All Is Calm, All Is Bright

There aren’t too many times in Peter’s life where he can say he’s done something objectively cool. Like, on the edge of your seat, action movie cool. Not until he became Spider-Man, of course. That kind of changes the whole playing field. Sitting on top of the Empire State Building, eating a birria taco and watching the city hum beneath him? Definitely one of those this-is-actually-my-life moments. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone in his actual life—aside from Ned, because Ned gets it.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist his whole world upside down, Tony Stark sat on the faded couch of his tiny living room one random afternoon, looking like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t completely insane for Peter Parker—Queens nobody, sweatpants aficionado—to have the Tony Stark sitting on his couch, offering him something that could only loosely be called an internship. It was more like an extreme superhero home makeover with a side of sarcasm and a million-dollar suit, but semantics don’t matter.

One day, he was pulling on a hoodie and sweatpants (and no, they were not children’s pajamas, thank you very much, Mr. Stark), and the next, he was flying to Germany to fight… alongside? Against? Eh, whatever. With the Avengers. That’s the point. He didn’t even have time to process how bananas that was before Spider-Manning went from sneaking around alleys to swinging into full-blown chaos.

The suit? Meeting Mr. Stark? Yeah, that kind of rewired his whole life—for the better. Mostly. May’s still not entirely convinced. And sure, he nearly dies a little more often than he probably should. There was the ferry incident (yikes), the plane crash (also yikes), and the fact that his date’s dad turned out to be a supervillain who, oh yeah, dropped a building on him. You know, typical teenage vigilante things.

And then there was turning down Mr. Stark’s offer to join the Avengers. That had been hard. Really hard. But, surprisingly, instead of writing him off, Mr. Stark doubled down on the whole mentorship thing. What started as a “faux” internship to keep Aunt May from asking too many questions turned into something… real. Or as real as things get when your boss is Iron Man and your “internship” involves a lot of tech, training, and the occasional superhero debrief.

For the past three weeks, Peter’s been spending two days a week after school at Stark Tower, working in the lab with Tony.

And honestly? That might just be the coolest thing he’s ever done.

Which is exactly why Peter is doubling down on going to lab hours after school today, even though May thinks it’s a bad idea.

“Peter, we’re supposed to get slammed with snow tonight. I don’t want you swinging home in that!” she says, wiping down the counter with one hand while trying to mop up the milk she spilled in her rush to pour him a bowl of cereal.

“Happy can drive me home then,” Peter reasons, grinning as he shovels a hefty bite of Cheerios into his mouth.

“Peter,” she sighs, her tone laced with that familiar mix of exasperation and worry.

“May! If Mr. Stark didn’t think it was safe for me to come in, he’d cancel. I mean, come on, the guy’s always yelling at me about safety!” Peter argues, shoving the last spoonful of cereal into his mouth with a dramatic flourish for good measure.

While that statement is technically true, Peter also knows Mr. Stark probably has no clue there’s a snowstorm in the forecast—or what day it is, for that matter. The man’s a genius, but unless the weather report was flashing across a holographic screen in the lab, Peter doubts he’d even notice. Fortunately, May doesn’t know this little detail… or at least Peter doesn’t think she does. And based on the way her shoulders drop, a sign of reluctant surrender, he figures he’s in the clear.

Victory. Lab hours, here he comes.

Besides, if it does snow, it won’t be as bad as they’re saying. It never is. The first big storm of the season always gets overhyped. He’ll be fine.

“I’ll be working the night shift tonight, so call me once you’re home so I know you’re safe, ‘kay?” May says, sliding a brown paper bag across the counter to him.

Peter grabs the bag and stuffs it into his third backpack this month. (He swears these things have some kind of self-destruct timer.) His smile is wide as he zips it up. “Yes, Mom,” he teases, earning an eye roll and a quick pat on the cheek.

“Larb you!” May calls as Peter heads out the door.

“Larb you too! Have a good day, May!” Peter yells back, the cold morning air already biting at his cheeks as he heads to schoo.

-

The whole school day, all anyone can talk about is the storm supposedly rolling in tonight. Everyone’s buzzing about their foolproof snow day rituals—wearing pajamas backward and inside out, sleeping with spoons under their pillows, all that jazz. Peter tunes it out.

He doesn’t have time for snow day traditions this year. He’s got way cooler plans, the kind that involve him, Tony Stark, and adding some new features to his suit. There’s no way he’s missing lab hours tonight—unless Mr. Stark texts to cancel. Which he hasn’t.

Trust that Peter’s been checking his phone obsessively all day, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it doesn’t. No cancellation, no "stay home, kid, it’s too risky," just glorious radio silence. And even though there’s a soft, lazy flurry starting up as Peter walks out of Midtown Tech, Happy’s car is there, waiting for him.

Happy’s no different than usual—grumbling before Peter even opens the door.

“Hi, Happy! Thanks for coming to get me!” Peter chirps, sliding into the back seat with his trademark optimism.

“Yeah, yeah,” Happy mutters, barely glancing his way. The car pulls into traffic, and Peter can practically see the irritation radiating off the guy. Classic Happy Hogan: a human storm cloud of grumbles, ranging from mildly annoyed to full-on uber irritated. Today feels somewhere in the middle of that scale.

“Stark doesn’t value my life,” Happy grouses, gripping the wheel like it’s personally responsible for his bad mood. “Driving all the way across the city in a storm —for this —is ridiculous.”

Peter glances out the window at the barely-there flurries and feels a twinge of guilt. “It’s not that bad,” he offers sheepishly. He knows better than to say it too loud, though.

Happy snorts but doesn’t reply, muttering something about the snow and idiots on the road. Peter figures he’s on a roll and lets him vent. Besides, Happy’s right about one thing—he is risking his life. But it’s not like Peter asked him to come. He could’ve swung to the Tower, no problem.

He doesn’t say that, though. Best to let Happy stew in peace. Once he drops Peter off at the tower, his job’s done for the day anyway. And judging by the way Happy practically throws him out of the car, muttering something under his breath about “this being out of his pay grade,” it’s clear he’s just as eager to move on with his evening as Peter is.

Peter doesn’t mind. The familiar lobby of Stark Tower greets him with its sleek, polished floors and faint buzz of energy. Happy doesn’t even wait to see him inside before peeling off into traffic, tires crunching against the light layer of snow dusting the street.

Stopping by security has become part of the routine by now, and Vinny, the evening security lead, is waiting at the desk. Vinny is a stout, solidly built guy with a head so bald it shines under the lobby lights. His default expression is pure intimidation, like he’s carved from stone. Peter’s seen even the burliest delivery drivers shrink under his gaze. But after eight encounters on his way to the lab, Peter’s figured out that Vinny’s about as mean as a giant stuffed bear. Sure, he can probably clear a room if needed, but Peter likes how genuinely kind the guy is once you get past the whole “don’t mess with me” exterior.

