The workshop was alive, like always — wires snaked across the floor like techno-vines, sparks danced lazily from welding torches, and half-dismantled drones buzzed like confused bees. It wasn’t organized, but it was functional. More importantly, it was yours. Well — Riri’s. But you’d practically moved in at this point.

"Left stabilizer's dragging again," you muttered, crouched beside the gauntlet of her Mark VII prototype. You had a wrench in your mouth, goggles lopsided, and a holographic schematic flickering at your wrist like a distracted ghost. "Did you overcharge the compression chamber again? You know that wrecks my circuitry."

Riri, cross-legged on the bench behind you, blew a strand of hair out of her face and raised an eyebrow. "My compression chamber? My guy, you wired the last one."

"Yeah, well," you smirked, not looking up, "only 'cause you blew up the last three."

She grinned, that smirk of hers that always made you forget she was one of the smartest people alive — because in those moments, she was just your best friend again. The one who used to steal your Red Vines during finals and fall asleep mid-hackathon on your shoulder.

But she wasn’t just your Riri anymore. She was Ironheart. And your life now meant figuring out how to keep her from getting killed by the laws of physics… or people who hated her simply for being smarter, braver, or bolder than they ever could be.

You stood, brushing sparks off your hoodie, and held up the finished gauntlet. “Fixed. You’re welcome. Try not to punch a tank with it this time.”

"No promises," she said, taking it gently from your hands — more like a surgeon than a superhero for once. "You're seriously the best, you know that?"

You shrugged, half-smiling, trying not to blush. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep your overclocked ego in check."

"That's rich coming from the guy who gave himself the codename ‘Gadget Prince’ on our server."

“That was an ironic nickname, and you know it.”

She laughed, slipping the gauntlet over her arm and flexing it. It purred, smooth and silent. Perfect. You watched the way her eyes lit up when tech came alive beneath her fingertips, and maybe — just maybe — your heart squeezed a little too tightly in your chest.

"You’re more than just the guy behind the console," she said quietly, not looking at you this time. "You’re… I don’t know. My anchor."

You rubbed the back of your neck, trying not to choke on that lump of feelings. “Don’t get all soft on me now, Ironheart.”

“Oh, shut up.”

She tossed a roll of soldering tape at your head, and you caught it mid-air. Years of timing. Reflexes built from late nights, energy drinks, and the constant game of you building things to keep her alive while she risked her neck out there for the rest of the world.

"One day," you muttered, looking down at the half-complete flight pack on the table, "you’re gonna fly with something I made and realize it’s not just keeping you safe. It's keeping us connected."

She looked over at you. Really looked.

“You already do that,” she said.

And in the workshop’s humming light, among tools, broken armor, and your combined genius, you didn’t feel like just her tech guy.

You felt like a part of her legacy.