THE KITCHEN WAS QUIET, save for the soft hum of the faucet and the clink of ceramic against porcelain. The moon filtered through the window in silver streaks, casting gentle shadows across the counter. Outside, the world looked deceptively calm—like a painting behind glass. Untouched. Undisturbed.

But inside Tony's chest, everything ached.

His sleeves of his sweater were rolled up to his elbows, and his fingers—once so sure and steady—fumbled slightly as he scrubbed the last of the dishes. His palms were damp and wrinkled from the warm water. He rinsed the final plate, reaching for the hose to spray the suds away, when it slipped—just a little—and splashed directly onto the wall above the sink. The water hit the shelf there, droplets dancing across the framed photos and trinkets Pepper had arranged months ago.

"Shit," Tony muttered under his breath, setting the dish down before it could slide from his soapy grip.

He grabbed a kitchen towel and gently patted the edge of the wooden shelf, careful not to disturb anything. But as he leaned closer, one of the picture frames caught the light, and the reflection made him pause.

It was that photo.

He lifted it slowly, his thumb brushing a streak of water from the glass. Peter Parker, bright-eyed and dorky, standing beside him—holding his upside-down Stark Internship certificate like it was the Nobel Prize. Tony had an arm slung around the kid, both of them flashing grins too wide to be taken seriously. Bunny ears. Idiots. It had been Tony's idea—he said they needed a photo to convince his Aunt May that he'd landed the internship of a lifetime.

His throat tightened.

He could still hear Peter's voice sometimes. That nervous babble. The way he'd called him Mr. Stark. The way his last words were "I don't feel so good" and "I'm sorry", like a whisper ripped from the heart of the universe.

Tony blinked hard and set the photo down. But in the process he knocked down another frame. One that hadn't been touched in months.

He pulled it gently from the shelf.

This one was different.

The photo inside was warm and softly lit, like a moment frozen in golden hour. It was him and Ariel—his clever girl—sitting together at his workbench. Her red hair was neatly combed, decorated with a starfish. She was smiling, head tilted toward him, the kind of smile that made her whole face light up. Around her neck hung the necklace they'd built together.

He'd insisted on taking a picture that day. Said it was for science. Said it was to document the process.

But really... he just hadn't wanted to forget the way she looked when she smiled and laughed like that. How happy she was.

And now—now that laughter only lived in his memory. Or maybe sometimes even in Morgan's laugh, when she did something ridiculous and knew it.

Tony swallowed hard. The silence around him grew louder, pressing against his ribs. His hand hovered over the photo, thumb resting on the edge of the frame like he could feel the echo of her there.

He hadn't let himself look at this picture in months.

Hadn't dared.

Because the truth was—he'd give anything to go back to that moment. Back to before the stupid accords. The war. Before the dust. Before the universe ripped half of everything away.

He was so busy mourning Peter, he'd pushed Ariel's memory into some quiet corner of his soul, telling himself it was safer there. That grief was easier to carry when compartmentalized.

But now—holding that picture—he wasn't so sure.

The memory washed over him like a wave: It had taken them days. Longer than expected, sure—but Tony hadn't minded. Bock then he wasn't used to this kind of quiet, focused company. The lab had always been his temple, and for years, it had only been his. Then there was Bruce. But even they had their arguments here and there. But now... now it smelled faintly of sea salt and jasmine, and every corner held a softness it hadn't before. Ariel had filled the space like sunlight through old windows. Not loud—just warm.

They'd finally finished it.

A necklace. A marvel of design, really. Built from a fusion of nano-tech and vibranium-laced filaments, forged in patience and companionship. She'd chosen the materials herself—sea glass, brushed silver, and a single pearl Tony had found in an old Stark Industries drawer, long forgotten. A token his father once kept from Cuba, still in its velvet box. Howard Stark never gave things meaning, not unless they had a purpose. But Ariel... she gave the pearl a story.

Tony had watched her examine it like it was sacred.

And maybe, in a way, it was.

She looked up at him now, holding the finished necklace between her fingers, the soft blue glow of the nano-core pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Is that it?" she asked, her voice gentle, uncertain—like she didn't quite want it to be over.

Tony swallowed and nodded. "Yup," he said, trying not to sound too proud. "That's it. We're done. Thanks for the help, kiddo."

He meant it as a joke. A little nickname, half-teasing. Although he knew she was technically older than him, even older than Steve.

But she didn't roll her eyes or groan.

Instead, she smiled.

A quiet, grateful smile that hit him harder than expected.

She looked so young. Her soul full of life, even if she didn't always remember where that life had come from. And she reminded him—more than he liked to admit—of the parts of himself he never quite understood. That same restlessness. That same impossible hunger to know more, to build, to belong.

