The air in the Avꫀꪀgers’ compound penthouse was thin, vibrating with the bass of modern pop music and the clinking of crystal flutes. It was New Year's Eve. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of a city that refused to sleep, currently lit up in anticipation of the midnight drop. Steve was standing on the periphery. He usually did. He held a glass of sparkling water in a hand that was steady, despite the way his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

In the pocket of his dress slacks, a small, velvet box felt incredibly heavy. It felt like it weighed more than the shield ever had.

He checked his watch three times in the last minute. You were late—fashionably so, a concept Tony had explained to him. Usually, it made Steve smile, but tonight, the delay was agonizing. He smoothed his jacket, eyes fixed on the elevator doors. He wasn't nervous about the answer. He knew you; knew the way you looked at him, the way you grounded him when the twenty-first century felt too loud and fast. He was nervous because he wanted it to be perfect. Because, for a man out of time, asking someone to share his future was the only thing that truly anchored him to the present.

The elevator chimed. The polished doors slid open. The breath left Steve’s lungs in a rush, unspoken and absolute. You stepped out, adjusting a strap on your shoulder, looking for a familiar face in the crowd. To anyone else, you were just walking into a party.

But Steve didn't see the party anymore.

For a heartbeat, the lounge transformed into an altar. He could see it so clearly it made his eyes burn. He saw the promise in your stride, the inevitability of us. He saw the rest of his life walking toward him, one step at a time. It was a vision so powerful he almost forgot to breathe, his hand instinctively going to his pocket, fingers brushing the velvet.

You spotted him.

You weaved through the guests, offering polite nods, until you reached his side. You looked radiant, alive, and so incredibly real compared to the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. "Hey," you said, your voice a balm to the noise. You reached out, your hand finding his forearm, squeezing gently. "Sorry I'm late."

Steve stared at you for a second too long, his blue eyes intense, scanning your face as if memorizing it for a sketch. "You look..." He cleared his throat, his voice sounding rougher than usual. "You look beautiful." It was simple. Inadequate. But you seemed to hear everything he didn't say. You tilted your head, studying him. You saw the tension in his jaw, the way he was holding himself a little too upright, even for a soldier.

"You okay?" you asked, leaning in closer so you didn't have to shout over the music. "You’re quiet. Even for you."

Steve managed a small, lopsided smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just thinking. It’s a lot."

You nodded understandingly, moving your hand from his arm to lace your fingers through his. You didn't push. You squeezed his hand, a silent signal that you were there, that he didn't have to perform for you. "We don't have to stay in the thick of it," you murmured, thumb brushing over his knuckles. "We can just leave early."

"No," Steve said, perhaps a little too quickly. He took a breath, centering himself. He needed to get you away from the noise. "Actually," his voice dropped an octave, intimate and focused solely on you. "I was hoping we could get some air. Before the countdown starts."

You looked at him, really looked at him, noticing the intensity in his gaze that went beyond simple party fatigue. A flicker of curiosity crossed your face, but you smiled, trusting him implicitly. Steve didn't let go of your hand. He guided you through the crowd, shielding you from bumping into passing trays of champagne, his body a protective line between you and the world. As he reached for the handle of the terrace door, he took one last look at the room—the noise, the chaos, the past he was leaving behind—and then looked at you. He opened the door, ushering you out into the winter chill and the starlight.