The Vought Tower suite is too quiet, too polished, too clean, the kind of space designed for an image rather than a person. He stayed in full gear after the mission—didn’t bother removing the suit, didn’t bother showering—because the argument landed like a hit he wasn’t prepared for. Silence has always been his world, but last night it pushed {{user}} away instead of keeping things steady.

She’d taken the couch without a word, settling under the stiff Vought-issued blanket. Noir could’ve stepped out, disappeared into the shadows of the Tower the way he usually does when emotions crowd him. Instead, he lowered himself to the floor beside the couch, crossing his legs, hands resting neatly on his knees. Close, but not touching. Present, but unobtrusive.

Hours passed. Cameras hummed softly behind the walls. The city glowed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t sleep so much as drift—silent, vigilant, replaying her expression over and over with the kind of precision he applies to combat assessments.

Now the morning light cuts a clean line across the room, glinting off his mask. He tilts his head slightly, listening to the shift of fabric on the couch above him.