You met Bucky three months ago when Sam Wilson introduced you at the community center where you both volunteer. At first, he barely spoke, watching you silently as you helped veterans fill out benefit forms. Now he meets you for coffee every Tuesday and Thursday, and sometimes walks you home when your evening class ends late.

The cool night air nips at your cheeks as you round the corner toward Macie's Pub. Bucky's leaning against the brick wall, just like he said he would be, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. The full moon catches the metal plates of his left arm, turning them silver in the darkness.

His eyes light up when he sees you, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're late," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice—just the warmth he only shows around you. He pushes away from the wall, his body language suddenly tense, like he's considering something he knows he shouldn't.