For you, I'll risk it all

XVIII

"Where's our first stop?" Steve inquired, the room filled with the rustling of clothes and gear as they packed their bags. The city outside was still asleep, the only noise breaking the early morning silence was the distant hum of the street cleaner cars. 

"Bucharest," Iris responded. Her voice was quiet and firm, matching her actions as she closed her black leather jacket and zipped up her black pants, securing her knives. 

Steve raised an eyebrow, "Care to explain why we're headed there?" 

"Not now," she turned to face him, her eyes meeting his. 

"Do you trust me or not?" 

"On finding Buck? Yes." His response was immediate, the two of them lingering in the room for a minute. She had messed things up with Steve, but this wasn't about them, it was bigger than that. 

"Then let's go," 

"Do we need backup?" Steve asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Iris shook her head, her gaze didn't waver. 

"He won't be there."

 At 10 a.m., their plane touched down in Bucharest. Steve followed closely behind Iris, who navigated the city streets with an uncanny familiarity. They weaved through the city, eventually ending up in a quiet suburban area, stopping before an old building. As they entered and began their way up the stairs, Steve could sense a change in Iris. Her body stiffened with each floor they passed, the rhythm of her heartbeat quickening. She halted at the last floor, standing in front of a worn-out door, her left hand resting on the handle of the knife secured to her leg. She paused, her body froze, and she seemed unable to move. So it was Steve who leaned in, his fingers brushing against hers as he gently pushed the door open. They both stood at the entrance, the room before them dimly lit and silent. Steve waited for Iris to make the next move, his attention entirely focused on her. After what felt like an eternity, she finally took a step inside. The room was just as she remembered. 

The place was small, not really suitable for two people. The old two-stove kitchen with its minimal cabinets was still the same. The black plastic table sat in the center of the room, still covered with a faded green tablecloth, stained with remnants of coffee and meals shared long ago. As they turned left, their attention was drawn to two mattresses. They were still there, one close to the window and the other a few inches to its left, separate yet not so distant. The small green leaf plant in a now cracked white vase was dried up, its leaves scattered on the floor, a testament to the passage of time. A small radio and a few files lay scattered on the floor.

Iris stood in the middle of the apartment, her eyes taking in every detail. Meanwhile, Steve checked the small bathroom, making sure they were alone. It looked like time had stopped moving in here as if everything was frozen in the moment she had left. Steve browsed the room, studying every detail of the small apartment, searching for any signs of his friend. 

He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. "You lived here?" 

All she could do was nod, her gaze meeting his. 

"You and Bucky?" he asked. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. She nodded again, the action barely perceptible. 

"How long?" he asked. His tone was neutral, but she could see the curiosity in his eyes. He eased himself onto one of the black plastic chairs as he started to process the information. 

"Steve," she whispered. Her voice was a mere breath against the stifling silence of the room. It felt like the weight of the memory hurt more than revealing the truth to Steve. 

"Please," he pleaded, his voice soft yet desperate. 

"A year," she finally managed to utter, her words hanging heavy in the air.