Steve stood near the windows, arms crossed, listening to Sam explain something with repeated hand gestures. Natasha occupied one end of the sofa with a tablet propped against her knee. Clint leaned against the kitchen island, coffee in hand. Wanda sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, sorting through a stack of takeout menus. Vision stood beside her, observing the task with polite, unhelpful attention. Bucky was on the opposite sofa, boots propped on the table, flipping a knife idly between his fingers. Bruce was at the kitchen counter, frowning at a kettle that was taking too long.

The elevator chimed.

Tony Stark stepped out, already moving like he had somewhere better to be. He was dressed down by his standards—fitted dark jeans, an old band shirt under a light jacket, sunglasses hooked in his collar. His hair was still slightly damp at the edges.

Someone much smaller followed him out of the elevator.

The child stayed close to Tony's side, one hand half-raised near the back of his jacket as if ready to grab it if he moved too fast. They looked around the room with open, cautious curiosity.

Tony did not slow down.

The room went very still.