#the notebook

August 7th 2011

You’re sitting in the dining room of the nursing home — music playing just loud enough to tap your foot along to the beat but not so loud you can’t hear yourself think. The smell of roast beef and mashed potato lingers in the air, and you wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders at the cool breeze that brushes past you from the open windows.

One of the caretakers — Alice, you think — approaches you, all big smiles and warm hands and a laugh that sounded like home. She was the kind of person that made you feel better just for being around. You wonder if it’s time for a doctor’s appointment or for your walk.

“Hi honey, how was lunch?” Alice holds out her hand to you.

You wave it away, shifting slowly out of the chair, using the table to steady yourself — your bones frail, your body slower than it used to be.

“It was good…” You trail off, eyes lingering on the man behind her, seemingly waiting.

Alice follows your line of sight and nods towards him. “Ah, this man’s here to read to you, love.”

He smiles at you, all bright blue eyes and gentle patience and it settles right into your chest. He looks familiar in a way that makes your heart ache, but you can't quite place him.

“Read to me?” Your brow furrows, eyes not quite focused on him, but rather somewhere in the distance.

“Steve Rogers ma’am.”

“Steve Rogers…” you murmur, testing the name on your tongue, “why does that sound familiar?”

Steve’s heart gives a small twinge of hope. He’d been down this road too many times.

“Oh, he was on that news segment we were watching yesterday, right Alice?”

There had been a feature piece on Captain America — his service to his country, the howling commandos, the way he’d changed what it meant to be patriotic.

“That’s right honey.” Alice gives Steve a sympathetic look and places her hand on his shoulder, comforting him.

“Shall we?” Steve offers his arm and you smile softly before taking it, letting him guide you to the gardens outside.

He’s carrying a blue notebook—weathered like someone had spent too much time flipping through it, page corners folded down, ink smudges on the outside and a bookmark made of flowers sitting between the pages. The cover is painted with delicate strokes, making it look like waves crashing against sand.

“That bookmark’s pretty. Lavender’s my favourite.”

Steve nods, “It’s beautiful.” He tries to not let his voice crack at the memory of you making it.

“Steve look, our lavender plants have grown in.” You’re squatting in the garden; edges of your dress covered in grass stains and dirt lodged beneath your fingernails. Steve had told you to wear gloves, but you had scrunched your nose at him, like the thought of gloves was worse than dirt against your skin.

“Let me see baby.” He puts down his sketch book, one of his pencils dropping underneath the porch swing. He considers picking it up, before waving his hand at no-one in particular, getting up to take a closer look at the flowers.

You hold a bunch in the air proudly, dirt still littering the roots.

“Beautiful sweetheart.” He’s not looking at the flowers—not really. He can’t help but pull you in by your waist, peppering soft kisses to your lips as you giggle, trying half-heartedly to escape his hold.

“Stevieee, stop—”

He cuts you off with another kiss and this time you melt into it, arms wrapping around him, the lavender tickling the back of his neck before you pull away with a soft sigh.

“Okay enough. I wanna go make these into bookmarks.”

Steve laughs fondly, before following you inside.

You had gotten to work instantly, pressing flowers and cutting out pieces of paper, paint already splattered across the table. Steve stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you intently. There was nothing he loved more than seeing you in your element.

The mess on the dining table is nothing compared to the smile on your face, holding up the bookmark to the light and giving a satisfied nod at your work.

“Well, what’s Captain America doin’ here, surely you’ve got better things to do than read to an old lady?” You nudge his shoulder, teasing.

Steve smiles gently, eyes filled with a yearning you don’t quite pick up on. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You sit across from him, settling into the bench, arranging the cushions around you until you’re happy with them — smiling gently at the smell of freshly mown grass and the sound of geese clucking in the lake behind you.

“Comfortable?”

“Mhm…so what’s this story you’re goin’ to read to me?”

“Let’s get straight into it, why don’t we?”

You nod, tucking your feet under your legs and leaning towards him.

Steve smiles. You’d always loved sitting that way.

“It was the night of the carnival, summer of 1943, with their friends Bucky and Nat.”

June 6th 1943

“What are we doin’ here, Buck?” Steve grumbles.

“What are we doin’ here? We’re having fun. We’re enjoyin’ our freedom before we’re shipped off.” Bucky turns to him, giving him that loose, carefree grin, spreading his arms out and gesturing towards the rides and stalls around them like there’s nowhere better they could possibly be than Coney Island on a warm summer’s night. “Come on punk, loosen up.” Bucky slings his arm over Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in and giving him a shake.

Steve sighs, thinking of at least ten other things he’d rather be doing right now. He half-heartedly pushes Bucky’s arm away, fiddling with the end of his shirt and fussing with his hair. Steve’s still not used to his new body, his new height. Not used to girls noticing him or flirting with him. The serum may have changed the way he looked, but on the inside, he was still just that skinny boy who could barely breathe when running a mile. He’s still just ‘Bucky’s friend’—the little guy too stubborn for his own good.

Steve’s still trailing behind Bucky—walking past the food stalls: fries in brown paper bags, popcorn, cotton candy, hot dogs and milkshakes alike. There’s a couple of games that Steve insists are rigged but Bucky loves playing anyway — clown heads moving left to right, another with dart guns lined up and targets ready to be knocked over, the sides of the stalls all lined with various stuffed animals.

“Bucky,” Nat squeals at the sight of him, waving and running over to hug him. He lifts her, twirling her around with a laugh and a kiss to the side of her head.

Steve’s still shifting uncomfortably, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes wandering, when they land on you.

The world stops.

Moves in slow motion.

The sounds of the carnival fall away completely.

Your head falls back with a laugh, hair framing your face softly, eyes full of life. You look like spring in human form—like anything you touched would blossom just for you. Your eyes meet his for a brief second, still laughing, still shining and Steve swears he’s done for.

His heart thumps in his chest and it’s then he realises he’d been holding his breath.

“Nat, who is that?”

Nat looks over her shoulder at you before back at Steve, her and Bucky exchanging a knowing look.

“Why do you ask Stevie boy?”

“You know her?” Steve’s barely looking at them, eyes still completely focused on you.

“Yeah, I know her, she’s one of my closest friends. We went to school together when I lived in North Carolina as a girl. Her family just moved here.”

“Oh yeah, dad’s got more money than god.” Bucky chimes in. “Don’t even think about it punk.”

“What do you mean? I wasn’t— I was just—” Steve lets out a huff and rolls his eyes in Bucky’s direction. “What, a guy can’t appreciate a pretty girl anymore?”

“She’s here with Tommy anyway.” Bucky points towards the man standing next to you, handing you a stuffed bear from the game you’d just won.

“Tommy Murphy?” Steve gives Bucky an incredulous look, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That’s the one.”

Tommy Murphy had tormented Steve throughout high school. That is, any time he could catch him without Bucky. He looks ridiculous now, a thin moustache growing on his upper lip, wearing a three-piece suit that he’s clearly sweating through.

You’re walking towards Nat and Bucky, holding a stick of cotton candy and your purse dangling loosely from your wrist—Tommy a step behind you, adjusting his hat and looking ever the tool.

“Steve.” Tommy puffs out his chest, shifting from one leg to the other and clearing his throat. See, Steve is about double the size he used to be and almost a half a foot taller than him and the only thing Tommy ever had going for him was that he’s bigger than Steve…and well, a bully.

“Tommy.” Steve steps around him, looking you up and down. Your eyes meet his and fuck, he’s never seen anything more beautiful. “Hi.”

“Hi.” It comes out like a question, and you exchange a glance with Nat, shrugging slightly. You can’t help the smile in your voice at the blatant way he’s checking you out, taking a bite out of your cotton candy and averting his gaze.

“Do you want to dance with me?” Steve blurts out the words before his brain can catch up with him. And when it does, god does he hate himself. But the question’s already lingering in the air now and Bucky, Nat and Tommy are all looking at him like he’s grown another head.

So he stays his ground, like that’s exactly how he wanted this moment to go.

“Uh—no…” You trail off, looking around at the group with a sort of ‘help me’ look about you.

“Hey pal, do you mind?” Tommy shoves at Steve’s shoulder, stepping in front of you with a hand to Steve’s chest, and Steve ignores him completely, stepping closer to you still.

“Well, why not?” Steve’s shifting awkwardly, scratching at his eyebrow.

“Because I don’t want to.” You roll your eyes at him, tugging your bag closer and taking another bite out of the cotton candy, moreso to hide your face than anything else.

Fuck, fuck, he was messing this all up.

“I— well you—” He’s scrambling, trying desperately to think of something to salvage the situation.

You’ve walked away before he can get another word out.

“Do you want to dance?” Bucky slaps his hand on Steve’s shoulder, tilting his head at him, biting back a laugh. Nat’s chuckling behind her hand, attempting to hide her face in Bucky’s shoulder.

“Shut up.” Steve pushes his hand away, storming off with his cheeks burning and his heart racing.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Steve’s tossing rings onto milk bottles — rings he swears are too small to go over the tops, jaw set tight, swearing under his breath, when he sees you again. Your arm is hooked into Tommy’s, pointing to the ferris wheel with an excited grin. Steve runs after you. Bucky and Nat are already seated in a car, the ride attendant, Lou, turning the wheel to let on the next group.

You’re settling into the car next to Tommy, the ride just starting to move, and Steve jumps before he can think better of it.

You shriek as he grabs on, the car swaying dangerously with his weight. It is definitely not built for three people, let alone one of those being a 240-pound super soldier.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Your heart is beating out of your chest, holding on to the sides of the car for dear life.

“Go out with me.” Steve breathes out, wedging himself between you and Tommy, completely ignoring his protests.

“What? Oh my god you’re insane.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

The ferris wheel is halfway up when Lou realises what’s happened.

“Hey! You’re not allowed to sit more than two people to a car, Steve!” Lou shakes his head, pressing the emergency stop button. He was used to Steve and Bucky pulling stunts like this in high school, but he’d thought they’d have grown out of it by now.

“Alright alright Lou, relax will ya, I’ll get out!” Steve climbs out of the car, hanging onto the bar in front, at least 100 feet of empty space beneath him.

At least four voices yell at once.

You shriek.

Nat screeches from below, “Steve what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Steve stop fooling around, you’re gonna kill yourself.” Bucky shouts, voice barely serious, more amused than anything, arm still slung around Nat’s shoulder effortlessly.

“You get down from there Steve or m’gonna have to call security.” Lou yells out, shaking his head. Fuck, he wasn’t paid enough for this.

“Not until she agrees to go out with me.” Steve hollers back, smirking at you like this is a perfectly normal way to ask someone out.

“What?! No! Just get back in the car.” Your heart races, looking down at the drop beneath you.

“Guess you leave me no choice.” He drops one arm, straining as his fingers slip slowly. “Say you’ll go out with me.” It comes out as a grunt more than anything else.

“Oh come on honey, go out with him, will ya?” Bucky yells from where he’s seated.

“Okay, okay fine I’ll go out with you! Just get back in the car!”

“I don’t want you doing me any favours now sweetheart.” His fingers slip slightly more, his face way too calm for someone hanging 100 feet in the air by one arm.

“I want to go out with you!”

“What was that?”

“I want to go out with you!”

“Okay, if you insist.” Steve smirks, grabbing back onto the bar with both hands.

“That was so stupid Steve, you’re an idiot!” Nat yells up at him.

“Oh don’t worry, I know just. The. Thing.” Your hands are already working at the button on his pants, ignoring Steve’s protests as you pull down his pants.

“Good one honey.” Bucky’s laughing, slapping his leg, already thinking of all the ways he’s going to tease Steve for this later. Tommy laughs like he’s in on it.

“Not so cocky now, are ya?”

Steve just shakes his head, swinging himself until he’s seated back in the car, pulling his pants up with a huff.

You bite back a smile, your skin tingling where he touches you. You blame it on the adrenaline rushing through your blood, part of you exhilarated at what had just happened. You were used to men politely asking you out, giving you a time to pick you up for dinner, men who followed the rules and shook your father’s hand before taking you out. Men who were more interested in your father’s money and position than you.

But this, Steve climbing onto the ferris wheel, breaking all the rules, everyone’s attention on you — it was the most excitement you’d had in years.

You’re sitting comfy in a booth at the back of a diner downtown, Bucky and Nat across from you, throwing fries into each other’s mouths, giggling like idiots. The air smells like onion rings and chocolate shakes and summer nights. Soft music plays from the jukebox and the sound of orders being called out fill the space. You hear the door jingle as someone walks in, not bothering to look, too focused on the story Nat was telling.

“—and so, we’re stuck out in the freezin’ cold when—”

“Hey!” Nat’s interrupted by a sudden booming voice and a clearing of his throat like he didn’t quite mean to be that loud. You look up, and it’s none other than Steve, the stupid boy with the stupid, beautiful smile who did absolutely anything to get your attention only three days prior.

“Stevie, you came,” Bucky exclaims.

“Well, I wanted to come see about our date.” He’s looking directly at you, still so cocky for a man who was hanging mid-air in just his underwear.

“What date?” You give him your best impression of a baffled look, like you had no memory of his ill-attempt at trapping you into a date.

“On the ferris wheel— you said—”

Nat and Bucky exchange a look, excusing themselves from the table. You shoot daggers at Nat, pleading with your eyes for her to come back. She shrugs, letting herself be pulled off by Bucky.

You turn to Steve with a huff, brows raised in challenge, “Well I guess I changed my mind.”

“M’sorry okay?” He slides into the booth, hands clasped together and he looks so much like a lost puppy in that moment, you can’t help the way you soften for just a split second. “I just— you’re so beautiful, my brain kinda disconnected from my mouth and I was just—words?”

You fight the smile trying to make its way to your face, and suddenly the spot on the wall behind his head is very interesting.

“C’mon a girl like you was never gonna notice me unless I did something crazy.”

“Mm— you’d be surprised.” You look him up and down shamelessly, eyes lingering on the corded muscles of his arms and biting the inside of your cheek. You’d thought he was attractive the moment you’d laid eyes on him, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction. He hadn’t any right to it. He still didn’t. But here you were, cheeks warm anyway, and so so aware of your heartbeat in your chest.

Steve raises his eyebrow, amused, “Okay, okay, let’s start over.” He holds out his hand for you to shake. “Hi, m’Steve…Steve Rogers, you are?”

You tell him your name, and he tests the weight of it on his tongue. His hand lingers on yours and your skin lights up where he touches. “Well now you’re just holdin’ my hand.”

