Bucky held you tighter against him, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the song that blasted through the radio on the kitchen counter. It was his last night in Brooklyn.
Sergeant James Barnes of the one-o-seventh had to leave first thing in the morning.
You were not ready to let him go, afraid of what might happen if you did. He clasped you to his chest, rubbing his chin against your hair as you buried your face in his uniform.
You could feel the soft vibrations of his chest as he hummed the song.
You listened to the beating of his heart and tried to remember it. The idea that his heart might stop beating terrified you.
It made your knees weak, you cried in muffled sobs against his uniform, staining the olive jacket with your tears.
His right hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers caressing your hair. He whispered sweet nothings and promises he hoped he could keep.
You tightened the grip around his waist, his words wrenched open a hole in your heart. The life he was imagining was more likely going to remain a fantasy.
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