The argument had been stupid. You both knew that. It was the kind of argument that started over something tiny—forgotten plans, a tone that came out wrong, a bad day stacked on top of another bad day—and somehow snowballed into two days of clipped replies, heavy sighs, and Steve pretending very hard that he wasn’t hurt while absolutely being hurt.

You were standing in the living room, arms crossed, staring a hole through the wall while he paced behind you. You could hear him dragging a hand through his hair for the hundredth time, hear the way his footsteps slowed like he was psyching himself up for something.

“Okay,” Steve said finally, voice softer now. “Okay, I hate this.”

You turned just in time to see him stop in front of you. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a breath like he was deflating. And then—dramatically, unmistakably—he slid down onto his knees in front of you.

“Steve—” you started.

He shuffled closer on his knees before you could finish, hands carefully settling at your hips like he was afraid you might bolt. He leaned forward until his forehead brushed your stomach, then tilted his head so his chin rested there instead. When he looked up at you, his eyes were wide and earnest, mouth pulled into that familiar pout—the one that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he’d ever admit.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I was being an idiot. Like, a real idiot. King of idiots. Mayor of Idiot Town.”

Despite yourself, your jaw tightened, fighting the smile threatening to break through.

He noticed. Of course he did. His eyebrows lifted a little, hopeful, and he leaned his weight more comfortably against you. “I didn’t mean what I said,” he went on. “I was tired and jealous and dumb and I took it out on you, which is not fair because you are—” he swallowed, eyes softening “—you’re my favorite person. And I hate when I make you look at me like that.”

His thumbs brushed small, apologetic circles into your sides. “I’ll do anything,” he added quickly. “I’ll apologize again. I’ll make dinner. I’ll even admit that you were right.”

That got a reaction—a huff of breath, a crack in your resolve.

Steve’s lips curved into a tentative smile, like he’d just spotted sunlight after a storm. He nudged his chin gently against you, a silent please. “Just… don’t be mad at me anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t like it when we’re like this. I like us better when you’re yelling at me for leaving socks on the floor instead.”

He stayed there, kneeling, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—waiting, hopeful, unapologetically in love.