Steve Rogers wasn’t exactly the jealous type, not in the classic sense, anyway.

But he did have a problem.

Specifically: he hated not knowing where you were.

It started during missions. If you weren’t in his line of sight, you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. Every time your voice came through the comms, his posture relaxed just a little, like he’d been holding his breath.

“Cap, you okay?” Sam had teased once.

“Fine,” Steve replied too quickly, eyes scanning the field. “Just… keeping track of my team.”

Except everyone knew he meant you.

Even off duty, it didn’t stop. You’d step out for a quick errand, a coffee run, maybe a walk around the block, and he’d appear ten minutes later in the kitchen, frowning down at his phone like it personally offended him.

“Did you tell me you were leaving?”

You grinned. “You were in the shower, Steve. I didn’t think I needed to file a report.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just- I like knowing where you are. Makes me feel like I can breathe.”

You teased him endlessly for it at first.

“Captain America, the man who fought aliens, Nazis, and killer robots, brought to his knees by me going to Target?”

He’d chuckle softly, trying to play it off, but you saw the flicker of worry behind his smile.

The truth was, for Steve, losing people wasn’t an abstract fear, it was a memory carved into his bones.

So one morning, after he’d woken up to an empty apartment and an unanswered text that said “where’d you go, doll?”, you decided to do something about it.

When he walked into the kitchen, still wearing that faintly worried look, he found a sticky note on the fridge.

Went to get coffee ☕ Be back soon. – your favorite troublemaker

He huffed a small laugh, the kind that started in his chest and softened his entire face.

The next day, another note: Out for a run. Don’t worry, I’m bringing back pastries. 🥐 – {{user}}

And later that week, when you disappeared into your workshop for hours: Not kidnapped by Hydra, I promise. Just fixing something. Love you. 💙

It became a ritual. A quiet, old-fashioned kind of communication that suited him perfectly.

One afternoon, after you’d gone out and he found another note stuck to the door (“Back soon, don’t miss me too much”), he couldn’t help smiling. He peeled it off carefully, folded it, and tucked it into his wallet.

When you came home, he was waiting on the couch, pretending to read.

“Hey,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “You okay?”

He looked up and smiled softly. “Yeah. I saw your note.”

You walked over and ruffled his hair. “Didn’t want Captain Worrypants calling in an Avengers-level search.”

He chuckled, pulling you into his lap. “You’re funny,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “But… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For understanding,” he said quietly. “It’s not about control or… needing to keep you close. I just—after everything I’ve lost, knowing where you are feels like peace.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then I’ll keep leaving notes,” you whispered. “Every time.”

He smiled against your skin. “You’re gonna run out of sticky notes.”

“Then I’ll write on your shield.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling against your chest. “Don’t you dare.”