He nods silently, scrubbing his wrist across his forehead, trying to orient himself again. He touches his own throat, remembering Bucky's grip as the man hurled him backward into pavement. "I'm fine. I'm all right. Are you? Did I - are you okay?"

Okay, he's not doing as good a job of centering himself as he'd like. Steve swallows dryly, both hands braced now against the couch cushions to hold himself up. He can feel a spreading warmth on his stomach that probably means he tore a stitch. "I'm sorry. I don't know what - it was just a dream."