"I know, I won't," I say, watching him carefully. He's going to go back in, because of course he's going to go back in. He killed JFK and is going to be forever making up for it by throwing himself into any situation where he might save people instead.

And I'm not saying I don't get it. I'm not exactly known for sitting on my hands, either. But that doesn't mean I relinquish my right to worry about what that water might do to him while he's playing the hero.

I clamp a hand over his wrist, pushing free from his fingers to dart a hasty kiss to his mouth. "Bucky, I—" I falter, and then swallow the words roughly down as I sit back. He's not dying, Liv, and what you do or don't say won't make a difference in that.

"Be careful." I heave out a sigh. "Please."