, quiet agreement passing between them like currency. No teasing, no words. Only mutual appreciation of a rare edible win.

Another few bites passed in silence, broken only by the crunch of chips from her plate and the occasional shift of gravel beneath passing feet. It was the kind of stillness neither of them got often, and they let it stretch.

Yelena slid her drink toward him, her expression settling into something casual. Bucky squinted at the cup, then picked up the can beside it, lime green, with an aggressively illustrated fruit that looked vaguely radioactive. He studied the label. “What is this?”

She shrugged, the hint of her accent coloring her words. “Kiwi Fizz. Tastes like tiny party in mouth. You try.”

He took the cup, removing part of the lid, and keeping his eyes locked on hers as he raised it to his lips. The first sip hit sharp and sweet, and he immediately winced, a brief cough escaping him. “Party or punchline?” he asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Yelena laughed softly, eyes sparkling. “Little of both.”

He slid her drink back towards her. “That’s a cavity.”

He took another bite. The snap of the dog had just enough char to it. Sharp mustard hit the back of his tongue and the vinegar of the sauerkraut came through right after. It wasn’t gourmet, but it tasted like summer. Like fairs and streets and something human.

Two couples approached the picnic tables near them, their body language easy and familiar, shoulders bumping, voices low but animated with inside jokes and shared memories. The first pair took the table closest to Bucky and Yelena. The woman, dressed in a faded hoodie and jean shorts, leaned instinctively into her partner’s side, giggling through a mouthful of funnel cake as powdered sugar dusted her chin. He wiped it off with his thumb, grinning, then kissed her temple like it was second nature.

The second couple slid into the spot across from them, each holding one side of a comically oversized lemonade. Their knees brushed beneath the table, neither of them moving away, and they took turns sipping from the same straw without a word, glancing at each other with that quiet, charged awareness of people who hadn’t yet said “I love you” but thought it constantly.

The old wooden bench creaked beneath them, the kind of groan that came with age and weather and summer nights like this one. It was the sound of everything normal, domestic, safe, fleeting. Around them, the buzz of the carnival kept spinning, but in that pocket of space, it all seemed to slow for just a second.

Bucky watched, his hand still wrapped around the cup Yelena had given him. He didn’t say anything. The contrast sat between them, two people on the outside of softness, watching the world settle in around them like it belonged to someone else.

“Used to come here.”

Yelena looked over, her hand pausing halfway to her drink. “Really?” Her tone held a hint of surprise, maybe teasing.

He nodded, careful, like the memory was something he had to handle gently or risk losing it. “It wasn’t exactly like this. Was smaller back then. Less lights. More hay.”

Yelena tilted her head slightly in curiosity. She took a slow sip from her drink, the straw clicking softly against the plastic lid, then let the cup rest against her knee. Her voice, when it came, was quieter. “With your family?”

He gave a quiet huff, barely a laugh. “My parents brought me and my sister a few times before the war. I remember the caramel apples being bigger than my hands. And there was this mechanical horse ride Rebecca loved. She’d cry if we didn’t do it twice.”

Bucky paused, eyes drifting to the lights strung overhead, soft, uneven, blinking like distant stars. His fingers tapped once against the drink in his hand, then stilled. The memory pulled at him, not painful, but worn at the edges, like an old photograph left out in the sun too long. For a moment, he wasn’t sitting at a picnic table beside a former assassin under the hum of a modern carnival. He was small again, barefoot in summer dust, watching his little sister laugh like nothing could ever touch them.

He blinked once, steadying the thought before it could get too far. Then his eyes returned to Yelena. “Feels like another life.”

Yelena chewed slowly on a chip, her eyes tracking the crowd as if she were watching ghosts drift between the bodies.

Then, still looking outward, she said quietly, “We were both someone else once. Before the Red Room. Before Hydra. Before the parts of us got carved out and replaced.” She picked at another chip, not eating it yet, just holding it between her fingers. “Just kids with too-short summers and favorite rides.”

Her voice wasn’t heavy, but there was a flatness in it. She wasn’t searching for sympathy rather than naming a truth that rarely got air.

She popped the next chip into her mouth, then her eyes drifted towards Bucky. “Sometimes it feels like all that happened to another version of me. Someone I don’t remember being. But other times…” She shrugged, not finishing the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Bucky watched her in silence, his expression unreadable at first. Then he gave a slow nod, his voice quiet.

She didn’t continue. Instead, her mind drifted back, years folding over like worn pages. To Ohio, to summers spent chasing the sticky sweetness of cotton candy and the sharp snap of fireworks in the sky. To crowded carnivals where she and her family had laughed between rides and games, sharing secrets in the summer heat. The hum of those days melted over her like a faded song, distant, yet sharp enough to sting.

“I used to do dumb things like this with my sister when we were younger,” Yelena said with a softness that was rare in her voice. “Carnivals, museum nights, tourist traps. We’d fake American accents to blend in.”

Her tone lifted just slightly with the ghost of a smile. “Sometimes we got free drinks just because we were convincing.” She glanced toward a spinning wheel of cheap prizes nearby, plush bears with lopsided eyes, candy-colored swords, glow-in-the-dark necklaces hanging like trophies. “That feels like a different person.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He chewed slowly, then swallowed, the warm paper napkin crinkling in his hand. “Maybe it is,” he said eventually. “Different people, same ghosts.”

They fell into a companionable silence after that, chewing slowly, the picnic table between them a quiet divide. Their knees occasionally bumped beneath the wood, accidental brushes neither acknowledged nor moved away from. Around them, the fair’s noise had dipped into a lazy hum. The nearby benches were mostly filled, couples sharing bites, phones casting soft blue light across their faces, laughter floating up in gentle bursts.

