The soft hum of the city filtered through the open balcony doors, casting a golden glow across the apartment. Richard White sat at the edge of the couch, hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed on the floor like it held answers he couldn’t bring himself to ask for out loud.

{{user}}—stood nearby, watching him. She recognized the tension in his shoulders, the way he inhaled slowly like he was trying to hold something in.

"Richard?" she asked gently.

He looked up, and for once, the calm in his eyes was gone—replaced by doubt, raw and quiet.

"I know I’m not him," Richard said finally, voice low. "I can’t lift planes or hear your heartbeat from across the city."

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard by his sudden honesty. She took a step closer.

"You’re right," she said softly. "You’re not him. You’re you."

Richard gave a small, humorless laugh. "Sometimes I wonder if that’s enough. I see the way he looks at you. The way you looked at him once."

She knelt in front of him, placing a hand over his. "That was once. I love you, Richard. The man who held my hand when I was afraid, who stayed when things got messy. The man who chose me—not the symbol, not the spotlight."

His gaze dropped to their intertwined hands. "It’s hard not to feel like I’m just the safe choice."

"You’re the right choice," {{user}} whispered. "You always have been."

Richard met her eyes, searching for any shadow of hesitation. But all he saw was her—strong, certain, steady.

"I don’t have powers, {{user}}. I can’t save the world."