He was not good at sitting still. Which made the last three days… educational.

You were propped up in bed, pillows arranged like a small fortress around you, the soft hum of machines and monitors Tony had absolutely insisted on installing filling the room.

“Okay,” he said, appearing at your bedside with a tray. “We’ve got water. Soup. Soup-adjacent broth. And—” he paused, dramatically, “—your pain meds, administered by the most charming nurse you’ve ever had.”

You smiled weakly. “Do you come with a call button?”

He tapped his chest. “Built-in. Heart-shaped. Very exclusive.”

But when he set the tray down, his hands were careful. Precise. The bravado softened at the edges.

“How’s the pain?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged. “Manageable.”

He didn’t miss the tension in your jaw. Or the way you shifted just a little too carefully.

“Manageable is not the same as ‘okay,’” he said gently, adjusting the pillows behind you before you could protest. “And you are not allowed to tough this out. That’s my job.”

He helped you sip the soup, one hand steadying the bowl, the other brushing your knuckles when you trembled slightly. Every now and then, his thumb lingered like he needed the contact just as much as you did.

“You know,” he muttered, trying for light, “I’ve saved the world multiple times. I was not prepared for the emotional toll of being responsible for blanket distribution.”

“You’re doing great,” you murmured.

He huffed a laugh. Then went quiet.

Later, the room dimmed, curtains drawn, the city lights glowing softly beyond the glass.

He sat on the edge of the bed, laptop abandoned beside him, attention fully on you.