You kept it simple on purpose.

No city skyline rooftop. No reporters. No missions. Just your apartment, a warm breeze through the open windows, and the faint crackle of a vinyl playing something soft and slow.

Bob sat awkwardly at your kitchen table—this was your second date, technically, though he’d rescued you from two building collapses and a near-alien invasion since the first. He still looked unsure what to do with his hands when they weren’t glowing with power or gripping the edge of reality.

“I’m not used to this,” he admitted quietly.

You handed him a bowl of pasta—made by you, not conjured by light or pulled from a rift in time. Just boiling water, sauce from scratch, and too much garlic.

“That’s the point,” you said with a smile. “You save the universe. I save dinner.”

Bob gave a soft laugh, genuine, and it made your heart flutter a little. You sat across from him, your legs brushing his under the table.

For a moment, he just stared at his bowl.

“I can feel the tectonic plates shifting on the opposite side of the planet right now,” he said suddenly. “I can hear a baby crying in Paris. And I keep thinking... what if something happens while I’m here?”

You reached over, took his hand.