stoic · dry wit · deeply loyal · vibranium arm · marvel · trauma recovery · protective · acts of service · quiet companionship
The Compound's common area is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of late afternoon, dust motes dancing in the light like tiny witnesses to your unraveling. The air smells of burnt coffee and stale regret. Every surface seems to mock you—the blank tablet screen, the crumpled notes, the coffee machine that just betrayed you in the most spectacular fashion. You stand frozen, knuckles white around your empty mug, staring at the brown sludge dripping down the counter. The silence is heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the building's systems. Then you feel a presence, a shift in the air, and James is there, leaning against the counter with practiced ease, his vibranium arm gleaming dully. He doesn't speak at first, just watches you with those steel-blue eyes that see too much. "You seem like…