WAKING UP EARLY wasn't something James Barnes liked. Especially not when it involved a 9-year-old bouncing on top of him with boundless energy. His head was buried deep in the pillow, trying to block out the world, as the little girl perched on his back, determined to rouse him from his sleep. Unfortunately for her, James Barnes wasn't a morning person—especially not after a night of fractured sleep.

His body ached from tossing and turning, his mind still trapped in the haze of a bad dream that refused to let him rest. Waking up in the middle of the night, haunted by echoes of his past, had left him feeling more exhausted than when he first laid down. If he got up now, he'd be miserable all day.

"James! James! James! James!" Cecelia called out, her voice growing louder with every repetition. She prodded his shoulder insistently, her small hands tugging lightly at his hair when he didn't respond fast enough for her liking.

A low groan escaped him, muffled against the pillow. "Too early," he mumbled, his words slurred with sleep. Cracking an eye open, he turned his face toward the half-broken analog clock on the nightstand. The dim red numbers blinked faintly, struggling to stay lit.

6:47.

James let out another groan, shutting his eyes. They'd salvaged the clock from the street, like almost everything else in their apartment. The couch, the TV, even the mismatched kitchen chairs—everything they had was either found or fixed. Bucharest was a strange place, but you wouldn't believe the things people threw away. James and Cecelia had built their home from scraps, but it was theirs.

He shifted onto his back, careful not to crush her as she tumbled off him with a giggle, landing on a pillow beside him. Rubbing a hand over his face, James peeked at her through sleep-heavy eyes.

"Get up!" she chirped, her voice bright and determined.

James shook his head, rolling onto his side. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice soft as he draped an arm over her small frame, pulling her closer.

"I'm not tired," she protested, wriggling against him. He responded by planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head and pulling the blanket up over both of them.

"You will be if you keep this up," he teased, his voice barely above a whisper. She sighed, giving in momentarily and curling into his chest.

"Why do we have to go back to sleep?" she asked, her tone curious and exasperated. She turned her head to look up at him, her chin resting against his chest.

James sighed, his lips curving into a faint smile as he cracked one eye open. "Because," he replied, his voice still thick with sleep.

"'Because' isn't an answer," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest in defiance.

"'Because' is my answer," he shot back, smirking. She huffed dramatically, but her body betrayed her as a small yawn escaped her lips. James chuckled softly, rubbing slow circles on her back as her eyes began to flutter shut.

By the time the clock hit 8:53, it started buzzing with its usual malfunctioning racket. Cecelia stirred, wiping her eyes groggily as James looked down at her with an amused grin.

"Weren't tired, huh?" he teased, his voice raspier in the morning.

"Not funny," she mumbled, pulling the blanket over her head in protest.

James stretched, rolling his shoulders before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Sitting there for a moment, he ran a hand through his hair, glancing back at Cecelia. Her soft snores filled the room, her small frame curled up like a kitten under the covers. He couldn't help but smile as he leaned over to tuck the blanket more securely around her. His hand brushed over her hair, smoothing it down gently.

She was everything to him—his whole world wrapped up in this tiny, messy, perfect person. And the thought of anything ever hurting her...

James's jaw tightened as his mind drifted to darker places. If anyone so much as looked at Cecelia the wrong way, they'd be dead. If someone hurt her, laid a finger on her, he wouldn't hesitate. She'd already endured more than most people ever would—more than any child should. She'd lost everyone but him. Her trust in him was absolute, and he'd sooner die than break it.

He couldn't live without her. She was the only light in the dark labyrinth of his existence, the one thing that reminded him he could still be a good man. Cecelia had pulled him back from the brink, even if he was still a little rough around the edges. She taught him how to love again, how to trust himself. Without her, he wasn't sure he'd still be standing.

Last night's dream had been a cruel reminder of how fragile it all was. He didn't like to dwell on nightmares—they were too familiar, too real—but this one had been worse. It had been about Cecelia.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the present. Cecelia stirred slightly, letting out a sleepy hum as she shifted under the blanket. James smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She was safe. Here, with him, she was safe.

For now, that was enough.

Hours later, James woke up, groggy and disoriented, the faint remnants of last night's dream still clinging to the edges of his mind. He lay still for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling of their modest apartment, listening to the soft, even rhythm of Cecelia's breathing. It was steady, comforting—a sound that anchored him.