“Afternoon, Pete!” Vinny greets him, his gruff voice laced with warmth. “Didn’t think I’d see you today, not with this storm rolling in. How’d that chemistry test go?”

Peter grins, stepping through the security scanner. “Good! I got a 98 on it, sir!” he announces proudly.

Vinny whistles, impressed. “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.”

Peter could go on about how unfair it was to lose those two points—he was right, technically, even if he didn’t show his work—but it doesn’t matter. 

“You’re all set, kid. Have a good night, and stay safe out there. We’re getting sent home early—twenty minutes tops—so everyone can beat the storm.”

“Thanks, Vinny! You stay safe too,” Peter says, giving him a quick wave before practically skipping toward the elevator.

All that stands between him and one of his favorite parts of the week is an elevator ride up to the 88th floor the. It’s not as thrilling as swinging through the city, but it’s a really close second. He presses the button, watches the doors glide open, and steps inside, already picturing the lab’s glowing screens and Tony’s voice greeting him with its usual mix of sarcasm and begrudging affection.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Mr. Stark says the moment Peter steps into the lab.

He rolls his eyes fondly, his grin widening as he unceremoniously tosses his backpack onto the workbench closest to the window—his favorite spot in the room. It’s got the best view of the city, and Peter always feels a little cooler working there. He makes his way over to see what Tony’s working on, the glow of the holograms reflecting off the man’s ever-distracted face.

“There was a lot of traffic. Not my fault,” Peter counters.

Tony doesn’t even look up. “Traffic? What was it? Sports game?”

Peter nearly chokes on his own spit. Of course, just as he suspected, Tony has no idea what’s happening outside. The man could probably predict the next three tech trends, but weather? Forget it.

“No, everyone’s rushing home to try and beat the huge snowstorm they’ve been freaking out about all day,” Peter explains, grabbing the soldering iron Tony’s holding and seamlessly taking over the section FRIDAY is now highlighting in blue for him.

Tony pauses, his hands stilling over the project. “Storm?”

“Yep,” Peter says, his earlier annoyance creeping back into his tone. “It’s all anyone’s talking about right now.”

Tony snorts, like the world’s collective panic personally offends him. “The first snow of the year is never as bad as they say it’s going to be. Everyone knows that.”

“ Exactly! ” Peter exclaims, thrilled that someone else finally sees reason. “That’s what I said when May was all like, ‘Peter, it’s not safe for you. Peter, come home.’” He pitches his voice up dramatically, doing his best May impression.

Tony smirks at that, fiddling with some wiring in the prototype they’re working on. But there’s a subtle shift in his demeanor—small, almost imperceptible, but Peter catches it anyway. Tony falters, his fingers pausing mid-air for just a second too long.

“Shit kid… do you want to go home?” Tony asks, like the thought only now occurred to him. And honestly? It probably did.

“No, sir!” Peter says quickly, his voice bright and hopeful. “I’d like to stay, if that’s okay with you?”

Tony’s gaze flickers to him, and for a brief second, Peter sees the concern hidden beneath the usual bravado. But it disappears just as fast, replaced by a shrug that screams whatever, kid.

“Fine,” Tony says, grabbing a tool off the bench. “But if you end up stuck here, you’re on coffee duty. Deal?”

Peter beams, grabbing another tool to get to work. “Deal.”

-

It’s around eight o’clock when the elevator dings, and Miss Potts steps into the lab. Peter does a full-on double take because—uh, hello??? Pepper Potts is standing right there. One of the most influential women in the world, in the flesh. (MJ would lose her mind. She’s a huge fan.)

Peter’s only met her once before, and she doesn’t come down to the lab often. Tony says it’s because she doesn’t want to interrupt, but honestly, Peter doesn’t think she needs a reason. It’s her tower too. She can go wherever she wants, whenever she wants… except maybe the bathrooms, because that’d be weird. 

Miss Potts blinks a couple of times when she spots him, her gaze darting between him and Tony before settling on Tony for a long beat. Tony, of course, doesn’t notice. He’s hunched over the workbench, laser-focused on whatever gadget he’s been tinkering with for the last hour.

Peter doesn’t miss the way her expression shifts—subtle, but definitely not happy. She finally turns to Peter, her voice polite but laced with something he can’t quite place. “Hi, Peter! I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

Uh-oh.

Even Peter, who’s usually pretty bad at picking up on grown-up subtleties, catches the undercurrent in her tone. She’s mad. Tony must’ve heard it too because now he’s looking up, tools clattering onto the bench as he straightens to face her.

“I asked him if he wanted to go home!” Tony blurts, defensive right out of the gate. He’s already moving toward her, hands gesturing like he’s trying to explain something that doesn’t need explaining.

Peter freezes, caught in the middle of whatever this is. He knows better than to interrupt, but his eyes flick nervously between the two of them. Pepper doesn’t say anything right away, but the silence feels sharp, like she’s gearing up for a response that might make Tony regret not paying attention earlier.

Yeah, this is definitely not Peter’s cue to speak.

Pepper’s lips press into a thin line, and Peter doesn’t know much about relationships, but even he can tell this isn’t going to go Tony’s way.

“You asked if he wanted to go home?” she repeats, eyebrows raising in that pointed way adults do when they’re about to deliver a verbal blow. “Tony, you should’ve canceled. The roads aren’t safe.”

“The roads are fine,” Tony counters, waving her off like she’s being ridiculous. “It’s not even snowing that bad. Everyone’s just overreacting. It’s the first storm of the season—it’s practically tradition.”

Pepper takes a measured breath, the kind that says she’s trying really hard not to lose her cool. “Tony,” she says, voice even but sharp enough to cut through steel, “when’s the last time you looked out the window?”

Tony falters. His gaze flicks toward Peter, like he might somehow back him up here. Peter freezes, unsure if he’s supposed to agree or keep quiet, but it doesn’t matter because Pepper’s already gesturing toward the giant windows on the far side of the lab.

“Go ahead,” she says, crossing her arms and standing firm. “Take a look.”

Tony hesitates, muttering something under his breath as he starts walking toward the windows. Peter follows, because let’s face it—there’s no way he’s missing whatever comes next. They both reach the window at the same time, and Tony flips the switch to raise the blinds.

It’s like stepping into a snow globe. New York is gone , swallowed by a thick, glittering blanket of white. The streets below are eerily empty, not a single cab in sight, just an endless expanse of snow piling higher and higher. Snowflakes the size of quarters fall in a frenzy, fast and relentless, the kind of storm that makes it look like the city itself is being erased.

Peter’s eyes widen. “Whoa.”

Tony, to his credit, says nothing for a solid five seconds. Then, finally, he clears his throat. “Okay. So. Maybe it’s a little worse than I thought.”

“A little ?” Pepper echoes from behind them, her tone icy enough to rival the storm outside. “You’re lucky Happy got Peter here safely. And don’t even think about sending him home in this. He’s staying here tonight.”

