The night had settled heavily upon the Xavier Institute, casting long, silver shadows across the grounds. Inside, the weight of the day's battles—both physical and ideological—hung thick in the air, pressing against the minds of those who had gathered in the war room.

  Captain America strode inside first, his posture composed but firm, the weight of command sitting heavily upon his broad shoulders. The Avengers had followed, their expressions ranging from calculated to contemplative. The X-Men were already assembled, standing in a loose formation around the expansive holographic table at the room’s center. Cyclops, Storm, and Professor Charles Xavier stood at the front, facing him, their expressions unreadable but expectant. Around the table, the rest of the team sat or leaned against various surfaces, the energy in the room a mixture of exhaustion and tension.

  But there were notable absences—Rogue and Alamo were missing.

  The absence of Rogue and Alamo was expected. Captain America knew it, she was probably still in the gardens talking to Duncan.

  Steve exhaled quietly before speaking.

  "I apologize for the conflict, Professor," he said, his voice even.

  Xavier studied him for a long moment before lifting a hand in a calm, deliberate motion, signaling that there was no need for concern.

  "Worry not, Captain," Xavier said, his tone soothing but steady. "This was wholly justified, given the spirits of the conversation."

  Steve nodded once, acknowledging the sentiment. But he wasn’t finished. He turned his gaze to Cyclops, the field leader of the X-Men, the man who had stood at the forefront of the earlier debate.

  "Going forward," Steve continued, "I’d like to ensure that the X-Men are always a part of the decisions regarding mutant affairs. It was my mistake not to consult you beforehand, Cyclops."

  Cyclops' eyes narrowed slightly behind his ruby visor, considering the words before giving a slow nod.

  "We meant no disrespect, Captain," Scott responded, his tone measured but sincere. "What my wife brought up was important, but I understand it was a necessity of the time. I only hope you can understand Jean’s point."

  Steve Rogers' expression remained unreadable for a moment before he finally gave a slow, firm nod.

  "Of course," he said. "Of course."

  A beat of silence passed between them.

  Then, Storm took a step forward, her gaze unwavering as she spoke, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and grace.

  "We're still friends here, Steve," Ororo said, her tone unwavering. "You have my respect, as you always had. I'm happy that you brought the Avengers here to help. That was no small feat. If we succeed, mutantkind will have an eternal debt to Steve Rogers."

  Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head slightly.

  "I charge no debts, Ororo," he said, his voice steady. "This is the right thing. Mutants are people. American citizens. I swore an oath to serve and protect the principles and the people of this nation. I'm just following the oath I swore to."

  A quiet stillness settled over the room at those words.

  Xavier’s gaze softened, the corners of his lips lifting into something that almost resembled a knowing smile.

  "Protect," Xavier echoed. "You said the right word, Captain. And I believe we will be able to protect more people with your decision than with vengeful, swift justice."

  Steve held his gaze for a moment, nodding.

  "I believe that too, Professor."

  The hum of quiet conversation in the war room came to an abrupt halt as the doors swung open.

  Stepping inside, engaged in a conversation too low for anyone to fully catch, were Alamo and Rogue. They moved with a certain casualness, an ease that wasn’t usually seen in the two of them—at least, not together. It wasn’t hostility that marked their interactions, nor was it a forced professional politeness. It was something else.

  Something unfamiliar.

  Alamo, for once, wasn’t wearing his chrome mask. His hat still sat low on his head, casting a faint shadow over his face, but his expression was plainly visible. His usual sharp-eyed focus had been replaced by something looser, something unguarded.

  But if anyone expected him to enter with humility, they had miscalculated.

  He scanned the room, noting the weight in the air, the quiet tension that lingered from prior discussions. He exhaled through his nose, then, with that familiar Texan drawl, spoke.

  "I hope we didn't get late to nobody's funeral."

  A beat of silence.

  Then, a flat, unimpressed voice.

  "Duncan."

  Rogue shot him a warning look, crossing her arms.

  Alamo sighed, tipping his hat slightly.

  "Ahem, sorry. Where are my manners?" His lips quirked into a faint smirk. "I'll just sit down."

  As he moved further inside, Rogue gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow, her expression both chastising and amused.

  It was strange—seeing them like this. Seeing Alamo without his mask, walking into a room full of people without his usual aura of distance.

