racing hearts.

It was like any other day for Sam Wilson—a quiet afternoon spent on his worn-out couch, surrounded by racing posters and memorabilia, all dedicated to one person: Bucky Barnes.

The television screen dominated his small living room, glowing with the intensity of the latest championship race. Sam, dressed in his 'fan-boy' getup—a vintage Bucky Barnes racing jersey and a matching cap—leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen as Bucky’s motorcycle roared down the final stretch.

Bucky’s skill was unmatched. The way he maneuvered his bike, cutting corners with precision and leaving his competitors in the dust, made Sam’s heart race almost as fast as Bucky’s engine.

By the time Bucky crossed the finish line, claiming yet another victory—Sam was on his feet, cheering loudly enough for his neighbors to hear.

The post-race interviews began, and Sam watched intently as reporters swarmed Bucky. Even sweaty and covered in dirt, the man looked effortlessly stunning, his piercing blue eyes stealing the show.

"Another incredible win for you, Mr. Barnes,"one reporter began."How does it feel to maintain your undefeated streak this season?"

Bucky flashed a lopsided grin, his voice calm yet confident."Feels great. The team worked hard, and I’m just happy to bring it home for the fans."

Sam smiled at the screen, feeling oddly proud as if he were part of that team.

The questions continued, the usual inquiries about his training, his rivals, and his plans for the next race. But it was the last question that made Sam freeze.

"Mr. Barnes, when will you plan on doing a meet and greet with your diehard fans?"

Sam’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on the remote. It was a question he’d always wondered about but never expected to hear asked so boldly.

On the screen, Bucky tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, his eyes locked on the camera, and for one electrifying second, Sam felt like those striking blue eyes were looking straight through the screen and into his soul.

Bucky smirked. "This Saturday," he said casually, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "See you guys there." And then, as if to drive the world—or Sam—wild, he winked.

Sam’s heart practically stopped. He stared at the screen, stunned, replaying the moment in his mind. Saturday. That was only a few days away.

He stumbled back onto the couch, his thoughts a whirlwind. "He’s doing a meet and greet," Sam muttered, disbelief laced in his tone. A grin slowly spread across his face.

“This is it,” he muttered, pacing his tiny living room. “This is my chance. I’m finally going to meet him.”

The excitement was almost too much to handle, but then a nagging thought crept into his mind—there were no details yet. No location, no time, no confirmation beyond Bucky’s cryptic announcement. What if it was some kind of cruel joke or worse—a publicity stunt that wouldn’t happen at all?

Sam flopped onto the couch and grabbed his phone. He scrolled through the racing forums, fan pages, and social media accounts he followed religiously, hoping for updates. Surely, someone else was just as eager for more information. He wasn’t alone in this.

Hours passed, and Sam’s restlessness only grew. Fans online were buzzing with the same questions: Where will it be? What time? How do we get in? Even the official Bucky Barnes fan club page hadn’t posted anything yet.

Sam refreshed his Twitter feed for the hundredth time when, finally, a post popped up on Bucky’s official account.

Sam let out a loud whoop, nearly dropping his phone. Ridgeway Raceway wasn’t far—maybe a two-hour drive. He could make it. He would make it.

He jumped to his feet, already making mental preparations. “Okay, okay. What do I wear? Should I bring something for him to sign? A poster? My jersey?” He glanced down at the racing jersey he was still wearing, worn and faded from years of love. “Yeah, this has to come.”

Excitement bubbled in his chest, but it was quickly joined by a wave of nerves. What would he even say to Bucky? Would he clam up like an idiot, or worse, embarrass himself in front of the man he’d admired for years?

Shaking his head, Sam decided not to overthink it. “One step at a time, Wilson,” he muttered, grabbing his laptop to book a ticket for Saturday’s event.

As the hours stretched into the evening, Sam couldn’t stop picturing what it would be like to finally see Bucky in person. The sound of his voice, the way he moved, and, of course, that signature smirk—it all felt so much closer now.

“This is going to be perfect,” Sam whispered to himself. “It has to be.”

—#—

Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Sam. The days dragged by, each one filled with equal parts excitement and anxiety. He spent most of his time preparing—laying out his jersey, packing a small bag with snacks and a Sharpie for an autograph, and rehearsing what he might say when he finally met Bucky.

By Friday night, his nerves were at an all-time high. He barely slept, tossing and turning with a mix of excitement and dread. What if he froze up? What if Bucky didn’t even notice him in the sea of fans? The doubts nagged at him, but every time he imagined that wink from the screen, his resolve strengthened.

When Saturday morning finally arrived, Sam was up before the sun. He threw on his jersey and cap, grabbed his bag, and hit the road. The drive to Ridgeway Raceway felt surreal, the kind of journey he’d dreamed of for years. By the time he pulled into the crowded parking lot, the buzz of excitement was palpable.

Fans were everywhere, decked out in Bucky Barnes merchandise—hats, shirts, posters, even custom-made jackets bearing his racing number. Sam felt a little more at ease seeing them, knowing he wasn’t alone in his devotion.

The meet and greet area was set up near the racetrack’s entrance, a long stretch of tents and banners bearing Bucky’s face. Sam joined the line early, clutching his Sharpie and a folded poster he’d brought from home. As the minutes ticked by, he felt the nervous energy build around him.

Then, a roar of excitement erupted from the crowd as a steel red motorcycle pulled up near the tents. There he was—Bucky Barnes in the flesh, dressed casually in a leather jacket and jeans, helmet in hand. He dismounted the bike with effortless grace, flashing that signature lopsided grin as he waved to the crowd.

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Seeing Bucky on TV was one thing, but in person, he was... unreal. The sharpness of his features, the confidence in his stride—it was like the man had been plucked straight from a dream.

Bucky approached the signing table, greeting fans with an easy charm. He took his time with each person, chatting, laughing, and signing whatever they handed him. Sam’s heart pounded as the line inched closer to the front.

Finally, it was his turn. Sam stepped forward, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he unfolded his poster and placed it on the table.

Bucky glanced up, and for a split second, their eyes met. A spark of recognition crossed Bucky’s face, though Sam couldn’t fathom why.

“Hey there,” Bucky said, his voice smooth and warm. “Nice jersey. Vintage, huh?”

Sam blinked, momentarily stunned. “Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I’ve had it for years. You’re... you’re kind of my idol.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “‘Kind of’, huh? Guess I’ll have to work harder to get that ‘definitely.’” 

Sam’s cheeks flushed, and he let out a nervous laugh. “You’ve already got it,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Bucky grinned, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than Sam expected. “Glad to hear it,” he said, signing the poster with a flourish. “What’s your name?”

