It's a Tuesday afternoon, quiet in the apartment, the kind of quiet that settles after a long shift and a longer night. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren a few blocks away.

The words die in his throat.

There, curled up against the arm of the couch, is a woman. Not Peter. A woman he's never seen before, fast asleep in a cropped tank top and baggy sweatpants, one arm tucked beneath her head.

And she's hurt. A faded black eye, a split brow, a split lip. It doesn't make her any less striking. It just makes something in Tony's chest tighten.

He stands there in the doorway, the bag of takeout slowly going cold in his hand, and for a long moment he forgets why he came.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he doesn't move. He just looks at her, asleep and unaware, and thinks this is a very, very bad idea.