The intimacy lingered, not theirs exactly, but in the air around them. A kind of warmth in silhouette. And for Bucky and Yelena, seated across from each other with the space between them just wide enough to feel intentional, it pressed in like a question neither of them wanted to answer first.

Bucky stretched out his legs, denim creasing at the knees, and rolled his ankle until it gave a quiet crack. Then he pulled out his phone, the screen flaring to life with a cold, bluish glow that lit the sharp angles of his face. The time: 9:47, four unread messages from John. He didn’t open them. Just skimmed the preview lines, brief, clipped, mission-coded reminders that the window was closing, that this night wasn’t theirs to keep. He locked the screen without a ripple of change in his expression, slipping the phone back into his pocket like it hadn’t said anything at all.

Yelena was still picking at her food, unaware. He kept it that way.

“We should probably head out,” he said, not quite looking at her.

Yelena didn’t answer right away. She was licking a smear of ketchup off her knuckle like she had all the time in the world. When she finally spoke, her voice was light but not dismissive. “People are leaving anyway.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The fair was still alive, but softening. The heavy pulse faded into a lull. The lines for rides were shorter. Children cried only because they were tired, not excited. The music was muffled now, mixed with the scrape of trash bins being wheeled away and the occasional crackle of a speaker being cut off.

Bucky stood first, brushing a crumb from his thigh. His joints popped faintly as he stretched his arm, nothing dramatic, just the quiet mechanics of a body older than it looked.

Yelena followed, not quickly, not reluctantly. Just fluid. She wiped her fingers one last time on a napkin that was already a lost cause, then crumpled it with surgical precision. As she rose, she rolled her shoulders, posture settling into that neutral fighter’s ease again, somewhere between casual and ready.

They began walking without another word. No direction offered. No answer to the suggestion. The pavement was still sticky in some places from spilled soda and crushed cotton candy. Their boots made a soft sound over the grit. People passed by in pairs, families and couples, teenagers weaving in and out with tired laughs and sagging plastic bags of cheap prizes.

Yelena walked with her hands half in her pockets, eyes scanning casually. Not for threats, just to keep from looking at him.

Bucky walked close, but not too close. One hand stayed loose in his pocket, the other holding the absurdly pink unicorn he’d won some time ago, its synthetic mane brushing against his jacket. Every so often, his gaze drifted sideways. She was quiet again. Not stiff. Thoughtful. Like the moment had filled her in ways she hadn’t expected and didn’t plan to mention.

The air had cooled just enough to see your breath in the lights, and their steps slowed near the darker edge of the fairground, where the carnival noise faded behind them and the parking lot opened up like a low horizon.

Neither of them said it, but both of them felt it.

That quiet stretch between pretending it meant nothing
and knowing it did.

Bucky slowed his steps. His jaw flexed, that subtle grind of thought behind his teeth. He hadn’t said anything since their last exchange, walked beside her with eyes forward and shoulders a little tenser than before.

Yelena noticed. She didn’t say it, but noticed the change in his gait. The way his fingers tapped once against his thigh, then curled into a fist and stayed there. “What is it?” she asked, tone light but edged with curiosity. She turned her head just enough to see the furrow between his brows.

There was something about the moment that felt like glass. Fragile. Unspoken warmth had been building for hours, like a house of cards stacked by accident. One wrong breath and it would all scatter. But he owed her the truth. Or at least the part of it she deserved tonight.

Bucky inhaled through his nose. “Walker called earlier,” he started, his voice low and even. “And—”

“Excuse me!” a voice called out from behind them.

They both turned, startled, breaking whatever spell had quietly begun to stretch between them.

They found a man approaching with a DSLR around his neck, one of the photographers who’d been snapping fair-goers all night for the booth at the exit. He looked to be in his early thirties, wiry and a little sunburned, with a patchy beard and a baseball cap turned backwards. A laminated vendor badge swung from a lanyard across his faded flannel shirt, and his cargo shorts bore streaks of dust and powdered sugar, like he’d brushed too close to a funnel cake stand one too many times. He had the forced smile of someone who knew they were interrupting something and was determined to pretend they weren’t.

“You two make a great-looking couple,” he commented, already raising the camera. “Mind if I grab a shot?”

Yelena blinked, then tilted her head slightly, a dry breath catching at the back of her throat. Her expression didn’t shift much, still cool and composed, but there was the barest drift of her eyes toward Bucky, like the word had brushed too close to something she wasn’t ready to name. Then she looked back at the photographer, voice even. “We’re not a couple.”

The man didn’t flinch. “That’s what they all say.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words made it out. His brows pulled together, mouth set like he was trying to form a polite refusal but couldn’t quite line it up in time. The pink unicorn in his hand didn’t help. He looked at Yelena, then back at the photographer, uncertain whether to laugh or walk away.

The man tilted her head. “C’mon, you’ll regret it if you don’t. Look at this lighting. That whole ‘reluctant couple’ visual?”

Yelena crossed her arms, but didn’t step away. “Reluctant is accurate.”

The man gave a shrug, the kind that came at the end of a long shift. He wasn’t pushing for romance. “Look, I just gotta hit my quota. You two look like something people want on a fridge magnet, that’s all.” He raised the camera half-heartedly. “One photo and I’m out of your hair.”

Yelena arched a brow at Bucky. “He’s very pushy.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, more weary than annoyed. “Fine,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “One.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose, a soft sound that could’ve been annoyance or amusement. “Whatever gets him to leave.” She stepped in beside Bucky and gave him a light nudge to the chest with her elbow, casual, but precise. He looked at her, confused for half a second, but she was already facing the camera, settling into place like it meant nothing. The space between them lessened without effort, like it always did when no one pointed it out.

