The weeks after the airport clash stretched into a tense, humid New York summer. Alex tried to keep routine—morning runs along the East River, afternoon strategy sessions with Aether, evenings with Gwen—but the fracture in the hero community cast long shadows. News cycles looped the Leipzig footage endlessly. Accords enforcement teams raided safehouses. Rumors swirled about Steve's underground network, Tony's guilt-driven isolation, Natasha walking her own razor's edge.
Alex felt every fracture like static under his skin.
Gwen noticed the change first. He was quieter during their dates—more watchful, less present. She didn't push, but she adapted: longer silences where she simply sat beside him, hand on his knee, letting him feel the anchor of her presence.
One sticky August evening they escaped to the roof of his building—private access he'd quietly installed. City lights glittered below like scattered stars. Gwen wore one of his old MIT hoodies, sleeves rolled up, hair loose and curling in the humidity. Alex leaned against the railing, staring south toward Manhattan.
"You're doing it again," she said softly.
"Doing what?"
"Carrying the whole damn world."
He exhaled through his nose. "Feels like if I don't, it falls apart faster."
Gwen stepped closer, slipping her arms around his waist from behind, cheek against his shoulder blade. "You're allowed to breathe, Alex."
He covered her hands with his, feeling the warmth of her palms seep through. "I breathe when I'm with you."
She pressed a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. "Then stay here. Just for tonight."
He turned in her arms, cupping her face. Their eyes met—hers steady, searching; his conflicted but softening. The city noise faded to a distant hum.
"I don't want to drag you into this," he murmured.
"You're not dragging. I'm walking in with both eyes open." Her thumb traced the line of his jaw. "And I'm not scared of the dark parts."
The kiss that followed was slow at first—tentative, almost careful—then deeper, hungrier. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently; his hands found the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. Heat bloomed between them, not just from the summer night but from everything unspoken: fear, need, the desperate want to claim something normal and real amid chaos.
When they broke apart, breathing uneven, foreheads pressed together, Gwen whispered against his lips:
"I want more nights like this. More mornings. More of you—not the shadow version who disappears into strategy rooms at 3 a.m."
Alex swallowed. "I want that too. More than anything."
"Then fight for it." Her voice cracked just slightly. "Not with drones or Aether. With me."
He kissed her again—fiercer this time, like a promise. When they finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.
"I'm trying," he said quietly. "Every day, I'm trying."
She smiled—small, real, a little sad. "Then let me try with you."
They stayed on the roof until the sky began to lighten, wrapped in each other, talking in murmurs about nothing and everything. No grand plans. Just the quiet certainty that whatever storm came next, they'd face it side by side.
The next afternoon, Natasha appeared.
Alex was in the KaneTech office—glass walls overlooking the city—when the door opened without a knock. She stepped in wearing civilian clothes: dark jeans, leather jacket, hair pulled into a low ponytail. No smile, but no hostility either.
"Romanoff," he greeted, not surprised. Aether had flagged her approach ten minutes earlier.
"Kane." She closed the door. "You've been busy."
"Always am."
She walked to the window, looking out at the skyline. "Siberia's done. Zemo's in custody. Tony knows about the video. Steve and Bucky are ghosts again."
Alex leaned against his desk. "I know."
She turned, eyes sharp. "You sent the file."
He didn't deny it. "You gave me the drive."
A faint smirk. "Touché."
Silence stretched—charged, assessing.
Natasha broke it first. "You're not just a tech guy with a conscience. You read people like code. You see the fractures before they crack open." She stepped closer—slow, deliberate. "And you still try to hold them together."
"I try," he said quietly.
She studied him. "That's dangerous. People like us… we don't get to keep the people we care about safe forever."
His mind flashed to Gwen—her laugh, her touch, the way she looked at him like he was still human under the layers of copied power.
"I'm not giving up on forever," he said.
Natasha's expression softened—just a fraction. "I used to believe in that too."
Another beat. Then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a small, matte-black card—no name, no logo, just a frequency code printed in silver.
"If you ever need an exit—or an entrance—use this. One-time burn. My personal line."
Alex took it. Their fingers brushed. No DNA harvest. Just contact.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you remind me there was a time I wanted more than survival." She turned toward the door. "And because the next time the world breaks, I'd rather have someone like you on the same side of the line—even if it's a line of one."
She paused at the threshold. "Tell your girl she's lucky. And tell her to keep you human."
Then she was gone—silent, efficient, a shadow slipping through cracks.
Alex stared at the card for a long moment.
Later that evening, he met Gwen at their diner. She slid into the booth, eyes searching his face.
"Rough day?"
He reached across, took her hand. "Better now."
She smiled—soft, knowing. "Good. Because I'm not letting you disappear tonight."
He laced their fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."
The interface pinged faintly in the back of his mind—Natasha's card already scanned, frequency logged—but he silenced it.
For once, the system could wait.
Tonight was for heartbeats, not projections.
For promises whispered over cheap coffee.
For the slow, steady burn of something real growing stronger amid the coming storm.
(Word count: 1002)