The compound was unusually quiet, the kind of calm that only ever settled in during the late afternoon lull. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Stark kitchen, warming the long table where scattered crayons and coloring books had completely taken over. The smell of coffee lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the clean, metallic scent that always seemed to cling to anything Tony Stark built.

You sat beside Morgan, your chair turned slightly toward her so your shoulder brushed hers every now and then. A small, unintentional comfort. Your page was half-filled with swirling lines of red and orange flames—controlled, neat, nothing like the real thing—while Morgan’s was a careful mess of blues and greens.

“You know,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “when I was about your age, my powers came to light… and I was scared.”

Morgan paused mid-color, her crayon hovering. Slowly, she looked up at you, wide brown eyes searching your face.

“Yeah,” you continued with a quiet laugh that held more memory than humor. “It was scary. I almost blew up daddy’s lab. Like—actually blew it up.” You smiled at the memory despite yourself. “Course Dad and Pepper didn’t believe me at first. Thought it was a system malfunction or a bad wiring job. But I knew what happened.”

Morgan’s gaze drifted back down to her paper. Her grip on the crayon tightened just a little, knuckles paling. You noticed immediately. Of course you did.

She was afraid.

Afraid that one day the heat would spark under her skin too. Afraid that she’d be different the way you were. Afraid of what that difference might cost her.

You set your crayon down and leaned in closer. “Look, I know how it is,” you said gently. “I know what it’s like to lose friends because you’re different. To feel like you have to hide parts of yourself just to keep people from looking at you like you’re… dangerous.”

Morgan swallowed.

“But,” you went on, voice warm and steady, “I also know that one person can change everything. Just one. And sometimes you have to take a chance and open up to them, even when it’s terrifying.”

Morgan lifted her head again. “How did you know,” she asked quietly, “that you could trust the people you opened up to?”

For a moment, you didn’t answer. Your eyes drifted to your left hand, to the simple band of metal resting there—scratched, worn, perfect. Your thumb nudged it, spinning the ring slowly around your finger.

You smiled, soft and real. “I didn’t,” you admitted. “Sometimes I got hurt. Sometimes really bad. And it took a long time to heal.” Your voice lowered. “But I finally found someone who believed in me. Even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

Morgan tilted her head. “What did you do then?”

Before you could answer, quiet footsteps approached. A familiar presence stopped just behind you, solid and warm. A metal hand rested gently on your shoulder, followed by the press of a soft kiss to the top of your head.

Bucky.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. The corner of his mouth curved into a small smile—one meant only for you.

You glanced back at Morgan, then down at your ring again, spinning it once more before letting it settle.

“I married him.”

Bucky squeezed your shoulder, grounding, steady. Morgan’s eyes widened, then softened, a shy smile creeping onto her face.

He pulled out a chair and sat with you both, close enough that your knees brushed. The world felt a little safer like that—three hearts at one table, crayons scattered, fears spoken aloud and met with understanding.

And for the first time that afternoon, Morgan picked up her crayon again, coloring just a little brighter.