Just here to read

He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.

He’s got it.

He has it.

Until he doesn’t.

---

You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.

“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”

You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.

So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.

Always does.

---

He stops when you reach the spot.

It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.

Just your place.

The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.

It matters.

That’s why he picked it.

You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything in his head just—

Gone.

Completely blank.

He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.

But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.

All he’s left with is feeling.

And it’s too big.

Too much.

His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.

Drops.

Right there.

One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.

Your eyes go wide.

“Bucky—?”

His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.

Because you’re staring at him.

Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.

And he's panicking.

Not about the answer. Never about that.

Just—about getting it right.

About saying it right.

About making sure you know.

And he can’t find the words.

Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.

So what comes out is—

“Please.”

It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.

Your face does something soft, something almost startled.

He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.

“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.

“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”

And it’s all there anyway.

Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.

Please don’t let this be something I lose.

Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.

“Bucky…”

He looks terrified.

Not of you.

Of losing you.

And that’s what does it.

That’s what breaks you open completely.

You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. Instantly.

“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”

His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.

“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”

His breath stutters.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.

You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.

“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

The relief that hits him is immediate.

His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”

You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“I practiced.”

You snort. “Did you really?”

He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”

He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”

You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.

Steve comes into your bedroom, sighing when he sees your backpack is open and empty on the floor by your bed, “Kid, even if you refuse to pack, you’ve still gotta go.”

“Why though?” You ask, and Steve braces himself for the conversation the two of you have every other Friday without fail.

“Because that’s the contact arrangement. I didn’t set them, I just have to follow them.”

“She only wanted every weekend to annoy you.”

“I know. And now she only has every other weekend so it could be worse. Now come on kid, let’s get that bag packed. If I don’t take you to your Mom’s I could get into trouble.”

You groan dramatically, standing up from your desk and stuffing clothes haphazardly into your bag. You scan your bookshelf, taking a long time to decide before picking out two and shoving them in as well, along with your Nintendo Switch. Steve watches with a sympathetic expression, knowing that you don’t want to go – but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He’d split up from your mother years ago, and contact arrangements had been a nightmare ever since. At first it had been agreed there’d be a 50:50 split. One week you’d spend with your Dad in the Avengers compound, the other you’d spend in your Mother’s apartment. That had lasted for a few years before you’d begged your Dad to just let you live with him all the time, telling him that going back and forth was driving you insane. Steve had applied for sole custody which had been denied, though contact with your mother had been reduced to every weekend, then eventually every other weekend.

Steve had initially thought the problem was solved, now that you had somewhere to officially call home. He knew that ferrying your stuff between his and your Mom’s place wasn’t working, you seemed permanently exhausted, and you were often late for school if staying with your Mom. It hadn’t taken long to realise the problem ran deeper than that though. You were miserable when you were at your Mom’s, even now you only had to see her every other weekend. It transpired that your Mom never did anything with you despite insisting on seeing you so often. You were left to fend for yourself, with her never offering to take you anywhere or actually spend any meaningful time with you. Annoyingly, if anything cropped up over your Mom’s weekend, she wouldn’t make any exceptions. A birthday party, any kind of celebration, club tournament, trip, vacation, your Mom didn’t care. As far as she was concerned it was her weekend and that was that.

Now you were getting older Steve could tell you were growing resentful and he was at a loss on what to do. Talking to your Mom would get him nowhere; his relationship with her had long broken down. His suggestions of you trying to talk to her and suggest activities also never lead to anything. ‘She’ll just say no. She won’t listen to me, she never does.’ Ultimately, it was your Mom’s weekend with you, the onus was on her to try and forge a relationship with you. All Steve could do was sympathise when you complained.

“Can’t I just stay here?” You whine as you both head down to Steve’s car. “It’s not like she’ll even notice that you haven’t dropped me off anyway.”

“I think she would notice kid,” Steve says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Besides, I’ll be there Sunday lunchtime to pick you up. We can do something nice, whatever you want.”

“Can we go out for lunch? That sushi place that I like?”

“Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

You perk up a little but can’t help continuing, “I still don’t want to go to Mom’s.”

“I know, kid. But she’s still your Mom so you have to go every other weekend until you turn eighteen.”

“How come I don’t get a say?”

Steve sighs, not really sure how to answer that one, “I don’t know. Custody laws favour the parents I guess. Though it’s good that you keep in touch with your Mom, right? You wouldn’t want to not see her completely.”

“I guess not but I wish I could just go for one night. And not sleep there. Like, maybe I could see her for a couple of hours every other week. We could go out for dinner. That’d be nicer.”

Steve nods, “You know she loves you though, right? In her own way.” You shrug your shoulders and Steve sighs again. “Just try and have a good weekend.”

“I got invited to a sleepover tomorrow night and I didn’t even ask Mom ‘cos we both know what she would’ve said.”

“You can have your own sleepover next weekend if you want; you could have a couple of friends round. I’ll order in pizza or whatever you want.”

You cheer up a little at that, “Thanks Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too kiddo. Always,” Steve says.

You take out your phone, counting off every weekend you’re at your Mom’s for the rest of the year, and you groan, “Oh for- I’m going to be at hers over Christmas. It’s going to be so boring.”

“Maybe I can have a word with her and-”

“She didn’t even let me stay home for 4th of July, she’s not gonna let me stay home for Christmas,” You sulk.

Steve nods, understanding your point. The 4th of July had finally fallen on a Saturday so Tony, even though Steve had asked him not to, had organised a big party with fireworks to celebrate Independence Day but also Steve’s birthday. It was the talk of the entire compound; it was going to be the biggest celebration they’d had in ages with no missions coming up, and everyone was involved in the preparations. You’d realised it had fallen on your Mom’s weekend so you’d asked if you could skip a weekend. She’d said no. You’d asked if you could go to hers on Friday night, go to the compound for the celebrations, then came back on Sunday for a few hours. Still no. Steve had appealed himself, but your Mom had gone on a rant about how he was trying to damage your relationship with her. Nothing had been able to change her mind, and you’d sobbed the entire drive to your Mom’s house. The celebrations had gone ahead without you, and Steve knew you were still upset with your Mom for that. He was too - not having you there hadn't made it very enjoyable.

“I’m sorry kid,” Steve says. “But I’ll see what I can do about Christmas, alright? I promise.”

You sigh, and nod, turning your attention out the window. Steve glances at you, feeling guilty. He always does when he has to drop you off at your Mom’s, knowing that you don’t want to be there.

He pulls up outside your Mom’s apartment building and reaches over to give you a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Love you kid. Be good for your Mom, okay?”

You nod, climbing out of the car and swinging your bag onto your shoulder. He watches as you punch in the code for the building, then let yourself in. Steve stays there for a moment before pulling away from the curb, already counting down the hours until he can pick you up again. He’s glad the contact has been reduced to every other weekend, but seeing you so miserable once a fortnight is still difficult. Especially knowing he’s dropping you off somewhere you’ll be left to just get on with things. At thirteen he knows your self-care skills are good, but he still doesn’t like it. Independence should obviously be encouraged and he does his best, but you at least know he’s there to catch you if you fall whereas your Mom just isn’t. There’s nothing he can do though so he just drives home, reassured that you at least have your phone and can call him if there’s a problem.

Your first text arrives when Steve makes it back to the compound, followed by one every half-an-hour for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t mind – he knows you’re just bored. You send him a photo of you playing a new game on your Switch, sitting in your bedroom in your Mom’s house. He’s always struck by how basic your room is there – in the compound Steve can’t even remember what colour your bedroom walls are, they’re so covered in posters and photographs. Whilst your bedroom here is a physical representation of you and your personality, your bedroom at your Mom’s just looks like a spare room.

When he gets out the shower he finds another text from you complaining that you’re bored, and he texts back that your bedtime is coming up, and that hopefully tomorrow your Mom will suggest something the two of you can do together, even though he already knows she won’t. It breaks his heart to think of you in her apartment, hoping that she’ll finally pay you some attention, only to constantly be let down.

Your text messages die off and Steve figures you’ve gone to sleep. He can sometimes have a bit of a battle getting you to go to bed at 9:30PM on a school night, with lights off at 10PM, but at your Mom’s you go to bed on time, probably due to boredom. He stays up later, watching a film with Natasha and Sam, when his phone suddenly chimes.

‘Can you come and pick me up please? Me and Mom had an argument.’

