Lessons in Rule Breaking and Other Reader-Inserts*Steve Rogers*Reader*

Cold Feet - Pt.1/1

After two months of dating, you've come to a conclusion as exciting as well as a bit irritating: Steve Rogers is a perfect man. He simply has no flaw.

Or does he?

Warning: All the fluff in the world.

Involves meet-cute, established relationship later on, so much cuteness your teeth might rott and one line from Tony Stark.

Disclaimer: Author Cannot Be Held Accountable for the Damage Done to Your Teeth And Will Not Pay For The Potential Dentist Bill

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Cold Feet

After two months of dating, you came to a conclusion as exciting as well as a bit irritating: Steve Rogers was a perfect man. He simply had no flaw.

It was a little scary, really. Even your meeting was like something from a rom-com.

You had met him by chance when visiting your baby niece who wasn't a baby anymore to be honest. She was five. But she would always be your baby niece, even when reaching 18, so that was irrelevant.

Your not-so-baby niece Karen had fallen off of monkey bars when playing on the playground and had broken her arm so skilfully that she needed to have surgery, hence staying in hospital for four days; there was no chance you would let her struggle through that without her favourite (read 'only') aunt by her side for even of those days.

And on the third day, fate pulled at some of its infamous strings.

As you hummed Karen's momentarily favourite song under your breath, striding through the hospital halls with three different flavours (or rather colours) of Jell-O, wondering how else you could cheer your pouty cute niece, you rounded the corner.

Walking straight into the most perfect man of all men – as if 'perfect' wasn't already a superlative.

"Whoa!"

The collision was hard, but the landing soft. Crushing into the wall of muscle would have send you falling on your butt, but a swift hand secured you as it appeared under your shoulder blade, keeping you upright. Two plastic cups slipped from your fingers, landing in his palm covered in fingerless leather glove.

Your eyes snapped up to the face of a man with incredible fast reflexes and your heart jumped to your throat.

Holy shit he's pretty.

"Sorry. Got it. You alright?"

I just fell in love with a voice. God, his eyes are blue— no, not pure cerulean blue, but holy mother of God, I'm drowning-

"Madam?"

Worry had his brows furrowing and you quickly jumped from his warm grip, gulping. He let you go, those goddamn eyes watching your every move as if he expected you to trip over your own feet, which was a valid concern, actually.

"Sir," you blurted out in response instinctively at such addressing, your brain finally catching up with your mouth. You scanned him head to toe, realization slapping you in your face. Oh. OH. "Sir. Cap-captain. S-sir."

You had crushed into Captain freaking America; he even had his shield on his back. You were so going to be deported. Oh boy, you hadn't even apologized yet.

What the hell was he doing in child's ward anyway? In a plain boring hospital?

You were proven wrong on your earlier evaluation when the corners of his lips rose, spreading his lips in a brilliant shy smile; he wasn't pretty. He was prettier.