Archive of Our Own

Another stack of scrap paper and calculations goes tumbling to the floor as you sweep your hands across the table.

It was right here, you swear. 

Leave it to you to have a multi-million-dollar lab, filled with the highest caliber tech all at your disposal, and somehow still lose your sharpie. You swing around, hands on your hips, scanning every corner of the room, and try to retrace your steps. 

You had it earlier, right? Maybe by the monitors?

You’re not proud of the string of curses that leaves you when you check and your marker is very much not by the monitors.

“Miss Stark,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets, and you groan immediately. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave soon, and you still need to get ready.”

“I know, I know,” you wave her voice off. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve already snoozed your last three warnings,” she points out, “and Peter will be waiting for you at the restaurant.”

“I just have to…”

You snatch up the picture frame from the workbench, turning it over in your hands.

You weren't even supposed to have a gift. A month ago, the two of you had very sensibly agreed that your six-month anniversary didn't need presents. Dinner together was enough. Time together was enough. Peter had insisted he didn't want either of you spending money on something that would inevitably turn into an arms race of trying to outdo each other.

You'd agreed… and then you'd spent the last three nights secretly making a custom picture frame anyway.

You couldn't help yourself. Peter deserved something that couldn't be bought in a store. Brushed aluminum with little etched spiderweb patterns worked into the corners so subtly he'd probably only notice them on the third or fourth look. Tiny LEDs hidden in the back that would cast a warm halo against the wall when it was turned on. It had taken far longer than anticipated, naturally. And you’d wanted to add a little something to the back of it, but none of your regular pens so much as left a faint mark on the aluminum.

The picture inside makes you smile. Peter, squinting into the sun with his arm around your shoulders. You, halfway through laughing at something he'd just said. It had been taken by May during one of those afternoons that turned into dinner, then dessert, then all of a sudden midnight.

You’d snuck back into the Tower the next morning, claiming you’d fallen asleep at a friend’s house. Technically not a lie. Your dad just didn’t have to know if there was a particular prefix before the word friend, or who exactly the friend was.

“I just have to sign this!” you call out.

You start opening drawers one after another, each one louder than the last.

“I literally had the Sharpie today.”

“You should begin getting ready,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, unfazed by the growing chaos. “You have twenty nine minutes until your reservation.”

“I know, I know,” you lie. “I’ll get ready fast, and it’s right down the street.” You start opening drawers you'd already checked, because maybe reality had changed in the last thirty seconds. You move a soldering iron, lift a toolbox, and shuffle through stacks of schematics.

“Historically, it takes you approximately thirty-two minutes and fourteen seconds to prepare for a date with Peter.”

You freeze for half a second.

“... How do you know that?”

“I observed a recurring pattern.”

“I did not ask you to do that, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” you say, brow furrowing. “That’s kind of creepy.”

“I time everything.”

“That’s— that’s weird,” you tell her, fumbling through your junk drawer. “Did my dad ask you to do that? Did— did you tell him that?”

“No, your father is not authorized—”

“Well, don’t do it anymore, okay?” you snap. “I just— Friday, help me find the marker, and then bully me into getting dressed.”

“I believe I have already begun the second task.”

You mockingly laugh. “You’re enjoying this?”

“I am unable to experience enjoyment.”

“Just—” you yelp out. “Will you— can you just scan the lab for my sharpie?”

There isn't even a perceptible delay before she answers:  “There is no Sharpie currently located within the laboratory.”

You freeze halfway through lifting another notebook. “What?”

“There is no permanent marker matching your description in this room.”

You stare into space for a beat before throwing both hands into the air.

“Well, where the hell did it go?”

“The marker you are referring to left the room at 2:17 p.m.”

You pause for a moment, eyes sweeping across the room. “Who took it out of the lab?”

“You did, Miss Stark.”

“I did?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“You did not specify.”

You let out a long, suffering groan, tipping your head back toward the ceiling.

“Why didn't you tell me that before?”

There is the tiniest pause before F.R.I.D.A.Y. answers in the same perfectly even tone.

“Because at 11:44 a.m. you stated, quote, ‘F.R.I.D.A.Y., unless the building is actively on fire, please be quiet so I can think.’ End quote.”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Right.”

“You then added, quote, ‘Seriously. Remind me when it’s time to leave, but until then, no suggestions or commentary.’”

“I get it.”

“You also said—”

“I said I get it.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, wincing as your own words come back to haunt you. “Sometimes,” you mumble, already marching toward the elevator, “I am my own worst enemy.”

“I have statistically reached the same conclusion.”

You shoot a glare toward the ceiling.

“No commentary,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. recounts wisely.

As much as you hated admitting it, F.R.I.D.A.Y. was right.

You'd lost way more time than you'd realized digging through every drawer in your lab. You still had to shower, do something with your hair that didn't scream I've been wearing safety goggles for six straight hours, and change out of the grease-smudged Stark Industries sweatshirt that had somehow acquired a scorch mark near the cuff.

There was no universe where all of that happened in under ten minutes.

“Okay,” you sigh. “Fine. New question.”

“Yes, Miss Stark?”

“Is there a sharpie in my dad’s lab?”

“There are currently twelve permanent markers in your father’s laboratory.”

You blink. “Twelve?”

“There are also four paint markers, three grease pencils, twenty-six mechanical pencils, and approximately three hundred other writing implements of various kinds.”

“... Right.”

Friday continues, helpfully. “Any tool you could reasonably require is located in your father’s laboratory.”

Of course it was.

Your dad treated tools the way normal people treated forks. If he needed one, he bought five, forgot where he put three of them, found them six months later, decided they might be useful in another room, and bought another five anyway.

The problem isn’t whether there was a marker in his lab. The problem is your dad.

It’s not that he’d care if you took something from his lab, least of all a marker. Half the equipment in your own workspace had originally migrated over from his in a slow, unspoken game of osmosis. You'd “borrow” something, he'd notice three weeks later, walk into your lab to retrieve it, get distracted by whatever you were building, leave with one of your oscilloscopes instead, and somehow neither of you would remember who owned what anymore.

The problem, to be even more specific, is the picture frame tucked under your arm.

Your dad isn’t stupid. He's definitely figured out by now that there’s probably somebody in your life. He hasn’t come right out and asked, but every so often he’ll make one of those deliberately casual comments that’s really him fishing for information.

You seem awfully busy on Friday nights lately.

Anybody I should know about?

Hypothetically speaking, if my daughter were dating someone, I'd like to think she'd eventually tell me before the tabloids did.

He always says it lightly, with a grin, leaving you an easy out if you want one. And every time, you smile, deflect, and change the subject.

He’s got an inkling, that’s for sure. He just has no idea who.

Your dad helped build the Spider-Man suit hanging in Peter's closet. He's the person Peter calls when he can't figure out why one of his web-shooters is misfiring or when a new piece of Stark tech refuses to cooperate. They've spent countless hours in this very lab bent over holograms together, arguing over engineering solutions, talking through missions, or rebuilding something Peter broke while saving somebody.

And somehow, despite all of that, the two of you had managed to keep six months of dating completely under the radar. Some days, it feels like you’re pulling a heist. You've canceled plans because Peter was already scheduled to be in the Tower. You've waited until your dad left for meetings before driving to Queens. You've gotten frighteningly good at sounding casual whenever your dad mentions Peter over dinner.

“Spiderling stopped by today. He’s making progress with the suit.”

“Oh? That’s good.”

As though you hadn't fallen asleep on Peter's shoulder the night before, and as though he hadn't kissed you goodbye that morning. As though he hadn’t already personally told you about the progress he’s made with the suit.

It’s exhausting in ways you hadn’t expected. Lately, you'd been trying really hard to carve out pieces of your life that belonged only to you. Because between graduating, getting your own lab, and taking on more work at Stark Industries, you'd realized you were still defaulting to telling your dad everything before it had even happened: every project, every success, and every disaster.

You loved him more than anyone on the planet, but you were an adult now. You wanted to surprise him every once in a while. You wanted to finish something before he looked over your shoulder and started offering suggestions.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., is my dad in his lab?”

“Your father has remained in Laboratory One for the last three hours,” she tells you from above.

You really don’t have time to entertain any other options. Either you sign this now, or give it to Peter unfinished, or give him nothing at all.

You step into the hallway, picture frame tucked carefully under one arm, and nearly collide with Happy, tablet in hand.

“Hey, kid!” he says, startled. “Watch out.”

“Sorry, Happy,” you breathe out, equally startled. “Uh— perfect timing, actually.”

“I usually hear that right before somebody asks me for something.”

You open your mouth to dismiss him, but you realize he’s right. He looks you over, taking in the grease on your sweatshirt, the wild state of your hair, and the frame clutched protectively against your chest. You’d been in the lab all day, first working on your gift for Peter, but then predictably getting sidetracked by a million other projects.

“... Crunch time?”

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles. “Sounds familiar.”

Happy has simply always existed in your life, juggling head of security, designated chauffeur, emergency contact, occasional babysitter, and honorary uncle. When you were younger, he'd taught you how to throw a proper punch after you'd announced that one of the boys at school had been pulling your hair. When you were fifteen, he'd patiently supervised your first attempt at driving through Manhattan while silently gripping the door handle for dear life. He may have reached adulthood without children of his own, but he’d gotten stuck with you in a way instead.

