Beneath the flicker of streetlamps and the low murmur of distant radios crackling through open apartment windows, Bucky and you walked down the streets of Brooklyn. The night air carried the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery and the distant sound of a saxophone playing from a basement club. You didn’t hold hands in public, didn’t linger too close on the crowded sidewalks. You never did. You couldn’t.

It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t want to be seen with you. If anything, Bucky was the fearless one. He laughed too loud, loved too hard, and always wore his charming smile on his lips. It was you, who couldn’t help the weight pressing against your ribs, the sharp edge of guilt that bit at the corners of something you dared to call happiness.

You met under ordinary circumstances—a bar, a spilled drink, Bucky’s easy charm sliding past your walls. But what grew between you was anything but ordinary. At least not here, not now. The world didn’t have room for men like you. Not openly, not safely. Only in the carved out quiet moments could you be yourselves, could you love each other.