Biles Bilinski

You feel… good.

That’s all it is.

---

Bucky notices you before he realizes why.

He’s halfway down the street, mind somewhere else entirely—groceries in one hand, the steady hum of the city grounding him in the present—when something pulls his attention like a thread snagging.

It’s not logical. Not at first.

Just a flicker of movement. The sway of fabric. The unmistakable silhouette of something—

Familiar.

His steps slow. His head turns. And then he sees you. But he doesn't just see you, he stares.

Because for one disorienting, breath-stealing second, the world tilts.

The city noise fades. The cars, the chatter, the glow of modern life—all of it dulls into the background as his brain scrambles to reconcile what he’s looking at.

You walk past him like you belong somewhere else entirely.

Like you stepped out of a memory he didn’t realize he still carried so vividly.

The dress. The shoes. The way your hair is pinned just so. Even the way you move—there’s a softness to it, a rhythm that feels pulled straight from the 40s, like something he used to see on crowded sidewalks in Brooklyn, back when everything smelled like cigarette smoke and fresh bread and possibility.

And you—

God, you.

You’re smiling to yourself about something, completely unaware of the effect you’re having, completely unaware that you’ve just knocked the air out of a hundred-year-old soldier.

Bucky stops walking entirely.

He just stands there.

Staring.

Because you look like something he lost.

And something he never thought he’d get to see again.

And also—very abruptly, very viscerally—like the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t hear him.

You keep walking.

And that’s what snaps him out of it.

Because no—no, absolutely not, he is not letting you just walk away like that.

He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly drops his groceries.

“Hey—!”

It comes out rougher than he intends. Louder, too.

You turn.

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything fully clicks into place, because now he can see your face clearly—modern, present, undeniably you—paired with something that looks like it belongs in his past.

It hits him right in the chest.

Hard.

You blink at him, a little surprised, but not alarmed.

“Yeah?”

Your voice is normal. Casual. Grounding.

It helps.

A little.

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but he’s still looking at you like you’ve just walked out of a time machine.

“Uh—” he starts, then stops.

Great. Smooth.

You tilt your head slightly, the motion making the soft curls near your temple shift just enough to make his brain short-circuit again.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Where’d you get that?” he blurts out.

Your eyes flick down to your dress, then back up to him, amused.

“This?” you ask. “Vintage shop.”

Of course.

Of course it is.

He lets out a quiet huff of disbelief, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to clear it.

“You—” he gestures vaguely at you, like words are failing him completely. “You look like—”

He cuts himself off.

Because what was he going to say?

You look like every girl I ever noticed in 1943?

You look like something I used to dream about and never thought I’d see again?

You look like you don’t belong here and I don’t know how to deal with that?

Instead, he settles on something far less coherent.

“—you look incredible,” he finishes, a little quieter.

You blink.

Then smile.

And it’s not a shy smile, not really—it’s pleased. Warm. A little teasing, even.

“Thank you,” you say. “That was a lot of buildup for a simple compliment.”

His mouth twitches despite himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “Kinda threw me off.”

“I can tell.”

There’s something about the way you say it—llike you’re trying to figure him out—that makes him straighten slightly.

Because now he’s noticing other things.

The way you’re looking at him.

The way you haven’t brushed him off or hurried away.

The way you’re still here.

And suddenly, the disorientation gives way to something else entirely.

Interest.

“Didn’t mean to yell at you on the street,” he adds, a little more composed now. “Just—haven’t seen that in a while.”

You hum softly.

“I figured,” you say. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, low and surprised.

“Felt like it,” he admits.

There’s a beat of silence before you shift your weight, the skirt of your dress swaying gently with the movement, and he definitely notices that.

“So,” you say, glancing at the bag in his hand. “Did I interrupt something, or—?”

He looks down at his groveries like he forgot they existed.

Then back at you.

And makes a decision.

Fast.

“Nah,” he says, easy. “Can wait.”

Your brow lifts slightly.

“Groceries can wait?”

“For this?” he shrugs. “Yeah.”

Your lips press together like you’re trying not to smile too much.

“Bold.”

“Honest,” he corrects.

Another pause.

Then, softer, more intetional—

“Walk with me?”

He doesn’t know why he asks it like that.

Doesn’t know why it feels important.

Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s the way you feel like something out of time. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, something from his past doesn’t hurt to look at.

You glance down the street, then back at him.

“Okay,” you say.

Just like that.

Simple.

Easy.

When you fall into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his for half a second, Bucky realizes something quietly, steadily, and with surprising certainty.

You don’t look like the past.

Not really.