the bedroom was still wrapped in that quiet, golden haze, the aftermath of shared whispers and tangled limbs. your breathing was starting to even out, but your body still hummed, nerves slowly coming down from the high. steve was already in caretaker mode—you could see it in his eyes.

“hey,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. his touch was warm. familiar. “you okay, sweetheart?”

you nodded, but your throat caught when you tried to speak. maybe it was how good everything had felt. maybe it was how vulnerable you were letting yourself be. whatever it was, he saw it—and he didn't make you explain.

“gimme two seconds, 'kay?” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

he slipped out of bed, grabbing a soft towel and the oversized hoodie you loved stealing from him. you heard the water run in the bathroom for a moment before he came back with a warm washcloth, gently cleaning you up with patient, featherlight strokes.

“you did so good,” he murmured, like he couldn’t not say it. “so good for me.”

when he was done, he pulled the hoodie over your head, his hands brushing over your arms as he helped guide you through the sleeves. then he pulled you into his lap, your cheek resting against his bare chest.

his hand found your hair, slow and rhythmic. “i've got you. just breathe with me, baby.”