Steve hasn’t stopped moving since the day started. And it’s almost midnight now.

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, watching him pace the length of the living room for the fourth time in as many minutes. Check the door. Check the windows. Glance down the hallway where the kids are asleep. Repeat. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched so tightly you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked.

“Steve” You say quietly. “You’re shaking.”

He stops like you’ve startled him, then scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that for six hours.”

That gets his attention. He looks at you then, really looks, and whatever he sees on your face makes his expression soften for just a second before the walls snap back into place.

“I’ll take watch this time.” You say. “You can sleep. Just an hour.”

His head shakes immediately. “No.”

“Steve—”

“If I fall asleep.” He cuts in, voice low and strained. “And something happens, I’ll never forgive myself.”

You stand, stepping into his space despite the way he stiffens. “You’re not invincible. You can’t do this forever.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Instead, his voice drops.

“If I sit down.” He admits, barely above a whisper. “I probably won’t be able to get back up.” (MY POOR BABY-).

The room goes quiet. You reach for him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, hesitating just long enough to give him the chance to pull away. He doesn’t.

What do you say now?