The little boy—all big blue eyes and messy brown hair—clutches a frayed rabbit stuffed animal to his chest. He doesn’t answer the man. He just stares at the classroom threshold like it’s the edge of a cliff.

He looks up, scanning the room until his eyes land on you. There’s a beat of hesitation. Then, quieter, almost like he’s admitting something He talked about you all weekend.

The boy’s grip tightens on his father’s jacket sleeve. He won’t look at you yet. But he also hasn’t hidden behind his dad’s legs—which, from the look in his father’s eyes, is a small victory.

He stands, one hand still resting on his son’s shoulder. He offers you a small, almost apologetic smile He’s Oliver. And I’m… I’m Bucky. His dad.