Shards of Truth
Elara didn’t sleep that night.
She sat on the edge of her bed long after Steve had gone, staring at the closed door, replaying every word. Every flicker of hurt in his voice haunted her. She had crossed a line—no, she had been teetering on the edge of it for weeks. The truth was clawing at the seams now, and there was no stitching it back together.
Morning arrived grey and heavy.
By the time she reached the SSR building, she was running on nerves and half a cup of cold coffee. She stepped into the research wing with a composed face, but the atmosphere felt different. Too quiet. She spotted Howard in the far corner, his back turned as he adjusted a few circuits on a prototype shield.
“Elara,” he said without looking at her. “We need to talk.”
Her stomach dropped.
She approached slowly, forcing her heartbeat to stay steady. “Is something wrong?”
Howard turned to face her, and for once, he wasn’t hiding behind bravado. He looked tired, eyes sharper than usual.
“I ran some background checks,” he said, crossing his arms. “Your records don’t add up. You have knowledge of tech that hasn’t been theorized yet, let alone developed. And then there’s how you reacted when Steve was chosen for the serum. You weren’t surprised—you were heartbroken.”
Elara’s breath hitched.
“I’ve been trying to convince myself it was coincidence. That maybe you’re just smart—too smart. But then you dropped a term during testing, before you joined us… vibranium. That’s classified beyond classified, and we haven’t even named it yet.”
She went pale.
“I don’t know who you are, Elara,” he continued, quieter now, “but you’re not from here, are you?”
Silence stretched between them like a blade. Elara could lie. She could deflect, gaslight, run. But she was tired. And more than that, Steve deserved the truth—and now, so did Howard.
“I’m not,” she whispered.
Howard didn’t flinch. “How far?”
“Decades,” she said. “Far enough to know how this story ends.”
She expected disbelief. But Howard’s face remained eerily neutral. He turned away, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Time travel. Of course. Tony’s going to have a field day with this one—”
She blinked. “Tony?”
He waved her off. “Never mind. I’m not supposed to know any of this, am I?”
“No,” Elara said softly. “But you do now.”
Howard was quiet for a long time. When he finally looked at her, there was no anger in his eyes—just awe and a flicker of sadness. “Is Steve going to die?”
The words sliced her like paper.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
That night, back in her room, she found Steve waiting.
He sat by the window, sketchbook closed, arms folded across his chest. But his expression was different now—not angry, not hurt. Just quiet. Ready.
“You talked to Stark,” he said.
Elara nodded.
“Is it true?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. “Are you… from the future?”
She stepped closer. Her hands trembled. “Yes.”
Steve didn’t speak for a while. He just watched her like he was trying to see past everything she’d ever said. Like he was trying to figure out what parts of her were still real.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said. “From the start. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean. Scared it would change the way you looked at me.”
He looked down at the floor. “You knew everything. You knew what would happen to me, didn’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes. “I did.”
“And you still stayed.”
She nodded. “Because I couldn’t bear to leave you.”
Steve stood and walked toward her. His hands shook as he cupped her face, tilting it up to meet his. “You should have told me, Elara. I would’ve listened. I would’ve believed you.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know that now.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, and for a moment, the world went silent.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle this time. It was desperate—fierce and aching. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Elara clutched the back of his shirt, gasping into his mouth, needing him like air. They stumbled back toward the bed, pulling at each other’s clothes with clumsy, shaking hands.
She needed to feel him. To hold on to something real.
Their bodies met with a hunger born of grief and longing. Steve’s lips were everywhere—her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. He whispered her name like a prayer, worshipping every inch of her skin. Elara moaned softly as he settled above her, slow and reverent, like she was the most precious thing he’d ever known.
“I love you,” he said, voice cracking. “Even if time takes you away from me.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she whispered, “I’ll always find my way back to you.”
And when their bodies finally moved as one, it wasn’t about passion. It was about love. About goodbye. About two souls caught between timelines, trying desperately to memorize the shape of each other’s hearts.
Later, when Steve had fallen asleep, Elara lay awake beside him.
His arm was slung over her waist, his breathing steady.
She quietly reached for her journal, fingers brushing over the pages she’d written in the dark. Pages about him. About the war. About how he smiled. About how he made her feel like she wasn’t alone in the world.
She flipped to a page she had written after their first real conversation. He’d been so unsure of himself then, and she’d written, ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already a hero. Not because of the serum. Because of his heart.’
She felt Steve shift behind her.
And then she realized he was awake.
She turned her head slowly. His eyes were open, trained on the journal in her hands.
“Elara,” he said, his voice low, “is that about me?”
Her breath hitched.
She didn’t answer.
He reached over and gently took the journal from her. And with quiet, trembling hands, he began to read.