You didn’t expect the lights to feel so bright in New York.

Or maybe it was just the contrast after so many months under Wakandan skies. Soft, orange-pink sunsets traded in for the cold gleam of street lamps. You adjusted your grip on the paper bag in your hand—a bottle of wine tucked safely inside, not the kind Steve would’ve picked, but the kind that didn’t need to breathe. It was a Thursday. That felt important, somehow. (©TRS0625CAI)

The city didn’t feel like home anymore.

Not really.

The streets of Brooklyn were still paved in memory, the scaffolding-cloaked skyline still clawed at the clouds the same way it always had, but everything felt… quieter. The world was shifting without asking for your permission.

You’d landed in New York under the cover of night, your boots hitting JFK’s concrete like they didn’t belong. Like you didn’t belong.

Steve hadn’t called in months. Not since Wakanda. Not since you let him go, fingers loosening around his dog tags as he kissed your forehead and whispered, “I’ll come back to you.”

And then silence.

For your safety, he’d said. For Bucky. For the mission.

So you'd stayed behind in Wakanda with Shuri, biting back every urge to demand updates or scream at the sky. You'd helped her scrub Hydra from Bucky’s mind, neuron by neuron. A slow, surgical exorcism of his demons—one electric ghost at a time.

But you couldn’t stay away from home forever.

You’d barely dropped your bag inside your old brownstone when the power flickered. That was your first clue. The second was the bottle of wine already breathing on the kitchen counter, red and defiant like it had a point to prove. And the third—

Was him.

He stepped out from the shadows of your living room like some kind of dream you’d tried too hard to forget. Arms folded, head tilted, expression unreadable in the golden hush of the lamp he’d turned on for you.

“Hi,” Steve said, and just like that, your knees buckled.

“Jesus, Steve.” You staggered back against the counter like he’d physically hit you. “You can’t just—show up.”

“I didn’t think a phone call would do this justice.”

Your hand twitched toward the wine. “No. I suppose it wouldn’t.”

He moved slowly, like a man approaching a wounded animal—or maybe like one who’d forgotten what it was like to be welcome.

“I heard you were coming home. I figured…” He paused, his voice fraying at the edges. “I couldn’t let you come back to an empty house.”

It was your house. But it hadn’t felt like yours since the night he left it.

You swallowed down every curse you wanted to throw and stared at him. His beard was a little longer. The lines around his mouth, a little deeper. He was still in that damned black suit—washed out, battle-scuffed, his shield long gone and replaced by nothing but silence.

“Do you want a glass?” you asked, voice thinner than you meant it to be.

Steve’s smile was soft, like the curve of smoke off the tip of a candle. “Only if you drink with me.”

So you poured. Two glasses. The good wine. Because if you were going to break your own heart, you might as well do it with Cabernet and grace.

You clinked your glass against his and the sound was small, but it echoed all the way into your bones.

He sat across from you on the couch, knees brushing, both of you lit only by the low burn of a single lamp. Shadows flickered across his face like ghosts trying to dance. You thought about all the things you wanted to ask him. Where he'd been. If Bucky was okay. If he was okay.

But instead, you said:

“You always show up when I’m trying to forget you.”

He chuckled, and it was the saddest sound you’d ever loved.

“Well,” he said, “I was hoping I could be something you want to remember.”

A beat.

Then he leaned forward and whispered, like a confession,

“I'm not staying.”

And there it was. The match struck. The smoke in your chest catching fire.

“How long do we have?” you asked.

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached for your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“Enough for tonight.”