A/N:

Hey guys! Been a few days (more like 10, actually) since I updated. I am so sorry about the lack of updates. It's been a really hard week. I had a dear friend of mine from high school pass away last Thursday and the memorial service was today, so I promised myself I'd give myself a few days to gather my thoughts. Every time I tried to write this week I ended up just staring at the paper and wasting time. So, it's taken me a while tonight, but I manged to finish this chapter from my drafts. 

Bucky requests I've received will be coming! Hopefully next week is smoother for me and I'm in more of a creative mood. 

Thank you all for your patience and love. It's really kept me hanging onto a bit of positivity this week looking back at old comments and interactions between you sweeties. 

Happy late Valentines day, too! 

Winnie

Words: 3K

Three words.

It all started with three little words:

"One moment, please."

They'd been spoken without looking up from your computer. You'd been typing away at an email while you sat behind the front desk of your place of work. The person who'd walked up for help was quiet in response—giving you your time. When you finally looked up, your eyes met bright blue.

"Oh. Uh, hello," you manage to stutter out.

The man, tall and built like a dream, smiles shyly. "Hello." He gestures to your clipboard. "I have an appointment with Dr. White."

You nod and glance down to the printed words. "Name?"

"Uh, Steve." The man sticks his hands in his pockets and sways back and forth on his feet.

"We have three Steve's today," you reply with a laugh. "Last name, maybe?"

"Oh, oh, sure. Rogers, ma'am." He flushes pink for some reason as the words leave his mouth.

"Alright Mr. Rogers," you say, "Looks like Dr. White will be ready for you in about ten minutes. Is that alright?"

"Perfect." Steve Rogers smiles with a soft nod of his head. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Mhmm," you hum out a reply. Your eyes go back to your Mac screen until you're sure he's walking away. On his journey back to the lobby couch your eyes dart up to watch him leave. God, it's not fair for a man to have an ass like that! He's positively delicious. You mentally remind yourself to check his hand for a wedding ring the next time he comes up. Wait, is the no-dating-patients rule a thing if you're only the therapist's assistant? Who cares?! You'd break any rules to take that man to bed...

A little message pops up on your screen.

"Dr. White is ready for you, Mr. Rogers." You stand up and smooth out your skirt. Steve, who has just sat back down, rises again. He comes to the side of your desk and waits for you to lead him down the hall.

"Please, call me Steve." Those beautiful baby blues are wrinkled slightly with smile lines.

Pausing outside of the doctor's doors, you reply, "Alright, Steve. You can go in." You pop open the door and Steve nods his gratitude—not missing the chance to lightly touch your hand with his as he takes the door from your hold.

You thought that would probably be the end of it. But luck would have it that Steve Rogers would come back to the office: twice a week, to be exact. It takes three weeks and three more little words to change everything.

"Are you single?"

Your eyes blink rapidly. You can feel your cheeks warming with blush as a smile spreads across your face. "Um, yes, actually. I'm very single." You realize just how stupid you sound and decide to say, "I mean, not any more single than anyone else. I am, but I'm not like SUPER single... I just..." You let out a sigh. "Yes. I'm single."

Steve seems to find your blushing and rambling quite amusing, for he chuckles and grins. "In that case," he starts to say before clearing his throat. "I'd really like to take you out on a date."

"You—you would?"

He smiles. "I would." He glances around the empty lobby quickly before looking back at you. "I've been trying to work up the nerve for a few weeks now, I just think you're so sweet..." He shakes his head as if to stop himself. "Can I get your number? Maybe we can work something out for this weekend if you're not busy."

Three more words:

"I'd love to."

Months pass for the rest of the world. It feels like a heartbeat to you and Steve. Smitten, is how he'd describe himself for you. It's in a whirlwind of emotions and longing that you find yourself falling for this guy. He's more than you could ever have imagined yourself to find. He's every girl's dream: he's Captain America, as you quickly find out on your second date. Not that it really matters to you. The only person that truly matters is Steve: Steven Grant Rogers.

"Bacon and eggs?"

"Yes, ma'am." Steve grins over his shoulder at you as you waddle into the room. You've got the duvet from his bed wound around your shoulders and his shirt hanging from your shoulders. He's in baby blue boxers that nearly match the color of his eyes. "Sleep good?"

"I certainly did." You walk up behind him, standing on your toes, and wrap your arms around his waist. Your cheek presses to the middle of his back and you feel him chuckle. The smell of grease and coffee wafts into your nostrils mixed with the scent of his cologne. "Are you going anywhere?" It's very often that Steve leaves town: for missions and meetings with dignitaries. You hate it, but it's part of the Steve package.

