THE SIMULATION CASTED dancing reflections over the polished wood of the table. Blue lines swirled upward from Tony's wrist device, twisting and warping into the impossible geometry of a Möbius strip. Inverted, just as he'd instructed.

"Look at a mod inspiration, let me see what check out. So, recommend one last sim before we pack it in for the night," Tony muttered to himself as he adjusted the parameters with a quick swipe of his fingers. "This time, in the shape of a mobius strip, inverted, please."

"Processing..." F.R.I.D.A.Y's voice chimed from the ceiling, calm and clinical.

Tony leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, eyes scanning every rotating particle. His fingers drummed impatiently beside the projection, but his mind had already leapt five steps ahead.

"Give me that eigenvalue," he said. "That, particle factoring, and a spectral decomp. That will take a second."

"Just a moment," the AI replied.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "And don't worry if it doesn't pan out. I'm just kinda—"

Then—like a spark catching dry leaves—the model snapped into place.

"Model rendered," F.R.I.D.A.Y confirmed.

Tony froze.

The success rate blinked on the screen: 99.987%.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then collapsed back into his chair like he'd just taken a punch to the chest.

"...Shit!"

He covered his mouth with both hands, staring at the numbers as if they might disappear. His heart raced, the echo of a million what-ifs firing through his mind like fireworks. It worked. It actually—

A soft giggle rang out behind him.

"Shit." said a tiny voice.

Tony turned sharply in his chair. His heart dropped—then melted.

Morgan sat perched on the bottom step of the staircase, half wrapped in her favorite purple blanket, a mischievous sparkle in her tired eyes. Her brown curls tumbled around her face, her socks mismatched, and in that moment, Tony would have traded every genius breakthrough in his life for just one more minute of this exact picture.

He placed a finger over his lips and shook his head, suppressing a grin.

"What are you doing up, little mess?"

She beamed at him. "Shit."

"Nooo," Tony said shaking his head. "We don't say that. Only Mommy says that word. She coined it, it belongs to her."

Morgan giggled again, covering her mouth.

"Why you up?" she asked.

"Cause I got some important shit going on here," he said, while Morgan shot him a look of disbelief. "What do you think? No, I got something on my mind. I got something on my mind."

"Was it Juice Pops?" she asked with utter sincerity.

He blinked at her—then sighed, defeated. "Sure was. That's extortion. Great minds think alike. Juice Pops, exactly was on... my mind."

Tony stood up and held out his hand. "C'mon. Popsicles now."

For a moment, his discovery could wait. Right now and always, it was her that mattered most. They slipped through the house on tiptoes, quiet as shadows — just a father and daughter on a midnight popsicle mission. The fridge opened with a hiss. Morgan reached for strawberry without hesitation. Tony grabbed lemon, pretending not to mind — but made a mental note to stock more strawberry next time.

✧˚ · .

Morgan's bedroom smelled like cotton candy bubble bath and strawberry popsicle — the gentle chaos of a five-year-old's nighttime routine. Soft moonlight spilled through the window, pooling on the floor in silver puddles.

Tony sat at the edge of Morgan's bed, still in his sweater and worn-out jeans. She looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes, clutching the last bite of popsicle in her tiny fist.

"You done?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head stubbornly. Tony chuckled and plucked the stick from her hand, popping the last frozen bite into his mouth. "Yeah, now you are."

Morgan giggled, her nose wrinkling as she scooted under the blanket. Tony leaned down and wiped the popsicle smears from her mouth with his sleeve, before placing a hand gently over her face, guiding her toward the pillow.

"This little face," he said softly, "goes right here."

Morgan obeyed, curling into her usual spot, but she didn't close her eyes.

"Tell me a story," she whispered.

"Which one?"

"The Little Mermaid," she said without hesitation.

Of course.

She asked for it almost every night — always that one. And it wasn't just a fairytale anymore. Not to him. Not after everything.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"Again?" he asked, trying to sound playful, but his voice caught a little. Morgan knew he loved the story as much as she did. His mother used to read it to him when he was a child. She'd shared so many fairy tales with him—Jack and the Beanstalk, Peter Pan, Robin Hood. And of course, The Little Mermaid. But now... now it reminded him of her.

Of his Ariel.

"Pleeeaaase?" Morgan begged, drawing out the word like it was a spell.

Tony glanced at the ceiling as if someone might rescue him from this bittersweet ritual. But no one came.

"How about a new story?" he offered instead. "Once upon a time, there was a tiny Maguna who went to bed like a good girl. The end."

Morgan scowled, arms crossing over her chest. "That's a horrible story."

"Come on, that's your favorite story," Tony teased with a grin.

"Is not!"

"Is too."

She rolled her eyes like her mother, and Tony's heart ached a little harder.

Then she asked it.

"Do you think Ariel and Peter would've liked me?"

Tony blinked. The room fell quiet except for the soft hum of the night outside — crickets chirping, the distant lap of water against the dock.

He swallowed hard.

"I think..." He paused, choosing every word like it was glass in his throat. "I think they would've loved you, Munchkin."

She smiled sleepily at that, eyes drifting to the bedpost. Tony's eyes followed.

There it was—dangling like a charm from some forgotten fairytale—The necklace. Tony knew she'd never let it out of her sight. She believed in it, in the quiet, stubborn way only someone so tender-hearted could. Like maybe—just maybe—it could chase away her nightmares like a dreamcatcher. Like maybe Ariel, somewhere out there in the stars or the sea, was still watching over her. And she, in all her gentle, childish faith, believed it with her whole heart.

"I hope I get to meet them one day," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Tony smiled — the kind of smile that hurts just behind the eyes.

