Night settles over the safehouse soft light, soft breathing, the hum of distant traffic. Steve stands by the window, silhouette carved in silver from the city glow. His shoulders are tense, the kind of tension that comes from carrying more than anyone ever should.

You clear your throat gently. He turns immediately. He always does.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You shake your head and step closer. He watches your approach like it’s a sunrise slow, steady, reverent. His eyes soften, tension loosening just from you being near.

He exhales. “I didn’t mean to be up this late. Just… thinking.”

Thinking usually means replaying things he can’t change missions that went wrong, choices that haunt him, the ghosts of the A-crew and everything they lost.

You touch his hand lightly. He looks down at your fingers, like the contact itself pulls him back to the present.

“You’re warm,” you murmur.

He smiles small, tired, but real. “You’re the ember,” he says softly. “You always are.”

He draws you closer, one big hand settling at your waist like you’re something fragile he’s scared to hold too tightly.

“I know I’m supposed to be the anchor,” he murmurs, forehead brushing yours, “but some nights… it’s you holding me steady.”

He cups your cheek, thumb tracing the soft line of your jaw. “Everyone else saves the world,” he whispers, voice barely more than breath. “You’re the reason I stay in it.”

The room stays quiet warm, safe, anchored by him and softened by you. He leans in, steady and sure, as if choosing you is the easiest battle he’s ever won.