Summary: Steve tried to get you back, but it's not always easy to gain back the trust one loses.
Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader
Warning: Angsts, like kind of a lot of it, injured character, but nobody dies. A bit of fluff with a happy ending.
Words: 9 224
AN: So, sweet anon asked about part two of Enough is Enough, and well, why the hell no :) I feel like shit (being sick isn't fun), so apologies x4 for any mistakes. My brain isn't braining...
Steve didn’t give up.
Steve’s first apology came in the form of flowers.
They arrived at the coffee shop just as you were opening. A delivery driver handed you the bouquet—a lush arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath, wrapped in soft tissue paper. For a moment, you just stared at them, the scent of fresh blossoms mingling with the familiar aroma of coffee beans. The card nestled within the bouquet bore only three words: I’m so sorry.
Your chest tightened. You didn’t have to wonder who sent them.
“Who’s the secret admirer?” your coworker teased, grinning as she wiped down the counter.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you set the bouquet aside, trying to push down the lump rising in your throat. It was a beautiful gesture—one you might have cherished once—but now it felt hollow.
The flowers kept coming. Every morning, a new arrangement would appear. Daisies, tulips, sunflowers. Each accompanied by a note in Steve’s handwriting: I miss you. I love you. Let me fix this.
You didn’t know how to feel. Part of you wanted to believe him, to give him the chance to make things right. But another part of you—the part still raw and aching—refused.
Then he started showing up.
The first time, you nearly dropped the coffee pot in your hand. He stood outside the shop, leaning against the lamppost with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He looked different—tired, almost haunted, as though the weight of your absence was something physical he carried with him.
You ignored him, focusing on your customers, but you could feel his presence like a shadow just beyond the glass. When you finally closed the shop, he was still there.
He said your name softly as you stepped outside, his voice barely above a whisper.
You didn’t stop walking.
“Please,” he called after you, his tone desperate. “Just give me a chance to talk.”
You turned back, your jaw clenched. “Why now, Steve? Why couldn’t you talk to me when it mattered?”
His face crumpled, and for a brief moment, you felt a pang of guilt. But you shook it off and kept walking.
It didn’t deter him. Steve came back the next day, and the day after that, always waiting silently as you worked. It wasn’t until a week later that you finally confronted him.
“What do you want from me, Steve?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended.
His blue eyes searched yours, filled with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in months. “I want to make this right,” he said, his voice breaking. “I love you. I never stopped. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you.”
You stared at him, your chest tightening with conflicting emotions. He looked so sincere, so heartbroken, that for a moment, you almost believed him. Almost.
“It’s too late,” you said finally, your voice barely audible. “You can’t fix this. I don’t trust you anymore.”
The pain in his eyes was like a physical blow, but you didn’t let it show. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, defeated.
But the truth was, you weren’t as strong as you seemed. Every step away from him felt like ripping a piece of yourself apart. By the time you got home, you were shaking, tears streaming down your face as you collapsed onto the couch.
You loved him. God, you still loved him. But love wasn’t enough anymore.
***
The days blurred together after that.
You went through the motions of your life—opening the coffee shop each morning, smiling at customers, making small talk with your coworkers—but it all felt mechanical, like a script you had memorized long ago. The warmth and joy that once fueled you were gone, replaced by an empty numbness you couldn’t seem to shake.
Nights were the worst.
Sleep eluded you, no matter how many hours you spent staring at the ceiling or tossing and turning under your blankets. The bed felt too big, too cold without him there. You hated yourself for missing him, for craving the comfort of his arms even after everything he’d done. But the longing wasn’t something you could control.
It wasn’t just the nights, though. Little things kept sneaking up on you, tearing at the fragile stitches holding you together.
The sight of his favorite mug on your kitchen counter. The book he’d borrowed but never finished, still sitting on your nightstand. The faint scent of his cologne that lingered on your favorite sweater, no matter how many times you washed it.
You tried to distract yourself, but nothing worked. Books, once your solace, couldn’t hold your attention. The words blurred together, and you’d find yourself reading the same sentence over and over without absorbing a single word.
Your friends noticed.
“You need to eat more,” one of them said during a group dinner you’d been forced to attend. She pushed a plate of pasta toward you, her brow furrowed with concern. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”
“I’m fine,” you lied, picking at the food with a fork.
Kat wasn’t buying it. She leaned across the table, her sharp blue eyes cutting through your defenses. “You’re not fine. And we’re not going to pretend otherwise.”
Her words hit harder than you expected, and you had to blink back the sting of tears.
Steve’s friends noticed too. Sam popped into the coffee shop one morning, leaning casually against the counter as you took his order.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said matter-of-factly, his tone laced with concern.
You forced a smile, trying to keep your voice light. “Busy days, you know how it is.”
He didn’t press you further, but the look he gave you lingered long after he left.
***
The worst was when Steve came back.
It was late in the evening, just before closing, when he walked into the shop. You froze behind the counter, your heart leaping into your throat at the sight of him.
He looked just as broken as you felt. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. He lingered near the entrance, as if unsure whether he was welcome.
“Hi,” he said softly, his voice hesitant.
You gripped the edge of the counter, steadying yourself. “We’re about to close.”
“I know,” he said, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. “I just… I wanted to see you.”
You turned away, pretending to busy yourself with cleaning up. “You shouldn’t be here, Steve.”
“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
You shook your head, your chest tightening painfully. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you,” he said, his voice breaking. “And because I can’t stand knowing I hurt you like this.”
His words cracked something inside you, but you couldn’t let him see it. “You need to leave,” you said firmly, refusing to meet his eyes.