"I hope so too, sweetheart," he said. "I really do."

He reached out and brushed her curls from her forehead, tucking her in like he always did — gentle, slow, like if he moved too fast, she might disappear.

A tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it.

Morgan sat up.

"Daddy?"

"I'm okay," he said quickly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweater.

"I didn't mean to make you sad," she said, her tiny hands reaching for him.

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her hair.

"You didn't," he whispered. "You, my little sunshine made me the happiest guy on Earth. I just miss them sometimes."

Morgan sighed contentedly as she sank back into her mountain of stuffed animals, her wild hair spread out across her pillow like a messy little halo. She clutched her bunny—old, scruffy, missing one ear.

Tony stood beside the bed, watching her. The soft night-light on her shelf bathed the room in gentle purple hues. He couldn't help but smile. Moments like this—quiet, simple, real—they were the only kind that felt like they might last forever.

"I love you," he whispered, voice low and warm, like a secret.

Morgan looked up at him with that cheeky little grin that reminded him so much of himself it hurt.

"I love you 300."

Tony froze.

He blinked.

His heart actually stumbled in his chest.

Three. Thousand.

He stared at her, completely blindsided by the number—by how sweet, how precise, how completely Morgan it was.

"Wow," he breathed. "3000. That's crazy."

He shook his head in wonder, lips curving into a crooked, touched smile as he straightened up.

He turned, flicking the light switch down as the soft hum of the room dimmed into quiet twilight. Only the glow of the night-light remained, catching on the edge of Ariel's necklace, still hanging like a promise.

He opened the door, just a crack, and paused in the doorway.

"Go to bed," he said softly. "Or I'm selling all your toys. Even bunny."

"Noooo!" Morgan whined from beneath her covers, giggling as she burrowed deeper.

Tony chuckled.

"Night, night, kiddo."

He closed the door gently, careful not to let the latch click too loud, and exhaled a long, silent breath as he leaned against the hallway wall.

The house was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made memories echo louder. He looked up at the ceiling, where Morgan's glow-in-the-dark stars still glimmered faintly through the crack in her door.

3000.

The number wrapped itself around his chest like a ribbon.

He didn't deserve it—any of this. The peace. The lake. The bedtime stories. Her. And yet... here it was. A little miracle with wild curls and a stubborn smile who had made him a better person. A dad.

He walked toward the living room, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the family photo on the mantel. Him. Pepper. Morgan. And the others who weren't in the frame but lived in his heart like ghosts.

He'd fix it all. Somehow.

For her.

For the little girl who loved him 3000.

✧˚ · .

Pepper was curled up on the couch, knees tucked under her, a mug on the side table and a book balanced neatly in her lap.

He leaned against the edge of the couch and folded his arms.

"Not that it's a competition," Tony started casually, "but she loves me 3000. You were somewhere on the low 6 to 900 range."

Pepper didn't even look up, she only scoffed with a sweet smile.

Tony tilted his head. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, it's just a book on composting," she said, flipping the page with one delicate finger.

He furrowed his brows, only half-listening. His mind was somewhere else. Spinning with equations. Possibilities.

"What's new with composting?"

"Just—" she began, but he cut her off, unable to hold it in any longer.

"I figured it out by the way," he said abruptly. His voice was quiet, but full of electricity.

She looked up from her book.

"You know, just so we're talking about the same thing—"

He turned to face her fully.

"Time travel," he said, eyes locked on hers.

Pepper blinked. Slowly. Like the weight of the words was still sinking in.

"What?" she breathed amazed. "Wow... That's amazing, and... terrifying."

"That's right."

"We got really lucky."

"Yeah, I know."

"A lot of people didn't."

He sat down beside her now, the leather couch creaking softly beneath him.

"No, I can't help everybody," he said quietly, staring at the floor like it held the answer.

"It sort a seems like you can," she said gently.

Tony's jaw tensed.

"Not if I stop," he murmured. "I can put a pin in it right now, and stop."

He gave her a crooked half-smile, tired and wistful.

Pepper closed her book. Slowly. Carefully. She turned to him, her expression soft—but there was steel beneath it.

"Tony, trying to get you to stop has been one of the few failures of my life," she said.

"I sometimes feel I should put it in a locked box and drop it at the bottom of a lake... go to bed."

He looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were glassy, shimmering with a depth of sadness he knew mirrored his own.

Then she said it—so quietly, it nearly shattered him.

"But would you be able to rest?"

His breath caught. She didn't have to name them.

Peter.

Ariel.

Two ghosts that still lived in the walls of this home. Two pieces of his heart that had vanished into dust.

"You're not the only one who misses them."

His throat tightened.

Pepper reached out and placed a hand on his, grounding him. "If there's a chance, even the smallest one... to bring them back... I want you to try, Tony. I want you to try with everything you've got."

He looked at her. The woman who knew every crack in his armor. The only one who could ask him to break it all down again—for love.

And for Morgan.

For the daughter who dreamed of a sister she never met.

For Peter, who had looked up to him like he was invincible.

And for Ariel...

For Ariel, who had smiled with stars and ideas in her eyes and left the world too soon, like a song unfinished.

Tony inhaled, shaky. Tired.

But something inside him sparked again.

He stood up slowly, eyes flicking to the hologram on the table—the one he'd nearly abandoned. And now he couldn't. Not after this.

He turned back to Pepper, heart full and aching.

"I have to try," he said at last, voice trembling but steady.

She nodded.

"I know."

Outside, the lake glimmered under the starlight. And somewhere out there, in the silence between breaths, it felt like the world was listening—waiting—for him to rewrite the story.