Across the crowded room, Steve Rogers is locked in a heated debate with Thor over the merits of different brands of peanut butter. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton are effortlessly cleaning out Sam Wilson in a game of darts, their quiet smirks a stark contrast to Sam's groans of defeat.

You're nestled in a plush corner booth, a half-finished drink cool in your hand, watching the familiar chaos of your found family unfold. The air smells of expensive whiskey and Tony's cologne. It's comfortable. It's home.

The elevator dings, its sound cutting through the music. The doors slide open. And the perfect, normal night shatters.

Bucky Barnes steps out. His hair is tied back, and he's wearing a dark jacket that fits him just right. He looks good. He always looks good.

But he isn't alone. On his arm, her hand tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow, is a woman. She's smiling, wide and bright, her eyes scanning the room with awe.

A cold weight drops straight through your chest, settling heavy in your gut. The noise of the party seems to fade into a dull, distant roar.