For a moment, he hesitated, as if hoping you might change your mind. But when you didn’t, he nodded, his shoulders sagging with defeat.
“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”
You watched him go, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the empty shop. And then you broke.
You sank to the floor, tears streaming down your face as the weight of your grief crushed you.
You loved him. God, you still loved him.
But you didn’t know how to let yourself forgive him.
***
You didn’t expect to find Bucky Barnes on your doorstep.
It was a gray Saturday morning, and the porch floor creaked under your weight as you aimlessly swept away fallen leaves. When you opened the door and saw him standing there, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his blue-gray eyes watching you carefully, you froze.
“Bucky?”
“Hey,” he said, his tone casual, though his expression betrayed a flicker of hesitation. “Mind if I come in?”
You hesitated. This was Steve’s best friend. Seeing him felt like reopening wounds that you’d been trying desperately to let heal. But there was no judgment in his gaze, no pressure—just concern. So, with a heavy sigh, you stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.
He stepped into the living room, glancing around like he was cataloging the space. You folded your arms, standing stiffly near the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, doll,” he teased, his lips quirking into a faint smirk.
“Bucky,” you said, your voice sharper now. “Why are you here?”
He sighed, the smirk fading. “I wanted to check on you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you said quickly. “I’m not with Steve anymore. There’s no obligation.”
He raised an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the back of your couch. “Obligation? That’s not why I’m here, sweetheart. You’re my friend too. And whether or not you’re with Steve doesn’t change that.”
The softness in his tone made something crack inside you. You wanted to argue, to brush him off, but instead, you felt your defenses falter.
“Besides,” he continued with a wry grin, “someone’s gotta make sure you know not all men are idiots. Steve might be an amazing guy, but even amazing guys screw up sometimes.”
That last sentence hit you like a slap. You felt the tears coming before you could stop them, your vision blurring as all the emotions you’d been bottling up threatened to spill over. You turned away, trying to pull yourself together, but Bucky wasn’t having it.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer. “Talk to me.”
That was all it took for the dam to break.
“I don’t know how to stop loving him,” you blurted, your voice trembling as the words spilled out in a rush.
Bucky froze, his expression softening as he watched the tears stream down your face. You sank onto the couch, your shoulders shaking, and he followed, sitting beside you without a word.
“I hate him for what he did,” you continued, your voice cracking. “I hate that he made me feel like I didn’t matter, like I was just… there. And now? Now he’s trying to fix it, like I’m supposed to just forget everything and let him back in.”
Bucky listened silently, his hands clasped together as you poured your heart out.
“It feels like a slap in the face,” you said, your chest heaving with each breath. “Like he thinks flowers and apologies will erase months of feeling invisible. I hate him for that. But more than anything, I hate that I still love him.”
You buried your face in your hands, your voice muffled as you added, “I don’t want to love him anymore. I want it to stop, Bucky. I want it all to stop.”
The room was quiet for a long moment. Then, Bucky sighed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
“Doll,” he said softly, “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but loving him isn’t something to hate yourself for. Steve… he’s a complicated guy. He doesn’t always get things right, but I promise you, he loves you. More than you know.”
You shook your head, your voice shaking. “If he loved me so much, why did he treat me like that? Why did he make me feel like I didn’t matter?”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “You’re right. He screwed up. Big time. But… he’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for years. It doesn’t excuse how he hurt you, but I’ve seen him lately, and he’s a wreck without you.”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his, your tears blurring the intensity in his gaze.
“He’s not good at showing it,” Bucky continued, “but he’s an amazing guy. I’ve known him my whole life, and I’ve seen him at his best and his worst. And I know he’ll never stop trying to make this right. The question is… would you ever let him? What would it take for you to let him back in?”
The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and unrelenting. You didn’t answer right away, your fingers gripping the hem of your shirt as you stared down at the floor.
“I don’t know,” you whispered finally. “I don’t know if I can. It’s like… every time I see him, I remember how much it hurt. And even if I wanted to try again, I don’t know if I’d ever trust him not to hurt me like that again.”
Bucky reached out, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he said gently. “But whatever you choose, just know this: you deserve to be happy, sweetheart. Whether that’s with Steve or without him.”
You looked at him, searching his face for any trace of pity or judgment, but there was none. Just quiet understanding and unwavering support.
When he finally stood to leave, he gave you a small smile. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said, his voice steady. “And no matter what happens, I’m here. Steve or no Steve.”
You watched him go, his words echoing in your mind long after the door closed.
And for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to wonder if maybe—just maybe—you could find a way forward.
***
The compound gym was almost empty, save for the quiet hum of machinery and the dull thud of fists meeting a punching bag. Steve Rogers stood at the far end of the room, his knuckles raw and his breathing ragged. He’d been at it for hours, his frustration and grief pouring into every swing, every strike. The bag swayed violently under the force of his hits, the chain creaking with each impact.
“You keep that up, and you’ll be patching the damn thing again,” Bucky’s voice rang out, casual and dry as ever, though the concern in it was unmistakable.
Steve paused mid-swing, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly as he turned to see his best friend leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Bucky’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a softness Steve wasn’t sure he deserved.
“What are you doing here?” Steve asked, his voice hoarse from hours of exertion.
“Figured I’d find you here,” Bucky replied, stepping into the gym. “Thought maybe you’d stop using that bag like it owes you money and actually talk to me.”
Steve sighed, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not in the mood, Buck.”
“Well, tough,” Bucky shot back, grabbing a folding chair and dragging it noisily across the floor. He plopped it down unceremoniously a few feet away from Steve, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Because I just came from seeing her.”
