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You wake up gradually through a haze of satisfaction. When you open your eyes, it takes you a moment to realise where you are. The room looks oddly familiar, similar in layout to yours, but the furnishings and décor are completely different.
As you finally reach full consciousness, it all comes back to you. This is Steve’s room. You’re waking up naked in his bed. Because last night, after two years of flirting and friendship and secret pining, you had slept with Steve.
You hadn’t planned for it to happen. You just hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time you’d tried to close your eyes, you saw the devastation, the ruins, the bodies of the people you and the team had been too late to save during this last nightmare of a mission. It had been a long time since you’d experienced a loss like that, and it had haunted you from the journey back to the Tower on the quinjet to well beyond when you finally peeled your grimy tac suit off your body.
So after a fruitless hour of lying awake in your bed, you had padded down the hallway to Steve’s room, knowing that he would have taken the hit just as hard, and that he, out of everyone, would be the best person to talk to. You had figured that, if nothing else, the two of you could find a little comfort in each other. You hadn’t expected that comfort to progress so rapidly from innocent conversation to something decidedly more… carnal.
You sit up slowly in the bed, pulling the sheets up around your body. Every single one of your muscles is aching, the combined result of the mission yesterday and last night’s activities. Steve had not been rough with you, but he hadn’t been gentle, either. From the moment he had returned your initiating kiss to the moment he had finally collapsed exhausted beside you on the bed, he had treated your body with the same intense, single-minded focus he brings to his work. It had been nothing short of glorious to be the subject of that attention, that passion, after dreaming about it for so long. You feel a stirring deep in your belly as you recall the feeling of his perfectly sculpted body under your hands, the searing touch of his lips on your skin, the way he had made you cry out in pleasure with every snap of his slender hips.
You look around and notice that he’s not in the bed next to you, or anywhere else in the room for that matter, but before you can wonder where he’s gotten to, the bathroom door swings open. He’s already dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, which you find mildly disappointing—though it can always be rectified.
“Hi,” you greet him with a small smile.
You’re about to ask coyly if he wants to join you back in the bed, but as you take in his sober expression, you feel the smile fading from your face. Your eyebrows draw together as you watch him walk over and perch on the edge of the bed, keeping himself carefully separate from you.
“Steve, what—”
“I think this was a mistake,” he says suddenly, and even though his voice is gentle, you feel like he’s just slapped you in the face. The satisfied glow you had woken up with immediately vanishes, replaced with a feeling like your veins are being flooded with ice.
“What?” Instinctively, you pull the sheets up tighter around you as your heart plummets into your stomach.
“I’m sorry, Y/N. We shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have…” He trails off and shakes his head, looking down at his hands. When he finally raises his head again, there’s nothing but regret and apologies in his blue eyes. It’s like a knife to your chest.
“It’s probably best if we just forget about this,” he finishes quietly.
You stare at him dumbfounded for a moment. For a blissful few hours, you had thought that this was the start of something new and wonderful, the culmination of two years of longing, an expression of the feelings you had always hoped he might one day reciprocate. But now he’s telling you that he wants to pretend it never happened. Did this seriously mean nothing to him? Do you mean nothing to him?
You’ve wanted him—loved him—for so long, and last night it had seemed like he felt the same way about you. But now in the harsh light of day, you see that you had been wrong. He may have wanted you for the night, but any deeper feelings beyond physical attraction had clearly been all your own.
What a fool you’ve been.
The realisation snaps you into action and you scramble off the bed to pick your clothes up from the floor. It doesn’t escape your notice that he averts his gaze as you slip naked out of the sheets. You feel your face burning with hurt and embarrassment, and you turn away as you hurriedly pull on your underwear and tank top.
“Y/N—”
“It’s fine, Steve,” you cut him off as you step into your pyjama shorts. He looks back up at you and you give him a quick, tight smile. “You’re right. We should just forget it ever happened.”
There is a hint of concern in his eyes as he asks hesitantly, “Are you okay?”
You smile at him again, trying to take your jumbled mess of emotions and project the exact opposite of what you’re feeling. “Of course,” you say as lightly as you can manage. “Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”
The storm building inside of you threatens to break, so you don’t bother waiting for his response. You manage to keep it together for as long as it takes to walk down the hall and into your room. As soon as the door shuts behind you, you sink to the floor and bury your face in your hands, giving yourself over to your thoroughly shattered heart.
