You're crouched behind a concrete barrier in Bucharest, rain dripping from the edge of your jacket, earpiece crackling softly as Sam mutters something about the target moving south. The alley smells like wet stone, old cigarettes, and the kind of diesel fumes that make your lungs feel personally insulted.

Bucky is beside you, calm as ever, eyes tracking every shadow. He has his rifle tucked close, his hair damp at the ends, his jaw set in that unfairly sharp way that usually makes you annoyed because nobody should look that composed while being shot at.

You're fine, totally fine. Professional, even.

Then a door bangs open at the far end of the alley. A frightened older man stumbles out, hands raised, speaking too quickly for you to catch anything beyond the panic in his voice.

You tense, but Bucky steps forward before you can.

He lowers his weapon and then he says, low and steady, "Nu vă mișcați. Suntem aici să vă ajutăm."

The man freezes.

You also freeze. Not because of danger. Not because of strategy. Because Bucky's voice has gone soft and rough around the Romanian words, all warm gravel and velvet-shadowed consonants, and your brain immediately drops every file labeled mission protocol into a trash fire.

You blink.

What was that?

The man answers, still frantic. Bucky nods, listening, rain sliding down the side of his face. He responds again, smoother this time, a little faster.

"Înțeleg. Dar trebuie să intrați înapoi. Este periculos afară."

Your mouth goes dry, actually dry. Like your body has decided hydration is no longer compatible with the moment.

Sam's voice crackles through comms. "Everything good down there?"

Bucky glances your way.

You look at the wall. The wall is safe. The wall isn't speaking Romanian.

"We're good," Bucky says.

In English, a tragedy. A mercy.

The man hurries back inside. Bucky steps beside you again, brow furrowing when he catches your expression. "You okay?"

"Yes," you say too quickly.

His eyes narrow.

You nod with violent enthusiasm. "Mission. Great. Love those. Big fan."

Bucky stares at you.

You stare at the wall harder.

From the comms, Sam says, "Why did that sound weird?"

"It didn't," you snap.

"It did," Sam says. "It sounded like your soul tripped."

"My soul is agile."

Bucky tilts his head slightly. "You sure you're okay?"

You make the mistake of looking at him.

He's still damp from the rain. His lashes are wet. His mouth is set in a concerned little line. His voice is normal again, but your traitorous brain has already bookmarked the Romanian version of him.

"I'm perfect," you say.

"You don't look perfect."

"I look incredible."

Sam hums. "That part's true."

"Focus," Bucky mutters.

You nearly fold in half.

Because he mutters it under his breath, annoyed and fond, and for one horrifying second you think he might mutter something else in Romanian if the universe is feeling cruel.

Thankfully, the target chooses that exact moment to bolt from the building across the street. Gunfire cracks. The mission resumes. You throw yourself into it with the desperation of a woman fleeing not bullets, but feelings.

By the time the target is secured and you're back at the safehouse, you have made a decision. You're going to avoid Bucky Barnes until your body stops being ridiculous. This is mature This is tactical. This is self-preservation. It lasts eleven minutes.

"You're avoiding me," Bucky says.

You nearly drop your water bottle.

He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, black Henley clinging to him in a way that feels frankly unnecessary. His hair is still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. He looks domestic and dangerous, which should be illegal in every country you operate in.

"I'm not," you say.

His eyebrows lift. "You walked out of the room when I walked in."

You twist the cap off your water bottle and take a sip, except you're nervous, so you choke on it immediately.

Bucky steps forward. "You okay?"

You wave him off while coughing. "Fine. Water attacked me."

His mouth twitches.

You point toward the hallway. "I have to go do something."

"What?"

"Inventory."

"We already did inventory."

"Emotional inventory."

You flee.

The second you reach the living room, Sam looks up from the couch. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Worse," you whisper. "A bilingual man."

Sam slowly lowers his phone. His grin blooms like a terrible sunrise. "No."

"Don't."

"He spoke Romanian, didn't he?"

You glare at him. "Don't make this a thing."

"Oh, it's already a thing. It entered wearing boots and kicked the door down."

You throw a pillow at his head. He catches it. Unfortunately, Sam Wilson has reflexes and no respect for your suffering.

From the hallway, Bucky calls, "You two fighting?"

