Work Text:
coming home to you ⸝⸝ galentines event
prompt: 🍒 "Nothing feels as good as coming home to you." "Nothing feels as good as having you come home to me."
The apartment is quiet when Steve finally unlocks the door.
Not empty, never empty, but quiet in the way that settles instead of echoes. His shoulders sag the second he steps inside, the weight of the day still clinging to him: too many stairwells, too many questions, too many memories he doesn’t want to look at too closely yet.
Then he smells dinner.
Something warm and familiar, drifting from the kitchen, layered with the faint citrus-clean scent you like to use on the counters. The lights are low, soft, not tactical, not sterile. Just… home.
He toes his boots off by the door, careful not to make too much noise, even though he knows you already heard him. You always do.
“Steve?” your voice calls gently.
“In here,” he answers, already smiling.
You appear from the kitchen in your comfy pajamas, soft fabric, slightly oversized, socks padding quietly across the floor. Your hair’s pulled back in a lazy way that makes his chest ache, and your smile brightens the moment you see him.
“There you are,” you say, like you’ve been waiting all day just to say it.
He crosses the space between you in three long strides and pulls you into his arms without a word. Your cheek presses against his chest, your arms wrapping around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He exhales deep and slow for the first time all day.
“Hey,” you murmur. “Long one?”
“Yeah,” he admits, voice low. “Couldn’t stop thinking about getting back.”
You pull back just enough to look up at him. “Dinner’s still warm. I can reheat it if you want.”
He shakes his head. “In a minute.”
His hand slides up your back, warm and solid, and he rests his forehead against yours. The tension in his jaw finally eases.
“Nothing feels as good as coming home to you,” he says quietly, like it’s a truth he’s just now putting into words.
Your expression softens, something fond and a little teasing lighting your eyes. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw, grounding him.
“Nothing feels as good as having you come home to me.”
The words land somewhere deep in his chest.
He kisses you then, not rushed, not hungry, just full. Like he’s pouring everything he didn’t say all day into the press of his lips against yours. You hum softly and melt into him, and he tightens his hold, protective and sure.
He’s all for the modern world. He really is. He understands it, respects it, wants to do right by it.
But there’s something, something old and steady, that settles into him right now. Something about clean counters, a warm meal, and you waiting for him like this. Not because you have to. Because you want to.
“C’mon,” you say softly, tugging his hand. “Sit. I’ll plate it.”
He watches you move around the kitchen, comfortable and at ease in the space you share. He sits at the small table, elbows resting on the wood, feeling something close to peace hum under his skin.
When you set the plate down in front of him, he looks up at you again, eyes warm and loving.
“You know,” he says, “I used to think home was a place.”
You tilt your head. “Yeah?”
He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Turns out it’s just you.”
You smile, leaning down to kiss his temple.
“And you,” you say.
You eat together at the small kitchen table, knees brushing under the wood every time one of you shifts. Steve eats slower than usual, not because he’s tired, though he is, but because he keeps getting distracted.
By you.
You tell him about your day between bites, about the woman at the corner bakery who insisted on giving you an extra roll “for the soldier,” about the neighbor’s dog that escaped again and had you jogging half a block before someone caught him. Your hands move when you talk, animated and warm, and every time you laugh Steve feels it in his chest like a gentle thud.
“Mhm,” he hums, nodding, eyes never leaving your face.
You pause mid-story, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” he says immediately.
You arch a brow. “Then what did I just say?”
“That Mrs. Klein’s dog is apparently an escape artist,” he answers, mouth twitching. “And that you tripped on the stoop but recovered with dignity.”
You blink, then laugh. “Okay, fine.”
He smiles back, softer now, his gaze lingering like he’s memorizing you. He’s seen war rooms and battlefields, things that are loud and sharp and demanding. Watching you talk about your day feels like the opposite, quiet and grounding.
When you finish eating, you stand to clear the table, but Steve’s already on his feet.
“I’ve got it,” he says gently, taking your plate. “Go put something on.”
You hesitate for half a second, then nod, brushing a kiss to his cheek before padding toward the living room. He stays there a moment after you leave, staring at the doorway like he’s still watching you.
He cleans up efficiently, old habits, but there’s a lightness to it. He rinses the plates, wipes the counter, and sets everything neatly in place. When he’s done, he heads to the bedroom and changes into a worn gray t-shirt and soft sweats, the kind you like because they make him look less like Captain America and more like yours.
When he comes back out, you’re curled on the couch, blanket draped over your legs, the opening credits of a movie flickering across the screen. You look up when you hear him and smile instantly.
“There you are,” you say again.
He doesn’t even pretend he’s not melting.
Steve sits beside you, long legs folding into the couch, and the second he’s settled you shift closer. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in until your head rests against his chest, your legs tucked comfortably against his side.
There’s a familiar weight to him—steady, protective. His thumb rubs slow, absentminded circles against your arm.
“You comfortable?” he asks quietly.
“Always,” you murmur.
The movie plays, but Steve barely notices it. His focus stays on the way your breathing evens out, on the soft warmth of you curled into him, on the quiet domestic miracle of this moment. No missions. No alarms. Just the two of you, safe and together.
He presses a kiss into your hair, eyes closing as he holds you a little closer. You don’t even realize it’s happening.
One moment you’re watching the screen, tucked perfectly into Steve’s side, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders and the next your breaths start to slow, head sinking more fully into his chest. Your fingers loosen where they’d been absently fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
Steve notices immediately.
He stills, barely breathing himself, like any sudden movement might wake you. He looks down at you, lashes resting against your cheeks, mouth parted just slightly in sleep. Something in his chest goes soft and tight all at once.
“Hey,” he whispers, just to test it.
Nothing.
A smile tugs at his mouth. He carefully shifts, sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You stir a little, instinctively curling into him, but you don’t wake as he lifts you with practiced ease.
He turns off the TV, dims the lights, and carries you down the short hallway, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In the bedroom, he lays you down gently, tugging the blankets up around you and brushing your hair back from your face.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
He takes a quick shower, nothing long just enough to wash the day off him. When he comes back, hair damp, t-shirt fresh, the room is quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing.
He’s just reaching for the lamp when you stir.
“Steve?” you mumble, blinking blearily.
“I’m here,” he says immediately, crossing the room in two steps.
You push yourself up on one elbow, brows knitting together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep during the movie.”
He smiles, all warmth, and leans down to kiss you, slow and gentle, quiet like he doesn’t want to scare the sleep away.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your lips. “Don’t be sorry. I kinda like it when you fall asleep on me.”
You relax a little at that, sinking back into the pillows. Steve clicks off the lamp and slides into bed beside you, one arm settling around your waist. With his free hand, he reaches to the nightstand and picks up the book he’s been working through, the worn paperback already creased from rereads.
You glance at it, eyes heavy. “What’re you reading?”
“History,” he admits softly.
You hum, nestling closer. “Will you read it to me?”
He blinks, surprised, then smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He props the book open with one hand and starts reading quietly, voice low and steady, careful not to rush the words. You barely make it through a paragraph before your breathing evens out again, forehead resting against his chest, fingers curled loosely in his shirt.
Steve looks down and chuckles under his breath.
He closes the book, setting it aside, and wraps both arms around you fully now, holding you close like you’re something precious and irreplaceable. He presses a kiss to your hair, then another to your forehead.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers.
You don’t hear it—but you feel it, safe and warm in his arms as sleep takes you completely.