67. Bucky Barnes◇

Bucky's day was already out of control by 8:07 am

No part-time help: Mark called to say he was sick. Kindergarten? Closed. Babysitter? Busy. And the worst part? No coffee. Not even a sip.

So, with her five-year-old son bouncing beside her, Bucky opened the garage door, muttering as he jumped on the oil-stained concrete as if it were a playground

“Just…play over there, okay, Seb? Dad has to work.”

He crawled under the car, wrench in hand, squinting at a stubborn bolt while his son's voice crooned every two minutes.

“Dad, why is that tire round?”

"Why does that smell like eggs?"

“Are car engines still running?”

Normally, he would laugh and answer. He was clever, curious, a spark. But today, every question irritated his already frayed nerves.

Then silence. Too much silence.

Bucky's stomach sank. He pushed himself out from under the car, grease smearing his forehead as he stood and scanned the garage.

“Seb?” he called, drying his hands on a rag. “Sebastian?”

She ran towards the small waiting room and stopped

His son was sitting at the table, happily coloring. In front of him was someone Bucky didn't recognize: you

You held a crayon, carefully following Sebastian's strict instructions on how to color within the lines. Your smile was broad, genuine, and when you looked up and met his gaze—soft

“He said he couldn’t color the cat purple,” you said, smiling.

“He’s right,” Bucky murmured, astonished. “Cats aren’t purple.”

You laughed. “Good to know. I’ll correct it.”

Sebastian beamed, “She’s fun, daddy. Can she stay forever?”

Bucky laughed uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eh...that sped up fast."

You smiled at him, still holding the crayon. "Apparently, it's standard procedure. First I color. Only then do they let me meet the mechanic."

“Did he say that?”

“Literally.” You laughed