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The rain had started sometime during the fight. Steve hadn’t noticed at first. There had been too much noise—sirens screaming somewhere below, shattered glass under his boots, the crack of metal against concrete, voices barking orders through comms that no one could hear anymore. Smoke curled through the street in ugly black ribbons, and the whole city smelled like fire.
Then he heard you. Not loud. Not a scream. Just his name. Soft. Small. Wrong.
“Steve…”
Everything in him stopped. He turned so fast it nearly threw him off balance, his eyes searching through the wreckage until he saw you crumpled near the broken steps of a storefront, half-hidden by dust and debris. Your hand was pressed to your side. Blood slipped between your fingers in thin, steady lines, already washed pink by the rain.
“No.” The word tore out of him before he reached you. “No, no, no—hey, hey, I’m here.” He dropped to his knees so hard the pavement cracked beneath them. His shield clattered uselessly beside him. Trembling hands hovered over you for one awful second, terrified to touch, terrified not to.
Your face was pale beneath the grime. Your lashes were wet with rainwater. Or tears. “Steve,” you whispered again, trying to smile.
He hated that smile. Because it was the one you used when he was scared. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice shaking. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that. We’re getting you out of here.” He ripped off his gloves, pressed both hands over the wound, hard enough to stop the bleeding, gentle enough not to hurt you. He called for medics into the comm, shouting until his throat burned.
Only silence greeted him from the other side.
“Stay with me.” His voice cracked. “You hear me? Stay with me.”
You reached up slowly, fingers brushing the wet hair off his forehead like you’d done a hundred quiet mornings before. “You always look so worried,” you murmured.
Steve bent over you, choking on a laugh that became a sob. “I’m worried because you’re bleeding in my arms.”
“I know.” Your hand slid weakly to his cheek. “Still handsome, though.”
“Stop joking.” He swallowed hard. “Please, stop joking.”
Your eyes searched his face with heartbreaking tenderness, memorizing him. “I’m sorry.”
The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. “No.” He shook his head violently. “No, you don’t get to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I was supposed to meet you for dinner.”
Rain dripped from his chin onto your jacket. He didn’t realize he was crying until you wiped at it with your thumb.
“You can still make it,” he said desperately. “Come on, sweetheart, you can still make it. I’ll carry you there myself. We’ll go somewhere fancy. Somewhere stupidly expensive because you always laugh when I complain about the bill.”
You smiled again. Smaller this time. “I liked when you complained.”
“Then I’ll complain all night.” He was openly sobbing now, unable to stop. “I’ll complain forever, just stay.”
Your breathing hitched.
Steve felt it in the air around the pair of you, the subtle shift, the terrifying slowing of your pulse beneath his blood-slick hands. His whole body went cold. “No.” He leaned closer, forehead pressing to yours. “No, no, listen to me. Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered. “I am looking,” you whispered.
“Keep doing it.”
“Steve…”
“Please.” The plea came out broken. Steve Rogers, who had stood against gods and monsters, who had dragged himself through wars and centuries and grief no one could imagine, was begging. “I can’t lose you.”
You exhaled shakily, rain catching on your lashes. “You already had me.” A cough of blood ccame out. “Wasn’t that enough?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because the truth was no amount of time would ever have been enough. Not one year. Not ten. Not a lifetime.
Your fingers slipped from his cheek. Your chest rose once. Twice. Then stilled. For a moment, Steve just stared. Like if he looked hard enough, the world would take it back. Then he gathered you against him with a sound no one there would ever forget—a raw, wounded cry dragged from someplace deeper than pain.
He held you as the rain poured down. Held you when the medics finally arrived too late. Held you when the street emptied. Held you when someone touched his shoulder and he nearly broke their wrist. Held you until dawn painted the sky gray.
Because if he let go, if he let go, then it was real.
—
Weeks later, the team would find him sitting on the floor of your apartment. Your favorite sweater clutched in his hands. Your mug still in the sink. A note on the fridge reminding him to buy strawberries. He would stare at it for hours. Because the cruelest thing about grief, Steve learned, wasn’t the moment someone died. It was all the ordinary things that kept existing after they were gone.