Steve hesitates, knowing that your Mom won’t be happy but you’ve asked him to get you. When Steve became a Dad, the one thing he’d promised himself was that he’d always show up when you needed him, no matter where you were or what time it was. Although you usually text him complaints whenever you’re at your Mom’s, you’ve never once asked to be picked up early. Something pretty bad must’ve happened.

It takes Steve twenty minutes to get to your Mom’s apartment building. The moment his car pulls up outside, the door to the building opens and you come out, rushing to his car and throwing your bag into his backseat. Steve climbs out of the car, taking your arm, “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You wrap your arms around him, and he holds you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you cry, “I asked her about Christmas and she said no, that I have to go to hers. Then she made me feel guilty, saying she’d be alone but I don’t- I didn’t-”

“And that caused a row so bad that you needed me to pick you up early?”

“I just started saying all this stuff,” You sob into his chest. “About how she doesn’t care about me, that she only pulls this shit to get back at you, that it’s pathetic. I said I hated her and I think that shocked her and then she said- She said-”

You sob harder and Steve runs a hand up and down your back, so focused on your upset that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you off for swearing. “What did your Mom say, kiddo?”

“That she hates me too and she hates our weekends together too, that it’s boring, that she’d rather be out…” You hiccup between your sobs. “I don’t wanna see her anymore.”

Steve sighs, “Okay... Okay. I’ll figure this out. I’ll speak to Tony’s solicitor again, see what she says.”

“I’m literally not going, if you drop me off I’ll just runaway and-”

“Slow down,” Steve says. “Let’s take this one step at a time, okay?”

“I wanna go home,” You sniffle.

“Alright kiddo, let’s get you home then.”

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice cuts through sharper this time. “You good?”

“Fine,” you grit out automatically.

Another cramp tears through you.

Not a cramp. Not really.

Pain. Blinding, twisting pain that wraps around your lower back and squeezes until your vision whites out at the edges.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky’s voice changes instantly.

You try to stand and nearly collapse.

Then suddenly Bucky is there, metal hand catching your elbow before you hit the ground. His blue eyes sweep over your face, immediately alarmed.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m okay,” you insist weakly.

“You’re sweating.”

“Well, we are in the middle of a mission, Barnes.”

Another wave hits before you can finish the sentence.

This one is worse.

A broken sound escapes you before you can stop it, your knees buckling as your hand clamps onto his tactical vest.

Bucky freezes.

He’s seen you injured before. Seen you bruised, bleeding, stitched up after bad missions. But this?

This looks different.

“What hurts?” he demands.

“My stomach.”

His face drains of color.

“Did you get hit?”

“No—no, I don’t think so—”

The pain spikes again.

You double over so violently Bucky catches your full weight against his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, panic finally slipping into his voice. “Sam, we need extraction now.”

“You injured?” Sam asks immediately through comms.

Bucky looks down at you curled against him, trembling.

“I don’t know.”

---

The quinjet ride home is chaos.

Bruce keeps asking questions from the med bay station while you lie across one of the seats with your head in Bucky’s lap.

“Where exactly is the pain?”

“How long has this been happening?”

“Any nausea?”

Bucky answers half the questions for you because you’re too busy trying not to scream every few minutes.

Natasha kneels beside you at one point, pressing a cool hand to your forehead.

“You sure you weren’t hit with something?” she asks carefully.

“I don’t know,” you gasp. “I just—God—”

Another contraction.

Bruce’s eyes narrow.

“Wait.”

Everyone looks at him.

“Can you describe the pain?”

You glare at him through watery eyes.

“Really not the time for a survey, Bruce.”

“No, seriously.”

Your breathing turns shaky.

“It feels like my spine is splitting in half.”

Bruce goes very still.

Then his eyes slowly widen behind his glasses.

“Oh.”

“What oh?” Bucky snaps.

Bruce looks almost afraid to say it.

“How recently did you do a full medical scan?”

You blink at him.

“…uh.”

Bucky looks between the two of you. “Bruce.”

Bruce points at you carefully.

“I think she’s in labor.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then:

“What.”

Bucky says it flatly. Horrifically.

You stare at Bruce.

Natasha blinks once.

Sam nearly crashes the quinjet.

“LABOR?!” he yells.

“That’s impossible,” you say immediately.

Bruce looks deeply unconvinced.

“Actually, considering enhanced physiology and the irregular hormonal patterns we’ve documented—”

“Bruce,” Natasha interrupts. “English.”

Bruce swallows.

“I think she’s about to have a baby.”

Bucky goes ghost white.

“A baby,” he repeats faintly.

You look at him in horror.

“We don’t even have a crib.”

---

The emergency wing explodes into motion the second the quinjet lands.

Doctors swarm you onto a gurney while Bucky refuses to let go of your hand for even half a second.

“This is insane,” you whisper, terrified. “Buck, this is actually insane.”

He looks just as panicked as you feel.

“You’re telling me.”

Another contraction hits and you cry out, gripping his hand so hard the metal plates in his fingers creak.

One of the doctors glances between monitors.

“She’s fully dilated.”

Bucky nearly chokes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the baby is coming now.”

“NOW?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You start laughing.

Not because it’s funny.

Because you’re terrified and overwhelmed and the only other option is crying.

Bucky immediately cups your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

Your eyes meet his.

And suddenly his panic softens.

“You’re okay,” he says quietly. “I got you.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.”

Another contraction tears through you and your nails dig into his wrist.

Bucky kisses your forehead immediately.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart. C’mon. Breathe for me.”

The room blurs into noise after that.

Doctors talking.

Machines beeping.

Someone yelling for towels.

Sam and Natasha arguing outside the room about whether they should start baby-proofing the compound immediately.

And through all of it—

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

He talks you through every contraction with his forehead pressed against yours.

Lets you crush his hand.

Brushes sweaty hair off your face.

Tells you over and over how good you’re doing even when you feel like you’re falling apart.

Then suddenly—

A cry.

Tiny.

Sharp.

Alive.

The entire room stills.

You collapse back against the pillows, breathless.

And Bucky…

Bucky looks shattered.

Not in a bad way.

In the way people look when their entire life changes in a single second.

A nurse carefully places the baby against your chest.

Your daughter is impossibly small.

Pink-faced.

Crying angrily.

Perfect.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Beside you, Bucky actually starts crying.

Real tears.

Openly.

His metal hand trembles where it rests against the baby’s tiny back.

“She’s ours?” he whispers like he can’t comprehend it.

You laugh softly through tears.

“Apparently.”

Your daughter immediately grabs one of Bucky’s fingers.

And that’s it.

That’s the exact moment the former Winter Soldier completely and utterly falls apart.

“Oh, I’m done for,” he says hoarsely.

Natasha appears in the doorway first.

Then Steve and Sam.

Then Wanda.

Clint.

Bruce.

The entire team slowly crowds outside the room with expressions ranging from emotional devastation to absolute disbelief.

Sam looks at the baby.

Then at you.

Then at Bucky.

“You guys just casually had a secret baby?”

“We didn’t KNOW,” you defend weakly.

Natasha smirks faintly.

“You missed nine months?”

“In our defense,” Bucky says seriously, “we’re both idiots.”

“That’s true,” Clint agrees.

Wanda steps closer carefully, eyes softening as she looks down at the baby.

“She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter yawns.

Sam immediately melts.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “I love her.”

“You’ve known her thirty seconds,” Natasha says.

“I would die for her.”

Bucky looks down at the baby in your arms with complete awe written across his face.

Then he leans down and kisses your forehead gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You look at him.

At your daughter.

At the Avengers crowded into the room already arguing over who gets holding privileges first.

And despite the exhaustion, the shock, the complete insanity of the day—

Your chest feels warm.

Full.

Perfect.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Bucky smiles at the two of you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever seen.

So now, instead of field missions in foreign countries, you and Bucky are standing in a pristine S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility at six in the morning, staring down thirty fresh-faced recruits who look like they’ve never seen a real fight in their lives.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest. His metal hand catches the fluorescent light in a cold flash. He says nothing.

You say nothing.

The silence stretches.

One of the recruits swallows audibly.

Another shifts on their feet.

Bucky tilts his head just slightly, blue eyes narrowing with the kind of detached curiosity that makes grown mercenaries rethink their life choices. He doesn’t blink.

You lean in toward him just enough to murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, “How long do you think before one of them cries?”

A girl in the second row visibly stiffens.

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Three minutes,” he replies evenly. “Four, if they’re stubborn.”

It takes two.

The first exercise is simple: situational awareness. The recruits are told to stand in formation and identify potential threats in the room.

There are none.

That’s the point.

