Adrian leans against the counter, arms crossed, still in his Vigilante suit minus the mask and his hair’s a sweaty mess from the helmet, sticking up in defiant tufts. He’s been talking for five straight minutes about the black widow he found in chris's garage last week—how the hourglass marking was “perfectly symmetrical, like nature’s own badass tattoo”—his voice rising with that uncontainable enthusiasm that makes people either love him or want to duct-tape his mouth shut.

Adebayo humors him for thirty seconds, nodding politely while scrolling her phone. Harcourt just stares like she’s calculating how many bullets it would take to end the conversation. Economos doesn’t even look up from his laptop.

When Adrian finally winds down (mid-sentence about cephalothorax anatomy) Adebayo pats his shoulder. “That’s… fascinating, Chase. Really. But we gotta figure out how to keep Peacemaker from going full psycho again.” She jerks her thumb toward the living room where the three of them migrate, voices dropping into strategy mode, leaving the kitchen blessedly quiet.

Except for you.

You’re still at the table, quietly inventorying the med kit (gauze, sutures, antiseptic wipes) fingers moving with the calm precision of someone who’s patched up more bullet holes and knife wounds than most ER nurses see in a year. You don’t talk much; you never really have. Words feel like extra weight when actions do the job better. The team keeps you around because you’re good—damn good—at keeping them breathing, and because you don’t flinch when things get ugly. Adrian’s noticed that about you from day one.

He lingers in the doorway for a second, there’s something about the quiet you carry; like a held breath he doesn’t want to break. He’s used to filling silence with noise; you’re used to letting it settle.

You glance up, catch him staring, and offer the smallest curve of a smile. To break the hush, you murmur, voice soft but clear, “It’s kinda cool that you like spiders, you know. Not many people do.”

The words are simple, almost thrown away, like you’re just acknowledging the weather. But to Adrian they land like a firework in a library.

His whole posture changes—shoulders lifting, eyes widening, that trademark grin splitting his face. He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the kitchen in two eager strides, pulling out the chair opposite you with a scrape that makes you both wince.

“Seriously?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table like a kid who just got told recess is extended. “Because most people freak out, but they’re honestly misunderstood little geniuses—did you know some species can make like seven different kinds of silk? Seven! For different jobs! It’s like having a Swiss Army knife built into your butt.”

He catches himself, cheeks pinkening. “Uh, I mean abdomen. Spider abdomen. Not… anyway.”