"Sure. I can do quiet." Bucky said with his attention fixed on the road in front of them. He usually did quiet, when he was on his own. He's not the kind for a lot of talk, and usually it seemed like music left him behind decades ago.

The difference now is that sitting in silence here meant sitting awkwardly with her.

His mind tried to slip back to the last—the only—other time they'd been alone together. Alcohol warm and soft, memory slurred and vivid by turns, he remembered holding her perfect, small face between his hands and looking down at her pure green eyes. He remembered how she tasted.

And he huffed, a growly, annoyed sound, that he pretends is due to traffic, hitting the brakes a little too hard.