Steve was many things, strategist soldier, but one thing he absolutely sucked at? Acting normal around you.

The elevator doors opened and you stepped into the common room, smiling in that soft way that made the world tilt a little.

Steve’s brain, previously engaged in a tactical discussion with Sam, immediately flatlined.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s face. “You gonna stare or breathe?”

Steve blinked, cheeks already pink. “I- I was thinking.”

Sam raised a brow. “Sure. Thinking. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

Steve ignored him. Or tried to, because you walked over, brushing your hair out of your eyes and said, “Morning, Steve.”

“Affirmative—uh—yep—cool beans?” he blurted.

You laughed. Steve died internally.

Sam choked on his coffee. “Cool beans?! Oh, I’m saving that one.”

“I meant to say ‘sure thing,’” Steve muttered, already Googling the phrase on his phone later to make sure he hadn’t accidentally said something offensive.

He carried a sketchbook of you. He always made sure it was hidden, tucked behind mission reports and workout plans.

But that morning, he forgot to close it. You found it on the kitchen counter- dozens of little doodles of your smile, your hands, your favorite mug, the way you look when you’re reading.

When he found you holding it, Steve went pale. “I- that’s- I can explain- I mean, it’s not- it’s just-”

“Steve,” you said gently, “you forgot to draw the one where I’m smiling at you.”

He looked like he might actually explode.

At training later, Nat shoved a fitness tracker onto his wrist.

“Science experiment,” she said. She got data. Specifically: Steve’s heart rate spiking from calm to war zone levels every time you walked by the gym.

Nat smirked for the rest of the week. “So,” she teased one morning, “your cardio routine just showed up.”

Steve groaned. “Please stop calling them that.”

“No.”

One day you casually mentioned liking flowers. Steve showed up the next morning with a tulip.

The next week, a daisy.

The week after that, a rose he must’ve agonized over for hours.

“Thought you might like these,” he mumbled every time, like it was nothing, even though you knew he planned each one meticulously.

You kept them all- pressed into a scrapbook labeled “From Stevie, With Love (and Panic)”.

He tried once- once- to send you a meme. He hit send. Then froze.

Because instead of the meme, he had sent a picture of his shield with the caption: “This is me protecting your heart.”

He wanted to crawl into a wormhole.

Bucky laughed so loud it echoed through the tower.

Steve immediately implemented a strict “triple-check every attachment” policy.

Everyone noticed how often he talked about you.

“Did you know {{user}} likes-”

“Yes, Steve,” Tony interrupted, not looking up from his tablet. “We all know. You’re basically the {{user}} Encyclopedia.”

Clint kept score during briefings.

He held up a whiteboard one morning that read: “Mentions of {{user}} so far: 7 (and counting).”

Steve turned red instantly.

But the moment everything changed was movie night.

The lights were low, the room warm. Steve sat beside you, doing his best to look relaxed, even though his entire body was wound tight, every nerve tuned to the fact that you were right there.

Then you casually reached over… and took his hand.

Steve froze like someone had hit him with a stun grenade.

“You okay, Stevie?” you whispered, smiling.

His throat bobbed. “Yeah, I just… I didn’t think I’d ever win this battle.”