You still hear his voice sometimes.

Not in a dramatic way — just little things. A sarcastic comment in your head when something explodes wrong. A “don’t touch that” when you’re already touching it. A sigh, followed by “You’re impossible, you know that?” said with fondness.

The compound is quieter now.

Too quiet.

Your suit rests open in the workshop, red and gold with subtle differences from Tony’s. Sleeker. Lighter. Yours. He helped you design the first version, pacing behind you with a coffee in hand, pointing at the hologram and saying, “Okay, but what if we make it cooler?”

You’d laughed. You’d thought you had time.

Tony was the last of your family. Parents gone years ago. No one else left to call when things got hard. It was always him — messy, brilliant, frustrating, loving him in the only way he knew how.

And then Endgame happened.

The universe was saved. Your world wasn’t.

You’re standing at the workbench, hands resting on the cold metal, staring without really seeing when you hear footsteps.

“Hey.”

Yelena’s voice is gentle. Careful.

You glance over your shoulder. She’s in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, eyes already reading you better than you’d like.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she adds.

“You didn’t,” you say. “I was just… here.”

She nods like she understands exactly what that means.

“You flew today,” she says after a moment.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“You always do when it gets loud in your head.”

A quiet breath leaves you. “Tony used to say flying was my way of pretending I had control.”

Yelena steps closer. “Sounds like him.”

That’s when it hits — sharp and sudden, like your chest caves in on itself. Your hands curl into fists against the table.

“I keep thinking,” you whisper, “that if I build enough… if I fix enough things… maybe I’ll hear him again. Like he’ll walk in and complain that I messed something up.”

Your voice cracks. You hate that it does.

Yelena doesn’t speak right away. She just waits. Gives you space to fall apart if you need to.

“He was all I had,” you say, quieter now. “When he died, it felt like… like the ground disappeared. And everyone keeps telling me how proud he’d be, how heroic it was, and I just—” You shake your head. “I didn’t want a hero. I wanted my brother.”

Your eyes burn. You try to blink it away, but it’s useless. Tears spill over anyway, hot and uncontrollable. One turns into many, and suddenly you’re covering your face, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know how to do this without him,” you choke. “I don’t know how to be okay.”

That’s when Yelena closes the distance.

She doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her chest, one hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades like she’s anchoring you to the earth.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You clutch at her jacket, crying openly now, grief pouring out after being locked away for so long. She holds you tighter, resting her chin lightly on the top of your head.

“I lost my sister,” Yelena says softly. “And some days, I still reach for my phone to tell her something stupid. Grief does not go away. It just changes shape.”

You breathe shakily against her. “I miss him so much.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And you’re allowed to.”

She stays with you like that — steady, warm, real — until the shaking eases and your breathing slows. Until the ache isn’t gone, but it’s bearable.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are red, your face tired.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

Yelena shakes her head. “Don’t be.”

She keeps one arm around you anyway.

Tony is gone. So is Natasha.

But right now, in this quiet workshop filled with memories, you’re not alone.

And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.