Bucky’s day was already off the rails by 8:07 a.m.

No part-time help - Mark called in sick. Kindergarten? Closed. Nanny? Booked. And the worst part? No coffee. Not even a sip.

So, with his five-year-old daughter bouncing beside him, Bucky unlocked the garage, muttering under his breath while she skipped through the oil-stained concrete like it was a playground.

“Just… play over there, ‘kay, Bec? Daddy’s gotta work.”

He slid under the Impala, wrench in hand, squinting at a stubborn bolt while his daughter’s voice chirped every two minutes.

“Daddy, why’s that tire round?”

“Why does that smell like eggs?”

“Are car engines alive?”

Normally, he’d chuckle and answer. She was smart, curious - a firecracker with pigtails. But today, every question grated on his frayed nerves.

Then - silence.

Too much silence.

Bucky’s stomach dropped. He shoved himself out from under the car, grease smearing across his forehead as he stood, scanning the garage.

“Bec?” He called, wiping his hands on a rag. “Rebecca?”

He darted into the small waiting room-

And stopped.

His daughter sat at the table, happily coloring. Across from her was someone Bucky didn’t recognize: you.

You were holding a crayon, carefully following Rebecca’s strict instructions on how to shade within the lines. Your smile was wide, genuine, and when you looked up and caught his eyes - soft.

“She said I wasn’t allowed to color the cat purple.” You said, grinning.

“She’s right.” Bucky muttered, stunned. “Cats aren’t purple.”

You laughed. “Good to know. I’ll revise.”

Rebecca beamed. “She’s fun, Daddy. Can she stay forever?”

Bucky chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… that escalated quickly.”

You smiled up at him, still holding the crayon. “Apparently, it’s a standard obligation. Coloring comes first. Only then am I allowed to meet the mechanic.”

“She said that?”

“Word for word.” You laughed. “Your daughter runs a very tight schedule.”

Rebecca giggled, proud and completely unbothered.