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The Croissant Mission | Avengers x Teenage Mutant Reader!

Summary:Six in the morning. Paris. Croissants. Easy. But nobody told you that the real challenge would be facing the tiredness you've been running from for weeks.

Content warning:Mild angst, emotional distress, themes of exhaustion and fatigue, anxiety, mentions of past trauma (Ultron), found family dynamics, hurt/comfort, no death of important characters, no graphic violence.

Word count: 4,726

The alarm clock doesn't go off. It never does, because you accidentally disintegrated it last week when you tried to phase through it to turn it off before it could start bothering you. Since then, you've trusted your biological clock, which is as unpredictable as your powers. But this morning, you don't need it. A sharp thud against your bedroom door tears you from sleep.

"Get up, kid!" Tony Stark's voice comes muffled through the metal. "I've got an urgent errand. And no, it's not a bomb. Although if it were, you'd probably have already escaped through the window."

You grunt and bury your face in the pillow for one more second. Just one. Because the next second, you're on your feet, your feet clad in your red and white sneakers —the ones you always wear, even to sleep, because you never know when you'll have to run— and the world stretches around you like warm taffy. The dawn light filters through the curtains in golden threads that, to you, hang motionless in the air. You hear the beat of your own accelerated heart and the electric hum of the Tower waking up. Inhale. Exhale. And then you move.

The soles of your sneakers barely graze the floor as you run, a soft, silent brush that becomes a continuous hum. The hallway is a tunnel of blurred colors. Your feet, protected by the vibrant red of your sneakers, move at a rhythm you barely perceive, because for you, it's as natural as breathing. You pass through the laboratory door without bothering to open it —your body turns to smoke for a fraction of a second, the metallic cold of the wall running over your skin like a gentle current— and you appear in front of Tony with your hair disheveled and your eyes still sleepy.

"It's six in the morning," you say, and your voice comes out with a hint of complaint you can't hide. "What could be so urgent that it can't wait until the sun is fully up?"

Tony doesn't look up from his tablet. He's standing in front of a holographic screen where diagrams of a mechanical arm you don't recognize dance, with a steaming cup of coffee in his left hand his third, you calculate, by the number of dirty cups piled up next to the synthesizer and a two-day beard that gives him a mad scientist look. He smiles without showing his teeth, that smile he uses when he knows he's about to ask you for something ridiculous.

"The sun has nothing to do with this. I need you to go to the bakery on Rue de Rivoli, in Paris. The one with the butter croissants that look like clouds. But not just any ones, I want the ones they take out of the oven at six-thirty on the dot. You have, he looks at his wristwatch, a model probably worth more than a luxury car, exactly twenty-six minutes to go, buy half a dozen, and come back before they get cold."

You blink. The gesture, for you, lasts an eternity. You see how the dust particles dance in the ray of light coming through the skylight, how the coffee in Tony's cup barely vibrates with the pulse of his fingers, how the hologram flickers in nanosecond cycles. You could count every pixel if you wanted to. But instead, you raise an eyebrow.

"Seriously? You wake me up before dawn to bring you croissants?"

"Not bring me. Bring us. Steve has been complaining that the Tower's food tastes like cardboard since FRIDAY updated the menu. And I, as a good leader, look out for team morale." Tony brings the cup to his lips and takes a theatrical sip. "Besides, what better training for a speedster than a mission of chronometric precision? Think of it as... control practice."

"Control practice," you repeat without enthusiasm. The last time you accepted one of his "practice missions," you ended up in Tokyo buying a spare part for his drone that didn't exist in any store because, according to him, "the journey is part of the experience." You came back with trembling legs and a ramen that got cold on the way.

"Two hundred euros," Tony offers, not looking away from the screen. "And I'll let you try the new suit I'm designing for you. The one with the cooling ducts so you don't overheat when you run at Mach 5."

Your curiosity, treacherous as always, awakens. You bit the hook. You know it, he knows it, and Tony's smile widens a millimeter.

"Deal," you say, and you're already spinning on your heels before finishing the word.

The laboratory fades behind you. You pass through the Tower's outer wall without thinking —the reinforced glass becomes a cold gelatin that envelops you for an instant, and then you're in the air, falling thirty stories with the wind whistling in your ears—. You're not scared. Your body knows what to do. You become intangible just before touching the ground, and your feet sink into the asphalt as if it were water before solidifying again and launching yourself forward. The red sole of your sneakers kisses the pavement with a dry click, and then you're already moving.

