˖ ݁✦. WHEN DID YOU GET HOT?
⤷ coffee shop owner!steve rogers x fem!reader
⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ you return to your hometown to find your scrawny childhood friend has somehow grown up to be very tall, very broad, and very very hot. shame he’s also the most oblivious man alive, because you've been shamelessly flirting with him since you walked into his coffee shop and he just wont bite. ❞ ⧽ 4.9K
！SMUT, fingering, light praise kink, use of pet names (sweetheart, baby, sunshine), childhood friends to lovers, fluff, big ol’ love confession from steve, small town AU, light angst in the beginning i guess bc of reader's cheating ex-fiancé?, 18+ MDNI ⤷ from maddie: this is my entry for @stargazingfangirl18 @biteofcherry and @buckets-and-trees's hoes for the holidays event! i adore all of their writing and when i saw this fabulous event i knew i wanted to do something for it. unfortunately, this ended up being a bit last minute bc it's my second draft of it and this has been reworked and put back together many times. idk this fic just really kicked me in the ass it was supposed to be fluffy and smutty but it turns out writing fluff is NOT my forte. if you hate it, please lie » i chose the general prompt of new year's eve, and the AU prompt of moving to a small town » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆
Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remember.
Or maybe you’re just bigger now, filled with the kind of grown-up regret that can’t be boxed away with your old school trophies.
You’ve been back for three days and the only thing you’ve unpacked is your misery. The first night home, you told yourself you were just decompressing. The second night, you called it self-care. By the third, it’s just inertia.
There’s an empty wine bottle on the floor. You’ve eaten crackers for dinner two nights running. Your parents are still on their festive cruise, blissfully toasting to their daughter's engagement, and you're alone with nothing but an old stuffed rabbit for company.
So it’s just you here. You, and the persistent pings of one very desperate ex-fiancé, still trying to text his way out of an affair. Funny how remorse arrived once he realised the closet was empty.
But you’ve ignored every message. That is your one victory.
He’ll have come home from work to find the apartment gutted. You like to imagine him standing in the doorway, blinking stupidly at the space where your life used to fit, maybe realising a little too late that you don’t get to keep the life you’re careless with.
Outside, the snow hasn’t stopped piling thick and muffling the world, like time itself is trying to bury you. Which feels appropriate, really, because it’s New Year’s Eve, and whilst the rest of the world is out toasting to fresh starts, you’re back in your childhood bedroom.
But eventually, even your wallowing gets restless. You don’t want to spend the day in this bed, alone and vaguely wine-sick, watching reruns and wondering if your ex is feeding someone else dessert from the platter you picked out together.
So you drag yourself upright, trading self-pity for practicality, and make the brave decision to go outside. It’s at least a chance to find something to eat that isn’t square, salted, and designed for toddlers.
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Main Street is exactly the same - even the lamp posts are still strung with the same festive garlands the town’s been using since you were in middle school. Everything you’d sworn to outrun at eighteen still sits where you left it, as if the town’s been holding its breath all this time, just to watch you come crawling back.
Snow crunches under your boots as you trudge past shuttered shops and dark windows. You're not sure what you're looking for - maybe just somewhere that doesn't feel like it's still wearing your ghost.
But then you round a corner, and something catches your eye. Tucked away at the edge of the street is a storefront you don’t recognise.
Howlies' Coffee.
You stop in front of it, snowflakes catching in your lashes, breath hanging in the air like steam. The dark wood sign is painted in clean blocky letters with a little stylised wolf howling at a moon. Warm yellow light spills through the windows like melted butter.
The bell chimes softly as you step inside, heat pouring over you. You’re immediately enveloped by the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and the distinct warmth of something fresh out of an oven.
It’s cozy in the way only small-town places know how to be - familiar, but not like somewhere you tried to leave behind. Strings of yellow lights draped across wooden beams, mismatched furniture, and walls lined with sketched artwork.
“Holy shit,” a voice behind the counter exclaims, loud and unmistakably familiar. “it’s you.”
You blink, turning instinctively, and then your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, Bucky?”
“In the flesh,” he grins, a little crooked, like the past 10 years haven’t passed at all. Like he’s still the same smug bastard who used to copy your maths homework and charm his way out of detention.