The photographer squinted through his lens and made a vague circling motion with one hand. “Okay, okay… not bad. But you two gotta give me something. Pretend you might actually like each other.”

Bucky lifted the pink unicorn under his left arm and gave a smile so visibly forced it bordered on satire. His vibranium hand had twitched instinctively, starting to move toward Yelena’s waist before he caught himself, too familiar, too soon. He dropped it stiffly to his side instead, fingers curling slightly like they needed something else to hold.

Yelena’s expression barely changed. She didn’t show teeth, never did for strangers, but her lips curved upward with theatrical restraint. Then, without looking at him, she lightly rested her right hand on his left shoulder, casual and almost absent-minded, like it might’ve happened by accident. Bucky's eyes flicked toward her hand, just for a second. He didn’t flinch, didn’t lean in either, but his jaw ticked, a muscle jumping like a reflex he didn’t quite manage to hide.

The flash went off.

Click

The shutter loud in the quiet beat that followed their staged stillness. Bucky dropped the fake smile the second the flash died, lowering the stuffed pink unicorn by his side like it suddenly weighed more than it should. Yelena stepped back a fraction, her arm brushing his jacket as she moved away, already reclaiming the space between them.

The photographer lowered the camera, already nodding. “Perfect,” He announced, clearly lying. “You can pick it up at the booth.”

“We won’t,” Bucky muttered as they walked away.

They walked in silence for a moment, heels and boots tapping lightly against the paved path as the crowd shifted around them. The fair had taken on that late-night haze now, lights a little softer, music a little slower, the laughter around them melting into something looser, more tired, more real.

Yelena tucked her hands into her coat pockets and walked beside him, her pace unhurried. “You know your smile looks like you're clenching your teeth through dental cleaning, right?”

“I didn’t see you nailing it, either.”

“Oh no, I looked amazing,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward where the photo had been taken, like the evidence was somehow still floating in the air behind them. “You were the problem.”

Bucky gave her a long, sideways glance, the pink unicorn still tucked awkwardly under his arm like a mascot he hadn’t asked for. He followed her around a bend in the path, past a shuttering caramel corn booth and an abandoned balloon animal station, until they reached a faded stall with bobbing fish bowls filled with water. Floating at the surface: dozens of tiny orange fish, glinting gold under the lights.

Yelena squinted her eyes at the booth like it had insulted her family.

“The ring toss,” she declared, sizing up the tank of floating bowls like it was a tactical op.

Behind the counter sat a woman maybe in her early forties, not far from Bucky’s age, with the kind of tired grace that came from a life lived at full speed and then slowed down to something more manageable. She lounged in a folding chair, arms crossed over a faded hoodie that read Midwest Magic 2003, its cuffs fraying, fabric worn from years of use. Her sun-freckled skin hinted at long summers spent outdoors, and her deep chestnut brown hair, sun-lightened at the tips into a soft amber tone, was pulled back loosely with a pen. A few curls had escaped around her temples and the nape of her neck, framing her face with the kind of unbothered ease that comes from not checking a mirror in hours and not caring. The color, rich but slightly faded by time and sun, suited her natural, low-maintenance, and quietly striking.

She straightened a little when she saw them approach, eyes skimming over Yelena in a glance that was polite but disinterested, before settling and staying on Bucky.

It wasn’t subtle.

Something changed in her posture, barely perceptible but instinctive, the kind of unconscious tilt that came with a pulse of quiet attraction. Not forward, not hopeful, but a warm, idle spark. Like spotting someone handsome at the hardware store and deciding he’d become the main character in her thoughts for the next few days. She didn’t know his name. He was tall, good-looking in a way that felt cinematic, and for some reason, he was carrying a bright pink unicorn like it belonged there. That was enough.

“Evenin’,” she greeted with a light southern accent, trying for casual as she nudged a bucket of ping pong balls toward them. “Three tries for five bucks. Win a fish, take it home. Or don’t. Most folks don’t.”

Her smile was tired but real, the kind that softened with habit but had weight behind it. There was a story in her eyes, years lived, maybe a few regrets, but nothing she couldn’t laugh off on a good day.

Yelena noticed the way the woman’s gaze dawdled on him a moment longer than necessary. Something tightened briefly in her chest, but she masked it with a teasing smirk, as if daring the moment not to matter. “Go ahead, give it a shot. Maybe you’ll win something better.”

Bucky shook his head without hesitation.  “Got my prize right here.”

Yelena slid a few crumpled bills from her coat pocket and handed them over. “He plays too.” she said, her voice easy, almost casual. But there was something deliberate in the way her eyes flitted to the woman, calm, quiet, knowing, before shifting back to the small pile of rings in front of her.

As Yelena leaned forward, lining up her first shot, the woman reached beneath the counter and picked out three more red rings. She stepped over to Bucky, who hadn’t moved, the unicorn still under one arm like it belonged there.

“These are yours,” she said with a smile that tried not to be shy.

She reached out to press the rings into his left hand…and paused.
Her fingers touched his glove, expecting warmth or give. Instead, there was a firm, unyielding resistance beneath the fabric. Just a second too long to be unnoticed.

Her smile wavered, confused but polite. “Oh…sorry, I didn’t -”

“It’s fine,” Bucky said evenly, voice low. He curled the rings into his hand without meeting her eyes.

Without a word, he reached up and set the unicorn gently on the edge of the booth’s counter, the way someone might set down a coat before a fight. It slumped sideways, one sparkly leg hanging over the edge, glassy eyes staring into the midway gloom like it understood sacrifice.

He didn’t abandon it. He only needed both hands free. Needed focus. As much as anyone could focus at a carnival game booth with cheap music, blinking lights, and a woman watching him like he was the most interesting mystery on the boardwalk.