  Jubilee leaned over to Logan, her voice a whisper but full of mischief.

  "Y'know, he might be weird and all. But he's cute when he smiles at least."

  Wolverine gave her a side-eye, barely shifting his head.

  "Kid, why don’t ya go poke 'nother hornet’s nest?"

  Jubilee grinned.

  "What fun there’s in that, Uncle Wolvie?"

  Logan huffed, but his eyes flickered toward Alamo for a moment. There was no hostility there—just quiet calculation, an assessment being made.

  "He better be kind to Stripes," Logan muttered, crossing his arms, his voice low and rough. "Or I'll gut him like fish. She’s been through 'nuff already."

  Jubilee rolled her eyes, grinning.

  "You’re like the best dad a gal can have, but like—settle down."

  Wolverine scoffed.

  "She ain't my— I'm just tryin’ to say. I take to no bullshit from this bad boy types."

  Jubilee raised an eyebrow.

  "Bad boy? Seriously? Have you talked to Duncan? The only thing he's bad at is being a normal human."

  Logan narrowed his eyes slightly.

  "He’s a mutant."

  "A normal mutant, whatever that is." Jubilee shrugged, kicking her boots up onto the edge of the chair she was leaning against.

  Logan didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flickered back to Duncan and Rogue as they finally took their seats at the table. His expression had shifted—subtly, but noticeably. The easygoing smirk he had walked in with was gone, replaced by a deep frown, artificial in its severity.

  The others noticed.

  His posture stiffened just slightly, his fingers moving toward the inside of his coat. In a practiced motion, he reached for the chrome mask, prepared to slip it back into place.

  Before he could, Rogue caught his wrist.

  Her grip was firm but not forceful, her fingers wrapped around his forearm in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.

  He recoiled at bit not expecting the touch, but then he relaxed, awaiting her to speak first.

  "Naw, sugah." Her voice was gentle but unwavering. "No masks fer ya fer the rest of the day."

  For a moment, he just looked at her.

  There was no immediate protest, no sharp retort. Just a slight furrow of his brows as his dark eyes searched hers, gauging how serious she was.

  And she was serious.

  A slow exhale left him, and then, at last, he nodded.

  "I understand," he murmured, lowering his hand. "Honesty is appreciated here."

  Rogue held his gaze for a beat longer, her expression softening into something almost fond.

  "Trust me, it is."

  Tony Stark leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze flicking lazily around the room as the murmurs of discussion continued. He had the look of a man who had already worked out the problem before anyone else even knew what the question was. Nearby, She-Hulk lowered herself into a seat beside Gambit, the green-skinned lawyer-turned-powerhouse giving him a sideways glance as he offered one of his signature smirks. Falcon, ever the quiet observer, had taken a seat not far from where Captain America stood, his posture relaxed but attentive.

  Then, the doors swung open again, and Janet Van Dyne stepped inside. The Wasp had the easy grace of someone used to walking into a room full of the world's most powerful people without an ounce of hesitation. She scanned the room with quick, perceptive eyes before strolling toward Tony, her expression carrying the kind of amused exasperation that only long-time familiarity could breed.

  "Jenny is taking a liking to the Cajun boy, it seems," Janet remarked, tilting her head slightly toward She-Hulk and Gambit.

  Tony snorted, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

  "Can you blame her?"

  Janet shot him a look, raising an eyebrow.

  "Wait, you like him too?"

  Tony placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

  "No, Tony." Janet rolled her eyes. "But I can see the appeal."

  Tony made a face, his smirk deepening into something playfully self-indulgent.

  "What appeal? He's not a billionaire, genius, and philanthropist like me."

  Janet let out a short laugh, shaking her head.

  "Tony, the world doesn’t revolve around you."

  Without missing a beat, Tony shot back with deadpan sarcasm, "I swore to God it did, Jan."

  Janet smirked, but there was an underlying seriousness to her tone when she spoke again.

  "You think we’ll be able to handle this whole thing?"

  Tony's expression flickered for the briefest moment—so fast that most wouldn't have caught it. That flash of calculation, the weight of knowing what was truly at stake.

  "The Sentinels?" he asked, his voice losing some of its playful edge.

  Janet nodded. "Yes."