“Is my dad still in his lab?”

Happy nods toward the far end of the hall. “Yep.”

“Is he busy?”

Happy snorts. “Good luck getting his attention.”

You frown. “Why?”

“He finally got those new noise-cancelling things working.”

“The headphones?”

“I don’t know if they’re headphones anymore.” Happy makes a vague gesture around the sides of his own head. “Some kind of fancy Stark version. Whatever they are, when he's wearing them, the world doesn’t exist as far as he’s concerned.”

Your eyes slowly light up. “Really?”

Happy nods. “I stood in front of him for, like, two minutes waving paperwork around before he noticed I was there.”

A grin spreads across your face. “Oh.”

Happy narrows his eyes immediately. “What’s that face?” he asks. “I don’t like that face.”

“What face?” you ask completely innocently. “I’m not making a face.”

“Yes. you are. You’ve got that, y’know, Stark face,” he says, waving his fingers at you. “The one that leads to a major headache for me nine times out of ten.”

“Well, then maybe this is the one time, then,” you say sweetly, already backing toward the workshop doors.

“Does this have something to do with your mysterious boyfriend?”

You stop so abruptly your sneakers squeak against the polished floor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kid,” he levels you. “Tony’s gonna figure out—”

“No, he won’t,” you insist. “And you’re not going to tell him anything about this.”

“Well, it might be interesting information for your father to have,” he ponders, staring you down, nearly giddy at the fact that he might have something to hold over you.

“If you say anything—”

“I mean, I wasn’t planning to, but—”

“I’ll tell him about Monaco.”

Happy’s face falls. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Last November, after a very tasteful screaming match, your father deemed you grounded while on a family holiday in Monaco. It wasn’t important over what. Something about your misuse of company tech or whatever. The whole thing was completely overblown, you’d reasoned that night, and while he and Pepper were asleep, you’d decided that it was unfair that you had to rot in the suite all by yourself. You snuck out, got caught halfway out the window of your suite by Happy, and managed to convince him that you needed opportunities to stop being treated like a kid. He’d relented, even though he knew it was a bad idea, and while everything ended up fine and you didn’t get into any trouble, you knew the guilt was always slightly eating him alive.

Happy sizes you up before smiling. “You’re not gonna tell him,” he says decidedly, like he has you all figured out. “It’d get you in trouble too.”

You shrug. “Who do you think he’s gonna be more mad at? His precious angel daughter…” You point at yourself and bat your eyes. “Or his head of security who lost track of said precious angel daughter?”

Happy stares at you for a long beat. “Are you really negotiating with me right now?”

“Learned from the best.”

He sighs the sigh of a man who has spent over two decades dealing with Tony Stark and is now watching the sequel.

“You know what? I’m not gonna say anything, because I don’t have to,” he says. “Your dad’s gonna figure out you’re seeing someone whether you want him to or not.”

You refuse to dignify that with a response, so instead you stick your tongue out at him (a habit you’ve never quite outgrown around Happy) and continue down the hallway before he can get another word in. He calls something out after you, something about being mature or whatever. By the time you reach your dad’s lab, you’re smiling.

The glass walls let you see almost the entire room.

Your father has his back to the door, bent over one of the central workbenches. A holographic display hovers in front of him, blueprints rotating lazily while one gauntleted hand holds something microscopic beneath a magnifying lens. Every so often he scribbles something onto a legal pad before immediately going back to tinkering.

And just like Happy had promised, the sleek silver earpieces hooked around his ears practically disappear against his dark hair.

You ease the door open just enough to slip inside, and are elated that he doesn’t turn around or seem to notice you at all. Your eyes scan the nearest workbench. A black Sharpie sits less than three feet from the door beside an exploded diagram, just like F.R.I.D.A.Y. had promised one would be.

You creep forward on the balls of your feet, despite knowing full well that if the noise-canceling system worked as advertised, you could probably set off an air horn without him noticing. You scoop it up quickly, and slowly begin backing toward the door. Your dad doesn’t move, and doesn’t notice. 

You suppress a triumphant smile. This is almost disappointingly easy. You're practically through the doorway when you lift the marker in a tiny salute toward his back.

“Thanks, Dad. You’re a lifesaver.”

Behind you, your father's voice answers without missing a beat.

“I know. It’s one of my better qualities.”

A very undignified, full-volume yelp tears out of you as you spin around so fast you nearly drop both the frame and the marker.

Your dad looks over his shoulder, brow shooting up in mild amusement. 

“Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You heard me?!”

He looks completely confused. “... Yes?”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how? Are you—” Realization crosses his face, followed by a grin that looks entirely too pleased with itself. “Oh,” he says, tapping one of the silver earpieces. “These puppies?”

You nod.

“I programmed exceptions,” he tells you.

“Exceptions?”

“Priority voices.”

“Priority…”

“Pepper.” He holds up one finger. “You.” Another finger. “And any alarm involving imminent explosions.”

“I…” You buffer, taking in a few different things all at once. “You built headphones that can hear only Mom and me?”

For the briefest moment, something soft passes over his face. It's almost imperceptible. If you didn't know him as well as you do, you'd miss it entirely. His mouth doesn't quite smile, and he recovers quickly enough that most people would think they'd imagined it. But you've spent years learning the tiny expressions your dad never realizes he's making.

You know that look. He loves hearing you call Pepper Mom.

He's never once asked you to. Never suggested it or corrected you when, years ago, you'd stumbled awkwardly over whether to call her Pepper or something else after she'd become one of the permanent fixtures in your life. She'd never tried to replace your biological mother, and your dad had been even more careful never to push. He'd simply let the relationship become whatever the two of you wanted it to be.

Your mother had been gone from your life for so long that sometimes the memories felt borrowed instead of lived. You don’t think about it much anymore.

And your dad was never particularly good at sincere emotion. But every now and then, when you called Pepper Mom without thinking about it, that same expression crossed his face. Like some part of him that had worried whether the three of you would ever really feel like a family finally got to relax for another day.

The look is gone almost as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath his usual confidence.

“They're an adaptive auditory isolation interface.” he corrects, eyes flicking down to the Sharpie in your hand before returning to your face, amusement already beginning to creep into his grin. “So...” He folds his arms. “What exactly are we stealing today?”

You instinctively tuck both the marker and the frame a little farther behind your back. 

“I’m not stealing anything.”

“No?” he asks. turning fully away from the workbench now. He pulls the silver earpieces from around his ears and lets them rest around his neck, where they look far less like cutting-edge technology and far more like an expensive pair of headphones. “Interesting. Because the facts are: you entered my lab under cover of silence, extracted one of my writing utensils, and attempted to flee the scene.”

“I was just borrowing it.”

“Ah.” He nods solemnly. “The classic Stark family defense. Doesn't hold up in court, but it does hold up around here.”

“Whatever,” you attempt to brush him off again.

“You gonna bring him home?”

That stops you dead in your tracks. “Bring…?”

“My marker,” he says, nodding his head toward it, his brow now furrowing in suspicion at your caginess. “Are you planning on returning it at any point?”

“Oh!” you say, partially relieved. “Yeah, eventually.”

He leans one hip against the edge of the workbench, folding his arms loosely across his chest. The holograms continue rotating beside him, bathing half his face in soft blue light as equations reorganize themselves in the air. Somewhere behind him, a robotic arm finishes welding something with a brief shower of sparks before retracting into the ceiling.

He doesn't look particularly invested in the project anymore. Which means he's invested in you.

“So,” he says. “What are we working on?”

“A project.”

“Uh huh,” he says, “What kind of project?”

“A… personal one.”

“Oh, personal.” He nods thoughtfully. “That narrows it down to approximately twelve thousand possibilities.”

“I don't owe you details.”

“No, but I enjoy them.”

“I'm aware.”

He points toward the frame still hidden against your side. “And yet... you're hiding evidence.”

You roll your eyes.

“What’s the…” He points his finger in a circular motion toward what you’re obscuring from him. “... little arts and crafts for? Someone’s birthday?”

“No,” you answer truthfully, but then regret even giving him any information to work with.

“Graduation?”

“No.”

“Retirement?”

You laugh. “You think I’m hanging out with someone who’s retiring?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re conspiring with Rogers behind my back.” He pushes off the workbench and starts strolling toward you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, completely unhurried. Your dad has always been a relentless question-asker. He interrogated because curiosity was practically hardwired into him. Whether it was quantum mechanics or why you'd suddenly decided ACDC was utterly uncool, he wanted to know everything. 

He stops a few feet in front of you, rocking back on his heels. Tony Stark had made careers out of extracting information from people who wanted to give him none. Unfortunately, you were now the person on the receiving end.

“Okay,” he says lightly, “why are we in such a hurry?”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

His eyes flick pointedly to the way you're half-standing, half-leaning toward the door as though every instinct you have is already halfway down the hallway. “Really?”

“Really.”

All of a sudden, F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice fills the lab.

“Miss Stark, if you do not leave immediately, you will arrive approximately eleven minutes late for your reservation.”

You slowly turn your head toward one of the ceiling speakers. “Traitor!”

“I was instructed to remind you.”

Your dad's eyebrows climb nearly to his hairline. “Reservation?”