You pace slowly in front of them, boots echoing against the polished floor. “Threat assessment isn’t just about what you see,” you say mildly. “It’s about what you don’t.”

They scan the corners. The ceiling vents. The mirrored wall.

You stop.

Bucky disappears.

One second he’s beside you. The next—gone.

No door opens. No sound.

A recruit in the back blinks. “Uh—Sir?”

Too late.

The lights cut out.

Complete darkness.

Someone gasps.

A metallic thud echoes from somewhere near the ceiling.

Then, in the pitch black, Bucky’s voice drifts from directly behind them.

“You’re all dead.”

The lights snap back on.

Half the group has dropped into defensive stances. One kid has fallen flat on his ass. Another looks genuinely pale.

Bucky stands calmly behind them, arms crossed again, as if he’s been there the whole time.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Congratulations,” you say sweetly. “You’ve all just failed.”

The next exercise involves blindfolds.

You tell them it’s to sharpen their other senses.

It is not.

They’re instructed to stand still and identify when someone enters their personal space.

You and Bucky move like ghosts.

Soft footfalls. Controlled breathing. Absolute silence.

You lean close to one recruit’s ear and whisper, “Your zipper’s down.”

He shrieks and rips off the blindfold. It isn’t.

Across the room, Bucky has one recruit by the collar, lifting him an inch off the ground without a sound. The recruit makes a strangled noise.

“Dead,” Bucky says calmly, setting him back down.

You circle the group like a shark. “You think villains are going to announce themselves? Send a calendar invite? You’re prey until you prove otherwise.”

By lunch, the recruits look haunted.

By mid-afternoon, you decide to escalate.

The obstacle course is standard—walls, ropes, low crawl under barbed wire. Nothing unusual.

Until they realize you’re not just supervising.

You’re hunting.

They start the course in pairs.

You give them a thirty-second head start.

Then Bucky glances at you, one brow lifting slightly.

“Ready?” he asks.

You grin. “Always.”

You vault over the first wall like it’s nothing.

The recruits don’t know where to look. One minute you’re behind them, the next you’re ahead, perched casually on top of a cargo container.

“Too slow,” you call lazily as they scramble.

Bucky doesn’t run.

He stalks.

He appears at the end of a tunnel just as two recruits crawl out, and they nearly collide with him.

“Tag,” he says flatly, tapping one on the shoulder.

Eliminated.

A girl makes it over the rope climb and lands hard, breathing fast. She looks relieved.

Until she turns around.

You’re standing directly behind her.

She screams.

You clap once, sharply. “Better. That’s the appropriate reaction.”

By the final round, only five recruits remain untagged.

They huddle together instinctively.

You exchange a look with Bucky.

He nods once.

The lights flicker.

A prerecorded gunshot echoes through the room.

Smoke floods the floor from hidden vents—courtesy of some help from Natasha earlier that morning.

The recruits scatter.

You move through the haze like you were born in it. Silent. Precise.

One by one, you pick them off.

Bucky drops from the ceiling—literally drops—from a catwalk they hadn’t even noticed. He lands without a sound, taps the last recruit on the shoulder, and says, almost conversationally, “You grouped up. Makes you an easier target.”

The kid nods shakily.

When the smoke clears, the room is quiet again.

The recruits stand in a line, sweaty and shaken and very, very awake.

You pace in front of them, hands clasped behind your back.

“You’re scared,” you say plainly. “Good.”

Bucky steps forward beside you. His voice is lower now. Not taunting. Not amused.

Serious.

“You should be,” he adds. “Because out there?” He gestures vaguely, meaning the world. “It’s worse.”

You study their faces. The fear is still there—but underneath it, something else.

Focus.

Determination.

No one’s crying anymore.

You nod once. “You survived today,” you tell them. “Most don’t get that luxury.”

A pause.

Then Bucky’s mouth curves just slightly. “You’ll sleep with the lights on for a week,” he says. “That’s fine. Means you learned something.”

One brave recruit raises a hand. “Was this… punishment for you guys?”

You and Bucky glance at each other.

“Yeah,” you say.

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

The recruit hesitates. “Did you have to go that hard?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “We went easy.”

A collective look of horror spreads across the group.

Bucky claps his metal hand once, the sharp sound echoing. “Dismissed.”

They disperse quickly—some walking stiffly, some casting nervous glances over their shoulders.

When the room is empty, you finally let yourself laugh.

Bucky exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to fondness softening his features. “They’ll be good,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” you agree. “If they don’t quit first.”

He nudges your shoulder lightly with his flesh hand. “You enjoyed that.”

“Did not.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You grin. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky smirks. “Nightmares build character.”

You loop your arm through his as you head for the exit. “Next time Sam pranks us,” you say thoughtfully, “we volunteer to train them again.”

Bucky hums. “We can add fake explosions.”

“Motion sensors in the dorms.”

“Whispering through the vents.”

You glance up at him. “You’re evil.”

His smile is slow and unapologetic.

And across the room, your son hovers.

Eli is eighteen now. Taller than you by a mile. Taller than Bucky by a fraction of an inch, which Bucky pretends not to notice. All long limbs and shy smiles, with his father’s blue eyes and your softness around the edges.

He lingers in the doorway like he’s arguing with himself.

You glance up from your phone. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Just… tired.”

Bucky snorts softly. “That’s what happens when you stay up until two in the morning playing whatever the hell that game is.”

“It’s not a game,” Eli mutters. “It’s— never mind.”

He drifts closer. Hovers by the arm of the couch. Bucky doesn’t look at him, but you know he’s aware. Always aware.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, without another word, Eli just… moves.

He drops down onto the couch and, in one awkward, impulsive motion, climbs halfway into his father’s lap.

It’s clumsy. Too-big knees knocking into Bucky’s thigh. One elbow nearly catching him in the chin. He hesitates for a split second like he’s expecting to be laughed at. Like he’s bracing for it to be weird.

Your breath catches.

Bucky doesn’t even blink.

He shifts automatically, like muscle memory from decades ago. His metal arm slides down to brace behind Eli's back. His flesh hand comes up around his son’s shoulders. He adjusts his legs to better support the weight—because Eli isn’t a toddler anymore, isn’t a small bundle he can tuck against his chest.

He’s grown.

But Bucky cradles him anyway.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice going soft in a way that only you and your children ever get to hear. He tugs Eli closer, guiding his head down against his chest.

And then he starts rocking.

Slow. Gentle. Back and forth.

Like he used to do when Eli was colicky and refused to sleep. Like he did when nightmares hit at three a.m. and your little boy would crawl into your bed shaking. Like he did after scraped knees and broken hearts and that first brutal rejection letter from his dream college.

Eli goes still.

For a second, his body is tense. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.

Then he exhales.

It shudders out of him, like something he’s been holding in for weeks.

Bucky presses a kiss into his hair without hesitation. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

You set your phone down.

Neither of them notice.

Eli's hands curl into the fabric of Bucky’s Henley, fingers bunching it like he’s five years old again. “I just—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Dad.”

There it is.

College acceptance letters on the counter. Scholarship decisions looming. Friends talking about moving across the country. The weight of almost-adulthood pressing down on him.

Bucky doesn’t offer a lecture. Doesn’t tease him for climbing into his lap like a kid.

He just tightens his hold.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I remember that feeling.”

Eli lets out a shaky laugh. “Did you?”

“Sure did.” Bucky’s chin rests lightly on top of his son’s head. “Only difference is, I didn’t have anyone tell me it was okay to be scared.”

The room feels smaller. Warmer.

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes.

Bucky keeps rocking him, slow and steady. “You don’t have to have it all figured out,” he continues. “You’re eighteen, not eighty. Hell, I’m a hundred and something and I still don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

That gets a real laugh out of Eli. Muffled against his father’s chest.

“I just…” Eli's voice drops. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Bucky stills for half a second—just long enough for you to see the flicker of something fierce and protective flash across his face.

Then he tips Eli"s chin up gently.

“Kid,” he says, firm but tender. “You could never disappoint me.”

Eli's eyes shine. So painfully young in that moment.

“I don’t care where you go. I don’t care what you study. I don’t care if you change your mind ten times.” Bucky brushes his thumb under Eli’s eye, catching the tear before it can fall. “You’re my son. That’s it. That’s the whole job. You exist, and I’m proud.”

Silence settles again.

Eli folds in closer, almost instinctively, pressing his face back into his dad’s chest. Bucky resumes the gentle rocking without even thinking about it.

And that’s when Eli whispers, small and vulnerable, “Can you just… hold me for a minute?”

Bucky’s answer is immediate.

