Chapter Text
Steve Rogers has fought in wars.
He’s punched Hitler.
He’s stood toe-to-toe with gods, aliens, and genocidal robots.
But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared him for this.
It started like any normal morning at the compound. Quiet. Too quiet.
And then she walked in.
Wearing bunny slippers.
Sunglasses.
At 6:03 a.m.
She radiated unbothered chaos as she rifled through the pantry and pulled out the blue and silver box of doom.
Steve, already nursing a black coffee and a headache, made the mistake of making eye contact.
"Mornin’, Cap! Want a Pop-Tart?"
“No, thank you,” he said flatly.
And then she did it.
She bit into it. Cold. From the box.
No toasting. No hesitation. Just raw Pop-Tart energy.
Steve froze. Visibly. Audibly. Existentially.
“I’ve fought gods, robots, and aliens,” he thought grimly, watching her chew with far too much enthusiasm. “But this? This is war.”
He opened his mouth to say something righteous—like a PSA about breakfast standards—but all that came out was a strangled:
“…Why?”
"Because I can. When you're awesome, you can do shit like that."
She winked. Bit into the second half. Crumbs rained like confetti. She saluted him with the foil wrapper.
Steve Rogers walked out of the kitchen that day a changed man. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his soul, a battle-scarred voice whispered:
She didn’t even toast it…