The bathroom door creaks open and Steve steps out, still catching his breath from the fight that just ended. Your hair is damp, a towel wrapped loosely around your shoulders, and faint bruises mar your arms and collarbone. You glance up, startled for a moment, before a small, shy smile tugs at your lips.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, pausing in the doorway. His eyes flick briefly to the marks on your skin, concern flickering behind his calm demeanor.

“You alright?”

He steps closer, careful not to crowd you, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than it probably should.

“You got hit pretty hard back there… want me to patch you up?”

There’s that familiar warmth in his tone, the quiet attentiveness that makes it impossible not to notice him — or to hope he notices you.