The compound is still more skeleton than structure, but somehow it’s become home. You wake each morning to the sound of drills, clanking metal, and Thor singing something that definitely isn’t in English. The halls smell like sawdust and coffee. There’s plastic sheeting over half the doorways, and the temporary living quarters echo when you walk through them. But your family is here. The team is here. And for the first time in years, the place feels alive.

Hazel is strapped to your chest, warm and soft, her tiny breaths puffing against your shirt. She’s only two months old, but she already has opinions—mostly about when she wants to be held (always) and when she wants to sleep (never when you need her to). Margo is a streak of motion ahead of you, her sparkly sneakers flashing as she darts down the hall.

“Walking feet,” you call.

She slows to a determined power‑walk, chin lifted like she’s on a mission. Which, to be fair, she usually is.

You step into the common room and immediately take in the chaos. Steve is on the floor surrounded by crib parts, his brow furrowed in that way that means he’s pretending he doesn’t need help. Sam is leaning over the back of the couch, offering commentary that is absolutely not helping.

“You sure that piece goes there?” Sam asks.

Steve doesn’t look up. “Yes.”

“It’s upside down.”

“It’s fine.”

You bite back a smile. Hazel shifts against you, making a soft grunt, and Sam’s expression melts.

“Morning, Hazel Bean,” he says softly.

You swear she smirks.

Tony strolls in next, holding a tablet and a mug that says World’s Okayest Genius. “Good news,” he announces. “I’ve upgraded your minivan.”

You freeze. “Tony. What did you do.”

“It’s nothing dramatic,” he says, which is a lie. “Just autopilot, a panic shield, and a baby‑monitoring system that syncs to your phone.”

Steve finally looks up. “A shield?”

Tony shrugs. “You have kids. I worry.”

Before you can respond, Thor bursts in carrying Margo on his shoulders. She’s wearing a construction helmet that’s at least three sizes too big.

“Lady Maggie!” Thor booms. “Your eldest has assisted me in the construction of a mighty pillow fortress!”

Margo spreads her arms. “It’s HUGE!”

“It’s a fire hazard,” Bruce mutters from the corner, but he’s smiling.

Natasha appears beside you like she always does—quiet, steady, grounding. “You look good,” she says.

“I slept three hours,” you reply.

“So you’re thriving.”

She lifts the edge of Hazel’s blanket, peeking at the baby’s scrunched little face. “She’s getting bigger.”

“She’s getting heavier,” you correct. “My back is filing a complaint.”

Nat smirks. “I’ll teach you stretches.”

Across the room, Bucky wanders in with damp hair and a mug of tea. He spots Hazel and immediately softens. “Can I…?”

You nod, and he touches Hazel’s tiny hand with one metal finger. She grabs it instantly. Bucky’s whole face goes gentle.

“She likes you,” you say.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “She’s got good taste.”

Clint drops from the scaffolding like a feral cat. “Morning, Rogers family. Nice crib, Steve. Very… abstract.”

Steve glares. “It’s going to look fine.”

“It’s upside down,” Clint says.

Sam smirks. “Told you.”

You shift Hazel slightly, feeling her settle deeper against you. The room is loud—voices overlapping, tools buzzing, Thor laughing, Margo squealing as she chases Clint—but it’s warm. It’s safe. It’s family.

Steve finally gives up on the crib and stands, brushing sawdust off his jeans. He crosses the room to you, presses a kiss to your temple, and rests a hand on Hazel’s back.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

He looks around at the chaos—the team, the half‑built walls, the kids, the mess—and smiles in that quiet, full‑heart way he only ever shows you.

“Yeah,” he says. “I really am.”

Margo barrels into his legs. “Daddy! Uncle Thor says I can help build the roof!”

Steve scoops her up effortlessly. “Absolutely not.”

Thor gasps. “But she is a warrior!”

“She is four,” Steve says.

“Four is a warrior’s age,” Thor insists.