You point a warning finger toward the ceiling. “We're gonna talk about this later, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“I look forward to your feedback.”

He laughs. “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., where’s this reservation?”

Before you can even yelp out for her not to answer that, she beats you to it.

"I have been instructed not to disclose Miss Stark's personal schedule."

Your dad lifts both hands innocently.  “You’re right, I don’t need to know,” he relents, before squinting at you. “But wouldn’t it be so fun if you let your old man in on your secrets?”

“I’m gonna go now,” you announce, spinning toward the exit again.

“Not so fast, young lady!” he calls out. You sigh and turn back around slowly. “You’re really not gonna tell me where you’re going in such a hurry?”

“You’re gonna have to work a little harder than that,” you tell him, still holding the frame behind your back.

He studies you for another second before snapping his fingers. 

“I'll fly you.”

You pause. “...What?”

“Wherever you're going.”

“No.”

“Come on,” he says. “The suit’s charged. I’m sure it would impress whoever this mystery date is.”

“I highly doubt it would,” you mumble.

“And why’s that?” he asks, mischievous glint in his eye.

“Because he—” you start, realizing too late you’re being manipulated again. You bark out a groan. 

“Come on.” He hooks a thumb toward the hangar several floors below. “I’m sure you've got at least a twenty-minute drive through Manhattan traffic ahead of you. I can make that…” He glances at an invisible watch. “...three.”

“You’re wrong. It’s right around the corner.”

He lets out a low whistle and laughs again. “I gotta get you up to speed on some better deception tactics,” he tells you. “What if some second string bad guy asks you about my super-secret, highly-classified tech and you give it all away like you’re doing right now?”

“I’m not—”

“I know where you’re going now,” he points out, “and… I know it’s to see a boy.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“And…” He tries to peer around your back. “I know this has been going on long enough to warrant a homemade gift.”

You instinctively twist farther away from him, pressing the frame against the small of your back.

“I don’t know why you think that’s impressive,” you tell him. “You probably just read through all of my emails and everything anyway.”

“Hey, I resent that,” he says, shaking his head. “I know better than anybody how valuable privacy is.” His smile fades into something more wry. “My entire twenties were spent with photographers hiding in bushes, reporters digging through my garbage, and people trying to break into every account I had. Trust me.” He gestures between the two of you. “Our family…” He searches for the right word before settling on one with a small shrug. “We don’t exactly lead anonymous lives.”

You snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I spent a lot of years with people deciding they were entitled to every piece of my life.” He leans back against the workbench, expression more thoughtful now. He shakes his head. “It's exhausting.”

You'd heard versions of these stories before. Some funny. Some decidedly not. And you’d had your fair share of close calls, where paparazzi got way too close. But you were afforded the luxury of having your dad, who made it his personal mission to keep you out of the limelight as much as possible.

“I don't want that for you.” His eyes meet yours. “If you want parts of your life that belong to you, they belong to you.” He taps a finger lightly against the workbench. “I own the servers because somebody has to own the servers. I built half the security in this building because I trust exactly three people on Earth to do it right.”

Your eyes drift upward, trying to do the math: Happy, Pepper, and himself, obviously.

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Four, eventually. You're getting there.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks.”

You can still remember the days of what your father affectionately referred to as the “baby monitor protocol”: automatic emergency alerts, safe-route monitoring, location sharing from all of your Stark devices, and on and on… If your heart rate spiked unexpectedly, your dad knew. If you wandered somewhere the system thought was dangerous, your dad knew. If you missed curfew by more than ten minutes… Your dad definitely knew.

You'd hated it. It was the subject of many an epic meltdown and argument between you and your dad over the years, but he always insisted it was vital to keep you safe. And after the world almost ended a few times, and enough bad guys got a little too close, you begrudgingly agreed to keep the baby monitor.

Your dad disabled it all when you turned eighteen, telling you that trust goes both ways. You’d never wanted to take for granted the fact that your dad seemingly trusted you to be your own adult and make your own choices.

“My point is…” He spreads his hands. “I built the security. I make sure nobody gets into your stuff.” Then he points at you. “Thus, I reserve the right to ask wildly intrusive questions directly to your face.”

“Oh!” you get out around a huge laugh. “That’s the trade-off?”

“Will you humor me with one more piece of identifying information about him? First name, last name, home address, phone number, a scan of his fingerprint?”

Before you can formulate another protest, F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice cuts through the lab.

“Miss Stark.”

You close your eyes. “What, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“You have an incoming call from your dinner date.”

Your dad’s head snaps toward the nearest speaker.

“Oh!” His hand shoots toward one of the holographic control panels. “Accept.”

“Dad!”

“I am unable to comply,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replies.

He’s already swiping through translucent menus with practiced speed. “Video.”

“Dad!”

“Speaker.”

“Dad!” You practically lunge between him and the holograms. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.!”

“Yes, Miss Stark?”

“I'll take it upstairs.”

“Very good.”

“I'll be there in thirty seconds,” you tell her, opening the door with your foot, still keeping the frame behind your back and out of view of your dad.

“The caller has been informed.”

The hologram disappears before he can get another finger on it. “Worth a shot. Be safe, and all that good stuff!”

You shake your head, still laughing as you slip out into the hallway. The lab doors slide shut behind you with a soft hiss, muting the familiar sounds of robotic arms and humming arc reactors. Even through the sealed doors, you can hear your dad whistling to himself as he wanders back to whatever he'd been building before you'd interrupted him.

The elevator doors open onto the residential floor, and you hurry down the hallway toward your room. Unlike the industrial cool of the labs below, the upper floors of the Tower actually felt lived in. Framed family photos lined the walls between modern art Pepper had insisted made the place feel less like a corporate headquarters. You duck into your bedroom, kick the door shut behind you with your heel, set the frame carefully on your desk, and finally answer the call.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hey!” Peter’s voice comes through immediately, breathless. “So— I’m— I’m so, so sorry.”

There’s a loud thwip somewhere in the background, then a distant shout, and something that sounds like a car alarm.

“Peter?”

“I am really sorry.” Another grunt and something metallic crashing. “I know this is our anniversary and I swear I left on time but then there was this robbery and then there were these guys trying to steal catalytic converters— which, by the way, is a way bigger problem than people realize— and then somebody had a gas leak but then there was a busted hydrant and now—” You hear another web fire off. “Hang on.” His voice muffles. “Sir! Come on, please don’t throw the—” A loud clang. “... mailbox.” A beat. “Okay, he threw the mailbox.”

You laugh, and Peter lets out an exhausted sigh on the other end.

“I know. I know. I’m the worst.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I think…” He pauses, breathing hard as you hear him land somewhere with a soft thud. “I think I’m gonna be about twenty minutes late.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” His words tumble over one another. “I made the reservation, and if we're twenty minutes late, they might give the table away, and then we'll have nowhere to eat, and I know we wanted tonight to be special—”

Somewhere around him, somebody yells, “Spider-Man!”

Peter sighs. “One second!” You hear another thwip, and a groan that definitely doesn’t belong to him. Then, incredibly politely, “Would you give it a rest, please?”

You press a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing louder.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, the second he’s back on the line. “I hate doing this to you.”

“Peter.”

“I’m really trying.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t want you thinking I forgot, or—”

“Peter.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Peter, listen to me,” you say, which finally gets him to stop talking. “It’s okay. To be honest, I’m not ready yet either.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I’m a total disaster.”

“I thought F.R.I.D.A.Y. would've had you out the door exactly on schedule.”

“She tried.”

“And?”

“And…” You blow out a breath. “It’s a long story.”

You hear another impact in the background, followed by someone shouting, “Get him!”

Peter sighs. “Oh, come on.” 

Another burst of wind rushes through the phone as he swings.

“Guys, seriously, we've talked about escalation.” You hear the familiar mechanical thwip of a web shooter followed by Peter grunting with the effort of changing direction. “Sorry,” he pants. “He’s making this… way harder than it needs to be.”

A muffled voice yells something unintelligible. You smile, shaking your head as you walk over to your closet and pull the sweatshirt over your head with the phone wedged between your shoulder and your ear.

There’s another few moments of chaos on his end of the phone and you start messing with the touchpad on your closet in an attempt to find an outfit that might save tonight. There’s the dress Pepper bought you for that gala two weeks ago that you made an appearance at for exactly ninety seconds, or the one you wore to opening night of that new musical, or the one your dad bought you s an apology gift for something you can’t even remember now.

The thought of changing into a dress right now, though, is sort of giving you a headache.

“Hey, Pete,” you say into the phone, and wait for an answer. 

It takes a minute for him to come back, once again out of breath.

“Did you say something?”

“I just…” You toss the idea around in your head minimally. “Would you wanna just come here instead?”

He pauses. “... To the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t… I mean, I can try to sneak in, but I’m pretty sure your dad’s security is, like—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Not sneak in.”

Peter is quiet for a beat. “... Then how?”

You smile to yourself as you scroll absentmindedly through your closet, passing over dresses and designer shirts. Sometimes, it amazed you how quickly Peter could calculate the trajectory of a moving car or catch a punch thrown from behind him. And then there were moments like this. For someone with enhanced senses, he could be unbelievably slow when it came to the things that mattered most to him.