“Huh?” He looks down at your joint hands, quickly letting go. “Oh shit sorry, m’sorry.”

“That was really stupid what you did at the carnival.”

“So stupid.” His grin from ear to ear says otherwise. “But uh…I wasn’t gonna get hurt anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard about that super soldier experiment they did?”

“Oh…oh yeah.”

Steve watches the realisation set in. “That’s…me.”

“Who are you, Rogers?”

“I could be anythin’ you want.”

“You’re dumb.”

“I could be that.” His voice is warm, low, like it’s meant just for you.

You laugh softly, sliding out from the booth when you hear your order being called.

“C’mon honey, just one chance.” Steve has his arms spread out, eyes pleading with you and god, the way he smiles could just convince you.

“Byeeee.” You walk backwards out of the diner, door jingling overhead, lips closed around the straw of your milkshake, smiling coyly at him.

Steve shakes his head, and he knows, from that moment on, his life was never going to be the same.

“So did they ever go on that date?” You smile up at Steve, eyes wrinkled in the corners, but still with that same glint, that same hopeless romantic you’d always been.

“He didn’t give up that easily, that’s for sure. And well, he had a hell of a wingman in Bucky Barnes.”

“I like this Bucky character.”

God, Steve’s heart tugs at that. You didn’t remember him, or Nat, but somehow you still think of them fondly.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Well, what did he do? Keep reading.”

Steve chuckles affectionately, before skimming the page to find where he’d left off.

“Bucky had invited Nat to the movies, and she had brought along none other than…”

June 15th 1943

You’re walking arm in arm with Natasha, dresses swaying around your legs, practically tripping over each other’s feet as you skip your way over to the cinema. She had stayed the night at your parent’s place in Manhattan, and she’d practically begged you to come to the movies with her, not wanting your time together to end. You’d protested, claiming you’d be third wheeling with her and Bucky, but she’d promised no funny business.

Bucky’s standing ready at the entrance, arm outstretched to Nat with that same charming smile he always has.

And standing behind him—

Steve.

“Bucky!” You smack his shoulder, completely outraged.

Or, you should be, but you can’t help the way the corner of your lips turn upward or the way your heart flutters at the way he’s smiling sheepishly at the ground, hands in his pockets, looking up at you through those unfairly long eyelashes.

“What sweetheart? I didn’t know he’d be coming. He just turns up wherever I am.” Bucky rubs his shoulder before turning to Steve and giving him a smirk you don’t catch.

Steve winks at him before turning to you, holding out his arm, “Shall we?”

You roll your eyes and step inside before him, chin tipped up. He shakes his head, sucking his front teeth, following after you with a little run.

The movie is uncomfortable at best—Bucky and Nat using the dark as an excuse to engage in a serious make-out session next to the two of you, just as you knew they would. You shift awkwardly in your seat when Nat’s thigh brushes against yours as Bucky pulls her to straddle him. Steve hides his smile behind his drink, clearly amused at your discomfort.

You slap the side of his arm, and he feigns hurt before pointing to the screen with his straw.

The low whirring of the film reel starts up and trumpets sound out from the screen, fanfare music playing over an image of men lining up outside a war office. A voiceover plays over the music.

War continues to ravage Europe, but help is on the way. Every able-bodied man is lining up to serve his country. Even little Timmy is doing his part, collecting scrap metal. Nice work Timmy.

“Who cares? Play the movie already.” A harsh voice from a couple rows in front yells out. It’s a boy about Steve and Bucky’s age, throwing popcorn at the screen and exclaiming loudly.

“Hey show some respect.” Steve’s voice sounds from next to you in the dark. There’s none of that teasing lilt he’s had when blatantly flirting with you. It’s steady, unwavering.

Meanwhile overseas our brave boys are showing the axis powers that the price of freedom is never too high.

“Let’s go, get on with it.” He huffs, throwing another piece of popcorn at the screen, clearly getting more agitated than he was before. A couple of girls sitting around him shift uncomfortably.

Bucky and Nat are still wrapped up in each other, completely oblivious to anything going on around them.

“Hey pal, do you mind?” Steve’s voice is louder now, angrier. You can make out the tightness in his jaw, the way his fists ball up against the armrest. There’s something about the way he sounds now that has you softly warming to him, in a way you don’t expect.

The guy turns around, “You want to take this outside?”

“No, just want you to shut up.” Steve practically spits the last two words, standing up now. Bucky pays attention then, lifting his face from Nat’s neck, cheeks flushed.

“Outside. Now.” The man is face-to-face with Steve now, so close you can smell the sweat stains on his shirt.

“You don’t wanna fight me man.”

“Oh yeah?” He grabs Steve by the collar, and you gasp, heart hammering in your chest.

Steve pushes him off and it looks like barely a touch but still the guy goes tumbling down the carpeted steps. He quickly gets up, dusting himself off and leaving the movie with his face red and utterly confused at what had just happened.

Oh, so that’s what he meant by his super soldier strength. You can’t help but be slightly amused, biting down on the tip of your finger.

Steve huffs, smoothing out his shirt and sitting back down. “M’sorry, I just— there are men givin’ their lives to protect us, to fight for our country and these punks just— they think they can—” he trails off, squinting at you in the dark, “Are you…laughin’ at me?”

“No, no— I just— there’s more to you than you let on, huh?”

“I told you, I can be anythin’ you want.” He smiles down at you, tilting his head, that flirtatious tone evident in his voice again.

You roll your eyes playfully, shaking your head, settling back into your seat when you hear a low groan from next to you. Your eyes catch Steve’s, both of you stifling a laugh when Bucky lets out a muffled “Baby…” and Natasha moans against his lips.

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, smirking as he takes a handful of popcorn. Warmth rises up your neck, all the way to your cheeks, when his fingers skim yours. “These two, huh?” He whispers, your pulse jumping at the way he leans into you, lips almost brushing your ear, breath hot against your neck. It’s ridiculous really, but there’s something intimate about sharing this moment with him, a secret in the dark. His knee presses into yours and you don’t move it. It’s casual in a way that is not casual at all.

“You like Irene Dunne?” Steve whispers as she comes on screen as Terry McKay, the film’s protagonist.

“I’ve never really been to the movies,” you whisper back, eyes not leaving the screen.

Steve sits back, watching the scene unfold, his brow furrowed.

Michel asks, “Hundred and second floor, top of the Empire State Building?”

Terry answers, “Yes. That's it right there. It's the tallest building in the world - you can't miss that. It's the nearest thing to heaven we have in New York. Be sure you take the elevator.”

When the movie ends, you and Steve hover awkwardly at the door—Steve rocking back and forth on his heels, you staring down at your shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. Something had shifted between the two of you tonight and neither of you were ready for the night to be over so soon. It was unspoken really. All stolen glances and electric touches and something more real than you were ready to admit to yourself.

There’s a silent agreement between the boys; a little nod of Steve’s head and Bucky giving a knowing smile, before he hooks his arm around Nat’s shoulders and pulls her away with a quick wink towards Steve, leaving the two of you alone.

The night feels softer now, narrowed down to the two of you and the soft shine of moonlight as you stroll along the sidewalk.

“So…you’ve never been to the movies?” Steve has his hands buried in his pockets again—a nervous habit it seems—tilting his head towards you as he kicks a pebble onto the road.

“I mean maybe once when I was little, but I don’t really remember.” Steve looks at you, questioning, so you continue, “I have a very strict schedule. M’not really allowed to do what I want. This summer’s an exception because I’ve already applied to all the colleges I want. Or the ones Mama wants anyway. She says it’s college or nothin’.”

Steve nods in understanding, his eyes soft as they study you.

You don’t realise how far you’ve walked, the time passing like nothing at all with how easy you feel in Steve’s company. You’d started rambling at one point, the words falling out of you once they’d started, unable to stop, especially when he looks at you with that sincere look in his eyes, like nothing else mattered more than what you were telling him. He listened—really listened—asking you questions, telling you stories of his own. He talked about the way he felt as though his whole future was now mapped out for him and how he understood more than anyone the sense of duty you felt to be a certain way, to achieve certain things and you’d never felt more seen.

“So, what do you do for fun?” He ponders.

“I paint…oh and I love dancin’.”

“Oh yeah? Wouldn’t dance with me at the carnival though,” Steve smirks.

You smack his chest, lips tugging at the corners, “I didn’t even know who you were! You just came right up to my face and asked if I wanna dance. I mean who does that?”

He raises his hands in defense. “A’right, a’right, that was pretty dumb of me, not gonna lie.” He scratches his brow, cheeks flushed pink, “I wasn’t thinkin’ straight, girl like you, I just…I just had to be near you, okay? It wasn’t just that you’re pretty, which you are, you’re beautiful—” He’s rambling now, walking faster without realising, practically talking to himself, “—but I don’t know, there was somethin’ about you from the moment I saw you, I—”

“Steve!” You bite back the smile fighting its way to your face, heat blooming in your cheeks. Your stomach does something you’ve only read about in books.

He stops in his tracks. That’s the first time you’ve said his name. And god, the way it falls from your lips, it makes every single thing he’s ever been through feel worth it. It feels like salvation. Steve looks at you then and you’re so beautiful, it catches in his throat. His fingers brush yours, softly peering up at you, the air growing thicker, your heart thrumming in your chest.

You clear your throat, breaking the moment. “Uh— so, what do you do for fun?”

Steve doesn’t let it deter him. He slips his fingers into yours, looking straight ahead as he continues walking. There’s something comforting about the way he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, like holding your hand was something he just did, like his heart isn’t pounding in his chest, threatening to show you just how gone for you he was. “I draw, y’know when m’not annoyin’ Bucky.”

You shake your head, laughing, then—more serious, “You draw?”

“I do…oh and I like to read poetry.”

You squint at him, sucking on your front teeth, almost like you don’t quite believe him, because surely the boy who yelled out ‘Go out with me’ while hanging off a ferris wheel didn’t read poetry, or have the patience for drawing. But you’d seen a different side of him tonight, back at the movie house and in the quiet of the night now. So, you let yourself be surprised. “You really are more than you let on, huh?”

He smiles shyly at the ground, like letting you this close was something he wasn’t quite sure what to do with yet. “Hey c’mon.” He tugs on your hand, breaking into a run and you squeal, struggling to keep up with him in your heels.

“C’mon where?”

He keeps running, grinning back at you and pulling you along until you finally come to a stop and he nods his head towards the entrance of the building you’re standing in front of.

“What?” You’re completely out of breath, giggling, shaking your head at him.

“Top of the Empire State Building, just like Terry and Michel.”

“We can’t do that, it’s closed.” You pull on his arm, but he’s already working the lock. “Steve no, we’ll get in trouble.” You look around you, making sure no-one is watching.

“There’s no-one around sweetheart, c’mon, let’s do something fun.” He’s buzzing, eyes glinting with mischief as the door clicks open, pulling you through the door. “Elevator still works.” He wriggles his eyebrows at you when it dings, doors opening. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, palms sweaty as you make your way up. You’d never broken the rules before. It’s exhilarating.

The city is lit up in every direction, tiny twinkling lights moving as cars drive by. The air feels crisper almost, a gentle wind brushing past your face. The city smells like smoke and freedom. Your hands rest on the railing, taking in the view, “Wow, it’s beautiful up here.”

“Sure is.” You don’t notice the way his eyes are fixated on you as he says it, too busy looking up at the stars that dot the sky, somehow still visible tonight through the city lights.

“So how about that dance?” Steve’s voice is low, slightly shaky, holding out his hand to you as you turn to face him.

You sway back and forth, hands joint behind your back, “No music...”

“We’ll…make our own music.” He stretches his arm out further, and when you don’t budge, he drops his head, sighing, “Just…please, come dance with me sweetheart.”

You give in, reaching for his hand and stepping into his embrace. His other hand rests gently against your waist, fingers twitching like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s holding you like this. He sways you back and forth, humming the tune to ‘I’ll be seeing you’. His eyes look so blue up close, reflecting the moonlight.

“I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places.” He sings slightly off tune, the sound of his voice soft against your ear. You blink up at him, because the lyrics make your heart squeeze and when your eyes meet his, they’re so sincere, your breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. “I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day.”

He pulls you closer to him, his forehead dropping gently against yours, breaths mingling in the cold air as he continues humming along.

You should be getting back.

Your mother would have a fit at you being out this late. You really really should go. But then, his lips press to your forehead, resting them there as though he hadn’t earned the right to kiss you properly yet. And so, you stay, melting into him, because in this moment—being next to him, being held by him—felt like something settling in your bones.

“I love that movie, Love Affair.” You smile dreamily, humming the tune to one of the songs as you gaze out at the lake, the soft waves made by a small boat passing by crashing up against the rocks.

Steve pauses, placing the bookmark into the notebook and closing it, turning his attention to you. “Did you see the remake, An Affair to Remember? It came out in 1957.”

“I don’t think so, I didn’t even know they had a remake.”

Steve smiles sadly, remembering the day you’d seen the preview for it and how excited you’d been.

2nd July 1957

You’re at the same cinema you’d been to with Steve that very first time with Bucky and Nat—the same smell of butter and popcorn filling the air. This was nothing like that first time—Steve was all sweaty palms and false confidence—cocky in that way you can only be when you’re young. You’d been awkwardly shifting in your seat, not knowing what to do with your hands and now here you were—your legs tucked underneath you, leaning into your husband’s side, cheek smushed against his shoulder.

‘Here at 20th Century Fox Studios, Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr…’

“Stevie, Stevie, it’s Terry McKay. Just like in Love Affair.” You shake his arm, whisper screaming at him.

He presses his nose into your cheek, kissing you softly, watching as you sing along to the trailer, “Must you be so darn delightful? You make it easy to be true.”

You’d made him promise to buy tickets when the movie came out and he’d nodded, “Of course, anythin’ for you sweetheart.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Did he go back to see her after that night?”

Steve nods gently, “He did. From that day on, they were inseparable.”

“They fell in love?”

“Oh yes they did.”

“Good, I like that kind of story.” You nod, wrapping your shawl around you tighter as you settle into the chair, waiting for him to continue reading.

“It was an improbable romance. She had the world at her feet while he didn’t have two dimes to his name. They had the summer of dreams—ice cream and picnics at central park, days spent swimming at the lake, sunbaking and swinging off the rope Bucky had tied to a particularly strong tree.”

