The sunrise casts shadows throughout the partially reconstructed house, the orange glow creating a tapestry that overlooks the ongoing transformation. Bucky and I have spent the past few days immersed in the shared endeavor of transforming the dwelling into a sanctuary that mirrors our vision. The smell of fresh paint lingers through the air, mingling with the earthy undertones of discarded memories. For the most part, this change has been easy to accommodate, however, part of me feels like I'm ripping bandages off unhealed wounds.

I've been awake since the early hours of the morning, well before the sun began its ascent above the horizon. Whether it's a nightmare about murdering innocent civilians or a restless unease that tugs at the frayed edges of my consciousness, sleep often proves itself to be useless. The memories of my past, stained with a life spent lurking in the shadows, tend to creep in when the rest of the world is asleep. Nothing seems to make these feelings go away nor do I ever think they will. My past, no matter how hard I try to suppress it, is tattooed on me, forever bound with my soul.

The soft rhythm of Bucky's breathing creates a tranquil cadence beside me, a comforting lullaby amidst the quiet of the morning. His serene slumber seems to harmonize with the gentle strokes of dawn, creating a peaceful ambiance over the room. The sunlight filters through the long curtains, casting a warm glow on the contours of his face, etching a portrait of placidity. As I observe him sleeping soundly, a feeling of gratitude wells up within me. The challenges we've faced, the horrors we've endured, they do not exist here. In the time we've been ourselves, we've done nothing but try to piece back together who we were. But deep within my mind, I know that it's impossible to become those people again. And being who I was is someone I never want to be again.

The world is silent, and in these early moments, it feels never-ending. The quietude that surrounds me is both a refuge and a prison, a paradoxical arras where peace and turmoil coexist. I live with both guilt and pride–some days, I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of my own wrongdoings and others, I feel like I am making progress in the right direction. But more times than not, I feel like things are stagnant. The thoughts echo through the stillness of the air, and I find myself lost in the quiet expanse that stretches beyond the confines of this small space. Regardless, I've also found comfort in the depths of this stillness, navigating each pressing thought with a gentle ease.

          As the dawn unfolds, I resist the urge to disturb Bucky's peaceful repose. His presence is a comfort, even in the unconscious realm where he resides. Quietly, I step out of bed with a silent grace, careful to not disturb the blissful sanctuary that surrounds him. I tread softly, navigating the fragile boundary between dreams and wakefulness, between the solace of sleep and the relentless waves of my insomnia.

The wooden floor feels cool beneath my feet as I make my way into the hallway, a path etched with memories, laughter, shared secrets, and well, pain. The doorways to my brothers' rooms stand as silent sentinels to a part I've guarded with both reverence and reluctance. Hesitantly, I find myself standing in the doorway between their old bedrooms, caught between the echoes of what once was and the haunting silence of what could have been. The soft glow of the sunlight dances across the floor of the bedrooms, beckoning me to enter like a siren to the sea. But my feet remain cemented to the ground, unwilling to breach the threshold into the spaces where I once discovered the essence of who they were.

In the hallowed space of my childhood room, the air crackles with the liveliness of my brothers' laughter, a symphony of joy that harmonizes with the rustling pages of my textbooks. With each page, I find myself getting lost in the history of the great city of Boston. I figured I knew enough about this place already, but it seemed as though I didn't know as much as I thought I did. The memory of this moment unfolds like a cherished tapestry, weaving together the innocence of sibling bonds and the quiet struggles that hid behind closed doors.

I'm immersed in my studies, the weight of knowledge pulling me into a world of numbers and facts that I hadn't had the pleasure of knowing before. The door swings open, a gust of exuberance heralding the arrival of Everrett and Alexander. They burst into the room like a hurricane ready to take out everything in its path, their infectious energy dispelling the somber hues that linger from an earlier confrontation with our father.

Everett, with his tousled curls and earnest gaze, brandishes a goofy grin as he plops onto my bed, sending a cascade of loose paper fluttering in different directions. "C'mon, Lonnie, put those books away for a while! We want to see you smile and live a little!" he implores, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Alexander, the younger and more mischievous of the two of us, adds in with a theatrical flair, "Yeah! Your brothers demand entertainment, and we're not leaving until we get it!" They exchange glances, a silent pact to infuse my world with laughter, lightheartedness, and levity.

Despite their animated efforts, I remain entrenched in my studies, a feeble shield against the sadness that threatens to spill out on the pages before. But I'd never let my brothers see me like that. The invisible weight of the bruise on my cheek, a painful reminder of the clash with our father, casts a large shadow over me. My brothers, keenly aware of the unspoken pain, persist with their gentle siege of joy.

