The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and Tony stepped into the dimly lit penthouse, the glow of New York’s skyline casting long shadows across the floor. He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened and hair messed.

"Jarvis, lights to forty percent," he murmured, rolling his shoulders. "And remind me that I need to-"

His words died in his throat.

There, curled on the floor near the floor-to-ceiling windows, was you-knees pulled tight to your chest, face hidden in your arms. The quiet, uneven hitches of your breath cut through the silence like a knife.

Tony froze.

Then, in an instant, he shrugged off his jacket, and he was crossing the room in quick, purposeful strides. He dropped to his knees beside you, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Hey." A hand hovered near your shoulder, hesitant. "Look at me."

When you didn’t-when you only shook your head, pressing further into yourself-his chest tightened. Gently, he reached out, fingertips brushing your arm. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay, we can just sit."

And he did. He lowered himself beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, his presence steady. No demands, no impatient quips. Just silence.

A few minutes passed before you finally lifted your head, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks damp. Tony’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed quiet. "You wanna tell me who I need to ruin?" There's no humor in his voice, he's serious.