“Sam,” he replied, his voice steadier now.

“Sam,” Bucky repeated, nodding as he added the name to his autograph. “Well, Sam, it’s good to meet you. Thanks for sticking with me all these years.”

Sam’s heart swelled at the genuine warmth in Bucky’s tone. For a moment, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them in the middle of the chaos.

“Good to meet you too,” Sam managed, clutching the signed poster like it was the most precious thing in the world.

As he stepped aside to let the next fan through, Bucky’s voice called after him. “Hey, Sam.”

Sam turned, his heart skipping a beat.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Bucky said, winked—just like he had on TV.

Sam couldn’t help but grin, his nerves forgotten. “I won’t,” he promised, feeling a spark of something new—a possibility he hadn’t dared to imagine before.

—#—

The meet and greet ended with a final wave and a heartfelt “Thank you” from Bucky. The fans erupted into applause and cheers, their excitement filling the air. Sam was among them, clapping so hard his palms stung. He watched as Bucky made his way offstage, disappearing through the backdoor with his signature smile still in place.

“That was perfect,” Sam whispered to himself, clutching his signed poster. His heart was still racing, but it wasn’t just from the interaction. Something about the way Bucky had looked at him, the way he’d said don’t be a stranger, felt... personal.

The crowd began to disperse, fans buzzing with excitement as they shared stories of their brief moments with Bucky. Sam lingered for a while, soaking in the energy before finally heading to his car, his thoughts still consumed by the racer.

—

Backstage, the moment the door shut behind him, Bucky’s expression changed. The easygoing charm that had dazzled the crowd melted away, replaced by a sharp, unamused scowl. He tossed his leather jacket onto a nearby chair and turned to his crew, his tone biting.

“What the hell are you all standing around for?” he snapped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Get me out of here.”

The crew, used to his post-event moods, exchanged uneasy glances before scurrying to pack up.

Bucky sat heavily in a chair, his jaw clenched as he stared at the ground. The smile he’d worn all day had been a mask, one he’d perfected over years of being in the public eye. The cheers, the cameras, the endless admiration—it should’ve been enough to make anyone happy. But for Bucky, it felt suffocating.

No one suspected it, of course. To the world, Bucky Barnes was the golden boy of motorcycle racing—untouchable, flawless, always on top. But behind the scenes, that perfection was a carefully constructed facade. The truth was something darker, something he kept buried beneath the charm and charisma.

He exhaled sharply, his mind flickering back to the fans he’d met today. Most were forgettable faces—just another blur in the crowd. But one stuck out.

Sam.

The name came unbidden, accompanied by the memory of the man’s earnest smile and nervous laugh. There had been something genuine about him, something that felt refreshingly real in a world where everything else felt staged.

Bucky shook his head, brushing the thought aside. Fans like Sam come and go. They idolized him, worshipped the image he portrayed, but they didn’t really know him. They couldn’t.

Still, he couldn’t quite shake the memory of those wide brown eyes, filled with a mixture of awe and warmth.

“Barnes,” one of his crew members interrupted hesitantly, holding out his helmet. “The bike’s ready whenever you are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, grabbing the helmet and standing. He cast one last glance at the backstage area, his thoughts still lingering on Sam. Then, with a sigh, he shoved the helmet on and strode out toward his bike, leaving the event—and the carefully curated image of himself—behind.

For now.

—#—

Sam couldn’t stop grinning as he walked into his apartment, still clutching the signed poster like it was a trophy.

His living room, already a shrine to Bucky Barnes, felt even more alive now that he had something personal to add to the collection. He set the poster down on the coffee table, carefully smoothing out its edges, and just stared at it for a moment.

"I can’t believe that just happened," he muttered to himself, the memory of Bucky’s wink replaying in his mind.

But as the adrenaline from the day started to wear off, a new wave of excitement hit him. This wasn’t something he could keep to himself—no way. He needed to share it with someone, and there was only one person who deserved to hear about it right away.

He grabbed his phone and quickly texted his sister, Sarah.

Sam: Guess who I met today

Sarah: What. Trump?

Sam: Wtf... No! 

Sam: I met Bucky Barnes. Hell, do you believe it? 

He waited for a response, pacing back and forth as he imagined her reaction. Within seconds, his phone buzzed.

Sarah: Nahh... you trippin'.

Sam: Oh, I ain't lying. I even got his autograph to prove it.

He snapped a picture of the signed poster on his coffee table and sent it, feeling a wave of satisfaction as he imagined Sarah’s jaw dropping.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Sarah: HOLY SHIT?? You’re joking. You actually met him? Like, face to face??

Sam: In the flesh, sis. And let me tell you, he’s even better looking in person.

Sam couldn’t resist grinning as he hit send. This was his moment to rub it in, and he wasn’t going to let her off easy.

Sarah: I hate you. I hate you so much right now.

Sam: You love me. Admit it, you’re jealous as hell.

Sarah:Whatever. Did he say anything to you? Or did you just stand there drooling like an idiot?

Sam hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He thought back to the way Bucky had looked at him, the way he’d said his name like it mattered.

Sam:He said I had a cool jersey. We talked. He even told me not to be a stranger. It was weird as hell.

Sarah:Wait. He actually said that to you? What does that even mean??

Sam:IDK! But it felt... different. Like he actually noticed me, you know?

Sarah:Omg, Sam. You're starting to act like a lil' obsessed highschool girl.

Sam rolled his eyes, but his cheeks heated up.

Sam: Please. Like I didn't have a whole shrine with his face on it.

Sarah didn’t reply right away, but when she did, her message made him laugh.

Sarah: If you don’t marry that man, I swear I’ll disown you.

Sam set his phone down, still smiling. The day had been everything he’d hoped for and more. Meeting Bucky had felt like a dream come true, but now, as he sat in his quiet apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder.

Had it really just been an ordinary meet and greet, or had there been something else in the way Bucky had looked at him?

Shaking his head, Sam chuckled to himself. “Get a grip, Wilson,” he muttered. “He’s a world-famous racer. You’re just some fan.”

Later that evening, Sam found himself sprawled on the couch, phone pressed to his ear as Sarah’s excited voice crackled on the other end.

“I still can’t believe you met him,” Sarah said, her tone half-jealous, half-impressed. “You’ve been obsessing over that man since forever, and now you’ve got his autograph. Did he smell good?”

“Sarah!” Sam groaned, covering his face with his hand. “That’s not the kind of question you ask.”

“Oh, please. You’re telling me you didn’t notice?”

