THREE YEARS HAD PASSED since the world had changed — since Team Cap walked away from the Avengers, not as traitors, but as soldiers without a flag, fugitives with too much heart to follow orders that didn't sit right in their bones. Time had passed slowly, like a tide that refused to turn. Some had retired quietly. Others were still in the shadows, always looking over their shoulders. But they'd done it — they had gotten Bucky to safety.

Now, the Winter Soldier slept in silence, hidden beneath the golden plains and glowing tech of Wakanda — a land that shimmered like something out of a fairytale. He was cradled not just in cryogenic stillness, but in forgiveness. In possibility. Encased in frost, yes, but it was his choice — a quiet rebellion against the rage inside him. A way to keep the plagued soldier from waking. The ice whispered tranquillity into his bones, while outside, sunflowers bowed in the wind. And somewhere in that deep sleep, he dreamed of peace.

Natasha slipped through the world like a spider through the cracks in a crumbling wall — unseen, silent, patient. She didn't just vanish. She evaporated. The kind of disappearance that left no echo, no scent, only the faint shiver of knowing someone had been there. If you thought you caught her reflection in a shop window in Budapest, you hadn't. If you thought you saw her red hair vanish down a rain-slick alley in Marrakesh, you didn't. She was always two steps ahead, always shedding names like old skins.

She wasn't truly alone — her old Widow-family took her in. Not with open arms, but with mutual understanding. Scars recognize each other. Together, they made a kind of home — not warm, but functional. Not safe, but sharp. But still her heart stayed guarded, stitched in silence. The past had made her careful.

Clint had been luckier. Though placed under strict house arrest, he was where he belonged: home. His days were filled with the smell of syrup and pancakes, the echo of laughter, and the warm chaos of three kids climbing all over him. He built treehouses and fixed broken toys, always with a tracker on his ankle — but in their eyes, he was just "Dad." Nothing more heroic than that.

Scott Lang's life looked similar. House arrest, endless supervision. But inside those four walls was a world of play. Cassie — all bright eyes and wiggly teeth — often declared that they were the Avengers, and Scott was not allowed to argue. Sometimes he was Ant-Man, sometimes Captain America (depending on how cool he felt that day). Cassie, of course, insisted on playing "The Siren" — screaming battle cries and soaking him with a water gun while Luis narrated their missions like a blockbuster trailer.

And Sam? Sam Wilson had traded wings for waves and surfboards. Somewhere along the golden coast of southern Spain, he spent his days under the burning sun, working on his Spanish, working on his tan, and — finally — not running. His laughter echoed through beach towns, and though he missed the sky, the sea was healing. Even Falcons need to float, sometimes.

And Wanda... sweet, haunted Wanda... she'd tucked herself away in Edinburgh, where the wind wept gently through ancient stone streets, and the magic in the air felt older than time. The city wrapped around her like a heavy woolen coat — snug but not stifling. It was quiet there. Kind. And just a little enchanted. She took slow walks beneath gray skies, her boots echoing on cobblestones, and learned to bake again — bread that puffed with golden steam, pies that filled her flat with warmth. Her magic was quieter now, like a lullaby hummed at twilight. Sometimes, an android came knocking. Sometimes, she let him stay. And in the kitchen, while the food was burning and distracted laughter filled the corners, the world didn't feel so broken.

And then there were two hearts beating in perfect rhythm, far from the fight. Far from the noise.

Steve and Ariel.

They hadn't just survived — they had found each other in the wreckage. Together, they had built something new. Something gentle.

They lived simply now, quietly. In a tucked-away corner of Paris — a modest apartment in Montmartre perched above a flower shop, where the windows stayed open in summer and the breeze carried the scent of roses and rain. The days passed like watercolor — soft, slow, blurred at the edges. The nights shimmered like stories, each one lit by golden lamplight and the distant hush of a city that refused to sleep.

