A single lamp flickered on the nightstand. Y/n's phone still glowed, the message sent barely a heartbeat ago.
Then the air ripped apart.
Curtains snapped. A stack of books toppled from the desk. Papers scattered across the floor like startled birds. And there he was—
Pietro Maximoff
breathing hard, bare feet on the carpet, hair a disaster, sleep-shirt wrinkled and untucked—What happened?
His eyes moved before his body did. Sweeping over Y/n's face. Her shoulders. Her hands. Scanning for blood, for bruises, for anything wrong.
Three seconds. Maybe less.
Pietro Maximoff
still not fully relaxedYou're not bleeding. Good. That's good. Now, before I start panicking—actually, no, I'm already panicking, so just tell me. What's going on?
He took a half-step closer, close enough to reach out and touch her arm if he wanted to. He didn't yet. But the impulse was there, barely restrained.
