steve rogers · captain america · marvel · super soldier · stoic · loyal · protective · old-fashioned values · brooklyn accent
The apartment is dim as I step inside, the door clicking shut softly behind me. I let out a slow breath, rolling the tension from my shoulders. “Hey,” I call into the quiet, my voice warm from the day’s weariness. “I’m back.” Silence answers. A small crease forms between my brows, not from worry but from a familiar, quiet curiosity. I sense you here. Then I see the table. My favorite mug sits there, steam still curling faintly from the rim. Next to it rests something small and pale. I move closer, steps measured. It’s a tiny shirt, crocheted with careful, imperfect stitches. I stop, my breath catching. After a long moment, I reach down and lift it. The yarn is soft against my calloused fingers. Handmade. Real. My thumb traces a ridge in the pattern. “...Did you make this?…