Chapter Text
The spring air hit her like a slap, too bright, too sharp, as she burst through the Smithsonian doors. Each nerve ending seemed to fire at once. She needed distance–from the museum, from the memories, from herself.
Sweat beaded instantly at her temples as she set off down the crowded sidewalk, weaving between tourists clutching maps and locals with coffee cups. The Washington Monument stood in the distance, indifferent to her turmoil. Her lungs burned, not from exertion, but from holding her breath as if exhaling might release whatever dangerous energy coiled within her.
“On your left,” a voice called out, deep and warm–familiar.
Isabelle’s rhythm faltered, her heels scuffing against the pavement.
Sam.
Of course, he’d followed her. She fixed her eyes on the sidewalk ahead, his footsteps behind her, steady, measured, patient.
“You know,” he said, easily keeping pace beside her, “I was pretty sure I had you back there with my ‘stoically posing’ joke. Most people at least give me a pity laugh. But you?” He let out a low whistle. “Ice cold, Stark. That’s some impressive commitment to the brooding aesthetic.”
Isabelle couldn’t stop her lips from quirking upward. Not quite a smile. She wasn’t ready to surrender that much. It was more of an involuntary response to his determined lightheartedness. The tingling beneath her skin receded slightly.
“I’ve had practice,” she managed, her voice rough. “Growing up with Tony Stark means developing immunity to bad jokes. It’s an evolutionary adaptation.”
Sam clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes widening in mock offense. “Bad jokes? You wound me, Iz.”
A group of schoolchildren rushed past them, their backpacks bouncing, as their excited chatter momentarily drowned out their back-and-forth. Isabelle used the distraction to steal a glance at Sam. His expression was casual, but his eyes were watchful, assessing.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, picking up her pace again. “The whole following-me-to-make-sure-I’m okay thing. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam nodded, completely unconvinced. “And I just jog in Italian leather dress shoes for the cardiovascular benefits.” He gestured down at his footwear. He looked back up at her, expression softening slightly. “Look, I’m not here to push. But whatever happened back there,” he nodded back toward the museum, “has got you looking like you’re about to either bolt into traffic or punch a monument. Both of which would probably make tomorrow’s new cycle and give Rhodes an aneurysm.”
Isabelle’s lips twitched, and a reluctant laugh escaped her, surprising them both. It felt foreign in her throat, like a language she’d forgotten how to speak.
“There she is,” Sam said softly, a genuine smile warming his features.
They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the space between them–car horns, snippets of conversations, a street musician playing saxophone near a metro entrance.
“How’ve you been, Iz?” Sam’s voice was gentler now, probing carefully. He shifted his weight, hands sliding into his pockets. “I haven’t seen you since…since…”
“The funeral?” Isabelle finished for him, finally slowing to a stop.
She finally met his eyes but quickly pivoted, taking in their surroundings. The realization of where they stood hit her with unexpected force. The memory flickered in her mind–Sam and Steve, both breathing hard from their morning run, Natasha’s sly smile as she revved the engine.
“Can you believe we met here ten years ago?”
“Please don’t,” Sam groaned, pressing a hand to his chest. “My knees remind me how old I am every morning without your help.” His eyes clouded briefly, looking past her into that distant memory before snapping back to her face. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that deflection. Pro move, but I invented that game.” He leaned against the nearby railing, positioning himself where she couldn’t easily slip away without being obvious. “How are you really holding up? And don’t give me the run-around answer you’ve been feeding everyone else.”
Isabelle exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders slump as the adrenaline from her confrontation with Christine ebbed away
“I’m…” she started, then shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. Several strands caught between her knuckles, and she tugged her fingers free with a wince. “How exactly am I supposed to be, Sam? Half the world thinks I should be grateful for the ‘sacrifice,’” she made air quotes with her fingers, “and the other half thinks I’m not grieving hard enough. What’s the appropriate reaction when your father saves the universe but leaves you behind? Again.”
Sam’s eyes softened, not with pity– he knew she’d sooner walk into traffic than accept pity–but with something worse: understanding. He nodded towards a bench nestled beneath a flowering cherry tree, pink petals occasionally drifting down in the spring breeze.
“Let’s take five,” he suggested, his tone making it not quite a request but not an order either.
Isabelle’s muscles tensed, her body urging her to keep moving, to run until her lungs burned and her thoughts quieted. But something in Sam’s gaze made her hesitate. She’d seen that look before—in safe houses across Europe, in the quiet moments after nightmares when her powers had threatened to spiral out of control, when he’d sit with her until her breathing steadied.
