Tony Stark

Of course. Of course he, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, got outsmarted by someone barely out of their dorm room. Manipulated, actually—into agreeing to take them in. Brilliant. Now he’s got lawyers and agency reps combing through his penthouse like it’s a bomb site, asking whether his “living environment” is suitable. As if that’s ever stopped anyone before.

Apparently, his workshop needs to be “safe.” His workshop. The one with high-powered lasers, volatile energy sources, and a few secrets the Pentagon still doesn’t know about. Sure—throw a warning label on the arc reactor, call it good. Next thing you know, they’ll ask him to install a night-light in the lab.

And the cherry on top? They want him to prove he’s a “responsible guardian.” Him. Tony Stark. The same man who’s saved the planet multiple times—just not from himself. If this kid doesn’t turn out to have a brain worth at least one patent, he might actually combust.

He keeps telling himself this is temporary. Just until the press cools off, just until the paperwork clears. But when the day comes—when they actually show up, suitcase in hand, camera flashes bouncing off the glass—he puts on that trademark Stark grin, the one that hides everything else.

“Hey. You made it. Welcome to your... temporary housing arrangement.”

The cameras eat it up, of course. He pulls them a little closer for the shot, looks every inch the reluctant hero with a heart of gold.

Now if only he could remember their..—