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Steve Rogers was working late on his farm and wishing he was with you. He was sitting at the desk in the office he’d built into the loft of one of his barns, talking on the phone about what to do with the overflow of strawberry plant seeds his supplier had sent him, when a text came in from you. He smiled when he saw your name, bracketed on either side by a sunflower and heart emoji, but then he saw what the text said. It read, “miz.”
You and Steve had known each other a long time and you knew each other so well, you had your own language that no one else understood. Some of it was random words one or both of you had made up that no one else knew the meaning of, and some of it was a kind of shorthand you could use to communicate quickly so the other person knew exactly what you meant. The text from you was part of that shorthand.
Steve’s heart pounded in his chest because he knew one thing in that moment—you needed him. Far more than he needed to be working late to deal with the strawberry seeds. So he wrapped up his call, rushing the others off the phone, and gathered his things from his office, pounding down the stairs of the loft as he half-jogged out into the crisp spring evening air.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows and a warm golden hue across the fields of the farm, but Steve didn’t stop to admire the beauty like he normally would. Instead, he barreled toward his truck, working quickly to get things ready for you, then got in and drove to the house. When he got there, he found you sitting on the steps, huddled inside an oversized sweatshirt Steve recognized as one of his own. Before you could stand, he hopped out of his truck and gathered you up in his arms, carrying you to the cab and depositing you in the passenger seat.
No words passed between the two of you as he buckled you into the seat, your head drooping against his shoulder. Before Steve moved away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, quick and firm and meant to be reassuring. The ghost of a smile fluttered at the edges of your mouth, and Steve decided that would have to be enough for the moment.
He closed the door of the truck and moved around to the driver’s side, sliding back in and finding you’d already slumped against the door on your side, your face turned to the fresh air of the open window. As Steve pulled away from the house, he turned the radio on low, playing a local classic rock station you both liked.
For a while, Steve drove in silence, one hand resting on the wheel and his other arm propped on the open window at his side. The chilly spring night air swirled through his truck cab, but the flannel he wore warded it off well enough. It wasn’t long, though, before he was unable to ignore you and the cloud of misery that clung to your shoulders. He shifted his hands, putting his left on the wheel and laying his right on the center of the bench seat, palm up, relaxed and welcoming.
It was another few minutes before he felt your fingers slide between his, cold and delicate against his bigger, warmer hand. He held on loosely, swiping his thumb comfortingly over the back of your hand. You squeezed him a little tighter, but it was nowhere near your usual death grip when you held hands, like you didn’t quite have the strength for it even if you wanted to.
Steve’s truck followed a winding road up to the top of a ridge that overlooked the small town where you both lived, his farm tucked to one side. He parked at the top and shot you a look that told you not to move before he turned off the truck, leaving the radio on, and hopped out. He rounded the front and picked you up from the passenger seat, carrying you to the back. He pulled down the tailgate and helped you into the bed of his truck, which was all ready for you.
Before he’d left for the house, he’d covered the truck bed with a bunch of thick blankets and some pillows he kept for exactly this reason. He’d set it up how you liked, with enough blankets and pillows to ensure you’d be cozy and comfortable. You let out a soft murmur of appreciation as you crawled into the pile of softness.
Steve followed you up, kicking off his boots and leaving them on the tailgate before joining you in the mess of blankets. He leaned back against some pillows and tucked you into his side, pulling a thick quilt over both of your bodies to keep warm. You sighed softly and Steve could feel you relax little by little into his arms. As he held you, he stared up at the darkening sky, stars beginning to appear as the sun’s light dimmed.
Together, you lay in the bed of Steve’s truck, tucked into warm blankets that warded off the chill of the spring night, the radio still playing softly and filtering through the open windows. Steve didn’t try to prompt you to talk—he knew you’d talk to him about what was making you so miserable when you were ready. He just held you close, letting you know he was there for you. He hoped you knew he’d always be there for you.
“Steve,” you said after a while, your voice rusty like you hadn’t spoken much all day. Steve hummed to let you know he was listening and you went on. “Why do you put up with me?”
It wasn’t the first time you’d asked him that, but it still broke Steve’s heart a little bit to hear the despair in your voice. Just like he always did, he told you the truth, cutting past the words you’d spoken to the real fear beneath them.
“You’re not a burden, sunflower,” he said, pulling you closer until you were draped more fully on top of him, your legs tangling with his. “I love you.” He dropped a kiss to your forehead, punctuating his statement.
You scoffed softly into Steve’s flannel-covered chest, but not so quietly he didn’t hear and he squeezed you in a teasing response. You sighed heavily, like an unbearable weight hung around your neck, one that Steve wanted to free you from. “How can you possibly love me when I’m like this?” you asked, weariness and disdain edging into your voice.
Steve’s heart squeezed at the way you talked about yourself, implying with your tone that you weren’t worthy of his love. It wasn’t the first time you’d fallen into one of these moods, and Steve knew it wouldn’t be the last, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear the girl he loved talk about herself like she didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.
