The door to his office stood before you. Taunting you, teasing you. All you had to do was walk through it. And yet, you remained frozen in place, caught between rational thought, fear, and desire. There was nothing stopping you from going back to the grocery store and begging for your old job back. You could easily rip the document you'd already signed in half. But you didn't.

As much as you feared that nothing good could come from working for Professor Rogers, your curiosity and the allure of more money had gotten the better of you. It would be foolish not to take advantage of it. After all, he'd only ever been generous with you.

It was now or never. Entering the office, you closed the door behind you and waited for him to acknowledge you. He was writing on a yellow pad of papers as he always when you saw him in his office. It seemed rude to interrupt his stream of thought.

Without looking up, he asked, "Did you sign the contract?"

"Yes, sir." You stepped forward and laid it on the desk.

The pen stabbed at the paper, leaving a period after the last sentence. He sat back in his chair, his eye meeting yours and smiled. "Good. And your current job?" He capped his pen, laying it in front of him, taking the document in his hands. His eyes scanned the papers for your initials and signatures in all the right places.

"Well, I quit." You had felt so guilty for leaving without notice but the fit the manager threw morphed that remorse into relief. It would be so nice not having to deal with him and his tantrums anymore. "I know I should have given notice, but I wasn't sure when you wanted me to start."

"Immediately. I'd like you at my house tomorrow at 9 a.m." He handed you a small piece of paper with his address written and phone number on it.

"Yes, sir. Um…what should I wear?" What were his expectations? Should she dress like she would for an office job? Would it be more relaxed since it was in the privacy of his home?

"Hmm…" His chin rested his hand as his finger rubbed against his lips while he thought. "The dark jeans, white blouse with the little black dots, and the green cardigan. Don't forget a jacket."

"Oh. Ok." You had expected business casual or maybe just casual. How did he know your wardrobe so well? You shook your head at your own ridiculousness. You only had so many outfits, and he was trained to be super observant, of course, he would know details like that. It seemed you would be doing laundry tonight. "Is that all for this evening, sir? I don't have another paper to correct yet."

"I suppose that's all unless you can think of anything else." His eyes traveled over you. If he were anyone else, you would have thought he was flirting. But no way Steve Rogers would see you that way.

"Nope, I think that's it. So… I'll see you tomorrow morning then. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight. I want you well-rested. In bed by 10."

"10? It's Friday night." The whine in your voice made you cringe. Damnit, you were an adult. Why couldn't you sound like it?

He stood, forcing you to look up at him. He stacked his papers and pens neatly before putting them in his briefcase. "Do you have plans?" he asked.

"Well, no—"

"Then this will prevent you from scrolling social media for no reason until god knows when. 10 p.m. You'll be staring at a screen most of the day tomorrow. Don't stay up all night doing it."

Lips pressed together; you couldn't think of an argument.

"Don't pout. You know I'm right. Just be a good girl and get some well-deserved rest." He patted your shoulder then spun you around to face the door before nudging you in that direction.

Grumbling, you knew full well you were pouting. Not because he was telling you what to do but because there was no reason not to listen. You didn't have a life outside of class and work. You told yourself you kept it that way on purpose, but when faced with bedtime, it made your life seem so boring. Bleak even. At least, Heather would be out and wouldn't lay witness to lameness that was your life.

Parting at the entrance of the building, you both said goodnight again and went your separate ways. There were a few hours to spare before bed. You grabbed yourself some dinner and took it back to your room. You passed dorms where music blasted within, signaling all the people getting ready for a long night out. Surprisingly, you weren't jealous. The thought of going out exhausted you. An extra bonus, all the washers and dryers in the laundry room would be empty so you could do all your washing at once. Peace, quiet, and solitude; all things you craved after days of classrooms filled with students, lectures, and the bustle of campus. Maybe an early evening wasn't so bad after all.

Arriving at his house, you exited your car. It was getting up there in years, a hand-me-down from your mother who had received a new one from one of her many boyfriends, but it got you where you needed to go. What you hadn't expected was to have to check in with a security guard at the gate to the neighborhood, the long tree-lined driveway, and the size of the house in front of you. Why would someone with money like this teach at the local college?

It was the type of house you'd only ever seen in the architecture magazines your mother would buy and drool over as she dreamed of walk-in closets, saunas, and mudrooms. The three-car garage was perpendicular to the rest of the house. Red bricks, grey rock, and white trim around the windows and shutters. It was more traditional than you expected, but maybe the inside would paint a more accurate picture of the owner.

