SB

You march into Tony’s workshop at three a.m., grease-streaked and furious, ready to scold him for skipping meals, skipping sleep, and pushing himself straight toward burnout. You expect his usual deflection, his smug jokes, his practiced charm—you don’t expect that soft, genuine smile, or for him to admit he loves it when you yell at him. Because it’s not really yelling, is it? It’s care. And for the first time in a long time, someone caring enough to be angry on his behalf feels like the best thing he’s ever had.