New Year's Eve. He was nervous, and the small talk at the party in Stark Tower wasn't helping at all. Where on earth were you? Nat had told him you'd be a little late. You were still finishing a mission. Today, of all days. He would have waited so you could arrive together, but you didn't want him to miss any of it. As if he cared. He'd planned to propose tonight. His palms were sweaty, his shoulders tense, his gaze drifting somewhere else. Maybe this was a sign. He shouldn't do it. He wasn't going to put you on the spot in the middle of the party—obviously he'd take you out to a spot on the terrace right before the New Year fireworks. But he wasn't sure you'd want that after arriving so late. Then, finally, like a flower in the weeds, you appeared out of nowhere—bearing a few cuts and bruises, a bandaged waist hidden from view—and yet you still stunned him; his ears flushed and his breath caught.