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CappysForeverChallenge (Masterlist of entries) (Started June 18 2020)

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Weekly Writing Mini Challenge #1

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Writing Challenges From an Old Blog Masterlist

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POC FUN Challenge (masterlist) (Only POC characters)

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OneSentenceToGo (Masterlist) (only one sentence for a prompt)

100WordsForCaplan (Masterlist) (a fictlet with exactly 100 words)

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“That was rage.”

“Honestly, hotter.”

Matt had coughed somewhere behind him. “Foggy.”

Foggy grinned, completely unashamed.

He handled your case with the kind of warmth people didn’t expect from lawyers in movies. He explained everything in plain English, never talked down to you, and somehow made court deadlines sound like mildly annoying brunch reservations.

When the case was finally settled in your favor a few weeks later, you’d shaken his hand across his desk.

“Thank you, Foggy.”

“Please,” he said, hand lingering just a second too long. “Call me if you ever need legal help again.”

You tilted your head. “What if I need help carrying groceries?”

His mouth opened. Closed.

Matt, from the other office: “She’s flirting with you, Fog.”

“I KNOW THAT NOW,” he yelled back.

Three months later, you were standing in your kitchen while Foggy wrestled with a jar of pasta sauce. “You told me this was a simple dinner,” he accused.

“It is simple. You open things, I’m pretty.”

“You weaponized my feelings.”

He finally got the lid off with a triumphant gasp, nearly throwing himself backward. You caught his arm, laughing. Foggy looked at your hand on him like it was something precious. That was the thing about him. Under all the jokes and noise and charming nonsense, he looked at you like you mattered. Like every small thing you did was worth noticing.

“You’re staring,” you said softly.

“I’m allowed,” he replied. “You’re in my top three favorite views.”

“There are other views?”

“Yeah. You, from the left side. You, from the right side. Then you holding bread.”

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.

He moved closer, smile gentling. “Can I kiss my former client, or is that professionally unethical?”

“The case is closed.”

“Great,” he murmured, kissing you slow and sweet. “Because I’ve been wanting to appeal for months.”

“The one near your eye. Means you’re thinking murderous thoughts.”

“I’m driving with you in my vehicle. Murderous thoughts are natural.”

“It’s not your vehicle. Dean stole it.”

“Borrowed,” Dean called from the backseat.

“Grand theft auto with confidence is still theft,” Sam muttered beside him.

You turned in your seat, lowering your voice into an atrocious imitation of a posh accent. “Arthur, darling, perhaps unclench. You’ll wrinkle prematurely.”

Dean barked a laugh.

Ketch’s jaw flexed. “That accent is offensive on multiple levels.”

“Cor blimey,” you said solemnly. “The poor bloke’s upset.”

“I’m going to leave you on the roadside.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I assure you, I would not.”

You grinned and kicked your boots up on the dash.

He hated that grin most of all. Because it made him want to smile back.

The case was in rural Ohio: a string of disappearances, livestock drained of blood, locals whispering vampire.

It wasn’t vampires. It was worse. A nest of ghouls had moved into an abandoned cannery outside town, and by nightfall everyone was bruised, irritated, and covered in something foul.

Dean and Sam went around back. You and Ketch were sent through the front.

“Try not to stab me by accident,” you whispered as you moved through the dark corridor.

“I’d never do it by accident.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“Quiet.”

You flashed your light over rusted hooks and broken machinery. “You know, for a trained assassin, you’re very grumpy.”

“For a hunter, you’re shockingly unserious.”

“Humor keeps me young.”

“Your impulse control keeps me aged.”

You snickered, then something moved above you. Ketch shoved you hard. A ghoul dropped from the rafters where you’d been standing, claws slicing through empty air. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of you. Ketch had his blade out before you’d blinked. Efficient. Brutal. Three clean strikes and the creature collapsed twitching.

You stared.

He offered you a hand up like nothing had happened. “Well?” he said.

“You pushed me.”

“To save your life.”

“You do care.”

His ears went pink. “No,” he snapped. “I care about mission success.”

“Mhm.”

He turned away so quickly he nearly tripped over the corpse.

Later, in the motel room, you found him in the bathroom cleaning blood from a cut on his cheek. The fluorescent light was cruel. He still looked unfairly handsome.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“I’m aware.”

“Sit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sit down before I manhandle you.”

He looked scandalized. “You couldn’t.”

