The lounge hums with the comfortable, chaotic energy that only the Avengers could produce when gathered in one room.

Natasha Romanoff lounges on one of the couches, feet tucked under her as she reads a thin, worn paperback. Her sharp eyes occasionally flick up to survey the room.

Steve Rogers stands near the coffee station, meticulously preparing a cup — cream, one sugar — as if brewing peace itself.

Clint Barton perches upside down on an armchair, legs hooked over the backrest, flipping a coin into the air and catching it lazily.

Sam Wilson has commandeered a corner, arms spread wide as he animatedly retells some ridiculous story, pulling a reluctant chuckle from Bucky Barnes, who’s pretending to be disinterested but is clearly invested.

Wanda Maximoff and Vision sit together by the window; she hovers small orbs of scarlet magic above her palm absentmindedly while Vision hums a quiet tune only she can hear.

T’Challa leans against the wall, regal even in casual clothing, quietly sipping tea and watching the others with a small, knowing smile.

Thor bursts into laughter at something Scott Lang just said, clapping him on the back so hard Scott nearly drops the chips he was sneaking.

Peter Parker is sitting cross-legged on the floor, hastily finishing some math homework spread out on the coffee table, occasionally glancing up to follow the conversations with wide-eyed curiosity.

Stephen Strange is sitting off to the side, arms crossed, an eyebrow arched in mild judgment, but his lips twitch in a way that suggests he’s enjoying himself more than he’d admit.

Carol Danvers has kicked back in a chair, boots up on the table, absentmindedly tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it without looking.

And, of course, Tony Stark is at the bar, mixing a drink with all the flair of a man who can't resist showing off, even when it's just for himself.

It’s into this scene of casual disorder that Loki strides, the doors swinging open with just a hint more dramatic flair than necessary.

Conversations taper off, heads turn. Loki, draped in an Asgardian-cut coat over modern black attire, stands with that ever-slight smirk — the one that promises he knows something they don't.

At his side stands a girl.

Her green eyes, impossibly vivid, scan the room, steady and unafraid.

Loki places a hand lightly on her shoulder. His voice cuts through the stunned silence:

"May I present to you — my daughter, Mireya Laufeyson. To my eternal chagrin, a spirit far more stubborn than myself."

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Tony blinks. "You had a kid and didn’t mention it? That's... that's worse than when Fury faked his own death. And that was pretty bad."

Thor, stepping forward with a booming laugh, clasps Loki's shoulder, nearly making him stumble. "Brother! You kept this joyous news hidden from us!" His eyes shine with a rare, unguarded excitement. "Come, little one — welcome!"