You were seated at the kitchen island, a half-empty mug warming your palms. Across the room, Wanda curled on the couch with a worn paperback. Sam and Bucky argued over the TV remote. Thor boomed with laughter over something Rhodes just said.

It was normal. Comfortable. The kind of morning you'd memorized over months of living here.

Then Clint's voice cut through the chatter.

He was holding something between two fingers. Something small. Something that caught the light and scattered it across the walls like tiny stars.

The room went still.

Across the room, Peter Parker—who had been mid-sip of orange juice—froze. The glass hovered at his lips. His face went through three shades of pale in the span of a heartbeat.

Tony's eyes narrowed. Natasha folded her arms. Wanda tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her gaze. Thor looked genuinely confused.

And Peter Parker, sitting at the far end of the counter, still holding his orange juice, offered the weakest, most transparent smile in the history of humanity.