Yelena didn’t look over, but she was definitely listening, her lips twitching into something half amused, half smug.

The woman stepped back quickly, a little more flustered now. “Good luck,” she offered, but it came out a little thinner than before.

Yelena leaned toward him, her voice a quiet tease. “She touched your hand. Big moment.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “She didn’t know.”

“She probably thinks you’re secretly a robot now. Women love mystery.”

He shook his head, but his mouth curved at the corners. “You really want me to play this thing?”

“No,” she said, eyes locked on the next bottle like it owed her something. “I just want to see if you crumble under the pressure of feminine attention.”

Yelena selected her first ring with a kind of casual disdain, spinning it once around her finger like she was debating whether to take the game seriously or treat it like a joke. The ring was cheap plastic, slightly warped, the red faded from too many seasons under sun and sweat. She leveled a glare at the clustered bottles ahead, lined like soldiers but with the swagger of chaos, no symmetry, no mercy.

Her arm moved with easy grace as she flicked her wrist, launching the ring in a lazy arc that looked almost too effortless. It sailed through the air, cut across the glow of the carnival lights, and bounced off a bottle neck with a soft, hollow clink, landing somewhere between failure and indifference.

She gave a small shrug and dusted her hands theatrically against her coat. “Just getting a feel for the wind,” she said, even though the air was still and thick with sugar and popcorn grease.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He stood there like a statue carved out of irony, squinting like a sharpshooter. He tossed next. His movements were controlled, no flair, just that familiar quiet precision he carried into every mission. Shoulders relaxed, jaw tight but calm, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he sized up the bottles. He flicked the ring from his fingers with measured ease, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

The ring veered sharply to the right.

It missed every bottle, landing with a sad little plop in the water tank. The splash rippled softly, sending a goldfish darting away in a lazy spiral, utterly unbothered.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the slightest crease forming between his brows. His mouth pressed into a thin line, refusing to give anything away.

Yelena stood just behind him, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she cocked an eyebrow. “Graceful,” she said dryly, her voice light but teasing.

He didn’t respond, just repositioned his weight slightly, eyes still fixed on the bottles.

Yelena stepped forward for her second attempt, brows knitting together in exaggerated concentration. She rolled the ring on her finger once, a small smile playing across her face as if daring the game to throw her off. “Watch and learn, old man,” she said, voice low and confident.

Her arm swung smoothly forward. The ring flew in a tight arc, clipping the edge of a bowl with a sharp plink. It bounced once, then flipped awkwardly onto the cracked pavement with a hollow clack.

Her grin faltered, replaced by a brief hint of frustration. She stared down at the ring, then back up at Bucky, their eyes locking.

He gave her a flat look, unamused but amused all at once. “Didn’t realize this was a military exercise,” he muttered, voice dry.

Yelena’s gaze hardened, her expression drawing taut. “Rigged,” she said flatly, eyes still fixed on the bowl like it had personally betrayed her. “This is a capitalist scam.”

A subtle pull touched Bucky’s lips, a glimmer of something almost playful breaking through. “Not everything’s rigged you know. Sometimes you gotta have skill.”

She turned slowly toward him, eyebrows arching as she squinted with mock disbelief. “Skill, huh? Or maybe you good at fooling yourself.”

From the booth’s counter, the glittering unicorn toy slouched dramatically, one sequin-covered leg dangling like it was unimpressed by the whole spectacle. Its glassy eye caught the light just so, making it look like it was silently judging the two of them, part amused, part exasperated.

Bucky lined up for his second throw, this time with a shift in posture, less stiff, more focused. He squared his shoulders again, eyes narrowing as he scanned the chaotic field of floating glass bowls. He held the ring in his gloved left hand this time, the vibranium one, as if changing tactics might change the outcome. His expression stayed unreadable, but Yelena didn’t miss the faint pinch at the corner of his mouth, like he wanted this to work, even if he’d never admit it.

The ring shot forward with a clean jerk of his wrist, fast and tight in its trajectory. It struck the rim of a bowl dead-on, the sound sharp and promising

plink.

But then it bounced.
Too high.
Too far.

With a sick twist of physics and fate, the ring flipped off the edge and skittered across the concrete before coming to rest with a dry, undignified clack.

He stared after it, lips twitching briefly.

Yelena didn’t say anything at first. She tilted her head slowly, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile. Then her gaze fell deliberately to his left hand.

“You sure you’re not using the wrong arm?” she asked, voice casual, but her tone laced with amusement.

Bucky didn’t look at her. “I’m ambidextrous.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Apparently not at children’s games.”

He let out a short breath, equal parts amused and annoyed. The carnival lights glinted faintly off the matte black of his glove as he rolled the last ring between his fingers.

Yelena looked down at the final ring in her hand, the faded red plastic catching the glow of the overhead string lights. Her grip tightened, jaw setting with renewed determination. She stepped up for her last throw, brows drawn in exaggerated concentration. She spun the ring once around her index finger like she was winding up for something histrionic. “Okay. If I miss, it’s clearly sabotage.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, the crowd around them fading to a distant hum. She held the next ring between two fingers like it was a throwing knife, taking a moment, just a breath to line it up. Then, with a snap of her wrist.

Clink

The ring hit the rim, hovered for one impossible second, then dropped around the lip of a bowl and stayed there. The noise was sharp and perfect.

Both of them froze. Even the attendant running the booth blinked like she’d witnessed a minor miracle.

“…Did that count?” Yelena asked, voice low, unsure if it was a trick.

The booth attendant looked faintly amazed. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, that’s a win.”

