and we've got to get ourselves

He lifts the blanket with one hand, thumb tucked between the pages to keep his place. You pad across the room and slide underneath the covers beside him without needing to be invited twice. The way that you turned onto your side and tucked your shoulder in close to him, like you always do, was pure instinct that’s grown from you doing it long enough where your body moves without your brain thinking. 

Your cheek settles against his bicep, and you sigh before you mean to. 

Steve smiles down at you, small but fond, and shifts his arm slightly to make you more comfortable. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs. “Stay in there too long again?”

“Probably,” you say, voice already slower. “Felt too nice. Lost track of time.”

“Thought so,” he replies, eyes flicking back to his book. “You’re being a great space heater though.” 

You hum, eyes drifting shut for a moment as you slide your hand under his sleeve. Your fingers curl around his arm and give it a small squeeze. Not tight, or urgent. Just enough to ground yourself, like checking to make sure that your wallet is still where you left it last. 

Steve doesn’t comment. He never does, not since he got used to it. He just relaxes into it, arm firm and steady beneath your cheek, like this is as simple to him as breathing.

You’ve loved his arms for a long, long time.

Early on, he picked up on it easily. The way that you would stare at his arms when he was shifting gears in his car. Or when he carried in far too many grocery bags and the soft muscle turned more prominent. Somewhere along the way, your admiration softened into something quieter. A habit, maybe. But something that was the kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud, and instead just becoming a part of how you moved through the world beside Steve. 

He turns the page of his book.

“What’re you reading?” you ask, mostly because you don’t quite want to fall asleep just yet.

He glances down. “Same one.”

“You said you were almost finished last night.”

“You’re right,” he says after a beat. “But I was reading, and reading, and then realized that I was reading the same page.”

You laugh, wishing to go back in time to stay up and witness him dozing off last night. He giggles with you, leaning down to kiss your forehead. You hum, signaling for him to keep moving down for a proper kiss. He complies. 

Then, another page turns. The house hums quietly around you.

“You eat enough today?” he asks, casual, the same way he’d ask you about the weather. 

You exhale softly. “Probably not.”

“We’ll fix that tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

There’s no judgement in it. No pressure. Just the certainty that tomorrow will come, and it includes him standing in the kitchen as you help him decide on what sounds good. With the benefit of him working away in the kitchen wearing an apron like he always does. 

Your fingers tighten around his arm again. Thank you.

His free hand smoothes the blanket lying over your hip. Of course. 

Steve’s bicep flexes instinctively beneath you before he remembers you resting comfortably and relaxes again, careful not to disturb you. 

“Was it a long day?” he asks.

You think about it for a second, fingers tracing lazily beneath his sleeve. 

“Not really,” you say finally. “Just one of those days that makes you want to come home.”

He hums, low and understanding, and shifts closer. His arm tightens just enough for you to feel it again.

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “I know those.”

Your thumb continues the slow ministrations along his bicep, then stills. You squeeze once, and Steve’s exhale relieves all the tension he was holding in his shoulders. He was waiting for you to knead his arm again. 

“I like when you do that,” he whispers, almost like this is a confession that needs to be kept a secret. 

You tilt your head slightly, smiling into him. How beautiful he looks makes your heart feel all tingly and warm. “I know.”

The book stays open but forgotten now, his attention fully on the quiet space between you. Nothing else is said, either. Nothing has to be said. Steve presses a kiss into your hair, then another. His arm stays exactly where it is, no urgency to move. That is until his arm falls asleep before he does. But it’s nothing he has to worry about right now. 

Right now, he decides to close the book and set it aside, careful not to jostle you. Without breaking the contact between you, the lamp clicks off and the bed droops from his weight shifting. You tuck yourself closer into him when he settles, knee brushing into his thigh. 

For a moment, nobody dares to move.

Your fingers curl in, giving his arm one last squeeze before sleep. Steve only exhales softly and tightens his hold in response. A kiss is pressed to your forehead. 

“Night,” he murmurs. 

“Night.”