Chapter 2 Let's Get Out of Here

The air in the basement was thick enough to chew, smelling of cheap hops and body spray, but Owen’s presence felt like a localized bubble of high-voltage energy. After Leona downed her beer, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling a spark of defiance she usually kept reserved for her advanced legal research midterms.

"Okay, Iron Man," she said, sliding the damp quarter toward him. "You talked a big game. Let’s see the 'tech' in action."

Owen didn't just flip it; he performed a theatrical flick of the wrist. The coin danced off the wood, performed a literal somersault, and clinked into the center of the glass.

"Calculated," he deadpanned, sliding the glass toward her. "The arc reactor provides a steady hand, Potts. It’s physics. Or magic. Mostly just me being awesome."

"It’s mostly luck, Stark," Leona shot back, her pulse humming. She took the shot of Jack, the burn sliding down her throat like liquid velvet. She didn't even flinch. She grabbed the quarter, her eyes narrowing. "My turn. And if I make this, you have to admit that a sundress is more aerodynamic than a gold-titanium alloy suit."

"Bold claim," Owen chuckled, leaning his elbows on the sticky counter, his face dangerously close to hers. "Prove it."

Leona aimed, her braids swinging as she leaned into the table. Clack. The quarter hit the rim and danced away, skittering off the counter and into the dark abyss of the floor.

"Engine failure," Owen sang out, already pouring another shot. "That’s a penalty. Drink up, CEO."

"The table is slanted," she muttered, taking the glass. "This whole house is structurally unsound."

"Excuses are for DC heroes," he countered, his dimples deepening as he took his own shot just to keep pace with her.

As the hour ticked toward midnight, the "game" devolved into a glorious, blurry mess. The quarter became increasingly uncooperative, or perhaps the table was actually moving.

"Okay, look," Owen slurred slightly, squinting at the quarter as if it were a complex alien artifact. He tried to bounce it, but it flew wildly to the left, hitting a guy in a frat sweatshirt. "That... that was a warning shot. For the Chitauri."

Leona was leaning heavily on the counter now, her braids coming undone. "You missed by three feet, Tony. Your targeting system is offline."

"I'm recalibrating!" he insisted, grabbing the bottle of Jack. He looked at the tiny shot glass, then at the quarter, then back at Leona. "New rule. The quarter is too small. It’s a subatomic particle. We can’t see it anymore. Therefore, we just take the shots because... science."

"I like your science," Leona giggled, reaching for her glass. "It’s very efficient."

"I'm a genius, remember?" He clinked his glass against hers. "To the end of the world."

"To the end of the party," she corrected, the room spinning in a slow, pleasant carousel. "Maya's going to kill me. I was supposed to be a party pooper."

Owen leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "You’re doing a terrible job at it. You’re actually the most interesting person in this basement. Don’t tell the others; it’ll hurt their egos."

Leona felt a flush that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "Shut up and pour the shot, Stark."

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned, the "Iron Man" on his chest slightly lopsided as he poured two more, the quarter forgotten on the floor, buried under the feet of the moving mass of college hormones.

Across the room, Maya and Sarah stood on the edge of the makeshift dance floor, their Solo cups tilted as they watched the corner of the basement. They had been prepared to drag Leona out by her braids if she started looking for the nearest exit, but the sight before them stopped them mid-sip.

"Is she... laughing?" Sarah shouted over the bass, pointing a manicured finger toward the counter. "Like, actually throwing her head back laughing?"

Maya squinted through the strobe lights and the haze of the party. "And she’s doing shots. With a guy in a superhero shirt. Who looks like he just stepped off a surfboard."

They watched as Leona leaned into the stranger’s space, her usual 'leave-me-alone-I-have-midterms' posture completely gone. She looked radiant—a little messy, a little flushed, but undeniably there.

"We should probably go check on her," Sarah suggested, though she didn't move an inch.

"Are you kidding?" Maya grabbed Sarah’s arm and started pulling her toward the front door. "If we go over there, she’ll remember she’s supposed to be the 'responsible one' and ask to go home. Right now, she’s forgetting the library exists. This is a Friday night miracle."

"But she’s our 'bookworm'!" Sarah protested with a grin.

"The bookworm just found a plot twist," Maya countered, pushing through the crowd toward the cool night air. "She’s got the drive to graduate top of the class, sure, but tonight? Tonight she’s learning that you can't study chemistry if you never actually experience it. She’s fine. Let's let her see the world for once."

The basement was a pulsing, neon-lit blur, but for Leona, the world had shrunk down to the five inches of space between her and Owen. The game of quarters was officially a casualty of war; the coin was lost somewhere near a sticky speaker, and the shot glass was now just a tool for "recalibrating their systems."

Owen leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers as he poured a final, shaky shot of Jack. "Decision time, Potts. The mission is compromised. The air quality in here is roughly 40% sweat and 60% bad decisions. Do we retreat to Stark Tower, or do we let the Chitauri win?"

Leona didn't even look toward the dance floor. Somewhere in that sea of people, Maya and Sarah were probably taking selfies or scouting for their own "superheroes," but Leona didn't care. The "bookworm" had officially left the library.

"The tower," she giggled, her head feeling light and buoyant. "Definitely the tower. But only if there’s... what do you billionaires have? Penthouse views?"

"Fourth floor. View of the dumpster and a very suspicious squirrel," Owen promised, his lopsided grin practically glowing in the dim light. "But the pilot is top-tier."

They didn't tell anyone. They didn't text. They just gravitated toward the stairs, two magnets pulled together by the strange, drunken chemistry of the night.

The transition from the sweltering basement to the crisp night air was like hitting a wall of ice. Leona shivered, her sundress offering zero protection against the breeze, and Owen immediately slung a heavy, warm arm around her shoulders.

"Structural integrity check," he mumbled, pulling her flush against his side. "You holding up, Pepper?"

"I'm... I'm aerodynamic," she insisted, though her legs felt like they were made of overcooked noodles.

They began a zigzagging trek across the campus green. To any sober observer, they looked like a pair of broken compasses, but to them, it was an epic journey.