The color drained from Steve’s face. He froze, his fists still clenched at his sides. “You… you saw her?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said evenly, watching his friend’s reaction carefully. “She didn’t slam the door in my face, so I’d say I’m doing better than you.”
Steve flinched, the weight of Bucky’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He turned away, his hands gripping the edges of the punching bag as he tried to steady himself. “How… how is she?”
Bucky hesitated. He’d seen the raw pain in your eyes, the tears you tried to hide, and he knew Steve wasn’t ready for the truth. But lying wouldn’t help either.
“She’s a mess, Steve,” Bucky said softly. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Steve let out a shaky breath, his head hanging low. “I did this to her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I pushed her away, made her feel like she wasn’t enough. And now… now I don’t know how to fix it.”
Bucky stood, closing the distance between them. “Steve, look at me.”
Reluctantly, Steve turned, his eyes red and tired.
“She still loves you,” Bucky said firmly, his voice steady. “But she’s hurt, and she’s angry. And you can’t expect her to just forget all that because you’re showing up with flowers and apologies.”
“I know that,” Steve snapped, his voice breaking. “God, Buck, I know. But what else can I do? Every time I see her, it’s like she’s slipping further away, and I don’t know how to reach her anymore.”
Bucky’s gaze softened, and he placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You start by understanding that this isn’t about fixing things overnight. It’s about showing her that you’re willing to put in the work, no matter how long it takes. That you’re not just sorry—you’re ready to be better.”
Steve nodded, though the despair in his eyes didn’t fade. “She said she doesn’t trust me anymore.”
“Then earn it back,” Bucky said simply. “Show her that you’re not the same guy who hurt her. And for God’s sake, stop treating this like a battle you can win with brute force. You’re not fighting Hydra here, Steve. You’re fighting for her.”
Steve’s shoulders sagged, his head dropping into his hands. “I don’t even know if she wants me to try.”
Bucky crouched slightly, meeting Steve’s gaze head-on. “I asked her,” he said quietly.
Steve’s head shot up, his blue eyes wide. “What? What did she say?”
“She doesn’t know,” Bucky admitted. “She’s scared, Steve. Scared that if she lets you back in, you’ll hurt her again. And honestly? I don’t blame her.”
The words hit Steve like a blow, but he didn’t argue. He knew Bucky was right.
“She told me something else too,” Bucky continued, his voice softer now. “She said she doesn’t know how to stop loving you. And it’s killing her.”
Steve’s breath caught, his chest tightening painfully. “She… she said that?”
Bucky nodded. “Yeah. She loves you, Steve. But love isn’t enough—not after what you put her through. You have to show her that you’re not just saying the right things. You have to be the right man for her. The man she fell in love with.”
Steve closed his eyes, his mind racing with memories of you—the way you used to laugh, the way you’d look at him like he was your whole world. He’d taken that for granted, and now he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get it back.
“What if I can’t?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “What if I’ve already lost her?”
Bucky’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “You don’t get to give up, punk. Not on her, and not on yourself. You want her back? Then fight for her. And don’t stop until you’ve shown her that she’s worth everything.”
Steve swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. “How? How do I even start?”
Bucky gave him a small, knowing smile. “Start by listening. By showing up—not just for her, but for the life she wants. Show her that she’s not a convenience, Steve. She’s the center of it all.”
Steve nodded slowly, the weight of Bucky’s words sinking in. He didn’t know if it would be enough, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t give up on you. Not now. Not ever.
“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said quietly, his voice rough but sincere.
Bucky grinned, clapping him on the back. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a hell of a road ahead of you.”
Steve nodded, determination flickering in his tired eyes. He didn’t know how long it would take or if he’d even succeed, but for you, he’d move mountains.
Because losing you wasn’t an option. And he’d spend the rest of his life proving it if that’s what it took.
***
Steve left the gym after his conversation with Bucky feeling drained but determined. His best friend’s words weighed on him, both a reminder of the man he wanted to be and the man he hadn’t been for you. He knew Bucky was right—this wasn’t a fight he could win with brute force or a quick apology. It would take time, patience, and a quiet kind of devotion that he’d never had to show before.
He didn’t expect you to forgive him overnight. He didn’t even expect you to notice what he was doing right away. But he had to start somewhere.
***
It was early morning when Steve pushed open the door to your coffee shop.
The familiar bell jingled above him, the sound stirring memories of quieter, happier times. You were behind the counter, moving with practiced ease as you worked the espresso machine. You didn’t see him at first, but when you turned, your eyes locked, and Steve felt the air shift.
“Morning,” he said, his voice soft, careful not to disrupt the fragile peace of the moment.
You blinked, your expression guarded. “Morning.”
“I’m here for coffee,” he said, stepping forward. “For the team.”
Your brow furrowed, skeptical. “The team sent you?”
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not exactly. Thought I’d take my turn.”
You didn’t reply, but you turned back to the espresso machine, the hum of it filling the silence. Steve watched you work, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, and for a moment, he was struck by how natural this scene felt, even with the tension between you.
When you handed him the tray of drinks, your fingers brushed his briefly, and he saw the faintest flicker of something in your eyes—surprise, maybe, or something softer.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice warm but careful.
You didn’t answer, but you nodded, and he left without lingering, the bell jingling softly as the door swung shut behind him.
*
The next time he came, it was quieter. Midmorning, after the breakfast rush had died down, Steve appeared with a small brown paper bag in hand.
You were cleaning the counter, lost in thought, when his voice broke through the silence.
“You forget to eat when you’re busy,” he said simply, placing the bag on the counter.
You looked up, startled. “Steve…”
“It’s just breakfast,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall your protests. “Nothing more. Just thought you might need it.”