For a few minutes, he simply watched her. Her small body was curled up under the blanket, her hair a tangled mess across the pillow. She looked so peaceful, her face relaxed in sleep, and James felt a pang of gratitude. Seeing her like this was a rare reprieve from the weight of his own thoughts.

Reaching out, he gently brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a moment before he sighed, rubbing his face and sitting up. The cold air bit at his skin as he swung his legs off the pullout couch. Stretching with a groan, he glanced back at her one more time before standing.

He moved quietly, draping the blanket more securely over Cecelia before heading into their tiny kitchenette. Morning routines gave him structure, a sense of normalcy in a world that often felt anything but. He washed a few dishes, tidied up the clutter on the table, and moved to make Cecelia's bed—because if he didn't, it would stay unmade for days.

As he smoothed out the blankets on her mattress, his hand brushed against something tucked under the pillow. Frowning, he pulled it out. Her journal.

James hesitated, the small, worn notebook resting heavily in his hand. The cover was a little tattered, the corners frayed from her constantly carrying it around. He had always known she wrote in it, though she was careful to keep it private. He'd never read it before—never even thought about it, really. But now, holding it in his hands, curiosity gnawed at him.

He sighed, debating with himself, the weight of the decision pressing on him. It was her space, her thoughts. He knew he shouldn't invade it. But at the same time, something about the way she'd been lately—the little moments of quiet sadness she tried to hide, the distant look in her eyes when she thought he wasn't watching—it worried him.

Finally, against his better judgment, he opened the journal. He flipped past pages filled with scribbles, notes, and sketches until he landed on the most recent entry. The date scrawled at the top told him it had been written just a day or two ago.

He began to read.

Dear James,

I figured I'd write this because if I ever said it out loud you'd probably kill me. Okay, maybe not kill me, but you'd be angry. But I need to get it out because I feel like it's important that I get this outta my system.

James blinked, already caught off guard by her words. He could tell how much effort she'd put into writing this; the letters were more neatly written than her usual scrawl. He turned the page and kept reading.

I discovered a couple things. Like this dictionary I found, I learned the word discover from it, but that's not the point.

I discovered that I don't think I like myself. I don't like what I did, or who I am. I learned that I can't just magically change. I'm never not gonna be a murderer, because I am. I always am gonna be.

James's chest tightened, his breath hitching as the words began to sink in. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, but he forced himself to keep going.

I don't like having that name branded across my forehead. I don't like having to be on the run. I don't like how I caused people struggling by killing them and the ones they love. I just don't like being me.

His hands trembled as he turned the page, his eyes scanning the next section with growing dread.

I think there's a big difference between you and me. You're not a real killer because you were forced to do it. All someone had to do was do this thing called hypnotizing I think. I learned that word from the dictionary. All they have to do is say your words, and then you go back to the soldier. But I did the bad stuff willingly. I am a real killer, and nothing I can ever do will change that.

James's vision blurred as tears pricked his eyes. He wiped at them quickly, but the words on the page felt like a punch to the gut.

I think everyone would be better off if I wasn't here. I don't know. You'd have less problems, and I wouldn't have to deal with everything I've done.

I mean, I think everyone would just be better off.

From,

Cecelia Barnes

James closed the journal with a snap, his breathing uneven as he stared down at it. The weight of her words was unbearable. He'd known she struggled, how could she not? But this was so much more than he'd imagined.

He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the journal tightly as he tried to push back the rising tide of emotions threatening to consume him. Anger at himself for not noticing sooner. Guilt for all the pain she carried because of her past. Desperation to make her see herself the way he did, as someone strong, someone good, someone who deserved every ounce of love the world could give her.

James ran a hand over his face, letting out a shaky breath. He glanced over at the pullout couch where Cecelia still slept, her small form rising and falling under the blanket. The sight of her was enough to ground him, if only for a moment.

He placed the journal back under her pillow carefully, as if handling something fragile. He didn't know what he'd say to her, not yet, but he knew one thing for certain.

She would never feel like she didn't matter. Not while he was still breathing.

James sat down at the edge of her bed, resting his head in his hands. The tears came silently now, but he didn't stop them. He didn't know how he would fix this, but he would. He had to. Because Cecelia was his world, and without her, there was nothing left.

sorry