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Diana pauses outside her apartment, listening hard. There’s someone inside. She’s not expecting a visitor, and almost anyone who stopped by to see her would wait for her to let them in. She curls a hand around the hilt of her sword -
And hears the singing, unmistakeable, beautiful, and utterly unexpected.
Steve is in the kitchen, bowls and pans spread across the counter, flour dusted over most surfaces and his hair, singing an old, cheerful song. Diana leans back against the doorframe and watches as he mixes something in a large bowl, smiling to herself. Her Steve is ever beautiful, vibrant and alive (even if technically he isn’t anymore), golden and blue like the sunrise over the ocean.
He turns to pick up another bowl and sees her, and his face creases into a wide smile. “Diana! I didn’t hear you come in!”
“I didn’t expect you for another month,” Diana says, smiling back. Steve’s grin widens.
“Well, it turns out false spring counts - or at least, I can stay up here until the warm spell ends.”
Diana shakes her head and crosses the kitchen to kiss him. He tastes of sugar and ambrosia, and kisses back as eagerly as ever, arms coming around to hold her tight. When they finally break apart, though, he giggles. “I’ve floured you.”
Diana shakes her head mock-mournfully. “And after I went to all that trouble to get you to deflower me, too.”
Steve throws back his head and laughs, full-throated and loud. “Diana!” he says, pretending to be scandalized, so Diana leans in and kisses him again. It’s warm and sweet, a homecoming the way it always is, and Steve cups her face in his hands and kisses back like there’s nothing else in the world but her.
“I was making you a cake,” he says when they finally break apart. “To go with the ice cream.”
“The ice cream will be fine on its own,” Diana decides, and pulls Steve into the bedroom. He follows her, grinning, and behind them, in the kitchen window-boxes, flowers sprout.
When Diana smells them, days later, after the warm spell has broken and Steve has gone back to the Underworld until true spring begins, they smell improbably like new-baked cake.