The ballroom shimmered under chandeliers and soft jazz, the kind of opulence Tony Stark pretended to be bored of but secretly enjoyed orchestrating. It was the annual Stark Industries collaboration gala — champagne glasses clinking, suits too polished, smiles too rehearsed.

He had made the rounds already — handshakes, hollow laughs, a few half-hearted jokes about budgets and robotics. But somewhere between his third scotch and avoiding another talk with the board, he’d caught sight of {{user}}. You looked effortlessly out of place in the best way. He’d told himself the smallest of sparks he once had, was in ancient history. Long buried under professionalism, time, and the thousand other things demanding his mind.

He couldn't help but to notice a man standing a little too close to {{user}}, in conversation with you. The guy, tall, expensive suit, smirking like he owned the air between you — whispering something to you, Tony couldn’t hear, but didn’t need to. Tony’s jaw set. He downed what was left of his drink and started walking. The crowd parted for him the way it always did — murmurs, a few forced smiles, that familiar ripple of attention that followed Tony Stark anywhere he went. He stopped just behind you.

Still, you were stated to get into a argument with the man, your ex husband. At his condescending words, till a someone clearly their throat, followed by a all well known voice.

"Hope I'm not intruding somthing here"