Peter blinks, caught somewhere between awe at the storm and mild panic about what May would say if she knew he wasn’t coming home. “Wait, uh—what? Staying here?”

Pepper turns to him, her expression softening, though her tone remains firm. “Yes, Peter. You’re not going anywhere in this. Call May and let her know you’ll stay in the guest quarters. We’ll figure everything else out later.”

Peter glances back at the snowstorm, then at Tony, who’s scratching the back of his neck awkwardly like he knows he’s lost this argument. “Uh… okay,” Peter says, still half-distracted by the surreal sight outside. “Guess I’m staying.”

-

Tony leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching Pepper set out mugs with just a little too much force. He knows she’s mad, but he doesn’t quite know the full extent yet. He never does until she says it outright. For now, the room is filled with the soft clink of ceramic and an aura of annoyance radiating off his girlfriend.

He risks a glance toward the living room. Peter’s pacing in front of the couch, phone pressed to his ear, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt. The kid looks nervous, probably trying to figure out how to explain this to Aunt May without sounding like he’s in over his head. And, yeah, maybe he’s right to be nervous. First night at the penthouse. Tony’s first time being responsible for him past their usual three-hour lab window. It’s new territory for everyone.

Pepper’s frustration hangs heavy in the air, and Tony knows it’s about to boil over. He exhales, leaning harder into the counter. “I didn’t know,” he says, breaking the silence. His tone is casual, but the words come out like a half-baked excuse, even to his ears.

Pepper stops mid-reach, turning to face him fully now. “You didn’t know,” she repeats, each word crisp and deliberate. “Tony, there’s a literal blizzard outside, and you didn’t know ?”

“I mean, why would I?” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen windows. “I don’t need to keep up with the weather. That’s what FRIDAY’s for.”

Her stare is flat, unimpressed. “FRIDAY only tells you things when you ask. Do you know what day it is?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Okay, fair. He doesn’t.

“Exactly,” Pepper says, crossing her arms now. “You’re not thinking about Peter’s safety and well-being outside of that suit. You can’t just build him something that protects him in the field and call it a day.”

The words are like a slow burn, more jarring the longer they sit. It’s not like he doesn’t care. He does. More than he thought he would when he started this whole thing. But it’s been… what? A few months of knowing the kid? A handful of lab sessions? This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. He’s supposed to teach the kid cool stuff, keep him alive for a few hours, send him home. Simple.

But now, Peter’s spending the night. Peter, who’s out there pacing like the world’s on fire, probably stressing about whether May’s going to ground him forever for not making it home. Tony’s chest tightens, but he shoves the feeling down.

“I wasn’t going to send him out there,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “I mean, look, I get it. Aloof, irresponsible, bad with calendars—but I’m not heartless. If you hadn’t suggested he stay, I would’ve.”

Pepper arches an eyebrow, and her skepticism is loud enough to fill the whole room. “Would you?”

“Yes!” Tony snaps. “Doesn’t matter if the kid’s got more experience evading death than most people. I wouldn’t shove him into a blizzard and hope for the best.”

Pepper shakes her head, softening only slightly. “You’re playing this by ear, Tony. And Peter? He needs more than that.”

The words sting, not because they’re harsh, but because they’re true. He crosses his arms tighter, glancing back toward the living room. The kid’s still pacing, looking like he’s one wrong word away from imploding.

Tony doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have a snarky comeback, no excuse that feels good enough to offer. It’s new, this whole thing—taking care of someone who’s not old enough to drive but somehow carries the weight of the world like it’s nothing.

Pepper exhales, soft but firm. “You care about him. That’s obvious. But if you’re going to do this—whatever this is—you need to start thinking about his safety outside of the suit, too.”

Before Tony can piece together a response to Pepper’s latest comment—because of course she’s right—Peter pokes his head into the kitchen, phone clutched tight in his hand.

“Uh, Miss Potts?” he says nervously, fidgeting on the threshold. “May… uh, May wants to talk to you.”

Tony blinks, caught completely off guard. “Wait. You’re asking her? ” He points at Pepper, who is now turning toward Peter with a raised eyebrow and an unmistakable smirk. “Why not me? I’m the one technically in charge here!”

Peter shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know. She just… asked for Miss Potts.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Great. I build the kid a multimillion-dollar super suit, and I don’t even make the cut for a phone call with his aunt. Unbelievable.”

Pepper’s smirk only grows as she takes the phone from Peter’s outstretched hand, giving Tony a pointed look that screams maybe if you’d thought ahead, she’d trust you more. “Hi, May,” she says brightly, turning away as she leans casually against the counter, every bit the picture of calm, collected authority.

Tony watches her for a beat, slack-jawed. This can’t be happening. He’s supposed to be the one smoothing things over with Aunt May, explaining that Peter’s staying here for the night because Tony Stark, genius billionaire, has everything under control. Not Pepper.

Peter shifts awkwardly, clearly unsure whether he should stay in the kitchen or bolt. He looks at Tony, a silent question in his wide eyes, and Tony sighs, waving him in. “Might as well sit down, kid. This is gonna take a while.”

Peter edges into the room, perching nervously on one of the stools as Pepper’s voice carries on in the background. She’s laughing at something May said, which feels both reassuring and deeply concerning. Tony narrows his eyes. 

Peter fidgets, glancing at Tony again. “You think… you think this was a bad idea?”

Tony sighs, rubbing his temples. “Oh, absolutely. Letting them talk? Huge mistake.”

Pepper turns slightly, meeting Tony’s gaze just long enough to flash him a smug smile before returning to her conversation. “Oh, no, you’re completely right, May. Boys can be so reckless sometimes. It’s like they don’t even think about the consequences.”

Tony scowls. “Hey, I’m right here!”

Peter snickers under his breath, but the laugh dies quickly when Pepper starts nodding enthusiastically, like she and May have just stumbled onto some universal truth.

“This isn’t good,” Tony mutters, leaning closer to Peter. “You realize what’s happening, right?”

Peter blinks, clearly unsure. “Uh… they’re… getting along?”

“No, kid.” Tony gestures toward Pepper, who is now fully engaged in animated conversation, gesturing with one hand like she’s giving a TED Talk. “They’re colluding. I give it ten minutes before they’re plotting to take over the world. Or at least dismantle the patriarchy.”

Peter stares at him, wide-eyed. “You think they could?”

Tony groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, they absolutely could.”

When Pepper finally hangs up, Tony exhales like he’s the one who’s been on the phone, even though all he’s done is stand there trying not to look guilty. Peter’s practically beaming now, relief written all over his face as he pockets his phone.

“All settled,” Pepper says, her tone calm but sharp enough to remind Tony exactly who’s in charge here. “May’s fine with Peter staying the night. Schools are already closed for tomorrow, so we’ll figure out getting him home in the morning.”