* * * * *
To say that your relationship with Steve suffers after that is an understatement.
You try to treat him normally so that nothing appears different on the surface, especially in front of the others, but it becomes impossible to spend any length of time alone with him. Every time you look at him, you feel a deep ache in your chest that hurts much more acutely than the yearning you had felt for him before you had spent the night together.
Steve, for his part, just doesn’t seem to know how to deal with you. You can tell that he, too, is trying to act normally, but it’s clear that it’s costing him some effort. He’s still polite, still Steve, but when he talks to you now, his voice is a little more stilted and his smiles look forced. Every now and then you catch him looking at you with that same rueful look in his blue eyes, and it cuts you open each time.
It occurs to you that he might be particularly ill-equipped to handle the awkwardness of interacting with someone he wishes he hadn’t slept with. You know that he hasn’t ever had much of a personal life, even before he went into the ice, and he’s never struck you as the kind of man who’s interested in casual flings and one night stands. It goes some way to explaining the depth of his remorse: you figure that he feels guilty, maybe even a little ashamed, for spontaneously giving into his baser instincts when he had no intention of pursuing any kind of meaningful relationship with you and no deeper feelings for you at all.
Understanding that doesn’t do anything to lessen your pain, though.
You can’t tell whether the other members of the team have noticed the awkwardness and distance between you and Steve, but if they have, they don’t say anything about it. And as you follow the usual rhythm of your days—missions, training, downtime in the Tower—you do your best to act like nothing significant has happened. You pretend that Steve didn’t send you soaring only to bring you crashing down to earth mere hours later. You pretend that you don’t think about the touch of his lips and his hands on your body as often as you think about the regret in his eyes.
And you pretend that your heart is still intact and not entirely, shamefully, still in his hands.
* * * * *
Normally you don’t mind Tony’s events—they’re a good excuse to get dressed up and indulge in a bit of frivolity, making a nice change from the life-or-death seriousness of your job. Tonight, it’s a fundraising gala for the Stark Relief Foundation. The ballroom is full of New York’s elite, all dressed to the nines: government bigwigs, CEOs and business moguls, even a few celebrities. The décor is exquisite, the canapés Michelin-worthy, the alcohol top-shelf and free-flowing. The formalities are already over, and everywhere you look, there are people thoroughly enjoying themselves. You’re just not one of them.
You had initially been looking forward to the gala. Between that disaster of a mission and the wreck of your personal life, it had been an emotionally draining few weeks, and you’d been feeling more than ready to blow off some steam. The dress, a slinky midnight-blue number, is one of your favourites, and when you zipped it up and looked at yourself in the mirror, you had felt confident and beautiful and more like yourself than you had in days.
But then you’d met the rest of the team at the elevator. A sharp pang of longing had pierced through you when you saw Steve standing there looking so breathtakingly handsome in his suit and tie. And where once he would have smiled at you, complimented you, maybe even let his eyes linger over your form, tonight he had barely given you a second glance. It had been a crushing reminder of how stupid you had been to imagine, for any length of time, that he might reciprocate your feelings for him. Your heart had split open all over again, and just like that, a shadow had been cast over your entire evening, leaving you in no mood for champagne and schmoozing.
You’re currently stuck in a boring bit of shop-talk with Tony, Rhodey and some higher-ups in the Department of State, but when Maria Hill joins the group, you take the opportunity to politely excuse yourself and step away. Taking a sip from your glass of pinot gris, you look around and catch sight of a relatively quiet-looking corner of the room. It looks like an inconspicuous enough spot to pass the rest of the evening, or at least however long you need to stay to avoid a lecture about optics from Tony in the morning, so you make a beeline for it.
You reach the corner just before a tall, good-looking man with dark hair does the same. When he sees you, he smiles ruefully and says, “I see you had the same idea.”
“Trying to hide as well?” you ask, eyeing him curiously. He’s not one of the VIPs you typically see at these events, and while his navy suit is nicely tailored to his trim, athletic figure, it doesn’t look quite as expensive as the ones Tony’s crowd usually wears.
He nods and looks around at the ballroom with raised eyebrows. “It’s a little… overwhelming in here. I’m not really used to this kind of glitz and glamour.”
“Believe me, unless your name is Tony Stark or maybe Thor, you don’t ever get used to it,” you say with a dry chuckle. “If this isn’t your usual scene, how’d you end up here?”