You raised a brow. He sat. You wet a towel and stepped between his knees. He went very still as you tilted his chin toward the light.

“This from the ghoul?” you asked softly.

“Yes.”

“You should’ve let me handle it.”

“You didn’t see it.”

“I usually see everything.”

“Clearly not.”

You dabbed the cut harder than necessary.

He hissed. “Vindictive.”

“You love it.”

“I assure you, I do not love anything about you.”

“Liar.”

His gaze lifted to yours. For once, there was no sharp remark waiting there. No smirk. No polished disdain. Just something quieter. More dangerous.

Your hand slowed.

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

“You infuriate me,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I know.”

“You mock me constantly.”

“You make it easy.”

“And yet,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “I look for you whenever you leave a room.”

Your breath caught. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is.”

You should have stepped back. Instead, you leaned in slightly. “You’re not nearly as charming when you’re honest.”

“And you’re not nearly as insufferable when you stop speaking.”

“Rude.”

Then he kissed you. No warning. No hesitation. One hand braced on your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as if he’d been restraining himself for months and finally decided restraint was overrated. You made a startled noise against his mouth. Then kissed him back harder.

The towel dropped to the floor.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, he looked almost annoyed by it. “Well,” he said stiffly.

You laughed. “Did you just well me after that?”

“I’m regrouping.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t say adorable.”

“Sorry.” You kissed him again, quick and wicked. “Devastatingly adorable.”

He groaned and hauled you back in by the waist.

—

The next morning, Dean walked into the motel room and froze. You were wearing Ketch’s shirt. Ketch was making tea.

Sam slowly backed out into the hallway.

Dean pointed between the two of you. “No.”

“Yes,” you said cheerfully.

“No.”

Ketch sipped from his mug. “Terribly sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“Not remotely.”

Dean looked personally betrayed. “I leave for eight hours.”

“It is not a good morrow,” you muttered, shoving two strawberry Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

His blue eyes narrowed. “What manner of Midgardian ritual is this?”

“Breakfast.”

“That?” He pointed as if insulted on behalf of all cuisine.

You pulled the pastries out, slid one onto a plate, and handed it over. “Try it before you judge.”

Thor took it delicately between two fingers like it might explode. He examined the frosting. The rainbow sprinkles. The suspiciously artificial scent of strawberries.

“This food is… flat.”

“Just eat it.”

He took one bite. Then another. Then a third so large half the pastry vanished.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

“Well?” you asked.

Thor slowly lowered the Pop-Tart and stared at it like it had revealed the secrets of the cosmos. “This,” he said hoarsely, “is glorious.”

You snorted. “It’s processed sugar.”

“It is art.” He devoured the rest in two bites, crumbs scattering into his beard. “Another.”

You laughed. “Absolutely not. You need water first.”

“Another,” he repeated, louder.

By the time Tony walked in twenty minutes later, Thor had discovered brown sugar cinnamon, wild berry, and cookies & cream. There were wrappers everywhere. Thor stood on a chair, one foot planted dramatically on the counter, holding a foil packet aloft.

“STARK!” he thundered.

Tony blinked. “Why is there frosting on your hammer?”

“Because your realm has hidden treasures from me!”

Tony glanced at you. “What did you do?”

You grinned sheepishly at him. “I created a monster.”

Thor jumped down, grabbing Tony by the shoulders with alarming enthusiasm. “Bring forth more of the pastries!”

“They’re Pop-Tarts, Point Break.”

“POP-TARTS!” Thor roared to the heavens. “I SHALL HAVE THEM STOCKED IN EVERY CHAMBER!”

Bruce entered next, froze at the chaos, and quietly backed out. Too late.

“Banner!” Thor shouted. “Come partake of the strawberry rectangles!”

Natasha walked in, surveyed the wrappers, and deadpanned, “He found junk food.”

“Worse,” you said. “He likes it.”

Thor turned to you with crumbs on his mouth and genuine wonder in his eyes. “You knew of these delights… and did not tell me sooner?”

You shrugged. “You never asked.”

“It is not a good morrow,” you muttered, shoving two strawberry Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

His blue eyes narrowed. “What manner of Midgardian ritual is this?”

“Breakfast.”

“That?” He pointed as if insulted on behalf of all cuisine.

You pulled the pastries out, slid one onto a plate, and handed it over. “Try it before you judge.”

