The house always felt softer in the late afternoon.

Sunlight poured in through the wide kitchen windows, catching on the worn wood of the table Sam insisted on keeping, even after they could’ve afforded something newer. It painted everything gold—Riley’s curls, the quiet gleam of Bucky’s metal hand, the flour dusted across your palms.

“Okay,” you said, trying not to laugh, “we do not throw the dough.”

“I not throw,” Riley insisted, already winding up.

“Riley—”

Too late.

The small lump of dough hit the cabinet with a sad, sticky thud before sliding down.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

Sam snorted first. Loud, unrestrained, shoulders shaking as he leaned against the counter. “Oh, he absolutely threw that.”

“I didn’t,” Riley said again, turning to you with wide, innocent eyes that would’ve worked on anyone else.

Bucky, crouched beside him, raised one brow—perfectly unimpressed. “You’ve got about five seconds to tell the truth, pal.”

Riley glanced between the three of you, weighing his options with a seriousness that felt entirely too old for three years old.

“…I throwed it.”

“Mm,” Bucky nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

You barely held back your smile as Riley immediately pivoted, grabbing at Bucky’s sleeve. “Dada help clean?”

And just like that—gone. Any trace of discipline melted clean off Bucky’s face.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, already reaching for a towel. “We’ll clean it.”

Sam pointed a flour-covered spoon at him. “You’re too easy.”

“And you’re not?” Bucky shot back, glancing over his shoulder.

Sam didn’t even try to deny it. Just grinned.

“Please,” he said, stepping over to scoop Riley up in one smooth motion. “I’m the fun parent.”

“I’m fun,” Bucky muttered.

“You glared at him for throwing dough.”

“I corrected him.”

Riley, now perched on Sam’s hip, giggled like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. “Papa funny.”

“That’s right,” Sam said smugly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Only one of us is cool.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back against the counter. “Oh? And what does that make me?”

Riley twisted immediately, reaching for you. “Mama best.”

Sam clutched his chest like he’d been wounded. “Wow. Betrayal.”

Bucky huffed, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth as he wiped the cabinet clean. “Kid’s got good instincts.”

You took Riley from Sam, settling him against your hip, brushing flour from his cheek with your thumb. He leaned into you without thinking—warm, solid, completely at home.

That was the thing about Riley.

No fear. No hesitation. Just love, given freely, like breathing.

“Okay,” you said, shifting him slightly. “Last chance—are we helping Mama, or are we making more of a mess?”

“Helping,” he said quickly.

Sam raised a brow. “Suspiciously fast answer.”

“Helping,” Riley repeated, more firmly now.

Bucky came back over then, quieter, his presence settling beside you like something steady and unshakable. His flesh hand brushed your back—absent, grounding—before he pressed a kiss into your hair.

“You’ve got flour in it,” he murmured.

“So do you.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Sam watched the two of you for a second, something soft passing through his expression before he shook it off, clapping his hands together.

“Alright,” he said, all business again. “Team meeting. We finish this batch, then—movie night.”

Riley perked up instantly. “Movie!”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You pick.”

“Cars.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “Again?”

“Cars,” Riley repeated, with authority this time.

You grinned. “Sounds like a unanimous decision.”

“It is absolutely not unanimous—”

But Sam was already laughing, Riley was already wiggling down to “help,” and Bucky—despite the grumbling—was already reaching for another piece of dough, handing it over with careful patience.

The kitchen filled again with noise. Laughter, soft bickering, the quiet rhythm of something built—not out of obligation, or survival—

—but choice.

And in the middle of it all, Riley beamed.

Because to him, this was everything.

Dada. Papa. Mama. Home.