Y/n Stark, however, was in want of something.

The penthouse was quiet. Unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that settled over seventy floors of glass and chrome like a held breath, interrupted only by the hum of the arc reactor and the distant, judgmental ticking of a clock that had cost more than most people’s cars.

Tony Stark was not in the room. Neither was Pepper. Neither was anyone, really, except the lingering scent of expensive coffee and the faint shimmer of a holographic display half-abandoned over the coffee table.

Somewhere in the background, a news anchor was talking about the Avengers. The sound was low, muted, the way adults leave the TV on in another room.