Sam hesitated, his cheeks burning. “Okay, fine. He smelled amazing. Like leather and... I don’t know, danger or something.”

“I knew it!” Sarah squealed, her laughter echoing through the phone.

“Anyway,” Sam began, trying to steer the conversation back to safer land, “I told you he said 'not to be a stranger', right? Like, what does that even mean?”

“Sounds like an invitation to me,” Sarah teased. “Maybe he wants to see you again.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam muttered, though a flicker of hope sparked in his chest. “He probably says that to every fan.”

“Not with that wink,” Sarah pointed out. “I’m telling you, Sam. There’s something there.”

Before Sam could respond, Sarah cut him off. “Wait, wait! Did you check his Twitter yet? He always posts updates after events, doesn’t he?”

Sam’s eyes widened. “No, I haven’t. Lemme check.”

Grabbing his phone, he quickly navigated to Bucky’s official account. The last post was still the announcement for the meet and greet, but Sam refreshed the page, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Sarah stayed on the line, urging him on. “Anything yet?”

“Not yet,” Sam said, tapping the refresh button again. “Give it a sec. I can feel it.”

The siblings waited in suspense, Sarah cracking jokes to keep the mood light while Sam anxiously refreshed the page. Finally, a new tweet appeared, and Sam’s stomach flipped.

“‘Special shoutout to the ones who keep it real,’” Sam read aloud, his voice trailing off as he processed the words.

Sarah gasped. “Sam. He’s talking about you!”

“What? No, he’s not,” Sam said, though his heart was racing.

“Who else would he mean? You were the one in the vintage jersey, all genuine and nervous. You totally stood out!”

“Sarah, stop,” Sam said, laughing nervously. “There’s no way—”

“Sam,” she interrupted firmly. “This man basically tweeted about you. If you don’t believe me, go read the comments. I guarantee someone’s already figured it out.”

Curious, Sam scrolled through the replies. Most were typical fan responses—heart emojis, congratulatory messages, and people begging for another meet and greet. But then he saw it:

@RacingFanatic97:You mean the guy in the jersey? He was adorable. Saw him in line. Total diehard.

Sam’s eyes widened.

“Sarah,” he said slowly. “People are talking about me.”

“Told you!” she said triumphantly. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Sam didn’t have an answer. All he could do was stare at the tweet, his mind racing with possibilities he hadn’t dared to consider before.

After refreshing Bucky’s Twitter account for what felt like the millionth time, Sam sighed and put his phone down. There weren’t any new updates or cryptic tweets, just the same post from earlier.

Sarah had hung up hours ago after teasing him to the point of exhaustion, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He was still trying to process the surreal events of the day, but he knew he needed to get out of his head—and his apartment—for a while.

That’s when he remembered the neighborhood gathering by the docks.

It was a regular event, nothing fancy—just people from the community coming together to share food, stories, and music. Normally, Sam loved these gatherings, but tonight, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to focus on anything other than Bucky Barnes. Still, the fresh air and good company might be exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

He grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to his friend Joaquin:

Sam:Hey, heading to the docks for the gathering. You coming?

Joaquin’s response came almost immediately.

Joaquin: You know it. Meet you there in 10.

With that settled, Sam threw on a light jacket and headed out.

The cool night air helped ease some of his lingering nervous energy as he made his way to the docks. The sound of laughter and music greeted him as he arrived, the warm glow of string lights reflecting off the water.

“Sam!” Joaquin’s voice called out, and Sam turned to see his friend waving through the small crowd. Joaquin was all smiles, his energy infectious as always.

“Hey, man,” Sam said, giving him a quick bro-hug.

“So,” Joaquin began, his grin widening, “how was the big day? Did you survive meeting your idol, or did you faint on the spot?”

Sam rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t faint, thank you very much. But yeah, I met him. Got the autograph and everythin'.”

Joaquin let out an exaggerated gasp. “No way! You actually met the Bucky Barnes? And you’re just casually standing here like it’s no big deal?”

“It was a big deal,” Sam admitted, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “He even talked to me—said my jersey was cool and told me not to be a stranger—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up,” Joaquin interrupted, grabbing Sam’s shoulder. “He said what? ‘Not to be a stranger’? Dude, that’s huge!”

Sam shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I mean, it was probably nothin'. He’s just good with fans, you know?”

“Or,” Joaquin countered, wagging a finger, “he meant it. Seriously, Sam, what if he’s into you?”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, now you’re being delusional. More than I am, damn.”

“Am I, though?” Joaquin teased, nudging him. “Look, all I’m saying is, maybe this isn’t just a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Maybe there’s more to it.”

Sam wanted to dismiss the idea, but deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder. Was Joaquin right? Was there even the slightest chance that Bucky Barnes had noticed him in a way that went beyond the usual fan interaction?

The thought was almost too much to handle, so Sam pushed it aside for now. Instead, he focused on the gathering, letting the lively atmosphere distract him.

The two friends grabbed food from one of the makeshift stalls and settled near the water, laughing and chatting as the evening wore on. For a little while, Sam was able to forget about the autograph, the tweet, and the lingering questions in his mind.

But as the night wound down and he found himself staring out at the dark, rippling water, he couldn’t help but think about Bucky again. What was he doing right now? 

—#—

Meanwhile, Bucky had just arrived at his mansion, the roar of his motorcycle echoing through the long driveway as he parked it in the garage.

He removed his helmet, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and sighed deeply. The day had been exhausting, even though he hadn’t shown it.

He entered through the side door, the familiar scent of wood polish and lavender filling the air. His butler, Robert, was already waiting for him in the foyer.

Robert was a stout, gray-haired man with a warm but disciplined demeanor, having served the Barnes family for decades. “Welcome back, Mr. Barnes,” Robert greeted him with a slight bow.

Bucky only nodded, his expression unreadable as always. “Thanks, Robert.”

As he stepped further inside, his maid, Jade, appeared from the hallway—a young woman in her mid-twenties, she had been working at the mansion for only a few months but had already learned the unspoken rules of dealing with Bucky. She approached him with a polite smile and held out her hand.

“Your jacket, sir,” she said.

Bucky shrugged off the leather jacket, handing it to her without a word. Like a highschool delinquent, he only gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment before heading straight for the stairs.

Jade watched him go, glancing at Robert with raised eyebrows once Bucky was out of earshot. “He’s in a great mood, as usual,” she whispered sarcastically.

Robert chuckled softly. “That’s just how he is. Give it time.”

—

Bucky climbed the stairs, his boots heavy against the polished wood. The mansion wasn’t enormous by any means, but it was more than enough for one person.

