Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.

Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.

Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.

Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.

The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.

Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.

Bucky stares too long. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.

“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”

“That’s not—”

“Five.”

Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.

Bucky exhales slowly.

Say something to her. Anything.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.

“You uh—”

Brilliant start.

“You’ve been standing there a while.”

The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.

Nice going, Barnes.

But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”

Then your eyes flick back to his.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”

And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?

I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.

Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”

Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.

“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”

You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”

The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.

“I notice you too.”

Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.

“You do?”

Smooth. Very cool.

You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.

“Kind of hard not to.”

Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.

This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.

Bucky clears his throat.

“I uh—”

God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?

“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”

You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.

“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”

There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.

"A setup?"

"You and Sam."

"We've never discussed you."

"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."

The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.

The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.

You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.

Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.

You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking things."

That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.

"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.

"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."

Fantastic.

"God."

You laugh again.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly.

"Let me start over."

"Okay."

He's smiling now despite himself.

"So. Next cookout."

"Next cookout."

"Would you wanna come with me?"

The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.

"I'd like that."

Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.

"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."

Delmar’s is too loud.

Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.

The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.

And Bucky keeps looking at the door.

“Barnes!”

A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.

“Mr. Delmar.”

The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.

“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”

Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.

“Thanks.”

More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.

Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.

But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.

Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”

“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.

“She’s probably just late.”

The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.

“You told her to come?”

Bucky shrugs too casually.

“Mentioned it.”

“You must really like her.”

“I invited her for the drinks.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.

Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.

Steve notices that too.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lie.

Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.

The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.

Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.

The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.

“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.

Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.

Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.

The phone rings three times before you answer it.

You almost let it keep going.

Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.

“Hello?”

Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.

“Doll?”

Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.

“You were supposed to be there.”

The deployment party.

The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.

“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”

Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.

Then softer than you'd ever heard before.

“Doll…”

“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”

Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.

“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”

The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.

“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”

The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.

“You’ll see me again.”

You laugh weakly under your breath.

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”

The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate the uniform.”

“I know.”

“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”

You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.

Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.

“Scary.”

Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.

“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”

The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.

“Can I come see you?”

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.

“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”

Bucky goes quiet.

“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”

For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.

Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.

Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.

He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.

“You been cryin’?”

“No.”

“Doll.”

“Don’t start.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.

“There she is.”

You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.

“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.

You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”

“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”

That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.

“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.

You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.

“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.

Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.

Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.

The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.

It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.

His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”

You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.

“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.

You huff softly through your nose.

“You say that like it’s avoidable.”

“For you? Probably not.”

“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”

Your breath catches softly.

“Buck—”

“No, listen to me.”

There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.

“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”

A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.

“The pictures?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”

Bucky grins softly.

“I’m serious.”

His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.

“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”

“The overpriced kind?”

“The very overpriced kind.”

“And?”

“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”

You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.

“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.

You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.

“You really believe that?” you whisper.

Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.

“I believe in you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.

And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.

Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.

Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.

Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.

“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”