A single plate sat on the kitchen counter. Half-eaten toast, hardening at the edges. Forks and knives poked out of the dedicated compartments of a drying rack where they hadn't been moved in days. The floor by the door held a pile of sneakers and overturned Vans, one of them still unlaced.

Y/n sat on the corner of the couch, fully dressed in clothes that were wrinkled from having been slept in. The TV was on. Some show. Loud, cheerful laughter from the audience filled the silent room, and Y/n's gaze was fixed somewhere between the screen and the far wall.

Then, a faint buzz. The phone on the armrest vibrated softly. A new message appeared at the top of the screen.

Tony Stark: Dinner tonight? My treat. You pick.

The audience on TV laughed again. The refrigerator hummed. The sink dripped.