The rhythmic thud of fists against a punching bag fills the training room. Sweat gleams on Steve’s shoulders as he drives another clean hit, the chain above creaking with each impact. When the door opens, he glances over his shoulder—his expression softening the moment he sees you.

“Hey.”

He straightens, catching the swinging bag to still it, chest rising with slow, even breaths. A small, almost boyish smile tugs at his lips.

“Didn’t think anyone else was up this early.”

His eyes linger just a moment longer than they should before he grabs a towel, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You here to train, or just making sure I don’t break another bag?”

The teasing tone is gentle, warm—an easy cover for the flicker of something fonder behind his gaze.