The first time you kiss Steve isn’t anything dramatic. You’re sitting on the steps leading up to his mother’s apartment in Brooklyn—you perched on a step above him, hands placed around your knees and Steve leaning against the railing, picking off weeds from between the cracks in the concrete absentmindedly. Steve is telling a story, rambling about something, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks and you can make out the blond at the tips—the sunset making his hair look golden.

Your eyes drop to his lips, and because you’re feeling brave, you press your lips to his—soft and sweet. Steve’s voice dies in his throat, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of your lips on his. You pull back quickly, smiling down at him, shy now that he’s looking at you like that, lips parted, a soft little breath leaving him. You were so soft against him, and you tasted like the lemonade you’d been nursing, and Steve needs to kiss you again. His hands cup your face gently, shifting himself closer to you, nose nudging your cheek. His lips press to yours, tentative at first and then slowly more sure, his chest going warm and fuzzy. Your heart palpitates, hands trembling with excitement, fingers twitching where they rest on his chest. He kisses you until air becomes too precious and you both pull back with a gasp, laughing against each other’s lips.

That summer, you spent every waking minute together. When you weren’t together, you’d be thinking of him and he of you. You’d spend nights going to the dance hall—Steve in a suit he’d borrowed from Bucky, you with your hair pinned in perfect little curls, wearing a dress and heels you’d just bought—dancing until your feet hurt.

Weekends camping by the lake with Bucky and Natasha, the four of you around a fire, toasting marshmallows. You sitting in Steve’s lap, wrapped in one blanket, hands carding through his hair absentmindedly while your head rests on his shoulder. Steve would be telling a story, laughing loudly while you smiled up at him.

On the days Steve and Bucky were at work together, you’d meet them at the lumberyard, running up to Steve as he dropped his lunch box on the floor, catching you in his arms, lifting you against him and kissing you like he’d never get the chance to again. Bucky and Nat would laugh, all teasing remarks, ‘Now look who’s making out all the time, huh?’ and whistling loud enough to make all the boys look. You’d hide your face in Steve’s neck, cheeks burning while he flipped Bucky off, still carrying you as he picked his lunch box up off the ground.

You’d met his mom one day when she’d caught you and Steve making out on the steps outside their apartment. She’d laughed and shook her head as she unlocked the door, muttering something about ‘this boy, always losing his keys, huh?’ She’d made you pancakes for dinner and hugged you tight, and you had almost started crying right then because you didn’t know a world where mothers hug and wipe the syrup off your cheek or a world where you could have pancakes for dinner.

She’d told you stories about Steve as a boy as he sat behind the dining table completely mortified. And before you left, she’d made him promise to take good care of you. ‘You got yourself a good one here, son. Don’t you let her go.’

July 20th 1943

You hadn’t been to the beach in years, not like this—just you and Steve and the sun warming your skin—not a care in the world. You’d been with your family, on carefully planned out trips, with picnic tables and maids and tiny sandwiches, your mother’s voice in your ear, ‘don’t get your feet wet’, ‘don’t play in the sand’, ‘sit on a chair like a proper young lady’.

The water laps at your ankles and you yelp at the cold, letting out a loud laugh as it splashes higher onto your legs. You close your eyes, basking in the ocean breeze and the smell of salt filling your senses. You turn to Steve, squinting at him with that teasing smile that melts something in him and makes his heart stutter all the same.

“Do you think in another life I could’ve been a bird?” Your voice is wistful, gazing up at the skyline, sun in your hair and salt glistening off your skin, picturing what it’d feel like to just fly.

Steve rolls his eyes playfully, shaking his head at you because of course that’s what you’re thinking.

You pout at him, brow furrowed, arms crossed over your chest like he’d offended you greatly.

“Say I’m a bird.” You flap your arms at him, mimicking a bird, giggling at yourself before you can help it.

He shakes his head, lips curved upward, eyes soft and fond in that way they only ever were for you.

“Say it.” You tilt your head at him, leaning forward, still flapping your arms at him before leaping into his arms with a squeal.

Steve lets out an ‘oomph’ as your weight drops on him, toppling slightly in the waves before steadying you and pulling you in closer by your waist.

“You’re a bird.” He nudges your nose with his, pulling you up with his hands splayed against your thighs until your legs are wrapped around his waist.

“Now say you’re a bird too.” You press your forehead to his, whispering it against his lips.

“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.” His voice low, reverent, like being birds together was something sacred. Something that bonded the two of you together for eternity.

You kiss him and it’s salt and promises and something left unsaid.

Summer starts to fade and with it, life gets more serious—the threat of war and futures undecided and decided looming. You never speak about it properly, but it lingers in the air anytime you and Steve see each other.

Steve and Bucky were now required for daily combined-arms training. When they picked you and Natasha up for date nights (which were few and far between), it’d be in their uniforms. The sight made your heart lurch, clenching in your chest and a sick feeling that never quite left you.

You never showed it, or you tried not to anyway. But there were times when you’d be planning and dreaming of all the great things you’d do together, and you’d trail off and look into the distance with tears brimming your eyes.

You loved each other something fierce.

You were protective in a way he didn’t fully understand but he loved it anyway. The way you placed his head in your lap after he’d had a bad day, scratching at his scalp until his whole body eased. Or the way you’d get angrier than he would at someone who had wronged him in any way.

He loves you in every romantic gesture, every stuffed teddy bear won at Coney Island, every bouquet of flowers he definitely couldn’t afford. But there’s the small things too — the way his hand covers the corner of a table when you bend down to get something, or the way he pushes your hair out of your face when you’re about to take a bite of pizza, always softly orbiting you.

It wasn’t perfect by any means, you drove each other crazy—arguing about everything and nothing like you're stuck in a revolving door, neither one of you willing to admit that maybe you’d just been in a bad mood or maybe you’d misunderstood something the other had said.

Really, you’d just missed each other and were scared of what was to come. The undeniable fact that Steve would be deployed any day now. That you’d be off to college before you knew it. And that if your parents had anything to say about it, you’d no longer be together. Any time you’d try to bring it up, he’d say ‘But we love each other, I love you, that’s enough. We’ll figure it out.’ You don’t have the heart to tell him it’s not enough, and besides when he looks at you like that, sweet and stubborn, jaw set in determination, you just about believe him.

You had too much pride to ever give in and he was stubborn in a way that made you want to pull your hair out. But it didn’t matter how much you fought. Because Steve looked at you like you made all the stars shine in the sky just for him. And you were the only place he felt as though he could be just Steve. His safe haven.

There’s a rare day at the lake one particularly warm August day where things feel normal—just like the beginning of summer. Steve and Bucky are throwing each other into the water while Nat stands behind you braiding your hair. There’s marshmallows and ice-cream and not a care in the world. And Steve’s not a soldier then. Not Captain America. Not a science experiment—something to be monitored and measured.

Here at the lake, laughing when you splash him, he was just a boy—too young to be plagued with duty. A boy who sat on the grass next to you, struggling to peel an orange, because ‘he’d never had one before’. A boy in love. A boy with his whole world ahead of him, filled with the thrill of possibility.

Your heart breaks and swells all at once when you watch him.

It’s bittersweet in its simplicity and your eyes sting with it.

August 22nd 1943

“Steve, what are we doing here?”

“Just c’mon I wanna show you somethin’.”

Before you stands a run-down house, two-storeys and big enough to have at least six bedrooms. The roof is barely there, cobwebs covering every inch, the front door almost completely off its hinges.

“An old house?” You squint at him with mock suspicion. “Steveeee, are you gonna murder me?”

He just laughs, kissing your forehead as he walks past you, pushing over an old plank of wood that had fallen from the roof, blocking the path. “M’gonna buy it someday. Fix it up.”

“Oh you are?” Your fingers brush over the old piano that sits in the center of the room, and when you lift them, they come back black. You wipe them on Steve’s pants with a grin and he gasps, picking you up from behind and spinning you around while you squeal at him to put you down.

He places you down, kissing you softly. “Mhm. Doesn’t need much. Just y’know some new lights and…a new roof and some new plumbing, new doors and windows, just some light touch-ups, nothin’ too big.” He grins at you, the floorboard he’s standing on giving a little creak. “New floors too.”

“Oh, just that? And do I get any say in this?”

“You want a say?” His voice is low, leaning against the doorframe with his arm raised over his head, testing the structure.

“Yes.” You raise your eyebrows at him in challenge, chin tipped up and biting back a smile.

“Well, what do you want?” He moves closer to you, nosing at your cheek and you giggle and move away, because it tickles with how lightly he’s touching you.

“I want a white house, with blue shutters, and a room overlooking the river so I can paint.” You smile big as you say it, almost teasing him but there’s a part of you that’s serious, heart thudding at the thought.

“Anything else?” His voice is low, reverent, watching you as you spin around the room.

You walk past him with your hands joint behind your back, “Yes. I want a big old porch that wraps around the entire house. We can drink tea and watch the sun go down.”

He just nods. Because the image of the two of you together, in this house, growing old together is almost too much to bear.

“You promise?” Your voice is playful, light, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“I promise.”

You’re still laughing, twirling around the room like this was a dream—like talking about travelling the world, or landing on the moon. But there was a part of you that sees it too—waking up together tangled in sheets and soft kisses. Padding through the kitchen in the morning and making coffee. Steve making you pancakes for dinner—his specialty—kissing you and trying to pull you away from your paintings to give him attention.

Steve has already tucked the promise into that space in him that screams of his duty. But it sits somewhere softer too—the part that just wants to see you smile the way you are right now for the rest of your lives. It settles somewhere deep in his soul.

You run into his arms and he catches you, dropping his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. He peppers featherlight kisses to your cheeks, then down to your lips — soft, giggly kisses slowly turning more heated—hands wandering, teeth and tongue and panting against his lips until he has you pushed up against the wall, his hand resting next to your head.

You’d never gone beyond making out hot and heavy behind a tree somewhere. The most Steve had let his hands wander were a soft squeeze of your ass, just to hear that pretty little gasp you’d make against his lips and the way you’d hide your face in the crook of his neck right after.

That was all teasing.

This is different.

You feel it in the way his hands trace down the sides of your neck, calloused fingers toying with the buttons of your dress as he kisses you. His lips follow the trail of his fingers, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin between kisses. “So beautiful. My sweet girl.”

“Stevie,” you gasp, fingers curling into his shirt to ground yourself.

He looks up at you, lips parted and wet and gently sets you down. His hands push back the hair that’s fallen into your eyes, searching for any sense of discomfort. You’re breathing heavy, eyes glassy with want and you press your body forward into his. Steve hums low in his throat, pressing his forehead to yours, lips brushing softly, his body still caging yours in against the wall.

His fingers linger on the buttons of your dress, and you nod in silent permission. He fumbles with the buttons, hands shaking, undoing one by one. You push the dress off your shoulders, eyes not leaving his as you let it fall to the floor. Steve’s breathing heavy as he takes you in, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties, tracing back and forth before letting it go with a slight snap.

“Steve,” you gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders. Your fingers slip under the cotton of his shirt, feeling the warm expanse of his chest, all hard muscle under your gentle touch. Your other hand wanders to his stomach and you’ve never felt a man this way before.

“Sweetheart—” His words break off as you continue tracing the hard lines of his abs, completely mesmerised. You pull his shirt up slowly, looking into his eyes and Steve pulls it off the rest of the way, his hair slightly mussed now.

The way you’re looking at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, nipples perked against the thin material of your lacy bra has his heart pounding in his chest. His hand curls around your jaw, pulling you to him and kissing you hard. You whine into his mouth, and his tongue finds yours, tasting you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough, guiding your mouth along his—strong, sure.

He pulls back for just a second and his body protests, diving back in and you’re completely breathless, gasping for air between kisses but it doesn’t matter—not when he’s kissing you like this, holding you like you might disappear at any moment. He pulls back, flipping you so suddenly, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your front is pushed against the wall, and he crowds you again, bare chest pressing to your back.

“Steve, please.” Your voice breaks off into a breathy whine when his lips trace the back of your neck, kissing down your spine until he gets to the clasp of your bra. His fingers slowly unclasp it and you shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor before turning in his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him, tugging on the strands of his hair at the base of his neck and Steve lets out a low groan against your lips that sends heat curling to your stomach and you tug harder because you need to hear it again.

He pulls back, breathless, eyes falling to your breasts. He palms at them, slightly awkwardly, but it doesn’t matter because his hands feel so good against your warm skin, nipples pebbled under his palms. His eyes are fixated, watching how they move under his hands. His mouth waters with how badly he wants to taste them. He drops his head, letting his lips close over your nipple and your head falls back against the wall with a breathy moan.

“Stevie fuck— oh—” Your hands curl into his hair again, chest arching into his touch.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” His voice is muffled against your skin, lips dragging across your chest until your other nipple is in his mouth, tongue flicking against it over and over. Your eyes screw shut at the pleasure, and it goes right to your core, slick gathering between your thighs until you’re sure your panties are soaked through. He lets it go with a pop, lowering himself onto his knees, looking up at you like you’re something holy.

You’re a vision — lips swollen, hair messy, nipples slick with his spit now, in nothing but your underwear in front of him. His hands caress your hips, resting his forehead against your stomach as if in worship.

He looks beautiful like this—hair mussed from your fingers continuously dragging through it, lips pink and swollen, his broad chest rising and falling as he looks up at you through his ridiculously long lashes.

You drop down to the floor with him, breasts pushing against his bare chest, foreheads resting against each other as you desperately try to undo his pants. His hand covers yours, helping you undo the button and pull them off. There’s an awkward shuffle as he shimmies them off his legs, socks and shoes going with them.

You let your eyes wander down and he’s half-hard already, a tiny wet spot visible on his boxers. You sit back on your haunches, hands placed delicately on your lap, and you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“C’mere sweetheart.” Steve’s voice is gravel in your ear, gripping your thighs and pulling you to straddle his lap with that super soldier ease that has you dizzy with want. He pulls you down further, until his hard cock is nestled right against where you’re already soaking through your panties for him. The pleasure hits warm and steady, Steve groaning at the feel of your wetness coating through his boxers.

“Mm, fuck— already so wet for me.”

Your hips give an experimental roll and god, his cock grinding up against your clit feels like heaven. You moan into his mouth, his hands tightening on your hips, starting to push you back and forth over his cock. He lets out a groan at the sight of the wet patch you’re leaving on his boxers.

You’d never felt like this before, this alive, this wanted and so so safe in Steve’s arms as he kisses you breathless. Outside, the world was ending, but you were here, panting against each other's mouths as his hips rolled into yours, fingernails digging into the curve of his biceps.

