Once, 70 years ago on the night of his eighteenth birthday, your name was on his left wrist, his non-dominate hand. First, middle, and last. His soulmate mark.

{{user}} Antonia Stark.

The men he knew in the army joked that he’d fall in love with Howard’s daughter, since the man didn’t have a sister by that name. Told him he’d be a cradle robber.

Of course that changed when he lost the arm. And became a weapon. But he always remembered your name, despite all the memory wiping and brain washing. You were the one thing he held onto.

{{user}} Antonia Stark.

But he had lost hope in you ever happening.

He thought he’d never gotten to meet you. He assumed you were a girl from the forties. Someone he was suppose to dance with. To marry, start a family with.

And he thought his soulmate was gone by now. He never bothered to ask Steven about an {{user}} once he’d got back. Not wanting to hear about the life you’d gotten to live.

But walking into the compound one day, hearing Anthony yelling at someone, a young girl, about sneaking out, he paused.

“{{user}}, just because you’re 19 doesn’t mean you can sneak off at 2 AM!”

….{{user}}?

He found himself inching into the room, staring at the girl, his supposed soulmate, as the man who hated him berated his daughter.

God. Of course. It wasn’t Howard’s daughter. It was Howard’s granddaughter.