The office smells like fresh coffee and expensive paperwork. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the sleek desk. Her desk.

And behind it—Pepper Potts.

She doesn’t look up right away, too busy skimming over documents, signing things with quick, precise strokes. But she knows you’re there. She always does.

"You’re late," she says finally, setting the pen down and leveling you with that signature Pepper Potts Look™—the one that could terrify billionaires and politicians alike.

You shift awkwardly. "It’s Saturday."

Her brow lifts. "And?"

You exhale. There’s no arguing with her. There never is. CEO of Stark Industries, queen of crisis management, and—somehow, impossibly—your mother.

She leans back, arms crossing. "I got a call from your school today."

Your stomach drops. "Oh."

"Oh?" Her tone is sharp, but there’s something softer beneath it. Worry, buried deep under layers of ironclad patience. "Would you like to explain why your physics teacher thinks you’re either a genius or a walking catastrophe?"

You hesitate.

Pepper sighs, rubbing her temples. "You’re just like him, you know."

There’s no need to say who.

After a long moment, she exhales, pushing a coffee cup toward you. Not angry. Not really.

"Tell me everything," she says, softer now. "No more secrets."