Baking Day // Steve x Reader

Looking around the grocery store, Steve felt smaller than usual—and most definitely not in a good way.

He wasn't one to ask for help, no, it was not entirely against his nature but not something that was normal for him—he found that he could do things without other people's assistance.

But this time, he wasn't so sure that he could be alright on his own.

At the front of the long, winding refrigerated aisle was one of the employees; Steve had thought over jogging over and asking them a question. They looked busy, but Steve thought that they were his best shot at finding what he needed in this gosh-darned, three-sizes-too-big grocery store.

"Can I help you, sir?" said the employee, looking up to Steve. He had a peculiar tattoo on his left forearm, and Steve wondered about what exactly had changed during the time between now and the 1930's.

"Yes," Steve fiddled with the paper in his hands. "I'm looking, for, uh, the baking aisle?"

"Aisle number twelve."

"Excuse me?"

"The baking aisle is aisle number twelve, sir, did you need any more help?"

Quickly, Steve shut his mouth. Yeah, there was a lot that changed.

Baking aisle number twelve was two aisles down, and it seemed like a kid's heaven when he got down there. The shelves were filled up with assorted goods—or, anything you could fit into an oven. Steve opened up the crinkled paper that he was holding, and his eyes darted to read the less-than-neat handwriting.

Cupcake mix. And blue frosting. That was what he needed.

The cupcake section of the huge aisle was anything but huge—there were a few pans, some other cupcake or baking related items, and he gingerly picked up a bag of Betty Crocker's white cupcake mix. ("Who is this Betty Crocker anyway?"Steve had said afterwards.)

The blue frosting was hard to find, but he found it anyway, and he loaded up the materials in his basket and headed off to the cashier.

Luckily, grocery shopping was not his biggest—and would never be—burden.

♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

Back at home, you were dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt that had the words "Coffee, please" printed on it—just your favorite home attire. Steve had already called you, informing you that'd he be arriving at your house like the total gentleman he was.

You decided that you'd go ahead and get some of the materials ready for baking. After all, the less time this would take, the less time you'd have to wait before you would dive into a dozen of delicious cupcakes.

Today was Baking Day, or more commonly known by yourself and your friends as The Day (y/n) Just Made Up Because She Wanted Sweets.

And, also, today was the day that you just happened to invite Steve over, just happened to ask him to pick up a few items at the grocery store for you. Yeah, totally not a coincidence.

The doorbell rang and you shouted for Steve to let himself in, which he did so very shyly, and he brought in the bag full of your requested supplies.

"You got the things I asked for, right?" you asked. Currently, you were whipping out eggs and milk and some utensils so that you could start baking quickly.

"Of course," he managed to reply, before dropping the bag he was holding onto your kitchen counter. A blue frosting package slipped out.

"Then let's get started,"

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

♣ ♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

Baking wasn't really your forte, so to speak.

Naturally that meant you were going to mess everything up.

The cupcake mix was too watery; you were sure you'd used the right amount of eggs, but to be honest, you weren't even paying attention that well—it was Steve who was doing most of the work. He held a mixing bowl tightly in one arm, mixing furiously with the utensil you gave him. The poor utensil now had a bit of a bent shape to it.

"Steve," you said, cautiously, for you didn't want him to snap, "I think we messed up. Let's just get store-bought cupcakes."

"Store-bought? You're weak, (y/n)."

"Weak?! Listen, we already messed these up! If we put them in the oven, they'll like, explode or something."

Finally, he stopped mixing, and the batter sloshed around, some of it hitting Steve. He put the bowl down, wiping some batter off of his t-shirt.

"See? What'd I tell you?"

To your surprise, he chuckled. "Okay, fine, you win."

And with that, you grabbed a paper towel, dousing it in water and then wiping off the batter on Steve's t-shirt. "You know, I can do this myself," he said.

You shook your head. "Whatever."

After you finished cleaning Steve's t-shirt, you noticed that he also had a bit of batter on his cheek. You reached up on your tippy-toes, about to wipe it off when you noticed you were dangerously close to him.

You could feel his hot breathing on your skin. You blushed, moving away from him.

"You—uh—"

Steve grinned cheekily. "What?"

Quickly, you reached up again, wiping off the mess. With intense eyes, you stared at him, him doing the same.

Without any notice, you reached up one more time—this time to kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

When you pulled back, you caught him smiling widely, blush topping his cheeks. Then he did something that you didn't expect—he kissed you back, this time on your lips. You almost squealed, but instead, you kissed him back, wrapping your arms around him and smiling into your kiss.

You broke the kiss, breathing in to get some air. "You had something on your cheek,"

"I realize that now," Steve responded.

You pulled him in for another kiss.