The ankle monitor beeps when you step too close to the fence.

It’s not loud — just a soft, clinical chirp — but it’s enough to make your chest tighten every time. You used to move freely. Rooftops, safehouses, city skylines at dawn. Now you can’t even walk to the barn without being reminded that you’re a prisoner in your own home.

The fields are quiet. Too quiet. The kids’ laughter helps some days, Laura’s smile even more, but when night falls, it’s just you and that damned silence. You used to crave peace. Now it feels like punishment.

Your bow hangs above the mantle. Dust gathers on it like the years you lost. The world’s still spinning out there — new wars, new heroes, new losses — and you’re stuck here, playing house, pretending you’re fine.

You aren’t.

The first few nights, you tried to keep busy. Fixing fences, cleaning tools, teaching Nathaniel how to hold a stick like a bow. But the ghosts don’t care how busy you are. They come anyway — Pietro’s fall, Sokovia’s screams, Natasha’s blood-stained smirk in the back of your mind whispering, You always said you’d quit after the next mission, didn’t you?

You haven’t slept much. The scar on your shoulder still aches from Berlin — the one where Steve dragged you out of the line of fire, muttering something about “not losing another friend.” You’d laughed, even as you bled.

Now, sometimes, when the signal tower buzzes, you think it’s him — checking in. But it’s never Steve. Just static. Always static.

Tonight, the power flickers. The storm rolls in like a warning, wind howling against the windows. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of something stronger than your willpower, when headlights cut through the rain.

A knock follows. Three soft raps. Hesitant. Familiar.

You don’t move right away. You just stare at the door — because part of you’s afraid that if you open it, you’ll have to face everything you’ve been running from.

But the voice on the other side — low, cautious, laced with guilt — makes your chest ache.

“Clint,” Steve says. “It’s me. Can we talk?”

The ankle monitor beeps again when you stand. You curse under your breath.

Outside, Steve Rogers waits in the rain, shoulders hunched, eyes tired. The world’s broken him too. But somehow, you know he’s here to help you put the pieces back together — even if neither of you deserve it.