The storm hit sometime after midnight.
Rain hammered the windows like it had a purpose, and the old pipes in the walls groaned under the pressure. Thunder rolled across the neighborhood, low and distant like the growl of something waking up.
Ash barely noticed.
He was on his third night of only partial sleep, sprawled across the garage floor, tools around him like a fallen soldier's weapons. Echo's new schematics lit up the HUD in short pulses, hovering in the air through a makeshift holoprojector rigged from drone optics and a cracked StarkPad.
He was building more than a suit now.
He was building a language. A way to communicate with his creation without words—without delay. It wasn't just evolution. It was translation.
But then the garage door creaked open.
"Ash?"
May's voice—soft, uncertain—cut through the storm like a chime.
He turned too quickly, startled. He forgot to hide the blue flicker of Echo from her eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other in the half-dark.
"You haven't been inside all night," she said.
"I was busy."
May stepped into the room slowly, her gaze scanning the mess—metal, wires, glowing coils, notes in ink and code. Her eyes settled on him.
"You've been running yourself into the ground."
"I'm not—" he began.
She raised her hand gently. "Ash. I know what running looks like."
---
They sat in the kitchen a few minutes later, the soft yellow light overhead casting a calm, warm glow across the small room. A kettle whistled softly behind them.
May stirred sugar into her tea with patient hands.
"You know," she began, "I once thought taking in a child again would be too much. After Ben and I… well, we lost some things. Pieces of ourselves."
Ash said nothing. He never knew how to respond when May spoke from that vulnerable place—where love lived alongside old wounds.
"I didn't expect you," she continued. "Didn't plan on you. But you… you came into this house like a puzzle piece I didn't realize was missing."
Ash stared into his mug. Steam coiled between his fingers.
"And lately," she added, "you've been slipping away again. Not just your body—your mind."
"I'm not trying to," he said quietly.
"I know." She placed a hand over his. "But whatever you're carrying… it's heavy. Too heavy for someone your age."
Ash didn't correct her.
He wasn't her age.
Not really.
Not inside.
---
"I remember the first time you looked at a broken toaster and smiled like it was a challenge," May said with a small laugh. "Like you saw blueprints in the broken things."
He smiled faintly. "I still do."
"But sometimes…" she trailed off, hesitating. "Sometimes I wonder if you hide behind all the building. Like it keeps you from feeling things you don't want to face."
Ash blinked slowly.
"Like what?"
"Fear," she said simply. "Loss. Loneliness."
Ash swallowed hard.
For a moment, the garage, the Corp, the Inheritors—all of it—felt far away.
There was just this kitchen, this woman, and the strange warmth of her love. A love she had no reason to give, yet gave anyway.
"May…" he said, voice barely audible. "You know I'm not… normal."
"I know," she said gently. "But normal's never been my favorite thing anyway."
---
After she'd gone to bed, Ash stood in the hallway, staring at the family photos she kept on the wall.
Most were of Peter as a toddler. A few were faded Polaroids of her and Ben—before the gray streaked her hair, before the weight of grief settled in her shoulders.
And then, at the end of the row, one photo stood out.
It was Ash.
Smiling.
Standing beside her on the front steps, clutching a repaired radio like a trophy. His hair was longer then. His face younger. But the sadness in his eyes… it was still there.
You don't belong here, he often told himself.
But looking at the photo, he realized something May had never said aloud.
She knew he didn't.
And she loved him anyway.
---
That night, Ash added a new name to the Corp interface.
> PRIMARY ANCHOR: May Parker
> Emotional Sync Detected. Integrity Stabilization: +8%
> Echo Log Updated. Phase 2 Enhanced.
---
The next morning, when he came downstairs, May had made extra pancakes.
No lecture. No guilt.
Just food. And that tired smile that somehow said: I see you. I've always seen you.
He sat beside her and ate in silence.
It was the most peace he'd felt in weeks.
And for the first time in his reborn life, Ash wondered—really wondered—what it would cost to lose her.
What he'd do to protect her.
And whether the Corp would be strong enough to do it.