You were sitting cross-legged in front of him, the dim light from the nearby lamp casting soft shadows across the room. The adrenaline from earlier had finally begun to wear off, leaving behind the sharp sting of cuts, and bruises.

Steve sat on the floor with his back against the wall, shirt torn, blood crusted near his temple. You dipped the cloth into a bowl of warm water, wrung it out, and carefully dabbed at the mess on his face.

He winced slightly. “Ow.”

“Oh, please,” you muttered, more sharply than you meant to. “I'm barely even touching you.”

He didn’t argue, just let you keep working, his eyes fixed on you while you scolded him under your breath, about being reckless, about not calling for help, about diving headfirst into danger.

“God,” he said finally, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you’re bossy when you’re worried.”