Aboard the Valkyrie, Steve Rogers steers the massive aircraft toward the ice-covered Arctic sea, the frozen expanse filling the cockpit windows. His voice crackles over the radio to Peggy Carter. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

“All right,” Peggy replies, her voice steady despite the strain. “A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club.”

“You got it,” Steve says, a faint smile in his tone.

“Eight o’clock on the dot,” Peggy insists. “Don’t you dare be late. Understood?”

“You know, I still don’t know how to dance,” Steve admits.

“I’ll show you how,” Peggy says softly. “Just be there.”

The icy surface looms closer, a white against the setting sun. “We’ll have the band play something slow,” Steve adds. “I’d hate to step on your—”

The radio cuts to static, his voice gone.

“Steve? Steve?” pleads Peggy.

In the Hydra base control room, Peggy’s breath catches, a tear tracing down her cheek. Colonel Phillips stands nearby, his face grim, as the silence lingers.