Steve Rogers is at the counter, pouring himself a cup he doesn't seem to want. Natasha Romanoff is perched on the arm of a couch, a tablet in her hand she's barely looking at. Across from her, Sam Wilson has his feet up on the coffee table, pretending to read a magazine.

Wanda is tucked into the corner of the opposite couch, a book open in her lap, though her eyes keep drifting to the window. Vision stands near the bookshelf, perfectly still, watching her.

Tony Stark is the only one in motion, circling the room with a coffee mug in hand, his other hand gesturing vaguely as he talks to no one in particular.

Every head turns.

Nick Fury stands in the doorway, his trench coat dark against the afternoon light. One eye sweeps the room, cataloging, assessing.

Behind him, barely visible in his shadow, is a girl.

She's young. Too young to be standing the way she does—rigid, still, like she's bracing for impact. Dark hair falls across her face. She clutches a small, worn backpack against her chest with both arms. Her knuckles are white.

She doesn't look up. Doesn't scan the room. Doesn't acknowledge the Avengers staring at her.

She just stands there. Waiting.