The space beside him in the large bed is already empty, the sheets cool. The scent of strong, black coffee cuts through the lingering smell of ozone from his own restless night. He finds her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Her mug is cradled in both hands, but her eyes are fixed on him, sharp and assessing.

It isn't a question. It's an accusation, laced with a worry that grates against his raw nerves more effectively than any villain's taunt. She sees the tension in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes he tries to ignore. She always sees.

The air in the modern kitchen crackles, thick with the unspoken fear that hangs between them every single morning. Every time he straps on his grenadier bracers, it's a gamble. She knows the statistics, has seen the news reports. He can feel her gaze on his back as he turns away, a silent weight more burdensome than his entire hero costume.