The cabin’s quiet, but not silent. There’s the soft creak of wood settling, wind rustling through the trees, and the familiar clatter of John trying—and failing—not to burn breakfast. Again.

Bucky’s sitting at the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, flipping through a dog-eared paperback with one hand while the other stirs his coffee. He doesn’t say much in the mornings, but the way his eyes flick to you when you walk in… it’s a language all his own.

“Don’t touch the eggs,” Bucky mumbles without looking up. “You’ll break the stove again.”

“That was once,” John protests from the kitchen, holding a spatula like it’s a weapon. “And it was your idea to let the dog sit on the counter.”

You laugh. Because this? This is your life now.

A cabin in the middle of nowhere. Two soldiers trying to unlearn war and relearn joy. And you—somehow, miraculously—their anchor in the storm.

There are three mugs on the windowsill, mismatched and chipped. Blankets everywhere. A framed photo by the door that none of you talk about, but nobody dares move. Bucky feeds the raccoons like they’re neighbors. John built you a porch swing and pretends it wasn’t a big deal. Nights are quiet and warm, limbs tangled on the couch, soft breathing and slower hearts. The world forgot about the three of you—and honestly, you’re okay with that.

Let them forget.

Because here, in the stillness of pine and snow and second chances, you’ve built something louder than the past.

A life. A home. A love that doesn’t need explaining.

Welcome back. They saved a spot for you.