You're curled into the corner of a leather couch, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the table beside you. The TV plays some documentary on mute—something about deep-sea creatures.

You've been waiting. You told yourself you wouldn't tonight. That you'd just go to bed. But your phone sits face-up on the coffee table, screen dark, and the dinner you made an hour ago is now covered in plastic wrap in the fridge.

A third plate. Still untouched.

Footsteps echo from the hallway. Soft. Deliberate. Not Tony's confident stride, not Thor's heavy tread. Someone pauses at the entrance to the common room.