“As long as you need.”

You watch them from your spot on the couch, heart so full it aches.

Your giant, battle-scarred super soldier husband, cradling his eighteen-year-old son like he weighs nothing. Metal arm careful and steady. Flesh hand warm and protective. Rocking him in the quiet of your living room like time hasn’t passed at all.

After a while, Eli's breathing evens out.

He doesn’t fall asleep—but he softens. Shoulders loose. Fingers slack in Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky presses another kiss into his hair. “Love you, E.”

There’s no hesitation this time when Eli answers.

“Love you too, Dad.”

You finally move, sliding closer and curling into Bucky’s side, tucking yourself against his shoulder. His metal arm shifts to make space for you without disturbing Eli.

Your boys.

You rest your head against Bucky’s shoulder and look up at him. His eyes meet yours over the top of Eli's head.

There’s something raw there. Grateful. Almost disbelieving.

He never thought he’d get this. A son who feels safe enough to climb into his lap. A home where softness isn’t a weakness.

You reach up and smooth your fingers through Eli's hair.

“He’s still your baby,” you whisper.

Bucky smiles, small and private.

“You’re joking.”

You looked up from your spot perched on the counter, oversized sweatshirt stretched over your rounded stomach. “I’m not.”

Bucky stared at the combination in your hands like it had personally offended him. “Baby, that is a crime.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

You took a loud, deliberate crunch before dragging the pickle through another swirl of chocolate. “You’re just closed-minded.”

“I’m not closed-minded,” he argued. “I’m sane.”

The look you gave him was deeply unimpressed.

Pregnancy cravings had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this one might’ve been the worst yet. Earlier that week, you’d cried because the diner down the street stopped serving curly fries after ten. Two nights ago, you’d demanded peanut butter toast with hot sauce at one in the morning. Bucky had made it without complaint because he adored you, but even then he’d looked mildly traumatized.

This though?

This was villain behavior.

“You want some?” you asked sweetly.

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did think about it,” he said. “I thought absolutely not.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered, and continued eating while Bucky made himself tea. He kept glancing over his shoulder at you with increasing suspicion.

The worst part was the sound.

Crunch.

Then the soft scrape of pickle against ice cream.

Crunch.

It shouldn’t have smelled good together, but somehow the salty tang mixed with the sweetness in a way that kept making his nose twitch.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I literally offered you some.”

“You’re trying to trick me.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you gasped dramatically. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You grinned around another bite.

God, you looked cute.

That was the problem. You could be sitting there eating drywall and he’d still think you were adorable.

Pregnancy looked painfully good on you too, which Bucky tried not to think about too hard unless he wanted to combust on the spot. The softness in your cheeks, the glow in your skin, the way your stomach curved beneath his shirts—it made him emotional in ways he couldn’t explain.

He crossed the kitchen and settled between your spread knees automatically, large hands resting on your hips.

“How’s our girl tonight?” he asked, rubbing your belly gently.

Right on cue, the baby kicked.

Bucky’s entire face softened instantly.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You smiled down at him, carding your fingers through his hair. “She’s been moving all night.”

“Probably trying to escape because of what you’re feeding her.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he said solemnly. “She’s fighting for her life in there.”

You laughed so hard you nearly snorted, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with affection. He loved making you laugh lately. Loved seeing you happy when pregnancy had been exhausting on your body.

Then you held the pickle toward him again.

“One bite.”

“No.”

“One.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You made me try sardines.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You weren’t pregnant and emotionally unstable.”

Your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

Bucky grinned.

“You’re evil,” you informed him.

“Maybe.”

But you kept staring at him with those big hopeful eyes, and unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes had never been capable of denying you much of anything.

Especially now.

Especially when you were carrying his child.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward.

“One bite,” he warned.

Your face lit up triumphantly.

“Oh my god, yes.”

“This better not ruin my life.”

“It’ll change your life.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

You guided the pickle toward his mouth like you were feeding a wild animal. Bucky took the smallest possible bite, already grimacing before he’d even tasted it.

Sweet chocolate.

Cold vanilla.

Sharp vinegar.

Salty pickle.

His eyebrows furrowed immediately.

You watched him expectantly. “Well?”

Bucky chewed slowly.

Then paused.

Then frowned harder.

Because the horrifying part was—

“…it’s not terrible.”

You gasped like he’d just confessed his love all over again.

“I knew it!”

“No, hold on—”

“I knew it,” you repeated louder.

“It’s weird.”

“But good.”

He hesitated.

“…a little.”

Your victory screech echoed through the apartment.

Before Bucky could defend himself, you shoved another bite toward him and he actually accepted it this time, which was probably his first mistake.

His second mistake was taking a bigger bite.

Because somehow it worked.

The crunch with the creaminess. The salty and sweet together.

Bucky looked deeply disturbed by his own reaction.

“I hate this.”

“You love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He pointed accusingly at you. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”

“Too late. I’m telling Sam immediately.”

“Baby.”

“I’m putting it in the baby book.”

Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your stomach while you laughed. He could feel the vibrations of it beneath his cheek, warm and alive and so overwhelmingly you.

After a moment, your laughter softened.

“You really don’t think I’m gross?” you asked quietly.

Bucky looked up immediately.

“What?”

“The cravings. The crying. Me waking you up at weird hours.” You gave a tiny shrug. “I know pregnancy’s kinda… weird.”

His expression melted so fast it made your chest ache.

“Doll,” he said gently, sliding his hands over your thighs. “You’re growing our baby. You could ask me to grill a watermelon at four in the morning and I’d do it.”

You snorted.

“Actually,” he added thoughtfully, “that might be better than the pickle thing.”

You laughed again, and Bucky leaned forward to kiss you softly.

Sweet chocolate still lingered on your lips.

“…Okay,” he muttered against your mouth. “Maybe give me another pickle.”

Your eyes widened in delight.

“Oh, you are SO obsessed with this now.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Sure, honey.”

Bucky sighed dramatically as you handed him another chocolate-covered pickle.

“She made a noise,” he whispers urgently.

You blink. “Babies make noises.”

“No, this was different.”

From the bassinet comes a tiny snuffle. A soft, congested little puff of air. Then a squeak. Then silence.

Bucky is already on his feet.

He leans over the bassinet like he’s guarding something sacred. In the dim light, her face is scrunched, lips pursed, fists curled up near her cheeks. She lets out a faint, dramatic sigh and settles.

“She’s fine,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move. His metal fingers hover over the edge of the bassinet, not touching, just close enough to feel her warmth.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure.”

That becomes a pattern. The tiny grunts at two in the morning. The sharp little inhalations that make his heart leap into his throat. The hiccup-squeaks that have him leaning over her in seconds flat.

He learns quickly that newborns are noisy sleepers. He learns that half the sounds that send him into a panic are just her adjusting, stretching, existing.

He doesn’t stop checking.

He just checks more calmly.

---

Days blur together in a haze of feedings and naps and the soft shuffle of his socked feet across the nursery floor. Bucky moves like he’s afraid of breaking something at first. He holds her like she’s made of glass.

But babies aren’t glass.

They’re warm and wiggly and surprisingly opinionated.

The first time he feeds her on his own, he looks terrified.

“What if I do it wrong?”

“You won’t.”

He settles into the couch, broad frame carefully arranged around her tiny body. His flesh hand supports her head. His metal hand steadies the bottle with slow, precise movements, adjusting the angle every few seconds like he’s calibrating delicate machinery.

She latches onto the bottle with surprising determination.

“Oh,” he breathes, stunned.

Her cheeks puff in and out as she eats. There’s milk at the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids grow heavy halfway through, fluttering lazily.

By the time she’s done, she’s completely limp against him. Boneless. Milk-drunk and content. Her mouth hangs open slightly, breath warm against his shirt.

Bucky just stares.

“She looks like she just had the best day of her life.”

You smile from where you’re watching. “She probably did.”

He adjusts her carefully against his chest, letting her rest there. And something in his shoulders softens. Something in his spine unwinds.

“She trusts me,” he says quietly.

It’s not a question.

It’s wonder.

---

He becomes obsessed with the way she curls.

It happens most often after diaper changes or baths. The second she’s laid back down, her knees pull up instinctively. Her arms tuck close. Her whole body folds inward like she’s trying to recreate a shape she remembers.

The newborn scrunch.

The first time he notices it, he freezes mid-swipe of a burp cloth.

“Hey,” he calls softly. “Come look at this.”

You step closer, and there she is—tiny and folded, face scrunched in mild outrage at the cold air.