If only you could hear the way Steve thought about you. You were his radiant sunflower, his beautiful and clever best friend who shined brighter to him than the stars in the sky. You were his kind and forgiving girlfriend, who chided him when he worked late but welcomed him home with open arms. Your heart was so big, you fell in love with everything around you—everything but yourself.
If only you could see yourself the way Steve saw you, because if you did, he knew you’d love yourself just as much as he did. He was determined to make that happen, to help you see yourself honestly, but knew it would take time and plenty of love. Until then, he was content to love you enough for the both of you.
“My love isn’t something you have to earn, sunflower,” Steve said, tilting your chin up gently so he could look into your eyes. He could read your swirl of emotions in your gaze, and he smiled softly as he went on. “You have it on good days and bad, when you’re happy and when you’re upset—and even when you’re angry at me for working late.” He ducked his head, kissing your nose and getting another ghost of a smile as reward. “I love you when you’re like this because I love you every day no matter what—because I’ve loved you every day for a long time and because I can’t imagine a day when I don’t love you.”
Tears had welled up in your eyes as Steve spoke and they spilled over as he pronounced his love again and again. You pulled away from his hold, but didn’t go far, burying your face in his flannel shirt as you cried. You sobbed for long minutes into Steve’s chest while he rubbed a comforting hand up and down your back, holding you more tightly in his arms. He murmured soothing sounds, repeating how much he loved you over and over because he knew how much you needed to hear it.
“I don’t deserve you,” you rasped after a while, your voice thick with tears and muffled by your face still pressed into Steve’s chest.
“Hush, sunflower,” Steve said firmly, but not unkindly, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. “Everyone deserves love, you’re no less deserving than anyone else.”
Shaking your head at his statement, you only cried harder, the tears flowing too freely and the sobs ripping from your throat too frequently for you to protest in any other way. But Steve wasn’t having any of that. He folded you more tightly into his arms and held you as you cried, ducking his head to speak into your ear.
“I decide who deserves my love, sunflower,” Steve said, his voice still firm. “You need to trust me—trust that I know my own heart.”
“But what if I hurt you?” you sobbed, turning your tear-stained face up to look at him. The amount of despair in your eyes made Steve’s heart thump heavily in his chest and he wrapped you tightly in his arms, tucking your head into his neck.
Steve didn’t know how to tell you that seeing you in pain hurt more than anything you could possibly do to him. He knew you were too kind and too afraid of hurting others to cause him any actual harm, and that, if he could, he would take all your pain away. But he knew, too, that was impossible, because it wasn’t a physical pain, it was the pain of your brain telling you lies. So Steve stuck to the truth, which he believed was the one thing he could do to help you in that moment.
“I love you, sunflower,” he murmured, putting all his emotion into those words. When you tried to protest again, he shushed you and repeated himself. He held you as you cried yourself out, reminding you over and over again how much he loved you.
When you finally settled, you lifted your head and looked at him, your cheeks red and tear-stained, tiny droplets still clinging to your eyelashes. Steve cradled your face in gentle hands, your eyes fluttering closed at the warmth and comfort of him holding you. He ducked closer, pressing kisses to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, the brush of his beard tickling your face.
A tiny giggle spilled from your lips, the sound weak but ringing in Steve’s ears. His heart soared because he knew you were past the worst of it for the night.
“I love you too, Steve,” you whispered in a raspy voice, opening your eyes to look at him. You managed a trembling smile; it was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen.
He ducked his head, capturing your lips in a soft, sweet kiss. It was equal parts comfort and affection and Steve could feel you sigh into his mouth, melting into his body like you were sinking into the warm relief of coming home. Your lips moved slowly together, taking your time to savor each other because you both knew you had all the time in the world.
After a while, Steve slowed the kiss, pressing a final peck to your lips before guiding your head down to lay on his chest. He tucked the quilt in more tightly around your entwined bodies and you both gazed up at the twinkling stars in the vast night sky.
Steve didn’t know what you were thinking about, but you seemed lighter, the cloud of misery around you having dissipated. He was sure you weren’t dwelling in your dark thoughts about being unlovable like you had been when he’d picked you up. But he knew that if any more surfaced, he’d help you face them down.
Up on that ridge, staring up at the blanket of stars in the midnight blue sky, anything seemed possible. Steve knew the both of you had a long, tough road ahead if you wanted to accept that you were worthy of love. He knew there would be some battles Steve wouldn’t be able to help you fight, but he was happy to support you in any way he could. If that meant telling you how much he loved you every day, and reminding you that you were worthy of his love, then he would.
As he stared up at the night sky, his arms around you, Steve knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to make you happy, to make you feel loved. He would love you with his whole heart and help you see yourself the way he did—as his clever best friend, his kind girlfriend, his radiant sunflower.