You hesitated, the words you wanted to say caught somewhere in your throat. Slowly, you opened the bag, the warm scent of eggs and bacon wafting up to meet you.
“From that diner you like,” he added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Figured it was better than you skipping meals.”
You stared at the bag for a long moment before meeting his eyes. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” he said simply. “But I wanted to.”
He didn’t stay long, didn’t push for conversation. He just gave you a small nod and left, leaving you with breakfast and a strange, lingering warmth in your chest.
*
Natasha was relentless when it came to her movie nights, and somehow, you found yourself at the Tower despite your protests. The room was cozy, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the scent of popcorn. You settled into one corner of the couch, trying to ignore the way Steve’s presence tugged at the edges of your awareness.
When the opening credits began to roll, Steve appeared beside you, holding something in his hands.
“Here,” he said quietly, offering you a pair of thick woolen socks.
You frowned, confused. “What’s this?”
“Your feet get cold,” he said simply, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
You stared at him, your chest tightening, before reluctantly taking the socks. “Thanks,” you muttered, slipping them on.
He didn’t linger, didn’t push for more. But later, when the movie reached its tense climax, he handed you a steaming mug of hot chocolate—rich, creamy, with just the right amount of cinnamon.
“You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a small, knowing smile.
“You love hot chocolate after horror movies,” he said, his tone soft. “Figured you might want some.”
You took the mug, the warmth seeping into your hands, and for the first time that night, you let yourself relax.
*
The envelope was waiting for you in your mailbox, unassuming but carefully placed. Inside was a single ticket to the sold-out Broadway show you’d mentioned to Sam weeks ago.
The note tucked inside was brief, written in Steve’s familiar handwriting: Thought you’d like this. Hope it’s as good as you imagined.
You stared at the ticket for a long time, your heart aching with a mixture of gratitude and frustration. He remembered. Of course, he remembered.
You told yourself it didn’t matter, that it was just a kind gesture, but deep down, it chipped away at the walls you’d built around your heart.
*
The night your car broke down was cold and quiet, the kind of night that made the world feel vast and lonely. You sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the lifeless dashboard, your breath fogging up the glass as you fought the urge to cry.
You tried calling a few friends, but no one answered. Finally, with trembling fingers, you dialed the one number you swore you wouldn’t.
“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice came through the line, steady and concerned.
“My car won’t start,” you said softly, ignoring the pet name, hating how small your voice sounded.
“Where are you?”
You told him, and he didn’t hesitate. “Stay there. I’m on my way.”
When his truck pulled up beside you, he climbed out without a word, his breath misting in the cold air as he checked under your hood. His movements were sure and efficient, his presence steadying.
“Alternator’s shot,” he said finally, closing the hood. “I’ll take you home.”
You hesitated, your pride warring with your gratitude, but the freezing air made the decision for you.
The drive was quiet, the heater humming softly as Steve navigated the empty streets. He didn’t pry, didn’t try to fill the silence with unnecessary words. He just… drove.
When you woke up the next morning, your car was back in its usual spot. The engine purred like new when you started it, and a small note was taped to the dashboard: Shouldn’t give you trouble anymore. Call me if it does.
*
Each gesture was small, unassuming. Steve never pushed, never demanded more than you were willing to give. He just… showed up, quietly and consistently, letting his actions speak louder than words ever could.
And slowly, despite yourself, you began to notice.
***
Three months had passed since the breakup.
You wouldn’t say things had gone back to normal—far from it—but something had undeniably shifted between you and Steve. His quiet persistence, the way he showed up without pushing or demanding anything from you, had started to chip away at the walls you’d built around your heart.
At first, your conversations were stiff and polite, nothing more than a few sentences exchanged when he stopped by the coffee shop or brought you breakfast. But as the weeks went by, those moments grew longer, softer. He’d ask about your day, about the books you were reading, or the things you enjoyed, and you found yourself answering more openly. It wasn’t quite like before, but it was closer to the first moments of your relationship, back when everything had been new and uncomplicated.
Still, there was a voice in the back of your mind that wouldn’t let you forget. A quiet, insistent whisper that reminded you of how he’d hurt you, how he’d pushed you aside and made you feel invisible.
That voice grew louder the day he asked you to talk.
***
It was late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the windows of the coffee shop as you wiped down the counter. The shop was quiet, the usual morning and lunch rushes long gone, leaving you with only the hum of the espresso machine and the soft clatter of dishes.
The sound of the bell above the door caught your attention, and when you looked up, Steve was there.
He’d been coming in more often lately, not just to pick up coffee for the team but to see you, to talk to you. This time, though, something about the way he stood—his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched—told you this wasn’t just a casual visit.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice careful as he approached the counter.
“Hey,” you replied, setting the towel aside.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked, glancing around at the empty shop. “I mean… can we talk?”
You hesitated, your stomach twisting. The vulnerability in his expression was disarming, but that voice in the back of your mind warned you to tread carefully. Still, you nodded, gesturing toward one of the empty tables.
Steve followed you, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from you. For a moment, he said nothing, his hands clasped tightly on the table as he stared down at them. You waited, your heart thudding quietly in your chest as the silence stretched between you.
Finally, he took a deep breath and looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he began, his voice low but steady. “About what I should say. How I should say it. And the truth is… there’s no easy way to do this. So I’m just going to be honest.”
You nodded, your throat tightening as you braced yourself for whatever was coming.
“I screwed up,” he said, the words heavy with regret. “I let you down in a way I never should have. And I’ve been trying to figure out why—why I acted the way I did, why I pushed you away when you were the best thing in my life.”