“She looks like she’s trying to go back,” he murmurs.

Your heart squeezes at the tone in his voice.

“She’ll stretch out more as she grows.”

He doesn’t like that answer.

He scoops her up before she can protest, bringing her against his chest. Instantly, she curls there too. Tucks in. Fits.

His chin rests lightly on top of her head.

“Okay,” he whispers to her. “You can stay right here for now.”

He memorizes that feeling—the way her body molds to him. The way her breathing evens out when his does. The way her tiny fingers flex against his shirt like she’s anchoring herself.

Sometimes he’ll catch himself just watching her sleep against him, counting the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the most important job in the world.

Maybe it is.

---

Parenthood, he realizes, isn’t one big transformation. It’s a hundred small ones.

It’s learning the difference between her hungry cry and her overtired cry.

It’s recognizing that little “neh” sound she makes right before she starts wailing for food.

It’s discovering she calms faster when he hums low in his chest rather than sings.

It’s the way he instinctively sways now, even when he’s holding nothing at all.

One afternoon, you find him in the nursery rocking chair long after she’s fallen asleep. He hasn’t put her down yet. He just sits there, moving gently back and forth, eyes distant.

“You can lay her down,” you whisper.

“I know.” He looks down at her, at the way her cheek is squished against his shirt, at the faint milk-sweet scent clinging to her. “I just… I don’t want to miss anything.”

You understand what he means.

He’s missed enough in his life.

He won’t miss this.

---

Weeks pass, and he grows into it without noticing.

His movements lose their hesitation. His hands become sure. The metal one that once hovered now cups the back of her head with confidence, adjusts her swaddle, pats her back in slow, steady rhythms.

He doesn’t flinch at every noise anymore.

But he still wakes before the monitor even crackles.

He still leans over the bassinet sometimes just to make sure she’s real.

One night, when the room is lit only by the faint glow of the hallway light, she wakes fussing. Not crying. Just unsettled.

Bucky lifts her first.

He presses her gently against his chest, one broad palm spanning her tiny back. She squirms for a moment, then stills. Her fist finds the collar of his shirt.

His voice is barely more than a rumble.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Her breathing slows. Her body relaxes fully against him, milk-drunk from the earlier feed and heavy with sleep. She makes a small, satisfied sigh and melts into him.

He exhales like he’s been holding it all his life.

Later, when he climbs back into bed, he doesn’t say anything dramatic. He just reaches for your hand in the dark and squeezes it.

There’s awe in him still. There probably always will be.

But it’s steadier now.

Less panic. More certainty.

He knows the nighttime noises. Knows the newborn scrunch. Knows the weight of her, the smell of her, the way she fits against him like she was always meant to be there.

And as he drifts to sleep, the bassinet pulled just a little closer to his side of the bed, one thing settles deep and solid in his chest:

For the first time in a very long time, he isn’t bracing for something to be taken.

You were still a Stark. You just didn’t glitter the way tabloids liked.

Bucky loved that about you.

He used to joke that you were the only person in the Avengers compound who could make him forget the cameras existed. When he’d transitioned into politics—when “Congressman Barnes” became something reporters said more often than “former Avenger”—you’d stood beside him, steady and unassuming, your hand warm in his.

Until the day you weren’t.

It wasn’t his idea.

You knew that. Logically.

His publicist had called it “brand optimization.” They’d sat across from you in a glass-walled conference room in D.C., sunlight bouncing off marble floors, explaining in careful, condescending tones that while your surname carried weight, your… presentation didn’t.

“Voters respond to aspirational imagery,” they’d said. “A philanthropist actress. A humanitarian supermodel. Someone glamorous but non-threatening.”

Non-threatening.

You’d nearly laughed.

Instead, you folded your hands in your lap and let them continue dissecting you like one of your own lab specimens.

“Wildlife genetics isn’t exactly… relatable.”

Tony would’ve set the building on fire.

You didn’t.

You just nodded once and said, “So what are you suggesting?”

They suggested staged appearances. Red carpet events. Charity galas where Bucky would escort whichever carefully selected woman polled best that quarter. “Optics,” they called it. “Temporary.”

You told Bucky that night you didn’t mind.

That was your first lie.

---

The first time you saw him walk a red carpet with her—a golden-haired actress whose smile looked airbrushed even in motion—you felt something inside your chest go frighteningly quiet.

You stood in the kitchen of your townhouse, a half-written research proposal abandoned on the counter, and watched the live stream on mute. The ticker at the bottom read: Congressman Barnes and rising star Elise Landril make stunning debut.

Debut.

As if you’d never existed.

Your phone buzzed.

Bucky: You watching?

You stared at the message for a long time before typing back.

You: You look very aspirational.

The dots appeared immediately.

Bucky: Doll...

You turned the TV off.

---

He came home past midnight, suit rumpled, tie loosened. You were on the couch pretending to read, your glasses sliding down your nose.

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

There were no cameras here. No handlers. Just the man who still tucked his cold metal hand under your thigh in bed because he liked the warmth.

“I hate it,” he said.

“Then don’t do it.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”

You tilted your head. “It never is.”

He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “They say if I don’t play along, donors pull out. Bills stall. Everything I’ve been trying to fix—veterans’ healthcare, oversight on private security contractors—it gets harder.”

You knew that look. The one that weighed every decision against people who couldn’t afford for him to fail.

You reached down, cupping his cheek.

“I understand strategy,” you said quietly. “I work with ecosystems. Sometimes you introduce a decoy species to protect the fragile ones.”

His eyes flashed. “You are not a decoy.”

“No,” you agreed. “I’m not.”

Silence settled between you.

“Does it hurt?” he asked finally.

You smiled, because you’d always been good at that. “It’s optics, remember?”

His metal fingers tightened on your knee. “Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself small so I can stand tall.”

The words hit harder than any tabloid headline.

---

The headlines escalated.

Speculation turned into assumption. Elise posted a carefully angled photo of Bucky’s hand at dinner. Comment sections bloomed with heart emojis and wedding rumors.

Your lab interns started giving you sympathetic looks.

Tony tried not to say I told you so, which for him was a monumental act of restraint.

“Just torch his PR team,” he muttered one night over takeout in your office. “Accidentally leak something devastating. I have folders.”

You smiled faintly. “I know you do.”

“Kid,” he said more gently, “you deserve better than being someone’s footnote.”

That was the first time it occurred to you that maybe you weren’t being noble.

Maybe you were being erased.

---

The breaking point came at a conservation gala in New York—your world, not his.

You’d been asked to give a keynote on genetic diversity in endangered species. It was the kind of event you thrived at: academics, donors who actually cared about habitat restoration, journalists who asked intelligent questions.

You hadn’t expected him to attend.

He walked in halfway through your speech.

Alone.

You faltered for half a second before continuing, finishing with applause that felt warmer than any red carpet flash.

Backstage, you found him waiting.

“No entourage?” you asked.

“I fired them.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I’m done.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were stormy. “I won’t let them turn my life into something I don’t recognize. They wanted aspirational? Fine. I aspire to be honest.”

You searched his face. “Do you know what this will cost you?”

“Probably a lot,” he admitted. “But I’ve already paid more.”

Your throat tightened.

“They made you feel ordinary,” he continued, stepping closer. “You are the least ordinary person I’ve ever known. You see patterns in DNA the way I see threat assessments. You save things most people don’t even know are dying.”

His hand found yours.

“I didn’t fight through a century of war to let a publicist tell me who I’m allowed to love.”

Emotion cracked through you before you could contain it.

“You don’t have to choose me over your work,” you whispered.

“I’m not choosing between you and my work,” he said. “I’m choosing integrity over illusion.”

You swallowed hard. “And if the polls drop?”

“Then I knock on more doors. I work harder. I tell the truth.” His mouth curved faintly. “Turns out voters like that sometimes.”

You laughed wetly, wiping at your cheeks.

He brushed his thumb under your eye. “I’m sorry I let it go on this long.”

“I’m sorry I let myself disappear.”

He shook his head. “You were never invisible. They just weren’t looking in the right direction.”

The next week, he brought you to a press conference.

No staged smiles. No actresses.

Just you, in a simple navy dress, speaking calmly about conservation policy while he stood beside you, proud and unflinching.

The headlines shifted.

Not all of them were kind.

But for the first time in months, when you stood in a room with the Stark name echoing around you, you didn’t feel swallowed.

You felt seen.

And when Bucky laced his fingers through yours under the podium, cameras flashing wildly, he didn’t look aspirational.

