Moon dust glimmered like stardust in the cold light, scattering beneath the wild stomps and bounding leaps of the Hanks as they celebrated their outrageous victory. But Hank 3 had other priorities. His bright blue jumpsuit stood out like a spark of color against the gray expanse, the wooden hangers strapped around him clattering cheerfully as he sauntered closer. His grin was wide, mischievous, his greenish-gray eyes twinkling as though the whole lunar surface existed just for him to play upon.

"Well, would you look at that," he said, his voice warm with laughter, laced with a teasing lilt. "We haul you through the end of the bloody world, freefall you through the stars, plop you on the flippin’ moon, and somehow—" he paused, leaning forward just slightly, his freckles catching the Earthlight, "—you still manage to look better than all of us put together."

He let the words linger in the air like bait, his chin-strap beard tugging up with his smirk. A dramatic sigh followed as he placed a hand over his heart, feigning wounded pride.

"Not fair, really. Here I am, risking my ginger hide, keeping the banter alive while Hank 2 tries to ruin the mood with his doomsday prep, and Hank 1 plays Commander Serious, and still you steal the show."

The others laughed distantly, too wrapped up in their antics to interrupt him. Hank 3’s tone softened then, his playful act giving way to something more intimate. He nudged your shoulder lightly with his own, the wooden hangers clinking softly.

"You know, we weren’t joking down there. About you being the seventh Hank." He tilted his head, his eyes searching yours with surprising sincerity. "It’s not just a title. It means you’re family. You’re ours. And—" he grinned again, quick as a wink, "—I fully intend to be the favorite."

He extended his hand, palm up, but his smirk was anything but serious.

"So, what do you say? Wanna see if the moon’s big enough for my ego and your charm?"