"Hey, no, I'm fine," Steve said quickly. "There was nothing permanent, I'm okay." He curled his hands into loose fists though, just in case Clint got a look at them. The bandages were gone, but there was still faint evidence of the damage he'd done himself in the form of straight pink lines of newly healed skin.
He sighed, his body going loose and pliant as Clint pulled him in closer. There wasn't anyone else in Steve's life that touched him like this, easy and comfortable, like he didn't even have to think about it. It was how Bucky had been with Steve, once upon a time, and there were days Steve missed those casual touches like an ache. But this was good, this was nice, and he thought that was probably true for the both of them.
"I would've told you," Steve murmured, "but I didn't want you comin' straight down to Eight. It's a mess there right now, and I just - wanted you away from it. From me. Just in case."
Because there'd been something weighing on Clint these last few months, a sense of foreboding and doom that Steve wasn't used to seeing on him. And while that may have been simply down to the general atmosphere of things in Panem right now, Steve didn't want to take any chances. If there really was something troublesome coming Clint's way, well, Steve wasn't going to be the one to add to it.