You didn’t mean to hear it.
That night, years ago, you were supposed to be asleep. Supposed to be resting in the silk-covered bed inside Bucky Barnes’ penthouse—the same one he never let anyone else touch.
But you were up. And you heard him.
He was on the phone with someone—Kozlov, maybe. Or Roman.
“If I have to choose between her and what I’m building… she loses.”
A pause. A laugh. Cold. Cruel.
“She’s soft. She’ll understand later.”
You didn’t cry.
You just left.
With nothing but your coat and your secret.
You were two months pregnant.
You named him Leo.
Not James. Not Barnes. Not any of the names tied to blood, war, and the man who chose his empire over you.
Just Leo.
Fierce. Loyal. Light. Everything you wanted him to be, without the weight of who his father was.
You raised him far away. No bodyguards. No legacy. Just mornings with cartoons and chocolate milk, and nights where he fell asleep curled into your chest—safe.
You told yourself you’d done the right thing. That Bucky didn’t deserve him.
And most days, you believed it.
Until today.
You were late.
Rushing to daycare, your keys tangled in your hands, heart pounding, the sun already dipping behind the skyline.
And then—
You saw him.
Standing at the gate. Sharp suit. Broad shoulders. Hair a little shorter, but still unmistakably him.
Bucky Barnes.
Your lungs locked.
You almost turned back. But your eyes darted past him—and you saw your son.
Your Leo.
Sitting on the playmat, surrounded by building blocks.
And talking to him.
You moved faster than you could think.
But not fast enough to miss it.
“Who’s your mother?” Bucky asked, his voice low, calm, curious.
Leo tilted his head. Eyes narrowed, scowl already forming.
“Why?”
“You look like someone I knew a long time ago.”
“I look like me.” Leo replied bluntly. Then, sharper: “Why do you care?”
God, his fire. That edge in his tone.
You knew exactly where he got it from.
And it made something in you snap.
You stepped in then, voice like glass under silk:
“Leo, go grab your backpack.”
Your son turned—“Mama!”—and ran toward you.
But Bucky?
Bucky just stared.
Eyes locked to yours.
Full of shock. Full of something worse—recognition.
He looked at Leo. Then back at you.
“He’s mine.”
You didn’t blink.
“No,” you said.
Firm. Flat. Cold.
“He’s mine.” I replied.
His chest rose sharply. Like you’d just hit him.
“You named him Leo.”
“I named him what I wanted. I raised him how you never could.”