"You're telling me that you got Captain America-the War Hero, Steve Rogers-to become best friends with a thirteen-year-old kid? What, is this supposed to slowly introduce him to how irritating Generation Z is? Project Training Wheels or something?"
...
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Steve Rogers was, for the most part, very acquainted with the peculiar ways in which the thirteen-year-old's brain from Apartment 3B worked. After forfeiting the idea of running in the dreary rain currently washing over D.C., she decided to come knocking on his door with her hands packed an hour later—various items, from glitter pens to hot glue guns, were all unleashed on Steve's living room floor when she pushed past him eagerly. For the last two hours, he had watched her work on her artwork from his kitchen. A crease was forming in between her furrowed brows, and her tongue was stuck out in concentration for a better part of the adventure, and Steve's heart swooned.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready? It's Thanksgiving."
The marker lodged in Lizzie's mouth dropped.
"Wh—" she glanced down at her Fitbit watch and her eyes widened, and she pushed herself up quickly, ignoring the disarray of chaos she'd created on Steve's living room floor. "I need to get ready!"
She went for her ponytail, rushing to literally rip the holder (there was no better word to use) out of her hair and let her mess of tangles tumble down her shoulders. Steve watched in amusement, pushing himself off the kitchen island by his forearms. Then, after muttering a small profanity when she tripped over Steve's ugly rug, she stopped. Just before her hand reached his door knob, she whirled back around to look him up and down.
"Are you ready?" she asked, unconvinced.
Steve glanced down at his grey sweatpants and white shirt. "For what?"
"Dinner," she looked at him with a blank stare when his eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"What dinner?"
"Thanksgiving dinner, duh, Steve."
He frowned, ignoring the spike of loneliness in his chest. "I'm not—"
"Wearing that out? Yeah, I hope not. Katie's got pretty low standards, but I don't even think that will cut it—" she hummed in disapproval, crossing her arms over her chest. Then, when Steve's face was still riddled in blatant confusion, her lips fell down and she looked at him softly. "Steve, it's Thanksgiving. You aren't going to spend the holiday by yourself. I mean, it's actually a really terrible holiday to celebrate, but..." she stopped again when Steve still looked lost. "Steve. Get dressed. We're going out for dinner. I decided to spare both of our lives by reminding Katie she can barely cook eggs."
