Something about the way she moves calls back working with Natasha -- but it would, wouldn't it? She's not his neighbor, not a nurse (like his mom); she's a spy, like Natasha. She's graceful movements to Steve's coiled power, smooth confidence to his analytical caution.

He frowns at the hallway like it's just done him a personal insult. It's clean, definitely modern, and a little too-white for his tastes. He squints at the overhead lighting, catching Sharon's divergence from the corner of his eye. "Is that some kind of computer?"

The terminal chirps to life, solid black screens giving way to LCD commands.