You, on the other hand, were raised by Tony Stark, who could hold three conversations at once while simultaneously trying to figure out what everyone wasn't saying. Sometimes you forgot Peter wasn't playing the same game.

“Maybe you just… come in through the front door, and— and… meet my dad?”

“Oh.”

“I mean… I know you’ve already met him,” you say, heartbeat picking up. “Many… many times.” You lean against the open closet door, phone tucked against your ear. “But maybe you wanna meet him…” A nervous smile breaks out on your face. “... as my boyfriend?”

The line goes completely silent, and for a second, you wonder if the call dropped.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?” His voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it.

“D— did you hear me?” You laugh nervously, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous now that you'd actually said it out loud. “I don’t know if—”

“Do you mean that?” His voice cracks just slightly on the last word, like he doesn't quite trust what he heard.

You smile, sinking down onto the edge of your bed. “Yeah.”

“That’s…” He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You mean…” You can practically hear him trying to put the pieces together. “Like… tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight.”

“You want me to come to the Tower?”

“Yes.”

“As…”

“My boyfriend.”

There’s another long silence.

“Wow, I just…” He laughs again, almost to himself this time. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“I wasn’t expecting me to say it either,” you admit.

“I thought…” He hesitates. “I honestly thought we'd keep doing what we've been doing for... I don't know... a while.”

You shake your head, even though you know he can’t see you. “I just… Y’know, we've spent six months pretending that every time you're at the Tower you're here because my dad asked you to come by. And every time I go to you, I’m ‘working on a project’.”

“Right.”

“And every plan involves checking three different schedules to make sure nobody accidentally finds out. I just…” You bring your hand up to your forehead and sigh. “I’m tired of sneaking around. And I know why we started that way. At first it was new, and then it just sort of... was the routine.”

Your gaze drifts to the framed photo. He’ll display it proudly in his room, you know he will. And May will tease him about how adorable the two of you are. 

And you don’t have a single photo of him in your room.

“I’m not as good at secrets as you are,” you tell him. “And I feel like you already have so many you have to keep.” Your voice softens. “I don’t want this to be another secret that you have to carry.”

The line stays quiet for another few seconds. You hear him breathing still, but no more chaos. You assume he’s got the bad guys all webbed up. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before.

“That’s really… that’s really sweet.”

You smile. “I mean it.”

“I know.” He lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I just… I know how Mr. St— your dad can be. I know he can be… intense.”

You laugh at the understatement of the century.

“So I don’t…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I don't want you to do this because you think you have to, or— or because you're worried about me keeping another secret, or because you think it's what I want. I mean if this is something you're only saying because you're tired of keeping track of stories or because you think I'm frustrated or… I don’t know. If you're not ready, or if you'd rather wait another six months, or a year, or whatever…” He exhales. “I’m okay with that, really.”

You close your eyes for a second, smiling to yourself.

“I know you are.” The words come easily because they're true. “That's kind of why I love you.”

There's a quiet laugh on the other end of the line, almost shy.

“But I mean it,” you say. “Let’s do it. I mean, what could go wrong, yeah?”

He laughs again, and you swear you could bottle that sound and live off of it for years. “Yeah.” You can almost picture him sitting on the edge of a rooftop somewhere, mask pushed halfway up his face now that the immediate crisis is over, knees pulled up while the city moves around him.

“And really, I think this is probably like best case scenario for my dad,” you reason. “I mean he already loves you.”

He sighs dramatically. “I don’t know. I feel like there are a lot of people he’d rather you date.”

“He’d probably rather I never date anyone ever in my whole life,” you counter. “So… you’re a pretty solid backup.”

“I went from best case scenario to ‘solid backup’???” he squawks, the sound nearly clipping out over the phone.

You laugh again. “Just come over and we can settle it once and for all.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, already cutting you off. “What do you wanna do for dinner? I’m guessing you haven’t eaten all day.”

You roll your eyes but know he’s got you pegged. You had a tendency to hole yourself up in your lab, with total tunnel vision if you were set on a project. And Peter’s freaky sixth sense apparently clued him in on this.

“Could you pick up a couple pizzas from Bellucci’s on your way?”

“Which Bellucci’s?” he asks, almost as a test.

You roll your eyes. “You know which one. The real one. I’ll put in an order now.”

“Got it,” he says, and you can hear the wind whipping past him again. “I am currently… three rooftops away from home.”

“My boy’s fast,” you observe.

You can practically feel him blush through the phone. “I’m gonna shower, and then… Oh god, what should I wear?”

“I can already tell you’re overthinking this. Wear whatever. Casual.” You stand and walk over to your dresser, already reaching for a clean T-shirt and your favorite pair of jeans.

“Casual,” he repeats. “I can do casual. I can be normal.”

“I think we’re far past normal,” you say.

“Fair enough. I’ll be there in… twenty minutes?”

“You don’t have to swing.”

“I know.”

“You can actually take the subway like a normal person.”

“I thought we were past normal?”

“Just…” you shake your head. “Don’t stress.”

He laughs. “I don’t think that’s physically possible.”

He checks something on his end— you hear voices in the background now, probably police finally arriving to take over.

“I’ll see you soon,” you dismiss him. “Swing safe. I love you.”

“Okay! Love you! Bye!’

The line clicks quiet. You stand there for another few seconds anyway, phone still pressed against your ear, smiling at absolutely nothing. Eventually, you lower it.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Miss Stark?”

“Call Le Chêne and cancel our reservation, please.”

“Certainly.”

You hesitate for a moment before adding, “Apologize for the late notice, too.”

“Of course.”

“And could you put in a pickup order at Bellucci’s? The one in Astoria.”

“What would you like to order?”

“The usual.”

“One large pepperoni with extra basil and one large mushroom, caramelized onion, and hot honey.”

You laugh. “Impressive.”

“I have placed this order nine previous times for you.”

You think for another second. “And add one more.”

“What would you like?”

“Add a large sausage and roasted peppers for my dad.”

“Your father is still working in his lab,” she relays to you. “Would you like me to let him know he’s been made a part of dinner plans?”

“Nah,” you say. “I’m gonna spring it on him. Less time for him to be insane about it.”

“Very well.”

“And can you let Bellucci’s know the order is for Tony Stark and send over a 300% tip?” Hopefully that’ll prioritize the order so Peter can pick it up and be over soon. You know he’ll be cross with you for spending so much money on him, but he’s going to have to get used to it some time.

Your eyes drift back to the frame waiting patiently on your dresser. You pick it up carefully, cradling it in both hands. The photograph still makes your chest tighten in the best possible way. Peter had been leaning over to whisper something so ridiculous that you'd dissolved into laughter before he'd even finished the sentence. And, click, that had been the picture: your eyes squeezed shut from laughing, Peter looking at you instead of the camera.

It was your favorite picture anyone had ever taken.

You run your thumb gently across the glass. “You’re such a sap,” you murmur, not entirely sure if you’re talking to him or yourself. 

You’d dated before. You’d had your fair share of flings, and racked up a roster of shitty exes. But they were all just that: the flings burned out as quickly as they started, and the others all turned out to be disappointments for one reason or another (or several). But none of them ever felt like anything close to this.

Turning the frame over, you uncap the borrowed sharpie. You consider writing something long— a paragraph, a memory, a joke only the two of you would understand. Instead, you keep it simple: I love you. You stare at it a moment before adding your initials below it. You wrap it quickly in today’s newspaper, and set it by the door.

The shower washes away a day's worth of grease, solder dust, and absent-minded graphite smudges. By the time you step back into your room wrapped in a towel, you already feel lighter.

You keep it simple: dark jeans, your favorite faded blue t-shirt, and the thin gold necklace Pepper gave you for your last birthday. You do a quick pass through your hair with a brush before deciding it looked better left mostly alone. A little mascara and lip balm, and you’re ready to go, grabbing the wrapped frame on the way out.

You head back into the hallway, the Tower quieter on the residential floor than it had been downstairs. The elevator arrives almost immediately, carrying you down through dozens of floors until the doors slide open into the main lobby. Three stories of glass look out over Midtown, the evening sun throwing warm amber light across polished marble floors. Digital displays cycle through Stark Industries initiatives while sculptures Pepper had commissioned soften what otherwise might look like the lobby of the most intimidating tech company on Earth.

Engineers with ID badges clipped to wrinkled shirts hurry toward the elevators carrying laptops under their arms, still debating some technical problem as they walk. A pair of lawyers in tailored suits head toward the conference rooms, speaking in low voices that immediately stop when they notice you passing by. One of them smiles politely.

“Evening, Miss Stark.”

“Evening,” you nod in return. You have no clue what that guy’s name is.

The other guy gives a quick nod that carries just the tiniest hint of nervousness.

You’ve gotten used to that. Most employees know you well enough to know you’re not your father, but you’re still a Stark. You’re still one of the people whose name is on the building. Still someone who, on occasion, wanders into laboratories, rewrites entire project proposals, or accidentally solves problems that had been holding up departments for weeks. People tend to become just a little more formal around you than you wish they would.

Across the lobby, a family stands in front of the enormous Stark Industries timeline display. The youngest kid can’t be older than eight. He’s pointing excitedly at an Iron Man suit displayed behind reinforced glass while his older sister reads every placard aloud. Their parents look almost overwhelmed just to be inside the building. Tourists. The lobby had become something of an attraction over the years. You smile to yourself.