His hands tightened into fists, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to find the right words. “I think… I think I was scared. Scared of not being enough for you, scared of dragging you into everything that comes with being me. The missions, the stress, the weight of it all—I didn’t want to burden you with that.”
Your brow furrowed, confusion and frustration bubbling to the surface. “So you decided to ignore me instead? To shut me out?”
“I know,” he said quickly, his voice breaking slightly. “I know it doesn’t make sense. It was selfish and stupid, and I wasn’t thinking about how it would make you feel. I just… I thought if I kept it to myself, if I didn’t tell you about everything that was going on, I could protect you from it. But all I did was hurt you.”
His eyes glistened, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “I’ll never forgive myself for that. For making you feel like you weren’t enough when you were everything to me.”
The raw emotion in his voice made your chest ache, but the wounds he’d left were still fresh, still tender.
“Steve…” you began, your voice trembling, “you hurt me more than anyone ever has. Do you know that?”
He flinched, his jaw tightening, but he nodded.
“I spent weeks wondering what I did wrong,” you continued, your words spilling out in a rush. “I kept asking myself why I wasn’t good enough for you, why I wasn’t worth your time or your attention. And then, when you finally started trying again, it felt like a slap in the face. Like you thought a few kind gestures could erase everything you put me through.”
Tears welled in your eyes, and you fought to keep your voice steady. “I wanted so badly to be enough for you, Steve. That’s all I ever wanted. Just to be enough.”
“You were,” he said quickly, his voice cracking. “You are. God, you’re more than enough. I was the one who wasn’t. I didn’t know how to handle it—how to be the man you deserved—and I let that fear control me. But I swear to you, I see it now. I see what I lost because of it.”
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I might have ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. But if there’s anything—anything—I can do to change your mind, tell me. I’ll do it. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I can be better, that I can be the man you need me to be.”
His voice dropped, barely more than a whisper. “I just need to know if there’s any part of you that still believes in us.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding as the weight of his words settled over you. The pain, the anger, the love—all of it swirled together in a storm of emotion that left you speechless.
Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you said, “I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know if I can trust you again. I don’t know if I can forget how much it hurt.”
His face crumpled, but he nodded, accepting your words without argument.
“But…” you continued, your voice softer now, “I can’t pretend I don’t still feel something for you. I can’t pretend I don’t still love you.”
His eyes widened, hope flickering in their depths.
“That doesn’t mean we can go back to how things were,” you said quickly, your tone firm. “If we’re going to try… if we’re going to even think about trying, it has to be different. You have to be honest with me, Steve. About everything.”
“I will,” he said immediately, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear, I will.”
You nodded, your throat tight with the weight of what you’d just said. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it was something. A small step toward rebuilding what had been broken.
And as Steve reached out, his hand brushing against yours, you let yourself hope—for the first time in months—that maybe, just maybe, it was a step worth taking.
***
It had been a week since the conversation with Steve, and your emotions were in turmoil. You felt caught between the raw pain of the past and the cautious hope of what could be. His words haunted you—his apologies, his promises, the way his voice had cracked when he told you how much he still cared.
You needed clarity, and there was only one person who could give you the no-nonsense advice you desperately needed: Natasha.
She arrived at your place that evening, a takeout bag in hand, and didn’t waste a second settling herself at your kitchen table. Her sharp green eyes studied you as you sat down across from her, picking at the noodles she’d brought for you.
“All right,” she said, breaking the silence. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Steve,” you admitted, your voice soft.
Natasha leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. “What about him?”
You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table. “We talked. Really talked. He told me everything—why he shut me out, how he felt, all of it. He apologized for everything and… I believe him, Nat. I really do.”
“But?” she prompted, raising an eyebrow.
“But I don’t know if I can trust him again,” you confessed, your throat tightening. “I don’t know if I can let myself go through that again. He hurt me so much, Nat. How do I just move past that?”
Natasha studied you for a moment, her gaze piercing. “Let me ask you something,” she said finally. “If you didn’t still love him, if you didn’t still want something with him deep down, would we even be having this conversation right now?”
You frowned, her words hitting you hard. “What do you mean?”
“It’s been three months,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “If you were done with him, if you really didn’t care anymore, you’d have moved on by now. You wouldn’t still be here, agonizing over whether to give him another chance.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came. She wasn’t wrong, and deep down, you knew it.
“I’m not saying you have to forgive him tomorrow or even next week,” Natasha continued, leaning forward. “But if there’s still a part of you that wants to believe in him, don’t ignore that. You owe it to yourself to figure out what you really want. Not what you’re afraid of, not what you think you should do. What you want.”
Her words lingered long after she left, a quiet truth that refused to be ignored.
***
At the same time, Steve was grappling with his own uncertainty.
He sat in the Tower’s lounge, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee as he stared out the window. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about your conversation, about the raw pain in your voice when you told him how much he’d hurt you.
“Hey,” Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Steve turned to see both Sam and Bucky entering the room. They exchanged a look before sitting down on either side of him.
“You’ve been brooding,” Sam said bluntly. “What’s going on?”
Steve sighed, setting his mug down on the coffee table. “It’s her,” he admitted.
“Figured,” Bucky said, leaning back in his chair. “What happened?”
“I talked to her,” Steve said. “Told her everything—how I felt, why I shut her out. I apologized for all of it.”
“And?” Sam prompted.
“She said she doesn’t know if she can trust me again,” Steve said quietly, his voice heavy with regret. “But she also said she still loves me. I don’t know what to do with that, Sam. I don’t know how to make it right.”
Sam leaned forward, his expression serious. “Look, man, love isn’t always enough. Not when there’s hurt involved. If she doesn’t trust you right now, that’s on you to fix. You can’t just expect her to forgive and forget because you feel bad about it.”
