Peggy is in the middle of turning her device around to search for directions when she feels Steve reach out for her hand. It takes her aback by how simple and small and lovely a gesture it is, all the words struck from her lips. She might have made a comment about the week in the New York sewers and how nothing could compare, she could have cited Bastogne, and she might have teased about France being uninhabitable if Dernier were around.

Instead, she's gaping at Steve and threading her fingers with his, the touch so sweet that it makes her want to cry. How often might they have done this if there hadn't been a war? If not for Hydra? Swallowing the lump in her throat, she finds courage and steps a little closer, not letting go of his hand, but twisting so she's in his circle of personal space where he can look at her screen.

"There," she says. "Apparently, I have a house."