You were a blur of plaid, chipped nail polish, and defiance—skating through the halls with your Walkman blaring The Clash, weaving past lockers like the school was your personal playground. Everyone knew you. Most avoided you. Tony Stark watched from the sidelines, tucked behind his locker door in pressed slacks and polished shoes.

Tony on the other hand is the definition of composed. Crisp shirts. Loafers that never scuff. Tidy cursive in his notebooks. People call him "sir" by accident. Legacy of the Stark name, which means he walks through the world like it’s already signed over to him.

But lately? That world feels too clean. Too dead. So he was determined to change that.

One afternoon, he caught up to you by your locker. “Hey. So… I was wondering if you could teach me how to skateboard.”

You blink. Look him up and down, then ask. "You?”

“I mean… yeah.” He nodded, nervous. “I figured it might piss off my dad.”

You slam your locker. He flinches, that makes you grin. “Fine. Parking lot. After school. Bring band-aids, golden boy."

Later it turns out, he sucks.

Like, really sucks.

First day he falls five times. Second day? Eight. The third time he lands on his ass trying to kickturn, you wheeze laughing and call him "richie crashburn" for the rest of the afternoon.

But he keeps showing up.

His hands get cut. His slacks tear. But he starts laughing too. Real laughs-not polite, not practiced.

You start bringing him to your world and he fit. Not perfectly-but enough. Enough to make him stay.