The motorcycle reached Clara's house in just a few minutes.
What surprised Steve was how dark the two-story villa looked—every window unlit, a black silhouette amid a neighborhood glowing with warm lights.
"Do your parents usually get home late?" Steve asked.
"Um… actually, they're away on a business trip. They won't be back for a couple of days."
Clara paused, then added, "Have you eaten yet? I can make you dinner—consider it repayment for saving me twice."
As she spoke, she opened the front door.
Lights flooded the living room, bright and welcoming. The décor was simple and tasteful, without unnecessary clutter. On the dining table, coffee table, and TV stand sat neatly arranged paper-folded flowers—delicate and colorful. They added warmth to the room, along with a hint of childlike charm.
"You're really good at making these," Steve said, picking up a small basket of baby's-breath paper flowers from the dining table. They were beautifully crafted.
"At first it was just a hobby," Clara replied cheerfully. "Then I realized I could actually make some money from it, so I studied it seriously. Now as long as I have a reference, I can fold any kind of flower!"
"Don't your parents give you an allowance?" Steve asked, surprised that a girl her age was already earning money on her own.
"They do, but everyone has to learn to be independent sooner or later. I think it's good this way."
She smiled. "Dinner won't take long. You can watch some TV."
She turned on the television for him and headed into the kitchen.
"I can cook too," Steve said quickly. "Let me help."
He really wasn't used to letting a kid cook while he sat around doing nothing.
He was promptly chased out of the kitchen.
Steve rubbed his nose awkwardly. This girl was clearly determined to cook herself.
Sitting on the sofa, breathing in the aroma drifting from the kitchen, Steve felt an odd sense of déjà vu—like being a child again, craning his neck while waiting for his mother to call him to dinner. Back then, the house was smaller, the lights dimmer, but the food smelled just as good.
Worried that Steve might not get full, Clara cooked rice in quantities she usually reserved for both Happy and Tony.
In the end, Steve ate all of it by himself.
"I'm sorry," he said, slightly embarrassed as he looked at the empty table. "I couldn't stop. It was really good."
"Don't apologize," Clara said with a grin. "That's the best compliment a cook can get."
After dinner, Steve efficiently washed the dishes. He simply couldn't bring himself to sit back after eating and let a little girl clean up—unlike Happy and Tony, who were true masters at that.
That night, Clara arranged for Steve to sleep in the large master bedroom upstairs. She herself preferred the smaller guest room—the master was too big, too empty for her taste.
Steve had originally planned to find a motel in a neighboring town after passing through Lesper Falls. Running into Clara had been pure coincidence.
When she offered to let him stay the night, he didn't refuse. He was worried she might be scared staying alone in such a big house at night—never once considering that Clara had been living by herself for over half a year already.
In the bathroom, Clara stared at her reflection, grabbed a section of her hair, and raised the scissors.
When she came back out, Steve saw a Clara whose hair looked like it had been chewed on by an overenthusiastic dog.
"Pfft—sorry kid, I shouldn't laugh," Steve said, failing miserably to hold it in. "What happened? It wasn't that short when they cut it."
He quickly stopped laughing under Clara's glare.
"I was trying to even it out," she said gloomily. "But I got confused looking in the mirror—left and right felt backwards. The more I cut, the shorter it got… Forget it. I'll just go to a hairdresser tomorrow."
She tossed the scissors onto the table in frustration. Steve picked them up.
"Let me do it. I used to cut my buddies' hair back in the army. At this point, a short cut is really the only option anyway."
In the barracks, soldiers helped each other with everything. After cutting enough hair, you naturally got good at it.
"It's fine. Short is short—as long as it's presentable."
Clara waved her hand dismissively, clearly unconcerned. That carefree, tomboyish attitude was nothing like the girls Steve was used to seeing.
The soft snip-snip of scissors was almost hypnotic. Before she knew it, Clara had dozed off.
Steve gently tapped her shoulder to wake her.
In the mirror, Clara now looked like a proper little boy—short hair neatly angled, giving her the air of a refined, handsome young prince.
"I'm pretty sure I could charm every girl in my class like this," she said confidently, smirking with a touch of mischief.
Steve laughed. "That smile—you really look like Stark when you do that. No wonder you're such a fan of his."
After hearing Barton explain what "fans" meant, Steve still found the term strange. Why not just say "admirers"?
"R-Really? That's… an honor… haha…"
Clara laughed awkwardly, trying to cover her guilt.
Used to sleeping on cold floors or bare ground during the war, Steve found the soft mattress almost unbearable. It felt like sinking into cotton—too comfortable to relax in. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Eventually, he got up to grab some water or maybe watch TV downstairs.
As he passed Clara's room, he noticed the light was still on.
It was already past midnight.
Was she still awake?
He gently nudged the door—it wasn't locked.
That's way too careless, he thought.
Inside, only a small bedside lamp was lit. Clara slept peacefully on the bed.
Steve tiptoed in, intending to turn off the lamp. Beneath it stood a neat row of small Avengers plaster figurines, surprisingly lifelike. Curious, he picked one up—and accidentally knocked over a small box beside it.
Clatter.
The sound startled Clara awake. Cold sweat dotted her forehead—she'd just been dreaming of something dark and terrifying again.
"Kid—don't misunderstand," Steve said quickly. "I couldn't sleep, so I came down for some TV. I just saw the light and wanted to turn it off."
He looked genuinely flustered, afraid of being mistaken for something inappropriate.
"It's okay," Clara said softly. "I just had a nightmare. I'll leave the light on—I'm a little scared of the dark."
She sat up, leaning against the pillow.
"That's my craft assignment. Miss Daisy asked us to make our personal hero. I made all of you."
"All of us?" Steve asked in surprise. "I thought Stark was the only one you admired."
Steve pulled up a chair and examined the figurines under the lamplight.
"You're all heroes," Clara said. "Anyway… since we're both awake, why don't you tell me about your life, Steve? I bet it's way more interesting than anything on TV."
She slid down under the covers, leaving only her head poking out—clearly asking for a bedtime story.
Steve smiled helplessly. Clara usually felt far too mature for her age, but moments like this—so childlike—were unexpectedly endearing.
He wasn't a great storyteller. Even his extraordinary experiences sounded plain when he told them. But Clara didn't mind.
As Steve's low, steady voice filled the room, she slowly drifted back to sleep.
Once she was asleep, Steve gently tucked in her blanket, glanced around, then propped a book in front of the lamp to soften the light.
Quietly, he closed the door behind him.
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T/N:
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