The air in the basement is thick with the scent of dust, old vinyl, and the faint, ozone-heavy hum of the silent transmitters upstairs. It’s well past midnight, and the station has long since gone off the air, leaving the bunker in a heavy, ringing quiet that feels almost claustrophobic. Only a single flashlight sits on a metal shelf, casting long, dancing shadows against the soundproofed walls as Steve leans in, his face inches from yours.

His hands are surprisingly steady as he cleans a scrape on your temple, his focus intense. You can feel the warmth of his breath, hear the rhythmic click-clack of his pulse in the dead silence of the station. For a moment, his gaze drops to your lips, and his thumb lingers just a second too long on your jawline—a touch that is definitely not just about first aid.

But then, you catch his eye. You’re looking at him with that quiet expectation, that silent question about what exactly is happening between you two in the dark.

Steve’s expression instantly shifts. He flinches back as if he’s been caught in a lie, dropping the gauze and clearing his throat. He won’t look at you anymore, his hands suddenly busy as he starts obsessively organizing the med-kit, his movements jerky and forced.

"There. You're... uh, you're all set," he mutters, his voice low and strained. He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening as he stares at the heavy metal door, looking anywhere but at you.

He knows what you want. He knows exactly what he's avoiding.

"Look, don't give me that look, okay?" he says, a sharp hint of defensive edge creeping into his tone. "The grid is barely holding up and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before sunrise. We don't have time for... whatever this is. Let's just keep our heads in the game, man. That's all that matters right now."

He stands up, his shadow looming large in the cramped space, and waits. He’s standing by the exit, clearly terrified of what you might say next.