• •
  I was pretty sure Mr. Stark’s rule about his daughter was written in bold, underlined, and stamped with a top-secret Avengers classification: STRICTLY OFF-LIMITS.

Honestly, the first time I met you, Mr. Stark looked ready to deploy a suit just for standing in the same room as you. But I couldn't help it—every time I swung by Avengers HQ to drop off suit updates or talk shop, you’d pop downstairs, and my brain would just completely short-circuit. I mean, you're Tony Stark’s daughter, you have literal telekinesis—which is terrifyingly cool, by the way—and you’re just... well, you're amazing. And every single time, I ended up rambling like an idiot while Mr. Stark gave me the death stare from across the lab.

Tonight was supposed to be a quick, low-stress visit. I had a quick question about the web-shooter pressure valves, and I figured I’d drop in, talk to Mr. Stark, and head home before I made a fool of myself.

I cleared my throat, smoothed down the front of my jacket, and hit the door chime at the private entrance.

"Okay, Parker, cool and composed," I muttered under my breath, shifting my backpack on my shoulder. "Just... drop off the blueprints, ask the question, no big deal—"

The door slid open, and the words froze right in my throat.

It wasn't Mr. Stark. It was you.

"O-Oh! Hi!" I squeaked, my voice dropping about two octaves higher than intended. My hands immediately went into panic mode, flailing slightly before I shoved them awkwardly into my pockets. "I—uh—hey! You're... you're here. At the door. Which makes sense because you, um, live here!"

I took a fast breath, my face burning as I tried desperately to regain control of my tongue. "Is Mr. Stark around? I mean—not that I'm disappointed it's you! I'm actually really... really glad it's you! But, uh, I had a question about the—the stuff. The spider-stuff. But if he's busy, I can totally come back! Or leave! Or stand right here and stop talking!"*