  Tony exhaled slowly through his nose before pushing off the wall, standing straighter. Then, he smiled.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "I have just the plan."

  Janet narrowed her eyes. "Really?"

  "Yeah."

  "What is it?"

  Tony tapped his temple, his smirk widening.

  "Oh, but Jan—a magician never reveals his tricks."

  Janet crossed her arms, her expression unimpressed.

  "Oh, keep your secrets." She leaned slightly closer, voice dropping into a mock whisper. "I'm sure they totally don’t involve creating a solution that will become a problem later... y’know, like Ultron."

  Tony’s smirk faltered for half a second, just enough for Janet to catch it.

  "Woah, Jan. I learn from my mistakes. There’s no Ultron coming." He waved a dismissive hand before adding, "And let me remind you... your husband helped me with that one."

  Janet let out a short scoff, shaking her head.

  "Hank is too smart for his own good."

  Before Tony could fire back, a clearing of the throat cut through the room—a sound that commanded immediate attention.

  "Ahem."

  Captain America stood near the center of the room, his posture straight as ever, his eyes sharp with quiet authority.

  "A moment of quiet, please."

  His tone was calm, but it carried weight. The room, once filled with scattered murmurs and playful banter, fell silent in an instant.

  Tony gave a short nod, his usual smirk still in place, though there was a hint of something more serious behind it.

  "Sure, Cap."

  Cyclops stepped forward, his authoritative presence immediately drawing the room’s attention. His expression was firm—calculated, as always—but there was a sharpness to his gaze that made it clear he wasn’t looking for passive agreement.

  "Well, after all of that," Scott began, his voice carrying the weight of expectation. "Moving forward, I expect some mutual respect."

  His eyes flickered to Rogue first, then Logan, then Tony, and finally Sam.

  "Understood?"

  There was a pause.

  Then, Rogue gave a simple, casual nod.

  "Gotcha, Cyclops."

  Logan scoffed, arms crossed over his chest.

  "Yeah, yeah, Slim. Ya ain't my ol’ man."

  Sam simply gave a short nod of acknowledgment, choosing not to add anything further.

  Tony Stark, on the other hand, leaned back ever so slightly, raising a single finger in protest.

  "I never did anything wrong."

  A dry sigh came from Steve Rogers, who immediately turned his head toward Stark, a silent plea in his eyes.

  "Tony."

  Tony lifted both hands in surrender.

  "Okay, okay, ahem. Sorry," he said, voice only marginally less smug than before. "I didn’t mean to offend anyone. It’s just my way of expressing… charm."

  Across the room, Rogue muttered lowly under her breath.

  "Oh god, can’t ya like shoot him down with yer fingertips or somethin’?"

  Alamo, seated beside her, tilted his head slightly, clearly entertained.

  "No," he interjected smoothly. "What if he offers me a job at Stark Industries?"

  Rogue turned to face him fully, unimpressed.

  "Of course ya’d say that."

  Alamo smirked, leaning back slightly.

  "Maybe I could like get ya Stark Resort tickets," he added, voice carrying just the right amount of teasing.

  Rogue narrowed her eyes, tilting her head in mock skepticism.

  "Oh… Is that a promise Ah’m hearin’?"

  Alamo’s smirk didn’t waver.

  "Maybe."

  Before Rogue could respond, Cyclops stepped forward again, his focus returning to the mission at hand.

  "We’ll work on locating General Ross and interrogating him, as well as finding Creed," he stated, his voice steady and firm. "That’s our top priority."

  His gaze swept across the assembled team, ensuring everyone was following.

  "If there’s any remaining FoH cell we need to strike, we will. But as we know so far, their forces are scattered. We struck Carraro facilities in Arkansas, Texas, Florida, and Oregon. We severely damaged their heavy weaponry, but it’s possible that less-prepared, local chapters might strike mutants, so we’ll be watching."

  He turned slightly, addressing Steve directly.

  "Captain."

  The unspoken weight of command passed between them, and the room fell into a brief silence—one of anticipation, preparation, and something else lingering just beneath the surface.

  "Thank you, Scott."

  Captain America’s voice was steady, carrying the weight of responsibility as he acknowledged Cyclops’ leadership. The tension in the war room, which had lingered even after their earlier disagreements, had begun to ease—but there was still work to be done, still wounds, both old and new, left to mend.