“Fine,” she muttered, dropping onto the bench, the wood creaking in protest.
Sam settled beside her, close enough to feel his warmth but not so close that she felt trapped.
“You know what I think about sometimes?” he asked, tilting his face toward the sun. “That morning, Steve and I met. How different everything might’ve been if I’d decided to hit snooze. No Captain America breathing down my neck with his ‘on your left’ nonsense, no aliens, no...” He paused, glancing at her profile. “No getting to know the most stubborn Stark in existence.”
Isabelle watched a cherry blossom drift down, landing on the toe of her boot. “The multiverse of what-ifs,” she murmured. “Dangerous territory, Wilson.”
“Yeah, well.” Sam shrugged, shoulders moving beneath his tailored jacket. “Dangerous is kinda our brand at this point.”
The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid. A child’s laughter rang out somewhere nearby, the sound so carefree it made Isabelle’s chest ache.
“It’s okay not to have your shit together, you know,” Sam said finally, leaning forward to catch her eye.
Isabelle’s fingers twisted in her lap, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve until it unraveled further.
“I should,” she muttered, more to herself than Sam. “I should know how to handle this by now. After mom died, after the snap, after...” Her throat constricted around the words. “After Dad.” She clenched her jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath her skin. “It’s like grief is the only thing I’m good at anymore.”
“Bullshit,” Sam said, the word sharp but his tone gentle. He shifted on the bench to face her more fully, his eyes locked on hers. “That’s complete and utter bullshit, Stark.”
Isabelle blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness.
“You’re good at plenty,” he continued, counting off on his fingers. “You’re good at making rookie agents wet themselves with just a look—a skill I’ve personally witnessed and deeply respect. You’re good at ordering and drinking those sugar abominations you call coffee that would give a normal human being cardiac arrest.” His lips quirked up. “Seriously, how you drink those without your heart exploding is beyond medical science.”
A reluctant half-smile tugged at Isabelle’s mouth, but Sam wasn’t finished.
“You’re good at seeing a fight before it happens,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “Mexico City. Before the Accords mess.” His eyes took on that focused intensity she’d seen on countless missions. “Those mercenaries—”
“Serpent Society,” Isabelle corrected, nose scrunching. “Such a stupid name.”
“Agreed, but not the point,” Sam agreed, a flash of his old humor returning. “They got the drop on us, hit us from three sides, completely outnumbered. Steve pinned down, Nat outgunned, and I tried to get aerial coverage when they brought out the heavy artillery. You saw what nobody else did,” Sam continued, leaning forward slightly. “That merc had Wanda in his sights. A clean shot to her shoulder, maybe worse. And you made him double over with some kind of stomach cramp.”
“Appendicitis,” Isabelle said quietly, flexing her fingers. “Localized. Temporary. Enough to drop him but not kill him.”
Sam’s eyes tracked the movement of her hands. “Precise. Controlled.” His gaze lifted to meet hes. “And let’s not forget,” he added, his voice lower still, “you nearly shattered every bone in Thanos’s body.”
Isabelle curled her fingers into a fist at the memory—the feeling of her powers surging through her veins, of Thanos’s alien physiology yielding under her influence. She remembered the resistance of his bones as they began to splinter under her concentration, the way his face had contorted in shock before understanding dawned in his eyes.
“Would’ve worked too,” Sam said, an edge of bitterness hardening his voice. “If that purple bastard hadn’t cheated and reversed it with the time stone,”
Isabelle traced the lines of her palm with her thumb, biting her lip. “Didn’t matter in the end, did it?” The words tasted ashen in her mouth.
“It mattered,” Sam countered, firm but gentle. “You’ve always fought for what’s right,” Sam continued, his eyes holding hers with unwavering certainty. “Even when it costs you everything.” He shifted on the bench, turning more fully toward her. “You stood with Steve when the Accords tore the team apart. Protected Wanda when half the world wanted her locked up or worse.” His voice softened. “You chose to help Barnes, knowing everything he’d done to your family.”
Another cherry blossom drifted down, landing on the shoulder of Sam’s jacket. Isabelle reached out automatically to brush it away, her fingers hovering just above the fabric before she pulled back.
“There’s no manual for this,” Sam said, watching her withdraw. “No right way to grieve.” He paused, a shadow crossing his features. “And there’s sure as hell no ‘should’ about any of it.”
