The door slams harder than it needs to.

The sound echoes in your chest more than the room.

For a second, you just stand there, bag slipping from your fingers, hitting the carpet with a dull thump. The room smells faintly like detergent and something else… coffee, maybe. Her. Like she’s been in here recently. Like she never really stopped.

You move slowly, almost like you’re afraid the place will vanish if you touch it.

Your fingers brush the edge of the desk. Dustless. The grooves in the wood are familiar under your skin. You sit on the bed, the mattress barely creaking beneath your weight, perfectly tucked like it was never meant to be slept in, just preserved.

Like a museum exhibit.

Like you were.

Your throat tightens before you even realize you’re breathing differently.

You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in a long time. But something burns behind your eyes anyway.

From the other side of the door, there’s movement. A cabinet closing. Footsteps. Then stillness.

Too still.

You stand again, hesitant, and crack the door open.

Maria’s in the kitchen, back to you, hands braced against the counter like she needs it to stay upright. Her shoulders are stiff, military posture trying to hold together something fragile. She doesn’t turn around, not right away. She knows you’re there. She always knows.

“Room’s the same,” you say quietly. Your voice sounds smaller than you remember. “Didn’t… didn’t have to keep it like that.”

A beat.

Then another.

Her jaw tightens. You can see it from here.

“I didn’t keep it for you,” she says automatically. Too fast. Defensive. Classic Maria Hill deflection. “I told you. I don’t like mess.”

You swallow. Step closer.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “But I was the mess.”

That gets her.

She turns, finally, eyes sharp, then immediately softer than you’ve seen them in years. Tired. Red-rimmed. Guilty in a way she doesn’t know how to carry.

“You were a kid,” she snaps, then stops herself. Her voice drops. Rough. “You were my kid.”

Silence stretches again, thick and heavy.

She exhales, scrubbing a hand over her face like she can physically wipe the past away. When she looks at you now, there’s no commander, no agent, no SHIELD director energy—just a mother who came home too late too often.

“I cleaned your room,” she says quietly, “because if I didn’t… it felt like you were really gone.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Just barely. But you hear it.

“I thought if everything stayed the same,” she continues, not looking at you now, “you’d walk back in eventually. Yelling. Slamming doors. Asking what’s for dinner like nothing happened.”

She lets out a sharp, humorless breath. “Turns out I’m not great at pretending.”

Your chest aches.

You take another step. Then another. Until you’re standing right in front of her.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you admit. “You were never home. I figured… if I left, it wouldn’t change anything.”

That one lands.

Maria closes her eyes.

“When I got the call,” she says slowly, “that you were gone—really gone—I realized something.” She opens her eyes again, and this time she doesn’t hide it. “I was failing at the one job I never wanted to screw up.”

Her hand twitches, like she wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if she’s allowed.

“I can’t fix the past,” she says. “But you’re home now. And I’m here. Not perfect. Not soft.” A pause. “But I’m not leaving.”

The air between you hums with unsaid apologies.

The move is yours.