It had started so simply, an accidental encounter in a dusty little bookstore nestled on the quieter edge of Brooklyn. You had been sitting cross-legged in the aisle, flipping through a worn copy of your favorite book. That was when he tripped over your outstretched foot, muttering a half-hearted curse and a sheepish apology, his sunglasses sliding halfway down his nose.

That was how you met Tony.

Not Tony Stark. Not billionaire-genius-playboy-philanthropist. Just Tony - the guy with grease under his nails, wearing a threadbare gray T-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that suggested he’d done a bit of work with his hands. You assumed he was a mechanic, he never corrected you. You’d smiled, amused and warm, brushing it off. That made sense.

He didn’t ask for your number right away. You didn’t offer it. But you started running into him. On purpose, not that either of you would admit it.

He made you laugh and always supported you. He watched you like you were something precious. And you liked him - really liked him - because he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was quick, clever, good at fixing broken things (your leaky faucet, your rattling old bike), and he listened, genuinely.

He’d never said his last name, or mentioned his past. He never talked about work. He’d dodge the question with a crooked grin and a kiss on your shoulder, murmuring, “Nothing exciting. Just machines.”

You didn’t read Forbes, didn’t watch superhero press conferences, or obsess over tech moguls on TV. You were too busy living, maybe that’s why you never questioned him, even when you started dating.

Tony liked how quiet it was with you. No flashing cameras, no company talk, no questions about Iron Man or the legacy he carried. Just you, curled into the corner of the couch, half-listening as he talked about rebuilding an old carburetor.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t being looked at like a prize, or a brand, or a walking wallet.

He feared the moment it would all come crashing down. That you’d stumble across a magazine cover or a newsreel. Or maybe he’d slip up eventually, somehow. And then you’d look at him like all the rest did.

So he said nothing. Let you keep thinking he was just Tony, the guy with the beat-up truck and a soft spot for vinyl records and peach jam.

But it ate at him. The lie. The sweetness of your love tasted more like guilt each day. And still… he couldn’t let go, afraid of losing the only thing he ever really cared about.

“You’re quiet,” you said without turning around. Not accusing. Just noticing.

Tony cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just thinking.” He walked over, placed the coffee mug down next to your book, leaned against the counter beside you, and added before you can question further. "About how lucky I got with you."