“I just—” Her throat constricted around the words, frustration burning behind her eyes. The words burned behind her eyes, hot and caustic, rebelling against the admission. She inhaled sharply through her nose, chest heavig. “It’s like I’m supposed to be this... this perfectly functioning person again. Everyone wants me to step back in line. Stark heir. Avengr, whatever the hell I’m supposed to be now.”
Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. She jabbed a finger toward the Smithsonian.
“And all of that—” Her voice dropped, hardening to something brittle and dangerous. “I’m supposed to care about Steve’s shield? About his legacy? About any of it?”
The venom in her voice surprised even her. She felt Sam stiffen beside her, saw his shoulders square almost imperceptibly. His breath hitched—just for a millisecond—before he exhaled slowly through his nose, a controlled release of tension she recognized from countless missions.
Isabelle looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Her chest constricted as though someone had wrapped metal bands around her ribs and was slowly tightening them. The cherry blossoms blurred into pink smudges as tears threatened, and she blinked rapidly, her jaw clenched so hard it ached. She would not cry—not here, not now.
“Steve cared about you, Iz,” Sam said finally, his voice measured, careful. Too careful. The diplomat’s voice. The counselor’s voice.
A laugh tore from Isabelle’s throat—harsh, jagged, nothing like her normal laugh.
“Cared about me?” She turned to face Sam fully, each word sharp as broken glass. “That’s what you’re going with? He cared?”
She shot to her feet, unable to look at him. The bench suddenly felt like a trap, a confinement she couldn’t bear.
“My father flies a nuclear weapon into space, nearly dies. Then, years later, he snaps his fingers to save the universe and succeeds in killing himself. Very heroic.” Her hands trembled, not with grief but with something hotter, more volatile. “Meanwhile, Steve—Captain America, our fearless leader—takes a little time-travel joyride and just... decides not to come back?”
The anger that had been simmering beneath her skin for months finally boiled over. She couldn’t stay still, pacing the length of the bench, unable to contain the energy coursing through her.
“He abandoned us, Sam.” She stopped abruptly, the full force of her gaze locking onto him. “One kiss from Peggy Carter seventy years ago, and suddenly that’s worth more than everything we built together? The family we became?”
Sam remained still, his face carefully neutral, which only fueled her rage. She wanted a reaction—needed one—anything to validate the storm inside her.
“And now?” She flung her arm toward the Smithsonian, where Christine Everhart was probably still standing in front of the Captain America exhibit, notebook in hand. “Now we’re supposed to celebrate Captain America’s noble sacrifice? Put his shield in a glass case and pretend he was this perfect symbol instead of a man who made choices—selfish choices—that hurt real people?” Her voice dropped, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks in her armor. “What about us, Sam? What about the people who stayed? The ones left picking up the pieces while they get immortalized as heroes?”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The lines around his eyes deepened—not with judgment but with something that mirrored her own exhaustion.
“Iz,” he began, his gaze never leaving her face. “I hear you. And I get that anger. But Steve was tired. Bone-deep tired of the fight—”
“So was I!” The words exploded from her, echoing across the park.
A nearby couple startled, then quickly averted their eyes. Isabelle forced herself to lower her voice, but couldn’t disguise its tremor.
“You think I wasn’t exhausted?” Her voice cracked on the last word, sharp and humiliating. “I lost everything fighting. Fighting alongside him, fighting for him.” She swept her arm across the park and the city beyond, encompassing the world they’d saved at such cost. “I watched my father die, Sam. I didn’t just see it. I felt it.” Her hand pressed against her sternum, where phantom pain still bloomed in her nightmares. “Every cell in his body shutting down. Every nerve ending burning out.” Her breath hitched. “I felt his heart stop.”
A tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away.
“And then I come back, trying to figure out how to live in a world without him, and Steve—” Her voice fractured. “Steve, who promised he’d be there, who swore that he understood what it meant to lose everything...” She shook her head, unable to finish.
Sam stood slowly, his movements deliberate as though approaching a wounded animal. His eyes widened slightly, comprehension dawning across his features. “I didn’t know,” he breathed, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t know you felt this way about Steve leaving. Not like this.” He took a careful step toward her. “Iz, he—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand, taking a step back, the distance between them suddenly crucial to her composure. “Don’t defend him to me. Not today.” Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind an emptiness more terrifying than the rage. “Maybe not ever.”
Sam’s hand hovered in the space between them, not quite reaching for her but unwilling to retreat.