His lips quirk into a wry half-smile. “My firm does all the legal work for the Foundation. We scored a couple of free tickets, and I just happened to be one of the only ones not working late tonight on anything specific.”
“Ah. Lucky you.”
“Lucky me.” After a brief, awkward pause, he says apologetically, “Look, I’m sure you came over here to escape small talk with random strangers, so I can just… go find another corner.”
You hesitate for a moment, and like a moth to a flame your eyes are drawn to where Steve stands halfway across the ballroom. He’s nodding along to whatever Clint is saying to him, but he’s looking past the other man’s shoulder, right at you. It’s difficult to decipher his expression from this distance, but your skin begins to prickle under his icy blue gaze.
What you need is a distraction. Small talk with a random stranger sounds much more appealing right now than spending the next few hours trying to avoid looking at or thinking about Steve. So you turn your attention back to the stranger beside you and say, “I think this corner’s plenty big enough for two wallflowers.”
He returns your smile with one of his own, and you find yourself noticing how warm and bright it is. “Jason Phillips,” he introduces himself, and you shake his proffered hand.
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I know. I recognise you.”
“I kind of figured,” you acknowledge with a shrug. “But I don’t like to presume. I’m not quite as iconic as some of the other members of the team.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes, glancing briefly over to where Thor is laughing uproariously at something. He turns back to you and raises an eyebrow. “Is that why you thought you could hide in the corner and nobody would notice you? Because I gotta say—I don’t think it’ll work.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Because there can’t be a man in this room who wouldn’t notice a woman as beautiful as you.”
His words immediately make you think of Steve, and you are tempted to glance over to the super-soldier again. But then Jason smiles and gives you a look that tells you that his compliment was utterly sincere, and you feel a tiny flutter in your stomach in response. It takes you by surprise, but it gives you a sudden spark of hope—if you can respond like this to a handsome stranger, then maybe you’re ready to move on from your pointless feelings for Steve.
So you deliberately angle your body towards Jason, blocking Steve out of your peripheral vision, and you spend the rest of the evening talking to a man who’s interested in you and ignoring the one who apparently isn’t.
Over the next few hours, you discover that Jason is witty, charming, and an excellent conversation partner. He has a sharp, slightly dark sense of humour that gets you laughing. His flirting is subtle but very much present, and the little flutter you felt earlier makes a return several times throughout your conversation. Once or twice you think you feel a certain pair of blue eyes watching you, but you ignore the sensation, giving all of your attention to the man standing next to you. Time flies by, and before you know it, it’s one in the morning, the festivities are winding down, and Natasha comes over to let you know the cars are ready to take you and the rest of the team back to the Tower.
Before you leave, Jason stops you with a light hand on your elbow. “Listen, I know you probably have a lot going on, but if you ever find yourself with a free evening that you wouldn’t mind spending with me in a less opulent setting—give me a call.” He holds out his business card to you and you only hesitate for a moment before taking it from him with a smile, pretending not to see the little smirk that Natasha shoots your way.
Two days later, you’re leaning on the kitchen counter having a staring contest with your phone and Jason’s business card. Natasha walks in and grins when she sees you.
“So when are you gonna call him?” she asks, heading over to the pantry.
“I don’t know if I’m going to call him at all.”
“Why not?” She emerges with a bag of chips and joins you at the end of the counter. “He’s cute. He seemed decent enough. Call him and go out with him. If you’re not into it, you don’t have to see him again.”
“Is it even possible to date someone while being an Avenger?” you wonder. “This job doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for romantic commitments.”
“If Tony can somehow make a long-term relationship work with Pepper, you can handle a few dates.”
You bite your lip, still feeling hesitant. “You really think I should call him?”
“Call who?” Steve asks as he enters the kitchen. Your stomach gives a little flip at the sight of him, and you’re reminded of exactly why you’ve been unable to decide whether to make this call.
“Jason Phillips,” Natasha answers. “You saw him at the gala, right? The tall guy in the blue suit who spent the whole night cosied up with Y/N in the corner? He gave her his number.”
“We weren’t ‘cosied up’,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We were just talking. He was… nice.”
Steve walks past both of you and opens one of the cabinets. “You gonna call him, then?” he asks with his back to you.
