Words: 3K

The whole city has been preparing for this winter storm for months, but nothing could've prepared New York for this. The streets are so thick with snow that not even the plows can roll through. Cars have been left abandoned and roofs on buildings threaten to collapse. Snow hasn't stopped falling for three days straight now. With each hour more homes go dark and more trapped everyone becomes.

You've spent the last 72 hours in your apartment downtown. You thought you'd be one of the lucky ones who kept power through the whole storm, but just an hour ago while you were taking your nighttime shower all the lights went dark. The silence that overtook the building was the most staggering thing. Then the coldness seeped through. Heating is something you take for granted, but now it's cold enough to refrigerate eggs in here and your hair is still wet. You're wrapped up in blankets on your couch in the warmest room of the apartment (which isn't saying much—your teeth are chatting and toes blue) and try to distract yourself by reading one of your favorite books. By candlelight you finish chapter three and take a drink of room temperature tea. You sigh as you realize all of your food will be spoiled by the time the power returns. They predict it won't come back until late next week—you already called to see.

A knock comes from your front door. You assume it's the landlord making his rounds, so you don't hesitate in calling out, "Come in!" You don't really care enough to move from your semi-comfortable spot beneath all these blankets.

The door creaks as it opens. More cold air rushes in from the hall. Standing hesitantly in your doorway is your tall and pretty next door neighbor Steve. He's over six feet tall and broader than any man you've ever seen. His t-shirt seems to be screaming in agony at how hard his bulging muscles strain the fabric. Over the shirt he wears a lightweight zip up jacket. On his beefy legs he's got dark wash jeans and slippers. He chuckles when he first spots you cuddled up amongst the blankets. His creamy colored hair is perfectly styled while yours is in a wet, limp braid.

"Oh hey Steve." You greet with a smile. "What's up?" You put down your book and turn more towards him.

"I was just coming to check up on you," Steve offers as his explanation. He doesn't really come over regularly—not at all. He'll help you carry in groceries whenever he's around but he's out of town a lot. You'd be an idiot not to know why—he's Captain America. It took you a solid five seconds after meeting him to realize it. But you never say anything about it, and he doesn't either. It'd be rude, and you know this is where he goes to get away. He'll be here three or four days out of the week and sometimes he shows up in the laundry room downstairs. Just last week you had to teach him how to properly fold socks. He'd blushed madly the whole lesson—making you giggle each time he fumbled. To thank you, he offered to hang that heavy mirror in your apartment that had been sitting idle in the corner for two months now. So came over, drank some coffee, hung the mirror, and then left about an hour after.

"Well that's nice, thank you. I'm doing pretty good—cold, but good." You smile at him, and he does the same back. He has a very adorable smile. "And you?"

"Oh I'm fine." Steve shrugs, "Cold doesn't really bother me much."

"Lucky," you laugh lightly. Your eyes scan over how he's standing so hesitantly there across the room. "You can stay a while if you want," you offer.

"Oh it's alright—I should probably be going to bed soon anyway." Steve blushes and looks away. He runs a hand through his blond tufts of hair and laughs lightly, "I have a pretty early bedtime."

"You look like an early riser," you say.

"I am." Steve's head tilts slightly more to one side. He just looks at you for another long moment before breathing and stepping back out into the hall. "Anyway, I'm not going anywhere—well, no one is—but I just wanted to see if you were okay and let you know that if you need anything I'll always be right next door."

You giggle lightly at his rushed speech. It sounds a little rehearsed, which is adorable of course. "Thanks Steve. Same goes for you."

"Well, uh, goodnight." Steve dips his head towards you in a nod and then closes your front door. You try to keep your laughter quiet as you shake your head and go back to your book. But the tingly, twisty feeling in your tummy is distracting you from comprehending the words. How is it that he can be so endearing? You could make awkward conversation with him for hours.

You eventually give up reading after a few hours. Then you decide it'd be best to go to bed, even though it's only midnight (unlike Steve, you've grown to be a bit of a night owl). You decide to skip the bedroom and stay right out here on the couch where you've amounted a bit of body heat. It takes three hours for you to actually sleep. And when you finally drift off, it's a painfully hard night of tossing and turning in the frigid cold. You wish you had more blankets and maybe one of those little portable heaters they sell at Walmart (you almost bought one last week, but then you saw one of those Keurig coffee makers and decided to spend your extra money on that instead—big mistake).

The next morning you awake grumpy and frigid. You roll off of the couch and onto the floor with a grunt. You drag yourself and your cape of blankets to the kitchen where you dig around for the last of your food. All you really have left is Cheerios, peanut butter, wheat bread, Pringles, stale popcorn, saltines, licorice, beef jerky, and rice cakes. You should've stocked up on more groceries before the storm, but you always make the mistake of thinking you're going to be the exception to everything unfortunate (like needing food during a snowstorm that prevents you from ordering pizza).

