As his body relaxed and the ache and discomfort started to bleed away, Steve dared to move a little more. His hands sank to the mattress to his sides and he forced himself into a sitting position, his movements still slow and careful, every muscle sore and weak as if it hadn't been used in ages. Or never, even. Yet he felt no injury on him. He touched his own head but found no wound, no blood. He lifted up his too-clean shirt only to find perfectly unharmed skin underneath. Hands, arms, legs... nothing. There wasn't a single scratch or bruise on him.

And then there was the room— Athens, she said. Athens couldn't be this different, could it? The furniture was so clean, so sleek, the design so strange and foreign to Steve. He couldn't make heads or tails of some of the items set on the nightstand or the dresser by the corner, though his attention only lingered on them for so long.

When Diana spoke again, his eyes moved back to her, eyebrows knit in vague confusion. She felt different to him, too. It was still her, but... he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something was just off.

But it didn't matter. Because he did love her, and he had meant every single word he had told her. His hand lifted up thoughtlessly to cup her jaw, thumb sweeping across her cheek as he tried to get her to look at him. "Of course I did, Diana. I meant— every word. Every word I said," he took a slow, deep breath, head canting as he caught her gaze. "What's wrong? Tell me. What happened?"