New York is a blur of lights and shadows when you run. Cars are frozen in traffic, people are statues walking invisible dogs, pigeons hang in the air like toy mobiles. Around you, the world has stopped so you can move forward. That feeling never stops making you a little dizzy, that vertical solitude of being the only living thing in motion. But it's also your favorite moment, because in these seconds —for you, hours— there are no missions, no worries. Just you and the wind.

Paris smells like bread and the Seine River when you arrive. The bakery is an old cream-colored building with striped awnings. You stop right in front, your heart beating faster than normal, and you feel the fatigue starting to nip at your edges. You've traveled more than five thousand kilometers in less time than it takes to blink. Your legs tremble slightly, but you hide it. The baker, an older woman with a white apron and floury hands, doesn't even flinch when you appear at her door; she already knows you from other times.

"The usual?" she asks with an accent that drags the r's.

You nod. She smiles and disappears behind the counter. While you wait, you lean your forehead against the display case glass and watch the croissants lined up like golden soldiers. The smell of melted butter fills your lungs and your stomach growls. You promise yourself you'll steal one before reaching the Tower. Tony will never know.

You do. You return to New York in a sigh, with the warm paper bag in one hand and a half-chewed croissant in the other. You enter the Tower through the main door, this time, because you want to see Steve's face when you arrive with breakfast. But as you cross the lobby, you find him standing in front of the elevator, hands on his hips and that "disappointed captain" expression he's perfected after years of dealing with Tony.

"Again," he says, and his voice has the grave, measured tone he uses when he's about to give you a lecture. "You disappeared without warning. FRIDAY told me you left the Tower at six-oh-three, and then your signal was lost over the Atlantic. Do you know how many protocols are activated when one of the team members drops off the radar?"

You swallow the last bite of croissant and hold up the bag like an offering.

"I brought breakfast. Croissants from Paris. Tony sent me."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. It's a gesture he's adopted in recent months, and it always makes you feel a little guilty because you know it's partly your fault.

"It's not that I don't appreciate breakfast," he says, and his voice softens. "But you have to understand that this is an operations base, not an amusement park. If you run off without saying anything, people worry. I worry."

"I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it, although your fingers are already playing with the edge of the bag, impatient. "But it was a mission. Tony said..."

"I know. Tony always says." He lets out a sigh. "But next time, at least tell FRIDAY to let me know. Deal?"

You nod, and Steve holds your gaze for a second longer, as if looking for signs that you really understood. Then, his expression relaxes and a small smile appears at the corner of his lips.

"Are they the butter ones?"

"The best."

He follows you toward the kitchen, and as you walk, you feel a pull in your side. The fatigue. You used too much speed this morning, and your body reminds you with a dull ache that spreads from your shoulders to your knees. But you don't stop. You can't afford to stop in front of Steve, because then he'd start with the "are you okay?" and "have you rested enough?" questions and you know you'd lie and he'd know and then you'd have to sit down and talk about feelings and that's exactly what you want to avoid.

In the kitchen, Clint is already sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal that has lost all its original texture, turned into a sad mush. He sees you enter and his face lights up.

"Croissants?" he asks, and his voice has the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.

"If you get to them before Thor eats them all." You leave the bag in the center of the table and slide into the chair next to him.

Clint doesn't wait. He opens the bag with the delicacy of a jewel thief and pulls out a croissant that glistens with layers of perfect puff pastry. He takes a bite and closes his eyes with an expression of ecstasy.

"I love you. With all my wrinkled heart, I love you."

"Don't marry me, Clint. I'm still a minor."

Steve sits across from you and takes a croissant more moderately, although he can't hide the small smile that appears when he tries it. For a moment, the kitchen is just that: the crunch of bread, the smell of coffee starting to brew on its own, the morning light coming through the windows. It's almost normal.

But then a thunder rumbles in the hallway, and the door swings open to let Thor in, wearing his red cape and his hammer hanging from his belt, as if he had just returned from a battle instead of coming down from the floor above.

"Little speedster!" he exclaims, and his voice booms off the walls. "I've been looking for you. This morning I saw you cross the sky like a bolt of lightning, and I thought: today will be the day. Today we measure our strength."

You sigh and rest your cheek on your palm.

