a collection of random dreams

“Um…kind of?” Peter fidgets with his collar, tugging at the tie in a clear attempt to loosen it.

You immediately swat his hand away and straighten it again before he can undo your work.

“Are you sure I can’t just wear the spider suit?”

You give him a firm look and shake your head without hesitation.

“No. Your identity has already been revealed to the entire world, which means your media training starts now,” you reply, leaving no room for argument.

With everything that followed the exposure of his identity and the retaliation that came with it, the situation needs to be redirected. The only effective way to counter the wave of negative press is to replace it with something positive, something controlled. Tonight’s event, the formal introduction of the newest Avengers, is meant to do exactly that.

You shift your attention to the second recruit, who will also undergo the same training, whether she likes it or not.

“And you, Kate? Still feeling nervous?” you ask.

She leans against the backdrop, bracing herself with one hand while the other fans at her face in quick, restless motions.

“What? No, I am fine. Totally fine. Completely calm. Is it warm out here?” she says in a rush, her eyes darting around.

Considering that it is the middle of winter in New York, her answer does nothing to reassure you. You exhale quietly and step closer, reaching up to smooth a stray strand of hair back into place in an attempt to ground her.

“Take a breath, Kate. You don’t even have to answer questions yet,” you tell her gently.

She nods, slower this time, following your lead as she inhales and exhales.

“Right. Okay,” she murmurs, straightening her posture before glancing around again. “Wait. Where is Yelena?”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a steady breath as the beginnings of a headache settle in behind your temples. Of course, she is missing. The third new member seems to have adopted the same habit as her sister when it comes to avoiding events you explicitly told her to attend.

Unfortunately, your influence only goes so far. You have never had much success persuading Natasha to follow a plan exactly, and while she will occasionally compromise with you, Yelena has even less interest in doing so.

“She will be here later,” you say, even though you are not entirely convinced of that yourself. There is no time to dwell on it. You focus on what can still be controlled.

“Peter, you’re up first. Smile, wave, and keep moving. Do not stop for questions. Understood?”

“Got it,” he replies, giving a quick nod as he shakes out his hands and steps forward into the storm of cameras and voices.

You watch closely as he does exactly what you instructed, moving through the crowd without hesitation and making it inside the ballroom without incident.

“Alright, Kate. You’re next,” you say, giving her a reassuring pat.

She hesitates for only a moment before stepping out. There is a slight stumble at the start, but she recovers quickly and manages to make her way inside as well.

A quiet breath of relief escapes you. You have spent weeks preparing all three of them for this, and at least two seem willing to follow directions without complication.

The rising volume of the crowd signals the next arrival before you even turn to look. A sleek black car pulls up, and as the door opens, the original Avengers step out one by one, each of them dressed exactly as you arranged.

Tony. Check.

Steve. Check.

Bruce. Check.

Thor. Check.

Clint. Check.

Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.

The car door closes.

No red hair. No Natasha.

Your phone is already in your hand before the realization fully settles, the call ringing as you peer through the tinted windows in a last attempt to convince yourself she is simply taking a moment before stepping out.

The line connects, and your assistant speaks immediately, her voice rushed with panic.

“I am so sorry! I tried to get her ready on time, but then she offered me a drink, and then we got distracted talking, and by the time I realized what time it was, the event had already started.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as the headache fully settles in. This is not your assistant’s fault. You already guessed that before calling.

You know exactly who is responsible.

“Just…switch with me,” you say, your voice tight but controlled. “Stay here and keep an eye on the new members during the event. I will…” You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “I will handle Romanoff.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the common floor, the doors sliding open to reveal exactly what you expected. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, completely at ease, her attention fixed on the movie playing across the small laptop balanced on her lap.

“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.

She glances over her shoulder the moment she hears you, and her lips immediately curl into a knowing, infuriating smile.

“You made it just in time. Popcorn?” she asks casually, as though she is not currently skipping an event you explicitly told her to attend.

You exhale sharply and stride across the room until you are standing directly in front of her.

She does not move. If anything, her smile deepens as she lifts another piece of popcorn to her mouth, finger deliberately lingering on her bottom lip as her gaze drags slowly over you in open appraisal.

You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, refusing to react to the warmth that threatens to rise under her attention. Instead, you reach forward, snap the laptop shut, and toss it onto the couch beside her.

“Get up,” you say.

One of her brows lifts slightly, amusement flickering in her expression, but you do not give her the opportunity to respond. You grab her hand and pull her to her feet yourself before guiding her firmly down the hall toward her room.

Once inside, you release her and move straight to the bed, grabbing the dress you had already laid out for her. You turn and press it into her hands.

“Change. Now,” you tell her.

Natasha glances from you to the dress and back again, a slow smirk forming as she considers your words.

“If that’s what you want,” she replies, and before you can prepare for it, she lifts her top over her head in one smooth, effortless motion.

You freeze for half a second at the sudden sight of her toned naked body, your eyes widening before you quickly turn your head away, heat rising to your face as you push the dress more firmly against her.

A quiet, amused laugh escapes her, and you shake your head, letting out a restrained breath.

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

Her laughter lingers as she disappears into the bathroom to finish changing, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since arriving.

Your gaze drifts around the room, taking in the sparse details. There is very little here that marks the space as hers beyond a few carefully placed photographs. Most of them are what you expect, moments captured with the rest of the Avengers at events and gatherings, a few with her sister, each one offering a rare glimpse into a life she rarely shares.

Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.

It is the two of you, caught mid-moment on a dance floor from a previous event, her arms wrapped around you while you leaned into her. 

The tension in your shoulders eases as the memory surfaces, vivid and warm, and a quiet breath leaves you before you can stop it.

Arms slide around you from behind without warning, pulling you back into that same familiar warmth.

“Have you decided to stay instead?” Natasha murmurs near your ear, her chin settling lightly against your shoulder.

You suppress the shiver that threatens to betray you, choosing instead to step out of her hold with a sigh and turn to face her with your hands planted firmly on your hips.

“Nice try,” you reply. “But you agreed to attend three more press events without causing problems.”

Natasha laughs softly, turning her back to you as she gathers her hair over one shoulder. She glances at you over the curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes far too deliberately teasing.

“Help me with this?” she asks, gesturing slightly.

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. There is no way someone like her would need help with something so simple, and yet time is slipping away, and you both can’t be any later than you already are.

That is the only reason you step closer. At least, that is what you tell yourself.

Your hand settles lightly against her lower back as you reach for the zipper, drawing it up slowly.

The quiet stretches for a moment before her voice breaks it, softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I made that promise to you, not your assistant,” she mutters.

Your brows draw together as her words sink in, and realization follows almost immediately.

“Are you actually upset that I sent my assistant instead of coming myself?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away, but beneath your hand, you feel the subtle shift in her posture, the tension that gives her away even when her composure does not.

Natasha finally lets out a quiet breath, then shrugs as though it means nothing.

“No,” she replies lightly.

You step around her, folding your arms as you study her more closely.

“I’ve been busy managing Yelena and the others, which means you have not been the center of my attention for once. Is that what this is about?” you press, a hint of challenge slipping into your tone.

Her eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, you catch something unguarded before it disappears behind her usual composure.

“You think I’m jealous?” she asks, her voice carrying a quiet edge.

“I think you’re used to having my attention,” you counter, not backing down. “And I think you did not like losing it.”

Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.

Then Natasha steps forward, closing the distance in a way that feels entirely intentional, her gaze steady on yours.

“Maybe I don’t,” she admits, her voice low enough that it almost brushes against you. “Does that mean I get to keep you here tonight instead?”

Your breath catches as you become acutely aware of how close she is, how easily she always manages to turn the situation back around on you.

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, breaking the moment. You glance down at the alert, your expression shifting instantly as reality forces its way back in.

“We don’t have time for this,” you say, though your voice is not quite as steady as before. You straighten slightly, regaining control. You poke at her shoulder. “If you behave at the event, we can finish that movie later tonight.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering you, and then a slow smile returns. She catches your hand in hers before you can pull away.

“That sounds like a date,” she says.

Heat rises to your face immediately, and you look away, pulling your hand back to your side and clearing your throat as you try to recover. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you reply quickly, far too quickly to be convincing.

