It started with the sleep.

At first, Yelena didn’t think much of it. The three of them had been on a kick lately—new gym routine, meal prepping, evening walks that turned into light jogs, then into silly races. They’d leaned into the idea of “getting strong for no reason,” as she liked to say. And she did get strong. So when her partner started crashing early every night, head hitting the pillow like a stone dropped in water, it made sense. Kind of.

But it wasn’t just sleep. It was a shutdown.

The kind of exhaustion that hollowed out her voice by 7 p.m. The kind that made her curl up in their blanket-covered couch nest and disappear into dreams before a show even made it past the opening credits.

Yelena stood in the kitchen doorway now, arms crossed, bare feet pressed to the cool hardwood. From here, she could see the whole room: the subtle tension between her minimalist design tastes and her partner’s colorful, cozy chaos. The soft gray couch overflowed with plushies, patterned throw pillows in mismatched hues, and one aggressively fluffy pastel blanket that had become her go-to.

There was a rug on the floor, woven in sun-drenched desert tones—something her partner claimed “tied the room together.” It did. Yelena hated how right she was about it.

A few candles flickered low on the coffee table—mildly sweet scents, just enough to be comforting. Bucky had lit them earlier when he noticed her shivering under the blanket but refusing to turn on the heat.

The TV glowed softly in the background, playing a documentary none of them had truly been watching. The couch nest had consumed her again. She slept soundly, one arm curled around a stuffed animal with a lopsided grin. Yelena couldn’t help but smile.

It wasn’t just sleep, though.

Her appetite had gone sideways. She’d crave something—mac and cheese, citrus fruit, grilled cheese with pickles—and then lose interest halfway through. She gagged brushing her teeth. Flavors she once loved suddenly made her nose crinkle. She survived mostly on flavored electrolyte water and graham crackers with peanut butter. Sometimes Nutella.

Yelena hadn’t said anything. Not yet. But Bucky noticed, too.

He didn’t speak much about it, but he made quiet adjustments: changed their morning brew from coffee to herbal tea, brought home her favorite cracker brand, added her electrolyte flavors to the grocery list without being asked.

He sat now in Yelena’s favorite corner chair, oversized and charcoal gray, with a worn paperback resting on his thigh, a finger tucked between the pages. He wasn’t reading.

“She’s not eating,” Yelena said softly.

Bucky looked up. “I noticed.”

“She’s sleeping more.”

“I know.”

Neither of them said the word. It felt like tempting fate.

Five days late.

Not long, not really. But her cycle had become consistent—reliable as moonrise. And she’d never been five days late.

Whatever this was—burnout, bug, or baby—it didn’t scare them.

They were a team. They were a home.

And when she finally stirred, bleary-eyed and pouting, asking if she missed anything good, Bucky would hand her a cracker, Yelena would kiss her forehead, and they still wouldn’t say the word.

But it would shimmer there.

Unspoken. Waiting.

And already loved.