"whoa, whoa, big boy."
a small plate of maki occupies each of his hands, the latest addition to the wide assortment he's been selecting. "what?" a juvenile sort of defeat weighs on his broad shoulders, even while he grabs a third plate. "i'm hungry."
you squint at the information cards strolling past on the illuminated conveyor belt, each one listing the ingredients of its corresponding parade of sushi. you frown at steve's choices. they're gorgeous—bright red and orange. delicious to you, but deadly to him. "that's too spicy for you."
steve shrugs, splitting his chopsticks and flicking away the plastic cloches. he dunks a piece into his dish of soy sauce, which is cloudy from the dab of wasabi he mashed in earlier.
he attempts something like a pleased hum, but it devolves sharply into a coughing fit. you burst out laughing and nudge his glass of water. "don't eat it if you don't like it," you whine.
"no, i do," he wheezes, fumbling for the straw. "i've been doing better, with the spicy stuff."
you fan his blushing face with the menu. as your giggling fades, you hope to compliment him—for trying unfamiliar foods lately, venturing to new restaurants with you, and even using chopsticks—but then he asks, his eyes shimmering: "haven't i?"
you're taken aback by the question. he sheepishly pokes a plate across the table while you fold your arms, deep in thought. you still haven't eaten anything. "steve."
he fidgets in his seat.
"you know you don't have to do that for me." beneath the table, you hook your sneaker behind his ankle, tugging his leg and loosening him up. "all the self-sacrificing you do."
there's no reason for it. the doors he opens, the dinners he pays for, the nights he spends away from you. you can count on your fingers how many hours a week steve actually focuses on himself, and each one is spent catching up on sleep.
"i like spicy food," he insists.
"c'mon, rogers," you admonish fondly. "your spice tolerance is non-existent." you smile. "you're weak, and you wouldn't survive the winter."
stubbornness draws a hard line across his brow. "i'm not doing it to be self-sacrificing."
"oh, really, captain america?" he acts like it's in his job description.
a twitch in the corner of his lips would probably spread into a grin if you kicked his shin right now. "i do it to make you laugh."
you lift a plate of non-threatening nigiri off the procession, ignoring the cute look steve shoots you through his long lashes. "that's still self-sacrificing, dumbass."