Her soft laughter follows you as you reach for the door, already knowing you have not heard the end of that.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha glances toward you while keeping one hand steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the slow crawl of traffic on the way to the event. Her attention lingers for a moment as she watches you type rapidly on your phone, messages flying in and out as you coordinate updates and issue last-minute instructions. 

Your brows are pinched in concentration as you read the words on your screen under your breath in a soft mumble.

A faint, teasing smile forms at the corner of her lips before she looks back at the road.

“You’re being cute again,” she says lightly.

Right on cue, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, dropping your hands into your lap before turning to face her.

“And whose fault is that?” you reply, your tone edged with disbelief. “Sometimes it feels like you deliberately put me in stressful situations just so you can see that ‘cute’ expression.”

Natasha lifts one hand slightly from the wheel in mock defense, gesturing toward the sea of cars surrounding you.

“We’re almost there. Besides, I don’t remember being responsible for New York traffic,” she answers, easing the car to another stop before glancing at you with a raised brow.

You shift in your seat so you are fully turned toward her.

“Your sister is why I am stressing right now,” you insist. “She is not responding to any of my calls or messages.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, then reaches for her phone. She sends a quick message, and your phone chimes almost immediately with a reply. Yelena confirms that she will be at the event.

You look back at Natasha and find her watching you with a proud, self-satisfied smile.

You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.

“If you are waiting for a thank you, you are not getting one. We’re still late,” you point out, settling back into your seat as you take advantage of the brief moment of quiet.

Her smile does not fade as she returns her focus to the road.

“Doesn’t have to be a ‘thank you.’ I’d even accept something as simple as holding my hand as thanks,” she says, her tone laced with amusement.

You give her a flat look when she glances at you again for your reaction, and a quiet laugh escapes her in response.

Despite the noise outside, horns blaring and voices carrying through the traffic, a calm settles inside the car. When the vehicle slows once more, Natasha relaxes slightly into her seat, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest against the center console.

Your gaze drifts to it, lingering longer as you weigh the sudden thought.

A soft sigh of resignation escapes you before you can stop it.

Natasha begins to turn toward you at the sound, but before she can ask you about it, your hand moves. Your fingers brush lightly against hers before you turn her hand over and lace your fingers together with hers.

She looks down at where your hands are joined, then lifts her gaze toward you.

You are not looking back at her. Instead, you lean your head against your other hand, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.

Something in her instantly softens at the sight. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze before chuckling softly in amusement.

A quiet huff leaves you at her action, but you do not pull away. Your fingers remain intertwined as the car finally begins moving forward again.

By the time you arrive at the venue, the crowd has thinned somewhat, though the flashes begin again the moment Natasha steps out from the driver’s side.

You remain seated, confident that she can make it inside without issue. Just as you reach for your phone to message your assistant, the door beside you opens.

You look up in surprise to find Natasha leaning against it, that same familiar smile on her lips as she offers her hand toward you.

You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.

“What are you doing, Romanoff? The entrance is in the other direction,” you point out.

Her smile sharpens with playful intent.

“I am escorting my plus one,” she replies with a casual shrug. “Personally, I think bringing a date might help with those rumors you keep worrying about.”

You shake your head, though you still take her hand as she helps you out of the car before closing the door behind you.

“That would not help at all. Everyone knows I handle public relations for the Avengers,” you remind her. “Why would I risk the scandal of being involved with one of my clients?”

Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.

“I’m only a client?” she asks.

You cross your arms and give her a flat look.

“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.

She drops the act, though the teasing glint remains in her eyes.

“You’re not even slightly intrigued?” she presses, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “A secret romance at work. Blending business with something far more interesting.”

You place a hand against her shoulder and guide her back into a proper stance before adjusting the strap of her dress.

Her expression softens as she watches you, something quieter settling behind her gaze as you focus on fixing the small details.

You tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind her ear, your hand lingering for a moment before shifting to lift her chin so that her eyes meet yours.

“That sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

“You would be worth it.”

There is no teasing in her tone when she answers, and there is no hesitation either.

The familiar flutter rises in your chest again, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, the same reaction she always manages to draw out of you, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. You press your lips together to keep your expression controlled, unwilling to let her see the effect she has, but your eyes still remain locked on hers.

For a brief moment, everything else fades into the background, leaving only the quiet weight of her words and the unwavering sincerity in her gaze.

“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”

The calls from the reporters cut through the moment, pulling you both back. 

Natasha’s expression shifts easily, her usual smile returning as she tilts her head toward the entrance.

“Back to work then?” she asks.

Taking a deep breath to regain your composure, you drop your hand and follow her toward the waiting reporters.

“Agent Romanoff,” one of them begins. “You didn’t arrive with the rest of the Avengers, but now you’re here, and not alone either. Should we assume this is a dramatic reveal of a possible new relationship?”

You narrow your eyes at Natasha, silently warning her to respond appropriately, but she remains completely unfazed by the look you give her.

“Not exactly,” she answers smoothly, then glances at you with a small, knowing smile. “She’s smart enough not to take that kind of chance on me, especially given the reputation you all give me in the news.”

That draws a few chuckles, and the atmosphere instantly eases. It’s not surprising, but it still amazes you every time she shifts people’s attitudes in a single interaction.

Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.

“She is only beside me now to make sure everything goes smoothly for her favorite client.”

You roll your eyes and press subtly at Natasha’s lower back, steering her toward the entrance before the situation can spiral into any dangerous topics.

A soft laugh escapes her as she allows herself to be guided.

“So there is no secret relationship?” the reporter calls quickly after you, still hoping to gather some headline or article.

Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.

“There is nothing going on between us.”

“Really?”

The new voice cuts through the noise, and you turn to see Yelena standing nearby, her expression bored but her curiosity unmistakable.

She looks between you and Natasha.

“Then why did I see her leaving your room in the middle of the night?” she asks plainly.

The effect is immediate. Nearby reporters latch onto the statement, voices rising as cameras flash and questions begin flying from every direction.

You close your eyes briefly and press your fingers to your temple as the headache from earlier returns in full force.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh before leaning in close, her voice brushing against your ear as more cameras capture the moment.

“If it’s any consolation, you look absolutely adorable right now,” she murmurs.

You press your lips together, refusing to react outwardly despite the warmth creeping up your neck. Grabbing both sisters by their arms, you begin guiding them firmly toward the entrance.

“No more questions. We are going inside. Now,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You lean back against the podium in the briefing room, crossing your arms as your gaze moves across the people gathered in front of you.

Yelena sits slouched in her chair with her chin resting in her palm, letting out a quiet yawn as she stares at the screen with clear disinterest. Beside her, Kate is far more attentive, carefully arranging her notepad and pen on the table as if she intends to take this seriously.

Your attention then shifts to the third person seated directly in front of you.

“What exactly are you doing here, Romanoff?” you ask.

Natasha rests her folded arms on the table and leans slightly closer, offering a casual shrug.

“I never had the chance to go through this media training with you,” she replies.

You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.

“That’s because you never showed up when I first started here,” you remind her.

Her lips form a small pout before easing into something softer.

“And that happens to be one of my many regrets,” she says, tilting her head as her usual charming smile returns. “So I was thinking I could maybe learn a few things this time. If you’re willing to let me stay?”

You study her carefully, as though you might be able to uncover the real reason she would willingly spend her afternoon sitting through a public relations lecture, but her smile only grows as she holds your gaze without flinching.

A quiet sigh escapes you as you turn your head slightly to the side, already giving in.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

The door suddenly swings open before you can dwell on it further, and Peter rushes in, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.

You gesture toward the empty seat beside Kate without a word, then turn back toward the screen. With a press of the remote, the opening slide appears, displaying a list of common questions they are likely to face.

“Whether you like it or not, being public figures means you will eventually be questioned,” you begin. “By officials, by interviewers, and by civilians. You need to know how to respond properly so we avoid situations like this.”

You switch to the next slide, and the screen fills with headlines from various media outlets, each one paired with photos of you and Natasha taken over the years, all speculating on the same rapidly spreading story.

