Beyond Saving Bucky

"I think it's pretty close, Liv"

Steve's POV:

The soft hiss of the shower is the only sound in the suite, a rhythmic pulse that matches the beat of my heart. I move quietly around the kitchenette, trying to keep myself busy, my hands automatically finishing up the homemade soup I started earlier. I'd been hoping—no, praying—that she'd be hungry after three days of nothing but tube feedings. Just the thought of her finally eating something real, something I made, brings a knot of hope and fear to my chest.

I'm not sure what happened, what switch flipped, what changed—but I'm not questioning it. I can't.

There's something in the way she's been looking at me, something that's been clinging to the edges of my thoughts since the moment she opened her eyes. It's...different. In the best way possible.

She used to look at me with so much love, the kind that felt like home, like warmth in the coldest of winters. But then everything fell apart, and all that was left in her gaze was rage and pain, a reflection of everything that had gone wrong, everything I couldn't fix. I got used to it, though it cut me deeper than any wound ever could.

But now... now it's something else. Something that makes my heart beat faster, fills me with warmth that spreads through my chest, and brings tears to my eyes when I least expect it.

It's love, but multiplied by a hundred. No, a thousand.

I don't know what I did to deserve it, or if I even do. All I know is that for the first time in what feels like forever, I see hope in her eyes—hope for something more, something beyond the pain and anger that's kept us both trapped for so long.

I stir the soup, watching as the vegetables swirl in the broth, the steam rising in soft curls. It's nothing special, just something simple to ease her back into eating, but I poured everything I had into making it. It's all I can do, for now. She's strong, but even she needs time to heal, to rebuild after everything her body's been through.

The shower turns off, and I hear the faint rustle of the towel as she dries off. My heart speeds up, anticipation and nervousness mixing into a potent cocktail of emotions. I don't know what she'll say when she comes out, if she'll change her mind, if she'll let me be the one to take care of her like I've been wanting to.

But I do know one thing—whatever it is she's feeling now, whatever this change is, I'm holding onto it with everything I've got. I won't let this slip away, not when it feels like I'm finally seeing the woman I love again, not just the one who's been hurting for so long.

I ladle the soup into a bowl, trying to keep my hands steady, but I can't stop the small smile that creeps onto my face. She's coming back to me, piece by piece, and with each moment, with each look she gives me, I feel that maybe, just maybe, we can find our way back together.

I quickly set the table, my movements hurried but precise. The soup is ready, the bowls are filled, and everything is in place. I step back, surveying my work with a small sense of satisfaction, when I hear the bathroom door creak open.

"Ok...so...let me get this straight," she calls out, her voice light and teasing. "You have...the better bed. The better TV. AND the better shower. It's...I...it's rude, frankly."

I can't help but chuckle as I turn to face her, the sound coming from deep in my chest. The words are playful, the kind of banter I've missed more than I can put into words. And when I see her standing there, it's like everything else fades away.

She's in the gray sweats I left for her in the bathroom, the ones I knew would be soft and comfortable against her skin. A towel is draped over her shoulders, her hair still damp and a little tousled, and there's a faint flush on her cheeks from the warmth of the shower.