Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 9.1 k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female reader
tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
A/N: I'll be honest, if this part gets a ton of engagement, I'll really consider posting two parts per week coming next week. Beta read by Cassie as always.
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“If I had fewer principles,” you murmured, “I think I would’ve tried to sleep with you tonight. Just to hurt him.”
For a moment after that, Steve thought he had misheard you.
Not because the words were unclear. They were quiet, yes, worn thin by crying and rum and exhaustion, but clear enough. They slipped out against his shirt in that small, stripped voice of yours and settled between you with a weight far heavier than their volume.
Steve went absolutely still.
The hand on your back did not stop moving – not at first, because stopping would have made the moment harder, sharper, more visible than he wanted it to be. But something in him seized all the same. His throat tightened so suddenly it almost hurt. His chest felt too small around the breath he took.
Not because the thought itself tempted him.
That was the first thing he knew with certainty.
Not because some ugly part of him felt satisfaction at being named in the fantasy of retaliation.
It didn’t.
If anything, the sentence struck him like another form of grief – evidence of how far the night had dragged you from yourself, from whatever steadier ground you usually occupied. It told him how angry you were, how humiliated, how exhausted by the sheer uselessness of your own pain. That was what he heard first. Not invitation. Not possibility. Just hurt sharpened into the shape of a weapon and then set down again before you even fully lifted it.
Still, Steve was only human, and he could not pretend the words passed through him without consequence.
He swallowed once and said, quieter than he intended, “You’re drunk.”
It was not an accusation. Barely even a correction. More like something he reached for because it was easier than saying what else had flashed through him in the instant after your confession: the hot, immediate refusal of the idea; the anger at Bucky for having reduced the night to this kind of thought at all; and beneath both, the deep unsettling ache of knowing that even now, when you were raw and hurting and not wholly steady, part of you trusted him enough to speak the ugliest truth in your head aloud.
You gave a faint sound that might have been irritation.
“No. No, I know my limits. I’m not.”
Steve believed you.
Or rather, he believed that you meant it exactly as you said. You had been drinking, yes. Enough for your balance to go soft, enough for your words to blur at the corners. But not enough to become someone else. Not enough to turn your thoughts foreign to you. If anything, the alcohol had only worn down the barriers between feeling and speech.
You were not saying this because the rum had invented it.
You were saying it because you were too tired to hide it.
Silence followed.
Steve felt it like another presence in the room. Not awkward, not quite, but charged in a fragile way. He became acutely aware of everything all at once: your weight against him, the warmth of your body in his arms, the dampness still drying on his shirt from your tears, the low lamp light pooling across the floor, the bottle sitting abandoned a few feet away, the faint city noise behind the windows.
He did not know where to put his eyes, so he kept them on the wall beyond your shoulder and let his hand continue its slow path up and down your back.
Then you spoke again, and this time the words came softer. No edge left in them. No provocation. Only truth, plain and almost childishly simple.
“I’m just… tired, Steve.”
That undid something in him.
Because yes. Of course you were.
Tired of the crying, tired of the anger, tired of being asked to survive a day you had not chosen, tired of thinking, tired of feeling humiliated, tired of wanting things that no longer existed in the shape you wanted them, tired of holding yourself together for one more hour and one more conversation and one more wave of hurt.
Steve understood that kind of tiredness far too well.
Not the same story, never the same story, but the same bone-deep exhaustion that turned every emotion into weight. The kind that made sleeping seem less like rest and more like surrender, and yet left a person desperate for it all the same.
He shifted slightly – not enough to dislodge you, only enough to look down a little more fully at the top of your head.
“Do you want to try lying down?” he asked.
He kept his voice low, careful not to make it sound like dismissal. Not you should go to bed now in the way people said when they wanted grief tidied away. Just an offer. A possibility. A gentler surface than the floor.
You did not answer right away.
Instead you tilted your face just enough that your voice reached him less muffled than before.
“You’ll stay with me?”
The question came so quickly after the last one that Steve knew it had been waiting there already, underneath everything else.
He did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
A beat passed.
“Promise?”
That word entered him differently.
Smaller than the others. Softer. And for that reason maybe the hardest to hear.
He closed his eyes briefly.
You had already asked for truth once tonight and taken it like a lifeline. Now you asked for something even more fragile: certainty. The simple assurance that he would not get you on your feet, guide you to the bedroom, settle you under a blanket, and then disappear once you were horizontal and quiet enough to be left alone with the rest of your thoughts.
Steve understood that fear too.
Not because he would ever have done it. Because he knew why you needed to hear the opposite spoken aloud.
“Promise,” he said.
He felt the slightest slackening in your body then, the small involuntary release of somebody whose mind had been braced for abandonment and, for the moment, no longer had to be.
Steve waited another second before moving. “Okay,” he murmured. “Come on.”
He loosened his hold carefully, one arm sliding from around your shoulders so he could rise without dropping you. The second the support changed, your fingers caught at his sleeve on instinct.
“I’m here,” he said at once.
Only then did he push himself to his feet.
He stood and turned back toward you immediately, offering both hands. You looked up at him with eyes still swollen and lashes clumped from tears, and for a second he had the absurd thought that no one should have been allowed to hurt you on a day when you looked this defenseless. It was an unhelpful thought. A useless one. He pushed it aside.
You put your hands in his.
He pulled you gently upward.
You came to your feet in stages, unsteady not just from the alcohol but from the sheer physical aftermath of crying. Your legs wavered beneath you almost at once. Steve stepped in without thinking, catching you by the elbows first and then more firmly by the waist when your balance tilted too far forward.
You made an irritated little sound, half at yourself, half at the betrayal of your own body.
“Easy,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
The automatic answer was so familiar that if the situation had been different it might have almost made him smile.
Instead he only said, very mildly, “No, you’re not.”
You huffed a breath through your nose, but you did not argue harder than that.
The bedroom was only a few steps away, yet Steve moved as if crossing something longer and more dangerous. Not because the apartment required caution. Because you did. Because the moment did. His hand stayed at your back while the other steadied your forearm, and he felt every tiny correction your body made to stay upright. Every sway. Every pause. Every second where you leaned into his support just a fraction more than before.
He did not mention it.
At the bedroom doorway he stopped.
The room was bare in the particular way safehouses always were. A neatly made bed. One lamp on the side table. Curtains half drawn. A dresser with nothing personal on it. A chair in the corner. Stark’s idea of comfort stripped down to functionality. It looked impersonal enough that Steve’s chest tightened again at the thought of you spending the night here alone if he had not come.
You looked at the bed and then, unexpectedly, back at him with something almost like reluctance.
Steve understood at once.
“You want me to stay close,” he said softly.
It was not really a question.
Your mouth tightened. You looked away, embarrassed maybe, or simply too tired to hide the truth elegantly.
“I don’t…” You swallowed. “I don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight.”
The honesty of it felt intimate in a way far more dangerous than your earlier remark about revenge. Because this was not about anger. Not about making anyone pay. This was need in its simplest form.
Steve nodded as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Okay.”
You searched his face again, perhaps for pity, perhaps for judgment, perhaps for that tiny recoil people sometimes failed to hide when confronted with another person’s dependence.
He gave you none of it.
Instead he asked, practical because practical was gentler, “Do you want under the blankets or on top?”
That seemed to help. The question gave you something small and manageable to answer.
“Under.”
“Alright.”
He moved to pull the covers back, but before he could do more than turn toward the bed, another thought struck him. He looked at you more closely in the lamplight and asked, “Have you eaten anything today?”
Your expression went blank for half a second in the way people’s expressions did when they genuinely had to search their memory and found nothing useful there.
Then you shook your head once.
“No. Wasn’t hungry.”
Steve exhaled slowly through his nose.
Of course you hadn’t been. Hunger had no place in a day like this until suddenly the body demanded payment for being ignored.
“You need something that isn’t alcohol,” he said.
The words came out firmer than most of what he had said tonight.
You leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and looked at him with all the exhausted stubbornness of a person who had reached the end of her usable strength hours ago. “I’m not hungry now either.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
One corner of your mouth twitched, not with humor but with weary annoyance. “Bossy.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “A little.”
He stepped closer again when your balance dipped.
“You don’t need a meal. A piece of toast. Crackers. Anything. But you’re not going to bed on an empty stomach after drinking and crying for half the night.”
You closed your eyes briefly, as if even the prospect of chewing sounded like a task someone invented specifically to torment you.
Steve’s expression softened despite himself.
“I know,” he said. “Still.”
You opened your eyes. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound patient while actually not giving me a choice.”
This time he did smile, faintly. It barely touched his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Eat first,” he said. “Then you can accuse me of tyranny.”
That earned him the smallest real reaction yet – a breath that might have become a laugh in another life, on another night.
It vanished quickly, but he had heard it.
He guided you back toward the living room rather than letting you collapse into bed immediately. You complained under your breath once, too low for him to catch every word, but you came. In the kitchenette he found what he expected: emergency supplies, bland and practical. Bread in the freezer. Crackers in a tin. A jar of peanut butter. Instant soup packets. Bottled water.
He settled for toast and water because it was fastest and least likely to turn your stomach.
While the bread browned, you stood leaning against the counter with your arms folded and your eyes half-lidded, looking like someone only a step away from lying down directly on the kitchen floor if left unattended. Steve opened a bottle of water and pressed it into your hand.
“Drink.”
You obeyed with poor grace, taking a few swallows before muttering, “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m really not.”
That was true. If he was firm, it was because he had no desire to spend the night holding your hair back while your body rebelled against an empty stomach and too much rum on top of too much grief.
He set the toast on a plate and handed it over once it had cooled enough not to burn you.
You looked at it as though it had personally insulted you.
“Steve.”
“You can eat half.”
You stared another moment, then took a reluctant bite.
He watched the way you chewed slowly, more from fatigue than reluctance now, and felt an absurd wave of relief at the simple fact of you swallowing something. It said nothing about healing. Nothing about tomorrow. But it was care, and care sometimes reduced itself to the least glamorous acts in the world – making sure somebody had bread in their stomach before they tried to sleep off heartbreak.
You ate more than half in the end, though the last bites seemed powered entirely by stubbornness and his unwillingness to look away until you finished enough to satisfy him. Then you drank more water. By then your eyes had gone glassy with exhaustion again.
“Done?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Good.”
The bedroom seemed even quieter when he led you back there.
This time, when the bed came into view, you did not hesitate. Steve pulled back the blankets and turned down the lamp to a softer glow. You sat on the edge of the mattress first, then looked up at him with sudden uncertainty that went straight through him.
“You said you’d stay.”
“I did.”
“I don’t want…” You stopped, rubbed at your face once, and started over. “I don’t want you on the chair.”
Steve glanced at the chair in the corner, then back at you.
You looked miserable, embarrassed by the need and too tired to pretend otherwise. There was no seduction in it. No awkward charge beyond the one his own awareness tried and failed to suppress. Only the plain truth that after everything, you did not want distance. Not tonight. Not when sleep would mean losing conscious control for a few hours and trusting the room not to change while you weren’t watching.
He answered just as plainly.
“Okay.”
Your shoulders dropped.
He toed off his boots, set them by the bed, and shrugged out of his jacket. You watched him do it with heavy-lidded concentration, as if reassuring yourself he really meant it. He left his T-shirt and jeans on – there was no question of anything else – and pulled the blanket aside farther so you could climb in first.
You did, slowly, curling onto one side with the boneless caution of someone whose body had finally admitted how exhausted it was.
Steve settled on top of the covers for a moment instead, trying to decide the least intrusive way to keep his promise.
Then you turned your head on the pillow and asked, voice already blurred by sleep and weariness, “Are you coming?”
He hesitated only long enough to move under the blanket rather than over it. He lay down beside you fully clothed, on his back at first, leaving careful space between your body and his.
The mattress dipped.
For maybe two seconds you stayed where you were.
Then, with the complete lack of self-consciousness of someone too tired to invent any, you moved toward him.
Not fast. Not dramatically. Just a slow instinctive shift until your shoulder met his side, until your hand found the fabric of his shirt, until you were close enough that the space he had left no longer existed. Steve went still again, but not because he meant to pull away. Only because the reality of your nearness hit all at once.
You made a tiny sound of relief.
Then, even more quietly, “Can I–”
You did not finish.
You did not need to.
Steve turned onto his side toward you and opened one arm.
That was all the permission you needed.
You came into him immediately, fitting yourself against his chest with none of the hesitation you had shown in words. One arm slid across his middle. Your forehead tucked under his chin. Your knee bumped lightly against his thigh as you settled. It was not graceful, and it was certainly not calculated. It was the movement of someone seeking warmth and safety before their body shut down from sheer depletion.
Steve wrapped his arm around you.
Carefully at first. Then more securely when he felt how hard you pressed in, as if closeness itself was the only thing convincing your nerves that the night had truly changed shape.
There.
He had you.
He could feel your heartbeat through the layers of fabric between you – too fast still, but slowing. Could feel the lingering tremors in your muscles each time your breathing threatened to catch. Could smell the faint trace of rum on your skin, the salt of tears, the ordinary familiar scent of your shampoo underneath.
It nearly hurt, how much tenderness the moment demanded from him.
He kept his hand between your shoulder blades and resumed that slow, absent caress that had steadied you on the floor. Your body answered almost immediately. Tension bled out of you in increments. Your hand, still fisted weakly in his shirt, loosened a little. Your breathing deepened.
“Better?” he murmured.
You nodded against his chest.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
The words were so quiet he almost missed them.
“I won’t,” he said.
You seemed to consider that for a second, then tightened your hold on him by a fraction anyway, as though your body wanted physical proof in addition to verbal promise.
Steve let you.
He would have let you hold on all night if that was what it took.
After a little while you shifted one leg between his, not seductively, not even consciously he thought, only in that blind sleepy way people chased the most stable position when they had finally found somewhere they felt safe enough to rest. The intimacy of it shot through him with humiliating force, and Steve had to close his eyes and breathe carefully once through his nose.
Not because he wanted this to become anything else.
That distinction mattered.
He held onto it with both hands.
You were tired. Hurt. Barely keeping yourself together. You wanted his arms around you because they made the room feel less empty, not because the line between comfort and desire had blurred for you in some meaningful way. Steve knew that. He would keep knowing it. Whatever his body did with the information was his problem, not yours.
So he concentrated on the weight of responsibility instead.
On the fact that you were finally, slowly relaxing.
On the way your breaths had begun to even out, though every so often one still shuddered at the edges. On the trust of being allowed to hold you through that. On the simple practical truth that he had promised to stay and this – this was what staying meant.
Your voice came again, drowsy now, almost drifting.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
The word hit him with absurd force.
He looked down at the top of your head, though he knew you could not see him well in the dimness.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” A pause. “Still.”
His hand moved once, lightly, over your hair.
He said nothing after that because there was nothing to say that would not turn too sentimental or too false. Instead he held you and listened as the room grew quieter and your body, inch by inch, surrendered to exhaustion.
Your breathing steadied first.
Then your fingers lost some of their grip on his shirt, though they never let go completely.
Then the little tension at the corner of your mouth eased where it had been set all evening with hurt and anger and pride.
Twice more your body twitched with the aftershock of a nearly remembered sob. Each time Steve tightened his arm around you just enough that, even half asleep, you seemed to settle faster.
He did not think about morning.
Not much.
Morning would bring its own difficulties. Embarrassment perhaps. Headache. Questions. The long, ugly road of what came next. He knew better than to borrow too much from tomorrow while tonight still needed tending.
So he stayed in the dark with you tucked against him, awake long after your breathing finally slipped into the deep soft rhythm of real sleep.
And when, even asleep, you shifted closer instead of away – seeking his warmth with the unquestioning trust of someone whose body had decided for her what it felt safe beside – Steve only tightened his hold the smallest fraction and kept watch while the night moved on around you.
Steve did not remember the exact moment sleep took him.
One minute he had still been awake in the dim hush of the safehouse bedroom, staring past your shoulder into the half-dark and listening to the quiet, steady rhythm of your breathing as it deepened against his chest. The next, the night had folded over him too.
When he woke, morning had already slipped into the room.
Not bright, not cheerful – just a thin grey wash through the curtains, the kind of light that belonged to late mornings after bad nights, when the day had clearly started without asking anyone’s permission. The safehouse bedroom looked flatter in it, more ordinary. The chair in the corner. The rumpled blanket. His jacket tossed over the back of the chair. Your discarded socks on the floor near the bed where you must have half-kicked them off before collapsing.
For one brief second, he did not move.
Your weight was still there.
You lay curled against him almost exactly as you had fallen asleep, one arm tucked between the two of you, your face tilted up just enough that he could see you properly now. You were awake. He knew that before your eyes met his. There was a certain tension in the stillness of you, a held breath under the quiet.
Then he looked at your face and understood something else immediately.
You had a headache.
Your eyes were narrowed against the grey light in that particular way people got when their skull seemed one heartbeat away from splitting open. There was a faint crease between your brows. Your mouth looked dry. Even the way you kept your head very still against the pillow suggested that moving too fast would be a terrible idea.
The sight tugged a tired, helpless kind of sympathy out of him.
You were still watching him.
Not awkwardly. Not even warily, exactly.
Just… closely.
As if waking up and finding him here had answered some question you had still half expected to turn cruel overnight.
Steve stayed where he was, one arm still around your back beneath the blanket. He did not pull away. He did not act startled or hurry to create distance just because daylight had arrived and made everything less forgiving. That felt like a rejection of the trust you had placed in him during the night.
So he only said, quietly, “Morning.”
Your mouth twitched faintly, though it was not quite a smile.
“Morning,” you answered, and your voice came hoarse from sleep, from crying, from the aftertaste of rum and all the things the night had done to you.
Steve searched your face for another second. “You look like your head’s killing you.”
“It is.”
The honesty of that almost made him smile for real.
“Water,” he said. “And probably coffee later. Maybe aspirin if Stark stocked the place like a sane person.”
You made a low sound that could have been agreement.
He was just beginning to wonder whether he should move carefully enough not to jostle you too much and go find what you needed when something changed in your expression.
It happened quickly, but not so quickly that he missed the thought arriving.
Your gaze dropped – briefly – to his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
He felt the shift in the air before he understood it. A tiny, charged stillness. The kind that came just before a decision.
“Hey,” he began, though he had no idea what he intended to say after that.
You kissed him.
It was not clumsy, though sleep and hangover and the softness of waking lent it a slight uncertainty in the first second. It was also not hesitant in the way he might have expected if you had given yourself time to think. You did not hover there, asking permission with your breath. You closed the distance and pressed your mouth to his with a directness that sent shock clean through him.
For one impossible instant, Steve forgot everything except sensation.
Your lips were warm and a little dry from the night, softer than he had ever allowed himself to imagine with any detail. The angle was awkward because of the way you were half-curled into him, but the very awkwardness of it made it feel devastatingly real. No fantasy ever accounted for the slight drag of morning breath, the warmth trapped beneath blankets, the ache in a shoulder slept on too long, the faint sting of surprise so sharp it bordered on pain.
He tasted salt first.
Then the last trace of rum.
Then simply you.
And because he was not made of stone, because he had wanted this in ways he had never once let himself name aloud, because desire sometimes outran morality by a heartbeat before morality caught it by the throat, he kissed you back.
Instinctively.
Completely.
It lasted no more than a second or two, maybe less. But in that space his body answered before the rest of him could stop it. His hand tightened involuntarily at your back. His mouth softened under yours and then moved with yours, answering the pressure, the warmth, the startling intimacy of waking to find you here and then this. A rush went through him so sudden and fierce he felt it everywhere at once – chest, stomach, throat, the backs of his arms, the pulse jumping hard under his skin.
It was not gentle in the sense of detached caution.
It was gentle because he knew no other way to be with you.
That was what shocked him most.
Not that he wanted it.
That he already knew the shape of how carefully he would.
Then the rest of him caught up.
Steve broke the kiss.
Not violently. Not with any recoil that might have shamed you. He only drew back just far enough that your mouths no longer touched, his breath suddenly far too shallow in the small space between you.
“No,” he said.
The word came rough.
He swallowed and forced more steadiness into it. “No. Not like this.”
The reaction on your face hit him immediately.
It darkened – not with anger first, but with something quieter and more dangerous. Hurt. Embarrassment. The quick closing of someone who had just made themselves vulnerable and gotten pushed away in return. Your eyes shut for a second, and Steve hated himself for putting that look there even though he knew he had done the right thing.
He lifted his hand from your back toward your face, then stopped before touching you, uncertain whether even that would feel like too much right now.
“Not because I didn’t want to,” he said, voice low. Honest. Maybe too honest. “That’s not what I meant.”
Your eyes opened again, but you did not look at him straight away.
Steve forced himself to keep going.
“Not because you’re hurting and reaching for something. Not because of him. Not because of revenge.”
Your gaze flicked back to his then, sharper despite the headache and the sleep still clinging to both of you.
“It’s not revenge,” you said.
There was no slur in your voice this morning. No softening excuse left to hide behind. Only exhaustion and certainty.
Steve frowned slightly. “Then why?”
The question escaped him before he fully meant to ask it.
You stared at him for a long second, and then something in your expression shifted into a tired kind of resolve.
“Because if it were revenge,” you said quietly, “I would’ve done it in front of him.”
That landed with brutal clarity.
Steve felt the truth of it at once. You were not wrong. If you had wanted vengeance in its purest form, humiliation would have been part of it. Spectacle. Witness. The knife twisted where Bucky could see it.
This had not been that.
This had happened here, in the morning hush of a safehouse bedroom, while the world was still reduced to two people under one blanket and the aftermath of a ruined night. No audience. No punishment. No performance.
The realization only made the air between you feel more dangerous.
Steve said nothing.
You went on, and now your voice changed again – softer, but not less direct.
“Because I never said anything.” You wet your lips once, as if the movement itself reminded you of the kiss. Steve had to drag his eyes back to yours. “But I always knew the way you looked at me.”
Steve closed his eyes.
Not dramatically. Not because he meant to shut you out. Simply because that sentence entered him too deeply to meet with his eyes open.
For one brief, unbearable moment he could still feel the kiss in full sensory detail. Your mouth against his. The instinctive answer of his own. The way your breath had mingled with his in the small warm space between you. The ache now left by stopping. It all sat bright and immediate in his body, impossible to dismiss as imagination because it had happened, because he had let it happen for that fatal split second, because no matter how much discipline he possessed he could not unknow the exact feel of your lips on his now.
And over that came your words.
I always knew the way you looked at me.
He wondered, with a kind of exhausted disbelief, whether he had truly been that easy to read all along.
Maybe he had.
Maybe Bucky knew because Bucky knew him too well, had known him too long, had grown up beside him in the narrow old corridors of Brooklyn where every expression became familiar through repetition. Maybe you knew because you were you – because people sometimes saw most clearly the things directed at them, however quietly. Maybe Steve had been less careful than he believed. Or maybe some truths simply refused permanent concealment when they lived in the body long enough. In a look held half a second too long. In a silence that came too swiftly to your defense. In the reflex of watching for your reaction first.
He opened his eyes again.
You were still there. Still close. Still looking at him with none of the confusion he might once have hoped for, because confusion would have made this easier. Instead there was something almost calm in your expression now, despite the pain in it. As if naming the truth had at least removed one layer of uncertainty from the room.
Steve let out a slow breath.
“I tried not to let that matter,” he said at last.
The words came quieter than most of what he said, as if volume itself might damage them.
Your gaze did not leave his face. “I know.”
He almost laughed at that, but there was no humor in him for it. Of course you knew. Apparently you had known far more than he wanted to admit.
“It mattered anyway,” you said.
That was not a question either.
Steve looked at you for a long moment.
Every instinct in him pulled in two directions at once. One toward truth, the other toward restraint. He had spent so long forcing those two things to coexist that sometimes he could no longer tell which one was winning. He wanted – God, he wanted – to answer you plainly, to stop pretending his feelings existed only in the abstract. But he also saw you here, pale with a headache, bruised by heartbreak, still waking inside the emotional wreckage of the day before. Any confession from him now risked becoming entangled with all of that in ways neither of you could undo later.
So he chose the narrowest truth.
“Yes,” he said.
Your face changed.
Not into triumph. Not into relief, exactly. More into something sadder. A recognition, maybe, of how long this silence had lived between all three of you in different forms. Of how many things people could know and never say until the wrong moment dragged them out into daylight.
You shifted back half an inch, enough to give both of you slightly more space without truly leaving his arms.
Steve missed the warmth of your mouth instantly and despised himself for noticing.
His body had not yet caught up to his principles. His pulse still moved too fast. He still felt the ghost of the kiss along every nerve. It would have been easier, in some base physical way, if he had not answered you back at all. If he had gone rigid and cold and turned himself into a wall. But he had kissed you. Briefly, yes. Still enough. And now his own restraint sat inside him like a blade turned inward.
He dragged a hand over his face once.
“You can’t do that because you’re hurting,” he said finally, more to anchor himself than anything else. “And I can’t let you do it because I’ve wanted it.”
The truth of that seemed to thicken the room all over again.
You looked at him steadily. “That wasn’t exactly a no.”
It nearly undid him.
Steve let out one breath that might have become a laugh if things had been even a little less raw. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”
The corner of your mouth shifted, faint and tired.
Then the pain in your head must have surged again, because your eyes squeezed shut and your brow furrowed.
Steve seized on the practical distraction at once, grateful for it.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Before we say anything else either of us can’t sort through properly, I’m getting you water and aspirin.”
You opened one eye. “Running away?”
“Temporarily.”
That actually drew the ghost of a smile from you, fleeting but real.
Steve carefully eased himself out from under the blanket before the warmth of the bed and the memory of your mouth on his could persuade him to stay where he had no business staying if he wanted to keep his head clear. The mattress shifted as he sat up. Cool air touched the skin your body had kept warm. He felt the loss of closeness with ridiculous intensity.
He stood and had to steady himself for a second on the edge of the dresser, less from balance than from the sheer physical aftermath of the kiss. His body still hummed with it. The taste of you lingered just enough to be maddening. He pressed his thumb once, hard, into the heel of his palm as if a sharper sensation might discipline the rest of him.
When he turned back, you were watching him again through narrowed eyes, one hand up at your temple now.
The sight reset something in him.
Need first. Always.
He fetched water, found aspirin in the bathroom cabinet, and brought both back. You pushed yourself halfway upright with a wince, took the pills from his hand, and swallowed them obediently.
Then you held the glass a second longer than necessary and said, not looking at him this time, “I meant what I said.”
Steve stood at the side of the bed, quiet.
“I know,” he answered.
Because he did.
That was the trouble.
He believed you.
Not entirely in the shape of what the kiss meant yet – there would be time, or there would not, and he was not going to steal certainty from your vulnerability this morning. But he believed that it had not been revenge. He believed that you had seen him for longer than he understood. He believed that whatever passed between you now existed in its own right and not merely as a weapon against Bucky.
And that knowledge was both terrible and tender.
You set the glass on the side table and leaned your head back against the pillow with your eyes half-closed. “My head’s killing me.”
Steve almost smiled again, softer this time.
“Yeah,” he said. “That part I could tell.”
He sat back down on the edge of the mattress, but not too close. Close enough to stay. Far enough to give the room a little air.
After a second, your fingers reached out blindly and caught the hem of his T-shirt.
Not pulling. Just holding.
Steve looked down at them, then back at you.
You never opened your eyes. “Stay until the aspirin kicks in.”
The request undid the last of his resistance to the simple shape of care.
So he did.
He stayed beside you in the grey morning light, his mouth still remembering yours, his body still full of the shock of that brief instinctive answer, and his heart caught somewhere painful between what he wanted, what you had admitted, and what decency still required of him now.
“Steve?”
Your voice came soft through the dim, aspirin-dulled quiet of the room.
Steve turned his head toward you at once, but he did not answer immediately. He had already learned, in the space of a single night and morning, that you sometimes needed a second just to gather the courage for the question itself. So he waited.
The bed dipped faintly under his weight where he sat on the edge, one forearm resting on his thigh, his other hand loose near your knee on top of the blanket, close enough to reassure, far enough not to crowd. Morning still lay grey beyond the curtains. The safehouse remained hushed around you, stripped down to the small sounds of survival: old pipes in the walls, traffic far below, the faint hum of a refrigerator in the other room.
You kept your eyes closed when you asked, “Am I taking advantage of you?”
The question entered him more deeply than he let show.
For one brief second he simply looked at you.
Your face still bore the fragile evidence of the last twenty-four hours – swollen eyelids, the faint pinched set at the corners of your mouth, the exhausted stillness of somebody who had cried too hard, slept too little, and woken into a reality that had not improved in daylight. Yet the question itself was so painfully, unmistakably you that Steve felt something tight and tender pull through his chest.
Even now.
Even after the drinking, the tears, the kiss, the headache, the humiliation, the rawness of everything.
Even now you were still thinking about his boundaries. His feelings. The possibility of being unfair to him.
He answered immediately, because hesitation would only have hurt you.
“No.”
Your mouth did not move. Your eyes stayed shut.
You did not say thank you. Did not ask him to explain. Did not press.
You simply breathed out, very quietly, and let the answer settle.
Steve watched that tiny release happen in real time. The fraction of tension easing from your brow. The way your fingers, which had still been loosely holding the hem of his shirt from when he sat down beside you again, loosened a little more.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It felt full, but not unpleasantly so. Thoughtful. Weighted by too much still unresolved, and yet no longer sharp in the immediate way it had been earlier. The aspirin had begun to take the edge off your headache; he could tell by the way you no longer winced every time you shifted against the pillow. The worst of the hangover would still be there, but dulled. Your breathing had grown steadier. The room felt less like a place of crisis now and more like a place where consequences had come to rest, at least for the morning.
Minutes passed.
Steve did not count them exactly. He only sat there and let them happen. He glanced once toward the door, already thinking ahead in practical lines because practicality kept him from dwelling too hard on the lingering memory of your mouth on his. He should go back to the Tower. Shower. Change. Report in properly. Make sure Tony knew you needed a new phone. Make sure Bucky stayed the hell away from Brooklyn, if it came to that.
The thought of Bucky made something colder move through him.
He pushed it aside.
Then, with your eyes still closed, you asked, “You got back from the mission yesterday?”
Steve looked at you again.
“Yes.”
You nodded faintly against the pillow.
He could almost see the thought assembling itself behind your face, moving one tired step at a time through chronology. He had returned. He had walked into the Tower and found out you were gone. He had seen Bucky. He had come here. He had stayed. That left all the ordinary parts of his life suspended somewhere just out of frame, waiting to reclaim him the second he stepped back into them.
“You’re going back to the Tower after this.”
It was not phrased as a question.
Steve leaned back slightly in the chair and answered with the same plainness you had used. “Yeah. For a little while.”
You were quiet long enough that he knew there was another question coming.
When it arrived, it came small and almost casual in tone, which only made the vulnerability inside it more obvious.
“If I asked you to come back after, would you?”
Steve did not need to think.
“Yes.”
This time your eyes did open.
You looked at him across the narrow space between bed and chair, and though the morning had softened none of the last day’s damage, something in your gaze sharpened with surprise. Perhaps not because of the answer itself. Perhaps because of how quickly it came.
He held your stare without looking away.
You searched his face like you had at the door last night, except there was less suspicion in it now and more wondering weariness.
“You’d actually do it?” you asked. “Don’t you have a report to write, or debriefing, or literally anything more interesting than sitting around with me?” The faintest, driest shadow of your old humor touched your mouth and vanished again. “I’m not exactly the most fun person in the world right now.”
Steve almost smiled.
Not because you were funny, though even now you managed it. Because that reflex in you – to make yourself smaller, more manageable, less trouble than you clearly felt – had become visible to him in a hundred ways over the last twelve hours, and every time he noticed it he wanted to refuse it on principle.
“I don’t care about the report,” he said.
He could have softened the sentence. Said I’ll handle it later. Said It can wait. But none of those would have carried what he actually meant, and he had grown tired of trimming truth down to polite size around you.
So he added, “And I don’t care about anything else more.”
The words hung in the room.
Not grand. Not dramatic. He did not say them like a confession. Only as fact.
Still, Steve felt the air shift after them.
Your eyes stayed on his face a beat longer than before. Then your gaze lowered briefly to his mouth, just for a moment, and his entire body noticed.
He ignored that.
Or tried to.
You let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
It was not a demand. Not even a triumph. More like acceptance of something you had been afraid to ask for and had now received without having to bargain.
You talked through the practical details after that with a gentleness that almost made the conversation feel normal.
Steve would go back to the Tower.
He would shower, because you said with sleepy bluntness that he still smelled vaguely like quinjet fuel and the city.
He would change clothes.
He would do whatever he absolutely had to do to keep the world from collapsing in his absence, and then he would come back.
You asked – more cautiously now, as though embarrassed to need one more thing – if he could talk to Tony about getting you a new phone.
Steve thought of the shattered one by the wall in the living room, of the relentless buzzing that had driven you to throw it, and nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll get you one.”
You closed your eyes again after that, the effort of the conversation clearly costing you more than you wanted him to notice. Steve watched the line of your face relax by degrees. The aspirin was helping. The toast sat in your stomach now instead of only rum. Some color had returned to you, though not much. It would do for an hour or two.
“I should go,” he said at last, quietly.
You made a soft sound of agreement that did not sound much like agreement at all.
Steve stood.
The movement seemed to wake you more fully. You pushed yourself up with less difficulty this time and sat on the edge of the bed while he collected his jacket. He glanced at you once, half expecting you to stay there and let him leave from the bedroom, but instead you swung your legs over the side and stood too.
“You don’t have to get up,” he said.
“I know.”
You said it the same way you had said everything else that morning: aware of the option, uninterested in taking it.
So he let you follow him.
You moved slowly through the apartment, but with more steadiness now. Tired, yes. Sore. Hollowed out. But no longer wavering on your feet. Steve noticed everything automatically – the way you kept one hand briefly to the wall when turning out of the bedroom, the way you blinked against the brighter light in the living room, the way your shoulders still seemed to curve slightly inward as if some instinct in your body had not yet accepted that the immediate blow was over.
He also noticed the toast plate in the kitchenette sink and felt, absurdly, a small pulse of satisfaction.
At the door, he turned to face you properly.
The safehouse looked different in daylight. Smaller. Less intimate, maybe. The couch where you had fallen apart the night before. The kitchen counter where he had made you eat. The living-room floor where your broken phone still lay in pieces because neither of you had bothered to touch it. All of it now carried the strange, quiet weight of shared aftermath.
Steve reached for the doorknob.
“Steve.”
He looked back.
You had stopped about a step away from him.
“Mmh?”
For one second he thought you were going to ask him again not to be long. Or remind him about the phone. Or say something practical and small, something meant to make the goodbye easier to wear.
Instead you stepped in.
You kissed him.
There was nothing uncertain about it this time.
No hungover confusion. No half-sleep instinct. No startled collision of mouths in the soft grey haze of waking. You kissed him with intention – your hands rising to his neck, then higher, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape and along the sides, holding him there with a quiet certainty that made the breath leave his lungs in one sharp rush.
“This,” you murmured against his mouth first, your breath warm over his skin, “is to say thank you.”
Then you kissed him again before he could answer.
Steve responded.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
The kiss deepened almost immediately, and because he had already spent the entire morning trying not to think about how your first kiss had felt, the second one hit him with the force of everything denied catching flame at once.
Your mouth was softer now, fully awake, deliberate. He felt the exact shape of your lips this time – warm, pliant, insistent in a way that sent sensation racing under his skin. One of his hands went to your waist on pure reflex, steadying, anchoring, pulling you just a fraction closer before he consciously registered that he had done it. The other hovered for the briefest second as if asking permission even now, then came up to cradle the side of your jaw.
You made a faint sound into his mouth.
It wrecked him.
Because it was not a dramatic sound. Not loud. Not theatrical. Only a quiet little exhale of approval, surprise, relief – he could not have named it exactly if asked – but the intimacy of feeling it there between your mouths, of hearing it swallowed by the kiss itself, made something low and dangerous uncurl in him.
He kissed you more fully then.
Still careful. He could not seem to stop being careful with you even when he was kissing you like this, like he had been denying himself the right to learn the shape of your mouth and suddenly could not stop. His thumb slid once along your cheekbone. He felt the way you leaned into him, the way your hands in his hair tightened, the way your body moved closer of its own accord until there was almost no space left between you.
And then your teeth caught his lower lip.
Just a light bite. Not enough to hurt.
Enough to send a shock so immediate through him that the sound he made escaped before he could stop it.
It was low and rough and embarrassingly involuntary. A startled, broken little noise dragged up from somewhere far more honest than dignity. Under different circumstances Steve would have blushed to the roots of his hair over it. He knew that even while it happened. But in the moment there was no room for embarrassment, only the searing awareness of your mouth on his, your teeth on his lip, your fingers in his hair, his own pulse pounding so hard it felt like impact.
He felt you smile into the kiss.
That only made it worse.
Or better.
He had no language for the difference right then.
Steve deepened the kiss again in answer, just enough to taste that smile and lose himself in it for one more dangerous second. The hand at your waist tightened. His other hand slipped from your jaw into your hair, not tangling, only holding, as though the softness of it might disappear if he did not keep contact.
This time it was you who pulled back.
Not far.
Only enough that your mouths no longer touched, though your breath still did.
Steve stayed there, forehead almost touching yours, his mouth close enough that if either of you moved half an inch the kiss would begin again. He could feel the warmth of your skin under his palm, the rise and fall of your breath, the slight tremble in his own restraint. His lips still tingled where yours had been. His lower lip still carried the sharp sweet ghost of your teeth.
“You thank all your friends like that?” he asked.
The words came out against your mouth, quieter and rougher than he intended, carrying more of the kiss than the joke.
You smiled.
A real smile this time – small, tired at the edges, still shadowed by everything else, but real enough to strike him harder than the kiss had in its own way.
“Just the ones who put me first,” you said, “despite how they feel.”
Steve went very still.
Because of course that was what you had noticed.
Not only the care. Not only the staying. The restraint.
The refusal to take what was easy when you were hurting.
The truth of what he felt, and the fact that he had placed your well-being in front of it anyway.
Something in his chest pulled tight enough to hurt.
He looked at you for a long second, the smile still ghosting at your mouth, your hands not yet fallen away from his neck, and wondered how many times he was going to underestimate the sharpness with which you saw him.
Then he let out one slow breath and pressed a brief kiss to your forehead.
Not because he wanted less.
Because he wanted more, and because that still mattered.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
You nodded once.
“I know.”
And somehow those two words felt even more intimate than the kissing had.
Steve forced himself to step back then, though every part of him objected to the movement. Your hands slid from his hair, down the back of his neck, then away entirely. The loss of contact felt immediate and disproportionate.
He opened the door.
Cooler hallway air moved in around him. The ordinary world waited just outside: elevators, traffic, the Tower, Tony, reports, Bucky, consequences, all of it.
Steve paused on the threshold and looked at you one last time.
You stood barefoot in the doorway light, hair still a little disordered from sleep and his hands, mouth kiss-swollen, eyes tired but steadier than the night before. Hurt still clung to you. So did anger. Grief. None of that had disappeared. But now something else stood beside it too, fragile and dangerous and undeniably alive.
He left before either of you could say anything that would tangle the moment further.
The walk down to the street felt unreal.
The city was too bright. Too loud. Too normal. Steve crossed the sidewalk to the Harley and only once he had his helmet in hand did he allow himself to stop and breathe.
His body still held the kiss in vivid pieces.
The press of your hands at his neck.
The softness of your mouth.
The sting of your teeth on his lower lip.
The sound he had made, swallowed by your smile.
The way you had kissed him not out of vengeance or confusion, but with clear-eyed gratitude and something more dangerous underneath.
He shut his eyes briefly.
Then he put on the helmet, started the bike, and headed back toward the Tower with the taste of you still on his mouth and the certainty, sharp as a blade, that coming back to you afterward was no longer a question at all.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 9.8k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: This story has been beta read by Cassie (with a lot of yelling at me and at the characters), so as always, a huge thanks to you.
While I think this series can be read as its own, it's a follow-up of this one-shot, and I suggest you read it for a better comprehension of the plot.
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Next
When Steve came back to the Tower after seven days away, he knew something was wrong before the elevator doors even opened.
It was not one thing so much as the shape of the silence.
The common floor usually carried noise no matter the hour – music from somebody’s speaker, Tony talking too loudly to fill a room that did not need filling, the television running unwatched, footsteps crossing polished floors, the low mechanical hum of a building too alive to ever quite rest. Even when the Tower stood quiet, it had a pulse. It felt inhabited.
That evening, it felt hollow.
The elevator opened onto dim light and stillness. Steve stepped out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, the stale taste of quinjet coffee still sitting on his tongue, and found Sam and Natasha in the common room.
Neither of them looked up at first.
Sam sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Natasha sat in one of the armchairs with one leg thrown over the other, but there was nothing relaxed about her posture. Her face looked flat and closed in that particular way it did when anger had cooled into something sharper. The television across from them was on mute. Some late-night news anchor moved her mouth in total silence.
A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table. Another lay on its side, a dark crescent soaking into a stack of coasters. No one had bothered to clean it up.
Steve let the duffel slide from his shoulder and land by the elevator with a dull thud.
Neither of them smiled.
His stomach dropped.
He looked from Sam to Natasha and, because instinct always made him reach for humor first when the air turned unbearable, he asked, “Okay. Who died?”
Sam looked up then.
There were jokes a room let survive and jokes it killed on sight. This one did not even make it to the floor.
Something in Sam’s face made Steve straighten.
Natasha finally turned her head toward him. Her expression did not change. “No one.”
Steve waited.
No one said anything.
The silence stretched a second too long, then another.
He felt the fatigue of the mission still in his bones – seven days of bad sleep, worse weather, and the kind of work that left no room for thinking about anything except the next step. He had expected to come back to the usual mess: Stark making some comment about how long they took, Sam complaining about quinjet rations, maybe Bucky lurking at the edge of the room with that watchful half-detached look of his. He had expected normal. Or the closest thing the Tower had ever had to it.
Instead he got this.
Steve’s gaze moved between them again. “What happened?”
Sam exhaled through his nose and leaned back at last, like a man resigning himself to an unpleasant duty. “She left.”
For one second, Steve did not understand the sentence.
The words landed, but not their meaning. There were too many people in the Tower for she to mean anything immediately. Maria had not lived here in years. Pepper barely stayed overnight. Wanda spent more time elsewhere than in. There were women in and out of Avengers Tower all the time.
Then understanding hit.
His head came up sharply. “What?”
Sam did not look away. “She left this morning.”
Something cold moved through Steve’s chest.
He had not seen you when he came in. He had noticed that without truly registering it, the way a mind dismissed small absences when it had not yet been told where to look. Now the omission flashed back at him all at once. Your jacket was not hanging over the back of the dining chair where you sometimes forgot it. There was no mug on the table that looked like yours. No book left face-down on the arm of the couch. None of those ordinary traces that meant you had passed through the room recently.
He frowned. “Left for where?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his jaw. “One of Stark’s old safehouses in Brooklyn. I gave her the keys.”
Steve stared at him. “Why?”
Natasha answered.
“Barnes cheated on her.”
The words fell clean and hard into the room.
Steve looked at her as if he had misheard.
The muted television flickered blue-white across the glass wall behind them. A siren moved somewhere far below in the city and faded. Steve heard all of it with unnatural clarity, as if the world had suddenly become too sharp around the edges.
He said, very carefully, “What?”
Natasha did not soften it. She never did when softness would have been a lie. “She had her suspicions. She confronted him last night.”
Steve just looked at her.
He had come back from battlefields that made more sense than that sentence.
Barnes cheated on her.
Not drifted. Not picked a fight. Not said something careless and unforgivable in anger. Not made a coward of himself in one of the quieter, more ordinary ways men ruined things.
Cheated.
Steve felt something like disbelief and nausea rise together.
He glanced at Sam, maybe because some part of him still expected a correction there, some sign this had been exaggerated in the retelling. Sam only gave a grim, weary nod that confirmed the worst of it.
“She packed this morning,” Sam said. “Didn’t take much. Just a bag.” His mouth tightened. “She was already gone by the time most people were up.”
Steve passed a hand over his face.
The skin around his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but the gesture had more to do with buying himself a second than fatigue. He stood there in the middle of the room with mission dust still on his boots and tried to fit the news into any shape that made sense.
It refused.
He had known you and Bucky together long enough to have stopped thinking of you as temporary. The two of you were not easy, not in the glossy, effortless way some couples pretended to be. There had always been edges there. Bucky was Bucky – closed off, haunted, sometimes so deep inside his own head it seemed a miracle he remembered to come back out. And you had never been the kind to smooth yourself down for anyone’s comfort. But Steve had seen the way you looked at each other when you thought no one was paying attention. He had seen Bucky track your movement across a room without seeming to. He had seen you lean into his space like it was the one place in the world that asked nothing false of you.
He had gone away for a week.
He had come back to this.
And worse than that – he had seen nothing coming.
Nothing.
No crack obvious enough to alarm him. No sign in Bucky that screamed betrayal. No whispered argument in the hallway before he left on mission. No strange distance between you two that might have made him stop and ask a question. If anything, the last time he saw you together, it had looked normal enough to let pass without a second thought.
That thought angered him more than he expected.
He looked at Natasha.
“You knew,” he said.
It was not a question.
She held his gaze for a beat before answering. “I saw them. Once.”
Steve felt his jaw harden.
There were a hundred follow-up questions in that sentence. Who. When. Where. How long ago. Did Bucky know she had seen. Did you. Was it really enough to know, or just enough to suspect. But the way Natasha said it told him what mattered most: she had not guessed. She had seen enough to be certain.
His voice came lower. “And you said nothing.”
Natasha’s face did not change, but something colder moved through her eyes. “I saw enough to know something was wrong. I did not have proof of the whole shape of it. By the time I decided I should have dragged him into a room and forced the truth out of him, she already had it.”
There was no apology in the words. Natasha rarely apologized for making a bad call until after she finished surviving it. But there was something else there – disgust, maybe. At Bucky. At herself. At the mess of it.
Steve looked away from her and out toward the windows.
Night lay over Manhattan in a scatter of lights and reflections. The city looked exactly as it always did from up here: bright, impossible, indifferent. He had spent enough years leading people through catastrophe to know how absurdly ordinary the world remained while somebody’s life came apart.
He thought of you leaving that morning while he was still halfway across the Atlantic, probably on a quinjet, probably asleep sitting up with his arms crossed, unaware that you were walking out of the Tower with a bag in one hand and whatever was left of your trust dragging behind you. The image lodged under his ribs with strange force.
He had not seen you.
He had not been here.
The helplessness of that irritated him immediately.
“What did she say?” Steve asked.
Sam answered that one.
“Not much.” He glanced down at his clasped hands before going on. “She didn’t owe me details, and I didn’t push. She opened the door with a bag already packed, and looked like she hadn’t slept.” His expression tightened a little, remembering. “I asked if she wanted to stay. She said no. I asked if she was sure. She said if she started talking, she might stay.”
Steve’s head turned slowly toward him.
Sam met his eyes. “So I handed her the keycard.”
That landed somewhere deep and quiet.
If she started talking, she might stay.
Steve could picture it too easily: you standing there with your face stripped bare by exhaustion and fury, holding yourself together by will alone, knowing that the first real conversation might be the thing that made you weaker instead of stronger. He knew that kind of decision. The ones people made because motion was the only thing keeping them upright.
“Did she say anything else?” Steve asked.
Sam shook his head. “Only that she needed out.”
Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Which seemed smart.”
Steve looked at her again.
There was steel in Natasha tonight, but there usually was. What struck him more was the fury she was not bothering to hide beneath it. She had never been sentimental about infidelity. In her experience, betrayal was betrayal. Private treachery and professional treachery shared more DNA than people liked to admit.
He thought again of what she had said I saw them. Once.
That meant at least once there had been a moment clear enough, damning enough, that Natasha Romanoff had taken one look and known what it was.
His stomach turned harder.
“Who?” he asked.
Natasha’s mouth became a thin line. “You really want that answer right now?”
The fact that she did not say she did not know answered him almost as well as a name would have.
Steve did not ask again.
Maybe because the name itself did not matter in this exact second. Not compared to the larger fact of it. Not compared to you leaving. Not compared to Bucky doing something so ugly and ordinary Steve almost had more trouble with the ordinariness than the ugliness. He had seen Bucky as a weapon, a prisoner, a survivor, a ghost trying to become a man again. It did not fit cleanly in Steve’s head – that same man lying to someone who loved him and then doing it again long enough for suspicion to grow teeth.
And yet life was cruelly simple sometimes. A person could survive war and brainwashing and still fail in the oldest, most human way imaginable.
Steve swallowed once and asked the question that had been waiting underneath all the others.
“Where is Bucky?”
Sam leaned back fully now and turned his head toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
“Last I heard? In his room.”
There was a bitter kind of humor in his expression now, the kind that had no real amusement in it at all.
“Doing what?”
“Destroying everything he can get his hands on,” Sam said. “Physically, this time.”
Steve stared.
Sam gave a short, humorless huff. “Because I wouldn’t tell him where she went.”
That, at least, Steve could picture.
He could imagine the shape of Bucky’s rage when it had nowhere useful to go. Furniture splintering under metal fingers. Glass breaking. A wall caving in. The deliberate ugliness of a man who had run out of ways to punish himself internally and needed something in the world to show damage too.
A week ago, Steve might have been halfway down the hall already out of instinct alone, ready to stop him before he tore his hands open on the wreckage.
Now he stayed where he was.
“Good,” Natasha said.
Sam glanced at her, but did not disagree.
Steve stood very still.
It was one thing to hear that Bucky was in pain. It was another to discover that the first feeling that rose in him was not sympathy but anger so immediate and clean it almost steadied him. Anger for you, for Sam being put in the middle of it, for Natasha being left to sit on what she knew, for the entire filthy waste of it. Anger that Bucky had shattered something and then turned destructive only after consequences showed up at his own door.
He let out a slow breath.
“When did you find out?” he asked Natasha.
She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, gaze fixed on him. “About the cheating? This morning, officially. About there being something off? Earlier.”
Steve nodded once.
That matched too well with the room. The bad atmosphere. The fact that both of them looked like they had not slept much either. This had not been a clean morning reveal with tidy explanations. It had been a night of fallout. Confrontation. Packing. One person leaving and another breaking apart loudly enough for the Tower to feel it through the walls.
He looked down at the dropped duffel by the elevator and felt suddenly ridiculous for having come home still half inside mission mode. There had been gunfire forty-eight hours ago. Tactical briefings. Satellite feeds. Blood on concrete. All of it already felt easier to process than this living-room silence.
“Tony know?” he asked.
Sam nodded. “By noon.”
“And?”
“And he’s mad enough not to be funny about it.”
That told Steve plenty.
Tony, for all his mockery and noise, had a vicious protective streak once somebody was considered his. You had been around long enough, close enough, to count. Steve could imagine exactly how cold Tony’s anger might look when it turned practical.
For a second no one spoke.
Steve could hear something faint in the hallway now that he stood listening for it. Not voices. Not footsteps. A dull impact, maybe, far off and muffled by distance and expensive walls.
Sam heard it too and tipped his head slightly in that direction. “See?”
Another thud, heavier this time.
Bucky’s room.
Steve shut his eyes briefly.
He remembered all at once a hundred versions of his oldest friend – the skinny reckless boy from Brooklyn who laughed with split lips, the ghost of him in war, the nightmare that followed, the man clawing his way back to himself in fragments. He remembered fighting for him when nobody else thought there was enough left to save. He remembered believing, stubbornly and absolutely, that whatever the world had made of Bucky Barnes, there had still been a line inside him no cruelty could fully erase.
That belief did not vanish now.
But it changed shape.
Because whatever history Bucky carried, whatever damage had been done to him, none of it absolved him here. Steve knew that with a clarity so cold it almost surprised him. Pain explained. It did not excuse. Not this. Not repeated choices. Not lying to someone who loved you and letting them stand there asking themselves what was wrong with them when the wrongness sat with you all along.
A flash of memory came uninvited: you at the kitchen counter some night weeks ago, laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, shoulders loose. Bucky in the doorway, saying nothing, but watching you with that small private softness he almost never let anyone see.
Steve had seen that look and trusted it.
His hand curled once at his side.
“Did she ask for me?” he heard himself say.
Sam’s expression changed – subtle, but enough.
“No,” he said carefully. “She didn’t know when you were getting back.”
Of course you had not.
The answer still landed harder than it should have.
Steve nodded once, more to himself than to either of them. It was not a wound, exactly. Just another fact. You had left in the narrow space available to you. You had not asked for him because you had not known he could be there, and maybe because this was not the kind of hurt you handed around to be held by committee.
He respected that.
He hated it too.
Natasha watched him with the sharp attention she reserved for dangerous moments – not because anyone had drawn a weapon, but because she knew emotional shock could turn a room volatile faster than a loaded gun sometimes could. “Steve.”
He looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder slightly. “Whatever you’re about to do, pick the useful version.”
He almost laughed, but there was no room for it.
Another crash came faintly from down the hall.
Sam stood up at last. “I already tried talking to him.”
Steve glanced at him. “And?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “And he only wanted to know where she was.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said he loved her.” Sam’s mouth twisted. “Which I’m sure was a big comfort.”
Steve looked away again.
That was somehow the worst part. Not because it softened anything, but because it did not. People liked to imagine betrayal coming from absence of feeling, as if the heart worked in clean equations. It never did. Steve had lived too long to believe that. Bucky could love you and still ruin you. The contradiction did not make the damage smaller. It made it uglier.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out.
“Is she safe?” he asked.
Sam answered immediately. “Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Does anybody else know where she is?”
Sam’s gaze held his for a second, measuring. “Only me. Probably Tony. And now you know there’s a place, not which one.”
Steve accepted that without argument. He would have done the same in Sam’s place. Maybe he would have done worse.
Natasha rose from the chair in one fluid motion. “If you’re going to see him, do it before he brings the floor down.”
Steve bent, picked up his duffel, then set it back down again. He was not going to carry luggage into this conversation like a man arriving for an ordinary evening.
He straightened and looked down the darkened hallway.
Part of him wanted to turn around instead. Walk back into the elevator, get in a car, find every safehouse Stark owned if necessary until he found you. Not to make you talk. Not to fix anything. Just to see with his own eyes that you were somewhere quiet, somewhere no one could reach you unless you wanted them to.
But Sam’s earlier words stopped him.
If she started talking, she might stay.
You had chosen distance. He would not be another person trying to take that from you.
So that left Bucky.
His chest tightened with something old and terrible. Loyalty, anger, grief, disbelief – none of it separated cleanly. Bucky was his friend. His brother in every way that mattered. And Steve knew, with the kind of certainty that hurt, that if he opened that bedroom door right now and saw the wreckage inside, he was not going to feel sorry first.
He was going to feel furious.
Maybe Bucky knew that. Maybe that was why he had not come out.
Steve started toward the hallway.
“Steve,” Sam called after him.
He stopped and looked back.
Sam’s expression had gone serious again. “Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.”
Steve held his gaze for a moment and gave a single nod.
He understood.
Bucky would bleed guilt all over the room if allowed. He would talk about shame and self-hatred and how he had ruined everything, and all of it might be true, and none of it would be the point. The point was you packing a bag in the morning light, too hurt to risk one more conversation. The point was you leaving before anyone could stop you because staying would have cost you too much.
Steve turned back without another word.
The corridor seemed longer than he remembered. Lights came on ahead of him in soft succession as he walked, each step bringing the distant noise into clearer focus. A crack of splintering wood. The metallic ring of something thrown hard enough to hit a wall. Then silence. Then another impact.
By the time he reached Bucky’s door, the hall smelled faintly of plaster dust.
Steve stopped outside it.
For one second he simply stood there, hand at his side, looking at the scarred wood panel and seeing too many years layered over it at once. Brooklyn alleys. Army trains. HYDRA labs. Wakanda. Recovery rooms. Quiet dinners. Missions. Second chances. All of it came down, absurdly, to a closed door in Avengers Tower and the knowledge that the man on the other side had just done something Steve did not know how to forgive.
Inside, something heavy hit the wall.
Steve lifted his hand and opened the door.
The frame missed Steve’s face by inches.
It struck the wall just beside the door with a crack sharp enough to ring through the wrecked room, glass exploding across the floor in a scatter of glittering shards. Steve stopped on instinct, his body turning slightly with the old reflex of a soldier who had spent too many years stepping around violence before his mind properly caught up.
For a second, the only sound came from the piece of wood spinning once across the floorboards before falling still.
Then silence closed back in.
Steve looked up.
Bucky stood in the middle of the room like the last thing left after a fire.
His chest rose and fell too hard. His hair had fallen into his face. The knuckles of his right hand were split open and bloodied, the skin torn raw from repeated impact. It had smeared across his fingers, across the heel of his palm, onto the front of his T-shirt in half-dried rust-colored marks where he must have wiped at his mouth or his face without noticing. His metal arm hung stiffly at his side, flexing once, twice, the plates clicking faintly.
The room itself looked as if somebody had torn through it looking for a body.
A chair lay overturned near the desk with one leg snapped clean off. The lamp on the bedside table had been smashed against the wall hard enough to cave in the plaster. One drawer hung crooked and splintered from the dresser, its contents – shirts, papers, a handful of loose ammunition from some carelessly abandoned tactical pouch – strewn across the floor. The mirror above the bureau had cracked through the middle in a violent white line, spiderwebbing outward into fractured reflections that caught Steve’s shape in broken pieces. One of the closet doors hung open at the wrong angle. The mattress had been shoved partly off the bedframe. There were two distinct holes in the wall that looked roughly the size of Bucky’s fist.
Steve took in all of it in one long sweep, and disbelief moved through him so cold and clean it almost felt like clarity.
Sam had not exaggerated.
If anything, Sam had been charitable.
For one stupid second, Steve remembered the common room downstairs – the tipped-over glass on the coffee table, Natasha’s shut face, Sam’s clasped hands, that terrible hollow quiet – and the memory hit differently now, with context. This was what had waited behind it. This was the noise that had been traveling through the walls.
The thought hardened something already sharp in Steve’s chest.
He stepped fully into the room and nudged the broken frame aside with the heel of his boot.
The photograph inside had split behind the glass. Steve did not stop to see who had been in it.
“Is that it?” he asked.
His voice came flat. Not loud. Not sympathetic. There was no trace in it of the concern he would have shown under other circumstances, if this had been about a mission gone wrong or a nightmare or the aftermath of somebody else’s cruelty.
There was none of that here.
Bucky stared at him with eyes gone dark and raw from sleeplessness. “No.”
The answer did not surprise Steve.
Of course it did not.
This was not an ending. This was only the shape a consequence had taken when it finally stopped being theoretical. Rage had always come easier to Bucky than remorse did; Steve knew that better than most. Rage gave a body something to do. It let a man move. Break. Bleed. It saved him, sometimes, from having to sit still with what he had done.
Steve glanced again at Bucky’s hand. The blood had started to drip steadily now from the split skin over the knuckles, dark drops pattering onto the floorboards.
“You should wrap that.”
Bucky let out something that might have been a laugh if there had been any life in it. “That what you came up here to say?”
Steve closed the door behind him with deliberate calm. The latch clicked into place with absurd neatness in a room that looked bombed out.
“No,” he said.
Bucky looked away first.
That did something ugly to Steve, because it made him think of every version of Bucky he had ever known that could still meet a punch head-on and yet flinch from being seen clearly. It made him think of the boy from Brooklyn with bruised eyes and a grin that hid more than it should have. It made him think of all the years in between. It made him think of what Sam had said downstairs, of Bucky asking where you had gone and then tearing his room apart because Sam had refused to tell him.
It made him furious all over again.
Bucky dragged a hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his skin. When he spoke, his voice sounded scraped raw. “I had ended it.”
Steve said nothing.
Bucky swallowed once. The words seemed to drag against his throat on the way out. “Yesterday. When I came back.” He gave a short, shattered shake of his head, not quite looking at Steve. “I went to her. I told her it was over.”
For one beat, the room held still.
Then Steve heard his own voice answer, colder than even he had expected.
“And you want a medal for that?”
Bucky’s head snapped up.
Steve did not move.
He stood just inside the wreckage with his hands loose at his sides and looked at his oldest friend across the carnage of his own making, and whatever Bucky had expected to find on his face, it was not there. Not patience. Not understanding. Not the old instinctive mercy Steve had spent half a lifetime extending toward him.
Only contempt, clean and bright as a blade.
Bucky stared at him as if the tone itself had struck harder than a fist.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“No?” Steve took one step farther into the room, carefully avoiding the worst of the broken glass. “Because it sounded a lot like you were setting the scene. You know, in case I missed the part where you tried to stop being a bastard at the last possible second.”
A pulse jumped in Bucky’s jaw.
Steve saw it and did not care.
He could still hear Natasha downstairs, I saw them. Once.
He could still hear Sam, She packed this morning. Didn’t take much. She said if she started talking, she might stay.
Those words had lodged deep.
He had not seen you before you left. He had not been there for the confrontation, had not watched your face when Bucky failed to deny it, had not stood in the hallway while you walked out. All he had were the fragments Sam and Natasha had given him – and somehow that made the whole thing worse, because his mind kept supplying the rest. You standing in the kitchen after a sleepless night. Bucky saying I love you and meaning it in whatever useless, ugly way a man meant it after betrayal. You taking a bag and choosing distance because it was the only thing that kept you from breaking in front of everyone.
Steve looked at the wrecked lamp, the shattered mirror, the blood on Bucky’s hand, and felt no pity for any of it.
Bucky laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know what I did?”
“I think you know now,” Steve said.
That landed.
Bucky flinched like he had not meant to, then set his mouth hard.
Steve went on before he could answer. “I think you knew enough to hide it while you were doing it. I think you knew enough to lie. I think you knew enough to come back here yesterday and end it with the other woman only after you’d already spent however long making a wreck out of both sides of this.” His voice stayed level, which somehow made it harsher. “And I think now that she’s gone, you want credit for having a conscience too late.”
Bucky’s breathing roughened. “It wasn’t like that.”
Steve looked around the room again, then back at him. “Then by all means, clear it up.”
For a second Bucky seemed almost unable to speak.
He looked exhausted in a way that went past sleeplessness. He looked gutted. Steve saw it. Steve believed it. It changed nothing.
Bucky turned half away, metal hand rising to grip the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for it to keep going.”
Steve almost laughed.
That, more than anger, almost made him laugh in disbelief.
“You didn’t mean,” he repeated. “That’s what you’ve got.”
Bucky’s shoulders tightened. “It started and then–”
“And then you kept doing it,” Steve cut in.
Bucky snapped, “I know that.”
The words bounced off the cracked walls and fell dead.
Steve did not raise his voice to match him.
Downstairs, Sam had warned him, Don’t let him make this about how bad he feels.
Steve understood now exactly why he had said it. Guilt came off Bucky in waves. Shame too. The whole room stank of it under the plaster dust and the metallic tang of blood. But Steve had no interest in getting lost inside Bucky’s self-disgust if it meant losing sight of the actual damage.
“You know what I can’t get past?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky’s eyes lifted to him again.
“That you let her figure it out.”
Something changed in Bucky’s face.
Steve pressed on.
“She suspected something.” Every word came measured, controlled. “Natasha told me that much. She saw enough to know something was wrong. And you still let the woman you claimed to love stand there with that feeling in her gut until she had to drag the truth out of you herself.”
Bucky shut his eyes.
For the first time since Steve entered, he looked less angry than sick.
Steve remembered another line from downstairs with painful precision, She confronted him last night.
He pictured that too easily. You in the kitchen, maybe. Or the hallway. Or somewhere private that had stopped feeling safe the second Bucky lied in it once too often. Your voice gone cold. Bucky going still. The silence after the first direct question. The look on his face when denial failed him.
Steve had not been there, but he knew enough about people to imagine it.
And imagining it made his stomach turn.
“Did you deny it?” Steve asked.
Bucky opened his eyes slowly.
The silence answered before he did.
Steve felt something inside him go hard as stone.
“You did.”
Bucky looked at the floor. “At first.”
Of course he had.
Steve took another step forward.
There were years of memory crowding behind his ribs, all of them trying to complicate this. Every fight he had fought for Bucky. Every grave he had refused to let close over him. Every miracle of survival. Every quiet step back toward personhood. All of it kept trying to stand up between them and say be fair, be patient, remember who he is.
Steve did remember who he was.
That was part of why this cut so deep.
“You had a chance,” Steve said. “Maybe more than one. To tell her. To stop. To confess before she had to come to you already knowing enough to be hurt.” His gaze dropped to the shredded room around them. “Instead you waited until she was gone and started punching walls.”
Bucky looked up fast, anger flashing through the ruin. “You think that’s all this is?”
Steve met it without blinking. “Right now? Pretty close.”
That stung visibly.
Good.
Bucky paced away from him in three quick steps, then stopped because there was nowhere left in the room to go without stepping on something broken. He looked down at his bleeding hand as if noticing it for the first time, then wiped it absently on his shirt again.
“She asked me why I loved her,” he said suddenly.
Steve said nothing.
Bucky laughed once under his breath, the sound cracked straight through with grief. “You should’ve heard how she said it.” He shook his head. “Like it was the ugliest joke in the world.”
Steve felt his jaw tighten so hard it hurt.
He could hear your voice saying it, though he had not been there. Not the exact sound, but the shape of it. Not confusion anymore. Not pleading. Something worse. The moment when love became unbearable because it no longer made sense beside what had been done in its name.
Bucky pressed the heel of his left hand against his eyes for a second. When he lowered it, his expression looked flayed open. “I told her I loved her.”
“And she left anyway,” Steve said.