“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”

“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”

“From Business to Pleasure? Rumors Swirl Around Natasha Romanoff”

Natasha lets out a thoughtful hum as she studies the screen, then raises her hand slightly as if she were in an actual classroom.

“Do you think I could get copies of those pictures afterward?” she asks, her tone far too casual.

You send her a brief, warning look, choosing not to acknowledge the question as you continue.

“This is what happens when people are given just enough information to start filling in the gaps themselves,” you explain.

You shift your gaze toward Yelena, fixing her with a pointed look. She responds with a nonchalant thumbs up, entirely unbothered.

“You need to be mindful of both what you say and how you say it. People will take any opportunity to make assumptions or twist your words out of context,” you explain.

Kate raises her hand almost immediately.

“Do you mean like when Yelena told everyone that you left Natasha’s room in the middle of the night, so now people think you two slept together?” she asks, her curiosity entirely genuine.

Heat rises quickly to your face.

“That is not what happened! We were preparing for the government hearing and lost track of time,” you clarify.

Natasha lets out a quiet, amused sound as she props her head against her hand.

“Preparing?” she repeats, her voice threaded with mischief. “Is that what we are calling everything that happened that night?”

You shoot her a sharp look and bring your hands down firmly against the table in front of her.

“That is exactly what we are calling it, because that is all it was,” you state with emphasis.

Her smirk only deepens, and she answers your glare with a teasing wink.

You release a controlled breath through your nose and shake your head slightly as you try to regain control of the room. You should’ve known better. Natasha will always manage to find a way to throw you off balance.

Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.

“This is a perfect example of how easily misinformation spreads when statements are unclear and leave room for interpretation,” you continue.

Peter raises his hand with another question, and you nod for him to continue. As he launches into a detailed scenario that sounds far too specific to be entirely hypothetical, your focus remains on him until a subtle weight settles over your hand.

Your attention dips briefly.

Natasha has shifted closer, her hand now resting over yours, where it leans on the table.

When you glance at her, she lifts an eyebrow in silent question, as though asking whether she is allowed to continue.

You roll your eyes before turning back to Peter, answering his question while keeping your tone steady. You resume the presentation without acknowledging the contact, though you make no effort to pull your hand away.

For the remainder of the session, you try to ignore the warmth of her touch, as well as the slow, absent circles her thumb traces against your skin, while you begin wrapping up the lesson.

A call from Steve cuts through the room, signaling the start of their training session, and the others quickly gather their things.

“Next time, we will move on to practice scenarios,” you say to them, then shift your attention to Natasha. “Don’t leave yet, Romanoff. I need you for something.”

Her expression shifts, a playful glint appearing in her eyes as she leans forward, her fingers threading more deliberately through yours.

“Oh?” she murmurs, a slow, teasing smile forming as her gaze lingers on you. “And how exactly would you like me?”

Kate lets out a startled sound, while Peter nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to leave the room. Yelena laughs as she nudges the stunned Kate toward the door, clearly entertained by the whole situation.

“I meant for a public relations matter!” you say quickly, raising your voice slightly in the hope that they heard you before fixing Natasha with a pointed look.

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.

“I never received proper media training, remember?” she replies. “How am I supposed to know whether I said something that can be misunderstood for something else?”

Considering she’s a legendary spy, you do not believe a single word of that, and she knows it. Letting out a slow breath, you pull your hand free from hers and reach for your phone.

“I need you to make another statement,” you tell her. “You’re going to deny the rumors about us publicly.”

The playful edge fades from her expression, her lips pressing together in visible reluctance at the idea.

“Is that really necessary? I don’t particularly care what people say about me,” Natasha replies.

You place your hands on your hips. 

“Well, I do. Not all of those headlines are harmless or congratulatory, Natasha,” you explain. “I’m not going to sit back and let people suggest that you are using your position to pressure someone who works under you into a relationship.”

Her expression softens as she looks at you, something quieter settling in her gaze. Under that attention, you feel a flicker of sudden embarrassment and look away, turning instead to shut down the presentation on the screen.

“And it’s also part of my job,” you add more quietly as an afterthought.

A brief silence settles over the room, and you keep your focus on the computer in front of you rather than meeting her eyes.

“Alright,” Natasha says at last.

You glance up to find her resting her chin in her hand, watching you with quiet intent.

“I’ll do it,” she continues, a small smile returning. “After all, I still owe you two more press events without any issues.”

You give her a flat look.

“There was an issue at the last event,” you point out, gesturing toward her with the flash drive from the presentation.

Natasha makes a soft sound of protest and shakes her head.

“That was not my fault,” she counters, her smirk returning.

You let out a quiet sigh, something close to fond exasperation slipping through as you cross your arms.

“Just make sure you clarify what I was doing in your room that night,” you say.

A teasing smile curves her lips as she lifts an eyebrow.

“Of course,” she replies, her voice smooth as she lets the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach tighten. “We were just…” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze fixed on you as her tone drops with deliberate suggestion. “…preparing.”

You throw the flash drive at her with an embarrassed huff, and she laughs as she easily dodges it.

She truly is impossible.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

With Natasha’s official statement reinforcing that her relationship with you is strictly professional, along with a few carefully placed warnings to your contacts across several media outlets, the rumors begin to lose momentum. Speculation fades, and the narrative slowly corrects itself as the misunderstanding is cleared piece by piece.

Standing in the elevator, you continue watching the recorded press conference on your phone. Natasha sits across from an interviewer you specifically chose for their reliability, someone you trust not to twist her words into something damaging.

“So, just to clarify for our viewers,” the interviewer says, “nothing is happening between the two of you?”

“No,” Natasha replies with a soft chuckle. “I am fairly certain she would agree that I’m more trouble than I am worth.”

Your brows draw together at her response, and your hands lower slowly to your sides as the rest of the conversation fades into the background. The words echo something familiar, something you had said to her not long ago.

Before you can linger on the thought, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.

You step out and are immediately met with a familiar sight.

Natasha sits on the couch, cross-legged and completely at ease, a bowl of popcorn resting beside her while a laptop sits open on her lap with a movie playing. She turns her head at the sound of your approach and lifts the bowl slightly.

“Popcorn?” she offers.

You pause, taking in the scene, and after a brief moment of consideration, you power off your phone and tuck it away. The discussion about the next press event can wait.

Natasha’s brow lifts in quiet surprise as you walk around the couch and take a seat beside her, reaching over to take the bowl from her hands.

“What are you watching?” you ask.

A small smile forms on her lips as she settles back, shifting a little closer so you can see the screen more clearly.

“It’s Moonraker,” she answers, pressing play as the movie resumes.

You watch as James Bond leaps from a plane without a parachute, and you glance sideways at Natasha.

“Watching a famous spy while being one yourself feels a little cliché, don’t you think?” you remark.

She lets out a quiet laugh, turning toward you with a familiar smirk.

“That may be true,” she says, leaning slightly closer. “But do you know the difference?”

“What difference?” you ask, your voice quieter as you hold her gaze.

Natasha studies you for a moment before reaching into the bowl in your lap and taking a piece of popcorn.

“I look better doing it,” she replies, punctuating the statement with a teasing wink before leaning back and tossing the popcorn into her mouth, her attention returning to the screen.

You let out a soft breath of disbelief as you watch her, your gaze drifting briefly to her hand resting against the couch. The memory of the interview lingers in the back of your mind.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift slightly and rest your hand gently against hers.

Natasha immediately turns toward you, but you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, avoiding her questioning look.

“I didn’t mean you when I said it,” you murmur.

She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.

“I meant everything else that comes with this job,” you continue, quieter now. “That’s what is troublesome. Not you.”

After a moment, you turn your head and offer her a small, sincere smile.

“You would be worth it too, Natasha,” you add softly.

Her eyes widen slightly at your words. 

The reaction makes warmth rise to your face almost immediately, a flicker of embarrassment settling in your chest. You quickly clear your throat as you turn your attention back to the screen, putting distance between yourself and the weight of what you just said.

“Start the movie from the beginning, Romanoff,” you say, aiming for a casual tone that does not quite hold.

She does not respond right away. You can feel her gaze lingering on you, steady and searching, but you keep your focus fixed on the screen, unwilling to turn and discover whether her expression holds surprise, amusement, or that soft look that always manages to unsettle your heart in ways you would rather not examine too closely.