And really, like the rest of the town, he hasn’t changed much. Same smirk. Same cocky, yet annoyingly charming, tilt of the head. His hair is longer now, however, tied back in a stubby knot that suits him far too well.
"God," he exhales, leaning forward, "I thought we'd never see you again after your big move to the city." There's no edge to it, just casual observation, but you still wince like you ghosted the whole town.
“Yeah,” you say, voice scraping awkwardness off your tongue. “The big move. Very adult. Lots of overpriced rent and poor decisions I now get to call growth.”
Bucky snorts. “Sounds about right. You just back for the holidays?”
Your heart clenches, ribs tightening like they’re bracing for impact. You look down, suddenly fascinated with a loose thread on your sleeve, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, just to have something to do with your hands.
“Something like that,” you murmur, noncommittal, forcing a smile that feels about as real as it looks. “This place is gorgeous, by the way,” you add, keen to redirect the conversation.
Bucky lets you have it. Doesn’t press.
“Yeah, we opened a couple years ago,” he says, glancing around with a kind of quiet pride. “It’s been a journey, but we’re proud of the place.”
“We?” you echo, brow lifting.
“Steve and I,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “You remember Steve, right?”
Of course you do.
You remember the boy with too much heart and not nearly enough body to carry it. The boy who showed up to every fight whether he belonged there or not, who bled easy and healed slow and never once learned the lesson the world kept trying to beat into him. The boy who stood up for you on the playground and got knocked down twice as hard for it.
Of course you remember Steve Rogers. How could you not?
There’s the faint clink of ceramic from the kitchen, a domestic sound that pulls you back into the present.
“Buck,” a voice calls, familiar in a way that makes you still. “Did you write this list drunk?” There’s a pause, then the voice again, closer this time, fondly exasperated in a way that feels intimate. “Seriously, pal. I can’t tell if this says ‘milk’ or ‘mail.’ We gotta talk about this.”
The owner of the voice appears in the doorway mid sentence, looking down at the paper in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. For half a second, your brain refuses to cooperate.
It tries to overlay the memory it knows - skinny shoulders hunched over a sketchbook, fingers stained with ink - onto the man stepping into the light, and the images won’t line up. They slide past each other like mismatched transparencies.
This is not the scrawny Steve Rogers you remember.
This version fills the doorway without trying, broad shoulders almost touching the frame, like the world finally decided to build him the way his heart always suggested it should
There’s a sweater situation happening - cream, cable-knit, rolled sleeves. And it’s unfair, frankly, that forearms like that exist on a man who once tripped over his own backpack strap. It fits slightly too well across his chest, the knit straining just enough to suggest it’s losing a battle against whatever’s underneath.
But then Steve lifts his head, and when he finally meets your eyes, it’s catastrophic.
Because it is still him. Still Steve. The same gentle blue eyes, widening just a fraction as they land on you. The same mouth pulling into that shy, lopsided smile you remember from tenth grade.
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you, like he’s making sure you’re real, like if he blinks too hard you might turn back into a memory.
“Wow,” he finally exhales. “Sunshine… it’s been a while.”
You laugh. A short, startled thing that slips out before you can stop it, half amusement, half what the hell else are you supposed to do with this?
“Yeah,” you reply, stunned, because words are suddenly very hard. “Guess so.”
There’s a pause where nothing useful happens in your head. Then, grasping for something, you try again. “You look…” you trail off, helpless, because good doesn’t cut it. “…different,” you finish weakly. Coward.
Steve lets out a chuckle immediately, warm and self-deprecating, like he’s been waiting for that exact word. He ducks his head, one big hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “I get that a lot. Puberty showed up about a decade late, but I filled out eventually.”
He glances down at himself like he’s only just noticed his own body, then back up at you. “Still me, though. Promise.”
You swear you catch the ghost of that old boyish awkwardness under all that new muscle. It hits you right in the chest, sharp and fond, and something reckless stirs in its wake.
So what if your ex-fiancé broke your heart. So what if everything feels a little scorched at the edges. Maybe a concentrated dose of the new Steve Rogers is exactly what you need.