"No," Sam says, grinning at you. "She's just emotionally compromised."

You hiss, "I will put salt in your coffee."

Bucky appears in the doorway. "Compromised how?"

"No way," you say. "Absolutely not."

Sam stands, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and says, "Man, good luck." Then he leaves.

Traitor.

Bucky looks more concerned now.

You feel bad immediately.

That's the problem with Bucky. He can look like a thundercloud given human form, but the second he thinks he's hurt someone, all the storm drains out of him.

He steps closer, cautious. "Did I do something?"

Your panic skids to a stop. "What?"

"Earlier. After the alley, you got weird."

"I'm always weird."

"Different weird."

"That's rude."

"That's accurate."

You should laugh, normally you would. But his face is too serious. His eyes are too careful. He's watching you like he's already bracing for a hit, and the whole ridiculous situation folds in on itself inside your chest.

You weren't trying to hurt him. You were just trying not to combust.

"No," you say softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

His shoulders don't relax. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

You look away. Terrible decision. There's a window beside him, and in the dark glass you can see his reflection watching you. There's no escape. There's only Bucky Barnes and your own poor life choices. "I'm not avoiding you because I'm mad," you mumble.

His head tilts. "Then why?"

You say nothing.

He waits. Bucky Barnes has many talents. Patience is one of the worst ones.

You sigh so deeply it may alter the pressure in the room. "Because," you say, "during the mission, you spoke Romanian."

His brow furrows.

You continue, each word dragging itself out like a prisoner. "And apparently my brain decided that was attractive enough to become a medical problem."

Silence.

The safehouse creaks around you. Rain taps the windows.

Bucky blinks. Once, then twice. Then his lips part slightly. "That's why?"

You cover your face. "Please don't make me repeat it."

"You've been running away from me because I spoke Romanian?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."

"It sounds..." He pauses.

You peek between your fingers.

Bucky is smiling. Small and stunned and soft at the edges, like you've handed him something fragile and unexpected. "It sounds kind of nice," he says.

You drop your hands. "Don't be sweet. I'm humiliated."

"I'm not being sweet."

"You're absolutely being sweet. Your face is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The dangerously tender thing."

His smile widens.

You point at him. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Having a face."

He laughs then. Quiet and rough and warm, and it goes straight through you like a match struck in a dark room. "You're unbelievable," he says.

"I'm suffering."

"I can see that."

"No, you can't. You're the cause."

His expression changes. A tiny flicker. An idea landing.

You know it's bad before he says anything.

He takes one slow step closer.

Your spine hits the counter.

He's not crowding you, not really. There's space between you. Enough space to run if your dignity had legs. But he's close enough that you can see the amusement in his eyes.

Then he says, very softly, "Îmi pare rău."

Your knees nearly file a formal complaint. You grab the counter behind you. "That was deliberate."

"It means I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"No," he admits. "Not really."

"Barnes."

"Da?"

You make a strangled noise.

He looks delighted. Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current pain in your entire existence, looks absolutely delighted.

"You're enjoying this," you accuse.

"A little."

"You were worried five seconds ago."

"I'm adaptable."

"You're evil."

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

The room gets very quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not dangerous quiet. Something softer. Something with teeth hidden under its tongue.

"I didn't know," he says.

"Know what?"

"That you liked hearing me speak Romanian."

"I didn't either. It attacked me in real time."

His smile settles into something warmer. "I used it a lot when I was hiding here."

That pulls you gently out of your embarrassment. Your hands loosen on the counter. "Yeah?"

He nods. "Had to. Groceries, rent, staying unnoticed. It helped."

There's an ache beneath the words, old and quiet. Bucharest wasn't just a city to him. It was survival. It was stolen peace. It was a tiny apartment, notebooks, plums in a market bag, and looking over his shoulder every day.

You soften. "I didn't mean to make it weird," you say.

"You didn't."

"I ran from you."

"That part was weird."

"Thank you."

"But not bad."

His metal hand rests on the counter beside you. Not touching, just there. An offer, a question without words.

Your fingers twitch.

Then, because apparently you have decided to continue making brave and foolish choices, you set your hand over his.

His eyes flick down. The smile fades, but only because something gentler replaces it. "You could've just told me," he says.