You decide on some peanut butter bread. You sit on the windowsill and stare out at the pristine white view while you eat. There's no sound except for the occasional gust of wind. The clouds block out the sun and the snow that falls appears grey with the lack of light, even though it's almost ten in the morning.

For three hours after that you patter around cleaning. There's really nothing else to do when you're locked up like this. But then lunch rolls around and you decide you can't just sit around all day and do nothing. So you braid your hair again, throw on some clean clothes, and head to Steve's apartment next door.

"Y/N?"

You smile at the blond when he opens the door. "Hey, Steve." Suddenly nervous you twiddle your thumbs. Your fingers are sort of numb though, so they keep stumbling over each other.

Steve opens his door a bit wider. There he stands, looking like a god, wearing jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt. You don't believe you've ever seen him in flannel. Dang, it looks good. The navy blue really brings out the sapphire in his eyes.

"Do you need something, Y/N?" He doesn't sound impatient or annoyed—only concerned. His brow is slightly wrinkled.

"Not exactly," you answer with a light chuckle. "I'm just really bored and figured you probably were, too. And since my phone's dead I can't really call anyone to talk, so I've been pretty lonely too..."

Steve's smile takes your breath away. A little dimple appears on his left cheek. He pushes his door open wider and gestures broadly. "Come on in. I'd love the company."

"Really?" You seem sort of shocked as he lets you inside. The door makes a soft closing noise behind you as you stare wide-eyed around his place. You've never actually been inside his apartment before. You're not sure what you were expecting: maybe something super swag or filled with Captain America memorabilia. Actually, his place is pretty basic. He's got little unscented candles on tables and bookshelves to light up the space that is painted the same grey color as yours. The furniture is all natural wood and the pictures on the wall are sparse and few. He has a pretty generous sized TV, bigger than yours, and enough books to spend three lifetimes reading. Playing cards are scattered out on his coffee table in what looks to be a game of solitaire.

Catching your gaze on the game, Steve asks, "Wanna play?"

Your eyes snap up to where he's walking over to the couch. Before you can reply he's patting the spot next to him.

Smiling, you follow his lead. You're glad you dressed cute as you realize his apartment is a lot brighter than yours. You put on your favorite sweater and tall socks drawn up over your skinny jeans. You took off your boots by the door.

"What do you like to play?"

"Anything," you say.

Steve starts shuffling the stack. He glances up at you and notices something that you don't. He wrinkles his brow and then hurriedly stands. "Hold on." He rushes off to the bedroom. You sit there, confused, until he comes out a minute later with a big fluffy duvet—one that was on his bed. He's brought all of his other blankets, too. He layers them over you while you blush and grin.

"Better?" he asks. "You were shivering."

"This is much better," you tell him. "Thanks." Wow—is this what Steve Rogers smells like? This bedding's perfume is divine. It's not as masculine as you imagined it to be. It's clean and fresh—like cotton and spring.

"Alright," Steve, unaware of how you're sniffing his things, sits down next to you. "How about a game of rummy?"

You frown. "Don't think I know it."

"Then I'll teach you," Steve looks up at you and then he does it—he winks.

Oh no. That feeling that you're feeling now? That gnawing, churning feeling in your gut? Those are the symptoms that come along with properly catching feelings.

For five hours you and Steve play card games. Between rounds he's brought out some food to share—pita chips and pretzels—and now the games are done and you just sit around talking. The storm roars stronger than ever outside and the candlewicks are growing low, but you and Steve sit unaware of it all.

"Wait, wait, wait," you laugh while he looks embarrassed about what he's just admitted. "You have all these books, but you don't like to read?"

Steve rubs his face. "I know, it's stupid. But I love books—I really do, but only because I like the story. Reading them is just so... tedious."

Your laughter makes his heart leap. He grins while you giggle. And with how red your cheeks have become from the cold, he doesn't feel embarrassed about blushing.

"Reading is the only thing I really like to do," you tell him. "Well, besides destroy you in a game of rummy."

"Yeah—please explain to me how you kept winning when you said you'd never played," he laughs. "Are you a liar?"

"No, you're just a good teacher." You playfully shove his shoulder. Honestly, you don't think much of the gesture—it's silly and a good excuse to touch him. But Steve instantly seizes your wrist in his large, masculine hand and has you gasping from his sudden hot-skinned touch.

"Y/N! You're freezing," Steve breathes. He peers down at you through his eyelashes. "You're going to get sick." His frown tugs on your heartstrings. "You said you were okay."

"I am. I've been cold for a while now. It's fine—really." You shrug, finding it strange (but secretly amazing) that Steve is still holding your hand.

