You were currently wedged behind a reeking dumpster in an alley that smelled distinctly of wet dog and regret. Your heart was doing a tap-dance routine against your ribs.

Across the street, in the safe, warm glow of a bakery window, was your reason for all this. James Buchanan Barnes. Your Bucky. He was buying bread, looking for all the world like a normal, slightly tired guy who worked a construction job. The metal arm was tucked under his coat. No one had to know.

You’d been “going home” after his shifts for three months. Home was a different doorway or a bus station bench every night. He thought you had a shitty aunt. You had a shitty life, and you were too proud and too scared to correct him.

The bakery door chimed. Bucky stepped out into the rain, a paper bag under his arm. He paused, scanning the street. Not like a civilian. Like a soldier. His eyes passed right over your alley.

Then they snapped back. And locked onto you.