Edge of Seventeen | 18+ { Steve Rogers}

Chapter 3 | Don't Stop

Hey guys!

This chapter is named after Fleetwood Mac's song Don't Stop

Chapter warning ⚠️ mentions of suicide, no details just references to an article.

Thank you Jesse_Winter_Soldier , for beta reading. Much appreciated 🖤

Don't forgot to like the chapter! And leave some comments! Next chapter is a good one! 😉😉

Happy Reading!

-Sif

______________

Steve blinks awake slowly, the sun filtering in through the crappy yellowing plastic window blinds of his bedroom window. He lazily stretches out like a cat basking in the sun on a perfect day, that is, until he realizes it's too bright to be 5:30 in the morning. Steve shoots straight up, grabbing his phone, which is dead. Then, cursing up a blue streak in sheer panic, he digs around until he finds his watch in the mess of clothes on the floor that he had discarded late last night, or was it early this morning? He'll worry about the schematics later. The watch reads 7:30.

"No, nnnno....", he flings the covers back, scrambling from his bed. Steve slides into his bathroom, nearly falling on the linoleum flooring. He palms the light switch, but nothing happens. He rushes out into the living room, his bedroom, and the kitchen, nothing, zip, nada, zilch. "Fuck me, this cannot be happening!", he whines.

Of all days, his electricity gets shut off on the morning of his interview at Stark Industries. He could cry, he honestly might. He looked out into the hallway hoping beyond hope that maybe it was a fluke, but nope, hallway had lights. Digging through the stack of envelopes on the counter, he finds the electric bill. The company doesn't even open until 8 am, what kind of person shuts off another person's electricity before 8 am? He doesn't have time for this, he does not have time for this. Steve starts to scramble through his morning routine only to find out his water has been shut off too, was it already the 17th? He swore he had more time. He washed his face and brushed his teeth using a half-drank water bottle. He pulled on his best pair of black slacks and the blue button-up shirt that Tasha said made his eyes pop. He hurried to the front door, his motorcycle keys staring back at him as he tugged on the black leather bomber jacket his mother sent him back in November. It would take about an hour to get to Manhattan via the subway; if he took his bike, he could shave it down to forty-five minutes.

"Fuck it.", he cursed, grabbing his messenger bag and tugging it over his head, shoving his useless phone and charger inside.

Steve snatched the keys and helmet before he locked his apartment, hurrying down the million flights of stairs to the lobby. He rushes out the door and to the resident's parking; tossing his leg over the massive Harley-Davidson, he puts the key in the ignition and turns it over, the bike roars to life.

It takes him precisely fifty minutes to get there, another ten to find the entrance to the fuckin parking garage, and five more to find a goddamn parking spot.

_______________

"Hold the elevator!", he hollers as he rushes for the closing door.

A manicured hand shoots out to stop the door.

"Thank you so much!", Steve breaths, sagging against the wall. He glances up at the kind soul who held the door as he shoves his helmet into his bag.

She's tall, radiating confidence in her tight navy pencil skirt and crisp white v-neck blouse, her blonde curls artfully styled. Her brown eyes look him up and down, then she nods and smiles; it's quiet for several minutes. "I'm Sharon Carter. I'm interviewing for the summer intern program.", she offers her hand.