  Steve took a step forward, letting his eyes sweep across the gathered heroes—X-Men and Avengers alike.

  "Well," he continued, his tone measured but firm, "I'm sorry for what happened with Carl Denti. I promise that the Avengers will keep the X-Men aware of our decisions regarding mutants. But know this—our mission remains the same. We defend Earth, no matter who lives here. We defend America, and I believe in an America for both mutants and humans. Together, in coexistence."

  There was a flicker of something across Professor Xavier’s face—perhaps a hint of relief, perhaps gratitude. He gave an appreciative nod.

  "In harmony," Steve added.

  Storm gently shook her head in approval.

  "In liberty," Steve said, one final aim, one final goal.

  From the other end of the table, Alamo shook his head, his proud smirk—visible now that his mask was gone—was unmistakable.

  The small exchange didn’t go unnoticed, but it was Xavier who rolled forward, positioning himself at the heart of the room. His expression was contemplative yet warm, his gaze shifting between Captain America and the assembled X-Men.

  "I appreciate that, Captain," Xavier said, his voice deep with quiet conviction. "When I started the X-Men over twenty-five years ago, I believed we could change the future of our species. That we could be brothers, not enemies. That for mutants to be free, it didn’t mean that humans had to be slaves."

  A pause.

  "And even after so many battles, so many struggles, and so many failures… we still fight. We will always fight."

  His words hung heavy in the air, weighted by the decades of hardship the X-Men had endured.

  "The X-Men are a family." His gaze swept over his students—his children, in many ways. "And the Avengers are our friends. I hope to see more of you here in the future, Dr. Banner, Ms. Romanoff, Colonel Danvers."

  At the mention of Captain Marvel, Rogue winced—so small a motion that most wouldn’t notice, but it didn’t escape Xavier’s perceptive eyes. She didn’t speak, but her jaw tightened, her arms crossing ever so slightly. The old wounds from Carol Danvers were still there, still unresolved.

  Xavier met Rogue’s gaze briefly, his voice soft but firm.

  "There is much we can accomplish together, much we can learn," he said, pausing before adding something more deliberate. "Much we can forgive."

  Rogue didn’t respond—not out loud. But something flickered in her expression, something unreadable, unresolved.

  Captain America gave a small nod, his expression one of respect.

  "Thank you, Professor."

  Xavier inclined his head. "Thank you, Captain."

  Steve turned back to his team.

  "Avengers, our mission is accomplished for now. It’s been a long day. We must let the X-Men rest."

  At that, both the Avengers and the X-Men rose from their seats, some stretching, some murmuring to one another as the tension in the room slowly dispersed. The night had been long, the battles had been brutal, and the weight of the future still loomed over them all.

  But for now?

  For now, the war room was quiet.

  The crisp night air greeted them as the heavy doors of the Xavier Institute opened, spilling the gathered heroes back into the open. Above, the Quinjet stood idle, its sleek metallic surface reflecting the soft glow of the moon, awaiting its passengers. The Avengers, their mission complete, prepared to take their leave.

  Farewells were exchanged, some warm, others strained. There was still lingering bitterness in some hearts, a reluctance to let go of past grievances. But among others, there was the quiet beginning of understanding, the first steps toward something resembling true alliance.

  Captain America shook hands with Cyclops and Storm, exchanged quiet words with Xavier, and offered a small nod of respect to Logan, who returned it with a silent but knowing glance.

  Nearby, Iron Man clapped Falcon on the shoulder, speaking in hushed tones about some future contingency plan. Janet Van Dyne and Sam Wilson exchanged a few last words with Beast and Jean Grey, their conversation one of mutual curiosity rather than parting hostility. Gambit and She-Hulk nowhere to be seen.

  Rogue approached Captain America.

  Her boots barely made a sound against the gravel path, but Steve noticed her the moment she stepped forward. His expression, ever composed, softened slightly as she came to a stop beside him.

  She hesitated for just a second, then exhaled, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

  "Ah'm sorry from before, Cap," she admitted, her voice carrying a quieter sincerity than before. "Ah spoke to Duncan. He made a mighty fine case fer ya. Again."

  Steve studied her for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile.

  "I understand why you had that reaction, Rogue. I don’t hold this against you, not one bit."