"Not today, cutie. I'm all yours." Steve rubs your arm with his warm hand. "Come on now, why don't you go sit down and I'll bring you a plate."

"That all sounds perfect."

You plop down at the table with a smile on your face.

Three days later and you're sitting in the same place. This time, with a frown.

"Honey... what's wrong?"

You startle at hearing Steve come into the room. He's emerged from the bedroom like a shadow: quick and dreamlike.

"It's two in the morning, why are you awake?" Steve's feet are quiet as he comes to stand beside you. His fingers comb your hair.

You shake your head with a sigh. "I just..." You pause in biting your thumb nail long enough to show him what you've been reading. It's the news on your phone screen. "You said you had to leave tomorrow for something secret. I'm not stupid though: I put two and two together." Steve shamefully looks to his feet as you go on, "You're going to Prague, aren't you? To try and find that enhanced person who's killing hundreds of people with just his mind?"

"It's... it's not something I should really talk about." Steve looks at you regretfully. "But yes."

"I can't sleep knowing you're going to be running towards this maniac tomorrow." You shut off the phone and slide it away. You cross your arms and close your eyes tightly.

"I know, I know." Steve kisses the top of your head. "But it's part of the job, Y/N. I thought you understood that..."

"I do," you reply. "That doesn't mean I like it."

Steve pulls out the chair beside you. He sits down facing you. He grabs your hands into his and plants slow kisses to your knuckles. "I don't like leaving you, either." His eyes, big and blue, watch you carefully. "I hate it."

Sadly, you smile. "I do, too." You lean closer to him until your lips brush and he kisses you: long and slow. He pulls away eventually with a sigh.

"Let's go to bed, honey. I'm not going anywhere tonight—everything's fine." He tries to bring you to your feet.

You nod and follow his lead. It's not until you're cuddled up into his bedding that you speak again. "Steve?"

Steve hums his response, "Hmm?"

"Can I stay here while you're away?" you whisper into the night.

Steve lifts his head up from the pillow. He looks down at you, assessing the different aspects of your perfect face, and eventually his lips tilt in a tiny smile. "I think you should stay here all the time."

You blink. "You... you do?"

"I do," Steve assures you. He cups your face with his hand. His bottom thumb toys with your lip. "I want you to live with me, darling."

You agree.

It's three in the afternoon, a few days later, when you walk in front of the TV screen. It's playing a lame talk show while you nibble on your lunch. You're in the apartment that you now share with Steve in jeans and a worn out t-shirt when the emergency news flickers on the TV.

The three words at the banner atop the screen shatter your heart—the pieces scattering into the carpet at your feet.

"CAPTAIN AMERICA: DEAD?"

Your sandwich falls out of your hands. You rush towards the TV, pushing your face as close as you can while still seeing, and watch as the footage of the man of your dreams plays over and over again. He crashes out of a building, hundreds of feet in the air, and his lifeless body lies there on the cement street. Crackles in the pavement are spread out around his form like lightning bolts in sand.

"No...no...no..." you chant. You scatter away from the screen and launch towards your phone. First you try calling Steve. It rings five times before bringing you to voicemail.

"Hello, this is Steve. Leave me a message and I'll call you back very shortly. Thank you."

BEEP.

"Steve? Steve, honey, pick up the phone." You glance to the screen. The footage was shot mere minutes ago. No one has access to the scene now, apparently. They keep showing the iPhone camera shot multiple times in a row with no real evidence as to where Steve is now.

You call three more times. Finally you give up and race to the fridge. On the side is a sticky note with important phone numbers Steve keeps there. You call Tony Stark, praying to god that he can give you answers. Meanwhile, you slide to the ground and cuddle your knees. Tears are straining in your eyes. Your whole face aches with trying to keep them at bay.

It rings, rings, rings before sending you to voicemail.

"This is Stark. Please don't fill up my voicemail box with anything stupid. Serious inquiries only. Free passes for food delivery people though. Stark out."

You wipe at your damp cheeks with the butt of your palm. "M-Mr. St-St-Stark, sir, my n-name is Y/N and I'm—I'm looking for Steve. He left your number with me and I just saw... I just saw on TV..." You can't bring yourself to finish without wanting to sob. So, instead you say, "Please just call me back and tell me that everything's okay: that Steve's okay. Just... just tell him to call me. Please." Then you hang up the phone and pray.

Three hours go by before your phone rings. You rush towards it, hoping to see Steve's picture pop up, but it's an unknown number. Desperately you answer it in hopes for some sort of news. The TV is still playing clips of that last Captain America sighting, but you've heard nothing on if he's alive.

