‎♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You’d been on the run for months now, and the weight of it was beginning to settle deep in your bones. It wasn’t just you—it was all of you—but some carried the exhaustion better than others. You tried to be one of them, masking the cracks, swallowing the weariness. Sometimes, though, you almost preferred the solitude of your own company, because at least then you didn’t have to pretend. But sitting alone in a dimly lit diner with peeling wallpaper and the faint buzz of a broken neon sign, your mind wandered to what life used to be—when you weren’t glancing at every door and window, waiting for someone to recognize your face.

Even so, regret never crossed your mind. You hadn’t doubted your choice back then, and you didn’t now. If you were given the chance to go back, to undo everything, you knew you’d make the same decision all over again. The cause had been worth it. Steve had been worth it. And maybe that was what made the endless nights on the road and the constant fear of capture bearable—you had chosen your side, and you would stand by it, even if it meant ending up right here, lost in the shadows.

The reflection staring back at you from the streaked diner window barely resembled the person you remembered. Your hair, once neatly styled, was now tucked under a faded ball cap, the color dulled from lack of care. Clothes that used to make you feel sharp and sure of yourself had been traded for layers that wouldn’t draw attention—denim, hoodies, neutral colors meant to blend. You had scrubbed away everything that marked you as someone extraordinary. Now, you were just another tired face in a crowd.

You dragged your eyes back to the table, fingers drumming against the chipped Formica as you tried to ignore the gnawing ache in your stomach. You weren’t sure if it was hunger or the sharp edge of anxiety—it was hard to tell these days. Every minute Steve was late, every moment the diner’s bell chimed and it wasn’t him, the tension wound tighter. He was the one tether holding this fragile life together, and you clung to that, even as your mind whispered every worst-case scenario.

Finally, the bell over the door gave a soft jingle, and you looked up. Relief hit you before you even saw his face. Steve Rogers didn’t look like Captain America anymore—not the one the world used to know. The beard, the longer hair, the worn leather jacket and cap pulled low over his eyes—it was all part of the disguise, but it suited him in a way that made your chest tighten. He carried himself differently now, heavier somehow, though his eyes still carried that same steadiness that kept you from breaking.

He spotted you instantly, and for a brief second, something like warmth flickered between the two of you—an unspoken recognition that despite everything, despite how far you’d both fallen from the lives you once knew, you weren’t doing this alone.

Steve slid into the booth across from you, the cracked vinyl squeaking under his weight. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just let his eyes linger on you as if reassuring himself you were really here. Finally, his voice broke the silence.

“Hey… how are you?”

You gave a small shrug, forcing the corners of your mouth upward in something that barely passed for a smile. The two of you exchanged a few words of small talk, nothing more than surface-level scraps. By the time the waiter came by, you ordered something simple—something cheap—and ate quickly, mostly in silence. It was Steve who did most of the talking, his deep voice steady, filling the empty space between you. You only managed the occasional nod or shake of your head, chewing around the tight knot in your chest.

After a while, his words shifted. Softer, heavier. “You don’t look good.” His voice rumbled low in his throat, as though it took effort to say it out loud. Steve Rogers was confident, always sure of himself. But with you, he faltered—like honesty cost him more.

“How kind of you,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you pushed your plate away. Your gaze found the diner’s smudged window, where a little girl outside walked hand-in-hand with her mother, safe and blissfully unaware of the world you’d left behind. The sight made something ache inside you.

“Don’t be like that,” Steve said quietly.

“I’m sorry…” you sighed, turning back to him. It had been weeks since you’d seen him, weeks since you split from Nat and Sam to lie low on your own. You were happy to be here, happy to see him—but something still felt off, like you were both shadows of who you’d been. “I just—”

“I know.” He cut you off gently, though his eyes softened. “Let’s finish up and head to the house.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the energy to. So you both did just that—left the half-empty diner, stepped into the night, and disappeared into the anonymity of the road again. Together.

~~

When you arrived at the safehouse, something washed over you. Relief? Possibly—you weren’t sure. The place was small, tucked away at the edge of town with nothing remarkable about it, which was exactly the point. A plain wooden door, faded paint, curtains drawn tight. To anyone else it looked abandoned, forgotten. To you, it was sanctuary.

