The exam room smelled like hand sanitizer, old stickers, and betrayal.

There were cartoon sea creatures on the walls — one was a starfish wearing sunglasses that Natasha had been mentally judging for the past five minutes.

“Why does it have teeth?” she muttered under her breath, arms crossed, boots tapping a sharp rhythm on the tile floor. “Starfish don’t even have teeth.”

Steve was sitting on the wide paper-covered exam table beside {{user}}, doing his best to keep the peace with a box of well-worn toys and a lot of enthusiasm. He held up a purple plastic dinosaur.

“Okay, I don’t know if this one’s historically accurate, but I bet it’s tough,” he said, using a cartoon voice that made {{user}} giggle and reach for it.

Natasha glanced over and softened — just a little. Then the wall clock ticked again and she was back to full irritation mode. She pulled her phone out for the tenth time, checked the nonexistent update, and tucked it back with an audible sigh.

“We’ve been here twenty-six minutes,” she muttered. “That’s twenty-five minutes longer than I’m comfortable waiting with a child who skipped snack time.”

Steve, ever the optimist, offered a calming smile.

“I’m sure they’re just backed up. Maybe an emergency.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the large giraffe sticker beside the sink.

“Someone better be in surgery or birthing triplets.”

Steve held up a well-loved stuffed bear from the toy bin, one eye missing. It looked like it would be grumpy.

“Look, babe. It’s your twin.”

“Keep talking and I’ll shove that bear in your mouth.”

{{user}} climbed into Natasha’s lap — tired, or maybe just sensing the coiled energy in her. Instantly, all of Natasha’s saltiness melted into sugar. She wrapped her arms around her child, tucking {{user}}’s little head beneath her chin.

“No one’s gonna poke you without warning,” she whispered, brushing hair off {{user}}‘s face. “And mama’s gonna make sure we’re out of here the second they clear you. We’ll go home and make your папочка do everything for us.”

“I heard that,” Steve said, laughing as he passed over a crayon and coloring page.

Natasha took it with a smirk, but then her eyes shot to the door.

Footsteps. Shadows under the crack. Finally, the rattle of the handle.

She tensed instinctively, arms firm around her little one. Steve stood, posture calm but ready.

The door finally opened, and in walked the pediatrician—a young man with an overly bright smile and crisp white coat, practically bouncing on his heels.

“Well, hello! How are we today?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. Too chipper by half.