It was funny, sometimes. To them, this place is almost mythical. And it’s your home.

F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice comes through, tinny, on your watchface. 

“Peter Parker has entered the building.”

Your heart skips, and you look up just as the revolving doors turn. Peter steps inside carrying three stacked pizza boxes against his hip. Tucked carefully beneath the arm holding them is a bouquet of pale pink peonies wrapped in brown paper. Your favorite flowers. Your chest warms.

He’s wearing dark jeans, clean sneakers, and a navy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair’s still lightly damp, with one piece falling across his forehead. You suppress the urge to run over and run your hands through it.

He pauses just inside the entrance, shifting the pizzas and flowers awkwardly to one arm before tapping his badge against the security scanner. The gate unlocks with a soft beep, and he looks around until he spots you.

His face lights up instantly. He crosses the lobby, carefully balancing everything in his arms.

“Hey,” he says, smile overtaking his face.

“Hey.”

“You look really nice.”

“So do you.”

He glances down at himself almost self-consciously. “I changed shirts three times,” he tells you. “But May said… that this one looked nice.” He exhales through his nose and smiles in that crooked, embarrassed way he gets whenever he's been caught overthinking something.

There's a comfortable beat where neither of you says anything. Around you, people continue crossing the lobby, elevators opening and closing with soft chimes, conversations blending into the familiar background hum of the Tower. Normally, this is where one of you would instinctively put another few inches of space between you. Someone might wonder why the two of you looked at each other the way you did. For six months, habit has been stronger than instinct.

Today, you decide you're done with habit. You reach over, take the top two pizza boxes from his arms holding the frame carefully underneath them, and nod toward the elevator. Peter shifts the remaining box into one hand and the flowers into the other and follows you. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and the two of you step inside. You balance the pizza boxes carefully against one wall as the doors close, sealing the two of you away from the quiet bustle of the lobby.

“Laboratory level,” you say, placing your thumbprint on the biometric scanner to allow access. The elevator begins to climb and for a second, neither of you speaks.

Peter lets out a slow breath. He's standing with his weight shifted slightly onto one foot, fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of the pizza box, trying very hard not to fidget.

“How much did you tip the pizza place?”

You blink innocently. “Huh?”

“Belucci’s.” He adjusts the flowers against his arm. “The order was already ready when I got there, which was weird because it normally takes way longer, and then the guy behind the counter started talking about how he was a huge Iron Man fan, and then when I went to pay he told me it had already been taken care of. And they tried to give me a bunch of extra stuff for free too, but I couldn’t take it.”

You press your lips together, and he narrows his eyes.

“Oh come on,” he says. “How much?”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have to wait around.”

He exhales, shaking his head, and there's a faint crease between his eyebrows now. He's not actually angry, you know that, but there's something mildly exasperated in his expression that makes you smile.

“You cannot keep doing that,” he says, shifting the pizza box more securely against his hip.

“Okay, I promise I won’t.”

He laughs.

You stare back at him for a moment, then sigh dramatically and reach behind yourself. “Oh,” you say casually. “I might as well give you this now since you’re already mad.”

Peter’s expression immediately softens into confusion. “Wh— I’m not mad.”

You pull the wrapped frame from behind your back and hold it out to him.

“I’m not—” His eyes land on the package, and he stops.

You extend it another inch.

He stares at it. “... What is that?” You don’t answer, and he groans immediately. “No,” he whines, his head tipping back against the elevator wall. “No, no, no. We talked about this.” He looks at you with those wounded eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “We agreed,” he continues, pointing accusingly at the gift while still juggling pizza and flowers, “that we weren’t doing presents.”

“It’s tiny,” you argue, shaking your head in nonchalance.

“That’s not…” He lets out another dramatic sigh before looking back at you with that familiar mix of exasperation and affection. “I should’ve known. I should’ve guessed you were gonna do this.” He shakes his head at himself. “Now I feel bad.”

“It’s nothing, really. I promise,” you tell him, gently pushing the package toward him until he has no choice but to take it. 

“It is never ‘nothing’ when it comes to you.”

He carefully trades you the bouquet so he can hold the frame with both hands, and then realizes he still has one pizza box tucked against his side. He shifts everything around, trying to balance the frame, the pizza, and the flowers before looking briefly overwhelmed by the sheer number of objects currently occupying his hands.

You laugh softly. “Need some help?”

“No, I’ve got it,” he insists, even as one of the pizza boxes starts slipping dangerously toward the floor. “I’ve got it. I’m just— there are a lot of things happening right now.”

He catches the box against his hip at the last second, then looks toward the ceiling of the elevator.

Before you can say anything else, he lifts two fingers toward the ceiling and shoots a thin strand of webbing upward. It sticks to the metal panel with a soft thwip. He carefully attaches the top pizza box to the web, then another, creating a makeshift suspension system that leaves both boxes hanging a few inches above the floor.

You stare at them.

Peter looks back at you.

“There,” he says, relieved. “Problem solved.”

You shake your head, smiling. “You know you could've just let me carry them.”

“I know,” he says, starting to unwrap the paper with the kind of care he gives everything you make, folding each piece instead of tearing it. When he finally lifts the frame into the light, he goes completely still. His thumb traces one of the etched spiderwebs in the corner before his eyes settle on the photograph. A smile slowly spreads across his face.

“I love this picture.”

Your heart melts all over again. “So do I.”

He keeps looking at it for another few seconds, studying every little detail you'd hidden in the frame before finally glancing back up at you.

“I love it,” he says quietly. “Seriously. This is perfect.”

You smile, and then tilt your head down into the bouquet.

“So…” you say. “Are these for my dad?”

Peter blinks. “What?” His eyes drop to the flowers, and then his face immediately floods with color. “Oh— no. No, they’re…” He lets out an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head at himself. “Sorry. They’re for you. I just— I know you said you didn’t want to do gifts, but I guess you—”

You don’t let him finish. Still holding the flowers, you reach up, slide your hand gently against the side of his face, and kiss him.

He freezes, just long enough that you feel the surprise register. His eyes widen ever so slightly, and then the recognition settles in. His shoulders relax, the tension leaving him all at once, almost visibly flowing out of him, and his free hand comes instinctively to your waist while the other keeps the last pizza box balanced against his hip with practiced Spider-Man coordination.

He kisses you back softly and warmly. When you finally pull away, Peter doesn't move very far. His forehead rests lightly against yours, and he lets out the smallest, happiest laugh. His thumb absentmindedly brushes against your side.

The floors steadily tick upward until F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s calm voice fills the cabin. 

“Laboratory level.”

The doors slide open. Peter clears his throat almost immediately, reluctantly stepping back into the version of himself he usually occupies inside the Tower— not fake, per se, but just a little more careful. A little more reserved. He looks toward the far end of the hallway where your father's lab sits behind its familiar glass walls.

You smile gently. “You ready?”

He blows out a huge breath. “Not really,” he says, and you panic for a second before he laughs, and you realize he’s joking. “But let’s do it anyway.”

You step out first, flowers tucked carefully against your chest. Peter follows with the frame in one hand, and for a few seconds neither of you says anything as you walk side by side toward the lab.

Then you stop. Peter takes another step before realizing you're no longer beside him. He turns, confused.

“What?”

You look at him pointedly.

He glances down at himself, then at the frame, then at you. His eyebrows draw together as he tries to figure out what he's forgotten. And then his expression changes. “Oh.”

He walks back toward you, one hand settling lightly against your waist, and kisses you again. You laugh softly into his mouth.

When he pulls back, he looks completely puzzled. “What?”

“The pizzas.”

Peter stares at you.

“Oh, right.”

He turns immediately toward the elevator, reaches one hand inside, and grabs the dangling pizza boxes from the ceiling with a sheepish shake of his head before following you down the hallway.

As you approach the lab, you can already see your father through the glass. Nothing has changed since you left. He’s exactly where you expect him to be, standing over the central workbench with his back to the door again. A constellation of blue holograms hangs suspended around him, equations and mechanical schematics rotating lazily through the air while he adjusts something microscopic beneath a magnifying lens. He no longer wears the noise cancelling… things, whatever he called them earlier. Music plays quietly through the lab speakers— something classic rock, low enough to fade beneath the constant hum of cooling fans and fabrication equipment.

He's completely absorbed. You don't think he even notices the door sliding open.

Peter slows almost imperceptibly beside you. Without looking at him, you reach over and briefly squeeze his forearm. Then you step fully into the room.

“Dad?”

His left hand is still buried inside the open housing of whatever impossible piece of technology currently occupies the center of his workbench, while his right hand pinches and rotates a holographic model suspended in front of him. Tiny streams of code cascade down one side of the display, disappearing as quickly as they appear.

“I thought you were supposed to be at your swanky Midtown dinner by now,” he says absently, attention never leaving the project. “Don't tell me Mystery Boy bailed on you, because if that's what happened, I would like the record to show I objected to Mystery Boy before I even knew he existed.”

You glance sideways at Peter. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly on the pizza boxes.

“No—” you start.

Your dad continues anyway. “And if he stood you up on your anniversary, that's a remarkably efficient way to end a relationship. Saves everybody time.”