Tony crosses his arms, leaning against the counter with a shrug that he hopes reads as casual. “Well, that’s great. Problem solved. What’s next, bedtime stories and cocoa?”

Pepper ignores him, turning to Peter with a softer smile. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Peter nods enthusiastically. “Thanks, Miss Potts.”

“Anytime. You need to be able to talk to at least one adult in this house” she says.

“Okay, let’s not make this a thing, ” Tony mutters, gesturing vaguely at the two of them like that’ll somehow end the conversation. “The kid’s here, safe, and accounted for. All good, right?”

“Not quite,” Pepper replies, folding her arms as her expression hardens. “We still haven’t eaten.”

Tony freezes. “Eat? We’re supposed to eat?”

Pepper’s glare could rival a laser. “Yes, Tony. People eat dinner. You’d know this if your diet consisted of more than coffee and protein bars.”

“Hey, that’s not—” Tony stops, rethinking his defense. “Okay, that’s fair. But we’ll just order something.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow. “With a blizzard outside?”

“I own half the city. Someone will deliver.”

“No one is delivering,” she says firmly. “Which means we have to make something. Right now.”

Tony glances toward the fridge. “FRIDAY, what do we have?”

FRIDAY’s voice chimes in, impossibly chipper. “A bottle of champagne, a wedge of Parmesan cheese, and half a jar of olives, Boss.”

Peter snorts, his eyes widening. “That’s it? You don’t have any real food?”

Tony shakes his head moving to stand in front of the fridge, staring at its bleak contents as if sheer willpower might summon a steak dinner. It doesn’t. Instead, all he sees is the sad reality: a half-empty jar of olives, a hunk of cheese that’s probably seen better days, and a bottle of champagne he vaguely remembers opening a month ago. FRIDAY’s report wasn’t wrong.

“No food, huh?” Pepper says, crossing her arms and watching him with that familiar mix of affection and you’re-impossible she’s perfected over the years.

“What gave it away? The echo in the fridge?” Tony replies, gesturing dramatically toward the barren kitchen. “This is why we usually order in. Who has time to stock a fridge when there’s tech to invent and global catastrophes to avert?”

“Tony, you haven’t stopped at a grocery store in ten years,” Pepper counters.

“Exactly. I have priorities.”

“Like building super suits and forgetting that people need to eat,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What’s your plan here? We can’t order in, and Peter needs dinner.”

Tony glances at the kid, who’s leaning awkwardly against the counter like he doesn’t want to get in the middle of whatever this is. Poor kid looks hungry, too. It’s not like he’s used to the Stark Tower food-free lifestyle. “Relax, we’ll raid the market,” Tony says, snapping his fingers. “Problem solved.”

“There’s a market ?” Peter pipes up, his curiosity breaking through his awkwardness.

Tony flashes him a grin. “Of course there’s a market. This is Stark Tower, not some second-rate office building. Food hall, rooftop garden, espresso bars—we’ve got it all. And, lucky you, we’re heading there now.”

Peter looks impressed, but also slightly hesitant. “Wait… isn’t it closed?”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Kid, it’s my building. If I say it’s open, it’s open. You think anyone’s going to call the cops on me? Please.”

Peter mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “rich people,” but Tony lets it slide. They pile into the elevator, descending through the darkened levels of Stark Tower. The usual hum of activity is replaced by a strange stillness. Tony notices it more than usual—maybe because it’s just the three of them, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly as they step into the deserted food hall.

The market is technically closed, its lights dimmed, the “Closed” sign hanging prominently on the door. Tony pulls out his badge, scanning it with a flourish. “And… we’re in,” he says, gesturing for Peter and Pepper to follow. “Welcome to your private grocery-shopping experience, courtesy of yours truly.”

Peter mutters another barely-audible comment, and Tony shoots him a look. “I can hear you, you know.”

The market is stocked with everything from fresh produce to frozen meals. Pepper heads straight for the pasta aisle with the efficiency of someone who’s used to cleaning up Tony’s messes, while Peter gets distracted by the bakery section, gawking at a display of cookies like he’s discovered the eighth wonder of the world.

Tony hangs back, leaning against a shelf of overpriced quinoa as he watches them. This whole scene feels surreal. When he started this “mentorship” thing with Peter, it was supposed to be simple. Teach the kid some cool science stuff, send him home in one piece, repeat. But now here he is, wandering a grocery store with the kid and Pepper, debating dinner like some kind of… family man.

Pepper reappears with a box of spaghetti and a jar of marinara, holding them up like she’s just solved world hunger. “How about pasta? It’s easy.”

Peter perks up, holding a box of frozen garlic bread like it’s the Holy Grail. “Yes! And we can have this too!”

Tony raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re assuming we can all boil water without burning the place down.”

Pepper gives him that look. “Even you can’t mess up pasta, Tony.”

He smirks, grabbing a block of Parmesan from the nearest display. “Challenge accepted. But if this ends in disaster, we’re ordering pizza tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Pepper says, already heading toward the register.

Tony follows, tossing a few extra items into the basket just because he can. Peter’s trailing behind, his hands full of garlic bread and a box of cookies. The kid looks happy, and Tony feels… oddly okay with all of this. Not that he’d admit it out loud, but maybe tonight isn’t such a disaster after all.

-

Dinner becomes a whole affair, completely different from how it goes back at the apartment with May. Though, to be fair, it has the potential to turn into one of May’s disasters—like the time she tried to make her own pizza dough and set off the smoke alarm—because neither Miss Potts nor Mr. Stark seem all that confident in the kitchen. Luckily, Miss Potts is mostly right: pasta is hard to mess up.

“Spread these out on the baking sheet for me, would ya?” Mr. Stark says, passing Peter the box of frozen garlic bread slices he’d picked out at the market. Peter still can’t believe there’s a market in Stark Tower. And not just some bodega like the one a couple blocks down from his apartment—it’s like a mini Trader Joe’s. It’s the kind of thing Peter’s never seen before, but now that he has, it’s cemented his dream of working here someday.

He does as he’s told, laying out each slice with precision, making sure they’re perfectly spaced. When he’s finished, he grabs the baking sheet and starts heading toward the oven to put it in.

But before he can get there, Mr. Stark steps in front of him, blocking the path.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Stark asks, raising an eyebrow.

Peter furrows his brows. “I was gonna put them in the oven?” He says it like a question, because isn’t it obvious?

Mr. Stark shakes his head, taking the pan out of Peter’s hands. “Nope. Go back to the island.”

Peter stares at him, confused. “Why? I already did the hard part!”

“The oven’s hot. You’ll burn yourself,” Tony says, moving toward the oven himself.

Peter throws his hands up, exasperated. “You handed me a soldering iron in the lab today! How is this any different?”

Beside him, Miss Potts lets out a soft laugh, her knife making rhythmic chops against the cutting board as she works on the salad she insisted they needed to have with their pasta.