"Thor, don't start."

"No, no, listen to me." He sits next to you, and the chair creaks under his weight. "In Asgard, we have a test for the swiftest warriors: the Bifrost race. The runner must cross the nine realms and return with proof of their journey before the bridge keeper counts to three." His blue eye gleams with genuine excitement. "I want to adapt it for Midgard. You must go to a place I choose, take an object, and return. And I will try to intercept you."

"Intercept me?" You raise an eyebrow. "Thor, I can walk through walls. How are you going to intercept me?"

"With dignity and honor." He straightens in his seat. "And perhaps a little thunder. Don't worry, I won't throw lightning at you. Just... surprise you."

"That sounds dangerous."

"Exactly! That's why it's exciting!"

Before you can answer, Clint puts down his half-eaten croissant and looks at you with a conspiratorial smile.

"Sign up. I want to see it. And if you can, bring me a souvenir from wherever he sends you."

"You're not helping."

"I never help. It's part of my charm."

Thor jumps up and points at the window with his hammer.

"The first challenge: go to the top of the Empire State, take a photo with the sunset in the background, and return before I can count to ten." He pauses. "But wait... is it still daytime?" He scratches his beard, confused.

"It's seven in the morning, Thor."

"Then... the sunrise? It doesn't matter. The essence is the same!"

"The essence is that you want to see me run because you think it's fun."

"Yes." He admits without shame. "That too. But it's also a test of honor."

You open your mouth to give him an excuse, but then you feel a tingling at the back of your neck. That feeling of being watched. You don't need to turn around to know that Natasha is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that half-smile that says "I already know what you're thinking."

"Don't do it," she says, and her voice is soft but firm. "Last time you accepted one of Thor's challenges, you ended up at the bottom of the Hudson River and he swore that 'water didn't count as an obstacle.'"

"That was an accident," Thor protests.

"You had to go find her with the hammer."

"And I found her! Doesn't the rescue count?"

Natasha looks at you, and there's something in her eyes that tells you she knows exactly how you're feeling: the fatigue, the pressure to prove you're not just "the kid" on the team, the need to be useful. But she also knows you're fifteen years old and that you should be in school, not running around the world to satisfy a god's ego.

"You have dark circles," Natasha says, simply. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Enough."

You lie, and she knows it. But she doesn't insist. Instead, she walks over to the table, takes a croissant with feline movements, and takes an elegant bite.

"Tony had you running early, Thor wants you for another race, Steve already gave you the lecture," she lists. "And Bruce? What did Bruce do?"

"He's in the lab" Clint answers. "I think he's trying to create a serum that doesn't turn him into the other green guy every time he gets angry. Or that, or he's watching polar bear documentaries. You never know with him."

"I'll go see him," you say, and you get up from the chair with more energy than you actually feel. You need a moment of peace. A place where no one asks you for anything.

The kitchen stays behind as you walk toward Bruce's lab. Your steps are slow, because there's no hurry now and because each stride reminds you that you've spent energy like water. The Tower is quiet in this hallway; you only hear the hum of the systems and the distant echo of the city down below. The red sole of your sneakers makes a soft rub against the metal floor, an almost hypnotic sound that accompanies you like a constant heartbeat.

When you arrive, you don't knock. You phase through the door directly, and you appear in the middle of the room with a soft rush of air. Bruce is sitting in front of a microscope, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a notebook open beside him. When he sees you appear, he gives a small start, but he doesn't jump like he used to.

"You know," he says, not looking up, "you could use the door. I've asked you like twenty times."

"It's faster this way."

"Faster, yes. And less likely to give me a heart attack."

You smile and approach the workbench. There are test tubes, charts, a cup of tea that must already be cold. You see he has a drawing in the notebook: a diagram of the molecular structure of something you don't understand.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to stabilize a formula that mitigates the effects of adrenaline on my system," he responds, and his voice becomes more animated when he talks about his work. "If I can keep my beta receptors within a safe range during stressful situations, maybe I can... well, avoid the Other Guy coming out for a walk every time someone yells at me."

"Does it work?"

"No." He sighs and takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. "I've been at this for three weeks and I've only managed to lower my heart rate by two percent. But it's a start."

You sit on the edge of the table, legs dangling, and watch his hands as he handles a pipette. Bruce is calm, meticulous; everything about him is slow and calculated. He is the exact opposite of you, who can barely stay still for five minutes without feeling like the world is falling behind.