“Dad.”

“I’m serious.” He reaches for another screwdriver without looking. “If this kid did something stupid, or said something stupid, or made you cry, I have resources.” He tightens the screws on whatever it is he’s working on. “Obviously, we have the direct route, if you want me to suit up and kick his ass myself. Or, we can bury him, legally speaking. Or, if you want it to be really untraceable, there are few things I can’t do with my satellites and enough time. You just gotta let me know who this punk is.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Dad.”

“I’m just saying, statistically speaking, there are very few problems that can't be solved with enough lawyers, enough accountants, and a sufficiently terrifying public relations department.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And if those fail…” He pauses thoughtfully. “Happy has a very particular set of skills.”

Peter's eyes flick toward you for half a second before settling firmly back on your father.

“I appreciate the concern,” you say evenly, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?”

“No.”

Your dad finally sets the screwdriver down. “What, then?”

You take a steadying breath. “I wanted you to meet someone.”

“Sure.” He says it easily, still facing the bench. “Who’s the lucky—”

He turns, his eyes land on Peter, and it feels like the world stops turning. There’s a beat where his expression remains perfectly neutral.

“... Peter?”

Peter straightens instinctively. “Hi, Mr. Stark.”

Your dad blinks once. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs, short and surprised. “What are you talking about?” He gestures between the two of you. “I’ve met Peter.” He looks at you like you’ve forgotten something obvious. “I’ve met Peter a hundred times. Kid, are you getting exposed to too much radiation here?” he asks you. “Maybe we need to get your brain scanned, or…”

His teasing smile begins to fade. His eyes move to the pizza boxes, then back up to Peter, then over to you, and the bouquet in your hands, then back to Peter again. His eyes narrow just slightly. You know this look; you’ve watched him solve impossible engineering problems wearing exactly that expression. It’s one tiny observation leading to a thousand realizations all at once.

Peter volunteering to stop by the Tower more often than necessary, you suddenly becoming very interested in Queens, the way Peter had started asking whether you were around before coming upstairs, the way you'd started volunteering to help with projects that somehow always involved Peter… it all clicks into place.

Your dad’s jaw slackens just slightly.

“... No.”

Neither you nor Peter says anything. Your dad points between the two of you.

“You…” His finger lands on Peter. “... and…” He points at you. “... you.”

Peter swallows audibly. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

Your dad closes his eyes for exactly one second. When he opens them again, he looks somewhere over Peter's shoulder, processing. Then he lets out a long breath through his nose.

“How long?”

“Six months,” you answer quietly.

He nods once, very slowly. “Six… months.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been dating…” He gestures toward Peter again. “him.”

“Yes,” you say again.

“And neither of you thought this was… information I should have?”

Neither of you say anything. Your dad drags both hands down his face slowly, pressing his palms against his eyes for a moment before letting them fall to his hips. When he looks up again, he's no longer looking at either of you with confusion. He's looking with the laser-focused intensity you've seen before missions, before congressional hearings, before impossible engineering deadlines. His brain is moving faster than anyone else's in the room.

“Six months,” he repeats, almost to himself. “Which means…” His eyes narrow. “Christmas.” Neither of you answers. “Your birthday.” Silence. “The fundraiser in March.” You shift your footing. His voice gets quieter with each realization. “The outreach program.” His eyes land on Peter. “You volunteered.”

Peter swallows. “Yes, sir.”

“You volunteered.”

“I…” Peter scratches the back of his neck.

Your dad points at him. “You volunteered because my daughter was going.”

“I mean, not just becau—”

“And the charity gala.” His gaze snaps to you. “You suddenly cared about the gala.”

You blink. “I care about—”

“You have skipped galas since you were fifteen,” he accurately points out. “And then this year you told Pepper she absolutely could not move your seat assignment. Conveniently right next to…"

You let a guilty groan settle somewhere in the back of your throat.

Your dad starts pacing. “I have spent the last six months thinking I was watching two exceptionally intelligent young people collaborate on projects.”

“Dad, we—”

“No.” His voice stops you immediately. “I am trying very hard to process about eight hundred separate memories simultaneously.” He continues pacing. “I have defended you,” he says, pointing toward Peter again. “Repeatedly.”

“I know, sir.”

“I have trusted you.”

“I know.”

“I have handed you technology that governments would happily start wars over.”

Peter nods.

“I have let you into my home, into my laboratory. I have let you spend time with my daughter.” He stops pacing and turns. “And apparently…” He spreads both hands. “I should have been asking significantly more follow-up questions.”

Peter takes a careful breath. “Mr. Stark, I never wanted—”

“I know exactly what you wanted.”

“Hey!” you interject. “Dad—”

“And you,” he looks back at you. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.” You hold up your palms in defense.

Your father looks at you for a long moment, then gives one small nod. 

“No,” he says, quietly. “I’ll give you that.” His shoulders drop just enough that some of the immediate heat drains from his expression, replaced by something more measured. “You didn’t lie.” He points at you, nodding his head. “You were… extremely strategic. You were sneaky. You lied by omission.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I know exactly what that move looks like because I invented about half the variations of it. I've spent a very large percentage of my adult life telling people technically true things while carefully leaving out the parts I didn't want them asking about.” He gives a small shrug. “It’s a bad habit, and it also happens to be one I'm exceptionally qualified to recognize.”

You can tell Peter is antsy beside you, trying to figure out when he should jump in.

“So no,” your dad nods. “You didn’t lie.” The corner of his mouth twitches briefly, but it never becomes a smile. “It is an incredibly effective strategy.” His expression hardens again. “It is also a terrible strategy to use on your old man.”

“This just kind of feels like bullshit,” you say, before you can think twice about saying it.

You can see Peter’s jaw drop slightly out of the corner of your eye.

“Bullshit?” your dad parrots, appalled. “And how, exactly is this bullshit?”

“You just said— half an hour ago— you didn't want people feeling entitled to every part of my life.” Your hand flies out to the side in emphasis.

“I still don't.”

“You said if there were parts of my life that belonged only to me, then they belonged to me.”

“I meant every word.”

You hold your hands out helplessly and balk at him. “So what happened to all of that?”

Your dad exhales slowly. “That heartwarming little conversation…” He glances toward Peter for only a moment before looking back at you. “...happened before I knew the person you were secretly building an entire relationship with…” Another glance toward Peter. “...was him.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you whine, hating how much you feel like a child right now.

“That tiny piece of information changes everything.”

“How?”

“Because I know Peter,” he says. “I know exactly the kind of life he lives. I know how many times he’s ignored direct orders, how many rows of stitches he’s hidden because he didn’t want to worry May, how many broken ribs he’s tried to walk off. I know how many times I’ve had to look at him and say ‘you do not get to decide that your life is worth less than everybody else’s.’”

Your dad’s eyes move to you.

“And now I find out that the person making those decisions... is also the person dating my daughter.”

“You’re acting like he’s— I mean—” You stammer but don’t back down. “Come on, he’s not reckless,” you say. “He’s— he’s a brave person. He’s a fucking superhero, Dad!”

“That’s exactly my point.” His voice is stone. “Peter will run into a burning building before he spends two seconds thinking about what happens to him afterward.”

You glance at Peter, whose face has gone pink with embarrassment.

Your dad’s eyes soften for a moment. “I love that about him.”

Peter looks up.

“I really do.” Your dad shakes his head. “But loving that quality from the perspective of a mentor…” His voice catches slightly. “is very different from imagining what it means for my daughter.”

“Mr. Stark, if I could just—”

“No.” Your dad doesn’t even look at him.

“I really think I should—"

He turns this time. “Absolutely not.”

Peter immediately falls silent. You feel something snap inside your chest. “Dad!”

“No.”

“You can’t keep shutting him down.”

“I am trying to have a conversation with my daughter.”

“He's standing right here!”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then stop talking about him like he isn't.”

He throws one hand into the air. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“I knew this would happen,” you whine.

“This is happening because you kept it from me!” he fires back, hitting every syllable hard.

“No, this is happening because you're proving exactly why I thought we couldn't tell you!”

He laughs once in disbelief. “Oh, that’s great. So this is my fault.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You know what?” He cocks his head. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Yes, Boss?”

“Baby monitor’s back on. I want every exterior access point to the residential floors—”

“Dad, wh—”

“—logged.”

“Dad!”

“I want movement notifications when Mr. Parker’s badge has been scanned into the building.”

“Are you—” 

“I want tracking re-enabled on all vehicles and all Stark devices.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You step directly in front of him. “You are not putting surveillance on me because I have a boyfriend.”

“I am putting safety measures in place because you have this boyfriend.”

Peter visibly winces. “Mr Stark…”

Your dad doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s spoken. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., while you're at it, I also want a standing alert if my daughter leaves the Tower after midnight.”

You mouth falls open. “What?”

“And if she’s gone longer than expected, I want—”

“No!”

“No?”

“I’m an adult,” you remind him.

“You are an adult,” he says, his voice remarkably controlled considering the conversation, “and you are also currently living in a building that I own, protected by a security system that I designed, eating food that I pay for, using laboratories that cost more than most countries' annual budgets, and driving cars that came out of my garage. Those things, kid, are privileges.”

“I know they are,” you grumble. 