In the memory, they enact a playful dance around my room, attempting to draw me into their world of carefree abandon and endeavors. Their laughter reverberates, masking the echo of a father's harsh words that replay themselves in the depths of my mind. The vibrant hues of their love clash with the muted palette of my solitude, creating a poignant picture of our contrasting emotions.

As they dart in and out, the room transforms into a sanctuary of shared secrets and unspoken solidarity. Each laughter-laiden intrusion is a silent protest, a declaration that, despite my unwillingness to share my struggles, we stand united as siblings. In these fleeting moments, their actions speak louder than words, a testament to the unconditional love that transcends the confines of spoken language. After all these years, with all the pain and trauma my father has caused me, my brothers are always the ones to pick up the piece. They are always there to fix me when they were never the ones to break me.

But then, they become a little too quiet and their footsteps that once echoed the upper level cease. Overwhelmed and seeking solace, I abandon my studies and retreat to Everett's room down the hall. The soft click of Everrett's door echoes through the hallowed silence of the house, a portal to a realm infused with the essence of childhood camaraderie. The door creaks over, and I find myself in the comforting haven of his space, a place where the laughter of my brothers mingles with the whispers of shared secrets and repose.

As I enter, I find my brothers huddled together, heads bent in earnest conversation. The room comes to life with the whispers of their conspiratorial planning, a tableau of mischief that has become synonymous with the bond that we share. Everett, the thinker, and Alexander, the impulsive force, are plotting something, their eyes gleaming with a shared determination that stirs the curiosity that rises within me. Caught in the embrace of their world, I stand on the periphery, a silent observer of their dynamic. Their eyes meet, mischief reflected in their gazes, and the room fills with an energy that draws me in like a magnet. Sensing someone standing there, they finally look up, twin grins forming on their faces as I see me finally giving into their request.

"Avalon!" Everett exclaims, the excitement palpable in his voice. "We've been scheming and you're just in time to be a part of it."

Alexander adds in with a devilish grin, "We need our favorite accomplice for this mission of ours."

I'm caught off guard by their inevitable enthusiasm, a warmth developing within me as I surrender to the gravitational pull of their camaraderie. Despite the lingering ache from the wrath of our father, the idea of joining my brother in their devious acts becomes a lifeline, a chance to temporarily escape from the desolation that clings to the deepest corners of my soul.

With a gentle tug, they pull me into their embrace, a trinity of shared moments and unspoken understanding. In their arms, the burden of my sorrows feels momentarily lifted, replaced b the reassuring strength of our bond. Everett wraps me in his brotherly embrace, his silent promise of protection a balm to my wounded spirit. Like he's silently saying that he would travel the entire world if that meant I was safe. And I believed him, with every ounce of my being.

Alexander, his optimistic mind and spirit, chimes in, "Whatever's bothering you, Lonnie, leave it at the door. Today, we're on a mission to bring back the laughter, the hope, the joy, and the mischief that defines us as a whole." These words weave together a blanket of comfort around me, and for a fleeting moment, I feel whole again. Like everything I've ever done in my life has meant something. And most importantly, as if someone was proud of me.

As we huddle together, bound by the invisible thread of familial love, the weight of the world that existed outside of this moment disappears. In the haven that's Everett's room, surrounded by the tangible memories of the lives we've existed in together, I find refuge. Our childhood antics have followed us into the present, drowning out the horrors I've endured throughout that time. In this moment, I surrender to the healing power of our shared laughter, hoping that, in this fragile moment, they can mend the frayed edges of my sorrows.

I exhale a heavy breath, my chest feels tight with the weight of longing and nostalgia. The fleeting warmth of the past dissipates, leaving behind a chill that amplifies the void in my heart. How I yearn for those moments to be more than mere memories, for the laughter of my brothers to echo through these halls once more. I've spent my life fighting a war that raged within the bounds of my mind, and part of me wishes to go back, to change the course of my life, in hopes to live it with them. However unfortunate it may be, I know there is nothing I can do to turn back time. I can only hope that they lived their lives happily, and only wished that things could've turned out differently for me. I am both the keeper of memories and the mourner of lost time.

In this quiet exploration of a lost memory, the rooms become more than spaces frozen in time; they transform into portals that connect me to the essence of my brothers. Their passions, dreams, inspirations, and the unconditional love they once showered upon their only sister–all preserved and kept as it once was, within the walls that bear witness to the passage of time. They were determined to break through the walls of my solitude, to coax a smile from a sister burdened by the weight of hidden bruises and unspoken pain.