Thor took it delicately between two fingers like it might explode. He examined the frosting. The rainbow sprinkles. The suspiciously artificial scent of strawberries.

“This food is… flat.”

“Just eat it.”

He took one bite. Then another. Then a third so large half the pastry vanished.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

“Well?” you asked.

Thor slowly lowered the Pop-Tart and stared at it like it had revealed the secrets of the cosmos. “This,” he said hoarsely, “is glorious.”

You snorted. “It’s processed sugar.”

“It is art.” He devoured the rest in two bites, crumbs scattering into his beard. “Another.”

You laughed. “Absolutely not. You need water first.”

“Another,” he repeated, louder.

By the time Tony walked in twenty minutes later, Thor had discovered brown sugar cinnamon, wild berry, and cookies & cream. There were wrappers everywhere. Thor stood on a chair, one foot planted dramatically on the counter, holding a foil packet aloft.

“STARK!” he thundered.

Tony blinked. “Why is there frosting on your hammer?”

“Because your realm has hidden treasures from me!”

Tony glanced at you. “What did you do?”

You grinned sheepishly at him. “I created a monster.”

Thor jumped down, grabbing Tony by the shoulders with alarming enthusiasm. “Bring forth more of the pastries!”

“They’re Pop-Tarts, Point Break.”

“POP-TARTS!” Thor roared to the heavens. “I SHALL HAVE THEM STOCKED IN EVERY CHAMBER!”

Bruce entered next, froze at the chaos, and quietly backed out. Too late.

“Banner!” Thor shouted. “Come partake of the strawberry rectangles!”

Natasha walked in, surveyed the wrappers, and deadpanned, “He found junk food.”

“Worse,” you said. “He likes it.”

Thor turned to you with crumbs on his mouth and genuine wonder in his eyes. “You knew of these delights… and did not tell me sooner?”

You shrugged. “You never asked.”

“The one near your eye. Means you’re thinking murderous thoughts.”

“I’m driving with you in my vehicle. Murderous thoughts are natural.”

“It’s not your vehicle. Dean stole it.”

“Borrowed,” Dean called from the backseat.

“Grand theft auto with confidence is still theft,” Sam muttered beside him.

You turned in your seat, lowering your voice into an atrocious imitation of a posh accent. “Arthur, darling, perhaps unclench. You’ll wrinkle prematurely.”

Dean barked a laugh.

Ketch’s jaw flexed. “That accent is offensive on multiple levels.”

“Cor blimey,” you said solemnly. “The poor bloke’s upset.”

“I’m going to leave you on the roadside.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I assure you, I would not.”

You grinned and kicked your boots up on the dash.

He hated that grin most of all. Because it made him want to smile back.

The case was in rural Ohio: a string of disappearances, livestock drained of blood, locals whispering vampire.

It wasn’t vampires. It was worse. A nest of ghouls had moved into an abandoned cannery outside town, and by nightfall everyone was bruised, irritated, and covered in something foul.

Dean and Sam went around back. You and Ketch were sent through the front.

“Try not to stab me by accident,” you whispered as you moved through the dark corridor.

“I’d never do it by accident.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“Quiet.”

You flashed your light over rusted hooks and broken machinery. “You know, for a trained assassin, you’re very grumpy.”

“For a hunter, you’re shockingly unserious.”

“Humor keeps me young.”

“Your impulse control keeps me aged.”

You snickered, then something moved above you. Ketch shoved you hard. A ghoul dropped from the rafters where you’d been standing, claws slicing through empty air. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of you. Ketch had his blade out before you’d blinked. Efficient. Brutal. Three clean strikes and the creature collapsed twitching.

You stared.

He offered you a hand up like nothing had happened. “Well?” he said.

“You pushed me.”

“To save your life.”

“You do care.”

His ears went pink. “No,” he snapped. “I care about mission success.”

“Mhm.”

He turned away so quickly he nearly tripped over the corpse.

Later, in the motel room, you found him in the bathroom cleaning blood from a cut on his cheek. The fluorescent light was cruel. He still looked unfairly handsome.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“I’m aware.”

“Sit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sit down before I manhandle you.”

He looked scandalized. “You couldn’t.”

You raised a brow. He sat. You wet a towel and stepped between his knees. He went very still as you tilted his chin toward the light.

“This from the ghoul?” you asked softly.

“Yes.”

“You should’ve let me handle it.”

“You didn’t see it.”

“I usually see everything.”