Steve held the door open for you, like the true old-fashioned gentleman he was, and you stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood, but it was warm, safe. For the first time in days, you let your shoulders drop.

You set your bag down by the couch and sat, elbows resting on your knees, staring at the floorboards. Steve closed the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, watching you in silence. He had a way of waiting you out, never rushing, never pressing. Still, the weight of his gaze was enough to unravel the tight hold you’d kept on yourself.

“I hate this,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked, betraying you. “I hate pretending like I’m fine when I’m not. I hate running. I hate feeling like I don’t belong anywhere anymore.”

Steve didn’t move right away, but you felt the shift in the air when he crossed the room. He sat beside you, close enough that his warmth seeped through, but not so close as to crowd you.

“I miss home,” you continued, your throat tightening. “I miss waking up and not worrying if today’s the day someone catches up to us. I miss normal. I miss—” Your voice broke, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. “God, I just want to go back. Just once. I want to feel like I have a home again.”

Steve didn’t try to shush you, didn’t tell you to be strong. Instead, his hand found yours, calloused fingers curling around your palm, grounding you. His grip was steady, anchoring.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard. Harder than it should be. And I can’t promise it’ll get easier anytime soon. But you’re not alone in this. Not while I’m here.”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes through blurred vision. For all the wear and tear, for the beard and the longer hair and the weight of the world pressing on him, Steve still looked at you like you were worth fighting for. And somehow, that made the ache in your chest ease, if only a little.

For the first time in a long while, you let yourself lean into him. His arm slipped around your shoulders, solid and sure, and you closed your eyes. Maybe this wasn’t home—not really. But with him beside you, it felt like the closest thing you had left.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His thumb brushed absently against your arm, slow and steady, and it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear or exhaustion. You tilted your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him, and caught him watching you. Not with pity, not even with concern—but with something softer. Something that made your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding in your ears. Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was the exhaustion breaking down every wall you’d built—but in that moment, you wanted him. Not just as your captain, not just as the man who’d pulled you out of fire more times than you could count, but as Steve. Just Steve.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you whispered, your voice barely carrying in the quiet room.

Steve’s jaw tensed, his blue eyes searching yours. “You won’t have to find out.”

The world seemed to shrink around you, leaving only the two of you in that dimly lit safehouse. You didn’t even realize you were leaning closer until you felt his breath brush against your skin. For a heartbeat, you hesitated—was this really happening? But then his hand came up to cradle your cheek, warm and steady, and every doubt slipped away.

You closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like both of you were afraid of breaking the fragile moment. But when Steve exhaled against your lips, the weight he carried slipping away just for that second, you deepened it, fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket. He kissed you back with a quiet urgency, one hand still cupping your cheek, the other holding you closer like he’d been waiting for this just as long.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. For once, neither of you had to say a word. The kiss had said it all—you weren’t just surviving together anymore.

