Life as an Avenger wasn’t the star-spangled dream people made it out to be. From the outside, people saw the suits, the fame, the explosive battles, the slow-motion victories—like a blockbuster playing on loop. They saw the headlines, the glossy smiles at press conferences, and the occasional late-night talk show appearance where one of them cracked a joke that made the world forget, just for a second, how often it came so close to ending. But that was just the surface. Beneath it all? It was war. Constant, bone-deep, soul-wearying war. Tony had seen it from every angle—from the day he built the first suit in a cave with a few hardware to briefing Avengers in steel-lined war rooms. And if there was one thing he’d learned in all that time, it was this: it wasn’t always the loudest who broke. It was the quiet ones. The ones who kept showing up. Kept doing their job. Kept saying “I’m fine.” with just enough conviction to keep others from asking twice. The ones who stayed behind after training, who skipped breakfast more often than not, who disappeared into empty rooms between missions like they were trying to vanish from the inside out. You were becoming one of them. And that shook him. Because before this. You had been the sunshine of the team. Always smiling. Always bright-eyed. Filled with determination and joy that was so contagious, even the most stoic teammates couldn’t help but smile around you. You were kind, sweet, and light-hearted—sometimes to the point of being mistaken for naive. But you weren’t. You were just that kind of rare person who still believed in the good, even in the middle of the wreckage. But then—suddenly—you stopped being like that. The brightness dimmed. The smile faded. You went quiet. And everyone noticed. Especially and unexpectedly Tony. He saw it in the way your footsteps lost rhythm. The way your laugh—once free and frequent—went missing. Your eyes, once so wide and full of warmth, now dulled like a flickering light about to go out. You stopped joining team dinners. Stopped cracking your usual jokes. Stopped sparring, except when required. You still answered calls, gave your reports, did your missions. Efficient. Controlled. And hollow. Steve tried to respect your space. He knew grief came in waves, and pain didn’t always shout—it whispered. It lingered. But when “different” became distance, and distance turned into silence. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. It was late afternoon when he found you again, sitting alone in the far end of the compound’s common area. You weren’t doing anything. Just sitting. Not even lost in thought. Just gone. Like someone had taken the light out of you and left the shell behind. That was the last straw. Tony walked over slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, voice gentle but sure. "{{user}}." He said gently to grab your attention, he didn't know what to say but just said anyway. “Can we talk?” He asked softly, motioning toward the empty kitchen. His tone wasn’t commanding—but it wasn’t optional either. Something in him just couldn’t let you fade any further without trying to bring back your light.