A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of my lips, a mix of gratitude for the memories and an ache for the moments stolen by circumstance. I carry their legacy with me, their laughter, and the unspoken promise of a bond unbroken. If anything, I cherish the time that I was able to spend with them. And I know that they must've carried me in their hearts for an eternity. And I wish I could've seen the men that they became. As I stand between their rooms, a profound sense of connection transcends the silence, whispering that, in some intangible way, they remain woven into the memory of my existence.

And suddenly, a familiar feeling creeps into my heart, pulling me out of the depths of my contemplation. Bucky's voice, a gentle interruption to the solitude, fills the silent void. "Tell me about them, Avalon," he asks with genuine curiosity.

It dawns on me that I've never talked to him about them. It is not out of ignorance that I have kept their memory, but rather so that I may protect them forever. My brothers, a topic I've guarded with both reverence and reluctance, are about to be laid out in the open. "My brothers are–were the best friends I could have," I begin, choosing my words wisely."Everett, the eldest, could explain complex theories in such a way that made you feel like a genius, even if you didn't understand a word," I pause, a bittersweet glint in my eyes. I reminisce about how incredible they were when I was once blessed with the privilege of being their sister. "And Alex, he was an eternal optimist. He believed in the magic of every passing moment, no matter how ordinary it may seem."

Bucky listens intently, his eyes reflecting a blend of empathy and understanding. This moment was bound to happen eventually, especially given the house we're in. It was only a matter of time before I poured my heart out to the man I've loved for so long.Time passes and I grow further away from the past, but it always stays with me, reminding me that I've been removed from the life I wanted. I continue cautiously, "I used to seek solace in Everett's room when I needed quiet. They would concoct plans to entice me away, hoping to break down the walls I had built around myself."

I exhale, a wistful smile gracing my lips as I peer between their rooms. In my heart, I resist disrupting the serene sanctuary preserved within These rooms stand as timeless realms, untouched by the alterations that time imposes. No matter the transformations surrounding them, these spaces will forever belong to them, perpetually filled with the memories of a place I yearn to inhabit eternally.

"They just wanted to see their sister smile, to live a little without feeling suffocated by the shadow my father casted over me," I whisper, more to myself than to Bucky. "I wish they could've seen the life I've built after the fact. And the strength they unknowingly instilled in me."

A heavy silence settles between Bucky and I, as if the weight of the unvoiced memories hangs in the air. In spite of his words, he touches my shoulder softly, reassuring me that he is here for me in every way he can. It's as if he knows that these rooms hold fragments of a past I guard with both love and pain. Many memories I've gotten back are those of my brothers and I. In their own way, they keep me sane, even when I know they are no longer with me.

In the midst of lingering memories, I find myself drawn to the floor, sitting in the doorway between Everett and Alexander's rooms. The floor feels like ice beneath me, a stark contrast to the warmth of the stories I carry in my heart. Bucky joins me, his presence a steady anchor. I prepare myself to share the tales that have remained locked away for decades–this isn't by choice but by a power much stronger than I. Memories of laughter, mischief, and a bond that tied us together. Bucky listens, his eyes reflecting a genuine interest and a silent promise to witness a past that I've begin to remember and moments that have shaped the person I am today. I start to unveil the untold stories of Everett and Alexander, grateful for the comforting presence of a man who has become an unexpected but cherished part of my journey.

Oh, how I wish he could've met them.

***

As Bucky and I navigate through the house, rearranging furniture and discarding remnants of a past that no longer serves a purpose, my mind weaves through the tapestry of unanswered questions. The closed doors of my brothers' rooms beckon, their enigmatic stories challenging my resolve. It's the door to my father's office, though, that calls to me with an irresistible force–a place where the darkness of my youth lingers and a place that conceals the secrets that I've long sought out.

For a moment, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the doorknob as if bracing for the revelations that lie beyond. I know whatever I find beyond this door will either make or break me, but I know now that nothing my father did was never out of goodwill. It's a realization that nothing my father orchestrated was fueled by benevolence; his every move was a calculated dance in the pursuit of self-interest. The wisdom I possess now paints a clearer picture, yet I yearn for the comprehension that eluded me in the past.