Tony looked at her again and saw... himself.

But gentler.

Kinder.

And then she said it. Simple. Soft. Heartfelt.

"Thank you, Tony. For everything."

Before he could respond, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug.

Just like that. No hesitation.

Tony froze for half a second.

He hadn't been hugged like that in a long time.

And this—this was different. Not a romantic gesture. Not a formality.

It was the kind of hug you gave someone who saw you. Who chose you.

It was the kind of hug a daughter might give a father she wished she'd had.

And just like that, Tony Stark melted.

His arms closed around her instinctively, protectively, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He squeezed her just tight enough to let her know he was still there. Still real.

Still hers, if she ever needed him.

She was trembling slightly. Maybe with relief. Maybe with the weight of all the memories she was still trying to recover. He'd seen it before—the way she'd stare off into space sometimes, as if the past were swimming just beyond her reach, like a ripple beneath the ocean's surface.

And in that moment, he believed—really believed—that she'd get it all back.

Her memories.

Her science.

Her voice.

Her fire.

He believed in her the way Howard Stark never quite believed in him.

Funny how life worked like that.

Tony blinked up at the ceiling, lips pressed into her hair, and whispered into the quiet air, "You're gonna be alright, clever girl. You hear me? You're gonna be brilliant."

She didn't say anything, just held on tighter.

He would never tell her, but she reminded him of Howard too—not the cold man who built a legacy and forgot to raise a son, but the version Tony wished he'd had. The one who stayed up late tinkering in the lab with him. Who gave away pearls because he believed in stories, not stock prices.

Tony had never been anyone's dad, not really.

But in that moment, with her heartbeat pressed against his chest...

He was someone's.

And that was enough.

Tony let out a long, frustrated breath, sharp and bitter like the wind rattling the edges of the lakehouse windows. His hand dragged down his face, fingers digging into the stubble on his jaw as if he could claw the guilt off his skin.

God, what was he doing?

It didn't matter how advanced the tech was. It didn't matter how many ways he sliced the probability matrix. One truth kept screaming louder than the rest:

He'd failed them.

Peter.

And Ariel.

Tony swallowed hard, like the memory of their names burned the back of his throat.

He had failed them both.

Not just in the battlefield—no. That would've been easier to justify. War has casualties, they always say. That's the price of heroism. The cost of playing God. But this wasn't about that. This was deeper. This was something rotting inside him. Something old. A fear born from his father's silence and carved deeper by every person he'd ever lost.

He'd promised Peter a future.

He'd promised Ariel freedom.

And now?

Now there was nothing but ghosts in the silence.

Morgan was asleep upstairs. Safe. Breathing. Whole.

But it wasn't enough.

It wasn't fair.

A sound escaped his chest—half laugh, half sob—as he leaned heavily against the edge of the kitchen counter. He stared at the sink, eyes glazed, until the world blurred.

Time travel. That was what they were asking. What Steve and Nat and Scott had come to plead for.

"Insanity," he muttered to himself. "Quantum lunacy."

But even as he cursed the idea, the words from earlier echoed in his skull—relentless and cruel:

"We think there's a chance to bring them back."

Her, they meant. Him too, of course. But Tony had seen the way Steve's voice cracked when he mentioned Ariel. His second chance. The pain behind his eyes. The guilt. That unbearable ache of what-could-have-been. He knew that ache. He carried it every day.

His vision swam once more.

He remembered her laugh. Light and curious, like waves lapping at the shore.

He remembered her tears too. Quiet, ashamed, when she told him about the dreams she couldn't place—about voices that called her forgotten name from the deep.

He remembered her eyes when she said thank you. When she said he made her feel like she belonged.

A scientist. A daughter. A little hero.

And now she was gone.

No more of her endless questions. No more stories. No more stupid little science and mermaid jokes.

The photo nearly slipped from his grasp again—the memory it held felt almost too heavy to bear. His hand pressed to his mouth, breath unsteady, eyes shimmering with tears.

"Goddamn it..."

Howard would've called it weakness. Emotion. Attachment.

But Tony had never cared less about what his father would've said.

He wanted her back.

And he wanted Peter back.

He wanted them all back.

For Steve. For Natasha. For himself.

And maybe... maybe for the little girl upstairs, who now swore to protect the necklace like a crown, never truly knowing whose it had been—only that it once belonged to someone brave, someone gone, someone who must have been special and beloved by many.

Maybe time travel was insane.

But so was grief.

And Tony Stark had never been afraid of breaking the rules.

Not when it came to saving the people he loved.