"Do you think one day I'll stop getting tired so fast?" you ask, and the question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Bruce looks at you then, for the first time, and his eyes behind the glasses soften.

"Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't hurt. It's like... like my body gets heavy. Like my legs don't want to move. And then, when I go back to normal, everything feels slow and blurry."

He nods slowly.

"It's your limit. We all have one. The trick isn't to ignore it, but to learn to listen to it." He points to his own chest. "I have to listen to mine too. If I don't, well... you know what happens."

"But you're the Hulk. When you transform, you're unstoppable."

"And you're the fastest speedster on this planet. Don't forget that." He puts down the pipette and turns fully toward you. "But being fast doesn't mean you have to run all the time. Sometimes, the greatest strength is knowing when to stop."

A beep sounds from the hallway. FRIDAY's voice filters through the speakers:

"Miss, Mr. Stark is looking for you in the main lab. He says he has a 'croissant-level emergency.'"

Bruce rolls his eyes.

"He's teasing you."

"I know." You slide off the table and stretch, feeling your bones crack. "But I'll go anyway. Because if I don't, he'll start sending me messages every three seconds and I won't be able to concentrate on anything."

"Don't run," Bruce says, in a soft warning tone. "Walk. The world isn't going to end if you take a minute to get there."

You nod, although you know you won't do it. As you leave the lab, you walk a couple of steps. Then, the temptation is too strong. The hallway stretches before you, empty and straight, and you feel the energy bubbling up in your chest again. Just a little. A short run. Just to feel the wind again. The brush of your sneakers against the metal is a whisper that becomes a whistle, and then nothing.

Your body moves before your mind can stop it.

The Tower becomes a tunnel of metal and lights. You pass by Clint, who is in the gym practicing archery, and your step blows his papers around. You pass by Steve, who is talking to Maria Hill on the bridge, and your speed makes his coffee spill a little on the table. You pass by Thor, who is in the common room watching an action movie —because according to him, "the warriors of Midgard know how to tell exciting stories"— and your passage makes the TV flicker for an instant.

You reach Tony's lab in less than a second.

"Kid!" he exclaims when you appear in front of him, breathless but smiling. "Just in time. Look at this."

He points to a screen where there's a design of a silver suit with blue lines that glow faintly.

"Is it the suit you talked about?"

"Not just that. I've added a kinetic feedback system. When you run, the suit will absorb part of the energy from your movement and convert it into additional thrust. Basically, it will make you faster without you spending as much energy." He pauses, and his smile softens. "I've been watching how tired you get after every run. I thought this might help."

You blink. You didn't expect that. Tony Stark, the selfish genius, the one who sends you to buy croissants and coffee in Paris as if you were his personal messenger, has taken the time to design something for you. To help you.

"Tony..."

"Don't get too excited. It's still in the testing phase. It will probably explode the first time you use it. But when it does, it will be spectacular."

You laugh, and the sound fills the lab.

"Thank you," you say, and the word weighs more than it seems.

He nods, uncomfortable with the sincerity, and looks back at the screen.

"Now, get out of here. I have to finish this before Steve kills me over the spilled coffee."

"How did you know about the coffee?"

"FRIDAY told me. And that Natasha is laughing at you in the training room."

You sigh and turn to leave. But before disappearing, you stop for a second.

"Tony."

"What?"

"The croissants were good. But next time, send one of your robots."

And you disappear, leaving behind a laugh that still echoes in the lab.

The hallway is empty when you reappear, and for a moment, silence envelops you like a blanket. The hum of the Tower, that constant murmur of machinery and life, seems muffled, distant. You lean your back against the cold metal wall and close your eyes. The fatigue weighs on your eyelids like you're carrying lead hanging from your lashes. Every muscle in your body vibrates with a deep tiredness, the kind that isn't cured with a nap, but with whole days of rest you never get. The red sole of your sneakers rests against the floor, and for a moment you realize that even they seem tired, as if they had traveled more kilometers than they should in a single morning.

But you can't stop. Not completely. Because if you stop, you start thinking about Ultron, about the threat lurking in the servers, about the nightmares Tony doesn't tell you about but that you hear through the walls when he thinks he's alone. And then fear coils in your stomach like a cold snake.

