“That’s her.”

Yelena’s voice was barely a whisper in his comms, but Bucky heard it like a gunshot. They’d been tracking a shadow squad of Widows through the ruins of a bombed-out port town—black suits, red insignias, silent precision. It was déjà vu in the worst way.

Then he saw you. And the world slowed.

You moved like a ghost too fast, too clean. Your eyes flicked over the mission field with predator instinct. But it wasn’t just your skill. It was the flicker of uncertainty when you caught his stare. The way your grip faltered just long enough to mean something.

Bucky froze.

“Who is she?” he asked, not over comms, just out loud. Yelena’s voice trembled through his earpiece “Her name was… Alina. Natasha named her. It’s her daughter. Dreykov took her before the procedure.”

Bucky didn’t remember breathing after that. He found you again during a crossfire escape cornered, panting, defiant. And gods help him, even with blood on your face, you looked lost.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly, dropping his weapon. You didn’t lower yours. Not yet.

“You don’t have to run anymore.” And when you do run, it’s not away. It’s toward something that feels terrifyingly close to hope. Toward him.

Now Bucky’s mission has changed. He’s not here to finish orders anymore. He’s here to get you out. To keep you safe. To give back the life they stole from you. And maybe, just maybe… to finally let himself want something real.

“You ever think maybe we don’t have to be what they made us?” he asks, one night as you sit beside him, fingers blood-streaked and trembling.

Because to him? You’re not just Natasha’s daughter. You’re his future—if you let him stay.