“Clearly not.”

You dabbed the cut harder than necessary.

He hissed. “Vindictive.”

“You love it.”

“I assure you, I do not love anything about you.”

“Liar.”

His gaze lifted to yours. For once, there was no sharp remark waiting there. No smirk. No polished disdain. Just something quieter. More dangerous.

Your hand slowed.

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

“You infuriate me,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I know.”

“You mock me constantly.”

“You make it easy.”

“And yet,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “I look for you whenever you leave a room.”

Your breath caught. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is.”

You should have stepped back. Instead, you leaned in slightly. “You’re not nearly as charming when you’re honest.”

“And you’re not nearly as insufferable when you stop speaking.”

“Rude.”

Then he kissed you. No warning. No hesitation. One hand braced on your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as if he’d been restraining himself for months and finally decided restraint was overrated. You made a startled noise against his mouth. Then kissed him back harder.

The towel dropped to the floor.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, he looked almost annoyed by it. “Well,” he said stiffly.

You laughed. “Did you just well me after that?”

“I’m regrouping.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t say adorable.”

“Sorry.” You kissed him again, quick and wicked. “Devastatingly adorable.”

He groaned and hauled you back in by the waist.

—

The next morning, Dean walked into the motel room and froze. You were wearing Ketch’s shirt. Ketch was making tea.

Sam slowly backed out into the hallway.

Dean pointed between the two of you. “No.”

“Yes,” you said cheerfully.

“No.”

Ketch sipped from his mug. “Terribly sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“Not remotely.”

Dean looked personally betrayed. “I leave for eight hours.”

“I might need tactical support.”

Natasha’s laugh crackled in his ear. “For confessing feelings to your best friend of twenty years?”

“Seventeen,” Steve corrected automatically.

“Cute that you know the exact number.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake when you let yourself pine for nearly two decades,” Natasha said. “Knock on the damn door, Rogers.”

He stared at the wood like it had personally insulted him. Then he knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. You stood there in socks and one of those oversized sweaters you always stole from thrift stores, hair messy, face bare, and somehow you looked exactly the same as the girl who used to split her lunch with him in Brooklyn and nothing like her at all.

“Steve?” you blinked. “Why do you look like you’re about to deliver bad news? What's with the flowers?”

He glanced at the flowers. “That obvious?”

“Very.” You stepped aside. “Come in.” Your apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and coffee. There were books stacked on every surface and a blanket tossed over the couch. Homey. Warm. You.

Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room while you eyed him.

“You’re sweating,” you said.

“I don’t sweat much.”

“You are now.”

Natasha snorted in his ear.

Steve yanked the comm out and shoved it in his pocket.

You frowned. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“No.”

“Interesting answer.”

He handed you the flowers like a shield. “These are for you.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Steve…”

“I know they’re not great flowers. The guy at the store said they were cheerful.”

“They are cheerful.” You smiled, and it hit him straight in the chest. “Thank you.”

You set them down carefully and turned back to him. “So,” you said slowly. “What’s going on?”

This was it. He had rehearsed speeches. Thoughtful speeches. Charming speeches. A few dignified speeches. Instead, what came out was, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Your face went blank. Then your eyes widened. Then you froze completely.

Steve felt every bit of confidence leave his body in one violent rush. “Oh,” he said quietly.

You still didn’t move.

He took a step back. “Right. Okay. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.” Still nothing. His chest ached. “I just thought… Nat said I should stop waiting for the perfect time and I guess she was right, but maybe this was the wrong time and—”

“Steve—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He was already backing toward the door now, panic making him ramble. “Really. Forget I said it. We’re fine. We’re still us.”

“Steve.”

“You don’t feel the same, and that’s okay, I just—”

“Steven Grant Rogers.” That stopped him dead. You were staring at him now like you wanted to shake him. “I froze because I’ve imagined you saying that to me since I was sixteen,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You crossed your arms, cheeks pink. “I froze because I thought I was hallucinating. Or having some kind of stress-induced episode.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. “You…” He swallowed. “You imagined me saying it?”

“For years,” you said. “Which is humiliating now, so thanks for that.”

“I thought you didn’t—”

“I thought you didn’t.”

“I’ve been in love with you since you punched Tommy Garrison for calling me shrimp.”

You gasped. “I was nine!”

“It was very romantic.”

“I chipped a tooth.”

“You were magnificent.”