You open your eyes and take a deep breath. The air in the Tower has a characteristic smell: clean metal, ozone from the generators, the perpetual coffee Tony leaves cooling in his cups, and a touch of the floral perfume Natasha uses. It's the smell of your home now. A strange home, full of superheroes and secrets, but a home nonetheless.

You walk —slowly, this time you really walk— toward the common room. Maybe you'll find someone to share the silence with. Maybe you'll just sit on the couch and stare out the window until the clouds move. But the universe, as always, has other plans.

The sound of firm, authoritative footsteps echoes in the hallway before you can reach your destination. You recognize that step. It's the step of someone who doesn't walk to get somewhere, but to remind the world they're present. You turn and find Maria Hill, her suit impeccably pressed, her hair pulled back in a perfect bun, her gray eyes fixed on you like two pins. She carries a tablet under her arm and an expression that can only be described as "I'm about to make you feel very small."

"You," she says, and the word is a shot.

You stand still. Not because you want to, but because her presence has that effect. It's as if Maria Hill was born with the ability to make people stop and pay attention, even without superpowers.

"Me?" you answer, and your voice sounds smaller than you'd like.

"Yes, you. The speedster who disappears without warning, who walks through walls as if they were paper, who leaves a trail of spilled coffee and flying papers in her wake." She steps forward, and her voice gets colder, sharper. "Do you know what I saw ten minutes ago on the bridge? I saw Steve Rogers, cleaning up the coffee you spilled when you ran past like an exhale. And it wasn't just any coffee. It was the only one he had managed to make all morning without Tony stealing it or Thor accidentally spilling it."

You blink. The image of Steve cleaning up your mess fills you with guilt. Your fingers twist in the edge of your shirt, a nervous gesture you can't control. The red and white sneakers suddenly seem heavier, as if the floor itself were holding you down.

"I... it wasn't on purpose. I was going to Tony's lab and..."

"And you decided the rules don't apply to you," Hill interrupts, and her voice hardens even more. "The rules, kid, exist for a reason. Stark Tower is not an amusement park. It's an operations base. There are security protocols, restricted areas, sensitive equipment here. When you appear out of nowhere in the middle of a hallway, you trigger sensors, set off alarms, and make the security staff lose years of life." She pauses and looks you up and down, stopping for a moment on your red sneakers with white accents, as if recognizing them as part of your identity. "And that's not to mention the fact that you disappeared off the radar this morning for almost seven minutes."

"I went to Paris," you say, and it sounds so ridiculous when you say it out loud that you almost laugh. But Hill's gaze leaves no room for laughter.

"Yes, I know. FRIDAY informed me. And she also informed me that you didn't have authorization to leave the Tower without notifying a liaison officer." She takes another step closer. Now she's close enough for you to see the small lines of tiredness around her eyes, the ones she hides with makeup and determination. "You're fifteen years old. You're a minor under the supervision of this team. Do you understand what that means?"

You lower your gaze. Your red sneakers with white accents look small against the metal floor, but also vibrant, like a reminder that you're always in motion.

"It means I can't do whatever I want," you murmur.

"It means that if something happens to you, I'm the one who has to explain to S.H.I.E.L.D. why an unstable mutant teenager disappeared over the Atlantic without prior notice." Her voice softens just a little, enough for you to notice there's concern beneath the harshness. "It's not just bureaucracy. It's not just protocol. It's that there are people here who care about you. Steve, Natasha, even Tony, though he'll never admit it. And when you disappear, they worry. I worry."

The emotional blow hits you without warning. Your eyes get watery and you blink fast to hold it back. Your sneakers shift slightly, a reflex of your desire to run away, but you force yourself to stay.

"I'm sorry," you say, and this time the word comes out with more weight than before. "I'm really sorry. I didn't think... I usually don't think, I just... run."

Hill exhales slowly. It's a tired sound, like she's had this conversation a thousand times before with much less understanding people.

"That's exactly the problem." She points to the tablet under her arm. "I've been reviewing your activity logs since you arrived. In the last two weeks, you've used your powers on average thirty-seven times a day. Thirty-seven. That's more than any other member of the team, including Tony with his damn gauntlets. And of those thirty-seven, at least twenty had no strategic purpose. They were just... because."

"It helps me think," you say, and the excuse sounds weak even to you.