“You gonna come just like this baby?” His voice is wrecked, the thought of you using his body for your own pleasure, chasing your high, eyes shut, moaning loudly as you grind yourself against him just how you need. Steve loves it. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down softly, your eyes flying open with a pretty little whimper that makes his cock jump.

“Steve— ah—”

The door slams open, Bucky walking through completely frantic and out of breath. You shriek, tucking yourself into Steve’s body, hiding your face in his neck.

“Bucky get out! What the hell are you doin’ here?” Steve yells out, pulling you closer and covering you with his body.

Bucky averts his gaze, “M’sorry man. M’sorry. But you gotta come quick. Her parents have completely lost it; they’ve got the cops out lookin’ for her and everythin’.”

Your heart drops as you scramble to get your clothes back on, fumbling with the buttons of your dress, hands shaking. “Shit, shit, Steve, they’re gonna kill me. Shit— what am I—”

He’s pulling up his pants, tucking his shirt in. “Hey, hey, s’okay baby, we’re goin’ back now. S’gonna be okay.” His hands are on your shoulders, eyes steady the way they always are, and you take a deep breath, nodding, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“He’s a nice boy, he is, but he’s—” Your mother had been yelling for the past ten minutes, and you were not hearing the end anytime soon. She’d already eyed you up and down, searching for any clues of what she thought had transpired between you and Steve.

“He’s what? What?” You challenge, face hot, throat tight with the effort to keep from crying.

“He is trash! Trash, not for you! That boy doesn’t have two dimes to his name.”

Your eyes sting with embarrassment, your chest tightening with the knowledge that Steve was right outside the study probably hearing every word said about him.

He’s pacing back and forth in the living room, hands in his hair, mind already reeling, doubts starting to build with every passing word. He could never doubt his love for you, nor yours for him, but something in him stirred at the mention of money, of the future. He looks around the room—the expensive paintings hanging on the wall, the fruit bowl in the middle of the dining table that’s there just for show, just as a decoration piece, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—every inch of the house dripping with money.

What was he thinking? He couldn’t give you the life you deserved, the life you were used to. He couldn’t be what you needed. It curls in his chest, hot and angry because you’d tried to tell him, hadn’t you? When you asked him about the future. And he’d just brushed you off like it didn’t matter, like love was enough to keep you going. Like he was enough.

“Why is that all you care about? Don’t you care that I love him? That he makes me happy? Why— why do you never care? You just stand there looking at me like— like—” You voice catches on a sob. You wipe your face furiously, refusing to give your mother the satisfaction of you being so worked up.

“You can’t see him anymore, that’s final.” Her voice has no emotion, just a finality to it that you knew all too well.

“You can’t tell me what to do, I will see him.” You’d never stood up to her this way before. Usually, what she said went. But this was different. You love Steve with everything in you, and you know you want to spend the rest of your life with him. This was bigger than her. This was your life and she wasn’t going to have a say in who you get to love. “I love him.”

Something stirs in her with the way you say it, so defiant, like maybe she wouldn’t win this one. So, she does what she does best and doubles down, scoffing at you, “You don’t know what love is. You are 18 years old, you’re a child.” She spits out at you, already plotting all the ways she’d keep you from him.

You scoff, “Oh and you do? You don’t know what love is. You’ve never known what love is. You don’t look at daddy the way I look at Steve, you don’t laugh or touch or play. I’ve never seen you so much as smile unless it was for show.” You get right up to her face when you say it, tears falling freely now but you don’t care.

“Daddy, please I love him. She can’t do this. You can’t do this.” You turn to your father, sobbing into his shirt, but you know it’s useless.

“You gotta listen to your mama.” Your father sighs, defeated.

You shake your head, wiping your face frantically before running out to the living room. Steve is gone. Your heart drops. No, no, please no.

“Steve? Steve?” You run outside, your whole body easing when you see him standing there. Your heart rate picks up again when you see him getting into his truck. “What— what are you doin’?”

He shakes his head, “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go. We can just— we can go— we can—” You look around desperately, already reaching for him and you feel your heart being twisted when he pulls away from you.

“What— Steve?” You swallow harshly to hold back the sob rising in your throat.

“You heard ‘em. Look at me, what have I got?”

“Steve please— I—”

“I’ve got nothin’ to offer you. Nothin’.”

You shake your head, heart twisting in your chest. “What do you mean? I don’t want anythin’ else. I just want you.”

He shakes his head, “What about college? And I’m goin’ off soon too. It’s just— it’s never gonna work.”

“I don’t— I don’t have to go to college— I can just—”

He cuts you off, hands in his hair, completely exasparated, “You see, it’s already happenin’! M’just gonna hold you back. You have to go to college.” He takes a deep breath, making peace with his decision. “I gotta go.”

“What? No Steve please you can’t just do this. You always say it, right? That we love each other and that’s enough.” Your hands come to either side of his face, brushing back the hair fallen into his eyes. You’re clinging desperately to any source of truth that might make him stay, that’ll convince him that he’s all you want.

“I don’t think it is anymore.” He pulls away from your touch and it’s the hardest thing he’s had to do.

Something stirs in you, angry and hot because how dare he? How dare he decide for you that he’s not good enough for you? How dare he give up on you? How dare he be getting into his car? And because you’re 18 and he’s the first boy you’ve ever loved and you’re so so hurt, you yell at him. The words come out before you can stop them. “You’re a coward, Steve Rogers. You’re a fuckin’ coward.” You push at his chest, and he doesn’t budge—your fists completely useless against his wall of muscle. “Just go, go then. Get out of here, go!” You shout through tears, pounding at his chest and this time he lets himself fall back, clutching the handle of the car door.

He gives you one last look before turning and getting into the truck. You slam the door after him, kicking the tire out of sheer pain and heartbreak turned to anger. When he doesn’t fight back, when he says nothing at all and puts the gear into drive, you panic. No, no, it’s not over, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not.

“This is just a fight we’re having, right? Like we always do and you’re gonna come back in the morning?” You yell out, watching him start to drive away. “Steve!” He’s already gone, your heart gone with him, leaving a trail of your love intertwined in the tire tracks.

You collapse to the floor. Because something in you knows that this time was different. That it wasn’t just a fight.

“Steve please…” You sniffle, to no-one in particular, hand clutching at your chest like you could hold the pieces of yourself together that way.

“Well, she must have been devastated.” You place your hand over your heart, chest aching at the thought of the two young lovebirds being separated that way. “He should have told the parents to stick it where the sun don’t shine, that’s what he should’ve done.”

Steve smiles fondly at you. You’d always been so fierce, so ready to fight for those you love with everything in you. So alive and full of love, no matter how many times the world had knocked you down.

It takes everything in him to not kiss you right then.

“Yes he should’ve.”

“Well, did he? Did they make up?”

Steve shakes his head, “The next mornin’, her mother had decided to move them again on account of finding them out. She took every possible measure to make sure they stayed apart.”

“So they never saw each other again? Did she get a chance to say goodbye?”

“She tried to the next mornin’, she’d begged her mom for one chance to at least say goodbye and she agreed, stopping at the lumberyard where he and Bucky worked.”

August 23rd 1943

“Bucky, Bucky where’s Steve?” You’re a mess, face tear-streaked and snotty, running up to him, dirt flying up behind your feet, cardigan falling off one shoulder.

“Sweetheart, what—” He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. “He’s— he’s gone, he’s been deployed.”

Your heart sinks in your chest, your face falling, and you start to hyperventilate, holding onto Bucky’s shoulders. “What? No no he can’t— he can’t be— I need to talk to him. I need to tell him—” You hiccup, trying frantically to get your breath back and it only makes it worse. Your mother is waiting in the car, and you have exactly two minutes before she comes storming out.

Bucky lowers his head, placing his hands on your shoulders, eyes following yours as you shake your head, refusing to believe him. “It’s over, sweetheart, you’ve gotta leave it alone. It’s over, okay?”

You hiccup again, inhaling sharply, shaking your head violently. “No, no, it can’t just be over. We had a stupid fight, that’s all. It’s not over. It’s not.”

“Sweetheart, he— he asked to go early. They’re shippin’ him off tonight.” Bucky’s eyes are downcast, remembering the way Steve had come to him the night before. He’d been devastated. “I— I’ve never seen him that low.”

You stand there, chest rising and falling rapidly, because it won’t sink in. It won’t register that it’s over, that he’s gone. Your Steve. Gone. Just like that.

“So what? I just— m’just never gonna see him again?” Your face screws up, letting out a muffled sob into your hand because the thought is too devastating.

“Look, if he wants to, he’ll write, okay? He’ll write and then you’ll know. But for now, you gotta let it go.” Bucky’s heart breaks to say it.

You nod, sniffling and wiping your nose, looking back to ensure your mom wasn’t marching out of the car. Luckily, she seems distracted fixing her lipstick in the mirror. “Can you— can just tell him that I love him?”

Bucky tilts his head, not quite sure what to say.

“Please Bucky, just tell him I love him and that I came to see him, that’s all.” You hug him again, because you don’t know when or if you’ll see him again and this could be the end of your story too.

“I’ll tell him.” He nods against your shoulder.

You kiss him on the cheek, sniffling, “Bye Bucky.”

“Did he write? Did she see him again?”

“Oh, he did. Bucky had told him that night at the train station that she’d come to see him, that she’d said she loves him. That he’d told her that he would write. So, he did, he wrote the first letter that night.”

“Did he tell her he loves her?”

“He did. He wrote her every single day.”

“And she never wrote back?”

“She never got the letters.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, her mother was set on not letting them be together, so much so, she had moved them back to their home in North Carolina. So every time she’d receive a letter, her mother would hide it from her. She’d become obsessive about it, camping out by the mailbox and intercepting every single one.”

It’d been three months now since you’d moved back. You hadn’t written to Steve, Bucky’s words echoing in your mind, ‘It’s over. If he wants to, he’ll write.’

Steve had slipped into all the tiny parts of your life without you even noticing and now without him, the silence felt loud. You’d tried to fill your time, going to college, doing as your mother asked. But you moved through life like a hollow shell of yourself.

And you cry. You cry until you can't cry anymore. Until your heart feels like it might just burst at the seams with the way he fills it. Because you'd never felt a truer form of happiness than Steve Rogers’ skin against yours, the ocean lapping at your feet, and him loving you so deeply, you felt it right down to your bones.

“How’re you doin’ sweetheart?” Nat’s voice reaches you like you’re underwater, somewhere far off and muffled.

Your fingers curl around the edges of his photograph—he’d given it to you to hold onto “for when he would inevitably be deployed”. You hold it to your chest, like maybe if you held it close enough, it’d feel like holding him. “I just— why— why doesn’t he love me?”

“He loves you.” Nat says it soft against your hair, pushing the strands off your forehead.

“But why hasn’t he written? It was real, it was real to me.” You sob, “I just— I look at him and I’m home. I’ve never felt that with anyone before. I’ve never felt so much like I belonged anywhere.”

Because being loved by Steve Rogers was everything you could’ve dreamed. Being loved by Steve felt like your future being wide open, like you could choose your own path, your own life. Like you could exist in the soft moments with no other purpose than to just be alive. And god, did he make you feel alive.

Your sobs subside, your breath evening out and you wipe your noise against your sleeve, clearing your throat, “Have you heard from him?” Your voice is barely there and you’re not even sure you said it out loud.

“I—” Nat cuts herself off. There’s no right answer. To tell the truth and say yes would break your heart, but to lie and say no could mean something even worse, something you wouldn’t survive the heartbreak of.

So she says nothing.

And you know.

And that’s enough for now.

“It hurts; it hurts so much. I just— and you know what the worst part is? Is that I can’t even talk to him about it. He’s my best friend and all I want to do is just talk to him about it. Is that crazy?”

“Not crazy at all honey.” Nat kisses your forehead, playing with your hair until your eyes slip shut.

You fall asleep with dried tears on your face, your throat dry, and the most pained expression on your face that Nat can hardly bear.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Steve was no better—throwing himself into missions with no care for his own safety. To him, you had simply forgotten about him and moved on. He was just a summer love, a chance for you to go against your parents and do something different for once. He should’ve known it wasn’t for you what it was for him.

He held the sketch he’d done of you close to his chest every night. He remembered the exact shape of your lips when you smiled at him like he was the most precious thing in the world, the feel of your hands on either side of his face. It was the only thing that kept him going. Loving you was like feeling the sun from all sides at once, like it reached into the very depths of his soul and warmed him from the inside out.

And then he’d lost Bucky.

And something in him died right with him. The last shred of hope he had left went falling off the train with him. The world kept moving. The war kept going. It didn’t care about the boy from Brooklyn who’d lost the closest thing he’d had to a brother. Maybe if the world had heard the sound his heart had made when Bucky fell off the train, it would have paused for him.

And so, he wrote you one last letter, exactly a year from the first one.

Telling you that he’d loved you, but it was time for him to move on.

You were studying to become a nurse, and because there was a shortage of nurses in the war, every student, no matter how far along they were, was needed for active duty. You’d been stationed at a makeshift hospital in New York. Every man that came in, injured and bloody, you’d ask them about Steve, frantically searching faces. You don’t know whether you hoped it was him or it wasn’t. The men returned in bandages, broken bones, missing limbs, their eyesight or hearing gone and you there, patiently nursing them back to health. Or sometimes, just someone who could sit with them gently while they passed, holding their hand, offering whatever comfort you could.

That’s where you met Howard Stark. He was charming and funny and had more than enough money for the both of you—something your mother reminded you of constantly. She’d been determined to make the match work, inviting him to every social event, making sure he knew you were available to be his date. He was perfect in all the ways that mattered. He did everything right. He gained your parents’ approval. He courted you like a proper gentleman, taking you to dances and high-class social events.

You fell in love with him slowly, everything at the right moment, in the right place. All expensive gifts, expensive dates and declarations of love. He proposed to you three months into courting you. He’d asked your father for your hand in marriage and then presented you with a diamond ring—the biggest one you’d probably ever seen. There were white flowers everywhere—Howard in a suit on one knee, your family and friends surrounding you and a white cake already ready on a table.

You loved him, you did, but there was a tiny part of you that thought of Steve that day. Secret rendezvous in the woods, days spent swimming and laughing. Loving you in all the soft, easy ways that no-one else could see. The way he looked at you like he was the luckiest person in the world just to be loved by you. Not for your money, not for whatever idea society had of you. Just you.

Had he ever thought of you too?

