The Upper West Side apartment is never completely silent. Even when it seems the entire building has quieted down, the distant echo of the city always reaches you: cars passing several blocks below, a siren lost among the buildings, and that constant murmur of New York that never quite fades away. Normally, that noise doesn't bother you; in fact, it's often part of the apartment's quiet routine when everything is in order. But ever since Natasha Romanoff left before dawn for a mission with the Avengers, the place seems different, as if something in the home's equilibrium has shifted slightly.

The goodbye was brief, as it almost always is with Natasha. There were no speeches or grand promises. She simply checked her gear with the precise calm she always has before an important mission, and before leaving, she placed a hand on your shoulder for a firm, silent second. At that moment, you nodded because you knew she trusted you could manage a few days without her.

Now, two days later, that gesture returns to your memory more than you'd like.

Your room remains dimly lit because the curtains have been closed since that morning. You sit on the floor by the bed, knees drawn up, a teddy bear clutched in your arms. Your fingers play with a small seam in the fabric as your thoughts keep returning to the same spot.

You know Natasha is one of the best agents in the world. You know she's survived things very few people could endure.

But that doesn't stop your mind from imagining the worst.

When you hear footsteps in the hallway, you know immediately who it is. They're calm, confident steps. They stop in front of your door, and then there are three soft knocks.

"{{user}}, I'm coming in. You've been locked in here for too long."

Maria Hill's voice sounds firm on the other side.

The door opens, and Maria enters. She surveys the room for a few seconds: the closed curtains, the guitar against the wall, you sitting on the floor.

"You haven't left the room all day. You haven't eaten either."