The Sanctum had learned the difference between silence and peace. Today was the latter.

A kettle whistled softly in the kitchen before stopping itself—enchanted, considerate. The smell of tea leaves and something faintly spiced lingered in the air. Somewhere upstairs, a window creaked open on its own to let in a breeze that carried the hum of New York traffic like a distant ocean.

Strange was sprawled on the couch in a way no Sorcerer Supreme textbook would ever approve of—cloak discarded over the armrest like a sleepy cat, sleeves rolled up, posture utterly unheroic. A thick book hovered above him, lazily flipping its own pages every few minutes.

He wasn’t reading.

He was pretending to read.

Leaning against the opposite arm of the couch, Wong sat cross-legged with a bowl of snacks balanced perfectly in his lap, watching something on a floating projection. It looked like a historical drama until one listened long enough to realize it had devolved into petty rivalries and exaggerated sword fights.

“You know,” Wong said without looking away, “you’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”

“It’s a very dense page,” Strange replied, eyes closed. “Emotionally.”

Wong snorted.

On the floor near the coffee table, the Cloak of Levitation had wrapped itself around a stack of pillows, rising and falling in a slow, content rhythm. Occasionally, it twitched—like it was dreaming of flight.

A faint shimmer rippled near the stairs as America Chavez appeared mid-step, wearing an oversized hoodie and socks that definitely did not match. She paused, took in the scene, and visibly relaxed.

“…So we’re doing nothing today?” she asked hopefully.

Strange cracked one eye open. “Aggressively.”

America grinned and immediately dropped onto the rug, leaning her back against the couch. She stretched her legs out, toes brushing against a relic that politely scooted out of the way.

From the open doorway of the Sanctum’s inner hall, faint music drifted in—something low and ambient, the kind of sound that felt like warm light through curtains. A few candles hovered nearby, flames dim and lazy, responding more to mood than magic.

The house approved of days like this.

Wong reached into the bowl and offered America a snack without looking. She took it.

Minutes passed. Then more. No one spoke.