A quiet, warm laugh eventually slips from her, and she reaches forward to restart the film. As the opening scene begins again, her hand shifts beneath yours, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that feels entirely natural.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you allow your hand to remain where it is, resting comfortably in hers.

After a moment, she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, then lowering it once more to rest between you.

“This feels like a very nice date,” she says casually.

“This is not a date,” you reply with a quiet sigh, sending her a brief sideways glare.

Natasha only smiles, that same knowing expression settling back into place.

“Whatever you say.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Um…kind of?” Peter fidgets with his collar, tugging at the tie in a clear attempt to loosen it.

You immediately swat his hand away and straighten it again before he can undo your work.

“Are you sure I can’t just wear the spider suit?”

You give him a firm look and shake your head without hesitation.

“No. Your identity has already been revealed to the entire world, which means your media training starts now,” you reply, leaving no room for argument.

With everything that followed the exposure of his identity and the retaliation that came with it, the situation needs to be redirected. The only effective way to counter the wave of negative press is to replace it with something positive, something controlled. Tonight’s event, the formal introduction of the newest Avengers, is meant to do exactly that.

You shift your attention to the second recruit, who will also undergo the same training, whether she likes it or not.

“And you, Kate? Still feeling nervous?” you ask.

She leans against the backdrop, bracing herself with one hand while the other fans at her face in quick, restless motions.

“What? No, I am fine. Totally fine. Completely calm. Is it warm out here?” she says in a rush, her eyes darting around.

Considering that it is the middle of winter in New York, her answer does nothing to reassure you. You exhale quietly and step closer, reaching up to smooth a stray strand of hair back into place in an attempt to ground her.

“Take a breath, Kate. You don’t even have to answer questions yet,” you tell her gently.

She nods, slower this time, following your lead as she inhales and exhales.

“Right. Okay,” she murmurs, straightening her posture before glancing around again. “Wait. Where is Yelena?”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a steady breath as the beginnings of a headache settle in behind your temples. Of course, she is missing. The third new member seems to have adopted the same habit as her sister when it comes to avoiding events you explicitly told her to attend.

Unfortunately, your influence only goes so far. You have never had much success persuading Natasha to follow a plan exactly, and while she will occasionally compromise with you, Yelena has even less interest in doing so.

“She will be here later,” you say, even though you are not entirely convinced of that yourself. There is no time to dwell on it. You focus on what can still be controlled.

“Peter, you’re up first. Smile, wave, and keep moving. Do not stop for questions. Understood?”

“Got it,” he replies, giving a quick nod as he shakes out his hands and steps forward into the storm of cameras and voices.

You watch closely as he does exactly what you instructed, moving through the crowd without hesitation and making it inside the ballroom without incident.

“Alright, Kate. You’re next,” you say, giving her a reassuring pat.

She hesitates for only a moment before stepping out. There is a slight stumble at the start, but she recovers quickly and manages to make her way inside as well.

A quiet breath of relief escapes you. You have spent weeks preparing all three of them for this, and at least two seem willing to follow directions without complication.

The rising volume of the crowd signals the next arrival before you even turn to look. A sleek black car pulls up, and as the door opens, the original Avengers step out one by one, each of them dressed exactly as you arranged.

Tony. Check.

Steve. Check.

Bruce. Check.

Thor. Check.

Clint. Check.

Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.

The car door closes.

No red hair. No Natasha.

Your phone is already in your hand before the realization fully settles, the call ringing as you peer through the tinted windows in a last attempt to convince yourself she is simply taking a moment before stepping out.

The line connects, and your assistant speaks immediately, her voice rushed with panic.

“I am so sorry! I tried to get her ready on time, but then she offered me a drink, and then we got distracted talking, and by the time I realized what time it was, the event had already started.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as the headache fully settles in. This is not your assistant’s fault. You already guessed that before calling.

You know exactly who is responsible.

“Just…switch with me,” you say, your voice tight but controlled. “Stay here and keep an eye on the new members during the event. I will…” You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “I will handle Romanoff.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the common floor, the doors sliding open to reveal exactly what you expected. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, completely at ease, her attention fixed on the movie playing across the small laptop balanced on her lap.

“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.

She glances over her shoulder the moment she hears you, and her lips immediately curl into a knowing, infuriating smile.

“You made it just in time. Popcorn?” she asks casually, as though she is not currently skipping an event you explicitly told her to attend.

You exhale sharply and stride across the room until you are standing directly in front of her.

She does not move. If anything, her smile deepens as she lifts another piece of popcorn to her mouth, finger deliberately lingering on her bottom lip as her gaze drags slowly over you in open appraisal.

You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, refusing to react to the warmth that threatens to rise under her attention. Instead, you reach forward, snap the laptop shut, and toss it onto the couch beside her.

“Get up,” you say.

One of her brows lifts slightly, amusement flickering in her expression, but you do not give her the opportunity to respond. You grab her hand and pull her to her feet yourself before guiding her firmly down the hall toward her room.

Once inside, you release her and move straight to the bed, grabbing the dress you had already laid out for her. You turn and press it into her hands.

“Change. Now,” you tell her.

Natasha glances from you to the dress and back again, a slow smirk forming as she considers your words.

“If that’s what you want,” she replies, and before you can prepare for it, she lifts her top over her head in one smooth, effortless motion.

You freeze for half a second at the sudden sight of her toned naked body, your eyes widening before you quickly turn your head away, heat rising to your face as you push the dress more firmly against her.

A quiet, amused laugh escapes her, and you shake your head, letting out a restrained breath.

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

Her laughter lingers as she disappears into the bathroom to finish changing, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since arriving.

Your gaze drifts around the room, taking in the sparse details. There is very little here that marks the space as hers beyond a few carefully placed photographs. Most of them are what you expect, moments captured with the rest of the Avengers at events and gatherings, a few with her sister, each one offering a rare glimpse into a life she rarely shares.

Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.

It is the two of you, caught mid-moment on a dance floor from a previous event, her arms wrapped around you while you leaned into her. 

The tension in your shoulders eases as the memory surfaces, vivid and warm, and a quiet breath leaves you before you can stop it.

Arms slide around you from behind without warning, pulling you back into that same familiar warmth.

“Have you decided to stay instead?” Natasha murmurs near your ear, her chin settling lightly against your shoulder.

You suppress the shiver that threatens to betray you, choosing instead to step out of her hold with a sigh and turn to face her with your hands planted firmly on your hips.

“Nice try,” you reply. “But you agreed to attend three more press events without causing problems.”

Natasha laughs softly, turning her back to you as she gathers her hair over one shoulder. She glances at you over the curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes far too deliberately teasing.

“Help me with this?” she asks, gesturing slightly.

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. There is no way someone like her would need help with something so simple, and yet time is slipping away, and you both can’t be any later than you already are.

That is the only reason you step closer. At least, that is what you tell yourself.

Your hand settles lightly against her lower back as you reach for the zipper, drawing it up slowly.

The quiet stretches for a moment before her voice breaks it, softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I made that promise to you, not your assistant,” she mutters.

Your brows draw together as her words sink in, and realization follows almost immediately.

“Are you actually upset that I sent my assistant instead of coming myself?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away, but beneath your hand, you feel the subtle shift in her posture, the tension that gives her away even when her composure does not.

Natasha finally lets out a quiet breath, then shrugs as though it means nothing.

“No,” she replies lightly.

You step around her, folding your arms as you study her more closely.

“I’ve been busy managing Yelena and the others, which means you have not been the center of my attention for once. Is that what this is about?” you press, a hint of challenge slipping into your tone.

Her eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, you catch something unguarded before it disappears behind her usual composure.

“You think I’m jealous?” she asks, her voice carrying a quiet edge.

“I think you’re used to having my attention,” you counter, not backing down. “And I think you did not like losing it.”

Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.

Then Natasha steps forward, closing the distance in a way that feels entirely intentional, her gaze steady on yours.

“Maybe I don’t,” she admits, her voice low enough that it almost brushes against you. “Does that mean I get to keep you here tonight instead?”