You were choosing each other.

~~~

It was a bitter January night in New York, the kind that crept under your skin no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. You hadn’t planned on going out—if you had, you definitely would’ve worn more layers. Instead, you were curled up by your bedroom window when the familiar tap, tap of someone landing on the fire escape made you glance up.

Peter.

He always said he liked swinging by your window because it was “more fun,” but you knew better. It wasn’t that he didn’t like your dad—it was that being around Tony Stark turned Peter into a babbling, nervous mess. You’d caught him tripping over his words one too many times to believe otherwise.

Ever since the two of you started spending more time together, this had become his routine: skip the front door, skip the awkward run-ins with your dad, and just show up at your window like some kind of spandex-clad secret.

And tonight was no different.

When you slid the window open, the cold air rushed in, biting at your skin, but Peter’s sheepish grin almost made up for it. He perched on the ledge, shivering slightly, mask tugged up just enough to reveal pink cheeks and the kind of smile that made it impossible to send him away.

“You know,” you said, raising a brow, “normal people text before dropping by.”

He gave a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You shook your head, fighting back a smile as you tugged on a light coat over the worn-out long sleeve you only wore to sleep now. Peter extended his hand toward you, still clad in the fabric of his suit. Without hesitation, you slipped your bare hand into his. Despite the freezing air swirling around you both, his palm was warm, grounding, and you couldn’t help but hold on a little tighter than necessary.

A few minutes later, you were perched beside him on the edge of a tall building, the whole city sprawled out below. Yellow windows glowed against the dark skyline, and the noise of New York felt far away up here, muffled into nothing. The height didn’t scare you anymore—not when Peter was sitting right next to you.

This was where the two of you always seemed to end up. Sometimes it was rooftops, sometimes fire escapes, always above the chaos of the streets. You’d just sit and talk until hours slipped by unnoticed.

But tonight felt different.

Peter tugged his mask the rest of the way off, raking a hand through his messy curls before resting it nervously on his knee. He was quieter than usual, less fidgety in a way that almost made you more suspicious. His normal rambling—half jokes, half apologies—had given way to long silences, his gaze flickering between the skyline and the ground far below.

Peter was always awkward—that was part of what you liked about him—but this wasn’t just awkward. This was… something else.

Something was definitely up tonight.

“Peter—” you started, but before you could even finish, he cut you off in a rushed blur.

“Yeah!” His voice cracked embarrassingly high, almost a squeak.

You frowned, reaching out to place your hand gently on his knee, trying to still the constant bouncing. “Peter, what is going on?”

“Not—nothing…” His words tumbled out unevenly, and his eyes darted anywhere but yours. The neon glow of the city lights reflected off his lashes, but he wouldn’t meet your gaze.

Before you could press further, he shot up from the ledge in a burst of nervous energy, pacing quickly to the other side of the rooftop. His mask dangled from his hand, fingers twisting in the fabric as if it might give him courage.

You blinked, confused. What was going on with him?

Careful of your footing, you stood as well, brushing off your coat before following him across the rooftop. The wind was sharper up here, tugging strands of your hair into your face, but you ignored it.

“Peter,” you tried again, softer this time, closing the distance between you.

He froze, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. His grip on the mask tightened until his knuckles went pale, and for a second you wondered if he was about to leap off the edge and escape into the night.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath. “I—I can’t keep doing this.”

Your heart stumbled. “Doing what?”

“This,” he said, spinning to face you. His eyes were wide, desperate, like he was trying to explain a puzzle that only made sense in his head. “Hanging out with you, sneaking around, acting like I’m totally fine when I’m not—because I’m not. And if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna explode.”

The words tumbled out of him faster than you could process, but his voice cracked just enough to make your chest tighten.

“Peter…”

He ran both hands through his hair, pacing again before blurting, “I like you, okay? I—no, I don’t just like you. I really like you. And I’ve been trying to keep it together because your dad is basically my boss and he’d kill me—like actually kill me—but I can’t help it. Every time I see you, I… I forget how to be normal.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind whistling between the buildings. His confession hung in the air, fragile and exposed.

You stood there, stunned, your breath caught in your throat. His face was flushed, eyes glassy with panic, but beneath the nerves there was something steady, something true.

Peter Parker liked you.

And not just a little.

Your lips parted, but no words came out right away. You stepped closer instead, so close that your coats brushed, and his breath hitched when you reached up and gently pried the mask out of his clenched hand.

“You’re right,” you whispered, voice low. “My dad would kill you.” A teasing smile curved your lips as you added, “But maybe it’s worth the risk.”

Peter blinked at you, stunned. “Wait—are you saying…?”

You didn’t give him the chance to finish. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth rush to his skin.

When you pulled back, his grin was so wide it was almost ridiculous. He looked dazed, like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze at last. “I like you too.”

“This is—this is great.” Peter’s face broke into the kind of smile that made your stomach flip, and before you could overthink it, he wrapped his arms around you. You sank into his warmth, the city buzzing below as if it had no idea what was happening up here.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

“Peter, you have an incoming call from Tony Stark,” Karen’s voice chirped suddenly from the mask still clutched in your hand.

You froze.

Peter jerked back so fast he nearly tripped over the ledge. “Oh shi—!”

~~~

You had been slightly annoyed. Well—maybe more disappointed than anything. Tonight was supposed to be dinner out with Bucky. Something you’d both been looking forward to. But then he texted, asking if you could push things back… and switch it to dinner at home.