She didn’t celebrate right away. Her eyes remained fixed at the bowl like it might retract the offer. Then slowly, smugly, her mouth curved. “Of course it is.”

The attendant grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, look at you,” she said, dipping behind the booth. When she popped back up, she was holding a handful of swaying plastic bags, each with a single goldfish inside, glinting under the lights.

“Go on now, pick yourself a champion,” she drawled lightly, the soft Southern lilt curling around her words like a smile. “They’re all trouble, but some more than others.”

Yelena crouched down, squinting, ignoring the bigger, flashier ones. Her finger hovered, then pointed. “That one.”

The smallest fish. Slightly off-balance, like its tail didn’t quite know what direction to commit to.

“Scrappy little guy,” the woman said, scooping it with gentle hands. She sealed the bag tighter and handed it over. “He’s yours now. Take care of him.”

Yelena stood, holding the bag up to the light, watching the fish dart in frantic circles. “Looks like he’s been through some things.”

Bucky leaned in, his voice dry. “You sure he’s not just dizzy?”

She gave him a side glance. “I like him. He’s got... bite.”

The woman chuckled, eyes sliding back to Bucky, persistent and longer this time. “You wanna give it a shot too? Free of charge, just for you.” Then she nodded toward his hand, where one ring still sat nestled against the curve of his glove. “Though technically, you’ve still got one left.” Her smile tugged a little wider, just this side of hopeful.

Bucky looked down at the last ring in his hand, then back up at the woman. His expression stayed even, unreadable but not unkind. “Appreciate it,” he said, voice low and courteous, “but I think I had enough for one night.”

He stepped forward and set his last ring gently on the edge of the counter, leaving it behind. Then he reached for the glittering unicorn, curling his fingers around it with quiet finality. Yelena didn’t miss the way the woman’s gaze followed him, a shadow of disappointment softening her smile.

As they turned away from the booth, the colorful noise of the carnival washed back over them, laughter, the clatter of rides, the hum of distant music, but for a moment, their steps fell into easy rhythm. They weaved through the last remnants of the crowd. Most families had already gone. The air felt different now, emptier, looser, like the fair had exhaled and was finally ready to sleep. A couple of booths were still lit, music faint and scratchy as it played its last few rounds.

Yelena drifted a little closer, bumping his arm lightly with her shoulder. “She was very into you,” she said in a sing-song lilt, her accent curling around the words just enough to make them feel like a tease wrapped in velvet.

Bucky didn’t look at her. “I noticed.”

Yelena tilted her head, glancing up at him with a smirk. “Could’ve won her a fish. Sealed the deal.”

“He shrugged, his voice low, just a touch dry. “Didn’t wanna show off.”

Yelena let out a soft breath of amusement, her lips curving as she lifted the small plastic bag in her hand. The fish inside swam a lazy loop, golden and unimpressed, its fins trailing like silk, its movement slow but deliberate.

“He will look good in the Watchtower,” she said casually, digging a crumpled five from her pocket. “I’ll put him in the kitchen. Motivate Bob to clean the counter once in a while.”

“You think he’s scared of a fish?”

“Everyone’s scared of something.” She raised the bag to eye level as they walked, the carnival lights catching the water and casting soft ripples against her face. “Look at him,” she said, her voice almost reverent, but laced with dry humor. “Tiny and full of rage.”

Bucky watched her from the side, quiet amusement warming his gaze. There was something about the way she walked, shoulders loose, chin tilted up slightly, that familiar confidence tempered now with something softer, freer. The kind of contentment that didn’t come often.

As they neared the exit, a small rush of people funneled toward the gates ahead, pressing them slightly closer together. The air thickened with voices and motion, strollers and sticky fingers, the clamor of people clinging to the last few minutes of night. Still, neither of them hurried.

Once they stepped through the gates, the carnival’s edge fell away behind them like the closing lines of a story. The path spilled out into the wide expanse of the parking lot, where pavement stretched under the yellow glow of tall humming lights. Distant car engines murmured like background static, headlights sweeping lazily across the blacktop as families piled into minivans or folded up strollers with tired practiced hands.

Half the lot had already emptied, leaving long rows of vacant spaces that gleamed faintly under the sodium lights. The other half stirred with movement, doors slamming, engines starting, the low rhythm of idling cars waiting their turn to merge into the slow stream exiting toward the highway.

From somewhere deeper in the lot, a child’s laugh rang out, sharp and quick, followed by the soft trailing cadence of conversation, voices dissolving into the night. It wasn’t quiet, but it was the kind of noise that felt far away, as if the fair was already becoming a memory behind them.

Yelena adjusted the plastic bag in her hand, the water sloshing gently with the motion. Bucky walked beside her, silent but present, the unicorn tucked neatly under his arm like it belonged there. The smell of fried dough and smoke still clung faintly to the air, but it was thinning, swept away by a breeze that hinted at cooler hours ahead.

Their footsteps echoed against the asphalt, unhurried, moving through the in-between, no longer part of the fair, not quite back to the world. The path ahead was dark but quiet. Peaceful. Like the night had finally exhaled.

Yelena walked a step ahead, the plastic bag swinging lightly at her side, the goldfish inside drifting in slow circles like it had nowhere else to be. Her shoulders were relaxed, the tension she wore like armor most days eased into something quieter, less sharp. Her voice, when it came, was softer than usual, not playful, not biting, but honest.

“That was not terrible.”

Bucky tucked his hands back into his pockets, the cool brush of the autumn wind catching the edges of his jacket and slipping beneath his collar. The warmth of the fair still clung faintly to them in scent and sound, but already it was beginning to fade into the background.

“The game?” he asked, though he knew what she meant.

Yelena shook her head once, not looking at him. “The night.”

