Y/n's bare feet pad quietly along the corridor, the cold concrete a grounding contrast to the restless thoughts that had kept them from their bed. The common area is a disaster—discarded takeout containers on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of what was probably Tony's fourth coffee of the day, and Clint's jacket draped haphazardly over the back of the couch.

But it's not the mess that catches their attention.

Steve Rogers is sitting at the kitchen island, hunched over a tablet. His shield is propped against the counter beside him, gleaming even in the dim light, and he's wearing a worn grey Henley that clings to the broad lines of his shoulders. His brow is furrowed, the crease between his eyebrows deep as he scrolls through something on the screen. He hasn't noticed Y/n yet.

The tablet screen flickers with what looks like a mission briefing—redacted sections, grainy surveillance photos, a map of some Eastern European city. Y/n catches fragmented details before Steve angles it away, his shoulders tensing slightly.

The compound hums around them, the silence between them stretching like a held breath.