Bucky stared at him.
Steve did not soften.
That was the truth of it. Whatever words had passed between you in the night, whatever confessions or excuses or shattered apologies Bucky had thrown at the damage, the only thing that mattered now was that you had still walked out in the morning. You had chosen a locked door and a safehouse over one more hour in the Tower with him.
Because you had needed to.
Because staying had cost too much.
Bucky’s mouth twisted. “You think I don’t know she left?”
“I think you still don’t understand why she had to.”
That brought Bucky up short.
For the first time, Steve saw something like uncertainty move beneath the grief. Not ignorance, exactly – Bucky was not stupid – but that more dangerous thing people clung to after doing harm: the belief that if their remorse was large enough, it ought to count for more than it did.
Steve knew better.
“You cheated on her,” he said. “More than once, from the sound of it. You lied until she confronted you. And now you’re upstairs tearing apart furniture because Sam won’t tell you where she ran to get away from you.” His eyes moved over the room one last time. “What part of that are you hoping makes you look less guilty?”
Bucky went still.
Then, very quietly, “I’m not trying to look like anything.”
“No,” Steve said. “You’re trying not to feel it.”
That landed even harder than the rest.
Bucky’s face changed in a way Steve had rarely seen – something almost defenseless moving through it before anger slammed back over the top. “What do you want from me?”
The question came out harsher than it should have, but Steve heard the truth underneath it.
What script was this. What punishment. What was he supposed to say to make the room stop spinning.
Steve knew the answer.
“Nothing,” he said.
Bucky frowned as if he had heard wrong.
Steve held his gaze.
“I don’t want anything from you. She might have wanted honesty. She might have wanted you to stop before it got this far. She might have wanted one conversation where you didn’t let her be the last person to know what was happening to her own life.” His voice lowered. “But me? I don’t want a damn thing from you right now except for you to stop acting like smashing your room changes what you did.”
For a long moment neither man spoke.
Somewhere below them, the Tower hummed on in that expensive, inhuman way it always did, climate systems and hidden engines breathing through the walls like nothing catastrophic had happened inside one of its bedrooms. Steve found the sound obscene.
Bucky finally sank down onto the edge of what remained of the bedframe, not gracefully, not with any real decision, but like his legs had simply given out underneath him. The mattress shifted crookedly under his weight. He bent forward with both forearms braced on his thighs, blood dripping from his knuckles to the floor.
“I didn’t get to tell her it was over,” he said after a while, staring at the boards. “I thought–”
Steve cut him off immediately. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s head lifted.
“I don’t care what you thought that bought you.”
Bucky’s mouth shut.
Steve saw the old instinct there – to explain, to reconstruct the sequence, to lay out the exact order of decisions in a way that might make him feel less monstrous if not innocent. Steve had seen men do it after combat, after failed missions, after friendly fire, after any irreversible thing. They reached for chronology because morality had become too ugly to hold directly.
But there was nothing in the timeline that saved Bucky here.
Yesterday he had gone to end it with the other woman.
Last night you had confronted him.
This morning you had left.
If anything, the sequence made the whole thing more grotesque. Bucky had come home full of belated intentions, as if he might quietly close one ugly chapter and spare himself the public collapse, and then found out too late that you had already seen enough to know your life had changed under your feet.
Steve thought of Sam giving you the safehouse key. Thought of Natasha seeing enough, once, and keeping it in the sharp silence of herself. Thought of Tony learning it too and going cold with it. Thought of all the ways betrayal rippled outward when people liked to pretend it stayed contained between two bodies in one room.
“You don’t get points for stopping only because you were finally forced to look at yourself,” Steve said.
Bucky did not answer.
Steve stepped farther into the room until he stood close enough that Bucky would have had to look up to meet his eyes.
Slowly, Bucky did.
Steve had known that face in every age of its ruin. He knew the set of pain in the mouth, the stubbornness in the jaw, the devastation stripped naked in the eyes. He loved Bucky. Maybe that was why the anger felt so merciless. Stranger fury burned fast. This had roots.
“She left with one bag,” Steve said. “Sam told me that. She got the key for a safehouse and she left with one bag. That’s what your grief looks like on her side of the door.”
Bucky’s throat worked once.
Steve kept going.
“She didn’t wait for me to get back. Didn’t wait for Tony to weigh in. Didn’t turn it into some Tower-wide spectacle. She just got out.” The words sharpened. “Do you understand what that means?”
Bucky looked away.
Steve did not let him. “Look at me.”
It was not loud, but it carried command the way only Steve’s voice could when he let that part of himself show.
Bucky’s gaze snapped back.
“It means she didn’t trust herself to stay,” Steve said. “It means whatever happened last night left her thinking distance was the only thing that would save her from taking you back too soon or letting you talk over the damage. It means she had to protect herself from you.”
The last word hung there.
From you.
Bucky took it like a blow.
For a second, Steve thought he might lunge up out of the bedframe and hit something again, maybe him this time. There was enough wildness in the room for that. Enough shame. Enough blood in the air.
Instead Bucky sat very still.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone low and ragged. “Where is she?”
Steve almost smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I dunno. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Bucky’s face closed on itself. “Steve–”
“No.”
Just that.
Bucky stared at him, breathing hard.
Steve held the line without effort now. Downstairs, Sam had already made the right call. Steve would not undo it. Not for history. Not for loyalty. Not because Bucky looked half-dead with regret. The minute Bucky made this about finding you rather than facing what he had done, Steve knew exactly how dangerous that could become – not physically, not necessarily, but emotionally. Bucky had a way of taking up all the air in a room when he wanted absolution. You deserved at least one place where he could not get to you with that face and that voice and all the old gravity between you.
“You don’t get to chase her because you panicked,” Steve said.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It’s part of what this is.”
Bucky stood again too fast, the bedframe groaning behind him. “You think I’d hurt her?”
Steve did not answer right away.
That silence gutted the room.
Because of course Steve did not think Bucky would lay a hand on you. That was not the injury here and they both knew it. But there were other ways to hurt someone. Bucky knew that now better than anyone.
Finally Steve said, “I think you already did.”
Bucky recoiled.
Good, Steve thought again, and hated how easy that kept becoming.
The room fell quiet except for the faint drip of blood onto wood.
Steve drew a slow breath and felt the rage settle into something colder, steadier. This, more than shouting, was the dangerous version of his anger – the one that stopped performing and started deciding.
“You need to clean this up,” he said.
Bucky stared, uncomprehending.
“The room. Your hand. Yourself.” Steve glanced once more at the destruction. “Then you need to sit down somewhere and think very hard about whether any sentence coming out of your mouth is going to be about her pain or only your own.”
Bucky’s brows pulled together. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Steve looked at him for a long moment.
“It means that if the first thing you say, every time, is some version of I love her or I ended it or I feel sick or I didn’t mean it to keep going, then all you’re doing is putting yourself back in the center of a wound you created.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Steve did not let him speak.
“You’re sorry,” he said. “I believe that. You’re ashamed. I believe that too. But don’t confuse those things with having done right by her even once in this.”
Bucky shut his mouth again.
Steve had no idea whether the words were getting through. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not while the adrenaline still burned too hot and the room still looked like an impact site. But he said them anyway because somebody had to, and because Sam had already done the decent thing by protecting your whereabouts. That left Steve with the uglier task.
To stand here. To look directly at Bucky. To refuse to make him feel cleaner than he was.
At last Bucky spoke, barely above a whisper. “You think she’s never coming back.”
Steve thought of the Tower downstairs with your absence already worked into it like a missing step. Thought of the kitchen you would not want to see. Thought of the hallways Sam said you had left behind with one bag and a face that had not slept. Thought of the safehouse in Brooklyn, small and quiet and away from all of this.
“I think,” Steve said carefully, “that whether she comes back to this building and whether she ever comes back to you are two very different questions.”
Bucky looked like he had been punched all over again.
Maybe he had. Only now the blows were landing where they belonged.
Steve moved toward the door.
Behind him, Bucky said, “Are you done?”
Steve stopped with one hand on the frame.
He did not turn immediately.
He looked instead at the smear of blood Bucky had left on the wall near the broken lamp, at the glass on the floor, at the wreckage of a room that had not asked to be made the stage for one man’s collapse. He thought of everything downstairs still waiting – the silence, the questions, the fact that he had come home from a week-long mission and stepped straight into the aftermath of a private disaster he had been nowhere near in time to stop.
Then he looked back over his shoulder.
“No,” he said. “But she was the one you should’ve been listening to last night.”
A sound broke behind him before Steve could open the door.
It was laughter.
Not real laughter. Nothing with life in it. Nothing that belonged in a human throat without setting every instinct on edge. It came out of Bucky low and cracked and wrong, like something rusted through at the hinges had finally given way. There was no humor in it. No amusement. Only the ugly edge of a man standing too close to the center of his own ruin and trying to make it uglier still.
Steve stopped with his hand on the handle.
For one brief second, he did not turn around. He only stood there in the wreck of the room, jaw locked, the cold metal of the handle pressed into his palm, and listened to that horrible half-laugh die into silence.
Then Bucky said, “I was going to ask her to marry me.”
The words dropped into the room like another piece of furniture thrown hard enough to splinter.
Steve shut his eyes.
He did not move. Did not speak. Did not even breathe properly for a second or two.
He had thought the worst of the night had already arranged itself in plain enough terms: the cheating, the confrontation, you leaving with a single bag, Bucky upstairs smashing holes into the walls because remorse had finally found him with nowhere left to run. That had already been ugly enough. More than ugly enough.
But that… That was something else.
Steve’s hand tightened on the door handle until the tendons in his wrist stood out hard beneath the skin. He felt the pressure in his jaw first, then in the back of his neck, every muscle in him drawing taut with the effort of not saying the first thing that came to mind.
Because the first thing that came to mind was not fit to say to his oldest friend. Not if he wanted to walk out of this room without making the wreckage worse.
He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the door in front of him instead of the man behind him.
For one impossible, involuntary instant, the image rose anyway: a ring box hidden somewhere in this room before Bucky tore it apart. A proposal imagined in whatever private hopeful shape Bucky had given it. Maybe a dinner. Maybe a quiet night. Maybe the same kitchen where you had confronted him, where whatever remained of your trust had finally broken open in your hands. Steve did not want the image, but it came all the same, obscene in its timing.
A proposal.
As if betrayal could be outrun by a bigger promise made afterward.
As if a future tense could erase what had already been done in the past.
Steve still said nothing.
He knew silence could wound harder than words sometimes. Right now it was the only thing stopping him from turning around and saying something so vicious it would stick between them for years.
Behind him, Bucky let out another of those broken, mirthless sounds and shifted against the ruined wall. Steve could hear the fabric of his shirt drag over plaster. Could hear the faint wet tack of blood on his knuckles.
“And now what, Stevie?” Bucky asked. “You gonna take your shot, finally?”
That did it.
Steve turned.
Slowly at first. Too slowly, maybe. The kind of controlled movement that was more dangerous than any sudden outburst because it meant the anger had passed through heat and settled into something dense, cold, and deliberate.
Bucky was still where Steve had left him, standing amid the devastation of his room, one hand bloodied, hair hanging half into his eyes, mouth twisted into something cruel and exhausted and self-destructive. But there was a new look on his face now, something meaner than grief. Meaner than shame. As if he had reached the point where if he could not drag the night backward, he could at least poison whatever was left in the room.
Steve had seen that look before too, on men cornered by their own guilt. The moment when pain stopped turning inward and started looking for another target.
His gaze fixed on Bucky’s face. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Bucky’s laugh this time came shorter, rawer. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
Steve did not blink. “Say it.”
There was danger in the room now, plain and hard-edged. Not the kind that came from weapons. Something older. Two men with too much history and too little patience left between them.
Bucky tipped his head back against the wall for a second, then looked at Steve through lashes heavy with sleeplessness and contempt – contempt for himself first, maybe, but no longer only that. “I know you always had a thing for her.”
The sentence hung there.
Steve felt it hit somewhere low and violent in his chest.
Not because it was wholly unrecognizable. He was honest enough with himself, if with no one else, to know that whatever he had felt for you had long since moved beyond simple fondness. He had buried that knowledge deep, given it no room to breathe, refused to examine it with any real care because you had been with Bucky and that should have been the end of it. Steve was not a boy anymore, whatever Bucky chose to imply with Stevie. He did not build secret hopes out of other people’s relationships. He did not stand around waiting for collapse.
But hearing it spoken like that – dragged into the light now, in this room, from Bucky’s mouth, with all the filth of the night on it – made it feel contaminated.
Made it feel like accusation.
Made it feel like the ugliest possible version of something Steve had spent months, maybe longer, making sure remained harmless.
The distance between them vanished in three strides.
By the time Bucky seemed to register that Steve had moved, Steve’s fist had already fisted itself in the front of his T-shirt.
The fabric bunched hard in Steve’s hand. He drove Bucky backward with enough force to send him slamming into the nearest intact section of wall. The impact knocked a dull thud through the room, rattling what remained of the cracked mirror. Plaster dust sifted down in a pale drift from the damage already done.
Bucky’s head struck first, then his shoulders. He made a rough sound in the back of his throat but did not fight the grip.
If anything, he leaned into it.
That was almost worse.
Steve got right up into his space, holding him there with one hand locked in his collar, his face close enough to see every sign of sleeplessness, every burst capillary in his eyes, every twitch of strain around his mouth. He could smell blood, sweat, broken plaster, and underneath it the bitter metallic scent of adrenaline long since gone sour.
“Do not,” Steve said.
His voice was low enough that Bucky had to listen for it.
“Do not ever make me into some opportunistic bastard standing around waiting for my best friend to screw up.”
Each word came out clipped and controlled, but rage ran beneath them like live current.
Bucky stared back at him. For a second something like surprise flickered over his face – not at the force, maybe, but at the sheer naked disgust in Steve’s voice. Then even that disappeared, and what remained was a darker, uglier expression than before. Something needling. Something almost hungry.
He wanted this.
Steve saw it all at once.
Not the accusation itself. Not the fight in any real sense. The punishment.
There was something in Bucky’s eyes now that looked almost relieved to have finally drawn a clean target. As if he had spent the last hours drowning in emotions too large and shapeless to bear – shame, panic, grief, self-hatred – and had reached the point where a fist across the mouth would be easier. Simpler. A wound he could understand. A pain with edges.
He wanted Steve to hit him.
Wanted the physical blow, the proof, the release of it.
Maybe because broken knuckles and split lips hurt less cleanly than whatever image kept replaying in his head of you leaving the Tower without looking back.
Maybe because being struck by Steve would give him a punishment he could survive instead of the one he had earned and could not control.
Steve saw all of that in a single brutal flash, and it disgusted him more than the accusation had.
His lip curled very slightly. “You’re pathetic.”
The word landed harder than a punch.
Bucky’s expression changed.
For the first time, the viciousness faltered. Not gone, but pierced.
Steve held him pinned a heartbeat longer, staring at him with absolutely no effort to disguise what he felt. Disgust. Anger. A profound, cold contempt for the way Bucky was trying to drag everyone else into the mud with him now that he had finally sunk deep enough to feel it.
Then Steve released him.
Bucky hit the wall once more on the rebound and straightened too fast, jaw tightening, chest heaving. Steve took one step back, then another, forcing space between them before instinct overrode restraint. He turned away sharply and headed for the door.
He got two steps before Bucky spoke again.
“So it won’t bother you, then,” he said, voice rough and poisonous, “to pick up what’s left.”
Steve stopped dead.
There were some lines a man crossed in ignorance, and some he crossed because he wanted blood.
This was the second kind.
For one second the entire room seemed to contract around Steve’s spine. Every muscle in his back drew tight. His hand flexed once at his side so hard the fingers ached. He could feel his pulse in his throat now, hard and heavy, the old dangerous urge rising fast – the one that did not care about regret until later.
He turned so abruptly the broken glass near his boot crunched underfoot.
“Shut up, Bucky.”
His voice cracked across the room like a shot.
Bucky’s head lifted.
Steve took one step toward him, then stopped himself there by sheer force. His face had gone hard in a way very few people ever saw. Not righteous. Not noble. Just furious.
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
The silence after that was enormous.
Bucky looked at him, breathing hard, but he did not speak.
Maybe he saw something in Steve’s expression then that finally registered as real danger. Not because Steve was Captain America. Not because he was stronger, steadier, more controlled. But because they had known each other too long for Bucky to mistake the difference between anger and the brink.
Steve stood there for one heartbeat longer, maybe two, and felt every possible next move line up in front of him.
He could hit him.
He could say the cruelest thing he knew.
He could drag this into some older, bloodier shape of brotherhood where men broke each other open because they had run out of language.
He wanted, with a suddenness that shocked him, to do at least one of those things.
And that was exactly why he had to leave.
So he did.
He turned on his heel and strode to the door before Bucky could force one more word into the room. His hand closed on the handle, yanked it open hard enough that it slammed against the outer wall, and for one second the cool, quiet hallway lay before him like another world entirely.
He stepped through without looking back.
Behind him, the wrecked room remained silent.
Steve pulled the door shut with more force than necessary. The latch clicked, then settled. It was a small sound after everything else, absurdly neat.
He stood there in the hallway for a second with his breathing too high in his chest and his fists clenched so tight his own nails bit into his palms. The controlled mask he wore so easily for everyone else felt thin as paper right then. He could still hear Bucky’s voice. I was going to ask her to marry me. You gonna take your shot, finally? Pick up what’s left.
The last one stayed.
It stayed because of what it implied. Because of the way it reduced you – your pain, your choice, your dignity – to debris. To aftermath. To something broken another man might claim.
The thought made Steve feel physically sick.
He pushed a hand over his face and kept walking before he could change his mind and go back in there.
The hallway seemed too bright after the room. Too polished. The Tower’s hidden systems hummed softly through the walls, indifferent as ever. Somewhere below, a lift moved between floors. Somewhere farther off, a door opened and shut. The world had resumed its shape while Steve’s pulse still pounded like he had just stepped off a battlefield.
He kept going.
Not because he was calm. Not because the anger had passed. But because he knew himself well enough to understand the difference between restraint and weakness, and tonight leaving was the only thing keeping those two from being confused.
By the time he reached the end of the corridor, his jaw hurt from how hard he had been clenching it.
He did not look back once.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.
Warnings: Heavy angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, explicit language, the slooowest burn - See each chapter for individual warnings. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI
Summary: You agree to fake-date Steve Rogers because it’s useful, convenient, and easier than saying no. Unfortunately, being loved like a performance starts to feel dangerously close to wanting the real thing.
Wordcount: 27.4k (I KNOW)
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: anxiety, low self-worth, emotional hurt/comfort, fake dating, media pressure, insomnia, difficulty eating, miscommunication, consensual sex (no smut, no explicitly described), brief disappearance, angst with a happy ending
A/N: I know I said I wasn't going to post anything in April, but as the saying goes "A wise man changes his mind sometimes, a fool never." This was beta read by Cassie (thank you as always)
Masterlist
The call came just after lunch.
Not a text. Not a casual request passed along in the hallway. A direct message from one of Fury’s assistants, clipped and impersonal, asking you to report to Conference Room 26 immediately.
That alone told you enough to make your stomach tighten.
Urgent meetings in the Tower rarely meant anything good. They meant damage control. Strategy. Containment. They meant polished shoes on expensive floors and people using soft voices to discuss hard things. They meant walking into a room and realizing, two minutes too late, that everyone else already knew why you had been summoned.
By the time you reached the twenty-sixth floor, your pulse had settled into that awful, steady rhythm you recognized from therapy. Not panic. Not yet. Just the warning signs. The sense that something unpleasant was about to be asked of you, and that you would smile while it happened.
The assistant outside the conference room gave you a sympathetic look that did nothing to help.
You pushed the door open.
Everyone was already there.
Two members of the PR team sat at one end of the glass table with folders open in front of them. A legal adviser sat beside them, expression unreadable. Natasha lounged in a chair near the far side of the room, one leg crossed over the other, face smooth and detached in that way of hers that told you she was paying attention to everything.
And Steve stood near the windows.
Your eyes found him instantly, automatically, before you could stop them.
He stood with his arms crossed and his jaw set, broad shoulders rigid beneath a navy button-down that looked as though he had put it on in a hurry. Sunlight from the windows cut across one side of his face, throwing the other into shadow. He looked as if he had been restraining himself for some time already.
He also looked as though he hated being there.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
You told yourself not to be ridiculous.
The woman from PR gestured toward the empty chair near the middle of the table.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please, sit down.”
You did.
Only then did you notice the magazines.
They had been spread across the table in a fan, glossy covers turned upward like evidence at a trial. The same photograph appeared on every one of them.
Steve and Natasha.
Too close. That was the whole trick of it.
Steve’s hand rested at the small of Natasha’s back. Natasha stood angled toward him, her face tipped up. The camera had caught the two of them in the half-second before movement resolved into something harmless. In the still frame, it looked intimate. Charged. Damning, if someone wanted it to be.
And apparently a great many people wanted it to be.
You read the nearest headline.
AMERICA’S GOLDEN BOY AND THE BLACK WIDOW: SECRET ROMANCE?
The next one was worse.
LOVE, LIES, OR A MISSION GONE TOO FAR?
Another.
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST DANGEROUS AFFAIR
Natasha followed your gaze and let out a low, humorless breath through her nose.
“Creative,” she said.
“There is nothing going on between us,” Steve said immediately.
His voice was calm, but only in the way winter was calm. Cold enough to burn.
The legal adviser folded his hands. “We are aware of that.”
“The public isn’t,” the second PR representative said, with the brittle patience of someone repeating a rehearsed line. “And speculation escalated much faster than projected. The story spread across entertainment media by morning, and now mainstream outlets are picking it up. We’re already seeing a measurable effect on public sentiment toward the team.”
Natasha arched one eyebrow. “Because apparently the world has nothing better to do.”
The woman gave her a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Unfortunately, public perception matters.”
Steve uncrossed his arms.
“Our personal life shouldn’t be public property.”
“With respect,” the lawyer replied, “that distinction becomes difficult when the image of Captain America directly affects government relationships, sponsorships, charitable partnerships, and the Avengers’ general standing.”
Steve’s mouth hardened.
You kept your attention on the magazines because they were easier to look at than him.
It was a ridiculous story. You knew that. Anybody who actually knew Natasha knew how absurd it was. Anybody who knew Steve would have laughed at the melodrama of it. But none of that mattered. A photograph did not need to be true. It only needed to be convincing.
And people always preferred convincing over true.
The first PR representative straightened the papers in front of her.
“We considered several possible responses,” she said. “A formal denial. A coordinated media correction. Redirecting the narrative through unrelated public appearances. However, our team agreed that the most effective approach would be a more stable, organic counter-story.”
You already knew you were not going to like whatever came next.
She looked directly at you.
“We believe Captain Rogers would benefit from a public romantic cover.”
The room went still.
Steve turned sharply. “No.”
The word cracked across the glass and chrome.
The woman did not flinch. “Captain–”
“No,” he repeated. “That is not what I agreed to discuss.”
“You agreed to hear options.”
“I agreed to hear options related to the story. Not this.”
Your stomach tightened further.
Something in Natasha’s posture changed, almost too small to notice. Not guilt, exactly. More like preparation. The moment before a trained operative took a hit she had already decided was necessary.
The PR representative folded her hands.
“We also discussed potential candidates.”
Steve stared at her as if he could stop the next sentence by force of will alone.
She continued anyway.
“Natasha suggested your name.”
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
You looked at Natasha.
She met your eyes without any visible apology.
Because of course she did.
Steve turned toward her, incredulous anger flashing openly across his face now.
“You brought her into this without asking her?”
“I gave them a name they couldn’t misuse,” Natasha said. Her tone remained even, but there was steel beneath it. “That was the alternative.”
“You don’t volunteer people like that.”
“You think they wouldn’t have thought of her on their own?”
The question landed badly because everybody in the room knew the answer.
The PR team exchanged a glance. The woman nearest you leaned forward slightly, softening her voice into something almost kind.
“You two already have an established friendship. You’re comfortable together in public settings. You work within the same circles. There’s no obvious conflict of schedule. And,” she added, “it helps that the public response to previous photos of you together has been overwhelmingly positive.”
You blinked.
“Previous photos?”
The woman opened a folder and slid a few printed pages toward you.
There they were.
You and Steve leaving a charity gala side by side. Steve leaning down to hear something you had said over the crowd. Another shot from six months ago of the two of you at a community event, his hand at your elbow as the pair of you laughed about something off-camera. A candid from the Tower rooftop after a press conference, both of you in profile, talking close enough for gossip columns to make poetry out of it.
Your face went hot.
You had not known any of those pictures were circulating.
Or maybe you had known, vaguely, in the way you always knew your life became content the second a lens turned your way, but you had never let yourself think too hard about it.
“It would read as natural,” the lawyer said. “Credible. Reassuring.”
Steve let out a short, disbelieving laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever.
“Reassuring to who?”
The woman did not answer him. She kept her eyes on you.
“The arrangement would be limited. Time-bound. Carefully managed. A small number of public appearances, perhaps a few interviews, controlled photo opportunities, and social visibility enough to redirect attention. Nothing invasive. Nothing beyond what is agreed upon.”
Nothing invasive.
You almost admired how cleanly they lied.
Steve stepped closer to the table.
“She doesn’t owe any of you that.”
The words came low and sharp.
No one answered immediately.
You looked up at him then.
He was already looking at you.
There was anger in his face, yes, but not directed at you. Never at you. It was something worse, in a way – something that made your chest feel too tight, because it meant he saw what was happening clearly, and he hated it.
It also meant he was making it harder.
Because if he had been indifferent, this would have been simple.
If he had looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, reluctant in the selfish sort of way, you could have accepted the proposal with the numb practicality you used for every other unpleasant thing in your life. But Steve looked furious on your behalf, and that made the whole room tilt slightly under your feet.
You glanced back down at the printed photographs.
Useful.
The word rose in your head with ugly familiarity.
It was a small word. An efficient word. The kind that sounded almost like praise if no one listened too closely.
Useful meant there was a reason to keep you around.
Useful meant there was still a place for you in the room.
Useful meant you did not have to ask whether anyone would choose you if you stopped giving them reasons.
Therapy had not cured that thought. It had only taught you how to hear it more clearly when it arrived.
You could picture your therapist’s face with irritating precision.
You do not have to earn your place every second of the day.
Maybe not.
But earning it still felt safer than trusting it.
“What exactly would it involve?” you asked.
Steve’s expression changed at once. Not softened. Worse. He looked as though he already knew why you were asking, and hated the answer.
The PR woman moved quickly, relieved to have the conversation back under control.
“Public dinners. A few visible outings. Coordinated media appearances when appropriate. Depending on the coverage, perhaps a magazine profile – something tasteful, emphasizing normalcy and stability. You would be briefed in advance. We would set boundaries. You would not be expected to share anything genuinely private.”
Normalcy and stability.
You nearly laughed.
The lawyer added, “If both parties agree, the arrangement could last until attention shifts or until another story cycle displaces this one.”
You thought of the Tower.
Of the unspoken ways everybody slotted into place there.
Heroes. specialists. scientists. assets. liabilities.
You thought of yourself drifting around the edges of something bigger than you, never fully certain whether you belonged or whether people simply tolerated you because you were competent enough to be convenient.
You thought of the Thursdays you spent in your therapist’s office, ankles crossed, trying not to sound as damaged as you felt while admitting, again and again, that some part of you remained convinced affection was a temporary reward for usefulness.
And beneath all of it, like a thread you refused to tug too hard…
Steve.
Steve, who always remembered whether you had eaten after long debriefs.
Steve, who walked at your pace when the others were in a hurry.
Steve, who watched you with a steadiness that unsettled you because it felt too close to understanding.
He liked you. You knew that much.
Maybe only as a friend. Maybe in that broad, generous way Steve liked people who needed gentleness and never asked for it. But he liked you. Enough that Natasha had used it. Enough that the room had built a plan around it.
And if you said yes, then at least there would be a reason for him to keep choosing your company.
Even if it was fake.
Especially if it was fake.
“Don’t,” Steve said quietly.
The room seemed to draw in around that single word.
He had not raised his voice. He had not moved any closer. But suddenly the polished conference room and the magazines and the PR strategy all fell away, and it felt as though he was speaking only to you.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Nobody else in the room mattered for a second.
You held his gaze.
There it was again – that terrible, unbearable sincerity.
He meant it.
He truly meant it.
You did not know what to do with that.
It would have been easier if he had looked relieved at the possibility. Easier if he had treated you like a practical solution. Easier if he had not cared. But Steve caring always made things harder, because it touched the parts of you you spent most of your time trying to hide under humor and usefulness and polished competence.
Your fingers tightened in your lap.
Someone had to make the room move again.
If you let silence sit much longer, he might do something noble and inconvenient, like refuse outright. He might blow the whole thing apart. He might protect you in front of everybody and leave you standing there with nothing to offer in return except the proof that, yet again, you had needed rescuing.
You could not bear that.
So you smiled.
A small one. Controlled. The version you used when you needed to make yourself easy to handle.
“It’s temporary, right?” you asked the PR team.
The woman nodded immediately. “Exactly.”
You looked back at Steve.
“It’s fine.”
His expression did not change, but something in it sank.
“It isn’t,” he said.
You forced a lighter tone. “It’s not like they’re asking for my kidney.”
No one laughed.
Of course no one laughed.
You could feel Natasha watching you now, sharp and silent.
The lawyer slid a paper across the table, though not close enough for you to mistake it for a contract yet. More like the outline of one. Terms. Timelines. Talking points. Behavioral expectations. Public presentation. Media discretion.
An idylle, manufactured line by line.
“I accept,” you said.
The words came out too smoothly. Too quickly. You heard it the second they left your mouth, the practiced compliance in them. The old reflex. Make yourself useful. Make the difficult thing easier for everyone else. Smile while it hurts.
Across from you, Steve went utterly still.
The PR woman exhaled in visible relief.
“Thank you. I know this is not a small ask.”
No, you thought. It was not.
But somehow that did not mean anyone had really asked.
Steve planted both hands on the table and leaned in just enough to draw every eye in the room.
“She said yes too fast.”
The legal adviser stiffened. “Captain Rogers–”
“She was called in here with no warning, shown a tabloid scandal, and handed a solution before she had time to think. That’s not consent. That’s pressure.”
Heat rose under your skin so fast it almost felt like anger.
Because he was right.
And because he was saying it out loud.
You hated when people saw too much.
The woman from PR adjusted her posture. “No one is forcing–”
“You barely asked her opinion,” Steve cut in.
His voice remained measured, but the restraint in it sounded expensive. Like something held together under stress.
You straightened in your chair.
“I said yes.”
Steve turned to you fully.
The look on his face made your throat tighten.
Not frustration. Not disappointment.
Worry.
Real, immediate worry, edged with something close to hurt.
“Think about it first,” he said.
You knew he was trying to help. That was the problem. The softness of it, right there in front of everybody, made you want to retreat into something sharper.
“If I want more time, I’ll say so.”
“That’s not what I’m–”
“I know.”
You swallowed.
Your voice came out steadier on the second attempt.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
You wished he would look away first. He did not.
In the end, Natasha broke the silence.
“She understands what this is.”
You glanced at her.
Her face gave you nothing, but you knew her well enough to see the tension in the set of her mouth. She was not enjoying this. She simply believed in choosing the least disastrous option and living with the collateral damage.
You wondered whether becoming like that made life easier.
Probably not.
The meeting dragged on after that, because of course it did. Once your yes had been secured, everybody relaxed just enough to become efficient.
Schedules were discussed.
Potential narratives.
Public overlap that could be repurposed.
Shared appearances that would look “spontaneous.”
Guidelines for interviews.
Suggested language if either of you were pressed for details.
You listened. You answered when required. You did not let yourself look at Steve too often, because every time you did, you found his attention already on you.
By the time the papers were gathered and the meeting adjourned, you felt scraped hollow.
The PR team thanked you again, all warm professionalism and brittle gratitude. The lawyer reminded both of you that formal terms would be drafted by evening. Natasha stood before you did, collecting her phone from the table with a fluid motion that suggested she already wanted to be somewhere else.
You rose more slowly.
Steve moved at once.
“We need to talk.”
The PR woman made a soft objection. “Captain, we still need fifteen minutes to review–”
“No,” he said without taking his eyes off you. “We don’t.”
He walked to the door and held it open.
You should have refused. You should have said you needed a minute. You should have insisted you were fine and gone anywhere except alone with Steve Rogers while your emotions were already sliding loose under your skin.
Instead, because you had never been very good at the choices that protected you, you followed him out.
The door shut behind the two of you with a quiet click.
The hallway beyond the conference room was empty and bright, the kind of immaculate corporate corridor that always made you feel as though you were trapped inside somebody else’s version of professionalism. Steve did not lead you far. He stopped near the windows at the end of the hall, where the city spread below in glittering afternoon distance.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Steve turned to face you.
“What was that?”
There was no accusation in it. That somehow made it worse.
You leaned one shoulder against the glass and crossed your arms, aiming for casual.
“A meeting.”
His expression did not budge.
“You know what I mean.”
You gave him a tired half-smile. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Rogers. There were charts. Legal language. At least three different uses of the phrase public confidence. It was hard to keep up.”
He did not take the bait.
“You didn’t want to do it.”
You looked away, down at the traffic threading through the streets far below.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
There was no room in his voice for easy escape. No irritation, no self-righteousness. Just certainty.
You hated certainty when it was aimed at you.
“Why are you making this into a bigger deal than it is?” you asked.
His jaw tightened.
“Because they cornered you.”
“They asked.”
“They manipulated you.”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“You say that like it’s unusual around here.”
Something flickered in his face then. Not surprise – he knew enough about the world, and probably about you, to know exactly what you meant. But there was pain there. Brief and visible.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
You shrugged.
The motion felt brittle. “It’s useful.”
The second the word left your mouth, Steve’s expression changed.
It was subtle but devastating, the way all the warmth in his face dimmed into something more intent, more troubled.
“Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“That.” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that ignoring him became impossible. “Talk about yourself like that.”
A sharp, defensive laugh escaped you.
“Oh, come on. I’m not exactly collapsing onto a fainting couch. I’m helping.”
“That’s not what you said.”
You looked at him properly then.
He was too close to the truth again. Too close to the thing under the thing.
You knew, in scattered pieces, what Steve understood about you. Not everything. But enough. Enough to know your jokes tended to arrive a beat too fast when you were anxious. Enough to know you vanished into work when your head got bad. Enough to know Thursdays were therapy days and you always came back from them quieter than before.
Enough, apparently, to hear one small word and recognize the wound inside it.
You forced another shrug.
“It’s temporary. It helps the team. Natasha thought I made sense. End of story.”
“It isn’t the end.”
“Steve.”
He softened at once when you said his name, and that somehow undid you more than anything else had.
You pressed on before he could speak.
“I said yes because I can handle it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, actually.”
His brows drew together. “No, the point is that you shouldn’t have had to.”
You stared at him.
There it was.
That impossible decency.
You should have found it comforting. Instead it made something sore crack open under your ribs.
Because he really believed that.
He really believed you should not have been treated like a convenient answer.
He believed you were worth protecting from that.
And all you could think was that if you stopped being useful, if you stopped making yourself easy and available and worthwhile on command, people eventually remembered they had no real reason to keep you.
Maybe Steve would not. But the rest of the world had taught you the lesson too many times for one kind man to erase it.
“It’s okay,” you said, too softly this time.
His face changed again. He looked as though the words physically pained him.
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
The honesty of it made your eyes burn, which was unacceptable. Crying in a corridor because Steve Rogers cared too much was not on today’s schedule.
So you reached for humor like a reflexive shield.
“Well,” you said, “the good news is I’ve apparently been pre-approved by the public. That’s flattering. I should put it on my résumé.”
Still nothing.
You let the smile fall.
“Steve.”
He waited.
“If I say no now, after they already pitched it, after Natasha already put my name forward, after all of this…” You gestured vaguely toward the conference room. “Then what? They pick someone else? Some actress? Some stranger? Turn your life into even more of a circus?”
“That isn’t your responsibility.”
“Maybe not.”
“But?”
You inhaled slowly.
“But I can help.”
The words sat between you.
Steve looked at you for a long second, and you had the absurd feeling that he could see every ugly thing you did not say aloud.
I can help.
I know how to do that.
I know how to be useful.
I know how to stay if someone gives me a job to justify my presence.
He scrubbed a hand briefly over his mouth, then dropped it.
“You shouldn’t have to earn your place here.”
Your heart gave one painful, traitorous beat.
It would have been easier if he had not used those words. Easier if they had not been so close to what your therapist said when you stared at the carpet and insisted you were easier to love when you were needed for something.
You laughed once, very quietly.
“Did Nat tell you that, or did you pick it up all by yourself?”
His gaze did not waver. “You’re not hard to read when you’re hurting.”
That landed so precisely it left you speechless.
You looked away first.
The city below blurred for a second, then steadied.
When you spoke again, your voice sounded flatter.
“I accepted.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not changing my mind.”
That was not entirely true, and both of you knew it. But changing your mind would have required admitting that the decision had touched something raw, and you were not prepared to do that while standing five feet from Steve in a hallway too bright for honesty.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then, quieter, “Did you do this because you thought I wanted you to?”
Your head snapped toward him.
“No.”
The answer came so quickly it startled even you.
Steve held your gaze.
You swallowed.
“No,” you repeated, slower now. “I know you didn’t.”
Which was its own problem, really.
Because if he had wanted it, then at least there would have been a clear shape to your humiliation. A transaction. A reason. But Steve looked at the whole idea as though it offended him personally, and you had agreed anyway.
For the team, you told yourself.
For the mission.
For the image.
For practicality.
Not because some shameful, hidden part of you had lit up at the idea of being allowed to stand beside him and call it a role.
Steve nodded once, almost to himself.
“All right.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s it?”
“No.”
His voice went gentler, though his face remained grave.
“If you’re doing this, then we do it on your terms too.”
A hollow laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “I don’t think that’s how fake dating works.”
“It is if I say it does.”
You should not have smiled at that.
Unfortunately, you did.
It was small and brief and exhausted, but it was real, and Steve’s expression eased by the tiniest degree in response, as though he had been waiting for proof that you were still there under all the defenses.
He straightened.
“No surprises,” he said. “No one pushes you into interviews you haven’t agreed to. No appearances added without warning. No physical anything unless we both sign off on it first.”
Your mouth twitched. “Physical anything?”
He looked so stern about it that you almost laughed again.
“Yes.”
“You make this sound deeply glamorous.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He paused.
Then, carefully, “And if at any point you want out, you tell me. I don’t care what PR says. I don’t care what legal says. You tell me, and we end it.”
Something hot and painful moved through your chest at the quiet steadiness of that promise.
You covered it with the first thing you could.
“You’d make a terrible fake boyfriend,” you said. “Too ethical.”
To your relief, that earned the smallest flicker of amusement from him.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “I mean it.”
And because he did, because he always did, you nodded.
“All right.”
He did not seem satisfied, but he let it go.
For now.
Footsteps approached from down the hall. One of the assistants, probably coming to retrieve him. The world beginning to move again whether either of you was ready or not.
You pushed away from the glass.
“Well,” you said, aiming for lightness one last time, “congratulations. Apparently we’re a believable romance.”
Steve’s eyes stayed on you.
“That isn’t what worries me.”
Before you could ask what did, the assistant reached the end of the corridor and slowed, visibly uncertain whether to interrupt.
Steve stepped back.
The distance returned all at once, neat and polite and awful.
“I have to go back in,” he said.
“Of course.”
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Are you all right?”
There were a thousand true answers to that question.
None of them fit in a hallway.
So you gave him the familiar lie, polished smooth from use.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”
He looked at you as if he knew exactly what that answer was worth.
Still, he nodded.
You watched him walk back toward the conference room, broad-shouldered and controlled and far too good for your own peace of mind.
Only when he disappeared behind the door did you let your head tip back against the window.
You stared up at the ceiling and counted your breaths the way your therapist taught you.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
A message from Natasha.
Come find me before you spiral.
You closed your eyes.
A second buzz followed almost immediately.
And before you say you’re not spiraling, don’t.
A weak laugh escaped you despite everything.
You pushed off the glass and headed for the elevators.
You found Natasha in the training room mezzanine, perched on the railing with one knee drawn up, coffee in one hand and the city at her back. She glanced over as you approached, then looked away again as if granting you the dignity of not being watched too closely.
You stopped a few feet from her.
“So,” you said. “You volunteered me.”
Natasha took a slow sip of coffee.
“I suggested you.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it was almost offensive.
You folded your arms. “That’s not better.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
You had prepared yourself for deflection. For pragmatism polished into indifference. Her lack of defense threw you off balance.
You shifted your weight.
“Why me?”
Natasha lowered the cup.
For a second, she studied the skyline rather than you.
“Because they were going to solve it with a woman either way.”
You did not answer.
She continued.
“If they picked on their own, they would have chosen someone photogenic, agreeable, and disposable. Someone they could control. Someone who didn’t know Steve and wouldn’t know when they were pushing him too far.”
You frowned.
“And you thought I was the better option?”
“I thought you were the safer one.”
The words sat strangely in your chest.
You leaned against the railing beside her, keeping several feet between you.
“That’s not exactly flattering.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
At least she was honest.
The silence stretched.
Then Natasha added, “He likes you.”
Your head turned sharply.
She did not look at you. That somehow made it worse.
“In a catastrophic, painfully noble, I’m-going-to-prioritize-your-wellbeing-over-my-own sort of way,” she went on. “Which is inconvenient, because it makes him predictable.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No.”
You stared at her profile.
Natasha raised the cup again.
“He watches you,” she said. “He notices when you disappear into yourself. He notices when you’re tired. He knows your therapy schedule.”
Your face went hotter.
“Why do you know that he knows that?”
“Because I know him.”
She finally glanced sideways at you then, expression cool and unreadable.
“And because he asked me once whether I thought it was a bad idea to leave tea outside your door after a hard session if he didn’t want to make you feel observed.”
Your breath caught.
For one absurd second, the entire room seemed to tilt.
Tea.
There had been evenings when you came back from therapy hollowed out and found a mug waiting on the small table outside your room. No note. No explanation. Just tea made exactly the way you liked it.
You had never known who left it.
Natasha watched realization hit your face and gave the slightest shrug.
“He overthinks everything.”
You looked away before she could see too much.
The city beyond the glass had gone hazy in the late afternoon light.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you said.
“That depends on what you want it to mean.”
“I don’t want it to mean anything.”
A lie.
Natasha was too merciful to call you on it.
Instead, she said, “He was angry in there.”
“I noticed.”
“Not because of the arrangement.”
You turned back to her.
She met your eyes evenly.
“He was angry because they treated you like you’d say yes before they even asked.”
Your throat tightened.
You stared at her, suddenly unable to decide whether you wanted to laugh or throw something.
“Well,” you said after a beat, “they were right.”
For the first time, something close to frustration crossed Natasha’s face.
“That isn’t a virtue.”
You looked down at your hands.
“No,” you said quietly. “I know.”
She finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the railing.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I didn’t offer your name because you’re convenient.”
You said nothing.
“I offered it because if Steve had to do this with anyone, I wanted it to be someone he’d never treat carelessly.”
That should not have mattered.
Unfortunately, it did.
You hated how much it did.
You let out a slow breath. “That’s a lot of faith to put in two people who didn’t actually choose this.”
Natasha’s mouth curved, faint and sharp.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, and she took that as the opening she wanted.
“Go eat,” she said. “You get brittle when you haven’t eaten.”
You gave her a flat look. “Did Steve tell you that too?”
“No. I have eyes.”
You pushed off the railing.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
“For what?”
“For at least admitting you blindsided me.”
Natasha inclined her head once.
Then, just as you turned away, she added, “Try not to break him.”
You stopped.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, incredulous and thin.
“That’s funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
You walked out before you had to answer that.
By evening, the arrangement became real in the ugliest possible way: through documents.
A preliminary draft landed in your inbox just after seven. You opened it from your bed with your shoes still on, the lamp in the corner casting weak amber light across the room.
It was all there.
Projected duration: six to eight weeks, subject to media response.
Initial public appearance: charity benefit next Friday.
Possible interview windows.
Approved topics.
Discouraged topics.
Physical boundaries to be discussed jointly in advance.
Crisis response if one of you was photographed with someone else.
Suggested wording if asked how the relationship began.
You stared longest at that last one.
We had been friends for a while. Things changed naturally.
Naturally.
You almost threw your phone across the room.
Instead, you dropped it onto the blanket beside you and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until bursts of color swam behind them.
Your room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that let every thought arrive clearly.
You wondered if Steve had already received the same document.
You wondered whether he hated it as much as you did.
You wondered whether he regretted that Natasha had ever suggested your name.
You wondered whether, somewhere under all of this, there was a part of him that wished it had been real.
That last thought was the most dangerous, so naturally it stuck.
A knock sounded at your door.
You froze.
Another knock. Softer this time.
You got up, crossed the room, and opened the door halfway.
Steve stood in the hallway holding a paper bag from the kitchen.
Of course he did.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted the bag slightly.
“You skipped dinner.”
You stared at him.
He shifted, almost self-conscious under your silence.
“I figured you might not want the common room.”
The absurd tenderness of it hit you so hard you almost had to grip the edge of the door to steady yourself.
“Are you monitoring my meals now, Captain?”
“No,” he said, then paused. “Not officially.”
That got a startled, helpless laugh out of you.
His mouth softened in response. Not a full smile, but close.
“Can I come in?”
You stepped aside.
He entered carefully, like a man approaching a skittish animal he had no intention of frightening. He set the bag on your desk and unpacked its contents with quiet efficiency: a plate, still warm. A bottle of water. An apple. A packet of crackers.
“You brought crackers.”
“You forget you like them when you’re stressed.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize what he had said and glanced down briefly, as if annoyed with himself for making his noticing too obvious.
“I pay attention,” he said simply.
Yes, you thought. That is exactly the problem.
You sat on the edge of the bed because it felt safer than standing. Steve remained by the desk for a moment before pulling the chair around to face you. He sat, forearms resting on his thighs, posture open and unthreatening.
There was no version of him that did not make the room feel smaller.
“I read the draft,” he said.
“So did I.”
“It’s worse in writing.”
A humorless smile tugged at your mouth. “That feels like an achievement.”
He did not smile back.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“I know.”
“If you want out–”
“I know.”
You exhaled and looked at your hands.
“Steve, please stop asking me if I’m sure.”
He fell silent.
When you looked up, there was frustration in his face now, but only with the situation, never with you.
“I’m asking because you looked like you were agreeing to something you thought you had to survive.”
That was too accurate.
You glanced away again.
“Maybe I am.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
The room went still.
You wished instantly that you could drag them back.
Steve did not pounce on them. He did not rush to fill the silence with comfort or questions. He just stayed where he was, letting the truth lie between you without trying to force it into something prettier.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone very quiet.
“You don’t have to survive us.”
You laughed once under your breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Maybe not. But I do have to survive this place.”
He studied you for a long moment.
Then he said, “Is that how it feels to you?”
The answer was yes.
Yes, on the bad days.
Yes, when every room felt full of people who belonged to history while you barely felt allowed to belong to the present.
Yes, when being competent was the only thing that kept you from feeling ornamental.
You did not know how to say any of that without sounding pathetic.
So you gave him the edited version.
“Sometimes.”
Steve absorbed that with visible difficulty.
“I’m sorry.”
Your head lifted.
“For what?”
“For not noticing sooner.”
That was so unfairly kind it made your eyes sting again.
“You noticed,” you said, before you could think better of it.
He held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
Silence.
Then, softly, because pretending suddenly seemed impossible, “Was it you?”
His brow furrowed. “Was what me?”
“The tea.”
Understanding moved across his face in a slow, almost reluctant wave.
Natasha, he thought with a flash of betrayal. Traitor.
Steve looked down briefly, then back at you.
“Yes.”
Your pulse stumbled.
“You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want you to feel like I was keeping score.”
That was such a Steve answer that your chest hurt.
You laughed quietly and looked away before he could see too much on your face.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was probably the least creepy way anyone’s ever admitted to anonymous beverage-related emotional support.”
That, finally, earned a real smile.
Small. Warm. Gone too soon.
Then he grew serious again.
“We need to decide how this works.”
You straightened slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t want PR deciding the shape of this without us.” He nodded toward your phone. “They can get the public version. They don’t get the private one.”
Something cautious and fragile inside you lifted its head.
“The private one,” you repeated.
Steve did not seem to notice how the words affected you.
“Ground rules,” he said. “For us.”
You swallowed.
“All right.”
He counted them off on his fingers.
“First: no surprises. If they add something, we discuss it first.”
“Good.”
“Second: no lying to each other, even if we lie to everyone else.”
You looked at him for a second longer than was wise.
“That feels ambitious.”
“It’s necessary.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Third: if either of us gets uncomfortable, we stop. I don’t care where we are.”
“Even if it’s public?”
“Especially if it’s public.”
You tried for levity and only half succeeded.
“You really are terrible at being fake.”
His gaze remained steady on yours.
“I’m not going to make this harder on you than it already is.”
There it was again.
That awful gentleness.
You looked down, suddenly unable to bear the direct hit of it.
“Right,” you said lightly, though your voice was starting to fray. “Wouldn’t want your fake girlfriend to become a workplace casualty.”
The second the words left your mouth, the room changed.
Steve leaned back slightly, as though he had just been struck by something he had not expected.
You realized what you had called yourself.
You felt stupid for noticing the effect.
He spoke after a moment.
“Don’t.”
You looked up.
His face had gone very still.
“Don’t call yourself that like it’s all you are.”
The air in your lungs seemed to leave all at once.
You did not have anything clever left. No joke. No easy deflection. Just a tired body, an overworked heart, and a man sitting three feet away asking you, again and again, not to reduce yourself to what you could do for other people.
So you said the first true thing you had.
“I don’t really know how not to.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat ache.
For one terrible second, you thought he might reach for you.
He did not.
He just sat there and held your gaze and let the silence stay gentle.
Then he said, “We can start with me not letting anyone else do it either.”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
At the steadiness of him.
At the care written all through the rigid line of his body.
At the impossible fact that he was here, in your room, making rules to protect you inside a lie you had agreed to because some broken part of you still believed usefulness was safer than being wanted.
You wondered, not for the first time, what exactly Steve Rogers saw when he looked at you.
You were not sure you wanted to know.
You were not sure you could survive knowing.
So you reached for the plate instead.
“Did you bring this whole meal just to emotionally devastate me into eating?”
His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
“Maybe.”
“Effective strategy.”
“I have those.”
You took a bite mostly to prove a point. Then another because you realized, with dull surprise, that you were actually hungry.
Steve watched just long enough to make sure you were really eating, then looked away to give you some privacy in it. The gesture was so considerate it nearly undid you again.
After a few quiet moments, he said, “They want us at the Barton Foundation event next Friday.”
You swallowed. “Of course they do.”
“We’ll go. We’ll smile. We’ll survive it.”
The simple inclusion of we did something dangerous to your insides.
You set the fork down carefully.
“You keep saying that like this is a shared burden.”
“It is.”
You let out a soft breath.
“You don’t have to make me feel better about it.”
“I’m not.”
He looked back at you then, and his eyes were impossibly clear.
“I’m telling the truth.”
Your chest tightened.
You looked down before he could see the effect.
Outside your windows, the city lights had started to come on one by one, turning the glass into a mirror layered over the dark.
You ate because he was there.
Because he had brought food.
Because, ridiculous as it was, some part of you still wanted to be good for him in the small, stupid ways that felt safe.
By the time the plate was empty, the room had settled into a quiet that no longer felt hostile.
Steve rose and gathered the trash without being asked.
At the door, he paused.
“One more rule,” he said.
You looked up from the bed.
“What?”
“If this starts hurting you, you tell me before it gets bad.”
A laugh escaped you, tired and faint.
“That is an incredibly optimistic understanding of how my brain works.”
He nodded once, accepting that without liking it.
“Then tell me when it starts.”
You held his gaze.
“All right.”
He studied you for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether that promise was real enough to trust.
Then he gave you a small nod and opened the door.
“Get some sleep.”
You almost smiled.
“Bossy.”
“I’m right.”
With that, he stepped into the hallway.
You watched him go.
Only after the door closed did you let yourself sag forward, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.
Your room smelled faintly of dinner and paper and the clean, impossible trace of Steve’s cologne left behind in the air.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time it was an email from PR titled: Relationship Narrative – Preliminary Positioning Notes
You stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then you picked the phone up, opened your messages, and typed Natasha a single line.
You’re a terrible person.
Her reply came immediately.
And yet I was right. He brought you food, didn’t he?
You closed your eyes.
After a moment, you typed back.
I hate both of you.
Three dots appeared at once.
No, you don’t. Get some sleep.
You set the phone facedown on the bed beside you.
Across the room, the city reflected in the window like another life layered over your own.
You thought about the coming weeks.
The dinners.
The cameras.
The carefully arranged smiles.
The hands that might have to linger for photographs.
The lines you would both pretend had blurred naturally.
You thought about Steve in the conference room, furious on your behalf.
Steve in your doorway with food because you had skipped dinner.
Steve promising there would be rules. Promising you could leave. Promising, in all the ways he knew how, that you would not have to carry the whole weight of this alone.
And because your mind was cruelest when the room got quiet, another thought rose beneath all the rest.
This was the closest you would ever get to having him.
Not truly.
Not honestly.
But close enough to ruin you if you were not careful.
You lay back on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.
Temporary, you told yourself.
Manageable.
Just another role.
Just another way to be useful.
Just another arrangement you could survive if you kept your heart out of it.
Down the hall somewhere, a door opened and shut.
The Tower breathed around you, alive with people more extraordinary than you would ever feel.
You turned onto your side and closed your eyes.
Next Friday, you were going to stand beside Steve Rogers in front of half the world and pretend he was yours.
And the worst part – the most humiliating, unforgivable part – was that some secret, starving piece of you had already begun to wonder what it might feel like if pretending ever stopped feeling different from hope.
The first week passed in a blur of choreography.
PR called it natural progression, which would have been funny if it had not involved so many schedules, so many carefully timed exits, so many reminders that a hand on your back should look instinctive and not staged. There were meetings, briefings, wardrobe notes, interview prep, and a truly offensive number of emails with subject lines like Public Sentiment Optimization.
You hated all of them.
What you hated more was how quickly you adapted.
By the time the Barton Foundation gala arrived, you already knew where Steve’s hand would settle when cameras turned your way. You already knew how close to stand at his side so you looked familiar, not forced. You already knew the exact shape of the smile required when a reporter asked how long this had been going on and whether you were “finally ready to go public.”
The answer PR had approved was simple.
We’d been close for a while. Things changed naturally.
You said it with just enough warmth to sound sincere.
Steve said it like it physically pained him.
And somehow, that only made the public love him more.
America adored reluctant romance, apparently. They adored the blush they imagined in the downward tilt of your chin. They adored the protective line of Steve’s body beside yours. They adored the photographs of him leaning close to hear you in crowded rooms, as though none of that had been happening long before anybody thought to monetize it.
That was the part nobody understood.
The lie worked because too much of it was already true.
Not the romance. Not officially. Not in any way you had the right to name. But the ease between you had not been invented in a conference room. The way Steve noticed when your smile thinned at the edges had not been taught by PR. The way you reached for him in crowds, subtle and automatic, trusting he would be there when you looked – none of that had been fabricated.
It had only been weaponized.
The first public appearance went better than expected, which was corporate language for you survived without visibly dissociating.
The second came three days later.
A breakfast fundraiser.
Two photographs on arrival.
One staged candid near the garden.
A short exchange with a local morning show.
The host, an aggressively cheerful woman with perfect hair and a predatory instinct for discomfort, had smiled at the two of you over the polished studio table and asked, “So which one of you fell first?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
Steve, to his credit, had answered before you could embarrass yourself.
“That’s private,” he had said with that polite, all-American smile that somehow translated to absolutely not without ever sounding rude.
The clip went viral within hours.
PR was ecstatic.
Natasha sent you a screenshot of the trending tags with the message: Congratulations. You’re beloved.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds before typing back: I hate this timeline.
Her answer came almost immediately.
And yet you looked pretty.
You had thrown the phone face down onto your desk and informed the empty room that all your friends were terrible people.
Steve had knocked on your open door less than a minute later, eyebrows lifting.
“Talking to yourself again?”
You had looked up too fast, guilty for no reason.
“Practicing my descent into madness.”
He had leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“How’s that going?”
“Beautifully. I’m one more segment away from buying a false identity and fleeing the country.”
He had laughed then, low and warm, and the sound had gone through you with unfair force.
That was the second thing you hated.
The first was how quickly you adapted.
The second was how quickly it started to feel good.
Not the cameras. Never the cameras.
Not the interviews.
Not the impossible, brittle theater of pretending for strangers.
But Steve.
Steve waiting outside your room before public events because he knew you got quieter when you were anxious.
Steve bringing you coffee before early call times without asking how you took it because he already knew.
Steve murmuring, “You okay?” under his breath between questions at interviews, too low for microphones to catch.
Steve finding excuses to keep one hand at your back whenever a room grew too loud.
You told yourself it was part of the role.
You told yourself it had to be.
Because the alternative was admitting that every carefully arranged touch carved itself into you like something real.
Weeks passed.
The magazines changed.
The scandal with Natasha faded exactly as PR predicted, overtaken by glossy profiles and smiling photographs under newer headlines:
CAPTAIN AMERICA’S QUIET LOVE STORY
THE WOMAN WHO FINALLY WON STEVE ROGERS’ HEART
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST UNEXPECTED ROMANCE
You stopped reading them after the third week.
Not because they were false.
Because they kept getting too close to what you wanted.
One Friday afternoon, you found yourself in another makeup chair under another bank of bright lights while someone with an expensive blowout dabbed shimmer along your cheekbones and told you to tilt your head. The shoot was for a magazine profile that PR described as intimate and grounded, which in practice meant a rented brownstone staged to look like a shared home.
There were books arranged on tables neither of you had read.
A kitchen you had never cooked in.
Soft sweaters selected to make Steve look approachable and you look cherished.
You sat still while the stylist pinned a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Across the room, Steve stood near the photographers, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw set in a way you recognized by now as his version of barely concealed displeasure.
He caught your eye in the mirror.
You raised one eyebrow.
He exhaled once through his nose, the faintest sign of exasperation.
You almost smiled.
Later, when the first set wrapped and the crew moved lights for the next room, Steve found you near the catering table where you were aggressively ignoring a plate of suspiciously perfect fruit.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
You picked up a grape and inspected it like evidence.
“That narrows it down so helpfully.”
His mouth twitched.
“They asked if I could carry you up the stairs.”
You nearly choked laughing.
“They did not.”
“They did.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Well,” you said gravely, “there went our cover.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his sweater brushed your arm.
The contact was slight.
It still made your pulse trip.
“They’re pushing more every time,” he said quietly.
You popped the grape into your mouth mostly to avoid answering right away.
He was right.
The first events had been manageable: smiles, appearances, shared glances.
Then came hand-holding.
Then came invitations to sit with your knees touching on late-night couches.
Then came photographers asking for softer expressions, closer angles, “something less posed, more in love.”
And because the arrangement was working – because public opinion had shifted, because people adored the story, because the lie had become profitable – everyone wanted more.
You swallowed.
“I know.”
Steve’s gaze moved over your face, steady and searching.
“Tell me if it gets to be too much.”
There it was again.
That promise.
That infuriating gentleness.
You looked away first, because if you did not, he would notice too much.
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A laugh slipped out, tired and thin. “You should stop using therapist language on me. It’s unsettling.”
His expression remained serious.
“I mean it.”
You set the untouched fruit back down.
“I know you do.”
That was the problem, always. Steve meant things. Fully. Earnestly. Without reservation. It made everything harder to dismiss.
A producer called your names from across the room. Next setup.
Steve straightened and held out a hand.
Professional. Helpful. Public.
Your eyes dropped to it.
He must have seen something in your face because his voice softened.
“We can push back.”
You looked from his hand to his eyes.
Then you placed your fingers in his.
“It’s okay,” you said.
The lie had become so familiar it no longer even sounded like one.
The interviews got worse before they got unbearable.
By week four, the public had decided you were adorable together. Clips of the two of you circulated constantly – Steve holding doors, Steve adjusting your chair, Steve lowering his head to murmur something against your temple while you laughed at a charity luncheon. A hundred tiny moments, some real, some arranged, all of them consumed with greedy affection by people who wanted love stories to come in neat visual packages.
The world decided Steve Rogers was softer with you.
It turned out the world was right.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting panel appearance, the two of you rode the elevator back up to the residential floors in silence. The event had been merciless. Three interviewers, one live audience, one compilation reel of your “cutest moments,” and a final rapid-fire segment during which a host had asked what Steve’s favorite thing about you was.
You had laughed it off.
Steve had not.
He had looked directly at you, not the camera, and said, “She notices people. Even when they think nobody sees them.”
The audience had melted.
The internet had exploded.
And you had spent the rest of the segment trying not to come apart on live television.
Now the elevator hummed softly around you.
Steve stood beside the control panel, tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder. You leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, too tired to perform anymore.
Neither of you spoke until the doors opened.
He followed you into the hallway anyway.
“Did I overstep?”
You turned.
“What?”
“On stage.”
Realization struck belatedly.
“No.”
He studied your face. “You went quiet.”
You let out a small breath, halfway between a laugh and surrender.
“I went quiet because I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
His brow furrowed. “Was it wrong?”
The simple sincerity of the question caught you off guard.
You looked at him – really looked, at the open concern on his face, the loosened tie, the strain of a long day sitting under his skin – and something in you softened before you could stop it.
“No,” you said. “It wasn’t wrong.”
The corridor lights painted a pale band across one side of his face. He remained still, waiting, as if he would not let you escape with only half the truth.
So, against your better judgment, you gave him a little more.
“It was just…” You swallowed. “A lot.”
His expression gentled.
“Because it was too personal?”
Because it was true, you thought.
Because you said things like that about people you loved.
You forced a crooked smile.
“Because you can’t say things like that on camera unless you want the internet to write six hundred think pieces about how secretly in love you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, brief and restrained.
“They’re already writing those.”
“Fair.”
You started to turn toward your door, but his voice stopped you.
“It was true.”
You froze.
The words settled into the air between you.
Your hand tightened on your room key.
When you looked back, Steve had not moved. He was just standing there in the hallway, broad and earnest and devastatingly unguarded.
“What was?” you asked, though you knew.
His gaze stayed on yours.
“What I said.”
Your chest drew tight so fast it hurt.
You tried for lightness and missed entirely.
“Careful, Rogers. You’re going to ruin the whole fake aspect.”
He did not smile this time.
“I know you think you have to be useful all the time,” he said quietly. “But that’s not why people keep you.”
That knocked the breath out of you.
You stared at him.
He went on before you could recover.
“It’s not why I–”
A door opened somewhere down the hall.
The sound broke whatever fragile, dangerous thing had begun to take shape between you.
Steve stopped.
You looked away first.
“Good night,” you said too quickly.
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Good night.”
You made it into your room before the shaking in your hands became obvious.
Inside, you pressed your back to the closed door and shut your eyes.
Your phone buzzed on the desk with a flood of post-show notifications you did not want to read.
All you could hear was his voice.
That’s not why people keep you.
And worse.
It’s not why I–
You did not sleep much that night.
By the sixth week, even the Tower started treating it like something real.
Sam stopped knocking before walking into shared common rooms when the two of you were there, as though he had unconsciously filed you together.
Wanda smiled at you in that quiet, knowing way of hers that made your skin heat.
Clint, traitor that he was, asked Steve in front of three other people whether he planned to bring you to the farm “as an official thing.”
Natasha, of course, looked entertained by all of it.
“You’re glowing,” she informed you one morning over coffee.
“I’m under fluorescent lighting.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
You gave her a flat look.
She stirred her tea, elegant and merciless. “You’re attached.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Natasha raised one shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
That almost made you laugh, because sleeping had become its own separate disaster.
The closer you and Steve got in public, the more impossible it became to keep the distance clean in private.
You knew the shape of his hand now.
The warmth of it.
The exact pressure of his palm at your waist when cameras clustered too tightly.
The smell of his aftershave when he leaned down near your ear to say something only you were meant to hear.
The roughness of his voice late at night after too many hours performing something neither of you could name without breaking.
You learned the signs of his fatigue.
The way his shoulders tightened before interviews.
The way he rubbed the back of his neck after long appearances.
The way his gaze always found you first in crowded rooms, as if checking that you were still there before he could breathe fully.
It should have made the lie easier.
Instead, it hollowed you out.
Because every good moment came wrapped in its own expiration date.
Because every time Steve looked at you too softly, you had to remember it was happening inside an arrangement that would end.
Because every time your fingers tangled together in public, you had to act as though your body did not notice the difference between staged affection and real wanting.
And because some part of you had started to suspect there was a difference for him too.
That suspicion became dangerous during the winter campaign shoot.
The magazine wanted holiday intimacy.
That was the phrase the creative director used, cheerful and oblivious, while explaining the concept inside a studio dressed up like a townhouse in December. There were strings of warm lights, a couch draped in wool throws, a half-decorated tree, fake snow piled against the windows, and a soundtrack of soft jazz too low to be ignored.
You stood in the middle of it all wearing a cream-colored sweater someone else had chosen for you, while Steve emerged from wardrobe in dark slacks and a charcoal henley that made the room briefly forget how to function.
The stylist fussed at your sleeves.
The photographer tested angles.
Someone adjusted the lights.
Then the shoot began.
At first, it was the usual kind of torture.
Stand closer.
Turn toward him.