Ringing the doorbell, you wondered if a butler would answer. This seemed like the type of neighborhood that needed one. You turned to view the manicured lawn. Small hedges lined the house with flowering bushes at every corner. The trees in the distance were all trimmed and pruned. He seemed to have a knack for taming nature, bending it to his will until it was perfect.

The door opened. Professor Rogers stood before you, light gray sweats clinging to his hips, white shirt transparent with sweat, his hair was wet, dropping beads down his face. Every muscle, every bulge was perfectly outlined by the damp cotton adhering to flesh. Heat flooded your body, teeth baring down on your bottom lip as you scrambled to gather yourself.

"Good morning," he said with a small smile.

"I'm so sorry I didn't mean to be this early. But I didn't know how far it was or what traffic would be like." You knew you were blathering like an idiot as your eye darted everywhere but at the man who was your teacher and employer and looked like he was ready to grind with Magic Mike.

"It's fine. Come in." He stepped to the side, ushering you in.

A large spiral staircase stood in the foyer. To the left, you saw a dining room. To the right an office. You caught a glimpse of a living area beyond the stairs. Dark hardwood floors contrasted with bright white walls. Furniture in hues of greys and espresso. Everything was clean, straight lines. The contemporary style made more sense to you. Functional. Utilitarian. Quiet.

"So, the Avengers retirement plan must be pretty good." You remarked as you took in the high ceiling above you.

"It helps to invest in Stark Industries in the 1940s. Howard kept my stocks protected in case I was ever found. He also made sure I was never presumed dead. It took a while to get all the paperwork processed to finally get it."

Stock from the '40s? How much would that be worth today? "So why are you teaching? You could just kick back and relax."

"I've never been one to sit back and do nothing. I had to reevaluate how I could make a difference without being surrounded by violence and death. Teaching seemed the route that made the most sense. I think it's important to point out the mistakes of the past. Hopefully, then people won't repeat them." He walked towards the dining room. A large table sat in the middle. A computer sat at the head of the table with a printer on the serving cabinet behind it. "I've set you up a workstation in here. Give me your phone, please.

"My phone?" You reached into your purse, pulling out your old phone that was at least 2 models ago, and handed it to him.

"I won't have you distracted and playing on this while you are supposed to be working for me. You may have it back before you go."

That seemed a bit harsh. You weren't in middle school. What if someone tried to contact you? You sighed and realized he was probably right. It's not like anyone was going to call you anyways.

"Through there you'll find your way to the kitchen. Why don't you make some coffee while I shower?"

"Yes, sir." Ignoring the visual of him under a cascade of water, soap bubbles running down his body, you followed his directions through a butler's pantry and found the kitchen to the left. You could only hope he would be back in his slacks and blazers. Although, those did similar things to your heart rate. Why did he have to be so attractive?

Steve turned the water on, waiting for steam to collect before entering. He had been caught off guard by her early arrival but so please when she showed up in the outfit he specified. She had obviously been embarrassed by his appearance but was it because of the state of his clothing or the state of her body's reaction to it? He'd bet on the latter.

Having her here in his house, all to himself, excited him in a way he didn't think possible anymore. He needed a clear head. Soapy hands gripped his semi-erect cock, stroking it until it hardened. His hand moved up and down his length with a fast hard pace. It took him no time to cum as he thought of her eyes staring up at him, spread beneath him. Open, welcoming, trusting.

Too trusting. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he took her phone off the counter. It took him less than a minute to bypass the pin code. Downloading a spyware app, he checked his phone to see if the two had synced. He'd now be able to monitor her movements whenever she was away from him

"Coffee pot. Coffee pot. Coffee pot." You muttered turning in place. He had asked you to make coffee, surely there had to be a coffee pot somewhere. "Oh no." A silver percolator straight out of some black and white movie sat in a corner. It had a plug, so that was good. But how on Earth, did you use it?

Reaching for your purse, realized in horror that you couldn't even google this. You couldn't go ask him. He was in the shower. And that last thing he needed to know was how useless you were.

You took the lid off and found a metal basket inside. Lifting it, you could see indicators inside the pot and the basket for how much water and coffee to use.