You tilt your head, let your gaze linger openly now, unapologetic. “Well, thank God for late bloomers,” you add, teasing. “And lucky me, showing up just in time to enjoy the finished product.”
Steve goes still. Just for a second. Then he lets out a huffed breath of a laugh, as if to brush it off. But you catch the pink creeping up his neck. Bingo.
Steve clears his throat. “You want anything? Coffee's on the house for returning hometown legends.”
You give him your order, then let your gaze linger, a deliberate smile curing your mouth. “Free coffee, shameless flattery, and a view like this? You really know how to pull them in, Rogers.”
Steve doesn’t even blink, smile easy and unguarded, already turning back toward the machine. “Oh, yeah. Howlies does pretty well for itself,” he nods, like that’s what you meant. “Lots of loyal locals, word of mouth et cetera…”
He trials off, completely unaware that your flirting just bounced off him like a pebble against a boulder.
You bite the inside of your cheek, mildly stunned, then amused. Maybe you’re a little rusty, maybe heartbreak dulled your edge, but that’s fine. You can be patient.
You watch him work. Watch him move with easy confidence as he reaches for the grinder, shoulders shifting beneath that poor, overstretched sweater. He finishes up quickly, sliding the mug across the counter, sleeves pushed up, veins tracing lazy lines along his skin.
Your gaze drops there and lingers, unsubtle. “Damn, Steve,” you exhale. “Those arms…You been lifting cars or something?”
Bucky chokes on a laugh from behind the counter
Steve laughs, ducking his head, still bashful despite the size of him now. “Mostly bags of coffee,” he replies, grin crooked. “Take a seat wherever you like, maybe grab a book too.” He nods towards the bookshelf labeled ‘Take a Book, Leave a Book’.
You tilt your head as he turns away, waiting for any flicker of realisation, but it doesn’t come. Your smile goes a little wry, baffled and amused all at once. Either you’ve completely lost your touch, or he’s is the most aggressively oblivious man on the planet.
You take the mug, thank him, and make a tactical retreat before you embarrass yourself further. Grabbing a random book off the shelf, you settle into a chair in the corner with your coffee and a huff of quiet laughter.
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Time slips quietly. For the first time in days, your shoulders actually start to relax. You're three chapters deep and entirely too invested in a fictional detective's marital problems when you finally surface.
The cafe is quiet. Too quiet.
You blink, glancing up from the page, and realise with a jolt that the place is empty. The string lights now glow soft against the darkening windows, chairs stacked on tables, the kind of end-of-day stillness that makes you feel like you've overstayed a welcome.
"Oh god," you mutter, checking your phone. Two hours. You've been here two hours, absorbed in your book while the place closed up around you.
Movement catches your eye. Steve, wiping down the counter with easy efficiency, sleeves still rolled up, looking utterly unbothered, like this is exactly where he planned to be. Like he’s not in any rush at all. When he notices you watching, he just smiles.
"Good book?" he asks, like it's natural you've stayed past closing “Buck picks them out. He likes making sure there’s something for everyone.”
“I—yeah—shit—sorry, I completely lost track of time," you say, already gathering your things, face warming. "I should’ve—"
"Don't worry about it, Sunshine" he interrupts gently, tossing the rag aside. "I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to stay.”
And there’s something in the easy way he says it that makes your chest to something stupid.
You straighten in your seat, trying not to seem flustered. “I didn’t realise it had gotten so late. Has everyone else gone?”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at the door. “Bucky already ducked out to spend new years’ with his folks. I was supposed to go with him, but…” He shrugs, his mouth quirking. “Didn’t want to rush.”
You blink. Your heart thuds. “You stayed for me?”
He shrugs again, as if it’s not a big deal. “Didn’t want to kick you out. You looked like you needed the quiet.”
You stand slowly, stretching out legs that had been curled for far too long, and cross toward the window. The glass is fogged, but you can still make out the heavy curtain of white blanketing the street. Snow’s coming down heavy now, piling fast, the streetlights haloed and blurred.
Your breath fogs the glass. You press a hand to it absently. “Oh shit,” you murmur.
Steve's beside you in a moment, following your gaze, and frowns a little. “Damn, it got bad fast." He glances at you, brow creasing slightly. "You weren't planning to walk home in this, were you?”