Your breath catches as you become acutely aware of how close she is, how easily she always manages to turn the situation back around on you.

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, breaking the moment. You glance down at the alert, your expression shifting instantly as reality forces its way back in.

“We don’t have time for this,” you say, though your voice is not quite as steady as before. You straighten slightly, regaining control. You poke at her shoulder. “If you behave at the event, we can finish that movie later tonight.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering you, and then a slow smile returns. She catches your hand in hers before you can pull away.

“That sounds like a date,” she says.

Heat rises to your face immediately, and you look away, pulling your hand back to your side and clearing your throat as you try to recover. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you reply quickly, far too quickly to be convincing.

Her soft laughter follows you as you reach for the door, already knowing you have not heard the end of that.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha glances toward you while keeping one hand steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the slow crawl of traffic on the way to the event. Her attention lingers for a moment as she watches you type rapidly on your phone, messages flying in and out as you coordinate updates and issue last-minute instructions. 

Your brows are pinched in concentration as you read the words on your screen under your breath in a soft mumble.

A faint, teasing smile forms at the corner of her lips before she looks back at the road.

“You’re being cute again,” she says lightly.

Right on cue, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, dropping your hands into your lap before turning to face her.

“And whose fault is that?” you reply, your tone edged with disbelief. “Sometimes it feels like you deliberately put me in stressful situations just so you can see that ‘cute’ expression.”

Natasha lifts one hand slightly from the wheel in mock defense, gesturing toward the sea of cars surrounding you.

“We’re almost there. Besides, I don’t remember being responsible for New York traffic,” she answers, easing the car to another stop before glancing at you with a raised brow.

You shift in your seat so you are fully turned toward her.

“Your sister is why I am stressing right now,” you insist. “She is not responding to any of my calls or messages.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, then reaches for her phone. She sends a quick message, and your phone chimes almost immediately with a reply. Yelena confirms that she will be at the event.

You look back at Natasha and find her watching you with a proud, self-satisfied smile.

You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.

“If you are waiting for a thank you, you are not getting one. We’re still late,” you point out, settling back into your seat as you take advantage of the brief moment of quiet.

Her smile does not fade as she returns her focus to the road.

“Doesn’t have to be a ‘thank you.’ I’d even accept something as simple as holding my hand as thanks,” she says, her tone laced with amusement.

You give her a flat look when she glances at you again for your reaction, and a quiet laugh escapes her in response.

Despite the noise outside, horns blaring and voices carrying through the traffic, a calm settles inside the car. When the vehicle slows once more, Natasha relaxes slightly into her seat, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest against the center console.

Your gaze drifts to it, lingering longer as you weigh the sudden thought.

A soft sigh of resignation escapes you before you can stop it.

Natasha begins to turn toward you at the sound, but before she can ask you about it, your hand moves. Your fingers brush lightly against hers before you turn her hand over and lace your fingers together with hers.

She looks down at where your hands are joined, then lifts her gaze toward you.

You are not looking back at her. Instead, you lean your head against your other hand, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.

Something in her instantly softens at the sight. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze before chuckling softly in amusement.

A quiet huff leaves you at her action, but you do not pull away. Your fingers remain intertwined as the car finally begins moving forward again.

By the time you arrive at the venue, the crowd has thinned somewhat, though the flashes begin again the moment Natasha steps out from the driver’s side.

You remain seated, confident that she can make it inside without issue. Just as you reach for your phone to message your assistant, the door beside you opens.

You look up in surprise to find Natasha leaning against it, that same familiar smile on her lips as she offers her hand toward you.

You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.

“What are you doing, Romanoff? The entrance is in the other direction,” you point out.

Her smile sharpens with playful intent.

“I am escorting my plus one,” she replies with a casual shrug. “Personally, I think bringing a date might help with those rumors you keep worrying about.”

You shake your head, though you still take her hand as she helps you out of the car before closing the door behind you.

“That would not help at all. Everyone knows I handle public relations for the Avengers,” you remind her. “Why would I risk the scandal of being involved with one of my clients?”

Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.

“I’m only a client?” she asks.

You cross your arms and give her a flat look.

“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.

She drops the act, though the teasing glint remains in her eyes.

“You’re not even slightly intrigued?” she presses, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “A secret romance at work. Blending business with something far more interesting.”

You place a hand against her shoulder and guide her back into a proper stance before adjusting the strap of her dress.

Her expression softens as she watches you, something quieter settling behind her gaze as you focus on fixing the small details.

You tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind her ear, your hand lingering for a moment before shifting to lift her chin so that her eyes meet yours.

“That sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

“You would be worth it.”

There is no teasing in her tone when she answers, and there is no hesitation either.

The familiar flutter rises in your chest again, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, the same reaction she always manages to draw out of you, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. You press your lips together to keep your expression controlled, unwilling to let her see the effect she has, but your eyes still remain locked on hers.

For a brief moment, everything else fades into the background, leaving only the quiet weight of her words and the unwavering sincerity in her gaze.

“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”

The calls from the reporters cut through the moment, pulling you both back. 

Natasha’s expression shifts easily, her usual smile returning as she tilts her head toward the entrance.

“Back to work then?” she asks.

Taking a deep breath to regain your composure, you drop your hand and follow her toward the waiting reporters.

“Agent Romanoff,” one of them begins. “You didn’t arrive with the rest of the Avengers, but now you’re here, and not alone either. Should we assume this is a dramatic reveal of a possible new relationship?”

You narrow your eyes at Natasha, silently warning her to respond appropriately, but she remains completely unfazed by the look you give her.

“Not exactly,” she answers smoothly, then glances at you with a small, knowing smile. “She’s smart enough not to take that kind of chance on me, especially given the reputation you all give me in the news.”

That draws a few chuckles, and the atmosphere instantly eases. It’s not surprising, but it still amazes you every time she shifts people’s attitudes in a single interaction.

Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.

“She is only beside me now to make sure everything goes smoothly for her favorite client.”

You roll your eyes and press subtly at Natasha’s lower back, steering her toward the entrance before the situation can spiral into any dangerous topics.

A soft laugh escapes her as she allows herself to be guided.

“So there is no secret relationship?” the reporter calls quickly after you, still hoping to gather some headline or article.

Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.

“There is nothing going on between us.”

“Really?”

The new voice cuts through the noise, and you turn to see Yelena standing nearby, her expression bored but her curiosity unmistakable.

She looks between you and Natasha.

“Then why did I see her leaving your room in the middle of the night?” she asks plainly.

The effect is immediate. Nearby reporters latch onto the statement, voices rising as cameras flash and questions begin flying from every direction.

You close your eyes briefly and press your fingers to your temple as the headache from earlier returns in full force.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh before leaning in close, her voice brushing against your ear as more cameras capture the moment.

“If it’s any consolation, you look absolutely adorable right now,” she murmurs.

You press your lips together, refusing to react outwardly despite the warmth creeping up your neck. Grabbing both sisters by their arms, you begin guiding them firmly toward the entrance.

“No more questions. We are going inside. Now,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You lean back against the podium in the briefing room, crossing your arms as your gaze moves across the people gathered in front of you.

Yelena sits slouched in her chair with her chin resting in her palm, letting out a quiet yawn as she stares at the screen with clear disinterest. Beside her, Kate is far more attentive, carefully arranging her notepad and pen on the table as if she intends to take this seriously.

Your attention then shifts to the third person seated directly in front of you.

“What exactly are you doing here, Romanoff?” you ask.

Natasha rests her folded arms on the table and leans slightly closer, offering a casual shrug.

“I never had the chance to go through this media training with you,” she replies.

You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.

“That’s because you never showed up when I first started here,” you remind her.

Her lips form a small pout before easing into something softer.

“And that happens to be one of my many regrets,” she says, tilting her head as her usual charming smile returns. “So I was thinking I could maybe learn a few things this time. If you’re willing to let me stay?”

You study her carefully, as though you might be able to uncover the real reason she would willingly spend her afternoon sitting through a public relations lecture, but her smile only grows as she holds your gaze without flinching.

A quiet sigh escapes you as you turn your head slightly to the side, already giving in.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

The door suddenly swings open before you can dwell on it further, and Peter rushes in, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.

