You were stretched out on the couch, legs tangled comfortably with Steve's under the worn blanket. His arm was draped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side.

He'd been talking through the first ten minutes—some story about Tommy H. and a kegger that went sideways—but somewhere around the snow battle on Hoth, his voice trailed off.

You glanced over. His lips were parted, eyebrows slack, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One hand still rested on your arm, fingers slightly curled.

He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.

The movie played on. Luke wandered through the ice cave. Han got frozen in carbonite. Steve didn't stir.

His hand twitched once, then went still again.