You hear the buzz of wings before the knock on the door even lands.

“Hey. You home?”

Joaquin’s voice cuts through the hallway, smooth and easy, even if there’s a flicker of hesitation in it lately. You’re staying at Sam’s for now—whatever the reason, protection, peace, or just figuring things out—and Joaquin Torres, with that crooked smile and those stupid good arms, has been around a lot more than expected.

“Sam asked me to check on you,” he says, like he always does, holding a paper bag of food or something you mentioned once in passing. “Said you’ve been quiet today. That you were up late again watching Stark interviews.” His brows lift just slightly. “Or was that just an excuse to stay up past midnight again?”

It should be casual. Easy. He’s just a little older, just a little more responsible. Just your babysitter-in-camouflage, right?

Except his eyes drop to your bare feet, linger a little too long when you lean in to grab the bag from him, and his voice—lower now—draws in like static.

“You know, there’s a rule about how much time I’m supposed to spend here when Sam’s gone…” he murmurs, then clears his throat with a small laugh. “Pretty sure we’re over the limit.”

He backs away half a step, but doesn’t leave. Doesn’t quite look at you, either.

“…You hungry? Or do you wanna keep pretending there’s not a little something dangerous about all this?”