You wince, just slightly, at the thought of trudging back through that snowstorm. “It’s not that far,” you lie.
He hesitates just a beat, then nods like he’s decided something simple and obvious. “No way you’re walking home in that. I’ll drive.” He shrugs, casual, already reaching for his keys.
“Steve, really, it’s fine—”
“It’s not,” he cuts in gently, voice firm but warm. “It’s freezing and dark - please, let me drive you.”
You open your mouth to protest again, but the look on his face brooks no argument.
“Okay,” you relent, “Thanks, Steve.”
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The drive settles into loaded quiet. Snow streaks sideways in the headlights, the heater humming, the pineapple air freshener swaying.
You sit angled toward the window, watching the world go soft around the edges, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of the man sitting next to you. But, inevitably, you start watching Steve instead.
The set of his jaw. The way his grip shifts when he turns a corner, forearms flexing. You tell yourself you’re being subtle about it. You are not. At one point, you glance over and catch his eyes already on you, lingering slightly before he turns back to the road. His throat bobs around a swallow.
The silence stretches, grows warm, a little charged, like it’s daring one of you to do something about it.
Then he pulls up outside your place, tires crunching softly into the snowbank. You both sit for a moment too long. You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, fingers fumbling a little more than they should, before thanking him for the ride and the coffee.
Steve huffs a breath through his nose, smile soft. “Anytime.”
You hesitate just long enough to curse yourself, then push through it. “Hey, Steve, are you still heading to Bucky’s folks’?”
He blinks slowly, thinking. Before placing at the snow piling on your curb. “With the snow coming down like this, I’ll probably just head home. It’s closer”
“Oh,” you say, carefully casual, “I mean…it would be a shame for us both to spend New Year’s alone.” You pause. “You’re welcome to come inside - I’d appreciate the company.”
Steve hesitates, visibly weighing it, earnest to a fault. “I don’t want to impose,”
You tilt your head, smile turning a little wicked. “Come on Stevie, don’t make me beg you to come inside.”
The blush hits fast - ears, neck, all of it - and he laughs under his breath, embarrassed and utterly undone, though you think it might be more from the childhood nickname rather than the innuendo.
He nods once, decisive now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Okay. That’d be nice. We could catch up.”
You almost roll your eyes. Almost. If it weren’t so Steve, so painfully, stupidly genuine, it would be laughable. But it’s also warm and tugging at your chest in ways you don’t want to name just yet.
Inside, you kick off your boots by the door. Steve follows, pausing just long enough to stomp the snow off his soles, one shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he steps past.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll grab us something to drink.”
Steve does as he’s told, settling onto the cushions with an easy sprawl, like the place already knows him. You pause, watching him for half a second too long - how unfairly broad he looks, making your three seater seem like a two - then clear your throat.
“Fair warning,” you add, casually, “the couch is seriously comfy. It’s dangerous really. People tend to stay longer than they mean to.”
He huffs a laugh and sinks back further, one arm draped along the back. “Yeah? I can see that.”
You head for the kitchen. “Also,” you toss over your shoulder, unable to help yourself, “a surprisingly decent place to make out. If you don’t mind getting stabbed by rogue remote controls.”
That gets a louder laugh, head tipping back, utterly delighted. “Wow,” he says. “Haven’t made out on a couch in years.”
You smile to yourself as you grab the wine, already mentally filing that away.
You come back from the kitchen with two glasses and the bottle tucked against your side, nudging the living room light dimmer just slightly as you pass.
Steve’s right where you left him, leaning back on the couch, still looking unfairly at ease in your childhood living room. You hand him a glass and sit beside him, close enough that your knees nearly brush, close enough that you notice the heat of him.
Conversation slips into place like it was always meant to. You tease him lightly, let your knee brush his once or twice. Let your fingers graze his when you pass the bottle back and forth. You lace your words with intent, with edges, with invitations that feel obvious to you. He laughs at every one like it’s just a game you’re playing out of nostalgic habit.
But he also listens like every word matters. Leans in when you speak and asks questions that aren’t small talk. He remembers details you didn’t realise you’d given him, and circles back to them later like he’s been holding onto them carefully.
It’s disarming, unfair, and completely charming.
