Ceres Dahal was cursed by a witch to live forever and watch her loved ones die.
Steve Rogers woke after 70 years in the ice and emerged into a whole new world.
They may not have much. But, in a universe that's constantly changing faster than they ca...
AS FATE WOULD have it, Ceres doesn't find Steve Rogers. He finds her first.
A crash! startles Ceres and causes her to spill milk onto the counter. She turns to see that her teenage co-worker, Jada, has dropped one of the glass coffee pots, covering the floor with jagged pieces of shattered glass and leaking liquid into the grout of the brown tile floor. Jada immediately covers her mouth with both hands and stares at the mess with widened eyes. A few strands of coiled hair have slipped from her messy updo, curling around her dark face. It's been a long day for both of them— this is the last thing they need.
"Shit," Jada curses under her breath, her voice slightly muffled by her hands. She lowers them with her dismayed gaze still fixed on the broken pot. "As if this shift couldn't get any worse."
"I'll take care of the line," Ceres tells her gently. "Finish this drink and then we'll clean it up, okay?"
Jada nods, some of the tension easing from her shoulders at Ceres's calm tone. She tip-toes around the shimmering pieces of glass and grabs the second pot, pouring it into a paper cup.
Ceres wipes her hands on her apron and approaches the register. "Welcome to Think Coffee. What can I get y—"
She looks up at the person standing at the counter and finds herself back on the streets of Midtown, smoke burning her lungs and a haze blocking her vision. The face in front of her is clean and void of cuts, but those crystal blue eyes are the same.
Steve Rogers has his hands in the pockets of a brown leather jacket, dressed in civilian clothing and yet still managing to stand out like a sore thumb. It could be his towering height or the fact that the entire world knows his name now. Anonymity doesn't come as easily as a pair of jeans and brown boots.
"Sorry," Ceres quickly says, catching herself before the pause becomes long and awkward. "That was rude. What can I get you?"
Steve gives her an easy smile. Judging by the expression on his face, he doesn't recognize her, and she can't blame him. The last time they met, her hair was a tornado around her dirt-coated face. Now it's tossed in a knot on top of her head and her skin is clear except for a bit of sweat from the heat of the machines. Why would he recognize her out of context, especially when he'd saved so many lives that day?
"It's fine," he assures her. "Can I have a large Americano?"
She types the order into the register and tries to ignore the shaking of her hands. His sudden appearance has sent a shock of adrenaline through her body, electrifying her nerves to a state of high-alert. It's a wonder that her voice doesn't waver when she asks, "Anything else?"