Look at each other, not the camera.
Relax your shoulders.
Steve, hand at her waist.
Chin up.
Good, beautiful, hold that.
You did as instructed.
You always did.
Because Steve’s hand at your waist was warm and firm and impossible to ignore.
Because his thumb shifted once, almost unconsciously, against the knit of your sweater.
Because every time you looked up on cue, his eyes were already on you, and there was never enough acting in either of you to make that feel fake.
The photographer grew bolder as the hour went on.
Sit on the couch.
Closer.
No, closer.
Steve, arm around her shoulders.
Good.
Now look like you’re sharing a secret.
Perfect.
Now foreheads together.
You obeyed.
Your forehead touched Steve’s.
His breath feathered warm over your skin.
The room went distant around the edges.
“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured. “Now smile, both of you. Like nobody else exists.”
That was the easiest instruction of the day.
The dangerous thing was how natural it felt.
By the time the crew paused to reset for the final shots, your nerves were stretched so tight you could feel each one. Steve must have sensed it. He always did. He guided you quietly away from the center of the studio while makeup darted in to powder his jaw.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
You almost laughed.
“Is it too late to fake my own death?”
His mouth twitched. “Probably.”
“Shame.”
He studied your face, concern sharpening the blue of his eyes under the lights.
“We can tell them no.”
And there it was again. The offer. The open door.
The thing was, by then you no longer trusted yourself with the word yes or the word no where he was concerned. Both seemed equally dangerous.
So you did what you always did.
You made yourself manageable.
“I’m fine.”
His expression suggested exactly what he thought of that answer.
Before he could say more, the creative director clapped her hands.
“Last setup, everyone! We’re going for the money shot.”
You and Steve exchanged a glance.
Neither of you liked the sound of that.
The photographer smiled brightly when you returned to set.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve been amazing. We’ve got chemistry, softness, tension– the whole thing. Now I need one last image to anchor the story.”
Every instinct in your body sharpened.
“What kind of image?” Steve asked.
The photographer beamed.
“A kiss.”
Silence.
The studio did not stop moving exactly, but it changed. You felt it in the tiny delay before anyone else spoke. In the way makeup froze. In the way the assistant with the clipboard suddenly became very interested in not looking at either of you.
Steve answered first.
“No.”
The word came flat and immediate.
The photographer blinked. “It would be tasteful–”
“No,” Steve repeated.
The creative director stepped in, all practiced reassurance.
“It doesn’t have to be explicit. Just intimate enough to sell the cover line.”
Steve’s jaw locked.
“We didn’t agree to that.”
You could feel the eyes in the room sliding toward you, measuring, waiting to see whether this became a problem.
The old instinct kicked in before you could stop it.
Smooth it over.
Make it easy.
Don’t be difficult.
Don’t be the reason everyone has to rearrange.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Steve turned to you so fast it almost startled you.
“No, it isn’t.”
The directness of it hit hard enough to leave you flinching inwardly.
The creative director sensed weakness and pressed.
“It’s one shot,” she said. “It doesn’t even have to be a full kiss. Just enough to imply the moment.”
Steve did not take his eyes off you.
“You do not have to do this.”
The room waited.
Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.
This was different from hand-holding.
Different from a palm at your back.
Different from resting your head on his shoulder for a camera and pretending it did not mean anything.
A kiss was a line.
A kiss would not feel fake.
Not to you.
That was exactly why you should have refused.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “We can do one.”
Steve stared at you.
The expression on his face was not anger.
It was worse.
It was the look of a man watching you step toward something sharp because you thought bleeding quietly was easier than making a scene.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
No, you thought.
Not even slightly.
But the whole room was watching.
And Steve was looking at you like he might stop the entire thing if you gave him reason.
You could not bear to be the reason.
So you gave the same doomed answer you had given in the conference room weeks before.
“Yes.”
The set seemed to exhale.
The photographer repositioned you both immediately, eager, thoughtless, triumphant.
“Perfect. By the window. Steve, turn into her. One hand here– yes, at her waist. One hand on his chest. Great. Now look at each other. Slow. Natural. Like you’ve been about to do this all day.”
You placed your hand against Steve’s chest.
The world narrowed.
His heart beat steady under your palm.
His hand settled at your waist, broader and warmer than it had any right to be.
He looked at you, not the cameras, not the crew, only you.
For one impossible second, nobody else existed.
Your breath caught.
He felt it. You knew he did.
“Tell me to stop,” he said so quietly only you could hear.
The studio blurred at the edges.
The lights became heat.
His thumb shifted once at your side, a barely-there movement that nearly undid you.
You should have told him to stop.
Instead, because you were weak where he was concerned, because you were tired, because wanting had been eating you alive for weeks and here he was close enough to ruin you with a glance, you whispered, “It’s okay.”
His expression changed.
Something in him gave way.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly to anyone but you.
Just enough.
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth against yours was meant to be brief.
You knew that.
He knew that.
It should have been an illusion.
A suggestion.
A clean, staged thing for a magazine cover.
It was not.
The second your lips met, the entire careful lie shattered.
Steve kissed you like a man trying not to. Like restraint was still there, still present, but fraying fast at the edges. It was gentle for one heartbeat, then not gentle enough. Real enough that your hand curled instinctively in the fabric at his chest. Real enough that his hold at your waist tightened without permission. Real enough that some sound went up around the set – someone inhaling, someone shifting, someone delighted by the shot – while you forgot completely how to breathe.
“Got it,” the photographer called, too far away to matter. “Beautiful. Hold–”
Steve broke the kiss as if he had been burned.
The distance between you reappeared all at once.
Your mouth parted on an unsteady breath.
His eyes were dark, stunned, fixed on yours like he no longer trusted himself to look anywhere else.
The set erupted into movement.
The crew was pleased.
Of course they were pleased.
They had their cover.
“Perfect,” somebody said.
“That was it exactly.”
“Incredible chemistry.”
You heard none of it properly.
All you heard was the blood rushing in your ears.
Steve stepped back.
“Shoot’s over,” he said, voice rougher than it had been all day.
The creative director laughed lightly. “We actually have one more option–”
“No,” he said.
Nobody argued.
Maybe it was the tone.
Maybe it was the way he looked.
Maybe everyone in the room finally realized they had pushed far enough.
The rest became a blur.
Wardrobe.
Makeup removal.
People thanking you.
A publicist telling you the cover would do numbers.
You changed clothes with shaking hands and left through a side exit because someone said it would be easier. The evening air hit cold and sharp against your overheated skin.
You had almost made it to the waiting car when Steve caught up to you.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
Not because you meant to.
Because you always stopped for him.
He stood a few feet away under the alley light, coat open, hair slightly disordered from the shoot. He looked less like Captain America than he had all day. Less composed. More dangerous.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
The words landed wrong.
You stared at him.
“For what?”
“For that.”
You laughed once, hollow and disbelieving.
“The kiss?”
“Yes.”
Something sharp turned over inside your chest.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because it wasn’t supposed to go like that.”
No, you thought. It absolutely was not.
You should have let it end there.
Should have nodded, gotten into the car, gone upstairs, preserved what little dignity remained.
Instead, because humiliation had a way of making you reckless, you asked, “And how exactly did it go?”
His eyes closed for the briefest second.
When they opened again, whatever he was trying to contain was no longer entirely under control.
“You know how it went.”
You did.
That was the problem.
You folded your arms to stop yourself reaching for him.
“Then maybe don’t apologize like it was some terrible accident.”
His gaze snapped back to yours.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You think I regret kissing you?”
He stepped closer as he said it, not enough to touch, just enough to send your pulse into chaos all over again.
The alley felt too small.
The air too thin.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low.
“Do what?”
“Put words in my mouth because you’re scared of your own.”
That hit so cleanly it left you angry before you even understood why.
You laughed again, brittle now.
“My own what, exactly?”
He looked at you as though he could already see the answer and did not know whether he had the right to say it first.
The waiting car idled at the curb behind you.
Somewhere down the block, traffic moved through the city as if the world had not just split open under your feet.
Then Steve said, very quietly, “Come upstairs.”
You should have refused.
You knew that even as the words settled between you.
You knew exactly what kind of precipice you were standing on.
You knew you had spent six weeks learning the shape of his mouth in almosts and near-misses and impossible restraint.
You knew you were one wrong decision from making the whole arrangement unsalvageable.
You also knew you had wanted him for so long it felt like an illness.
So you said yes.
The elevator ride to his floor was silent.
Not uncomfortable.
Worse.
The kind of silence so charged it stopped being empty and became a living thing in its own right. You stood at one side of the small space, Steve at the other, both of you facing forward like restraint still existed in any meaningful way.
The mirrored walls trapped you together.
You could still feel the kiss in your mouth.
Still feel the shape of his hand at your waist.
Still hear him asking you not to put fear into words before either of you had the courage to name what had happened.
When the doors opened, neither of you spoke. Steve led you down the corridor to his room, opened the door, and stepped aside to let you in.
You had been there before.
Never like this.
Usually it had been for something ordinary – a shared cup of coffee after missions, a conversation that ran late, helping him sort boxes of old files when he was in one of his restless moods. His room had always felt like him: spare, ordered, functional in a way that somehow still held warmth. Books stacked on the desk. Running shoes by the wall. A half-finished sketch turned facedown near the lamp.
Tonight it felt smaller.
Too full of him.
Too aware of you.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Still, neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I shouldn’t have let them push that far.”
You turned slowly.
His face was shadowed now without studio lights flattening it, the blue of his eyes darker in the low warmth of the room.
“You tried to stop it.”
“That wasn’t enough.”
The self-reproach in his voice did something awful to your chest.
“Steve.”
He took one step toward you.
“I knew,” he said.
Your breath caught. “Knew what?”
“That if I kissed you, I wasn’t going to be able to pretend it was just for them.”
Silence.
The room dropped out from under you.
You stared at him.
He looked almost angry saying it – not at you, never at you, but at himself for the admission. At the loss of control it implied. At the truth of wanting.
“That’s why I asked if you were sure,” he went on, quieter now. “Not because I didn’t want to. Because I did.”
Heat flashed through you so fast it hurt.
You did not realize you had moved until you were closer.
Until the space between you was narrow enough to feel dangerous again.
“Then why are you still standing over there?” you whispered.
Something in him snapped.
He crossed the distance in two strides and kissed you like he had been holding it back for weeks.
Maybe he had.
This time there were no cameras.
No set.
No audience waiting to consume the image.
Just Steve, one hand sliding into your hair, the other bracing at your waist as your body gave in before your mind caught up. You kissed him back with all the ruinous honesty you had spent weeks denying yourself. His mouth was warmer now, hungrier, and when you made a soft, broken sound against him he swallowed it like he had been wanting to hear it for a very long time.
You stumbled.
He caught you instantly.
Your hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, then the line of his jaw as if none of them knew how to stop touching him.
The kiss broke only because breathing became necessary.
His forehead rested against yours.
His hand trembled once at your side.
That undid you more than anything else.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
A humorless breath escaped him, almost a laugh.
“So are you.”
He was right.
You were.
Not from fear exactly.
From the overwhelming, destabilizing shock of finding yourself wanted back.
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
“Tell me to leave,” you said.
He looked stricken.
“No.”
“Steve.”
“If you want to go, I’ll let you go.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not going to tell you to.”
The honesty of it tore straight through you.
So you kissed him again.
Everything after that happened with the dizzy inevitability of a fall you had both been circling for too long.
Hands.
Breath.
The slow backward steps that brought you to the edge of his bed.
The way he stopped, even then, even there, to search your face with that terrible carefulness of his and ask, “Are you sure?”
You had never been less sure of anything and wanted anything more.
“Yes,” you said.
And then, because you needed him to understand, “Please.”
Whatever restraint remained in him burned down after that.
He touched you like you were both precious and dangerous.
Like he still could not quite believe you were there.
Like every careful public almost had left him starving too.
You learned what Steve sounded like when his control finally broke.
Learned how gentle and undone could exist inside the same man.
Learned the devastating contrast between the measured touch he offered the world and the reverent hunger of his hands in private.
It was not neat.
It was not polished.
It was not any of the clean fantasies people sold in magazines.
It was better.
And therefore infinitely worse.
Because you felt everything.
Every look.
Every breath.
Every quiet check-in he forced out through his own unraveling.
Every moment he paused as if he still could not bear the possibility of hurting you.
Every time he said your name like it meant more than either of you knew how to survive.
Afterward, the room went still in that strange, fragile way it only did when something irreversible had happened.
You lay tangled in warmth and sheets and exhaustion, heart still too fast, skin humming in the aftermath. Steve lay beside you on his back, one arm bent under his head, breathing slow but not entirely steady yet.
The dim light from the bedside lamp softened everything.
For one reckless, suspended stretch of time, it felt almost peaceful.
Then reality began to return in pieces.
The shoot.
The cover.
The arrangement.
The fact that the whole world already thought it knew what this was, while you had no idea how to name what had just happened.
You turned your head toward him.
Steve was already looking at the ceiling, expression unreadable in the low light.
That scared you more than if he had looked panicked.
“Say something,” you whispered.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
When he turned to face you, his eyes were full of too many things at once – tenderness, exhaustion, want, and beneath all of it something heavy and troubled.
“I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
The words hit like cold water.
You went very still.
For a second, you could not actually understand them.
Your body was still warm from him.
Your mouth still knew his.
And yet…
You sat up too fast, dragging the sheet with you.
“Okay,” you said, because there was nothing else to say if humiliation was going to kill you anyway. “Got it.”
He pushed himself upright immediately.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It kind of sounds exactly like what you meant.”
His face tightened.
“I mean I should have been more careful with you.”
There it was.
The instinct to protect.
The instinct to regret on your behalf.
The instinct to take this beautiful, terrible thing and turn it into something noble and distant so he did not have to face wanting it too much.
You climbed off the bed and started gathering your clothes from the floor with hands that only shook a little.
“Don’t,” he said, standing too.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn this into me using you.”
You laughed, low and unbelieving, pulling your sweater over your head with more force than necessary.
“That would be a lot easier to deal with, actually.”
His expression changed sharply.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? We’re already halfway there.”
His jaw set.
“No.”
You turned to face him fully then, sweater half straightened, pride doing most of the work where emotional stability had failed.
“You know what, Steve? You don’t get to tell me what this was if you’re just going to back away from it five minutes later.”
He stared at you.
The room felt charged all over again, but now with pain instead of want.
“I’m not backing away,” he said.
A lie.
Or maybe a truth he had not realized was one yet.
You looked at him and saw the war already starting inside him.
Duty against desire.
Protection against honesty.
Fear disguised as self-control.
And because you knew something about disguising fear, you recognized it immediately.
You buttoned your jeans with unsteady fingers.
“It’s late,” you said.
He took one step forward. “Stay.”
The word nearly broke you.
Because he meant it in the moment.
Because you did not trust the morning.
Because staying now would mean watching him decide, in daylight, that distance was the kinder choice.
You shook your head.
His face fell, just slightly.
“I think,” you said carefully, each word scraping on the way out, “we’ve probably done enough damage for one night.”
Pain flashed across his features.
That at least made you feel less alone in it.
He stopped moving then, as if he had realized pushing would only make it worse.
“I’ll walk you downstairs.”
“No.”
You grabbed your coat from the chair.
“I can manage.”
The phrase sounded ugly the second it left your mouth. Too sharp. Too familiar. Useful in a different shape.
Steve heard it too.
His shoulders tensed, but he did not argue.
You reached the door with your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Your hand touched the handle.
Then his voice stopped you one last time.
“This wasn’t nothing.”
You closed your eyes.
For one second – one weak, starving second – you nearly turned back.
But nothing was not the problem.
Something was.
Something was always the thing that ruined you.
So you opened the door.
“I know,” you said, without looking at him. “That’s what scares me.”
Then you left.
The next morning, Steve did exactly what men with too much honor and not enough emotional courage always did.
He decided distance was protection.
At first it came dressed in practical excuses.
He missed breakfast.
Then a planning meeting.
Then a charity prep session he was supposed to attend with you and sent Sam in his place instead.
His messages became sparse.
Polite.
Measured.
Running late. PR can handle today’s notes.
Mission review went long. Get some sleep.
You did well in the interview.
No jokes.
No soft check-ins.
No quiet knocks at your door with food because you forgot to eat.
The space where he had been grew teeth.
You told yourself not to overreact.
He was busy.
He was Steve.
He was probably trying to think.
Trying to be careful.
Trying to do the right thing in the stupid, destructive way that only someone fundamentally decent could manage.
It still hurt.
By the third day, everyone noticed something had changed.
Not the public. Never the public. In front of cameras, Steve remained perfect. If anything, he became more attentive, more polished, more flawlessly convincing. His hand still found your back. He still looked at you the right way when photographers called for softer expressions. He still answered interview questions with calm warmth and just enough intimacy to keep the narrative alive.
That almost made it worse.
Because the tenderness had become performance.
And maybe it had always been, you told yourself viciously.
Maybe you had simply been stupid enough to confuse professionalism with care.
Except you knew that was not true.
You knew what his care felt like when no one was watching.
You knew the difference.
That knowledge did nothing to help you.
One evening, after a radio interview where Steve had spent the entire segment sounding like a man reading from a script carved into his bones, you made it back to your room and sat on the floor instead of turning on the light.
Your phone buzzed once.
A message from PR confirming tomorrow’s schedule.
Another from Natasha.
You look terrible. What happened?
You stared at it, then locked the screen without answering.
A minute later, it lit up again.
That wasn’t an insult. Call me.
You put the phone facedown on the carpet and pressed your forehead to your knees.
In therapy, they called this spiraling.
You called it Tuesday.
Somewhere in the mess of your head, one thought kept pulsing like a bruise.
Of course he pulled away.
Of course he did.
You had taken the one thing you were supposed to keep clean and made it ugly with need.
You had mistaken a role for a possibility.
You had done what you always did – wanted too much, felt too much, trusted the wrong thing to be real.
By the end of the week, the distance no longer felt accidental.
It felt chosen.
And because pain had a cruel way of sharpening old beliefs into certainty, one sentence began to settle at the center of everything:
He had wanted you for a night.
He had not wanted what came with you after.
You hated yourself for how quickly you believed it.
You hated him a little for giving the fear somewhere to live.
And the worst part – the part that hollowed you out most completely – was that even then, even hurting, even humiliated, even watching him step back in the name of protecting you, you still loved him enough to let him.
By the time it happened, you were already unraveling.
Not publicly.
Publicly, you were lovely.
Publicly, you smiled with the right amount of softness and let Steve’s hand settle at your back as if it did not burn.
Publicly, you tilted your head during interviews and laughed at the right cues and answered questions in careful, practiced fragments that gave away nothing except what PR wanted.
Publicly, the two of you remained immaculate.
Privately, you were coming apart so quietly that nobody noticed at first.
Or maybe they did, and they assumed you would handle it the way you handled everything else: silently, efficiently, in a way that inconvenienced no one.
Steve’s distance did not arrive all at once.
That would have been easier.
If he had turned cold, you could have hated him.
If he had looked ashamed, you could have armored yourself against it.
If he had said plainly this was a mistake, at least the wound would have had a clean edge.
Instead, he stayed kind.
That was the cruelty of it.
He stayed attentive in public because the role required it.
He stayed polite in private because he was Steve.
He never gave you anything ugly enough to fight, only absence in measured doses.
He knocked less.
He lingered less.
He stopped finding reasons to appear at your door.
His messages became practical, his presence carefully rationed, his concern folded away so neatly it almost looked like respect.
The space where he had been began to echo.
You told yourself it was fine.
Then you stopped sleeping.
Not completely. Not in some dramatic, sleepless collapse. Just enough to wear you down slowly. You drifted off in broken pieces, woke with your pulse already high, lay staring at the ceiling while the Tower breathed around you. Every night your mind picked through the same scraps with obsessive precision: the kiss on set, the night in his room, the softness afterward, the shift, the distance, the way he still looked at you sometimes as if he felt it too and then stepped back before either of you could drown in it.
You started missing breakfast.
Then lunch.
Then meals altogether unless somebody physically put food in front of you and stayed long enough to make not eating embarrassing.
Natasha noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She cornered you in the gym one afternoon while you were pretending to stretch after a workout you had barely completed.
“You look like hell,” she said.
You sat back on the mat and wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist.
“Your concern is overwhelming.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell. You’re using your murder voice.”
Natasha did not smile.
You looked away first.
That was answer enough, apparently, because her expression sharpened.
“Did he do something?”
You laughed once, brittle and tired.
“No. That’s the problem.”
Natasha was silent for a beat.
Then, in a tone flatter than usual, “He pulled away.”
You picked at a loose thread near the hem of your sleeve.
“I’m fine.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
You let out a thin breath. “I noticed.”
“I know.”
You hated how gentle those two words sounded coming from her. Natasha was not supposed to sound gentle. It felt unfair, almost invasive.
You got to your feet before she could say anything worse.
“I have a meeting.”
She reached out and caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
When you looked at her, she was watching you with the cool, unblinking focus she usually reserved for threats.
“He’s an idiot,” she said.
Something ugly and aching flickered through you.
“Please don’t,” you said quietly.
Her grip loosened at once.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me feel like I get to be angry.”
Understanding moved across her face.
That was worse than pity would have been.
You slipped free and walked out before she could stop you.
The conversation about Peggy happened three days later.
You had not meant to overhear it.
The Tower was full of overheard things. Half the building was glass and open space and voices carrying from one room to another when people assumed they were alone.
You had been on your way back from a meeting with PR – a useless hour spent discussing “public tone consistency” for an upcoming feature – when you realized you had left your notebook in one of the smaller conference rooms. You doubled back through a quieter corridor, heels silent against the polished floor, grateful for the temporary absence of cameras, stylists, handlers, any person whose job depended on reminding you how convincingly in love you appeared.
Voices drifted from the partially open lounge ahead.
Steve’s was unmistakable.
You slowed before you could stop yourself.
He was not alone.
Sam, maybe. Or Bucky. You could not tell immediately. The second voice came lower, blurred by the angle.
You should have kept walking.
You knew that.
You knew exactly what kind of person listened at doors, and you had always hated becoming that person.
Then Steve said Peggy’s name.
And you stopped.
Not because Peggy mattered in some abstract historical sense.
Not because you were jealous of a dead woman or a lost life or the shape of grief in him you had no right to resent.
You stopped because the name already lived inside every insecurity you had where Steve was concerned.
Because Peggy Carter had become, over time, less a woman and more a legend.
A standard.
A ghost made of grace and certainty and conviction.
You stood very still.
Through the gap in the door, you could see only part of the room. The corner of a sofa. The edge of Steve’s shoulder. One of his hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
Sam’s voice came first, clearer this time.
“You keep comparing everything to the life you didn’t get.”
A pause.
Then Steve, quiet, tired, honest in the way people only were when they forgot anyone else might hear:
“It’s not about comparison.”
“Then what is it about?”
Longer silence.
When Steve answered, something in his voice made your chest tighten before the words even landed.
“She knew who she was.”
You stopped breathing.
Sam said something you did not catch.
Steve continued anyway.
“Peggy… she wasn’t uncertain. She wasn’t always happy, but she was steady. She knew what she was worth. She didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
The corridor tilted.
You stood frozen where you were, notebook forgotten, pulse suddenly loud enough to drown out the blood rushing in your ears.
He did not say your name.
That should have mattered.
It did not.
Because your name was there anyway, in every omission.
Not uncertain.
Not always happy, but steady.
Knew what she was worth.
Didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.
The words laid themselves over you with surgical precision, each one finding exactly the bruise it needed.
You did not wait to hear more.
Maybe he said something after that which might have softened it.
Maybe Sam argued.
Maybe Steve would have explained, clarified, denied.
None of that mattered by then.
You turned and walked away before your body remembered how.
The corridor blurred at the edges.
The bright overhead lights became too sharp.
You kept walking because stopping would have meant feeling the hit in full, and you did not have the luxury of collapsing in the middle of Avengers Tower.
By the time you reached your room, your hands were shaking hard enough that it took three tries to unlock the door.
Once inside, you closed it quietly.
That part, at least, remained instinctive.
Never make a scene.
Never let the damage sound as bad as it feels.
You stood in the middle of the room for a full minute doing absolutely nothing.
Then you laughed.
A horrible sound.
Small and cracked and unbelieving.
Of course.
Of course that was what it came down to.
Not cruelty. Never cruelty. Steve did not do cruelty.
Just clarity.
Peggy had been certainty.
Peggy had been value without negotiation.
Peggy had been someone who knew her own shape in the world and never apologized for occupying it.
And you…
You were a mess.
A tangle of coping mechanisms and usefulness and weekly therapy appointments.
A person who still measured her place in every room by whether she was helping.
A person who had slept with him because wanting had outweighed sense and then been surprised when he tried to put distance back between you like he could save you from the mess of yourself.
You sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over your mouth.
Something was wrong with your breathing.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
You tried.
It did not work.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
You looked at it without seeing.
Another buzz.
Then another.
PR, maybe.
Natasha.
A scheduling assistant.
You could not imagine answering anybody ever again.
At some point you realized you were crying only because your vision had gone watery and your throat hurt. It did not feel dramatic. It did not feel cleansing. It just felt humiliatingly physical, like your body had decided to betray you in one more boring, inconvenient way.
You did not know how long you stayed like that.
Eventually the crying stopped on its own, leaving behind a cottony, numb exhaustion.
Then the practical part of you – the one that took over when emotion became unmanageable – rose up and began issuing instructions.
Leave.
Before he knocks.
Before someone notices.
Before you hear one more carefully kind thing that makes this worse.
Leave before you start begging for dignity from people who never promised to protect it.
You stood.
Your room felt unreal, as if it already belonged to someone else.
You pulled a duffel bag from the closet and packed without much thought. Jeans. Sweaters. Medication. Charger. Toothbrush. A book you did not expect to read. Underwear shoved in carelessly. A hoodie that you wore all the time because it was the softest thing you owned.
Halfway through, you had to sit down again because your hands would not stop trembling.
You stared at the open bag on the bed and thought, with detached clarity, this is ridiculous.
Then, equally clearly: staying would be worse.
There was only one place you could go.
One person who would open the door without asking too many questions first.
Maya.
Your oldest friend.
Possibly your only real one.
Not part of the Tower.
Not impressed by the Avengers.
Not interested in your talent for minimizing your own suffering until it became untenable.
You typed with stiff fingers.
Can I come over?
The reply came almost immediately.
Yes. What happened?
You looked at the words for several seconds.
Then you typed.
I just need air.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Come.
That was all.
You stared at the message until your vision blurred.
Then you opened a new thread.
Steve’s.
For one full minute, you did nothing.
What could you even say?
I heard you.
You were right.
Thank you for finally confirming every awful thing I already thought.
In the end, you wrote the only version you could survive sending.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Too short.
Too formal.
Wrong in your mouth.
You knew it the second you looked at it.
It did not sound like you.
It sounded like someone trying very hard not to bleed on the screen.
All the more reason to send it quickly before you lost your nerve.
You hit send.
The reply came before you had even zipped the bag.
What happened?
Then, immediately after.
Where are you going?
And then.
Are you safe?
You put the phone face down on the bed.
The screen lit up again.
Then again.
You turned it to silent.
Not off.
Just silent.
Enough distance to breathe.
Enough cruelty to count as temporary.
When you finally left your room, the hallway outside was empty.
Good.
You took the stairs instead of the elevator.
You did not want to risk running into anyone.
Did not want Steve stepping out of some corridor at the exact wrong second and looking at you with all that impossible concern while you still had enough self-control left to keep moving.
By the time you reached the garage level, your chest hurt from holding yourself together.
You drove with the radio off.
Halfway across the city, Steve called.
Your phone lit up on the passenger seat with his name bright across the screen.
You stared at it until it stopped.
Then it started again.
You turned the screen over.
You did not answer.
Maya opened the door before you knocked twice.
She took one look at your face and stepped aside immediately.
“Shoes off,” she said. “Then you tell me whether I need wine, tea, or a shovel.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it – small, wrecked, entirely without humor.
“Tea,” you managed.
“Coward.”
Her apartment smelled like laundry detergent and basil and the candle she always forgot she had lit. Safe, in the plainest possible way. Human-sized. No reinforced glass. No PR handlers. No godlike beings or soldiers or spies pretending they understood normal life.
You set your bag down just inside the hall.
Maya did not hug you.
You loved her for that.
She had known you long enough to understand that touching was dangerous when you were holding yourself together by threads. So she just tilted her head toward the kitchen and said, “Sit.”
You sat.
She filled the kettle.
Got mugs down.
Moved around the kitchen with brisk, competent ease while pretending not to watch you too closely.
Only when the tea was steeping did she lean against the counter and fold her arms.
“All right,” she said. “Talk.”
You stared at the table.
“I left.”
“I can see that.”
A weak breath that might have been a laugh left you.
“Steve said something.”
Her expression changed very slightly.
Not surprise.
Not yet.
Just attention narrowing.
“You want to be more specific before I decide whether to stab him?”
You swallowed.
“It wasn’t even to me.”
That made her go still.
You looked up long enough to catch the sharpened line of her mouth before dropping your gaze again.
“I overheard him talking about Peggy.”
Maya did not interrupt.
You wrapped both hands around the mug she slid toward you, though it was too hot to hold properly.
“He said she… had no doubts,” you said quietly. “About her place, her role, her worth. That she didn’t change herself to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
Maya’s face hardened by degrees.
“And?”
You laughed once, harsh and unsteady.
“And that’s it.”
“No, sweetheart,” she said, voice suddenly very flat. “That isn’t it. What did you hear?”
You shut your eyes.
The question hurt because it was too accurate.
What had he said?
And what had you heard?
Not the same thing.
Probably.
Maybe.
But what you had heard lodged under your skin all the same.
“I heard that he sees exactly what’s wrong with me,” you whispered.
The kitchen went silent.
When you opened your eyes, Maya was already moving. She crossed the room, pulled out the chair opposite you, and sat down hard enough to make the table tremble slightly.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said.
You flinched.
“No.” Her voice softened by half a degree, but only half. “You don’t get to disappear into your own worst thoughts while I’m sitting here.”
Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You looked down at the tea.
Maya leaned forward.
“You are exhausted,” she said. “You are hurt. And from what I’m hearing, he said something thoughtless and devastating in exactly the way decent men often do when they’re busy being emotionally incompetent. But none of that means what your brain is currently trying to make it mean.”
You laughed bitterly.
“You don’t know what my brain is making it mean.”
She held your gaze.
“I know you.”
That did it.
Your composure fractured all at once.
You cried harder than you had in your room, harder than in the car, harder than felt remotely fair. It was ugly and humiliating and exhausting, and Maya did not interrupt it with comfort so much as presence. She stayed there. She passed you tissues. She pushed the sugar bowl toward you when your tea went cold and you forgot it existed. She did not say it’s okay because it very obviously was not.
When the worst of it passed, she asked, “Have you eaten?”
You wiped your face and lied instinctively.
“Yes.”
She stared at you.
You lasted maybe two seconds.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She stood, opened the fridge, and began pulling things out with the grim determination of someone preparing for battle.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maya.”
She glanced over one shoulder, unimpressed.
“You can either eat soup like a wounded Victorian heroine or I can call your super-soldier and let him hear for himself how bad you sound. Pick one.”
You stared at her.
“That’s emotional blackmail.”
“Yes.”
You hated that she knew exactly how to manage you.
You ate half a bowl because arguing took more energy than lifting a spoon.
Then she made you shower.
Then she handed you one of her oldest T-shirts and pointed at the couch like a drill sergeant.
You curled under a blanket while she moved around the apartment dimming lights.
Your phone stayed face down on the coffee table where you had dropped it.
It buzzed once.
Twice.
Three times.
You did not look.
Maya did.
Not at the screen, but at the sound.
“You going to answer any of those?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
She sat in the armchair opposite the couch and opened her laptop.
You frowned through exhaustion. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“At eleven at night?”
“I’m rage-organizing my inbox so I don’t go to Avengers Tower tonight and commit a felony.”
A laugh escaped you despite everything.
Maya looked up briefly.
“There she is.”
You hated how that almost made you cry again.
The next morning you woke disoriented, damp with sweat, neck aching from the couch, heart already racing.
For one beautiful second you did not remember where you were.
Then everything came back at once.
Steve.
Peggy.
The message.
The leaving.
You turned onto your side and saw your phone on the coffee table, still dark, still face down.
You did not reach for it.
Maya emerged from the bedroom tying her hair up, took one look at your face, and said, “Toast first. Existential collapse second.”
You obeyed because arguing required more structural integrity than you currently possessed.
The day passed strangely.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
Just sideways.
You dozed in brief, useless stretches.
Drank tea.
Managed half a piece of toast and then felt sick for an hour.
Stared at the ceiling.
Tried not to think.
Failed.
Repeated.
Your phone remained silent only because you had forced it to be.
At one point, while Maya showered, you picked it up.
Twenty-three messages.
Four missed calls from Steve.
Two from Natasha.
One from Sam.
One from an unknown Tower extension.
A string of increasingly irritated texts from PR asking whether you were still attending tomorrow’s editorial planning session.
You stared at Steve’s name until it blurred.
The most recent message read Please answer.
The one before that.
Your message doesn’t sound like you.
And before that.
Just tell me you’re okay.
You locked the phone again.
You did not respond.
Not because you wanted him to suffer.
Not because this was punishment.
Because if you heard his voice right then – if he sounded worried, or guilty, or gentle – you would cave.
And you could not survive caving unless he had something different to offer this time.
By day three, your body began protesting in ways your mind had not anticipated.
Your hands shook more.
Your stomach lurched at the thought of food.
You could not seem to get warm even under two blankets.
When you did sleep, it was shallow and full of dreams that left you more tired than before.
Maya watched all of this with increasing concern and decreasing patience.
On the fourth evening, she stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand on her hip and said, “You are not fine.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She stared at you for a long moment.
Then she asked, “What exactly are you waiting for?”
You blinked at her from the couch.
“What?”
“You left. Fair. You needed space. Also fair. But now you’re hiding from your phone like it’s venomous, living on tea and dry cereal, and looking like you might float away if somebody opens a window. So what are you waiting for?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
You looked down at the blanket tangled around your legs.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Maya’s expression softened, which somehow made things worse.
“Yes, you do.”
You swallowed.
The answer surfaced before you could stop it.
“For it not to hurt this much.”
Silence.
Then Maya crossed the room and sat beside you on the couch.
“Oh, honey.”
Two words.
Soft.
Ruined.
You pressed a hand over your eyes.
“I know how pathetic this is.”
“It isn’t pathetic.”
“It kind of is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You let your hand fall.
“He doesn’t owe me anything.”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “That sentence needs to be outlawed.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
“You slept with him,” she said plainly, because she was not one for euphemism.
Heat flashed across your face.
You stared at her.
She held up one hand. “You look terrible, you vanished from the tower, and you ended up crying in my kitchen over Steve Rogers. I put basic emotional math together.”
A helpless laugh escaped you. Horrified. Thin. Real.
Maya nodded once, satisfied.
“Right. Thought so.”
You slumped deeper into the cushions.
“It made everything worse.”
“I’m sure it also made everything clearer.”
You laughed again, then scrubbed a hand over your face.
“He pulled away after.”
Maya’s expression went dangerously blank.
“How much after?”
You looked away.
“Immediately, mostly.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose.
“Good,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “That narrows down what kind of conversation I’m going to have with him when I see him.”
Panic cut through the fog in your head.
“No.”
Maya turned toward you.
“No?”
“Do not go near him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it when the room tilted.
“Maya.”
She looked you over once, taking in the dizziness, the hollow face, the hands gripping the blanket.
Then she said, very quietly, “He did this.”
You shook your head.
“No. I did this. I heard one thing and turned it into proof of every awful thing I already think about myself, and then I ran away like a child.”
She held your gaze.
“And what did he do?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Said nothing.
Exactly.
Maya stood.
You watched unease move through her like intention.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my shoes.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Maya.”
She was already in the hallway.
“Stay here,” she called back.
You stared after her in disbelief.
Then, because you were too depleted to physically stop her and too horrified to do anything else, you grabbed your phone.
For a second your thumb hovered over Steve’s name.
Call him?
Warn him?
Text him?
Tell him Maya was coming like some kind of avenging force in orthopedic sneakers?
Instead, because your pride remained stupidly alive even under emotional collapse, you locked the screen again and let your hand fall into your lap.
You did not move.
The apartment felt too quiet without her.
Outside, the late afternoon sky darkened toward evening.
Your phone stayed silent.
Then vibrated once with a message from Maya.
If you throw up from stress while I’m gone, aim for the bathroom and not my couch.
A strangled laugh caught in your throat.
You pressed the phone to your forehead and closed your eyes.
By then you were too tired even for panic.
All that remained was the raw, exhausted ache of missing Steve while trying desperately to protect yourself from the version of him that only knew how to love by stepping back.
You curled deeper into the blanket and waited for whatever came next.
And somewhere beneath the hurt, beneath the humiliation, beneath the anger you still refused to let yourself feel fully, one truth stayed lodged like a splinter.
You had left because you needed air.
But the worst part of being away was realizing how much of your breathing had started to depend on him.
By the fifth day, Steve stopped pretending he was not afraid.
At first, he told himself he was giving you space.
That was what decent people did, wasn’t it? If someone said they needed air, you did not crowd them. If someone pulled away, you did not make their distress about your own need to fix it. You respected the boundary. You waited. You trusted that if they wanted you near, they would say so.
It would have been a noble thought if it had not curdled into something uglier with each unanswered message.
Because your message had been wrong.
Not only brief. Not only distant.
Wrong.
The words themselves had been polite enough.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Anyone else might have accepted them at face value. A request for space. A neat explanation. A person setting a temporary boundary with no drama attached.
But Steve knew you.
Or at least, he knew enough.
He knew that when you were really fine, you hid it badly.
He knew your humor always surfaced, even thin and brittle, when you were trying to soften a hard conversation.
He knew you overexplained when you were nervous and apologized when you had no reason to.
He knew you did not send cold little messages that read like they had been drafted by a stranger.
He also knew exactly what had happened before you disappeared.
He knew he had let fear disguise itself as restraint.
Knew he had slept with you and then built distance with his own hands because some part of him had decided professionalism, control, and caution were a kind of protection.
Knew he had watched your face sharpen and dim over the days that followed and still told himself he was doing the right thing.
By day two, he stopped sleeping properly.
By day three, everyone else noticed.
Natasha cornered him on the fifth day in the kitchen at six in the morning while he stood over a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
“You look terrible,” she observed.
Steve did not look up.
“That makes two of us.”
“No,” she said. “It makes one of us with a conscience and one of us with terrible judgment.”
That pulled his eyes to hers.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter, arms folded.
“She still isn’t answering.”
It was not a question.
“No.”
“Have you tracked her phone?”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
One of Natasha’s eyebrows lifted.
“You could.”
“I know.”
“And?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“And she said she needed space.”
Natasha stared at him for a long moment, then said, very flatly, “You’re an idiot.”
Something dark flickered under his ribs.
“I know that too.”
To his surprise, Natasha did not look satisfied.
If anything, she looked angrier.
“That isn’t enough.”
Steve straightened slightly.
“What do you want me to say?”
She pushed off the counter.
“I want you to stop acting like this is about good manners.”
He said nothing.
Natasha’s gaze sharpened.
“She left after you slept with her.”
The directness of it hit like a strike to the chest even though he deserved it.
Steve’s mouth hardened. “Nat–”
“No. You don’t get to flinch. You don’t get to be embarrassed by a fact you helped create.”
He looked away first.
The kitchen felt too small.
Too bright.
Too full of the exact kind of clarity he had spent days avoiding.
Natasha stepped closer.
“You did the thing you always do,” she said. “You decided what was best for someone else without asking whether they wanted your version of safety.”
Steve’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”
Natasha’s expression did not change.
“That has never stopped anyone.”
The silence that followed settled heavy and unavoidable.
Steve stared past her toward the window where dawn was just beginning to stain the city grey-blue.
He heard again the soft, stunned sound you had made when he kissed you for real.
He saw your face the morning after when he had reached for control instead of honesty.
He heard his own voice saying I shouldn’t have let this happen and understood, all over again, exactly how cruel that must have sounded from where you stood.
Not regret for wanting you.
Not regret for the night.
Just the coward’s instinct to frame tenderness as a mistake if it threatened to become too real.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I thought…” He stopped.
Natasha waited.
Steve tried again.
“I thought if I stepped back, if I gave her room, if I put some distance in before this got worse–”
Natasha let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Before it got worse for who?”
He looked at her.
There it was.
The center of it.
The part he had not let himself say cleanly because saying it would mean admitting how badly he had misjudged everything.
“For her,” he said, though even to his own ears it sounded weak now.
Natasha’s voice went colder.
“You mean for you.”
He flinched.
Because yes.
Partly yes.
Because if he stayed close after that night, then he would have to admit it had not been a lapse. That wanting you had not begun with the kiss on set. That it had been building, quietly and relentlessly, through every interview and every crowded gala and every moment he found his hand at your back without thinking. He would have to admit that his feelings were no longer containable inside the tidy little fiction PR had handed them.
And if he admitted that, then he would have to face the possibility of hurting you in a deeper, more permanent way. Not with one night. Not with one mistake. With everything that came after.
So he had done what he always did when fear dressed itself up like principle.
He had retreated.
Natasha watched realization move across his face and said, softer now but no less brutal, “Congratulations. You protected her straight into disappearing.”
Before Steve could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall.
A woman strode into the kitchen without waiting to be invited.
Steve had never met her before, but he recognized fury when he saw it.
She was not tall, not physically intimidating, not armed in any obvious way, and still the room changed around her as if a live charge had entered it. Dark hair shoved into a loose knot, coat half-buttoned, eyes bright with the kind of anger that had already passed through fear and come out sharp on the other side.
Natasha went very still.
The woman looked directly at Steve.
“Good,” she said. “You’re here.”
Steve set the mug down.
“Who are you?”
Her laugh contained absolutely no humor.
“I’m the one who had to watch her stop eating in my apartment because apparently no one in this building knows how to tell the difference between noble self-sacrifice and emotional stupidity.”
Every muscle in Steve’s body locked.
Natasha said nothing.
She did not need to.
Her silence confirmed enough.
Steve took one step forward. “Is she okay?”
The woman’s face hardened further.
“No,” she said. “She’s not okay.”
The words landed with frightening precision.
Steve felt them everywhere.
“What happened?”
The woman stared at him as if the question itself insulted her.
“You happened.”
That should not have hit as hard as it did.
It did.
He swallowed.
“I need you to tell me where she is.”
“No.”
Steve went still.
The woman folded her arms.
“You don’t get her location because you finally decided to panic. That’s not how this works.”
Her voice shook slightly under the anger now, just enough to betray how worried she really was.
Steve forced himself not to push.
Not to demand.
Not to become one more person deciding things around you.
“Please,” he said.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she came closer, stopping just short of his personal space as if she wanted him to feel every word clearly.
“You want to know what this week looked like?” she asked. “Fine. She barely slept. She picked at food like swallowing offended her. She sat on my couch staring at a phone she refused to answer because she was terrified that if she heard your voice sounding kind, she’d break all over again.”
Steve could not seem to draw enough air.
The woman went on, merciless.
“She heard you talking about Peggy.”
His chest tightened.
Every nerve in him sharpened instantly.
Oh.
Oh, God.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, she was still there, watching him realize it.
“You didn’t say her name,” the woman said. “Apparently you didn’t have to.”
Steve felt sick.
Sam.
The lounge.
That conversation.
He remembered it clearly now – too clearly. The context. The grief. The self-recrimination. The way he had been trying to explain to Sam that Peggy had possessed a certainty about herself he admired, not because he wanted someone else to match it, but because he feared what his life did to the people he cared about. Feared what it might grind down in them.
And you had heard the worst possible fragment.
Heard it through the wound he had already helped carve open.
The woman’s gaze did not soften.
“She heard exactly what her worst thoughts needed. And since you’d already spent days pulling away from her after sleeping with her, you can imagine how well that went.”
Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath.
Steve barely heard her.
The woman tipped her head.
“You know what gets me?” she said. “She still defends you.”
His throat worked uselessly.
“She kept saying you weren’t cruel. That you were trying. That maybe she’d heard it wrong. That maybe she was being unfair. While she was shaking so badly she could barely hold a mug.”
The image struck so hard it was almost physical.
Steve gripped the back of a chair to steady himself.
The woman’s voice dropped.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to stop congratulating yourself for being careful. You are going to stop telling yourself distance is noble when all it’s done is let her believe every terrible thing she already thinks about herself. And if you go near her again, you’d better do it with the intention of being honest for once.”
The kitchen went silent.
Steve looked at her.
“What’s your name?”
A beat passed.
“Maya.”
He nodded once.
“Maya.”
His own voice sounded rough to his ears.
“Thank you.”
Something in her expression shifted – not warmth, exactly, but a reduced desire to set him on fire.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and set it on the counter between them.
An address.
“She won’t answer if I warn her first,” Maya said. “So I’m not warning her. That’s the only reason you’re getting this.”
Steve stared at the paper.
“You’re sure?”
“No,” Maya snapped. “I’m furious. Different thing.”
He nodded again.
Fair.
As he reached for the address, Maya caught his wrist.
He looked up.
Her eyes had gone sharp enough to cut.
“If you make this about whether you deserve forgiveness,” she said, “I swear to God, Rogers, I will throw you down my building’s stairs myself.”
A strange, hollow breath escaped him.
Not laughter.
Too close to it.
“I won’t.”
Maya let go. She turned towards him before leaving.
“See that you don’t.”
He did not tell anyone he was leaving.
He did not call ahead.
Did not text.
Did not give himself enough time to rehearse explanations into something cleaner than the truth.
The drive across the city felt too slow no matter how fast traffic moved.
At red lights, his mind replayed the week in brutal fragments.
Your unanswered messages.
The clipped little text that had not sounded like you.
Natasha calling him an idiot.
Maya saying you had stopped eating.
The realization that the last thing he had given you before you vanished was distance layered over tenderness, confusion dressed up as protection.
And under all of it, the oldest, ugliest recognition of all.
He had treated your pain like a thing to manage rather than a thing to witness with you.
That had always been his flaw when fear got involved.
He moved too quickly into action, into shielding, into absorbing impact alone. He trusted strategy over vulnerability because strategy felt safer. Cleaner. Contained.
But you were not a battlefield problem.
You were not damage control.
You were not a thing to spare from afar.
You were someone he loved.
The thought arrived fully formed and devastatingly late.
Not in the vague, careful way he had let himself approach it before.
Not in coded concern or noble restraint.
Just the truth, plain and irreversible.
He loved you.
He had loved you in pieces for longer than he had admitted.
In every cup of tea left outside your door.
In every moment his eyes found you first in a room.
In every quiet fury when someone made you feel lesser than you were.
In the way he learned your fragile places without ever wanting to use them against you.
In the way your hurt had become unbearable to witness long before he understood why.
And then, because love in him had always come braided to fear, he had tried to keep the feeling from doing damage by forcing it into silence.
He parked badly.
He did not care.
The apartment building was ordinary in the best possible way. Brick. Narrow steps. Buzzers. Potted plants in two front windows. The kind of place no one would ever photograph because it belonged to real life rather than narrative.
He climbed the stairs two at a time and stopped outside the right door with his heart pounding hard enough to make him feel nineteen again and much less brave.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, gentler this time.
Footsteps approached.
Paused.
Then the lock turned.
The door opened three inches.
Maya looked at him through the gap.
Her expression made it clear she had not become any less angry in the last hour.
“She’s asleep,” she said.
Steve exhaled, relief and dread colliding in equal measure.
“Is she–”
“Barely, for once.”
Maya considered him for a second, then opened the door wider.
“You get five minutes before I decide you’re raising her cortisol.”
He nodded and stepped inside.
The apartment smelled like tea and laundry soap and something simmered earlier for dinner. Small. Warm. Lived in. There was a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a mug on the coffee table, a pair of socks abandoned near the radiator.
And there you were.
Curled on the couch beneath a grey blanket, turned toward the back cushions, one hand tucked near your face. Even asleep, you looked worn thin. Your skin had that drawn, fragile pallor of someone running on too little rest and less food. There were shadows under your eyes, your breathing shallow even now, as if your body had not remembered how to fully unclench.
Steve stopped a few feet away.
The sight of you knocked something out of him.
He had been worried.
He had imagined this.
But imagination had not done justice to the small, devastating truth of it.
You looked breakable.
Maya came to stand beside him.
“She kept saying she just needed a few days,” she said quietly, the anger in her voice banked now into exhaustion. “Like this was a normal amount of hurt to carry around.”
Steve could not answer.
Maya crossed her arms.
“She loved that you were careful with her,” she said. “Do you understand that? It made her trust you. So when you started disappearing in all the little ways that don’t leave evidence, she didn’t know what to do with it except blame herself.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his gaze found you again.
“I know,” he said.
“No,” Maya replied. “You know now.”
Fair.
Again.
You stirred before he could say more.
A small shift under the blanket.
A breath catching.
Your eyes opening slowly in the unfamiliar confusion of bad sleep.
For one suspended second, you just looked dazed.
Then you saw him.
Every trace of softness vanished from your face.
You pushed yourself upright too quickly, blanket sliding into your lap, and immediately had to brace one hand on the couch arm when the movement made you dizzy.
Maya swore under her breath.
Steve stepped forward instinctively.
You recoiled before he could reach you.
The movement was small.
It still nearly stopped his heart.
Your voice came out rough from sleep and disuse.
“What is he doing here?”
Maya answered before he could.
“Being threatened, mostly.”
You looked from her to Steve and back again.
Somewhere under the fatigue, embarrassment flickered across your face.
“Maya.”
“What?” she said. “You were refusing to answer your phone and starting to look haunted.”
“I told you I needed–”
“Air,” Maya cut in. “Yes. I know. You’ve had plenty. Apparently oxygen does not fix men.”
Despite everything, something dangerously close to a laugh tugged at Steve’s throat. He swallowed it before it could become disrespect.
You dragged a hand over your face.
Your eyes would not stay on his for long.
That hurt more than anger would have.
“Maya,” you said again, quieter now.
She sighed.
“I’m making tea,” she announced to no one in particular. “And if either of you says anything catastrophically stupid while I’m in the kitchen, I will come back with a weapon.”
Then she walked away, leaving behind a silence so immediate it almost rang.
Steve stood near the edge of the living room.
You remained curled into the corner of the couch like it was the only shape keeping you together.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I’m sorry.”
You laughed.
It was not a kind sound.
“Of course you are.”
He felt that land.
Accepted it.
“I mean it.”
Your gaze flicked to his face and away again.
“That’s sort of the problem with you, Steve. You usually do.”
He took a slow breath.
“I know.”
You stared at the blanket in your lap, fingers twisting in the fabric.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
That made you look at him.
Really look.
There was no defense left in his face.
No polished restraint.
No distance disguised as gentleness.
Just a man who had understood too late what his caution had cost.
He took one step closer.
“Maya told me about this week.”
Something shuttered in your expression.
“Great,” you said. “Glad everybody’s comparing notes.”
“I’m not here to make you explain.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because I love you, he thought.
Because leaving you alone with the version of me that lived in your head has become unbearable.
Because I finally understand that what I called protection was just fear with better manners.
What he said was, “Because I hurt you.”
You went very still.
The room from the kitchen hummed faintly with the sound of the kettle filling.
A cabinet opening.
Maya giving you both the illusion of privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if needed.
You looked down again.
“Yes,” you said.
No accusation.
No drama.
Just a fact.
It hit harder than anything else could have.
Steve nodded once.
“Yes,” he echoed, because trying to soften it would have been an insult.
He moved closer to the couch, slowly enough to give you time to stop him.
You did not.
But you tensed.
That, too, he accepted.
“When I said I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he said carefully, “I wasn’t regretting you.”
Your throat moved as you swallowed.
You still did not look at him.
He continued anyway.
“I was afraid of what happened after.”
A bitter little smile touched your mouth and vanished.
“So you decided that part for both of us.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of the answer made your eyes lift, startled.
Steve held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said again. “I did. And I was wrong.”
Silence.
The words seemed to settle somewhere between you, too fragile to trust at first.
You drew the blanket tighter around yourself.
“You pulled away.”
“I know.”
“And then you still asked me to stay.”
His chest tightened.
He could still hear his own voice from that night, raw and wanting.
Stay.
And then the morning after, when he had started measuring distance like virtue.
“I know,” he repeated.
Your voice sharpened for the first time.
“Do you?”
He let the hurt in that question hit cleanly before answering.
“I do now.”
The anger did not flare. It wavered.
Your exhaustion was too deep for anything dramatic.
That somehow made every word heavier.
You looked away toward the kitchen, toward the safe shape of Maya moving in the next room.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it, “I thought I’d made it ugly.”
Steve felt his entire body go still.
You kept talking, eyes fixed somewhere beyond him.
“I thought maybe that night had just…” You stopped, pressed your lips together, began again. “I thought maybe you wanted me until I became real again after.”
The sentence nearly undid him.
He crossed the last of the distance to the couch and crouched in front of you before he could think better of it. Low enough not to tower. Close enough that if you wanted to look at him, you could.
Your eyes met his then, wary and exhausted and aching in ways he had no right to ask forgiveness for yet.
“I wanted you before that night,” he said.
You blinked.
“I wanted you every day of this arrangement in ways I was trying very hard not to. I wanted you even before that.”
Something shifted in your face.
Not trust.
Not relief.
Just the faint shock of hearing the truth said plainly.
Steve did not look away.
“The kiss on set wasn’t the first time I was scared of how much I wanted you,” he said. “It was just the first time I ran out of places to hide it.”
Your breathing changed.
Slightly.
Enough.
“And then,” he said, because there was no point being brave only halfway now, “I got afraid.”
You let out a breath that trembled on the way out.
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Then, quieter, “Of how badly I could hurt you if I got this wrong.”
A sad sort of understanding crossed your face.
That cut almost as sharply as the original wound.
“So you hurt me another way.”
The precision of it left no room to flinch.
“Yes.”
He would keep answering yes to every true thing if that was what it took.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Your eyes were wet now, though the tears had not fallen yet.
“I heard you talking about Peggy,” you whispered.
There it was.
The bruise at the center of everything.
Steve nodded slowly.
“I know.”
You laughed once, shaky and devastated.
“No, you don’t. You have no idea what that sounded like.”
“Then tell me.”
The words startled you.
Maybe because they asked instead of assuming.
Maybe because they did not argue.
Your fingers tightened in the blanket.
“It sounded like…” You shut your eyes briefly. “It sounded like you finally said out loud what I’d already been terrified was true. That she was everything I’m not. That she knew her own worth and never had to be useful to earn a place beside you. That you looked at me and saw someone uncertain and exhausting and–”
“Stop.”
The word came rougher than he intended.
Your eyes flew open.
Not anger.
Fear.
The immediate reflexive fear of someone who had been cut off too many times while bleeding.
Steve forced gentleness back into his voice.
“Not because I don’t want to hear you,” he said. “Because none of that is what I meant.”
Your mouth tightened.
“It’s what I heard.”
“I know.”
He let that sit.
Then he said, very carefully, “I was talking about what I admired in Peggy. Not what I required from you.”
Something in your face cracked at that.
“I don’t require you to be less uncertain,” he said. “Or less complicated. Or less hurt. I don’t need you to become someone untouched by what life has done to you just so I can stand beside you.”
Your tears spilled then, sudden and silent.
Steve stayed exactly where he was.
“I was afraid,” he went on, “because you make yourself smaller when you’re scared. You let people use your willingness to help as proof you can carry more than you should. And instead of staying close enough to help you fight that, I stepped back and made it worse.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
The gesture was so heartbreakingly familiar it almost ruined him.
“I am not going to do that again,” he said.
The kitchen had gone silent.
Maya was listening, of course.
He did not care.
Your voice shook.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he said. “I can promise something better.”
You looked at him through wet lashes, wary despite yourself.
Steve drew in a slow breath.
“I can promise I won’t decide for you what protects you. I can promise I won’t call distance love when it’s really fear. And I can promise that I am done letting you carry all the cost of this because it’s easier than admitting I’m in too deep.”
The tears came harder then.
You laughed through one of them, a small, broken sound.
“In too deep?”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yes.”
You looked wrecked.
And unconvinced.
And wanting to believe him in ways your body had not caught up with yet.
That was fair.
More than fair.
“I don’t know how to do this without making a mess of it,” you whispered.
Something warm and shattered moved through him.
At any other time, the line might have been funny.
A little self-aware.
A little ironic.
Here, now, it was only naked.
Steve softened.
“Then we make a mess,” he said. “But we do it honestly.”
You shut your eyes and cried in earnest then, not violently, not dramatically, just with the exhausted relief of someone too tired to keep every wound upright.
His hands twitched with the need to reach for you.
He didn’t.
Not until you looked at him again.
Not until you gave the smallest, most fragile nod he had ever seen.
Then he moved.
Carefully.
Slowly.
He sat beside you on the couch and gathered you in as if he were handling something both precious and half-feral. You came to him in pieces at first, stiff with hurt and habit, then all at once, forehead against his shoulder, breath breaking against his shirt.
Steve held you.
Not to quiet you.
Not to fix you.
Just to be there while it hurt.
One of his hands slid up between your shoulder blades in slow, grounding strokes.
The other cradled the back of your head.
Into your hair, into the bent crown of you, he said, “You never had to earn your place with me.”
That made you cry harder.
He closed his eyes.
“I know,” he said softly. “I know. I should have said it sooner.”
For a long time, neither of you moved beyond that.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.
A cupboard shut.
Maya, mercifully, remained out of sight.
Eventually your breathing steadied enough to become less ragged.
You did not pull away completely, but you shifted enough to look at him, face damp and exhausted and more open than he suspected you meant it to be.
“What happens now?”
A dangerous question.
A necessary one.
Steve brushed a thumb lightly beneath one of your eyes.
Only once.
Then let his hand fall so the touch would not become its own pressure.
“First,” he said, “you stay here as long as you need.”
You frowned slightly, as if expecting some hidden catch.
He went on.
“Then I deal with PR.”
A very faint, incredulous sound escaped you. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
That drew the smallest ghost of a smile to your mouth.
Steve took it as the gift it was.
“I’m ending the arrangement,” he said. “Not by sacrificing you to another story. Not by making you walk back into that machine because I was too slow to figure my own head out.”
The smile faded into uncertainty again.
“They’ll hate that.”
“I know.”
“They’ll blame me.”
“No,” he said. “They won’t. Because I won’t let them.”
You searched his face, looking for doubt.
There was none.
Steve leaned back slightly, enough to see you fully.
“And after that,” he said, “if you still want me anywhere near your life, I start over properly.”
Your breath caught.
“Properly?”
“No lies. No cover. No pretending I’m doing you a favor by keeping my distance.”
A pause.
“No sacrificing yourself for me because it feels easier than asking what you’re worth.”
Your face crumpled a little around the edges at that.
Not from pain this time exactly.
From being understood too closely.
You looked down.
“I don’t know if I can just… turn all this off.”
He followed your gaze.
“I’m not asking you to.”
You let that settle.
Then, very quietly, “I’m still angry with you.”
He nodded.
“You should be.”
“I kind of hate how decent you’re being about it.”
The laugh that escaped him this time was soft and brief and real.
“Maya already covered the less decent part.”
That startled a tired laugh out of you too.
Tiny.
Beautiful.
A crack of light.
From the kitchen, Maya called, “I can still hear you, and I regret nothing.”
You let your forehead fall briefly against Steve’s shoulder again, laughing weakly through the last of your tears.
His arm tightened around you – not possessive, not performative, just sure.
After a minute, Maya appeared in the doorway carrying three mugs.
She took one look at the two of you on the couch and narrowed her eyes at Steve.
“Did he say anything stupid?”
You wiped under your eyes and muttered, “Several things. But mostly the useful kind.”
Maya handed you the first mug, then held Steve’s just out of reach for a beat.
“Remember the stairs,” she told him.
Steve accepted the tea solemnly.
“I remember.”
She sat in the armchair opposite with the posture of a queen supervising a peace treaty.
No one minded.
You wrapped both hands around the mug and stared down into the steam.
The room felt fragile still.
Nothing fixed.
Nothing magically healed.
Your body was still tired.
Your appetite was still a problem.
The week had still happened.
Steve’s fear had still cut you.
Your own fear had still convinced you to disappear.
But he was here.
Not as Captain America.
Not as a strategy.
Not as a man hiding behind what was best for you.
Just Steve.
And when your fingers trembled once around the mug, his free hand found your knee under the blanket and stayed there, quiet and steady, not asking for anything.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
He met your gaze.
No more distance, something in his expression said.
Not the kind that lies and calls itself kindness.
You leaned very slightly into his side.
A choice so small no one else in the room would have noticed if they had not been looking.
A choice enormous enough to feel like the first honest thing you had done in days.
Steve exhaled like a man who had been waiting to breathe.
Maya sipped her tea and pretended not to see.
Outside, evening settled over the city in slow blue layers.
Inside, nothing was tidy.
Nothing was easy.
Nothing was finished.
But for the first time since the whole lie began, no one in the room was pretending.
And when Steve’s thumb moved once, warm and grounding where his hand rested against you, the thought that came was still frightened, still fragile, still bruised at the edges – but no longer hopeless.
He had not protected you by stepping away.
He knew that now.
So when he looked at you over the rim of his mug and said, quietly enough that only you could hear, “No more sacrificing yourself for me,” you believed he meant it.
And when you answered, voice raw but steady, “Then don’t leave me alone in it,” he set the mug down without breaking eye contact and said, with all the certainty he should have given you from the start, “I won’t.”
The first thing Steve did was cancel the interview.
PR called it impossible.
Steve called it another normal day.
You were still at Maya’s apartment the next morning when his name began lighting up the group email chain with replies so blunt they looked almost surreal against the corporate tone surrounding them.
Captain Rogers will not be attending Friday’s segment.
The arranged narrative ends here.
Any further press strategy goes through me before it goes through her.
You read the messages from the couch, wrapped in one of Maya’s blankets, tea cooling untouched in your hands.
Maya leaned over your shoulder, scanned the screen, and let out a low whistle.
“Well,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “There goes the national budget for public relations.”
Despite everything, a weak smile tugged at your mouth.
Steve had not stayed the night after finding you.
He had wanted to.
You had seen it in the way he lingered by the door, reluctant to go, as though leaving at all now felt suspect to him. But he had also understood that crowding your first breath after days underwater would only turn tenderness into pressure again.
So he had crouched beside the couch before leaving, looked at you with that open, impossible honesty that still made your chest hurt, and said, “I’ll call tomorrow. If you don’t answer, I’ll text. If you don’t answer that, I’ll still be here.”
Then he had looked at Maya and added, with grave sincerity, “Please don’t throw me down the stairs yet.”
Maya had taken a deliberate sip of tea and replied, “No promises.”
Now, in the washed-out grey of morning, his restraint felt like proof rather than distance.
A little later, your phone buzzed.
Can I come by later? Only if you want.
Simple.
No pressure.
No polished reassurance trying to outtalk your fear.
You stared at the screen.
Maya, slicing fruit at the counter with the focus of a woman pretending not to monitor your every micro-expression, said, “If you don’t answer that man soon, he’s going to start composing messages like a Regency widower.”
You typed back before you could lose courage.
Later is okay.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Thank you.
You looked at the words for a long time after the screen dimmed.
Returning to the Tower two days later felt like stepping back into a building that had learned your shape and your fractures both.
You had not wanted to come back too soon.
Maya had not wanted you to come back at all without backup.
In the end, compromise took the form of her driving you there personally and informing you, before you even got out of the car, that if anyone from PR so much as looked at you with a monetizable expression, she would set something on fire.
“You cannot threaten federal property,” you had muttered.
“Watch me.”
She had squeezed your shoulder once before letting you go.
The lobby felt the same.
That was the strange part.
The same polished floors.
The same quiet hum of elevators.
The same people moving through the space with coffee cups and tablets and the exhausting illusion that none of their lives were ever cracking under the surface.
And yet everything in you felt newly tender, as if the world had edges you had not noticed before.
Steve was waiting by the private elevator.
Of course he was.
No cameras.
No handlers.
No audience.
Just Steve in a dark henley and jeans, hands loose at his sides, looking at you as if he had spent every hour since leaving Maya’s apartment teaching himself not to rush forward.
Your steps slowed.
For one brief second, panic fluttered under your ribs – not because you did not want him there, but because you did. Too much. In ways still sore from being mishandled.
He read enough in your face to stay exactly where he was.
“Hey,” he said.
The softness of it nearly undid you on the spot.
“Hey.”
Silence stretched.
Not empty.
Just careful.
Then Steve asked, “Do you want to go upstairs, or do you want to leave right now and let Maya win?”
A startled laugh escaped you.
It was small.
It was still real.
His mouth curved in response, relief flickering openly this time.
“Upstairs,” you said.
He nodded once and pressed the elevator call button.
Inside, the ride was quiet. Your shoulders remained tight despite yourself, and you hated that he noticed immediately. You hated even more that he responded by simply shifting closer – not touching, not crowding, just making his presence available like a choice you could take or leave.
By the time the doors opened to the residential level, some small part of your body had remembered how to breathe normally again.
Natasha was the first to find you.
She appeared in the common kitchen like a ghost in expensive black, took one look at your face, and said, “You’re alive.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
Her expression barely changed, but something relieved moved behind her eyes.
“That depends.”
You set your bag down on the counter.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Natasha crossed the room and pulled you into a brief, hard hug that lasted exactly one heartbeat longer than you expected.
When she stepped back, you stared at her.
She picked up an apple from the fruit bowl as if nothing unusual had happened.
