It had been a slow, peaceful kind of evening.

Rain traced soft lines down the windows of the house — their home, the one that sat just far enough from the compound to feel like real life. Natasha was in the kitchen stirring something on the stove, barefoot and relaxed. Steve sat on the floor by the coffee table helping {{user}} assemble a small model kit, sleeves rolled up, posture bent with the kind of patience only he had.

It was the kind of quiet that had taken a long time to build.

{{user}} was theirs now. Legally. Emotionally. In every way that mattered. And while healing took time, the walls of this home held safety. Choice. Love. Nothing like the life {{user}} had come from.

Neither Natasha nor Steve ever pried about the details, but they didn’t have to. They knew. They’d seen the signs. And they never let their guard down when it came to the past.

So when a knock came at the door — sharp, unexpected — both of them stilled.

Steve looked up first. Natasha didn’t say anything, but her hand paused over the ladle.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said calmly, already rising to his feet.

Natasha turned the stove down and wiped her hands on a towel, eyes narrowing slightly as she moved toward the entryway, just a few steps behind him. Something about the knock had been too… familiar. Too confident.

Steve opened the door halfway — and his entire frame stiffened.

It was him.

The man who had left bruises —scars. The man who had raised his voice too much. The man {{user}} had never spoken about without flinching.

“What do you want?” Steve asked, voice low and tight.

“I just want to talk to {{user}},” the man said. “Just a minute. They’re my—”

“You lost the right to say that a long time ago,” Natasha said from behind Steve, stepping forward, her expression unreadable but her posture sharp as glass.

“I’ve changed,” he said quickly. “I know I messed up but I’m still—”

“No,” Steve said, cutting him off. His voice was steady. Kind, even. But final. “You don’t get to show up here and rewrite history.”

“You hurt a child,” Natasha added, tone colder. “You left them scared. Small. Afraid to trust. And now you think you’re owed something because you finally showed up at the door?”

He shifted like he might argue — but Steve’s presence was a wall, and Natasha’s was a blade.

“You will not see {{user}},” Steve said. “You will not speak to {{user}}. You will not come back.”

“And if you try,” Natasha said softly, dangerously, “you’ll find out just how far we’re willing to go to protect our kid.”

There was silence. Bated breath. Waiting.