"You underestimate how embarrassing it is to look a man in the face and say, 'Hey, the way you told a civilian to go inside made me forget how knees work.'"

He huffs a laugh. "You liked that part?"

"Don't fish for compliments."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're standing there with your big sad blue eyes and your stupid tactical shoulders fishing."

"Tactical shoulders?"

"They're classified."

His thumb moves over your knuckles. Slow and careful. "Stai aici," he murmurs.

Your stomach flips. "What does that mean?"

"Stay here."

"See, that's the problem."

"What?"

"You can't just say things like that in that voice."

His eyes warm. "What voice?"

"The voice."

"I only have one voice."

"You absolutely do not. You have mission voice. Grumpy old man voice. I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-do voice. And now Romanian voice, which needs a warning label."

Bucky leans a little closer. "Should I stop?"

You swallow. You could say yes. He would. That's the worst part. He would stop immediately, no teasing, no pushing, no disappointment. Bucky would step back and never use it against you again.

But your heart is pounding, and his thumb is still moving over your knuckles, and he's looking at you like maybe this silly, flustered confession means more to him than you realized.

"No," you say quietly. "Just... maybe don't surprise me with it during missions unless you want me to get shot."

His face goes serious instantly. "Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

"No."

You squeeze his hand. "Okay. Not funny."

He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping again. "You scared me earlier," he admits. "Thought I crossed a line somehow."

Your chest pinches. "Bucky."

He shakes his head like he's brushing off the vulnerability, but you catch it anyway. "I know. I just..."

You step closer this time.

His eyes lift.

"I wasn't avoiding you because of anything bad," you say. "I was avoiding you because I like you, and my brain has the survival instinct of a spoon."

His mouth curves. "You like me?"

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"You know what," you say, "I take it back."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I like Sam now."

"Sam snores."

"So do you."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do. Quietly. Like a haunted lawn mower."

Bucky's face does something complicated. "Haunted lawn mower?"

"Emotionally complex machinery."

He laughs again, and this time you don't try to hide how much you like it. His hand turns under yours, fingers sliding between your fingers.

Your breath catches.

Outside, the rain keeps tapping the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably pretending not to listen and absolutely listening with his whole nosy chest.

Bucky looks at your joined hands. Then at you. "Pot să te sărut?"

Your brain blanks. "Translation," you whisper.

His voice softens, dropping low enough that it almost disappears beneath the rain outside. "Can I kiss you?"

Your answer comes out embarrassingly fast. "Yes."

Something in his expression melts.

The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, equal parts relieved and disbelieving, like he'd been hoping for that answer but hadn't let himself expect it.

He gives you one last chance to change your mind. He doesn't rush. His flesh hand rises slowly, warm fingertips brushing your cheek with such care it sends a shiver racing down your spine. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

His forehead rests lightly against yours. "Still okay?" he murmurs.

You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself. "More than okay."

His breath catches in the smallest, quietest way. Then he closes the distance.

The first brush of his lips is impossibly gentle. It's less a kiss and more a question. As though he's memorizing the feeling instead of trying to deepen it.

You lean into him instinctively, your hand finding the front of his Henley, fingers curling into the fabric.

That's all the encouragement he needs.

The kiss deepens only slightly, still unhurried, still impossibly tender. His hand cups your cheek while the other settles lightly at your waist, holding you like you're something precious instead of something fragile.

Time seems to loosen its grip.

There's only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and the quiet realization that after everything he's survived, Bucky Barnes kisses like someone who's grateful he finally gets to.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours again, both of you smiling without meaning to.

You keep your eyes closed for a second, breathing him in.

Then from somewhere behind the wall, Sam yells, "Finally!"

You both freeze.

Your eyes snap open.

Bucky closes his eyes like a man begging for strength from several gods at once.

You shout, "Wilson, I swear to God!"

"I've been emotionally invested for months!"

Bucky groans.

You bury your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shake.

His arms come around you automatically, holding you close. You feel his laugh rumble against your cheek.

"Months?" you whisper.

"Apparently."

"You knew?"

"No," he says. "I hoped."

Your laughter softens. You lift your head and he's looking at you with that tender face again, the one you told him to stop doing. He doesn't stop. Not even a little. "You hoped?" you ask.