“I know that,” Steve said quickly, his jaw tightening. “That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to mess this up again. I need to figure out how to show her that I’m serious without overwhelming her.”
Bucky gave him a long, measured look. “You’ve been trying,” he said finally. “We’ve all seen it—the little things you’ve been doing. But if you’re asking me, you’re not going to fix this by tiptoeing around her. You’ve got to be honest, Rogers. If you want her back, you need to let her see all of you. The good, the bad, and the stuff you think she won’t want to deal with.”
Steve frowned, his gaze dropping to the floor. “What if she doesn’t want to deal with it?”
“Then she doesn’t,” Bucky said simply. “But if you hold back, you’re not giving her the chance to decide for herself. And that’s not fair to either of you.”
Sam nodded in agreement. “You’ve got to let her see that you’re not just saying the right things, Steve. You’ve got to show her. But don’t make it about fixing things fast. Healing takes time, for both of you.”
Steve exhaled slowly, the weight of their words settling over him. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank us yet,” Sam said with a grin. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Cap.”
***
Steve spent the next few days thinking about their advice. He’d been so focused on not pushing you, on giving you space, that he hadn’t realized he might be holding back too much.
When he saw you next, it was at the coffee shop, just as you were closing up for the day. He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, his heart pounding.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the quiet.
You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. “Hey.”
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
You nodded slowly, setting down the rag you’d been using to clean the counter. “Sure.”
He gestured toward one of the empty tables, and you followed him, sitting down across from him. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Steve began, his voice steady but low. “About how much I hurt you, how I made you feel like you weren’t enough. And you were right. I let you down in ways I’ll never forgive myself for.”
Your throat tightened, but you stayed silent, letting him continue.
“I’ve spent so much time trying to fix things in small ways, trying to show you that I’m serious,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ve been honest enough with you. I don’t think I’ve let you see how much this has been tearing me apart.”
His hands tightened into fists on the table, his knuckles white. “I don’t want to overwhelm you or push you, but I can’t hold this back anymore. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I can be the man you deserve.”
His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw tears in his eyes. “If there’s anything—anything—I can do to earn your trust again, tell me. Because losing you would be the biggest mistake of my life.”
Your own eyes burned with tears, the raw honesty in his words cutting through the walls you’d built around your heart. For the first time, you saw not just the man who’d hurt you but the man who was willing to fight for you, flaws and all.
You didn’t have an answer for him—not yet. But as you reached across the table and took his hand, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were ready to start finding one.
***
You were closing up the coffee shop when your phone buzzed. The message was from Natasha. That alone was unusual—Nat rarely texted without reason. You pulled your phone out, unlocking it with a swipe of your thumb.
The words on the screen made your blood run cold: We’ve lost contact with Steve and Bucky.
Your breath caught, and the phone nearly slipped from your trembling hands. For a moment, everything around you blurred—the soft hum of the espresso machine, the faint chatter of pedestrians outside, the smell of coffee beans—all of it faded into the background.
You didn’t think, didn’t even register dropping the rag you’d been using to clean the counter. Your hands shook as you locked the doors, fumbling with the keys before rushing to your car.
The drive to the Tower was a haze, your chest tight with panic as Natasha’s words repeated in your mind. You knew Steve went on dangerous missions. It was part of who he was. But something about those words—lost contact—made this time feel different.
***
By the time you arrived at the Tower, your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribcage. The elevator ride felt like an eternity, each floor passing with agonizing slowness. When the doors finally slid open, you practically ran into the common room, where Natasha and Sam were already waiting.
“What happened?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended.
Natasha turned toward you, her expression calm but her eyes betraying her concern. “They were on a mission. Everything was going according to plan, but then we lost contact about three hours ago. We’ve been trying to re-establish communication, but there’s been no response.”
Three hours. That might as well have been three days.
“What do you mean ‘lost contact’?” you pressed, your voice rising. “How does that even happen?”
“It could be anything,” Sam said, his tone soothing but cautious. “Jammed signals, a misstep in the mission. We don’t know yet.”
You stared at them, your breathing shallow, your mind racing with every worst-case scenario imaginable. “So they could be…”
“They’re not,” Natasha said firmly, cutting you off. Her voice was sharp, but there was a softness in her gaze. “Steve and Bucky have been in worse situations than this. They’ll find a way to get back to us.”
Sam nodded in agreement, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. “They’re two of the toughest guys I know,” he said. “If anyone can make it out of this, it’s them.”
You wanted to believe them, but the fear in your chest refused to let go. You sank into one of the chairs, your hands gripping the armrests so tightly that your knuckles turned white.
The minutes dragged by like hours, the silence in the room heavy and oppressive. Natasha and Sam tried to make conversation, to keep you distracted, but you barely registered their words. Your mind was too consumed by the thought of what could happen—of what might have already happened.
***
When Natasha’s phone finally buzzed, the sound cut through the quiet like a gunshot. She snatched it up, her sharp gaze scanning the screen. Relief flickered across her face as she read aloud:
“It’s from Steve. They’re on their way back, but a medic is necessary.”
Your heart seized, a mixture of relief and panic coursing through you. “Who’s hurt?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“He didn’t say,” Natasha replied, her lips pressing into a thin line.
You tried to steady your breathing, but the knot in your chest refused to loosen. You told yourself it didn’t matter who was hurt—they were alive, and they were coming back. But the not knowing gnawed at you, the fear for Steve settling deep in your bones.
