You'd picked this trail for a reason. Tucked away along the water, shielded by a treeline of half-bare oaks, it was usually empty at this hour. Just you, the crunch of gravel under your sneakers, and the steady rhythm of your breath fogging in the cold air.

You rounded the bend—the one with the broken bench and the view of Roosevelt Island—and slammed straight into a wall of muscle and heat.

He was tall. Blonde. Blue eyes the color of a summer sky you hadn't seen in seventy years.

Steve Rogers stood frozen, still holding your elbow, his face cycling through something you couldn't name. Disbelief. Shock. Raw, unguarded hope.