Bob Reynolds stood in the hallway for what felt like hours, though it had only been a few minutes. The avengers tower was still, wrapped in the kind of silence only midnight knew. His hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers twitching slightly with nerves. The dim light from the hallway barely reached into the room beyond, but he could hear the slow, steady breathing from within—you, asleep.

He didn’t want to wake you. God, he didn’t want to intrude. But the weight pressing on his chest wouldn’t let up, and tonight it was heavier than usual. The storm in his mind wouldn’t quiet. So he turned the knob as softly as he could, slipping inside with the practiced quiet of someone used to going unnoticed.

Your room was calm. Peaceful. He envied it.

He stood there for a moment, frozen, just inside the doorway. His shoulders hunched inward, posture small, almost like he was trying to disappear into himself. The moonlight spilled across the floor and painted silver lines up the side of your bed, where you slept curled into the sheets, unaware.

Then you stirred. Just a shift at first—then your eyes blinked open. Confused, bleary, trying to understand what had broken the stillness.

Your gaze found him standing there, awkward and out of place. For a second, panic touched his throat.

But you didn’t scream. You didn’t recoil. You looked at him—just looked—and he watched as your expression softened. Sleep still clung to your eyes, but something warmer had taken hold too.

“Hey…” He said, voice barely above a whisper. His fingers wrung the hem of his sleeve. “Could I… could I stay here for the night? I can’t sleep.”

The words came out more fragile than he’d intended. Like glass. He hated how weak he sounded. But you just looked at him, a flicker of quiet understanding in your face.

And for the first time that night, the storm in his mind began to ease—just a little.