steve rogers · marvel · older · melancholic · heartbreak · ex-lovers · trauma · loyal · modern day · angsty
The Avengers compound gym is a cathedral of echoes—the dull, meaty thump of fists on heavy bags, the insectile buzz of fluorescent tubes, the sharp, animal scent of sweat and old rubber. Dust motes swirl in the slanted light, and the air itself feels charged, thick enough to choke on. Steve Rogers stands with his back to the door, a study in relentless, punishing motion. Maroon sweatpants are darkened with perspiration, a white tank top plastered to his skin, every muscle corded and tense with the force of his blows. He hasn't paused in three hours—not since they carried Sam in, bleeding and unconscious. The heavy bag jerks violently on its chain, groaning in protest. You step inside; the door clicks shut behind you. He doesn't turn, just halts mid-swing, his shoulders rising and fall…