"Hello...?"

"It's me, Y/N." A pause while you gather a shaky breath, then another three words ring in your ear. "Don't be scared. I can't talk. Not right now. But I'll call. I'll call again. Soon, my love. It'll be soon." The small snippets of sound jump around your skull until the line goes dead again. You never even get to tell him that you love him: not that you've done it before, but you want to say it now.

That night you don't sleep. You stay awake staring at the ceiling. You think it might be a dream when you hear the front door open just after two in the morning. You sit up, staring at the dark hall from your spot on the bed, and watch as a figure emerges from outside.

"Y/N?"

Steve came home.

And there he stayed for weeks. No one outside of the team was allowed to know he was alive: not even you. But Steve couldn't do that to you. He couldn't hurt you like that when all you'd ever done was give him reasons to treat you like a queen. So Steve, good ole Captain America, broke the rules for you. He stayed in hiding away from the team and lived with you in complete isolation. You were the one to grab groceries and fetch mail while he stayed hidden behind closed blinds and locked doors. You'd be lying if you said you didn't like it. It was actually nice having him so close, so safe in your arms, after thinking you'd lost him forever.

It was almost three months before he had to leave again.

This time, he leaves you with three words. "I love you."

You look up at him as he stands in the doorway. His eyes are closed as if trying not to cry.

"Please don't cry," you chuckle lightly. Your thumb rubs away some of the strain of his cheek. "I love you, too."

His blue eyes peel open to look at you. "You do?"

You nod surely. "I really do."

And you really mean it, too. It's not hard to admit that you love Steve: even in the hardest of times. The hardest it's ever going to be is during the biggest fight you'll ever share. It happens one October third after a long day and night of not speaking over a scrabble so trivial neither really remembers what it's about in the first place. Eventually the silence breaks: shattering into a million pieces. The force of the explosion sends you stomping towards the front door. Purse thrown over your shoulder you make to walk out into the hall.

"Where do you think you're going? We're not done yet!" Steve yells from the kitchen.

You only have enough breath in you after screaming for a simple three words. "I'm leaving you." Your hands shake as you reach for the doorknob.

If only you could see the look upon Steve's face now. Watching your stiff back, he feels a wash of emotions cascade down his once hot and tempered face. Now, though, he only feels three things: regret, sorrow, and fear.

"No, no, no—please no."

You're taken aback by the sudden shift in Steve's tone. Your head has hardly the time to turn before your boyfriend of a year has rushed to your side. "Please—please don't leave. Don't leave me, please. Please don't leave."

Those words, in that order, are ones you never thought he'd have to speak to you. And standing here—keys in hand and your foot halfway wedged out the door—you wonder why you're giving him any reason to. What the hell were you fighting about anyway? Steve's the one for you: you know it's true. You'd be an idiot to throw it all away now over something so stupid.

Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and pull you closer but he waits for your word. Finally, after a brief silence, you set down your keys. Steve takes this as his cue: pulling you by the arms into his chest where he can hold you close to his heart.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers into your hair. "Please forgive me." The short sentences settle as trios into the crevices of your tired mind, nulling you into a sense of warmth in his arms.

"You're already forgiven."

Three months later and it's New Year's Eve. In New York City, far away from the chaos of the ball drop madness, you and Steve sit on a park bench under the snowfall. He's holding your hand and drinking cocoa out of a paper cup while you watch ice skaters twirl circles on the rink. You catch Steve's blue eyes dart to you occasionally, each time looking giddier, and you can't help but laugh the third time around.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that, Steve?"

He grins cheekily. "I'm admiring you."

You roll your eyes, trying not to blush. The warmth is strange upon your frostbitten cheeks. "It's creepy."

Steve tugs your hand up onto his lap. "It's romantic."

With a laugh you look back to the skating rink. It's silent for a few moments, the sound of distant chatter and skates against glassy ice dull in the back of your mind, and you admire the scene. It's only half an hour to midnight. You can feel Steve's eyes still on the side of your face as he watches you lovingly.

"What is it now, Steve?" you giggle lightly. Your breath hangs in a cloud in front of your face.

The three words that come from his mouth next are ones you never expected to hear tonight under the full December moon. "Marry me, doll."

You only blink as the proposition echoes in your head. "What?"

"Marry me." Steve's lips are slightly tilted upwards as he goes on. "I want you to marry me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to love you forever." His blue eyes, with lashes dotted in fresh snow, flutter around your face as he waits for you to reply. "What do you say, Y/N? Do you want to marry me?"

It's funny, you think back now fondly, how this story ends in the same way it began: with three little words that change the world forever.

"I'd love to."