[ It would be easy, Sam thinks while searching Steve's eyes. Just keep looking right there, let the blue drown all the rest of the world like he's soaring high above his problems. Like he's still free. And there, climbing too close to the sun, Sam could confess to the truth - that he feels collared. That the very idea of his existence in this place makes his skin crawl. That he hasn't been with anyone in ages, not since--... that he doesn't do this easily, doesn't do this casually.

That he wants to fight back hard. Bare his teeth and dare this place to force him into the submission the line on his neck signifies. That the idea of signing himself away like property opens up generational trauma Sam knows Steve can't possibly understand.

Instead...

Instead he lets warmth seep into his eyes, lets himself smile as he tilts his head a little, subconsciously pushing a little into the gentle contact. His breath ghosts over Steve's inner wrist, over his pulse. Sam puts forth his bravado, his charm. This, he can do for Steve. ]

Can't say I care for it. But it ain't the Raft, so... silver linings, y'know. Seeing you without a million wrinkles is a treat, too. [ A little more softly: ] You're a sight for sore eyes, Steve.