You made a strangled laugh and covered your face with your hands.

Steve was still staring at you like the world had tilted. “So…” he said carefully. “You feel the same?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He crossed the room in three strides. “Unfortunately?”

“Well, now I have to deal with the fact that my best friend is Captain America and annoyingly handsome.”

He smiled so hard it almost hurt. “Sounds difficult.”

“It’s a burden.”

Then his expression softened. “Can I kiss you?”

You dropped your hands. “Took you long enough.”

The kiss was warm and careful at first—years of friendship handled like something precious. Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. He made a surprised sound against your mouth. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, you pressed your forehead to his.

“You know,” you murmured, “Natasha absolutely knows about this already, doesn’t she?”

Steve sighed. “Probably.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up and snorted. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him.

Natasha: Finally. He owes me twenty bucks.

Steve groaned. You laughed, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on, Rogers.”

“What now?”

Then one night he passed the common room and saw Sam, Natasha, and Bruce sitting in unusual silence. No banter. No TV noise. Just concern.

“She barely touched dinner,” Bruce murmured.

Natasha leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “She flinched when I asked if she was okay.”

Sam sighed. “I tried joking with her. Nothing.”

Steve stood in the doorway, unease settling deep in his chest.

Natasha looked at him. “You’ve noticed too.”

It wasn’t a question.

Steve nodded once.

“She’s withdrawing,” Bruce said carefully. “That kind of isolation can get dangerous.”

Steve hated how fast the word dangerous made his mind race.

The next morning, you were gone before sunrise. Friday informed him you’d left for a supply run downtown. He stood in the kitchen for several minutes, coffee untouched in his hand, staring at nothing. Then he set the mug down and walked to your room.

He knocked first. Once. Twice. No answer. “Y/N?” he called. Silence. He should have turned around. He knew that. But something in his gut—something old and sharp and soldier-instinctive—kept him rooted there.

“Friday, unlock the door.”

“Access granted, Captain Rogers.”

The room beyond was neat in the deliberate way messy people cleaned when they were trying to feel in control. Your bed was made too tightly. Books stacked in perfect lines. Laundry folded. Desk cleared except for six envelopes laid carefully side by side.

Steve’s pulse stuttered.

Each envelope had a name written in your handwriting. Tony. Natasha. Bruce. Clint. Thor. Steve. He crossed the room in three strides and stopped short at the desk, suddenly afraid to touch anything.

“No,” he whispered to the empty room. His own name stared back at him. With fingers that felt clumsy and numb, he opened the envelope. Inside was a folded letter.He recognized the tremor in the pen strokes immediately.

Steve,

If you’re reading this, then I couldn’t figure out how to stay.

His vision blurred. He sat heavily in your desk chair and kept reading.

You wrote about exhaustion so deep sleep no longer touched it. About smiling because people worried less when you smiled. About standing in rooms full of heroes and feeling invisible anyway. About shame. About loneliness. About not wanting to be another burden added to shoulders already carrying the world.

You apologized for things no one had ever asked you to apologize for. You thanked him for kindnesses he barely remembered doing. You said he made people feel safe.

And then, at the bottom:

I just didn’t know how to save myself.

Steve pressed a hand over his mouth. He reached for Natasha’s next. Then Sam’s wasn’t there—no, Sam wasn’t one of the six. Tony’s. Bruce’s. Each one different. Each one carrying the same ache.

By the time he finished, his breathing was uneven and anger had begun to mix with the fear. Anger at himself. At the team. At you. At the fact that you had been suffering close enough to touch and none of them had broken through.

He was still standing there, letters clenched in his fist, when the bedroom door opened. You stepped inside carrying two grocery bags. You froze. Your eyes moved from Steve—to the open envelopes—to the letters in his hand.

The bags slipped from your fingers. A jar shattered on the floor. For one long second, the room was silent except for rolling glass.

Then your face hardened. “You went through my things?”

Steve took one step forward. “What the hell are these?”

“My room,” you snapped. “My desk. My business.”

“Your business?” His voice rose despite himself. “You write goodbye letters to everyone you care about and call it your business?”

“Give them back.”

“No.”

Your jaw clenched. “I said give them back.”

“And I said no.”

You stormed forward, trying to snatch them from his hand. Steve lifted them out of reach on instinct. The movement humiliated you. Your eyes flashed with fury. “Of course,” you said bitterly. “Captain America decides what’s best for everyone.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you shouted. “Concern? Guilt? Some noble rescue mission because you finally noticed I exist?”

