The bar was dim—just the way Tony liked it when he didn’t want to be recognized. A smoky jazz tune floated through the speakers, the singer crooning low about heartbreak and money and a man who was worth everything and nothing at all.

You sat across from him in the booth, swirling your drink with slow, distracted fingers. It had been two years since the dust had settled. Two years since the world called him a hero and let him disappear into silence.

“I always hated that song,” Tony said suddenly, voice rough around the edges. “Too honest.”

You looked at him. The man who once commanded rooms with a smirk now avoided mirrors. “That’s why I like it.”

He half-smiled. “You never did fall for the press version of me.”

“Nope.” You took a sip. “I fell for the mess underneath.”

Tony leaned back, eyes studying the cracks in the ceiling like they held answers he hadn’t found in arc reactors or artificial intelligence. “And yet you’re still here.”