But the second you double over in the kitchen and whisper, “It’s time,” his entire world narrows to you.

The hospital lights are too bright. The smell is too sterile. Nurses move around the room with practiced efficiency, machines beep in steady rhythms, and Bucky stands at your side like a monument carved from tension. His vibranium hand is cool against your sweat-damp skin, his flesh one wrapped so tight around your fingers you’re surprised they don’t crack.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs against your temple, voice shaking despite the steady words. “So good, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Hours pass in a blur of pain and breath and pressure. You squeeze his hand through every contraction. He whispers nonsense encouragement, kisses your forehead, wipes tears you don’t remember crying.

And then—

Something shifts.

The doctor’s voice changes. It goes from calm to clipped. Focused.

“Her blood pressure’s dropping.”

The room fills with movement.

You feel it before you understand it—the tension in Bucky’s body snapping tight as a drawn wire.

“Hey,” you breathe weakly, trying to find his face. “Buck…”

His eyes are wide. Blue and terrified. He presses your hand to his mouth like he can breathe you in, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“Stay with me,” he whispers. “Stay with me, okay? I need you to look at me.”

Another contraction hits, but it’s different. Not just pain. Something wrong. The doctor gives instructions rapidly, nurses shifting you, adjusting things you can’t see.

And then the doctor turns to Bucky.

There’s a split second—one awful, suspended moment—where the entire room seems to go quiet.

“Mr. Barnes,” the doctor says, voice steady but urgent. “There’s a complication. If it comes down to it… if we have to make a choice… I need to know who you want us to prioritize. Your wife, or the baby?”

You see it happen.

The way Bucky’s entire body goes still.

Not frozen.

Not confused.

Just still.

His hand tightens around yours, and he looks at you.

You’ve never seen him look at you like that before. Not even on your wedding day. Not even when you told him you were pregnant.

It’s raw. It’s devotion stripped down to bone.

You know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Her,” he answers immediately. No hesitation. No wavering. “You save her.”

Your breath catches.

“Buck—” you start, horrified.

He leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours, and for a second the chaos of the room fades.

“I love our baby,” he says, voice breaking. “I already do. But I can’t—I can’t lose you. I’ve lost too much. I won’t survive losing you.”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“You’re my heart,” he whispers. “You’re the one I built a life with. You’re the one who saved me. I choose you. Every time. In every universe.”

The doctor nods once and moves quickly.

The next few minutes blur.

You hear fragments—“hemorrhage,” “fetal distress,” “prep for emergency intervention.” You feel hands on you, pressure, pain, Bucky’s voice repeating your name like a prayer.

“Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.”

You try.

God, you try.

The world tilts.

There’s shouting.

A long, horrible second of silence—

And then—

A cry.

Sharp. Indignant. Alive.

The sound slices through everything.

Bucky’s head snaps toward it. His grip on you tightens so hard it almost hurts.

“Is that—?”

The doctor’s voice cuts in, breathless but relieved. “Baby’s here. Breathing. Strong heartbeat.”

Another cry fills the room.

You can’t see clearly. Everything feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater.

“Her?” Bucky asks frantically. “What about her?”

“They’re stabilizing her now.”

Hands press down on your abdomen. More movement. More instructions. Your vision swims.

And then—

It stops.

The urgency drains from the room like a tide pulling back.

Your blood pressure climbs. The bleeding slows. The monitors steady.

“She’s responding,” someone says.

Bucky doesn’t breathe until the doctor finally looks up and nods.

“She’s going to be okay.”

The sound that tears out of him is that of a broken sob.

He presses his forehead to your hand and cries. Openly. Shamelessly. Like a man who almost lost his entire world.

You blink slowly, forcing your eyes open.

“Buck?” you croak.

His head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical. His face is wrecked—red eyes, wet cheeks, hair disheveled from running his hands through it.

“Hey,” he chokes out, leaning over you instantly. “Hey, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Baby?” you whisper weakly.

His expression shifts.

Softens.

They place a tiny, warm bundle against your chest.

Your child.

Pink and wrinkled and perfect. Crying loudly in protest at the world they’ve just entered.

You let out a trembling laugh that turns into a sob.

Bucky stares down at the baby like they’re made of starlight.

“They’re okay,” he breathes. “You’re both okay.”

His vibranium hand hovers uncertainly before settling gently on the baby’s back. His other hand cups your face.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers fiercely, eyes locked on yours. “I would choose you every time. But I’m so damn grateful I didn’t have to.”

You manage a tired smile.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because I wasn’t planning on leaving you.”

He lets out a watery laugh and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another. Then another.

“I almost lost you,” he admits, voice shaking again. “I can’t—I can’t go through that.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper.

He nods, swallowing hard.

And then he looks down at the baby again, awe settling over him like something sacred.

“Hi there,” he murmurs softly. “You gave your old man a heart attack already.”

The baby squirms, tiny fingers curling.

Bucky laughs—a real one this time—and leans down to kiss your temple.

“You did it,” he tells you, voice thick with pride. “You brought our little miracle into the world.”

You watch him watching your child, and your chest feels impossibly full.

Complications. Fear. The choice that almost broke him.

All of it fades beneath the steady rhythm of three heartbeats in one room.

You’re here.

Your baby is here.

Your son Henry nods gravely. “The best.”

Bucky exhales slowly. “She does,” he agrees, voice softening in a way that would make any Avenger do a double take. “So we’re gonna make sure she gets it.”

The night before Mother’s Day becomes Operation Spoil Mom Rotten.

The kitchen table is commandeered after you go to bed. Bucky shoos you off with a kiss and a casual, “Don’t come out here, doll. Highly classified.” You roll your eyes but obey, trusting the conspiratorial grin he gives you.

In the quiet of the living room, he ties an apron around Anna—backwards—and hands Henry safety scissors like he’s arming him for battle.

“Okay,” Bucky says, crouching down to their level. “We gotta think. What does Mom love?”

“You,” Anna blurts immediately.

Henry grimaces. “Ew.”

Bucky laughs under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face to hide the pink climbing up his neck. “Besides me, smartass.”

“Flowers,” Henry says decisively.

“And hugs,” Anna adds.

“And coffee,” Bucky mutters, thinking of the way you cradle your mug every morning like it’s holy.

They get to work.

There is glitter everywhere. It ends up in Bucky’s hair, in Henry’s socks, somehow on the dog. Anna insists on cutting out paper hearts that are more oval than heart-shaped. Henry writes “I LUV U MOM” in crooked block letters that he refuses to erase because “it’s authentic.” Bucky helps them glue photos onto a poster board timeline of “Best Mom Moments,” complete with stick-figure drawings of you cheering at soccer games and kissing scraped knees.

At one point, Bucky steps back, metal arm crossed over his chest, flesh hand on his hip, surveying the chaos.

“It’s perfect,” he says firmly when Henry frowns at a smear of paint.

“It’s messy,” Henry counters.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, voice thick with something warm and certain. “So is love sometimes. That’s how you know it’s real.”

They fall asleep on the couch before midnight, glitter-dusted and triumphant. Bucky carries them to bed one by one, tucking them in with the kind of tenderness that would undo you if you saw it. Then he sets his alarm for 5:30 a.m.

Because breakfast in bed doesn’t make itself.

The kitchen is quiet and dim when he starts. Pancake batter is mixed with intense concentration. Anna insisted on chocolate chips shaped into hearts, so Bucky carefully places them with surgeon-level precision. Henry stands on a stool cracking eggs like it’s a competitive sport.

“Don’t burn them,” Anna warns.

“I won’t,” Bucky promises, flipping a pancake with exaggerated flair.

They plate everything on your favorite tray—the one with the chipped corner you refuse to throw away. Fresh strawberries, scrambled eggs, heart-shaped pancakes, a mug of coffee just the way you like it. Anna adds a dandelion she picked from the yard and declares it “a special Mother’s Day flower.”

Henry tucks the crafts under his arm like sacred offerings.

Bucky pauses outside your bedroom door, looking at his kids. Their hair is messy, faces bright with anticipation.

“Okay,” he whispers. “On three.”

They burst in like a joyful ambush.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they shout in unison.

You jerk awake, blinking at the sudden light and the sight of your family beaming at the edge of the bed. Bucky stands behind them, tray balanced carefully in his hands, blue eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You push yourself up on your elbows, already tearing up.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, voice thick. “What is all this?”

Henry climbs onto the bed immediately, shoving the poster board into your lap. “We made it.”

Anna thrusts a glitter-splattered card toward you. “I used extra sparkle because you’re extra special.”

