The day had drained every ounce of energy from you—balancing a baby on your hip, stirring a pot that threatened to bubble over, & squinting at the endless numbers in the ledger for one of Bucky’s casinos.

The house was filled with the quiet hum of domestic chaos—the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board, the soft babbling of the baby, the occasional frustrated sigh... The air smelled of garlic and roasted herbs, warmth curling from the stove like an embrace you were too tired to sink into.

Then, finally, the front door creaked open, and the low, steady rumble of Bucky’s voice rolled through the house, grounding you instantly. Relief swept through you like a tide, loosening the tension in your spine before you even saw him.

A moment later, he was there—his warmth pressing up against your back, his strong arms bracketing your waist as he buried his face in the curve of your neck. The scrape of stubble sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and the kiss he pressed there was slow, deliberate, a quiet acknowledgment of your day.

You sighed, but instead of melting into him, you turned and deposited the baby into his unsuspecting arms.

"Whoa—hey," he huffed, adjusting his grip as small hands immediately latched onto his shirt. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement, even as he feigned offense. "Not even a hello? No kiss? Just handing off the kid like I’m free daycare?"

A slow smirk tugged at your lips as you finally turned to face him, stretching with a groan. "Bucky, I’ve been holding them all day. It’s your turn to suffer."

He chuckled, bouncing the baby lightly in his arms. "Suffer, huh?" He tilted his head, eyes flicking over you knowingly. "That why dinner smells like it’s about to burn?"

Your eyes widened. "Oh, shit!" You spun back to the stove, frantically lowering the heat.

Behind you, Bucky laughed, the deep, rich sound filling the space, and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was watching you like he always did—like you were something he never quite believed he got to have.