Summoning the courage, I turn the doorknob, allowing the door to creak open and reveal the trove of memories within the office. The room feels like a mausoleum of the past, preserving the remnants of a life I once knew. But truly, it's a life that I wasn't meant to be a part of. The room bears the weight of untold stories and secrets that have been kept from me. Photographs adorn the walls, capturing moments that transcend the boundaries of my memory. Bucky, observant as ever, watches me from a distance, realizing that everything I've ever needed to know can be discovered here.

The lives of each Rawlins line the walls, capturing every milestone and achievement with a simple grace. As I explore the shelves that line the office, my fingers trace the edges of each photograph, the images revealing the contours of their destinies. Within these photographs show a life that my brothers lived after me. Graduations, weddings, familial gatherings–I find fragments of their happiness frozen in time. As I sift through the remnants of my father's life–before I was brought in to erase him from existence–I discover more threads connecting my brothers' stories to mine. The photographs capture Everett and Alex's graduation from Boston University, mirroring my own educational journey. It's a strange sense of unity, realizing that despite the physical distance and the years lost, we were forever bound by a shared experience.

A bittersweet symphony of emotions plays within me, torn between their apparent fulfillment in their lives and the ache of my absence of being able to witness those moments. Then, I stumble across a letter, yellowed with age and written in Everett's meticulous handwriting. My breath catches as I read his carefully crafted words, and a tear escapes, landing softly on the paper I hold gently in my hands. He named his daughter Avalon, a poignant tribute to the sister who vanished at the hands of a murderer. The revelation hits me like a wave, a mix of sorrow and warmth crashing over me. I know he dealt with the aftermath of father's wrath, but knowing him, he dealt with it in the best way he knew how; without a singular care in the world.

Despite the ache, there's solace in knowing that my name echoes in their lives, an enduring presence aside from the void left by Hydra. Yet, this room saturated with memories, one stark absence becomes glaringly apparent–me. It's as if I never existed in my father's world. No photographs, no mementos, not even a hit of acknowledgement for his only daughter. The void of my absence contrasts sharply with the vivid display of my brothers' lives.

The silence about my existence in this time capsule is both perplexing and disheartening. Did my father purposefully erase me from his narrative? Could he not put on a facade that he was heartbroken by my murder? These haunting questions linger as I begin to search in every nook and cranny.  The answer, I sense, lies concealed within this room. The lack of my presence becomes unsettling, emphasizing the intentional omission from the familial narrative. Finding wedding photos, pictures of grandchildren, I can't shake the feeling of being a ghost to them–a specter haunting the edges of their lives. Was it really that difficult to keep my memory alive?

As I sort through the mix of papers and other mementos hidden in the drawers, my voice trembles with anger and sadness, "He never wanted them to mourn me," I say, knowing that Bucky is right behind me, ready to catch me if I fall. "His goal was for them to move on, to erase any trace of my existence from their lives. And he succeeded. He not only stole my memories but obliterated everything I was meant to be."

Bucky notices the growing agitation in me and steps closer, his gaze unwavering. My hands tremble slightly, gripping on the edges of the locked drawer in my father's desk. With a determined force, I pull it open, revealing a trove of forgotten moments, photographs, educational achievements, and sealed documents.

The lock, once a barrier between me and the truth, proves no match for my resolute determination to uncover the reasons behind my father's devilish plans. As the drawer is opened before me, a rush of conflicting emotions consume me–fear, anticipation, and burgeoning hope that I might finally understand the missing pieces of my past. Maybe now, I'll understand why he did this to me, why he wanted to completely erase me from their lives, and finally, come to terms with this life.

Bucky kneels down next to me as I begin to pull out endless papers from the drawer. I unseal the envelope, a cascade of documents spills forth, chronicling a sinister narrative that intertwines my life with Hydra's insidious machinations. These papers detail the orchestration of my kidnapping, the meticulous design of my training, and the unnerving success of transforming me into their ideal operative. And that's exactly what I became. 

Bucky, sensing the weight of the revelations, carefully takes some of the papers out of my hands. "What is all this?" he asks, his voice edged with concern and a hint of curiosity.

Mission reports, written with clinical precision, outline the deployments that shaped me into the covert weapon they desired. The room is flooded with evidence of a past I was denied, one manipulated by the puppet strings of Hydra's malevolence. Everything that led to my ultimate end on January 19th, 1949.

"These are reports–plans they had for me," I respond, my fingers tracing the chilling details on the documents. I knew it wasn't my own curiosity that brought me to them. It was my father's decision all along. "My kidnapping, the training, the missions. Everything was calculated and executed with precision."

