The apartment is still and soft when Bucky shoulders the door open.

He’s carrying the carseat in his left hand—big soldier, careful as a priest—and you can see how his whole body has changed in these last days. Like the world got quieter inside him. Like he carries this responsibility like something holy.

Sophia makes a tiny sleeping sound, the kind that is barely a sigh.

Bucky glances down immediately; his blue eyes warm and alert.

“She’s still out,” he murmurs, like speaking in a church.

You step inside carefully, slower than normal—not because you’re weak, but because your body still feels raw in that strange, powerful way childbirth leaves you. You are dressed in soft layers, loose, comfortable, your hair not quite tamed, but your gaze is bright. You smell like baby shampoo and hospital antiseptic and something new.

Alpine trots toward the door immediately—white fur sleek, tail up. She stops short when she sees the carseat, pupils going big with feline calculation.

“Alpine,” Bucky warns under his breath. “Be nice. This is your sister.”

The cat sits. Lifts her chin like she’s evaluating the new small creature. You think she’s going to hiss but she just blinks slow and curious. The acceptance is immediate, sovereign. Cats get weird about babies but Alpine apparently decides this one is hers.

You walk deeper into the apartment.

Nothing has changed, but everything has.

The couch, the framed little sketches you did of him, the kitchen counter with the coffee maker he triple sanitized last night at 2 a.m. even though you still weren’t home yet. The windows open just a crack because he insisted the air be fresh, because the baby would breathe here.

He sets the carseat gently onto the sofa and you lower yourself beside it, wincing just a little—he notices, of course, and his metal hand hovers at your waist as if ready to help if you need.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.” You breathe. “Just… human.”

He exhales and sits next to you, his body angled inward. Sophia is a perfect little bundle of soft pink skin and tiny fists. Her hat is slightly askew. You reach down and straighten it, and your hand trembles at the enormity of what you’re touching.

“She’s home,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, voice hushed, almost reverent. “She’s home.”

The room is dim and warm. Alpine jumps up onto the arm of the couch and curls against your thigh, pressing close to the baby as if to guard her.

Bucky’s eyes go shiny. You see it. He looks at Sophia like she is his resurrection. Like every version of himself that thought he couldn’t have this is stunned silent.

He touches his daughter’s soft cheek with his metal knuckle—just barely—the gentlest possible contact. Like he’s afraid even air might be too much.

“You scared to sleep?” you ask softly. You know he is.

His throat works.

“Terrified,” he admits. “What if she needs something and I don’t hear? What if something—” he swallows “—what if something happens while I’m unconscious?”

You take his hand—flesh and metal both—and guide it to your lap.

“She’s not alone,” you remind him. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

Bucky leans his head back against the cushions, exhausted, trying to breathe in a world that suddenly loves him back.

Sophia shifts in her sleep, murmuring, a tiny squeak.

You both freeze for a moment. And then you see it—the little sigh, the little recomposing of her face—and she keeps sleeping.

Bucky lets out a shaky laugh. “Okay. Okay. She’s okay.”

“And she’s ours,” you add.

His eyes close. A few tears slip free down his cheek. He doesn’t hide it.

“I never thought I’d get this,” he whispers.