You laugh, the sound shaky and overwhelmed, and pull them both into you, pressing kisses to their cheeks.

Bucky sets the tray down carefully and climbs onto the mattress too, crowding around you so you’re cocooned by limbs and warmth and love.

“You did all this?” you ask him quietly.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but there’s pride in his smile. “They had the ideas. I just… assisted.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his metal ones without hesitation. “Thank you.”

He leans in and kisses your temple, lingering there.

“You’re the best mom I’ve ever seen,” he says softly. “You make this house… home.”

You sniffle, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re trying to make me cry before I’ve had coffee.”

“Already did,” Anna announces cheerfully.

Breakfast is messy and loud and perfect. Syrup drips onto the sheets. Henry tells an overly detailed story about how he almost dropped an egg. Anna explains every single craft decision with dramatic flair. You eat heart-shaped pancakes and sip coffee and feel like your chest might burst.

Later, when the kids are off playing with their new art supplies and the house settles into a peaceful hum, Bucky finds you in the kitchen, rinsing plates.

He comes up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You don’t gotta do dishes today,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say, smiling into the sink. “But I like taking care of things.”

He turns you gently in his arms, backing you up against the counter. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“We see you,” he says quietly. “All the stuff you do. The lunches, the bedtime stories, the way you always know when one of them needs extra hugs. You hold us together.”

Your throat tightens.

“I love being their mom,” you whisper. “And I love being yours.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m not one of the kids.”

“Debatable,” you tease.

He kisses you then, slow and sweet and full of gratitude. It’s not heated or rushed—just steady and deep and certain. The kind of kiss that says we built this life together and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Happy Mother’s Day, baby,” he murmurs. “You deserve the world.”

You smile up at him, heart full.

Your son Henry nods gravely. “The best.”

Bucky exhales slowly. “She does,” he agrees, voice softening in a way that would make any Avenger do a double take. “So we’re gonna make sure she gets it.”

The night before Mother’s Day becomes Operation Spoil Mom Rotten.

The kitchen table is commandeered after you go to bed. Bucky shoos you off with a kiss and a casual, “Don’t come out here, doll. Highly classified.” You roll your eyes but obey, trusting the conspiratorial grin he gives you.

In the quiet of the living room, he ties an apron around Anna—backwards—and hands Henry safety scissors like he’s arming him for battle.

“Okay,” Bucky says, crouching down to their level. “We gotta think. What does Mom love?”

“You,” Anna blurts immediately.

Henry grimaces. “Ew.”

Bucky laughs under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face to hide the pink climbing up his neck. “Besides me, smartass.”

“Flowers,” Henry says decisively.

“And hugs,” Anna adds.

“And coffee,” Bucky mutters, thinking of the way you cradle your mug every morning like it’s holy.

They get to work.

There is glitter everywhere. It ends up in Bucky’s hair, in Henry’s socks, somehow on the dog. Anna insists on cutting out paper hearts that are more oval than heart-shaped. Henry writes “I LUV U MOM” in crooked block letters that he refuses to erase because “it’s authentic.” Bucky helps them glue photos onto a poster board timeline of “Best Mom Moments,” complete with stick-figure drawings of you cheering at soccer games and kissing scraped knees.

At one point, Bucky steps back, metal arm crossed over his chest, flesh hand on his hip, surveying the chaos.

“It’s perfect,” he says firmly when Henry frowns at a smear of paint.

“It’s messy,” Henry counters.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, voice thick with something warm and certain. “So is love sometimes. That’s how you know it’s real.”

They fall asleep on the couch before midnight, glitter-dusted and triumphant. Bucky carries them to bed one by one, tucking them in with the kind of tenderness that would undo you if you saw it. Then he sets his alarm for 5:30 a.m.

Because breakfast in bed doesn’t make itself.

The kitchen is quiet and dim when he starts. Pancake batter is mixed with intense concentration. Anna insisted on chocolate chips shaped into hearts, so Bucky carefully places them with surgeon-level precision. Henry stands on a stool cracking eggs like it’s a competitive sport.

“Don’t burn them,” Anna warns.

“I won’t,” Bucky promises, flipping a pancake with exaggerated flair.

They plate everything on your favorite tray—the one with the chipped corner you refuse to throw away. Fresh strawberries, scrambled eggs, heart-shaped pancakes, a mug of coffee just the way you like it. Anna adds a dandelion she picked from the yard and declares it “a special Mother’s Day flower.”

Henry tucks the crafts under his arm like sacred offerings.

Bucky pauses outside your bedroom door, looking at his kids. Their hair is messy, faces bright with anticipation.

“Okay,” he whispers. “On three.”

They burst in like a joyful ambush.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they shout in unison.

You jerk awake, blinking at the sudden light and the sight of your family beaming at the edge of the bed. Bucky stands behind them, tray balanced carefully in his hands, blue eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You push yourself up on your elbows, already tearing up.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, voice thick. “What is all this?”

Henry climbs onto the bed immediately, shoving the poster board into your lap. “We made it.”

Anna thrusts a glitter-splattered card toward you. “I used extra sparkle because you’re extra special.”

You laugh, the sound shaky and overwhelmed, and pull them both into you, pressing kisses to their cheeks.

Bucky sets the tray down carefully and climbs onto the mattress too, crowding around you so you’re cocooned by limbs and warmth and love.

“You did all this?” you ask him quietly.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but there’s pride in his smile. “They had the ideas. I just… assisted.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his metal ones without hesitation. “Thank you.”

He leans in and kisses your temple, lingering there.

“You’re the best mom I’ve ever seen,” he says softly. “You make this house… home.”

You sniffle, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re trying to make me cry before I’ve had coffee.”

“Already did,” Anna announces cheerfully.

Breakfast is messy and loud and perfect. Syrup drips onto the sheets. Henry tells an overly detailed story about how he almost dropped an egg. Anna explains every single craft decision with dramatic flair. You eat heart-shaped pancakes and sip coffee and feel like your chest might burst.

Later, when the kids are off playing with their new art supplies and the house settles into a peaceful hum, Bucky finds you in the kitchen, rinsing plates.

He comes up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You don’t gotta do dishes today,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say, smiling into the sink. “But I like taking care of things.”

He turns you gently in his arms, backing you up against the counter. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“We see you,” he says quietly. “All the stuff you do. The lunches, the bedtime stories, the way you always know when one of them needs extra hugs. You hold us together.”

Your throat tightens.

“I love being their mom,” you whisper. “And I love being yours.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m not one of the kids.”

“Debatable,” you tease.

He kisses you then, slow and sweet and full of gratitude. It’s not heated or rushed—just steady and deep and certain. The kind of kiss that says we built this life together and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Happy Mother’s Day, baby,” he murmurs. “You deserve the world.”

You smile up at him, heart full.

“Buck,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. “You know she’s not gonna disappear if you let go for five minutes, right?”

Bucky frowns like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Why would I let go?”

You snort softly, not even looking up. You’re used to it—used to him always touching you, always orbiting you like you’re the center of his gravity. His hand slides higher, fingertips pressing just beneath the hem of your shorts, and he leans down, brushing his mouth against your temple without breaking eye contact with Sam.

“See?” Sam mutters to Steve. “Sickening.”

Steve just shrugs, smiling into his coffee. “Let him be. He’s happy.”

Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Bucky is gone for you.

It shows up in little things first—like the way he automatically reaches for your hand when you walk anywhere together, fingers lacing tight, like he needs the contact. The way he always sits you on his lap instead of beside him, no matter who’s around. The way he kisses you hello like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, even if you were in the next room five minutes ago.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the way he watches you.

Like you hung the damn moon.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur one night, curled up on the couch with him, your legs draped across his lap.

Bucky hums, unashamed, eyes tracing your face like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Yeah.”

“Why?” you tease, tilting your head.

He shrugs, but his hand slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, fingers squeezing gently. “’Cause I like looking at you.”

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. “You always like looking at me.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time, like it means something deeper. “Always.”

And he does.

God, he does.

So when the conversation happens, it’s not exactly surprising—but it still hits you right in the chest.

You’re lying in bed, half asleep, tracing lazy patterns over the skin of his chest while he plays with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.

“You know,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, “you’re kind of ridiculous.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“You’d do anything for me,” you say, like it’s a fact. “It’s… a lot.”

There’s no judgment in your tone, just soft wonder. But Bucky still goes still beneath you.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I would.”

You prop your chin on his chest, peering up at him. “Anything?”

His gaze drops to you instantly, intense and steady, like the answer is carved into him.

