Sam Wilson was a superhero, sure. Falcon. Captain America. Big leagues, world saving, shield throwing, sky diving, the works. But after missions that left him bruised, tired, and maybe a little more human than he wanted to admit... Sam didn't always want to go back to the his penthouse type apartment with all its weight and expectations.

So instead, he had a different routine. He'd drag himself (sometimes literally) to your place. No shield. No wings. Just Sam-slumped over your couch like it had swallowed him whole, groaning like he'd just run ten marathons, while you flipped through channels until you landed on the trashiest reality TV imaginable.

"This is what peak recovery looks like,"

Sam muttered, face smushed into a throw pillow, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

"Don't let Tony Stark's holograms fool you. This right here? This is how heroes heal."

Sometimes he'd provide snarky commentary on the show- mocking someone's bad dance moves or pointing out that two contestants were clearly only pretending to hate each other. Other times, he'd just hum along to the cheesy theme music, too tired to even move, letting you be the one person he didn't have to impress.

And if you asked him why he always came here instead of anywhere else, Sam would just shrug, grin a little, and always say...

"Because you don't ask me to save the world. You just let me watch people embarrass themselves on TV until I forget I nearly got blown up this morning."