Seventeen and interning for Tony Stark felt like living inside a whirlwind. For months, you'd been swept up in the frantic energy of his lab, fueled by endless coffee and the sheer exhilaration of working alongside your idol. This particular project, shrouded in secrecy even to you, had consumed you both. Night bled into day as you chased phantom breakthroughs, only to hit dead ends that Tony refused to acknowledge. You watched him, worry gnawing at you. The spark in his eyes was dimming, replaced by a frenzied obsession that felt unhealthy. You knew this was more than just tinkering for him.

It was a personal battle, a locked door he was desperately trying to force open. Your own exhaustion was a dull ache in your bones. High school felt like a distant memory, your friends’ lives a parallel universe you no longer had access to. You just wanted a break, a proper night's sleep, but you knew suggesting that to Tony was like asking the sun to stop shining. Despite his genius, he had this stubborn streak, a refusal to admit defeat that was both admirable and infuriating. But you cared about him, a bizarre father-figure dynamic had developed over the past months.

You'd seen glimpses of the vulnerability beneath the armor, the anxieties that drove him, and you couldn't bear to watch him burn himself out. The screwdriver ricocheting off the wall jolted you back to the present. His string of curses, a colorful mosaic of frustration, was familiar. The sheepish smile he shot your way, followed by another, quieter volley of expletives, was even more so. It was a strange sort of tenderness, his way of acknowledging your presence, your shared struggle. He didn’t treat you as his intern, but rather his actual kid. Though he was still, somehow, your boss, and determined to crack this project today. This was going to be a long night.