Tony never expected to end up as anyone’s father figure. He wasn’t built for it—or at least, that’s what he told himself. But life had a way of throwing him curveballs, and this one had come in the form of you.

You weren’t his by blood. You were a teenager when you came into his world, carrying the weight of too many disappointments from adults who were supposed to protect you. Tony had seen it in your eyes the first time you walked into the Tower—cautious, guarded, ready to fight or run.

But he couldn’t look away. Something in him—the same part that built suits out of scraps in a cave, the same part that sacrificed and rebuilt over and over—recognized someone who needed a hand to hold.

At first, it was small things. Letting you hang around the workshop, not saying anything when you “borrowed” tools you had no idea how to use. Teaching you the names of different metals, showing you how to weld. He’d crack jokes, you’d roll your eyes, but little by little, the walls started to fall.

One night, you asked him, almost casually, “Why are you… nice to me? You don’t have to be.”

Tony froze. No one had ever asked him that before—not like that. He fiddled with a wrench, avoiding your gaze. “Because someone should’ve been nice to me when I was your age. And because… you deserve it.”