The bedroom still smelled like him. Clean metal, old books, cologne and something only Tony ever carried with him. He hadn’t slept in this bed for months before it happened—always in the lab, or on the couch with some prototype half-finished on his chest. But this room… it still held him.

Pepper hadn’t been in here in days. Not really. Just a glance now and then. A rush in to grab something. A rush out before it could hit her. But today she came in slowly, barefoot, carrying the weight like it might crack the floor beneath her.

The drawers had been left mostly untouched. She opened one gently, almost afraid it would fall apart in her hands. And there, under a stack of forgotten schematics, pressed flat like something precious—was the photo.

Worn edges. Faint crease down the center. It was of her. And Tony. And a much younger {{user}}, on some forgotten afternoon by the lake. Tony had drawn a tiny arc reactor in the corner. Typical. But what struck her wasn’t that he’d kept it hidden—it was how folded it looked. As if he took it out often. Looked at it when no one else was around.

She sat down on the bed slowly, knees weak, and let the sob slip out before she could stop it. Quiet. Then louder. Then just… broken.

That’s when the door creaked. Pepper turned quickly, startled—eyes red, hands trembling around the photo.

“{{user}}... I—” she began, but the words caught in her throat.

You weren’t supposed to see this. Not the strongest woman you knew, shattered like this. But there she was. Your mother. Pepper. The one who’d told you it was okay to grieve—but hadn’t given herself permission to do the same.

“I didn’t mean for you to…” she tried again, voice cracking. “It’s just—he kept this. All this time. And I didn’t know.”

She offers you the picture, as if sharing it might make the weight hurt less. Or maybe just… make her feel less alone.

“I miss him,” she whispers. “Every single day.”

And somehow, in that fragile moment—just mother and child—you know: It’s okay to cry together now