But there was no heat behind it. His hand had already found its way to your hair, fingers carding through it absentmindedly. The city outside the window glowed faintly, a blur of lights against the dark. Every blink felt heavier than the last. The rise and fall of Peter's breathing under your head was steady, warm. Safe.

He said it like a fact, not a complaint. Like he'd been waiting for it all night. His fingers kept moving, gentle, rhythmic.

The world softened at the edges. The hum of the tower, the weight of the day, even the distant sound of footsteps in the hall—all of it dulled, quieted. Peter's warmth seeped into your cheek, and the last thing you registered was his hand pausing for just a second, as if making sure you were really out.

Clint nudged Tony with his elbow, but there was no real force behind it. Then, from the hallway, Wanda appeared with Yelena and Kate trailing behind. They too stopped dead, eyes locking on the couch.

Nobody argued. Not even Tony, which was saying something. Instead, the whole team—heroes, spies, gods—went through the most painstakingly quiet retreat in Avengers history. Someone gently took the bag from Clint before the crinkling could get too loud. Thor held his cape to keep it from swishing. Steve herded people toward the kitchen with little more than pointed looks and hand gestures.