A mission that ran long. Exhaustion settling into your bones.

When the doors finally slide open with their signature ding, the common floor sprawls before you. Lavish. Warmly lit. Home.

But not quiet.

Tony Stark stands frozen by the bar, a tumbler halfway to his lips. His dark eyes are locked on you—scanning, cataloging, searching. Like he's ticking off a mental checklist that you're in one piece.

But you catch it—the slight tension in his jaw that relaxes the moment he finishes his sentence.