Bucky's gaze narrows as he absorbs the information before him. The weight of this revelation settles in the room, the air is thick with the understanding that my life, every facet of it, was a pawn in a game that was orchestrated by Hydra and Lorenzo Rawlins. I know he never wanted a daughter to begin with, but I never comprehended the extent of his distaste. And maybe I'll never understand the measures he took to dispose of me. However difficult this information is to swallow, I am thankful that I never have to live up to his expectations anymore.

"Your father forced you into this life," Bucky states, his voice edged with a combination of anger and empathy. His words echo the pain of our shared experiences. I understand his concern, knowing that our circumstances are different. While our paths to this point diverged, the underlying thread of coercion binds us together.

I meet his gaze, his understanding evident. He recognizes the parallels in our stories–he, a soldier taken during the war, and I, a daughter subjected to my father's schemes. Yes, in the end, we both became pawns in Hydra's ruthless game, molded into the lethal tools they envisioned from the start.

"He knew what he wanted you to become, and Hydra had no problem in creating what you became," Bucky continues, his voice resonating with the acknowledgement of the forces that shaped us.

I give a bitter nod, reflecting on the shared destiny we endured. "My father and Hydra were willing collaborators. They played their parts in weaving a tapestry of deception, one that ensnared me in a life I never chose."

I feel a surge of gratitude for the bond we've forged together, a connection built on shared pain and a shared commitment to break free from the chains that held us captive. Together, we'll rewrite our narratives and confront the shadows of our pasts with unwavering resolve.

As Bucky sifts through the contents of the drawer, his fingers brush against an unexpected object—a pristine envelope tucked away among the papers. He pulls it out, revealing a wedding invitation that sends a chill down my spine. The elegant script on the card announces the union between Blake and I–but still, any information about him evades me. 

Bucky, his brows knitted together in confusion, pulls out the envelope from the hidden drawer. His eyes scan it over, "Avalon, what's this?" he asks, a note of hesitation in his voice.

I look at the invitation, a sense of unease creeping over me, "I...I don't remember that," I admit, uncertainly. I know these must've been sent out, but I don't recall anything about Blake still. I don't exactly remember him being a part of my life.

He furrows his brows, studying me intently. "I saw the photo in your room," he mentions, nonchalantly, a trace of skepticism lingering in his words. "Blake, is it?"

A flicker of discomfort crosses my face. When I found out about this information, I didn't want to bring it up to Bucky, but it's now all coming to the surface. "Yeah, that's right. I don't remember much about him either," I confess, feeling a subtle tension in the air.

Bucky seems to hold back something, a knowledge that he chooses not to share for now. I sense there's more he knows, but he doesn't give me the privilege of knowing. A heavy silence between us settles in the room, an uncharted territory we'll navigate when the time is right. But that time isn't now. How do you talk about a fiancé you might have had to the man you're currently with?

"Hm. I hope that's because he was a bad fiancé, not because of the Hydra brainwashing," Bucky remarks, his gaze fixated on the invitation in his hands. His discovery and words hang in the air as he glances at me, searching for a reaction.

I shoot him a disapproving look, almost sending daggers with my eyes. It's a sensitive topic I can't make sense of, but the gravity of the situation takes form on my face, "James."

"Sorry, bad joke," he says, attempting to diffuse the tension, but his eyes betray him. They linger on the invitation, reflecting a mix of curiosity, concern, and perhaps a touch of skepticism, as if he's holding back more than just a jest. I will figure it out, just watch me.

***

The early morning air bites at my skin as I sit on the porch, feet dangling, a cigarette hanging between my fingers. The world is caught in the fragile moment between darkness and dawn. I take a drag, letting the tendrils of smoke dance between my fingers before releasing it into the stillness of the morning. Although this is a bad habit I've picked up since my conditional pardon, it seems to calm me in a way I never thought possible. It seems as though the darkness keeps me from being able to find any comfort.

Sleep has been elusive, slipping through my grasp like sand. However hard I try, my mind seems to wander to the darkest depths of my subconscious. Some nights I'm consumed with the guilt of taking lives. Faces of those I've encountered during my reign flash before my closed eyes, and their deaths remain stained on my hands. I remember every single life I've taken–guilty or innocent–and I didn't blink. I did what I was told to do.

Yet, it's not just the guilt that plagues my restless nights. Other nights, I'm perplexed by the emergence of memories that slip through the tightly woven fabric of forgetfulness. They dance on the edges of my consciousness, like ghosts vying for attention. Still, like fragments, they paint a picture of a past I can't fully grasp. As odd as it seems, it feels as though it's pointless to remember a life I will never get back. But it was ours.

