Tony liked to joke that your relationship with Steve was as picture-perfect as a golden retriever in a bow tie. 
And, honestly, most days he wasn’t wrong. Cuddles were abundant. Kisses definitely weren’t rare. Nights were warm and full— fruitful, for lack of a better word.

But even the best relationships have their rough edges.

It had been late when the disagreement started—something small, something stupid, the kind of thing neither of you would even remember in a week.

But in the moment, words came out sharper than they should’ve. And somewhere in the middle of it, you got fed up and went quiet.

The silent treatment. 
Steve’s personal kryptonite.

You’d gone to bed without another word. Emphasis on you. Steve didn’t sleep. He couldn’t—not when you were mad at him. So he stayed up, sketchbook open, trying to distract himself.

When morning came, he was still sitting there, pencil in hand, sketching the curve of your face from memory—the same face currently turned away from him.

When you stirred awake, he perked up instantly, hope flickering across his tired features. Maybe you’d smile. Maybe you’d say something. Maybe you’d forgive him. Instead, you climbed out of bed with a quiet sigh and headed straight for the bathroom.

To say he panicked might be putting it lightly.

Before you could even squeeze toothpaste onto your brush, Steve was there—moving fast, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you like you might slip right through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice low, face pressed against your shoulder. “Please.”

You froze, toothbrush still in hand as he pulled you tighter, like the warmth of your body was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer this time. “Just talk to me, sweetheart… I miss your voice.”

You always knew Steve could get insecure sometimes—maybe a remnant of the man he used to be, the one who never thought he was enough.

But this? 
This was a whole new level. 
A clingy, desperate, adorably hopeless level.