“You vanished,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“That was inconsiderate.”
A laugh caught in your throat. “Wow. And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We did,” she said. “It’s over now.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
Natasha bit into the apple.
“I know.”
There was no reproach in it, only fact. The same kind she always offered when feelings got too large for elegance.
After a beat, she added, “He looked like death.”
You glanced instinctively toward the doorway, though Steve had stayed back to give you room.
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It wasn’t meant to be comforting.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I considered pushing him off the roof.”
You blinked.
“You what?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Maya had already called dibs on violence.”
You laughed then. Properly. Startled and helpless and still too tired, but enough to make Natasha’s shoulders loosen by half an inch.
She finished the apple and tossed the core.
“Eat something,” she said. “You still look haunted.”
“Did everyone agree to phrase things as offensively as possible while I was gone?”
“Yes.”
Then she walked out, conversation apparently complete.
You stared after her.
From the doorway, Steve said quietly, “That was her being worried.”
You turned.
“I know.”
Something gentle passed across his face.
“I know you know.”
The PR meeting happened the next afternoon, and it was a disaster in the best possible way.
You had not wanted to attend.
Steve had given you an out before you even asked for one.
“You don’t have to go,” he had said that morning outside the conference room where this whole mess had begun. “I can handle it.”
The old reflex had risen instantly – be there, absorb the impact, make yourself useful, do not leave other people to clean up consequences that involved you.
Then Steve, as if hearing the exact shape of that thought before you said it, added, “Coming because you choose to is one thing. Coming because you think you owe them your body in a chair is another.”
That was enough to make you stop.
You went.
But this time you went knowing the exit existed.
The same room.
The same glass walls.
The same polished surface of the table where magazines and contracts and public affection had once been arranged like logistics.
This time, no one tried to smile at you.
The head of PR sat rigidly at one end of the table with a legal adviser beside her. Two others avoided your eyes entirely. The atmosphere smelled less like strategy now and more like contained panic.
Steve stood instead of sitting.
You sat near the door by choice.
Not trapped.
Not cornered.
Just present.
The woman from PR clasped her hands.
“We all understand emotions are running high,” she began.
Steve laughed once.
Not kindly.
“Is that what you think this is?”
The woman held his gaze. “What I think is that ending the arrangement abruptly creates new exposure, especially after the latest shoot–”
“The arrangement is over,” Steve said. “That part isn’t up for discussion.”
She looked at you then, as if hoping practicality might yet be found in the softer target.
“With respect, this affects both of you.”
Before you could answer, Steve said, “Then speak to both of us like people this time.”
The room went very still.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “No one intended disrespect.”
You found your voice before you had consciously decided to use it.
“You didn’t have to intend it.”
Every eye in the room shifted to you.
You hated that old instinct to shrink under attention. Hated even more how familiar it still felt. But Steve did not move to rescue you from it. He just stayed where he was – solid, quiet, there if you needed him and not taking the space from you unless asked.
So you continued.
“You called me into this room without warning. You pitched me as a solution before anyone asked whether I actually wanted to be one. And then you kept raising the price every time the public liked the story better than the truth.”
No one interrupted.
The woman from PR inhaled carefully.
“We were managing a difficult situation under intense public pressure.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you were very good at making that everyone else’s emergency.”
Beside you, Steve said nothing.
You could feel his attention on you anyway, steady as a hand at your back without actually touching you.
The lawyer leaned forward.
“What outcome are you asking for?”
For a second you almost laughed.
Outcome.
As if there were one neat enough to fit on paper.
Steve answered before you had to.
“You will not blame her publicly or privately for ending this.”
He spoke with crisp, terrifying calm.
“You will not leak, imply, or suggest that she was unstable, unavailable, noncompliant, or difficult. You will not send anyone to pressure her into salvaging the story. And you will not ever again call in someone under the pretense of consultation after deciding their answer for them.”
The head of PR looked like she wanted to argue every point and understood she could not afford to.
“We can issue a mutual statement about privacy and timing,” she said at last. “Respectful, brief, no scandal language.”
Steve nodded once. “Good.”
She hesitated.
“And the recent photographs?”
The kiss.
The magazine.
The cover that would probably still run in some altered form because the machine rarely stopped just because it had hurt someone.
Your stomach tightened.
Then Steve said, “Spin it however you want. We were private. We reconsidered. We chose not to continue publicly. I don’t care.”
His gaze hardened.
“But if I hear even a whisper that this is being put on her, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”
The woman looked at you then, perhaps hoping you might moderate him.
Instead, you said, quietly, “I’m done being useful to this.”
Silence.
Not hostile.
Not shocked.
Just the silence that falls when a truth finally lands in the room where it belonged all along.
The meeting ended ten minutes later.
When you stepped back into the hallway, your legs felt strange. Light. Unsteady. As though some old brace inside you had been removed and your body had not figured out how to stand without it yet.
Steve followed, letting the conference room door close behind him.
“You okay?”
The question no longer felt like surveillance.
That was new.
You let out a breath.
“I think I just told off an entire department.”
“You did.”
“And they didn’t combust.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
You smiled.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Steve held out a protein bar from his pocket.
You stared at it.
His expression was perfectly serious.
“Maya texted me before the meeting,” he said. “She said if I let you leave that room without food, she was revisiting the stairs question.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“You two are terrifying.”
“I know.”
You took the bar.
Opened it.
Ate half because he stood there waiting and because somehow the act no longer felt like obedience so much as being looked after.
The distinction mattered.
More than you expected.
The statement went out that evening.
Brief.
Careful.
Vague enough to satisfy the public and boring enough to kill the frenzy.
After recent public speculation, Captain Rogers and his companion have chosen to keep their personal lives private and will not be making further comment. They appreciate the support and ask for understanding regarding boundaries moving forward.
People read into it, of course.
Some thought you had broken up.
Some thought the relationship had always been private and simply became too exposed.
Some spun conspiracies.
Some wrote think pieces.
Some mourned the loss of a romance they had never actually possessed.
For the first time since the whole thing began, you did not care very much.
Because the truth had moved somewhere smaller and more important.
Into hallways.
Into kitchens.
Into the space outside your door at night where Steve still knocked before entering and waited for permission like he was relearning the shape of your trust from scratch.
He did not rush you.
That might have been the most loving thing of all.
He stayed near.
He stayed honest.
And he let you have bad days without treating them like evidence that he ought to step back for your own good.
When you went to therapy that Thursday and came back wrung out and quiet, there was tea outside your room again.
This time with a note.
No vanishing. – S
You stood in the hallway staring at the handwriting until your vision blurred a little.
Then you carried the mug inside.
The next few weeks were not cinematic.
You did not magically become secure.
He did not transform overnight into a man with no instinct toward self-sacrifice or overprotection.
Your appetite returned slowly.
Sleep returned inconsistently.
There were still moments when your brain reached for its oldest, cruelest explanations before anything gentler could catch up.
But now Steve was there to interrupt them.
Not by denying your feelings.
Not by soothing them into nothing.
Just by staying long enough that the thoughts had to compete with reality.
One night, after a mission briefing ran late and left the Tower washed in that strange, hollow quiet of near midnight, you found him in the kitchen making grilled cheese like it was a tactical operation.
You paused in the doorway.
He looked up and smiled, tired and immediate.
“There you are.”
Something about the words warmed you from the inside out.
“Is that one for me?”
He glanced down at the pan. “Depends. Are you planning to insult my cooking?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then no.”
You crossed the room and sat on the counter while he plated the sandwiches. It was such an old, familiar shape between you that for a second grief moved through you – grief for how close you had come to losing it entirely.
Steve set a plate beside you and leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded.
For a while, you just ate.
Then, because honesty had become a habit neither of you could afford to lose now, you said, “I still keep waiting for you to decide this is too much.”
His eyes lifted to yours at once.
“This?”
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
The kitchen.
Your terrible coping mechanisms.
His feelings.
Everything.
“All of it.”
He was quiet for a beat.
Then he said, “I think the problem was that I already decided it mattered too much. And I got scared.”
You swallowed.
“But scared of something isn’t the same as wanting less of it.”
The sentence settled deep.
You looked down at the plate in your lap.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No,” he said. “I just say it plainly.”
A smile tugged at your mouth.
“That too.”
He set his own plate aside and stepped closer.
Not too close.
Never presumptuous.
Just enough that if you wanted to close the distance, you could.
“You can ask me again tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. Or every time you need to.”
Your throat tightened.
“That sounds exhausting.”
His eyes softened.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve good stamina.”
You laughed quietly and set your plate down beside you.
He was close enough now that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the softness at the edges of exhaustion, the sincerity still too large for his own face sometimes.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitated.
Then forced the words out before you could edit them into something safer.
“What if I still don’t know how to do this right?”
His expression changed with such immediate tenderness that you almost looked away.
Instead, you made yourself stay.
He reached out slowly, giving you every second to stop him, and rested his hand lightly against your knee.
“You don’t have to do it right.”
The old ache moved in your chest again, but gentler now. Less like a bruise, more like healing tissue.
“Then what?”
He leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed yours.
“We do it honestly,” he said. “And we keep showing up.”
The space between you thinned to breath.
This time, when he kissed you, there were no cameras.
No contracts.
No waiting headlines.
Only choice.
His mouth was soft at first, asking rather than taking. You answered before your fear could get there first, hand sliding to the front of his shirt, and felt the answering warmth of his body shift nearer.
It was not desperate like the night that had blown everything apart.
Not hungry with panic or denial or weeks of wanting sharpened into recklessness.
It was better.
Slower.
Warmer.
Deliberate.
A kiss that knew exactly what it was doing and wanted to stay.
When he drew back, he kept his forehead against yours and smiled the smallest, quietest smile.
You exhaled shakily.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was alarmingly real.”
The laugh he gave then was soft and low and so fond it nearly made your heart stop.
“That’s because it is.”
For one dangerous second, your mind tried to flinch.
Tried to catalogue all the ways real things could still be lost.
Then Steve’s hand slid from your knee to your waist, steady and sure, and stayed there.
Not trapping.
Not claiming.
Just present.
And you remembered, all at once, that love did not have to arrive as certainty to be true.
That maybe it could come like this instead – messy, frightened, honest, still choosing to remain.
You touched his jaw with careful fingers.
“I’m still a mess,” you said quietly.
His eyes held yours.
“I know.”
Not despite.
Not but.
Just truth.
Something in you loosened.
You let out a breath that felt like setting down a weight you had carried so long you no longer noticed the strain of it.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Steve’s thumb brushed once at your side.
“Okay.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the Tower glass, the city kept moving – messy and loud and alive, full of stories people told because neat endings comforted them.
Inside, your story was still unfinished.
Still imperfect.
Still human.
There would be hard days.
Bad nights.
Moments when old fears rose up and called themselves facts.
Moments when Steve would have to choose honesty over instinct all over again.
Moments when you would have to believe being loved was not the same thing as being useful.
But there would also be this: his hand at your waist in a kitchen lit gold after midnight, grilled cheese cooling on a plate, your forehead against his, and the quiet, radical miracle of not having to pretend anymore.
Everything had been a mess.
Maybe some of it still was.
But when Steve kissed you again – real and certain and entirely yours – what you thought, with a kind of bruised wonder, was not that everything had finally become perfect.
Only that it was real anyway.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Summary: You agree to fake-date Steve Rogers because it’s useful, convenient, and easier than saying no. Unfortunately, being loved like a performance starts to feel dangerously close to wanting the real thing.
Wordcount: 27.4k (I KNOW)
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: anxiety, low self-worth, emotional hurt/comfort, fake dating, media pressure, insomnia, difficulty eating, miscommunication, consensual sex (no smut, no explicitly described), brief disappearance, angst with a happy ending
A/N: I know I said I wasn't going to post anything in April, but as the saying goes "A wise man changes his mind sometimes, a fool never." This was beta read by Cassie (thank you as always)
Masterlist
The call came just after lunch.
Not a text. Not a casual request passed along in the hallway. A direct message from one of Fury’s assistants, clipped and impersonal, asking you to report to Conference Room 26 immediately.
That alone told you enough to make your stomach tighten.
Urgent meetings in the Tower rarely meant anything good. They meant damage control. Strategy. Containment. They meant polished shoes on expensive floors and people using soft voices to discuss hard things. They meant walking into a room and realizing, two minutes too late, that everyone else already knew why you had been summoned.
By the time you reached the twenty-sixth floor, your pulse had settled into that awful, steady rhythm you recognized from therapy. Not panic. Not yet. Just the warning signs. The sense that something unpleasant was about to be asked of you, and that you would smile while it happened.
The assistant outside the conference room gave you a sympathetic look that did nothing to help.
You pushed the door open.
Everyone was already there.
Two members of the PR team sat at one end of the glass table with folders open in front of them. A legal adviser sat beside them, expression unreadable. Natasha lounged in a chair near the far side of the room, one leg crossed over the other, face smooth and detached in that way of hers that told you she was paying attention to everything.
And Steve stood near the windows.
Your eyes found him instantly, automatically, before you could stop them.
He stood with his arms crossed and his jaw set, broad shoulders rigid beneath a navy button-down that looked as though he had put it on in a hurry. Sunlight from the windows cut across one side of his face, throwing the other into shadow. He looked as if he had been restraining himself for some time already.
He also looked as though he hated being there.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
You told yourself not to be ridiculous.
The woman from PR gestured toward the empty chair near the middle of the table.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please, sit down.”
You did.
Only then did you notice the magazines.
They had been spread across the table in a fan, glossy covers turned upward like evidence at a trial. The same photograph appeared on every one of them.
Steve and Natasha.
Too close. That was the whole trick of it.
Steve’s hand rested at the small of Natasha’s back. Natasha stood angled toward him, her face tipped up. The camera had caught the two of them in the half-second before movement resolved into something harmless. In the still frame, it looked intimate. Charged. Damning, if someone wanted it to be.
And apparently a great many people wanted it to be.
You read the nearest headline.
AMERICA’S GOLDEN BOY AND THE BLACK WIDOW: SECRET ROMANCE?
The next one was worse.
LOVE, LIES, OR A MISSION GONE TOO FAR?
Another.
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST DANGEROUS AFFAIR
Natasha followed your gaze and let out a low, humorless breath through her nose.
“Creative,” she said.
“There is nothing going on between us,” Steve said immediately.
His voice was calm, but only in the way winter was calm. Cold enough to burn.
The legal adviser folded his hands. “We are aware of that.”
“The public isn’t,” the second PR representative said, with the brittle patience of someone repeating a rehearsed line. “And speculation escalated much faster than projected. The story spread across entertainment media by morning, and now mainstream outlets are picking it up. We’re already seeing a measurable effect on public sentiment toward the team.”
Natasha arched one eyebrow. “Because apparently the world has nothing better to do.”
The woman gave her a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Unfortunately, public perception matters.”
Steve uncrossed his arms.
“Our personal life shouldn’t be public property.”
“With respect,” the lawyer replied, “that distinction becomes difficult when the image of Captain America directly affects government relationships, sponsorships, charitable partnerships, and the Avengers’ general standing.”
Steve’s mouth hardened.
You kept your attention on the magazines because they were easier to look at than him.
It was a ridiculous story. You knew that. Anybody who actually knew Natasha knew how absurd it was. Anybody who knew Steve would have laughed at the melodrama of it. But none of that mattered. A photograph did not need to be true. It only needed to be convincing.
And people always preferred convincing over true.
The first PR representative straightened the papers in front of her.
“We considered several possible responses,” she said. “A formal denial. A coordinated media correction. Redirecting the narrative through unrelated public appearances. However, our team agreed that the most effective approach would be a more stable, organic counter-story.”
You already knew you were not going to like whatever came next.
She looked directly at you.
“We believe Captain Rogers would benefit from a public romantic cover.”
The room went still.
Steve turned sharply. “No.”
The word cracked across the glass and chrome.
The woman did not flinch. “Captain–”
“No,” he repeated. “That is not what I agreed to discuss.”
“You agreed to hear options.”
“I agreed to hear options related to the story. Not this.”
Your stomach tightened further.
Something in Natasha’s posture changed, almost too small to notice. Not guilt, exactly. More like preparation. The moment before a trained operative took a hit she had already decided was necessary.
The PR representative folded her hands.
“We also discussed potential candidates.”
Steve stared at her as if he could stop the next sentence by force of will alone.
She continued anyway.
“Natasha suggested your name.”
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
You looked at Natasha.
She met your eyes without any visible apology.
Because of course she did.
Steve turned toward her, incredulous anger flashing openly across his face now.
“You brought her into this without asking her?”
“I gave them a name they couldn’t misuse,” Natasha said. Her tone remained even, but there was steel beneath it. “That was the alternative.”
“You don’t volunteer people like that.”
“You think they wouldn’t have thought of her on their own?”
The question landed badly because everybody in the room knew the answer.
The PR team exchanged a glance. The woman nearest you leaned forward slightly, softening her voice into something almost kind.
“You two already have an established friendship. You’re comfortable together in public settings. You work within the same circles. There’s no obvious conflict of schedule. And,” she added, “it helps that the public response to previous photos of you together has been overwhelmingly positive.”
You blinked.
“Previous photos?”
The woman opened a folder and slid a few printed pages toward you.
There they were.
You and Steve leaving a charity gala side by side. Steve leaning down to hear something you had said over the crowd. Another shot from six months ago of the two of you at a community event, his hand at your elbow as the pair of you laughed about something off-camera. A candid from the Tower rooftop after a press conference, both of you in profile, talking close enough for gossip columns to make poetry out of it.
Your face went hot.
You had not known any of those pictures were circulating.
Or maybe you had known, vaguely, in the way you always knew your life became content the second a lens turned your way, but you had never let yourself think too hard about it.
“It would read as natural,” the lawyer said. “Credible. Reassuring.”
Steve let out a short, disbelieving laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever.
“Reassuring to who?”
The woman did not answer him. She kept her eyes on you.
“The arrangement would be limited. Time-bound. Carefully managed. A small number of public appearances, perhaps a few interviews, controlled photo opportunities, and social visibility enough to redirect attention. Nothing invasive. Nothing beyond what is agreed upon.”
Nothing invasive.
You almost admired how cleanly they lied.
Steve stepped closer to the table.
“She doesn’t owe any of you that.”
The words came low and sharp.
No one answered immediately.
You looked up at him then.
He was already looking at you.
There was anger in his face, yes, but not directed at you. Never at you. It was something worse, in a way – something that made your chest feel too tight, because it meant he saw what was happening clearly, and he hated it.
It also meant he was making it harder.
Because if he had been indifferent, this would have been simple.
If he had looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, reluctant in the selfish sort of way, you could have accepted the proposal with the numb practicality you used for every other unpleasant thing in your life. But Steve looked furious on your behalf, and that made the whole room tilt slightly under your feet.
You glanced back down at the printed photographs.
Useful.
The word rose in your head with ugly familiarity.
It was a small word. An efficient word. The kind that sounded almost like praise if no one listened too closely.
Useful meant there was a reason to keep you around.
Useful meant there was still a place for you in the room.
Useful meant you did not have to ask whether anyone would choose you if you stopped giving them reasons.
Therapy had not cured that thought. It had only taught you how to hear it more clearly when it arrived.
You could picture your therapist’s face with irritating precision.
You do not have to earn your place every second of the day.
Maybe not.
But earning it still felt safer than trusting it.
“What exactly would it involve?” you asked.
Steve’s expression changed at once. Not softened. Worse. He looked as though he already knew why you were asking, and hated the answer.
The PR woman moved quickly, relieved to have the conversation back under control.
“Public dinners. A few visible outings. Coordinated media appearances when appropriate. Depending on the coverage, perhaps a magazine profile – something tasteful, emphasizing normalcy and stability. You would be briefed in advance. We would set boundaries. You would not be expected to share anything genuinely private.”
Normalcy and stability.
You nearly laughed.
The lawyer added, “If both parties agree, the arrangement could last until attention shifts or until another story cycle displaces this one.”
You thought of the Tower.
Of the unspoken ways everybody slotted into place there.
Heroes. specialists. scientists. assets. liabilities.
You thought of yourself drifting around the edges of something bigger than you, never fully certain whether you belonged or whether people simply tolerated you because you were competent enough to be convenient.
You thought of the Thursdays you spent in your therapist’s office, ankles crossed, trying not to sound as damaged as you felt while admitting, again and again, that some part of you remained convinced affection was a temporary reward for usefulness.
And beneath all of it, like a thread you refused to tug too hard…
Steve.
Steve, who always remembered whether you had eaten after long debriefs.
Steve, who walked at your pace when the others were in a hurry.
Steve, who watched you with a steadiness that unsettled you because it felt too close to understanding.
He liked you. You knew that much.
Maybe only as a friend. Maybe in that broad, generous way Steve liked people who needed gentleness and never asked for it. But he liked you. Enough that Natasha had used it. Enough that the room had built a plan around it.
And if you said yes, then at least there would be a reason for him to keep choosing your company.
Even if it was fake.
Especially if it was fake.
“Don’t,” Steve said quietly.
The room seemed to draw in around that single word.
He had not raised his voice. He had not moved any closer. But suddenly the polished conference room and the magazines and the PR strategy all fell away, and it felt as though he was speaking only to you.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Nobody else in the room mattered for a second.
You held his gaze.
There it was again – that terrible, unbearable sincerity.
He meant it.
He truly meant it.
You did not know what to do with that.
It would have been easier if he had looked relieved at the possibility. Easier if he had treated you like a practical solution. Easier if he had not cared. But Steve caring always made things harder, because it touched the parts of you you spent most of your time trying to hide under humor and usefulness and polished competence.
Your fingers tightened in your lap.
Someone had to make the room move again.
If you let silence sit much longer, he might do something noble and inconvenient, like refuse outright. He might blow the whole thing apart. He might protect you in front of everybody and leave you standing there with nothing to offer in return except the proof that, yet again, you had needed rescuing.
You could not bear that.
So you smiled.
A small one. Controlled. The version you used when you needed to make yourself easy to handle.
“It’s temporary, right?” you asked the PR team.
The woman nodded immediately. “Exactly.”
You looked back at Steve.
“It’s fine.”
His expression did not change, but something in it sank.
“It isn’t,” he said.
You forced a lighter tone. “It’s not like they’re asking for my kidney.”
No one laughed.
Of course no one laughed.
You could feel Natasha watching you now, sharp and silent.
The lawyer slid a paper across the table, though not close enough for you to mistake it for a contract yet. More like the outline of one. Terms. Timelines. Talking points. Behavioral expectations. Public presentation. Media discretion.
An idylle, manufactured line by line.
“I accept,” you said.
The words came out too smoothly. Too quickly. You heard it the second they left your mouth, the practiced compliance in them. The old reflex. Make yourself useful. Make the difficult thing easier for everyone else. Smile while it hurts.
Across from you, Steve went utterly still.
The PR woman exhaled in visible relief.
“Thank you. I know this is not a small ask.”
No, you thought. It was not.
But somehow that did not mean anyone had really asked.
Steve planted both hands on the table and leaned in just enough to draw every eye in the room.
“She said yes too fast.”
The legal adviser stiffened. “Captain Rogers–”
“She was called in here with no warning, shown a tabloid scandal, and handed a solution before she had time to think. That’s not consent. That’s pressure.”
Heat rose under your skin so fast it almost felt like anger.
Because he was right.
And because he was saying it out loud.
You hated when people saw too much.
The woman from PR adjusted her posture. “No one is forcing–”
“You barely asked her opinion,” Steve cut in.
His voice remained measured, but the restraint in it sounded expensive. Like something held together under stress.
You straightened in your chair.
“I said yes.”
Steve turned to you fully.
The look on his face made your throat tighten.
Not frustration. Not disappointment.
Worry.
Real, immediate worry, edged with something close to hurt.
“Think about it first,” he said.
You knew he was trying to help. That was the problem. The softness of it, right there in front of everybody, made you want to retreat into something sharper.
“If I want more time, I’ll say so.”
“That’s not what I’m–”
“I know.”
You swallowed.
Your voice came out steadier on the second attempt.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
You wished he would look away first. He did not.
In the end, Natasha broke the silence.
“She understands what this is.”
You glanced at her.
Her face gave you nothing, but you knew her well enough to see the tension in the set of her mouth. She was not enjoying this. She simply believed in choosing the least disastrous option and living with the collateral damage.
You wondered whether becoming like that made life easier.
Probably not.
The meeting dragged on after that, because of course it did. Once your yes had been secured, everybody relaxed just enough to become efficient.
Schedules were discussed.
Potential narratives.
Public overlap that could be repurposed.
Shared appearances that would look “spontaneous.”
Guidelines for interviews.
Suggested language if either of you were pressed for details.
You listened. You answered when required. You did not let yourself look at Steve too often, because every time you did, you found his attention already on you.
By the time the papers were gathered and the meeting adjourned, you felt scraped hollow.
The PR team thanked you again, all warm professionalism and brittle gratitude. The lawyer reminded both of you that formal terms would be drafted by evening. Natasha stood before you did, collecting her phone from the table with a fluid motion that suggested she already wanted to be somewhere else.
You rose more slowly.
Steve moved at once.
“We need to talk.”
The PR woman made a soft objection. “Captain, we still need fifteen minutes to review–”
“No,” he said without taking his eyes off you. “We don’t.”
He walked to the door and held it open.
You should have refused. You should have said you needed a minute. You should have insisted you were fine and gone anywhere except alone with Steve Rogers while your emotions were already sliding loose under your skin.
Instead, because you had never been very good at the choices that protected you, you followed him out.
The door shut behind the two of you with a quiet click.
The hallway beyond the conference room was empty and bright, the kind of immaculate corporate corridor that always made you feel as though you were trapped inside somebody else’s version of professionalism. Steve did not lead you far. He stopped near the windows at the end of the hall, where the city spread below in glittering afternoon distance.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Steve turned to face you.
“What was that?”
There was no accusation in it. That somehow made it worse.
You leaned one shoulder against the glass and crossed your arms, aiming for casual.
“A meeting.”
His expression did not budge.
“You know what I mean.”
You gave him a tired half-smile. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Rogers. There were charts. Legal language. At least three different uses of the phrase public confidence. It was hard to keep up.”
He did not take the bait.
“You didn’t want to do it.”
You looked away, down at the traffic threading through the streets far below.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
There was no room in his voice for easy escape. No irritation, no self-righteousness. Just certainty.
You hated certainty when it was aimed at you.
“Why are you making this into a bigger deal than it is?” you asked.
His jaw tightened.
“Because they cornered you.”
“They asked.”
“They manipulated you.”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“You say that like it’s unusual around here.”
Something flickered in his face then. Not surprise – he knew enough about the world, and probably about you, to know exactly what you meant. But there was pain there. Brief and visible.
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
You shrugged.
The motion felt brittle. “It’s useful.”
The second the word left your mouth, Steve’s expression changed.
It was subtle but devastating, the way all the warmth in his face dimmed into something more intent, more troubled.
“Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“That.” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that ignoring him became impossible. “Talk about yourself like that.”
A sharp, defensive laugh escaped you.
“Oh, come on. I’m not exactly collapsing onto a fainting couch. I’m helping.”
“That’s not what you said.”
You looked at him properly then.
He was too close to the truth again. Too close to the thing under the thing.
You knew, in scattered pieces, what Steve understood about you. Not everything. But enough. Enough to know your jokes tended to arrive a beat too fast when you were anxious. Enough to know you vanished into work when your head got bad. Enough to know Thursdays were therapy days and you always came back from them quieter than before.
Enough, apparently, to hear one small word and recognize the wound inside it.
You forced another shrug.
“It’s temporary. It helps the team. Natasha thought I made sense. End of story.”
“It isn’t the end.”
“Steve.”
He softened at once when you said his name, and that somehow undid you more than anything else had.
You pressed on before he could speak.
“I said yes because I can handle it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is, actually.”
His brows drew together. “No, the point is that you shouldn’t have had to.”
You stared at him.
There it was.
That impossible decency.
You should have found it comforting. Instead it made something sore crack open under your ribs.
Because he really believed that.
He really believed you should not have been treated like a convenient answer.
He believed you were worth protecting from that.
And all you could think was that if you stopped being useful, if you stopped making yourself easy and available and worthwhile on command, people eventually remembered they had no real reason to keep you.
Maybe Steve would not. But the rest of the world had taught you the lesson too many times for one kind man to erase it.
“It’s okay,” you said, too softly this time.
His face changed again. He looked as though the words physically pained him.
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
The honesty of it made your eyes burn, which was unacceptable. Crying in a corridor because Steve Rogers cared too much was not on today’s schedule.
So you reached for humor like a reflexive shield.
“Well,” you said, “the good news is I’ve apparently been pre-approved by the public. That’s flattering. I should put it on my résumé.”
Still nothing.
You let the smile fall.
“Steve.”
He waited.
“If I say no now, after they already pitched it, after Natasha already put my name forward, after all of this…” You gestured vaguely toward the conference room. “Then what? They pick someone else? Some actress? Some stranger? Turn your life into even more of a circus?”
“That isn’t your responsibility.”
“Maybe not.”
“But?”
You inhaled slowly.
“But I can help.”
The words sat between you.
Steve looked at you for a long second, and you had the absurd feeling that he could see every ugly thing you did not say aloud.
I can help.
I know how to do that.
I know how to be useful.
I know how to stay if someone gives me a job to justify my presence.
He scrubbed a hand briefly over his mouth, then dropped it.
“You shouldn’t have to earn your place here.”
Your heart gave one painful, traitorous beat.
It would have been easier if he had not used those words. Easier if they had not been so close to what your therapist said when you stared at the carpet and insisted you were easier to love when you were needed for something.
You laughed once, very quietly.
“Did Nat tell you that, or did you pick it up all by yourself?”
His gaze did not waver. “You’re not hard to read when you’re hurting.”
That landed so precisely it left you speechless.
You looked away first.
The city below blurred for a second, then steadied.
When you spoke again, your voice sounded flatter.
“I accepted.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not changing my mind.”
That was not entirely true, and both of you knew it. But changing your mind would have required admitting that the decision had touched something raw, and you were not prepared to do that while standing five feet from Steve in a hallway too bright for honesty.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then, quieter, “Did you do this because you thought I wanted you to?”
Your head snapped toward him.
“No.”
The answer came so quickly it startled even you.
Steve held your gaze.
You swallowed.
“No,” you repeated, slower now. “I know you didn’t.”
Which was its own problem, really.
Because if he had wanted it, then at least there would have been a clear shape to your humiliation. A transaction. A reason. But Steve looked at the whole idea as though it offended him personally, and you had agreed anyway.
For the team, you told yourself.
For the mission.
For the image.
For practicality.
Not because some shameful, hidden part of you had lit up at the idea of being allowed to stand beside him and call it a role.
Steve nodded once, almost to himself.
“All right.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s it?”
“No.”
His voice went gentler, though his face remained grave.
“If you’re doing this, then we do it on your terms too.”
A hollow laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “I don’t think that’s how fake dating works.”
“It is if I say it does.”
You should not have smiled at that.
Unfortunately, you did.
It was small and brief and exhausted, but it was real, and Steve’s expression eased by the tiniest degree in response, as though he had been waiting for proof that you were still there under all the defenses.
He straightened.
“No surprises,” he said. “No one pushes you into interviews you haven’t agreed to. No appearances added without warning. No physical anything unless we both sign off on it first.”
Your mouth twitched. “Physical anything?”
He looked so stern about it that you almost laughed again.
“Yes.”
“You make this sound deeply glamorous.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
He paused.
Then, carefully, “And if at any point you want out, you tell me. I don’t care what PR says. I don’t care what legal says. You tell me, and we end it.”
Something hot and painful moved through your chest at the quiet steadiness of that promise.
You covered it with the first thing you could.
“You’d make a terrible fake boyfriend,” you said. “Too ethical.”
To your relief, that earned the smallest flicker of amusement from him.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
He looked at you a moment longer, then said, “I mean it.”
And because he did, because he always did, you nodded.
“All right.”
He did not seem satisfied, but he let it go.
For now.
Footsteps approached from down the hall. One of the assistants, probably coming to retrieve him. The world beginning to move again whether either of you was ready or not.
You pushed away from the glass.
“Well,” you said, aiming for lightness one last time, “congratulations. Apparently we’re a believable romance.”
Steve’s eyes stayed on you.
“That isn’t what worries me.”
Before you could ask what did, the assistant reached the end of the corridor and slowed, visibly uncertain whether to interrupt.
Steve stepped back.
The distance returned all at once, neat and polite and awful.
“I have to go back in,” he said.
“Of course.”
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Are you all right?”
There were a thousand true answers to that question.
None of them fit in a hallway.
So you gave him the familiar lie, polished smooth from use.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”
He looked at you as if he knew exactly what that answer was worth.
Still, he nodded.
You watched him walk back toward the conference room, broad-shouldered and controlled and far too good for your own peace of mind.
Only when he disappeared behind the door did you let your head tip back against the window.
You stared up at the ceiling and counted your breaths the way your therapist taught you.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
A message from Natasha.
Come find me before you spiral.
You closed your eyes.
A second buzz followed almost immediately.
And before you say you’re not spiraling, don’t.
A weak laugh escaped you despite everything.
You pushed off the glass and headed for the elevators.
You found Natasha in the training room mezzanine, perched on the railing with one knee drawn up, coffee in one hand and the city at her back. She glanced over as you approached, then looked away again as if granting you the dignity of not being watched too closely.
You stopped a few feet from her.
“So,” you said. “You volunteered me.”
Natasha took a slow sip of coffee.
“I suggested you.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it was almost offensive.
You folded your arms. “That’s not better.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
You had prepared yourself for deflection. For pragmatism polished into indifference. Her lack of defense threw you off balance.
You shifted your weight.
“Why me?”
Natasha lowered the cup.
For a second, she studied the skyline rather than you.
“Because they were going to solve it with a woman either way.”
You did not answer.
She continued.
“If they picked on their own, they would have chosen someone photogenic, agreeable, and disposable. Someone they could control. Someone who didn’t know Steve and wouldn’t know when they were pushing him too far.”
You frowned.
“And you thought I was the better option?”
“I thought you were the safer one.”
The words sat strangely in your chest.
You leaned against the railing beside her, keeping several feet between you.
“That’s not exactly flattering.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
At least she was honest.
The silence stretched.
Then Natasha added, “He likes you.”
Your head turned sharply.
She did not look at you. That somehow made it worse.
“In a catastrophic, painfully noble, I’m-going-to-prioritize-your-wellbeing-over-my-own sort of way,” she went on. “Which is inconvenient, because it makes him predictable.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No.”
You stared at her profile.
Natasha raised the cup again.
“He watches you,” she said. “He notices when you disappear into yourself. He notices when you’re tired. He knows your therapy schedule.”
Your face went hotter.
“Why do you know that he knows that?”
“Because I know him.”
She finally glanced sideways at you then, expression cool and unreadable.
“And because he asked me once whether I thought it was a bad idea to leave tea outside your door after a hard session if he didn’t want to make you feel observed.”
Your breath caught.
For one absurd second, the entire room seemed to tilt.
Tea.
There had been evenings when you came back from therapy hollowed out and found a mug waiting on the small table outside your room. No note. No explanation. Just tea made exactly the way you liked it.
You had never known who left it.
Natasha watched realization hit your face and gave the slightest shrug.
“He overthinks everything.”
You looked away before she could see too much.
The city beyond the glass had gone hazy in the late afternoon light.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you said.
“That depends on what you want it to mean.”
“I don’t want it to mean anything.”
A lie.
Natasha was too merciful to call you on it.
Instead, she said, “He was angry in there.”
“I noticed.”
“Not because of the arrangement.”
You turned back to her.
She met your eyes evenly.
“He was angry because they treated you like you’d say yes before they even asked.”
Your throat tightened.
You stared at her, suddenly unable to decide whether you wanted to laugh or throw something.
“Well,” you said after a beat, “they were right.”
For the first time, something close to frustration crossed Natasha’s face.
“That isn’t a virtue.”
You looked down at your hands.
“No,” you said quietly. “I know.”
She finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the railing.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I didn’t offer your name because you’re convenient.”
You said nothing.
“I offered it because if Steve had to do this with anyone, I wanted it to be someone he’d never treat carelessly.”
That should not have mattered.
Unfortunately, it did.
You hated how much it did.
You let out a slow breath. “That’s a lot of faith to put in two people who didn’t actually choose this.”
Natasha’s mouth curved, faint and sharp.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
You rolled your eyes despite yourself, and she took that as the opening she wanted.
“Go eat,” she said. “You get brittle when you haven’t eaten.”
You gave her a flat look. “Did Steve tell you that too?”
“No. I have eyes.”
You pushed off the railing.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
“For what?”
“For at least admitting you blindsided me.”
Natasha inclined her head once.
Then, just as you turned away, she added, “Try not to break him.”
You stopped.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, incredulous and thin.
“That’s funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
You walked out before you had to answer that.
By evening, the arrangement became real in the ugliest possible way: through documents.
A preliminary draft landed in your inbox just after seven. You opened it from your bed with your shoes still on, the lamp in the corner casting weak amber light across the room.
It was all there.
Projected duration: six to eight weeks, subject to media response.
Initial public appearance: charity benefit next Friday.
Possible interview windows.
Approved topics.
Discouraged topics.
Physical boundaries to be discussed jointly in advance.
Crisis response if one of you was photographed with someone else.
Suggested wording if asked how the relationship began.
You stared longest at that last one.
We had been friends for a while. Things changed naturally.
Naturally.
You almost threw your phone across the room.
Instead, you dropped it onto the blanket beside you and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until bursts of color swam behind them.
Your room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that let every thought arrive clearly.
You wondered if Steve had already received the same document.
You wondered whether he hated it as much as you did.
You wondered whether he regretted that Natasha had ever suggested your name.
You wondered whether, somewhere under all of this, there was a part of him that wished it had been real.
That last thought was the most dangerous, so naturally it stuck.
A knock sounded at your door.
You froze.
Another knock. Softer this time.
You got up, crossed the room, and opened the door halfway.
Steve stood in the hallway holding a paper bag from the kitchen.
Of course he did.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted the bag slightly.
“You skipped dinner.”
You stared at him.
He shifted, almost self-conscious under your silence.
“I figured you might not want the common room.”
The absurd tenderness of it hit you so hard you almost had to grip the edge of the door to steady yourself.
“Are you monitoring my meals now, Captain?”
“No,” he said, then paused. “Not officially.”
That got a startled, helpless laugh out of you.
His mouth softened in response. Not a full smile, but close.
“Can I come in?”
You stepped aside.
He entered carefully, like a man approaching a skittish animal he had no intention of frightening. He set the bag on your desk and unpacked its contents with quiet efficiency: a plate, still warm. A bottle of water. An apple. A packet of crackers.
“You brought crackers.”
“You forget you like them when you’re stressed.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize what he had said and glanced down briefly, as if annoyed with himself for making his noticing too obvious.
“I pay attention,” he said simply.
Yes, you thought. That is exactly the problem.
You sat on the edge of the bed because it felt safer than standing. Steve remained by the desk for a moment before pulling the chair around to face you. He sat, forearms resting on his thighs, posture open and unthreatening.
There was no version of him that did not make the room feel smaller.
“I read the draft,” he said.
“So did I.”
“It’s worse in writing.”
A humorless smile tugged at your mouth. “That feels like an achievement.”
He did not smile back.
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“I know.”
“If you want out–”
“I know.”
You exhaled and looked at your hands.
“Steve, please stop asking me if I’m sure.”
He fell silent.
When you looked up, there was frustration in his face now, but only with the situation, never with you.
“I’m asking because you looked like you were agreeing to something you thought you had to survive.”
That was too accurate.
You glanced away again.
“Maybe I am.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
The room went still.
You wished instantly that you could drag them back.
Steve did not pounce on them. He did not rush to fill the silence with comfort or questions. He just stayed where he was, letting the truth lie between you without trying to force it into something prettier.
When he finally spoke, his voice had gone very quiet.
“You don’t have to survive us.”
You laughed once under your breath, but there was no humor in it.
“Maybe not. But I do have to survive this place.”
He studied you for a long moment.
Then he said, “Is that how it feels to you?”
The answer was yes.
Yes, on the bad days.
Yes, when every room felt full of people who belonged to history while you barely felt allowed to belong to the present.
Yes, when being competent was the only thing that kept you from feeling ornamental.
You did not know how to say any of that without sounding pathetic.
So you gave him the edited version.
“Sometimes.”
Steve absorbed that with visible difficulty.
“I’m sorry.”
Your head lifted.
“For what?”
“For not noticing sooner.”
That was so unfairly kind it made your eyes sting again.
“You noticed,” you said, before you could think better of it.
He held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
Silence.
Then, softly, because pretending suddenly seemed impossible, “Was it you?”
His brow furrowed. “Was what me?”
“The tea.”
Understanding moved across his face in a slow, almost reluctant wave.
Natasha, he thought with a flash of betrayal. Traitor.
Steve looked down briefly, then back at you.
“Yes.”
Your pulse stumbled.
“You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want you to feel like I was keeping score.”
That was such a Steve answer that your chest hurt.
You laughed quietly and looked away before he could see too much on your face.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was probably the least creepy way anyone’s ever admitted to anonymous beverage-related emotional support.”
That, finally, earned a real smile.
Small. Warm. Gone too soon.
Then he grew serious again.
“We need to decide how this works.”
You straightened slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t want PR deciding the shape of this without us.” He nodded toward your phone. “They can get the public version. They don’t get the private one.”
Something cautious and fragile inside you lifted its head.
“The private one,” you repeated.
Steve did not seem to notice how the words affected you.
“Ground rules,” he said. “For us.”
You swallowed.
“All right.”
He counted them off on his fingers.
“First: no surprises. If they add something, we discuss it first.”
“Good.”
“Second: no lying to each other, even if we lie to everyone else.”
You looked at him for a second longer than was wise.
“That feels ambitious.”
“It’s necessary.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Third: if either of us gets uncomfortable, we stop. I don’t care where we are.”
“Even if it’s public?”
“Especially if it’s public.”
You tried for levity and only half succeeded.
“You really are terrible at being fake.”
His gaze remained steady on yours.
“I’m not going to make this harder on you than it already is.”
There it was again.
That awful gentleness.
You looked down, suddenly unable to bear the direct hit of it.
“Right,” you said lightly, though your voice was starting to fray. “Wouldn’t want your fake girlfriend to become a workplace casualty.”
The second the words left your mouth, the room changed.
Steve leaned back slightly, as though he had just been struck by something he had not expected.
You realized what you had called yourself.
You felt stupid for noticing the effect.
He spoke after a moment.
“Don’t.”
You looked up.
His face had gone very still.
“Don’t call yourself that like it’s all you are.”
The air in your lungs seemed to leave all at once.
You did not have anything clever left. No joke. No easy deflection. Just a tired body, an overworked heart, and a man sitting three feet away asking you, again and again, not to reduce yourself to what you could do for other people.
So you said the first true thing you had.
“I don’t really know how not to.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat ache.
For one terrible second, you thought he might reach for you.
He did not.
He just sat there and held your gaze and let the silence stay gentle.
Then he said, “We can start with me not letting anyone else do it either.”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
At the steadiness of him.
At the care written all through the rigid line of his body.
At the impossible fact that he was here, in your room, making rules to protect you inside a lie you had agreed to because some broken part of you still believed usefulness was safer than being wanted.
You wondered, not for the first time, what exactly Steve Rogers saw when he looked at you.
You were not sure you wanted to know.
You were not sure you could survive knowing.
So you reached for the plate instead.
“Did you bring this whole meal just to emotionally devastate me into eating?”
His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
“Maybe.”
“Effective strategy.”
“I have those.”
You took a bite mostly to prove a point. Then another because you realized, with dull surprise, that you were actually hungry.
Steve watched just long enough to make sure you were really eating, then looked away to give you some privacy in it. The gesture was so considerate it nearly undid you again.
After a few quiet moments, he said, “They want us at the Barton Foundation event next Friday.”
You swallowed. “Of course they do.”
“We’ll go. We’ll smile. We’ll survive it.”
The simple inclusion of we did something dangerous to your insides.
You set the fork down carefully.
“You keep saying that like this is a shared burden.”
“It is.”
You let out a soft breath.
“You don’t have to make me feel better about it.”
“I’m not.”
He looked back at you then, and his eyes were impossibly clear.
“I’m telling the truth.”
Your chest tightened.
You looked down before he could see the effect.
Outside your windows, the city lights had started to come on one by one, turning the glass into a mirror layered over the dark.
You ate because he was there.
Because he had brought food.
Because, ridiculous as it was, some part of you still wanted to be good for him in the small, stupid ways that felt safe.
By the time the plate was empty, the room had settled into a quiet that no longer felt hostile.
Steve rose and gathered the trash without being asked.
At the door, he paused.
“One more rule,” he said.
You looked up from the bed.
“What?”
“If this starts hurting you, you tell me before it gets bad.”
A laugh escaped you, tired and faint.
“That is an incredibly optimistic understanding of how my brain works.”
He nodded once, accepting that without liking it.
“Then tell me when it starts.”
You held his gaze.
“All right.”
He studied you for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether that promise was real enough to trust.
Then he gave you a small nod and opened the door.
“Get some sleep.”
You almost smiled.
“Bossy.”
“I’m right.”
With that, he stepped into the hallway.
You watched him go.
Only after the door closed did you let yourself sag forward, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.
Your room smelled faintly of dinner and paper and the clean, impossible trace of Steve’s cologne left behind in the air.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time it was an email from PR titled: Relationship Narrative – Preliminary Positioning Notes
You stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then you picked the phone up, opened your messages, and typed Natasha a single line.
You’re a terrible person.
Her reply came immediately.
And yet I was right. He brought you food, didn’t he?
You closed your eyes.
After a moment, you typed back.
I hate both of you.
Three dots appeared at once.
No, you don’t. Get some sleep.
You set the phone facedown on the bed beside you.
Across the room, the city reflected in the window like another life layered over your own.
You thought about the coming weeks.
The dinners.
The cameras.
The carefully arranged smiles.
The hands that might have to linger for photographs.
The lines you would both pretend had blurred naturally.
You thought about Steve in the conference room, furious on your behalf.
Steve in your doorway with food because you had skipped dinner.
Steve promising there would be rules. Promising you could leave. Promising, in all the ways he knew how, that you would not have to carry the whole weight of this alone.
And because your mind was cruelest when the room got quiet, another thought rose beneath all the rest.
This was the closest you would ever get to having him.
Not truly.
Not honestly.
But close enough to ruin you if you were not careful.
You lay back on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.
Temporary, you told yourself.
Manageable.
Just another role.
Just another way to be useful.
Just another arrangement you could survive if you kept your heart out of it.
Down the hall somewhere, a door opened and shut.
The Tower breathed around you, alive with people more extraordinary than you would ever feel.
You turned onto your side and closed your eyes.
Next Friday, you were going to stand beside Steve Rogers in front of half the world and pretend he was yours.
And the worst part – the most humiliating, unforgivable part – was that some secret, starving piece of you had already begun to wonder what it might feel like if pretending ever stopped feeling different from hope.
The first week passed in a blur of choreography.
PR called it natural progression, which would have been funny if it had not involved so many schedules, so many carefully timed exits, so many reminders that a hand on your back should look instinctive and not staged. There were meetings, briefings, wardrobe notes, interview prep, and a truly offensive number of emails with subject lines like Public Sentiment Optimization.
You hated all of them.
What you hated more was how quickly you adapted.
By the time the Barton Foundation gala arrived, you already knew where Steve’s hand would settle when cameras turned your way. You already knew how close to stand at his side so you looked familiar, not forced. You already knew the exact shape of the smile required when a reporter asked how long this had been going on and whether you were “finally ready to go public.”
The answer PR had approved was simple.
We’d been close for a while. Things changed naturally.
You said it with just enough warmth to sound sincere.
Steve said it like it physically pained him.
And somehow, that only made the public love him more.
America adored reluctant romance, apparently. They adored the blush they imagined in the downward tilt of your chin. They adored the protective line of Steve’s body beside yours. They adored the photographs of him leaning close to hear you in crowded rooms, as though none of that had been happening long before anybody thought to monetize it.
That was the part nobody understood.
The lie worked because too much of it was already true.
Not the romance. Not officially. Not in any way you had the right to name. But the ease between you had not been invented in a conference room. The way Steve noticed when your smile thinned at the edges had not been taught by PR. The way you reached for him in crowds, subtle and automatic, trusting he would be there when you looked – none of that had been fabricated.
It had only been weaponized.
The first public appearance went better than expected, which was corporate language for you survived without visibly dissociating.
The second came three days later.
A breakfast fundraiser.
Two photographs on arrival.
One staged candid near the garden.
A short exchange with a local morning show.
The host, an aggressively cheerful woman with perfect hair and a predatory instinct for discomfort, had smiled at the two of you over the polished studio table and asked, “So which one of you fell first?”
You nearly choked on your coffee.
Steve, to his credit, had answered before you could embarrass yourself.
“That’s private,” he had said with that polite, all-American smile that somehow translated to absolutely not without ever sounding rude.
The clip went viral within hours.
PR was ecstatic.
Natasha sent you a screenshot of the trending tags with the message: Congratulations. You’re beloved.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds before typing back: I hate this timeline.
Her answer came almost immediately.
And yet you looked pretty.
You had thrown the phone face down onto your desk and informed the empty room that all your friends were terrible people.
Steve had knocked on your open door less than a minute later, eyebrows lifting.
“Talking to yourself again?”
You had looked up too fast, guilty for no reason.
“Practicing my descent into madness.”
He had leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“How’s that going?”
“Beautifully. I’m one more segment away from buying a false identity and fleeing the country.”
He had laughed then, low and warm, and the sound had gone through you with unfair force.
That was the second thing you hated.
The first was how quickly you adapted.
The second was how quickly it started to feel good.
Not the cameras. Never the cameras.
Not the interviews.
Not the impossible, brittle theater of pretending for strangers.
But Steve.
Steve waiting outside your room before public events because he knew you got quieter when you were anxious.
Steve bringing you coffee before early call times without asking how you took it because he already knew.
Steve murmuring, “You okay?” under his breath between questions at interviews, too low for microphones to catch.
Steve finding excuses to keep one hand at your back whenever a room grew too loud.
You told yourself it was part of the role.
You told yourself it had to be.
Because the alternative was admitting that every carefully arranged touch carved itself into you like something real.
Weeks passed.
The magazines changed.
The scandal with Natasha faded exactly as PR predicted, overtaken by glossy profiles and smiling photographs under newer headlines:
CAPTAIN AMERICA’S QUIET LOVE STORY
THE WOMAN WHO FINALLY WON STEVE ROGERS’ HEART
INSIDE THE AVENGERS’ MOST UNEXPECTED ROMANCE
You stopped reading them after the third week.
Not because they were false.
Because they kept getting too close to what you wanted.
One Friday afternoon, you found yourself in another makeup chair under another bank of bright lights while someone with an expensive blowout dabbed shimmer along your cheekbones and told you to tilt your head. The shoot was for a magazine profile that PR described as intimate and grounded, which in practice meant a rented brownstone staged to look like a shared home.
There were books arranged on tables neither of you had read.
A kitchen you had never cooked in.
Soft sweaters selected to make Steve look approachable and you look cherished.
You sat still while the stylist pinned a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Across the room, Steve stood near the photographers, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw set in a way you recognized by now as his version of barely concealed displeasure.
He caught your eye in the mirror.
You raised one eyebrow.
He exhaled once through his nose, the faintest sign of exasperation.
You almost smiled.
Later, when the first set wrapped and the crew moved lights for the next room, Steve found you near the catering table where you were aggressively ignoring a plate of suspiciously perfect fruit.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
You picked up a grape and inspected it like evidence.
“That narrows it down so helpfully.”
His mouth twitched.
“They asked if I could carry you up the stairs.”
You nearly choked laughing.
“They did not.”
“They did.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Well,” you said gravely, “there went our cover.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his sweater brushed your arm.
The contact was slight.
It still made your pulse trip.
“They’re pushing more every time,” he said quietly.
You popped the grape into your mouth mostly to avoid answering right away.
He was right.
The first events had been manageable: smiles, appearances, shared glances.
Then came hand-holding.
Then came invitations to sit with your knees touching on late-night couches.
Then came photographers asking for softer expressions, closer angles, “something less posed, more in love.”
And because the arrangement was working – because public opinion had shifted, because people adored the story, because the lie had become profitable – everyone wanted more.
You swallowed.
“I know.”
Steve’s gaze moved over your face, steady and searching.
“Tell me if it gets to be too much.”
There it was again.
That promise.
That infuriating gentleness.
You looked away first, because if you did not, he would notice too much.
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A laugh slipped out, tired and thin. “You should stop using therapist language on me. It’s unsettling.”
His expression remained serious.
“I mean it.”
You set the untouched fruit back down.
“I know you do.”
That was the problem, always. Steve meant things. Fully. Earnestly. Without reservation. It made everything harder to dismiss.
A producer called your names from across the room. Next setup.
Steve straightened and held out a hand.
Professional. Helpful. Public.
Your eyes dropped to it.
He must have seen something in your face because his voice softened.
“We can push back.”
You looked from his hand to his eyes.
Then you placed your fingers in his.
“It’s okay,” you said.
The lie had become so familiar it no longer even sounded like one.
The interviews got worse before they got unbearable.
By week four, the public had decided you were adorable together. Clips of the two of you circulated constantly – Steve holding doors, Steve adjusting your chair, Steve lowering his head to murmur something against your temple while you laughed at a charity luncheon. A hundred tiny moments, some real, some arranged, all of them consumed with greedy affection by people who wanted love stories to come in neat visual packages.
The world decided Steve Rogers was softer with you.
It turned out the world was right.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting panel appearance, the two of you rode the elevator back up to the residential floors in silence. The event had been merciless. Three interviewers, one live audience, one compilation reel of your “cutest moments,” and a final rapid-fire segment during which a host had asked what Steve’s favorite thing about you was.
You had laughed it off.
Steve had not.
He had looked directly at you, not the camera, and said, “She notices people. Even when they think nobody sees them.”
The audience had melted.
The internet had exploded.
And you had spent the rest of the segment trying not to come apart on live television.
Now the elevator hummed softly around you.
Steve stood beside the control panel, tie loosened, jacket slung over one shoulder. You leaned back against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, too tired to perform anymore.
Neither of you spoke until the doors opened.
He followed you into the hallway anyway.
“Did I overstep?”
You turned.
“What?”
“On stage.”
Realization struck belatedly.
“No.”
He studied your face. “You went quiet.”
You let out a small breath, halfway between a laugh and surrender.
“I went quiet because I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
His brow furrowed. “Was it wrong?”
The simple sincerity of the question caught you off guard.
You looked at him – really looked, at the open concern on his face, the loosened tie, the strain of a long day sitting under his skin – and something in you softened before you could stop it.
“No,” you said. “It wasn’t wrong.”
The corridor lights painted a pale band across one side of his face. He remained still, waiting, as if he would not let you escape with only half the truth.
So, against your better judgment, you gave him a little more.
“It was just…” You swallowed. “A lot.”
His expression gentled.
“Because it was too personal?”
Because it was true, you thought.
Because you said things like that about people you loved.
You forced a crooked smile.
“Because you can’t say things like that on camera unless you want the internet to write six hundred think pieces about how secretly in love you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, brief and restrained.
“They’re already writing those.”
“Fair.”
You started to turn toward your door, but his voice stopped you.
“It was true.”
You froze.
The words settled into the air between you.
Your hand tightened on your room key.
When you looked back, Steve had not moved. He was just standing there in the hallway, broad and earnest and devastatingly unguarded.
“What was?” you asked, though you knew.
His gaze stayed on yours.
“What I said.”
Your chest drew tight so fast it hurt.
You tried for lightness and missed entirely.
“Careful, Rogers. You’re going to ruin the whole fake aspect.”
He did not smile this time.
“I know you think you have to be useful all the time,” he said quietly. “But that’s not why people keep you.”
That knocked the breath out of you.
You stared at him.
He went on before you could recover.
“It’s not why I–”
A door opened somewhere down the hall.
The sound broke whatever fragile, dangerous thing had begun to take shape between you.
Steve stopped.
You looked away first.
“Good night,” you said too quickly.
He hesitated.
Then, softly, “Good night.”
You made it into your room before the shaking in your hands became obvious.
Inside, you pressed your back to the closed door and shut your eyes.
Your phone buzzed on the desk with a flood of post-show notifications you did not want to read.
All you could hear was his voice.
That’s not why people keep you.
And worse.
It’s not why I–
You did not sleep much that night.
By the sixth week, even the Tower started treating it like something real.
Sam stopped knocking before walking into shared common rooms when the two of you were there, as though he had unconsciously filed you together.
Wanda smiled at you in that quiet, knowing way of hers that made your skin heat.
Clint, traitor that he was, asked Steve in front of three other people whether he planned to bring you to the farm “as an official thing.”
Natasha, of course, looked entertained by all of it.
“You’re glowing,” she informed you one morning over coffee.
“I’m under fluorescent lighting.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
You gave her a flat look.
She stirred her tea, elegant and merciless. “You’re attached.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Natasha raised one shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
That almost made you laugh, because sleeping had become its own separate disaster.
The closer you and Steve got in public, the more impossible it became to keep the distance clean in private.
You knew the shape of his hand now.
The warmth of it.
The exact pressure of his palm at your waist when cameras clustered too tightly.
The smell of his aftershave when he leaned down near your ear to say something only you were meant to hear.
The roughness of his voice late at night after too many hours performing something neither of you could name without breaking.
You learned the signs of his fatigue.
The way his shoulders tightened before interviews.
The way he rubbed the back of his neck after long appearances.
The way his gaze always found you first in crowded rooms, as if checking that you were still there before he could breathe fully.
It should have made the lie easier.
Instead, it hollowed you out.
Because every good moment came wrapped in its own expiration date.
Because every time Steve looked at you too softly, you had to remember it was happening inside an arrangement that would end.
Because every time your fingers tangled together in public, you had to act as though your body did not notice the difference between staged affection and real wanting.
And because some part of you had started to suspect there was a difference for him too.
That suspicion became dangerous during the winter campaign shoot.
The magazine wanted holiday intimacy.
That was the phrase the creative director used, cheerful and oblivious, while explaining the concept inside a studio dressed up like a townhouse in December. There were strings of warm lights, a couch draped in wool throws, a half-decorated tree, fake snow piled against the windows, and a soundtrack of soft jazz too low to be ignored.
You stood in the middle of it all wearing a cream-colored sweater someone else had chosen for you, while Steve emerged from wardrobe in dark slacks and a charcoal henley that made the room briefly forget how to function.
The stylist fussed at your sleeves.
The photographer tested angles.
Someone adjusted the lights.
Then the shoot began.
At first, it was the usual kind of torture.
Stand closer.
Turn toward him.
Look at each other, not the camera.
Relax your shoulders.
Steve, hand at her waist.
Chin up.
Good, beautiful, hold that.
You did as instructed.
You always did.
Because Steve’s hand at your waist was warm and firm and impossible to ignore.
Because his thumb shifted once, almost unconsciously, against the knit of your sweater.
Because every time you looked up on cue, his eyes were already on you, and there was never enough acting in either of you to make that feel fake.
The photographer grew bolder as the hour went on.
Sit on the couch.
Closer.
No, closer.
Steve, arm around her shoulders.
Good.
Now look like you’re sharing a secret.
Perfect.
Now foreheads together.
You obeyed.
Your forehead touched Steve’s.
His breath feathered warm over your skin.
The room went distant around the edges.
“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured. “Now smile, both of you. Like nobody else exists.”
That was the easiest instruction of the day.
The dangerous thing was how natural it felt.
By the time the crew paused to reset for the final shots, your nerves were stretched so tight you could feel each one. Steve must have sensed it. He always did. He guided you quietly away from the center of the studio while makeup darted in to powder his jaw.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
You almost laughed.
“Is it too late to fake my own death?”
His mouth twitched. “Probably.”
“Shame.”
He studied your face, concern sharpening the blue of his eyes under the lights.
“We can tell them no.”
And there it was again. The offer. The open door.
The thing was, by then you no longer trusted yourself with the word yes or the word no where he was concerned. Both seemed equally dangerous.
So you did what you always did.
You made yourself manageable.
“I’m fine.”
His expression suggested exactly what he thought of that answer.
Before he could say more, the creative director clapped her hands.
“Last setup, everyone! We’re going for the money shot.”
You and Steve exchanged a glance.
Neither of you liked the sound of that.
The photographer smiled brightly when you returned to set.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve been amazing. We’ve got chemistry, softness, tension– the whole thing. Now I need one last image to anchor the story.”
Every instinct in your body sharpened.
“What kind of image?” Steve asked.
The photographer beamed.
“A kiss.”
Silence.
The studio did not stop moving exactly, but it changed. You felt it in the tiny delay before anyone else spoke. In the way makeup froze. In the way the assistant with the clipboard suddenly became very interested in not looking at either of you.
Steve answered first.
“No.”
The word came flat and immediate.
The photographer blinked. “It would be tasteful–”
“No,” Steve repeated.
The creative director stepped in, all practiced reassurance.
“It doesn’t have to be explicit. Just intimate enough to sell the cover line.”
Steve’s jaw locked.
“We didn’t agree to that.”
You could feel the eyes in the room sliding toward you, measuring, waiting to see whether this became a problem.
The old instinct kicked in before you could stop it.
Smooth it over.
Make it easy.
Don’t be difficult.
Don’t be the reason everyone has to rearrange.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Steve turned to you so fast it almost startled you.
“No, it isn’t.”
The directness of it hit hard enough to leave you flinching inwardly.
The creative director sensed weakness and pressed.
“It’s one shot,” she said. “It doesn’t even have to be a full kiss. Just enough to imply the moment.”
Steve did not take his eyes off you.
“You do not have to do this.”
The room waited.
Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.
This was different from hand-holding.
Different from a palm at your back.
Different from resting your head on his shoulder for a camera and pretending it did not mean anything.
A kiss was a line.
A kiss would not feel fake.
Not to you.
That was exactly why you should have refused.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “We can do one.”
Steve stared at you.
The expression on his face was not anger.
It was worse.
It was the look of a man watching you step toward something sharp because you thought bleeding quietly was easier than making a scene.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
No, you thought.
Not even slightly.
But the whole room was watching.
And Steve was looking at you like he might stop the entire thing if you gave him reason.
You could not bear to be the reason.
So you gave the same doomed answer you had given in the conference room weeks before.
“Yes.”
The set seemed to exhale.
The photographer repositioned you both immediately, eager, thoughtless, triumphant.
“Perfect. By the window. Steve, turn into her. One hand here– yes, at her waist. One hand on his chest. Great. Now look at each other. Slow. Natural. Like you’ve been about to do this all day.”
You placed your hand against Steve’s chest.
The world narrowed.
His heart beat steady under your palm.
His hand settled at your waist, broader and warmer than it had any right to be.
He looked at you, not the cameras, not the crew, only you.
For one impossible second, nobody else existed.
Your breath caught.
He felt it. You knew he did.
“Tell me to stop,” he said so quietly only you could hear.
The studio blurred at the edges.
The lights became heat.
His thumb shifted once at your side, a barely-there movement that nearly undid you.
You should have told him to stop.
Instead, because you were weak where he was concerned, because you were tired, because wanting had been eating you alive for weeks and here he was close enough to ruin you with a glance, you whispered, “It’s okay.”
His expression changed.
Something in him gave way.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly to anyone but you.
Just enough.
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth against yours was meant to be brief.
You knew that.
He knew that.
It should have been an illusion.
A suggestion.
A clean, staged thing for a magazine cover.
It was not.
The second your lips met, the entire careful lie shattered.
Steve kissed you like a man trying not to. Like restraint was still there, still present, but fraying fast at the edges. It was gentle for one heartbeat, then not gentle enough. Real enough that your hand curled instinctively in the fabric at his chest. Real enough that his hold at your waist tightened without permission. Real enough that some sound went up around the set – someone inhaling, someone shifting, someone delighted by the shot – while you forgot completely how to breathe.
“Got it,” the photographer called, too far away to matter. “Beautiful. Hold–”
Steve broke the kiss as if he had been burned.
The distance between you reappeared all at once.
Your mouth parted on an unsteady breath.
His eyes were dark, stunned, fixed on yours like he no longer trusted himself to look anywhere else.
The set erupted into movement.
The crew was pleased.
Of course they were pleased.
They had their cover.
“Perfect,” somebody said.
“That was it exactly.”
“Incredible chemistry.”
You heard none of it properly.
All you heard was the blood rushing in your ears.
Steve stepped back.
“Shoot’s over,” he said, voice rougher than it had been all day.
The creative director laughed lightly. “We actually have one more option–”
“No,” he said.
Nobody argued.
Maybe it was the tone.
Maybe it was the way he looked.
Maybe everyone in the room finally realized they had pushed far enough.
The rest became a blur.
Wardrobe.
Makeup removal.
People thanking you.
A publicist telling you the cover would do numbers.
You changed clothes with shaking hands and left through a side exit because someone said it would be easier. The evening air hit cold and sharp against your overheated skin.
You had almost made it to the waiting car when Steve caught up to you.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
Not because you meant to.
Because you always stopped for him.
He stood a few feet away under the alley light, coat open, hair slightly disordered from the shoot. He looked less like Captain America than he had all day. Less composed. More dangerous.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
The words landed wrong.
You stared at him.
“For what?”
“For that.”
You laughed once, hollow and disbelieving.
“The kiss?”
“Yes.”
Something sharp turned over inside your chest.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because it wasn’t supposed to go like that.”
