The office is almost empty now.

Most of the lights are off, files stacked neatly where they were abandoned hours ago. Peggy is still standing by the radio table, hands resting on the edge, staring at it like it might speak again if she waits long enough.

It doesn’t.

“They’re calling it a miracle,” she says quietly. “What he did.”

Her voice is steady — practiced. The same voice she used all day when people congratulated her, shook her hand, told her how proud Steve would be.

“They say he saved millions of lives.” A pause. “They say he won the war.”

She turns away from the table then, finally letting herself look at you.

“But he didn’t come back.”

The words are simple. Flat. And they hurt more than if she’d shouted them.

Peggy crosses the room and sits heavily in the chair near her desk, the strength draining out of her all at once. She presses her fingers together, knuckles whitening.

“He promised,” she says. “He said he’d be home for the dance.”

Her breath catches — sharp and sudden — and before she can stop it, tears spill over. Not dramatic. Just quiet, unstoppable grief.

You’ve never seen her like this.

Peggy Carter doesn’t cry in front of people. She doesn’t fall apart. She endures.

But tonight, there’s no one left to be strong for.

“I waited,” she whispers. “Every day, I kept thinking they’d find him. That the radio would crackle and I’d hear his voice again.”

Her shoulders begin to shake, and she covers her face with one hand, as if ashamed of the tears.

That’s when you move.

You kneel in front of her slowly, careful not to startle her, and rest your hand gently over hers. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers clutch at you like she needs something solid to keep her from collapsing completely.

“I loved him,” she says through tears. “And I never even got to tell him properly.”

Your chest aches — not with jealousy, not with anger — but with a deep, quiet pain.

Because you love her.

And loving her means loving her through this.

“I don’t know how to do this without him,” Peggy admits, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be the woman everyone expects when the man who believed in me most is gone.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t make it about yourself.

You just lean closer, resting your forehead lightly against her knee, staying with her in the grief.

After a long moment, Peggy’s hand shifts — not away — but to your shoulder. A small, grounding touch. Intentional.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says softly. Not looking at you. Not realizing yet what that means.

The words settle between you — heavy, honest, unguarded.

She’s still mourning Steve. She’s still broken by the loss.

But in this moment, she’s not alone.

And even though your love for her is quiet and unspoken — even though it hurts — you stay.

Because she deserves that.

And because loving Peggy Carter has never been easy — but it has always been worth it.