It had everything he needed: a swimming pool out back, a garage filled with his prized motorcycles, and enough space to escape the outside world when it all became too much.

He reached his room and closed the door behind him with a soft thud. The space was minimalistic, almost spartan, with dark furniture and barely any decorations. A large window overlooked the backyard pool, the moonlight reflecting off its surface.

Tossing his helmet onto the bed, Bucky flopped down beside it and let out a long breath. The day’s events replayed in his mind—the meet and greet, the endless fanfare, and that one fan who had somehow stood out among the crowd.

“Sam.” he muttered to himself, the name tasting unfamiliar yet oddly comfortable on his tongue.

There had been something about him—something genuine, unlike the usual starstruck expressions he encountered. Sam hadn’t just seen Bucky Barnes, the racer; it had felt like he’d seen him. The thought was unsettling but also strangely comforting.

Bucky leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers absentmindedly drummed against his thigh as he considered the day’s events. For a moment, he thought about grabbing his phone to check Twitter, but he decided against it. The media buzz could wait.

Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability, his mind wandering back to Sam’s warm smile and wide, admiring eyes.

Don’t be a stranger, he’d said. At the time, it had felt like a throwaway line, something to say to a fan to make their day. But now, in the quiet of his room, the words felt heavier, more deliberate.

He wasn’t sure what he’d meant by them, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to forget Sam Wilson anytime soon.

—#—

The sun had barely risen when Sam’s phone buzzed insistently on his nightstand, pulling him from a deep sleep. Groaning like he’d just been hit by a truck, Sam blindly reached out, fumbling until his fingers closed around the device. Squinting against the harsh light of the screen, he saw the notification that had interrupted his dreams.

It was a tweet from one of the major racing media outlets, RacingNewsHQ—the kind that always seemed to have insider access to Bucky Barnes.

Curious, Sam clicked on it, and his eyes widened as he read the headline.

Sam sat up so fast he almost dropped his phone. “Wait, what?” he muttered to himself.

He scrolled down to the body of the article linked in the tweet, skimming the text with growing disbelief.

Apparently, as part of some PR stunt, Bucky’s team had agreed to host a ‘fan appreciation day’ at his mansion in Romania, giving the public a rare glimpse into the private life of the world-famous racer. The event promised exclusive tours of his home, a showcase of his motorcycles, and a chance to meet Bucky in person for those lucky enough to get in.

Sam blinked at the screen. “Is this even legal?” he said aloud, still half-convinced it was some sort of joke.

The idea of opening up someone’s home to the public felt... invasive, to say the least. Even for a celebrity like Bucky Barnes, this kind of event seemed over the top.

Sam’s mind raced. He could already imagine the chaos—the crowds of fans swarming the mansion, desperate to get a peek at Bucky’s personal life. And yet, despite the absurdity of it all, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, You have to go.

Because if there was even the slightest chance of seeing Bucky again, of standing in the same room as him, Sam knew he couldn’t pass it up.

Still, the whole thing felt surreal. He grabbed his phone again, this time texting Joaquin.

Sam: Did you see the news about Bucky’s mansion?

The reply came almost instantly.

Joaquin:Yeah, dude, crazy right? You going?

Sam hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Finally, he typed:

Sam: I don’t know. Feels kinda weird, doesn’t it? Like, opening up his house?

Joaquin:Weird, yeah, but this is your chance, man. You could see him again!

Sam stared at the message, his heart pounding. Joaquin was right—this could be his chance. 

Still sitting on his bed, Sam stared at the tweet for another minute before the obvious thought hit him. Sarah has to know about this.

He immediately opened his messages and typed a quick text.

Sam:Sarah, please tell me you saw the tweet about Bucky’s house.

It only took a moment for her to reply.

Sarah:What tweet? What are you talking about?

Rolling his eyes, Sam hit the call button. Sarah picked up on the first ring, her voice groggy.

“Sam, it’s barely six in the morning. What now?”

“Okay, listen,” Sam said, excitement bubbling in his voice. “There’s this tweet—apparently Bucky’s mansion in Romania is going to be open to the public on the 19th. Like, fans can actually go inside.”

Sarah paused, then let out a sharp laugh. “Hell nah. Who does that? You for real?”

“It’s hella real,” Sam said, pulling the phone away from his ear for a second to double-check the tweet. “RacingNewsHq posted it. And I’m thinking... maybe we should go.”

Sarah scoffed. “‘We?’ You want me to fly halfway across the world so you could fanboy over your motorcycle boyfriend?”

“He’s not my—” Sam started, then stopped himself. “Look, Sarah, I’m serious. This could be my only chance to, I don’t know, see where he lives. Maybe even talk to him again.”

“And you need me there because...?”

“Because it’s Romania,” Sam said, exasperated. “I’m not going to some random country by myself. Besides, wouldn’t it be fun? We could make a whole trip out of it. You’ve been talking about needing a vacation, right?”

Sarah was quiet for a moment, and Sam could practically hear her weighing the pros and cons in her head.

“Fine,” she said finally. “But only because I want to see if this guy is really worth all the hype. And you’re paying for my plane ticket.”

Sam grinned. “Deal. So... we’re doing this?”

“Yeah, we’re doing this,” Sarah said, a hint of excitement creeping into her voice. “But if I get there and he turns out to be some stuck-up jerk, you owe me dinner for a month.”

“Deal!” Sam repeated, already pulling up flight options on his phone.

As he hung up, the realization hit him: in just a few weeks, he could be standing in Bucky Barnes’ mansion, face to face with the man himself. The thought sent a thrill through him, but it also brought back that nagging feeling of unease.

But even as excitement began to build, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this whole situation was off.

Why would someone like Bucky agree to something so invasive? Was this really just a PR stunt, or was there more to it?

Sam didn’t have the answers, but one thing was certain: December 19 was already marked on his calendar.

—#—

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Bucky’s room, streaking across his face and pulling him from his sleep. He groaned, turning over in a futile attempt to block it out, but it was no use. The sun had won this round.

Rubbing his face, he swung his legs off the bed and stood, his bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floor. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he figured his pants were enough to make him look presentable—for now, at least.

Bucky wandered out of his room, running a hand through his hair as he made his way to the dining room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeted him, coaxing him to move a little faster.

When he arrived, Robert and Jade were already setting the table with a spread that would put most restaurants to shame. Eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, fresh fruit—it was all there, meticulously arranged.

“Good morning, sir,” Robert greeted with his usual formality.

“Morning,” Bucky mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep. He glanced at Jade, who was fussing over the placement of a fruit bowl. “You two sit down.”