Fine. You told yourself something must’ve come up.

Bucky was always on time. Early, even. Never late. It was one of those things you’d come to count on—steady, reliable, him. So you tried not to let the change of plans bother you.

At first.

You’d gone ahead and cooked anyway, wanting the food to be hot and waiting when he walked through the door. But that had been two hours ago. Two hours of pacing, of peeking out the window at every sound, of telling yourself he’d be here any minute.

Eventually you’d given up, sliding the food into containers and stacking it neatly in the fridge. The apartment had grown too quiet, too heavy, so you curled up on the couch under a blanket, half-distracted by a teen romance show you were oddly obsessed with. The kind of thing Bucky would shake his head at and then end up secretly watching right along with you.

But as the minutes stretched into another hour, your disappointment shifted into something else. Worry.

Why wasn’t he home? What came up? Was he okay?

You chewed at your lip, phone clutched in your hand, before finally typing out another message.

“Is everything okay, Bucky? Call me.”

Delivered 10:33.

You stared at the screen, willing the dots to appear, willing it to buzz with his voice on the other end. This wasn’t normal for him. Not answering. Not checking in.

He may have been over a hundred years old, but Bucky Barnes knew how to use a phone. And if he wasn’t answering yours… something was wrong.

At some point, exhaustion won out. You dozed off still curled on the couch, blanket pulled tight around you. You hadn’t meant to—you’d promised yourself you’d stay up, just to make sure he came home.

The sound of keys jingling snapped you awake. The front door creaked open, soft and hesitant, like whoever was entering didn’t want to make a sound.

Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep. The heel of your hand rubbed against them, trying to chase away the haze.

“Bucky?” you called, voice small and groggy.

“Hey…” His reply was quiet, almost careful.

That tone alone had your heart skipping. You sat up straighter, blinking at him—and instantly, the fog of sleep disappeared.

He stood in the doorway, cut on his lip, blood still drying along his temple, bruises scattered across his jaw and knuckles. Not catastrophic—nothing you hadn’t seen before—but enough to make your chest tighten.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you snapped, shooting to your feet and rushing toward him. The blanket fell uselessly to the floor.

“I’m sorry about dinner, love,” he murmured, voice rough and tired. His shoulders slumped, like even standing upright was more effort than he had left in him.

You closed your eyes for a second, pulling in a shaky breath to steady yourself. Dinner? Dinner?

When you opened them again, your worry broke through your frustration. “I’m not—God, Bucky, I’m not worried about dinner. What happened to you?”

He tried to give you a small smile, but it pulled at his split lip. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Your glare told him you weren’t buying it, not even a little. You pressed your hands to his chest, not pushing him away, but grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him.

“Next time,” you said, softer now, eyes searching his, “you call me. Or I swear, Buck, dinner will be the least of your problems.”

His laugh was low and rumbling, even as his hands found your waist. “Yes, ma’am.”

But when he leaned forward to kiss your temple, you felt the smallest tremor in him. And that was when you knew—he needed you more than dinner, more than scolding, more than anything else tonight.

“Do I have Steve to blame for you getting into this mess?” you asked, eyebrow arched.

Bucky gave a tired half-smile. “Yeah… he called. Needed help with some Avengers stuff.”

You shook your head with a sigh. “Alright, then. Next time I see him, I’ll have a word.”

That earned you the faintest chuckle. “Don’t threaten Steve on my behalf.”

“Who says it’s a threat?” you shot back, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a laugh.

His eyes softened then, lingering on you longer than they should have. “Tell me you didn’t stay up waiting.”

You tilted your head, smirking gently. “Well, I’m not a liar.”

Your hands came up to his jaw, light and careful, thumbs brushing over stubble as you studied his face like he might vanish if you blinked. “Let’s go fix you up.”

“I’ll be better by tomorrow,” he murmured, almost stubborn, though the warmth in his voice gave him away.

“I know,” you whispered back, lips curving into a small smile. “But I still like to care for you.”

His gaze searched yours, something unspoken flickering in his tired blue eyes. And when he leaned into your touch just slightly, like he couldn’t help it—like he’d finally let himself need you—you knew tomorrow could wait. Tonight was yours.

~~~