Peter's shoulder pressed against yours, warm and familiar. His hand found yours in the narrow gap between the seats, fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world. He always did that. Reached for you. Found you. It had been almost a year since he'd started, and the novelty still hadn't worn off.

The doors hissed open, and Mr. Harrington's voice cut through the chaos.

The students piled out, cameras already recording. The lobby of Avengers Tower was vast—a cathedral of polished marble and holographic displays, with the Stark Industries logo rotating slowly above the reception desk. The air smelled faintly of coffee and ozone. And there, in the middle of the polished floor, stood three figures.

Peter let go of your hand and stepped forward, casual as anything, hands shoved in his pockets. The class watched him like he'd spontaneously grown a second head. And then Steve's eyes found yours across the lobby. His face softened in that way it only ever did for you and your mother.

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the hum of the building's climate control.