No one told Steve you were here, and maybe that was for the best. But as you sat there, waiting for the jet to arrive, you realized just how fragile everything felt. The past few months flashed through your mind—all the moments of doubt, the anger, the hesitation—and for the first time, they seemed so small. In the grand scheme of things, you could have lost Steve today. That thought terrified you more than anything else.
***
The sound of the jet’s engines rumbling low overhead pulled you out of your thoughts. You stood with Natasha and Sam, your heart pounding as the aircraft touched down on the Tower’s private landing pad.
The ramp lowered slowly, and the first thing you saw was Steve, his arm slung around Bucky to help him walk. Bucky looked pale, his arm hanging limp at his side, his face tight with pain. Medics rushed forward to meet him, but your eyes were locked on Steve.
He didn’t look much better than Bucky. His shirt was torn, streaked with dirt and blood, and his face bore a fresh collection of cuts and bruises. His shoulders sagged under the weight of exhaustion, his steps slow and measured.
But when his eyes found yours, he smiled.
Even battered and bloodied, he’d never looked more handsome. His beard, grown in over the time he’d been away, gave him a rugged edge, and his blue eyes still held that quiet strength you’d always admired.
The moment your gaze met his, something in you broke. You ran to him, barely aware of your surroundings, and threw your arms around him.
“Steve,” you sobbed, burying your face in his chest. His shirt was rough against your skin, damp with sweat and blood, but you didn’t care. “I was so scared. I thought… I thought I might lose you.”
His arms wrapped around you tightly, his grip strong despite his obvious exhaustion. “I’m okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “I’m here.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears streaming down your face. “You have to be more careful,” you said, your voice trembling. “You can’t… you can’t do this to me, Steve.”
His expression softened, and he reached up to brush a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What happened?” you asked, your voice cracking. “What went wrong?”
To your surprise, Steve didn’t hesitate. He guided you to a quieter corner, his hand resting lightly on your back, and began to explain.
“The mission was supposed to be straightforward,” he said, his voice low but steady. “But things went sideways fast. There were more hostiles than we anticipated, and Bucky got hit—bad. I couldn’t leave him behind, so I…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.
“You carried him out,” you finished, your throat tightening.
Steve nodded, his eyes meeting yours. “I wasn’t going to leave him, no matter what.”
Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just from fear. They were from the overwhelming realization of who Steve truly was—the man who would sacrifice everything for the people he cared about.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now. “I won’t make that mistake again. And if you’re willing to listen, I’ll tell you everything—about the missions, about what’s going on with me. No more shutting you out.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with a mixture of love and fear and hope. Slowly, you nodded. “I’m listening,” you said.
And as he began to speak, you felt the cracks in your heart begin to mend, one word at a time.
***
Steve stayed with you after the medics whisked Bucky away to the infirmary. He’d insisted Bucky was in good hands, though you could see the guilt still lingering in his eyes. You sat together in one of the quieter rooms in the Tower, the tension from the mission still clinging to him like a second skin.
Despite his exhaustion, he refused to let go of your hand.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as you sat beside him. “I know it’s late.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you.
He gave you a small, tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re too good to me.”
You shook your head, squeezing his hand. “No, Steve. I’m just—” You paused, searching for the right words. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging as the adrenaline that had sustained him through the mission began to fade. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“For what?”
“For everything,” he replied, meeting your gaze with a vulnerability that left you breathless. “For scaring you, for shutting you out before… for making you feel like you weren’t enough. I know I’ve said it before, but I need you to know I mean it.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. For a long moment, you didn’t respond, your chest tight as you tried to process the enormity of what he was saying.
“I was so scared today,” you admitted finally, your voice trembling. “When Nat texted me, when we didn’t know if you were okay… it was like the ground had been ripped out from under me.” You swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “I realized then how stupid these past few months have been. I was so caught up in my own hurt, my own doubts, that I didn’t see what we were losing.”
Steve’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, his blue eyes locked on yours. “You weren’t wrong to feel that way,” he said softly. “You had every right to be hurt, to doubt me. I earned that. But I don’t want to lose you, baby. Not now. Not ever.”
His words broke something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.
“Don’t you dare scare me like that again,” you whispered, your voice cracking.
“I won’t,” he promised, his voice steady and resolute.
***
The days following the mission passed in a haze of quiet moments and tentative steps forward. Steve stayed at the Tower to help Bucky recover, but he checked in with you constantly. Sometimes it was a quick text—How are you? Did you eat today?—and sometimes it was a phone call that lasted longer than either of you expected.
You visited the Tower often, bringing Bucky some of his favorite snacks and sitting with him while Steve caught up on reports. Bucky teased you relentlessly, of course, his dry humor cutting through the tension in ways only he could manage.
“So,” he said one afternoon, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “When are you two going to stop tiptoeing around and just admit you’re back together?”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “We’re not—”
“Sure,” Bucky interrupted, smirking. “And I’m the King of Wakanda.”
Steve, who had just entered the room, raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, glaring at Bucky.
“Just pointing out the obvious,” Bucky said with a shrug, earning himself an eye-roll from both you and Steve.
Despite his teasing, Bucky’s words stayed with you. He wasn’t entirely wrong. The way you and Steve interacted had changed since the mission. There was a closeness now, a sense of trust that hadn’t been there before.
***
One evening, Steve invited you to dinner at the Tower. He didn’t call it a date, and you didn’t press him on it, but there was something deliberate about the way he’d set the table, the candles he’d lit, the care he’d taken with every detail.
The two of you sat across from each other, the soft glow of the candles casting warm light over his face. For a while, you just talked—about work, about Bucky’s recovery, about the books you’d been reading. The conversation flowed easily, the tension that had once lingered between you finally gone.
