Protection.

   That’s Steve’s schtick. He’s one of the world’s most famous superheroes. He runs around saving the world from extraterrestrials, fights besides a freaking God, fucks around and alters timelines, he protects. With every fiber of his being, every ounce of his strength and he’ll never open his mouth to complain about it. Even when it comes to you. 

   You’re the headache, the heartache, the dream, the desire, it’s always been you and you’re the only thing he’s fought this hard for. For, against, with, it changes, depends on who’s the villain that day. Him, you, things that neither of you can control or fix at the moment.  

   On Monday you want him, give him a taste of what he craves; full access to you. Every kiss, hug and smile he dreams about, he revels in every little touch and lingering look.  

   It gets him through Tuesday, which isn’t such a shock anymore. When you won’t keep eye contact, keep him at arm’s length, treat him like he’s a stranger.

    The less painful precursor to Wednesdays when you ignore the way you feel for him, the way he feels for you, absolve him of all responsibility concerning you, making it clear that he’s not yours, and he shouldn’t be. 

   Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays fade to black, you don’t speak to him and he lets you just yearn for each other on opposite ends of the city. And Sunday nights are his saving grace when you finally cave only seconds before he does and you start the cycle again.

   Sometimes the days change, but nothing else does. The same motions week after week. The pattern is rarely broken, hasn’t been since he’s accepted that this is the only way he can have you, that you’ll let him have you. So he doesn’t argue anymore, plays his part, doesn’t question you, and takes what little crumbs you do give him, even though it’s tearing him apart at the seams. 

   He was made to love you. 

   His lips were made to kiss the birthmarks you hide. His hands were crafted to explore you, pull all the secrets you hide from underneath your skin, and listen to your soul speak. His arms were fashioned to hold you. His body was your shield but for the love of him you won’t wield him.

   Tonight is different.

   It’s one of those those days, the Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, the in between times. He wants you so bad it pains him, every step makes his knees buckle, and his arms ache, and he isn’t himself. He’s tossed his usual beer for shots of whatever the bartender was in the mood to whip up. His body is numb and he’s hurting too much to wait until Sunday night. He’s racing, jumping off the barstool throwing down how ever much was in his back pocket, grabbing his jacket and racing to you. 

   Every minute is torture though it gets him closer to you. His limbs come alive one by one the closer he gets to your apartment until he’s buzzing. He brings his hand down on the door harder than he means to.

   “Steve?”

   He’s on you before the door is fully opened, barging in chucking you in the air,  gathering you in arms, pressing you against him in an attempt to meld your perfect being into his skin.

   “I don’t think I even breathe when we’re not together.” 

   Your arms tighten around his neck, legs locking around his torso. “It feels like one long asthma attack, doesn’t it?”

   He was prepared to explain himself, why he broke the unspoken agreement between the two of you, beg you not to push him farther away, just give him the night. So your understanding confuses him then angers him beyond belief.

   “If you know why do you make me wait?”

   He places you down, and you find your footing. You watch him chuck off his jacket and throw it onto your arm chair, and though it has only been a day or two, it feels like its been an eternity so you treat yourself into taking in all of him. His full but trimmed beard, beautiful tousled head of hair, beautiful but pained brown eyes. 

   “I don’t complain you know - I fucking take all of it cause - because it’s all you’ll give me. So I think maybe she doesn’t know that it feels like,” He exhales a ragged breath, beating his hand over his chest. “like - like withdrawals! You made me a fucking addict and you won’t even give me my fill.”

   “You know-”

   “I don’t. I don’t know. I know I’m in love with a woman who’s in love with me, and I still don’t have her. I can’t hold her. Explain that to me!”

    You’re ashamed of yourself, it hurts to look at him. His heartbreak is loud reverberating through the apartment hitting you like a shit ton of bricks. You do love him, almost more than life itself, your chest is hollow when you’ve been away from him for too long. 

   He’s there when you need him, before you know you need him. Your knight in shining armor even when you need to be saved from yourself. And that’s the problem. He’s perfect. So perfect that it hurts, too perfect that it’s impossible. It feels like the movies. He’d run after you in the airport, stop you on the bridge. Sometimes just the smell of his cologne gets you lightheaded, because the urge to climb into his skin is too compelling.

   That’s what scares you, keeps you up at night, and makes your heart race when you hear stories of women being so enthralled in what they thought was the perfect love that they missed the signs. Fell so in love with the idea of being in love and love itself that they stayed even when there was no reason to, when the spark was well past died out.

   What if you were suddenly that woman?

    “Stop doing that!” With long strides he closes the space he put between you with during his outburst. “Everything’s a party I didn’t get invited to. You won’t let me in your head, in your heart. So where am I supposed to go?”

   “What do you want from me?” You question, hoarsely.

   “You.” Warm hands cup your face to into even warmer eyes. “All of you, all of the time.”

  You don’t speak but the quiver of your bottom lip and glassy eyes say more than a million words. “I won’t mess up. I will never forget an anniversary, a dinner, a birthday. I won’t forget to make you happy. Even when there are 7 kids to be fed, a lawn to be mowed and nosy neighbors. I won’t forget what you need. I won’t forget. I won’t mess up. I won’t leave.”

   Don’t promise me the unknowns.  

   “Even though I won’t, let me make the mistake before you punish me for it. Let me.”

   “Let you…”

   He nods eagerly, waiting for a real response, a real okay. But the breakdown comes first. He takes it like a soldier, and the gratitude is overwhelming; to hold you during your most vulnerable.

   “Let you what?” You run your first under your runny nose. “Be specific.” You eyes bore in his, unwavering and strong. Let you in my bed?

   “Let me love you.”

Taglist: @bookstan0618

A/N:  I’m going to start to rant. But if this is your stop, thank you for reading!

My hopeless romantics what other genre besides Rom-coms speaks to us. They're the only genre that matters and I want them to have a resurgence immediately! @Netflix The Half Of it and To All The Boys I Loved Before was a good start! (This is also a sign to start a convo with me about ur fav rom coms and their leading in my inbox btw like right now if you want idk.)

Where are the If I Stay stans? WHERE ARE YOU? I'm never letting that book go, I don't care what you say the second book is the reason I believe in love I don't care. We deserved a second movie where I could have had the full soundtrack of The Collateral Damage album. Hollywood it will rain hellfire down on you for what you've taken from me!