"Does it help you think? Or does it help you avoid thinking?" She stares at you, and you feel like she's seeing right through you, as if she could read every thought you've tried to bury under layers of speed. "Because I've noticed you run more when you're nervous. When something's worrying you. When Ultron appears in the news or when Tony has one of his closed-door meetings. You run so you don't have to stand still, because if you stand still, you have to face what you feel."

The air leaves your lungs. No one had ever said that to you before. No one had ever seen you so clearly. Your sneakers seem to vibrate against the floor, as if they wanted to carry you away from this conversation, but your feet stay firm.

"I don't know how to do it," you whisper, and your voice breaks. "I don't know how to be still without everything spilling over."

Hill is silent for a moment. Then, to your surprise, she steps back and her expression softens. Even her shoulders, which are always tense as violin strings, seem to relax a little.

"I don't know either. I'm not an expert on feelings." She pauses and almost, almost, manages a smile. "But I do know one thing: you can't run forever. At some point, your legs will fail you. And then you'll be alone, exhausted, and without having solved anything."

You swallow. Your fingers play with the edge of your shirt, a nervous gesture you can't control. Your sneakers, for the first time all day, are completely still.

"So, what am I supposed to do?"

"What everyone does. Stop. Breathe. Ask for help." She shrugs. "It's not complicated, but it's hard. I have trouble with it myself. But at least I recognize it exists."

For the first time since the conversation began, you feel the weight in your chest lift a little. It doesn't disappear, but it becomes more bearable. As if Hill's words had opened a small crack in the wall you've built around yourself.

"Can we... can we start over?" you ask, and your voice trembles. "I promise I'll try to warn before I leave. And I promise I won't run so much inside the Tower. Well, I won't run all the time. I'll try to walk more."

Hill watches you for a long moment. Her gray eyes scan your face, looking for signs that you're truly committed. Then she slowly nods.

"Start over. Okay. But I have conditions." She raises a finger. "First: you're going to help Steve clean up the coffee you spilled. Second: you're going to talk to Bruce about your fatigue. He can help you find ways to manage your energy without exhausting yourself. And third: you're going to come to my office every two days to report your status. Not so I can scold you, but so you can make sure you're not disappearing on the map mentally. Deal?"

You nod, and this time you do it with conviction. Your sneakers shift slightly, not to run, but to affirm your stance.

"Deal."

Hill smiles. It's a small, fleeting, but genuine smile. For a moment, you see the person behind the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, the woman who carries the weight of coordinating a team of gods and geniuses and who, despite everything, finds time to worry about a mutant teenager.

"Good. Now go find Steve before he finishes cleaning everything up by himself. And, by the way," she adds as she turns around, "the croissants were good. But next time, bring some chocolate ones too. They improve my mood."

You stay there, in the middle of the hallway, watching her walk away with her firm, authoritative step. The hum of the Tower returns to fill your ears, but this time it doesn't feel overwhelming. It's like a mechanical lullaby, one that reminds you you're not alone.

You take a deep breath. The air smells like coffee and metal, like home. You look down and see your red sneakers, still against the floor. For a moment, you think about all the times they've traveled the world with you, all the kilometers they've accumulated, all the walls they've passed through. And you realize that, although you're always ready to run, sometimes it's okay to stay still.

You walk toward the kitchen, slowly, feeling every step. The red sole of your sneakers makes a soft rub against the floor, a rhythmic sound that accompanies you like a constant heartbeat. You don't run. You don't disappear. You just walk, and the world doesn't stop, but it doesn't speed up either. It's right where it should be.

When you reach the kitchen, you see Steve still there, a rag in his hand and an expression of resignation. When he sees you enter, he raises an eyebrow.

"Did you come to help or to watch?"

"To help," you say, and take the rag he offers you. "But also to talk. Do you think Bruce is still in his lab?"

Steve looks at you, and this time his smile is wider.

"I think so. Why?"

"Because I need to ask him for help. And," you pause, feeling the weight of your own words, "I think I'm finally ready to listen."

Steve nods, and there's pride in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. Sometimes, words are unnecessary.

The sun comes through the windows and bathes the kitchen in golden light. Outside, New York awakens with its eternal bustle. But inside the Tower, in this small instant, everything is calm. And you, for the first time in a long time, allow yourself to stay there, in the present, without running anywhere. Your red sneakers rest against the floor, and for a moment, the world feels exactly as it should be.

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