“Iz, I can’t even begin to imagine what that felt like,” he said softly, “but I know it hurts,” he continued, finally bridging the gap to touch her shoulder. “But Steve…he didn’t make that decision lightly.” Sam’s eyes searched hers, earnest and troubled. “And it might not seem like it right now, but he cared about you. All of us.” His grip tightened slightly, grounding her. “Sometimes... sometimes people have to make hard choices, even if it means hurting the ones they love.”
“Hard choices?” she echoed, the words bitter on her tongue. She jerked away from his touch, feeling her power surge in response to her emotions, a familiar tingling behind her eyes. “He was selfish, Sam. Plain and simple.”
She expected Sam to argue, to defend Steve as he always had. To trot out the same tired lines about sacrifice and duty and the greater good. But when she met his gaze, something in his expression made her falter. It wasn’t an agreement exactly, but uncertainty shadowed his eyes, and beneath it, a flicker of doubt that she’d never seen before when it came to Steve Rogers.
Sam ran his thumb across his lower lip, a habit she’d witnessed countless times during mission debriefs when he was working through a tactical problem.
“You know,” he finally said, his voice lighter but not dismissive, “I worked really hard on that speech back there that you completely ignored.” He jerked his head toward the Smithsonian. He tapped his jacket pocket. “Index cards and everything.”
Isabelle felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, just a fraction—a nearly imperceptible shift that Sam would notice because Sam noticed everything. The tightness in her jaw eased, the burning behind her eyes cooling. She recognized what he was doing—the tactical retreat. It was a dance they’d perfected over years of friendship, knowing when to push and when to offer breathing room.
“Index cards?” Isabelle arched an eyebrow, grateful for the lifeline he’d thrown her. “Seriously?”
“Mock me all you want, Stark, but organization is key.” Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners, the tension around his mouth softening. “Blue cards for the inspirational bits—you know, the ‘legacy of heroes’ stuff that makes people misty-eyed. Yellow for jokes.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Which, by the way, was absolute gold. Your loss.”
A laugh escaped her—small and rusty, like a door hinge unused for too long. The sound surprised her, foreign to her own ears. When was the last time she’d genuinely laughed? Before the funeral, certainly. Maybe even before the final battle. The realization settled in her chest, heavy and cold.
Sam nudged her shoulder with his, the contact brief but grounding. His expression shifted, the playfulness receding to reveal something more substantial beneath.
“Look,” he said, voice dropping to that particular register he used when cutting through bullshit. “I know this isn’t easy. Some days, I wake up, and it’s like the world is spinning too fast. Can’t catch my breath, can’t find my footing.”
The honesty in his admission caught her off guard. Sam was always the steady one, the rock when everything else crumbled. Hearing the edge of vulnerability in his voice made her chest tighten.
“But maybe,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, “embracing the future means finding a way to move forward, even when it feels impossible.”
“How do you do it?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, smaller and more desperate than she’d intended. She cleared her throat, tried again. “How do we just... move forward? When everything’s changed, when people we thought would always be there just... aren’t?”
“Well, for starters,” Sam said, his gaze direct and unflinching, “when I call you, you don’t put me straight to voicemail like you’ve been doing for the past six months.”
The words weren’t meant to hurt, but to wake her up. They still stung, though. Heat crawled up her neck, settling in her cheeks.
“I don’t know who’s worse,” Sam continued, shaking his head with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You or Barnes. Neither of you answer your goddamn phones.” A short laugh escaped him, more exasperation than humor. “He may have an excuse; I’m not convinced the old man knows how they work. Might still think they have rotary dials.” His gaze locked on hers, the humor evaporating. “But you? Radio silence for months, Iz. Not even a text to let me know you were breathing.”
The accusation in his voice wasn’t loud—Sam Wilson never needed volume to make his point—but it resonated through her all the same.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words inadequate but sincere. “I was in Europe—”
“‘I was in Europe,’“ Sam mimicked, voice rising in a poor imitation of hers before dropping back to its normal register. “Yeah, Rhodes mentioned that. Said you bounced pretty much after the funeral.”
Isabelle’s eyes dropped to the ground. The grass beneath her feet suddenly became fascinating—each blade distinct, some trampled flat by passing tourists, others stubbornly reaching upward. She could still feel the weight of the wreath in her hands as she’d placed it on the lake six months ago, watching it float away on gentle ripples. The memory of Morgan’s small hand in hers, squeezing so tight it hurt.
After the funeral, she’d run. Paris first, then Rome, Berlin, Prague. Cities where no one knew her face, where Stark wasn’t a household name, where she could walk down streets without seeing her father’s face on memorial murals. Places that didn’t feel like home because home didn’t exist anymore.