The war ended and Steve came back to his mother’s apartment in Brooklyn. She’d greeted him with a smile, a warm meal and the news that she was sick. Steve holds onto her with everything he has. But time doesn’t care how hard you hold someone.

She dies a few weeks later.

Steve is utterly alone.

He sells his mother’s apartment and uses that combined with the earnings from his time in the war and everything his mother had left him to secure a loan—just barely and buys the old house. The one he’d dreamed about since he was a kid. The dream that he’d shared with you that day. The day when everything went horribly wrong.

He spends every minute of every day working on the house. Each day blurs into the next. And not a day goes by where he doesn’t think of you. Sawdust flies and it’s you at the beach, kicking up sand. Floorboards go into place and there’s you dancing, spinning around the room. He paints the outside of the house, and every paint stroke is your voice ringing in his head, sweet and soft, ‘I want a white house with blue shutters.’

Natasha comes to visit him once, and they drink in silence over Bucky. She doesn’t mention you. He doesn’t ask.

And when the house is done, there’s no light to it, no warmth. It feels hollow. He buys furniture. Fills the space. And it’s still empty.

September 3rd 1947

Steve’s sitting on the bus going into the main part of the city, head leaning against the window, eyes downcast when he sees you.

A flash of hair, the side of your face, head thrown back, laughing. He’d thought he’d seen you many times—at the train station when he’d come home, at the beach jumping into the waves, at Coney Island holding a stick of cotton candy. He’d almost knocked people over following after the woman he thought was you. But this time—this time he’s sure it’s you.

“Hey, hey stop the bus.” He waves to the bus driver, running towards the doors.

The bus driver turns around, alarmed. “I can’t do that. Go sit down!”

“Please just stop the bus, I need to get out.” He’s gesturing wildly, pleading. “Hey man please m’gonna lose her again.”

“Sir, if you don’t sit down right—” The bus driver is cut off by Steve launching himself forward and pressing the door release button. The doors fly open with a screech, and the bus driver shouts, furiously trying to restore order. Steve jumps out of the moving bus before the driver can get out another word, and he lands on the gravel with a thud.

He scrambles to get up, rushing through the crowd in the direction he saw you go. He’s bumping into people, scanning every store until he finally spots you. You’re standing in the middle of the cake store, pointing at different ones and Steve feels everything in him light up at once, heart pounding in his chest. It’s you, it’s really you. You’re here, you’re in front of him, you’re 20 feet away from him, you’re—

His heart drops, almost giving out when he sees you holding onto a man’s arm, leaning in and kissing him.

Steve turns around, anger rising in his chest. Not at you, but at himself.

Of course you hadn’t thought about him. You’d ignored every letter. You’d moved on, clearly.

He decides then and there that it’s time for him to move on too. To sell the house. That house had been a far-fetched dream, something the two of you were meant to experience together and now it was just an ugly reminder of someone who didn’t love him back.

September 27th 1947

You’re surrounded by girls chattering excitedly, champagne flutes filled and you in white lace, trying on dress after dress.

“Just wait until Howard sees you in this dress.” One of your friends exclaims, squealing and holding onto your hand as you spin in front of the mirror.

“Hey wait would you look at this?” It’s today’s paper, flipped open to a picture of you and Howard. She reads it out loud to you, “Social highlight of the season…” Her voice fades. You’ve stopped listening.

Because on the side flipped over to you, there’s a picture of Steve. And behind him, the house—the house he’d taken you to, the house he’d promised to buy and fix one day, for the two of you. Seeing it is like seeing a glimpse into the future you’d always wanted. There’s an article about Steve — Captain America back from the war.

Your hands shake as you take the newspaper from your friend’s hands, ignoring their questioning. They lose interest quickly anyway, fussing over your veil and gabbing amongst each other as you read.

There’s a small piece about the house he’d bought and then it goes on to explain his experience in the war, his mother dying when he got back. And then as if that wasn’t enough, there’s a paragraph that sends you falling backwards into the clothes rack behind you, hands gripping the paper so tight, it almost rips apart in your grip.

Your whole body shakes, everything in you screaming no, no, no, no.

Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.

Bucky was gone.

Steve had lost Bucky.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re sitting in Howard’s office, staring out into the distance. It’d been days since you’d seen the news and you’d been in a daze the whole time.

“If the numbers don’t match—” Howard’s on a business call when he notices the way you’re out of focus. “Hey hold on one sec.” He puts the call on hold, “Baby? What is it?”

“Hmm?”

“You okay? You’ve been staring at that spot on the wall for ten minutes.”

You turn to him, still deep in thought, squinting at him, “I don’t paint anymore?” You say it like a question, shaking your head and standing up. “I used to paint all the time and I really loved it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

“So paint.” He shrugs as he says it.

“I will.”

“Is everything okay?” He stands up to face you properly, hands on your shoulders.

“I— I need to get away. I need to take care of a few things.” You’re still slightly out of focus, looking around the room as you say it, brow furrowed.

“Anythin’ I can help you with?”

You shake your head. “No, I just gotta take care of a couple things, just some things I need to close up before the wedding.”

“Okay, if that’s what you need, then do it. It’s normal to be nervous before the wedding, y’know.”

You laugh half-heartedly. “Yeah, yeah I know…” You trail off.

“Go, do what you need to do, I’ll be here.” He kisses your forehead, still slightly confused but always amiable.

The house is exactly the way you imagined it. Exactly what you’d said you’d wanted that summer night all those years ago. Blue shutters line every window — the exact shade of blue you love. The whole house is painted a beautiful white and there’s a porch wrapped around the perimeter. It’s gorgeous, sun-soaked—a swing off to one side, perfectly placed with a view of the lake and the windowsill jutting out characteristically as if to be a little table.

Steve walks out when he hears a car pull up in the driveway. The second you see him, your breath catches in your throat. You stumble on your words, completely caught off guard now that it hits you how very real this is. Steve — your Steve is standing in front of you right now. He looks so different. So much older, so much bigger. He somehow looks double the size he was when you last saw him. He’s got a beard now, his hair is longer, the ends more sun-kissed than before.

And he’s looking at you like you’re some depression-induced hallucination because what on earth could you possibly be doing here?

“I saw your picture in the paper, and I wanted to come see if you were okay.” As the words leave your mouth and he’s still looking at you with that complete blank expression, you get hit with the reality of what you’ve just done. “Oh god, this was so stupid, I’ll just get out of here, m’just gonna—” You’re scrambling for the car door, putting the key in the ignition and it chooses this very moment to get stuck. “C’mon, c’mon you stupid thing,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

Before you can move, Steve is at the car window, still as dumbfounded, looking between you and the house like he still might wake up any second. The words leave him before he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. “You want to come in?”

“This is a good story.” You’re sitting back in the common room of the nursing home as it had gotten too cold to sit outside.

“I’m glad you like it.” Steve closes the book.

“I think I’ve heard it before.” You’re squinting, trying to recall the memory lingering at the edge of your mind.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps more than once?” You ask, almost guiltily.

“Only a couple of times. S’okay, I don’t mind.” He pauses, searching your face, “How about we call it a night and we can continue tomorrow?”

You nod, letting him help you out of your seat and to your room.

“Please, you were the one that climbed through the window like an idiot.” You laugh. You and Steve had been reminiscing for the last hour. It was crazy how quickly you fell right back into place, laughing and arguing about times past. You had forgotten how good it feels to talk to him. The way he listens with his whole body.

You both let out a sigh, the moment turning more serious, but somehow softer at the same time. You tell him about Nat, about how she’s been doing. He tells you about Bucky, about him falling off the train and the how he’d been after. You tell him about your engagement, showing him the ring with a proud smile. Steve smiles, even though something digs at his chest, because he can’t see you smile like that and not be happy. He feels it warm him from the inside out.

“So who is this lucky guy?”

“Howard Stark?” You sip your beer, smirking as you say it.

“Howard Stark is your fiancé?!” He sits forward in his chair, mouth agape.

“Mhm.” You nod, biting down on your top lip.

“Well he’s a great guy.”

“He is.”

“You love him?”

“I do.” You nod, smiling as you think fondly of Howard.

Steve nods slowly, letting it sink in. “Well good. You marry Howard and we can be friends.” He’s sincere when he says it. He’d always hoped you’d be happy, even if it was without him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’d sat outside to watch the sunset, legs kicked up on the swing like you belonged there. Steve sits on the floor, right across from you, looking up at you with a soft smile. You’re stirring your tea, taking small sips and it hits him just how at home you look. He’s got a sketchbook in hand, that small furrow between his brows as he draws and you can’t help the way your heart warms at the sight.

“It was real, wasn’t it?” Your eyes are glued to your tea, not daring to look up at him. When he doesn’t answer, you finally lift your head and the expression on his face is so raw, you almost start crying right then. “You and me, such a long time ago, just a couple of kids. But we really loved each other, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah we did.”

August 8th 2011

“Did he ask her to come back? Oh, please tell me she came back the next mornin’!”

Steve pauses, his heart giving a painful tug at the excitement in your voice, wanting nothing more than to tell you everything — pull you into his arms and never let go.

“I—” He inhales sharply, swallowing his words along with the ache that had rooted itself into his heart.

He can almost taste it, the feeling of you melting into his arms, the way you’d feel against his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you.

You’re braced forward on the armrest, hair blowing softly around your face in the cool afternoon air. You’re smiling at him like there was no space between you, no time lost — like you’d loved him every day and been here for all of it.

“That’s a story for another day.” Steve shuts the book, sitting up straighter and shaking his head like he could shake off the feeling and swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

Bucky watches on as you listen intently to Steve — your eyes glinting the same way they always did when you were young — always so open, so warm. Steve’s face so open, so tender, so full of hope in that way only Steve could be — always believing even when every logical thing said otherwise. It’s what brought him here. The reason Bucky was still here.

You wave goodbye to Bucky as Alice comes to collect you for your afternoon appointment.

“She’s never gonna remember you Steve, you gotta come home.”

“That’s my sweetheart in there. She is my home. Besides, you did, didn’t you? You remembered me. You came back to me.” Steve sits there with this burning hope, his eyes always so soft with want.

Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell him that this is different, that Alzheimer’s is irreversible. Besides, if anyone could bring someone back from the impossible, it was Steve. “Stevie— I—”

“I know. I know— m’sorry Buck. I just— I can’t give up. I just can’t.” Steve’s shoulders straighten, eyes filled with tears, gaze somewhere far off, already disappearing into that space where promises made and the soft way you smile at him when you know him lives.

“M’gonna lose her either way.” He says it so softly, so choked down, eyes downcast as his fingers trail over the inscription scribbled onto the front page of the notebook.

The story of our lives. Read this to me and I’ll come back to you.

You’re unlocking the hotel room door, having come back from visiting Steve, staying in a hotel nearby. You’re still giddy with excitement and a feeling you hadn’t touched in years. The phone rings just as you’re taking your shoes off.

“Baby, I’ve been calling the hotel room for the last hour.” Howard’s voice filters through the receiver.

“Oh, m’sorry, I just got back now.” You sit on the edge of the bed; phone cradled between your ear and shoulder as you take off your jewelry.

“No, it’s okay, was just worried ‘bout you.” When you’re silent right after, he continues, “Anything you wanna tell me?”

There’s a slight guilt that sits in your chest, but you convince yourself that not telling him is for his own good. “Howard, I love you,” you proclaim.

“Well, I love you too honey, you sure everythin’ is okay?” He worries through the phone.

“Yeah, yeah sorry, m’just tired.” You yawn, “Call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, call me tomorrow.” The call ends with a click.

The air smells like rain and woodsmoke and the feeling of being eighteen — dizzy and wrecked in love.

Steve has to stop his heart from falling out of his chest when he sees you walking up the driveway. You’re beautiful — dressed in blue, the sunlight catching in your hair and glinting off your skin like it’s made just for you. And just for a moment, Steve feels jealous of it.

There’s no hello’s, no greeting of any kind really. Greetings were for people who didn’t know your soul inside and out. Steve just watches you—in that way only he does and he clears his throat, scanning the sky, the grey clouds rolling in across the lake.

“Storm’s comin’ in.” He smiles gently, “C’mon, somethin’ I wanna show ya.”

You’re out on the boat, squinting out at the lake as the sun reflects off it. There are about 100 geese floating around you and the sight is beautiful. The sun warms your skin, tiny droplets of water splashing up as Steve rows.

“It’s like a dream.” Your voice is wistful, the same way it’d been at the beach all those years ago, like the ocean was too big, too spectacular to be anything real.

Steve feels like it is a dream, like he’s going to wake up cold and alone in his bed at any minute and you’d be nothing but a memory, tasting cake samples somewhere miles away with your fiancé.

“You wanna feed ‘em?” Steve reaches for a small hessian sack near his feet. “I bring seed with me when I come out here, it’s relaxing.”

You look at him then—really look at him—and something about him hasn’t changed at all—the boy who packs bird seed to feed the pigeons at the park, the boy who wouldn’t think twice before fighting someone who’d said something mean, made someone feel small. He’d always been so determined, so passionate. But there was something different now too—he was more sullen, more withdrawn. You supposed most men who came back from war were the same—the ones who’d left behind friends, brothers, the ones who’d lost limbs or their minds burrowed in the trenches. And then there was Steve who lost more than a friend, more than a brother. There was an emptiness now where Bucky used to stand, always by his side.

“You look different.” Your eyes trace down the sides of his face, the way his jaw sits tighter than it used to, his eyes still as soft as ever, his hair lighter at the ends. “You really did it. Everythin’ you said.” Your voice softens at the end, and you have to blink quickly to keep the tears at bay.

“Well, I promised you I would.” He sounds so heartfelt, so sincere, like there isn’t any world where he wouldn’t keep his word to you. It makes your heart ache with the weight of it.

The sound of thunder breaks the moment, raindrops starting to fall heavy around you. You gasp, a laugh bubbling out of you, loud and unrestrained, hands reaching out as if to catch the drops. You stand up in the boat, toppling slightly and it only makes you laugh harder, tipping your chin up and closing your eyes as you let the rain wash over you. Steve’s gaze is transfixed on you, lips parted, shameless adoration obvious in his features.

You look angelic.

God, he missed you, missed your laugh, the way you take the simplest moments and make them magical, the way you make them feel like this is what life is meant to be. The sound of your laugh ties a knot in his chest and eases it all at once. He doesn’t know if the wetness on his cheeks is rain or if he’s finally let the tears fall.

“Oh, I haven’t laughed like that in so long,” you sigh, sitting back down, suddenly self-conscious of the way Steve’s gaze lingers. “What?” You smile shyly, averting his eyes.

