CHAPTER FORTY-THREE — ( I'm not leaving your side. Not ever. )
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The hospital room was quiet, dim except for the soft glow of monitors and the golden edge of sunrise creeping through the blinds. Machines beeped steadily. Outside, the world continued to move—but inside this room, everything had slowed.
Evelyn hadn't left Steve's side since they arrived.
She sat in the chair, pulled tightly against his bed, curled slightly forward, her hand clasped around his. She hadn't let go—not once. Not when the nurses came in to check vitals. Not when they told her he was stable but still unconscious. Not even when Natasha Romanoff came in and dragged her out for medical attention.
"You're bleeding through your shirt, Evelyn," Natasha had said, arms crossed and jaw tight. "If he were awake, he'd throw a fit."
Evelyn had tried to argue. Natasha didn't let her.
She'd been forced to sit on a sterile table for ten long minutes while the medics wrapped her arm, stitched a shallow cut on her leg, and taken out all of the bullets still lodged inside her. Her body had already begun healing on its own—bruises fading to pale yellow, gashes softening into lines, the worst of it already mended beneath her skin. Super-healing had its perks. But Natasha insisted.
"You're no good to him passed out on the floor," she'd said bluntly.
So Evelyn let them patch her up. And the moment they finished, she was back in Steve's room—back in the chair, her fingers intertwined with his.
Now, her eyes were heavy. She was trying—fighting—to stay awake. Her body was worn and sluggish, still repairing itself quietly, and sleep was creeping in around the edges. But she didn't want to miss it. Didn't want to risk not being there the moment he opened his eyes.
Her grip on his hand never loosened. Her head leaned slightly forward, her chin almost resting on their joined hands. Her eyes fluttered once. Twice.
And then she dozed off.
Just as her breathing softened and the last of her tension slipped away... Steve stirred.
It started with a twitch of his fingers. Then, a slow, aching breath. His eyelids flickered before they slowly, sluggishly opened. It took a moment for the haze to clear, for his gaze to steady. He blinked up at the ceiling, confusion soft in his furrowed brow. His body felt like stone—heavy, sore, barely responsive—but familiar warmth grounded him.
He turned his head.
Evelyn was asleep beside him, still holding his hand.
Her hair had fallen slightly into her face, and there were faint shadows beneath her eyes, but the worst of her injuries had faded. Her skin was no longer bloodied. The bruises on her face had lightened. She looked exhausted. And beautiful.
