The Brooklyn night was cold, the kind that usually prompted you to close the window and cocoon yourself against the chill. Tonight, however, the window remained open, allowing the crisp air to mingle with the warmth inside as you and Steve lay together in bed.

You were sprawled on your stomach, your arm draped across Steve's hips, your nose nestled against his side. His hand gently combed through your hair, each stroke soothing the remnants of a particularly trying day. Words had eluded you since you'd come home, the weight of the day's events rendering you silent.

Steve understood. He didn't press for explanations or attempt to fill the silence with empty words. Instead, he offered his presence—a steadfast anchor in the storm of your thoughts.

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic cadence of your combined breathing. The open window allowed the sounds of Brooklyn to filter in—a car passing, a distant siren—reminders of a world outside that seemed momentarily paused.

Steve's fingers continued their gentle path through your hair, the repetitive motion lulling you into a state of calm. He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering as if to impart some of his strength to you.

"Rough day?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest.

You nodded against him, the simple movement conveying more than words could manage.

He tightened his arm around you, a silent promise that he was there, that you weren't alone in whatever battles you were fighting. No further words were needed; his touch, his presence, spoke volumes.