No, you thought. It absolutely was not.
You should have let it end there.
Should have nodded, gotten into the car, gone upstairs, preserved what little dignity remained.
Instead, because humiliation had a way of making you reckless, you asked, “And how exactly did it go?”
His eyes closed for the briefest second.
When they opened again, whatever he was trying to contain was no longer entirely under control.
“You know how it went.”
You did.
That was the problem.
You folded your arms to stop yourself reaching for him.
“Then maybe don’t apologize like it was some terrible accident.”
His gaze snapped back to yours.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You think I regret kissing you?”
He stepped closer as he said it, not enough to touch, just enough to send your pulse into chaos all over again.
The alley felt too small.
The air too thin.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low.
“Do what?”
“Put words in my mouth because you’re scared of your own.”
That hit so cleanly it left you angry before you even understood why.
You laughed again, brittle now.
“My own what, exactly?”
He looked at you as though he could already see the answer and did not know whether he had the right to say it first.
The waiting car idled at the curb behind you.
Somewhere down the block, traffic moved through the city as if the world had not just split open under your feet.
Then Steve said, very quietly, “Come upstairs.”
You should have refused.
You knew that even as the words settled between you.
You knew exactly what kind of precipice you were standing on.
You knew you had spent six weeks learning the shape of his mouth in almosts and near-misses and impossible restraint.
You knew you were one wrong decision from making the whole arrangement unsalvageable.
You also knew you had wanted him for so long it felt like an illness.
So you said yes.
The elevator ride to his floor was silent.
Not uncomfortable.
Worse.
The kind of silence so charged it stopped being empty and became a living thing in its own right. You stood at one side of the small space, Steve at the other, both of you facing forward like restraint still existed in any meaningful way.
The mirrored walls trapped you together.
You could still feel the kiss in your mouth.
Still feel the shape of his hand at your waist.
Still hear him asking you not to put fear into words before either of you had the courage to name what had happened.
When the doors opened, neither of you spoke. Steve led you down the corridor to his room, opened the door, and stepped aside to let you in.
You had been there before.
Never like this.
Usually it had been for something ordinary – a shared cup of coffee after missions, a conversation that ran late, helping him sort boxes of old files when he was in one of his restless moods. His room had always felt like him: spare, ordered, functional in a way that somehow still held warmth. Books stacked on the desk. Running shoes by the wall. A half-finished sketch turned facedown near the lamp.
Tonight it felt smaller.
Too full of him.
Too aware of you.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Still, neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I shouldn’t have let them push that far.”
You turned slowly.
His face was shadowed now without studio lights flattening it, the blue of his eyes darker in the low warmth of the room.
“You tried to stop it.”
“That wasn’t enough.”
The self-reproach in his voice did something awful to your chest.
“Steve.”
He took one step toward you.
“I knew,” he said.
Your breath caught. “Knew what?”
“That if I kissed you, I wasn’t going to be able to pretend it was just for them.”
Silence.
The room dropped out from under you.
You stared at him.
He looked almost angry saying it – not at you, never at you, but at himself for the admission. At the loss of control it implied. At the truth of wanting.
“That’s why I asked if you were sure,” he went on, quieter now. “Not because I didn’t want to. Because I did.”
Heat flashed through you so fast it hurt.
You did not realize you had moved until you were closer.
Until the space between you was narrow enough to feel dangerous again.
“Then why are you still standing over there?” you whispered.
Something in him snapped.
He crossed the distance in two strides and kissed you like he had been holding it back for weeks.
Maybe he had.
This time there were no cameras.
No set.
No audience waiting to consume the image.
Just Steve, one hand sliding into your hair, the other bracing at your waist as your body gave in before your mind caught up. You kissed him back with all the ruinous honesty you had spent weeks denying yourself. His mouth was warmer now, hungrier, and when you made a soft, broken sound against him he swallowed it like he had been wanting to hear it for a very long time.
You stumbled.
He caught you instantly.
Your hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, then the line of his jaw as if none of them knew how to stop touching him.
The kiss broke only because breathing became necessary.
His forehead rested against yours.
His hand trembled once at your side.
That undid you more than anything else.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered.
A humorless breath escaped him, almost a laugh.
“So are you.”
He was right.
You were.
Not from fear exactly.
From the overwhelming, destabilizing shock of finding yourself wanted back.
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
“Tell me to leave,” you said.
He looked stricken.
“No.”
“Steve.”
“If you want to go, I’ll let you go.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not going to tell you to.”
The honesty of it tore straight through you.
So you kissed him again.
Everything after that happened with the dizzy inevitability of a fall you had both been circling for too long.
Hands.
Breath.
The slow backward steps that brought you to the edge of his bed.
The way he stopped, even then, even there, to search your face with that terrible carefulness of his and ask, “Are you sure?”
You had never been less sure of anything and wanted anything more.
“Yes,” you said.
And then, because you needed him to understand, “Please.”
Whatever restraint remained in him burned down after that.
He touched you like you were both precious and dangerous.
Like he still could not quite believe you were there.
Like every careful public almost had left him starving too.
You learned what Steve sounded like when his control finally broke.
Learned how gentle and undone could exist inside the same man.
Learned the devastating contrast between the measured touch he offered the world and the reverent hunger of his hands in private.
It was not neat.
It was not polished.
It was not any of the clean fantasies people sold in magazines.
It was better.
And therefore infinitely worse.
Because you felt everything.
Every look.
Every breath.
Every quiet check-in he forced out through his own unraveling.
Every moment he paused as if he still could not bear the possibility of hurting you.
Every time he said your name like it meant more than either of you knew how to survive.
Afterward, the room went still in that strange, fragile way it only did when something irreversible had happened.
You lay tangled in warmth and sheets and exhaustion, heart still too fast, skin humming in the aftermath. Steve lay beside you on his back, one arm bent under his head, breathing slow but not entirely steady yet.
The dim light from the bedside lamp softened everything.
For one reckless, suspended stretch of time, it felt almost peaceful.
Then reality began to return in pieces.
The shoot.
The cover.
The arrangement.
The fact that the whole world already thought it knew what this was, while you had no idea how to name what had just happened.
You turned your head toward him.
Steve was already looking at the ceiling, expression unreadable in the low light.
That scared you more than if he had looked panicked.
“Say something,” you whispered.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
When he turned to face you, his eyes were full of too many things at once – tenderness, exhaustion, want, and beneath all of it something heavy and troubled.
“I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
The words hit like cold water.
You went very still.
For a second, you could not actually understand them.
Your body was still warm from him.
Your mouth still knew his.
And yet…
You sat up too fast, dragging the sheet with you.
“Okay,” you said, because there was nothing else to say if humiliation was going to kill you anyway. “Got it.”
He pushed himself upright immediately.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It kind of sounds exactly like what you meant.”
His face tightened.
“I mean I should have been more careful with you.”
There it was.
The instinct to protect.
The instinct to regret on your behalf.
The instinct to take this beautiful, terrible thing and turn it into something noble and distant so he did not have to face wanting it too much.
You climbed off the bed and started gathering your clothes from the floor with hands that only shook a little.
“Don’t,” he said, standing too.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn this into me using you.”
You laughed, low and unbelieving, pulling your sweater over your head with more force than necessary.
“That would be a lot easier to deal with, actually.”
His expression changed sharply.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? We’re already halfway there.”
His jaw set.
“No.”
You turned to face him fully then, sweater half straightened, pride doing most of the work where emotional stability had failed.
“You know what, Steve? You don’t get to tell me what this was if you’re just going to back away from it five minutes later.”
He stared at you.
The room felt charged all over again, but now with pain instead of want.
“I’m not backing away,” he said.
A lie.
Or maybe a truth he had not realized was one yet.
You looked at him and saw the war already starting inside him.
Duty against desire.
Protection against honesty.
Fear disguised as self-control.
And because you knew something about disguising fear, you recognized it immediately.
You buttoned your jeans with unsteady fingers.
“It’s late,” you said.
He took one step forward. “Stay.”
The word nearly broke you.
Because he meant it in the moment.
Because you did not trust the morning.
Because staying now would mean watching him decide, in daylight, that distance was the kinder choice.
You shook your head.
His face fell, just slightly.
“I think,” you said carefully, each word scraping on the way out, “we’ve probably done enough damage for one night.”
Pain flashed across his features.
That at least made you feel less alone in it.
He stopped moving then, as if he had realized pushing would only make it worse.
“I’ll walk you downstairs.”
“No.”
You grabbed your coat from the chair.
“I can manage.”
The phrase sounded ugly the second it left your mouth. Too sharp. Too familiar. Useful in a different shape.
Steve heard it too.
His shoulders tensed, but he did not argue.
You reached the door with your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Your hand touched the handle.
Then his voice stopped you one last time.
“This wasn’t nothing.”
You closed your eyes.
For one second – one weak, starving second – you nearly turned back.
But nothing was not the problem.
Something was.
Something was always the thing that ruined you.
So you opened the door.
“I know,” you said, without looking at him. “That’s what scares me.”
Then you left.
The next morning, Steve did exactly what men with too much honor and not enough emotional courage always did.
He decided distance was protection.
At first it came dressed in practical excuses.
He missed breakfast.
Then a planning meeting.
Then a charity prep session he was supposed to attend with you and sent Sam in his place instead.
His messages became sparse.
Polite.
Measured.
Running late. PR can handle today’s notes.
Mission review went long. Get some sleep.
You did well in the interview.
No jokes.
No soft check-ins.
No quiet knocks at your door with food because you forgot to eat.
The space where he had been grew teeth.
You told yourself not to overreact.
He was busy.
He was Steve.
He was probably trying to think.
Trying to be careful.
Trying to do the right thing in the stupid, destructive way that only someone fundamentally decent could manage.
It still hurt.
By the third day, everyone noticed something had changed.
Not the public. Never the public. In front of cameras, Steve remained perfect. If anything, he became more attentive, more polished, more flawlessly convincing. His hand still found your back. He still looked at you the right way when photographers called for softer expressions. He still answered interview questions with calm warmth and just enough intimacy to keep the narrative alive.
That almost made it worse.
Because the tenderness had become performance.
And maybe it had always been, you told yourself viciously.
Maybe you had simply been stupid enough to confuse professionalism with care.
Except you knew that was not true.
You knew what his care felt like when no one was watching.
You knew the difference.
That knowledge did nothing to help you.
One evening, after a radio interview where Steve had spent the entire segment sounding like a man reading from a script carved into his bones, you made it back to your room and sat on the floor instead of turning on the light.
Your phone buzzed once.
A message from PR confirming tomorrow’s schedule.
Another from Natasha.
You look terrible. What happened?
You stared at it, then locked the screen without answering.
A minute later, it lit up again.
That wasn’t an insult. Call me.
You put the phone facedown on the carpet and pressed your forehead to your knees.
In therapy, they called this spiraling.
You called it Tuesday.
Somewhere in the mess of your head, one thought kept pulsing like a bruise.
Of course he pulled away.
Of course he did.
You had taken the one thing you were supposed to keep clean and made it ugly with need.
You had mistaken a role for a possibility.
You had done what you always did – wanted too much, felt too much, trusted the wrong thing to be real.
By the end of the week, the distance no longer felt accidental.
It felt chosen.
And because pain had a cruel way of sharpening old beliefs into certainty, one sentence began to settle at the center of everything:
He had wanted you for a night.
He had not wanted what came with you after.
You hated yourself for how quickly you believed it.
You hated him a little for giving the fear somewhere to live.
And the worst part – the part that hollowed you out most completely – was that even then, even hurting, even humiliated, even watching him step back in the name of protecting you, you still loved him enough to let him.
By the time it happened, you were already unraveling.
Not publicly.
Publicly, you were lovely.
Publicly, you smiled with the right amount of softness and let Steve’s hand settle at your back as if it did not burn.
Publicly, you tilted your head during interviews and laughed at the right cues and answered questions in careful, practiced fragments that gave away nothing except what PR wanted.
Publicly, the two of you remained immaculate.
Privately, you were coming apart so quietly that nobody noticed at first.
Or maybe they did, and they assumed you would handle it the way you handled everything else: silently, efficiently, in a way that inconvenienced no one.
Steve’s distance did not arrive all at once.
That would have been easier.
If he had turned cold, you could have hated him.
If he had looked ashamed, you could have armored yourself against it.
If he had said plainly this was a mistake, at least the wound would have had a clean edge.
Instead, he stayed kind.
That was the cruelty of it.
He stayed attentive in public because the role required it.
He stayed polite in private because he was Steve.
He never gave you anything ugly enough to fight, only absence in measured doses.
He knocked less.
He lingered less.
He stopped finding reasons to appear at your door.
His messages became practical, his presence carefully rationed, his concern folded away so neatly it almost looked like respect.
The space where he had been began to echo.
You told yourself it was fine.
Then you stopped sleeping.
Not completely. Not in some dramatic, sleepless collapse. Just enough to wear you down slowly. You drifted off in broken pieces, woke with your pulse already high, lay staring at the ceiling while the Tower breathed around you. Every night your mind picked through the same scraps with obsessive precision: the kiss on set, the night in his room, the softness afterward, the shift, the distance, the way he still looked at you sometimes as if he felt it too and then stepped back before either of you could drown in it.
You started missing breakfast.
Then lunch.
Then meals altogether unless somebody physically put food in front of you and stayed long enough to make not eating embarrassing.
Natasha noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She cornered you in the gym one afternoon while you were pretending to stretch after a workout you had barely completed.
“You look like hell,” she said.
You sat back on the mat and wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist.
“Your concern is overwhelming.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell. You’re using your murder voice.”
Natasha did not smile.
You looked away first.
That was answer enough, apparently, because her expression sharpened.
“Did he do something?”
You laughed once, brittle and tired.
“No. That’s the problem.”
Natasha was silent for a beat.
Then, in a tone flatter than usual, “He pulled away.”
You picked at a loose thread near the hem of your sleeve.
“I’m fine.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
You let out a thin breath. “I noticed.”
“I know.”
You hated how gentle those two words sounded coming from her. Natasha was not supposed to sound gentle. It felt unfair, almost invasive.
You got to your feet before she could say anything worse.
“I have a meeting.”
She reached out and caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
When you looked at her, she was watching you with the cool, unblinking focus she usually reserved for threats.
“He’s an idiot,” she said.
Something ugly and aching flickered through you.
“Please don’t,” you said quietly.
Her grip loosened at once.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me feel like I get to be angry.”
Understanding moved across her face.
That was worse than pity would have been.
You slipped free and walked out before she could stop you.
The conversation about Peggy happened three days later.
You had not meant to overhear it.
The Tower was full of overheard things. Half the building was glass and open space and voices carrying from one room to another when people assumed they were alone.
You had been on your way back from a meeting with PR – a useless hour spent discussing “public tone consistency” for an upcoming feature – when you realized you had left your notebook in one of the smaller conference rooms. You doubled back through a quieter corridor, heels silent against the polished floor, grateful for the temporary absence of cameras, stylists, handlers, any person whose job depended on reminding you how convincingly in love you appeared.
Voices drifted from the partially open lounge ahead.
Steve’s was unmistakable.
You slowed before you could stop yourself.
He was not alone.
Sam, maybe. Or Bucky. You could not tell immediately. The second voice came lower, blurred by the angle.
You should have kept walking.
You knew that.
You knew exactly what kind of person listened at doors, and you had always hated becoming that person.
Then Steve said Peggy’s name.
And you stopped.
Not because Peggy mattered in some abstract historical sense.
Not because you were jealous of a dead woman or a lost life or the shape of grief in him you had no right to resent.
You stopped because the name already lived inside every insecurity you had where Steve was concerned.
Because Peggy Carter had become, over time, less a woman and more a legend.
A standard.
A ghost made of grace and certainty and conviction.
You stood very still.
Through the gap in the door, you could see only part of the room. The corner of a sofa. The edge of Steve’s shoulder. One of his hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
Sam’s voice came first, clearer this time.
“You keep comparing everything to the life you didn’t get.”
A pause.
Then Steve, quiet, tired, honest in the way people only were when they forgot anyone else might hear:
“It’s not about comparison.”
“Then what is it about?”
Longer silence.
When Steve answered, something in his voice made your chest tighten before the words even landed.
“She knew who she was.”
You stopped breathing.
Sam said something you did not catch.
Steve continued anyway.
“Peggy… she wasn’t uncertain. She wasn’t always happy, but she was steady. She knew what she was worth. She didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
The corridor tilted.
You stood frozen where you were, notebook forgotten, pulse suddenly loud enough to drown out the blood rushing in your ears.
He did not say your name.
That should have mattered.
It did not.
Because your name was there anyway, in every omission.
Not uncertain.
Not always happy, but steady.
Knew what she was worth.
Didn’t make herself smaller to fit whatever somebody needed from her.
The words laid themselves over you with surgical precision, each one finding exactly the bruise it needed.
You did not wait to hear more.
Maybe he said something after that which might have softened it.
Maybe Sam argued.
Maybe Steve would have explained, clarified, denied.
None of that mattered by then.
You turned and walked away before your body remembered how.
The corridor blurred at the edges.
The bright overhead lights became too sharp.
You kept walking because stopping would have meant feeling the hit in full, and you did not have the luxury of collapsing in the middle of Avengers Tower.
By the time you reached your room, your hands were shaking hard enough that it took three tries to unlock the door.
Once inside, you closed it quietly.
That part, at least, remained instinctive.
Never make a scene.
Never let the damage sound as bad as it feels.
You stood in the middle of the room for a full minute doing absolutely nothing.
Then you laughed.
A horrible sound.
Small and cracked and unbelieving.
Of course.
Of course that was what it came down to.
Not cruelty. Never cruelty. Steve did not do cruelty.
Just clarity.
Peggy had been certainty.
Peggy had been value without negotiation.
Peggy had been someone who knew her own shape in the world and never apologized for occupying it.
And you…
You were a mess.
A tangle of coping mechanisms and usefulness and weekly therapy appointments.
A person who still measured her place in every room by whether she was helping.
A person who had slept with him because wanting had outweighed sense and then been surprised when he tried to put distance back between you like he could save you from the mess of yourself.
You sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed both hands over your mouth.
Something was wrong with your breathing.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
You tried.
It did not work.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
You looked at it without seeing.
Another buzz.
Then another.
PR, maybe.
Natasha.
A scheduling assistant.
You could not imagine answering anybody ever again.
At some point you realized you were crying only because your vision had gone watery and your throat hurt. It did not feel dramatic. It did not feel cleansing. It just felt humiliatingly physical, like your body had decided to betray you in one more boring, inconvenient way.
You did not know how long you stayed like that.
Eventually the crying stopped on its own, leaving behind a cottony, numb exhaustion.
Then the practical part of you – the one that took over when emotion became unmanageable – rose up and began issuing instructions.
Leave.
Before he knocks.
Before someone notices.
Before you hear one more carefully kind thing that makes this worse.
Leave before you start begging for dignity from people who never promised to protect it.
You stood.
Your room felt unreal, as if it already belonged to someone else.
You pulled a duffel bag from the closet and packed without much thought. Jeans. Sweaters. Medication. Charger. Toothbrush. A book you did not expect to read. Underwear shoved in carelessly. A hoodie that you wore all the time because it was the softest thing you owned.
Halfway through, you had to sit down again because your hands would not stop trembling.
You stared at the open bag on the bed and thought, with detached clarity, this is ridiculous.
Then, equally clearly: staying would be worse.
There was only one place you could go.
One person who would open the door without asking too many questions first.
Maya.
Your oldest friend.
Possibly your only real one.
Not part of the Tower.
Not impressed by the Avengers.
Not interested in your talent for minimizing your own suffering until it became untenable.
You typed with stiff fingers.
Can I come over?
The reply came almost immediately.
Yes. What happened?
You looked at the words for several seconds.
Then you typed.
I just need air.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Come.
That was all.
You stared at the message until your vision blurred.
Then you opened a new thread.
Steve’s.
For one full minute, you did nothing.
What could you even say?
I heard you.
You were right.
Thank you for finally confirming every awful thing I already thought.
In the end, you wrote the only version you could survive sending.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Too short.
Too formal.
Wrong in your mouth.
You knew it the second you looked at it.
It did not sound like you.
It sounded like someone trying very hard not to bleed on the screen.
All the more reason to send it quickly before you lost your nerve.
You hit send.
The reply came before you had even zipped the bag.
What happened?
Then, immediately after.
Where are you going?
And then.
Are you safe?
You put the phone face down on the bed.
The screen lit up again.
Then again.
You turned it to silent.
Not off.
Just silent.
Enough distance to breathe.
Enough cruelty to count as temporary.
When you finally left your room, the hallway outside was empty.
Good.
You took the stairs instead of the elevator.
You did not want to risk running into anyone.
Did not want Steve stepping out of some corridor at the exact wrong second and looking at you with all that impossible concern while you still had enough self-control left to keep moving.
By the time you reached the garage level, your chest hurt from holding yourself together.
You drove with the radio off.
Halfway across the city, Steve called.
Your phone lit up on the passenger seat with his name bright across the screen.
You stared at it until it stopped.
Then it started again.
You turned the screen over.
You did not answer.
Maya opened the door before you knocked twice.
She took one look at your face and stepped aside immediately.
“Shoes off,” she said. “Then you tell me whether I need wine, tea, or a shovel.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it – small, wrecked, entirely without humor.
“Tea,” you managed.
“Coward.”
Her apartment smelled like laundry detergent and basil and the candle she always forgot she had lit. Safe, in the plainest possible way. Human-sized. No reinforced glass. No PR handlers. No godlike beings or soldiers or spies pretending they understood normal life.
You set your bag down just inside the hall.
Maya did not hug you.
You loved her for that.
She had known you long enough to understand that touching was dangerous when you were holding yourself together by threads. So she just tilted her head toward the kitchen and said, “Sit.”
You sat.
She filled the kettle.
Got mugs down.
Moved around the kitchen with brisk, competent ease while pretending not to watch you too closely.
Only when the tea was steeping did she lean against the counter and fold her arms.
“All right,” she said. “Talk.”
You stared at the table.
“I left.”
“I can see that.”
A weak breath that might have been a laugh left you.
“Steve said something.”
Her expression changed very slightly.
Not surprise.
Not yet.
Just attention narrowing.
“You want to be more specific before I decide whether to stab him?”
You swallowed.
“It wasn’t even to me.”
That made her go still.
You looked up long enough to catch the sharpened line of her mouth before dropping your gaze again.
“I overheard him talking about Peggy.”
Maya did not interrupt.
You wrapped both hands around the mug she slid toward you, though it was too hot to hold properly.
“He said she… had no doubts,” you said quietly. “About her place, her role, her worth. That she didn’t change herself to fit whatever somebody needed from her.”
Maya’s face hardened by degrees.
“And?”
You laughed once, harsh and unsteady.
“And that’s it.”
“No, sweetheart,” she said, voice suddenly very flat. “That isn’t it. What did you hear?”
You shut your eyes.
The question hurt because it was too accurate.
What had he said?
And what had you heard?
Not the same thing.
Probably.
Maybe.
But what you had heard lodged under your skin all the same.
“I heard that he sees exactly what’s wrong with me,” you whispered.
The kitchen went silent.
When you opened your eyes, Maya was already moving. She crossed the room, pulled out the chair opposite you, and sat down hard enough to make the table tremble slightly.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said.
You flinched.
“No.” Her voice softened by half a degree, but only half. “You don’t get to disappear into your own worst thoughts while I’m sitting here.”
Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You looked down at the tea.
Maya leaned forward.
“You are exhausted,” she said. “You are hurt. And from what I’m hearing, he said something thoughtless and devastating in exactly the way decent men often do when they’re busy being emotionally incompetent. But none of that means what your brain is currently trying to make it mean.”
You laughed bitterly.
“You don’t know what my brain is making it mean.”
She held your gaze.
“I know you.”
That did it.
Your composure fractured all at once.
You cried harder than you had in your room, harder than in the car, harder than felt remotely fair. It was ugly and humiliating and exhausting, and Maya did not interrupt it with comfort so much as presence. She stayed there. She passed you tissues. She pushed the sugar bowl toward you when your tea went cold and you forgot it existed. She did not say it’s okay because it very obviously was not.
When the worst of it passed, she asked, “Have you eaten?”
You wiped your face and lied instinctively.
“Yes.”
She stared at you.
You lasted maybe two seconds.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
She stood, opened the fridge, and began pulling things out with the grim determination of someone preparing for battle.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maya.”
She glanced over one shoulder, unimpressed.
“You can either eat soup like a wounded Victorian heroine or I can call your super-soldier and let him hear for himself how bad you sound. Pick one.”
You stared at her.
“That’s emotional blackmail.”
“Yes.”
You hated that she knew exactly how to manage you.
You ate half a bowl because arguing took more energy than lifting a spoon.
Then she made you shower.
Then she handed you one of her oldest T-shirts and pointed at the couch like a drill sergeant.
You curled under a blanket while she moved around the apartment dimming lights.
Your phone stayed face down on the coffee table where you had dropped it.
It buzzed once.
Twice.
Three times.
You did not look.
Maya did.
Not at the screen, but at the sound.
“You going to answer any of those?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
She sat in the armchair opposite the couch and opened her laptop.
You frowned through exhaustion. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“At eleven at night?”
“I’m rage-organizing my inbox so I don’t go to Avengers Tower tonight and commit a felony.”
A laugh escaped you despite everything.
Maya looked up briefly.
“There she is.”
You hated how that almost made you cry again.
The next morning you woke disoriented, damp with sweat, neck aching from the couch, heart already racing.
For one beautiful second you did not remember where you were.
Then everything came back at once.
Steve.
Peggy.
The message.
The leaving.
You turned onto your side and saw your phone on the coffee table, still dark, still face down.
You did not reach for it.
Maya emerged from the bedroom tying her hair up, took one look at your face, and said, “Toast first. Existential collapse second.”
You obeyed because arguing required more structural integrity than you currently possessed.
The day passed strangely.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
Just sideways.
You dozed in brief, useless stretches.
Drank tea.
Managed half a piece of toast and then felt sick for an hour.
Stared at the ceiling.
Tried not to think.
Failed.
Repeated.
Your phone remained silent only because you had forced it to be.
At one point, while Maya showered, you picked it up.
Twenty-three messages.
Four missed calls from Steve.
Two from Natasha.
One from Sam.
One from an unknown Tower extension.
A string of increasingly irritated texts from PR asking whether you were still attending tomorrow’s editorial planning session.
You stared at Steve’s name until it blurred.
The most recent message read Please answer.
The one before that.
Your message doesn’t sound like you.
And before that.
Just tell me you’re okay.
You locked the phone again.
You did not respond.
Not because you wanted him to suffer.
Not because this was punishment.
Because if you heard his voice right then – if he sounded worried, or guilty, or gentle – you would cave.
And you could not survive caving unless he had something different to offer this time.
By day three, your body began protesting in ways your mind had not anticipated.
Your hands shook more.
Your stomach lurched at the thought of food.
You could not seem to get warm even under two blankets.
When you did sleep, it was shallow and full of dreams that left you more tired than before.
Maya watched all of this with increasing concern and decreasing patience.
On the fourth evening, she stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand on her hip and said, “You are not fine.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She stared at you for a long moment.
Then she asked, “What exactly are you waiting for?”
You blinked at her from the couch.
“What?”
“You left. Fair. You needed space. Also fair. But now you’re hiding from your phone like it’s venomous, living on tea and dry cereal, and looking like you might float away if somebody opens a window. So what are you waiting for?”
The question hit harder than you expected.
You looked down at the blanket tangled around your legs.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Maya’s expression softened, which somehow made things worse.
“Yes, you do.”
You swallowed.
The answer surfaced before you could stop it.
“For it not to hurt this much.”
Silence.
Then Maya crossed the room and sat beside you on the couch.
“Oh, honey.”
Two words.
Soft.
Ruined.
You pressed a hand over your eyes.
“I know how pathetic this is.”
“It isn’t pathetic.”
“It kind of is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You let your hand fall.
“He doesn’t owe me anything.”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “That sentence needs to be outlawed.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
“You slept with him,” she said plainly, because she was not one for euphemism.
Heat flashed across your face.
You stared at her.
She held up one hand. “You look terrible, you vanished from the tower, and you ended up crying in my kitchen over Steve Rogers. I put basic emotional math together.”
A helpless laugh escaped you. Horrified. Thin. Real.
Maya nodded once, satisfied.
“Right. Thought so.”
You slumped deeper into the cushions.
“It made everything worse.”
“I’m sure it also made everything clearer.”
You laughed again, then scrubbed a hand over your face.
“He pulled away after.”
Maya’s expression went dangerously blank.
“How much after?”
You looked away.
“Immediately, mostly.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose.
“Good,” she said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “That narrows down what kind of conversation I’m going to have with him when I see him.”
Panic cut through the fog in your head.
“No.”
Maya turned toward you.
“No?”
“Do not go near him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You sat up too fast and immediately regretted it when the room tilted.
“Maya.”
She looked you over once, taking in the dizziness, the hollow face, the hands gripping the blanket.
Then she said, very quietly, “He did this.”
You shook your head.
“No. I did this. I heard one thing and turned it into proof of every awful thing I already think about myself, and then I ran away like a child.”
She held your gaze.
“And what did he do?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Said nothing.
Exactly.
Maya stood.
You watched unease move through her like intention.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my shoes.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Maya.”
She was already in the hallway.
“Stay here,” she called back.
You stared after her in disbelief.
Then, because you were too depleted to physically stop her and too horrified to do anything else, you grabbed your phone.
For a second your thumb hovered over Steve’s name.
Call him?
Warn him?
Text him?
Tell him Maya was coming like some kind of avenging force in orthopedic sneakers?
Instead, because your pride remained stupidly alive even under emotional collapse, you locked the screen again and let your hand fall into your lap.
You did not move.
The apartment felt too quiet without her.
Outside, the late afternoon sky darkened toward evening.
Your phone stayed silent.
Then vibrated once with a message from Maya.
If you throw up from stress while I’m gone, aim for the bathroom and not my couch.
A strangled laugh caught in your throat.
You pressed the phone to your forehead and closed your eyes.
By then you were too tired even for panic.
All that remained was the raw, exhausted ache of missing Steve while trying desperately to protect yourself from the version of him that only knew how to love by stepping back.
You curled deeper into the blanket and waited for whatever came next.
And somewhere beneath the hurt, beneath the humiliation, beneath the anger you still refused to let yourself feel fully, one truth stayed lodged like a splinter.
You had left because you needed air.
But the worst part of being away was realizing how much of your breathing had started to depend on him.
By the fifth day, Steve stopped pretending he was not afraid.
At first, he told himself he was giving you space.
That was what decent people did, wasn’t it? If someone said they needed air, you did not crowd them. If someone pulled away, you did not make their distress about your own need to fix it. You respected the boundary. You waited. You trusted that if they wanted you near, they would say so.
It would have been a noble thought if it had not curdled into something uglier with each unanswered message.
Because your message had been wrong.
Not only brief. Not only distant.
Wrong.
The words themselves had been polite enough.
I need some air. Don’t worry. I’ll be gone a few days.
Anyone else might have accepted them at face value. A request for space. A neat explanation. A person setting a temporary boundary with no drama attached.
But Steve knew you.
Or at least, he knew enough.
He knew that when you were really fine, you hid it badly.
He knew your humor always surfaced, even thin and brittle, when you were trying to soften a hard conversation.
He knew you overexplained when you were nervous and apologized when you had no reason to.
He knew you did not send cold little messages that read like they had been drafted by a stranger.
He also knew exactly what had happened before you disappeared.
He knew he had let fear disguise itself as restraint.
Knew he had slept with you and then built distance with his own hands because some part of him had decided professionalism, control, and caution were a kind of protection.
Knew he had watched your face sharpen and dim over the days that followed and still told himself he was doing the right thing.
By day two, he stopped sleeping properly.
By day three, everyone else noticed.
Natasha cornered him on the fifth day in the kitchen at six in the morning while he stood over a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
“You look terrible,” she observed.
Steve did not look up.
“That makes two of us.”
“No,” she said. “It makes one of us with a conscience and one of us with terrible judgment.”
That pulled his eyes to hers.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter, arms folded.
“She still isn’t answering.”
It was not a question.
“No.”
“Have you tracked her phone?”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
One of Natasha’s eyebrows lifted.
“You could.”
“I know.”
“And?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“And she said she needed space.”
Natasha stared at him for a long moment, then said, very flatly, “You’re an idiot.”
Something dark flickered under his ribs.
“I know that too.”
To his surprise, Natasha did not look satisfied.
If anything, she looked angrier.
“That isn’t enough.”
Steve straightened slightly.
“What do you want me to say?”
She pushed off the counter.
“I want you to stop acting like this is about good manners.”
He said nothing.
Natasha’s gaze sharpened.
“She left after you slept with her.”
The directness of it hit like a strike to the chest even though he deserved it.
Steve’s mouth hardened. “Nat–”
“No. You don’t get to flinch. You don’t get to be embarrassed by a fact you helped create.”
He looked away first.
The kitchen felt too small.
Too bright.
Too full of the exact kind of clarity he had spent days avoiding.
Natasha stepped closer.
“You did the thing you always do,” she said. “You decided what was best for someone else without asking whether they wanted your version of safety.”
Steve’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”
Natasha’s expression did not change.
“That has never stopped anyone.”
The silence that followed settled heavy and unavoidable.
Steve stared past her toward the window where dawn was just beginning to stain the city grey-blue.
He heard again the soft, stunned sound you had made when he kissed you for real.
He saw your face the morning after when he had reached for control instead of honesty.
He heard his own voice saying I shouldn’t have let this happen and understood, all over again, exactly how cruel that must have sounded from where you stood.
Not regret for wanting you.
Not regret for the night.
Just the coward’s instinct to frame tenderness as a mistake if it threatened to become too real.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I thought…” He stopped.
Natasha waited.
Steve tried again.
“I thought if I stepped back, if I gave her room, if I put some distance in before this got worse–”
Natasha let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Before it got worse for who?”
He looked at her.
There it was.
The center of it.
The part he had not let himself say cleanly because saying it would mean admitting how badly he had misjudged everything.
“For her,” he said, though even to his own ears it sounded weak now.
Natasha’s voice went colder.
“You mean for you.”
He flinched.
Because yes.
Partly yes.
Because if he stayed close after that night, then he would have to admit it had not been a lapse. That wanting you had not begun with the kiss on set. That it had been building, quietly and relentlessly, through every interview and every crowded gala and every moment he found his hand at your back without thinking. He would have to admit that his feelings were no longer containable inside the tidy little fiction PR had handed them.
And if he admitted that, then he would have to face the possibility of hurting you in a deeper, more permanent way. Not with one night. Not with one mistake. With everything that came after.
So he had done what he always did when fear dressed itself up like principle.
He had retreated.
Natasha watched realization move across his face and said, softer now but no less brutal, “Congratulations. You protected her straight into disappearing.”
Before Steve could answer, footsteps sounded in the hall.
A woman strode into the kitchen without waiting to be invited.
Steve had never met her before, but he recognized fury when he saw it.
She was not tall, not physically intimidating, not armed in any obvious way, and still the room changed around her as if a live charge had entered it. Dark hair shoved into a loose knot, coat half-buttoned, eyes bright with the kind of anger that had already passed through fear and come out sharp on the other side.
Natasha went very still.
The woman looked directly at Steve.
“Good,” she said. “You’re here.”
Steve set the mug down.
“Who are you?”
Her laugh contained absolutely no humor.
“I’m the one who had to watch her stop eating in my apartment because apparently no one in this building knows how to tell the difference between noble self-sacrifice and emotional stupidity.”
Every muscle in Steve’s body locked.
Natasha said nothing.
She did not need to.
Her silence confirmed enough.
Steve took one step forward. “Is she okay?”
The woman’s face hardened further.
“No,” she said. “She’s not okay.”
The words landed with frightening precision.
Steve felt them everywhere.
“What happened?”
The woman stared at him as if the question itself insulted her.
“You happened.”
That should not have hit as hard as it did.
It did.
He swallowed.
“I need you to tell me where she is.”
“No.”
Steve went still.
The woman folded her arms.
“You don’t get her location because you finally decided to panic. That’s not how this works.”
Her voice shook slightly under the anger now, just enough to betray how worried she really was.
Steve forced himself not to push.
Not to demand.
Not to become one more person deciding things around you.
“Please,” he said.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she came closer, stopping just short of his personal space as if she wanted him to feel every word clearly.
“You want to know what this week looked like?” she asked. “Fine. She barely slept. She picked at food like swallowing offended her. She sat on my couch staring at a phone she refused to answer because she was terrified that if she heard your voice sounding kind, she’d break all over again.”
Steve could not seem to draw enough air.
The woman went on, merciless.
“She heard you talking about Peggy.”
His chest tightened.
Every nerve in him sharpened instantly.
Oh.
Oh, God.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, she was still there, watching him realize it.
“You didn’t say her name,” the woman said. “Apparently you didn’t have to.”
Steve felt sick.
Sam.
The lounge.
That conversation.
He remembered it clearly now – too clearly. The context. The grief. The self-recrimination. The way he had been trying to explain to Sam that Peggy had possessed a certainty about herself he admired, not because he wanted someone else to match it, but because he feared what his life did to the people he cared about. Feared what it might grind down in them.
And you had heard the worst possible fragment.
Heard it through the wound he had already helped carve open.
The woman’s gaze did not soften.
“She heard exactly what her worst thoughts needed. And since you’d already spent days pulling away from her after sleeping with her, you can imagine how well that went.”
Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath.
Steve barely heard her.
The woman tipped her head.
“You know what gets me?” she said. “She still defends you.”
His throat worked uselessly.
“She kept saying you weren’t cruel. That you were trying. That maybe she’d heard it wrong. That maybe she was being unfair. While she was shaking so badly she could barely hold a mug.”
The image struck so hard it was almost physical.
Steve gripped the back of a chair to steady himself.
The woman’s voice dropped.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to stop congratulating yourself for being careful. You are going to stop telling yourself distance is noble when all it’s done is let her believe every terrible thing she already thinks about herself. And if you go near her again, you’d better do it with the intention of being honest for once.”
The kitchen went silent.
Steve looked at her.
“What’s your name?”
A beat passed.
“Maya.”
He nodded once.
“Maya.”
His own voice sounded rough to his ears.
“Thank you.”
Something in her expression shifted – not warmth, exactly, but a reduced desire to set him on fire.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and set it on the counter between them.
An address.
“She won’t answer if I warn her first,” Maya said. “So I’m not warning her. That’s the only reason you’re getting this.”
Steve stared at the paper.
“You’re sure?”
“No,” Maya snapped. “I’m furious. Different thing.”
He nodded again.
Fair.
As he reached for the address, Maya caught his wrist.
He looked up.
Her eyes had gone sharp enough to cut.
“If you make this about whether you deserve forgiveness,” she said, “I swear to God, Rogers, I will throw you down my building’s stairs myself.”
A strange, hollow breath escaped him.
Not laughter.
Too close to it.
“I won’t.”
Maya let go. She turned towards him before leaving.
“See that you don’t.”
He did not tell anyone he was leaving.
He did not call ahead.
Did not text.
Did not give himself enough time to rehearse explanations into something cleaner than the truth.
The drive across the city felt too slow no matter how fast traffic moved.
At red lights, his mind replayed the week in brutal fragments.
Your unanswered messages.
The clipped little text that had not sounded like you.
Natasha calling him an idiot.
Maya saying you had stopped eating.
The realization that the last thing he had given you before you vanished was distance layered over tenderness, confusion dressed up as protection.
And under all of it, the oldest, ugliest recognition of all.
He had treated your pain like a thing to manage rather than a thing to witness with you.
That had always been his flaw when fear got involved.
He moved too quickly into action, into shielding, into absorbing impact alone. He trusted strategy over vulnerability because strategy felt safer. Cleaner. Contained.
But you were not a battlefield problem.
You were not damage control.
You were not a thing to spare from afar.
You were someone he loved.
The thought arrived fully formed and devastatingly late.
Not in the vague, careful way he had let himself approach it before.
Not in coded concern or noble restraint.
Just the truth, plain and irreversible.
He loved you.
He had loved you in pieces for longer than he had admitted.
In every cup of tea left outside your door.
In every moment his eyes found you first in a room.
In every quiet fury when someone made you feel lesser than you were.
In the way he learned your fragile places without ever wanting to use them against you.
In the way your hurt had become unbearable to witness long before he understood why.
And then, because love in him had always come braided to fear, he had tried to keep the feeling from doing damage by forcing it into silence.
He parked badly.
He did not care.
The apartment building was ordinary in the best possible way. Brick. Narrow steps. Buzzers. Potted plants in two front windows. The kind of place no one would ever photograph because it belonged to real life rather than narrative.
He climbed the stairs two at a time and stopped outside the right door with his heart pounding hard enough to make him feel nineteen again and much less brave.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, gentler this time.
Footsteps approached.
Paused.
Then the lock turned.
The door opened three inches.
Maya looked at him through the gap.
Her expression made it clear she had not become any less angry in the last hour.
“She’s asleep,” she said.
Steve exhaled, relief and dread colliding in equal measure.
“Is she–”
“Barely, for once.”
Maya considered him for a second, then opened the door wider.
“You get five minutes before I decide you’re raising her cortisol.”
He nodded and stepped inside.
The apartment smelled like tea and laundry soap and something simmered earlier for dinner. Small. Warm. Lived in. There was a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a mug on the coffee table, a pair of socks abandoned near the radiator.
And there you were.
Curled on the couch beneath a grey blanket, turned toward the back cushions, one hand tucked near your face. Even asleep, you looked worn thin. Your skin had that drawn, fragile pallor of someone running on too little rest and less food. There were shadows under your eyes, your breathing shallow even now, as if your body had not remembered how to fully unclench.
Steve stopped a few feet away.
The sight of you knocked something out of him.
He had been worried.
He had imagined this.
But imagination had not done justice to the small, devastating truth of it.
You looked breakable.
Maya came to stand beside him.
“She kept saying she just needed a few days,” she said quietly, the anger in her voice banked now into exhaustion. “Like this was a normal amount of hurt to carry around.”
Steve could not answer.
Maya crossed her arms.
“She loved that you were careful with her,” she said. “Do you understand that? It made her trust you. So when you started disappearing in all the little ways that don’t leave evidence, she didn’t know what to do with it except blame herself.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his gaze found you again.
“I know,” he said.
“No,” Maya replied. “You know now.”
Fair.
Again.
You stirred before he could say more.
A small shift under the blanket.
A breath catching.
Your eyes opening slowly in the unfamiliar confusion of bad sleep.
For one suspended second, you just looked dazed.
Then you saw him.
Every trace of softness vanished from your face.
You pushed yourself upright too quickly, blanket sliding into your lap, and immediately had to brace one hand on the couch arm when the movement made you dizzy.
Maya swore under her breath.
Steve stepped forward instinctively.
You recoiled before he could reach you.
The movement was small.
It still nearly stopped his heart.
Your voice came out rough from sleep and disuse.
“What is he doing here?”
Maya answered before he could.
“Being threatened, mostly.”
You looked from her to Steve and back again.
Somewhere under the fatigue, embarrassment flickered across your face.
“Maya.”
“What?” she said. “You were refusing to answer your phone and starting to look haunted.”
“I told you I needed–”
“Air,” Maya cut in. “Yes. I know. You’ve had plenty. Apparently oxygen does not fix men.”
Despite everything, something dangerously close to a laugh tugged at Steve’s throat. He swallowed it before it could become disrespect.
You dragged a hand over your face.
Your eyes would not stay on his for long.
That hurt more than anger would have.
“Maya,” you said again, quieter now.
She sighed.
“I’m making tea,” she announced to no one in particular. “And if either of you says anything catastrophically stupid while I’m in the kitchen, I will come back with a weapon.”
Then she walked away, leaving behind a silence so immediate it almost rang.
Steve stood near the edge of the living room.
You remained curled into the corner of the couch like it was the only shape keeping you together.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I’m sorry.”
You laughed.
It was not a kind sound.
“Of course you are.”
He felt that land.
Accepted it.
“I mean it.”
Your gaze flicked to his face and away again.
“That’s sort of the problem with you, Steve. You usually do.”
He took a slow breath.
“I know.”
You stared at the blanket in your lap, fingers twisting in the fabric.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
That made you look at him.
Really look.
There was no defense left in his face.
No polished restraint.
No distance disguised as gentleness.
Just a man who had understood too late what his caution had cost.
He took one step closer.
“Maya told me about this week.”
Something shuttered in your expression.
“Great,” you said. “Glad everybody’s comparing notes.”
“I’m not here to make you explain.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because I love you, he thought.
Because leaving you alone with the version of me that lived in your head has become unbearable.
Because I finally understand that what I called protection was just fear with better manners.
What he said was, “Because I hurt you.”
You went very still.
The room from the kitchen hummed faintly with the sound of the kettle filling.
A cabinet opening.
Maya giving you both the illusion of privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if needed.
You looked down again.
“Yes,” you said.
No accusation.
No drama.
Just a fact.
It hit harder than anything else could have.
Steve nodded once.
“Yes,” he echoed, because trying to soften it would have been an insult.
He moved closer to the couch, slowly enough to give you time to stop him.
You did not.
But you tensed.
That, too, he accepted.
“When I said I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he said carefully, “I wasn’t regretting you.”
Your throat moved as you swallowed.
You still did not look at him.
He continued anyway.
“I was afraid of what happened after.”
A bitter little smile touched your mouth and vanished.
“So you decided that part for both of us.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of the answer made your eyes lift, startled.
Steve held your gaze.
“Yes,” he said again. “I did. And I was wrong.”
Silence.
The words seemed to settle somewhere between you, too fragile to trust at first.
You drew the blanket tighter around yourself.
“You pulled away.”
“I know.”
“And then you still asked me to stay.”
His chest tightened.
He could still hear his own voice from that night, raw and wanting.
Stay.
And then the morning after, when he had started measuring distance like virtue.
“I know,” he repeated.
Your voice sharpened for the first time.
“Do you?”
He let the hurt in that question hit cleanly before answering.
“I do now.”
The anger did not flare. It wavered.
Your exhaustion was too deep for anything dramatic.
That somehow made every word heavier.
You looked away toward the kitchen, toward the safe shape of Maya moving in the next room.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it, “I thought I’d made it ugly.”
Steve felt his entire body go still.
You kept talking, eyes fixed somewhere beyond him.
“I thought maybe that night had just…” You stopped, pressed your lips together, began again. “I thought maybe you wanted me until I became real again after.”
The sentence nearly undid him.
He crossed the last of the distance to the couch and crouched in front of you before he could think better of it. Low enough not to tower. Close enough that if you wanted to look at him, you could.
Your eyes met his then, wary and exhausted and aching in ways he had no right to ask forgiveness for yet.
“I wanted you before that night,” he said.
You blinked.
“I wanted you every day of this arrangement in ways I was trying very hard not to. I wanted you even before that.”
Something shifted in your face.
Not trust.
Not relief.
Just the faint shock of hearing the truth said plainly.
Steve did not look away.
“The kiss on set wasn’t the first time I was scared of how much I wanted you,” he said. “It was just the first time I ran out of places to hide it.”
Your breathing changed.
Slightly.
Enough.
“And then,” he said, because there was no point being brave only halfway now, “I got afraid.”
You let out a breath that trembled on the way out.
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Then, quieter, “Of how badly I could hurt you if I got this wrong.”
A sad sort of understanding crossed your face.
That cut almost as sharply as the original wound.
“So you hurt me another way.”
The precision of it left no room to flinch.
“Yes.”
He would keep answering yes to every true thing if that was what it took.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Your eyes were wet now, though the tears had not fallen yet.
“I heard you talking about Peggy,” you whispered.
There it was.
The bruise at the center of everything.
Steve nodded slowly.
“I know.”
You laughed once, shaky and devastated.
“No, you don’t. You have no idea what that sounded like.”
“Then tell me.”
The words startled you.
Maybe because they asked instead of assuming.
Maybe because they did not argue.
Your fingers tightened in the blanket.
“It sounded like…” You shut your eyes briefly. “It sounded like you finally said out loud what I’d already been terrified was true. That she was everything I’m not. That she knew her own worth and never had to be useful to earn a place beside you. That you looked at me and saw someone uncertain and exhausting and–”
“Stop.”
The word came rougher than he intended.
Your eyes flew open.
Not anger.
Fear.
The immediate reflexive fear of someone who had been cut off too many times while bleeding.
Steve forced gentleness back into his voice.
“Not because I don’t want to hear you,” he said. “Because none of that is what I meant.”
Your mouth tightened.
“It’s what I heard.”
“I know.”
He let that sit.
Then he said, very carefully, “I was talking about what I admired in Peggy. Not what I required from you.”
Something in your face cracked at that.
“I don’t require you to be less uncertain,” he said. “Or less complicated. Or less hurt. I don’t need you to become someone untouched by what life has done to you just so I can stand beside you.”
Your tears spilled then, sudden and silent.
Steve stayed exactly where he was.
“I was afraid,” he went on, “because you make yourself smaller when you’re scared. You let people use your willingness to help as proof you can carry more than you should. And instead of staying close enough to help you fight that, I stepped back and made it worse.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
The gesture was so heartbreakingly familiar it almost ruined him.
“I am not going to do that again,” he said.
The kitchen had gone silent.
Maya was listening, of course.
He did not care.
Your voice shook.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he said. “I can promise something better.”
You looked at him through wet lashes, wary despite yourself.
Steve drew in a slow breath.
“I can promise I won’t decide for you what protects you. I can promise I won’t call distance love when it’s really fear. And I can promise that I am done letting you carry all the cost of this because it’s easier than admitting I’m in too deep.”
The tears came harder then.
You laughed through one of them, a small, broken sound.
“In too deep?”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Yes.”
You looked wrecked.
And unconvinced.
And wanting to believe him in ways your body had not caught up with yet.
That was fair.
More than fair.
“I don’t know how to do this without making a mess of it,” you whispered.
Something warm and shattered moved through him.
At any other time, the line might have been funny.
A little self-aware.
A little ironic.
Here, now, it was only naked.
Steve softened.
“Then we make a mess,” he said. “But we do it honestly.”
You shut your eyes and cried in earnest then, not violently, not dramatically, just with the exhausted relief of someone too tired to keep every wound upright.
His hands twitched with the need to reach for you.
He didn’t.
Not until you looked at him again.
Not until you gave the smallest, most fragile nod he had ever seen.
Then he moved.
Carefully.
Slowly.
He sat beside you on the couch and gathered you in as if he were handling something both precious and half-feral. You came to him in pieces at first, stiff with hurt and habit, then all at once, forehead against his shoulder, breath breaking against his shirt.
Steve held you.
Not to quiet you.
Not to fix you.
Just to be there while it hurt.
One of his hands slid up between your shoulder blades in slow, grounding strokes.
The other cradled the back of your head.
Into your hair, into the bent crown of you, he said, “You never had to earn your place with me.”
That made you cry harder.
He closed his eyes.
“I know,” he said softly. “I know. I should have said it sooner.”
For a long time, neither of you moved beyond that.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen.
A cupboard shut.
Maya, mercifully, remained out of sight.
Eventually your breathing steadied enough to become less ragged.
You did not pull away completely, but you shifted enough to look at him, face damp and exhausted and more open than he suspected you meant it to be.
“What happens now?”
A dangerous question.
A necessary one.
Steve brushed a thumb lightly beneath one of your eyes.
Only once.
Then let his hand fall so the touch would not become its own pressure.
“First,” he said, “you stay here as long as you need.”
You frowned slightly, as if expecting some hidden catch.
He went on.
“Then I deal with PR.”
A very faint, incredulous sound escaped you. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
That drew the smallest ghost of a smile to your mouth.
Steve took it as the gift it was.
“I’m ending the arrangement,” he said. “Not by sacrificing you to another story. Not by making you walk back into that machine because I was too slow to figure my own head out.”
The smile faded into uncertainty again.
“They’ll hate that.”
“I know.”
“They’ll blame me.”
“No,” he said. “They won’t. Because I won’t let them.”
You searched his face, looking for doubt.
There was none.
Steve leaned back slightly, enough to see you fully.
“And after that,” he said, “if you still want me anywhere near your life, I start over properly.”
Your breath caught.
“Properly?”
“No lies. No cover. No pretending I’m doing you a favor by keeping my distance.”
A pause.
“No sacrificing yourself for me because it feels easier than asking what you’re worth.”
Your face crumpled a little around the edges at that.
Not from pain this time exactly.
From being understood too closely.
You looked down.
“I don’t know if I can just… turn all this off.”
He followed your gaze.
“I’m not asking you to.”
You let that settle.
Then, very quietly, “I’m still angry with you.”
He nodded.
“You should be.”
“I kind of hate how decent you’re being about it.”
The laugh that escaped him this time was soft and brief and real.
“Maya already covered the less decent part.”
That startled a tired laugh out of you too.
Tiny.
Beautiful.
A crack of light.
From the kitchen, Maya called, “I can still hear you, and I regret nothing.”
You let your forehead fall briefly against Steve’s shoulder again, laughing weakly through the last of your tears.
His arm tightened around you – not possessive, not performative, just sure.
After a minute, Maya appeared in the doorway carrying three mugs.
She took one look at the two of you on the couch and narrowed her eyes at Steve.
“Did he say anything stupid?”
You wiped under your eyes and muttered, “Several things. But mostly the useful kind.”
Maya handed you the first mug, then held Steve’s just out of reach for a beat.
“Remember the stairs,” she told him.
Steve accepted the tea solemnly.
“I remember.”
She sat in the armchair opposite with the posture of a queen supervising a peace treaty.
No one minded.
You wrapped both hands around the mug and stared down into the steam.
The room felt fragile still.
Nothing fixed.
Nothing magically healed.
Your body was still tired.
Your appetite was still a problem.
The week had still happened.
Steve’s fear had still cut you.
Your own fear had still convinced you to disappear.
But he was here.
Not as Captain America.
Not as a strategy.
Not as a man hiding behind what was best for you.
Just Steve.
And when your fingers trembled once around the mug, his free hand found your knee under the blanket and stayed there, quiet and steady, not asking for anything.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
He met your gaze.
No more distance, something in his expression said.
Not the kind that lies and calls itself kindness.
You leaned very slightly into his side.
A choice so small no one else in the room would have noticed if they had not been looking.
A choice enormous enough to feel like the first honest thing you had done in days.
Steve exhaled like a man who had been waiting to breathe.
Maya sipped her tea and pretended not to see.
Outside, evening settled over the city in slow blue layers.
Inside, nothing was tidy.
Nothing was easy.
Nothing was finished.
But for the first time since the whole lie began, no one in the room was pretending.
And when Steve’s thumb moved once, warm and grounding where his hand rested against you, the thought that came was still frightened, still fragile, still bruised at the edges – but no longer hopeless.
He had not protected you by stepping away.
He knew that now.
So when he looked at you over the rim of his mug and said, quietly enough that only you could hear, “No more sacrificing yourself for me,” you believed he meant it.
And when you answered, voice raw but steady, “Then don’t leave me alone in it,” he set the mug down without breaking eye contact and said, with all the certainty he should have given you from the start, “I won’t.”
The first thing Steve did was cancel the interview.
PR called it impossible.
Steve called it another normal day.
You were still at Maya’s apartment the next morning when his name began lighting up the group email chain with replies so blunt they looked almost surreal against the corporate tone surrounding them.
Captain Rogers will not be attending Friday’s segment.
The arranged narrative ends here.
Any further press strategy goes through me before it goes through her.
You read the messages from the couch, wrapped in one of Maya’s blankets, tea cooling untouched in your hands.
Maya leaned over your shoulder, scanned the screen, and let out a low whistle.
“Well,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “There goes the national budget for public relations.”
Despite everything, a weak smile tugged at your mouth.
Steve had not stayed the night after finding you.
He had wanted to.
You had seen it in the way he lingered by the door, reluctant to go, as though leaving at all now felt suspect to him. But he had also understood that crowding your first breath after days underwater would only turn tenderness into pressure again.
So he had crouched beside the couch before leaving, looked at you with that open, impossible honesty that still made your chest hurt, and said, “I’ll call tomorrow. If you don’t answer, I’ll text. If you don’t answer that, I’ll still be here.”
Then he had looked at Maya and added, with grave sincerity, “Please don’t throw me down the stairs yet.”
Maya had taken a deliberate sip of tea and replied, “No promises.”
Now, in the washed-out grey of morning, his restraint felt like proof rather than distance.
A little later, your phone buzzed.
Can I come by later? Only if you want.
Simple.
No pressure.
No polished reassurance trying to outtalk your fear.
You stared at the screen.
Maya, slicing fruit at the counter with the focus of a woman pretending not to monitor your every micro-expression, said, “If you don’t answer that man soon, he’s going to start composing messages like a Regency widower.”
You typed back before you could lose courage.
Later is okay.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Thank you.
You looked at the words for a long time after the screen dimmed.
Returning to the Tower two days later felt like stepping back into a building that had learned your shape and your fractures both.
You had not wanted to come back too soon.
Maya had not wanted you to come back at all without backup.
In the end, compromise took the form of her driving you there personally and informing you, before you even got out of the car, that if anyone from PR so much as looked at you with a monetizable expression, she would set something on fire.
“You cannot threaten federal property,” you had muttered.
“Watch me.”
She had squeezed your shoulder once before letting you go.
The lobby felt the same.
That was the strange part.
The same polished floors.
The same quiet hum of elevators.
The same people moving through the space with coffee cups and tablets and the exhausting illusion that none of their lives were ever cracking under the surface.
And yet everything in you felt newly tender, as if the world had edges you had not noticed before.
Steve was waiting by the private elevator.
Of course he was.
No cameras.
No handlers.
No audience.
Just Steve in a dark henley and jeans, hands loose at his sides, looking at you as if he had spent every hour since leaving Maya’s apartment teaching himself not to rush forward.
Your steps slowed.
For one brief second, panic fluttered under your ribs – not because you did not want him there, but because you did. Too much. In ways still sore from being mishandled.
He read enough in your face to stay exactly where he was.
“Hey,” he said.
The softness of it nearly undid you on the spot.
“Hey.”
Silence stretched.
Not empty.
Just careful.
Then Steve asked, “Do you want to go upstairs, or do you want to leave right now and let Maya win?”
A startled laugh escaped you.
It was small.
It was still real.
His mouth curved in response, relief flickering openly this time.
“Upstairs,” you said.
He nodded once and pressed the elevator call button.
Inside, the ride was quiet. Your shoulders remained tight despite yourself, and you hated that he noticed immediately. You hated even more that he responded by simply shifting closer – not touching, not crowding, just making his presence available like a choice you could take or leave.
By the time the doors opened to the residential level, some small part of your body had remembered how to breathe normally again.
Natasha was the first to find you.
She appeared in the common kitchen like a ghost in expensive black, took one look at your face, and said, “You’re alive.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
Her expression barely changed, but something relieved moved behind her eyes.
“That depends.”
You set your bag down on the counter.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Natasha crossed the room and pulled you into a brief, hard hug that lasted exactly one heartbeat longer than you expected.
When she stepped back, you stared at her.
She picked up an apple from the fruit bowl as if nothing unusual had happened.
“You vanished,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“That was inconsiderate.”
A laugh caught in your throat. “Wow. And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We did,” she said. “It’s over now.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
Natasha bit into the apple.
“I know.”
There was no reproach in it, only fact. The same kind she always offered when feelings got too large for elegance.
After a beat, she added, “He looked like death.”
You glanced instinctively toward the doorway, though Steve had stayed back to give you room.
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It wasn’t meant to be comforting.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Natasha leaned one hip against the counter.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I considered pushing him off the roof.”
You blinked.
“You what?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Maya had already called dibs on violence.”
You laughed then. Properly. Startled and helpless and still too tired, but enough to make Natasha’s shoulders loosen by half an inch.
She finished the apple and tossed the core.
“Eat something,” she said. “You still look haunted.”
“Did everyone agree to phrase things as offensively as possible while I was gone?”
“Yes.”
Then she walked out, conversation apparently complete.
You stared after her.
From the doorway, Steve said quietly, “That was her being worried.”
You turned.
“I know.”
Something gentle passed across his face.
“I know you know.”
The PR meeting happened the next afternoon, and it was a disaster in the best possible way.
You had not wanted to attend.
Steve had given you an out before you even asked for one.
“You don’t have to go,” he had said that morning outside the conference room where this whole mess had begun. “I can handle it.”
The old reflex had risen instantly – be there, absorb the impact, make yourself useful, do not leave other people to clean up consequences that involved you.
Then Steve, as if hearing the exact shape of that thought before you said it, added, “Coming because you choose to is one thing. Coming because you think you owe them your body in a chair is another.”
That was enough to make you stop.
You went.
But this time you went knowing the exit existed.
The same room.
The same glass walls.
The same polished surface of the table where magazines and contracts and public affection had once been arranged like logistics.
This time, no one tried to smile at you.
The head of PR sat rigidly at one end of the table with a legal adviser beside her. Two others avoided your eyes entirely. The atmosphere smelled less like strategy now and more like contained panic.
Steve stood instead of sitting.
You sat near the door by choice.
Not trapped.
Not cornered.
Just present.
The woman from PR clasped her hands.
“We all understand emotions are running high,” she began.
Steve laughed once.
Not kindly.
“Is that what you think this is?”
The woman held his gaze. “What I think is that ending the arrangement abruptly creates new exposure, especially after the latest shoot–”
“The arrangement is over,” Steve said. “That part isn’t up for discussion.”
She looked at you then, as if hoping practicality might yet be found in the softer target.
“With respect, this affects both of you.”
Before you could answer, Steve said, “Then speak to both of us like people this time.”
The room went very still.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “No one intended disrespect.”
You found your voice before you had consciously decided to use it.
“You didn’t have to intend it.”
Every eye in the room shifted to you.
You hated that old instinct to shrink under attention. Hated even more how familiar it still felt. But Steve did not move to rescue you from it. He just stayed where he was – solid, quiet, there if you needed him and not taking the space from you unless asked.
So you continued.
“You called me into this room without warning. You pitched me as a solution before anyone asked whether I actually wanted to be one. And then you kept raising the price every time the public liked the story better than the truth.”
No one interrupted.
The woman from PR inhaled carefully.
“We were managing a difficult situation under intense public pressure.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you were very good at making that everyone else’s emergency.”
Beside you, Steve said nothing.
You could feel his attention on you anyway, steady as a hand at your back without actually touching you.
The lawyer leaned forward.
“What outcome are you asking for?”
For a second you almost laughed.
Outcome.
As if there were one neat enough to fit on paper.
Steve answered before you had to.
“You will not blame her publicly or privately for ending this.”
He spoke with crisp, terrifying calm.
“You will not leak, imply, or suggest that she was unstable, unavailable, noncompliant, or difficult. You will not send anyone to pressure her into salvaging the story. And you will not ever again call in someone under the pretense of consultation after deciding their answer for them.”
The head of PR looked like she wanted to argue every point and understood she could not afford to.
“We can issue a mutual statement about privacy and timing,” she said at last. “Respectful, brief, no scandal language.”
Steve nodded once. “Good.”
She hesitated.
“And the recent photographs?”
The kiss.
The magazine.
The cover that would probably still run in some altered form because the machine rarely stopped just because it had hurt someone.
Your stomach tightened.
Then Steve said, “Spin it however you want. We were private. We reconsidered. We chose not to continue publicly. I don’t care.”
His gaze hardened.
“But if I hear even a whisper that this is being put on her, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”
The woman looked at you then, perhaps hoping you might moderate him.
Instead, you said, quietly, “I’m done being useful to this.”
Silence.
Not hostile.
Not shocked.
Just the silence that falls when a truth finally lands in the room where it belonged all along.
The meeting ended ten minutes later.
When you stepped back into the hallway, your legs felt strange. Light. Unsteady. As though some old brace inside you had been removed and your body had not figured out how to stand without it yet.
Steve followed, letting the conference room door close behind him.
“You okay?”
The question no longer felt like surveillance.
That was new.
You let out a breath.
“I think I just told off an entire department.”
“You did.”
“And they didn’t combust.”
“Disappointing, I know.”
You smiled.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Steve held out a protein bar from his pocket.
You stared at it.
His expression was perfectly serious.
“Maya texted me before the meeting,” he said. “She said if I let you leave that room without food, she was revisiting the stairs question.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
“You two are terrifying.”
“I know.”
You took the bar.
Opened it.
Ate half because he stood there waiting and because somehow the act no longer felt like obedience so much as being looked after.
The distinction mattered.
More than you expected.
The statement went out that evening.
Brief.
Careful.
Vague enough to satisfy the public and boring enough to kill the frenzy.
After recent public speculation, Captain Rogers and his companion have chosen to keep their personal lives private and will not be making further comment. They appreciate the support and ask for understanding regarding boundaries moving forward.
People read into it, of course.
Some thought you had broken up.
Some thought the relationship had always been private and simply became too exposed.
Some spun conspiracies.
Some wrote think pieces.
Some mourned the loss of a romance they had never actually possessed.
For the first time since the whole thing began, you did not care very much.
Because the truth had moved somewhere smaller and more important.
Into hallways.
Into kitchens.
Into the space outside your door at night where Steve still knocked before entering and waited for permission like he was relearning the shape of your trust from scratch.
He did not rush you.
That might have been the most loving thing of all.
He stayed near.
He stayed honest.
And he let you have bad days without treating them like evidence that he ought to step back for your own good.
When you went to therapy that Thursday and came back wrung out and quiet, there was tea outside your room again.
This time with a note.
No vanishing. – S
You stood in the hallway staring at the handwriting until your vision blurred a little.