And somewhere between topping off your glasses and his gentle, “What really brought you home?” the wine loosens something you weren’t planning to untie. The humour drains out of your voice before you can stop it.
“My fiancé—ex-fiancé, I guess—was having an affair,” you say, staring into your glass. “Months. I didn’t even know.”
The words keep coming once they start. You talk about leaving. About packing. About coming back to a house that still knew you when you didn’t quite know yourself anymore. Steve doesn’t interrupt, he just remains, solid and warm at your side. The kind of presence you can lean against without being asked.
When you finally run out of words, a heavy silence follows.
You laugh suddenly, brittle, and take a long sip of wine before slumping back. “God,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Listen to me. You did not sign up for this.”
He starts to say something, but you barrel on, groaning.
“Seriously, Steve. This is not how I planned to spend New Year’s Eve.” You glance at him sideways, half-laughing now. “This is what happens when you ignore all my attempts to get you to sleep with me. Why couldn’t you just be a typical man and take the damn hint?”
Steve’s head jerks up, eyes snapping to yours, wide. “Wait. You’ve been—what?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Unbelievable. Do you mean to tell me I’ve been dropping hints all night and you just, what, thought I was joking?”
His mouth opens. Closes. His brows knit together like the ground has shifted under his feet. “I didn’t think you meant it,” he says carefully. “You weren’t that obvious
Your fingers part. You peer at him through them, eyes narrowing despite the smile that’s tugging at your mouth. “Excuse me? Are you saying my game is bad?”
Steve laughs, the sound a little bashful, but his eyes flick down to your lips before he answers, and it changes something in the air.
“I’m saying if this is your game,” His voice drops into something more deliberate. “It needs work.”
Heat crawls up your neck - not embarrassment anymore, but something sharper.
“Fine,” you murmur, setting your glass aside, your body angling toward his. “Then let me make my intentions very obvious.”
You don’t wait for him to respond.
You grab a fistful of his sweater, yank him toward you, and crash your mouth to his. There’s a split second of startled heat, his breath hitching against your lips, before it melts into a low, rough groan, the kind that vibrates straight through his chest and into you as he kisses you back.
The kiss becomes messy fast, all heat and want and the sharp taste of wine on his tongue as he kisses you like he’s done being careful and has no intention of stopping. And then his hands are suddenly everywhere - one at your waist, the other sliding up your back, his grip possessive in a way that steals your breath.
Then he’s pulling you closer, easily tugging you onto his lap like you weigh nothing. Like the space between you was always a mistake. Like straddling his thighs is exactly where you’re meant to be.
The control in it makes your stomach flip. You moan into the kiss, needy, and he takes the sound for the permission it is, tongue sliding into your mouth with a greedy, deliberate press that has your whole body tightening.
His sweater is the first casualty. You tug it up and over his head, breathless, fingers dragging along heated skin as he lifts his arms to help.
“Jesus Christ, Steve…” you whisper against his mouth, palms sliding down his chest, fingertips greedily tracing the muscle until you reach the hard line of his jeans.
He groans, hips twitching when your fingers press against the thick bulge straining behind the denim. “Fuck—”
His mouth leaves yours only to trail open, hungry kisses down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. One big hand slips beneath your shirt, tugging your bra up until your breast spills into his palm. His grip his firm, thumb pinching your nipple so you gasp and arch against him.
“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth hot against your throat. “Always knew you’d be sweet.”
You whimper at the praise, hips shifting restlessly in his lap, breath stuttering, “Steve—please, I need—”
He groans at that, low and wrecked, and you swear you feel him throb beneath you.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dark with promise. He his free hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, sure fingers slipping past the fabric until they find the slick heat between your thighs, already soaked for him.
Steve curses, low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he kisses you again, needier this time, like the feel of you has tipped something over inside him. His fingers stroke through your folds, spreading you open, slow and deliberate, before his thumb finds your clit and presses down.
You jolt, gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as pleasure sparks through you. “Oh, fuck—Steve.”
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, as his thumb keeps working slow, devastating circles over your clit. “You just let me make you feel good. I’ll give you what you need, baby. I’ll give you everything.”
