You glance over. Natasha cradles her mug like a weapon, watching you with that particular look—the one that means she's already figured out exactly what you're doing.

Footsteps. Two sets, one clumsy, one lighter. Peter's voice drifts in first, mid-laugh about something on his phone.

Ned follows Peter's gaze to you, sitting on the counter. A piece of snack halfway to your lips. The box on your lap with his name on it.

You don't blink. You slide another piece into your mouth and chew slowly, maintaining perfect eye contact.