Threads of Suspicion
The morning after felt like something sacred.
Elara stirred slowly, sunlight painting gold across the sheets. Steve was already awake, sitting near the window, shirtless and sketching with soft concentration. It should’ve been just another quiet morning. But something hung in the air—different. Denser.
When she sat up and called his name, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You were drawing,” she murmured.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t mention the notebook. Not yet. Just offered her tea, pulled on a sweater, and kissed her temple. Gentle, but distracted. As though his mind had gone somewhere else during the night and hadn’t quite returned.
By mid-afternoon, Elara found herself back in the SSR research wing, surrounded by crumpled notes and blueprints. Work helped distract her from the ache in her chest—the one that whispered this perfect life was borrowed. But that day, it was harder to breathe.
Howard Stark strode in around noon, a stack of schematics under one arm and a half-eaten apple in the other. “You’re either a genius, Miss Monroe, or you’ve read ahead in the playbook.”
Elara didn’t look up. “Excuse me?”
“You keep suggesting countermeasures to technology we haven’t even seen the enemy deploy yet,” he said casually, but his gaze was sharp. “You knew the compact magnetic stabilizer would short out. You knew the frequencies Hydra was testing with. You corrected the prototype last week before I’d even published the internal notes.”
Elara finally raised her eyes.
“I study patterns,” she replied carefully. “And I listen.”
Howard smirked. “You also quote events that haven’t happened yet like you lived through them.”
She froze.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Elara,” he said, stepping closer. “But you’re different. And different always has a reason.”
She knew he was watching her now. Testing her. Not with anger, just curiosity. The worst kind. The kind that wouldn’t let go.
“Funny,” he said after a beat, “You seem to know things about the serum. About Steve. About the things I’ve been working on. Things you shouldn’t know.”
Elara’s stomach twisted. She had to keep it together. She couldn’t let him know. Not now. Not when it was all starting to unravel.
“I… I read a lot of documents. I’ve been researching,” she said, her voice cracking slightly as she tried to maintain her composure.
Howard tilted his head, not buying it. “Research? Elara, I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s hiding something.”
Her heart started to race. She couldn’t keep this up. Not much longer. Howard had a way of getting under your skin, of making you question everything. And right now, she could feel the pressure mounting, could feel her walls starting to crumble.
Elara managed a calm smile. “If I start quoting lottery numbers, you’ll be the first to know.”
But even as he chuckled and walked away, her heart was pounding. She couldn’t afford to slip.
Later that night, Steve returned to her apartment.
He was quiet again, but not cold. In fact, he pulled her into his arms the moment the door closed, burying his face in her neck. She melted into him, letting the silence say everything they couldn’t.
Then, gently, he pulled away.
“Steve,” she tried again, quieter this time. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he looked at the notebook on the table, the one she’d left open the night before. He hadn’t said anything about it, but it was clear that he’d seen it. He couldn’t have missed it.
She saw him reach for it before she even knew what was happening. His fingers brushed against the pages, and his expression changed—familiar, guarded, like he was trying to keep something from breaking. But there was no mistaking it. He’d read it.
Elara froze. Her heart lurched, the words from her journal ringing in her ears. The things she’d written. The things she’d kept hidden. All the little pieces of her heart she had poured into those pages, knowing full well what it meant to love someone who didn’t belong to her time. Someone who was, in the end, just another fleeting part of history.
Steve closed the notebook slowly. He didn’t look at her. His jaw tightened as if the words were sitting in his chest, threatening to break free. “You’ve been writing about me,” he said, his voice low, almost strained.
She nodded, unable to speak. What could she say? That she had written about him from the moment they met? That she’d poured herself into words, trying to make sense of a love that had no place in time?
“I… I didn’t mean for you to see it,” she whispered, her throat tight. “It was just… it was just for me.”
His gaze flickered up to hers then, and for a moment, she could have sworn she saw the flash of something raw and hurt in his eyes. “It reads like… like a goodbye,” he said, his voice tight, controlled. “Why do you write like that, Elara?”
Her chest tightened, her breath hitching in her throat. “Because I know what happens,” she said, her voice trembling now. “Because I know that time is going to take you away from me. And I can’t—” She broke off, hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the table. “I can’t live in a world where I don’t have you. So I write, Steve. I write so I don’t forget you. So I don’t forget us.”
Steve stood up then, the movement was sharp, sudden—like a dam had burst and he couldn’t hold back the flood of emotion that had been building. He crossed the room in two long strides, standing in front of her, his hands at his sides, clenched into fists. He didn’t touch her, but the distance between them felt like miles.
“I don’t want to be a memory to you,” he said, his voice shaking with an emotion she couldn’t name. “I want to be real. I am real, Elara. I am. But this… this isn’t real. This isn’t what I want. I don’t want you to love me because you know what happens to me. I want you to love me because I’m here, because I’m the man in front of you, the one who wants you.”
“I didn’t ask for this, Steve,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask to fall in love with you. I didn’t choose this. But now that I’m here—now that I’m with you, I can’t pretend that I don’t know what’s coming. That I don’t know I’m going to lose you.”
“But why?” His voice cracked. “Why do I feel like you’re slipping through my fingers?”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He was right. And she hated herself for it.
His face softened, but the pain still lingered in his eyes. “Don’t let go,” he said, voice ragged. “Don’t give up on us. Please.”
But Elara only shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I can’t promise you that, Steve. Because no matter how hard I try, I’m going to lose you. And I don’t know how to live with that.”
He reached for her then, hands gentle but firm as he cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed the tears away. “I’m not gone yet, Elara,” he said, voice thick. “I’m still here. I’m still me.Don’t let the future steal what we have.”
But she knew. Deep down, she knew. This was a battle she couldn’t win. They were two people from different times, caught in a love that didn’t belong to either of them.
The silence that followed was heavy. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
And it did. But it wasn’t the world.
It was Elara.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice broken. “I can’t keep pretending.”
And that was the moment she realized—this love, no matter how deep, no matter how pure, could never be enough to keep them together. The clock was ticking, and she couldn’t outrun it.