  She gave a short nod, glancing down for a moment before looking back at him.

  "Thanks, Cap."

  A pause settled between them—not an awkward one, but one filled with a kind of mutual understanding.

  Steve’s gaze softened slightly. "You’ve been through a lot, Rogue," he said, his voice even. "But deep down, you’re a good woman. I can see that. But it appears I’m far from being the only one."

  Rogue blinked, then followed his gaze.

  She turned, casting a glance back toward the rest of the X-Men.

  They were scattered across the courtyard, engaged in conversations of their own, some laughing, some contemplative. This was her family, through thick and thin—people who had stood by her, believed in her, fought beside her.

  Then, her gaze landed on Alamo.

  He stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with Iron Man. Even without hearing their exchange, Rogue could tell it was one of those half-serious, half-playful goodbyes. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable, but she could see the flicker of sharp amusement in his dark eyes.

  She smirked.

  Then, she looked back at Steve, her expression shifting into something softer, something vulnerable.

  "Ah have good people 'round me, Cap." She let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head slightly. "It’s hard bein’ bad with such nice folk close by."

  Steve smiled at that, a quiet approval in his eyes.

  No more words were needed.

  The night stretched around them, and the Quinjet stood waiting. But in that moment, something had settled. Not just between the Avengers and the X-Men, but within Rogue herself.

  Then.

  Alamo finally approached.

  His stride was slow but certain, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his duster, the ever-present weight of decision lingering behind his sharp, thoughtful gaze. He looked first to Captain America, then to Rogue, his expression carrying something between certainty and reluctance.

  "Well, I reckon this is goodbye, Cap. Rogue."

  Steve regarded him carefully, tilting his head slightly.

  "You won’t be going with us?"

  Duncan let out a short chuckle, shaking his head.

  "Texas awaits its son. High time I get back home."

  But before Captain America could respond, Rogue cut in—swift, firm, and utterly unyielding.

  "Well, naw-uh."

  Alamo blinked. "What?"

  Rogue smirked, crossing her arms. "Ya ain't goin' nowhere, cowboy. There’s a lot of stuff we have ta show ya right here."

  Alamo furrowed his brows. "What?"

  "Yup, stay the night," Rogue said with an air of finality. "Tomorrow Ah show ya the institute."

  Duncan visibly hesitated, glancing toward the Quinjet, then back at her.

  "I can't, Rogue. I have duties, the investigation—"

  "Sugah, it’s one night."

  His lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don’t even got clothing, toothbrushes, y’know—"

  "Oh, we have stuff fer the students," Rogue cut in smoothly. "It’ll fit ya."

  Alamo let out a short, incredulous laugh. "I can't accept that. I don’t wanna be rude."

  Rogue arched an eyebrow, her smirk unwavering. "Oh, it ain't rude, an’ Ah ain't givin’ ya a choice, Duncan."

  That made him freeze slightly, his gaze narrowing, the flicker of something almost defensive crossing his features.

  "Hol’ up, it’s my choice."

  His voice was firm—not angry, but laced with a subtle resistance to being stripped of agency, even in something as small as this. But even as he spoke, he could tell Rogue wasn’t serious—at least, not in a way that actually threatened his autonomy.

  He let out a slow exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  "I’m goin’ ta regret this, but… fine. I’ll stay. One night. No funny recruiter business. I won’t buy it."

  "Ah pinky swear," Rogue said, her smirk turning into something more playful.

  Duncan sighed again. "Fine."

  But before he could even fully process what he had just agreed to, Rogue cupped her hand to the side of her cheek and shouted—

  "JUBES!"

  From the other side of the courtyard, Jubilee’s head popped up like a firecracker. She sprinted over, sliding to a stop dramatically, her yellow jacket flaring behind her.

  "What? Is Dunkie already goin’? No plasma rangers anymore?" She made an exaggerated pout, her best attempt at puppy eyes.

  Duncan raised an eyebrow at her antics.

  "Much on the contrary, Jubes."

  Rogue grinned. "He's stayin'."

  There was a brief, stunned silence.

  Then—

  "No freakin’ way," Jubilee breathed, eyes wide. "You an X-Man now?"

  Duncan immediately shook his head, firm and absolute.

  "No, not at all. I’m just stayin’ the night."

