You found him in front of the mirror again, towel slung low on his hips, electric razor in one hand, your warning still fresh in the air from fifteen minutes ago:

“If you shave that beard, I swear”

He raised a brow, stared himself down like he was interrogating a suspect.

“I don’t know, doll. It’s startin’ to feel like I’ve got a whole damn squirrel livin’ on my jaw.”

You appeared in the doorway just in time to catch him turning the razor on. But before you could launch into a proper rebuttal, your baby started fussing from the bassinet in the bedroom.

Cue the sigh. Cue the dad instinct. He left the razor buzzing on the counter and walked over, scooping the baby up against his bare chest with all the tenderness of a man who once thought he’d never be allowed to love anything again.

The baby whimpered… paused… and then slowly turned their little forehead toward his beard. Pressed in.

Rubbed.

Rubbed again.

And fell asleep.

Bucky froze like a man hit by a sniper round. He looked down at the tiny body curled against him, then up at you with wide eyes.

“…Did our kid just use my face… to self-soothe?”

You nodded, smug.

“Like a warm, fuzzy stress ball.”

Bucky blinked. Then turned around, flicked off the razor, and dropped it into the drawer without a word.

“…Beard stays.”