[It was three minutes to six. Steve knew—not because of the dulling blue outside the windows, but because he'd checked the analog clock, the mid-century one he'd gotten at Hell's Kitchen Flea Market one of his first days "back," about 12 times in the past six or seven minutes. He'd putz, and then check. Grind some coffee. Check. Water was boiling in a kettle on the small stove, filling the kitchen with warm, wet heat. The few non-digital, non-automated bits of life—the clock, the kettle, the phonograph in the corner—stood out against the slates, whites, and steel of the man-made, minimalist decor. The pieces from the flea market were deep woods and yellowing glass. They smelled old, carrying dust in weight, handled, loved, they were memories made real. That's why Steve liked them.
When the kettle started to whistle shrilly, jarring Steve from his reverie on juxtaposition, he checked the clock again. One minute.
Was he nervous? Maybe. He had a son now. A nearly adult son. With Natasha Romanoff. And he hadn't even asked Peggy to go steady with him yet. Was he nervous? Hell yes, he was nervous.
Steve adjusted the collar of his irrefutably contemporary Lycra athletic shirt. (Everything felt too tight these days. Even shirts that stretched.) He patted his hair down, then forced himself to sit on the 90-degree edge of the sofa, hands between his knees, as he waited for Peggy to arrive. No more pacing. No more looking at the clock.
He was nervous.]
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