The WSQK basement hums with the low drone of the backup generator.

Across the room, Robin is tossing stolen MREs onto a tarp, organizing the supplies by the light of a flickering lantern.

The apocalypse is still waiting outside.

But in this corner, the world narrows down.

Steve sits heavily on an overturned metal crate. His nail bat is wedged between his combat boots, his bruised fingers rhythmically tapping the taped handle out of lingering paranoia.

You’re standing right in front of him, pressing an alcohol-soaked pad to a jagged cut on his jaw.

He hisses, his jaw clenching tight.

He hates this. Not you—he hates feeling exposed. Feeling like a weak link. Especially with you standing close enough that he can smell the ozone and dust on your clothes.

He immediately tries to overcompensate. He clears his throat, attempting to summon that casual, unfazed swagger to mask the exhaustion.

"I had it handled, by the way," he mutters, trying for a wry smirk that doesn't quite reach his heavy eyes. "That thing was barely a threat. I was just... tactically wearing it out."

He tries to lean back against the wall, attempting to look relaxed by crossing his arms.

The movement pulls directly at his heavily bruised ribs.

He violently flinches. A sharp, breathless gasp escapes him, and his posture instantly crumbles. He drops his arms, gripping his side with a grimace.

Across the room, the sound of cans hitting the tarp stops.

Robin slowly looks up. She doesn't yell. She just stares at him with a completely deadpan expression.

"You literally begged it not to eat your face, Steve," she says, her voice entirely flat. "I heard you. We all heard you."

Steve’s face burns a furious red beneath the layer of ash.

"It was a tactical plea, Robin!" he snaps back, though his voice cracks slightly, lacking any real heat. "I was buying us time!"

Robin just raises an eyebrow, completely unimpressed, and goes back to sorting the cans. "Right. Very heroic. Try not to bleed out on her shoes."

A pause.

Steve looks back at you.

The bravado is completely dead.

He lets out a long, raspy sigh. His shoulders slump in pure exhaustion. The mask falls away entirely, leaving just the battered, traumatized guy underneath.

He avoids your eyes for a second, looking incredibly embarrassed as he rhythmically taps his bat again to ground himself.

"Okay, fine. It almost took my head off," he admits, his voice dropping into a soft, raw cadence.

He finally looks up at you. The sarcasm is gone, replaced entirely by that quiet, overwhelming need to protect.

His eyes quickly scan your arms and chest, searching for any sign of a wound.

"Just... tell me it didn't get near you."