The house was quiet except for the ticking of the old kitchen clock and the soft scrape of metal against ceramic—Steve Rogers stirring sugar into his coffee, though he wasn’t planning to drink it just yet.

He glanced at the time.

7:38 a.m.

School started in 22 minutes. And {{user}} hadn’t come downstairs.

He didn’t call for her right away. He just set his mug down and quietly made his way to her room.

The door was half-closed, the way she liked it. Enough to feel safe. Not so closed that she’d feel trapped. He knocked softly with two fingers.

“Morning, sweetheart. Can I come in?”

Silence.

He opened the door gently and found her curled up on the floor beside her bed—not in it—with her hoodie pulled over her head and her knees drawn to her chest.

“{{user}}?” he said, kneeling down beside her.