Bucky brushes a damp strand of hair away from your temple. "Yeah."

You try not to melt. You fail with dignity. "Well," you say, "that's inconvenient."

"Why?"

"Because now I'm going to be unbearable."

His mouth twitches. "Now?"

You gasp. "Rude."

"Accurate," he says again.

You poke his chest. "Say one more thing in Romanian and see what happens."

His eyebrows lift. There's a challenge in his eyes now. A tiny spark. A flicker of playful danger.

You regret everything immediately.

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Ești frumoasă."

Your entire skeleton tries to leave. You shove at his chest with both hands. "Nope. Absolutely not. Too powerful. Banned."

He laughs, catching your wrists gently. "You asked."

"I didn't understand the consequences."

"That means you're beautiful."

"I know what it means now, Barnes. The damage is done."

His smile goes so soft it almost hurts. "Good."

You narrow your eyes. "You're going to be a menace about this, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Bucky."

"Do you want me to stop?"

There it's again. The real question beneath the teasing.

You settle. Your fingers curl lightly around his wrists. "No," you say. "Just don't use it for evil."

He pretends to think about that. "Define evil."

"Making me walk into furniture."

His mouth twitches.

"Making me forget I'm armed."

A nod.

"Making me agree to things before my brain comes back online."

His expression turns innocent in a way that should terrify governments. "I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Maybe a little."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

Then Sam appears in the doorway with a bag of chips. "Are we done being emotionally constipated in here?"

Bucky turns his head slowly.

Sam pauses mid-crunch.

You step in front of Bucky, holding up one hand. "No murder in the safehouse."

Sam points at you. "Thank you."

Bucky mutters something under his breath in Romanian.

You slap a hand over your face. "That one sounded mean."

"It was."

Sam squints. "Was it about me?"

"Yes," Bucky says.

"Fair."

You look between them.

The warmth in your chest unfurls, ridiculous and bright. You had spent half the day dodging Bucky like he was a live wire, and now he's standing close enough that his hand keeps brushing yours, smiling like he has just discovered a new way to make your life difficult.

Which he has... unfortunately.

"You know," Sam says, "this explains a lot."

"No, it doesn't," you say.

"It explains the time he said your name during training and you dropped your knife."

Bucky looks at you.

You glare at Sam. "That knife was slippery."

"It was dry."

"Emotionally slippery."

Bucky's smile grows.

Sam grins. "Or the time he caught you staring, and you walked straight into the safehouse door."

You groan.

Bucky blinks. "That was because of me?"

"The door came out of nowhere."

Sam deadpans, "It's been attached to the wall for six months."

You point at the door. "Leave."

Sam holds up both hands, chips and all. "Fine. But for the record, this is great. Weird, but great."

He backs out of the room. Then pops his head back in. "Also, Barnes, please speak Romanian responsibly. She has bones made of soup."

You grab a spoon from the counter and throw it. Sam disappears before it hits the wall.

Bucky is laughing again.

You turn on him. "Don't encourage him."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face has been accused of a lot today."

"And found guilty."

He reaches for you again, slower this time, giving you space to step away. His arms settle around your waist. "You gonna keep avoiding me?" he asks.

You pretend to consider it. "Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you're going to keep ambushing me with sexy vocabulary."

His cheeks tint pink, just enough.

Your entire mood lifts. "Oh," you say. "That got you?"

"No."

"It did."

"No."

"Bucky Barnes, are you blushing?"

He looks away.

You gasp softly. "You are."

"Drop it."

"Absolutely not. This is my emotional compensation."

He grumbles something again in Romanian.

You point at him. "Translation."

His eyes flick back to yours. A beat passes. Then he says, quieter, "I said you're trouble."

Your smile softens before you can stop it. "Yeah?"

His thumb traces a small line at your waist. "Yeah."

You rise onto your toes and kiss him again, quick and sweet. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, expression dazed in a way that does marvelous things for your ego.

"Look at that," you whisper. "Romanian isn't the only weapon here."

Bucky's laugh comes out low. He tucks you closer. "Guess not."

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The safehouse is still cold. The rain is still falling. There's a mission report waiting, a target to transfer, a world full of sharp edges waiting outside the walls.

