It was late afternoon, the sun casting long, amber rectangles across the polished concrete floor. You were curled in one of the deep, modern armchairs, a tablet resting on your knees, ostensibly reading a mission report.

Steve Rogers entered from the hallway leading to the residential quarters. He was in soft, grey sweatpants and a faded navy t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He stopped when he saw you, his steps faltering for just a second.