“Nothin’— just ah— I forgot how beautiful you are,” Steve breathes.

You inhale sharply, and for a moment, you’re 18 again, blushing and giggling, sitting across from him in a diner booth—just a couple of dumb kids.

Steve clears his throat, mumbling, “We should get goin’.”

You nod in agreement, tipping your head back to feel the rain on your face once more as he paddles back to the dock. You laugh and talk about nothing and everything all at once, and you’ve never felt so free, so at ease as you do in this moment—dress soaked, fingers icy cold but none of that matters. Because it’s you and Steve and it feels like no time has passed at all and your heart just about gives out when he reaches forward to brush a leaf from your hair.

Steve steps out first, offering you his hand with a grin and a playful little bow. You shake your head, laughing loudly as you take his hand.

Your heart starts to sink as the boat ride comes to its end—the little bubble the two of you had been in breaking. All the time you’d spent apart comes crashing back, ringing in your ears and tightening around your heart.

He smiles—that stupid, sweet, boyish grin—and all you can think is ‘he didn’t write, he didn’t write, he didn’t write.’

Your hands shake.

Your lip trembles and you turn away.

You storm off, your heart in your throat because fuck it’s been so long but he’s still just Steve—your Steve—the stupid boy who hung off the ferris wheel to get you to go out with him. The boy who would spend the last of his money just to see you smile. The boy who’d sneak into your bedroom window late at night just to lie on the roof looking at the stars together. The boy who taught you to fly a kite and play and dance like no-one’s watching.

You stop in your tracks, turning back around because you need to know.

Because if you don’t say it, if you don’t ask—your heart might just never let you rest.

“Why didn’t you write me?” You shout it over the heavy rain, waiting with bated breath.

“What?” Steve’s hand pauses on the rope, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Why didn’t you write me? Why? It wasn’t over for me. I waited for you for years. And now it’s too late.” You choke on the last word, a sob escaping your chest. Your tears mix with the rain pouring down your face and all you can think is it’s Steve, it’s Steve, it’s Steve. Your Steve.

Steve’s chest heaves, the tenor of his voice breaking through the sounds of the rain—steady, sure. “I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you every day for a year.”

“You wrote me?” You gasp through tears and rain, and the oxygen can’t get into your lungs fast enough for this moment.

“Yes.” He says it so loud, like maybe if he shouted it into the universe, it could turn back time.

“You— you wr—”

“It wasn’t over for me. It still isn’t over.” Steve’s voice cracks on the last word and then he takes exactly three strides towards you, closing the gap between you like it’s an insult. Like space isn’t something that should ever exist between you. He has no ceremony, no decorum as his hand curls around your jaw and pulls your mouth to his. It’s pure unadulterated need. The need to taste you, to feel you, to have you so close it chases away all the hurt, all the heartbreak.

You gasp at the bruising force of his mouth on yours. He tastes like rainwater and mint and something so Steve, it makes you keen towards him, kissing him deeper, tongue tracing his lips and he groans, hand roughly tugging at the back of your neck and holding you in place as he licks into your mouth. He kisses you like you’re oxygen, pulling you impossibly closer like maybe the taste of you could erase all the years you’d lost.

His body pushes against yours and he’s all solid muscle and hard edges, his hand splaying across your lower back, pushing you into him even further. Your hands twist in his shirt — wet fabric against his hot skin and you need him closer, closer, closer. Your hands curl into his hair, nails dragging down to his beard, cupping his jaw, gasping softly into his mouth. The rain is pouring hard down your face, cold against your skin but nothing can compare to the heat rolling off his body in waves.

His fingers tangle into your hair at the back of your neck, tilting your head for him and somehow kissing you even deeper, his tongue pushing past your lips over and over and your knees buckle. Steve feels it, hiking your legs up around his waist until you’re completely lifted off the ground. You gasp into his mouth—his sheer strength, the way he holds you against him like you weigh nothing at all making you dizzy with want—heat pooling low. Steve grunts, walking as he kisses you, palming at your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh.

He walks you inside, his mouth never leaving you for a second, lips trailing to your neck as he pushes you against the wall. Hard. You gasp at the impact, eyes flying open but before you can get a word out, Steve’s mouth is back on yours, swallowing all the pretty little noises that keep leaving your lips. It’s all tongue and teeth and pure desperation. It’s so familiar, yet so different all at once; the way he’s kissing you making your head spin. He’s rougher now, grabbing and taking, years of missing you pouring out into the way his mouth moves against yours. His beard scratches at your skin, his hands more calloused than they used to be.

You claw at his shirt, scrunching the fabric, desperately trying to get it off him. “Stevie.” Your voice is muffled against his lips, whiny and thin, breath ragged as your hands slide up the hard lines of his abs to his chest, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there.

Steve just grunts, feeling the sound all the way to his ribs. He holds you up with one hand, pinning you to the wall with his body—a wall of muscle against your soft curves. The pressure almost hurts but god, it’s been so long since you’ve felt him—held him—that you don’t care. You relish in it, nails digging into his broad shoulders as you hold yourself against him. He pulls his shirt off with one hand, never letting you go, shrugging it off the other hand where it rests on your ass, before crashing forward again. You’re light-headed, lungs protesting from the lack of air that he doesn’t seem to care for, but he just keeps taking, dragging soft little whimpers from your throat with every curl of his tongue.

You don’t know how you end up on the bed, or when your dress came off, scattered somewhere on the floor, but Steve now has you bare beneath him save for your panties and stockings. His hands squeeze greedily at your sides, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body, kissing every part of skin showing to him, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, commit the feel of you to memory.

“So beautiful fuck.” He whispers against your skin, lips wet as they trail heat across your collarbone, down to your chest. Your eyes are heavy, chest rising and falling hard, fingers raking through his hair as he continues to nip at your skin. He can’t get enough—your taste, your scent, nudging his nose along your jaw, breathing you in. His hand slips behind your head, forcing you to tip your neck back.

“Stevie please.” You barely recognise your own voice, completely wrecked under his gaze, his touch. He smiles against your skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your neck, biting down on the space between your neck and shoulder, drawing out gasps, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling at the strands and fuck, Steve loves it.

He pulls back, caressing your cheek with the back of his finger, and you lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. The touch is shockingly gentle compared to the way he’d been kissing you, the way he’d been biting marks into your neck and shoulders. He looks into your eyes, searching for any hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Yes fuck, Steve please.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice, pulling at his shoulders until he’s kissing you again, nestled between your thighs and pressing you into the mattress.

He sits back on his knees, looking down at you laid out beneath him—hair mussed, lips swollen and your nipples perked and slick with his spit. Your neck is already covered in marks, and Steve’s eyes go dark, the only thought going through his mind - ‘Mine’. His hand wraps around your ankle, pulling your legs onto his shoulders, yanking you forward and you yelp, grabbing onto the sheets. He turns his mouth inward to kiss your ankle, eyes never leaving yours as he pulls your stocking back by the edge, the wet fabric peeling inch by inch, Steve’s lips following, trailing heat across your skin.

He’s back on you in a second, pinning your wrists to the bed as his lips find yours again, tongue slipping past your lips. You arch up into him, nipples brushing his hard chest, letting out a broken little sound and Steve pushes you down harder, nose pressing into your cheek, practically lapping at your mouth. Your hands twitch in his grip, itching to feel him, to dig your nails into his broad back. Steve feels you pushing against him and grips tighter, pressing his thick thigh between your legs. You’re both completely naked now, sweaty and hot against each other and you feel the heaviness of his cock nudge your thigh, your legs pressing together instinctively.

He pulls back, hair falling into his eyes, panting, “Uh-uh, none of that, need these legs open for me.” He lets go of your wrists to pull apart your thighs, his fingers brushing your pussy, spreading the embarrassing amount of slick pooled there, and you muffle your moan against his shoulder. Your eyes drop to his cock, sitting heavy between his thighs and your tongue flicks out over your lips at the sight of it—wet and flushed red at the tip, thick and hard.

You push your hand between your bodies because fuck, you need to feel him. Your hand wraps around him, fingers barely meeting around the thick girth, stroking him slowly, feeling every ridge and vein, thumb brushing his tip—eyelids heavy as you feel the weight of him in your hand.

Steve groans, hips jerking forward into your touch. “Fuck baby—”

You slide your hand up and down, tugging at the length of him, watching him with hungry eyes as he twitches in your hand. Your heart pounds against your ribs at the effect you have on him—groaning, abs flexing, his eyes rolling back when you squeeze slightly at the base. “Please Stevie—” You pant, looking up at him through your lashes, mouth watering and lips parted for him and it takes everything in him to not slip his cock past your lips, to not tangle his hand in your hair and thrust into your mouth.

“Not yet sweetheart, need to make you come first.” His voice breaks into a low, rough groan when you guide his cock between your thighs, letting the tip slide through your wet folds, coating him in your slick. You let go of his cock, grabbing onto his shoulders—the pleasure overwhelming, the promise of what was to come almost too much to bear.

“Ah— Stevie fuck—” You grind your hips up against him, feeling the thickness of his cock slide through your folds. His fingers reach down, parting you for him, pressing his thumb to your clit. You let out a needy moan, head tipping back, feeling your pussy clench around nothing. You’re already putty in his hands and he’s barely touched you. “Steve please— I’m—” You’re seeking out his lips, needing something to ground you, needing the taste of him. He smirks slightly, but he’s just as desperate, capturing your lips with his. His hand cups your jaw, his fingers wet with your slick, but you don’t care, tugging at his hair, moaning into his mouth and pushing your hips up against him.

“Fuck sweetheart, taste even better than I remember.” He mutters, sucking on your bottom lip, biting down softly and you whimper. He grunts, grinding his bare cock down into you at the sound. The friction against your clit is delicious. He shifts his hips until the length of his cock is nestled against you, pushing his hips back and forth and coating himself in your wetness. His tip nudges your clit with every movement—the pleasure overwhelming in the best way. You’re dripping around him and the feel of your wet heat—not even fully fucking yet—is heaven. The smell of your perfume right against his nose, your lips brushing his ear, soft whines and whimpers making their way out.

“Steve please— I need you— need you to—”

“What do you need sweetheart? Talk to me.” He presses his cock down harder, nudging his tip so it catches on your entrance before sliding up.

“Just please, fuck—” You’re writhing underneath him, panting, almost on the verge of tears with need. You look so gone for him already, so beautiful with your eyes glazed over and that tiny furrow between your brows, lips spit-slick and parted, soft little pants escaping as the head of his cock keeps nudging your clit. His mouth crashes down to yours, muffling your pleas.

“Steveee ah—” You’re keening towards him, hips canting up, heat climbing up your spine, spreading between your thighs, your whole body tingling, trembling with need.

He rasps against your lips, hands gripping your sides with enough pressure to bruise. “Tell me what you need baby. Want to make you feel good. Hear the pretty noises you make for me when you come.”

“Please, pleaseee, Stevee— need you—” You’re whining, body still writhing underneath his—as much as it can anyway under the heavy weight of him pinning you down. His lips trail down your body, biting down on your nipples. You hiss at the slight sting, and his tongue flicks out, soothing, twirling the bud.

He kisses your belly, mouthing at your hips, your thighs, before settling himself between your legs, stretching them so wide, you feel a dull ache in your right hip flexor. He stares at your dripping cunt in complete awe, a groan rumbling from his chest, “Look at that. So fuckin’ wet for me.” He drags two fingers through your folds, gathering the wetness.

You let out a needy whimper, feeling his hot breath fanning over your clit and it’s all you can do to not rut up against his face. His tongue flicks out like he can already taste you; eyes fixated on the spot where your arousal drips out. You squirm to get away from his burning attention and he growls, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.

He doesn’t ease you into it, tongue pressing against your pussy and licking a long stripe up to your clit. Your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets, gasping and moaning at the overwhelming pleasure. Your hands finally settle in his hair and tug at the strands. Steve relishes in it, moaning into your pussy, muttering to himself as he licks and sucks, tongue flicking out over and over.

Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but Steve won’t have it, opening you up further, biceps flexing around your thighs. You look down and the sight is sinful—his lips pink and swollen, your arousal coating his beard and his hips moving against the mattress, humping his bare cock against the cotton, getting off on your pleasure, on the sounds of your pretty moans and the taste of you on his tongue.

His beard scratches at the insides of your thighs as he continues mouthing at your pussy, sucking your clit between his lips over and over and he can’t get enough. He wants to make you feel this way for the rest of your life. Wants to be the only one to ever make you feel this way, writhing underneath him, looking down at him with your eyes glazed over in pure ecstasy. The look you’re giving him only makes him hungrier, pushing his whole face into you like this was the only place he ever wanted to be.

His tongue moves slow and filthy against you, worshipping your pussy like it deserves. You’re a trembling mess—skin dewy with sweat, mewling softly, choking on little sobs, tears slipping down your cheeks. You’d be embarrassed if it was anyone else. But this was Steve, your Steve.

You come with a cry, pulsing and gushing onto his face and you try to move away, the intensity of your orgasm too much to bear but Steve’s strong, and you barely budge. He pulls you impossibly closer, burying his face further into your dripping cunt.

“Steve fuck— no, no, s’too much, too much Stevie please—”

You’re squirming against the unrelenting heat of his mouth, sobbing at the overstimulation. He doesn’t let up, his grip on your thighs tightening, tongue flicking against your clit relentlessly, eating you out like it’s his god-given right. You kick your leg out and Steve just pins it down, before dragging his hand up your leg, fingers pressing at your dripping hole and pushing them in. Your stomach clenches, letting out a strangled sound when he starts to make a scissoring motion inside you.

“Gotta stretch her out for me honey.” His fingers continue fucking into you, your pussy gripping around his fingers, sucking them in with a filthy wet sound. You’re babbling, completely incoherent, letting out a strangled moan when his mouth closes over your clit, sucking hard. Your orgasm hits you instantly, vision going white, your whole body shaking with the pressure of it, head twisting back and forth until your mouth is pressed against the sheets, muffled cries escaping as your hips twitch in Steve’s hold.

Your breathing has just started to slow, your vision clearing slightly, body still trembling when you feel Steve’s hard cock nudge between your oversensitive folds. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut, a small sob making its way up your throat.

Steve kisses you, soft and sweet—a stark contrast to the way he’d just been making out with your pussy. His fingers slip between yours, pinning your wrists to the bed. He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours, your bottom lip still brushing his. “Ready sweetheart?”

