The apartment is quiet in the way only late nights ever are—no traffic, no voices outside, just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping gently against the window.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of Tony’s old T-shirts. It hung off your shoulder, too big, the sleeves nearly swallowing your hands as you stirred a pot on the stove. The smell of tomato sauce fills the air—simple, comforting, familiar.

Tony sat at the small kitchen table, elbows braced on the wood, watching you like you’re the only thing in the room.

He’s fresh out of the shower, hair damp, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His knuckles are wrapped, bruised from training earlier, resting loosely in front of him. For once, he isn’t tense. Not pacing. Not brooding.

Just… home.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, not turning around.

“Can’t help it,” Tony murmured. “You’re my favorite view.”

You blushed immediately, cheeks warming as you lowered the heat and turned toward him. “Tony…”

He shrugged, unashamed. “Married now. Means I get to say things like that.”