They kept to the shadows. Slipping out only after dusk, when their faces were less likely to be recognized. Steve, once the soldier of a nation, now just another tall man in a wool coat. And Ariel — no longer the fiery-haired mermaid, but a quiet vision with dark brown waves cascading down her back, dyed to protect her from too many curious eyes.

They walked slowly, always together. Hand in hand along the Seine, where the reflections of streetlights danced on the river like stars come down to earth. Sometimes they talked — about nothing, everything. But more often, they didn't need words. Because silence, with her, was never empty. It was full. Warm. Familiar. The kind of quiet that made the world feel safe.

Ariel loved Paris. She loved the narrow cobblestone streets, the smell of fresh pastries, the laughter spilling out of cafés, the echo of violins beneath stone bridges. To someone who once knew only the pulse of the tide and the ache of longing, the city was magic in a different form.

But still... she missed the sea.

And so, whenever they could, they escaped to the coast.

The French Riviera.

Where the sand glittered gold, the waves curled like silk, and the air was thick with salt and sun.

There, she was herself again — utterly, entirely. She dove into the water with the grace of something made for it. Her laughter rippled across the tide like music. Her pockets always jingled with sea-shells or pearls she claimed looked like treasures.

Sometimes, she'd return with starfish cradled carefully in her palms — always alive, always placed gently back into the surf. And sometimes, impossibly, Turtles or dolphins would find her.

It became a quiet mystery between them — how they always knew where she was. Mostly when she was alone in the water, they came. Graceful shadows gliding through the sea, breaking the surface with chirps and clicks, surrounding her like old friends. Steve would stand there, barefoot in the surf, unable to explain the quiet awe in his chest.

"They know you're one of them," he'd say, voice low, wonder in his eyes. "Or maybe they know you're something the ocean doesn't want to give up."

Part of her belonged to the sea, and yet she stayed with him.

Steve would always watch her from the shore, or a hidden cove, boots kicked off, jeans rolled to the knees, a sketching book filled with sketches of her in his lap, his eyes never leaving her — even for a second.

Not just because she was beautiful. Though she was, impossibly so. But because... a part of him was always afraid she might disappear again.

She never swam too far. Not because she couldn't — but because she knew. Knew what flickered behind his gaze every time the waves pulled her from view for a breath too long. He'd call out to her sometimes, voice soft but edged with something deeper:

"Don't go too far, my love..."

Not to cage her. Never that. But because he remembered what it felt like to lose her. And he couldn't bear to lose her again.

When she returned — dripping, radiant, sea-slicked hair clinging to her skin — he'd pull her close. Sometimes in the surf, water curling around their legs, their laughter mingling with the call of gulls. He'd whisper sweet nothings into the damp strands of her brown hair: beauty, beloved, sea-star, cherished, my heart — kissing her temple, her cheeks, her lips, as if she were made of glass, sea-shells and stars and everything he never thought he'd get to hold again.

And in the shallows, where the water turned warm and the world seemed to hold its breath, she kissed him — slow and certain. Arms around his neck, seafoam at their knees. Like the ocean itself had paused to watch them.

They laughed like children in love, splashing one another, then falling into each other's arms again. Their kisses were soft, then deep, then desperate — not for passion, but for presence. For the comfort of knowing the other was real. Here. Still.

It wasn't the life they once knew.
It wasn't grand or loud or laced with purpose.

But it was theirs.

Built with bare hands and broken hearts, stitched together with whispered promises and lazy mornings, kisses over coffee mugs and tangled limbs under linen sheets. They paid bills. Bought groceries. Laughed over bad French movies and burned Toast. They lived like real people do.

They lived an ordinary life, full of ordinary things.
If love could ever be called ordinary.

But nothing about them was ordinary. Because every day together was stolen. Earned. Sacred.

And for the first time in a long, long while...
Steve felt whole.
Ariel felt free.

And somewhere between the tide and the silence,
between whispered names and sea-soaked kisses...

it felt like enough.