Robert and Jade exchanged a look. “Sir,” Robert began, “our job is to serve—”

“I said, sit down,” Bucky interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, grabbing a piece of toast as he gestured at the two of them. “Come on. You made all this. You should enjoy it too.”

Robert hesitated, clearly torn between his sense of duty and the rare softness in Bucky’s voice.

Jade, on the other hand, sighed and threw up her hands. “Fine,” she said, sitting down across from Bucky. “But if anyone asks, I’m only doing this because you demanded it.”

Robert finally relented, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Very well, sir.”

They ate in relative silence at first, the clinking of utensils filling the space. But as the minutes passed, the atmosphere began to relax. Bucky leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee as he watched the two of them with a faint smile.

“You two work too hard,” he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“That’s kind of the job,” Jade quipped, though her tone was light.

“Still,” Bucky said, his gaze softening. “I appreciate it. Just don’t overdo it, alright? You’re not machines.”

Robert looked up from his plate, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he gave a small nod. “Thank you, sir. That’s... kind of you to say.”

Jade smirked. “Wow, the great Bucky Barnes showing a little sweetness. Should I be worried?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Bucky shot back with a grin, but there was no real bite to his words.

Even under his often-gruff demeanor, moments like these showed the man beneath the fame—the one who cared, even if he wasn’t great at expressing it. And for Robert and Jade, who saw more of Bucky than anyone else, it was enough to remind them why they stayed.

As the meal wrapped up, Bucky pushed back from the table and stretched. “Aight, I’m gonna go check on the garage. You two do whatever you want for the rest of the day.”

“You’re not giving us the day off, are you?” Jade asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little,” she replied, earning a chuckle from Robert.

Bucky shook his head, heading toward the garage. As the door swung shut behind him, Jade turned to Robert.

“He’s got a strange way of showing it,” she said, “but he’s not so bad, is he?”

Robert nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. “Not so bad at all.”

Bucky was crouched in the garage, the familiar scent of motor oil and grease filling the air as he worked on his favorite bike. It was a sleek, black machine that had carried him to more victories than he could count. Adjusting the throttle cable with a practiced hand, he leaned in closer, muttering to himself about the need for perfection.

The garage was his sanctuary—a place where the noise of fame and expectations couldn’t reach him. Or so he thought—

Back in the kitchen, Jade wiped down the counter as Robert dried the dishes. Her phone buzzed on the table, the vibration catching her attention. Picking it up, she unlocked it to find a notification from RacingNewsHQ.

Her eyes scanned the headline, and her mouth fell open. “What the hell…” she muttered under her breath.

“What is it?” Robert asked, setting down a clean glass.

Jade turned the screen toward him. “Look at this. They’re opening his house to the public.”

Robert squinted at the screen, reading the article carefully. His brows furrowed, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, dear...”

“They can’t seriously be doing this without telling him first, right?” Jade said, lowering the phone.

“You’d think not,” Robert replied, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Jade glanced toward the direction of the garage. “He’s not gonna like this.”

Robert gave her a knowing look. “I don’t envy you if you’re the one delivering the news.”

Jade groaned but straightened her shoulders. “Well, someone has to. Better me than the media ambushing him about it later.”

A few minutes later, Bucky was tightening a bolt when he heard the garage door creak open. He glanced up to see Jade standing there, looking unusually hesitant.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

Jade hesitated, her fingers tapping against her phone. “Uh, so… I just saw something. And I think you should know about it before it gets out of hand.”

Bucky frowned, standing up and tossing the rag onto his workbench. “What is it?”

Jade walked over, holding out her phone. “This.”

He took the phone and read the article, his jaw tightening with each passing second. By the time he finished, his expression was a mix of anger and disbelief.

“They’re doing what?” he said, his voice low but laced with fury.

“They’re opening your house to the public,” Jade repeated cautiously. “Apparently, it’s supposed to be some kind of fan event. Did you agree to this?”

“No,” Bucky snapped, shoving the phone back at her. He paced the length of the garage, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t agree to any of this. Who the hell thought this was a good idea?”

Jade crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “Do you want me to call your PR team? Or maybe Robert can reach out to someone higher up?”

Bucky stopped pacing, his fists clenching. “No. I’ll handle it myself.”

“Alright,” Jade said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Just… try not to kill anyone, okay?”

Bucky shot her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. He was too preoccupied with the implications of the article. This wasn’t just an invasion of his privacy—it was a blatant overstep, and someone was going to answer for it.

As Jade left the garage, Bucky turned back to his bike, gripping the handlebars tightly.

“This is my home,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and dangerous. “Not a damn tourist attraction.”

Bucky grabbed his keys off the workbench, his mind racing as fast as his pulse. He wasn’t the type to sit around when something like this happened—he needed answers, and he needed them now.

Pulling his helmet over his head, he secured the strap and took a deep breath to steady himself. This wasn’t just about some PR stunt gone too far. This was his life, his privacy, and the one place in the world he had control over.

Leaving the garage, he strode through the house without so much as a glance at Jade or Robert, who were now lingering in the living room.

“I’ll be back before midnight,” he called out, his voice clipped.

“Sir, do be careful on your—” Robert began, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the front door slamming shut. The force rattled the windows, making Jade wince.

“Guess he didn’t like the news,” she muttered.

“That’s an understatement,” Robert replied, shaking his head.

Outside, Bucky headed straight for the bike he kept parked near the front of the house. It wasn’t his usual racing motors, but it was fast, sleek, and reliable—perfect for blowing off steam or chasing down answers.

The roar of the engine echoed through the quiet street as he kicked it into gear and sped off, the chill of the early morning air biting against his skin.

The open road stretched ahead, but Bucky’s focus was razor-sharp. He didn’t know exactly who he was going to confront—his PR team, the sponsors, maybe even the media outlet that had leaked the story—but someone was going to explain how this mess had happened.

And if they didn’t have a good answer, they’d be dealing with more than just a few angry words.

Bucky grabbed his keys off the workbench, his mind racing as fast as his pulse. He wasn’t the type to sit around when something like this happened—he needed answers, and he needed them now.

Pulling his helmet over his head, he secured the strap and took a deep breath to steady himself. This wasn’t just about some PR stunt gone too far. This was his life, his privacy, and the one place in the world he had control over.

Leaving the garage, he strode through the house without so much as a glance at Jade or Robert, who were now lingering in the living room.

“I’ll be back before midnight,” he called out, his voice clipped.

“Sir, do be careful on your—” Robert began, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the front door slamming shut. The force rattled the windows, making Jade wince.

