Bloody hell. A hundred little daydreams haven't prepared her well enough for it. His hand on hers! It conjures butterflies. Or small sparrows, fluttering through her veins. Desperate to break free. Peggy Carter hasn't felt this damned vulnerable in a long time, and the oddity of the whole compound only doubles down on that chipped-away feeling.

She squeezes his fingers between her own.

"Nothing, Steve. Nothing at all." Her smile is tight. It betrays an agitation, still. But also the promise of stability in their shared company. "Tell me: what's the last thing you can recall? Perhaps we can sort out what's brought us here."