“Steve?!” you query, finally managing to get your slack-jawed face under control, rising slowly in disbelief. He holds his hands out again, looking to his sides with a mock-confused expression arching his brow, as if there’s no one else in the world it could be. As if no time had passed. As if he’d been there all along.

Without even thinking about where you are, you run at him. The sharp click of your heels on the tile and the resistance of your sleek pencil skirt remind you that you’re not in a place or position to throw your arms around his neck and wind your legs around his waist like you normally would. But you can, and do, hop a little when your arms reach his shoulders, letting him hold you tight, letting him lift your feet just off the ground while he twists around with you. You giggle, burying your face in the familiar warmth of his neck. The soft scratch of his beard on your cheek is new, but you don’t mind it, it looks good on him, actually.

He’s a lot bigger than you remember too, broad and muscular. You feel small surrounded by his truly enormous embrace. As he eases you back to the ground, you tug your skirt and blouse back into place but his hands don’t leave your shoulders while he surveys you from arm’s length.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you demand excitedly smacking his arm. That was a mistake. He’s solid and strong under that suit and now you’re painfully aware. Damn, he looks really good. You’d never thought of Steve that way; not your Steve. You definitely shouldn’t start now, right?

It’s funny, you still think of him as your Steve. He’s not yours, never has been. Not exactly. You haven’t so much as talked in years, but he’d been your best friend, and those were the same kind eyes, and that was the same teasing smile, and that was definitely the same warm hug. The one you had absolutely craved sometimes when you were on your own here in the city starting a new life, trying to forget everything you could about the one you’d left behind. The one he was part of. The best part of, if you were honest.

If someone held a gun to your head and asked you how Steve had answered your question, you wouldn’t be able to answer, but you do know that you can’t stop grinning while you twirl his business card in your fingers, and you know that you’ve just made plans to grab lunch later this week to catch up.

After he finally disappeared down the hall, you lean your head back on the marble wall again, letting your mind wander. God, he looks so different, but somehow exactly the same.

The first time you saw Steve Rogers you were just a kid, watching with interest while his family unpacked their moving truck. You were cleaning the windows. You cleaned them every day because it was one of the arbitrary but thoroughly enforced rules of your house.

Steve was lanky and awkward then, nearly dropping the box he carried when he’d spotted you and waved. You had giggled and waved back. You were shocked when there was a knock on the door and there in front of you was your new neighbor. He introduced himself and leaned his arm on the door frame, his fingers sliding over the long glass pane, to your horror. Without thinking you shoved his hand off, immediately wiping at the smudges he’d left.

“Don’t… um…” you stammered, embarrassed and unsure how to explain your reaction. He’d know soon enough. You were sure the whole street had heard the chaos from within your house at some point. “Here, let’s um… do you want to sit on the porch?” you volunteered, quickly shutting the door behind you, locking the dark inside and away from the bright warmth that seemed to radiate from this boy.

Steve was the kind of awkward that just said the first thing that came into his head, that explained the things he was excited about past the point that anyone was interested anymore, and whose loyalty knew no bounds. Those were the things you loved about Steve. Your world was one of uncertainty and volatility, but he was honest and gentle. He cared about things, deeply, while you flitted from interest to interest, always pushing limits. He was the lighthouse while the sea raged around you. Or were you the sea?

“I’m so sorry,” Steve sighs into the phone, “I’ve gotta take a rain check on lunch.”

You pull the phone from your ear to check the time. Really? Twenty minutes before the reservation time? Luckily, you catch yourself before the depleted sigh can pass your lips, instead forcing a bright lilt to your voice. “That’s alright, you’re a big shot lawyer now, Stevie, I get it.”

The pause that follows tells you that your tone may have brightened but your words hadn’t and Steve still knows you better than anybody, even after all this time. You rub your forehead grimacing at your own oversensitivity. Why are you so irritated? It’s just lunch with an old friend. You hadn’t seen Steve in years anyway, what’s another day?

“Really, Steve, it’s fine.” You let your hand drop from your face while you glance back over your shoulder. The internal struggle of whether to head back in the direction you’d just come or to keep the reservation and have lunch on your own keeps you frozen in place. “Next time.”

“There will be a next time!” he insists, “What are you doing on Friday? Got time for a drink? Maybe dinner?”

