Late afternoon light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on the glass edges of the coffee table and the chrome gleam of the kitchen island. It smells like coffee and faintly of ozone, the lingering ghost of one of Tony's experiments gone sideways.

The tower is quieter than usual. No music thrumming through the walls. No clatter of Morgan's toys skittering across the hardwood. Just the distant hum of the arc reactor in the basement and the occasional metallic clang from the workshop levels below.

And there, in the middle of it all, is Loki.

He stands by the window, back to the room, hands clasped behind his back. He's shed the heavy Asgardian armor Y/n has seen in old news footage and battle reports—replaced with a simple dark green sweater and black trousers. The late sun catches the edge of his profile, his pale skin almost luminous.

The coffee maker beeps in the silence.

On the counter, a single mug sits out—beside it, a note in Tony's messy scrawl: "Make him feel welcome. That's an order. — Dad"