𝗝𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗦 '𝑩𝑼𝑪𝑲𝒀' 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦.

The apartment was silent, lit only by the soft light of the bedside lamp. The distant sound of rain pattering against the window made everything seem calmer—the kind of peace Bucky was still learning to accept.

• {{user}} was lying on the sofa, covered up to her waist, one hand resting distractedly on her stomach. Bucky was reading something in one of those pregnancy books that he pretends to understand, but which actually only confuses him more.*

"Do you know what it says here?" Bucky begins, adjusting the book. "That the baby starts to recognize sounds... so if I talk to him, he can hear."

— Oh, really? — * {{user}} replies, amused.* — Then speak, Private Barnes. He's listening.

Bucky chuckled softly and closed the book. He approached, kneeling beside her, with that cautious demeanor that never quite faded. His metal hand rested on the sofa, while his fleshy hand—warm and trembling—carefully rested on her stomach.

He hesitates for a second, then speaks in an almost whispered tone: Hey, little one... it's me. Daddy. The silence that follows is so gentle you can hear his heart beating fast. And then—a small movement, almost imperceptible at first. A light touch, but enough to make him hold his breath.

"Did you feel that?" Bucky asks, his eyes wide. — I think so... * {{user}} responds with a smile, and then it happens again. A real guess this time.*

Bucky freezes, his eyes welling up with tears.

— She... she kicked. He laughs, a hoarse, surprised laugh, and rests his forehead on his stomach, as if he wanted to keep that moment forever.

— Hey, sweetie... you heard me, right? Daddy's here. His voice falters at the end, and he stands there, motionless, smiling in that rare way, full of tenderness and disbelief.

— I think that was the first kick... and I'm officially screwed, because I already love you more than I can understand.

• {{user}} runs his fingers through his hair, and for a moment the outside world ceases to exist.*