“Guess he didn’t like the news,” she muttered.

“That’s an understatement,” Robert replied, shaking his head.

Outside, Bucky headed straight for the bike he kept parked near the front of the house. It wasn’t his usual racing machine, but it was fast, sleek, and reliable—perfect for blowing off steam or chasing down answers.

The roar of the engine echoed through the quiet street as he kicked it into gear and sped off, the chill of the early morning air biting against his skin.

The open road stretched ahead, but Bucky’s focus was razor-sharp. He didn’t know exactly who he was going to confront—his PR team, the sponsors, maybe even the media outlet that had leaked the story—but someone was going to explain how this mess had happened.

And if they didn’t have a good answer, they’d be dealing with more than just a few angry words.

—

Robert and Jade were tidying up the dining room when the faint roar of Bucky’s bike faded into the distance.

“That could’ve gone better,” Jade said, leaning against the table.

Robert sighed, setting down a plate. “He’s not one to take surprises well, especially when it involves his personal life.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jade muttered. “You think he’ll be alright?”

Robert straightened, his expression thoughtful. “He’s resilient. He’ll figure it out. He always does.”

Jade nodded, though her worry didn’t completely fade. “I just hope this PR mess doesn’t blow up any more than it already has.”

—

Bucky reached the city square, his bike roaring like a beast unleashed. He weaved through traffic with a level of precision that showcased his skills, but the intensity of his driving betrayed his seething anger. Each twist of the throttle sent vibrations through his body, matching the rage simmering inside.

By the time he pulled up to his company building, the engine let out one last growl before he shut it off. He swung off the bike, the sound of his boots hitting the pavement echoing in the crisp air.

The glass doors of the lobby slid open as Bucky stormed inside. Employees milling around the entrance straightened up when they saw him, some stammering greetings.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes—”

But Bucky didn’t even glance their way. His eyes were locked on the elevator at the far end of the hall, and his steps were unrelenting.

He jabbed the elevator button hard enough to make his knuckles ache. As the doors slid shut behind him, he leaned against the mirrored wall, his reflection scowling back at him.

“These motherfuckers.” He muttered.

When the elevator dinged open on the publicist's floor, Bucky didn’t hesitate. He stormed out, brushing past two security guards who tried to step into his path.

“Sir—” one of them began, but Bucky barely slowed down, his shoulder bumping the guard out of the way like he wasn’t even there.

The hallway leading to Quins' office felt miles long, but Bucky’s strides ate up the distance in seconds. Reaching the door, he didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he shoved it open with enough force to make the hinges groan.

Inside, Quins—his publicist—was seated at their desk, a coffee cup in hand and a laptop open in front of them. They looked up, startled, as Bucky stalked toward them.

Before Quins could say a word, Bucky yanked his phone out of his pocket and shoved it in their face, the bright screen displaying the RacingNewsHQ tweet.

“What the fuck do you think this shit is, Quins?” Bucky demanded, his voice sharp and dangerous. “Is this some kind of revenge because I haven’t been ‘nice’ enough to you fuckers? You thought it’d be funny to throw this bullshit at me?”

Quins blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Bucky, I—”

“You think this is funny?” he growled, cutting them off. “You didn’t even bother to tell me? Just let the world know my house is some kind of circus attraction now?”

Quins set their coffee down slowly, their hands shaking slightly. “Bucky, listen—this wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky leaned in closer, his glare like daggers. “Then whose idea was it? Because if it wasn’t you, it sure as hell better be someone you can point me to.”

Quins swallowed hard, their composure slipping under Bucky’s intense gaze. “It came from the higher-ups,” they admitted. “They thought it would be a good PR move. A way to—”

“A ‘good PR move’?” Bucky repeated, his voice rising. He took a step back, pacing in front of the desk like a caged animal. “This is my house, Quins. My life. Not some playground for fans to walk through like it’s a fucking museum!”

“I know,” Quins said quickly, their tone placating. “I told them it wasn’t a good idea, but they insisted. They said it would help maintain your image as accessible, relatable—”

“Relatable?” Bucky snapped. “I’m a fucking racer, not a goddamn reality star.”

Quins stood, hands raised in a defensive gesture. “Bucky, I can call them. We can try to fix this—”

“You will fix this,” Bucky interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure every single person who signed off on this regrets it. Got it?”

Quins nodded quickly, already reaching for their phone. “Understood. I’ll take care of it right away.”

Bucky stormed out of the publicist’s office, his boots echoing sharply in the quiet hallway. The fury coursing through his veins hadn’t subsided, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.

The two security guards he’d brushed past earlier stepped aside as he approached, exchanging wary glances but wisely saying nothing.

The elevator ride down felt like an eternity, the faint hum of the machinery doing nothing to calm him. As soon as the doors slid open, he was out, striding through the lobby with the same intense energy that had brought him in.

A few employees tried to greet him again, but one look at his face made them quickly retreat. Bucky didn’t care. He didn’t have time for pleasantries.

Outside, the cold wind hit him like a slap, but it did little to cool his temper. His bike was still parked where he’d left it, gleaming under the pale sunlight. He swung a leg over and started it with a roar, the sound echoing through the square.

He didn’t have a plan, not yet. But he needed to ride. To clear his head. To figure out his next move.

Bucky found himself on the outskirts of the city, the open road stretching before him. The scenery blurred as he pushed his bike to its limits, the wind cutting through him like a knife. The speed, the adrenaline—it was the only thing keeping his thoughts from spiraling completely out of control.

Eventually, he slowed down, pulling off the main road and into a quiet rest stop. He parked his bike and sat on the edge of a bench, his helmet resting in his lap.

For a moment, he just stared out at the horizon, his mind racing as much as his bike had been.

He couldn’t let this go. Whoever had thought it was a good idea to turn his home into a spectacle had crossed a line, and Bucky wasn’t about to let them get away with it.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for. Pressing call, he put the phone to his ear and waited.

“Bucky,” came the voice on the other end, cautious but professional.

“Sharon,” Bucky said, his voice steady but cold. “I need a favor. And I need it now.”

“What kind of favor?” Sharon asked, her tone sharpening.

“The kind where I find out who’s really pulling the strings on this PR stunt,” Bucky replied. “And I want names.”

There was a pause on the other end before Sharon sighed. “Alright. Give me a few hours. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, ending the call.

He leaned back against the bench, his gaze fixed on the sky. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the landscape.

He didn’t know where this trail would lead, but one thing was certain—whoever was responsible for this would regret underestimating him.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of orange and purple, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside Bucky’s mind.

