once again, i'm missing soft!steve. sue me! here's a little context.
warnings: very touch depraved Steve, fluff
summary: 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘞𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
The screen door creaks and slams, but you don't flinch. You hear him before you see him - boots off, footsteps slow and heavy, shirt already discared and slung over one shouler. You swear he's gotten bigger since you've been staying over these last few weeks.
He smells like the day: sun, hay, sweat, and earth. The kind of scent that sink into your and stays.
Steve pauses in the doorway, catching his breath, eyes meeting yours with a softness that speaks volumes. Without a word, he moves toward the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of his movements grounding you.
You watch as he fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, then leans against the counter.
"Long day?" You asks, while wearing his shirt and typing away on some report you barely had interest in. No, you were distracted by the 6'2 sweating mess that just stalked through the house.
Steve glances over, water pooling at the corner of his gaze. "Yeah," He says, voice low and measured. "They called again today."
You stop typing, "Government?" You prompted gently.
He nods, a tired exhale fills the room entirely. "That 'New Avenger' nonsense. They want me to lead. Be the symbol again," He picks up the kettle, no mitten. That's your man right there. "I already told them. I'm not Captain America anymore. Sam is. I don't even know why Bucky agreed to that."
He pours the tea in the mug, lifts it towards you. "I need this." He murmurs - cradling the mug and enjoying the warmth. Slowly, he makes his way to the sofa then spreads his legs far apart until he's comfortable. Yet, you also knew it was an invitation.
You notice his fingers twitch, restless, thumb brushing the empty space beside him almost desperately.
"Bunny, lap." Steve demands so softly - you thought he asked first, but you knew better. Since reconnecting, he's been a little demanding and needy with touch, but you didn't mind.
You set your laptop aside and slide onto his lap. He breathes out a shaky sigh, arms easing around your waist, fingers pressing into fabric like he’s anchoring himself to something real.
You rest your head against his shoulder, and he loosens the tension in his neck, pressing forward just enough to deepen the contact.
He breathes in, slower now, each exhale softer than the last—letting the quiet evening fill the space between you. Then your lips brush the side of his neck, softly, a tender question in the warmth of the moment.
Steve stills for a heartbeat, then wraps his arms around you tighter, one hand gently tilting your head so he can press a careful, slow kiss just behind your ear. The movement is gentle, as if he’s rediscovering the meaning of touch.
His lips trace small, feather-light kisses along the nape of your neck. Each one is deliberate—silent, loving. He murmurs your nickname into the quiet, murmurs that linger like a secret: “Bunny.”
The world beyond the sofa—fields, obligations, expectations—fades. There’s just this: soft lips, the scent of earth and tea, the warmth of Steve’s arms, and the unspoken promise that here, tonight, touch is enough.