  Jubilee blinked once, then twice.

  Then her entire face lit up.

  "HELL YEAH, IT’S AN X-PARTY LET’S GO!!!!"

  Before Duncan could react, she had already spun around mid-air, landing smoothly on her feet as she started sprinting back toward the mansion, her trench coat flapping behind her like a superhero cape.

  "Jubes, no parties!" He shouted as she headed inside.

  "Too late, Dunkie. We’ll buy the snacks! Just let me get Kitty and Bobby!"

  She disappeared into the mansion, her voice already echoing excitedly down the hallways—

  "KITTY! BOBBY!"

  Duncan exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he turned to Rogue.

  "I already regret this."

  Rogue smirked, hooking her arm around his.

  "No ya don’t."

  As the last of the farewells wrapped up, the night grew quieter, save for the hum of the Quinjet’s waiting engines. Most of the Avengers had already boarded, their figures vanishing into the sleek metal frame of the aircraft. The mission had been completed, for now.

  But one figure lingered outside.

  Wolverine.

  His broad silhouette stood firm against the cool night air, the dim lights from the mansion casting long shadows across the ground. He wasn’t in a hurry. He never was when something was left unsaid.

  And so, with slow, measured steps, he made his way toward Captain America.

  Steve Rogers had been about to board the Quinjet himself, but he stopped when he saw Logan approaching. There was no tension in his stance, no hostility—just the quiet understanding that this conversation had been waiting to happen.

  Wolverine exhaled, rubbing his knuckles against the inside of his palm before finally speaking.

  "Steve."

  Captain America turned fully to face him, his blue eyes steady.

  "Logan."

  A pause.

  Then Logan smirked, just slightly, the roughness of his voice carrying a familiar edge.

  "Well, Army Boy. I got mad at ya, y'know that."

  Steve nodded once, never looking away.

  "I do."

  Another pause. Logan looked past him, his sharp eyes flicking toward the Xavier Institute.

  "Ya were just doin’ yer job, Brooklyn Boy." His voice was calmer than before, but still rough with an undercurrent of something else. "I was doin’ mine."

  Steve's gaze remained unwavering.

  "And what is your job, Sergeant Howlett?"

  Logan let out a slow breath. He didn’t answer immediately, letting his gaze drift back toward the mansion—the place that, against all odds, he had come to consider home.

  Finally, he spoke.

  "Takin’ care of these people."

  Steve followed his gaze, understanding the weight behind the words.

  "And you saw me as a threat to that?"

  Logan hesitated, but only for a moment.

  "Maybe." He crossed his arms, his jaw tightening briefly before he exhaled. "I sure as hell would’ve liked to rip Denti apart. But… maybe ya CO’s have a point."

  Steve tilted his head slightly.

  "Officers aren’t always right, Sergeant."

  A small chuckle escaped Logan.

  "That’s why ya got the NCOs."

  Steve gave a short huff of amusement—a shared understanding between two men who had lived too many lifetimes on the battlefield.

  Then, his voice turned quieter.

  "You have to be careful, Logan. Violence is not always the answer."

  Wolverine’s smirk faded slightly, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful, more personal.

  "It’s a language, Cap. An’ outta all I speak, I speak this best."

  Captain America sighed. He understood that more than most.

  "You’re a warrior, Logan." His voice was steady but firm, carrying the weight of both admiration and warning. "Just don’t become a beast."

  For the first time in the conversation, Logan’s eyes softened.

  He held Steve’s gaze for a long moment, then gave a small, slow nod.

  "I’ll do my best to keep the monster leashed."

  Steve took a breath, studying the man in front of him—the soldier, the survivor, the protector. Then, he placed a firm hand on Logan’s shoulder, his voice carrying absolute certainty.

  "You’re no monster, Logan."

  His grip tightened just slightly, reinforcing the weight of his words.

  "You’re one hell of a soldier. And deep down, even a better man."

  Logan held his gaze for a beat longer, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

  "Don’t go makin’ a habit of sweet-talkin’ me, Cap."

  Steve smirked.

  "No promises."

  With that, Logan gave him a small nod, then turned back toward the mansion, disappearing into the night.

  Steve watched him go for a moment before exhaling slowly, turning toward the Quinjet.

  It was time to head home.