“Steven Rogers!” you laugh, feigning indignation, “Are you trying to pull the ‘sorry I’ve gotta cancel this casual non-threatening thing you agreed to so I can swap it for a date’ trick on me?”

“No! I-I just want to apologize for missing lunch,” he stumbles, still your Steve: just hint that his morals are clouded and he has a meltdown. “I feel bad. Let me buy you dinner.”

“Alright, but no funny business, mister!” you tease, “Your mom will have my head.”

Hanging up with a lighter feeling in your chest and an untamable grin on your lips you turn back towards the restaurant, deciding you'll treat yourself to lunch after all

Mrs. Rogers had just about lost it the first time she caught you dead asleep in Steve's bed. It was the summer after they'd moved in and you'd tapped so lightly with your fingernail on his window you were sure it’d go unanswered, but to your surprise, Steve had opened the window.  You’d stood there tapping on the windowsill without saying a word, just watching Steve’s face while he listened to the angry ruckus from your house and saw the fearful way you glanced behind you and chewed at your lip. He'd helped you climb in and had slept on top of the blankets beside you while you curled up beneath them.

Sarah had found you, the reckless teenager next door, curled into her golden boy and had been incensed. You'd scrambled away without a word fearing the worst but the next time you snuck out, Steve's window was open and there was an extra pillow and blanket on the desk in his room.

Nobody ever talked about it again. It was just understood that the Rogers home was safe, and you were welcome as long as you kept out of trouble. Steve quickly became a lifeline. Just being around him felt like home. Or what home should feel like. You weren't willing to sacrifice that feeling for anything.

So you pretended not to see the way he looked at you over the years, or how he waited for you on everything, or how irritable he became whenever you started up with a new boyfriend. You needed him so badly that you just couldn't take the risk of anything more. Even if you knew it wasn’t fair.

Walking proudly down the street, an easy confidence lifts your chin while your mind drifts over how your unexpected encounter with Steve had developed so far. It’s been a while since you were genuinely excited, especially over a guy. They always let you down, but not Steve, so you let yourself ride the impulse for the first time in a long time.

The restaurant’s crisp linen and polished glasses are way above your pay grade but you decide to treat yourself to something small anyway and step through to the hostess stand, offering Steve's name, since he'd made the initial reservation. It's not until she calls another employee over with a confused expression that it dawns on you what's happened and your eyes quickly scan the restaurant as you back away toward the door, muttering some awkward excuse about changing your mind.

When your gaze finally reaches those familiar, smiling eyes and the warm grin you’d always selfishly thought was yours, now turned on her, you feel a tightening in your gut and a numbness in your body. It really doesn’t matter who she is; she’s beautiful and confident, and he’s happy with her, and it sends you stumbling straight into a server. The clattering plates and the sound of your apologies draw Steve's attention and it's worse than you could have imagined when he calls your name, confused and surprised.

You can feel your cheeks burning while your head is screaming how unbelievably stupid you are to do this to yourself. Stupid for getting so excited in the first place. Stupid for coming to this ludicrous restaurant where you feel so desperately out of place. Stupid for stumbling. Over Steve. Your Steve! The only thing you can think to do is to get away.

Thanking shoe designers for finally making sensible and attractive flats, you dart quickly through the busy sidewalk, grateful, too, for the crowd as you hear Steve calling your name again from the restaurant entrance. You push your hair back anxiously but power forward. You escape, ignoring the call and the text from Steve until you're home again.

After slamming your door shut, you slink down on the couch and cross an arm over your eyes, trying desperately to figure out exactly when you had become so hopeless.

The late afternoon sun beat down on your shoulders as you raced through the hot sand, tossing your towel and letting your cheap, well worn flip-flops slide off your feet, entombed in the sand where you stepped. All you could do was laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest easily when Steve hit the water first and immediately flopped into it, half floating like a fallen log.

The small local beach had emptied by now so you carelessly trudged into the water after him and dropped on top of him, dipping his head under the murky lake water. You squealed when he gripped your arms and kicked you both further from the beach, deeper into the water until you were sinking with him.

When his grip loosened, you rolled away from him and lazily pushed deeper into the water towards the small raft anchored a little ways out. Steve sputtered to the surface, a huge grin on his face, and made large swift strokes after you, beating you to the raft. He helped to haul you up onto the warm sun-dried surface.

