The sun shines brightly through the sheer white curtains of your bedroom, warming your exposed skin. A hand brushes the hair from your face and your lips quirk up. "Good morning," Steve's quiet voice reaches your ears and you let your eyelids open to look at him.
"Hey," You rasp back.
"You want to come with me today?" You stretch out, considering his words. Steve had started a little support group in Brooklyn, helping people get past what had happened and deal with their loss and grief. He had hoped you would be involved, but as of yet you hadn't been to a single meeting; it really wasn't your scene.
"That's all you," You tell him lightly, tapping the tip of his nose with an outstretched finger, "Worrying about the little things. I only show up for world-ending emergencies, remember?"
"Yeah," Steve shakes his head, "Well maybe you could head upstate? Check in on Nat?"
"Nat's fine Steve," You rise from the bed and pluck one of Steve's discarded shirts from the floor, pulling it over your head, "She's dealing, just like we all are."
"I know," Steve relents, "She's just all alone up there, I'm sure she could use some company. Some girl time. Maybe you could do each other's nails."
You laugh, "Okay, okay. I'll head up there. I don't know about pedicures, but I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," Steve shrugs on his jacket, "I'll meet you up there in a few days, alright?"
You narrow your eyes suspiciously and then pounce, launching yourself at him; he catches you easily and you wrap your legs around his waist, "You're not trying to get rid of me are you?"
"I would never," He tells you, before you crash your lips into his.
The ride upstate takes less than half the time it used to; if there was one thing Thanos' snap had improved, it was traffic. You pull into the garage and head inside where Natasha waits, arms crossed.
"Did Steve send you?"
"Send me?" You feign innocence, "Absolutely not. Actually, it's a funny story, we were just talking, and I realized that not once in my very long and tragic life have I ever been to a slumber party, and then I thought, who would throw a better slumber party than Natasha Romanoff?"
"I will throw you out."
"I have the security codes," You remind her.
"Those can be changed," She retorts.
"Okay," You relent, "But how will you get me out?"
"I'll fight you," Natasha deadpans, "Obviously."
"A pillow fight, perhaps?" You offer, and her blank face cracks into a small smile.
"I hate you."
"Come on," You walk past her, "I've got six bottles of wine in my bag, and they are not going to drink themselves."