Tony Stark stood in his workshop, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better days. Friday’s voice cut through the hum of machinery.

Upstairs, the announcement rippled through the common area like a stone dropped into still water.

The elevator chimed softly.

Peter didn’t look up immediately. He heard Tony’s voice first, warm and genuine in a way that made the team instinctively glance toward the sound. Then came a laugh—not polite, not forced, but genuine, like someone who wasn’t used to pretending.

Peter finally looked up.

The world tilted slightly off its axis.

Stepping out beside Tony was a young woman who looked like she’d been carved from sunlight and sharp edges. Tall, impossibly composed, with dark hair falling in effortless waves past her shoulders. She wore a fitted black blazer over a simple white top, designer jeans that probably cost more than Peter’s entire wardrobe, and boots that looked both expensive and like they’d seen actual use. There was a silver hoop in her nose, a few delicate tattoos peeking from her wrist, and an aura of confidence that seemed to dim the room’s fluorescent lights.