You gesture toward the empty seat beside Kate without a word, then turn back toward the screen. With a press of the remote, the opening slide appears, displaying a list of common questions they are likely to face.

“Whether you like it or not, being public figures means you will eventually be questioned,” you begin. “By officials, by interviewers, and by civilians. You need to know how to respond properly so we avoid situations like this.”

You switch to the next slide, and the screen fills with headlines from various media outlets, each one paired with photos of you and Natasha taken over the years, all speculating on the same rapidly spreading story.

“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”

“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”

“From Business to Pleasure? Rumors Swirl Around Natasha Romanoff”

Natasha lets out a thoughtful hum as she studies the screen, then raises her hand slightly as if she were in an actual classroom.

“Do you think I could get copies of those pictures afterward?” she asks, her tone far too casual.

You send her a brief, warning look, choosing not to acknowledge the question as you continue.

“This is what happens when people are given just enough information to start filling in the gaps themselves,” you explain.

You shift your gaze toward Yelena, fixing her with a pointed look. She responds with a nonchalant thumbs up, entirely unbothered.

“You need to be mindful of both what you say and how you say it. People will take any opportunity to make assumptions or twist your words out of context,” you explain.

Kate raises her hand almost immediately.

“Do you mean like when Yelena told everyone that you left Natasha’s room in the middle of the night, so now people think you two slept together?” she asks, her curiosity entirely genuine.

Heat rises quickly to your face.

“That is not what happened! We were preparing for the government hearing and lost track of time,” you clarify.

Natasha lets out a quiet, amused sound as she props her head against her hand.

“Preparing?” she repeats, her voice threaded with mischief. “Is that what we are calling everything that happened that night?”

You shoot her a sharp look and bring your hands down firmly against the table in front of her.

“That is exactly what we are calling it, because that is all it was,” you state with emphasis.

Her smirk only deepens, and she answers your glare with a teasing wink.

You release a controlled breath through your nose and shake your head slightly as you try to regain control of the room. You should’ve known better. Natasha will always manage to find a way to throw you off balance.

Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.

“This is a perfect example of how easily misinformation spreads when statements are unclear and leave room for interpretation,” you continue.

Peter raises his hand with another question, and you nod for him to continue. As he launches into a detailed scenario that sounds far too specific to be entirely hypothetical, your focus remains on him until a subtle weight settles over your hand.

Your attention dips briefly.

Natasha has shifted closer, her hand now resting over yours, where it leans on the table.

When you glance at her, she lifts an eyebrow in silent question, as though asking whether she is allowed to continue.

You roll your eyes before turning back to Peter, answering his question while keeping your tone steady. You resume the presentation without acknowledging the contact, though you make no effort to pull your hand away.

For the remainder of the session, you try to ignore the warmth of her touch, as well as the slow, absent circles her thumb traces against your skin, while you begin wrapping up the lesson.

A call from Steve cuts through the room, signaling the start of their training session, and the others quickly gather their things.

“Next time, we will move on to practice scenarios,” you say to them, then shift your attention to Natasha. “Don’t leave yet, Romanoff. I need you for something.”

Her expression shifts, a playful glint appearing in her eyes as she leans forward, her fingers threading more deliberately through yours.

“Oh?” she murmurs, a slow, teasing smile forming as her gaze lingers on you. “And how exactly would you like me?”

Kate lets out a startled sound, while Peter nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to leave the room. Yelena laughs as she nudges the stunned Kate toward the door, clearly entertained by the whole situation.

“I meant for a public relations matter!” you say quickly, raising your voice slightly in the hope that they heard you before fixing Natasha with a pointed look.

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.

“I never received proper media training, remember?” she replies. “How am I supposed to know whether I said something that can be misunderstood for something else?”

Considering she’s a legendary spy, you do not believe a single word of that, and she knows it. Letting out a slow breath, you pull your hand free from hers and reach for your phone.

“I need you to make another statement,” you tell her. “You’re going to deny the rumors about us publicly.”

The playful edge fades from her expression, her lips pressing together in visible reluctance at the idea.

“Is that really necessary? I don’t particularly care what people say about me,” Natasha replies.

You place your hands on your hips. 

“Well, I do. Not all of those headlines are harmless or congratulatory, Natasha,” you explain. “I’m not going to sit back and let people suggest that you are using your position to pressure someone who works under you into a relationship.”

Her expression softens as she looks at you, something quieter settling in her gaze. Under that attention, you feel a flicker of sudden embarrassment and look away, turning instead to shut down the presentation on the screen.

“And it’s also part of my job,” you add more quietly as an afterthought.

A brief silence settles over the room, and you keep your focus on the computer in front of you rather than meeting her eyes.

“Alright,” Natasha says at last.

You glance up to find her resting her chin in her hand, watching you with quiet intent.

“I’ll do it,” she continues, a small smile returning. “After all, I still owe you two more press events without any issues.”

You give her a flat look.

“There was an issue at the last event,” you point out, gesturing toward her with the flash drive from the presentation.

Natasha makes a soft sound of protest and shakes her head.

“That was not my fault,” she counters, her smirk returning.

You let out a quiet sigh, something close to fond exasperation slipping through as you cross your arms.

“Just make sure you clarify what I was doing in your room that night,” you say.

A teasing smile curves her lips as she lifts an eyebrow.

“Of course,” she replies, her voice smooth as she lets the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach tighten. “We were just…” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze fixed on you as her tone drops with deliberate suggestion. “…preparing.”

You throw the flash drive at her with an embarrassed huff, and she laughs as she easily dodges it.

She truly is impossible.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

With Natasha’s official statement reinforcing that her relationship with you is strictly professional, along with a few carefully placed warnings to your contacts across several media outlets, the rumors begin to lose momentum. Speculation fades, and the narrative slowly corrects itself as the misunderstanding is cleared piece by piece.

Standing in the elevator, you continue watching the recorded press conference on your phone. Natasha sits across from an interviewer you specifically chose for their reliability, someone you trust not to twist her words into something damaging.

“So, just to clarify for our viewers,” the interviewer says, “nothing is happening between the two of you?”

“No,” Natasha replies with a soft chuckle. “I am fairly certain she would agree that I’m more trouble than I am worth.”

Your brows draw together at her response, and your hands lower slowly to your sides as the rest of the conversation fades into the background. The words echo something familiar, something you had said to her not long ago.

Before you can linger on the thought, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.

You step out and are immediately met with a familiar sight.

Natasha sits on the couch, cross-legged and completely at ease, a bowl of popcorn resting beside her while a laptop sits open on her lap with a movie playing. She turns her head at the sound of your approach and lifts the bowl slightly.

“Popcorn?” she offers.

You pause, taking in the scene, and after a brief moment of consideration, you power off your phone and tuck it away. The discussion about the next press event can wait.

Natasha’s brow lifts in quiet surprise as you walk around the couch and take a seat beside her, reaching over to take the bowl from her hands.

“What are you watching?” you ask.

A small smile forms on her lips as she settles back, shifting a little closer so you can see the screen more clearly.

“It’s Moonraker,” she answers, pressing play as the movie resumes.

You watch as James Bond leaps from a plane without a parachute, and you glance sideways at Natasha.

“Watching a famous spy while being one yourself feels a little cliché, don’t you think?” you remark.

She lets out a quiet laugh, turning toward you with a familiar smirk.

“That may be true,” she says, leaning slightly closer. “But do you know the difference?”

“What difference?” you ask, your voice quieter as you hold her gaze.

Natasha studies you for a moment before reaching into the bowl in your lap and taking a piece of popcorn.

“I look better doing it,” she replies, punctuating the statement with a teasing wink before leaning back and tossing the popcorn into her mouth, her attention returning to the screen.

You let out a soft breath of disbelief as you watch her, your gaze drifting briefly to her hand resting against the couch. The memory of the interview lingers in the back of your mind.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift slightly and rest your hand gently against hers.

Natasha immediately turns toward you, but you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, avoiding her questioning look.

“I didn’t mean you when I said it,” you murmur.

She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.

“I meant everything else that comes with this job,” you continue, quieter now. “That’s what is troublesome. Not you.”

