Chapter Text
The lobby always felt louder after big events. More contractors, more press sniffing around, more executives pretending they’d “just dropped by” when everyone knew they were hoping to catch Stark himself on the way out of the elevator.
For Carol, though, it was still the same job: sit at the desk, scan badges, wave people through, and make sure nobody slipped past with a fake ID and a shaky story about “urgent deliveries.”
She’d been here five years. Long enough to remember when it was just a gleaming corporate tower, before Iron Man, before the Avengers, before the battle that nearly leveled half of Midtown. Long enough to know that nothing really surprised her anymore.
At least, that’s what she thought.
Her morning was routine enough. Security detail checked in, construction crews shuffled past, a few of the suits from R&D stopped to complain about the noise. Carol was halfway through her second coffee when she noticed a kid standing in front of her desk.
Not a teenager. A kid. Sneakers, backpack, messy hair, holding a StarkPhone like it was a lifeline.
“Hi,” he said.
Carol blinked. “Uh… hi. You lost, sweetheart? This is a private building.”
He shook his head. “No. Mr. Stark said I could visit.”
She stared at him, sure she’d misheard. “Mr. Stark?”
The kid nodded solemnly. “Yeah. He said anytime.”
Carol glanced at the guards. One raised an eyebrow. The other murmured, “Is this, like… a Make-A-Wish thing?”
“Kid, do you know Mr. Stark?” she asked carefully.
“I’ve been here before,” the boy insisted. “He said it was okay.”
Carol leaned back in her chair, heart sinking. The last thing they needed was some kid slipping past because Stark had tossed out one of his infamous off-hand promises. She reached for the radio.
“Front desk to upper levels. Got a… minor here asking for Mr. Stark. Claims he was invited. Over.”
Static. Then: “Wait one.”
It took less than a minute for Tony Stark himself to stride into the lobby, still in a rumpled shirt, sunglasses perched on his nose like it was a shield. His gaze swept the room, locked onto the boy.
“There you are, kiddo,” Stark said, like this was the most normal thing in the world. He crouched, ruffled the boy’s hair, and plucked the StarkPhone from his hands. “Told you the lobby’s chaos, didn’t I?”
Carol’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Stark, is he—?”
“Mine,” Stark said smoothly, already steering the boy toward the private elevator. “Don’t worry about it.”
And just like that, they were gone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“…Did he just say ‘mine’?” one of the guards muttered.
“Maybe it’s his nephew.”
“Or a kid genius intern.”
“Or a fan contest winner? They do those, right?”
Carol just scribbled Minor—accompanied by Stark into the visitor log, underlined it twice, and decided not to ask questions she wasn’t cleared to know.
Because if there was one thing she’d learned in five years at Stark Industries, it was this: the boss always had secrets. And today, apparently, one of them wore sneakers and carried a lunchbox.