The words struck hard.

Steve’s expression changed. Hurt, immediate and raw. “You think I only just noticed?”

“Yes!” you yelled back. “Because nobody noticed until now!” Your voice cracked on the last word.

The anger in the room turned suddenly thin and brittle. You were trembling.

Steve lowered his arm slowly. “I noticed,” he said quietly. “I noticed you stopped laughing. I noticed you stopped eating with us. I noticed you looked tired all the time. I noticed you kept saying you were fine when you weren’t.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”

Because he hadn’t known how to help without pushing. Because he’d been afraid of making it worse. Because sometimes even good people wait too long. His silence answered for him.

You laughed once—a broken, ugly sound. “Exactly.”

You turned away, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired, Steve.”

The fight drained out of him at once. He set the letters down on the desk and crossed the room slowly. “Tired of what?” he asked gently.

“Everything.” Your shoulders shook. “Waking up tired. Pretending I’m okay. Feeling guilty for not being okay. Watching all of you save strangers while I can’t even manage myself.”

“You are not failing because you’re hurting.”

“It feels like failure.”

“It isn’t.”

You spun back toward him, tears spilling now despite your obvious hatred of them. “I didn’t want to be one more thing wrong in this tower!”

The confession echoed between you.

Steve’s face crumpled. He reached for you carefully, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. The second his hands touched your arms, you broke. All the rage, all the pride, all the frantic defensiveness collapsed at once. You folded into him with a choking sob, clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.

Steve caught you instantly. One arm wrapped around your back. The other cradled the back of your head.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, though his own voice shook. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“No.” He held you tighter. “No apologizing for pain.”

You wept hard enough your knees gave out. He guided you both down to the floor amid spilled groceries and broken glass, sitting with you curled against him.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. He stayed quiet except for the occasional soft reassurance, hand moving slowly over your hair and back.

When your crying finally eased into shaky breaths, Steve tilted his head down. “Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly. Eyes swollen. Face wet. Exhausted beyond words.

“We’re going to get help,” he said, steady and certain. “Today. Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Today.”

You swallowed. “What if I’m too much?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Then we carry it together.”

Fresh tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m angry with you,” he admitted softly. “Because this scared me. Because I hate that you were alone with this.”

“I know.”

“I’m angrier at myself.”

You shook your head weakly. “You don’t get all the blame.”

A small, sad smile touched his mouth. “Fair enough.” He stood, then offered you his hand.

When you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?”

“Kitchen first. You still need groceries.” He glanced at the broken jar and sighed. “Then we talk to the team. Then we make a plan.”

You hesitated. “You’re staying?”

Steve squeezed your hand once. “As long as it takes.”

Your hand drifts down instinctively, resting over the gentle curve of your stomach beneath the blanket.

“…okay, maybe I am,” he admits, quieter this time.

You huff out a tired laugh. “You’ve been doing that all night.”

“I can’t help it.” His hand slides over yours, big and warm, fingers spreading carefully like he’s afraid of doing it wrong. Like this is something sacred. Like you are.

You tilt your head toward him, studying him now. “You’ve touched my stomach approximately a thousand times today.”

“Low estimate,” he says.

“Lance.”

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” he insists, then pauses. “…Okay, I’m being a little weird.”

You smile, softer now. “A little?”

His thumb traces slow circles over your belly, almost absentminded—but there’s nothing absent about the way his eyes stay locked there, full of something you can’t quite name. Wonder, maybe. Or fear. Or both.

“There’s a baby in there,” he says suddenly, like the thought just hit him all over again.

You snort. “That’s how anatomy works, Lance.”

“Yeah, but…” His voice dips, quieter, almost reverent. His hand presses just a little more firmly, like he’s trying to feel something deeper than skin. “It’s my baby in there.”

That does something to you.

You feel it low in your chest, warm and heavy all at once.

“Yeah,” you say, softer now. “It is.”

He looks up at you then, really looks—eyes a little wide, a little overwhelmed. “That’s insane.”

“You helped,” you tease.

“I know I helped,” he says quickly, then flushes, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant—God, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m not, I—” He exhales hard, then drops back onto the pillow beside you, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s trying to collect himself.

You turn onto your side to face him, your hand finding his again and guiding it back to your stomach.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. His palm settles there like it belongs.