Then he sinks a thick finger inside you and groans outright when you clamp around him, your walls fluttering with desperate need. He adds a second, stretching you open, and you cry out, hips jerking in his lap.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice breaking. “You’re so tight for me.”
The pressure builds fast, sharp and hot, breathless moans spilling from you with every drag of his thumb over your clit. His fingers pump slow and deep, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
He rests his forehead to yours, breath ragged, eyes locked on your face like he needs to watch you come apart for him.
“Good girl,” he mutters, wrecked, as your walls flutter around him. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it. Let me feel that pretty pussy come on my fingers.”
And it’s like his voice drags your orgasm from you, hot and all consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your breath catches in a desperate cry of his name, as your body locks up, soaking his hand
Steve groans like he feels it too, swallowing your moans in a kiss, fingers still working you through it, coaxing every last shudder from your body.
But your orgasm doesn’t satisfy the ache, only sharpens it, twisting your need for him into something hungrier. Your hands go straight to his jeans, fumbling with his belt, fingers trembling with urgency as you try to undo it
“God—” Steve rumbles, catching your wrists with one hand, eyes squeezed shut like it’s costing him everything not to give in. “Don’t—please.”
“Steve, please,” your voice trembles with need. “I need you, need to feel you.”
The low, restrained, sound he makes nearly undoes you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?” he utters, voice cracking at the edges. “But I can’t. Not like this. Not just tonight.”
You freeze, heart thudding.
He exhales hard, chest rising and falling against yours, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, like the words are dragging themselves out of him. “I’ve wanted you since we were kids. Before the growth spurts. Before sweaters actually fit me. Back when you’d smile at me in the hallway and I’d blush so hard I couldn’t breathe.”
“When you left—” his voice breaks, and you feel the shudder that runs through him. “When you left it felt like something got carved out of me. And I thought that was it.”
He lifts his head then, eyes searching yours - wide, uncertain, and far too full of feeling.
“So if this is just a one-time thing for you, if you’re hurting and I’m just convenient, then I can’t.” His jaw flexes, throat working around a swallow. “Because it wouldn’t be casual for me. The truth—”
He catches himself, almost doesn’t say it, then forces it out.
“The truth is, I’d fall in love with you. All over again. And it would tear me apart trying to shove it back down this time.”
You don’t even know what expression you’re making. Your mind just keeps looping in love with you, in love with you, echoing in his voice, low and raw. You should say something - God, you should say something - but all you can do is stare wide-eyed, heart caught in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.
His thumb brushes gently along your cheek, as if to ground himself.
“Steve…” It slips out, barely a whisper. You blink like you’re still not sure you heard him right.
But he’s not finished. He swallows again, his eyes burning into yours.
“I don’t want to be something you look back on and shrug off,” he continues. “I want to take you out. Walk you to your door. Bring you flowers. Kiss you goodnight. Be the man who gets you, not just for a night, but as long as you’ll let me.”
“Because you mean everything to me,” he adds quietly. “You always have.”
The way he looks at you, hopeful and afraid in equal measure, makes something ache deep in your chest. Because this isn’t a line. This is Steve, laying himself bare and asking you to choose him, not just his body.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, voice dropping, eyes flicking downward. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending. But if you don’t want that, if it was just tonight for you,” his voice dips, soft with pain. “It’ll break my heart less if I stop now.”
You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you again. He’s giving you space. But your mind is already made.
“Then I guess you’d better take me on that date, Stevie,” you whisper, breath warm against his lips. “Because we’ve got years of catching up to do.”
A smile blooms across his lips, small and boyish and so goddamn sweet it hurts worse than the ache still pulsing low in your belly.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again, slow and lingering, before pulling you against his chest. You curl into him, breathing in the warmth of his skin, the clean spice of his cologne, and the comforting trace of coffee that clings to him.
Outside, the snow still falls heavy. Inside, Steve holds you close, and you count in the new year with the sound of his heart keeping time against yours.
more mads: thanks for reading <3 hopefully you enjoyed it reading this, still kinda nervous about it. if you did please like & especially reblog/comment, as i would be super grateful for feedback! p.s. this also has inspiration from WDYGH by sabrina, because i've seen so many steve edits to the song, i thought it would be cute to do a steve fic for it