Tony turns, holding the tray like it’s the crown jewels. “First of all, soldering irons are safe when handled by someone with at the very least half a brain—which, lucky for me, you’ve got. Second, this oven? Different story. Too hot. Too dangerous.”

Peter groans, leaning dramatically against the counter. “Unbelievable. You trust me with high-tech lab equipment but not… garlic bread?”

Pepper laughs again, glancing up from her chopping. “Tony, you know he’s right.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Tony retorts, sliding the tray into the oven like he’s doing the world’s most delicate surgery. “Bread in the oven. Crisis averted. You’re welcome.”

Peter shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Showoff.”

Tony looks over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” Peter chirps, his grin wide and innocent as he reaches for the bag of cookies they’d bought for dessert. Dinner might be a whole production, but honestly? Peter kind of loves it.

The rest of cooking goes pretty smoothly. The garlic bread is only slightly burnt, but the pasta and sauce? Perfect. And Miss Potts made a surprisingly good salad—not that Peter’s a salad kind of guy. But he ate hers. Mostly because it felt rude not to, but also because, yeah, it was actually pretty tasty.

Sitting at the dinner table in Stark Tower is surreal. He’s been here a grand total of ten times—he can count them all on his fingers. Eight times for his “internship” and twice when Mr. Stark first made his suit for him. And now? Now he’s in the penthouse and spending the night. This definitely qualifies as another is this actually my life? moment.

Dinner itself is mostly uneventful, with Miss Potts steering the conversation. She asks him questions about himself, simple stuff like school, his favorite subjects, even what kind of movies he likes. Peter stumbles through his answers, nervous but also kind of excited to be talking to her. This is really the first time they’ve had an actual conversation, and it’s nice—like she really cares about what he has to say.

When they’re done eating, Peter doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing the plates to start cleaning up. It’s instinct at this point—May raised him to help out whenever he can. But as he heads toward the sink, both Miss Potts and Mr. Stark stare at him like he’s grown an extra head.

“Put those down. You’re a guest here,” Tony says, shaking his head and trying to take the plates from Peter’s hands.

Peter resists, holding them tighter. “I don’t mind! It’s no big deal—”

Before he can finish, Miss Potts swoops in, gently plucking the plates from his hands and fixing Tony with a look. The kind of look that leaves no room for argument. “Tony, why don’t you go grab him some of your old clothes so he has something more comfortable to change into?” she says. “And then maybe you two can watch a movie or something before bed.”

Peter blinks in surprise. “Uh… a movie?”

Miss Potts smiles at him. “It’s only nine, and you don’t have school tomorrow. You and Tony can hang out for a bit. I have an early virtual meeting, though, so I’m heading to bed.”

Tony shrugs, already heading toward the hallway. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you set up with something to wear first.”

Peter glances back at Miss Potts, who gives him a reassuring smile, before following Tony. For as exciting as this all is, there’s still something about staying in their home that feels… borderline intrusive. He doesn’t belong here—not really. Everything is so pristine, so expensive, and he feels like he has to walk carefully, like the slightest wrong move might break something.

Mr. Stark stops at a room near the end of the hall and ducks inside, leaving Peter standing awkwardly in the hallway. He figures it would be rude to just follow him in—this is Mr. Stark’s home, after all. He waits, rocking on his heels, glancing around at the pristine hallway that feels more like a five-star hotel than someone’s house.

When Mr. Stark comes back out, he’s holding a pair of sweatpants and a Stark Industries T-shirt. He nods toward a door across the hall. “You can choose this room,” he says, then points to the door next to his own, “or this one.”

Peter blinks. “I… uh, get to choose?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s called options. Welcome to the future,” Mr. Stark deadpans.

Peter’s never had options before. It’s a little overwhelming and kind of strange. After a beat, he decides on the room across the hall from Mr. Stark and Miss Potts. A little distance feels… safer. The last thing he wants is to be sharing a wall with adults and overhearing anything he shouldn’t.

“I’ll take that one,” Peter says, nodding toward the room across the hall.

“Good choice, kid,” Mr. Stark replies, already pushing the door open.

This time, Peter follows him inside, and his eyes go wide. The room is bigger than his whole living room and kitchen combined. The bed is massive, with plush linens that look like they probably cost more than all of May’s furniture put together. The view is straight out of a snow globe, the city below blanketed in white, flakes still falling fast and thick. Peter stands there, marveling. “Wow,” he breathes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Stark says, shaking his head like this is nothing special, tossing the clothes onto the bed. “Billionaire hand-me-downs. Congratulations, kid.”

Peter’s cheeks burn red, and he fumbles for something to say, but Mr. Stark waves him off before he can. “All right, get changed, and then meet me in the living room. We’ll queue up a movie. Star Wars?”

Peter’s eyes go wide, and a huge grin spreads across his face. “Absolutely!” he says, nodding enthusiastically.

Mr. Stark rolls his eyes, but there’s something warm in his expression—something almost fond—as he pats the doorframe. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t take all night.” With that, he shuts the door and heads back toward the living room.

Peter stares at the clothes for a moment, still a little stunned by all of this. A movie night in Stark Tower? With Tony Stark? This has to be one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to him. He pulls on the oversized sweatpants and T-shirt, both of which are so comfortable they feel like clouds, and takes a second to glance back at the snow-covered city.

Maybe this whole night wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Peter shuffles back into the living room, still adjusting the waistband of the oversized sweatpants Mr. Stark had given him. The man wasn’t kidding about “billionaire hand-me-downs”—the clothes were comfier than anything Peter had ever worn in his life. The smell of freshly popped popcorn hits him as soon as he steps into the room. Mr. Stark is sprawled on one end of the couch, two bowls of microwavable popcorn perched on the coffee table in front of him.

“Finally,” Mr. Stark says, glancing up from the remote. “You were gone so long, I thought you got lost.”

“Sorry,” Peter says sheepishly, easing onto the opposite end of the couch. The distance feels safe. He sits stiffly, his knees pulled together and hands clasped awkwardly in his lap.

Mr. Stark narrows his eyes at him. “What are you doing? You look like you’re waiting for a job interview. Get comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” Peter lies.

Mr. Stark doesn’t buy it for a second. “Kid, you’re sitting on a couch, not a courtroom bench. Relax.”

Peter hesitates, then slowly leans back against the cushions. He pulls a blanket from the arm of the couch and drapes it over his lap, his body still a little stiff.

“There you go,” Mr. Stark mutters, hitting play on the movie. The familiar Star Wars theme fills the room, and Peter can’t help but grin.

The movie starts, and for the first few minutes, Peter stays quiet, nibbling at the popcorn and trying not to rustle the bag too much. Mr. Stark seems content, one arm slung over the back of the couch as he watches the screen with an expression that looks equal parts amused and skeptical.

But it doesn’t stay quiet for long.

“Wait a second,” Mr. Stark says, pointing at the screen. “You’re telling me that ship is capable of lightspeed, but no one thought to fix the gaping hole in the side? That thing looks like it’s held together with duct tape.”

