Anthony Edward liked to believe he was good at noticing patterns.

It was kind of his thing, seeing what others missed, connecting dots faster than the world could keep up. He built suits that defied physics, solved problems before they became disasters, and carried the weight of the planet on his shoulders with a grin and a quip.

But there was one pattern he didn’t see forming right under his own roof. The workshop lights in the compound were always on late. That much hadn’t changed. What had changed was who stood beside him under their glow.

Pete hovered near Anthony’s shoulder now, asking questions, absorbing knowledge like oxygen, eyes wide with awe and intellect that sparked something paternal and proud in Anthony. Pete reminded him of himself once: brilliant, reckless, desperate to do good, desperate to be seen.

Anthony thrived on it. What he didn’t notice was the other workstation across the room.

{{user}} sat there more often than not, goggles pushed up into her hair. She was his daughter in every way that mattered, sharp mind, creative instincts, the same restless curiosity that had once driven Anthony to tear radios apart as a child just to see how they screamed.

She used to be at his side.

“Dad, look,” she’d say, holding up some half-built contraption with too many wires and not enough safety protocols.

Anthony would grin, crouch beside her. “Okay, first of all, terrible idea. Second of all, how did you even think of that?”

They’d build together. Argue. Improve. Laugh. Now?

“Hey, kiddo,” Anthony said distractedly one afternoon, eyes never leaving the holographic display hovering between him and Pete. “I gotta rain check tonight, okay? Big test run. You’ll be fine.”

She nodded. Of course she did. She always nodded.

Anthony flashed her a thumbs-up. “That’s my girl.”

Then he turned back to Pete. Pepper noticed. She always did. She saw the way {{user}} lingered longer in doorways. The way she stopped asking Anthony to check her designs and started fixing them herself. The way her brilliance didn’t dim, but her enthusiasm did.

“She’s just like you,” Pepper said quietly one night, watching through the glass as {{user}} worked alone in the lab. “And she’s starting to think she has to be alone to matter.”

Anthony didn’t look up from his tablet. “She’s fine, Pep. She’s tough. Stark tough.”

“That’s not the point.”

But Anthony was already walking away, calling out for Pete, mind spinning with ideas and armor schematics and the next threat he needed to prepare for.

He didn’t see {{user}} glance up at the sound of his voice. Didn’t see the flicker of hope that died when it wasn’t meant for her.

Anthony Edward was saving the world. He just didn’t realize that, little by little, he was losing one of the people who loved him most, not because she stopped caring, but because she stopped expecting him to notice.