Then you carried the mug inside.
The next few weeks were not cinematic.
You did not magically become secure.
He did not transform overnight into a man with no instinct toward self-sacrifice or overprotection.
Your appetite returned slowly.
Sleep returned inconsistently.
There were still moments when your brain reached for its oldest, cruelest explanations before anything gentler could catch up.
But now Steve was there to interrupt them.
Not by denying your feelings.
Not by soothing them into nothing.
Just by staying long enough that the thoughts had to compete with reality.
One night, after a mission briefing ran late and left the Tower washed in that strange, hollow quiet of near midnight, you found him in the kitchen making grilled cheese like it was a tactical operation.
You paused in the doorway.
He looked up and smiled, tired and immediate.
“There you are.”
Something about the words warmed you from the inside out.
“Is that one for me?”
He glanced down at the pan. “Depends. Are you planning to insult my cooking?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then no.”
You crossed the room and sat on the counter while he plated the sandwiches. It was such an old, familiar shape between you that for a second grief moved through you – grief for how close you had come to losing it entirely.
Steve set a plate beside you and leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded.
For a while, you just ate.
Then, because honesty had become a habit neither of you could afford to lose now, you said, “I still keep waiting for you to decide this is too much.”
His eyes lifted to yours at once.
“This?”
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
The kitchen.
Your terrible coping mechanisms.
His feelings.
Everything.
“All of it.”
He was quiet for a beat.
Then he said, “I think the problem was that I already decided it mattered too much. And I got scared.”
You swallowed.
“But scared of something isn’t the same as wanting less of it.”
The sentence settled deep.
You looked down at the plate in your lap.
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No,” he said. “I just say it plainly.”
A smile tugged at your mouth.
“That too.”
He set his own plate aside and stepped closer.
Not too close.
Never presumptuous.
Just enough that if you wanted to close the distance, you could.
“You can ask me again tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. Or every time you need to.”
Your throat tightened.
“That sounds exhausting.”
His eyes softened.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve good stamina.”
You laughed quietly and set your plate down beside you.
He was close enough now that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the softness at the edges of exhaustion, the sincerity still too large for his own face sometimes.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitated.
Then forced the words out before you could edit them into something safer.
“What if I still don’t know how to do this right?”
His expression changed with such immediate tenderness that you almost looked away.
Instead, you made yourself stay.
He reached out slowly, giving you every second to stop him, and rested his hand lightly against your knee.
“You don’t have to do it right.”
The old ache moved in your chest again, but gentler now. Less like a bruise, more like healing tissue.
“Then what?”
He leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed yours.
“We do it honestly,” he said. “And we keep showing up.”
The space between you thinned to breath.
This time, when he kissed you, there were no cameras.
No contracts.
No waiting headlines.
Only choice.
His mouth was soft at first, asking rather than taking. You answered before your fear could get there first, hand sliding to the front of his shirt, and felt the answering warmth of his body shift nearer.
It was not desperate like the night that had blown everything apart.
Not hungry with panic or denial or weeks of wanting sharpened into recklessness.
It was better.
Slower.
Warmer.
Deliberate.
A kiss that knew exactly what it was doing and wanted to stay.
When he drew back, he kept his forehead against yours and smiled the smallest, quietest smile.
You exhaled shakily.
“Well,” you murmured, “that was alarmingly real.”
The laugh he gave then was soft and low and so fond it nearly made your heart stop.
“That’s because it is.”
For one dangerous second, your mind tried to flinch.
Tried to catalogue all the ways real things could still be lost.
Then Steve’s hand slid from your knee to your waist, steady and sure, and stayed there.
Not trapping.
Not claiming.
Just present.
And you remembered, all at once, that love did not have to arrive as certainty to be true.
That maybe it could come like this instead – messy, frightened, honest, still choosing to remain.
You touched his jaw with careful fingers.
“I’m still a mess,” you said quietly.
His eyes held yours.
“I know.”
Not despite.
Not but.
Just truth.
Something in you loosened.
You let out a breath that felt like setting down a weight you had carried so long you no longer noticed the strain of it.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Steve’s thumb brushed once at your side.
“Okay.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the Tower glass, the city kept moving – messy and loud and alive, full of stories people told because neat endings comforted them.
Inside, your story was still unfinished.
Still imperfect.
Still human.
There would be hard days.
Bad nights.
Moments when old fears rose up and called themselves facts.
Moments when Steve would have to choose honesty over instinct all over again.
Moments when you would have to believe being loved was not the same thing as being useful.
But there would also be this: his hand at your waist in a kitchen lit gold after midnight, grilled cheese cooling on a plate, your forehead against his, and the quiet, radical miracle of not having to pretend anymore.
Everything had been a mess.
Maybe some of it still was.
But when Steve kissed you again – real and certain and entirely yours – what you thought, with a kind of bruised wonder, was not that everything had finally become perfect.
Only that it was real anyway.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin
Warnings: angst, mentions of past bad relationships, world-building, nervous Steve
“Oh my,” your assistant cooed happily. She clutched her hands to her chest, swooning like some lovesick schoolgirl. The scene unfolding only a few feet away from you didn’t have the same effect on you. “You outdid yourself matching these two. They are so in love.”
You smiled to appear happy and pretend you couldn’t care less about the newfound love the pair you matched experienced. It was only a matter of time until they, too, would part ways.
One way or another, one of them would find someone newer, better, or funnier and leave.
“Boss, can I ask you something?” Your assistant shifted from one foot to the other, obviously nervous.
“Shoot me with your best shot,” you replied with a fake smile. Your mind was elsewhere, already planning on investing the money you made with your latest assignment.
“Why are you making everyone happy but yourself? Why don’t you look for a partner yourself?” She looked so sweet and innocent, and it told you everything you needed to know. Your assistant never got her heart broken so badly that you simply cannot pick all the puzzle pieces up. “Don’t you, out of all the people, believe in love?”
She watched your face as you opened your mouth to answer her. “I believe in love. I simply don’t believe in men and relationships any longer. It’s not for me.”
Your assistant blinked a few times. “How can you believe in love but not in relationships?” She asked, confused at your statement.
“Love comes in many forms, Esmé.” You shrugged at the shocked expression. “I know what you think. Why in the world would someone not believing in relationships bring people together?”
“Yeah… I mean. That’s a little odd, isn’t it?” Esmé replied, eyes drifting toward the happy couple sealing their bond. They invited you, their matchmaker, and Esme to their wedding to watch them get their happily ever after.
Your features saddened when you said, “Maybe, I still hope some of them will make it longer than a few years before things change.”
“Boss—” Esmé watched you fumble with your phone. “Can I ask you what happened? Why did you give up on relationships?”
“Nothing special,” you said, but your tone gave your lie away. “I met a guy every woman wanted. Every woman but me. He chased me for months, never giving up.” You smiled for a second, but the smile faded as soon as you said his name. “Christian was determined to win me over. And I slowly lowered my defense. I gave in, and we went on the perfect date they show in movies.”
“Aww…” Esmé swooned, staring at you as if she saw a miracle happen. She was the kind of woman who still believed in everlasting love. And in a way, you envied her.
“It was great. Everyone would call our love story a fairytale straight out of a movie.” You glanced at the happy couple celebrating their love. “Flowers every week, thoughtful gifts, love confessions, carefully planned dates.”
“But…” Esmé frowned deeply. “What happened? If he was so nice and attentive…, why did it end in ruins?”
“A cliché happened, Esme,” you scoffed at the memory. “It started with forgotten dates, working late, and weeks of absence because he had yet another business trip. After he forgot our fifth anniversary, I was sure he had found some other woman.”
“OH…no,” Esmé’s voice broke. “I’m so sorry. He sounded so great.”
“Yeah, he did. On paper, Christian was the doting and devoted boyfriend. In reality, I walked in on him and his cliché on my birthday,” you laughed at the memory. “I had hoped that Christian had prepared a surprise for my birthday. In a way, he did. Walking in on your boyfriend and his ex-fiancée was indeed a surprise.”
“Fuck.” You snickered at Esmé’s outburst. “Sorry, boss, but that’s shitty. Even for a man.”
“It wasn’t too hurtful. At that time, I already knew he was seeing someone. For a smart man, he was rather dumb at hiding his affair. Lipstick on his shirt, love bites, and hickeys on his neck. The usual shit, telling you the person you love is fucking someone else.”
Esme nodded, her cheerful mood turned sour. She averted her gaze and sighed. “Why can’t they just break things off?” There it was, her own hurtful memory resurfacing.
“Some people want to eat their cake and keep it too.” "You said," venom in your voice. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Back then, most of my things were already packed. I came back to see if there was a tiny chance that I got it all wrong.”
“Who would’ve thought that men can be so cruel? One moment, they love you and make promises. Only to break them.” Esmé sounded bitter. A stark contrast to the cheerful woman she was only moments ago.
“I walked in on them while they were trying to win the Olympiad in bed gymnastics,” you joked, trying to cheer your assistant up. “The moment they saw me, Christian tried to lie to me, pretending they were, in fact, not fucking.”
“How stupid!” Esmé exclaimed, stomping her foot. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t care. I started packing my last suitcase and told them not to stop on my account.” You chuckled at the memory. “You should’ve seen their faces.”
Esmé couldn’t reply. The bride’s mother asked you to join them for drinks. You didn’t want to be rude. They were all welcoming and friendly. It wasn’t their fault that you weren’t a fan of weddings any longer.
A few weeks later, the wedding and your conversation with Esmé were still lingering in the back of your mind. Though you didn’t have the time to think about it for much longer.
Another client was waiting for you to find the perfect partner for him. His name was Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America himself. Why a man like him came to you was beyond you, but you wouldn’t complain.
He looked a little nervous while sitting opposite you. “Uh—I honestly don’t know why I came here. Tony said I should try to find a partner. It’s just…not that easy.”
“Understandable,” you replied, acting all professional. You didn’t want Captain Rogers to know that finding a partner for him would drive your business forward. “I’ll try my very best to find a partner for you. Before we get to this, I need to get to know you better.”
“What does that include?” Steve cocked his head, watching you open your laptop.
You gave him a warm smile when you looked at him. He genuinely seemed to be nervous. “I need to assess your needs first. What do you want in a partner, and what can you offer a potential partner in return?”
“My job…isn’t the safest. I’m a public figure, and everyone knows that I’m Captain America. A potential partner needs to know that I’ll often be away and that they could end up in danger because of me.”
“Hmm…” You nodded thoughtfully. At least he was honest. “That could be a problem. Many women are looking for a partner who comes home after work.”
“I—maybe this was a bad idea, ma’am.” Steve stammered, getting up from his chair. You were quick to stop him. Letting a client like him slip through your fingers would be the dumbest thing you've ever done.
“Wait!” You got up too, grabbing his wrist. “What about this? You can show me your life for a month. I can get a better picture of your life and maybe find a suitable partner. I have some clients who are with the FBI, police, and agencies. They could be a match, but they are very picky.”
He furrowed his brows. “You think I’m not good enough for them?”
“What?? No!” You were quick to reply. “It’s just that they are looking for a partner waiting at home for them, too. But, if I knew you better, I could convince them to shoot their shot at you.”
“That doesn’t sound romantic,” Steve sadly replied. “I was in love with a wonderful woman in the past, but we never got our happy ending.”
“Mr. Rogers, Captain,” you sternly said, holding his gaze. “That’s the first thing we should discuss. If you are still hung up on the past, you won’t get anywhere. No woman wants to live in the shadow of a past lover.”
Steve nodded, his blue eyes boring into you. “You did, and it hurt you.” He concluded, and you internally cursed him. Steve Rogers was a natural when it came to reading people.”
You look at the compass in his hands, the one with Peggy Carter’s photo inside.
“I did. And yes, it hurt me deeply.” It was a struggle to keep your voice even. “I know from firsthand experience how it feels to be second best to the man you love. So, please take your time, and think about giving up on the shadow from your past.”
Summary: (Y/n), is a skilled paramedic, works alongside Buck and the 118. She’s secretly harboring feelings for him. But after she over hears Buck talking about her, and he mentions her feeling like a sister, she distances herself from him. (Y/n) is pouring herself into work, and when Buck feels the distance, he tries to confront her, but she’s a closed book. But everything takes a turn when (Y/n)’s life is on the line.
TW ‼️: This story includes near-drowning, hypothermia, intense emergency situations, and emotional tension related to trauma.
Request: @woantohae
Word count: 8k
9-1-1 Masterlist | Evan "Buck" Buckley Masterlist
GIF by @emziess
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The sound of early-morning chatter and distant sirens drifted through the bright red open bay doors as (Y/n) stepped into the firehouse. The air carried its usual mix of gasoline from the trucks, coffee, and a faint trace of smoke that never truly left the place.
A black duffel hung from her shoulder, bumping against her hip as she crossed the polished concrete floor. She gave a few sleepy nods to the night-shift crew heading out before ducking into the locker room.
The metal lockers were lined like soldiers, each one plastered with stickers, photos, and scuffed nameplates. She dropped her bag onto the bench, spun the lock, and swapped her “civvies” for her uniform: the dark blue shirt, with dark blue pants and her boots laced tight. The familiar weight settled on her shoulders, grounding her.
In the bottom of the duffel sat a small white bakery box. She hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the lid, asking herself if she should leave it right here or just give it to him. It’s just cookies, she told herself. He asked when you were making them again, that’s all. But what if he was joking? She shook her head, like she was shaking the thought out of her head and she tucked the box under her arm and headed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was already alive with the morning rhythm of the station. Hen was rummaging through the fridge, and the coffeemaker gurgled loudly in protest at being overworked. Buck sat at the table, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone with that lazy grin that made everything look easier than it was.
“Morning,” he said without looking up, keeping his eyes locked on whatever was happening on his phone. “Morning,” (Y/n) replied, trying to sound casual. She set the bakery box on the table in front of him and, without waiting for his reaction she slid it across the surface and turned straight toward the counter without adding another word to it.
She could feel his eyes on her back as she reached for a mug. Her cheeks were already warming, but at least he couldn’t see them. She could hear his phone drop onto the hard surface of the table, “Wait- these are the cookies?” Buck’s voice brightened with recognition. “The sea-salt ones?” he added.
“Maybe,” she said over her shoulder, pouring coffee and praying the machine’s hiss would cover the smile tugging at her lips. He flipped the lid open and inhaled the smell of the fresh baked cookies like he’d just found a treasure. “You’re kidding. These are amazing.” he said.
Before she could answer, a new voice broke in. “Oh, cookies!” Chimney swooped in from nowhere, reaching over Buck’s shoulder. His hand was halfway to the box when Buck slapped it away with lightning speed. “Hey! Mine,” Buck said, protective as a kid guarding Halloween candy.
Chimney blinked watching him with an offended expression. “Yours? Since when do you get cookie ownership rights around here?” Chimney asked. Buck looked up at Chim, pushing the box closer to him. “Since (Y/n) brought them in for me,” Buck said, his eyes wandering back to her.
She kept her eyes on her mug, pretending to focus on stirring in cream. “They were just extra,” she tried to explain.
“Uh-huh,” Chim said, unconvinced. Buck looked at (Y/n) for exactly five seconds, and that was long enough for Chim to wait until he turned back to his phone and then sneak a cookie anyway. “Hey!” Buck caught the movement too late. “You thief!” he practically yelled over the loft.
Hen entered just in time to see Buck scowling and Chim chewing guiltily. “What’s going on in here?” she asked, one eyebrow already raised. “Cookie drama,” Chim said around a mouthful.
Hen leaned over the box, eyes twinkling. “Let me guess… (Y/n)’s spoiling Buck again?” she guessed, looking at the three persons standing spread over the loft. Buck lifted a hand. “For the record, I didn’t ask.” he said, with his mouth full.
Hen had a hand placed on her hip and smirked at Buck. “Uh-huh. And yet here you are, defending them like they’re state secrets.”
(Y/n) shook her head, half-laughing. “You’re all impossible.” she said as she took a sip of her coffee.
Hen moved towards the kitchen and poured herself coffee, muttering something about “oblivious men” as she left. Chim followed, still munching, before Buck could chase him down.
When the room finally quieted, Buck turned to (Y/n) again, cookie in hand, expression softening. “Seriously, though. These are incredible. You’re the best.” he said, sending her a kind, small smile.
She forced a light smile and took a sip of her coffee to hide the flush returning to her cheeks. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” she said.
He laughed, easy and bright, the sound echoing through the kitchen. And even though she knew he didn’t mean anything by it, she couldn’t stop the small ache that came with it.
The wail of the siren was a scream against the city’s early morning quiet. Hen’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as the ambulance sped through the Los Angeles morning traffic as the world was flashing red and white. Beside Hen (Y/n) checked the medic bag for the third time, her heartbeat quick but steady, it was the way she always felt when they were going to a call.
The sharp smell of smoke hit before they even saw the flames. As Hen pulled to a stop beside the ladder truck, (Y/n) felt the vibration of the engines through her boots. The world outside was pure chaos. There was orange light covering up the sides of a three-story apartment building while thick gray smoke spread into the sky.
Hen put the car in park, killed the siren and got out of the ambulance in one smooth move like she had done a thousand times before. They met Bobby at the perimeter, his face hard with focus and ready to command his team. “Hen, (Y/n)—set up triage south side. We’ve got evacuees coming out fast.” Bobby ordered.
“Copy that,” Hen said, (Y/n) hoisted her bag, slinging it across her shoulder as they sprinted toward the line of coughing residents. Even though they were at a safe distance from the burning building, they could feel the heat pressed against them like a living thing, radiating off the burning structure.
For several minutes, it was all motion. Hen checked vitals while (Y/n) flushed a burn with saline, her hands moving automatically. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and melted plastic, the metallic taste of adrenaline. A woman sobbed somewhere behind them; someone else coughed so hard it echoed through the chaos. But she stayed focussed on the patient right in front of her.
Then the radio burst to life, first the sound of static filled the scene, but quickly it was taken over by a familiar voice. “Medic assist needed, interior, second floor east wing!” Eddie’s voice called over the radio.
Hen’s head snapped up. She looked toward the building, then back to (Y/n). Their eyes met, and Hen motioned towards the structure. “Get in there. Grab an O2 tank, helmet and your bag.” she told her team member. (Y/n) nodded, “Got it,” she said as she was already moving. Just as she left the triage, she could hear Hen’s voice call “You got this!” after her, making her grin.
The oxygen tank was heavier than she remembered, but she barely felt the weight as she ran toward the entrance. Firefighters moved past her in a blur, hauling hoses and axes. She shot up the stairs, and made her way towards the east wing as she arrived on the second floor. At the doorway, a figure emerged from the haze. It was Buck with his mask on, visor smudged with soot but his flashlight beam cutting through the smoke. “This way,” he called out, voice muffled through the mask.
He reached out instinctively as she approached, gloved hand brushing her back, a guiding pressure just below her shoulder blade. It was light, almost nothing, but she felt it, solid and grounding through the chaos. Then he was moving ahead again, leading her through the wreckage.
Inside, visibility dropped to almost nothing. Smoke curled through the hallway, hot and wet against her face. Her pulse was a hard, steady beat in her ears. They turned a corner where Eddie was kneeling beside a man pinned by debris, blood pooling dark beneath him. “Femoral bleed,” Eddie said as soon as she made eye contact with him. “He’s conscious but in shock.”
(Y/n) knelt beside him, dropping her bag. “Sir, my name’s (Y/n),” she said clearly, her voice calm and practiced. “We’re going to get you out, okay? Stay with me.” she said. The man groaned, fingers twitching weakly. “Buck, I need you to press this dressing onto the wound” she said. “Got it,” he said, bracing down hard as she pulled the tourniquet from her kit, looping it high on his thigh, just above the wound. After that she twisted the windlass tight. When the bleeding slowed, she locked the velcro strap, securing it in place.
“Eddie, what’s his pressure?” she asked, already pulling the IV kit free. “Dropping. He’s going into shock.” he concluded.
(Y/n) listened to his words and quickly made a choice. “Alright, I’m starting a line.” Her voice was steady, but she could feel the sting of sweat trickling under her mask. She worked quickly, inserting the needle into a vein at the crook of his arm. A bead of dark blood rose before she connected the tubing and held up the small morphine bag. “I’m pushing for pain.” she said, more to herself than to the two guys around her.
She squeezed the bag, watching the clear liquid move down the line. The man’s breathing evened out slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Buck crouched beside her again, passing supplies before she even had to ask. His movements were sharp, precise, an extra pair of hands that seemed to anticipate her next need. When she shifted to check the other leg, his flashlight beam followed, revealing a shard of metal embedded near the knee. “Good catch,” she said, glancing up.
But he didn’t answer, he just met her eyes through the visor and gave a short nod, smoke curling between them. She worked as fast as she possibly could in a burning building, and then the radio crackled again: “All teams, evacuate! the structure is getting unstable!”
“Time to go!” Eddie barked. (Y/n) held the IV line steady, keeping the bag raised as Buck lifted the man and Eddie grabbed the tools they used to search the place. There was no time to call for a backboard. They needed to get the hell out of there.
(Y/n) keyed her radio as they moved. “We’re coming out! Need a gurney ready at the south side of the building!”
“Copy that!” a voice answered through the static.
The building groaned above them, wood cracking, plaster falling in gray clouds. The smoke grew thicker, suffocating. (Y/n)’s lungs burned; her heartbeat pounded in her throat. Then, finally the daylight broke through the smoke like a promise.
Outside, a team was waiting with a gurney. “Right here!” another paramedic from another house called.
(Y/n) pulled off her helmet and oxygen mask and handed over the morphine bag she was holding to the paramedic. “Tourniquet high left thigh, shrapnel in right knee, morphine onboard,” (Y/n) reported quickly as Buck placed the patient onto the gurney. “BP dropping but stable for now.” Two other paramedics moved fast as they loaded the man into an additional ambulance.
She exhaled hard, tugging off the fabric hood from under her mask and just took some distance from the building. The air hit her face like ice, even though a mix of sweat and soot was dripping over her face. She undid her ponytail and ran a hand through her hair, shaking out the damp heat. For a moment, she just breathed, watching the fire crews still battling the blaze.
Buck appeared beside her, removing his own helmet, soot streaking the side of his face. His blonde curls were partly plastered to his forehead, eyes bright in the harsh light. “You okay?” he asked, voice low but edged with genuine concern as he held the fabric hood in his hands.
She cleared her throat and nodded, still catching her breath. “Yeah. You?” she asked, glancing slightly at Buck. He managed a tired smile. “Fine. Just another day at work, right?” he said, slapping the fabric he was holding against her chest, playfully.
“Yeah,” she said softly, but her gaze lingered on him for a second longer than she meant it to.
-
The rigs pulled into the bay just after three in the afternoon, the day still bright and hot. The sunlight slanted through the wide open doors while the hum of engines winding down filled the space.
(Y/n) climbed out of the ambulance, helmet tucked under her arm. Sweat dampened the collar of her shirt, and the smell of smoke clung to her skin no matter how much fresh air filled her lungs. She hung her gear back, ready so if they needed to head out again, she could just slip into her gear and be ready.
She made her way towards the locker room, in her movement stretching the stiffness from her back, her muscles humming as the adrenaline left her body. When she arrived at her locker, she looked up, eyes closed as she sighed. It has been a long call. She needed some peace and quiet.
But the quiet got interrupted, quickly. Buck was a few feet away, unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way towards the lockers too. He didn’t want to linger at her, everyone had their own ways of handling intensive calls. And this was her way.
She already sensed him. She could hear him breathing and the boots he was wearing squeaked at the friction with the floor. His shirt was streaked with ash, and the curls that earlier stuck to his skin were now dried up.
“You good?” he asked with a small grin, his voice a little rough from smoke but steady. She kept her eyes closed as she slowly nodded and forced herself to open her eyes. “Yeah…” She said as she brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, “You?” she asked, turning her head towards him.
Their eyes met, and he offered a tired but genuine smile. It was the kind that still made her chest feel unreasonably warm, even after the kind of call that left you exhausted down to the bone.
He nodded, taking off his shirt “We got lucky in there. If that ceiling had gone just a minute earlier…” he didn’t finish the sentence, it was clear what he wanted to say with that. Buck turned towards his locker, and opened it as a silence fell between the two.
“But it didn’t. You were quick. You carried that guy out before it even had the chance.” she said, looking at him as he was putting his shirt into his locker. He gave her a quiet, half-embarrassed laugh, looking down. “Well, Eddie had the fancy tools. I figured I’d do the heavy lifting.” he said, looking to the side.
She smiled, “You make it sound like nothing.” she said. “I had good backup,” he said, glancing back at her. His eyes lingered just a little longer than they should have. It was a look that made her forget for a heartbeat what she’d meant to say next.
She cleared her throat. “I’m gonna hit the showers before the next call. I smell like a campfire.” she said. He grinned. “Good call, you smell like half the building.” he joked. (Y/n) shot him a look, one brow lifting as the corner of her mouth curved.
“Says the guy who smells like a barbecue gone wrong.” she shot back as she closed her locker. Buck laughed, mock-offended. “I’ll choose smelling like a barbecue over antiseptic any day.”
She shook her head, smiling as she threw her towel over her shoulder. “Mmmm, sure you would, hero.” she said, patting Buck’s shoulder as she made her way towards the bathroom. Still laughing, he watched her walk away.
Not long after, Eddie appeared beside Buck, arms crossed leaning with his shoulder against the lockers with an amused look on his face. “So…” he said slowly, nodding toward the path (Y/n) had just disappeared through. “You gonna tell me what’s going on there, or should i start guessing?”
Buck glanced at him and frowned at his words. “What? Nothing’s going on.” he said. Eddie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.. really? Because you two have been… rather close lately… You notice her before anyone else does. You look for her on calls. That doesn’t sound like “nothing’s going on” man.” Eddie said, using his fingers to quote him.
Buck blinked, then let out a quick laugh, shaking his head. “Come on, it’s not like that.” He said. “Then what’s it like?” Eddie asked curious. Buck hesitated, staring down at his hands. “She’s… she’s just a friend. We work well together.”
Eddie tilted his head, unconvinced. “You sure that’s all?”
Buck’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Yeah. She’s…” He paused mid-sentence searching for the right words. “She’s like a little sister, you know? Someone to look out for. To protect.” he explained.
Eddie frowned at the chosen words and tilted his head, studying him. “A little sister?” he said. “Yeah,” Buck said, almost too quickly. “She’s good at what she does, and she’s part of the team. I just… don’t ever want her to get hurt. That’s all.”
Eddie watched him for a moment, but long enough that Buck started to feel it. Then he nodded once, slow. “That’s a nice thought, Buck. Just make sure you’re not the one doing the hurting.”
Buck blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eddie pushed himself off the lockers. “Nothing. Just… sometimes we protect people so much, we don’t realize they don’t need it.”
He gave Buck a pat on the shoulder, gentle and walked out of the locker room. Leaving Buck standing there, unsure why that last line sat heavy in his chest.
In the bathroom everything was cooler and quieter, the kind of quiet that hummed in the air after a long call. (Y/n) dropped her things onto the bench and pulled at the ties of her boots. She reached for her caddy, then sighed. Shampoo. She’d left it in her locker where she had a conversation with Buck.
She rolled her eyes at her own stupid mistake, and she long hall towards the lockers. But as she almost entered the locker room again, she froze. Voices carried from the room. Not loud, but clear enough. Familiar enough. “…She’s like a little sister,” Buck was saying, his tone light but sure. “Someone to look out for. To protect.”
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe. The words hit somewhere deep, not a sharp sting, but a slow, spreading ache like a virus. Her hands curled into fists, tightening until her knuckles went white.
Eddie said something she couldn’t catch, low and teasing. Buck laughed, that easy laugh she knew so well. And still, that one line replayed in her head. Little sister.
She stepped back into the bathroom before anyone could see her. The sound of running water filled the silence as she set her things down, moving almost mechanically now.
When she finally stepped under the shower, the heat hit her skin and her eyes burned, though she blamed the smoke for it. She let the water run over her face, washing away the soot, the smell of smoke and the sweat. But no matter how long she stood there, she couldn’t wash away the echo of his voice.
Maybe she should’ve known. Maybe it had always been that way. But standing there, surrounded by steam and silence, she realized something she hadn’t wanted to admit. She’d fallen for someone who didn’t see her in the same way.
And for the first time since she joined the 118, the station didn’t feel like home.
______
Morning sunlight stretched across the firehouse kitchen. The air smelled like the usual mix of coffee and toast, the kind of comfort that only came between emergencies. Chim was bent over a bowl of cereal, drinking the milk that was left over after he ate all the cereal, dramatically while Eddie shook his head in mock disgust. Hen leaned back in her chair, half laughing and half disgusted by the sounds of it.
Buck sat where he always did, elbow on the table, one leg kicked out, grinning at the chaos. It was ordinary. Familiar. But there was something that was missing. (Y/n) wasn’t beside him.
Her laugh, the one that always found its way into these mornings, was absent, replaced by the steady tap of keys. She sat across the table instead, near Hen, a tablet propped up in front of her. She was scrolling through reports with sharp focus, her hair was in a tight, neat ponytail, her uniform neat and tucked, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the faint smudge of soot near her wrist.
There was no box of cookies on the counter this time. No mug of coffee quietly placed by his elbow like she did some of the times. Something felt off by the way she was acting.
Buck’s gaze lingered a second too long before he cleared his throat. “Hey,” he started, tone casual. “You were fast out there yesterday. That IV? Cleanest one I’ve seen.” He complimented her.
Hen grinned, her head turning from Buck towards (Y/n). Hen nudged (Y/n)’s arm, “Told you, she’s the sniper of veins.” She smiled.
(Y/n) glanced up briefly, a polite smile ghosting across her face. “He was an easy stick,” she said softly, eyes flicking back to the screen. “Got lucky with the placement.” She said as she was already lost inside the report that was on her tablet.
Buck’s grin faltered just a touch. “Yeah. Sure. Luck.” He mumbled.
She didn’t look up.
The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it definitely was noticeable. It stretched thin, like a breath held too long. Eddie looked up from his coffee, sensing it, but then decided to say nothing. Chim just raised his brows at Buck across the table asking him in silence “what did you do?”
Bobby walked in deeper into the loft as steam curled from his mug. “Alright, it has been a slow morning so far. Let’s try to keep it that way.” he said, breaking the silence that no one wanted to break. And with that, the rhythm of the room resumed.
Well… the entire room but except for Buck.
He sat back, arms crossed, trying to tell himself he was imagining it. That maybe she was just tired, or distracted. But he glanced over at (Y/n) as her laughter mixed with Hen’s filled the room. It gnawed at him that it wasn’t his laugh that mixed with hers. He wasn’t sure what he did wrong, or what he was feeling. The only thing he was sure of, was the feeling that (Y/n) was acting differently around him, and he needed answers.
It’s the day after their day off, a little more than 48 hours after their last shift. The air hummed with easy routine. The sound of, squeaking shoes against the polished floor, the muted sound of Eddie’s music coming from somewhere near the gym and compartments on the trucks opening and closing now and then.
Buck tried to get his mind off things when he was on his day off, but somehow, his brain kept wandering back, subconsciously. And now he wandered toward the rigs, restless, searching for her.
It’s the beginning of the evening and the back doors of the ambulance were open, and (Y/n) was inside, clipboard balanced against her knee. She’d pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling forward as she counted supplies. Methodical, focused, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Gauze rolls stacked neatly on one side. Saline bags lined up like soldiers on the shelf. Every movement was crisp and efficient, and maybe a little too careful. Buck leaned his shoulder against the doorframe of the ambulance. “You hiding from Hen,” he teased lightly, “or just really into inventory today?” Buck said, trying to make small talk.
Without looking up, she smiled. But it didn’t feel genuine. It felt practiced, polite. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t run out of bandages next time you try to wrestle a patient.” she said, her eyes locked onto the clipboard that was still balancing on her lap.
He chuckled, looking down at the floor for a second. “Now okay, that was one time.” he said.
She made a small sound, it wasn’t a laugh, but it was close. “Hmmm, and who had to tape your wrist after?”
“You did.” He grinned. “And you told me I’d live.” he added.
“See?” she said, finally glancing at him. “I’m always right.”
It should’ve felt like their usual conversations. Easy, quick, familiar. But it didn’t feel that way. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Buck studied her quietly while she checked another box of equipment. Her fingers moved swiftly, confidently. She looked fine, composed, in control but there was something underneath it. Something tight. Something he had never seen before.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
(Y/n) froze, her pen hovering midair. She looked over at him, the slightest hesitation in her eyes before she smiled again. “I’m fine, Buck. Promise.” she said, her eyes meeting his.
He frowned slightly, arms crossing. “You sure? You’ve been a little quiet lately.” he said. He finally was having a conversation with her, so he decided to take his chance.
She tilted her head, trying to sound breezy. “Just tired. It’s been a long shift.” (Y/n) answered, not too detailed. But her hands told a different story. How they stilled for half a beat before moving again, how her breath seemed shallower than usual.
Buck hesitated, the words pushing past his uncertainty. “Did I… do something?” he asked then. Her eyes flicked up, startled. “What?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a small shrug. “You’ve been different. Distant, maybe. I just… if I said something or did something, I’d rather know.” he explained.
For a long moment, she just looked at him. And god, the concern in his face. The genuine confusion, it almost broke her. Because he really didn’t know what he did.
She forced a smile, her voice soft but even. “You didn’t do anything, Buck.”
His brow furrowed. “Then why-” but before he could even finish that question, she cut him off gently, her tone lighter than she felt. “I’m just making sure everything’s stocked. Hen gets cranky when we’re missing stuff.”
And with that, she placed her clipboard underneath her arm, jumped lightly from the rig. Making Buck push himself off the part he was leaning on, and stepped back. She closed the back doors with a metallic thud. “Need help?” he offered quickly.
She shook her head, already walking toward the back hall. “No, I’ve got it.” she said over her shoulder, while sending him a small smile after.
He watched her go, the way her ponytail brushed her collar, the clipboard now pressed tightly to her chest like armor.
The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.
Buck stayed where he was, staring at the closed ambulance doors. His throat felt tight, though he couldn’t explain why. He told himself it was nothing, she was just tired, or busy, or focused. That she’d be back to normal soon. But deep down, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Because it didn’t feel like nothing.
It felt like losing something he hadn’t realized he needed.
_
It had been two full shifts since the fire, and the friendzoning words “little sister”. Two shifts since things between them had quietly changed, but not in the way people noticed.
(Y/n) still laughed with Hen, still showed up early, still did her job like the professional she was. But the small things, the ones that used to be Buck’s, were gone. No coffee quietly placed at his side. No little check-ins between calls. And when she smiled at him now, it never quite reached her eyes.
Buck told himself it was fine. People got tired. Things shifted. Not everything had to mean something. But when she brushed past him in the hallway and he felt her body tense just slightly, like she’d rather be anywhere else, it felt like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
That night, the station was quiet. Most of the crew had already crashed in the bunks. A half-played deck of cards sat abandoned on the kitchen table. The overhead lights were dimmed to a tired amber glow, and outside, the city murmured against the windows.
Buck sat at the table, staring into a mug of cold coffee, jaw tight. He didn’t even remember pouring it or how long he had been sitting there.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, (Y/n) stepped onto the loft, hoodie half-zipped, her hair loose, shadows beneath her eyes. She stopped when she saw him, blinking like she hadn’t expected to find anyone awake.
He looked over and gave a small, tired smile. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Guess not.” She grabbed a glass and filled it with the tap, her movements quiet and methodical. “Long day.” she added.
He nodded, watching her reflection in the stainless steel cabinet. She looked… guarded. Like someone holding herself together out of habit. He didn’t bother easing into it this time. His voice was calm but certain.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” he said.
She froze, her hand tightening around the glass. A small pause, a flicker of breath. Then she turned, leaning against the counter. “I’ve been busy.” she said, frowning at his comment.
“That’s not it.” he said while shaking his head, and his eyes locked with hers, once again.
“Buck…” Her tone carried a warning, tired, but cautious.
“I mean it,” he said, standing from his chair. “You barely talk to me. You walk out of a room the second I walk in. I just know I-” His voice cracked just slightly. “I did something wrong in your eyes, And I..” he was searching for the words but he couldn’t quite put them into his mouth.
Her eyes softened, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to tell him everything. But then she exhaled, the breath shaky, and the mask slipped back into place. “I already told you, you didn’t do anything.” she said.
He frowned. “Then what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes things just… change.” she stuttered.
“Not like this.” He took a step closer. “You’re acting like I… like we-” He stopped, struggling to find the right words again. Her gaze met his, steady but distant. “Maybe we just stopped being on the same page, Buck. That happens.” she said, taking a sip from the glass of water that was still in her hand.
The quiet between them was heavy. He opened his mouth, to argue, to ask, to plead.. “(Y/n) if I-” but before he could speak, the alarm split through the room, sharp and jarring.
“Station one eighteen, respond to a multi-vehicle collision, Highway 110 Northbound. Possible entrapments.”
They both flinched instinctively, the moment shattering right in front of his eyes.
Without a word, (Y/n) set her glass down, and moved quickly towards the stairs where she bolted down. (Y/n) was halfway to the bay before Buck could even move.
He followed her, heart pounding, the adrenaline already rising. Not just from the call, but from the ache that she’d just left him standing there, mid-sentence. Without answers.
As they reached their rigs, she stepped into her turnout gear and got into the ambulance beside Hen. Buck looked across the flashing lights as he stepped into his turnouts, catching her gaze through the windshield.
It was only a second. But there was something in her eyes. Something that said please don’t ask again, and I wish you would anyway.
_
The rain hadn’t stopped since sunset. It hammered against the rigs as they arrived on the scene. Lights painting the soaked asphalt in pulses of red and blue. The world beyond the windshield was chaos: twisted metal, shattered glass, and the distant echo of horns trapped in the storm.
Hen slowed the ambulance to a crawl, her wipers barely keeping up. “God, it’s a parking lot from hell.” (Y/n) squinted through the streaked glass. “Dispatch said there were at least ten vehicles involved. Multi-impact.” she said.
Bobby’s voice crackled over the radio, “We’ve got a multi-car pile up across both lanes. I want teams on extraction, medical triage, and containment. Be advices, one tanker truck’s leaking fuel. No sparks, people! Let’s move!”
The moment they pulled to a stop, the doors flew open and the smell of gasoline hit hard, sharp, metallic, cutting right through the smell of the rain.
“Hen, (Y/n),” Bobby barked as they jogged up to him, helmets low against the storm. “You two set up triage near the guardrail. Prioritize red tags, assist medics as needed. Chim, you and Vega handle suppression near that tanker. Keep a perimeter in case that thing lights up. Buck, Eddie, you’re on vehicle extractions. SUV on the west end looks like it took the brunt of the impact.”
And with that, everyone moved. Years of muscle memory clicking into place.
Hen and (Y/n) grabbed their kits, sprinting through puddles toward the guardrail. The triage area was chaos already, bystanders dazed, some screaming, some eerily silent.
“Sir, can you hear me?” (Y/n) crouched beside a man slumped against a twisted bumper, her blue gloved hands already finding his pulse. Weak, but there. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. Hen, I need a pressure bandage!” she called.
It took one second, she glances at her partner and she tossed one pressure bandage over. “Keep pressure on that leg. We’ll tag him yellow.” Hen added, (Y/n) nodded and did as Hen as a PIC told her to do. “Copy!”
A call cut over the radio through the rain, it was Bobby again. “LAFD, sound off! Where’s that fire suppression team?”
“On it!” Chimney’s voice sounded over the radio. When (Y/n) looked over the scene while keeping pressure on the man’s leg, she found Chim on the west side, already working a foam line with Vega.
(Y/n) looked up, scanning the wrecks through the downpour. In the distance, she saw Buck and Eddie shoulder-deep in the crumpled remains of an SUV, working the jaws of life. Sparks lit the night for half a second, cutting through the storm as the door screeched free.
But then something else caught her eye.
Just beyond the chaos, faint, and barely visible through the rain, tire tracks, veering away from the pileup. They carved down the embankment toward the guardrail, where a section had been torn open.
Her stomach sank at the sight of it. “Hen,” she called, standing. “I think there’s another vehicle-” (Y/n) said. “Where?” Hen was already following her gaze.
(Y/n) jogged toward the edge, flashlight slicing through the dark. The beam caught on something far below: two faint red lights, flickering beneath the surface of the water.
“Down there,” she breathed. Then louder, into her radio, “Cap, this is (Y/n). I’ve got a submerged vehicle off the embankment, taillights visible. Looks like it’s going under!”
“Copy, (Y/n), hold position. Buck, Eddie-” Bobby’s voice crackled over the radio. But the rest of that sentence she couldn’t hear. Because she was already sliding down the muddy slope, boots skidding, rain blinding.
“(Y/n), wait!” Hen shouted, voice distant against the storm.
The cold hit her the moment she stepped into the water. It was shockingly deep, waist-high and rising fast with the current. Her flashlight beam trembled across the car as it sank nose-first.
“Sir! Sir, can you hear me?” she yelled. Inside, a man was pounding against the window, his face pale and wild. “I’m coming, just hold on!” she yelled, trying to make herself audible for the victim that was trapped inside.
She moved forward, and grabbed the door handle. But it wouldn’t open. She took a breath, ducked under, and yanked again, the pressure finally giving way as the door popped open with a violent rush of bubbles.
She surfaced, gasping. “Okay, door’s open! I’ve got you!” she said. But the man didn’t listen. He clawed for her, pure instinct taking over his thoughts and movements. His hands gripped her turnout jacket, dragging her toward him.
“Stop! Stop! You’re pulling us both under!” she shouted, trying to brace herself. But it didn’t do anything. He panicked harder, shoving against her shoulder in blind desperation to keep his head above water. Her footing slipped, the current tearing at her legs.
The world disappeared in an instant. The cold hit like a fist. Her breath ripped out of her lungs before she could stop it, replaced by choking, metallic-tasting water.
The current pulled her sideways, tugging at her gear, dragging her deeper. She tried to push up but her foot caught on something. Her chest screamed. Her brain screamed.
Her arms moved sluggishly, like she was underwater in a dream she couldn’t wake from. She felt the panic rising, sharp and bright, the kind that burns through every rational thought.
She clawed at the water, desperate for light, air, anything. Her lungs seized again, and the world narrowed to nothing but pressure and pounding.
Then came the quiet. A slow, creeping calm.
Her body stilled. Her eyes drifted toward the faint shimmer above her, growing smaller by the second.
Buck was elbow-deep in metal when he heard her voice through the static of his radio “I’ve got a submerged vehicle… I’m going in.”
His head snapped up, mid movement. “What?” he murmured under his breath. “Buck, door’s almost-” Eddie started, but Buck was already running towards the guardrail (Y/n) was just seconds ago. “Cap! She’s in the water!” Buck yelled.
Bobby turned sharply, scanning the darkness. “(Y/n)! Report!” he called over the radio, but the only thing he got back was static. Nothing.
“Eddie, you’re with Buck! Hen, prep the med rig! Chim, hold that perimeter!”
Buck jumped over the guardrail, boots sliding down the slick slope. His flashlight beam skimmed across the black water. His chest went tight. “Oh, God-”
“Hey!” Buck yelled at the driver, who was half-crawling out of the shallows, coughing up water. “Where is she?!” The man looked dazed, shaking his head, eyes wide with panic.
Buck grabbed him by the soaked collar, voice breaking. “The woman who pulled you out, where is she?!” his voice filled with panic, fear and anger.
The man choked out a sob. “I-I don’t- she was there- and then- she went under-” the victim choked. Buck shoved him back toward the slope, fury and fear colliding in his chest. “Get up there! Hen’ll take care of you!”
He turned back to the water, scanning desperately. Nothing but rain and ripples. “(Y/n)!” His voice tore through the storm.
Nothing.
His light swept across the surface again, and then caught something. A flash of reflective tape, drifting under the current. “Jesus- no-” he choked out.
He dove in without hesitation. The cold was brutal, slicing through his gear, but he kicked hard, pushing deeper until he reached her. Buck’s lungs burned as he kicked downward, reaching blindly through the dark until his hand found fabric, the thick sleeve of a turnout jacket. He got her.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling hard. They broke the surface with a gasp, Buck dragging in lungfuls of air between words.
“I’ve got you,” he gasped, breath ragged. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—come on, stay with me.”
Her head lolled against his shoulder, lips pale, lashes clumped with water. He swam hard for the bank, every stroke feeling slower, the weight of her gear dragging both of them down.
“Eddie!” he yelled hoarsely, voice cracking over the storm.
Eddie was already moving, sprinting down the embankment as Buck half-carried, half-pulled her through the shallows. Together, they got her onto solid ground.
“(Y/n)! Hey come on!” Buck’s hands were shaking as he turned her onto her back. Her skin was cold as ice, lips tinged blue. “She’s not breathing-” Buck choked out, his teeth almost clattering because of the cold.
Buck knelt opposite him, fumbling at the buckles of her turnout jacket. Buck’s hands were clumsy, slick with river water, but he forced the latches open, pulling the heavy coat apart to give her chest room to rise. “Come on, (Y/n), don’t do this to me…” he muttered.
“I’ve got it!” Eddie dropped to his knees beside her, immediately starting compressions. “One, two, three—come on, come on—” Eddie mumbled as he pressed down.
“Hen!” Eddie shouted over his shoulder as she came sliding down the hill. “Airway bag, now!” he ordered as he kept pushing her chest.
Hen dropped beside them, already fitting the mask, counting under her breath as she squeezed the bag valve in rhythm with Eddie’s compressions.
Buck’s world had shrunk to the sound of her name in his head, over and over. Breathe. Please. Just breathe.
Then a cough.
A wet, choking sound that cracked the night. Water spilled from her mouth as she convulsed, dragging in a desperate gasp of air.
Buck’s breath hitched half relief, half disbelief. “That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” he said. Not noticing he actually called her that.
Eddie leaned back, panting, letting Hen take over as she fitted the oxygen mask to (Y/n)’s face. “She’s back.” he panted.
“She’s hypothermic,” Hen said sharply, checking her pulse. “We need her wrapped and moving now.”
Buck nodded, still hovering protectively over her, brushing soaked hair from her face with trembling fingers. (Y/n) moved her hand towards the oxygen mask, but before she could push it off, Buck gripped her hand. “D-d-d-river?” she mumbled through her chattering teeth.
Buck managed a small gentle smile, of course she was thinking about that asshole after she almost died. “The driver’s okay,” he whispered to her, voice rough. “You did good. You did so damn good.” he said, pressing her hand, he was still holding, to his chest.
Her eyes barely opened, glassy and unfocused. “Cold…” she whispered. “I know,” Buck said softly, throat tight. “We’re getting you warm.”
They managed to bring her back to the guardrail and moved her onto the gurney, securing her under thermal blankets. When they eased her into the rig, Buck hesitated for a moment. His gaze met Bobby’s, who gave him a small nod, telling him to get in the rig with her.
Buck climbed into the rig without a second thought, dripping wet, hand still gripping hers as the ambulance doors slammed shut.
______
The city below stretched like a river of gold and silver, streets gleaming under the fading sunlight. (Y/n) sat near the edge of the firehouse roof, wrapped in a hoodie, a steaming cup of tea cupped between her hands. The warmth seeped slowly into her fingers, grounding her, but it didn’t calm the flutter in her chest.
It has been a week since the water incident, and this is her first shift back on the job. They had just gotten back from a call, and somehow, the sounds inside of the firehouse were too loud for her, so she came up here.
(Y/n) could hear the door towards the roof opening and closing, footsteps softly approaching her, but she didn’t turn, even though she knew by the sound of his breathing and the footsteps, that it was Buck.
“Mind if I join you?” Buck’s voice asked, (Y/n) glanced over her shoulder Buck stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on her. (Y/n)’s eyes wandered back to the view of the city. “It’s yours” she said lightly, as she gestured to the empty space beside her.
He took place beside her, and for a moment neither spoke. The distant hum of the city and the wind tugging at their jackets filled the silence. Finally, Buck exhaled. “I’ve been thinking… about the call. About you.” Buck said, breaking the silence.
(Y/n) met his gaze. “The water?” she asked, just to be sure they were on the same page. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Seeing you in the water… I don’t know. I thought I’d lost you. And I realized… I can’t just treat you like anyone else.”
(Y/n)’s gaze drifted away, and she set her cup down next to her. She shifted slightly, gathering courage. “Buck…” she said quietly. “there’s something I need to tell you.” she continued.
She closed her eyes for a moment, not making any eye contact, but gathering the courage to come clean. “I heard you… and Eddie. Back at the station.” she said.
Buck stiffened slightly, his eyebrows frowning at her confession. “Um… what do you mean?” he asked, not sure what she was talking about.
“In the locker room, you were talking to Eddie… about me” She cleared her throat softly, and scratched the back of her neck, a nervous habit. “You told him you see me as a little sister, someone to protect…”
He looked down at his hands, running a thumb along the back of one. “(Y/n) I’m so sorry… that’s-” He stopped. “It’s not what I meant..” he stuttered.
“I know,” she interrupted gently, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “And I get it now. But… I wish we could start over.”
He blinked, looking at her. “Start over?”
She nodded, shrugging slightly. “I did some dumb shit too. I avoided you, overthought everything… I don’t want to do that anymore.”
Buck’s chest rose and fell as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” she said quietly.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, almost without thinking, she leaned in. They hugged tight, full of relief, fear, gratitude, and the unspoken weight of everything between them. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder; his arms wrapped around her automatically.
When they pulled back, their eyes met again. Too close. Too intense. They both could feel it, the brush of lips, the lingering closeness. The air around them seemed to thrum with possibility.
And then the door to the staircase that led to the rooftop got pushed open, a loud thud sounding. “Oh hey sweethearts, dinner is served!” Hen informed the two, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of the two.
Both jumped slightly, breaking the tension and immediately creating more space in between the two of them. “We’re coming Hen, just give us a second.” Buck answered, Hen smirked and nodded. “Hmm” she mumbled and took off again.
They laughed nervously as she left, hearts still racing. Buck exhaled, “I’m Buck,” he said, grinning softly, trying to anchor the moment in something safe.
She laughed, shaking her head at his “joke,” but took his hand anyway. “(Y/n),” she said, letting the words land. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, (Y/n)”
Summary: (Y/n), is a skilled paramedic, works alongside Buck and the 118. She’s secretly harboring feelings for him. But after she over hears Buck talking about her, and he mentions her feeling like a sister, she distances herself from him. (Y/n) is pouring herself into work, and when Buck feels the distance, he tries to confront her, but she’s a closed book. But everything takes a turn when (Y/n)’s life is on the line.
TW ‼️: This story includes near-drowning, hypothermia, intense emergency situations, and emotional tension related to trauma.
Request: @woantohae
Word count: 8k
9-1-1 Masterlist | Evan "Buck" Buckley Masterlist
GIF by @emziess
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The sound of early-morning chatter and distant sirens drifted through the bright red open bay doors as (Y/n) stepped into the firehouse. The air carried its usual mix of gasoline from the trucks, coffee, and a faint trace of smoke that never truly left the place.
A black duffel hung from her shoulder, bumping against her hip as she crossed the polished concrete floor. She gave a few sleepy nods to the night-shift crew heading out before ducking into the locker room.
The metal lockers were lined like soldiers, each one plastered with stickers, photos, and scuffed nameplates. She dropped her bag onto the bench, spun the lock, and swapped her “civvies” for her uniform: the dark blue shirt, with dark blue pants and her boots laced tight. The familiar weight settled on her shoulders, grounding her.
In the bottom of the duffel sat a small white bakery box. She hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing the lid, asking herself if she should leave it right here or just give it to him. It’s just cookies, she told herself. He asked when you were making them again, that’s all. But what if he was joking? She shook her head, like she was shaking the thought out of her head and she tucked the box under her arm and headed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was already alive with the morning rhythm of the station. Hen was rummaging through the fridge, and the coffeemaker gurgled loudly in protest at being overworked. Buck sat at the table, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone with that lazy grin that made everything look easier than it was.
“Morning,” he said without looking up, keeping his eyes locked on whatever was happening on his phone. “Morning,” (Y/n) replied, trying to sound casual. She set the bakery box on the table in front of him and, without waiting for his reaction she slid it across the surface and turned straight toward the counter without adding another word to it.
She could feel his eyes on her back as she reached for a mug. Her cheeks were already warming, but at least he couldn’t see them. She could hear his phone drop onto the hard surface of the table, “Wait- these are the cookies?” Buck’s voice brightened with recognition. “The sea-salt ones?” he added.
“Maybe,” she said over her shoulder, pouring coffee and praying the machine’s hiss would cover the smile tugging at her lips. He flipped the lid open and inhaled the smell of the fresh baked cookies like he’d just found a treasure. “You’re kidding. These are amazing.” he said.
Before she could answer, a new voice broke in. “Oh, cookies!” Chimney swooped in from nowhere, reaching over Buck’s shoulder. His hand was halfway to the box when Buck slapped it away with lightning speed. “Hey! Mine,” Buck said, protective as a kid guarding Halloween candy.
Chimney blinked watching him with an offended expression. “Yours? Since when do you get cookie ownership rights around here?” Chimney asked. Buck looked up at Chim, pushing the box closer to him. “Since (Y/n) brought them in for me,” Buck said, his eyes wandering back to her.
She kept her eyes on her mug, pretending to focus on stirring in cream. “They were just extra,” she tried to explain.
“Uh-huh,” Chim said, unconvinced. Buck looked at (Y/n) for exactly five seconds, and that was long enough for Chim to wait until he turned back to his phone and then sneak a cookie anyway. “Hey!” Buck caught the movement too late. “You thief!” he practically yelled over the loft.
Hen entered just in time to see Buck scowling and Chim chewing guiltily. “What’s going on in here?” she asked, one eyebrow already raised. “Cookie drama,” Chim said around a mouthful.
Hen leaned over the box, eyes twinkling. “Let me guess… (Y/n)’s spoiling Buck again?” she guessed, looking at the three persons standing spread over the loft. Buck lifted a hand. “For the record, I didn’t ask.” he said, with his mouth full.
Hen had a hand placed on her hip and smirked at Buck. “Uh-huh. And yet here you are, defending them like they’re state secrets.”
(Y/n) shook her head, half-laughing. “You’re all impossible.” she said as she took a sip of her coffee.
Hen moved towards the kitchen and poured herself coffee, muttering something about “oblivious men” as she left. Chim followed, still munching, before Buck could chase him down.
When the room finally quieted, Buck turned to (Y/n) again, cookie in hand, expression softening. “Seriously, though. These are incredible. You’re the best.” he said, sending her a kind, small smile.
She forced a light smile and took a sip of her coffee to hide the flush returning to her cheeks. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” she said.
He laughed, easy and bright, the sound echoing through the kitchen. And even though she knew he didn’t mean anything by it, she couldn’t stop the small ache that came with it.
The wail of the siren was a scream against the city’s early morning quiet. Hen’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as the ambulance sped through the Los Angeles morning traffic as the world was flashing red and white. Beside Hen (Y/n) checked the medic bag for the third time, her heartbeat quick but steady, it was the way she always felt when they were going to a call.
The sharp smell of smoke hit before they even saw the flames. As Hen pulled to a stop beside the ladder truck, (Y/n) felt the vibration of the engines through her boots. The world outside was pure chaos. There was orange light covering up the sides of a three-story apartment building while thick gray smoke spread into the sky.
Hen put the car in park, killed the siren and got out of the ambulance in one smooth move like she had done a thousand times before. They met Bobby at the perimeter, his face hard with focus and ready to command his team. “Hen, (Y/n)—set up triage south side. We’ve got evacuees coming out fast.” Bobby ordered.
“Copy that,” Hen said, (Y/n) hoisted her bag, slinging it across her shoulder as they sprinted toward the line of coughing residents. Even though they were at a safe distance from the burning building, they could feel the heat pressed against them like a living thing, radiating off the burning structure.
For several minutes, it was all motion. Hen checked vitals while (Y/n) flushed a burn with saline, her hands moving automatically. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and melted plastic, the metallic taste of adrenaline. A woman sobbed somewhere behind them; someone else coughed so hard it echoed through the chaos. But she stayed focussed on the patient right in front of her.
Then the radio burst to life, first the sound of static filled the scene, but quickly it was taken over by a familiar voice. “Medic assist needed, interior, second floor east wing!” Eddie’s voice called over the radio.
Hen’s head snapped up. She looked toward the building, then back to (Y/n). Their eyes met, and Hen motioned towards the structure. “Get in there. Grab an O2 tank, helmet and your bag.” she told her team member. (Y/n) nodded, “Got it,” she said as she was already moving. Just as she left the triage, she could hear Hen’s voice call “You got this!” after her, making her grin.
The oxygen tank was heavier than she remembered, but she barely felt the weight as she ran toward the entrance. Firefighters moved past her in a blur, hauling hoses and axes. She shot up the stairs, and made her way towards the east wing as she arrived on the second floor. At the doorway, a figure emerged from the haze. It was Buck with his mask on, visor smudged with soot but his flashlight beam cutting through the smoke. “This way,” he called out, voice muffled through the mask.
He reached out instinctively as she approached, gloved hand brushing her back, a guiding pressure just below her shoulder blade. It was light, almost nothing, but she felt it, solid and grounding through the chaos. Then he was moving ahead again, leading her through the wreckage.
Inside, visibility dropped to almost nothing. Smoke curled through the hallway, hot and wet against her face. Her pulse was a hard, steady beat in her ears. They turned a corner where Eddie was kneeling beside a man pinned by debris, blood pooling dark beneath him. “Femoral bleed,” Eddie said as soon as she made eye contact with him. “He’s conscious but in shock.”
(Y/n) knelt beside him, dropping her bag. “Sir, my name’s (Y/n),” she said clearly, her voice calm and practiced. “We’re going to get you out, okay? Stay with me.” she said. The man groaned, fingers twitching weakly. “Buck, I need you to press this dressing onto the wound” she said. “Got it,” he said, bracing down hard as she pulled the tourniquet from her kit, looping it high on his thigh, just above the wound. After that she twisted the windlass tight. When the bleeding slowed, she locked the velcro strap, securing it in place.
“Eddie, what’s his pressure?” she asked, already pulling the IV kit free. “Dropping. He’s going into shock.” he concluded.
(Y/n) listened to his words and quickly made a choice. “Alright, I’m starting a line.” Her voice was steady, but she could feel the sting of sweat trickling under her mask. She worked quickly, inserting the needle into a vein at the crook of his arm. A bead of dark blood rose before she connected the tubing and held up the small morphine bag. “I’m pushing for pain.” she said, more to herself than to the two guys around her.
She squeezed the bag, watching the clear liquid move down the line. The man’s breathing evened out slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Buck crouched beside her again, passing supplies before she even had to ask. His movements were sharp, precise, an extra pair of hands that seemed to anticipate her next need. When she shifted to check the other leg, his flashlight beam followed, revealing a shard of metal embedded near the knee. “Good catch,” she said, glancing up.
But he didn’t answer, he just met her eyes through the visor and gave a short nod, smoke curling between them. She worked as fast as she possibly could in a burning building, and then the radio crackled again: “All teams, evacuate! the structure is getting unstable!”
“Time to go!” Eddie barked. (Y/n) held the IV line steady, keeping the bag raised as Buck lifted the man and Eddie grabbed the tools they used to search the place. There was no time to call for a backboard. They needed to get the hell out of there.
(Y/n) keyed her radio as they moved. “We’re coming out! Need a gurney ready at the south side of the building!”
“Copy that!” a voice answered through the static.
The building groaned above them, wood cracking, plaster falling in gray clouds. The smoke grew thicker, suffocating. (Y/n)’s lungs burned; her heartbeat pounded in her throat. Then, finally the daylight broke through the smoke like a promise.
Outside, a team was waiting with a gurney. “Right here!” another paramedic from another house called.
(Y/n) pulled off her helmet and oxygen mask and handed over the morphine bag she was holding to the paramedic. “Tourniquet high left thigh, shrapnel in right knee, morphine onboard,” (Y/n) reported quickly as Buck placed the patient onto the gurney. “BP dropping but stable for now.” Two other paramedics moved fast as they loaded the man into an additional ambulance.
She exhaled hard, tugging off the fabric hood from under her mask and just took some distance from the building. The air hit her face like ice, even though a mix of sweat and soot was dripping over her face. She undid her ponytail and ran a hand through her hair, shaking out the damp heat. For a moment, she just breathed, watching the fire crews still battling the blaze.
Buck appeared beside her, removing his own helmet, soot streaking the side of his face. His blonde curls were partly plastered to his forehead, eyes bright in the harsh light. “You okay?” he asked, voice low but edged with genuine concern as he held the fabric hood in his hands.
She cleared her throat and nodded, still catching her breath. “Yeah. You?” she asked, glancing slightly at Buck. He managed a tired smile. “Fine. Just another day at work, right?” he said, slapping the fabric he was holding against her chest, playfully.
“Yeah,” she said softly, but her gaze lingered on him for a second longer than she meant it to.
-
The rigs pulled into the bay just after three in the afternoon, the day still bright and hot. The sunlight slanted through the wide open doors while the hum of engines winding down filled the space.
(Y/n) climbed out of the ambulance, helmet tucked under her arm. Sweat dampened the collar of her shirt, and the smell of smoke clung to her skin no matter how much fresh air filled her lungs. She hung her gear back, ready so if they needed to head out again, she could just slip into her gear and be ready.
She made her way towards the locker room, in her movement stretching the stiffness from her back, her muscles humming as the adrenaline left her body. When she arrived at her locker, she looked up, eyes closed as she sighed. It has been a long call. She needed some peace and quiet.
But the quiet got interrupted, quickly. Buck was a few feet away, unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way towards the lockers too. He didn’t want to linger at her, everyone had their own ways of handling intensive calls. And this was her way.
She already sensed him. She could hear him breathing and the boots he was wearing squeaked at the friction with the floor. His shirt was streaked with ash, and the curls that earlier stuck to his skin were now dried up.
“You good?” he asked with a small grin, his voice a little rough from smoke but steady. She kept her eyes closed as she slowly nodded and forced herself to open her eyes. “Yeah…” She said as she brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, “You?” she asked, turning her head towards him.
Their eyes met, and he offered a tired but genuine smile. It was the kind that still made her chest feel unreasonably warm, even after the kind of call that left you exhausted down to the bone.
He nodded, taking off his shirt “We got lucky in there. If that ceiling had gone just a minute earlier…” he didn’t finish the sentence, it was clear what he wanted to say with that. Buck turned towards his locker, and opened it as a silence fell between the two.
“But it didn’t. You were quick. You carried that guy out before it even had the chance.” she said, looking at him as he was putting his shirt into his locker. He gave her a quiet, half-embarrassed laugh, looking down. “Well, Eddie had the fancy tools. I figured I’d do the heavy lifting.” he said, looking to the side.
She smiled, “You make it sound like nothing.” she said. “I had good backup,” he said, glancing back at her. His eyes lingered just a little longer than they should have. It was a look that made her forget for a heartbeat what she’d meant to say next.
She cleared her throat. “I’m gonna hit the showers before the next call. I smell like a campfire.” she said. He grinned. “Good call, you smell like half the building.” he joked. (Y/n) shot him a look, one brow lifting as the corner of her mouth curved.
“Says the guy who smells like a barbecue gone wrong.” she shot back as she closed her locker. Buck laughed, mock-offended. “I’ll choose smelling like a barbecue over antiseptic any day.”
She shook her head, smiling as she threw her towel over her shoulder. “Mmmm, sure you would, hero.” she said, patting Buck’s shoulder as she made her way towards the bathroom. Still laughing, he watched her walk away.
Not long after, Eddie appeared beside Buck, arms crossed leaning with his shoulder against the lockers with an amused look on his face. “So…” he said slowly, nodding toward the path (Y/n) had just disappeared through. “You gonna tell me what’s going on there, or should i start guessing?”
Buck glanced at him and frowned at his words. “What? Nothing’s going on.” he said. Eddie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.. really? Because you two have been… rather close lately… You notice her before anyone else does. You look for her on calls. That doesn’t sound like “nothing’s going on” man.” Eddie said, using his fingers to quote him.
Buck blinked, then let out a quick laugh, shaking his head. “Come on, it’s not like that.” He said. “Then what’s it like?” Eddie asked curious. Buck hesitated, staring down at his hands. “She’s… she’s just a friend. We work well together.”
Eddie tilted his head, unconvinced. “You sure that’s all?”
Buck’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Yeah. She’s…” He paused mid-sentence searching for the right words. “She’s like a little sister, you know? Someone to look out for. To protect.” he explained.
Eddie frowned at the chosen words and tilted his head, studying him. “A little sister?” he said. “Yeah,” Buck said, almost too quickly. “She’s good at what she does, and she’s part of the team. I just… don’t ever want her to get hurt. That’s all.”
Eddie watched him for a moment, but long enough that Buck started to feel it. Then he nodded once, slow. “That’s a nice thought, Buck. Just make sure you’re not the one doing the hurting.”
Buck blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eddie pushed himself off the lockers. “Nothing. Just… sometimes we protect people so much, we don’t realize they don’t need it.”
He gave Buck a pat on the shoulder, gentle and walked out of the locker room. Leaving Buck standing there, unsure why that last line sat heavy in his chest.
In the bathroom everything was cooler and quieter, the kind of quiet that hummed in the air after a long call. (Y/n) dropped her things onto the bench and pulled at the ties of her boots. She reached for her caddy, then sighed. Shampoo. She’d left it in her locker where she had a conversation with Buck.
