Chapter Text
Steve Rogers didn’t think he was good at much. He was small, thin as a rail, and had a laundry list of chronic medical problems.
The one thing he could do well? Braid hair.
He knew it was a weird skill to have, that it didn’t help him appear any more “manly”. But Bucky’s sister, Rebecca, had taught him how to braid one morning when Bucky was at work. His small hands with fingers strong from drawing could twist and turn her hair into any shape he wanted. It was a different, temporary kind of art: around for only a day or two before it was shaken loose, never to be seen again. Steve loved it.
When you asked him to braid your hair for the first time, he blushed from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt before quietly agreeing. You were Becca’s friend, but had slowly become just as close to Steve as you were to her. At least, that’s what he liked to think.
As his fingers worked deftly through your hair—creating a simple French braid—he found it hard to focus on the strands. You were so close, your back only a few inches from his chest. He was sure you could hear his frail heart threatening to beat out of it. If you could, though, you didn’t say anything.
Instead, he had to focus on steadying his hands while you rambled on about the latest gossip from work, the newest show at the cinema, the boy Becca currently had a crush on. But Steve couldn’t focus on any of that. He was entranced by the way your hair felt as it slipped through his fingers, by the beautiful colors it turned when the light hit it from different angles. By the smell of the sweet perfume gently wafting off of your neck with every beat of your heart.
When he whispered that he was done, you bounced over to the mirror. You were beaming, and Steve swore his heart stopped for good this time. He didn’t hear whatever praise you were heaping on him. How could he, when there was a literal angel in front of him?
And when you thanked him by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before skipping out the door for work, he knew he was screwed.