Anthony had insisted on assembling the wardrobe himself.

“This,” he declared, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to perform surgery, “is literally just advanced Lego. I’ve built arc reactors. I can handle Swedish furniture.”

You eyed the boxes spread across the living room floor.

“There are… a lot of pieces, Tony.”

“Details,” he waved off, already tearing open a bag of screws. “I thrive on details.”

Step one went fine.

Step two involved Tony ignoring the instructions entirely.

“Tony,” you said, watching him attach a side panel upside down, “the booklet says—”

“The booklet,” he interrupted confidently, “is written by people who don’t think in three dimensions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “…You just put the drawer track on the outside.”

He froze.

Slowly looked at the panel.

“…That’s on purpose.”

You waited.

“…Okay, no. That’s wrong.”

Ten minutes later, the wardrobe leaned at an angle that suggested it had given up on life.

Tony crouched, squinting at it like it had personally offended him.

“Why is it doing that.”

You poked it. It wobbled.

“Tony. Did you skip a step?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I streamlined the process.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Agree to disagree.”

You convinced him — gently — to start over.

This time, you read the instructions while Tony begrudgingly followed them, muttering under his breath.

“‘Insert peg A into slot B,’” you read.

Tony held up two identical pegs.

“Which one’s A.”

“They’re the same.”

“I don’t trust them.”

You laughed, and despite himself, Tony smiled too.

Halfway through, you both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the half-built wardrobe, surrounded by screws.

Tony handed you a bottle of water. “You okay?”