"No, it's not." Steve lets out a long breath through his nose—nostrils flaring slightly. He starts looking all over the dark room as if it's possible to find the sun somewhere to pull out and warm you. "We can't have you getting sick."

"It's not like I'm going to freeze to death." The moment the sentence leaves your mouth you're gasping and trying to cover your mouth. Steve just stares at you, confused, while you visibly freak out. "I am so sorry—that was insensitive."

It takes a moment for it to really click in Steve's head as to why you're so embarrassed, but then you see the realization dawn on his face and he's grinning. Soon, as in a matter of seconds, the grin shifts to a loud laugh. He's grabbing his chest with his hand and holding your knee with the other as he laughs louder and longer than he ever remembers doing. The look on your face was priceless as you thought you insulted the once frozen super-soldier.

You chuckle nervously with him. "Sorry, sorry."

Steve shakes his head and gathers himself. "No, no. It's fine—god, that's funny." He sits up from the couch and wipes his eyes. "You're too adorable, Y/N." He starts looking around for something else to keep you warm. Now it's his turn to become embarrassed at what he's said. He never really meant to call you adorable—of course he was thinking it, but it just sort of fell out of his lips. Now you're blushing, he's blushing, and both of you are awkwardly quiet.

Clearing his throat, Steve runs his hands up and down his thighs as he stands above you by the couch. He risks a glance down at you and sighs. You really are the cutest, sweetest thing he's ever seen. Your cheeks and nose are pink with cold and lips damp from biting on them. Your eyes, framed with long lashes and speckled with his favorite color, are downward cast at your lap. Although you're wrapped up in every blanket he owns he knows you're still too cold. It'll only get more unbearable as the night goes on. The sun should be setting at any time now. Steve touches the back of his neck, feeling his own radiating body warmth, and is struck with the most brilliant idea. Awkward, sure, but if you'd say yes... oh, he'd be the happiest he's been in months.

"I can sit with you," Steve blurts. You look up at him questioningly. "I mean, I can get under the blankets with you to try and keep you warm. I think it'd help you if we got close enough."

You raise an eyebrow. "Like... cuddle?"

Steve chuckles. "Yeah." He stuffs his hands into his pockets and asks, "If you want?"

Hell yes!

"Sure," is what you decide to relay. You lift up an arm—opening your blanket dome—and Steve sits back down next to you. You're worried about what to do, but you don't have to be for very long. Steve takes the initiative in drawing you closer. Arm wrapping around your waist he drags your body against his until your side is pressed to his. Silently you gasp at the immediate warmth you're overwhelmed with. Your eyes flutter and breath labors as he keeps one arm around your waist and the other pulls your knees onto his lap. He sits with his legs kicked out on the coffee table and your body cuddled up to the side of him. You don't hesitate in resting your head on his chest.

"Is this okay?" Steve asks when you're both finally settled.

You only hum a positive response—mind numb with how warm and soft he feels. Your hands squeeze around his slender waist and you close your eyes as you feel his chest vibrate with a chuckle. Already you can feel your digits unfreezing and body loosening up. You've been so tense with cold for so long. He's quite literally thawing you out with his intense body heat. He's hot—in more ways than one.

"You're so warm," you mutter against his breast.

"And you're so cold." Steve pulls you a bit closer and his hand accidentally tugs up the back of your sweater. His palm touches bare skin and he retracts quickly. "Sorry."

"No, no. It's okay. Your hands are warm—I like it." You don't bother telling him that you'd like him touching you anywhere.

"O-okay." Hesitantly, Steve's hand inches its way onto your bare back. His touch is soft and almost ghosting when he first touches you. But then he feels your soft sigh leave your mouth and just how cold you are underneath him, and he moves his hand up and down a bit harder. Soothingly he rubs warmth back into your lower back. Something suddenly shifts. There's a feeling in the air—it's palpable. It's romantic.

This isn't something that neighbors do; it's not something friends do, either. So you feel comfortable enough in this moment to dazedly admit, "I like you, Steve."

Steve stares down at your closed eyelids with his heart thundering in his chest. He worries that you can feel just how rapidly his chest is pounding. He's afraid, but he's also intrigued by what these feelings could become. Right now they're overwhelming and foreign—but he knows if he keeps fueling this flame, it'll turn into love.

"I like you too, Y/N." Steve's whisper draws your eyes up to him. You smile, making him swoon, and he can't stop staring at your lips. "That smile..." he breathes, sounding flabbergasted. "You could convince me to do anything with that smile."

You grin. "What if I asked you to kiss me?"

Steve's eyes flicker up from your lips to your eyes. The candlelight dances along his cheeks and in your pupils as the room finally starts to heat up. Steve doesn't respond to your question—not verbally, anyway. He answers with a kiss—one that sends bolts of heat to every inch of both of you. And as the snow falls down outside, you and Steve Rogers find yourselves moving closer together and closer to falling in love.