After a moment, you turn your head and offer her a small, sincere smile.

“You would be worth it too, Natasha,” you add softly.

Her eyes widen slightly at your words. 

The reaction makes warmth rise to your face almost immediately, a flicker of embarrassment settling in your chest. You quickly clear your throat as you turn your attention back to the screen, putting distance between yourself and the weight of what you just said.

“Start the movie from the beginning, Romanoff,” you say, aiming for a casual tone that does not quite hold.

She does not respond right away. You can feel her gaze lingering on you, steady and searching, but you keep your focus fixed on the screen, unwilling to turn and discover whether her expression holds surprise, amusement, or that soft look that always manages to unsettle your heart in ways you would rather not examine too closely.

A quiet, warm laugh eventually slips from her, and she reaches forward to restart the film. As the opening scene begins again, her hand shifts beneath yours, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that feels entirely natural.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you allow your hand to remain where it is, resting comfortably in hers.

After a moment, she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, then lowering it once more to rest between you.

“This feels like a very nice date,” she says casually.

“This is not a date,” you reply with a quiet sigh, sending her a brief sideways glare.

Natasha only smiles, that same knowing expression settling back into place.

“Whatever you say.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Um…kind of?” Peter fidgets with his collar, tugging at the tie in a clear attempt to loosen it.

You immediately swat his hand away and straighten it again before he can undo your work.

“Are you sure I can’t just wear the spider suit?”

You give him a firm look and shake your head without hesitation.

“No. Your identity has already been revealed to the entire world, which means your media training starts now,” you reply, leaving no room for argument.

With everything that followed the exposure of his identity and the retaliation that came with it, the situation needs to be redirected. The only effective way to counter the wave of negative press is to replace it with something positive, something controlled. Tonight’s event, the formal introduction of the newest Avengers, is meant to do exactly that.

You shift your attention to the second recruit, who will also undergo the same training, whether she likes it or not.

“And you, Kate? Still feeling nervous?” you ask.

She leans against the backdrop, bracing herself with one hand while the other fans at her face in quick, restless motions.

“What? No, I am fine. Totally fine. Completely calm. Is it warm out here?” she says in a rush, her eyes darting around.

Considering that it is the middle of winter in New York, her answer does nothing to reassure you. You exhale quietly and step closer, reaching up to smooth a stray strand of hair back into place in an attempt to ground her.

“Take a breath, Kate. You don’t even have to answer questions yet,” you tell her gently.

She nods, slower this time, following your lead as she inhales and exhales.

“Right. Okay,” she murmurs, straightening her posture before glancing around again. “Wait. Where is Yelena?”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a steady breath as the beginnings of a headache settle in behind your temples. Of course, she is missing. The third new member seems to have adopted the same habit as her sister when it comes to avoiding events you explicitly told her to attend.

Unfortunately, your influence only goes so far. You have never had much success persuading Natasha to follow a plan exactly, and while she will occasionally compromise with you, Yelena has even less interest in doing so.

“She will be here later,” you say, even though you are not entirely convinced of that yourself. There is no time to dwell on it. You focus on what can still be controlled.

“Peter, you’re up first. Smile, wave, and keep moving. Do not stop for questions. Understood?”

“Got it,” he replies, giving a quick nod as he shakes out his hands and steps forward into the storm of cameras and voices.

You watch closely as he does exactly what you instructed, moving through the crowd without hesitation and making it inside the ballroom without incident.

“Alright, Kate. You’re next,” you say, giving her a reassuring pat.

She hesitates for only a moment before stepping out. There is a slight stumble at the start, but she recovers quickly and manages to make her way inside as well.

A quiet breath of relief escapes you. You have spent weeks preparing all three of them for this, and at least two seem willing to follow directions without complication.

The rising volume of the crowd signals the next arrival before you even turn to look. A sleek black car pulls up, and as the door opens, the original Avengers step out one by one, each of them dressed exactly as you arranged.

Tony. Check.

Steve. Check.

Bruce. Check.

Thor. Check.

Clint. Check.

Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.

The car door closes.

No red hair. No Natasha.

Your phone is already in your hand before the realization fully settles, the call ringing as you peer through the tinted windows in a last attempt to convince yourself she is simply taking a moment before stepping out.

The line connects, and your assistant speaks immediately, her voice rushed with panic.

“I am so sorry! I tried to get her ready on time, but then she offered me a drink, and then we got distracted talking, and by the time I realized what time it was, the event had already started.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as the headache fully settles in. This is not your assistant’s fault. You already guessed that before calling.

You know exactly who is responsible.

“Just…switch with me,” you say, your voice tight but controlled. “Stay here and keep an eye on the new members during the event. I will…” You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “I will handle Romanoff.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the common floor, the doors sliding open to reveal exactly what you expected. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, completely at ease, her attention fixed on the movie playing across the small laptop balanced on her lap.

“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.

She glances over her shoulder the moment she hears you, and her lips immediately curl into a knowing, infuriating smile.

“You made it just in time. Popcorn?” she asks casually, as though she is not currently skipping an event you explicitly told her to attend.

You exhale sharply and stride across the room until you are standing directly in front of her.

She does not move. If anything, her smile deepens as she lifts another piece of popcorn to her mouth, finger deliberately lingering on her bottom lip as her gaze drags slowly over you in open appraisal.

You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, refusing to react to the warmth that threatens to rise under her attention. Instead, you reach forward, snap the laptop shut, and toss it onto the couch beside her.

“Get up,” you say.

One of her brows lifts slightly, amusement flickering in her expression, but you do not give her the opportunity to respond. You grab her hand and pull her to her feet yourself before guiding her firmly down the hall toward her room.

Once inside, you release her and move straight to the bed, grabbing the dress you had already laid out for her. You turn and press it into her hands.

“Change. Now,” you tell her.

Natasha glances from you to the dress and back again, a slow smirk forming as she considers your words.

“If that’s what you want,” she replies, and before you can prepare for it, she lifts her top over her head in one smooth, effortless motion.

You freeze for half a second at the sudden sight of her toned naked body, your eyes widening before you quickly turn your head away, heat rising to your face as you push the dress more firmly against her.

A quiet, amused laugh escapes her, and you shake your head, letting out a restrained breath.

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

Her laughter lingers as she disappears into the bathroom to finish changing, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since arriving.

Your gaze drifts around the room, taking in the sparse details. There is very little here that marks the space as hers beyond a few carefully placed photographs. Most of them are what you expect, moments captured with the rest of the Avengers at events and gatherings, a few with her sister, each one offering a rare glimpse into a life she rarely shares.

Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.

It is the two of you, caught mid-moment on a dance floor from a previous event, her arms wrapped around you while you leaned into her. 

The tension in your shoulders eases as the memory surfaces, vivid and warm, and a quiet breath leaves you before you can stop it.

Arms slide around you from behind without warning, pulling you back into that same familiar warmth.

“Have you decided to stay instead?” Natasha murmurs near your ear, her chin settling lightly against your shoulder.

You suppress the shiver that threatens to betray you, choosing instead to step out of her hold with a sigh and turn to face her with your hands planted firmly on your hips.

“Nice try,” you reply. “But you agreed to attend three more press events without causing problems.”

Natasha laughs softly, turning her back to you as she gathers her hair over one shoulder. She glances at you over the curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes far too deliberately teasing.

“Help me with this?” she asks, gesturing slightly.

You hesitate, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. There is no way someone like her would need help with something so simple, and yet time is slipping away, and you both can’t be any later than you already are.

That is the only reason you step closer. At least, that is what you tell yourself.

Your hand settles lightly against her lower back as you reach for the zipper, drawing it up slowly.

The quiet stretches for a moment before her voice breaks it, softer now, almost thoughtful.

“I made that promise to you, not your assistant,” she mutters.

Your brows draw together as her words sink in, and realization follows almost immediately.

“Are you actually upset that I sent my assistant instead of coming myself?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away, but beneath your hand, you feel the subtle shift in her posture, the tension that gives her away even when her composure does not.

Natasha finally lets out a quiet breath, then shrugs as though it means nothing.

“No,” she replies lightly.

You step around her, folding your arms as you study her more closely.