A slight frown creases your forehead. There’s something odd about his tone, but you can’t quite identify it. You remember feeling his steely gaze on you while you had chatted to Jason, and you wonder: is it even remotely possible that Steve might be a little jealous?
“Is that a problem?” you ask carefully, your eyes fixed on his broad shoulders.
He turns around with a glass in hand and says, “Why would it be?”
His expression is completely neutral, his voice nothing but indifferent. It’s the final nail in the coffin for whatever lingering hope you’ve been holding onto that there could still be something to salvage with him. The message is loud and clear: he could not care less about whether or not you get involved with another man. There is nothing between you apart from your own unrequited feelings and his lingering regret at ever having slept with you in the first place.
You push down the sudden twinge of pain and look back down to Jason’s business card. “I guess I’ll call him,” you say quietly.
“Good,” Natasha says with a smirk. “Maybe you’ll finally get some action after… how long has it been?”
Your eyes flicker automatically to Steve and you see his jaw tighten. “A while,” you say casually, trying not to sound too evasive. “Nobody’s really shown much interest.” You dart another glance at him, but he’s already turned away to take a bottle of orange juice out of the refrigerator.
“Well, this guy definitely has,” Natasha says, popping another chip into her mouth and nodding towards Jason’s business card.
You turn the card over in your fingers. Natasha’s right. There’s no question that Jason is interested in you. There’s no second-guessing, no wondering if you’ve somehow misinterpreted the way he looked at you. He’s made his intentions clear: he likes you, and he wants to see you again. It’s straightforward. Simple. And after the emotional turmoil you’ve been through with Steve, you think it’s time for something simple.
You flash Natasha a smile as you pick up the card and your phone, and she smirks back at you. You don’t bother acknowledging Steve again as you leave the kitchen. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want you—so it’s time for you to move on with someone who does.
* * * * *
The first date is a resounding success. Jason takes you out for dinner and drinks, and you’re relieved to find that the easy rapport you shared at the gala hadn’t been a fluke. The conversation flows effortlessly; he makes you laugh; he even makes you blush a few times. And at the end of the evening, just before you get into the cab, he kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet and tender, and it stirs that telltale flutter in your stomach. It’s all so refreshingly normal and uncomplicated, and you return home feeling like your personal life might finally be looking up.
After that, things progress fairly quickly. Due to the demands of both of your jobs, you aren’t able to see each other very often, but you stay connected through messages and phone calls, and you thoroughly enjoy the time you do get to spend together. Your feelings for him don’t ever take on the same intensity and passion as your feelings for Steve, but it feels good to be experiencing something so… comfortable. Pleasant. Easy.
The only problem is Steve.
Your developing relationship with Jason seems to trigger something in him. Before, he had been awkward with you, but now—he’s almost cold. When he looks at you, the regret is gone from his eyes, but it’s replaced with a strange, steely hardness. He starts avoiding your presence altogether, and when he does deign to speak to you, his voice is brusque and his responses short. Even out on the field, he comes down on you much harder than usual for any perceived mishaps or mistakes.
It’s baffling, hurtful, and utterly infuriating, and you don’t bother hiding your frustration. You give up on trying to act normally, and let his attitude set the tone for your now-infrequent interactions. You become curt and sharp with him; you return his glowering looks with glares of your own; when he barks at you during a mission, you snap right back. Your relationship deteriorates so much that even oblivious Clint notices, but there’s nothing anyone can do or say about it. After all, nobody knows what has gone on between you two. Steve himself doesn’t even know the half of it, not really.
You encounter him and Natasha talking in the hallway late one night after coming home from another date with Jason, and when Natasha asks you with a raised eyebrow and a smirk how the date had gone, Steve abruptly walks away with a face like stone.
“Seems like he’s jealous,” Natasha comments as you both watch him go.
You shrug and change the subject, but her words drag up a complicated mess of emotions.
Jealousy does seem like the simplest explanation for Steve’s sudden change in behaviour towards you, but that just bothers you even more. What right does he have to be jealous? You had asked him outright if there would be a problem with you dating Jason, and he had said no. He’s made it abundantly clear that your one sexual encounter had been a mistake and that he doesn’t intend to pursue any kind of romantic relationship with you himself.
Could it be that he thinks that, having slept with you once, he has some kind of claim on you that’s been threatened? You wouldn’t have thought that he could be that much of a caveman—but then again, you hadn’t thought he could be the type of guy who would sleep with a woman he had no real feelings for, either. Maybe you’ve never really known him as well as you thought you did.