Opening his cabinets to search for coffee felt like such an invasion of his privacy. But he had asked you to do this, so it was fine, right? Every cabinet was organized. There was a serious lack of contraband. No chips. No Oreos. Of course, there wouldn't be. You laughed to yourself. The man was in impeccable shape. Fried foods and sugar would probably hinder that physique. Or would it? How does a super-soldier metabolism work?

Finally taking note of the canisters on his countertops, you opened them one by one revealing flour, sugar, and finally coffee. You filled the percolator and prayed that you had assumed correctly. Plugging it in you waited.

A few minutes later a distinct popping sound could be heard from the silver pot and the smell of coffee gradually filled the air. A light turned on as the percolator finished it work. Grabbing a mug from a cabinet previously explored, you were relieved when it poured a rich dark brown.

"That smells good." An arm reached around you taking the mug from your hands.

Shrinking away, you picked at a loose string on the hem of your cardigan. "I wasn't sure if you wanted cream and sugar."

His mouth quirked. "Not in my coffee." He was in a dark blue plaid shirt and black pants. Not something you had ever seen him in.

"Black it is," you said, ignoring the possibility of any innuendo. He would never. Would he? You followed him silently, lost in what if's and other unlikely scenarios, to the dining room. A stack of yellow legal pads was now sitting next to the laptop.

"All I need you to do is type out what I have written. If you have any questions, or can't read something let me know."

"Yes, sir." You sat at the table and pulled the first stack of pages towards you. The cursive writing was immaculate. There were barely any words crossed out or notes in the margin. This was going to be easy.

He left you to your task, walking across the foyer to the study. You opened a new document, noticing quickly that your computer was not connected to any internet. He really didn't want you distracted. Your fingers began typing, the plain font depressing next to his elegant script.

You weren't at work for long before he called your name. Startled, you leaped up and ran into the other room. "Professor?"

He didn't look up from his work. "I need a refill and could you find me a protein bar. Not the chocolate kind. The banana bread one."

"Of course." You forgot you had agreed to help in more ways than just typing. Apparently fetching was going to be one of those ways. That was fine. You could make coffee and find protein bars.

Standing in his kitchen you stared at the open cupboard. Should you bring it on a plate or not? Should you open it? Would he want you touching his food? Why were you making this more complicated than it needed to be? Finally, you settled on a napkin, the protein bar still wrapped, and a piping hot cup of coffee, no cream or sugar.

Back at the table, you started getting into a rhythm. The steady clicks of the keyboard made you feel as though you were accomplishing something important. Hopefully, you were able to impress him by getting his autobiography ready much sooner than he anticipated or needed.

Or not.

Your name echoed in the foyer once more. Closing the distance, you waited for your instructions.

"I need you to refill my pens." He pushed four thick capped pens and a glass jar of ink towards you.

"Ok." Refill a pen? What was wrong with ballpoint? You picked one up removing the lid. The tip reminded you of a calligraphy pen.

"It's a fountain pen," he explained.

"Mmhmm." That bit of info would help if you had your phone or internet. All it did was give you a name to curse. You hated looking incompetent.

"Do you know how to refill it?" He was finally looking at you. Whether he was judging you or amused at your expense, you couldn't tell.

"No, sir. I don't. I've never had to. Pens just always come with ink when I buy them."

"Well, in my day we didn't discard everything." He twisted the cap off and walked you through the steps. "You need to twist the piston until it lowers. Dip the nib into the ink bottle. Twist the piston in the opposite direction. Wipe off the nib and replace the cap. Not difficult."

"Got it. Thank you, sir." You grabbed the handful of pens and the ink bottle and took them to the kitchen. Laying out paper towels just in case, you filled all of the pens resulting in black-tipped fingers but the countertops were at least safe.

Reentering the office, Professor Rogers tapped an empty pen holder. You placed the pens inside and quietly returned to your work station.

Finally, you felt as though you were making progress. The trouble you had now was not reading ahead. There was so much about Captain America that you had never known. You'd been typing for at least 30 minutes before your name was called once more, eliciting a twitch from your right eyelid. You stood, gathered up your laptop, piled the legal pads on top of it, and carried all of your work to his office.

Professor's Roger's eyebrows rose as you placed the items in your arms on the coffee table in the sitting area of his office.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

You sat on the floor, crossing your legs in front of you. "I don't like being yelled at or yelled for. I'm not a puppy." Opening, the laptop once more, you picked up where you left off. "What did you need, sir?

