The first time you had met Steve Rogers, it had been in the elevators.

To be fair, it hadn’t been a good morning.

You had accidentally smacked the snooze button, and you had ended up dozing off another nine minutes before you had sprung out of bed, your Omega clamoring around, desperately screeching at you to hurry the fuck up, because oh shit, oh shit— we’re gonna be late for work.

After hastily washing your face and brushing your teeth, you threw on a pair of clothes. Then, you made your way to the Avenger’s Compound.

Running in and trying to avoid people, you were met with grunts and annoyed looks as you spewed apologies left and right.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! Coming through! I’m so sorry,” you quickly gave your apologies as you managed to snag into one of the last elevators. Most of the other people gave you weird looks. Some, you recognized as people who you worked with upstairs. Either way, it was a weird mixture of scents, and you knew people wouldn’t be looking at you, because most of them had their earphones, headphones, or AirPods in.

A quick tap on your shoulder made you look to your right.

“Did you sleep in or something?” your cousin hissed to you in Hmong. “It was an accident!” was your hiss of protest. The two of you squabbled back and forth in your mother tongue, knowing full well there was no one else who knew how to speak your language. In fact, the two of you might as well have been the only two people there who were Hmong, really.

As people began to walk to their respective floors, eventually, your cousin’s floor was called and she gave you a sympathetic smile, promising to have lunch with you, and walked off.

The elevator doors closed.

Leaving you alone.

“… Is she your friend?” A smooth man’s voice spoke.

You nearly jumped out of your skin in surprise. If possible, your scent spiked up in nervousness. You turned around, hoping it wasn’t the Big Creep Weirdo that worked with you on your floor.

To your relief, it wasn’t the Big Creep Weirdo guy.

Oh no.

Noooo.

It was much, much, much worse.

Because you were staring directly at Captain Rogers. Captain America. Or Capsicle, as Tony Stark called him sometimes, whenever you’d hear the two of them walking through Medical, if you were lucky while on shift. Usually, they came after missions.

Steve Rogers.

America’s Golden Boy. He reminded you of a Golden Retriever, really. Big Golden Retriever energy.

“O-Oh.” You nervously licked your lips, trying to dull down your anxiety. “No. She’s not my friend. She’s my cousin. She works a few floors down from me. She’s a engineer.”

“Oh.”

Steve leaned against the back wall of the elevator, watching as the floor numbers continuously went up.

“What about you?” He questioned. You raised an eyebrow. “Me?” you echoed. “Yeah,” said Steve, “—what about you? How do you fit in here?”

I don’t, you wanted to tell him. I don’t fit in here. I shouldn’t even be here. Me or my cousin. We should’ve been old by now. But we’re young, while everyone else we knew aged.

Instead, you told him, “I work in Medical. And… here’s my floor.”

The elevator dinged before the doors opened, revealing loud Omegas hastily running around like headless chickens. Subconsciously rubbing at your scent gland, you turned to give the blond Alpha a small smile. “Thank you for riding with me, Captain Rogers. I’ll see you around.”