You nod helplessly, lip catching between his. He nudges his nose against your cheek, lips closing over yours. He guides his cock to you, notching the tip against your entrance, pushing in inch by inch. You’re so wet, so ready for him after your multiple orgasms, and the stretch is still devastating.

You feel every ridge, every vein pushing into your wet heat. The air punches from your lungs when he presses in further, already feeling him everywhere. You look down, and he’s only halfway. “S’too big Steve, not gonna— not gonna fit—” You gasp, eyes screwing shut when he rocks forward another inch.

“Shh, shh honey, gonna make it fit, gonna make it— she’s made for me, my fuckin’ pussy— make it—” He’s muttering to himself, eyes gone completely dark over you. He’s resisting the temptation to slam into you—your pussy already sucking him in. His muscles flex with the strain of holding back and your eyes roll back at the filthy promise, at the way he’s looking at you right now.

He pushes fully into you then, buried to the hilt and it’s Steve. It feels like coming home and divine ruin all at once. You cry out—pain and pleasure blurring so intensely, you can’t breathe, panting up at him as you try desperately to grasp onto some form of sanity still left. You grab his bicep, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pressure of him filling you.

“Stevie— ah— s’too big—”

“I know, baby, I know.” He coos at you, “Doin’ so good f’me sweetheart. So good. Taking me so good.” He stays still for what feels like forever, until you’re squirming underneath him, pushing your hips up and whining against his lips, begging him to please, please fuck you.

“I got you baby, gonna fuck this sweet pussy just how she needs.” He moves, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. You scream—the stretch, the burn, the devastating fullness of him inside you—all too much. But you’re still gripping onto him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist and pussy pulsing around him.

You’ve never had him before, but your body remembers his, it curves towards him like this is where it was always meant to be, like no time had passed at all. Just you and him, kissing and touching—Steve pouring everything he feels into the way he fucks you, whispering his love against your lips.

He starts thrusting into you—deep, slow strokes that you feel in your lungs, air punching out of you with every roll of his hips into yours. Your hands come to rest on his waist, whining and open for him, soft little gasps of his name escaping your lips with every thrust.

“Fuck— fuckin’ made for me, feel so good— fuck— so good around my cock sweetheart—” Steve’s gone, completely wrecked at the feel of you around him, the filthy sounds of your wet pussy sucking him in, his skin slapping against yours.

“Steve please— so close, fuck ahhh—” You moan helplessly, seeking him out and he leans in, lips finding yours as he continues to fuck you, tip nudging that soft spot inside you, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm. “I’m— oh— Steveeee— fuck, fuck—” Your head falls limp, pleasure crashing through you so fast, your vision goes white, nerve endings sparking so hard, you might just give out completely.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Outside, the geese continue, the heavy sounds of rain splatter against the driveway and somewhere far away your future awaits in a white dress and a man who could buy you the world, but here it’s just Steve, just his skin warm against yours, his hands gripping you like a claim and his cock buried in you like a promise.

You look up at him, his eyes pinned on yours and fuck, there’s so much love there, so much devotion—you choke on a sob, nestling into his hand as you bite down on your lip to keep the next sob at bay.

“Oh sweetheart, m’here, m’here.” He kisses your cheeks, now wet with tears, the salty taste lingering on his lips.

“Missed you so much.” You sob, pressing your cheek to his, lips open against his skin, the sheer emotion of having him like this mixed with the overwhelming pleasure of his cock inside you almost too much to bear.

“I know baby me too. Couldn’t— fuck—” His forehead drops to yours when you clench around him, your pussy pulling him in desperately like you never want to let him go. Not again. “Couldn’t breathe with you not here. Couldn’t stand— ah— being without you.” He punctuates his words with the cadence of his thrusts, his tip dragging against that spot inside you that has you trembling, sobbing into his mouth.

He fucks you harder, skin slapping, his balls moving heavy against your ass. You’re clawing at his back, leaving angry red marks and Steve just growls, fucking you somehow deeper, pushing into you, your head tipping back against the pillow with a helpless cry. His hand slips behind your neck, holding your head in place, watching as tears slip down your cheeks, mouth hanging open, helpless little ‘ah, ah, ahs’ leaving your lips with each thrust. “Yeah? My girl going dumb on my cock, huh?”

You can’t answer, sobbing, eyes rolling back, your head threatening to tip back when he yanks you up, hand twisted into the hair at the base of your neck. You yelp, letting out another sob as his cock slams into you. He forces your gaze to the spot where your bodies meet. “Look at that, look how good she takes me fuckkk.”

You watch as his cock disappears inside you, glistening with your slick—thick, flushed, stretching you open obscenely. He’s still cradling the back of your head and you’re so far gone, so drunk on his cock that your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and you scream, arching up into him involuntarily, then back down again, clenching hard around him, pussy gushing and fluttering around him. Your legs shake, and he fucks you through your orgasm, groaning at the feel of your cunt squeezing him. He lets out a grunt, burying himself to the hilt and coming deep inside you, hot spurts that don’t stop and you’ve never felt this way—so claimed and completely his.

You finally catch your breath, propping yourself up on your elbow to face him. “You gotta be kidding me, all this time and that’s what I’d been missin’?” You lean forward, kissing him desperately because you can’t get enough. You pull back with a smirk. “Let’s do it again.”

Steve just shakes his head, smirking, pulling you to straddle him and you squeal, hands landing on his bare chest, fingers trailing down his torso, through the hair smattered across his chest, down to his abs, before following his happy trail and wrapping your hand around his cock. He’s already hard again—one of the many benefits of the serum.

He lets you ride him—soft and pretty, tits bouncing, fingers curling into his chest as you grind your hips against his, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing perfectly against your clit. You’re dripping down onto him; your arousal mixed with the remnants of his cum sliding down his balls. There’s a little furrow in your brow, and you let out a tiny huff, muttering to yourself.

“What’s wrong baby?” His hand curls around your jaw, his other pinching at your nipple, watching in awe at the way your body responds to him.

“Can’t— can’t get it— I’m— ah Steveee—” You collapse onto his chest, your frustrated whine turning into a loud moan as he thrusts up into you, hands gripping your hips.

“That what you needed pretty girl?” When you don’t answer, he thrusts up into you even harder and you scream, nodding stupidly, anything to keep him going, hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing stars. He sits up, fingers digging into your hips, handling you until you’re nothing but a sleeve for his cock, mewling, whining, clawing uselessly at his chest as he fucks you onto him. You come with a scream, head falling limp on his shoulder.

“My sweet girl, just needed to be fucked, didn’t you, needed me to take your pretty pussy and use it, hmm?” His cock is still throbbing inside you and when you can’t do anything but helplessly mewl, he grabs your face, squishing your cheeks between his hand, forcing you to look at him. Your eyelids flutter, completely unfocused and he pulls you to him. “Just needed to be used, huh? Needs to be reminded she’s mine, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, yes Steve.”

“Say it.” He growls, gripping your jaw tighter.

“Yours Stevie. Always yours.” You breathe, voice reverent, still clawing at his shoulders, tits pressed flat to his chest, pussy still fluttering around his cock. He pulls your jaw to his, mouth slotting over yours, beard scratching at your skin as his tongue tangles into your mouth.

He pulls you off him, throwing you down onto the bed and flipping you onto your stomach before you can breathe. You let out a muffled gasp, face buried in the pillow, grabbing at the sheets. You feel yourself be yanked back by your hips, pushed up onto your knees. Steve’s cock bobs against your ass before he wraps his hand around it, slapping it up against your clit. “Mine.” He growls at the wet sound your pussy makes, as if in response to him. And then he fucks you from behind—broken groans as he ruts into you, drool staining the sheets as you moan stupid, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust.

He has you on your back then, hips airborne as he fucks you onto his cock. You don’t know how many times he’s cum, how many times you have. You’re still taking him, all tear-stained cheeks and helpless moans, voice gone hoarse from screaming.

And when he pulls out for the last time, you whine at the loss, clenching around nothing, his cum already dripping down your thighs.

“Shh, shh, I know baby I know. Pretty pussy didn’t want to let me go.”

You let out a sound that just barely qualifies as a giggle, brain gone soft and empty, eyes glazed over as you look up at him. He kisses you softly, savouring the taste of your lips on his. He pulls back and you whine, pressing yourself closer to him, sticky and sweaty and completely sated. He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You fall asleep with him curled around you, arm resting heavy over you, lips pressed to your spine, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Steve wakes gentler than he has in years. He first registers the soft feel of your stomach under his arm; your lips pressed to his forehead. He’s draped over you, one leg locking you in, head resting in the crook of your neck, the smell of your coconut shampoo pressed against his nose. You’re so soft in his arms, your naked body warm against his.

The smell of petrichor drifts through the window, the sounds of birds softly chirping signifying the end of the storm, sunlight peeking through the edges of the curtains, bathing you in light. He relishes in it for a few precious moments before he untangles himself from your warmth, watching fondly as you wrap yourself around a pillow, bare chest rising and falling gently, still too completely fucked-out to notice him getting up for the day.

You wake up hours later to a gentle breeze coming through the window, the soft feel of the duvet against your bare skin and the smell of Steve lingering all around you—musky, mixed with fresh laundry, the faint scent of leftover smoke from a campfire, and something so Steve you can’t help but bury your face into the soft cotton, giggling helplessly. You turn over, slowly stretching out, smiling into the sheets and your hand brushes against a piece of paper. There’s a note with your name on the outside of it.

You looked so peaceful, I couldn’t wake you, follow the arrows for a surprise.

You press the note to your face, covering the giddy smile making its way to your lips.

You look down at the floor and there are paper arrows pointing you out of the room. You wrap the sheet around yourself, jumping up excitedly. You follow the arrows all the way to a room on the corner of the house.

You don’t know what you were expecting. Maybe breakfast and tea. There is breakfast on the table in the middle — pancakes with syrup and berries. But more spectacularly, behind it—

A painting studio.

Every wall is covered with easels and canvases and drawers of every type of paint in every possible colour. The windows face the lake, the most perfect sunlight hitting the room through the huge windows on every side. There’s a stool already set up and empty paint palettes and clean brushes.

You clutch the edge of the stool, sitting down with a disbelieving breath. He had remembered. He’d remembered what brushes you like and the exact way you’d wanted the room to be set up. Down to every single detail. Something you’d mentioned once in passing, and he’d committed it to memory.

For all these years.

You shake your head, holding back tears, biting down on your bottom lip.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You hear footsteps coming up towards the front door and you jump up, running to the front of the house, sheet wrapped around you, paint on your collarbone and chin somehow. You’re buzzing with anticipation at the thought of Steve seeing you like this once again. You turn the doorknob, flirtatious remark already leaving your lips when your heart drops at the sight in front of you.

Your mother.

She looks you up and down, disgust clear on her features, “So this is what you are now, a whore for some soldier?”

It hits you like a punch to the gut, and you exhale hard, eyes already brimming with tears. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” You wrap the sheet tighter around yourself, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re fully naked under it.

“I’m here. To clean up your mess. As usual.” She slams her bag onto the table on the porch, and you flinch. “Go on and make yourself decent. Now.”

And it doesn’t matter how long it’s been or how old you are or the fact that you were now graduated from the college of her choosing and engaged to a man she herself had wanted for you. When she has that tone, that disappointment in her voice, you can’t help the way your body reacts, already moving to do as she asked.

You shower faster than you probably ever have in your life, skin still damp when you slip on your panties and bra. You walk back downstairs, head dipped low, buttoning the top of your dress. She just juts her chin up even higher, mouth curling downwards, arm spread over the back of the chair. You pace back and forth in the yard, avoiding her gaze.

“Howard has been worried sick about you. He called me asking if you were okay. So of course, I come runnin’ down here to see if you’re okay and you’re runnin’ around like a whore only weeks before your wedding day. He is waiting back at the hotel for you.”

“Steve wrote me. He wrote me every day for a year, he— I wouldn’t even be with Howa— you— did you— did you know about the letters?” You stop in your tracks.

You don’t even need her to answer.

You know by the complete lack of emotion on her face that it was her.

Because of course she kept the letters from you. Of course she had decided what she thought was best for you. Of course she had seen you be loved, the way any normal mother would hope her child would be loved and felt nothing but contempt. Nothing but jealousy and spite.

“You watched me cry myself to sleep every single night. You watched me barely be able to lift a fork to my mouth. You let me sit there, wonderin’ why he didn’t write, why he didn’t love me.” There are tears running freely down your face now. “And you just—you knew the whole time.” You whisper the end, more to yourself than anything. Then, you hold her gaze, louder, “You knew. The whole. Time. Didn’t you?”

She shrugs, arms crossed over her chest, still as unaffected as ever by the sight of you in tears, by the sight of you hurting. “If I hadn’t hid the letters, you would’ve been pinin’ after that boy for years. You forgot about him fast enough, didn’t you?”

“How dare you throw that in my face?” Your eyes burn, the lump in your throat growing, hands shaking.

“Well, it didn’t matter anyway, did it? The second you see him in a newspaper, you turn into a slut.” She spits at you, throwing down said newspaper onto the table.

“Mama— you—” You huff and it’s everything in you to not break completely, to not show her every bit of hurt you were feeling, all the years lost, all the grief you’d been through, all the heartbreak. You take a deep breath, then calmer, “What did you do with the letters?”

“That’s what you want to know? Not how we’re gonna fix this? No, you’ll come with me and you’ll just have to beg Howard for forgiveness.”

“Mama— this is none of your business.”

“Okay fine, here have the letters.” She drops them onto the table with a thud. Like they’re garbage. Like they mean nothing. Like they don’t hold a year of your life that you’d completely missed, all the truths you’d convinced yourself weren’t real. “Don’t know what good they’ll do anyway.”

You pick them up, clutching them to your chest. “Go home mama.”

“Do not tell me what to do. You will come back with me this insta—” Her yelling is cut off by Steve walking up behind her.

“You’d better see Howard and fix things.” She’s pulling her bag closer to her chest, clearly embarrassed at Steve having seen her yelling. She gives him a polite nod as she walks past him, before getting in her car and driving away.

Steve sighs as his eyes land on the stack of letters between your hands. There’s a long stretch of silence as he leans back on the porch railing, arms folded over his chest. He nods towards you, “So I see you got my letters.”

“I did.” You nod, barely able to meet his eyes, “Howard’s here in town.”

The back of his finger brushes your cheek, and you lean into his touch. “What are you gonna do, sweetheart?”