His coldness upsets you much more than it should, and the amount of time you spend thinking about it confirms that you’re not nearly as over him as you want to be. You try to push it all out of your mind and put your energy into your blossoming relationship instead. But even as you meet with Jason, laugh with him, step into his embrace—part of you is constantly haunted by a pair of icy blue eyes. And you wonder when you’ll finally be able to shake completely free of the hold Steve seems to maintain on your heart.
* * * * *
The sun is still rising when you get back to the Tower, and you hope that it’s just early enough that you can avoid running into anyone. You don’t want to have to deal with the inevitable sly, innuendo-laced comments most of your teammates are bound to make at the sight of you.
You manage to get up to the residences without anyone seeing you, and you figure that you’re home free—until you round the corner and see Steve walking towards you, dressed in his workout gear. Your heart sinks. Of course he’s the one to catch you returning home after spending the night with Jason. Nothing about your life is fair.
When he spots you, you see his jaw visibly tighten as he puts two and two together. You press your lips together and maintain your stride, intending to walk right past him and straight to your room, but he steps into your path and you’re forced to stop.
“Weren’t you wearing that last night?” he asks, gaze raking over you in your little black dress.
“Wow, nothing gets past you, does it.” Sarcasm drips from your words.
He doesn’t say anything, just fixes you with a cold, disapproving stare.
“What?” you snap, crossing your arms across your chest defensively.
“Seems a little risky, doesn’t it? Going home with a man you barely know?”
You scowl. “He’s not a man I barely know. I’ve been seeing him for weeks.”
His eyes are dark and hard as he says, “You’ve been on, what, five, six dates? I didn’t realise that was all it took.”
For a moment you can only gape at him. You feel all of your muscles tensing as your indignation and fury coalesce into one thought: How dare he?
“I can’t believe you,” you seethe. “Are you seriously trying to slut-shame me right now? Because it sure as hell didn’t seem like your morality got in the way when you fell into bed with me without so much as a single coffee date.”
It’s the first time you’ve brought up your one night stand with him directly since it happened, and you notice with savage triumph that he stiffens and drops your gaze briefly at the mention of it. Good. Let him be uncomfortable and feel just a fraction of the hurt that he’s inflicted on you.
When he looks back up at you, he seems a little more apologetic. “I didn’t—”
“Save it,” you practically spit out. You’re sick of the cold and callous way he’s been treating you, sick of his inexplicable jealousy, sick of the fact that you still can’t get him out of your head, no matter how hard you try to move on. All you want right now is to be done with him.
“You know, I would have been yours if you wanted me, Steve.” To your frustration, you feel angry tears pricking at your eyes. You blink them back—you will not let him see you cry. “But you made it clear that you don’t. So you don't get to judge me for trying to find some kind of happiness with someone who does."
You shoulder past him and stalk to your door, but he’s right on your heels and manages to slip inside before you can slam the door in his face.
“Get out.” Your voice is surprisingly even, despite how shaken you feel.
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said out there. It was out of line,” he says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “But I think you and I need to clear some things up.”
You cross your arms and glare at him, but you step back to let him move further into the room as he shuts the door behind him.
“I told you that night was a mistake—”
“God, Steve, I know,” you cut him off through gritted teeth, raising your eyes to the ceiling. You know that he regrets it; you know that he wishes it had never happened. You have no desire to hear him spell it out again and have your wounds ripped open once more.
“Will you just let me talk?” The exasperated, pleading tone in his voice shuts you up and prompts you to look at his face again. To your astonishment, he seems agitated, remorseful, his blue eyes searching your face for understanding.
“I told you it was a mistake because that’s not how I intended for things to play out between us,” he continues, his tone softening. “You came to me needing a friend, and I ended up giving into my own desires, even though I knew you were in a vulnerable place. That’s not how I wanted it to happen. I should’ve done things properly with you from the start, like I always meant to. But I messed up.”
Your arms fall to your sides and your heart starts to pound faster in your chest as you realise what he’s implying.
“I didn’t know what else to do, so I told you we should forget about it,” he says. “It didn’t seem like you wanted anything beyond that night, and then you started dating Jason—so I figured I must’ve made the right call.” His jaw clenches at the mention of the other man’s name. “But these past few weeks, knowing you were seeing him… It’s been driving me crazy.” His lips pull into a mirthless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I hated hearing you talk about him. I hated watching you leave to go be with him. And I really hate that you went home with him last night.”