“Look, I—” she started, but Sam cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not done,” he said, a little too harshly. “You don’t ignore me. That’s not how this works.” He tapped his chest, then pointed at her. “We’re friends. We stick together. That’s the deal.” The muscle in his jaw worked as he swallowed, his eyes softening just enough that Isabelle felt something crack inside her chest. “Even when it hurts,” he added, quieter now. “Especially when it hurts.”
Isabelle’s throat constricted, the pressure building behind her eyes threatening to spill over. She opened her mouth, but the words dissolved before they could form. Sam had never spoken to her this way – had never needed to. The gentle reprimand stripped away her carefully constructed defenses, leaving her exposed in a way that made her skin prickle with vulnerability.
“I needed space,” she finally managed, the words coming out more defensive than she’d intended. She hated how defensive she sounded, how the statement hung in the air like a flimsy excuse. Her thumb worked over her knuckles, pressing hard enough to feel the bone beneath. “Everything here was just... too much.”
“Space I get,” Sam conceded, shifting his weight. The leather of his shoes creaked against the pavement. He tilted his head, catching her downcast gaze. “Disappearing off the face of the earth?” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “That’s something else entirely.”
“There were things I needed to handle,” she said finally, deliberately vague. The half-truth tasted metallic on her tongue. “Things I couldn’t deal with here.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed just slightly. His head tilted a fraction, his tell that he was reading between her lines, searching for what she wasn’t saying. “Things,” he repeated, the word neutral but weighted with unasked questions. “Must have been some pretty important things to keep you away this long.”
The challenge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. Six months of silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled with all the texts she’d ignored, the calls she’d declined, the messages she’d left unheard.
Isabelle met his gaze, unflinching despite the guilt gnawing at her insides. “They were.”
For a moment, neither spoke. It was Isabelle who broke first, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled. “Sam, I—” she began, but he waved her off, the gesture weary rather than dismissive.
“Save it,” he said, not unkindly. The hard edge had left his voice, replaced by something that sounded dangerously close to resignation. “I’m not fishing for apologies. I’m just saying...” He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one trying to figure out how to live in this new world. The rest of us are stumbling through it, too.”
Isabelle bit her lip. Her own grief and anger had consumed her so deeply that she had barely considered what the others might be feeling, how Sam might be struggling with his own losses and uncertainties.
“I know,” she said quietly, shame coloring her cheeks. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, using the motion to gather her thoughts. “I’ve been so caught up in my own bullshit I haven’t even thought about how you’re doing with all of this.” Her eyes flicked to his face, really seeing him for the first time since their encounter. The new lines around his eyes. The slight shadows beneath them. “Giving the shield away...it can’t feel good.”
Something flickered across Sam’s expression – surprise, perhaps, that she’d noticed or that she’d brought it up so directly. His shoulders tensed slightly, and he let out a long breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.
“It’s... a lot,” he admitted, his voice dropping as he crossed his arms. Not defensively, but as if he needed to hold himself together physically. He looked up, trying to find the right words. “I just knew those shoes were too big for me to fill, you know?”
Hearing that edge of uncertainty made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her own pain.
Isabelle nodded slowly, her lips pressing together as she considered his words. Part of her wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that he was more than capable. That Steve had chosen him for a reason. But then she thought about the weight of that legacy – the scrutiny he would face, the constant comparisons, the whispers that would follow him— always reminding him that he wasn’t Steve Rogers.
“I miss him,” she admitted, the words escaping before she could trap them behind her teeth. “Even though I’m still furious. I miss all of them.” The confession felt like pulling out stitches before the wound had fully healed—necessary but excruciating.
“Yeah. Me too.” Sam exhaled heavily, his breath visible in the cooling afternoon air. His gaze drifted toward the Smithsonian, lingering for a second before returning to her face. “Listen, I’m heading back to Louisiana tomorrow.” He paused, studying her face. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Isabelle blinked, her train of thought derailing. “Louisiana?”
“My sister’s place,” Sam clarified, his posture relaxing as he warmed to the idea. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. We’ve got plenty of room,” His eyes lit up, that spark of enthusiasm she’d missed these past months. “And her cooking?” He kissed his fingertips dramatically. “Makes that fancy five-star restaurant you dragged me to in Monaco look like a fast-food joint.”
“That was a Michelin-starred chef,” Isabelle protested, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.
“Well, Sarah’s gumbo has won the parish cook-off three years running.” Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Plus,” Sam added, leaning in conspiratorially, “no reporters, no press conferences, no Christine Everhart.” He gestured expansively. “Just good food, good company, and maybe—if you stop being such a city girl about it—we can even get you out on the water.”