But Bucky's arms are warm around you. His chin rests lightly against your hair and when he murmurs, almost too softly to hear, "Rămâi cu mine," you don't need the translation right away.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Stay with me.

You smile against his shirt. "I think I'm going to need you to keep translating."

His eyebrows lift. "Forever?"

You look up at him. "Seems like the safest option."

His smile softens into something almost impossibly fond. "I can do that."

He kisses your forehead.

A quiet settles over the room, comfortable enough that neither of you feels the need to fill it.

Then Sam's voice drifts in from the hallway. "So... should I download Duolingo or am I just going to be excluded from conversations now?"

You laugh.

Bucky kisses your temple again. "I vote excluded."

"Rude!" Sam calls.

You grin. "He's learning."

The search for Carter Robinavitch's missing baseball glove had started inside the hall closet and eventually driven them into the garage, where Robby was beginning to suspect it had disappeared into whatever dimension also contained unmatched socks and every screwdriver he had ever purchased.

“It has to be out here,” Robby said as he pulled a cloudy plastic tote away from the wall. “You had it when we played catch last weekend.”

Carter stood beside the workbench with his hands planted on his hips. “Maybe you put it somewhere.”

Robby looked over his shoulder. “It’s your glove.”

“You touched it too,” Carter argued.

“I threw a baseball into it,” Robby said. “That does not make me responsible for its long-term storage.”

Carter tilted his head. “You’re the adult.”

Robby stared at his son for a long moment.

“That argument only works when it benefits you,” Robby said.

Carter shrugged without remorse. “It benefits me now.”

The July heat had settled thickly inside the garage despite the wide-open door. Sunlight stretched across the concrete floor, catching dust in the air. Somewhere down the block, a lawn mower droned steadily, and the smell of freshly cut grass drifted in on the occasional breeze.

Robby lifted the lid from the first tote and stared down at several tangled extension cords, a broken desk lamp, and a curved piece of plastic that no longer appeared connected to anything useful.

“No glove,” Robby announced.

Carter leaned over the side of the tote. “What’s that?”

“Evidence that I don’t know how to throw things away,” Robby said.

Carter picked up the plastic attachment and turned it over. “What does it do?”

Robby took it from him and examined it. “I have no idea.”

“Then why do you have it?” Carter asked.

“Because the second I throw it away, I’ll discover it’s the only thing keeping the house operational,” Robby said.

Carter nodded solemnly. “That makes sense.”

“It really doesn’t,” Robby muttered.

He pushed the tote aside and reached behind two folded camping chairs. His fingers caught on the softened corner of a cardboard box wedged between an old cooler and the wall.

Robby pulled it free, sending a thin cloud of dust into the air.

Carter coughed dramatically and waved one hand in front of his face. “What’s in there?”

“Probably more evidence of poor decision-making,” Robby said as he wiped his palm over the top.

The cardboard had bowed inward with age. Its flaps were folded loosely over one another, and there was no label written across the side.

Carter immediately dropped to his knees beside it.

“Careful,” Robby warned as Carter reached for the top flap. “It might be important.”

Carter glanced at the buckling corners. “It looks old.”

“Old things can still be important,” Robby said.

“You said the vacuum piece was garbage,” Carter reminded him.

“That was different,” Robby said.

Carter looked up. “How?”

Robby opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

A small smile appeared on Carter’s face. “You don’t know.”

“I’m your father,” Robby said as he sat down on an overturned bucket. “I’m allowed to be inconsistent.”

Carter pulled the box closer. “Is that a real rule?”

“It is in this garage,” Robby said.

Carter peeled back the flaps and found the box filled with photographs.

Most were loose, their glossy surfaces faded and dulled with time. A few remained inside paper envelopes with dates scrawled across the fronts in blue ink.

Carter’s face brightened. “These are old pictures.”

Robby leaned forward to look inside. “That appears to be the theme.”

Carter pulled out the first photograph.

A much younger Robby stood waist-deep in lake water, both arms thrown into the air and his mouth open in outrage. Sunlit water droplets hung around him, and a dark object floated several feet away.

Carter held the photograph up. “What happened to you?”

Robby squinted at it. “Your aunt shoved me off the dock.”

Carter studied his father’s expression. “Why?”