“And privileges come with rules, okay? They come with whatever security protocols I decide are appropriate.”

You shake your head, feeling your face grow hot. “This is so unbelievably unfair. You have no right to tell me that loving somebody who risks their life is somehow unacceptable when Mom has spent years doing exactly that with you.”

Your dad’s jaw tightens. There’s a growing part of you that thinks you’re completely fucking this all up beyond repair.

“That is completely different,” is all he says in your direction. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“I want Happy informed whenever—”

“Dad, are you—”

“— my daughter leaves the Tower with—”

“— kidding me?!”

“— anyone.”

“You’re treating me like I’m fifteen!” you say, after letting out a cross between a scream and a grunt that doesn’t exactly work in your favor for that particular point.

“I’m treating you,” he corrects, finger held up, “like someone who just informed me she’s been secretly dating a masked vigilante.”

Peter flinches. “Mr. Stark—” he tries again, but his voice barely carries. His fingers curl against his palms. He tries again. “Mr. Stark…” Nothing. He tries getting your attention with your name too, but the two of you are still talking over one another, your sentences breaking apart into angry fragments.

“— not listening to me—”

“— because you're refusing to see—”

“— this isn't your decision—”

“— everything changes when—”

Peter feels something tighten painfully in his chest.

“Can I please say something?” he finally manages to get out, and it cuts through.

Your dad opens his mouth immediately. “Listen kid, this really isn’t—”

“It is,” Peter says, surprising even himself seemingly by speaking over him. His voice stays respectful, but it doesn’t waver. “It is, because you're talking about me, and you're talking about her, and... and I don't think either of us should let this conversation and without me telling you what this actually is.”

Your dad blinks, caught off guard for a second. 

Peter presses on before he can be interrupted again.

“Mr. Stark, sir, listen,” he says. “I get why you’re worried. I really do.” His eyes stay on your dad. “If I were you, and my daughter told me they were dating someone who made the choices I make…” He breathes out a nervous laugh. “I don't think my first reaction would be excitement either.”

Your dad says nothing, and you’re having a hard time reading him.

Peter continues. “You’ve been trying to teach me that being Spider-Man doesn't mean I have to stop being Peter Parker.” He swallows. “And… and I’m still learning that.” He glances down for a second before looking back up. “You said I have a habit of thinking my life matters less than everyone else’s.”

A flicker crosses your dad’s face. 

“And— and maybe that was true.” He nods once. “Maybe it still is sometimes. But I’ve been working on that. And one of the biggest reasons I’ve been getting better…” His voice softens even more. “... is because of her.”

Peter's eyes drift toward you for only a heartbeat before he looks back at your dad again, almost as though he's afraid that if he lets himself look at you any longer, he'll lose his nerve.

“I love her,” he says, and your nose scrunches in adoration. “I've loved her long enough to know that she is probably the most capable person I've ever met.” He lets out a slow breath. “I don't mean that because she's your daughter. I don't mean that because she's brilliant— which she is— or because she can solve engineering problems that make my head hurt— which she can.” His mouth presses into a thin line as he searches for words carefully. “I mean... she's somebody who thinks before she acts. She looks at situations from every angle before she decides what to do.” He shakes his head slightly. “And when something scares her, she doesn't pretend it isn't scary. She figures out how to understand it.”

Your dad’s eyes flit over to you for a moment, as Peter continues.

“She knows how to take care of herself. She knows how to recognize when something isn’t safe. She— she knows how to walk away from situations that aren't right for her.” He swallows. “And… respectfully, sir…” His eyes meet your dad’s again. “I know you know all of that.”

You hold your breath.

“I know because…” He hesitates. “... because you taught her.”

Your dad’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly; Peter notices it, and presses on. 

“I mean, you spent her whole life teaching her how to think for herself, and to not let people make decisions for her, and to question everything, and… and that if someone tells her to trust them, they should be able to explain why. And that goes both ways.”

Peter finally sets the pizza boxes down on a workbench, and you sort of realize he’s been holding them the entire time.

“You taught her to build things, and to solve problems, and to stand up to people, even when those people are you.” A tiny smile threatens at the corner of Peter's mouth before disappearing almost immediately. “She— she’s with me knowing exactly who I am, and I don’t ever wanna take that choice away from her.” He pauses long enough to gather another breath. “I would never do anything to hurt her,” he swears. “If I ever thought I was becoming somebody who was hurting her…” He shakes his head. “I’d leave before I asked her to live with that.” His throat works as he swallows. “I know that— that I can’t promise her that life around me is always going to be safe. I wish I could, you know?” He gives the smallest shake of his head. “I really wish I could look you in the eye and tell you that nothing bad will ever happen to either of us. But… but I’d be lying.”

You feel like your eyes are boring holes into your dad’s head, the way you’re staring at him, trying to read his mind. But his face is stone, and he’s giving you nothing to go off of.

“I can promise that I will never stop trying to keep her safe, and that I’ll never ask her to carry something by herself, and that if I make a mistake, I'll own it, and if she ever tells me she doesn't want this life anymore…”  His voice catches. “... I'll respect that.”

He looks at you then, only for a second.

“I just…” His eyes return to your dad. “I love her enough to let her choose.”

He blows out a soft breath with a sense of finality, and you unconsciously echo it. 

You nervously watch your dad, arms still folded across his chest, studying Peter with an expression that is far more difficult to read now than anger alone. His eyes linger on the young man in front of him— not the Spider-Man he'd mentored through impossible missions, but the nervous guy standing in his laboratory with his shoulders squared despite visibly wanting to disappear into the floor.

The silence stretches, and you don’t dare break it.

You glance sideways at Peter. Only now, with the adrenaline beginning to ebb, do you notice the way his hands are hanging awkwardly at his sides. His fingers are curled tightly enough that the knuckles have gone pale, and when your hand brushes his, his palm is damp with nervous sweat. Your heart twists. Without thinking about whether your dad is watching anymore, you reach over and lace your fingers through his. 

Peter startles just enough that you feel it. His eyes flick toward you, wide and uncertain. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, just a tiny one, the kind that says I'm here. The corners of your mouth lift into a small, reassuring smile.

He looks at you for another second before something in his shoulders finally loosens. He swallows, gives the faintest nod, and squeezes your hand back.

When you look back at your dad, he's looking directly at your joined hands. His eyes stay there for several long seconds. Then they drift back up to Peter.

There’s another long beat of silence, before your dad lets out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Well…” He rubs a hand across his jaw. “That sounded… alarmingly close to asking me for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Peter’s eyes become comically wide. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.” Peter shakes his head so quickly you almost worry he’s going to hurt his neck. “No, no, sir. I wasn't— I wasn't asking— I mean, someday, maybe, if…” He stops himself so abruptly he almost bites his tongue. “Not... not now.” Color rushes into his face so quickly that the tips of his ears turn pink. “I didn’t mean…”

Your dad looks at you. “He said ‘someday’,” he tells you, eyes alight with laughter now. “He wants to marry you.”

“Dad!”

“I don’t— I’m…” Peter looks between the two of you, sweating bullets. “I don’t know what the right answer is here.”

"Knock it off," you say immediately, giving your dad a look, but starting to laugh. "He's already nervous enough."

Peter lets out a tiny, helpless breath beside you.

"I really am," he admits quietly. "I'm trying very hard not to make this worse."

Your dad watches him for another second. Then, finally, the corners of his mouth lift into a genuine smile.

“I’m messing with you, kid,” he says, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder, jostling him a bit.

Peter lets out a petrified laugh, eyes darting to you. Your dad leaves his hand on Peter's shoulder for another second before letting it fall away.

“That being said,” he says, pointing between the two of you, “don't mistake me relaxing for me surrendering. Those are two completely different things.”

A grin pulls at your lips.

“So…” he continues, rubbing his hands together as if he's about to negotiate a merger or some intergalactic peace treaty. “Ground rules.”

You don't even try to hide your smile anymore.

The fact that he's talking about ground rules instead of breaking you up makes something in your chest loosen all at once. Ten minutes ago you'd been convinced this conversation might permanently damage all three of your relationships. Now your father is slipping into full Dad Mode, which somehow feels infinitely more manageable.

Peter, meanwhile, straightens again. “Yes, sir.”

Your dad holds up a second finger. “If you’re injured badly enough that she’s going to find out eventually,” his eyes land on Peter, “she hears it from you.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter answers immediately again.

“I don't want her finding out because she sees a news report or because F.R.I.D.A.Y. catches an emergency medical alert.”

“Of course,” Peter says, “yes, sir.”

“And cool it with the sir, okay?”

Peter nods emphatically.

“And,” your dad adds, looking directly at him, “if the two of you are having a disagreement, you solve it by talking to each other. You do not solve it by disappearing into your respective laboratories for three days because you both think you're protecting the other person.”

Peter lowers his eyes with a sheepish expression that confirms your father's point far better than words could.

“You’re both frighteningly intelligent,” he continues. “You're both terrible at believing somebody else should help carry your problems. You're both going to think the noble thing is to quietly suffer by yourselves.” He points at each of you in turn. “Don’t.”

Neither of you argues.

“And, listen, Parker,” he says. “If she tells you she's smarter than you, or that she’s right…”

Peter doesn't hesitate. “She usually is."

