You woke up alone in an unfamiliar bed. You wondered where you were for a moment before the events that had transpired cascaded into your mind. You had no regrets, but you were concerned about Steve. Virgins were complicated creatures, especially virgins misplaced in time.

Rolling over, you looked around and saw him sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed with a sketchpad and a pencil, engrossed in what he was doing. He had put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

"Hey," you said, smiling at him. "What are you drawing?"

He glanced up from the sketchpad, startled. "Oh, it's nothing."

"Let me see?" You got up out of bed and walked over to him. Everything between your legs dully ached, but it was still worth it.

You looked over his shoulder to see the sketch. It was you, sleeping in his bed. Your breasts and the juncture between your thighs were covered by rumpled blankets. His portrayal was very accurate. The anatomy was perfect. He was undeniably talented, and you felt honored that he'd chosen to sketch you.

"That's really good," you said. "I wish I had your talent."

"It's no big deal, really," he responded, modestly.

"Do you have more of your work?" you asked, eager to see it.

"It's in the other room. Actually, what I wanted to show you is in there, too." He stood.

You followed him through the living room into the second bedroom. He flipped the light on. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing binders and sketchbooks. A desk was in the middle of the room with art supplies and an open binder on it.

He handed the binder to you, and you saw your letter inside a sheet protector. You flipped through the pages and saw other letters, drawings from children, some postcards from various locations.

"Are all these binders fan mail?" you asked, looking at the dozens of binders incredulously.

He nodded. "I'm going to need more space eventually."

"And you responded to every last one?"

"All the ones with a return address. I don't need to sleep as much as most people do so I have plenty of time."

"It's so sweet of you to do that, you know. You probably made a lot of people really happy with your replies."

"What about you?" he asked, pursing his lips.

"I'm happy you replied to my letter. The past couple of days have been a lot of fun. More importantly, though, are you glad you replied to my letter?"

"Yeah. I still need to take you to Central Park. Maybe the weather will cooperate soon."

"You know you don't have to do that, if you don't really want to."

"No, I want to." He brushed an errant strand of hair off of your face. “Well, unless you don't want to. What do you want?”

You shrugged. “I'm good with wherever you want to take this. If you just want to get together for sex, then we-”

“No,” he quickly interrupted you. “I wouldn't...use a girl like that.”

“So we could date, but use the term loosely?” you offered. "We don't really have to label it if you don't want to."

"No labels," he agreed.

"Although, I have one request," you started. You took a deep breath. "Can we be a bit discreet? I know the tabloids don't follow you like they do Tony Stark, but I'd rather not deal with being harassed by anyone. I'm not ashamed or anything like that, though."

"That's reasonable."

He walked toward the door, and you followed him through the living room and into the kitchen. He took two small glasses out of the cabinet and a bottle of whiskey out of the refrigerator.

"I don't have any champagne or wine," he said. "Alcohol doesn't affect me so I don't keep much of it around."

He filled the glasses and handed one to you.

"To new beginnings," he said as he clinked your glass, "and wherever they will take us."

"To new beginnings," you agreed and took a drink.