“She was violent,” Robby said.

Carter looked over the top edge of the picture. “What did you do first?”

Robby shifted on the bucket.

Carter continued watching him.

“I may have thrown one of her sandals into the lake,” Robby admitted.

Carter glanced at the object floating behind him in the photograph. “Is that the sandal?”

“Probably,” Robby said.

“Then she wasn’t violent,” Carter decided. “She was getting it back.”

“With my body?” Robby asked incredulously.

Carter placed the picture carefully on the concrete. “It worked.”

Robby pointed at him. “You are disturbingly loyal to her.”

“She gives me money for the ice-cream truck,” Carter said.

“So your loyalty has been purchased,” Robby said.

Carter reached into the box again. “That’s how money works.”

The next photograph showed you and Robby sitting on the hood of an old car. You had one arm hooked around your brother’s neck while Robby held two rapidly melting ice-cream cones away from both of you. You were laughing. 

Carter smiled down at it. “Auntie looks the same.”

Robby leaned closer. “Tell her that. She’ll like you even more.”

“Her hair is different,” Carter observed.

“She’ll like that part less,” Robby said.

Carter placed the photograph beside the first and reached into the box again.

The next photograph made Carter laugh before Robby could see it.

“What?” Robby asked as he held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Carter passed it over, still grinning.

The picture had been taken at the end of a wooden dock. Robby and Jack were soaked through, barefoot in their swim trunks, and caught halfway through what looked like a wrestling match. Jack had one arm hooked around Robby’s neck while Robby had both arms locked around Jack’s waist, both of them grinning at the camera like they had spent the entire afternoon making themselves everyone else’s problem.

Carter leaned closer and pointed at Jack. “His hair is different.”

Robby looked down at the photograph. Jack’s hair had been dark then, wet curls falling over his forehead.

“It wasn’t gray yet,” Carter added.

“No,” Robby said. “It wasn’t.”

Carter studied the picture for another moment. “Who won?”

“I did,” Robby answered.

Carter looked at the way Jack had Robby caught beneath one arm. “It doesn’t look like you did.”

Robby lowered the photograph. “A picture only shows one second.”

Carter raised a skeptical brow. “Was that second before Uncle Jack threw you in?”

Robby set the photograph on the floor. “We’re moving on.”

Carter smiled. “That means yes.”

“It means history has been imperfectly preserved,” Robby countered.

Carter began sorting through the remaining photographs, creating loose, uneven piles on the garage floor.

There were pictures of you, and Robby stretched across a picnic blanket, each trying to shove the other out of the frame. Jack asleep in a lawn chair with an open paperback covering his face. All three of you crowded around a bonfire. Robby holding up a small fish while you stood behind him pretending to gag. Jack wearing mirrored sunglasses and looking deeply unimpressed with whoever held the camera.

An entire summer had been preserved in square, sun-faded pieces.

“Why is Auntie wearing Uncle Jack’s hat?” Carter asked as he held up another picture.

Robby glanced over. “Because your aunt stole anything that wasn’t physically attached to someone.”

Carter looked at the baseball cap sitting low over your eyes. “Did she give it back?”

“Probably not,” Robby said.

Carter selected another picture. “Why is Uncle Jack asleep on the grass?”

“He claimed it was comfortable,” Robby said.

Carter looked at him. “Was it?”

“No,” Robby answered.

“Then why did he sleep there?” Carter asked.

“He was in his twenties,” Robby said with a shrug. “Logic was still developing.”

Carter placed that photograph onto the pile and reached deeper into the box.

Then he stopped.

Robby did not notice immediately. He had moved to the shelves and was checking behind a stack of old folding chairs.

When Carter remained quiet for several seconds, Robby looked back.

His son sat perfectly still, one photograph held carefully between both hands.

“What did you find?” Robby asked.

Carter did not answer.

His brow had furrowed as he stared at the picture.

“Carter?” Robby prompted as he straightened.

Carter slowly turned the photograph around.

Robby recognized it immediately.

You were curled sideways in the passenger seat of Jack’s old Jeep, your knees pulled close. Your arms were folded across Jack’s shoulder, and your cheek rested on top of them, your body tucked comfortably into his side.