He looked over, watching her for a moment. The streetlight caught in her hair, turning a few strands to silver. There was a trace of something in her expression, not quite a smile, but the echo of one. Something earned.

Bucky nodded once, his voice low. “Yeah. Not terrible.”

The far end of the parking lot felt more like a liminal space than anything concrete, dimly lit, stretched thin between the fair’s dying echoes and the rest of the world returning to sleep. Yelena’s bike waited, its matte black frame catching glints from the overhead lamp, its angles sharp like her. She stood beside it, gently fidgeting with the twist tie on the fish’s bag. It was quiet here, except for the ambient hum of insects and distant laughter tapering off into the dark.

Bucky slowed to a stop a few steps away, close enough to still feel like part of the moment, but not quite crossing the line of staying. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, shoulders drawn just enough to look like a man waiting for something he wasn’t ready to ask for.

Yelena didn’t look at him right away. Her gaze lingered on the slow spin of the fish bag in her hand, catching bits of light from the string bulbs overhead. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual, like something she hadn’t meant to say out loud had slipped through anyway.

“Looks like the night’s done with us.” She said, her eyes meeting his own, voice laced with detachment that didn’t quite mask the reluctance behind it.

It wasn’t cold. Just a few careful words padded in false finality.

Bucky nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It buzzed faintly with things unsaid, like the air before a storm that never quite arrives. Neither of them moved.

She risked a glance up at him then, a quick sweep of her eyes beneath her lashes. “You’re not gonna say something dramatic and disappear, are you?”

He huffed a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Didn’t plan on it.”

“Good,” she said, too quickly. Then added, softer, “Cause that would be really annoying.”

Their eyes met for half a second too long. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to feel it.

Bucky shifted his weight. “You’ll be alright getting back?”

“Yeah,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion more nervous than she meant it to be. “I’ve got...the fish.”

They both looked down at the small plastic bag swinging gently in her hand, the water inside catching the light in soft, shivering ribbons. The fish drifted in slow, aimless circles, gills pulsing, unaware of the strange weight it suddenly carried in the silence between two people who didn’t want the night to end.

“He seems scrappy,” she said, quietly.

Bucky’s voice was just as low. “He’ll need to be.”

Their gazes didn’t meet, but they weren’t far from it. They circled the edge of something unspoken. The silence between them stretched, not from discomfort, but fullness

“Goodnight!” a feminine voice called, cheerful and warm.

A man, a woman, and a little girl sandwiched between them were making their way toward a car a dozen yards off. The woman was tall, willowy, with a loose braid of pale blond hair trailing down her back, the strands catching the last bits of carnival light. The man walked beside her, broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair tousled by the breeze, a gentle tiredness in his posture that didn’t reach his smile.

The girl between them had a little of both: her hair a soft, indecisive shade somewhere between gold and brown, her face round with mischief. She swung her glow stick like a wand, dragging it behind her in lazy loops across the gravel, boots scuffing quietly with each step.

They didn’t seem wary. Didn’t seem to recognize Bucky or Yelena. They were just another family, it was just another night, and another ending to a fair.

Bucky gave a small nod, barely more than a tilt of his chin. “Goodnight.”

Yelena added a lazy wave. “Sleep well, strangers.”

The little girl waved at them. Bucky's expression dithered for a moment, his features softening in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. Like something dormant stirred beneath the quiet soldier mask, something fragile.

As the family disappeared into the dark, he turned back and found Yelena already watching him.

She spoke first, but her voice was laxer now. “You look like someone who forgot what it felt like to be… seen like that.”

He shrugged, but it was evasive, not indifferent. “Maybe I did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was charged. He watched her, eyes roaming without intention, her lips, her sharp cheekbones, the way her fingers nervously adjusted the goldfish bag like she didn’t want him to notice they were shaking just slightly.

Yelena flicked her gaze toward him. “Okay, this is stupid. Since when is saying goodbye weird?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, almost relieved she’d said it. “It’s not weird.”

“It’s definitely weird,” Yelena said, folding her arms across her chest, not for warmth but like she was holding something in, restless energy or something closer to nerves. Her fingers tapped once against her sleeve, casual, but not really.

He moved, boot scuffing against the gravel, gaze fixed somewhere near her shoes. “Could just end it with a nod,” he said, voice dry. “Or one of those awkward half-handshake things. Sometimes people hug.”

Yelena’s brow arched, then furrowing just enough to hide the amusement lingering at the corners of her mouth. “A hug, huh? Bold move.”

Bucky’s eyes tightened for a split second, a trace of regret passing over his face like he’d said too much. He eyes shifted away, voice low and clipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“You absolutely want to hug me.” She replied, voice low but teasing, a slow smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes locked on his, sharp but warm, like she was daring him to deny it, or maybe hoping he wouldn’t. There was a weight behind the words, quiet but heavy, like this was more than just a joke.

Bucky let out a half-hearted scoff, his eyes drifted away before he could get caught. “I was only listing options,” he said, voice low and careful, but there was a quiet edge beneath the words.

Yelena stepped half a pace closer, just enough to test the air between them. “Right. And ‘hug’ just happened to slip in between ‘nod’ and ‘awkward handshake.” Her brows lifted in exaggerated innocence, lips twitching like she was barely holding back a sly smile. “Totally random. No deeper meaning at all.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You think pretty highly of yourself.”

“I think just enough of myself,” she countered, eyes glinting. “And I think you're deflecting.”

“I’m being practical,” Bucky replied, deadpan. “Hugs are unpredictable. There’s no clear exit strategy.”

She smirked, head tilting slightly, eyes never leaving his. “Terrifying. And what if you feel something?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift right away, but there was a change in his gaze. Something sank deeper in it, harder to pin down. “I’ve felt worse,” he said finally, his voice quiet and dry, but not as guarded as before.