“Anything,” he repeats.

You study him for a second, searching for hesitation, for doubt—there isn’t any. Just that unwavering certainty that’s so uniquely him it makes your chest ache.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

Bucky’s thumb brushes over your cheek, slow and reverent. “You ask me for something, I’m giving it to you. No questions.”

You smile a little, teasing again to lighten the weight of it. “That’s dangerous, Barnes.”

“Not for you,” he murmurs.

You don’t realize how literal he is until later.

---

The first time he proves it, it’s stupid.

You mention, offhandedly, that you’ve been craving this specific dessert from a bakery across the city—something you haven’t had in years. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re already half asleep when you say it, voice drowsy and unfocused.

“Miss those little chocolate things,” you mumble into his shoulder. “With the caramel… remember?”

Bucky hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Yeah, I remember.”

You forget about it.

Of course you do.

Until you wake up a couple hours later, cold and alone in bed.

Panic flares for half a second—until you hear the front door click open.

You sit up, blinking in the dim light, just as Bucky walks in, hair tousled, jacket thrown over a t-shirt, a small paper box in his hand.

“Hey,” he says softly, like this is normal.

You stare at him. “Where did you go?”

He sets the box on the nightstand, opening it carefully. Inside are the exact pastries you mentioned—perfect, untouched, like he hand-delivered a memory.

“You said you wanted these,” he shrugs.

“Bucky,” you breathe, stunned. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“You drove across the city—for dessert?”

His brow furrows, confused by your tone, like he doesn’t understand why this is surprising. “You wanted it.”

Something in your chest twists, tight and overwhelming.

“That’s not the point,” you whisper.

He pauses, studying your face, and then his expression softens when he sees it—how much it means to you.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

Your eyes sting a little as you reach for him, pulling him down into the bed, your hands cupping his face. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, smiling faintly. “But you got your pastries.”

You kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the night air on his mouth.

---

The second time isn’t small.

It’s a mission gone sideways, a situation that escalates too fast, too dangerously. You’re pinned down, separated from the team, comm crackling with static.

“Bucky, don’t—” you start, trying to warn him, trying to keep him back.

But he’s already moving.

“Hold on,” he growls into the comm, voice sharp and unyielding. “I’m coming.”

“Bucky, it’s not safe—”

“Don’t care,” he snaps.

And he doesn’t.

Not when it comes to you.

He cuts through everything in his path—soldiers, debris, chaos—like it’s nothing, like the only thing that exists is getting to you. When he finally reaches you, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands immediately on your face, your shoulders, checking for injuries—

“Are you okay?” he demands, voice rough.

You nod, breath shaky. “I’m fine.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it the entire time, pressing his forehead to yours for a split second before pulling back, eyes blazing.

“Don’t ever tell me not to come for you,” he says, low and fierce. “You hear me?”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I meant it,” he cuts in, softer now, but no less intense. “Anything. That includes this.”

You swallow, your hands finding his, squeezing tight.

“Okay,” you whisper.

---

The third time, it’s quiet.

You’re back home, safe, curled into his side while a movie plays in the background. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, grounding, steady.

“You really mean it, don’t you?” you murmur.

Bucky glances down at you. “Mean what?”

“Anything,” you say softly.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he replies.

Your chest aches in that same overwhelming way, but this time it’s warm, steady, certain.

You shift closer, pressing your face into his neck, breathing him in. “Good.”

His arm tightens around you instantly, pulling you flush against him like it’s instinct.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Because I’d do anything for you too.”

For once, Bucky’s the one who looks a little stunned.

He looks…soft tonight. Relaxed in a way that still feels a little rare on him. Hair loose around his face, Henley stretched across his chest, metal fingers glinting faintly in the lamplight as they flex lazily.

The question slips out before you overthink it.

“When did you realize you wanted to be with me?”

His hand stills.

Not completely—but just enough that you notice.

His eyes flick to you, something quieter settling behind them. Not guarded, not exactly—just thoughtful. Like he’s reaching back through time, sifting through moments.

“You mean,” he says slowly, “when did I fall for you?”

You shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. Or—like—when you realized I was it for you.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, leaning back into the couch.

“That’s not a small question, doll.”

“I didn’t say it had to be a small answer.”

There’s a beat.

Then his mouth twitches.

“…You tripped over nothing.”

You blink.

“I—what?”

He nods, completely serious. “You tripped over absolutely nothing in the middle of the hallway. No obstacle. No reason. Just—” he makes a vague hand gesture, like gravity itself betrayed you, “—down you went.”

You stare at him.

“That is not romantic.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You didn’t even fall all the way. You just stumbled, caught yourself on the wall, and then looked around like you were checking if anyone saw.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god.”

“And then,” he continues, voice softening like he’s replaying it in real time, “you made eye contact with me—realized I definitely saw—and instead of being embarrassed…”

He pauses, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

“You pointed at the floor and said, ‘That was the floor’s fault. We’re not on speaking terms right now.’”

Heat floods your face.

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did.”

You bury your face in your hands. “That’s so humiliating.”

“No,” he says quietly.

You peek at him through your fingers.

His expression is steady. Certain.

“It was the first time I saw you not trying.”

You lower your hands slowly. “What does that mean?”

He shifts, turning a little more toward you, his metal hand coming up to gently tug your wrist away from your face completely.

“It means,” he says, “every other time before that… you were trying to impress me.”

You freeze.

Because—yeah.

You were.

God, you were.

Your mind flashes through it—the outfits you overthought, the way you practiced what you were going to say, the awkward, too-bright smiles, the flirting that came out just a little too forced.

“I wasn’t that obvious,” you mutter.

His brows lift.

You groan. “I was obvious.”

“You were trying so hard,” he says, and there’s no mockery in it. Just something almost…fond. “Always had something planned to say. Always standing a little straighter when I walked in. Laughing a little louder.”

You sink deeper into the couch, mortified. “Please stop.”

“And then that day,” he continues anyway, because of course he does, “you forgot I was there.”

You blink at him.

“And I got to see you just…be.”

He shrugs lightly, but his gaze doesn’t waver.

“You tripped. You made a dumb joke. You didn’t try to fix it or make it look cool. You just…rolled with it.”

You stare at him, trying to process that.

“That’s what did it?” you ask, incredulous. “Me beefing with the floor?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s what did it.”

You scoff, dropping your head back against the couch. “Bucky, I literally wore that black dress for you the week before. The one Natasha said made me look ‘criminally hot.’”

“I remember.”

“I flirted with you.”

“You tried.”

You smack his arm. “Rude!”

“It was bad,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Real bad.”

“Oh my god.”

“You asked me if I ‘worked out often or if I just woke up like that,’” he reminds you, and now he’s definitely enjoying this. “And then immediately said, ‘No, wait, that sounded weird,’ and tried to walk it back.”

“I hate you.”

He laughs under his breath.

“I thought it was cute,” he adds, softer now. “All of it.”

You squint at him. “Then why wasn’t that the moment?”

“Because you were still trying to be someone you thought I’d want.”

That lands differently.

Quieter.

You swallow, looking down at where his hand has settled back on your leg.

“And the hallway?” you murmur.

“The hallway,” he says, “was just you.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“You also told a really bad pun later that same day.”

You groan instantly. “No.”

“You did,” he insists. “Someone dropped a stack of files and you said, ‘Looks like that situation really fell apart.’”

You press your hands over your face again. “Stop. Please. I’m begging you.”

“And you laughed at your own joke,” he continues, relentless. “Like it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re not leaving.”

He hooks an arm around your waist before you can even pretend to get up, tugging you back into him easily.

You collapse against his chest with a huff, still hiding your face.

“That’s all it took,” you mumble into his shirt. “Me being a disaster.”

His hand slides up your back, slow and grounding.

“That’s all it ever takes,” he says quietly. “For me, anyway.”

You go still.

His voice softens, dropping into something more honest.

“I don’t need perfect. I don’t need polished. I don’t need whatever version of you you thought would impress me.”

His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re looking at him.

“I just needed you.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even if I trip over air?” you ask weakly.

His mouth curves, eyes warm.

“Especially then.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, something a little watery at the edges.

“…You still liked the dress, though, right?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Loved it.”

You narrow your eyes.

“And my flirting?”

A beat.

“…We can workshop that.”

You smack his chest, and he laughs—really laughs this time—pulling you closer as you protest, your indignation melting into something softer, something easy.

Because even if it wasn’t the dress.

Even if it wasn’t the flirting.

Even if it was something as ridiculous as tripping over nothing—