She isn't within ten feet before Steve rises from his seat, quickly enough to cause a groaning of chair legs across hardwood. His palm goes flat against his chest, instinctively holding back the tie that isn't there. He isn't in army dress. He's in khakis, a short-sleeved button-up tucked in and belted, collar left open to show a glimpse of his undershirt.

"That would be nice, ma'am."

He nods, but he gets a little caught up and it ends up looking like a bow, stilted and jerky. At least she's looking at his work. Maybe she didn't notice.

Um.

"Steve Rogers."

He presents his hand, fingertips stained black.