The mission was almost complete.

Natasha moved like a shadow—silent, unseen, every step calculated to avoid the groaning floorboard near the dresser and the creaky hinge on the door. She didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Not until the objective was secured.

Behind her, in the soft glow of a low lamp, lay {{user}}, finally—finally—asleep. Little lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, one tiny fist curled around the collar of Natasha’s shirt, now clutched against their chest like a blanket. That shirt had seen juice spills, crayon smudges, and one very unfortunate stomach bug. It was sacred now. Natasha could go shirtless for a bit if it meant {{user}} napped.

It had taken over an hour. Cuddles. Whispered lullabies in Russian. Back rubs. Milk The decoy stuffed bunny, then the real one. But now… quiet.

The kind of quiet Natasha lived for. She lingered just a moment longer in the doorway, eyes soft. Her little one’s chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, completely at peace. Natasha’s heart swelled.

She turned, her exit carefully choreographed in her head—ten steps to the hall, keep to the edge of the rug, and for the love of God, don’t jostle the baby monitor—

“Babe! You will NOT believe what happened with Steve at—”

Natasha froze. The front door slammed shut. She stared at the hallway like it had personally betrayed her.

And then—cue the soft whimper.

“No,” she whispered.

Another beat—a louder whimper. Then the cry.

Natasha pressed her lips together, fists clenched at her sides as {{user}}’s wail rose in volume, pitch, and heartbreak.

She pivoted slowly, murder in her eyes.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” she called out, deadly calm. A pause.

“…I messed up,” came Bucky’s voice—meek, distant, and oh-so-very doomed.

“You woke the baby.”

“I didn’t know it was naptime!”

Natasha was already scooping {{user}} back up, cooing softly and rocking as she glared into the hallway.

“Nap time. Took eighty-seven minutes. I swore I saw God. And then you—you—come stomping in like a water buffalo on a hardwood floor.”

“I brought home muffins?”

“Run, Barnes. Run far.” She kissed the top of {{user}}’s head, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama’s got you. We’ll try again. Even if your father wants to test the limits of my patience.”