“Why?” you ask hoarsely, your whole body practically humming in anticipation. You think you know the answer, but you need him to say it out loud before you can believe it.
“Because you’re wrong.” He moves towards you and stops scant inches away. He looks straight into your eyes and your breath catches in your throat at the heat and intensity in his gaze. “I do want you. I always have.”
Your chest constricts and something stirs deep in your belly as his eyes bore into yours. You feel like you can’t move, can’t breathe. He’s so close that you can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I know I messed up and we might’ve missed our chance. So tell me you’d rather be his and I’ll leave,” he says softly, the words not so much an order as a plea. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll let you have it.”
For a long, charged moment, you stare at each other. And then your eyes flicker down to his lips.
You have no idea who makes the first move, but suddenly your arms are winding around his neck, one of his hands is gripping your hip while the other tangles in your hair at the back of your head, and his mouth is on yours, kissing you deeply and desperately.
You tighten your hold on him and press your body into his, needing to be closer, and he responds by running his hands down to your thighs and effortlessly lifting you up. The hem of your dress rides up past your hips as your legs automatically wrap around his waist. Seconds later, your back hits the wall and a whimper escapes you as you are pinned by the weight of his body, his hands roaming all over you and his mouth slanting over yours again and again.
Through a haze of euphoria and finally-fulfilled longing, you are able to piece together a single coherent thought. You manage to wrench your lips from his and gasp out, “Steve, wait.” It takes a moment before he finally stills, blinking dazedly at you.
“We can’t do this yet,” you tell him breathlessly, pushing reluctantly at his shoulders. “I have to… Gotta do things properly. Jason…”
There is a brief pause, and you watch as his eyes seem to clear. He swallows, nods, and backs up just enough to allow you to unhook your legs from around his waist, get your feet on the floor, and tug your dress back down over your hips. Releasing a long, shuddering breath, he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of you. With your eyes shut, you revel in his closeness, placing your hands on his chest to feel the thumping of his heart under your fingers. It’s a long moment before you can speak again.
“You should probably go so I can sort things out,” you murmur.
“Yeah. Probably,” he rumbles, but he makes no move to step away. You press your hands against him more firmly, trying to push him back, but it’s not until you breathe out “Steve, please,” that he finally relents.
He lingers in your doorway, and his clear reluctance to leave causes something soft and warm to blossom in your chest.
“I’ll come find you right after,” you promise, and that seems to satisfy him. He nods, and with one last smouldering glance, he leaves.
After you shower and change, you call Jason and ask to meet him for coffee. His obvious pleasure at the prospect of seeing you so soon after your night together makes a knot of guilt form in your stomach.
The thing is, Jason is a good man. He’s sweet and attentive, he has a wicked sense of humour, he’s easy on the eyes and he treats you with respect. You’ve genuinely enjoyed the time you’ve spent together. Things with him have been fun and light-hearted and simple, and it had been a welcome reprieve for your aching heart. In another life, in another universe—if you had met him first and Steve had never been in the picture—you think you could have been happy with him. But that’s not your reality. In truth, no matter how hard you’ve tried to pretend otherwise, there’s only ever been one man for you.
Jason takes the break-up surprisingly well, all things considered. He’s somewhat blind-sided, of course, and maybe a little hurt, but he’s oddly resigned about it, waving away your earnest apologies with a stoic smile. You wonder if maybe he always sensed that your heart wasn’t fully in it. When it’s all over, he walks with you to the corner and you leave him with one final lingering kiss on the cheek before walking back to the Tower.
You head straight to Steve’s door, and it’s clear that he’s been listening out for you when he opens it before you’ve even had a chance to knock.
“It’s done,” you tell him simply.
“Good,” he says, his lips lifting into a tiny smile, his perfect blue eyes burning into yours.
You meet his gaze steadily and offer up your whole heart with seven softly-spoken words: “I’m yours if you want me, Steve.”
There is a shift in his expression, a mixture of tenderness and affection and desire that sets off a riot of butterflies in your stomach and assures you that there’s much more than just mere physical attraction between you.
“I do,” he says in a low, deep voice. “I always have.”
He takes you into his arms and kisses you, soft and slow, and as he backs up to pull you into the room, you know that this time there will be no regrets.