Tony Stark didn't just leave the room; he exited like a hurricane, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and shattered expectations in his wake. My dad stood by the door for a long minute, just staring at the space where the billionaire had been.
"So," I said, breaking the silence. I leaned back in the oversized office chair, swinging my legs. "He seemed nice. A bit twitchy, but nice."
Dad finally looked at me. He looked like he'd just seen a house float away. "Julian... you just corrected Tony Stark on a bitwise operation. I didn't even know you knew what a bitwise operation was."
I gave him my best 'carefree kid' shrug. "I read a lot, Dad. And I've been messing with that computer for weeks. You know how it is."
He walked over, still dazed, and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "I think... I think we're done for the day. My brain can't handle any more blueprints, and yours is clearly working overtime. How about we skip the rest of the office hours? Just you and me."
"Are we talking about the 'B' word?" I asked, my eyes lighting up.
"Burgers," Dad confirmed with a grin. "The greasy kind. Don't tell your mother."
Thirty minutes later, we were tucked into a corner booth at a classic New York diner. The air smelled of griddled onions and coffee, and the jukebox was playing something by R.E.M. It was 1992, and for the first time, I wasn't looking at the world as a series of structural vulnerabilities or a historical timeline I had to memorize.
I was just an 18-year-old orphan who finally had a father sitting across from him.
"You really impressed him, Jules," Dad said, sliding a chocolate milkshake toward me. "Tony doesn't like people. He barely likes me, and I've been designing his family's buildings since he was in diapers. But he looked at you like you were... a peer."
"I just like the way things fit together," I said, taking a massive sip of the shake. God, 90s dairy hits different. "Whether it's code or a skyscraper. If the foundation is solid, the rest is easy."
Dad leaned back, watching me with a mix of pride and curiosity. "You've changed lately. Ever since you hit twelve, it's like a lightbulb went off. You used to just draw superheroes in the margins of your notebooks. Now you're talking about reinforced titanium and memory buffers."
I froze for a split second, my burger halfway to my mouth. Right. Careful, Julian. Don't be too much of a freak.
"I guess I just realized that superheroes are cool, but someone has to build the stuff they live in, right?" I offered a wide, ketchup-stained smile. "I want to build things that last, Dad. Like you."
Dad's expression softened, that paternal warmth radiating off him. He reached across the table and ruffled my hair, messing up the styling Mom had spent ten minutes on this morning.
"You're going to build things I can't even imagine, kiddo. Just... don't grow up too fast, okay? Even if you can out-code the smartest man in the country, you're still my son. You're allowed to just be twelve for a while."
I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat that had nothing to do with the sourdough. "Deal."
We spent the next hour talking about nothing—the Knicks, the weird weather, and the "terrible" movies coming out that year. I didn't mention the Chitauri. I didn't mention the Snap. I just sat there in the 90s, eating fries with my dad, feeling more secure than I ever had in 2026.
As we walked back to the car, the sun setting over the Hudson, I realized something. I didn't need to rush. I had the knowledge, I had the connections, and now I had a foundation.
I'm going to make sure this world stays standing, I thought, looking up at the skyscrapers. Not for the Avengers. But for this.