Saving Steve (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter 14 - A Bag of Flour

Sleep isn't a luxury.

It hasn't been for quite sometime. 

Because sleep means vulnerability. Defenselessness. You can't protect yourself when you're asleep. So part of you always stays awake. Remains alert. Every creaking floorboard, every flipped light switch, every opened door stirs you.

At least, that's how it's been for years.

So when you wake up warm - hot, actually - with sweat beading across your forehead in a place definitely not the couch where you had fallen asleep, terror grips your heart.

Until the familiar tickle of your favorite orange and yellow blanket with the blue fringe urges you to calm, and the ceiling fan whispers "hush", her gentle whooshing kissing away the sweat that sticks to your neck.

Relieved to know you're safe in your own bed, a yawn tumbles from your lips as you sit up and stretch, wondering why in the world you're so damn hot.

Glancing down at your legs, you find yourself swathed and gently tucked in beneath not only your favorite blanket, but your sheet, the comforter, and the extra blanket Steve had given you last night on the couch.

Steve.

The events of the night before start flooding back, and you leap clumsily from bed towards the bedroom door. But you stop, noticing you're still in your jeans and t-shirt from yesterday. Steve had to have carried you to bed, but he clearly didn't try to change you. Thank God.

Taking a moment to calm down, you decide to take a quick shower and change before checking to see if Steve is still on your couch.

You hope he is. He did, after all, say he wouldn't leave.

In your urgency to find him, you don't even bother brushing your wet hair as you towel it off and quietly step into the living room.

The lights are still off. It's quiet.

Stepping lightly and around the creaky board at the end of the hall, you creep up behind the sofa and peer over.

It's empty.

That bitter taste of disappointment coats your mouth, but before it can spread to your tongue a quiet breathing from the ground nearby catches your attention. At the small, half-wall that separates the main entryway from the kitchen you spot Steve's massive figure on the floor, a single pillow under his head. And suddenly that bitter taste vanishes, replaced by something much more hopeful.

Taking a moment to drink in the strange sight of the man on the floor, you realize he has strategically tucked himself up against the half-wall. He is out of view from the windows and nestled in tightly. If the front door was to open, it would swing towards him, giving him the opportunity to kick it closed in the face of intruders.

He's military. He's got to be, you think to yourself.

Quietly, you tiptoe back to your room, grabbing the blanket from your bed. You could see the goosebumps on Steve's arm and you know he's got to be cold. As subtly as you can, you bring the blanket back to Steve, and gently drape it across his body.

But the moment the fabric touches his bare arm, he cracks one eye and looks at you, a small, yet playful grin on his face.

"Sorry," you whisper, startled. "I thought I was being so quiet!"

Steve chuckles - a low, growling sound in his chest as he stretches and sits up, leaning his back against the wall.

"I heard you the moment you leapt out of bed," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. His voice is gravelly and saturated with the rich sound of morning time. It's unbelievably masculine, and sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine.