Steve Rogers¹.

Steve Rogers could single-handedly face armies, hold a helicopter with his bare hands, and look Titans in the eye without blinking. But when faced with simple human happiness, Captain America felt completely defenseless.

He desperately wanted to return not to an empty, sterile apartment, but to a warm home smelling of apple pie. He wanted to love, to hold someone's hand on evening strolls through Brooklyn, to care for them, and one day call the woman he loved his wife.

Natasha Romanoff caught him for the hundredth time sadly gazing at happy couples in Central Park, and her patience snapped.

"That's it, Rogers, enough of being a broken-hearted museum piece," the Widow declared categorically. "I'm taking control of your personal life. A blind date. Tomorrow at seven. No excuses."

Steve had been as nervous all day as if he were preparing to storm a Hydra base. He ironed his classic navy blue shirt three times, polished his shoes, and even bought a neat, old-fashioned bouquet of delicate peonies.

The meeting place was a quiet, cozy Brooklyn café with subdued lighting, wooden tables, and the scent of cinnamon. Steve arrived promptly at 6:58 PM—a soldier's punctuality forgave no tardiness. He pushed open the glass door, the bell rang, and Steve froze, looking for a table by the window.

She wasn't just beautiful—she exuded such a vibrant, soft light and comfort that it took Steve's breath away. Her delicate features, the warm gaze of her large eyes, the slightly tousled strands of her hair, and the sweet, kind smile with which she leafed through the menu. She seemed the embodiment of everything Steve secretly prayed for on cold nights: fragile, feminine, genuine.

Steve felt his throat instantly go dry, and his heart pound in his broad chest, as if the super-soldier serum had just kicked in again. Steve squared his broad shoulders, clutched the bouquet in his fingers, and took a determined step forward. His gaze was fixed solely on her face. He didn't look at his feet.