Steve was perched on the arm of the couch, squinting at the tablet like it might bite him. Bruce had wandered over out of scientific curiosity, already muttering about frame rates and pixel density. Thor was genuinely fascinated, leaning in with the enthusiasm of a man who'd never seen a doorbell camera in his life.

The elevator doors slid open on the monitor. Two figures stepped in. One male, one female. Familiar. Very familiar. Deeply, mortifyingly familiar.

Tony's face cycled through approximately seventeen emotions in three seconds. Confusion. Recognition. Horror. Confusion again. Then something that looked suspiciously like a man doing math he didn't like.

On the screen, Clint Barton—seasoned Avenger, world-class marksman, professional grump—let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan as the woman's hands slid up his chest. She said something against his mouth that made him tighten his grip on her waist.