The kitchen was already humming when you padded in, hair a mess, pajamas still on. You yanked open the cabinet, spotted the holy grail of breakfast—Cinnamon Toast Crunch—and reached for it.

Before your fingers touched the box, another hand snatched it.

Tony. Of course.

“I think you’ve had enough sweets this week,” he said, smug as ever, tucking the cereal under his arm like it was priceless Stark tech.

You narrowed your eyes. “How many cups of coffee have you had, dad?”

He froze just long enough for the point to land. “Irrelevant. Coffee is an adult necessity. Sugar-coated squares of dental bills? Not so much.”

You crossed your arms. “Coffee is bean juice. My cereal is happiness. Guess which one sounds healthier?”

From the counter, Natasha raised her mug, clearly entertained. Steve sighed into his eggs. Sam muttered, “Ooooh, she got you,” and Bucky actually smirked.

Tony straightened, refusing to lose ground. “My house, my rules.”

You tilted your head. “Our compound. And technically, Bruce pays the grocery bill because you keep forgetting.”

Bruce, from across the room: “…true.”

The table erupted in quiet laughter. Tony groaned, dropped the cereal box in front of you, and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

You grinned, victorious, pouring out your sugary treasure. “Guess it runs in the family.”