At least he had an abundance of pockets from which to choose. It was a funny thing to notice, but Peggy did have an eye for details. She wondered if having a word with his stylists would do any good at this point. They'd taken some direction, once upon a time, but apparently had developed a fascination with his chest- or showing it off, whichever. Nice as it was in terms of visual, it was also distracting when she was trying to be objective.
Steve had always been distracting, though. This was merely taking a physical form instead of the way he usually caught her off guard, with some notion of fairness or equality or morality he wanted to discuss with far more passion than he'd ever demonstrated for anything else. Until last night, anyway, but that was the problem.
"This," Peggy informed, slightly crisp in tone even if her expression had softened a little, "Is not a conversation to have in a hallway, and you're not allowed to come down here, apologize, and scurry off. So come in, please." Angling or not, she didn't care. She was going to have an actual conversation about this even if it killed them both (him through embarrassment or guilt or some combination of the two, her through sheer bloody-mindedness for how she needed to understand things probably better let go).
Giving him a sharp, warning look in case he was still thinking about running for it, Peggy turned on a bare heel and retreated into the room, bouquet held carefully in her hands. She needed to find somewhere to put it that none of the flowers would be crushed by lying them flat, and the quicker it was out of her hands, the less likely she would be to fidget with it.