This was your favorite spot, when it was warm enough; lazing side by side on this raft after the beach had gone quiet, with your feet dangling in the water, cooling down from the sticky heat of early summer. You’d lay there until you were warm and dry again, sometimes talking about nothing, sometimes about everything, sometimes not talking at all.

“So did you really get into a fight with Natasha Romanoff yesterday during fourth?”

“No! Are you kidding me? She’d kick my ass,” you insisted, annoyed that he’d even give the slightest consideration to the rumor. “No. All day she was telling everyone that I like Brock Rumlow! BROCK! Can you believe that?” Steve rolled his eyes, fearing he should believe it, that Brock was exactly your type: nothing but trouble. “So I pretended to kick her right when Mr. Duvall walked in. She was laughing, it was nothing, but he flipped out and sent me to the Dean’s office.”

“So when’s detention?” he asked dryly.

“Tuesday: graffiti duty.”

“That’s pretty harsh for a misunderstanding,” he conceded, “Lockers or bleachers?”

“Bleachers,” you groaned. Bleachers were the worst. Lockers could just be re-painted. Bleachers had to be scrubbed.

“Alright, I’ll help,” he sighed, turning to glare at you seriously, “but this is the last time I’m helping on bleachers.”

“Fair enough!” you agreed quickly. It really was hell by yourself, but time with Steve was always good time. “God your mom is going to kill me. What will you tell her this time?”

“Oh no! I’m already doing you a favor. You have to tell her yourself.”

“Steve!”

“You think I’m going to do half your work AND be the one to tell her? You’re out of your mind, squid,” he teased, “In fact, it seems like you owe me!”

“Alright fine. Then let’s just run away,” you turned to him then, head resting on your bent elbow, a lazy smile behind your eyes, serious, but ready to play it off if he laughed at you. “Let’s run away and you can have my CD collection for the trip, and we’ll just go! Just you and me. Together.”

“Um… I was thinking like prom but…”

“No, c’mon, let’s get out of here!” you pressed, “There’s nothing holding us here. We’re almost done with school--”

“Yeah almost being the operative word,” he reasoned, “my mom will kill us both.”

With a long pause and a heavy sigh you buried your wish to escape, replacing it with a bright smile and an even brighter lilt to your voice. “Yeah, you’re right. Prom it is.” You turned to rest on your back again beside your best friend, “But no fancy car, no big show of pictures… it’s just us.”

Slightly bewildered by your sudden swing in demeanor, Steve reluctantly fell into the new trajectory of your conversation, too eager to hold onto your plans to notice how you’d drifted just slightly. “You know my mom’s going to need photographic evidence of you dressed like a lady for once.”

“Well then I’ll just have to be sure I don’t dress like a lady!” you countered, a little too quickly.

“Lucky me,” Steve muttered with a grin, earning him a quick and playful smack in the arm.

“Excuse you; I was very ladylike at my dad’s funeral last year, thank you very much!”

“Yeah, in my mom’s dress!”

Out of arguments and thinking Steve needed a shock for all his sass, you shot up, reaching over the edge of the raft and flinging a slimy string of seaweed square onto his face.

He gasped at the cold, and the shock lingered at the gross dark green muck smeared across his cheek. You couldn’t bite back the giggles that burst out of you as he peeled the seaweed away and tossed it back into the water, muttering how “very unladylike” you truly were.

“You’re in for it now, kid” he grinned, lunging to grip you securely as he tipped you both over the side of the raft. The cold water was a shock after so long in the warm evening sun and you erupted to the surface gasping and giggling, pushing each others’ heads under water, grasping at ankles and arms as you made your way back to the beach laughing in the ease of your friendship.

These were the moments you lived for. Time with Steve was the best time, it was easy and clear and you never wanted it to end or become complicated. You waved goodbye as he rode his bike into his garage and disappeared for the night while you lingered on your porch, legs swinging over the railing, mimicking the way they’d hung over the raft earlier, lake water still dripping from your hair, hoping to hold onto that time for just a little longer before the rest of the world took it away.

That was the only picture you’d bothered to keep from your childhood. One summer afternoon with you and Steve with arms over shoulders, sopping with lake water, barely holding back the laughter long enough for Sarah to snap the photo. She had boxes full of them, full of memories, but you only allowed yourself the one. The one where you looked happy still. One before everything got complicated.

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