“I—” You look into his eyes and god, they’re so beautiful, you completely lose the ability to think of anything clearly. “I don’t know.”

Steve steps back with a shake of his head, looking off to the side with a frustrated huff. “So, we’re back to that now? You just gonna make love to me and then marry him?”

“It’s not like that and you know it. But I gave him my word, I can’t just—”

“It’s about money, isn’t it?” Steve interjects, voice gone hard.

You scoff loudly, the words hitting like a punch to the throat. “Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs like he couldn’t care less, like his heart isn’t threatening to burst from his chest. But he’s hurt. And Steve doesn’t know how to stop the way it’s coming out at you.

“I can’t believe you think I would—” You shake your head, wiping your nose and dabbing at your eyes where tears have gathered now. And then the anger stirs, the way it does so easily with him. “I hate you.” The tears fall down your face freely.

“Well, if you leave here, I hate you. You wouldn’t be here if there was something missing and you know it.” He says it with so much resolve, voice steady and sure.

“I came here because I was— because I was worried or I don’t know, I hadn’t seen you— and you just…you—”

“Tell me you don’t love me.” He steps towards you with an urgency rooted deep in his bones. His hand comes to the side of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. When you don’t say anything, he steps back again, frustrated. “Damn it. You know, it’s not gonna be easy, it’s gonna be hard, we’re gonna have to work at it. But I want that. I want to do that with you. I want that; all of you, every day, me and you forever.”

You shake your head, “It’s not that simple Steve, no matter what I do, somebody gets hurt.” You sob into your sleeve and it’s too much. It’s too much to decide all at once.

Steve softens immediately at the sight of you in tears. “Hey, hey, c’mere sweetheart, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, cradling the back of your head. And the comfort is so overwhelming, it makes you cry harder. The smell of him pressed against you, his arms wrapped around you, his body like a safe harbour protecting you from a storm.

“Howard’s a good man; he’s done everything right.” You mumble against his chest.

“I know. I know.” And he does. He knows you need to think about this clearly. But there’s a part of him that can’t let you go. Not when he just got you back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re driving towards the hotel, tears in your eyes, face red when you spot the letters from the corner of your eye. You pick them up, distracted for a second when you hear a loud horn and a flash of headlights, swerving with a gasp, your heart beating out of your chest. You pull over to the side of the road midway between the hotel and the house.

You pick up the first letter, opening it with shaky hands. And when you read it, you hear it in his voice. It’s like no time has passed at all. It feels like stepping into a time machine, all the emotion and feelings from that time coming rushing back and it’s as though you’re reading it the day after you had fought.

Sweetheart,

I couldn’t sleep last night because I know that it’s over between us. I’ve decided to go early because I couldn’t bear the thought of being here without you. But I know that what we had was real. And if this is truly the end, I’ll hold the time we shared together close to my heart for the rest of my life. And if in some distant place in the future we see each other in our new lives, I’ll smile at you with joy and remember how we spent a summer beneath the trees; learning from each other and growing in love.

I love you, I’ll be seeing you,

Steve

Your shoulders shake as you open the next one and the next, and the next—until you’re sitting in a pile of ripped envelopes and open letters stained with your tears. You sit there for hours, heart aching, chest heaving as you cry. All the time you’d missed, all the days you’d spent thinking he didn’t care, that he’d moved on.

And you hate it. You hate that it’s now. Because if you’d known—if you’d read his letters back then, you would’ve waited for him. Would’ve written to him and loved him for every day in between.

August 9th 2011

“It’s a beautiful story but I don’t know why it makes me sad.” There’s something so stirring about the stories that almost makes them feel real. You feel the grief of the girl who lost that time with the man she loved. You feel the love somewhere too. It feels so real. “How many times have I heard this story?”

“M’not sure.” Steve avoids your eyes.

You can’t place him, or the stories—the stirring of feelings. But he’s so familiar. He feels so safe, like a cup of tea on a cold night, warming you from the inside out with his presence alone.

“Can I show you something? I’ve got a surprise for you.” He smiles at you, looking up at you through his lashes and the way they flutter against his cheek feels so intimate.

You nod, lighting up with excitement, already following him as he guides you through the nursing home to the lake outside. The sight before you takes your breath away for just a second. The moon reflects off the lake, swans floating along with their heads tucked into their wings, a chorus of crickets chirping. There’s a picnic blanket laid out on the grass, tiny tealights that turn out to be little lights at a closer glance, lining the edge. Flower petals are scattered around the picnic—a wooden platter resting in the middle; chocolate-covered strawberries, cheeses, fruits and crackers all carefully arranged. There’s an ice bucket sitting next to it—champagne and two glasses ready.

He’d even placed it next to the bench, in case you didn’t want to sit on the floor.

Steve looks up at you expectantly. And in that moment, he’s just the boy hanging from the ferris wheel, risking everything just to get you to look at him for even a second.

The moon reflects off the lake, swans floating along with their heads tucked into their wings, a chorus of crickets chirping.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” You sigh, eyes crinkling and cheeks dimpling.

Your smile still has the same effect on him—still makes his whole body ease, smoothing out all his creased edges. His eyes trace over the soft creases in your face, the gentle curve of your lips. “Neither have I.” You place your hand on his arm and Steve lights up from the inside out.

He gestures towards the bench, and you shake your head, indicating you want to sit on the floor. He helps you down, hands braced behind you, making sure you’re settled before sitting next to you, spreading his legs out before him and popping a grape into his mouth from the platter laid out.

“So, what happened? In the story?” You sip on your drink, still in awe that he had set this up for you, basking in the cool summer breeze—a welcome change after a humid day. You pick up a chocolate-covered strawberry, waiting for him to continue reading, glancing down at the notebook sitting next to him.

You sit across from Howard in the tiny hotel room, gripping the edge of the bed, head hung down. Because you can’t look at him. Because Howard has never been anything but loving to you. And because you know he already knows.

“You know, in spite of everything, I love you.” Howard sighs and you look up at him then and there’s a strange sort of sympathy in his eyes.

“I love you too. It’s just— see, when I’m with Steve, m’one person and when I’m with you, m’someone else. And I just— I don’t know what to do.” Your heart clenches and tears slip down your cheeks because deep down you do know.

You know that it’s Steve.

It’s always been Steve.

Because when you look at him, you’re home. Because his eyes are your safe space. Because his heart has held yours gently. In a way no one else ever did. Because you knew that you could tell him anything about yourself and he’d just get it, because Steve Rogers speaks the language of your soul. He sets it on fire and calms it all at once. You could be anything and everything with Steve. There was never any part of him that expected you to be a certain way or present to the world as his picture-perfect wife. You could just be you — alive and free and so very happy.

“Steve’s a good man.” Howard nods.

“He said the same thing about you, y’know?” You sniffle, wiping your nose against your sleeve, laughing wetly.

“Of course he did, bastard.” Howard shakes his head, smiling fondly and it hurts that much more to see it, because of course he’s not even mad.

“I really am sorry Howard.” You sob, pulling him into a hug, tucking your face against his chest.

“S’okay baby. It really is.” His hand soothes over your hair, hugging you tighter because this is the last time he’d hold you like this and he needs it to last just a second longer.

“I’ll miss you,” you mumble against his shirt.

“I’ll miss you too sugar.” He kisses your forehead and when he pulls back, his lashes are wet with tears.

Steve’s standing on the balcony when he sees you drive up. His heart pounds against his chest, still unable to decipher if you’d come to tell him that you’d be marrying Howard, that the night you two had shared was just that—one night. A rush of emotion from seeing him again, from hearing about the letters. That the time for you two to be together was long gone, left in a different lifetime that no longer existed. He watches intently as you get out of the car and then his eyes land on your bags. You’d brought your bags.

That had to mean something.

He rushes down the stairs, heart in his throat, and you don’t see him yet, still retrieving your suitcases from the trunk of the car.

When you turn around—bags in hand—he’s standing there.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Your heart sighs at the sight of him, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip, the exhaustion that had spread through your bones easing at the relief of finally, finally being where you’d always meant to end up. You drop your bags, rushing over to him and he catches you.

The way he always does—arms wrapping around you, lifting you off the ground, breath shaky, his body physically easing at the feel of you in his arms. He can breathe easier, his edges softened as you melt into him, burying your face against his neck. You press your nose to his skin and inhale because it’s Steve. Your Steve. He smells like home. He smells like every version of you—every laugh, every cry, every fight. He’s adventure and safety and the feel of dancing like no-one is watching.

You don’t know when you start crying or when he does but when you pull back, both your cheeks are wet. You’re here, in his arms, and it’s everything he could’ve ever dreamed of.

“I was always gonna come back to you, always. You know that, right?” Your hands rest on either side of his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek and his hands mirror yours. “I can’t— I can’t just let you be a tiny part of my story, a memory. I need—I need to love you now. Forever. I want you to be my whole story. Because— because when we weren’t together, all I wanted was you.” Your forehead rests against his, the words coming out between sniffles.

“It was always just you and me sweetheart. It was you and me sitting on the porch next to each other. It was me coming home to you after a long day and being tucked away in your arms.” His nose nudges your cheek, pressing his lips to yours, soft and sweet and it’s mixed with both your tears. He pulls your face back gently, lowering his forehead to yours and brushing your cheek with his thumb. You kiss his palm, turning in towards him.

“I love you. I can’t exist in a world where I have been loved by you and not love you forever. It doesn’t make any sense.” He laughs at the end, shaking his head against yours and you laugh right along with him, because it is seriously stupid how long it’s been, how you had been apart for any time at all. How you had tried to convince yourself you could live in a world without Steve Rogers by your side.

Because you had been written into his story long before the day at the carnival and you would be for years to come.

“I remember now.” Your face falls and lifts all at once. “It was us. It’s you, Steve.” Your hands come to rest on his chest, Steve’s heart thumping beneath it and his hand instantly comes to cover yours. He pulls you in, tucking you beneath his chin like you’ve always belonged there—because you have.

“It’s me sweetheart, It’s me.” He breathes out, hands desperately reaching for any part of you they can touch.

Your fingers trail along his face, his cheekbones, his jaw—frowning softly, “It’s like you haven’t changed a day…” You place your hand on his cheek. It fits like it was made just for him.

The thing is, Steve hadn't changed. He'd missed so much of your life. The thought of you alone all those years while he'd been in the ice. After finally being together. You had chosen him all those years ago. You’d gotten married right there in the front yard of the house you shared—the dream you shared.

And then the mission that had gone wrong. The ice.

You'd lived 38 years without him.

And when he’d returned, he’d come back to the news that you had been moved to a nursing home, that you’d developed dementia and would most likely not remember who he is.

If anything, he was glad you didn’t remember all of it. If it could spare you even some of the pain you had felt. All the years spent waiting. Hoping.

“Oh Steve. You— you came back? You stayed all this time?” Your voice is muffled against his neck.

“Well, I couldn’t leave my best girl.” His hands come to caress your face. “Not when she owes me a dance.” You stand there for what feels like forever, basking in each other’s warmth, in the comfort of each other’s arms. Steve pulls back for just a second, turning the radio on and the sounds of ‘I’ll be seeing you’ filter slowly out from the speaker. The music plays through you like the first time you’d heard it—every note and lyric dancing through your veins.

“Can I have this dance sweetheart?” He holds out his hand to you, and you place yours gently in his, giggling when he pulls you to him, sighing softly into your hair. He holds you close, swaying gently in time with the music, his fingers flexing against your waist because fuck, it’s been so long. You nestle into him, seeking out his warmth, tucking your face against his neck as your feet shift side to side.

In that moment, you’re 18 on a rooftop and you’re laughing at the boy singing completely off tune, all cocky grins and spinning you like he knew exactly what he was doing. He hadn’t of course. He was too busy trying to hum louder when your fingers laced with his, because if he didn’t, surely, surely you would have heard the way his heart beat like it was trying to escape his chest and mold itself to yours.

He watches as your eyes land on your wrinkled hand on his shoulder. You frown softly, confused again because in your mind—this was a different time. You were dancing at your wedding, his hand on your waist, flower petals raining down on you as he kissed you, whisking you off your feet. He notices your frown and he covers your hand with his, spinning you around and back into him. Your head tips back laughing and it spreads through him like sunshine.

You lean up to kiss him, giggling against his lips and you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his shirt, pancake batter smeared across both your cheeks, kisses mixed with maple syrup and vanilla ice-cream.

And then you’re here, under the moon, and he’s humming off-tune in your ear again, lacing your fingers with his and resting his lips against your forehead, swaying you back and forth. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places.”

“I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day.” You sing back to him, eyes twinkling as they meet his.

And if this was the only moment Steve ever got with you again, it’d be worth it. Worth it for the way you’re gazing up at him, like he was the most precious thing in the world.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Steve?” Your voice sounds out from where you lay next to him on the picnic blanket, head resting gently against his chest, ear pressed to his steady heartbeat.

“Yeah sweetheart?” His voice breaks at the end, the lump in his throat rising at the sound of his name from your lips.

God, he’d do anything to hear it over and over.

“Do you think our love can create miracles?” You wonder, eyes tracking the stars in the sky.

“I think our love can do anything we want it to.” His voice is low, reverent, meant just for you.

And you don’t remember everything. But your heart does. It remembers him. His presence like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night, a shelter from the storm raging outside. Steve was safety and love and life wrapped into one. He is.

You remember the stories — a girl and a boy so stupid in love they defied all odds and found their way back to each other again and again. You remember the way paint feels against your skin and the sound of your heart the first time you knew what love was—Steve’s arms wrapped around you, the sun on your skin, and his whispered promise, ‘If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.’

Steve presses his forehead to yours, shutting his eyes, just feeling you. You had lived without him for years—whole periods of your life gone by without him to witness them. And now he would suffer the same fate—living on after you, in a world without your light.

In a world without his best girl.

You hold onto his hand, his skin warm against yours, and he brings it to his lips, kissing the spot where your wedding ring still sits like a promise. He holds your hand to his mouth, letting out a shaky breath.

“Will you stay with me?” You whisper up at him, eyes soft, and in that moment, you know him.

Your Steve.

“Always honey. Always.”

more blue: ahhhhhhhh omg i can't believe i finished it, i apologise for this fic being so so very late; life just got away from me for a bit but i hope you enjoyed this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it, and if you did, i would very much appreciate any feedback 🤍 come scream with me in dms or asks if you're shy!!! ALSO i just wanted to share these two reference photos of Noah from The Notebook bc I feel like I really nailed the moodboard with the Steve pics I chose: