SOMEHOW STEVE MANAGED to convince the others to give him just a few more days. He was certain—so certain—that somewhere deep inside, she was still there. She just had to remember... remember that she had to come back.

Slowly, he stepped into her bedroom, the air still and quiet like a held breath. He sank into the chair beside her bed, the one that had become his perch, his vigil. This quiet ritual had become part of him now—an echo of hope replayed day after day.

As always, he wished for the spark of her blue eyes to meet his. He longed for the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her curiosity, the courage that had once shone so brightly from her. Even the way she always stumbled over her own feet—he missed that, too. All of it. All of her.

Gently, he placed his phone on the nightstand and let a soft tune from the 50s drift into the room—"Put Your Head on My Shoulder"—a song she used to hum when she thought no one was listening. He liked it, too. It somewhat reminded him of the world before everything changed—before the ice, before the war, before all the weight he carried now.

He remembered a night—not so long ago—after a long training session, when his muscles ached and the world outside felt too loud. He had been heading to the kitchen for a bottle of water, when he heard it: that familiar melody playing softly in the distance.

Curious, he followed the sound, and what he found made his chest ache in the gentlest way.

There she was—Ariel—perched on the kitchen island, swaying her head side to side in time with the music, her bare legs dangling and kicking slightly with the rhythm. She didn't see him at first, too lost in her own little world. She was humming, softly, sweetly.

Leaning against the doorway, Steve just watched, unable to tear his eyes away. There was something magical about her—like she belonged to some other place, some other world—but in that moment, she was here. Real. Alive. Part of his world.

Steve Rogers was a fool...
A lovesick fool.

No matter what she did—how clumsy, how unexpected, how utterly chaotic—he found himself falling for her all over again. And yet, despite everything, he never quite found the courage to tell her.

To Steve, Ariel was beautiful—breathtaking, even—but it wasn't just the way the light danced in her hair or how her eyes sparkled like ocean waves in the sun. No, it was the way she saw the world, the way her heart reached out to it with wonder and kindness that truly captivated him.

He watched from the doorway, unnoticed, as she took a joyful sip from her chilled drink through a colorful straw, her head gently swaying to the rhythm of the song playing from the speakers. She looked like she belonged in a dream—legs swinging off the kitchen island, utterly content in her own little world.

"Miss Arielle, I believe Captain Rogers is in need of your attention," FRIDAY chimed politely, the Compound's ever-watchful AI.

Startled, she looked up, eyes wide, cheeks blooming pink the moment she caught sight of him. She quickly hid her face in her hands before he could fully catch the blush painting her features.

"You saw nothing!" she said with a bashful little laugh, peeking through her fingers like a child caught mid-magic.

Steve chuckled, stepping toward the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. "Oh no, I saw everything. And for the record? You looked... graceful."

She rolled her eyes with a soft, amused snort. "I can't dance. But I like the song." She paused, smiling more softly now, as if the melody tugged at something inside her. "It reminds me—"

"Of back then," Steve finished gently, like the thought had bloomed in both their hearts at once. She nodded, and for a moment, the air between them was full of quiet memory and something else—something tender and unsaid.

With a sudden spark of mischief, Arielle hopped down from the counter, brushing invisible wrinkles from the hem of her blue sundress. "Come on, dance with me, Cap," she said, holding out her hand to him like a princess from an old movie.

"FRIDAY, would you mind playing that song from the beginning?" she asked politely, and Steve couldn't help but smile. There was something so charming about the way she spoke to the AI—like even machines couldn't resist her gentleness.

"Please?" she added, turning back to him with the most dangerous weapon in her arsenal: kind ocean eyes. "One dance?"

Steve sighed in mock defeat, taking her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. "How am I supposed to say no now?"

There was just one problem.

"You know I can't dance either, right?" he said, his thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles.

She tilted her head, that same spark twinkling in her blue eyes. "Then we'll both look ridiculous together. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"

He laughed, low and quiet, and let her pull him closer. Her hand rested in his, warm and small, and for a second, he forgot the war, the burdens, the ice. There was only her.

And as they swayed—clumsy and offbeat, but happy—Steve found himself wondering:

Maybe she was the partner he'd been waiting for all along.

With a quiet sigh, Steve pulled himself out of his thoughts, his gaze drifting to her nightstand.

There, resting like a secret treasure, was a small, framed drawing—one he had once made just for her.

A monkey.
Wearing a Captain America uniform.
Riding a unicycle.

She had told him she found the idea adorable—her eyes had gone wide with delight, the kind of look that made his heart skip without warning. She had always watched him sketch with such fascination, as if every pencil stroke were magic, her chin resting in her hands while he tried to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

When the silly drawing was done, she giggled and proudly declared, "This is Steve now!"

And he'd only managed a chuckling shake of his head in reply—because what could he say to that? She'd just named a monkey after him.

But what touched him most wasn't her laughter.
It was this:

She had framed it.
She had kept it.
And placed it right there, beside her bed—as if it meant something.

A fragile idea sparked in his mind, and he gently pulled open the drawer of her nightstand, searching for a sketchpad and a pen. Maybe he could draw her something new—something to remind her of the warmth they'd shared. Something to bring her back.

But then, something else caught his eye.

His breath hitched.

Tucked inside her own drawing pad—worn from use and loved in a way only an artist's tool could be—were more of his sketches. Drawings he had made just for fun, for her, for quiet afternoons spent laughing over coffee and colors.

He flipped through the pages carefully, his fingers brushing paper like it might crumble under the weight of memory.

Even the ones he hadn't been proud of—quick doodles, half-finished cartoons, awkward scribbles—she had saved them all. Every single one.

And then he saw it.

A new drawing. One he had never seen before.

A cat.
With a mermaid tail.
Drawn in her unmistakable style—whimsical, a little uneven, full of heart.

Next to it, in small letters, it read:
"For Steve."

His chest ached in the most bittersweet way.
All this time, he had wondered what he meant to her.
And somehow, in that silly little mer-cat... was the answer.

She had loved him, in her own quiet, secret way.

And now, with her lying still and silent, Steve smiled through the sadness pressing in on him like a tide.

She had been speaking to him. Through every sketch, every laugh, every memory saved between the pages.

And maybe...
Maybe that was the sign he'd been searching for.

How could he possibly give up on her?
After everything?

Steve exhaled quietly, placing the forgotten items back where they belonged. The weight in his chest felt heavier than any shield he'd ever carried.

"I know you're still in there," he whispered as he carefully reached for her hand. His thumb traced slow, tender circles across the back of it—his only way of trying to reach her, to remind her that she wasn't alone.

"You're so strong, Ariel. And kind and brilliant. Braver than anyone I've ever known..." His voice caught for a moment. "You've been through so much. But would you really stop fighting now?"

He paused, swallowing the ache that had crept into his throat.

"Would you give up on us?" he asked, voice barely more than breath.

Silence. Just the soft hum of a distant monitor, and the quiet hope beating in his chest.

"Come on, my brave Ariel... give me something. Anything. A sign."

Time was slipping through his fingers, but he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. Not of her.

"Please come back to me," he breathed, dropping his gaze to their joined hands.

And then—
The smallest movement. A flutter. A gentle press against his skin.

His heart stopped. "Ariel?"

And slowly, like the tide returning to the shore, her eyes opened—soft, ocean-blue, the most beautiful blue he'd ever known.

"Steve?" she murmured, her voice fragile and faint, as if speaking his name was instinct alone. And even in that fragile moment, her lips curved into the barest, trembling smile.

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You're awake." His voice cracked under the weight of relief. His whole body seemed to melt as he leaned closer, still holding on like she was made of glass and light.

But even now, fear lingered behind her gaze. The fear that speaking might hurt. That her voice, once a gift, might betray her again. What good was a voice if it only brought pain?

Yet sometimes, the tiniest bit of pain was worth bearing—if it meant holding on to the things that truly mattered.

"You're always saving me," she whispered, her words a fragile thread of breath as she gently squeezed his hand.

For a brief second, the pain flickered through her eyes. But then it vanished—chased away by a brave little smile.

Steve smiled, too. A real one. The kind that reached all the way to his eyes.

"Someone has to," he replied softly, and his thumb brushed over her knuckles like a vow.

In that room, in that moment, the world faded.

She was his compass.
And he... he was her anchor.