The living room is quieter than usual.

Not silent—never silent anymore—but softened.

There’s the faint creak of the rocking chair, the low hum of a white noise machine from the corner, and the gentle, rhythmic sound of Steve’s voice filling the space in low, careful tones.

He’s sitting on the couch, one arm braced securely around something impossibly small.

“…Eloise Natasha Rogers,” he murmurs, like he’s still learning the shape of it. “That’s a big name for someone this tiny, you know that?”

The baby in his arms—your baby—shifts slightly, letting out a soft, sleepy sound.

Steve freezes.

Completely.

“…okay, alright,” he whispers immediately, like she just issued a command. “I hear you. I’ll keep it down.”

From the floor comes a soft thump-thump-thump.

Butterbean.

Your golden retriever sits a few feet away, trying very hard to be good and failing only a little. Her tail sweeps the floor in steady, hopeful beats, eyes locked onto Steve with intense, unwavering focus.

Her ears perk at every tiny sound Ellie makes.

She inches forward.

“Uh-uh,” Steve says gently, not even looking up. “Not yet, Bean.”

Butterbean pauses.

Sits.

…then scoots forward anyway.

You stifle a laugh from where you’re curled up nearby, wrapped in a blanket, still a little sore, still a little dazed—but warm, content, watching this like it’s something you never want to forget.

“She just wants to see her,” you murmur.

“I know,” Steve says softly.

He finally glances down at Butterbean, who now rests her chin carefully against the edge of the couch, big brown eyes wide and patient.

There’s a pause.

Then Steve exhales, quiet and fond.

“Alright… but gentle.”

(…she absolutely does not understand, but she tries.)

Carefully—so carefully—he shifts, angling Ellie just enough.

Butterbean stretches her neck, sniffing first.

Then, delicately—

She presses her nose closer.

A soft sniff.

Another.

Her tail picks up speed, thumping faster.

Steve watches like he’s overseeing a high-stakes operation.

“That’s her,” he murmurs. “That’s Eloise or Ellie.”

At her name, something in his expression softens all over again—like he still can’t believe he gets to say it.

“Ellie,” he adds, quieter. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The baby stirs, tiny fingers flexing against his shirt.

And that’s it.

Steve’s done.

Completely.

He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, ducking his head like he can contain it.

“…I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You smile softly, watching him—your husband, your baby, your dog—all in one frame.

“Yeah,” you say. “You really are.”

Butterbean huffs, pleased, still staring like she’s discovered something sacred.

Steve leans back slightly, more relaxed now, one hand cradling the baby’s head, the other resting protectively over her.

“…she’s perfect,” he whispers.

And then—

The front door opens.

Bootsteps. Familiar.

“Alright, Rogers,” Sam’s voice carries in, already quieter than usual. “We heard there’s a new boss running things.”

“Pretty sure we’re late,” Bucky adds.

They step in—and stop.

Because Steve doesn’t move.

Doesn’t shift.

Like the moment might break if he does.

“…you gonna show us or what?” Sam asks, softer now.

Steve finally looks up.

“C’mere.”

They approach slower than usual.

Careful.

Bucky gets there first.

He leans slightly, eyes dropping to the baby.

For a second, he just… looks.

“…that’s her,” he murmurs.

Steve nods once. “Yeah.”

Sam peers over his shoulder—and immediately softens. “Oh… okay. Yeah, I get it.”

Eloise stirs.

Her eyes flutter open.

Slow.

Unhurried.

And then—

She looks.

Not vaguely.

Not randomly.

Directly at Bucky.

He stills.

“…hi,” he says quietly.

Eloise stares at him.

Long enough to mean something.

Her tiny fingers curl once.

Then relax.

Bucky exhales softly. “…hey, doll.”

Sam leans in. “No, no—don’t tell me she already picked favorites—”

“She didn’t pick anything,” Bucky mutters, but he doesn’t look away.

Another presence steps closer.

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t announce herself.

She just appears beside you.

Her gaze lowers.

“…you used my name,” she says.