She rolled her eyes at her own stupid mistake, and she long hall towards the lockers. But as she almost entered the locker room again, she froze. Voices carried from the room. Not loud, but clear enough. Familiar enough. “…She’s like a little sister,” Buck was saying, his tone light but sure. “Someone to look out for. To protect.”
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe. The words hit somewhere deep, not a sharp sting, but a slow, spreading ache like a virus. Her hands curled into fists, tightening until her knuckles went white.
Eddie said something she couldn’t catch, low and teasing. Buck laughed, that easy laugh she knew so well. And still, that one line replayed in her head. Little sister.
She stepped back into the bathroom before anyone could see her. The sound of running water filled the silence as she set her things down, moving almost mechanically now.
When she finally stepped under the shower, the heat hit her skin and her eyes burned, though she blamed the smoke for it. She let the water run over her face, washing away the soot, the smell of smoke and the sweat. But no matter how long she stood there, she couldn’t wash away the echo of his voice.
Maybe she should’ve known. Maybe it had always been that way. But standing there, surrounded by steam and silence, she realized something she hadn’t wanted to admit. She’d fallen for someone who didn’t see her in the same way.
And for the first time since she joined the 118, the station didn’t feel like home.
______
Morning sunlight stretched across the firehouse kitchen. The air smelled like the usual mix of coffee and toast, the kind of comfort that only came between emergencies. Chim was bent over a bowl of cereal, drinking the milk that was left over after he ate all the cereal, dramatically while Eddie shook his head in mock disgust. Hen leaned back in her chair, half laughing and half disgusted by the sounds of it.
Buck sat where he always did, elbow on the table, one leg kicked out, grinning at the chaos. It was ordinary. Familiar. But there was something that was missing. (Y/n) wasn’t beside him.
Her laugh, the one that always found its way into these mornings, was absent, replaced by the steady tap of keys. She sat across the table instead, near Hen, a tablet propped up in front of her. She was scrolling through reports with sharp focus, her hair was in a tight, neat ponytail, her uniform neat and tucked, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the faint smudge of soot near her wrist.
There was no box of cookies on the counter this time. No mug of coffee quietly placed by his elbow like she did some of the times. Something felt off by the way she was acting.
Buck’s gaze lingered a second too long before he cleared his throat. “Hey,” he started, tone casual. “You were fast out there yesterday. That IV? Cleanest one I’ve seen.” He complimented her.
Hen grinned, her head turning from Buck towards (Y/n). Hen nudged (Y/n)’s arm, “Told you, she’s the sniper of veins.” She smiled.
(Y/n) glanced up briefly, a polite smile ghosting across her face. “He was an easy stick,” she said softly, eyes flicking back to the screen. “Got lucky with the placement.” She said as she was already lost inside the report that was on her tablet.
Buck’s grin faltered just a touch. “Yeah. Sure. Luck.” He mumbled.
She didn’t look up.
The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it definitely was noticeable. It stretched thin, like a breath held too long. Eddie looked up from his coffee, sensing it, but then decided to say nothing. Chim just raised his brows at Buck across the table asking him in silence “what did you do?”
Bobby walked in deeper into the loft as steam curled from his mug. “Alright, it has been a slow morning so far. Let’s try to keep it that way.” he said, breaking the silence that no one wanted to break. And with that, the rhythm of the room resumed.
Well… the entire room but except for Buck.
He sat back, arms crossed, trying to tell himself he was imagining it. That maybe she was just tired, or distracted. But he glanced over at (Y/n) as her laughter mixed with Hen’s filled the room. It gnawed at him that it wasn’t his laugh that mixed with hers. He wasn’t sure what he did wrong, or what he was feeling. The only thing he was sure of, was the feeling that (Y/n) was acting differently around him, and he needed answers.
It’s the day after their day off, a little more than 48 hours after their last shift. The air hummed with easy routine. The sound of, squeaking shoes against the polished floor, the muted sound of Eddie’s music coming from somewhere near the gym and compartments on the trucks opening and closing now and then.
Buck tried to get his mind off things when he was on his day off, but somehow, his brain kept wandering back, subconsciously. And now he wandered toward the rigs, restless, searching for her.
It’s the beginning of the evening and the back doors of the ambulance were open, and (Y/n) was inside, clipboard balanced against her knee. She’d pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling forward as she counted supplies. Methodical, focused, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Gauze rolls stacked neatly on one side. Saline bags lined up like soldiers on the shelf. Every movement was crisp and efficient, and maybe a little too careful. Buck leaned his shoulder against the doorframe of the ambulance. “You hiding from Hen,” he teased lightly, “or just really into inventory today?” Buck said, trying to make small talk.
Without looking up, she smiled. But it didn’t feel genuine. It felt practiced, polite. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t run out of bandages next time you try to wrestle a patient.” she said, her eyes locked onto the clipboard that was still balancing on her lap.
He chuckled, looking down at the floor for a second. “Now okay, that was one time.” he said.
She made a small sound, it wasn’t a laugh, but it was close. “Hmmm, and who had to tape your wrist after?”
“You did.” He grinned. “And you told me I’d live.” he added.
“See?” she said, finally glancing at him. “I’m always right.”
It should’ve felt like their usual conversations. Easy, quick, familiar. But it didn’t feel that way. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Buck studied her quietly while she checked another box of equipment. Her fingers moved swiftly, confidently. She looked fine, composed, in control but there was something underneath it. Something tight. Something he had never seen before.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
(Y/n) froze, her pen hovering midair. She looked over at him, the slightest hesitation in her eyes before she smiled again. “I’m fine, Buck. Promise.” she said, her eyes meeting his.
He frowned slightly, arms crossing. “You sure? You’ve been a little quiet lately.” he said. He finally was having a conversation with her, so he decided to take his chance.
She tilted her head, trying to sound breezy. “Just tired. It’s been a long shift.” (Y/n) answered, not too detailed. But her hands told a different story. How they stilled for half a beat before moving again, how her breath seemed shallower than usual.
Buck hesitated, the words pushing past his uncertainty. “Did I… do something?” he asked then. Her eyes flicked up, startled. “What?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a small shrug. “You’ve been different. Distant, maybe. I just… if I said something or did something, I’d rather know.” he explained.
For a long moment, she just looked at him. And god, the concern in his face. The genuine confusion, it almost broke her. Because he really didn’t know what he did.
She forced a smile, her voice soft but even. “You didn’t do anything, Buck.”
His brow furrowed. “Then why-” but before he could even finish that question, she cut him off gently, her tone lighter than she felt. “I’m just making sure everything’s stocked. Hen gets cranky when we’re missing stuff.”
And with that, she placed her clipboard underneath her arm, jumped lightly from the rig. Making Buck push himself off the part he was leaning on, and stepped back. She closed the back doors with a metallic thud. “Need help?” he offered quickly.
She shook her head, already walking toward the back hall. “No, I’ve got it.” she said over her shoulder, while sending him a small smile after.
He watched her go, the way her ponytail brushed her collar, the clipboard now pressed tightly to her chest like armor.
The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.
Buck stayed where he was, staring at the closed ambulance doors. His throat felt tight, though he couldn’t explain why. He told himself it was nothing, she was just tired, or busy, or focused. That she’d be back to normal soon. But deep down, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Because it didn’t feel like nothing.
It felt like losing something he hadn’t realized he needed.
_
It had been two full shifts since the fire, and the friendzoning words “little sister”. Two shifts since things between them had quietly changed, but not in the way people noticed.
(Y/n) still laughed with Hen, still showed up early, still did her job like the professional she was. But the small things, the ones that used to be Buck’s, were gone. No coffee quietly placed at his side. No little check-ins between calls. And when she smiled at him now, it never quite reached her eyes.
Buck told himself it was fine. People got tired. Things shifted. Not everything had to mean something. But when she brushed past him in the hallway and he felt her body tense just slightly, like she’d rather be anywhere else, it felt like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
That night, the station was quiet. Most of the crew had already crashed in the bunks. A half-played deck of cards sat abandoned on the kitchen table. The overhead lights were dimmed to a tired amber glow, and outside, the city murmured against the windows.
Buck sat at the table, staring into a mug of cold coffee, jaw tight. He didn’t even remember pouring it or how long he had been sitting there.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, (Y/n) stepped onto the loft, hoodie half-zipped, her hair loose, shadows beneath her eyes. She stopped when she saw him, blinking like she hadn’t expected to find anyone awake.
He looked over and gave a small, tired smile. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Guess not.” She grabbed a glass and filled it with the tap, her movements quiet and methodical. “Long day.” she added.
He nodded, watching her reflection in the stainless steel cabinet. She looked… guarded. Like someone holding herself together out of habit. He didn’t bother easing into it this time. His voice was calm but certain.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” he said.
She froze, her hand tightening around the glass. A small pause, a flicker of breath. Then she turned, leaning against the counter. “I’ve been busy.” she said, frowning at his comment.
“That’s not it.” he said while shaking his head, and his eyes locked with hers, once again.
“Buck…” Her tone carried a warning, tired, but cautious.
“I mean it,” he said, standing from his chair. “You barely talk to me. You walk out of a room the second I walk in. I just know I-” His voice cracked just slightly. “I did something wrong in your eyes, And I..” he was searching for the words but he couldn’t quite put them into his mouth.
Her eyes softened, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to tell him everything. But then she exhaled, the breath shaky, and the mask slipped back into place. “I already told you, you didn’t do anything.” she said.
He frowned. “Then what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes things just… change.” she stuttered.
“Not like this.” He took a step closer. “You’re acting like I… like we-” He stopped, struggling to find the right words again. Her gaze met his, steady but distant. “Maybe we just stopped being on the same page, Buck. That happens.” she said, taking a sip from the glass of water that was still in her hand.
The quiet between them was heavy. He opened his mouth, to argue, to ask, to plead.. “(Y/n) if I-” but before he could speak, the alarm split through the room, sharp and jarring.
“Station one eighteen, respond to a multi-vehicle collision, Highway 110 Northbound. Possible entrapments.”
They both flinched instinctively, the moment shattering right in front of his eyes.
Without a word, (Y/n) set her glass down, and moved quickly towards the stairs where she bolted down. (Y/n) was halfway to the bay before Buck could even move.
He followed her, heart pounding, the adrenaline already rising. Not just from the call, but from the ache that she’d just left him standing there, mid-sentence. Without answers.
As they reached their rigs, she stepped into her turnout gear and got into the ambulance beside Hen. Buck looked across the flashing lights as he stepped into his turnouts, catching her gaze through the windshield.
It was only a second. But there was something in her eyes. Something that said please don’t ask again, and I wish you would anyway.
_
The rain hadn’t stopped since sunset. It hammered against the rigs as they arrived on the scene. Lights painting the soaked asphalt in pulses of red and blue. The world beyond the windshield was chaos: twisted metal, shattered glass, and the distant echo of horns trapped in the storm.
Hen slowed the ambulance to a crawl, her wipers barely keeping up. “God, it’s a parking lot from hell.” (Y/n) squinted through the streaked glass. “Dispatch said there were at least ten vehicles involved. Multi-impact.” she said.
Bobby’s voice crackled over the radio, “We’ve got a multi-car pile up across both lanes. I want teams on extraction, medical triage, and containment. Be advices, one tanker truck’s leaking fuel. No sparks, people! Let’s move!”
The moment they pulled to a stop, the doors flew open and the smell of gasoline hit hard, sharp, metallic, cutting right through the smell of the rain.
“Hen, (Y/n),” Bobby barked as they jogged up to him, helmets low against the storm. “You two set up triage near the guardrail. Prioritize red tags, assist medics as needed. Chim, you and Vega handle suppression near that tanker. Keep a perimeter in case that thing lights up. Buck, Eddie, you’re on vehicle extractions. SUV on the west end looks like it took the brunt of the impact.”
And with that, everyone moved. Years of muscle memory clicking into place.
Hen and (Y/n) grabbed their kits, sprinting through puddles toward the guardrail. The triage area was chaos already, bystanders dazed, some screaming, some eerily silent.
“Sir, can you hear me?” (Y/n) crouched beside a man slumped against a twisted bumper, her blue gloved hands already finding his pulse. Weak, but there. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. Hen, I need a pressure bandage!” she called.
It took one second, she glances at her partner and she tossed one pressure bandage over. “Keep pressure on that leg. We’ll tag him yellow.” Hen added, (Y/n) nodded and did as Hen as a PIC told her to do. “Copy!”
A call cut over the radio through the rain, it was Bobby again. “LAFD, sound off! Where’s that fire suppression team?”
“On it!” Chimney’s voice sounded over the radio. When (Y/n) looked over the scene while keeping pressure on the man’s leg, she found Chim on the west side, already working a foam line with Vega.
(Y/n) looked up, scanning the wrecks through the downpour. In the distance, she saw Buck and Eddie shoulder-deep in the crumpled remains of an SUV, working the jaws of life. Sparks lit the night for half a second, cutting through the storm as the door screeched free.
But then something else caught her eye.
Just beyond the chaos, faint, and barely visible through the rain, tire tracks, veering away from the pileup. They carved down the embankment toward the guardrail, where a section had been torn open.
Her stomach sank at the sight of it. “Hen,” she called, standing. “I think there’s another vehicle-” (Y/n) said. “Where?” Hen was already following her gaze.
(Y/n) jogged toward the edge, flashlight slicing through the dark. The beam caught on something far below: two faint red lights, flickering beneath the surface of the water.
“Down there,” she breathed. Then louder, into her radio, “Cap, this is (Y/n). I’ve got a submerged vehicle off the embankment, taillights visible. Looks like it’s going under!”
“Copy, (Y/n), hold position. Buck, Eddie-” Bobby’s voice crackled over the radio. But the rest of that sentence she couldn’t hear. Because she was already sliding down the muddy slope, boots skidding, rain blinding.
“(Y/n), wait!” Hen shouted, voice distant against the storm.
The cold hit her the moment she stepped into the water. It was shockingly deep, waist-high and rising fast with the current. Her flashlight beam trembled across the car as it sank nose-first.
“Sir! Sir, can you hear me?” she yelled. Inside, a man was pounding against the window, his face pale and wild. “I’m coming, just hold on!” she yelled, trying to make herself audible for the victim that was trapped inside.
She moved forward, and grabbed the door handle. But it wouldn’t open. She took a breath, ducked under, and yanked again, the pressure finally giving way as the door popped open with a violent rush of bubbles.
She surfaced, gasping. “Okay, door’s open! I’ve got you!” she said. But the man didn’t listen. He clawed for her, pure instinct taking over his thoughts and movements. His hands gripped her turnout jacket, dragging her toward him.
“Stop! Stop! You’re pulling us both under!” she shouted, trying to brace herself. But it didn’t do anything. He panicked harder, shoving against her shoulder in blind desperation to keep his head above water. Her footing slipped, the current tearing at her legs.
The world disappeared in an instant. The cold hit like a fist. Her breath ripped out of her lungs before she could stop it, replaced by choking, metallic-tasting water.
The current pulled her sideways, tugging at her gear, dragging her deeper. She tried to push up but her foot caught on something. Her chest screamed. Her brain screamed.
Her arms moved sluggishly, like she was underwater in a dream she couldn’t wake from. She felt the panic rising, sharp and bright, the kind that burns through every rational thought.
She clawed at the water, desperate for light, air, anything. Her lungs seized again, and the world narrowed to nothing but pressure and pounding.
Then came the quiet. A slow, creeping calm.
Her body stilled. Her eyes drifted toward the faint shimmer above her, growing smaller by the second.
Buck was elbow-deep in metal when he heard her voice through the static of his radio “I’ve got a submerged vehicle… I’m going in.”
His head snapped up, mid movement. “What?” he murmured under his breath. “Buck, door’s almost-” Eddie started, but Buck was already running towards the guardrail (Y/n) was just seconds ago. “Cap! She’s in the water!” Buck yelled.
Bobby turned sharply, scanning the darkness. “(Y/n)! Report!” he called over the radio, but the only thing he got back was static. Nothing.
“Eddie, you’re with Buck! Hen, prep the med rig! Chim, hold that perimeter!”
Buck jumped over the guardrail, boots sliding down the slick slope. His flashlight beam skimmed across the black water. His chest went tight. “Oh, God-”
“Hey!” Buck yelled at the driver, who was half-crawling out of the shallows, coughing up water. “Where is she?!” The man looked dazed, shaking his head, eyes wide with panic.
Buck grabbed him by the soaked collar, voice breaking. “The woman who pulled you out, where is she?!” his voice filled with panic, fear and anger.
The man choked out a sob. “I-I don’t- she was there- and then- she went under-” the victim choked. Buck shoved him back toward the slope, fury and fear colliding in his chest. “Get up there! Hen’ll take care of you!”
He turned back to the water, scanning desperately. Nothing but rain and ripples. “(Y/n)!” His voice tore through the storm.
Nothing.
His light swept across the surface again, and then caught something. A flash of reflective tape, drifting under the current. “Jesus- no-” he choked out.
He dove in without hesitation. The cold was brutal, slicing through his gear, but he kicked hard, pushing deeper until he reached her. Buck’s lungs burned as he kicked downward, reaching blindly through the dark until his hand found fabric, the thick sleeve of a turnout jacket. He got her.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling hard. They broke the surface with a gasp, Buck dragging in lungfuls of air between words.
“I’ve got you,” he gasped, breath ragged. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—come on, stay with me.”
Her head lolled against his shoulder, lips pale, lashes clumped with water. He swam hard for the bank, every stroke feeling slower, the weight of her gear dragging both of them down.
“Eddie!” he yelled hoarsely, voice cracking over the storm.
Eddie was already moving, sprinting down the embankment as Buck half-carried, half-pulled her through the shallows. Together, they got her onto solid ground.
“(Y/n)! Hey come on!” Buck’s hands were shaking as he turned her onto her back. Her skin was cold as ice, lips tinged blue. “She’s not breathing-” Buck choked out, his teeth almost clattering because of the cold.
Buck knelt opposite him, fumbling at the buckles of her turnout jacket. Buck’s hands were clumsy, slick with river water, but he forced the latches open, pulling the heavy coat apart to give her chest room to rise. “Come on, (Y/n), don’t do this to me…” he muttered.
“I’ve got it!” Eddie dropped to his knees beside her, immediately starting compressions. “One, two, three—come on, come on—” Eddie mumbled as he pressed down.
“Hen!” Eddie shouted over his shoulder as she came sliding down the hill. “Airway bag, now!” he ordered as he kept pushing her chest.
Hen dropped beside them, already fitting the mask, counting under her breath as she squeezed the bag valve in rhythm with Eddie’s compressions.
Buck’s world had shrunk to the sound of her name in his head, over and over. Breathe. Please. Just breathe.
Then a cough.
A wet, choking sound that cracked the night. Water spilled from her mouth as she convulsed, dragging in a desperate gasp of air.
Buck’s breath hitched half relief, half disbelief. “That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” he said. Not noticing he actually called her that.
Eddie leaned back, panting, letting Hen take over as she fitted the oxygen mask to (Y/n)’s face. “She’s back.” he panted.
“She’s hypothermic,” Hen said sharply, checking her pulse. “We need her wrapped and moving now.”
Buck nodded, still hovering protectively over her, brushing soaked hair from her face with trembling fingers. (Y/n) moved her hand towards the oxygen mask, but before she could push it off, Buck gripped her hand. “D-d-d-river?” she mumbled through her chattering teeth.
Buck managed a small gentle smile, of course she was thinking about that asshole after she almost died. “The driver’s okay,” he whispered to her, voice rough. “You did good. You did so damn good.” he said, pressing her hand, he was still holding, to his chest.
Her eyes barely opened, glassy and unfocused. “Cold…” she whispered. “I know,” Buck said softly, throat tight. “We’re getting you warm.”
They managed to bring her back to the guardrail and moved her onto the gurney, securing her under thermal blankets. When they eased her into the rig, Buck hesitated for a moment. His gaze met Bobby’s, who gave him a small nod, telling him to get in the rig with her.
Buck climbed into the rig without a second thought, dripping wet, hand still gripping hers as the ambulance doors slammed shut.
______
The city below stretched like a river of gold and silver, streets gleaming under the fading sunlight. (Y/n) sat near the edge of the firehouse roof, wrapped in a hoodie, a steaming cup of tea cupped between her hands. The warmth seeped slowly into her fingers, grounding her, but it didn’t calm the flutter in her chest.
It has been a week since the water incident, and this is her first shift back on the job. They had just gotten back from a call, and somehow, the sounds inside of the firehouse were too loud for her, so she came up here.
(Y/n) could hear the door towards the roof opening and closing, footsteps softly approaching her, but she didn’t turn, even though she knew by the sound of his breathing and the footsteps, that it was Buck.
“Mind if I join you?” Buck’s voice asked, (Y/n) glanced over her shoulder Buck stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on her. (Y/n)’s eyes wandered back to the view of the city. “It’s yours” she said lightly, as she gestured to the empty space beside her.
He took place beside her, and for a moment neither spoke. The distant hum of the city and the wind tugging at their jackets filled the silence. Finally, Buck exhaled. “I’ve been thinking… about the call. About you.” Buck said, breaking the silence.
(Y/n) met his gaze. “The water?” she asked, just to be sure they were on the same page. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Seeing you in the water… I don’t know. I thought I’d lost you. And I realized… I can’t just treat you like anyone else.”
(Y/n)’s gaze drifted away, and she set her cup down next to her. She shifted slightly, gathering courage. “Buck…” she said quietly. “there’s something I need to tell you.” she continued.
She closed her eyes for a moment, not making any eye contact, but gathering the courage to come clean. “I heard you… and Eddie. Back at the station.” she said.
Buck stiffened slightly, his eyebrows frowning at her confession. “Um… what do you mean?” he asked, not sure what she was talking about.
“In the locker room, you were talking to Eddie… about me” She cleared her throat softly, and scratched the back of her neck, a nervous habit. “You told him you see me as a little sister, someone to protect…”
He looked down at his hands, running a thumb along the back of one. “(Y/n) I’m so sorry… that’s-” He stopped. “It’s not what I meant..” he stuttered.
“I know,” she interrupted gently, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “And I get it now. But… I wish we could start over.”
He blinked, looking at her. “Start over?”
She nodded, shrugging slightly. “I did some dumb shit too. I avoided you, overthought everything… I don’t want to do that anymore.”
Buck’s chest rose and fell as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” she said quietly.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, almost without thinking, she leaned in. They hugged tight, full of relief, fear, gratitude, and the unspoken weight of everything between them. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder; his arms wrapped around her automatically.
When they pulled back, their eyes met again. Too close. Too intense. They both could feel it, the brush of lips, the lingering closeness. The air around them seemed to thrum with possibility.
And then the door to the staircase that led to the rooftop got pushed open, a loud thud sounding. “Oh hey sweethearts, dinner is served!” Hen informed the two, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of the two.
Both jumped slightly, breaking the tension and immediately creating more space in between the two of them. “We’re coming Hen, just give us a second.” Buck answered, Hen smirked and nodded. “Hmm” she mumbled and took off again.
They laughed nervously as she left, hearts still racing. Buck exhaled, “I’m Buck,” he said, grinning softly, trying to anchor the moment in something safe.
She laughed, shaking her head at his “joke,” but took his hand anyway. “(Y/n),” she said, letting the words land. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, (Y/n)”
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor
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The weeks of insomnia, of work, of anxiety pile up. You sleep so deeply you don’t dream, you don’t feel. It isn’t until you wake, in the room where Thor left you, that you even realise you dozed off.
You take it in carefully. Every inch of wall, the carved bedposts, the patchwork quilt. You want to remember how perfect it all is. Just in case it has to go away.
Your lips curl and your cheek tingle as you replay the scene over and over. It wasn’t just one kiss. It was many. The storm rumbled on as you got swept up in him. You stopped him. As hard as it was. You have no doubts but you want to savour it all.
There’s a knock at the door. You sit up and stretch out your neck. You get up and the floorboards creak beneath you. You open the door an inch, surprised by the face on the other side.
“Breakfast,” Frigga has a tray in her hands.
“Oh my gosh,” you reach to grab it. “Where are you crutches?”
“It isn’t so bad. Just from the kitchen to here,” she says. “I’ve got you a full Norwegian spread. I made the knekkebrod. That’s the bread.”
“Wow,” you eye the tray, loaded with a spread of meats, fish, cheese, and jams. There’s a cup of coffee on the side. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”
“Oh, not at all. You’ll have to thank my son. He put the platter together. What a sweet boy. I only offered to bring it.” She explains.
“Still,” you set the tray on the square table near the window. “You should sit. I’ll go get your crutches.”
“Tosh. I will do as I wish. It is our way,” she chides. “Now, I only wanted to be sure you have all you need. I’ve left some things in the bathroom for you. All in nice little pouch. You should wash. You’ll feel better.”
She goes to the window, her cast thumping under her as she teeters. “Storms are refreshing. They mark renewal. I can tell you have been cleansed.” She sniffs and turns to look at you from the corner of her eye. “Whatever you brought with you, is gone.”
You stare at her. She’s right. You feel lighter. Brighter. Even as the sky blots grey and the rain continues to run down the glass.
“My son seems better too.” She turns to you complete. “Please enjoy it. The jam is his creation. Marmelade, actually.” She leans on the window ledge. “When Thor came back from Oslo... he needed to. He had lost a sense of home. Yet, it did not come instantly. He wandered. Every day. Restless. I could see it. Then a few weeks ago, he just settled.”
You sit on the stool at the small table. She smiles at you.
“And I can see you have too,” she beams. “I don’t mean to embarrass you but you found each other last night in the storm. You saw right through and you saw the other.” She pushes away and hobbles to you. She grips the table and touches your cheek. “Eat. Go clean up. He will come to you.”
She leaves you to ponder the platter of goods. You are terribly hungry. How could you not be looking down at the bountiful servings. You sip the coffee, a blend that soothes your mind and body, and try the crispy bread with a slice of aged cheese.
You’re excited yet nervous. You know where you stand and where you’re going but not all is certain. It feels all too good to be real. It could still go wrong. Of that, you can always be sure.
⛈️
You eat and take your tray to the kitchen. Still, you do not find Thor. You rinse the dishes and leave the leftovers on a single plate, unsure where to put them. Then you go to the bathroom and wash. There are clothes for you there. Linen pants and blouse. That and some toiletries.
You emerge and wander the first floor. Still, you do not find Thor. You’re starting to think he’s hiding from you.
You go back to the bedroom. That’s where you find him. He smiles as you approach.
“I thought you escaped,” he says.
“I thought the same of you,” you grin.
“Not without you.” He tilts his head. “So, how about it. Rain’s light. We can go out, explore.”
“We can?”
“I’m sure there’s a spare raincoat around here,” he assures. “It will be nice to get... space.”
You know exactly what he means. You feel it too. The tension. Not just between you him, but with his parents. There’s expectation all around and it’s just about to strangle you.
“Sure. As long as it’s not going to storm again.”
“Not until later but I can save you again. If need be.” He chortles.
You scoff. “Let’s go.”
The house is suspiciously quiet as you get ready to go. You accept the extra raincoat, as big on you as the flannel was. You put on your own boots, better for a trek with its thick treads, and set out through the front door. Thor appears even bigger with his hood pulled up and knapsack slung over his shoulder.
He leads you down the stairs and offers his hand. You take it. The ground is still slick as the rain continues to fall. He takes you away from the path downward.
“I’d take you to see the ox but he’s grumpy. Not much of a morning person.” He drawls.
“And Thunder?” You ask.
“She hates baths and I hate giving them to her. She can stay inside and clean. For now.” He insists.
“Fair enough.”
"This was an armoury," Thor points to a ragged old structure. "Me and my brother would play raiders in there. Though often he'd just put a snake in my shirt." He tuts.
"Does your brother live nearby?" You ask.
"No, he's off on his adventure. Though if you ask me, he's more avoidant than daring."
"Oh, right."
"I've a sister too but she has a way of disappearing," he explains.
"Well, it's nice if you to take care of your parents," you say. "I barely see my mom and dad. When I do go, they both seem to have other things to do."
"Hm, too bad. Well, truly," he beckons you onward. "My parents don't need me. It's a prideful excuse. I missed home. The city was lonely."
"I know what you mean." You utter.
He directs you ahead of him over an incline. On the other side, the trail descends and curls around. You carefully make your way down the treacherous drop.
"I've got you," he tugs the back of your raincoat.
"Thanks, uh... Yeah, what I was saying... I know what you mean about the city. Lots of friends but easy to get lost." You pause here and there to make sure your feet are steady. "You sure you're not leading me into a trap?"
"If I am, it's a bit late to turn back," he teases.
You laugh. You angle around a crag and your boots slips in the muck. He's quick. He catches your arm as you flail.
"Hold on," he girds.
He keeps close, moving sideways with you. "I promise, it is worth the effort."
He is more confident. He leads you from behind, down the winding path behind jagged stones taller than even him. The ground evens out as the air thickens as you get closer to ground level.
"Are we on the other side of the mountain?" You ask as a stillness wafts around you.
"The lake you pass on your way up, on the other end of that," he stops you and turns you pointedly. "Forward."
You stare at the rock wall before you. Is he kidding? You look at him tritely.
"Go."
You raise your brows and drag your feet forward, bracing for collision. But it doesn't come. The angle of the tunnel camouflaged it into the face of the mountain. You look down and follow the stony trail within. You curve around to another dip in the ground.
Thor comes up behind you and sighs. You look down at the dark waters, the grey horizon reflected through the low mouth of the cave below. He puts his hands on your shoulders and hums.
"I did say it was worth it." He declares.
"Sure," you agree. "It's gorgeous."
"You fit right in," he purrs and tugs on your hood.
"Wow, that was so cheesy," you snort.
"Well, I warned you. I say what I mean, even if it is... Cheesy. I prefer romantic. Whimsical." He steps up beside you and throws back his own hood. "Utterly obsessed."
You giggle. "Keep digging the hole deeper."
"You'll fall in too. I know it," he nudges you with his elbow and unzips his rain coat.
You stare down at the placid water. It's peaceful and shaded from the melancholy sky. He lays his wet coat over a stone and turns as he unbuttons his flannel. You glance at him as his fingers make quick work of his buttons. You gulp.
"What are you doing?" You ask shallowly.
"Going for a swim." He says matter-of-fact.
You peer down at the water again.
"Um..." You blink as he sheds the shirt and drops it with his coat.
"You're welcome to join." He sits and slips off his boots and socks.
You shiver. It isn't just the water or the drop, it's him. You peek over cautiously. He is unabashed of his bare chest and arms. The strength corded over both and around his stomach nips away the chill.
You touch the raincoat and sway. You're not so sure what's hidden beneath would be as pleasant to him. You chew your lip. Don't be stupid. Take one chance in your life.
You pull down the zipper. Quietly you retreat away from him. You slip free of the coat and find another flat stone. You keep your back to him as his clothes rustled and feet kick around a scatter of pebbles.
You hold your breath as you undress. You lay down the blouse then work at unlacing your boots. Damn hands won't stop shaking.
You shove your socks into the boots and stand. You loosen the draw string on the pants and exhale. You strip them off and glance over your shoulder.
You nearly gasp as Thor stands naked at the edge of the drop-off. He's even bigger now as he stands prone to the world. You turn back and gather your courage.
You unhook your bra clumsily and let it fall onto the ground. You quickly push down your panties and leave them twisted on the stones. You spin and make yourself cross the cave. You stop next to him and look down.
"So, how..." You begin.
He puts his hand around yours and squeezes. He laughs. That's his answer.
You peek over again. Your eyes weave up the perfection of muscle and hair along his stomach and chest. You catch his own gaze below your shoulders. Your squirm.
"Like I said, gorgeous," he grips your hand tight and looks out. "On three."
"Three?"
"One," he begins to count. You cough. "Two." You don't have time to think. "Three."
He runs forward and you do too. You launch off together, hands twined and you curl your legs, Sterling yourself for the plunge.
You screech as the wind rushes by you. You crash through the surface and sink deep. He keeps hold of you as you lose yourself in the depths and he hauls you upward.
You both break through the water at the same time. You heave in air and giggle as he rumbles. He draws you close as you kick your feet to keep your head above the water. He wraps you up in his arms.
"Worth it?" He asks.
You look up at the craggy ceiling and the lichee on the walls. You nod.
"Worth it." You breathe.
"Not the cave." He drawls.
You flinch and look him in the face. A smile slowly paints your face. Your heart is racing from more than the adrenaline. You nod.
"Worth it," you repeat.
He pulls you into a kiss. Your lips meet hotly and you poke your tongue out greedily. As he lets you in, you dip under the water. You both kick back up. He coughs into a laugh.
"Here," he keeps and arm around you, using the other to drag you through the water.
You feet meet a hidden ledge near the edge of the pool. He towers over you once more. He bends and quickly resumes, a hand on your chin, his mouth on yours
You lean into him. You brush your hand along his arm and along his chest. You feel the muscle there. Push into it. He growls as his other hand tickles your side.
You moan into his mouth and brush your other hand up his neck. You feel the tension there as you flick your fingers up to pet his beard. He turns you against the stone wall and purrs.
You tilt your head back as he devours you. He hooks his arm behind you and snakes his other behind your thigh. He lifts you easily and pins you to the stone.
You gasp and loop your arm around his neck. You can't stop. You don't want to. You want this all to last forever.
Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.
Series Summary: A soulmate AU where from the moment you are born, two partners share a heartbeat. They race in times of joy, slow in times of sadness, and they skip at the same moment. They share every big emotion, including heartbreak. Based on this post
Chapter Summary: After saving the world from Thanos and bringing back those that were lost to the first snap, you decide to travel back in time with Steve to return all of the Infinity Stones. In 1970, Steve confesses that he wants this to be his last mission, because he's ready to finally give you everything you've been waiting for.
Word Count: 15,820
A/N: When the epilogue is a quarter the size of the entire series, you know the author is unhinged 🤣
Heart Skip / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17
Warnings: 18+, Contains explicit sexual content, baby making talk, unprotected sex, slight breed kink, pregnancy, Steve is insatiable, babydaddy!Steve, lots of emotional scenes (mostly happy crying), changing the canon ending of several characters (i.e. nobody's dying on my watch), female reader, no use of Y/N
Divider Credit
The next few years are an absolute whirlwind. Once your business takes off, you start traveling nearly as much as Steve does. You get invited to fashion shows, design outfits for celebrities, and do all sorts of collaborations and charity work across the globe. You’re at a show in Milan when the whole Ultron/Sokovia fiasco occurs. Then again in Paris, when the Accords break up the team. After that, the only times you get to see Steve are during stolen moments in hotel rooms or for a few weeks at a time in Wakanda.
It’s there that you get introduced to Bucky’s firecracker of a soulmate, who’s staying there with him while he’s in recovery from the Winter Soldier commands. The two of you bond immediately over your shared experiences of being soulmated to the two super soldiers and become fast friends. Also, whenever you’re in Wakanda, you get to use all the training Natasha has been giving you and take it to the next level by training with the Dora Milaje. They kick your ass basically every time, but you’re lasting longer against them with every session.
Everything changes when Thanos appears. That time, you had actually been home in New York. You saw the giant circular spaceship hovering over the city with your own eyes, only for it to disappear back into space carrying Ironman, Doctor Strange, and Spiderman. When Steve called you later to warn you about what was coming, it felt like a stone settling in your stomach. You knew that he had faced several dangers before and always managed to survive, but something about this particular threat just seemed so much worse than anything he had faced before. And then, the unthinkable happened. Steve lost.
Sam. Rhody. Bucky and his soulmate. T’challa and Shuri. So many people. Gone. With just the snap of a finger.
When Steve came back, he wasn’t the same. He was broken. Defeated. He’d lost more than just the battle. He’s lost his team. His friends. He lost half of the whole world. And he shouldered that burden as if he were the embodiment of Atlas. He carried the guilt like shackles on his wrists and weights on his ankles.
All you could do was be there for him. You were a shoulder to lean on. Someone to help carry the load on the rare occasions he would let you. A warm embrace to chase away the nightmares of that day on the battlefield. You let him grieve and take the time he needed to figure out his next steps.
Then Scott Lang arrived at the front gate of the Avengers compound, and suddenly Steve was full of hope again. The plan was insane, but you couldn’t deny the spark that was making Steve’s eyes shine brighter than they had in years. You watch from the foot of the time travel platform as the team shrinks out of sight to retrieve the infinity stones from the past. The feeling in your chest for the few seconds that they’re gone is incredibly uncomfortable. Even though you know Steve is alive, apparently, him existing in a separate timeline from where you are makes the bond do strange things. It feels like your heart is beating in an echo chamber. It’s slightly painful and highly unpleasant, but then you blink and he’s suddenly back. The echoes of pain disappear, only for your heart to break all over again when you realize that Natasha didn’t make it back at all. You’re still grieving the loss of your close friend when the team assembles the new Infinity Gauntlet and Bruce uses it to snap everyone back into existence.
When the second Thanos appears and blows up the compound, it’s only Steve’s fast reflexes that keep you both alive. He wraps his arms around you and clutches your body to his chest, using his shield to protect you from the majority of the blast and the falling rubble. The ensuing battle is complete and utter chaos. You thought the battle at the Triskelion was bad, but that was like a child playing Battleship in the bathtub compared to the madness of this fight. There are enemies raining down from the sky. Allies coming out of glowing, mystical portals. Steve is fighting with fucking Mjolnir. And you’re using every single bit of training you’ve learned over the last several years just to stay alive.
When Tony uses the stones to snap away Thanos and his army, you nearly weep from relief and exhaustion, but then you realize what he’s actually just done, and you rush over. “Strange!” you yell out, grabbing his attention. You ignore the sting of your knees when you fall onto them next to Pepper and grip her shoulders. “Deep breaths, Pepper. Don’t let your heart stop,” you tell your mentor and friend sternly. You hear the crunch of gravel behind you where Steven Strange lands and crouches in front of Tony. “Hurry and use the Time Stone to reverse the damage,” you tell him.
He inspects the damage that’s been done to Tony’s arm and frowns. “I can’t reverse something that the time stone already directly caused.”
Your hands rub over Pepper’s shoulders encouragingly. “Then use it to reverse the damage created by the other stones. That should be enough to minimize the damage to keep Tony alive. We are not making an orphan of his kid. You’re a doctor, so fucking fix this.”
He raises a brow at being ordered around by you, but proceeds to pull the green stone out of Tony’s gauntlet and starts trying to reverse the damage. The other stones resist at first, but Steve had told you about how the first Thanos used the Time Stone to bring Vision back to life, so you knew that you had to at least try it here.
Sure enough, the damage from the other stones begins to reverse, and Tony gets some color back into his cheeks. Pepper collapses in your arms, but her breathing stays steady. By the time Strange is finished, Tony is also passed out, but is still alive. There’s a collective sigh of relief from nearly everyone on the battlefield. It had been an extremely close call.
The Sorcerer Supreme gives you a nod of approval when he’s finished. “That was some quick thinking there, Mrs. Rogers.”
You give him an exhausted smile. “I learned from the best.” Your eyes move to find your husband’s, where he’s standing just a few steps away, looking just as exhausted as you feel, but smiling so proudly that a gentle warmth settles deep in your belly.
There are several days of celebration all across the globe. Steve practically doesn’t let you out of his sight. He kisses you just about every chance he gets and keeps you in bed in the mornings until well past sunrise. You’ve both decided that you’re going to return the stones together. Just those few seconds apart had been a nightmare for you, and even though he’d traveled to timelines that still had you in them, his own experience with the separated bond hadn’t been very pleasant either. You spend those days after the battle planning out the journey before the two of you are suited up and ready to go.
Dr. Strange has already used the time stone to turn the other stones back into their original forms, and then you shrink them using Pym particles, so that they’ll all fit nicely inside a single carrying case. The Wakandans also repaired Steve’s broken shield for him, and he had Mjolnir ready to be returned back to the time where Thor took it from.
Steve takes your hand and helps you step up onto the platform. “Ready to go?” he asks, feeling your elevated heart rate in his chest.
You squeeze his fingers for reassurance. “I think so? Kinda nervous.”
He smiles and places a sweet kiss to your cheek. “You know I’ll keep you safe.”
You nod and shift from one foot to the other. “I know you will.” You take a deep, steadying breath, trying to expel the last of the nerves from your system. “Okay,” you nod once again, feeling a little more settled. “2013 first, right?”
Steve nods in confirmation. “Right. One less thing to worry about by returning Mjolnir first. It can’t be shrunk, so it doesn’t fit in the case with everything else.”
The two of you sync your time watches before the nanosuit materializes around your tactical uniforms. You share one last look between the visors of your helmets, and then you’re both shrinking down into the quantum realm. You land in Asgard immediately after the timestamp of Thor and Rocket leaving. Your helmet lifts automatically as the nanosuit disappears from around you. Steve catches your eye, a look of concern on his face as he checks to make sure you’re okay. You nod to assure him before breaking your gaze to look around.
“Wow…” you marvel at the architecture around you. Everything feels both ancient and timeless. There’s an open balcony just ahead, revealing the beauty of Asgard in its sprawling glory. “My God…” The view is breathtaking.
“Yeah, the Asgardians really downgraded when they came to Earth,” Steve jokes, admiring the view with you.
You scoff and smack his shoulder.
“You must be more of Thor’s friends.”
You both tense and turn quickly at the voice. A beautiful woman exuding grace and maternity stands behind you both, smiling in amusement.
You and Steve share a look of embarrassment. “Yes,” Steve confirms. “I’m Steve Rogers, and this is my wife,” he introduces you. “You must be Frigga.”
Her nod is demure and concise. “I see that my son has rather exceptional taste in friends,” she indicates to the hammer being held in Steve’s hand.
He lifts Mjolnir, that unearthly twang coming off of it as the air shifts around the space it occupies. “It’s pretty amazing, but we don’t need it anymore.” He sets the hammer down at his feet, where it will remain until its original owner calls for it again.
Frigga eyes Steve with all the ancient wisdom of a goddess looking upon a mortal seeking judgment. “It’s a testament of your worth to be offered a taste of the power of the skies and be honest in your willingness to relinquish such power.”
Steve holds her gaze evenly. “I don’t need a hammer to tell me if I’m worthy. I just want to be worthy of being a good husband to my wife.”
His words make your heart skip a beat. He looks over at you, grinning in a way that tells you he felt it. Your cheeks turn to flame, and your gaze drops to the floor.
Frigga laughs delicately. “You’re a smart man, Steve Rogers. I foresee a bright future between the two of you.”
You lift your eyes back up to Steve’s and find that he’s still looking at you, eyes soft and tender. “I hope so,” he tells her while continuing to look at you like you’re the reason the sun shines.
You clear your throat in embarrassment and nudge your foot against his. “Aren’t you forgetting that there’s something else we need to be returning, too?”
“Am I not allowed to boast about how amazing my wife is?” Steve teases while setting the case down on the floor and kneeling in front of it to pull the lid open.
“There’s a time and place for that, Steve.” He pulls out the cylindrical container that carries the fluid-like Aether, which swirls and glows ominously inside the tube. You take it from him while he re-seals the case. “Um,” you hesitate, looking between the Aether and Frigga. “We need to get this back into Jane…”
She steps closer and holds out her hands. “I think it would be best for you to entrust that task to me. That strange talking creature that was here earlier with Thor has stirred up the guards. Getting to Jane now will be quite difficult.”
“Oh,” you blink in surprise and hand her the container. “That would be incredibly helpful. Thank you.”
She smiles, “It would appear that you both have quite the journey ahead of you.” She nods to the case, having recognized its remaining contents.
“Yes, this is our first stop,” you confirm.
“Then I wish you luck and good fortune on the remainder of your endeavors.” She steps back to give you both space.
“Thank you,” Steve nods respectfully, and you do the same.
You activate the time-watch on your wrist once again. “Battle of New York?” you confirm with Steve.
“Yes,” he agrees. Your helmets snap into place moments before you’re both shrinking back to the quantum realm.
You land in 2012 immediately after the time stamp of when Steve and the others had left previously. You’re in an empty alleyway not far from Avenger’s tower. There’s dust and debris all over the place, since the battle has literally just concluded.
Steve sets the carrying case down on the hood of a dust-covered car and unlocks it. He removes the miniaturized version of Loki’s scepter and returns it to its original size. “You sure you want to handle the scepter? Getting the time stone back is going to be simpler.”
You give him a determined nod and take the scepter from his outstretched hand. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”
“You know where to go?” He confirms, holding your gaze to make sure.
You hold the scepter with both hands, being mindful of the pointy end. “Yes, Steve. You explained it like a dozen times.”
His mouth spreads into a tilted grin. “Better to be overprepared than underprepared. Contact me if anything goes awry.”
“Will do. You be careful, too.” You know what he’s doing should be less risky than what you’re about to do, but you still feel like you need to say it.
He leans in and captures your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. “Love you,” he whispers against your mouth in a way that makes your knees weak. In the next moment, he’s gone, leaving you standing there, blinking into the space he had just vacated.
The corner of your mouth lifts into a bemused smile before you turn and start on your own task. He’s been extra touchy-feely recently, not to mention the things he said to Frigga. You’re not entirely sure what it’s all about, but you’re certainly not going to deny him.
You sneak into the tower through a back door using an override access code that Tony had given you before you both left the present. Luckily, most of the tower personnel appear to be preoccupied in the main lobby due to Loki’s escape, so the back halls are clear. You make your way up to the level where Steve told you he’d battled his counterpart.
"Good grief..." you mutter under your breath when you see what state your husband left his 2012 self in. He's been knocked unconscious, face down, with broken glass all around him. The specialized carrying case for the scepter has been kicked a few feet away. You crouch in front of it and lay the scepter on the cushioned interior of the case before pulling it shut and locking down the latches. You then move to kneel next to 2012 Steve, and with a grunt of effort, you managed to roll him onto his back.
You peel his helmet off of his face to check him over and make sure your husband didn't accidentally murder himself in this timeline. You're a little shocked by how young he looks, but then you remember that he is 11 years younger than your Steve. Your thumb brushes against a slight smudge on his cheek, either from the battle against the Chitauri earlier, or from his fight with Steve, you're not sure. He does appear to be breathing, and doesn't seem too worse for wear.
Feeling better about his situation, you pull your hand back and move to stand. You don't get far before there's a tug on your wrist. You look down to find his red leather glove holding you in place. Your eyes flicker back to his face to find him awake and staring at you with wide eyes.
"It's you..." he breathes out with shock.
You brush away your own surprise. "Hi, Steve." Your smile is gentle and warm.
He sits up slowly, refusing to even blink as he looks you over. "Are you real?"
You laugh, suddenly remembering yourself asking that very question the first time you saw your Steve standing in the doorway of the SHIELD safe house in 2012. "I am." You confirm. His hand releases your wrist before he reaches up to tentatively cup your cheek. You give yourself just a second to allow your eyes to fall shut, and you nuzzle into his leathery palm. When your eyes blink back open, you meet his gaze and give him an apprehensive smile. "But I'm not the version of me that belongs to you."
His brow furrows, and his head tilts into that confused puppy look that you think is so adorable. "What do you mean?"
You glance over at the sealed case. "I'm just here to bring back the scepter. We only needed to borrow it."
He looks at the case, that brilliant tactical mind of his beginning to connect the dots. "That other Steve... that wasn't Loki?"
"No," you tell him while shaking your head. "That was my Steve."
"You're from the future?"
You look away and bite your bottom lip. "I shouldn't say too much."
"Wait." He uses the hand on your cheek to tilt your face back to his, a sense of urgency in his tone. "He said that Bucky is still alive. Is that true?"
Your breath catches in your throat. You know you shouldn't say anything, but you can't lie to him. "Yes."
The air rushes out of his lungs in one big breath, his hand falling from your face. "What?"
"When he fell from the train, he didn't die. HYDRA got to him. They wiped his memory, turned him into the Winter Soldier, and now they keep him in cryo-freeze until they need him to perform high-level assassinations."
The horror on Steve's face grows with every word that comes out of your mouth. "But we destroyed HYDRA..."
You give him a sympathetic look. "SHIELD hired Zola after the war ended, and he revived HYDRA from within SHIELD. Don't trust the STRIKE team, Alexander Pierce, or Jasper Sitwell. They've infiltrated the government, too. You can trust Fury and Natasha, but they don't know about any of this just yet. Also, they all think that you're a part of HYDRA, too. That's how my Steve managed to get the scepter away from them." You release a soft sigh and move to stand. "That's probably a lot more than anything I should have told you. I need to go. Please be careful."
He scrambles to his feet. "Wait, please!" He grips you at your elbow, though his touch is gentle.
You turn back hesitantly.
"Where are you right now?" he asks desperately. "My version of you."
"I'm safe. SHIELD pulled me out of the city at the first sign of trouble. Fury will know where I am."
His gaze drops to the floor, and that furrow is back between his brow. "Do you hate me? For what I've done to us?"
Your shoulders drop, and you can't help reaching out for him. "No," you assure him. "I'll be confused and scared, but I could never hate you." You lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek. "It'll be okay, Steve."
Relief shines in his eyes as the corner of his mouth tilts up. "Thanks. Is it weird that I'm nervous to see you, even though I'm looking at you right now?"
You laugh lightly. "No, but it's very adorable."
His ears burn pink. "You look incredible, by the way," he mutters through his embarrassment, eyes raking over your uniform. "You wear that better than I do."
You look down at your tactical suit. It's a feminine counterpart to Steve's latest uniform. You made the matching set as an anniversary gift years ago, but didn't have the chance to wear it until now. "Thank you," you smile up at him. "Don't worry. When I'm the one making your uniform, I'll make sure you look good." You grin teasingly and wink.
He blushes even more and looks down at his own uniform. "Yeah, this one is definitely missing your personal touches."
You look at him tenderly. "Go get your girl, Steve. Then try to find Bucky. HYDRA's holding his soulmate hostage, too.”
He pushes a gloved hand through his golden locks and breathes heavily. “This is a lot to take in.”
“Trust your friends and it will be a lot easier.”
He nods resolutely. “Thank you for telling me.”
You smile in that way that always reminds him of sunshine, no matter what timeline he’s in. “Of course, Steve.” You share one last look with him. A Steve who wasn’t betrayed by the reveal of HYDRA when it was almost too late. A Steve who didn’t have to face losing his closest friends during the Accords. A Steve who never lost to Thanos. There’s an air of hopeful innocence around him, and you hope that what little information you’ve given him might ease some of the burdens he’ll have to face in this timeline.
“How long have we been married?” he asks you, indicating toward the ring sparkling on your finger.
You glance down at it, smiling fondly. “8 years this past January.”
He looks both surprised and highly pleased by your answer. “How did I ask you?”
You don’t fight the laugh and hold a finger to your lips like you're about to shush him. “I’m not going to reveal that spoiler,” you tease.
He chuckles and drops his head, nodding. “That’s fair.”
You begin to step back. “Take care, Steve.”
“You too.” He watches you longingly as you turn to leave.
You glance back one last time before you slip into the stairwell. He’s holding the case to the scepter, but is still watching over you. The door shuts behind you, blocking him from your view. You press a finger to the communicator in your ear as you begin to walk down the stairs. “Scepter is secure.”
“Any problems?” The voice that comes through is slightly older and more mature than the one you’d just had a conversation with.
“All good. I’m heading to the rendezvous now.”
“I’ll see you there.”
You slip out of the tower undetected and make your way back to your Steve. He’s anxiously pacing the length of the abandoned alleyway, his head snapping up at your approach. His shoulders drop with relief as soon as he spots you. “Are you okay? What happened?”
You tilt your head. “Why do you assume something happened?”
“You took longer than I was expecting, and your heartbeat was irregular.” He steps in close and grips your hips.
Your hands find their place on his chest, just to either side of the silver star on his uniform. “The other you woke up, but nothing bad happened.”
His eyes flare. “Did he try to hurt you?” He looks just about ready to march back into the tower and fight himself all over again.
“Steve, it’s still you. Of course you didn’t try to hurt me. We just talked.” You press your hands even harder against his chest to prevent him from trying to get past you.
“What about?” A muscle in his jaw ticks.
You roll your eyes at your husband’s apparent jealousy. “About Bucky. And HYDRA. You kind of left him with a ticking time bomb and no explanation.”
Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. “Did he try to flirt with you?”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Yeah, because you were such a wild Casanova in 2012,” you answer sarcastically.
“Did he?” Steve presses.
“Of course not! He’s a cute and adorable puppy right now, not some wife-stealing, philandering, bad boy.”
Even though he got the answer he wanted, Steve still looks rather put out. “I can be cute and adorable…” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t know whether to sigh in exasperation or laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.” You grab his face and pull him into a messy kiss. His arms immediately curl around you, tugging you in close against his body. One hand grips the nape of your neck while the other presses firmly into the small of your back. Before things get too heated, you pull back with a gasp. “Feel better?”
His eyes flash with desire. “Marginally.”
This goofball certainly knows how to keep things interesting. “We’re already halfway there, Rogers. Three down, three to go. Shall we move on to the next stone?”
“Not yet.” He leans forward and kisses you once more, nearly sweeping you off your feet. He kisses you like a man who’s starved for affection. Like it will never be enough. You’re left breathless and on shaky legs when he’s done with you. “Now we can go.” His smile is far too innocent for a man who kisses like that.
When you land in 1970, it's in an empty clearing a mile north of Camp Lehigh. Steve scans the area, then reaches to grab your hand, interlacing your fingers as he leads you through the trees. "We can do some reconnaissance, but I imagine they'll have tightened up security with the way Tony and I left things before."
The two of you observe the security gate from the tree line. Sure enough, there's an overabundance of security personnel thoroughly checking over everyone’s documentation before letting them in. Steve decides to call it and instead leads you deeper into the woods. You trek on foot to the town closest to the camp. Steve forces open the window to an empty motel room and helps lift you over the sill to climb inside.
The room is clean, smelling faintly of patchouli, but the shag carpeting and wallpaper are hideous. Steve jumps fluidly through the open window before turning to push it shut and closing the curtain. You flick on one of the bedside lamps, filling the room with a soft orangey glow. Steve moves to the foot of the bed and sets down the carrying case. He lifts the lid and pulls out two miniaturized duffel bags, then uses a particle disc to get them back to normal size.
He offers you your bag, which you take with a smile and a soft, "Thanks." You move over to the small loveseat on the other end of the room and pull the tab on the zipper to open the bag. Right on top is the '70s-inspired dress you made, packed specifically for this part of the trip. You also pull out a pair of Mary Jane flats and some other accessories to complete your outfit.
You pull out your toiletry bag next and unzip that too. You frown when you notice a specific item is missing. "Oh, shit..." you mutter under your breath. You pull out your tube of toothpaste and a hair brush, trying to see if it might have fallen deeper into the bag. When you fail to locate it, you set down the toiletry bag and start rifling through the duffel. "No, no, no..."
Feeling your elevated heart rate, Steve stops going through his own bag and looks over at you. "Everything okay?"
"Uh..." You stall your response while continuing to look through your bag. When the object you're looking for fails to magically appear before your eyes, your shoulders drop, and you release a long sigh. "I didn't pack my pills," you finally admit. You bite your bottom lip and look over at Steve.
He holds your gaze, "Your birth control pills?"
"Yes," your voice cracks on the word. You rub your hand over your face while taking a heavy breath. "Those were specially made by Dr. Cho after her analysis showed that generic contraceptives probably wouldn't work against the serum. They're not something we can just pick up from a pharmacy, and certainly not in 1970." Your mind starts to race to come up with a solution. The easiest answer would be to jump back to present day, but that would be a major waste of Pym particles. Could you and Steve have the self-control for abstinence for the remainder of this mission? Should you just risk it with condoms alone?
Before you can spiral down a mental rabbit hole, Steve's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. "I want to retire."
Your head whips back to him. "What?" You're not entirely sure you heard him correctly.
He smiles hesitantly and moves to sit on the corner of the bed. "I know I haven't been very... present over the last few years. After that first battle with Thanos, I was broken. All the guilt and regret made me feel like I was drowning."
Like a magnet being pulled North, you walk over to Steve and stand between his legs. You run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching soothingly at his scalp as he looks up at you. His hands reach for your hips, unable to resist touching you and keeping you close.
"I failed so spectacularly, and yet even after losing so much... after losing Bucky and Sam... somehow, by some enormous miracle, I still got to keep you." His hands squeeze your hips, and he leans forward to press his forehead to your stomach, his voice going hoarse. "And I know the bond is probably what kept us together, but even without it, I don't think I would have survived losing you, too. But you've been so good, and patient, and strong this whole time. In some ways, that was exactly what I needed, but in other ways, it made me feel even more unworthy of you than I felt even before taking the serum. I was lost at sea, and you were the beacon I felt like I didn't deserve."
"Steve," you keep your voice even and gentle, like a soothing balm on an open wound. "You don't need to win every fight to be worthy of me." You tilt his head up, cradling his face between your palms. "These last few years have been hard on everyone, but you always carry so much weight on your shoulders. It's okay to be a little selfish. It's okay to want things. It's okay to be happy."
He swallows thickly. "I know, I just couldn't. I'm sorry."
Your head tilts curiously, thumbs brushing over his cheeks in a soft caress. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I do," he refutes. "I remember after Morgan was born, when we went to see Tony and Pepper at the hospital. I'll never forget the look in your eyes when you held her for the first time. You were so beautiful, and you looked at her like she was so precious. And I was... terrified. I didn't know I could want something so badly and be just as equally afraid of it. I already felt wholly unworthy of you, that I couldn't even face the thought of holding our own child for the first time. Of something else I was entirely undeserving of." A single tear slips down his cheek. You catch it on your thumb and brush it away. "I know that I promised you a future, but after Thanos, I couldn't let go of the past. That's why I'm apologizing. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you want. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger. I'm-" His voice breaks on a choked sob.
"Oh, Steve..." You crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders, allowing him to bury his face in your neck. His own arms tighten around your waist, holding onto you like a lifeline. "You do not need to apologize for your grief. A loss like that is not something you get to just walk away from. The wounds that you can't see leave the deepest scars and tend to be the hardest to recover from." You hold his nape reverently with one hand and rub his back with the other. "I never expected you to move on after Thanos. I fully understood that you were going through something unimaginably horrific. I knew you needed time, and I was perfectly okay with giving it to you. I don't blame you for anything, and I don't have any regrets. You don't need to be sorry."
He breath shudders before he places a kiss to the side of your neck and raises his head. His eyes are rimmed with red, but he has a soft smile on his lips. "I swear, you have the patience of a saint."
You laugh softly, running your fingers from his hairline down his temple. "I have the patience of a woman who's insanely in love with her husband."
His eyes sparkle like sunshine reflecting on tropical waves. "You're amazing. I love you so much." He takes a steadying breath before his eyes flash with determination. "But what I've been trying to get at... is that this is my last mission. Once we finish returning the stones, I'm done. We beat Thanos. We brought everyone back. Now, I want out. I want to be with you. I want to start our family. I'm done putting our lives on hold. Let's buy a house. Somewhere with lots of space, and trees, with a swing on the porch and a raised garden in the back. Let's get a dog. Let's sleep in past noon. Let's have breakfast for dinner. Whatever you want, I want to do all of that with you. I'm done with just surviving from one battle to the next. I'm ready to start living."
Your heart pounds in your chest, and you're not sure if it's from you or him. You want to respond to his confession, but your throat is now tight with emotion, and you're not entirely sure what you want to say.
Steve's knuckles brush tentatively against the edge of your jaw. "I know you've got a lot going on with Heart Skip Apparel, so I'll understand if you need a little more time before we do any of this. I just wanted you to know where I'm at right now. If I need to be the one with patience, I can do that." His hand leaves your face and reaches to grab something out of his duffel bag. You hear the clatter of small objects shifting against plastic before he reveals your missing bottle of pills. He grins a little sheepishly. "I saw them out on the bathroom counter, while you were packing up the car, and realized you forgot to grab them. A part of me kind of wanted to leave them behind entirely, but I didn't want to take the choice away from you."
Your eyes flicker from the clear orange bottle, then back to Steve. "Are you sure?" you ask.
"Absolutely." There's zero hesitation in his response.
You take the pill bottle and chuck it across the room, not caring as the cap pops off and the pills scatter across the shag carpet, because you're already devouring Steve's mouth. He kisses back fervently and pulls you even closer, like the space between your bodies personally offends him. Your hands are all over his face, holding his cheeks, running through his hair, cupping his jaw. His glide across your back, one pressing to the curve of your spine while the other dips down and grabs a handful of your ass.
You giggle breathlessly against his lips. "You're crazy, you know that."
You feel his smile spread against your own. "Why?"
You pull back enough to rub your nose teasingly against his and look deep into his eyes. "Because you want to start our family while we're literally in the middle of this mission and 50 years away from home."
His laugh blows across your skin like dandelion seeds on the wind. "Would you expect any less from me?"
You give him a wry smile. "From the former wanted fugitive who used to sneak into my hotel room after midnight? No, of course not."
He smirks crookedly. "Remember Copenhagen?"
You hum thoughtfully at the memory. "You didn't let me leave that bed for 56 hours."
His fingers tighten on your ass, pushing your core against the hard seam of his tactical pants. "Think we could beat that record?" he challenges.
You shake your head bemusedly. "You were relentless. I had to sneak off to the bathroom while you were sleeping."
His eyes shine with humor. "I wasn't really sleeping, I only pretended to so you could have a break."
"Steven Grant Rogers!" you admonish with a teasing smile.
He's completely without shame. "I didn't know when we were going to see each other again. Had to make sure you didn't forget about me."
You lean in and kiss one corner of his mouth, then the other side. "Well, from the sounds of it… Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on."
"Now I need to make up for lost time." He pulls you back in, fully sealing his mouth over yours.
You moan against him, lips parting to allow his tongue entrance to your mouth. He slips in with all the familiarity of someone entering their second home. His tongue greets yours in a lover’s caress, the two dancing to a rhythm all their own. They tango to the pace of your shared heartbeat, the tempo fast, but steady.
He pulls away with a parting flick of his tongue against yours, giving you a chance to catch your breath while his lips glide down your cheek. "Have I told you how great you look in this uniform?" He asks, lips now brushing the edge of your jaw.
You release a small laugh. "Your 2012 doppelganger did."
He halts for a second, then straightens and pins you with an unimpressed look. "You said he didn't flirt with you."
The love of your life is, without a doubt, the most absurd man on this planet. Hair disheveled, pupils blown wide, kiss-swollen lips, and still, he manages to be jealous of his younger self. "You can give a compliment to someone without it being flirting, you know."
"Not when it's me complimenting you."
He is utterly impossible.
"I'm literally sitting in your lap, about to have raw sex with you. Remind me what you're getting mad over?" You feel his dick twitch under you.
"Right. Shutting up now." He nods resolutely. "The uniform will look just as great on the floor, I'll bet."
You grin in amusement. "Nice save."
He maintains his serious façade. “We should test this theory.” He makes quick work of your uniform top and tosses it aside, soon followed by his own. Your skin is still separated by the tank top you wear and his tight Under Armor shirt, but the thinner materials allow your body heat to exchange much more easily. Steve’s lips glide down your neck, licking the hollow of your throat and nipping at your collarbone. You moan and grind against his growing erection, hands scrambling for purchase against his broad shoulders.
In a rush, Steve has you back on your feet moments before he’s unlatching your utility belt and shoving your tac pants down your legs. He kneels before you, helping you pull off your boots, then removes the pants entirely. He glances at the pile of discarded clothing before giving you a shit-eating grin. “I was right. It does look better on the floor.”
You shake your head and laugh, “You’re such a jerk.” Your voice is filled with affection as you look down at your soulmate.
His hand holds the back of your calf as he guides your foot onto his raised knee. He leans forward and kisses the top of your shin, then the inside of your knee, then he drags his lips up your inner thigh. Your breath stutters, pussy clenching eagerly as he draws closer, but then he jumps from the top of your thighs to your lower abdomen. You’re about to berate him for being a tease when he looks up at you through his thick, sultry lashes, with eyes so hot, you feel yourself melting. “I’m going to put a baby in here,” he vows, and you’re done for.
The next few seconds are a rush of frenzied movement as you both shuffle out of the rest of your clothes, and then you’re falling back against the mattress with a highly aroused, half-feral super soldier settling between your spread thighs. His hips press against yours, his cock caught between your bodies, heavy and hot and leaking against that spot on your abdomen that he was just kissing. He rocks against you, dragging the underside of his cock through your slick folds. Your body is ready for him. Has been from the moment you tossed the pill bottle across the room.
Your thighs are already shaking, hips grinding up in desperate search of even the tiniest amount of friction. You’re wet, and aching, and so goddamn eager for him. You needed him inside you five minutes ago. Need to feel the stretch of your body making room for his thickness. Feel the weight of him filling you to completion. Living a full decade with this man has done nothing to quell the insatiable need you have for him. If anything, it’s only made it worse. It’s only made you want him more.
“Please, Steve,” you beg against his open-mouthed kisses. “I need you.”
“I know,” he breathes directly into your lungs. His hand grips the back of your knee and hooks your leg around his hip. He shifts his own leg forward, bracketing his inner thigh against the side of yours. As soon as he’s in position, the head of his cock notched against your entrance, he pushes forward and sinks into you. He grunts deep and low in his chest at the way your body surrounds him in his entirety. Not just physically, but also emotionally, spiritually. He feels you everywhere. The brush of skin against skin, your scent in his lungs, your heart beating in his chest. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. “I love you,” he declares against your parted lips.
You try to respond, but all you can manage is a stuttered gasp while your nails rake down his back. He’s so big, both in you and above you. Battle-hardened muscles, sculpted to perfection, press down against your supple body, making the mattress springs squeak in protest. Every snap of his hips causes the bedframe to crack against the wall. Your cunt pulses and flutters around his thick, veiny cock, encouraging him to drive even deeper, push even harder.
