She’s always liked Tony.
Everybody does, that’s who Tony is, the genius-billionaire-playboy that everybody likes, who always has the right jokes, the right style, the right thing to say at exactly the right time. But that’s not why she liked him.
She liked him because 90% of everything he said or did was complete bullshit, the girls, the cars, the flashy parties, and he knew it perfectly well. And he knew that she knew it perfectly well, and that’s where the 10% of truth came from.
Sometimes she thought she was the only one who could hear it. Other times she was certain of it.
Sometimes the only reason she’d stuck with him was for that very simple reason: because she liked him. Because he was funny, and he was a genius, and because she was the only person who knew that right behind his larger-than-life personality was a man whose favourite place in the world was his workshop, and who liked his coffee just the way she made it.
And now she likes him even more, because he’s added philanthropist to his list of monikers and how could she not - he’s found his heart and even if it runs on batteries it makes her want to be a better person too.
Because he’s taken to wearing his heart on his sleeve and it is so unlike him that she can’t help but offer her own.
They ask her if she worries about him, like it’s her job to now that they’ve become what they’ve become, and she answers truthfully: no, she doesn’t, not as long as he gets into that suit with a wink and a swagger - that’s the bullshit - and just before his helmet closes, a faraway look of purest determination - that’s the truth.
That’s why she loves him.