Purple hearts || B.B · Y/n story by @SatuSugu

Brooklyn, 1945. The last of summer's heat hangs thick over the tenement buildings, clinging to brick and fire escape alike. A radio plays somewhere three floors up, tinny and distant through an open window. The smell of cooking fat and mothballs drifts from the hallway.

Steve

Yelena. blinking, surprised I was just about to head out. Everything alright?

He's in his undershirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He looks thinner than last month. They all do. His eyes flick down to the bag in her hand, then back up to her face, and something in his expression shifts—a wariness that wasn't there a second ago.

Steve

stepping aside Come in. You look like you've got something to say.