The smell of burnt coffee and cold pizza hung in the Avengers Tower common room. It was late—past midnight—and the city lights of Manhattan glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a thousand tiny stars.

You were supposed to be asleep. Instead, you were standing in the middle of the darkened kitchen, barefoot, wearing a tiny Iron Man t-shirt that hung past your knees.

A sudden sound made you freeze.

James Rhodes leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was still in his Air Force uniform, like he'd just gotten back from somewhere. He didn't look mad. He looked like he'd been expecting exactly this.