Yelena’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, like she’d found a crack in armor he didn’t realize he was still wearing. “Oh,” she said, taking a step forward so she stood directly in front of him, close enough that he’d have to look down to meet her eyes. “So, you’re admitting there’d be feeling involved.”

He looked on to her, but it stayed longer than necessary. “There’s nothing to admit.”

Her brows rose, amused and unbothered. “You didn’t deny it.”

Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell with a breath, slow and even. His hands were still buried in his pockets, but there was a faint tension in his frame, like he was holding something back or choosing not to speak too quickly.

Yelena looked up at him with that same knowing smile, teasing still on her lips but toned down now, like she was waiting to see how long he could keep sidestepping what they both knew was there.

Finally, Bucky let out a quiet breath through his nose and looked at her fully, expression unreadable but tired of the dance. “Do you want a hug or not?” he asked, voice low. Not impatient, but he was done pretending this wasn’t what it was.

“You’re bad at this.” she murmured, “Stoic face isn’t working.”

She wasn’t cruel or smug. There was a hint of honesty and a little amusement in her words.

She folded her arms loosely, grounding herself in the weird, weightless stretch of silence that had crept between them. Her eyes searched his face like she was still trying to figure out what exactly he was holding back and why it mattered to her.

“You do this thing,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “where you act like you’re just listing options or stating facts. But everything about you, your tone, your eyes, your posture…it’s like you’re trying to back out of a room you never stepped into.”

Bucky listened, his gaze steady but guarded. A subtle shift passed over his expression, a brief tightening at the corner of his mouth, hinting that her words had struck a chord beneath his calm exterior. He didn’t interrupt or move, simply allowing the silence to stretch between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

The words hung between them, fragile and weighty all at once. Neither moved. A soft breeze rustled leaves nearby, the only sound in the quiet space that stretched just long enough to feel like a question, one neither of them was quite ready to answer.

“I’m just saying. If you want to hug me, maybe stop treating it like it’s a classified operation.” She said lightly, but the weight of it lingered, floating between them, daring him to respond with something real.

Bucky held her gaze longer than necessary, the soft glow of the streetlamp catching the graceful line of her cheek and the quiet strength behind her eyes. There was something magnetic in them, sharp and elusive, yet somehow inviting. In that close, still space, the usual defenses fell away, leaving something raw and unguarded between them. He swallowed, the tension threading tight in his chest, before letting out a small, dry chuckle.

“Look, I’m not great at this,” he said, voice rough but sincere. “But I’m going to guess, you might as well make it easy on me.” He shifted his stance slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting with the beginnings of a reluctant smile.

For a beat he stood still, like he was weighing whether to pull back or press forward. Then, with a quiet breath that sounded more like surrender than decision, he opened his arms.

The gesture was bare-bones and awkward, the kind of thing someone did when they weren’t sure if they’d be met halfway. It wasn’t cocky or casual. It was careful. Hesitant and vulnerable in a way Bucky rarely let himself be. His expression didn’t give her much, but his eyes held something steadier than usual. Something open. She could see the effort in the way his shoulders resisted tension, how his jaw didn’t clench even though it wanted to. He was trying. And that did something to her.

She sighed, barely audible, and moved.

The space between them wasn’t far, but it felt like crossing a threshold neither of them had named out loud. Her hands brushed against his ribs first, a test, fingers light and unsure. Her body followed slowly, with the same caution she used disarming explosives. Except this time, the danger wasn’t the hug. It was everything it might mean.

Their arms wrapped around each other in an uneven rhythm. Out of sync at first. His elbow bumped her shoulder. Her forehead nearly grazed his collarbone before she adjusted. It wasn’t graceful.

But it was real.

And then, gradually, wordlessly, it settled. Like they both exhaled at the same time.

Bucky's arms folded around her with surprising gentleness, one resting at the curve of her back, the other anchoring her against him as though he'd just remembered what steady felt like. He didn’t squeeze. He just held her, solid and quiet, like she was something breakable that he didn’t want to let slip away.

Yelena closed her eyes halfway. Not fully, but enough to take it in. She felt the quiet thrum of his pulse through his jacket, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way he didn’t shift or fidget or second-guess.

His head lowered slightly toward hers. Not touching, but close, like proximity alone was enough to speak the thing neither of them dared say.

And there it was. Something soft and terrifying, tangled up in silence.

Her fingers curled into the fabric at his side, just briefly, like she might remember this later and not be sure if it was real.

And for a few fragile seconds, it felt like both of them stopped running. From the night, from the feelings, and from each other. Just long enough to stand still in it. That was more than either of them had expected.

When they pulled apart, neither moved to break the contact right away. Her hand lingered softly against the front of his jacket, fingers tracing a tentative line as if reluctant to leave. His own fingers brushed lightly against the edge of her sleeve, a quiet, instinctive touch that felt like muscle memory refusing to let go. Their eyes stayed deliberately lowered, locked elsewhere in the space between them, avoiding the vulnerability of meeting gaze too soon, until, at the very last second, their eyes finally met, brief and charged, holding a wordless understanding before they slowly stepped back.

The quiet current that hummed between them like tension in a wire, sparking just under skin. Neither moved. Neither said what they were thinking. And still it was obvious. Too obvious.

Bucky cleared his throat, low and rough, like it scratched on the way out. The sound broke the moment cleanly in two.

Yelena stepped back a little, her hand falling from his jacket, eyes slipping away as if tugged by instinct. Whatever had just passed between them folded inward, tucked neatly behind old walls. Bucky followed suit, shoulders squaring, expression sliding back into something neutral but never quite indifferent.

