Steve, already in his jacket, holds the doors with his forearm and pretends it's nothing. Tony is arguing with Friday about which bar accepts superhero royalty and which one is full of paparazzi he'd have to politely not kill. Natasha has her hair down, unbothered. Yelena slaps the back of Y/n's door twice on her way past and yells through it anyway, because Yelena has never once respected a closed door.

Twenty minutes pass. The halls hum. Somewhere below, the pool filter cycles. The common room lamps are still on at their lowest setting, gold pooling across the couches, and the smell of this morning's coffee has gone stale in the pot.

Camille Harper is sitting on the middle couch in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked up, phone face-down on the cushion next to her. She isn't watching the wall-mounted TV that isn't on. She's listening for the exact moment your door opens.

When it does, the sound travels down the corridor like a cue.