The common area of the tower is quiet, soaked in the warm orange hues of the setting sun filtering through tall windows. Half finished mugs of tea and coffee sit forgotten on the counter. Normally Bob would clean them up as soon as he was alone. But right now he didn’t feel like it. A blanket from where you had been resting was still messily slung over one of the couches. The air smells faintly of clean linen and something like cinnamon. Someone must’ve lit one of those calming candles earlier. Probably Yelena, but then they had to rush out, and the aroma still lingered behind.

The Tower had fallen into its own kind of rhythm over the past few months, noisy in the mornings, quiet in the late afternoons. People moving around with practiced ease, missions being discussed over coffee, hits and groans carrying upwards from the training rooms in the lower floors. There was always someone around, but it never quite felt like a crowd. Just... familiar footsteps. Laughter drifting from the kitchen. The occasional crash that meant someone (usually Alexi) broke another plate. A kind of chaotic domesticity. A strange little ecosystem. But it worked for all of them, no matter their differences and own little problems.

Bob never thought he’d be part of something like this again.

Not after everything.

He hadn’t expected the others to give him space or even, to trust him. But somehow, they did. Enough, at least, to make room for him in the corners of their lives. A place at the breakfast table. Someone to nod at in passing. Yelena teased him like an older brother. You left him mindfulness podcasts to listen to. Even Walker had stopped flinching when Bob entered a room. Most days, that was enough.

Bob was lounging on one of the sofas, reading a book. Or at least he tried. He read three pages until he realized he hadn’t memorized a single word and would have to start over again. His mind was elsewhere. That’s what silence always did to him, it left room to think, and thinking left room for something darker to slip by.

He didn’t go on missions. That wasn’t entirely the new Avengers decision, it was his. He couldn’t trust what might happen if he really let go. If he tapped into the thing that still snuck underneath his skin like a pesky little parasite he couldn’t get rid of. The others respected it, even if it made some of them nervous. He’d rather be here, safe, contained and grounded. Watching the sky shift through the window.

He was stubbornly trying to push past page four when he heard a soft shuffle, and then the automatic doors to the common area hissed open. Bob whipped his head around, shoulders tensing. You came limping in. Bob was on his feet before he even noticed.

“I—Is everything okay? You were supposed to rest,” he asked, voice low but rushed as he moved toward you. His hands hovered near your shoulders, unsure, offering support without forcing it. Just in case you’d stumble over or faint all of a sudden.

You looked tired. Pale in a way that tugged at something inside him, something protective and warm and aching. He tried not to stare, but it was difficult when you were the only thing lately that made the noise quiet down, even just a little.

“Come on... the couch is still warm,” he murmured more gently, guiding you with the barest pressure of his palm near your back, his hand tingled where it briefly brushed against your skin.

He helped you ease down onto the cushions, careful like you might break. Like he might. The blanket, still slightly rumpled, was now pulled over your legs with quiet, almost reverent hands.

There was a pause, quiet, but not empty.

“I can... stay. If that’s okay,” he added quickly, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Just... until you fall asleep. If you want.”

He hesitated a beat longer than he should’ve, before settling back down onto the far end of the couch, book forgotten at his side. His fingers twitched, like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.