For a moment, Isabelle let herself imagine it: the warm Louisiana sun on her skin, the taste of home-cooked food on her tongue, the gentle lapping of water against a boat. Something warm unfurled in Isabelle’s chest, tender and painful all at once. The offer was tempting—more than tempting. To disappear into the Louisiana bayou, to be somewhere no one knew her name or her history or expected anything from her. Somewhere, she could breathe.
The fantasy dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Reality crashed back in, cold and unyielding.
“I can’t, Sam.” The words tasted like defeat on her tongue. She shook her head, shoulders stiffening as she mentally calculated the fallout approaching. “I basically threatened a nationally syndicated journalist back there. By tomorrow morning, my face will be plastered across every news outlet from here to Tokyo.”
She could already see the headlines scrolling across screens worldwide. The thought sent a cold ripple down her spine, her fingers instinctively curling as if to contain the power that had nearly slipped its leash.
“I should stay and handle this,” she continued, her thumb working circles against her index finger. “Or at least warn Pepper before she gets blindsided during a board meeting.” The thought of her stepmother having to field questions about Isabelle’s behavior while trying to run a multinational corporation made her stomach clench. “She’s got enough on her plate with Morgan and the company without me adding to the chaos.”
Sam’s forehead creased, concern etching lines around his eyes. “That’s not who you are, Iz. Whatever spin Everhart puts on—”
“What, you mean ‘Dangerous Enhanced Individual Intimidates Defenseless Reporter’?” Isabelle cut in, a bark of bitter laughter escaping her. “Someone’s got to be the scary bogeyman now that Bruce is…whatever that is now, and that Wanda’s gone. Bound to be my turn eventually.”
“That’s not fair,” Sam said firmly, voice dropping an octave. “That’s not fair to you, to Bruce, and it’s not fair to Wanda. You’re more than that.” He stepped closer, his presence solid and unwavering. “You’re heroes. All of you.”
“I thought you said the world needed new heroes,” she murmured, offering him a ghost of a smile. Her eyes met his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. “I was listening, you know. Even when it looked like I wasn’t.”
Something shifted in Sam’s expression—surprise melting into recognition. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, recalibrating whatever he planned.
“That’s not what I—” he started, then stopped, frustration flickering across his features. He exhaled slowly through his nose, as he always did when choosing his words carefully. “Fine. But my offer stands. Anytime you need to disappear for a while, my door’s always open.” He held her gaze, ensuring she understood the weight of his promise. “No questions asked.”
Isabelle hesitated, her instinct to retreat warring with the part of her that desperately craved connection. The warmth in Sam’s eyes—genuine, uncomplicated—made her throat tighten. She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “I know, Sam. Thanks.”
“And for what it’s worth,” he added, his voice softening, “Christine Everhart has been trying to take down Avengers since before we even called ourselves that. She went after your dad for years.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “Woman’s like an attack dog with press credentials.”
That pulled a reluctant laugh from Isabelle, the sound surprising her with its authenticity. “Yeah, well, she picked the wrong day to come at me about legacy.” She rubbed at a spot between her eyebrows where tension had gathered. “God, I can already hear Pepper’s PR team drafting apology statements.”
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Let them earn their paychecks. Meanwhile...” He jerked a thumb towards the road, a mischievous glint warming his eyes. “My flight isn’t until tonight. Want to grab some lunch?”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite herself. “Lunch?”
“Yeah, you know, that meal between breakfast and dinner?” Sam’s grin widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I know a place nearby that makes a burger so good it’ll make you forget your own name.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “And who knows, maybe I can convince you to change your mind about Louisiana over some sweet potato fries.”
“You really never give up, do you?” Isabelle asked, the weight in her chest lightening just a fraction.
“Nope,” Sam replied, popping the ‘p’ sound with exaggerated emphasis. “Stubbornness is a Wilson family trait. Ask my sister sometime about the great treehouse standoff of ‘92.” He struck a ridiculous pose, puffing out his chest. “Plus, it’s part of my charm.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Your charm is debatable, Wilson.”
“Ouch,” Sam clutched his chest in mock offense. “And here I was, about to offer to pay.”
“In that case,” Isabelle said, straightening her shoulders, “lead the way to these supposedly life-altering burgers.”
As they turned to leave the park, Isabelle fell into step beside Sam. For a moment—just a moment-the weight on her shoulders felt a little lighter, the constant pressure in her chest easing enough to take a full breath.