"What did you eat for dinner?"

"What?" Was he seriously making small talk? How were you supposed to get anything done this way?

"Dinner. What did you eat?" he reiterated.

Did he really want to know? What had you eaten? The last few days were a blur of stress and overthinking. "Um. Pizza."

"That wasn't so hard to answer now was it? I'll order us salads for lunch then." He picked up his phone, his thumbs moving deftly over the screen.

He didn't ask what you wanted. Just ordered. This job was going to take a lot more getting used to than you had anticipated. Did you care that he was deciding what you needed? Did food choice really matter when the meal was free? After all, it's not like you had much choice in the dining hall. You ate what was served. Was this really any different?

Steve didn't realize how empty the large house was with only him until she was there. Her presence was as distracting as it was soothing. He admired her resolve at performing the tasks he set before her. He knew she wouldn't know how to use his antiquated technology. But he had decided that he liked having reminders of simpler times. Not that the advances made in the modern world weren't useful.

He had been so close to buying her a typewriter but decided that would be too cruel. Although, the thought of her sitting behind one, the click of the keys, the bing of the bell, and the slide of the carriage reminded him of all the secretaries he had loved in the movies of yesteryear. She would have been irresistible especially in her little cardigans. Maybe even a skirt.

He watched her sitting on the floor diligently working. Determined not to let him treat her like a slave. Good. She had limits and a backbone after all. He liked knowing she would push back if needed and would be willing to say enough is enough.

But how long before she rebelled against him? Would she? Or would she allow him to dictate her day to day with him without any qualms? The suspense of not knowing was almost as intoxicating as finding the answers.

Two weeks you had been secretly employed by Professor Rogers only Heather knew about your change in employment after you let it slip. So far she had kept your secret not wanting to get you into further trouble after you told Professor Rogers about your minor indiscretion.

In those two weeks, the two of you had settled into a routine. You would arrive at this house to the sight of him hot and sweaty from a morning workout. You would start the coffee, refill his pens, empty the trash, and clear the office of any clutter that should not be there. All the tasks he would interrupt you to accomplish you added to a mental list of things to do before starting. It gave you longer stretches of time to work but also gave you a sense of pride that he seemed to be running out of chores for you.

He had removed the sitting area from his office and placed a desk from a spare bedroom in the corner facing his. You had an amazing view of the front lawn to the right and could steal glances of him to the left. For the most part, your days with him were spent in quiet work, the scratching of his pens and the clicking of your keyboard filling the space between you.

Professor Rogers' reach extended beyond his office and classroom now. You still met with him to discuss your papers for his class. But your grades weren't all he was out to improve. He had taken it upon himself to make sure you had a balanced diet. Always ordering food to counter whatever you ate when you weren't with him. You started making healthier choices and were rewarded with occasional treats like milkshakes. When you decided to buy new clothes, you surprised yourself by texting options to him instead of Heather. When had his opinion become paramount?

Maybe it was because you knew so much more about him now. And you did. More than you could have imagined. You coveted the knowledge that only you possessed right now. Hoarding it until the day you had to share it with the world. Today, you couldn't help but get swept away in the emotions of what you typed, sniffling and dabbing at your eyes, trying to make the screen clear again.

"What's wrong?" Professor Rogers asked.

"Sorry. It's just…you're very lucky to have had a mom like yours. She worked so hard for you and that's…well, it's beautiful."

"Your mother wouldn't do the same?"

"Oh no." Shaken your head, you chuckled into your Kleenex. "When I was little, I was her meal ticket. Everyone wanted to help and give the benefit of the doubt to a young mother with a baby. Even my dad. When I got older and they divorced, I became her best friend, someone to get mani/pedis with and dress in matching outfits. Once I hit high school, I became a liability…proof of her actual age. I think now she sees me as competition which is hilarious since she's the one who flirted with any boy I ever tried to date." You looked up to find him staring intently at you, heart freezing as you realized everything you had said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to word vomit all over you." You never spoke about your parents. Why had you unloaded all that on him?

"Don't apologize. I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. It's only fair since you're learning everything about me." He smiled, a rare sight you'd discovered. Although, it seemed to appear more often now.

"True, but I had intended on remaining an enigma." You laughed, flipping to the next page.