Peter blinks, then grins. “That’s the Millennium Falcon. It’s iconic.”

“It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Tony replies, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let that thing fly on my worst day.”

“It’s not about how it looks,” Peter defends, sitting up a little straighter. “It’s about the spirit of the ship. It’s scrappy, like an underdog.”

Tony scoffs. “Kid, it’s not scrappy. It’s irresponsible. Han Solo is basically a glorified space Uber driver.”

Peter nearly chokes on a piece of popcorn, laughing. “You did not just call Han Solo an Uber driver.”

“I call it like I see it,” Tony says, smirking.

Peter throws a piece of popcorn at him, it bounces harmlessly off Tony’s shoulder. “Han Solo is a legend. You don’t get to diss him.”

“Oh, sure. A legend with a ship that looks like it’s been through ten junkyards and a space battle,” Tony replies, picking up the popcorn from his lap and flicking it back at Peter.

“Yeah, well, at least he doesn’t walk around with a glowing triangle on his chest,” Peter retorts, grinning.

Tony points at him. “Watch it, kid.”

They fall into a rhythm and Peter finds himself relaxing more and more, laughing openly at Tony’s snarky commentary and throwing in his own when the opportunity strikes.

When Luke pulls out his lightsaber for the first time, Peter can’t help but lean forward. “This is such an epic moment. Like, the moment.”

Tony squints at the screen. “Okay, but why is he waving it around like it’s a glow stick at a rave? He’s gonna take someone’s arm off.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s his first time using it! Cut him some slack.”

“First time or not, someone needs to give that kid a safety lesson,” Tony mutters, shaking his head.

By the time the credits roll, Peter’s legs are stretched out across the couch, and the empty popcorn bowl is balanced precariously on his knees. He glances over at Mr. Stark, who’s sitting comfortably on the other end of the couch, a faint grin on his face.

“You liked it,” Peter says, pointing at him accusingly.

Tony shrugs. “It wasn’t the worst way to spend a couple of hours. I still think they could’ve benefited from consulting an actual engineer, though.”

-

Tony stretches as the credits roll, glancing over at Peter, who’s still clutching the now-empty popcorn bowl like it’s a piece of lab equipment. The kid’s sitting there, loose but hesitant, like he’s not entirely sure what to do next. And, honestly, Tony’s not sure either.

“Alright, kid,” Tony says, standing and brushing nonexistent crumbs off his pants. “Time to call it. Let’s get you set up for the night.”

Peter scrambles to his feet, still holding the bowl. “Oh, should I—?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Tony interrupts, waving a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Perks of hanging out with a billionaire—someone else deals with the cleanup.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but too polite to argue. Instead, he trails behind as Tony heads down the hallway. The kid’s quiet now, not in a bad way, but in that unsure, waiting-for-a-cue kind of way. It’s not surprising; Tony’s still figuring out what this whole thing is supposed to look like himself.

They stop outside the guest room, and Tony gestures toward the door. “Alright, this is your stop.”

Peter nods, shifting the hem of his Stark Industries T-shirt. “Right. Uh… good night, Mr. Stark.”

Tony hesitates. The moment feels heavier than it should, not in a bad way, but in that weird, foreign way where you realize you’ve stumbled into unfamiliar territory. He’s walked out of boardrooms and battlefields with less hesitation than he feels right now.

“Yeah, good night, kid,” he says finally, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Actually, scratch that. We don’t have bedbugs. Who am I kidding? This place is cleaner than a surgical suite.”

Peter snickers, looking up at him with that wide, earnest grin that somehow manages to disarm Tony every single time. “Thanks,” Peter says, his voice quiet but genuine. “For… everything.”

Tony waves him off, trying to shake off the strange warmth creeping up his chest. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it. Just, uh, don’t break anything in there, okay?”

Peter nods and steps into the room, but he hesitates just long enough to look back at Tony. “Good night, Mr. Stark.”

“Good night, kid,” Tony replies. He stays there for a moment, staring at the closed door, before turning and heading down the hall toward his own room.

The whole night’s been... unexpected. If someone had asked him earlier today if he could picture this—movie night, walking Peter to bed, the whole “playing host” thing—he would’ve laughed. It would’ve felt too weird, too far outside his comfort zone. But now? Now it feels... kind of okay.

Not perfect, not natural—but not bad, either. Like pulling off a decent dinner with zero preparation or managing to keep a fragile piece of tech from falling apart. Something you don’t necessarily plan for but works out anyway.

When he steps into his room, Pepper looks up from her tablet. Her expression softens instantly, a quiet warmth settling in her eyes as she takes him in. “Everything okay?” she asks, her voice low and gentle.

Tony nods, kicking off his shoes and padding toward the bed. “Yeah. The kid’s settled in.”

Pepper sets her tablet aside, folding her hands in her lap as she watches him carefully. “How was it? Having him here?”

Tony pauses, hovering by the edge of the bed. He thinks about the night—Peter’s wide-eyed awe, the banter over Star Wars, the popcorn all over the couch. “Weird,” he admits softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But… not bad.”

Pepper reaches out, brushing her fingers lightly against his arm. The touch is grounding, simple but steady. “Youended up stepping up tonight” she says, her voice kind.

Tony scoffs, but it’s half-hearted. “Please, I put on a movie and we made some spaghetti.”

She smiles, leaning back against the pillows. “Still.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, not one he’s ready to say out loud, so instead he slips into bed beside her and lets her words settle in his chest. “Good night, Pep,” he says softly.

“Good night,” she replies, kissing him before switching off the lamp.

As he stares at the ceiling, the strangeness of the night lingers in his mind, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Just… different. And maybe, he thinks, different isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Tony stirs awake to the faint hum of the penthouse, the kind of quiet that feels too big for one person. He sits up, blinking groggily at the neatly made bed beside him. Pepper’s side is already cold. Of course she’s been up for hours. He sighs, running a hand over his face and glancing at the clock on his nightstand. Quarter to eight.

“FRIDAY,” he mumbles, swinging his legs out of bed and rubbing the back of his neck. “Where’s Miss Potts?”

“In the office, Boss,” FRIDAY replies. “She’s been in virtual meetings for forty-two minutes and is scheduled for at least another hour.”

Tony lets out a low groan as he stretches, cracking his neck. “Of course she is. Never stops, that one.” He pads toward the bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Definitely not his best look. He splashes water on his face and pulls on a hoodie, already mentally preparing for whatever the morning has in store.

“What about the kid? He up yet?” Tony asks as he heads into the living room.

“Mr. Parker is still asleep,” FRIDAY replies.

Tony stops, glancing down the hallway toward the guest room door. It’s weird, having Peter here. The kid doesn’t usually come into his personal space—Stark Tower? Sure. The lab? Of course. But the penthouse? That’s a first. Yet, after last night, it doesn’t feel as strange as he thought it might. Still, there’s a quietness to the place that feels heavier than usual.

