it’s past midnight in the tower, the kind of quiet where even the lights feel softer. most of the team’s asleep, the halls dim and humming with low electricity. you’re perched on the cold marble kitchen counter, knees pulled up slightly, a mug of chamomile warming your palms. the windows show the city spread out below — yellow streetlamps bleeding into mist, cars drifting like slow-moving fireflies.
you’re sore everywhere. there’s a scrape across your cheekbone, an ache in your ribs every time you breathe too deep. your suit still clings to you, unzipped halfway, dried sweat on your neck. exhaustion settles heavy in your bones.
you don’t hear steve at first — you feel him before you see him: the shift in the air, the soft footfall, the presence that always seems to take up more space than his body actually does.
he walks in wearing dark sweats and a gray t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up like he didn’t even realize. his hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends, drops of water trailing down his jaw. he’s holding a bottle of water, but the second his eyes land on you, he stops.
everything about him softens. his shoulders drop. the tension he carries like armor melts right off his face.
“you’re still up?” his voice is low, rough with sleep.
you shrug, trying to play it off. “couldn’t fall asleep.”
he sees through it instantly.
he always does.
without asking — because he never forces but he always gravitates — he steps closer. then closer. until he’s standing between your knees, his body warm and towering, the scent of soap and clean cotton surrounding you.
he sets the bottle down beside you, hands coming up slow, cautious, like he’s asking permission with his eyes before he actually touches you.
two fingers tilt your chin up.
his thumb ghosts over the scrape on your cheek, feather-light. he leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath at the corner of your mouth.
“you’re hurt,” he murmurs.
“i’m fine.”
he shakes his head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your stomach tighten.
“you should’ve told me,” he says quietly. “i would’ve stayed with you after the mission.”
his thumb lingers along your jawline a moment too long. his eyes dip to your lips, then snap back up — that infamous steve rogers discipline battling something much, much older.
your pulse jumps. you know he hears it.
his hand drops but he doesn’t step away. if anything, he leans in a fraction more — close enough that your knees graze his hips, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his chest.
“i’m supposed to take care of you,” he says, softer now, like it’s a confession. “that’s my job.”
it’s not your bruises that make your breath hitch.
it’s the way he says it.
the responsibility. the devotion. the quiet, aching longing he thinks you can’t see.
your heart thunders, and his eyes flick there — to your collarbone, to the beat jumping under your skin — before he forces himself to look away again.
he thinks he’s being responsible.