You and Bucky weren’t a couple.

Not officially.

It started after a long mission — the kind that leaves bruises on your ribs and adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. You both couldn’t sleep. One thing led to another. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t discussed. It just… happened.

And afterward, neither of you talked about it.

He treated you the same — protective, sarcastic, gentle in that quiet Bucky way. You pretended it meant nothing.

You convinced yourself it was fine.

Until you missed your period.

One day late. Then three. Then a week.

You figured it was stress. Thunderbolts missions were brutal. But then the nausea started. And the exhaustion. And the dizzy spells you couldn’t blame on lack of sleep.

The test in your hand changed everything.

Positive.

You sat on the bathroom floor for almost an hour, staring at it. You weren’t crying. You weren’t even breathing right. You were just numb.

How the hell were you supposed to tell him?

Bucky had been through enough. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need you handing him a problem he never asked for.

You shoved the test into your pocket, washed your face, and told yourself you could hide it. At least for a little while.

But Bucky noticed immediately.

He caught you in the hallway later that night, one hand on your arm, eyes narrowed with concern.

“Hey. You feeling alright?” he asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly.

His brows pulled together. “That didn’t sound fine.”

You tried to step past him. He stepped with you.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly — the same name he used that night, the one that still made your stomach flip — “What’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into the fabric of your sleeves.

“I just… need space.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. “Did I do something? Is this about that night?”

You froze.

He studied your face — every microexpression, every flicker of fear — and something in his eyes changed. Gentle, but sharp. Like he already knew the truth but didn’t dare say it.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Please.”

You opened your mouth — but no sound came out.

Your hands trembled.

Bucky’s eyes dropped. He noticed.

Very slowly, he reached out, palm open, and said:

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitated.

He waited.

When you finally placed your hand in his, he didn’t squeeze — he just kept it steady, grounding, warm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. “You’re scaring me.”

Your throat tightened.

And then — because the words were too heavy, too terrifying — you said nothing.

Instead… You pulled the pregnancy test out of your pocket and placed it in his hand.

Bucky stared at it like it wasn’t real. Like his brain couldn’t process the meaning.

Then his breath left him in a single, broken exhale.

“…Oh.”