“…Are you scared?” you ask quietly.

There’s a pause.

“Yeah,” he admits.

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you. “Me too.”

Another pause.

Then he turns his head, eyes softer now, something steadier in them. “But also… not?”

“Not?”

“I don’t know,” he says, huffing a quiet laugh. “It’s like—yeah, this is terrifying. But it’s you. And it’s me. And… we made something.”

Your chest tightens at that.

“Something good,” he adds quickly, like it matters that you know that.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. Something good.”

His thumb starts tracing those slow circles again, more deliberate now. “Do you think they’ll have your attitude?” he asks.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m just saying—if we get a tiny version of you with zero patience—”

“Oh, like you’re not dramatic?” you cut in.

“I am not—”

You raise an eyebrow.

He falters. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot,” he concedes, grinning now.

You laugh, the sound soft in the dark, and he watches you like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

“…I hope they laugh like you,” he says suddenly.

The playfulness slips from your face, replaced by something gentler. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “I like that sound.”

Your throat tightens. You shift closer, pressing into his side, and his arm comes around you automatically—careful, always careful now.

His hand doesn’t leave your stomach. It never really does anymore. “Hey,” he murmurs after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“…We’ve got this, right?”

You tilt your head up, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “Yeah, Lance. We’ve got this.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for a while. “…There’s really a baby in there,” he whispers again, almost to himself.

You laugh under your breath, tucking your face into his shoulder. “Yeah,” you say. “There really is.”

You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, halfway through making something you’ve already forgotten about. “Yeah, I’m here—”

You turn. And that’s it. That’s the moment everything shifts. Because he sees you. Sees you in his clothes.

Not just anything—that red henley. Worn soft with age, stretched just enough to fit him perfectly… and now hanging looser on you, sleeves pushed up, the neckline dipping just slightly off one shoulder.

For a second, he just… stops. Actually stops. Like someone hit pause.

“…Hi,” you say slowly, immediately aware of the way his eyes drag over you—top to bottom, then back up again, slower this time.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just drops his keys onto the table without looking, the metallic clink loud in the quiet.

“Where’d you get that?” he asks, voice quieter now. Focused.

You glance down at yourself, like you’ve forgotten. “Uh—your drawer? The one you said I could take from?”

He exhales through his nose, something sharp and almost amused slipping through. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Didn’t think you’d take that one.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling very aware of the fabric against your skin. “It was comfortable.”

He steps closer. Slow. Measured. The kind of movement that makes your pulse pick up before he even touches you. “Comfortable,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.

You nod. “Mhm.”

He’s right in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the shift in his expression—something darker, something softer, something that sits right in between.

His metal hand lifts first, hesitating just a fraction before brushing against the sleeve of the henley. Fingers tracing the seam like he’s checking if it’s real. “You know,” he says quietly, “I used to wear this all the time.”

“I figured.”

“Didn’t think I’d walk in and see you in it.” His other hand comes up to your waist, pulling you in just a little closer.

You don’t resist. “Is that a problem?” you ask, softer now.

His eyes flick up to yours. “…No,” he says, and there’s something almost dangerous in the way he smiles. “It’s not a problem.” His thumb hooks lightly into the neckline, tugging it just enough to straighten it—except he doesn’t let go right away. His gaze follows the movement. Then lingers.

“You stretch it out?” he murmurs.

“Bucky—”

“I’m asking.”

You huff, half flustered, half amused. “No, I didn’t stretch it out.”

He hums, unconvinced. His forehead dips until it nearly touches yours, voice dropping lower. “Looks better on you.”

Your breath catches. “That’s a lie,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Not really.” His grip tightens slightly at your waist, pulling you flush against him now, like he can’t quite help himself.

There’s something possessive in it—but not in a way that traps. More like… he’s grounding himself. Like this—you—is what he comes home to. “…Keep it,” he adds after a second, quieter.

You blink. “What?”

“The shirt.” His thumb brushes absently along your side. “Keep it.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “You sure? It’s your favorite.”

“Was,” he corrects, eyes still locked on yours. “Think I’ve got a new favorite now.”

You laugh softly, resting your hands against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips—one hand still fisted gently in the fabric of that red henley like he needs the reminder it’s real. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “…Don’t wear it out,” he mutters.

You smile. “Why not?”

His lips twitch. “Because I don’t feel like dealing with people staring.”

“Jealous, Barnes?”

A beat.