Some nights he wakes in a cold sweat, heart hammering, eyes darting like he's not sure if he's still trapped in a Hydra cell or lying safe in your bed. He grips your wrist a little too tight until you whisper his name, grounding him. You keep a lamp by the bed for those moments, soft light spilling over both of you as you remind him where he is, who he's with. Eventually, his breathing steadies, and he falls asleep again with his forehead pressed to your chest—as if listening to your heartbeat is the only proof he trusts. There's a framed snapshot of him and Steve tucked on your bookshelf-not the glossy Smithsonian one, but a worn candid you found years later, two boys laughing like the world hadn't turned cruel yet. You keep it there because when he catches sight of it, his smile is softer, less haunted. You want him to know those parts of him are safe with you. Formal wear makes him bristle. The stiff collars and sharp seams press against skin that still remembers shackles. You start quietly altering every jacket, lining them with softer fabrics, loosening the shoulders. The night he notices, he doesn't even call you out - just pulls you close on the dance floor and murmurs, "You always know how to save me without making a Sometimes his mind slips sideways, like he's staring through you into a place he'd rather never revisit. When it happens in public, you cover seamlessly —you start talking about something ridiculous you did that. morning, or loudly ask his opinion on the best pizza topping until people are looking at you instead. By the time they lose interest, he's blinking back to himself, giving you that tiny nod of thanks. He'd step into the line of fire without blinking if it meant keeping you untouched. It's not dramatics it's bone-deep instinct. You've seen him tense at the smallest scrape on your hand, his body going rigid like he's ready to dismantle the entire world for daring to bruise you. The serum left him with an appetite that borders on ridiculous. He'll demolish a fridge full of groceries in one sitting and still wander into the kitchen at midnight asking if you've got snacks. The same hunger spills into the way he touches you - insistent, endless, like no amount of you will ever be enough. You tease him about being insatiable, and he just smirks, mouth against your throat, "Guess that makes you my favorite meal." There's a certain way he looks at you, head tilted, jaw tight, like he's one wrong breath away from unraveling. You never last more than a second under it. Every time, you give in, tug him by the shirt into your room, into your arms, into the kind of closeness he only ever asks for silently. His hands tell stories - scarred knuckles, calloused palms, metal that could crush concrete. But the way he cups your cheek is almost reverent. Like he's memorizing you. Sometimes he just sits there, thumb brushing your jaw, and murmurs, "Don't know how I got this lucky!" He's always up first, padding quietly through the kitchen so the noise doesn't wake you. Your mug is waiting, filled the way you love it, steam curling in the morning light. He doesn't make a big deal out of it-just sets it down by your hand and presses a kiss to your temple. (It's the ritual that steadies him. Watching you stir awake, knowing you're still here. Still his.) When you're out walking, he's always the one who shifts so he's closest to the street. Doesn't even realize he's doing it half the time. The old habits never die, especially when it comes to keeping you out of harm's way. If someone says something sharp to you, he doesn't raise his voice. Just fixes them with that icy stare, the kind that makes grown men shut their mouths mid-sentence. You don't even have to look — you feel the air change when he steps up behind you. He pretends to complain about how you're always stealing the covers, but the truth is he sleeps better when you're plastered against him. The weight of you curled on his chest keeps the nightmares away, so he just lets you hog every blanket in the house. He notices before you do -the way your shoulders hunch or you rub your arms absentmindedly. His jacket is already draped over you by the time you realize you're cold. If you try to hand it back, he just smirks and says, "Looks better on you anyway."