Beyond Saving Bucky

My dearest Olivia

Steve's POV:

I wake to the familiar smell of cherry blossoms and peaches, the scent immediately grounding me in the present. The memories of last night linger at the edges of my consciousness, but the anxiety thats plagued me is absent. Instead, there's a profound sense of peace that I haven't felt in....weeks.

The elation that floods through me as I realize she's still here, still in my arms, is indescribable. Liv didn't run. She stayed. The fear that she might slip away in the middle of the night, leaving me to wake up alone, had gnawed at me even as I drifted off to sleep. But....she's here, just as she was when I held her close last night.

I'm still holding her as tightly as I was then, afraid to let go, as if loosening my grip could somehow make her disappear. Her soft, steady breaths are a constant reminder that this is real, that she's not a figment of my imagination. And then I feel it—her hand, still clutching my shirt even in her sleep, fingers curled into the fabric as if she's as afraid of losing me as I am of losing her.

Wait... sleep. She's... she's actually sleeping.

The realization hits me like a wave, sudden and unexpected. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers blink back at me:

6:00 AM. My heart skips a beat.

Twelve hours. She slept for twelve hours.

I can hardly believe it. It feels like a miracle, something too fragile to be real. I keep waiting for her to stir, to wake up with that haunted look in her eyes, the one that breaks my heart every time I see it. But she doesn't. She's peaceful, her body relaxed against mine, her face soft and untroubled.

I don't move, afraid that even the slightest shift might break the spell. I watch her, trying to commit every detail to memory—the way her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks, the gentle curve of her lips, the way her hair spills across the pillow in a dark, tangled mess.

She needed this. God, I knew she needed it, but seeing her like this, actually getting the rest she's denied herself for so long, it's more than I ever hoped for. I can't help but wonder what it was that finally allowed her to let go, to find the peace that eluded her. Was it something I did? Something I said? Or maybe, it's just that she feels safe here, in my arms, where the world can't reach her.

The thought fills me with a fierce kind of protectiveness. If I could, I'd keep her like this forever, shielded from everything that's hurt her. I know it's not possible, but right now, in this moment, it feels like maybe it is. Maybe we can carve out a little bit of peace in this chaotic world, at least for a while.

I tighten my grip on her, just slightly, careful not to wake her. It's a small gesture, but it's enough to remind me that she's here, that this is real. Her hand, still clutching my shirt, loosens a bit, but she doesn't let go. Even in sleep, she's holding on.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the reality of it sink in. Twelve hours. I can hardly wrap my head around it. But more than that, I'm overwhelmed by the simple fact that she's here, with me, and for once, she's not running, not fighting—just resting.

I lie like this for the next hour, barely moving, just watching her sleep. The thought of getting up, of leaving her, feels impossible. I know we have a training session this morning—duty calls, as it always does—but the idea of pulling away from her, even for a moment, twists something deep in my chest.

Not when I just got her back. Not when she's so fragile.

She looks so peaceful now, her breathing steady, but I can't shake the worry that's settled like a stone in my stomach. The last few weeks have taken a toll on her, more than I'd realized until now. There's a hollowness to her cheeks, a shadow beneath her eyes that wasn't there before. And I honestly have no idea when the last time was that she had something to eat.