For a moment, sitting there at the rest stop, he let the tranquil beauty of the evening wash over him. The quiet hum of nature, the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees—it all seemed so far removed from the mess he’d just left behind.

His helmet still balanced on his lap, and watched as the stars began to emerge, one by one. They twinkled faintly at first, like shy dancers stepping onto a dark stage, until the entire sky seemed to shimmer with light.

It was beautiful—peaceful, even. Almost enough to make him forget the issue at hand.

Almost.

Bucky exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. The stars might’ve been a comforting distraction, but they couldn’t erase the reality of what awaited him back in the city. His house—his sanctuary—was now at the mercy of strangers, all because of some twisted idea of fan engagement.

The thought reignited the flicker of anger that had briefly dulled during the sunset. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he stared up at the vast expanse of the night sky.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was Sharon.

“Got something already?” he answered, his tone sharp.

“You know me—I don’t waste time,” Sharon replied, her voice calm but focused. “I traced the decision back to the head of your sponsorship team. Some guy named ‘Carter Donovan’. Ring a bell?”

Bucky frowned, trying to recall the name. “Vaguely. What’s his angle?”

“Typical corporate nonsense,” Sharon explained. “He’s pushing this ‘exclusive fan experience’ idea to boost engagement and sell more merch. From what I can tell, he bypassed you entirely and got approval from the higher-ups. Figured you’d just go along with it.”

“Of course he did.” Bucky muttered, the frustration evident in his voice.

“There’s more,” Sharon continued. “This guy’s been making moves to expand his influence within the company. If this stunt works, he’ll get credit for boosting revenue. If it backfires? You’re the one who takes the heat.”

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened. “So, he’s gambling with my name to climb the ladder?”

“Pretty much,” Sharon confirmed. “You want me to handle it?”

Bucky paused, his gaze drifting back to the stars. For a brief moment, he considered letting Sharon take care of it—she was good at her job, and she knew how to play the game. But this wasn’t just business. This was personal.

“Nah,” he said finally. “I’ll deal with him myself.”

“Thought you’d say that,” Sharon said with a hint of amusement. “Just don’t do anything too crazy, okay?”

“No promises,” Bucky replied before hanging up.

He sat there for a moment longer, the night sky stretching endlessly above him. The stars seemed brighter now, their light unwavering despite the darkness.

With a determined breath, Bucky stood up, slid his helmet back on, and straddled his bike. The engine roared to life, its sound cutting through the stillness of the evening.

The stars might have offered a momentary reprieve, but they also served as a reminder: even in the darkest night, there was always a way forward.

And Bucky was ready to find it.

—#—

December 19th was creeping closer, and the Wilson siblings were in full preparation mode. Knowing they were headed to Romania, they decided a little shopping spree was in order to stock up on essentials and maybe a few fun extras for the trip.

At the local store, Sam stood in the travel section, staring at a wall of backpacks, each one slightly different yet none seeming quite right. He held up a sleek black bag in one hand and a rugged, camo-patterned one in the other, his brow furrowed in deep consideration.

Sarah stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her patience running thin. "We’ve been on this aisle for a few minutes. Can't you just pick one already?" she said, her voice tinged with exasperation.

“This isn’t just any backpack, Sarah,” Sam replied, turning to her with a dramatic flourish. “This is the backpack. It’s gotta carry all my stuff, be durable, lightweight, stylish—”

“Stylish?” Sarah interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s gonna care about your ugly backpack in Romania?”

Sam shot her a mock-offended look. “I care. What if we end up on TV or something? I can’t be walking around with some shitty bag. Bucky Barnes might see me!”

Sarah snorted, rolling her eyes. “Oh, here we go again. You think ‘Mr. Bucky Barnes’ is gonna stop his busy superstar life to check out your backpack?”

“You never know!” Sam shot back, smirking. “What if we bump into each other, and he’s like, ‘Hey, cool bag.’ It could happen.”

Sarah laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed a random bag off the shelf and handed it to him. “Here. This one’s fine. Let’s go before you start fantasizing about Bucky complimenting your shoes, too.”

Sam took the bag, inspecting it with exaggerated care. “You know, this one’s actually not bad...”

“Good,” Sarah said, already walking toward the next aisle. “Now, can we please move on? We still need to grab travel snacks, and I’m not letting you hog the aisle this time.”

Sam chuckled, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he followed her. “You’re just mad because I’m prepared, and you’re not. Watch, I’ll be the one carrying all your stuff when you complain your purse is too heavy.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll leave you in Romania,” Sarah shot back, but her playful smile betrayed her amusement.

As they continued through the store, Sam’s excitement for the trip grew. Sure, it was about exploring a new country, but the chance to even see Bucky Barnes’ home—even from a distance—was something he never thought he’d experience.

For now, though, he focused on the essentials: snacks, travel guides, and maybe—just maybe—a few more ‘stylish’ items to ensure he’d be Romania-ready.

The Wilson siblings finished their shopping spree with full carts, packed with travel essentials and more snacks than necessary. Sam had insisted on getting an assortment of trail mixes, protein bars, and even some local New Orleans specialties to ‘represent home’ in Romania.

“Sam,” Sarah said, eyeing his haul as they loaded their bags into the car, “you do realize they sell food in Romania, right? Like, actual food?”

“Yeah, but you can’t trust airplane food,” Sam replied, tossing the last bag into the trunk. “Besides, what if I get homesick? I need a little taste of Louisiana with me.”

Sarah shook her head, chuckling. “You’re impossible. Just don’t complain when your bag weighs more than mine, and you have to carry it up some mountain or castle stairs.”

Sam grinned, sliding into the driver’s seat. “It’s all part of the adventure, sis. You’ll thank me when I bust out some gumbo-flavored chips on a cold Romanian night.”

Later that evening, after unpacking their haul at home, Sam found himself scrolling through social media. He was still buzzing with excitement about the trip, but he couldn’t help checking for any updates about the open house at Bucky’s mansion.

“Still nothing new,” he muttered to himself, refreshing the page.

His sister’s voice called out from the kitchen. “What are you mumbling about now?”

“Bucky’s house,” Sam replied. “There’s been radio silence since that one post. You’d think they’d give us more details by now. Like, is there a schedule? A tour? Can we even take pictures?”

Sarah walked in, holding a mug of tea. “Maybe they’re keeping it vague on purpose, so people don’t flood the place all at once.”

“Or maybe,” Sam said, leaning back on the couch dramatically, “they’re trying to drive us crazy with suspense.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “You’ll survive, Sam. Just focus on packing. We’ve got a flight to catch soon.”