Your dad gives one approving nod.

“Excellent answer,”  he says, and claps his hands together once. “Okay! That concludes the mandatory orientation. You can pick up your frisbees and rubbers in the—”

“Dad!” you cry, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “I— okay, I'll accept the ground rules.”

He folds his arms. “I don’t know why you were under the impression that they were optional.”

“But I have one condition.”

His eyebrows lift immediately. “You’re negotiating.”

“I wonder who I learned that from…” you counter faux-thoughtfully.

“Probably some handsome genius,” he tosses out.

You ignore him. “I get to add one rule.”

He studies you for a moment, suspicion already creeping across his face. “If you’re gonna ask me about overnight visitation privileges, you’re pushing it.”

You roll your eyes and ignore him again. “My rule,” you say, “is that we have dinner together once a week.” 

They both look at you.

“And not eating over keyboards or just stopping by before one of us goes into a lab, but we all sit down together once a week and have dinner like an actual family.” You smile, then point toward the stack of pizza boxes Peter had carefully set on the workbench earlier. “And I think we should start before those pizzas get cold.”

Your dad’s eyes move from the boxes, to Peter, back to you. A slow grin spreads across his face. “You know,” he says thoughtfully. “This is a fascinating strategy. You lied to me for six months—”

“Didn’t lie,” you quickly amend.

“You strategically omitted information for six months,” he corrects without missing a beat. “Then you showed up in my lab, dropped an emotional bomb on my head, made the nicest kid on the planet give me a speech that was frankly difficult to argue with…” He points at the pizza boxes. “... and now you're bribing me.”

“It’s not a bribe,” you protest. “It’s pizza, calm down.”

“Pizza is emotionally manipulative,” he insists. “There’s a reason every hostage negotiation in America eventually involves somebody asking for a pie.”

Peter smiles. “I… really don’t think that’s true,” he mumbles, and reaches for the top pizza box, carefully lifting the lid. Steam curls into the air immediately, carrying the smell of roasted garlic, melted mozzarella, fennel sausage, and blistered peppers. The roasted red peppers are scattered across the top, slightly charred around the edges.

Your dad glances down almost absentmindedly. Then he pauses, and his eyes narrow at his favorite pizza. He tries very hard to look unimpressed. It doesn’t quite work. 

“Good choice,” he mutters, almost under his breath.

You smile to yourself. “I know.”

Before you can all get too far, you glance toward the ceiling. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Miss Stark?”

“Would you call Mom and tell her we're having pizza in Dad's lab? Tell her we'd really like her to come join us.”

“Right away.”

“Thanks.”

Your dad laughs. “Oh, she’s gonna get a real kick out of this.” 

Peter flashes you a concerned look, and you shake your head, a silent urge not to worry, that this might even be fun.

You all shuffle around each other, your dad grabbing plates from the makeshift kitchen corner of the lab. He then helps himself to his pizza, pausing after he grabs a couple slices.

“And do either of you little secret-harborers wanna tell me why the inside of this box says ‘we love Iron Man’?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Peter immediately looks at you, eyes wide.

“Do I need to check my bank statement?” your dad asks, turning fully toward you. “Because I would be more than happy to sit down with F.R.I.D.A.Y. and examine exactly how many times one of my cards has been used to pay for your little date nights.”

As if she knew to save you from this, the lab doors slide open. Pepper steps inside, still in her work clothes, phone permanently in one hand.

“I was told there was pizza,” she says as she walks in. “That was all the information F.R.I.D.A.Y. would give me.” She tosses a warm hello to both you and Peter.

Your dad doesn't even look up from cutting another slice.

“Oh, there's pizza,” he says, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Pepper raises an eyebrow.

“And," he continues with exaggerated importance, “our daughter has some very big news she'd like to share with you.”

You look at him completely deadpan. "Really?"

He gestures grandly toward you with a paper plate. "I'm giving you the floor."

You sigh. “He’s talking about me dating Peter.”

Pepper blinks once. “...Okay?”

Your dad finally looks up. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”

Pepper looks between the three of you, immediately taking in Peter's nervous posture, your expression, and your dad's obvious bewilderment.

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’”

“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean, ‘what do you mean?’’” He points emphatically toward Peter. “They're dating.”

She nods.

“They've been dating for six months,” he says.

She blinks.

“They've been sneakin’ around behind our backs.”

Pepper is completely undeterred. “Not my back.”

The lab goes completely silent. He stares at her. Peter, who has just picked up a slice of pizza, slowly lowers it back onto his plate. You blink.

“...You knew?” Your dad balks.

Pepper smiles apologetically. “For a few weeks.”

His jaw actually drops. “For a few weeks?”

She nods. “I wasn't one hundred percent certain at first.”

“You— you didn't think to mention this to me?”

Pepper laughs softly. “I thought you might enjoy figuring it out yourself.”

“I did not enjoy figuring it out myself.”

Pepper laughs outright then, the sound warm enough to take the last of the tension out of the room. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I imagine you didn't.”

“I had an entire… emotional journey,” he insists, setting a stack of paper plates onto the workbench with more emphasis than necessary. “I went through suspicion, confusion, denial, righteous indignation, approximately four separate parenting crises, and then, finally, gracious acceptance. You're telling me you skipped all of that?”

“I did.”

You laugh. Pepper catches your eye and smiles before turning toward Peter. The poor guy still looks like he's isn't entirely convinced this evening hasn't been an elaborate stress test designed specifically for him. She steps over without hesitation and wraps both arms around him. Peter stiffens for a fraction of a second out of pure surprise before relaxing into the hug.

“You’re welcome here any time, honey,” she says quietly.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “That— that means a lot.”

Pepper lets him go with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder before reaching for a paper plate. Your dad watches the entire exchange with narrowed eyes.

“She knew before I did?” he asks you, gesturing toward Pepper with a slice.

She reaches across the workbench and steals one of the slices he’d just put on his plate.

“Are you ever going to admit that sometimes there are things happening right under your nose that you completely ignore?” she asks, shaking her head. “You snooze you lose, Stark.”

“There was no snoozing happening,” he admonishes.

Pepper shrugs, completely unbothered. “They kept looking at each other.”

“They've always looked at each other.”

“Not like that.”

Your dad sighs dramatically, and looks over at Peter, who’s happily chowing down, eager to be out of the hot seat for a minute. But you should know your dad won’t let him off that easy.

“You know what?” he says to Peter. “I think you should give that proposal speech to Pepper.”

Pepper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Proposal speech?”

Peter coughs around the mouthful of pizza, starting to choke slightly. You jump up, bringing a hand to his back.

“Oh, yeah, it was great,” your dad continues, reaching into the minifridge and tossing a bottle of water to Peter, who catches it without even looking. “‘I love her, I’d never hurt her, I respect her choices, et cetera…’”

“He’s being dramatic,” you tell her, knowing she’s no stranger to that concept. “It wasn’t a… it was a very nice speech.”

“Tony, what exactly did you make this poor kid do?” she asks him, brow furrowed.

“I didn’t make him do anything,” he protests. “He volunteered. Very moving, actually.”

“Well, color me intrigued,” she says.

“It was nothing,” you insist, waving the whole thing away before it can grow legs. “It was nothing. He just…” You glance at Peter as he finally gets his coughing under control. “He said what he needed to say."

“Well that sounds lovely,” Pepper decides, carefully selecting her slice.

“It was,” you say, giving Peter’s shoulder one last pat before sitting back down on the edge of the workbench. “And,” you add, looking at him before pointing across the room at your father. “Don’t take any shit from him.”

Peter glances between the two of you. “I’ve been trying not to for a couple years now.”

Your dad points at him with the crust of his pizza. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Peter shrugs, unable to hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You did tell me not to let people push me around.”

“I was hoping you’d apply that selectively,” he bemoans. “Also, kid, where is this pizza from?”

Peter doesn’t miss a beat. “Belucci’s in Queens. Best pizza in New York.”

Your dad lets out an immediate scoff. “Oh, that’s adorable.”

You and Pepper both groan quietly, as if to say please don’t start.

“John’s on Bleeker,” your dad says. “That’s the best pizza in New York. Best in the world, in fact.”

“No chance,” Peter says, laughing. 

“No?” your dad asks, incredulous.

Peter shakes his head once, completely matter-of-fact. “The sauce is totally sour.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” your father dismisses quickly. “John’s is an institution. They’ve been making pizza longer than you two punks have been alive.”

“John’s used to be the best, I’ll give you that,” you poke the bear, foot idly dangling off the workbench. “Like… five or six years ago.”

Your dad looks back and forth between the two of you. “Oh great.”

Pepper suppresses a smile as she reaches over and steals the last roasted pepper from his slice before he notices.

“They’re already ganging up on me!”

You sit back on the edge of the workbench and let yourself simply watch them for a moment. Your dad and Peter are already settled into the familiar rhythm of giving each other a hard time, the tension from earlier completely gone from the room, while Pepper stands between them with quiet, amused patience.

You look at Peter, and he catches your eye from across the workbench. His smile is small but unmistakably relieved, his shoulders finally loose beneath his button-down, and something in your chest settles when you realize he feels it too.

“Oh, you two are gonna be such a headache for me,” your dad says. “Greater than the sum of your parts.”

That’s for damn sure.