Eleanor's POV

After the run, I went back to my apartment. I had dinner, then called Sam. He came over, and we just talked for a while, the kind of quiet comfort I didn't realize I needed.

Eventually, I spoke up.

"Sam, I think I'm ready to move on. Dating might take some time, but... I don't think I can keep living in that apartment. I planned my whole life with him there."

Sam looked down for a moment, thoughtful, then said softly, "Why don't you move in with me after this mission? I've got another room—you'd have your own space."

I smiled, feeling a bit of the weight on my chest ease. "I'd love that. Thank you... for being my friend."

Sam put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "You say the word, kid—I've always got your back."

I smirked. "Sammy boy, we're the same age."

He groaned. "I hate that name, Nell."

I rolled my eyes. "So... are we watching a movie or a game tonight? Or you can crash here."

"Movie," he said with a grin.

He pulled me in for a quick side hug as we settled on the couch. We watched a movie, then flipped to the game, sharing popcorn and pizza like the old friends we were. No pressure. Just peace.

Morning

Sam made breakfast the next morning—eggs, toast, and coffee that was way too strong—and afterward, we headed to his meeting. It was a small support group—former soldiers, all with their own scars, their own battles.

Sam stood at the front and glanced around the room.

"I'd like all of you to hear my friend's story," he said. "She didn't serve in the military, but she's worked with the FBI and CIA more times than I can count. Please welcome Eleanor Riley."

I stood up and walked to the front, feeling the quiet hush of the room settle around me. Public speaking had never scared me. But this... this was different. This was personal.

"I'll keep this short," I began, my voice steady but soft. "Honestly, I don't know exactly what to say. I've been shot at. I've gone deep undercover. But coming home... that's the hardest part."

A few people nodded in quiet understanding.

"It's so important to have people around you—friends, family. A support system. I love my job. I love what I do. And I won't lie—it's hard. It doesn't get easier overnight. But all of you have something good here. You've got each other."

I paused, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.

"I had the love of my life by my side. We served in different ways, but we understood each other. Life was good—until it wasn't."

I looked down briefly, the memory tightening my chest.

"One day, my husband and a friend went out like it was any other day... but that day changed everything. I had to bury the man I loved and somehow find a way to keep going."

The room was silent, heavy with empathy.

"So please—take your time. Let things feel normal again. Surround yourself with people who care. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Thank you."

The room broke into gentle applause as I sat back down beside Sam. He gave me a nod—proud, supportive. A friend who understood exactly what it took to share something like that.

I watched him step back into his role, doing what he did best—guiding, listening, and leading.

And then—like a ghost from another time—Steve walked in.

It had been so long since I'd seen him, but the moment I did, something inside me settled. He still looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but maybe being here, surrounded by people who understood—that might help.

After the group dispersed, Sam, Steve, and I stayed back and talked for a while. It felt good. Easy.

Eventually, I stood. "Well, it's late. I'm heading home. See you, Sam."

Sam pulled me into a quick hug. "Let me know if you need anything."

I smiled as I pulled away. "Will do."

Then Steve, ever the gentleman, said, "I'll walk with you... If you don't mind?"

I looked up at him and smiled. "I don't."

We walked back to my apartment, talking quietly, the night calm around us. For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel so alone.

When we got to our floor, Sharon came out of her apartment with her laundry bag slung on one hip, her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear—probably talking to either our great-aunt or our father.

I smiled at my sister as Steve and Sharon started talking—and flirting. I didn't listen. Their words blurred in the background as I walked to my door.

That's when Sharon glanced toward my apartment and said, "Oh, you left your music on."

I frowned. I hadn't played any music before leaving.

Still, I opened my apartment door, stepped inside—but the sound wasn't coming from here. It was faint, low, and distant—coming from Steve's place. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my gun from the drawer by the door and went to the hidden connecting door between our apartments.

I opened it slowly, quietly.

Right there in the middle of Steve's living room was Nick Fury—injured, slumped on the floor.

Steve was already there. We both stepped forward at the same time, and I said, "Fury."

Fury turned his head weakly toward me. He was pale, bleeding, and struggling to breathe. I knelt beside him, and he fumbled with his phone, his hand trembling as he turned the screen toward me. A coded message glowed dimly on the cracked display.

I recognized it immediately. The word "SHIELD compromised"

He looked at me, then at Steve.

"Trust her," Fury said to him, his voice hoarse.

Then—crack.

A loud gunshot rang out.

Fury jerked and dropped to the ground.

"Down!" Steve shouted, pulling me behind the wall just as more bullets shattered the windows.

Sharon burst in through Steve's front door, gun raised. Her voice was calm but sharp. "Captain Rogers?"

Steve looked up, stunned, as she walked in with her weapon drawn.

"Captain, I'm Agent 13 of SHIELD Special Service," Sharon said quickly.

Steve's gaze shifted to me, confusion written all over his face. I still held my gun, steady and calm.

"Steve," I said firmly, "I'm Agent 31. I'm a SHIELD agent."

Steve's eyes narrowed slightly. "Natasha?"

Sharon stepped forward, her eyes flicking between the scene and Fury bleeding on the floor. "I was assigned to protect you," she said. "So was Eleanor."

Steve's voice was low, intense. "On whose order?"

Sharon knelt by Fury, checking his pulse.

"His," she said.

She immediately tapped her radio. "Foxtrot is down. He's unresponsive. I need EMTS. Now."

The radio crackled with a voice: "Do you have a twenty on the shooter?"

Steve and I both turned toward the shattered window. Across the rooftop, we caught movement—just a glimpse of a figure slipping away into the night.

"There," I said sharply.

Steve didn't hesitate. "Tell them I'm in pursuit."

He ran straight for the window and jumped through it. I followed without a second thought.

We sprinted across the rooftops and into the nearby office building. The assassin was fast, unnaturally fast. Steve smashed through walls chasing him, the sound of footsteps and cracking glass echoing around us.

Finally, Steve caught up to him on the roof.

He hurled his shield at the assassin.

The man caught it. Effortlessly. Like it weighed nothing.

And then, just as easily, he threw it back.

Steve raised his arm just in time to block it, but by the time he recovered, the man was gone. He leapt from the rooftop and disappeared down into the city below.

I reached Steve's side, breath catching in my throat.

I saw the assassin's eyes—cold, sharp, ocean-blue.

And I said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper, the name I hadn't spoken in years:

"The Winter Soldier."

Author's note: Are you ready? And doesn't Bucky look so attractive?