You stood at the stove, spatula in hand. Behind you, the soft sounds of Peter moving around the bedroom—the creak of the bedframe, the rustle of a t-shirt being pulled on, the low hum of him talking to E.V. about patrol routes for tonight.

It was quiet. Normal. Yours.

A knock at the door.

He unlocked the deadbolt. Pulled the door open.

And froze.

The silence stretched. Breakfast still sizzled behind you, but you turned, spatula still in hand, a question already forming on your lips.

That question died before you could say it.

Because the hallway was full.

Tony Stark stood at the front, broad-shouldered and aging like fine wine, dressed in jeans and a band tee—older, softer around the edges than the photos you'd seen online, but unmistakable. Behind him, Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. Thor. Bruce Banner. Clint. Sam. Bucky. Wanda. Scott. Rhodey. Vision, standing just behind them, his expression unreadable. Loki leaned against the stairwell door, arms crossed, watching with something sharp in his eyes.

Behind them all—MJ. Ned. Happy.

Every single one of them stared at Peter like they'd seen a ghost.

And then Tony stepped forward. Faster than anyone could react, he pulled Peter into his arms.

And then, over Peter's shoulder, Tony looked up.

He was looking at you.