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Tony had sworn the heat was working.
And technically, it was—if you counted the single brave vent in the corner sputtering out lukewarm air like it was on life support.
The upstate cabin, charming and rustic and full of expensive-but-minimalist furniture, was doing a terrible job keeping out the cold. Snow fell quietly outside the window, thick and steady, blanketing the trees in a soft white hush.
Peter sat curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in his Midtown hoodie and a blanket, trying to focus on the movie playing on the big screen across from them. But his nose was cold, his toes were colder, and the bowl of popcorn had long since stopped being warm enough to justify keeping his hands outside the blanket.
Tony walked in from the hallway, coffee mug in hand. He paused in front of the couch, took one look at Peter’s cocooned form, and raised an eyebrow.
“You look cold.”
Peter sniffled. “I am cold.”
Tony tilted his head. “You know, there’s a futuristic heating system under this floor. State of the art. Designed by geniuses.”
“Geniuses who apparently forgot winter exists,” Peter muttered.
Tony grinned, then set down his mug and sat on the couch beside him. “Alright, scoot.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“Scoot, Spider-Burrito. I run hot. One of the many perks of being built partially out of arc reactor tech and sarcasm.”
Peter hesitated for all of a second before shifting, just enough for Tony to slide in beside him. Tony tugged the blanket up and around both of them in one practiced motion.
The warmth hit immediately. Not just from body heat, but from the quiet comfort of having someone there—solid, familiar, safe.
Peter didn’t lean all the way over at first. He was trying to be chill about it. But after a few minutes, he couldn’t help it. He shifted sideways, curling gently into Tony’s side, head resting just below his shoulder.
Tony didn’t say anything. He just adjusted the blanket again and let his arm settle around Peter’s shoulders.
“Better?” he asked.
Peter nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah. Way better.”
The movie kept playing, something sci-fi and full of explosions, but neither of them was really paying attention anymore. The snow kept falling. The cabin stayed stubbornly cold.
Tony reached over after a while and—almost automatically—ran his fingers through Peter’s curls. Just once. Just a soft, familiar ruffle.
Peter’s voice was quiet when he spoke again.
“Thanks, Dad.”
It came out soft, unthinking—but real. Heavy in the best way. Like something that had been waiting to be said.
Tony didn’t freeze. Didn’t tease. Just rested his chin lightly on top of Peter’s hair and said, just as softly, “Anytime, kiddo.”
They stayed like that until the end credits rolled and the heater finally sputtered back to life—pointless now, because Peter had all the warmth he needed right there.