“That was…” she started, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Fine. The hug was fine.”

There was a dry pull to her voice, like she wasn’t sure what to do with softness now that it had happened. Not with him.

Bucky gave a short nod, the kind that tried for casual but landed somewhere closer to awkward. “Yeah, not bad.”

He cleared his throat, low and rough, like gravel in his chest. The sound fractured the closeness between them, pushing space where there hadn’t been any a moment ago.

Yelena stepped back half a pace, as if the air between them had gotten too thick to breathe. Her hand fell from his chest, fingers brushing over the fabric like they didn’t quite want to go. His own dropped from her sleeve with a kind of reluctant grace, the tension between them folding quietly into the hush of everything unsaid. Her posture straightened, returning to that familiar guarded ease, but her eyes still felt too warm, like they hadn’t fully closed the door.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, barely there, there and gone. She didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered a fraction too long on her mouth before drifting away. Not direct enough to call him on it, but just enough to know. Her arms folded loosely, her body language casual, but her fingers twitched slightly against her sleeve.

“How exactly are you planning to ride your motorcycle with a fish?” he asked, focusing on the bag that swung gently at her side, the water catching the fair lights like tiny stars.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Carefully.”

“That’s not a plan.” he responded, feigning disapproval, then reached for the bag, gloved vibranium fingers brushing against hers. “I’ll hold on to him. You can come visit him anytime.”

She arched a brow, skeptical and amused. “Just the fish?”

He nodded solemnly. “Just the fish.”

Yelena looked down at the stuffed unicorn he still had tucked under his other arm. Her expression quivered, bemused, unreadable, and maybe a little too soft. She reached out and took it with exaggerated reluctance and he let it go without resistance, his grip loosening easily.

“I take because it’s absurdly impractical,” she said. “Not because I like it.”

Bucky arched a brow. “Of course not,” he said, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make it clear he wasn’t trying too hard to be sincere.

A shared breath passed between them, easy, familiar, but still lit at the edges. The kind of moment that pressed in close and then backed away before either of them had to name it.

She hesitated just a moment longer, watching him in the kind of silence that held weight. Like maybe she wanted to say something else. Like maybe he did too.

But neither did.

Yelena didn’t speak. She just stood there, the unicorn clutched loosely in one hand now, the cheap fuzz of it brushing her knuckles. It looked ridiculous in the fading light, colorful, ridiculous, and hers. She glanced down at it, then back at him, as if trying to reconcile the softness in her grip with the ache in her chest she hadn’t expected to feel.

Bucky met her gaze. No words, just a small nod, simple and quiet. But there was a weight in it, like he’d said everything he wasn’t letting himself say.

She nodded back, slower, more reluctant, her mouth parting like something almost rose to the surface, a comment, a tease, something to stretch the moment just a little longer. But nothing came. Her face softened around the edges anyway, something shifting in her eyes, not quite sadness, not quite regret. Something tender, something reluctant to end whatever this had been.

Then he turned.

His steps were steady, but there was a shift in his shoulders, like he was carrying something with him that hadn’t been there before. His breath came out heavier than it had a moment ago, quiet, controlled, but not unaffected. And still, he didn’t look back.

Yelena stood there longer than she meant to, her fingers tightening around the unicorn. The air felt cooler now without him in it. Emptier. Her brows drew together for a second as if fending off something she didn’t want to name. Then she moved, almost on autopilot, swinging a leg over the bike and settling into the seat with practiced ease.

The helmet came down, shielding her face.

And yet, even with the visor in place, she turned. Looked over her shoulder toward where he was disappearing into the shadows of the lot. She didn’t call out. Didn’t move to stop him. But her gaze held on him like a line stretched too thin, willing him to feel it. To turn around. He didn’t.

She blinked, just once, like that would clear it all away. Then the engine hummed to life beneath her, low and steady. Still, she didn’t go. Not yet.

Her gloved hand tightened around the handlebar, fingers brushing against the matted fur of the unicorn she hadn’t bothered to stow away. The contrast felt ridiculous, steel and softness, control and sentiment, reality and whatever this had just been. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, eyes casting once more toward the dark stretch of lot where he’d disappeared.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head beneath the helmet, a silent gesture of disapproval or dissatisfaction. The movement was hidden behind the dark visor, shielding the turmoil she didn’t want anyone to see, even herself.

She rolled forward slowly, guiding the bike out of the space with careful, almost reluctant precision. The unicorn shifted against her palm as she picked up some more speed, caught between her grip and the throttle, like a strange kind of keepsake. Something she hadn’t meant to care about, but now couldn’t quite let go of.

By the time she reached the edge of the lot, she didn’t look back again. But her grip stayed firm, the unicorn still pressed close like a memory she wasn’t ready to admit she wanted to keep.

And just as Bucky stepped beneath the shadowed tree line, yards away and fading into the quiet of the night, a sharp crack split the air.

At the same moment, Yelena, still poised on her bike at the edge of the lot, felt the sound reach her ears.

Then came the bloom, fireworks, brilliant and sudden, streaking into the sky behind the fairgrounds. Reds and golds and deep blue unfolding across the night like a dream remembered mid-wake.

She tilted up her visor just slightly as the light from the fireworks lit her silver-blonde hair like wire in flame. Bucky paused, his gaze drawn upward as bursts of color exploded overhead, casting wavering shadows across his face. The brilliant hues caught the glint in his eyes, briefly softening the lines of his guarded expression. For a fleeting moment, the world held its breath, suspended between light and dark.

For a heartbeat, they were worlds apart, separate places, separate breaths, yet both froze, the sudden noise pulling them back from whatever distance had settled between them.

And though they’d already said goodbye
Neither of them quite moved.