Jack sat behind the wheel in a plain white T-shirt, his head tipped back against the seat. His dark hair was thick and wind-tossed, and his eyes were closed. A soft, private smile rested on his mouth.

The lake stretched blue behind you beneath a nearly white summer sky.

Nothing about the photograph had been arranged.

That was what made it intimate.

You looked as though you had folded yourself against Jack without thinking. Jack looked as though he had forgotten anyone else was there.

Carter looked from the photograph to Robby.

“She’s using him as a pillow,” Carter said.

“She had a tendency to do that,” Robby replied.

Carter looked down at the picture again. “Does she still?”

“No,” Robby said.

Carter raised his head. “Why not?”

Robby turned toward the shelves again. “People get older.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Carter said.

Robby closed his eyes briefly.

“No,” Robby admitted. “It doesn’t.”

Carter traced one finger carefully along the faded white edge.

“Uncle Jack looks happy,” Carter said.

Robby glanced back at the photograph.

Jack did look happy.

Not the quiet, restrained happiness Robby knew now. Not the small smile Jack gave Carter after a joke or the tired amusement he wore after a manageable shift.

He looked young and completely unguarded.

He looked gone for you.

“He was,” Robby said.

Carter’s eyes shifted to your face. “Auntie looks happy too.”

“Yeah,” Robby said softly. “She was.”

Carter studied the two of you for another moment.

Then he looked up at his father.

“Were they boyfriend and girlfriend?” Carter asked.

Robby huffed out a quiet laugh. “That depends which one you ask.”

Carter shifted closer. “What does Uncle Jack say?”

“He says they were,” Robby replied.

Carter glanced down at the photograph. “What does Auntie say?”

“She says it was only a summer,” Robby said.

Carter frowned. “That’s not no.”

“No,” Robby conceded. “It isn’t.”

“Did they kiss?” Carter asked.

Robby gave him a warning look. “I’m not discussing your aunt’s kissing history with you.”

Carter pointed toward the photograph. “They look like they kissed.”

Robby pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. “You’re nine.”

“I know what kissing is,” Carter said.

“That is not the reassuring statement you think it is,” Robby replied.

Carter looked at the photograph again. “Why did they stop being boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Robby reached into the box and began gathering some of the scattered pictures. “Jack joined the Army. He left for basic training at the end of that summer.”

“Did they break up?” Carter asked.

“Not exactly,” Robby answered.

“Did they have a fight?” Carter asked.

“No,” Robby said.

“Did Uncle Jack do something bad?” Carter continued.

“No,” Robby replied.

“Did Auntie?” Carter asked.

“No,” Robby said again.

Carter’s frown deepened. “Then why did they stop?”

“Because Jack left,” Robby explained.

“But he came back,” Carter pointed out.

“Eventually,” Robby said.

“And Auntie was still here,” Carter added.

Robby gave him a wary look. “Yes.”

Carter stared at his father. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Robby said before he could stop himself. “It doesn’t.”

Carter’s expression changed.

It was subtle, a thoughtful press of his mouth, a slight narrowing of his eyes, but Robby recognized the look. His son had found a problem, and he was beginning to organize it inside his head.

Robby held out his hand. “Let me have that before you bend it.”

Carter kept the photograph resting on his knees. “Did Auntie want Uncle Jack to stay?”

“I don’t know,” Robby said.

“You know everything about Auntie,” Carter insisted.

“I absolutely do not,” Robby replied.

“She calls you every day,” Carter said.

“That doesn’t mean she provides a detailed emotional transcript,” Robby told him.

Carter studied Jack’s face. “Did Uncle Jack want her to wait?”

Robby hesitated.

Carter immediately looked up. “You made a face.”

“I did not make a face,” Robby said.

“You did,” Carter insisted.

“I have one face,” Robby replied.

“You have lots of faces,” Carter said. “That was your yes face.”

“I don’t have a yes face,” Robby argued.

“You do when Auntie asks if you ate lunch,” Carter said.

Robby pressed his lips together.

Carter nodded knowingly. “That one too.”

Robby stood and brushed the dust from his jeans. “We were looking for a baseball glove.”

Carter held the photograph against his shirt. “Did Auntie talk to him after he left?”

“She wrote to him,” Robby said as he moved another cooler away from the wall.