“Alright, FRIDAY,” he says, turning toward the elevator. “Let’s make this morning interesting. I’m making breakfast.”

There’s a beat before FRIDAY responds, her tone as dry as ever. “Shall I prepare a tutorial on the safe use of a fire extinguisher?”

Tony snorts. “Cute. Just keep the kid asleep long enough for me to pull this off.”

The market is just as deserted as last night, the lights dimmed, the aisles quiet. It’s strange, walking through the building he owns like he’s sneaking around after hours. He grabs a basket and starts tossing in the essentials: a can of cinnamon rolls (because why not?), a carton of eggs, frozen chocolate chip waffles, and a small pre-cut fruit salad. He grabs two small bottles of orange juice and a couple of Keurig pods—one for him, one for Pepper.

The cinnamon rolls catch his attention as he heads toward the checkout. He hasn’t had them since he was a kid, but something about the memory feels... fitting. The kid will probably like them, and it’s not like he gets this domestic opportunity often. Basket loaded, Tony heads back upstairs, the quiet hum of the elevator accompanying him as he plans out the morning.

The penthouse kitchen feels unfamiliar, even to him. The bags rustle as he unpacks everything, and he stares at the spread for a moment, hands on his hips. He’s built suits that can withstand space travel, hacked systems no one thought were hackable, and created a sentient AI. But making breakfast? That feels… risky.

“FRIDAY,” Tony says, picking up the can of cinnamon rolls. “Where do I start?”

“Begin with the cinnamon rolls, Boss. They require the longest cooking time. Would you like me to display a step-by-step video tutorial?”

“Knock yourself out,” Tony mutters. A holographic screen appears on the counter, showing a cheerful video on how to bake cinnamon rolls. He pops the can with an oddly satisfying pop and arranges the dough on a baking sheet before sliding it into the oven.

As the sweet scent of cinnamon fills the air, Tony starts on the fruit salad, transferring it into a bowl because presentation matters, even if it’s pre-cut. He checks the time. “How long till Pep’s meeting’s over?”

“Approximately twenty-five minutes,” FRIDAY replies. “Shall I alert you if Mr. Parker wakes up?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, grabbing the carton of eggs. “Let’s not have him wandering in while I’m mid-crisis here.”

He cracks the first egg cleanly into a bowl and smirks. Easy. The second egg, however, doesn’t go as smoothly. A chunk of shell lands in the mix, and he spends a full minute fishing it out, muttering under his breath.

“FRIDAY,” he says, holding up the bowl. “You couldn’t have warned me about that?”

“Shall I display a video on proper egg-cracking technique?” she offers.

“Don’t start,” he grumbles, whisking the eggs like they’ve personally offended him. He heats the pan and follows FRIDAY’s instructions to the letter, stirring carefully as the eggs cook. The result? Fluffy, golden scrambled eggs. He smirks, plating them. “Look at that. Nailed it.”

“Impressive, Boss,” FRIDAY remarks.

The waffles go into the toaster next, timed perfectly so they’ll be ready just as the cinnamon rolls finish baking. By the time everything’s done, the counter is set with a surprisingly decent spread: scrambled eggs, fruit salad, chocolate chip waffles, cinnamon rolls, orange juice, and coffee.

Tony leans back against the counter, sipping his coffee and surveying his work. It’s... good. Really good, actually. Not bad for a guy who doesn’t cook. He glances toward the hallway, waiting for the telltale signs of someone stirring.

“Alright, FRIDAY,” he says, setting the coffee cup down. “Wake up the kid. Let’s see if he appreciates culinary genius.”

Tony’s leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee and admiring his work, when he hears the faint click of a door opening. He straightens, glancing toward the hallway, expecting Peter to shuffle out. Instead, it’s Pepper, stepping out of the home office with her phone in one hand and an expression that immediately tells Tony her meeting wrapped up earlier than expected.

Her gaze sweeps across the kitchen, landing squarely on the breakfast spread. She stops mid-step, blinking like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. “What’s this?”

Tony lifts his coffee cup, gesturing to the table. “Breakfast.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow, her gaze darting between the cinnamon rolls, the eggs, and the fruit salad. “You... you didn’t seriously have someone deliver this, did you? In this weather?”

Tony stares at her, genuinely offended. “Are you kidding me? I made all of this. Myself. By hand. No deliveries, no takeout, no calling in favors.”

She blinks again, processing. “You made this?”

“Yes, me. Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, inventor, and apparently a world-class breakfast chef.” He gestures dramatically at the spread. “Behold.”

A slow smile spreads across her face, soft and amused. She folds her arms and leans slightly against the counter, clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

“What?” Tony asks, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that look? You’ve got a look.”

She shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Tony insists, setting his coffee cup down and taking a step closer. “Come on, out with it. I’ve seen you glare, frown, and roll your eyes. This is new. What does it mean?”

Pepper smirks but doesn’t answer, instead moving toward the coffee machine and pouring herself a cup. “Don’t worry about it,” she says lightly.

“Don’t worry about it?” Tony repeats, his voice rising slightly. “Pep, you can’t just throw out a mystery look and leave me hanging. I demand an explanation.”

But before she can respond, another sound draws their attention—a door opening down the hall, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of bare feet on hardwood. A moment later, Peter appears, looking rumpled in the oversized Stark Industries T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. He rubs at his eyes before freezing mid-step, his gaze locking on the table.

“Is that… cinnamon rolls?” Peter’s voice is a mix of disbelief and excitement.

Tony can’t help the small swell of pride in his chest. “Sure is, kid. Made ‘em myself.”

Peter’s face lights up as he approaches the table, leaning in to get a better look at the spread. “Wow. This is... awesome. Thanks, Mr. Stark. And Miss Potts,” he adds quickly, glancing at Pepper. “This is really cool.”

Pepper smiles warmly at him. “You’re welcome, Peter. But don’t thank me—I didn’t make it.”

Peter looks back at Tony, his expression almost comically surprised. “Wait, you really made all this?”

Tony crosses his arms, trying to look casual. “What, you didn’t think I could?”

“No, I just…” Peter hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you would. ”

Tony snorts. “Fair. But hey, here we are. Dig in before the cinnamon rolls get cold.”

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs a plate and starts piling it with a little bit of everything, the cinnamon roll taking center stage. Watching him, Tony feels a strange mix of satisfaction and amusement. It’s not like he’s planning to make a habit of this whole “breakfast chef” thing, but seeing the kid actually excited? Not bad. Not bad at all.

Pepper leans against the counter again, sipping her coffee, that same amused look still on her face. Tony glances at her, then back at Peter, then back at her again.

“Seriously,” Tony mutters, leaning in closer. “What does that look mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Pepper says again, her smile only growing.