The cigarette between my fingers provides a momentary distraction, a ritual that I've clung to in the wake of these restless nights. Its ember glows in the soft light, casting shadows that flicker like elusive dreams. I take another drag, hoping to exhale the turmoil along with the smoke.

The porch creaks slightly as I shift, glancing towards the horizon where the first light of daybreak begins to chase away the remnant of the night. The world is waking up, but the battle within persists. The soft glow of dawn begins to wash over the world, casting a pale hue on everything it touches. It's a new day, but to me, it feels like another day that I'm caught in the cycle of introspection. Even now, when I no longer live a life on the run, I feel as though I'm running away from what I could be.

The silence of the morning is broken when I hear footsteps approaching. I turn my head to see Bucky emerging, catching me in the act. His expression carries a combination of surprise and concern, a silent acknowledgement of my struggle.The cigarette remains between my fingers as I stand to greet him. It's a guilty secret shared with the dawn and now, inadvertently, with him.

His gaze lingers on the cigarette, and I can see the disappointment shadowing his expression. I exhale a plume of smoke. "Couldn't sleep," I mutter, as if the cigarette and the quiet morning have become my solace.

Bucky shifts his weight, his metal arm catching the glint of the sunrise. "You okay?" he asks, the concern in his voice is genuine. I appreciate it, though I feel as if this is something I shouldn't burden him with.

"Just processing everything," I admit, leaning against the pillar of the porch, "It's a lot to take in, you know?"

Bucky nods, understanding where I'm coming from. "Mind if I take a drag?" he asks, his gaze lingering on the cigarette between my fingers.

"Go ahead," I reply, extending the cigarette to him.

He accepts it, bringing it close to his lips. In a surprising turn, he throws it on the ground and crushes it beneath the heel on his boot, embers scattering like forgotten thoughts. I raise an eyebrow at him, questioning his abrupt action. "A bit wasteful, don't you think?"

Bucky smirks, defiance twinkling in his eyes, "Sometimes, you just need to let go of things that don't do you any good."

He glances down at the crushed cigarette, a silent commentary on the act of letting go. His gaze returns to mine, and there's a tenderness in his eyes that transcends words. As the dawn bathes the world in a palette of colors, there is an acknowledgement of the necessity to release what holds us back. We share a moment of unspoken connection, recognizing the weight of the past and the promise of a different future.

"I have to go, Princess," he says, his voice is softer now, carrying the weight of the inevitable. The ache of parting lingers.

The reminder brings a pang of reality, "Right."

He hesitates, as if searching for the words that linger on the tip of his tongue. "You'll be okay?"

I manage a nod, trying to keep myself together. I've gotten used to having him here with me, and the idea of being alone again isn't something I'm looking forward to. "I always am. Give me a call when you get back."

"Will you answer this time?" he questions me, amusingly.

I stifle a laugh, a smile taking its place on my lips. "Yes, I'll answer this time."

As Bucky prepares to depart, a tender silence envelops us, punctuated only by the subtle sounds of the awakening morning. In an unexpected but welcomed gesture, he steps closer, his eyes holding a warmth that transcends the chilly air. The quiet understanding shared between us materializes into a gentle kiss—a soft promise sealed with the warmth of his lips against mine.

For a fleeting moment, time seems to stand still as the world around us fades into the background. The kiss, a delicate fusion of connection and parting, lingers in the cool morning air. It's a silent assurance, a reassurance that echoes beyond the touch of our lips.

As he pulls away, there's a shared connection in our gaze—a promise woven into the fabric of this stolen moment. Bucky, with a lingering look, brushes his thumb across my cheek, a gesture that speaks volumes in its simplicity.

"Until next time," he murmurs, the words carrying a weight that goes beyond the present. "I love you."

I watch as he heads towards the awaiting journey, bag slung over his shoulder and the echoes of his footsteps fading into the distance. The porch, now infused with the memory of a bittersweet kiss, stands witness to the transient nature of goodbyes and the hope that accompanies every departure.

"Bucky?" I call out to him, and he turns, looking back at me. This parting moment is always the hardest—the juncture where one of us must embark on a journey away from the other. The last time our paths diverged, I was bidding him farewell in the hope of vindicating myself.  "I love you."

The words slip out, tethering us across the expanse of space and time, a reassurance that transcends the physical distance that will soon separate us.

a/n - sorry for the wait!! ngl i love this chapter in its entirety and i hope you do too!! let me know what you think :)) -k