rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

s. rogers + singing in the shower

sometimes, you confuse steve.

he knew how funny and charming you could be with your friends, how messy the inside of your car was.

but you get so shy around him.

like, last week, when he ran to the convenience store down the block to buy you a toothbrush, he insisted that you help yourself to anything from his fridge. he knew you were hungry. "you want anything else from the store?"

you shook your head softly. "no, thank you."

when he came back, you were sitting at the very corner of his kitchen island, your purse still slung over your shoulder, sipping plain tap water from a glass. which you had washed and dried later, putting it back exactly where it was in the cupboard.

and the next morning, after you kissed him goodbye, he expected to find your toothbrush next to his. but you took it with you.

he knew all about tidiness from camp lehigh, but it was like you didn't want to leave a trace of yourself anywhere in his apartment.

but he wanted you everywhere.

wanted you to feel comfortable. wanted to wake up next to you every morning. wanted reminders that you were his, and he was yours.

so steve maintained a steady supply of your favorite snacks, your favorite brand of coffee creamer, anything you liked or needed, even when you didn't ask for it.

he asked you to bring over your favorite DVDs for your movie nights, then coaxed you into the bedroom before you could remember to eject them out of his player.

he insisted that you wear his hoodies and sweaters when you got cold, and then pushed you out the door before you could give them back.

the progress is gradual—almost hard to notice—but lately he's drifted awake to the pleasant sound of you singing in the shower.

your sweet voice floating above the melody, harmonizing and breathy and lovely.

at this rate, it'd take him about a year until you're comfortable actually singing in front of him, but he's plenty patient.

steve smiles brightly when you step out of his bathroom, one of his towels wrapped around your body. he sits up in bed, admiring you.

"what?" you asked, confused at his fond expression.

he reaches out and grasps your wrist, pulling you onto the mattress, hoping you won't overthink it.

"steve. your bed," you say, self-conscious when you see how much you're dripping onto his sheets and pillows.

"just a little water." as you finally relent, curling up in his arms, he hums happily. "no big deal."