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Dinner had been chaotic in the usual Stark Tower kind of way—half the team was in the kitchen arguing over who burned the garlic bread (it was Tony), Clint was using chopsticks to eat spaghetti just to annoy Natasha, and Peter had accidentally set off a minor smoke alarm trying to reheat leftover shawarma.
Now, finally, everything had calmed. The lights were dimmed. Music buzzed softly in the background. And Peter was curled on one side of the massive couch in the living area, legs tucked under him, laptop perched on his knees.
Tony sat on the other side, nursing a glass of something sparkling and non-alcoholic—“responsible adult mode,” as he called it—and absentmindedly fiddling with a small screwdriver and a circuit board he’d been meaning to fix for weeks.
They weren’t talking. Just coexisting, comfortably.
Peter shifted, pulling the hoodie tighter around his arms—it was one of Tony’s, way too big, sleeves swallowed his hands—but he liked it that way.
He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, kind of out of nowhere, he asked quietly, “Did it always feel like this?”
Tony looked up. “Feel like what?”
Peter gestured vaguely. “You know. This. Sitting around. Just… safe. Normal.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. “Safe and normal aren't words usually associated with me.”
Peter smiled a little. “Still. It does.”
Tony paused, then set down the screwdriver and leaned back a little. “No,” he said honestly. “Didn’t always feel like this. Took a long time. A lot of broken stuff. A lot of people who left.”
Peter nodded, chewing at his lip. “Same.”
A beat.
Tony looked at him—really looked at him. He didn’t ask what Peter meant, or push for details. He already knew. He knew about Uncle Ben, about the long nights when Peter didn’t quite know how to be okay. He knew the way the kid hesitated to ask for help, always trying to be strong, always trying to earn his place.
“You know you don’t have to do anything special to belong here, right?” Tony said softly. “You don’t have to earn it.”
Peter blinked. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know. I just want to say it anyway.”
Peter looked down at his laptop screen, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. His throat felt a little tight.
“I used to think family was just… who you’re born with,” Peter said. “But this—being here, with you, with everyone—it feels more like a family than anything I’ve ever had.”
Tony didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once, like that was enough. Then he reached over, casually, and nudged the side of Peter’s knee with his knuckles.
“Found family’s the best kind,” Tony said. “We chose this. Chose each other. That means something.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
The moment passed, light but solid, something warm and unspoken settling between them.
Peter went back to his laptop. Tony picked up the circuit board again. But now, Peter had scooted just a little closer.
Tony didn’t comment—just let the kid sit there in quiet, hoodie-covered contentment, close enough that their elbows brushed.
And in the silence, with the sound of distant Avenger bickering echoing down the hallway and JARVIS humming low in the background, Peter smiled.
Because for once, he didn’t feel like a guest or an intern or someone tagging along.
He felt like he was home.