He looks down at you, eyes wild, a few strands of his disheveled hair falling against his forehead. “You’re gonna look so pretty, Sweetheart.” He moans when a particular twinge of your walls hits him just right. “So full of me. So full of us.” You whimper under him, back arching in pleasure. “’M gonna kiss your growing belly every day. Give you foot rubs when your feet hurt. Get you whatever food you’re craving, no matter what time it is.”
“Steve!” His name is the only word in any known language that you can even remember right now.
“I’ll be so good to you. Won’t let you lift a finger. You focus on growing our baby, and I’ll handle everything else.”
You can’t take it. His words, combined with his unrelenting thrusts, send you into a tailspin. You cry out his name over and over, your body vibrating from the force of your orgasm crashing into you. Steve fucks you through it, hips losing their careful coordination as his control snaps. He pounds into your drooling cunt with all the feral instinct of a wild animal. This isn’t just sex for enjoyment and pleasure; this is sex with purpose. It’s a mating ritual. It’s for procreation. It’s the beginning of a new life. Not just the new life that might soon be growing inside of you, but also the new life he plans to share with you. One without Captain America. Because that chapter is reaching its final page, and he’s more than ready to start the next one.
With one final thrust, Steve’s hips still against yours while his cock empties into the deepest part of you. His whole body convulses with every spurt of thick, hot cum as he paints your walls white. You shudder underneath him, pussy eagerly pulsing around his cock and sucking his seed deeper into your womb. You don’t know if it’s even possible for his seed to take so soon after stopping your birth control, but your body seems overly eager for it all the same.
Steve is completely wrecked above you. Hair in disarray, kiss swollen lips, flushed cheeks, body still shuddering from oversensitivity. You imagine you’re probably not faring much better. You’re both panting for desperately needed air, hearts pounding erratically in tandem. He rolls you both onto your sides and collapses against the pillows, still buried between your legs. You flop unceremoniously against his chest, your muscles completely liquified.
“Wow…” The word falls from your mouth a little deliriously while you still try to catch your breath. “You haven’t been that feral in a long time. Whew…”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, concern immediately bleeding into his features, despite the post-coital flush to his cheeks.
“No,” you assure him quickly, smiling in utter satisfaction. “You were amazing.”
He releases a long breath, half in relief, half still coming down from his high. His arms tighten around you, tucking your body more securely against his while he presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re the amazing one.”
You laugh tiredly and settle more comfortably against him. With your head on his chest, you can hear his heart settling back into a normal rhythm while yours does the same. You close your eyes and relax even further while listening to the beat you know is a perfect match to yours. The silence that follows is soft and devoted, filled with understanding and love. The kind of silence that speaks its own language and can only be heard in moments of stillness. Moments like this one. You bask in it, like a cat lying in a patch of sun. Then you feel the brush of Steve’s fingers against the base of your spine.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You know he has something on his mind when his fingers draw patterns against your lower back. Like he’s using the movement to piece out the answer to a difficult puzzle or some strategic endeavor.
His fingers stop their aimless tracing as he presses his full palm against your skin. “What if we stayed here?” He finally asks after a contemplative pause.
Your brow lifts in amused curiosity. “What, like in bed? I thought that was already the plan.”
“No,” he counters, a weight to his tone. “Here. As in this place. This time.”
It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in. When it does, you lift your head off his chest and shift onto your side, propped up on your elbow. “Here?” you repeat. “Like 1970?”
He looks back at you, eyes serious. There’s no sign of humor or teasing. “Yes.”
You stare back, your brow now furrowing. “For how long?” You already knew that you needed to kill some time while waiting for an opening to return the Tesseract, but this doesn’t sound like Steve is referring to the mission. It’s something beyond the mission.
“However long we want,” he tells you. “Like an extended vacation. Or a second honeymoon. We can stay off the grid a lot easier. There are no cell phones, no satellites, no facial recognition. We can just be us.”
“You’re serious…” It’s not really phrased as a question, but you are still seeking confirmation.
His thumb swipes back on forth across your skin where his hand is still planted on your back. “We could find a house. Somewhere out of the city, but still close enough that we could visit for the day if we wanted to.”
“And do what?” you enquire with a hint of incredulity. You can hardly believe that your husband, Mr. Always-Has-A-Plan, wants to vacation in 1970 and just wing it.
His grin is relaxed, almost lazy, in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever seen on him. “Whatever we want. We can go on dates like we used to back when we first moved into the tower. Try new restaurants, see some shows on Broadway, shop on 5th Avenue. We can go hiking upstate, and I’ll carry you on my back when you get tired. Or we can just stay home and have an obscene amount of sex. On the kitchen floor, next to the fireplace, inside the linen closet…”
You tilt your head and pinch your lips together in an attempt to hold back your amused smile. “Why would we sneak off to the linen closet in our own home?”
“Small spaces makes it more intimate,” he states like it’s a well-known fact.
“Does it now?” You don’t sound entirely convinced.
“It does,” he confirms with a nod. He then goes quiet, eyes turning soft as he gives you a look that reminds you of the way he looked at you inside that small chapel in Brooklyn, 8 years ago. “What do you say? Wanna stay here with me?”
You hold his gaze for a long moment, pondering over the options. You can hardly believe that he’s actually proposing this. He’s supposed to be the responsible one. The mission is supposed to take priority. What if something happens and the watches don’t work because you’ve been here too long? Do Pym particles have an expiration date? What if something happens to the remaining stones before you get the chance to return them? While your mind is spinning over all the what-if scenarios, you realize that Steve looks completely relaxed and unbothered. He’s not worried about the stones. He’s not gearing up for the next fight. He’s completely at ease to be in this present moment with you. No worries, no alien attacks, no battle plans. For the first time in a long time, he can finally be Steve Rogers. Just Steve Rogers.
“Okay,” you agree, voice soft but sure. “We can stay here for a little bit, but if I end up pregnant, I’m not having our child here. If I have to give birth to a tiny super soldier, I want modern medicine, and at the very least, the option of an epidural.”
Steve chuckles softly. “That’s fair.” He cups the back of your neck and pulls your face close enough to kiss your forehead.
You close your eyes at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Can we go to a Loft party?” you ask tentatively.
Steve pauses for a moment, then shifts his face back to look at you curiously. “Didn’t realize you were that into disco…”
You giggle at the look on his face. “I’m not, I’m just not sure what other things there are to do in 1970.”
His smile is full of mischief and affection. “I’m sure we’ll find enough to do, so we won’t be bored.”
By the next morning, Steve has somehow managed to secure a vehicle, and within a few hours, you’re crossing the state border out of New Jersey and back into New York. You stop for food at a roadside diner in a small town just outside of the city. Steve uses the yellow pages and a payphone to contact a nearby real estate agency. Before you know it, you’re both walking up the steps to your new home, contracts signed and keys in hand. It’s a two bedroom—two bath, Victorian-style cottage on an acre of forested land. It has a wraparound porch and wooden shutters. There’s an octagonal-shaped reading nook in one corner of the house that faces the morning sun. There are hiking trails running through the backyard that can either take you down to a small lake or up the mountain to a waterfall. It’s beautiful and perfect, and you can hardly believe it’s yours. At least, for however long you’ll be there.
The first night, you sleep on a nest of pillows and blankets near the fireplace and make plans to buy furniture and a bed the next day. Steve makes love to you right there on the floor, just like he promised. The semi-dubious apprehension that fills you at the prospect of staying in 1970 begins to melt away the more you both start building your home together. There’s a blurred line that you don’t even realize you’ve crossed, where the feeling of playing pretend becomes reality. The house is filled with laughter and kisses and warmth and life. It doesn’t feel temporary. It feels like the beginning of forever.
Steve gets into woodworking after cutting down some of the trees that were growing a little too close to the house. He makes a sturdy, gorgeously carved frame for the bed in the master bedroom. Then he makes a coffee table for the living room and a brand-new kitchen table after that. Everything that he builds with his own two hands, he promptly tests the structural integrity of by fucking you ruthlessly against the freshly polished wood. Everything has held up, so far, but sometimes you tell him you might need to test something again, just to be extra sure. He’s always more than happy to oblige.
Two months pass before you start to notice the changes in your body. It starts with fatigue. No matter how much sleep you get, it never feels like enough. This is then followed by breast tenderness, and you also feel like your bladder must have shrunk because you need to pee, like all the time. And then the smell of scrambled eggs, which used to help get you out of bed in the morning, instead has you rushing to the bathroom and dropping to your knees in front of the toilet.
Steve is in a near panic, thinking you’ve managed to contract some sort of 1970s disease that you’re not inoculated against until you stop dry heaving enough to ask him to pick up a pregnancy test from the pharmacy in town. That sends him spiraling into a new sense of panic for an entirely different reason. “So soon?” he questions, like you couldn’t possibly be pregnant already.
“I’m late, Steve.” You tell him like he should be well aware, considering how often he’s been between your legs recently. “I haven’t had it the entire time we’ve been here.”
“Oh…” his face falls at the realization. He’s then struck with a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t noticed. He’s your husband; he should be paying more attention to that sort of thing.
“…Are you having regrets?” you hesitate to ask, especially since this isn’t exactly a conversation you want to have while sitting on the bathroom floor, but you need to know his answer. Sooner rather than later.
“No, of course not.” He shakes his head adamantly. His hand rubs soothing circles against your back. “I just thought we’d have more time… as just us.”
You smile at your sweet, adorable husband. “We’ve had over a decade as just us.” Feeling a little more stable, you flush the toilet and move to the sink to rinse out your mouth. Steve hovers close behind with hands outstretched like you’re going to fall at any moment.
“Several of those years don’t really count,” he argues after he’s certain you’re not about to keel over in front of him.
You meet his gaze through the mirror and smile in amusement. “Sex doesn’t stop after the baby is born, Steve.” You dry your hands, then turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “If that were true, then no one would have any siblings.”
His hands cradle your hips, but his touch is tentative and more careful than usual. His gaze flickers all over your face like the truth he’s seeking might be hidden in the curve of your cheek or the tilt of your brow. “Are you sure?” he finally asks, his voice raw and emotional.
Your smile is soft and sweet, like the cotton candy at Coney Island. “I’m pretty sure, but I think it would still be beneficial to take a few tests.”
He nods his head, but does it too long, like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Right. Okay. Tests. Yeah.” He sounds dazed, but then he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. When they reopen, they’re clearer, focused. “Pharmacy. Pregnancy tests. Got it. Anything else?”
You think about it for a second. “Oh, can you get me a jelly-filled donut from Red’s? The strawberry jam one, not the custard. Actually, make it two.”
He smiles fondly and places a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Sure thing, Sweetheart.”
You follow him to the front door, where he shrugs on his signature leather jacket and grabs his car keys. He turns to you one last time and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. “Be back in a jiffy. Love you.”
You hum against his mouth and grip the lapels of his jacket. “Love you, too.”
You watch from the window as Steve pulls the car out of the dirt driveway and heads into town. You’re full of too much nervous energy, so you end up pacing behind the couch while waiting for his return. The tests are mainly a formality. You already know what they’re going to say, but a tiny part of you is still a little nervous. Your hand rubs circles over your abdomen as you picture the tiny being that is most definitely growing in there.
Steve returns within twenty minutes, holding a paper bag from the pharmacy with a small box of donuts tucked under his arm. “Which one do you want first?” he asks, offering both the bag and the box.
You have a small moment of crisis trying to decide which one you want more, but eventually settle on the bag first, so that you can enjoy the donuts while waiting for the test to run. “Don’t start eating without me,” you call to Steve as you head for the bathroom. You read the instructions on the box and follow them step by step, then leave the stick on the counter and wash your hands before joining Steve on the couch in the living room.
He dutifully has a donut already out on a plate for you, which you take with a gracious thank you. After the first bite, you promptly burst into tears.
“Oh God,” Steve panics. “Is it the wrong one? What’s happened?”
You shake your head and devour another bite despite your open sobbing. “It’s just so good!”
“Sweetheart…” Steve looks like he can’t decide if he wants to burst into laughter or cry with you.
“Steve, I’m pretty sure this is actually happening.” You’re still crying and shoving more of the donut into your mouth while you talk. It’s not graceful or elegant. At all. “Like, who actually cries over donuts other than pregnant people?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a tilted smile. “It’s not just a donut. It’s a jelly donut.”
You sniff your nose and lick sticky glaze off of your fingers. “Thank you for validating my insanity.”
He looks at you with all the tenderness and longing of a flower reaching for the sun. “It’s not insanity, it’s hormones.”
The timer on your watch goes off, indicating that the test is ready. Neither of you moves; you just continue looking at each other. “Should we go check?” you eventually ask.
Steve’s eyes flicker between yours. “I don’t need to.”
You choke on another sob. “We’re having a baby.”
Steve tries to smile, but his lips are trembling. “Yeah, we are.” His voice cracks with emotion. He leans his forehead against yours and places a gentle hand against your abdomen. "Can I say hi?" he asks quietly, eyes glimmering with reverence.
You brace yourself for the next onslaught of tears and nod your head.
Steve slides off the couch and falls to his knees between your spread legs, his hands hold your waist so gently, there's barely any pressure from his fingertips. His eyes flicker up to you, and he smiles so serenely before leaning forward to kiss your stomach. "Hi, baby. It's your dad. Your mom and I are so excited you're here and we can't wait to meet you. We love you so much. You'll never want for anything, and all your crazy aunts and uncles will spoil you rotten. Focus on getting big and strong, and I'll focus on keeping you and your mommy safe. Oh, but not too strong, I don't want you hurting your mom with any super baby kicking."
You release a wet laugh at your ridiculous husband.
Later that evening, you're in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, reading through a maternity book while Steve has his ear pressed to your stomach. Every once in a while, he'll shift the placement of his head just a touch, then will settle in that spot for the next few minutes. You've stopped paying him any mind and just left him to whatever he was doing while you read your book.
He grabs your attention once more by releasing a soft, surprised gasp. “I can hear it. I hear our baby’s heartbeat!”
“What?” You drop the book to your chest and observe the excited look on his face.
“Yeah,” he confirms, grinning widely. “It’s so fast and tiny, but it’s there.”
You feel your throat clench moments before your vision turns hazy and your eyes sting. “I wanna hear,” you mumble quietly.
Steve’s look turns sympathetic. “Oh, they're probably not going to have an ultrasound machine at the doctor's office all the way out here. There might be one or two in the city, but checking in to any of those bigger hospitals will be a risk.”
You promptly burst into tears, startling Steve. “That’s not fair! Why do you get to hear them when I’m the one carrying them!”
Steve sits up and moves to cradle your face between his palms. “Oh, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” He wipes your tears away, but they’re unrelenting.
“I’m not upset!” You wail, which isn’t helping you prove your point. Steve reaches for the box of tissues that he’s already stashed all around the house for this exact scenario. You grab one and blow your nose loudly. You take a shaky breath and pin Steve with a harsh look. “What are you doing? Put your ear back on my stomach and tell me what our baby sounds like.”
He looks torn, considering that he just did that and it turned you into a sobbing mess. But he’s pretty sure the consequences will be worse if he doesn’t do what you say, so he releases your face and hesitantly leans back down over your abdomen. He's quiet for a moment, concentrating on finding the sound again. You know the moment he does, because his eyes go all soft and mushy as he practically melts against you. “It sounds like hummingbird wings,” he finally tells you.
Your lips tremble, and then you’re crying all over again. “Awww! We’re having a baby hummingbird!”
You and Steve decide to wait another two months before putting plans in motion to leave from 1970. By this point, you're out of the first trimester and a majority of your early pregnancy symptoms have eased up. Steve does most of the work to tie up any loose ends. He re-infiltrates the SHIELD office inside Camp Lehigh and puts the Tesseract back into the container Tony pulled it out of. He also makes arrangements for the house, though he doesn't go into too much detail regarding what exactly that entails, because he doesn't want you to feel any stress that might affect the baby.
You make some modifications to your tactical suit, due to the situation of your growing figure. Your abdomen has extended enough to start showing, and the thick, tactical material doesn't really allow for much give. You rip out the seams in a few strategic spots and add in some stretchy material. Doing this will technically compromise the integrity of the suit, but you're not planning to enter any open war zones any time soon. Especially not the last two stops on this journey.
As soon as everything is ready to go, you and Steve are, once again, suited up in your matching tac suits. You give the house one last look from where you stand in the living room. "I'm going to miss this place." Your smile is fond, if a little sad. The whole time, you knew that your stay here was only going to be temporary, but at some point in the last few months, this house truly felt like a home. It's not the first time you and Steve have moved out of a place that held special significance, but for some reason, it feels a little different this time. Like the roots of this house run a little deeper than any of the other places.
Steve reaches for your hand and places a soft kiss to your knuckles. "After we return the last two stones... I promise to take you home."
You smile at the love of your life. "I'm counting on it."
You both set your time watches and jump forward to 2014.
"He's not dead, is he?" you ask, staring down at the prone figure in front of you.
Steve nudges the body with the toe of his boot, and Peter Quill groans quietly. "Nope. Not yet, at least."
"Should we really just leave it here?" You eye the strange metal sphere that contains the power stone. Steve has already removed it from the case.
"I mean... technically, it doesn't matter where we leave it. It's more important that we brought it back the moment after it was taken." Steve tosses the orb into the dirt next to Quill's body. "This whole timeline is about to get a major shift anyway, since this Thanos is the one who crosses through the quantum realm and then loses to us."
"Good god. A timeline where Thanos no longer exists... Where he never gets to collect all the stones. It's difficult to even imagine."
Steve reaches for your hand and pulls you away from Peter Quill and the power stone. "It's not our job to worry about it. We've given this universe a new chance. One they'll never know they even have. All we have to worry about is returning the last stone, then we get to go home."
You squeeze his fingers and nod. "Right. Let's go."
Vormir gives you the creeps. The quiet is unsettling. The forever-solar-eclipse in the sky is beautiful at first glance, but very quickly starts to contribute to the wrongness of the entire planet. This is a place not meant for mortal beings.
Steve keeps a steady hand either against your back or entwined with your own fingers as you both climb the mountain. You've just about reached the summit when a ghostly figure descends from the shadows.
"Steven, son of Sara..."
"What the hell?" Steve's shoulders stiffen as he moves to take a defensive stance in front of you. He pulls the shield off his back and throws it at the figure. It passes right through them and ricochets off the rocks before coming back. "What are you doing here, you bastard?" Steve glares with hostility.
"It has been a long time, Captain Rogers."
A soft gasp escapes your lips when the face of the being is pulled out of the shadows. It's one you never thought you'd see with your own two eyes, and it's just as terrifying as you could have imagined. Red Skull.
"I am not going to hurt either of you. Nor could I, even if I wanted to. I am merely the guardian of this place. The keeper of the Soul Stone. I was wondering why I was still being held to this place after the stone had been taken possession by someone, but now I realize that you have come to bring the stone back to me."
He drifts further up the path, expecting you both to follow. Steve hesitates a moment and keeps a protective arm out against you before cautiously stepping forward. You clutch the back of his uniform and match his steps. The path has you walking between two massive stone obelisks before it opens up to the heavens just a short distance away from the edge of the cliff.
You feel dread pooling in your gut as you stare at the edge. You can't bring yourself to step any closer. There's a part of you that feels like if you manage to look over the edge, you'll still see Natasha at the bottom. Just the thought alone is enough to turn your stomach.
Steve keeps a wary eye on Red Skull when he sets down the case and pulls out the final stone. "We've come to return this. But in exchange... we want you to return that which was lost."
Your heart skips a beat as you give Steve a startled look. This was definitely not something you had discussed previously. Clint had been perfectly clear that there would be no reversing what was already done. Apparently, your stubborn husband hadn't gotten the memo.
"I see your arrogance has not wavered, despite the passage of time." The Red Skull's face remains impassive, but there's an echo of amusement in his voice.
"A soul for a soul. That's the deal." Steve stands his ground, shoulders square. "If I give this back, I expect a soul in return. The right soul."
There's a ghost of a smile on the wraith's face as he observes Steve with unblinking eyes. "As I have already stated. I am a guardian. I guide those who seek the stone. I can not obtain it for them, nor can I interfere in their decision to commit the sacrifice. If you wish to make an exchange, you will need to test your fate," he waves his hand toward the edge of the cliff.
You reach out and grip Steve by the back of his shoulder, turning him to face you. "What are you doing?" you ask in a near panic. You know he can feel your elevated heart rate.
His eyes are calm, resolute; there's not even a hint of apprehension. "I'm getting her back, Sweetheart."
"No! Are you crazy?" Your eyes flicker to the edge of the cliff before looking back at him, fear lining your features. "Believe me, I miss Nat, too. She was my best friend! But she's gone, Steve. She did this so we could win, and now she's gone."
Steve's hand gently cups your cheek. His hand is warm, fingers steady. "I don't think that's true."
Your eyes sting, and your image of Steve blurs. "Please tell me you're not going to jump. Please."
His thumb swipes away a falling tear. "It'll work, Sweetheart."
Your bottom lip trembles. "How can you possibly know that?" You search for the answer to your question within his eyes.
Steve holds up the stone with his other hand. "It needs to be an even exchange. A soul for a soul. And I only carry half a soul in my body. If I jump, whatever rules that govern this place will have to accept the stone as tribute. I'll be okay."
You choke on a sob while shaking your head. "That's still a gigantic fucking risk, Steve! What if it doesn't work? What if, instead, it takes our bond? We're soulmates, and that's the soul stone! What if it separates us, and then I have to go on without you? I can't do that, Steve! I can't!"
He leans forward and presses his lips to yours. His kiss is everything you're not able to feel right now. It's dependable, constant, devoted, sure. It’s not a goodbye kiss. It’s not even an appeasing one. It’s just a man kissing his wife because she’s distressed and he wants her to be okay.
When he pulls back, he rubs his nose against yours. “There’s not a damn thing in this world or any other that has the ability to break this bond between us. You are mine forever. No matter what.”
You blink up at him through wet lashes. “I’m scared,” you whisper, voice shaking.
His thumb swipes over your cheek. “Do you trust me?”
You release an incredulous huff. “Of course I do.”
His smile is entirely too sweet for this situation. “Then close your eyes.”
You tighten your grip on his uniform, as if you can claw apart the fabric with your bare nails. Your breath falls in scattered gasps, and your heart pounds in your chest. “If you die, I swear I’ll kill you.”
His lip twitches into a half smile. “I won’t.” His hand shifts against your cheek and moves to block your vision. “Close your eyes, Sweetheart.”
You release a pitiful whimper but do as he says. You feel his lips against yours for one more fleeting moment, and then he’s gone. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to not hear the sound of his running steps before those disappear, too. There’s a terrible moment of utter silence before a blinding flash cuts through your shut eyelids.
When your eyes open again, you’re no longer standing at the top of the cliff. You’re lying in a pool of water and staring up at that strange solar eclipse. You sit up, blinking in confusion.
You hear Steve groan to your left. “Okay, I will admit that hurt more than I was expecting.”
“Steve, what the fuck?!” His hand is somehow already tucked against yours, and you squeeze your fingers around his palm in frustration. You know your husband; there's no way he came up with this hair-brained scheme on a whim. He'd definitely planned it from the beginning.
He sits up next to you with a grimace. “Told you I’d be okay,” he tries to smile through the pain.
Your glare could probably pierce through vibranium. “You are the biggest asshole I ever married.”
He has the decency to look chagrined. “Technically, I’m the only asshole you ever married.”
“Good god, when are you two going to couples therapy?”
Your head whips around to your other side, only now noticing the slender palm clutched in your other hand. “Natasha!” You let go of Steve’s hand and practically throw yourself at your best friend. "Oh my god! I could kiss you!" You do just that, cupping the side of her face and placing a messy kiss to her opposite cheek.
“Whoa, easy there,” she winces, like she’s also in pain. “Feels a little like I got hit with a semi-truck. Also, what are you two doing here? And where’s Clint?”
You ease back, but continue to stare at her, afraid to blink. Like if you do, she might disappear again. “Clint’s fine,” you assure her. “He’s back home with his family.”
Her mouth parts in shock as she searches your eyes for the truth in your words. “What?”
You feel Steve shift closer behind you. “We did it, Nat. We brought everyone back,” he tells her.
“We did?” The hope in her voice brings tears to your eyes.
“Yeah,” you laugh wetly. “I mean, we also had to fight Thanos again; he blew up the Avengers compound, Steve started swinging around Mjolnir, and Tony almost died. Honestly, there’s kind of a lot we need to catch you up on. But maybe not while we’re all sitting in this weird puddle.”
“Right,” Steve grunts while pushing up to standing. He reaches out to help you onto your feet next, then pulls Natasha up.
“Aww, look at you two in your matching onesies—Holy Shit! Are you pregnant?!”
You grin sheepishly and rub your stomach. “Yes, we are.”
She blinks slowly, “How long was I gone?”
You share a look with Steve, the blood rushing to your face while he grins smugly. “We took a slight detour while returning the stones.”
“Damn, Rogers,” she teases. “Does this mean you’re packing up the shield?”
His nod is resolute, eyes firm. “More like passing it along,” he admits. “You want it?”
Nat quickly raises her hands in a surrendering motion and shakes her head. “No thanks. I’m good.”
Steve chuckles, “Yeah, I figured.” He turns back to you, eyes going soft, “Ready to go home?”
“More than ready.”
“Nat, you’re coming with us. Since we exchanged you with the soul stone, you can’t go back to our original timestamp, or it’ll throw everything off.” Steve helps her set the new time coordinates.
“Hey, if I don’t have to fight Thanos twice, that’s an extra win in my book.”
The three of you activate your nano suits, visors snapping into place. You nod in sync, then activate your watches, and finally make the journey back home. The three of you land back on the time platform, exactly ten seconds after you and Steve originally left.
"What the hell?!" you hear someone exclaim. Maybe, Bucky.
"Two go in and three come out? What's happening, Banner?" Sam asks, shifting on his feet, uncertain if this is some new threat.
"I'm not sure! There's an extra signature, but it doesn't make any sense! It's impossible! It's—"
"Natasha..." Bucky's voice is full of shock as her time suit dissolves and reveals her face.
"Hey." She grins while waving casually. "Aren't you two a sight for sore eyes?"
Sam laughs incredulously while shaking his head. "Look who's talking."
"Steve, you crazy son of a bitch," Bucky pins his best friend with a look, half exasperated, half relieved.
You roll your eyes. "Of course, he fucking told you, Barnes."
Bucky grins. "He didn't want to worry you, and I couldn't talk him out of it." His eyes flicker down toward your stomach, and his grin turns knowing. "Congratulations, Mrs. Rogers."
"Wait!" Sam steps forward, also catching the change in your figure. "Are you—? No, I can't say it. But you—" He struggles with wanting to ask, but knowing how impolite it is to assume anything about a woman's body.
You laugh and unconsciously rub your stomach. Before you get the chance to tell Sam that he can ask, Natasha throws her arm over your shoulder and knocks the side of her hip against yours. "I got her pregnant," she announces with a teasing grin.
"As if..." Steve grumbles, prying her off of you and tucking you protectively under his arm.
You laugh at your best friend's and husband's antics while the two of them stick their tongues out at each other like children.
"So, I guess we're gonna have to put a daycare center into the designs for the new compound?" Sam asks, while grinning at the three of you.
"That's not going to be necessary," Steve tells him. He jumps down off the platform and helps you down as well. When he's certain that you're steady on your feet, he turns back to Sam. He reaches to pull the shield off his back and holds it out. "Consider this my official resignation."
Sam's grin slides right off his face. He looks at the shield, then back to Steve, confusion furrowing his brow. "Your what?"
"I'm retiring, Sam." Steve tells him and gives an encouraging nudge to the shield. "And this now belongs to you."
You leave Steve to have his talk with Sam while you and Natasha head over to Bruce. He wraps her up in a hulking, green bear hug, to which she lets out a low "Oof" and a laugh.
"You're going to have your hands full," Bucky's voice pulls your attention when he steps up to you, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.
"With this one or with that one?" You ask, pointing to your stomach first and then over your shoulder at your husband.
"Both," Bucky grins.
"Oh, I'm aware," you smile back. "I'm expecting you guys to visit. Often. The door's always open."
He nods, "Will do. I just hope the baby-making fever isn't contagious. Pretty sure Mrs. Barnes will take one look at yours before turning her big doe eyes to me."
You place your hand on his shoulder and give him an affectionate squeeze. "You'll both know when you're ready. If that's even something either of you really wants. My advice? Honest communication is the best way to make the bond stronger. She might know your heart, but she can't read your mind. If you're not ready, tell her, and I promise she'll understand."
"What are you both whispering about over here?" You feel Steve's warmth against your back moments before his arms wrap around you and settle over your stomach.
"Your wife is already begging me to drag you out of the house so she can have some peace and quiet."
You snort in amusement, leaning back into Steve's chest.
"Nah, she loves having me around," Steve kisses the top of your head. "How are your feet, Sweetheart?"
You hesitate for half a second. "Fine." The word has barely left your mouth before Steve is lifting your body into his arms. You yelp in surprise, arms hooking around his neck. "I said they're fine!" you insist.
"You only said that because you think it's too dramatic if I carry you."
"It is too dramatic. I'm perfectly capable of walking. They don't hurt that much."
"Even a little pain is too much, in my humble opinion."
You scoff and shake your head. "Your opinion is noted and appreciated. Now put me down."
"Nope."
You groan and bury your face in his neck so you don't have to bear witness to all the amused smirks of your friends.
Steve takes you back home to the apartment you share in Brooklyn. Even though it's the place you've both lived for the past five years, the apartment feels strange. Like you're stepping into your childhood home after spending years abroad. Everything feels smaller, distant, replaced with memories of some place warmer and more vibrant. After those four months spent in 1970, this apartment no longer feels like home. Maybe it never did.
You spend the next few weeks working from your bed or the couch, on conference calls, or taking short trips to the office. There's a lot that needs to get done with your business, now that half the population has so suddenly returned. You need to scale up production, get the employees that returned back on payroll and insurance, and reroute the resources from your charities into helping the refugees that are cropping up in alarming amounts from people that are getting displaced by those that have returned. It's a lot of work, and more than what a woman at your stage should probably be handling, but Steve is overly supportive and is handling every other aspect of your life.
He's been on house hunting duty and is constantly on the phone with the realtor and running off on his motorcycle to go to viewings. If he's away for the whole day, he'll call at lunch time to make sure you're not skipping meals, and then he's always home in time to make dinner. In the evenings, he'll give you foot rubs, ask you about your day, and then spend some time talking to the baby with his head against your stomach while you run your fingers through his hair.
It's on a Friday afternoon that he leans casually against the side of your desk, waiting patiently for you to finish writing an email before asking if you want to take a drive with him. His eyes are practically glowing with excitement, like a puppy with perked ears and a wagging tail. You raise a curious brow and let him guide you out of the apartment and down to the car. He drives with one hand protectively held over your baby bump, while you nap in the passenger seat.
You wake up when the car pulls off the main road and onto a gravel driveway. You blink sleepily and look out the window, the evening sun filtering golden fingers of light through the trees. You shift your seat back up, your brows furrowing at the familiarity of the road. "Steve?" you question.
He's already grinning when he glances over at you. "We're almost there."
The road bends around a grouping of trees, but as soon as you've turned the corner, the road opens up to an extremely familiar house. The air expels from your lungs in a stuttered gasp, your heart skipping a beat. You feel Steve's heart return the skip in kind. "How?" you ask, looking from the house to your husband as the car comes to a rolling stop.
"Before we left 1970, I put the house in a trust and had a management company take care of it and handle any necessary repairs and restorations until now. It has always been ours. Every time I said I was going to an open house, I was actually coming here to get it ready."
"What? But..." you sputter, looking back at the house, then back to your husband. "But that was an entirely different timeline. We didn't even know this house existed until we went back."
Steve chuckles quietly and kisses your forehead. "Don't think about it too hard. It's a gift from the universe for returning all of the stones."
The longer you stare up at him, the more your eyes start to sting. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to feel.
"Do you want to go inside?" Steve asks cautiously.
"Mhm," you nod slowly, tentatively, like you're still not sure if this is real.
Steve steps out of the car first and comes around your side to help you out of the seat and walk up the front steps. He already has the house key attached to his key ring, which he pulls from his pocket to open the front door. He flicks on the light to the entryway and guides you inside. Everything is exactly how you left it. It doesn't feel like 50 years have passed. It feels like...
"Welcome home, Sweetheart," Steve whispers in your ear, and you immediately start sobbing.
Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing over the carved, wooden wall shelf with coat hooks underneath that Steve made. Then over the entry table with a bowl of dried lavender and rose petals, which must have been recently swapped with a fresher batch, because their gentle scent is filling the air, even now. Further in the house, you see Steve's coffee table. There's a scratch in the wood on one corner, where your wedding ring cut into it while Steve had you screaming his name as he fucked you within an inch of your life. The kitchen table, where one of the legs has a splint after Steve cracked it clean off because he was pounding into you so hard that the wood snapped.
Everything that you had in that little moment of bliss. Every memory you shared and believed you had to leave behind. All of it was here. Waiting for you. Not gone. Not left in a place you'd never get to see again. Right here. Under your fingertips. Filling your lungs. Surrounding your heart.
You sniff and try to wipe your eyes, but it's difficult to stop crying. "Steve..." your voice breaks as you look back at him. He's already looking at you like you're his entire world. Like everything he could ever need from now until the end of time is standing right in front of him. "You brought me home."
A single tear slides down his cheek, but his smile is so brilliant, it's blinding. "Yeah, Sweetheart. We're home." He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight while you both cry. He smells like fresh wood shavings, and safety, and golden sunrises. You bury your face into his chest, breathing in his strong, sturdy scent. After your tears have stopped, you feel his fingers brush your cheek, guiding your face back up to look at him again. "Can I show you something else?" he asks, voice soft and affectionate.
"Will it make me cry again?" you ask, still not quite emotionally stable.
He huffs out a short laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe." He thinks about it a little more and amends his answer. "Probably."
You use the sleeve of your cardigan to wipe your eyes. "Okay," you agree, voice a little wobbly.
Steve takes your hand and pulls you down the hall toward the guest bedroom. It had mainly been used as storage for Steve's half-finished projects, back in 1970, since neither of you were able to invite over any guests. But when he pushes open the door and leads you inside, it looks nothing like what you were expecting.
"Oh..." your hands come up to cover your mouth, and your eyes are somehow still hydrated enough to well with tears, yet again.
There's a brand-new baby crib centered over a large, circular rug in the middle of the room. You recognize Steve's handiwork, and the tiny hummingbirds that have been hand-carved into the corner posts of the crib are a dead giveaway that this isn't some generic crib he bought online. There's a cushioned rocking chair in one corner of the room with a flannel blanket folded over one arm. He's also built a changing station with plenty of drawers and cubbies for all the supplies you're going to need once the baby arrives. He's even repainted the room to a calm, but vibrant, pale green.
You barely even feel the floor under your feet as you step further into the room. Your hands run over the top beam of the crib, then trace over the little hummingbirds. The whole time, you're openly sobbing and cooing over everything.
Steve comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding your baby bump. "I hope this means you like it?" he questions, interpreting your tears as tears of joy, but wanting to make sure.
You nod against him. "Yes. It's perfect. I love it. And I love you. And I love our house. And I love our baby." You're a rambling mess and barely even coherent, but Steve understands you just fine.
The two of you spend the whole weekend at the house and start making plans for moving your present-day belongings out here. You and Steve decide to offer the apartment in Brooklyn to Bucky and his soulmate, who are more than happy to take it. Your trips into the office become fewer and farther between, especially the closer you get to your due date.
You and Steve have fully reintegrated into the house by the time you're bringing little Sara Natalia Rogers home from the hospital. She's perfect, and adorable, with Steve's nose, mouth, and ridiculously long eyelashes. You love kissing her tiny feet, and Steve cries the first time she holds one of his fingers.
There's basically a revolving door of superheroes who come by the house to meet the 'newest' Avenger. Tony complains about the lack of Wi-Fi and cell reception. Sam tries to convince you to let him use the baby to pick up chicks. Bucky looks horrified the first time you ask if he wants to hold her, but the moment she's actually in his arms, his features soften, and he can't help but smile. Thor tries to get her to hold Stormbreaker, and nearly sends a bolt of lightning through the kitchen window. Nat shows up so often, it’s almost like you have a live-in nanny. Sometimes you’ll hear soft Russian lullabies coming out of the baby’s room before you even know she’s there.
The constant stream of house guests has the additional effect of keeping your libido in check, because good God does watching Steve take care of the baby make you want to jump him and start working on Number 2. When you wake up in the mornings, still rubbing sleep out of your eyes, only to find Steve standing in the morning glow of sunrise, shirtless with pajama pants slung low on his hips, clutching your sleeping infant to his chest while he whispers into her hair, it makes you absolutely feral. Your OBGYN had mentioned once how beneficial skin-to-skin contact could be, and Steve took that advice to the next level. It’s like one of those parody sketches where the sexy fireman rips off his shirt before running into the building to save the victim, because as soon as Sara lets out even the slightest sound of distress, Steve is immediately stripping down before moving to pick her up. Some days, he doesn’t even bother with clothes at all. You’re in a constant state of "exhausted and horny", and it’s rapidly driving you insane.
But you wouldn’t trade it for the world. In fact, you earned all of this by saving the world. And now, you get to spend every day with the love of your life in a home filled with laughter and life and a future. A home full of happy, meaningful memories, and the optimistic excitement for the memories that have yet to be made. You and Steve survived war, survived the ice, survived an entirely new century fraught with challenges you couldn’t have even imagined, just to get to this point. Now that it was here, you were never going to let go. You saved the world. You saved your friends. You’d challenged the very face of death and came out the other side. And you were rewarded for all your efforts with a love forged in molten vibranium. A love so strong, it survived the test of time at every stage. A love that then culminated into the sweetest little girl with the most adorable laugh and bright, intelligent eyes. If this family is your reward for everything you’ve been through? Then it was all worth it.
summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.
trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3
chapter length: 5.5k
authors note: in case you want more of this story faster, i've got eight chapters posted on my AO3 (linked below). just going to start double posting here on tumblr too :) i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.
archive of our own / feedback appreciated!
With trembling hands, you press your house key into the lock and turn it. The door unlocks and you gently push it open, holding your breath. Though he doesn’t make a sound, you can sense his presence just behind you— you can feel the space he takes up in the hallway, feel the weight of his eyes on your back. He’s been almost completely silent since the two of your hustled out of the subway, mere seconds before a train arrived. He had only offered so much as a grunt here or a nod there when you’d softly spoken in his direction, telling him where to go.
You wondered if he was silent on purpose; or if it was just second nature to him, not dissimilar to how his eyes tracked every corner and alleyway you passed. He was so hyperaware, you almost wondered if he could feel the anxiety rolling off of you in waves.
You’d offered to help— and you wanted to— but now that it was all catching up to you, you wondered how smart this was. You were bringing this man back to your apartment, letting him into a place that was safe and secure, opened only to those you deeply trusted. But the sense of uncertainty you felt wasn’t because of him… he had saved your life, after all.
You weren’t naïve; you’d seen this man’s name and face plastered over your television and splashed across newspaper headlines for years. Things had gone quiet on him for a while, sure, but it didn’t mean you’d forgotten all of the things he’d been accused of. Murder. Torture. Kidnapping. Assault. But beneath the headlines, you’d heard the whispers amongst the streets… you’d heard the truth: the Punisher wasn’t the bad guy. He put an end to the bad guys. In the type of permanent way that the police and the justice system never seemed to.
If you were really honest with yourself, you had always admired that about him. He was a vigilante who didn’t shy away from violence— a vigilante without the same code as most of them… to never do serious harm. In your experience, sometimes, serious harm was the only way to make people stop.
You winced before you realized why— the thought had touched something old and raw, buried deep.
Your apartment was quiet, save for the hum from your radiators working overtime to heat the space, and the soft sound of your record player droning on across the room. You slipped your feet out of your boots, hung your bag on the hook by the door, and immediately moved towards it, disrupting the instrumental mix mid-song.
“Sorry about the music,” you said, turning back to face the man who stood just within your apartment, hovering silently by the door. He was a sight to behold— the broadness of his shoulders only magnified by the small space. “I leave it on when I’m out, just so nobody tries to break in thinking I’m not home.”
Your cheeks heated at the admission; you wondered how that seemed to someone like him. Someone who likely never bothered with trivial emotions like worry or paranoia. Someone who could handle their own, no matter the circumstance.
He simply nodded in response, though his eyes were slow to lift to yours. He had been studying something on the table just inside your door, and after a beat, you realized what it was— the stack of unopened mail you’d been neglecting for the past few weeks. Your name and address would be plastered to the front of each piece, giving him more information about you than you’d already offered. And next to the mail, on that same table, was your badge from the hospital— securing the final piece of information he’d likely been looking for; the proof that you were who you said you were. Complete with a photo of you smiling in your black hospital scrubs and all.
Though you understood the distrust, given who he was, it didn’t prevent your stomach from giving an uncomfortable twist.
“My bathroom is small, so it might be best to do this in my room. I’ll just go get it set up and you can keep snooping,” you said the words with no hint of displeasure, managing to maintain a neutral tone. The Punisher was quick to lift his gaze to you, now, those deep eyes crinkling at the edges again. “There are no weapons, except maybe my kitchen knives… though I don’t think I’d be very useful with those.”
“It’s nothin’ personal, ma’am,” he said, the words carefully escaping his parted lips.
Your eyes narrowed and you lifted an eyebrow at him. “Don’t act like you don’t know my name.”
And for the first time, he laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound; almost more of an exhale tinged with amusement than anything else. But it alleviated some of the pressure you had felt building within your chest. Your lips twitched, a gentle smile tugging at the edges. Maybe he was something else, beneath it all— maybe there was just a man, buried beneath all those layers of rage and violence.
But then a beat passed, and his gaze zeroed in on the soft smile on your face. The sight of it seemed to remind him of where he was— and who he was— because the amusement drained quickly from his expression. The stone was back; locked in place as if it had never faded. He straightened, the lines of his body rigid, and then nodded once.
You took that as your cue to move on. And so you did.
After you stripped off your jacket and scarf, you retrieved your personal first aid kit from beneath your bed, letting out a low groan at the weight of it. You didn’t have use for it often; just once or twice since you’d lived here, when you’d heard a crying child out in the hallway of your building or caught sight of a person out on the sidewalk below, reeling from a traffic accident. It was in your nature, these days, to help people; to nurture and heal. Penance.
You’d just never imagined you’d be helping him— the Punisher. A man known for never holding back, for never taking prisoners. You’d heard so many stories about him over the years, at this point, you didn’t know what was fact or fiction. Many police officers revered him, admired his practices and wished to follow in the path he’d forged. But there were others in your world— doctors, nurses, paramedics— who felt so differently, who hated him, hated his ways, experienced with the bodies and injuries he often left in his wake. It was part of the job; you had to treat everyone equally, regardless of what had caused them to fall injured.
But it had never been quite so simple for you.
The concept of right and wrong was one that you considered to be filled with grey area. Nobody was just good or just bad; there were layers, complexities, nuances. At least that was what you hoped— what you told yourself— that doing a bad thing, once, didn’t mark you for the rest of your life. Especially when you’d spent so long atoning for it; fixing people rather than tearing them apart.
A blink and a creak of floorboards brought you back to the moment, grounded you in the present. You spread an old wool blanket out across the top of your bed, one you’d borrowed from the hospitals months earlier when your radiators had gone out and your apartment had been cold enough for frost to form on the inside of your windows. It was clean and thick and would protect your bed from anything that might stain— blood, in particular. And it would be easy enough to take it into the hospital with you for your next shift, drop it into a laundry bin, and rid yourself of the evidence of this night. Your clothes would have to be disposed of, too; you couldn’t stand the thought of seeing them in the closet and being transported back to tonight.
You tugged open the zipper on your first aid kit and began retrieving the items you’d need; gloves, gauze, disinfectant, a needle and some stitching thread, medical tape. You even had a bottle of antibiotics— you pulled those out and set them on your nightstand, making a mental note to send him along with those, too. You wheeled your desk chair over towards the side of the bed and then switched on a nearby lamp; the light wasn’t quite bright enough, though, so you spent a minute unscrewing the shade and exposing the bulb to the room. That would have to do.
After retrieving a clean cloth and a bucket of warm water from your bathroom, you gave your hands a thorough wash at the sink and then settled into your desk chair.
“Ready when you are,” you called, gaze lingering on the open frame of your door. A few seconds later he appeared, shoulders broad and stretching from one side of the frame to the other. You swallowed, the mere sight of him hovering at the entryway to your most sacred place causing your heart to stutter within your chest. You turned the chair towards him and your eyes met. You tried to do everything you could to keep your expression neutral, but warm. He needed to trust you if this was going to work.
He made his way further into the room in silence, and as he did, he began to remove layers. First, he shrugged his arms out of the long leather jacket he wore, finding a place for it on the far side of the bed. Next, his nimble, bruised hands went about unfastening the protective vest that was affixed to his chest, and you found your eyes tethered to the white skull on its front. Your heart was racing against your temples, the sound multiplying and echoing within your head.
You wondered how the rest of the world was continuing on outside your apartment; how the entirety of the Earth continued to spin on its axis while you sat, in your bedroom, with the Punisher just a handful of steps away. Across the room, there was a photo of you at your college graduation, donning a black silk gown and a cap with a shiny red tassel affixed to the top. The bookshelf above your bed housed many well-read novels, the corners of pages folded over and the edges frayed in some places. And there he was, completely out of place and tall and wide, blood seeping into the material of his cargo pants. It felt as though you’d stepped out of this universe and into another. Like perhaps the door of your home had transported you into Narnia, a world where make believe things came to life and the reality you’d always known no longer existed.
Now that he was down to just the black long-sleeved shirt he wore beneath the vest, he moved towards the bed, seemingly intent to climb on and settle back against your pillows and headboard. You lifted a hand to stop him, your fingers mere inches from grazing his arm. You pulled back nearly as quickly as you’d reached out, like his body was the heated element of a stove, set to burn you if you so much as wandered too close.
“You’ll need to take your pants off so I can stitch up the wound,” you said, no hesitation or room for argument leaking into your tone. There was a power, here; within your space, the place you knew so well.
This seemed to take him off guard— his cool, calm and collected expression finally slipped. He leaned back on the balls of his feet— and it was then you realized he’d taken off his boots. Your heart stuttered within your chest, overwhelmed by the tiniest of gestures that somehow meant the world to you.
“Skippin’ a few steps here, don’t ya think?”
“Oh absolutely,” you replied, turning your face away in hopes it would help to hide the grin tugging at the edges of your lips. It didn’t, though; the smile could be heard as clear as day when you spoke. He must have thought you’d gone and lost your mind… smiling after the night you’d had. “You’ve not even introduced yourself yet.”
You turned your head back in his direction just in time to see the hint of a smirk curve at his own lips. His eyes sought out yours and he nodded, once. He seemed almost embarrassed at the realization; like he’d somehow forgotten the manners he’d been taught as a boy. Had he ever even been a boy? Had he been afforded that luxury, once?
“My apologies, ma’am. Frank Castle.”
For a long moment, you remained silent. A soft pitter patter had begun to leak through the space and your gaze wandered to the wide window on the other side of your room, the one that could be opened in case you needed to use the fire escape. You’d spent many late nights sitting there, on your windowsill, one leg outstretched to feel the fresh air on your skin. Water was now dancing along the pane, hinting at the rain that had begun to fall outside. What a miserable night.
Finally, you said, “I know who you are.”
He didn’t seem surprised. When your gazes met, next, you could see that he’d figured that out all on his own, likely from the first moment you’d laid eyes on him back in the subway station. Because of course he had. And now, there was something deeper haunting the way he watched you. Something heavier, more dangerous.
“And you still invited me back here.”
It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t feel he was seeking an answer. It was a statement; like he himself was trying to peel back the layers to this night and understand what each of them meant. You felt that maybe that was what you were trying to do, too.
“Maybe not my brightest moment,” you murmured, voice soft. From your spot on your desk chair, next to the bed, you nodded towards him. You wanted to get this night over and done with; perhaps the break of a new day would help to wash away all of the darkness that loomed inside your mind. “I can let you stand there and keep bleeding or I can help. It’s your call.”
He let out a long exhale, giving his head a shake that seemed almost involuntary in its roughness. He grunted and then reached for the belt of his pants, not bothering to turn away or search for some modicum of privacy in this small space. He was the Punisher— what did he have to fear, here, in a room with a girl much smaller than him? Even still, you gave him the privacy he didn’t seem to need, turning your face away. Your cheeks heated and your stomach twisted, somehow scandalized at the thought of him undressing, though you’d been the one to ask for it. For the briefest of moments, you felt yourself transported back in time. Like everything happening was new all over again; like you were a young girl who’d never seen or been seen.
But this wasn’t that. Why did you have to remind yourself of that?
The clink of his belt unbuckling filled the room and you busied yourself with pushing your hair back and out of your face, securing it with a clip from the nightstand at the nape of your neck. Next, you slipped the latex gloves from your kit onto your hands, relishing in the sensation of doing something familiar. A calmness of sorts settled over you, then, and a few deep breaths helped to center you in the moment. This was nothing new to you— this was who you were. You helped people when they were hurt. This was easy. All of the rest could be forgotten… at least for now.
You kept your eyes focused on your supplies, fidgeting with things absently, until he had settled on the bed. As soon as his back was against the cushions, you lifted your gaze and immediately reached for his leg. One gloved hand landed below the injury, on the middle of his thigh, locking it in place with a firm grip. He was built like a weapon— solid, scarred, unyielding. But right now, beneath your touch, he was still. Waiting. Trusting. For the first time tonight, you were the one in control.
You busied yourself for a minute or two with cleaning the site. The scent of alcohol mixed with blood filled the room, a welcome and familiar scent. You worked quickly, disposing of gauze as it filled with blood, wiping away as much of it as you could until your view of the cut was clean. You eyed the injury for a moment, silently walking yourself through a gameplan with a clinical quality that helped to keep your racing heart under control.
“It’s deep enough to warrant a few stitches,” you said, gaze briefly flickering up to gauge his expression. His dark eyes were locked on you, unwavering in their intensity; like he’d been watching you the entire time, unable to look away. You stumbled over your next sentence a moment, briefly taken aback by the sudden weight of his gaze. “Did you— did you want something for the pain?”
Frank simply grunted, shaking his head. You took that as a sign to simply get to work; and so, you did. The tension in his body came and went, but he didn’t once flinch.
Though you tried not to stare, your eyes could not help but size up the rest of his lower body while you worked. Cleaning and disinfecting the wound was mindless work, something you could have done with your eyes pinched shut. And so, your gaze wandered. In particular, you were startled by the assortment of cuts, scrapes, bruises and scars that marred up and down both of his legs. His body was a map of the trauma he had experienced; of the violence that he, himself, embraced with open arms. It was startling, really, to see a physical representation of all of the things he had been through— and even then, you knew what you saw had to be only a miniscule fraction of the whole picture. Your heart ached for him; ached for the pain you knew without question he must tune out on a daily basis. No human body could experience all of this and feel none of it. And if the scars were anything to go by, it appeared that he had endured— and repaired— it all on his own.
Your heart ached for him, not for the first time.
He said nothing, though his eyes seldom left your face or your hands as they worked. You hadn’t expected much else; from all of the articles you’d read, or all of the interviews you’d managed to catch online, you’d come to understand that Frank Castle was a man of few words. And so, as you finished up cleaning and disinfecting his wound and instead switched to threading the needle to stitch him up, you decided to speak.
“You’re lucky it didn’t hit an artery.”
“Don’t think luck had much to do with it.”
“Not a betting man, then?”
He chuckled, though the sound was devoid of any true humour. Your gaze lifted at the sound, curious, but you found that his expression had darkened. His head tipped back against the cushions behind him, gaze wandering aimlessly towards the ceiling above. There was a faraway look in his eyes; one that you’d seen a time or two, in patients, in the mirror. One that told you that he wasn’t always there in the moment with you but instead transported to another time and place. And so you remained quiet for a beat, letting him be where he needed to be, and you looked away. He may not have wanted privacy to undress… but you felt obliged to give him privacy, then. While he went away and then came back.
You felt the tension slowly drift from his body, signaling that he was making his way back into the present. As he did, you gently replaced your hand on his thigh, a gentle place of pressure meant to comfort. It was second nature to you; something you might have done for a distressed patient at the hospital, or a co-worker who saw something that had shaken them.
When he spoke again, his voice had hardened, a new edge developing like he had taken the time to sharpen a blade. Like he wasn’t sure, now, if you were friend or foe.
“You should have let me handle this on my own.”
“Kind of goes against the whole helping people thing,” you replied, softly, trying to ease some of the tension that had spilled out of his body and into the room, sucking up all of the air. You had finally managed to slip the thread through the tiny hole of the needle and you let out a soft noise of triumph, rebalancing the tool in your hand. It was then that you noticed that your hands were solid, not even a hint of shakiness to them. “Plus, I’ve caught a glimpse of your handiwork here, and I’m a little afraid of the results.”
This time when he laughed, it felt a little more genuine. You fought against every urge in your body and managed not to look up at him to try and catch sight of the look on his face. Instead, you simply smiled, the edges of your lips tugging up by just a mere fraction of an inch. He was who he was, but he was also still human. It warmed something cold inside of you, bringing a hint of life back into your chest.
You warned him, then, that you were going to start stitching. And once more, you offered him something for the pain. He declined.
Stitch by stitch, beat by beat, you sealed up the wound that had come from one of the men that Frank had undoubtedly killed. A part of you wondered how many of them there were; another part wondered if they deserved worse. You worked slowly, methodically, periodically pausing to dab away some of the blood that leaked from the still-open end of the wound. As you worked, your hands remained firm and steady, and your heartbeat slowed to near baseline. But not quite.
Your gloved fingers pressed and prodded into the muscular skin of his thigh as you neared the far end of the wound, ensuring that the stitching had been pulled tight. He would need any help he could get to fight against potential infection. This time, though he still didn’t flinch, you heard the sound of a sharp inhale sucked in through his lips.
“Who were they?” you asked, finally allowing the thought that had been bouncing around your mind this entire time escape out into the space between you. As you awaited his answer, you finished up the final stitch and twisted your wrist, working the thread into a set of tight, unmovable knots.
“Nobody good.”
“Is that all I get?”
“Better that way. Trust me.”
“Okay,” though it took you a beat, you agreed, allowing yourself to take his words at face value. He’d given you no reason not to trust him; he had saved your life, after all. You pulled the latex gloves from your hands and dumped them in the trash can at your feet before you pulled open another strip of gauze. You pressed the gauze atop his freshly sealed wound, securing either side with a strip of medical tape. “Did you get them all?”
This time, there was hesitation. You leaned back in your seat, realization flickering across your expression, causing your eyes to widen. Where you leaned back, he moved forward, his spine straightening as he pushed off the cushions at your headboard. His sudden closeness was overwhelming; the scent of gunpowder reappeared, flooding your senses and causing your eyes to flicker shut for the briefest of moments. The scene of the moment he’d killed the man who grabbed you reappeared before your eyes, sending your stomach into a tailspin that caused your hands to begin trembling. You blinked, pushing away the memory, and pressed your hands beneath your thighs.
“I will,” he said, then, his voice low. It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise. His eyes sought out your own, the intensity in them palpable, all flecks of amber stifled beneath the weight of his promise. “I don’t like unfinished business. It’ll get taken care of.”
The blind faith you had placed in him began to waiver. Your safety could be in jeopardy if these men had been part of a larger group, a group with enough resources to look into the details of what had happened on the subway platform. And what would you do, then? If men like the ones you’d seen came knocking on your door? Next time, you wouldn’t be so lucky. There would be no vigilante waiting to step in.
There were so many things you wanted to say; questions to ask, assurances to seek. Instead, you simply swallowed all of them and nodded your head. You were not his problem, not his responsibility. He had saved you once; that was more than most people got. You stood from the desk chair, then, and reached for the bottle of antibiotics you had set aside from your kit.
“You’re all set,” you told him, eyes drawn back to the wound on his thigh, now stitched and hidden beneath the gauze you’d taped there. Over and over again in your head, you kept repeating the same words: it was the least you could do. You shook the bottle in your hand and then offered it to him, eyes focusing on just about everything except his. “You’re no use to anyone if you catch an infection and go septic, so take one of these everyday for two weeks. Try to keep the wound clean, switch out the gauze every day or two if you can. The stitches will dissolve on their own.”
He nodded, the movement mostly a flash in your periphery as you pushed your desk chair further back and stepped around it. It was all you could do then to flee the room, pulling your bedroom door shut behind you, murmuring something in his direction about giving him a minute to get dressed. As soon as the door met the frame behind you, you released a long exhale of air, chest trembling from the effort of emptying and then refilling your aching lungs. You were frozen in place, feet rooted to the ground beneath you. Anxiety coursed through your veins, ice cold and more painful that you’d expected. How long would you be looking over your shoulder this time? And even if he did manage to catch the rest of them… how would you ever know?
This was your life now, living in fear. It was almost a comical revelation, one that brought you back to decades earlier, a life you had long since left behind. A life you had fled and refused to return to. A flash of a warm summer day filled your mind, a dock floating against the gentle lapping of lake water, a boulder sitting atop grass, caked on one side with blood. A scream, either his or yours, you didn’t really remember which.
You jolted, teeth grinding against each other as you paced the small expanse of your apartment, heading for the kitchen. Your movements were unsteady, shaky and forceful. Your fridge ached with the strength of your grasp as you pulled it open, ducking inside to retrieve two bottles of water. One you immediately uncapped and tipped backwards, chugging half in the time it took you to count to five. The other you held in your free hand, fingers growing damp from the condensation.
Your bedroom door opened and he reappeared, clothes replaced where they belonged, though this time his jacket had been zipped to hide the skull affixed to the front of his bulletproof vest. You supposed it made sense; he didn’t need to call any extra attention to himself. But somewhere, in the darkest corner of your mind, you missed seeing it in that moment— like it was a gentle reminder of the safety that symbol now represented within your subconscious.
The two of you met somewhere near the middle of your living room, drawn together without saying so much as a word. Still silently, you lifted your hand and offered him the water, which he took with nothing more than a nod of his head. He dipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket before he took a drink, making a show of unsealing the medication you’d handed him and tossing one of the pills into his mouth before taking a long swig of the water. Your lips curved at the act, though you waited until he’d finished to roll your eyes, ensuring he would catch it.
There was another beat of silence before he cleared his throat, adams apple bobbling near your line of sight.
“Thanks,” he said, the word simple enough. It was the tone, though, that struck a chord somewhere deep within you. You wondered, earnestly, when the last time was that someone had done something for him— something enough that had earned them the opportunity to hear that word from him. Despite it all, you felt you didn’t deserve it.
“You saved my life,” you countered, quirking one eyebrow up at him, head tipping back as your stared. You took this moment— perhaps your last opportunity— to really study his face. You allowed your gaze to wander over every groove and line of his skin, over the uneven bridge of his nose, over the full curve of his upper lip, the arch of his dark brows. You imprinted each of it to memory, knowing besides this, you’d only ever have images on a phone screen to compare it to.
He was as beautiful as he was deadly. It was a harsh realization to let live in your mind, your throat closing over at the mere thought.
“I got you out of a fight you didn’t pick,” he countered right back, eyes faintly glimmering with mischief in the low light of your apartment. “There’s a difference.”
“Not to me.”
And it was in that moment, as your eyes remained locked and your breaths dared to mingle, that you wondered what exactly was happening here. There was an electric current in the air, a spark primed and ready to catch fire, if only given a hint of oxygen to prey on. It terrified you, the weight of that spark— it felt like perhaps it had the power to set an entire forest on fire, one tree after another lighting ablaze, unrecognizable. Neither you nor he seemed ready— or able— to give into that. So instead, you held your breath, and took a step out of the way, clearing his path to the front door. As soon as you moved, he moved, magnets on opposite currents. He handed you back the now empty bottle of water and then sidestepped you and headed away, moving towards the door.
He bent just enough to reach for his boots, effortlessly slipping them onto his feet, though you could see the tension in his shoulders, even from distance. One of his hands went to the nearby wall as he rebalanced his weight, favouring the side he hadn’t just been stitched on. Though he hid it well, you could feel the burden he carried with him everywhere he went. You could see it now, as clear as day. You wanted to call out to him, tell him to stay a while, lay on the couch and simply rest. You’d leave him be; let him simply recover from the lingering effects of the night. But you couldn’t do that— he wouldn’t accept, even if you tried to offer.
“I’d tell you not to get into any more trouble, but I know better,” you called out, instead, though your voice remained low. His gaze lifted to yours as you spoke, eyes gentle, curious. “If you do, though, get into trouble… you know where to find me.”
He chuckled at that, giving his head a quick, steady shake.
“I’m not as bad at this as you think I am.”
“Even still… the offer stands.” And you meant it, too. If he were to reappear at your door again in weeks, months, even years… you would step aside, let him in, patch him up. You would forever be in debt to him, not only for the life he had given back to you tonight, but for every other moment since then, too. The connection that had formed here between you, both unexpected and inescapable. “Be safe, Frank.”
And as he turned away and reached for the doorknob, he peered back over his shoulder and called, “You, too,” before he disappeared into the hallway, the door falling shut behind him.
Type: series, idiots to lovers with a load of sprinkles of angst ✨
Summary:
An Avengers’ ally, a brilliant weapons designer, one of the closest friends to Steve Rogers; you’ve been carrying all these titles with pride. And now it seems they are all crumbling down at once, torn down by allies, enemies and by yourself.
How can you fix it? How can you win when your traitorous heart fights for what you’d always wanted and never had?
If you work hard enough, you can do justice to the word 'hero' in your codename. Maybe. But can you really be enough to take the 'ache' from heartbreak?
Characters to appear: Steve Rogers, ‘reader’, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff and few others
Setting: slight AU ‘cause everyone lives thank you very much
Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, two ery smart people being idiots, mutual pining, jealousy, a few self-doubts and a lot of if-they-had-only-talked-to-each-other
STORYLINE:
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Epilogue
Number of parts/chapters is estimated, but for once I'm rather confident about it.
Dividers by firefly-graphics, moodboard/header by me.
The title is, just like chapter titles, taken from The Script's No Good in Goodbye.
Taglist open - or you can simply follow @anika-ann-writes and won't miss a thing🥰
HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.
An Enemies to Lovers, Steve-needs-to-relax sort of story. No use of Y/N on this one, been keeping the reader's physical descriptions low too! The white girl of the image is just used for the lightning vibes.
warnings/keywords: mentions of human experimentation, violence, cursing, sexual tension, low self esteem, mentions of death, stressed!steve)
This series contains explicit content (smut and other mature themes). Please heed the warnings and read responsibly!
status: ongoing
AO3 | Playlist (coming soon!)
part 1: THE CATALYST
part 2: CONDUCTIVE ACCORDS
part 3: FRICTION SURGENCE
part 4: ENTROPY
part 5: OF MOMENTUM**
part 6: ENTHALPY**
part 7: JOULE'S PRINCIPLE
part 8: GRAVITATIONAL PULL
part 9:
**contains smut
Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
/currently tagging:
@ nekoannie-chan
@ alessandraavengers
@ js-favnanadoongi
@ bean-bean2000
@ masterofnonesstuff
@ reejero
@ agentxx92
@ mimimarvelingmarvel
@ spn-imagines-fics
@ whiskeytangofoxtrot555
@ soupiemeowmeow
@ hotvillainapologist
@ thegirlwho-loves-to-read
HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.
An Enemies to Lovers, Steve-needs-to-relax sort of story. No use of Y/N on this one, been keeping the reader's physical descriptions low too! The white girl of the image is just used for the lightning vibes.
warnings/keywords: mentions of human experimentation, violence, cursing, sexual tension, low self esteem, mentions of death, stressed!steve)
This series contains explicit content (smut and other mature themes). Please heed the warnings and read responsibly!
status: ongoing
AO3 | Playlist (coming soon!)
part 1: THE CATALYST
part 2: CONDUCTIVE ACCORDS
part 3: FRICTION SURGENCE
part 4: ENTROPY
part 5: OF MOMENTUM**
part 6: ENTHALPY**
part 7: JOULE'S PRINCIPLE
part 8: GRAVITATIONAL PULL
part 9:
**contains smut
Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
/currently tagging:
@ nekoannie-chan
@ alessandraavengers
@ js-favnanadoongi
@ bean-bean2000
@ masterofnonesstuff
@ reejero
@ agentxx92
@ mimimarvelingmarvel
@ spn-imagines-fics
@ whiskeytangofoxtrot555
@ soupiemeowmeow
@ hotvillainapologist
@ thegirlwho-loves-to-read
Summary: Years after a mission incident that left Loki missing in action, your team receives a distress signal coming from a high-rise in the outskirts of London, England. Answering the signal leads you to a complete stranger with an eerily familiar face.
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Characters: Reader; Loki Laufeyson; Thor Odinson; Steve Rogers; Natasha Romanoff; Bruce Banner; Tony Stark; Shaun Xu (Shang Chi); Doctor Strange; Queen Frigga; Lady Sif
part 1: madness calls
It's been years since Loki disappeared on a mission gone wrong, and Thor walks in to Banner's lab with snake in hand, asking if you could check if it's Loki
part 2: ???
part 3: ???
part 4: ???
part 5: ???
part 6: ???
part 7: ???
part 8: ???
part 9: ???
part 10: ???
part 11: ???
part 12: ???
part 13: ???
part 14: ???
epilogue: ???
Smile some more and love yourself @sheadre - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