Carter’s eyes widened. “Real letters?”

“Yes, real letters,” Robby answered.

“With stamps?” Carter asked.

“With stamps,” Robby confirmed.

Carter stared at him. “Why didn’t she text him?”

Robby looked back over his shoulder. “Because some of us lived before constant internet access.”

Carter’s expression suggested this was barely believable.

“Does Uncle Jack still have them?” Carter asked.

Robby turned back to the shelves. “How would I know?”

“You’re his best friend,” Carter said.

“I do not inventory Jack’s personal belongings,” Robby replied.

Carter looked down at the picture. “They look like they loved each other.”

The simple certainty in his voice made Robby pause.

Robby considered correcting him. He could have explained that they had been young, that it had been brief, and that sometimes affection survived long after a relationship ended.

Instead, he remembered Jack leaving that summer.

He remembered you pretending not to be heartbroken.

“They did,” Robby said quietly.

Carter raised his eyes. “Do they still?”

Robby went still.

Outside, a dog barked twice. The air conditioner hummed through the garage wall, and a dry leaf scraped across the concrete.

Robby chose his answer carefully.

“They still love each other,” Robby said.

Carter’s expression turned impatient. “Like boyfriend-and-girlfriend love?”

“I don’t know,” Robby answered.

Carter continued watching him.

“It’s complicated,” Robby added.

Carter looked deeply unimpressed. “That usually means yes.”

Robby frowned. “Who told you that?”

“Movies,” Carter said.

“That explains very little and concerns me greatly,” Robby replied.

Carter glanced toward the house, where the television waited in the living room.

Robby began stacking the photographs and returning them to the cardboard box.

“We’re done with ancient history,” Robby said. “Help me check beneath that tarp.”

Carter glanced down at the Jeep photograph one last time.

While Robby turned to shift a pair of folding chairs and a cooler, Carter folded the picture against his palm, not enough to crease it, only enough to hide it, and slipped it carefully into the deep pocket of his shorts.

By the time Robby turned around, Carter was crouched near the canvas tarp with both hands apparently empty.

Together, they dragged the cooler several inches from the wall.

The edge of the canvas tarp shifted with it, revealing the worn leather pocket of Carter’s glove beneath a collapsed camping chair.

“There,” Robby said as he pointed. “Your glove.”

Carter dropped to his knees and pulled it free. “I knew it was out here.”

Robby stared at him. “You accused me of losing it.”

“I was considering possibilities,” Carter said as he slid the glove onto his hand.

“You owe me forty minutes,” Robby told him.

Carter opened and closed the glove. “How do I give you minutes?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Robby said.

Carter headed toward the open garage door, striking the glove with his fist as though catching an invisible ball.

At the threshold, he stopped.

“Your conference is next weekend, right?” Carter asked as he turned back.

Robby bent to replace the lid on a storage tote. “Yeah.”

“And Auntie’s staying with me?” Carter continued.

“She’s taking most of the weekend,” Robby answered.

Carter slipped one hand into the pocket containing the photograph. “Is Uncle Jack coming too?”

“He’s covering Saturday while your aunt has plans,” Robby said.

Carter’s fingers settled against the faded edge of the picture.

“Only Saturday?” Carter asked.

Robby looked up. “Why?”

Carter withdrew his empty hand from his pocket. “No reason.”

“That sounded like a reason,” Robby said.

Carter began walking backward toward the house. “Can we watch a movie tonight?”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Which movie?”

“I’ll pick,” Carter said as he turned around.

“That answer did not make me less suspicious,” Robby called after him.

Carter disappeared inside without responding.

Robby remained in the garage, surrounded by open bins and displaced camping equipment, with the uneasy feeling that he had just told his son something he would eventually regret.

Inside the house, Carter carried the photograph directly to his bedroom and tucked it beneath the book on his nightstand.

Then he returned to the living room, picked up the remote, and searched until he found the movie he remembered seeing advertised.

Two girls smiled back at him from the screen beneath the title.

Carter settled into the couch and selected The Parent Trap.

By the time Robby came inside, Carter was watching very carefully.

Auntie was staying Friday.

Uncle Jack was only coming Saturday.

Carter kept his eyes on the girls scheming across the screen.