Sam sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table. “Fine, but if I miss anything because they don’t post the details in time, I’m blaming you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sarah said, smirking as she walked back to the kitchen.

—

Meanwhile, across the ocean in Romania, Bucky was pacing in his study. The grand room, filled with old books and ornate furniture, felt too small to contain the storm brewing inside him.

The open house was officially happening, and no amount of protests or calls to his team had stopped it. Carter Donovan’s little PR stunt was moving forward, and now Bucky had to decide how to deal with the fallout.

Jade appeared at the door, hesitant. “Sir? Robert asked if you’d like dinner now.”

Bucky paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tell him I’m not hungry.”

Jade nodded but didn’t leave. Instead, she shifted on her feet, as if debating whether to speak.

“What?” Bucky asked, his tone sharper than intended.

Jade flinched slightly but stood her ground. “I just thought... maybe this open house isn’t all bad. You might actually meet people who genuinely admire you. Not the corporate types or the media, but real fans.”

Bucky stared at her, the tension in his jaw easing just slightly. “Real fans, huh?”

“Yes,” Jade said, her voice softer now. “Maybe it’s worth seeing it through, even if it’s not what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting to the window where the moonlight spilled into the room.

“Maybe,” he said finally, though his tone remained uncertain.

As Jade left him alone, Bucky sat down at his desk, the weight of the upcoming event pressing heavily on his shoulders.

For now, he could only wait and see what December 19th would bring.

—#—

The morning of their flight finally arrived, and the Wilson household was buzzing with excitement and mild chaos. Sam and Sarah double-checked their bags, ensuring nothing important was left behind.

“Passport?” Sarah asked, holding hers up like a trophy.

“Check,” Sam patted his jacket pocket. “Yours?”

“Obviously. I’m the responsible sibling, remember?” Sarah shot back, grinning.

Sam laughed, grabbing his carry-on. “Oh, yeah? ‘Responsible’ enough to forget your charger last trip to New York?”

Sarah glared at him playfully. “You promised we’d never talk about that again.”

“Can’t help it, sis. It’s my favorite story to tell,” Sam teased, throwing an arm over her shoulder as they headed out the door.

The ride to the airport was classic Wilson sibling energy: loud, funny, and filled with banter. Sam had the radio on, singing along dramatically to an old R&B song, his voice cracking on the high notes.

“Please stop,” Sarah groaned, covering her ears. “You’re ruining the song for me forever.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam said, leaning into his awful performance. “You know I’m hitting all the right notes.”

“You’re hitting something, alright,” Sarah replied. “But it’s definitely not the notes.”

Sam laughed so hard he nearly missed the turnoff for the freeway. Sarah reached over, grabbing the wheel for a moment.

“Eyes on the road, superstar!” she shouted.

“I had it under control!” Sam protested, though his grin gave him away.

“Uh-huh,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “And when we’re on the side of the road calling a tow truck, I’m reminding you of this.”

They stopped at a drive-thru on the way, picking up breakfast sandwiches and coffee.

Sarah took a picture of Sam holding his food and captioned it, ‘Last meal before my brother embarrasses himself in Romania.’ She posted it to her story, earning a side-eye from Sam.

“Really? You’re documenting this?” Sam asked, biting into his sandwich.

“Absolutely,” Sarah replied, sipping her coffee. “I need evidence for when you do something ridiculous.”

“Oh, like when you fell into the fountain in Central Park?” Sam shot back, smirking.

Sarah gasped, her cheeks flushing. “You promised—”

“All’s fair in sibling warfare,” Sam interrupted, laughing.

As they pulled into the airport parking lot, the teasing turned to light-hearted excitement. Sarah grabbed their bags while Sam locked the car, and they walked toward the terminal, still joking and nudging each other like they always did.

“Alright, let’s make a pact,” Sarah said as they approached the check-in counter. “No embarrassing moments. We’re representing the Wilson family in a foreign country.”

Sam held out his hand dramatically. “Agreed. No falling into fountains, no forgetting chargers—”

“And no singing in public,” Sarah added quickly.

Sam laughed. “I can’t promise that one, but I’ll try.”

With that, they checked in and made their way to the gate, the reality of their trip finally sinking in.

The announcement came over the intercom: “Flight 239 to Bucharest, now boarding.”

Sam and Sarah grabbed their carry-ons and joined the line. Sarah looked around, taking in the bustle of the terminal. “This is it,” she said with a mix of excitement and nervous energy.

“Yep,” Sam replied, nudging her lightly. “The Wilson siblings taking Europe by storm. You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sarah replied with a grin.

A sweet-faced flight attendant greeted them at the gate. Her uniform was immaculate, and her smile warm. “Welcome aboard,” she said, checking their tickets. “You’ll be in Row 14, seats A and B. Right this way, please.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, returning the smile.

The attendant led them onto the plane, her polite professionalism a calming presence amidst the pre-flight chaos. As they stepped into the cabin, Sam couldn’t resist leaning over to Sarah.

“She’s nice,” he whispered. “You think she’ll bring me extra peanuts?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Stop embarrassing us already.”

“Just saying,” Sam replied, holding up his hands innocently.

They reached their seats, and Sarah took the window seat, leaving Sam to sit on the aisle. The flight attendant helped them stow their carry-ons, her cheerful demeanor unwavering.

“If you need anything at all during the flight, just let me know,” she said, glancing between them.

“Actually,” Sam said, flashing his signature charming smile, “do you guys still do those little wings pins? My sister here’s always wanted one.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped, and she elbowed Sam hard. “I do not!”

The flight attendant chuckled, clearly amused. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a wink before moving to assist another passenger.

As she walked away, Sarah turned to Sam, glaring. “You are the worst.”

Sam just laughed, leaning back in his seat. “You’re welcome. Now you’ll have a souvenir to remember this trip.”

“Yeah, a souvenir from the moment I smother my brother with an airplane pillow,” Sarah muttered, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

The plane began filling with passengers, and the familiar pre-flight routines unfolded. Sam adjusted his seatbelt, looking around with growing excitement. “You know,” he said, turning to Sarah, “this is my first international flight.”

“Mine too,” Sarah admitted. “Kinda surreal, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded, glancing out the window past her. The runway stretched endlessly under the fading light, promising adventure beyond the horizon.

As the plane taxied and the engines roared to life, the Wilsons exchanged a glance. “Here we go,” Sam said, gripping the armrest.

“Next stop: Romania.” Sarah replied, her voice a mix of excitement and anticipation.

And as the plane lifted off into the sky, the journey they’d been waiting for truly began.