"I'm very good at discovering people's secrets, you know." He leaned back, blue eyes dancing with mischief. For once, it was easy to forget his actual age and just see him as a man in his thirties.

"You're going to be very disappointed when you try to find mine."

"You don't have any secrets?" he questioned.

You turned your head back to your work. "Not really."

"Maybe you just don't know you have secrets yet." A bird chirped in his desk drawer. He pulled out your phone, gazing at your screen. "Heather wants to know if you've asked me something yet."

Heat seared through your body. You didn't want to ask. You didn't even want to go, but you had promised Heather you would try. "Oh, yeah." You sighed. It was now or never. "I was wondering if I could leave early today?"

His arms crossed; the playful glint that had been in eyes darkened. "Why?"

"Heather invited me to a costume party for Halloween. She's been pestering me for days."

"Do you want to go to the party?"

"I don't know. It sounds like it could be fun." Guilt crept through the embarrassment settling in your stomach.

Professor Rogers glared at your phone before putting it down. "Fine. But I still expect you to be here, ready to work, first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir." You knew you should be excited to finally be getting out. Doing what most college students do. But you could help but feel like you had disappointed Professor Rogers. The thought of disappointing him, you realized, hurt more than the fear of Heather's disapproval.

Steve checked your location once more on his phone. You were still on campus. He walked through the store; the Halloween section was pretty well picked through. He needed something that would hide his face. Something no one would expect him to wear. He smirked as he grabbed the one costume left in his size.

He drove home, changed and waited. Sitting in his car, he watched the little dot traveling along the map, waiting to see where it would finally stop. Stop it did.

He pinned her location to a popular club. Slipping the bouncer a fifty, he passed all the people queued outside waiting for entrance. All the attendants were masquerading; drinks flowed freely as shots and glasses never stayed full for long. The music pounded in his skull. The last time he had seen this much skin was passing through the red-light district in Amsterdam with Tony and Nat. Finding a corner to lurk in, he scanned the room for her.

"Hey man!" A drunken Iron-Man's hand came down on his shoulders. "Awesome costume, bruh. Captain America and Iron-Man. We're like Avengers."

Steve steadied the young man on his feet. "I think I see a Black Widow over there. Wouldn't you rather play Avengers with her?"

"Fuck yeah." The drunk Iron-Man stumbled off in search of a woman who didn't exist.

Maybe dressing as himself was a bit of a risk, but if everyone was that inebriated, he wouldn't be recognized. His eyes traveled over the crowd. It was hard to tell who was on the dance floor. He took a deep breath and concentrated. This was no different than any other stakeout. Find your objective. Observe. Don't be seen.

There she was, hidden again the wall. Black cat ears on her head. Her eyes were painted with thick eyeliner with fake eyelashes brushing her cheeks when she blinked. Her outfit made him want to throw a jacket over her and drag her out. A black tank top, her bra straps showing, tight pants, and high heeled boots. He'd never seen these items before. They had to belong to that harlot, Heather.

Resisting the urge to break the neck of every boy that craned to look at her, he watched as she nursed her watered-down drink. Heather brought her a fresh glass and introduced her to a guy, leaving him with her as Heather joined the masses on the dance floor.

Her eyes darted across the room. For a small minute, Steve thought they locked with his. He stepped behind a pillar. When he peered across the club again, she was gone. By the time he found her again, she had deserted Heather's offering and was stumbling towards him. He froze as she approached him.

"I like your costume!" She shouted. She tugged on the star emblazoned on his chest, pulling him down. "You're my favorite Avenger. But don't tell anyone. It's a secret," she slurred loudly into his ear. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and turned away.

Steve's heart stopped. She was drunk. She shouldn't be here. Just as he was wondering how he could get her home; she threw her arms around a boy with blue hair and studded collar a few feet away.

"You wanna get out of here?" she asked loudly, competing with the din of the club.

The boy smiled as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Let's go, babe!"

Following the two as they walked arm in arm, Steve's teeth ground. He stood there powerless as she entered an Uber with that boy and drove away. He couldn't even follow her in this stupid costume.

He walked down the street to his parked vehicle. Sitting in the driver's seat, he swore as he followed their progress from his phone. She was walking to her dorm. Was he still with her? Was she taking him back to her room? He threw his phone down on the passenger seat. One thing was clear. He'd obviously been too soft with her.