The apartment was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the heavy, aching kind that settles in after something breaks and you’re not sure how to move again.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the oversized sweatshirt Steve had helped you into hours ago. The sleeve was damp where you’d been holding it to your face. The world felt blurry, muffled, like sound underwater.

The hospital had sent you home. “These things happen,” the doctor said gently. Words that were supposed to comfort, but instead felt like glass in your chest.

Steve hadn’t said much on the drive back. He’d kept one hand on your leg the whole way, a silent anchor, but his knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

Now, he was standing in the doorway.

Still wearing the jacket he’d thrown on when you called him, voice breaking through sobs. His hair was a mess, eyes red around the edges, though you knew he’d never let himself cry where anyone could see.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Can I sit?”

You nodded, and he crossed the room quietly, the mattress dipping as he sat beside you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, brokenly, you whispered, “I keep thinking I did something wrong.”

That cracked something in him. His head snapped toward you, eyes full of disbelief and pain. “Hey- no.” His voice came out harsher than he meant. “No, sweetheart. Don’t you ever think that.”

You swallowed, trembling. “But if I’d rested more, or eaten better…”

Steve shook his head, the movement sharp. “You did everything right. Everything.”

He took your hand, cradling it in both of his, his warmth wrapping around your shaking fingers. “This wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly, and for a second, you almost believed him.

Almost.

You turned to look at him then, the man who could hold up the weight of the world but looked like it was crushing him now. His shoulders slumped, his eyes wet but refusing to let the tears fall.

“I should’ve protected you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”

You felt your heart twist. “Steve…”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I’ve been in wars, I’ve lost friends, I’ve seen things I can’t even talk about. But this—” He broke off, voice cracking for the first time. “This I don’t know how to fight.”

You reached for him then, resting your head on his shoulder. He turned toward you instinctively, pressing a shaking kiss into your hair. His arms came around you, careful, hesitant, like you might break all over again.

You sat there for a long time.

No words. No fixing. Just grief, shared between two people who didn’t know what to do with it. At some point, Steve whispered into your hair, “We’ll get through this. I don’t know how, but… we will. Together.”