walks in, still in sweatpants and a worn gray t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower. He doesn’t go for the coffee machine. Doesn’t head to the fridge. He just… stops in the middle of the room.

stares at it. His expression is soft. Still. Unreadable in the dim light. His metal hand comes up, and his fingers—cool, vibranium plates shifting silently—brush the very edge of the page, so careful it’s almost reverent.