Tony narrows his eyes but lets it go—for now. There’s a weird warmth in the room, something easy and unspoken that he’s not used to. It’s different, sure, but maybe not the worst kind of different.

Breakfast is winding down, the smell of cinnamon and coffee lingering in the air. Peter’s cleaning up the last of his plate—he’s on his second cinnamon roll, Tony notes with a smug sense of satisfaction. Pepper, sitting across from him, is leisurely sipping her coffee, scrolling through emails on her phone. Tony’s at the head of the table, stretching back in his chair like the king of breakfast he is.

Then Pepper’s phone rings, breaking the comfortable quiet. She glances down at the screen, and her lips curve into a smile as she looks up at Peter. “It’s your aunt, Peter.”

Tony’s head snaps toward her so fast he nearly pulls something. “Wait—when did you guys exchange numbers?” he asks, his voice sharp with disbelief.

Peter, just as surprised, blurts out at the same time, “How’d she get your number?”

Pepper shakes her head, clearly enjoying the moment. “I asked FRIDAY for her number and sent her a text last night,” she says matter-of-factly, setting her coffee down and picking up the phone. “Figures one of us needs to be the responsible one around here.”

Tony blinks, his jaw slack. “Responsible? Excuse me, I made breakfast.”

Pepper just gives him a pointed look and answers the call, putting it on speaker. “Good morning, May! How are you?”

May’s voice comes through the phone, warm but strained. “Oh, hi, Pepper! I’m all right. The roads are still a mess. They’re clearing them, but the hospital’s short-staffed, and there’s been an influx of people coming into the ER. They asked if I could stay for a couple more hours.”

Peter’s face tightens, his fork frozen in mid-air. Tony notices immediately, the kid’s worry written all over his expression.

May sighs on the line. “If you guys could get Peter home, I’ll be back later tonight, or I can try to swing by and grab him after my shift ends. Whatever works.”

Pepper glances at Tony, but it’s clear she’s leaving the response to him. He sets his coffee down and leans forward, his tone firm but casual. “Don’t worry about it, May. We’ll keep him for the rest of the day, and I’ll fly him home once you’re off work. No point in sending the kid back to an empty house when we’re all here anyway.”

Peter’s head whips toward him, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Really, Mr. Stark?”

Tony shrugs, keeping his tone light even as he surprises himself. “Yeah, kid. Why not? The roads are a mess, and your aunt’s got enough on her plate. Besides, you’re already here. Makes sense.”

There’s a pause on the line, and then May’s voice softens with relief. “Thank you, Tony. That’s really generous of you. I owe you one.”

Tony waves it off like she can see him. “Nah. Just doing my part to keep the kid out of trouble.”

May chuckles faintly, but there’s still a note of exhaustion in her voice. “I really appreciate it. Peter, you behave yourself, okay? Don’t cause them any trouble.”

“Yes, Aunt May,” Peter says quickly, his tone earnest.

“And Pepper,” May adds, her voice lighter now, “make sure Tony doesn’t get into trouble either.”

“Always,” Pepper replies, the amusement clear in her voice.

“Alright, I’ll let you guys get back to it,” May says. “I’ll call when I’m heading out later.”

“Take care, May,” Pepper says before ending the call and setting her phone back on the table.

Tony leans back in his chair, glancing at Peter, who’s still looking at him like he’s not entirely convinced this isn’t some elaborate prank. “What?” Tony asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing, it’s just...” Peter hesitates, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. “Thanks. For letting me stay. And, you know, flying me home later.”

Tony shrugs again, but this time, he can’t quite hide the flicker of something that feels suspiciously like pride. “Don’t mention it, kid. Seriously. And finish that cinnamon roll before it gets cold.”

Peter grins, ducking his head, and for a moment, the table falls quiet again. Tony picks up his coffee, trying not to dwell on the fact that—against all odds—he’s actually enjoying this. Usually, twice a week in the lab with Peter is the perfect balance. Not too much, not too little. But the idea of sending the kid home right now, especially to an empty house? Doesn’t sit right.

It’s not just the snow, or May being stuck at work. There’s something... nice about having Peter here. Nice in a way Tony’s not used to, but he doesn’t hate. He chalks it up to convenience, to logic—it’s just easier this way. But deep down, he knows it’s more than that.

Pepper stands, gathering her coffee cup and phone as she gives Tony and Peter a quick smile. “Well, this has been fun, but I need to get back to work. Meetings don’t run themselves.”

“Tragic,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair. “Meanwhile, we’re over here solving the real problems of the world—breakfast and cinnamon rolls.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow as she crosses the room. “Yes, clearly, you’ve peaked. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

“It’s already gone to his head,” Peter chimes in, grinning as he finishes the last bite of his cinnamon roll. Tony shoots him a mock glare, but he can’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Pepper pauses at the doorway, looking back at Tony with that same amused expression she had earlier, the one that’s been driving him nuts. She doesn’t say anything, just quirks a brow and takes a slow sip of her coffee.

Tony narrows his eyes. “There it is again. That look. What does it mean?”

Pepper’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a laugh. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not,” Tony insists, gesturing toward Peter. “Kid, back me up. She’s doing a thing. What’s the thing?”

Peter blinks, glancing between them like he’s just been thrown into the middle of something he wasn’t prepared for. “Uh... I don’t know? It’s... a look?”

Pepper shakes her head, clearly entertained. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Tony repeats, looking affronted. “You’ve been giving me that look all morning, and now you’re just leaving me in suspense? You know I hate suspense.”

“Goodbye, Tony,” Pepper says lightly, heading toward her office. “Peter, have fun in the lab.”

She disappears into the hallway, leaving Tony standing there, baffled. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head as he turns back to Peter. “Alright, kid. Breakfast was a smashing success, but we’ve got more important things to tackle.”

“Like what?” Peter asks, glancing up at him.

“Like science, Parker. You don’t think I let you hang around just to eat all my cinnamon rolls, do you?” Tony gestures toward the hallway. “C’mon, let’s hit the lab. I’ve got a prototype that’s dying for a second pair of eyes.”

Peter perks up immediately, practically bouncing out of his chair. “Really? What kind of prototype?”

Tony smirks as he leads the way. “Guess you’ll have to come find out, won’t you?”

The two of them head toward the elevator, the easy rhythm of their banter picking up again as they go. For a moment, Tony glances sideways at Peter, the kid’s excitement almost infectious. It’s weird, having him here—not bad, just different. But the quiet satisfaction lingering from the morning tells Tony it’s worth it.

“By the way,” Tony says as the elevator doors slide open, “if you tell anyone about this breakfast thing, we’re revoking your lab access.”

Peter snickers, stepping into the elevator. “Don’t worry, Mr. Stark. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Good,” Tony says, hitting the button for the lab. “Now let’s go make something explode.”

As the elevator hums to life, Peter’s grin widens, and Tony finds himself smirking too. Yeah, this was unexpected. But maybe, just maybe, it worked out in his favor.