At one point, Steve leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” he began, his voice steady but quiet. “About how scared you were. How I need to be more careful.”
You frowned slightly. “Steve, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I know your work is dangerous. I’ve always known that.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But you were right. I can’t keep doing this—not without being honest with you about what’s going on. If I’m asking you to be part of my life, I need to make sure you feel like you’re part of it.”
His words sent a warmth through your chest, a feeling of being truly seen and valued. “I appreciate that,” you said softly.
Steve smiled, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like everything between you was falling into place.
***
As the night wore on, the conversation grew quieter, more intimate. Steve reached across the table, his hand brushing yours.
“I know we can’t go back to how things were before,” he said, his voice low but firm. “But I think we can build something better. Something stronger. If you’ll let me.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no doubt. Just quiet determination and a love that felt as steady and unshakable as the man himself.
“I want that too,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
His smile widened, and for the first time in months, you felt the weight in your chest begin to lift.
It wasn’t a perfect ending. There were still things to work through, still scars to heal. But as Steve reached for your hand, his grip warm and sure, you knew you were ready to take the next step—together.
Half the time, Dean wants to lock Sam away so that no one else can even see him. No one can even think of taking Sammy from him, because no one knows how perfect Sam is.
Half the time, Dean wants to push Sam at every pretty civilian and hot bartender and tenderhearted doctor they meet, because Sam deserves someone like that. Someone less broken, someone who could give him normal and safe (and maybe a baby; Sammy would make the best dad.)
And Sam?
Sam wants Dean to lock them both away together, and he grits his teeth when Dean insists on taking him out to bars and flirts with the waitstaff. Pictures every person who catches Dean's eye dying gruesome deaths at the hands of a monster they were just too slow to take out - so sorry, we did our best.
Someday, Sam will tell Dean that he hates seeing him look at other people, and Dean will tell Sam that he's looking for Sam's forever person because this thing? This thing ain't healthy or normal, and Sam deserves better. And Sam will haul off and hit him, because they aren't healthy or normal, will never be that, but Dean is it for Sam. All he wants, all he needs.
And he promises to eat his gun if Dean ever tries to leave him for his own good.
And after that, Dean doesn't want to lock Sam away from the world, or push him into it and away from him.
Warnings: FLUFF SO MUCH
Summary: Dean is a regular town folk and you catch his eyes
You woke up with Dean next to you because GOOD GOD HE MOVES IN HIS SLEEP ALOT. You shimmied out of bed and tip-toed to the kitchen. Sam was passed out, (like really) on the table drooling on a book. You carefully passed by and went to work in the kitchen.
You carefully grab the fridge door to see if they have eggs, and to your suprised they do. You dig deeper in the fridge and find milk, and…. bAcOn? Wow you’d never think. You wander over to their pantry and find a huge bag of Bisquick pancake mix.
After you get everything onto their marble style counter you get a bowl and start cracking eggs. You trying so hard to be quiet since Sam was asleep, you didn’t hear the soft pitter-patter of feet on tile. Before you knew it you had to huge, warm arms wrap around your waist.
You hear a morning Dean say good morning and nuzzled his face in your hair. “Good morning sleepy” you said back. You could hear and feel him chuckle. He helped you crack eggs and whisk the pancake mix.
Your whole cooking time was filled with kisses and cuddles. So many you woke Sam up, but just in time for breakfast. After you had all finished Sam and Dean thanked you for it.
A few hours later Sam had gotten ready for his job and left, leaving you and Dean by yourselves. You were sad but you couldn’t stay there forever so you called y/bff/n to come pick you up. But you hadn’t told Dean that.
You were reading a book on their couch when someone knocked on the door, expecting it to be Sam you opened it up, to your suprise it was actually y/bff/n! “Come in come in” you told her. She stepped inside and told you to hurry up. “What, do you have some kind of hot date I dont know about?” You asked. She rolled her eyes “Just get your stuff.” She said laughing.
A couple minutes later you were ready to leave, you had your clothes packed, you had showered and brushed your teeth earlier, and you just wished Dean goodbye. “Off we go” She said as she headed out. With you on her tail.
A half an hour and some wrong turns later you were home. You ran into the living room to go cuddle with your dog Daphne. She came running up to you and tackled you, god had she gotten big.
You played with her until y/bff/n called for dinner, she had made y/f/f! (your favorite food) “Thanks!” You exclaimed. “No ‘prob” she said nonchalantly.
By the end of dinner you were exhausted, you cleaned the dishes and ran to the room you shared with her making sure to stay quiet because she had fallen asleep. You belly flopped into your soft comforter and quickly texted Dean, “night💝” and went to sleep.
It seems to be a thing.... So I will post six sentences from a WIP I am working on in draft. It’s called “Crossing Lines” in the Got My Eye On You series, another Sam and Sherlock story.
Please help. Too complicated to text. Expect phone call at 11.15
When his phone rings at exactly 11.15, Sherlock’s ready, willing and able to answer. “Hello, Sam. What can I do for you?” He’s always been interested in Lestrade’s nephew ever since he’d met a thirteen-year-old who was on the Spectrum.*
“Hello Sherlock I promise not to take too much of your time but I have to talk to you but before I do you have to promise not to say anything to Uncle Greg or my parents otherwise,” a gasp for breath, “I can’t speak with you.”
As it comes out in a torrent, Sherlock knows that this is the product of a rehearsed speech. Sam has some communication problems and doesn’t like talking on a phone any more than Sherlock does. Both prefer to text. “Are you alright?” he calmly replies. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
* If you want to read the first of the Sam stories, it’s Called Role Model and you can find it here.