“I’ve been busy managing Yelena and the others, which means you have not been the center of my attention for once. Is that what this is about?” you press, a hint of challenge slipping into your tone.

Her eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, you catch something unguarded before it disappears behind her usual composure.

“You think I’m jealous?” she asks, her voice carrying a quiet edge.

“I think you’re used to having my attention,” you counter, not backing down. “And I think you did not like losing it.”

Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.

Then Natasha steps forward, closing the distance in a way that feels entirely intentional, her gaze steady on yours.

“Maybe I don’t,” she admits, her voice low enough that it almost brushes against you. “Does that mean I get to keep you here tonight instead?”

Your breath catches as you become acutely aware of how close she is, how easily she always manages to turn the situation back around on you.

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, breaking the moment. You glance down at the alert, your expression shifting instantly as reality forces its way back in.

“We don’t have time for this,” you say, though your voice is not quite as steady as before. You straighten slightly, regaining control. You poke at her shoulder. “If you behave at the event, we can finish that movie later tonight.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering you, and then a slow smile returns. She catches your hand in hers before you can pull away.

“That sounds like a date,” she says.

Heat rises to your face immediately, and you look away, pulling your hand back to your side and clearing your throat as you try to recover. 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you reply quickly, far too quickly to be convincing.

Her soft laughter follows you as you reach for the door, already knowing you have not heard the end of that.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha glances toward you while keeping one hand steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the slow crawl of traffic on the way to the event. Her attention lingers for a moment as she watches you type rapidly on your phone, messages flying in and out as you coordinate updates and issue last-minute instructions. 

Your brows are pinched in concentration as you read the words on your screen under your breath in a soft mumble.

A faint, teasing smile forms at the corner of her lips before she looks back at the road.

“You’re being cute again,” she says lightly.

Right on cue, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, dropping your hands into your lap before turning to face her.

“And whose fault is that?” you reply, your tone edged with disbelief. “Sometimes it feels like you deliberately put me in stressful situations just so you can see that ‘cute’ expression.”

Natasha lifts one hand slightly from the wheel in mock defense, gesturing toward the sea of cars surrounding you.

“We’re almost there. Besides, I don’t remember being responsible for New York traffic,” she answers, easing the car to another stop before glancing at you with a raised brow.

You shift in your seat so you are fully turned toward her.

“Your sister is why I am stressing right now,” you insist. “She is not responding to any of my calls or messages.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, then reaches for her phone. She sends a quick message, and your phone chimes almost immediately with a reply. Yelena confirms that she will be at the event.

You look back at Natasha and find her watching you with a proud, self-satisfied smile.

You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.

“If you are waiting for a thank you, you are not getting one. We’re still late,” you point out, settling back into your seat as you take advantage of the brief moment of quiet.

Her smile does not fade as she returns her focus to the road.

“Doesn’t have to be a ‘thank you.’ I’d even accept something as simple as holding my hand as thanks,” she says, her tone laced with amusement.

You give her a flat look when she glances at you again for your reaction, and a quiet laugh escapes her in response.

Despite the noise outside, horns blaring and voices carrying through the traffic, a calm settles inside the car. When the vehicle slows once more, Natasha relaxes slightly into her seat, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest against the center console.

Your gaze drifts to it, lingering longer as you weigh the sudden thought.

A soft sigh of resignation escapes you before you can stop it.

Natasha begins to turn toward you at the sound, but before she can ask you about it, your hand moves. Your fingers brush lightly against hers before you turn her hand over and lace your fingers together with hers.

She looks down at where your hands are joined, then lifts her gaze toward you.

You are not looking back at her. Instead, you lean your head against your other hand, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.

Something in her instantly softens at the sight. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze before chuckling softly in amusement.

A quiet huff leaves you at her action, but you do not pull away. Your fingers remain intertwined as the car finally begins moving forward again.

By the time you arrive at the venue, the crowd has thinned somewhat, though the flashes begin again the moment Natasha steps out from the driver’s side.

You remain seated, confident that she can make it inside without issue. Just as you reach for your phone to message your assistant, the door beside you opens.

You look up in surprise to find Natasha leaning against it, that same familiar smile on her lips as she offers her hand toward you.

You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.

“What are you doing, Romanoff? The entrance is in the other direction,” you point out.

Her smile sharpens with playful intent.

“I am escorting my plus one,” she replies with a casual shrug. “Personally, I think bringing a date might help with those rumors you keep worrying about.”

You shake your head, though you still take her hand as she helps you out of the car before closing the door behind you.

“That would not help at all. Everyone knows I handle public relations for the Avengers,” you remind her. “Why would I risk the scandal of being involved with one of my clients?”

Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.

“I’m only a client?” she asks.

You cross your arms and give her a flat look.

“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.

She drops the act, though the teasing glint remains in her eyes.

“You’re not even slightly intrigued?” she presses, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “A secret romance at work. Blending business with something far more interesting.”

You place a hand against her shoulder and guide her back into a proper stance before adjusting the strap of her dress.

Her expression softens as she watches you, something quieter settling behind her gaze as you focus on fixing the small details.

You tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind her ear, your hand lingering for a moment before shifting to lift her chin so that her eyes meet yours.

“That sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

“You would be worth it.”

There is no teasing in her tone when she answers, and there is no hesitation either.

The familiar flutter rises in your chest again, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, the same reaction she always manages to draw out of you, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. You press your lips together to keep your expression controlled, unwilling to let her see the effect she has, but your eyes still remain locked on hers.

For a brief moment, everything else fades into the background, leaving only the quiet weight of her words and the unwavering sincerity in her gaze.

“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”

The calls from the reporters cut through the moment, pulling you both back. 

Natasha’s expression shifts easily, her usual smile returning as she tilts her head toward the entrance.

“Back to work then?” she asks.

Taking a deep breath to regain your composure, you drop your hand and follow her toward the waiting reporters.

“Agent Romanoff,” one of them begins. “You didn’t arrive with the rest of the Avengers, but now you’re here, and not alone either. Should we assume this is a dramatic reveal of a possible new relationship?”

You narrow your eyes at Natasha, silently warning her to respond appropriately, but she remains completely unfazed by the look you give her.

“Not exactly,” she answers smoothly, then glances at you with a small, knowing smile. “She’s smart enough not to take that kind of chance on me, especially given the reputation you all give me in the news.”

That draws a few chuckles, and the atmosphere instantly eases. It’s not surprising, but it still amazes you every time she shifts people’s attitudes in a single interaction.

Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.

“She is only beside me now to make sure everything goes smoothly for her favorite client.”

You roll your eyes and press subtly at Natasha’s lower back, steering her toward the entrance before the situation can spiral into any dangerous topics.

A soft laugh escapes her as she allows herself to be guided.

“So there is no secret relationship?” the reporter calls quickly after you, still hoping to gather some headline or article.

Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.

“There is nothing going on between us.”

“Really?”

The new voice cuts through the noise, and you turn to see Yelena standing nearby, her expression bored but her curiosity unmistakable.

She looks between you and Natasha.

“Then why did I see her leaving your room in the middle of the night?” she asks plainly.

The effect is immediate. Nearby reporters latch onto the statement, voices rising as cameras flash and questions begin flying from every direction.

You close your eyes briefly and press your fingers to your temple as the headache from earlier returns in full force.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh before leaning in close, her voice brushing against your ear as more cameras capture the moment.

“If it’s any consolation, you look absolutely adorable right now,” she murmurs.

You press your lips together, refusing to react outwardly despite the warmth creeping up your neck. Grabbing both sisters by their arms, you begin guiding them firmly toward the entrance.

“No more questions. We are going inside. Now,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You lean back against the podium in the briefing room, crossing your arms as your gaze moves across the people gathered in front of you.

Yelena sits slouched in her chair with her chin resting in her palm, letting out a quiet yawn as she stares at the screen with clear disinterest. Beside her, Kate is far more attentive, carefully arranging her notepad and pen on the table as if she intends to take this seriously.

Your attention then shifts to the third person seated directly in front of you.

“What exactly are you doing here, Romanoff?” you ask.

Natasha rests her folded arms on the table and leans slightly closer, offering a casual shrug.

“I never had the chance to go through this media training with you,” she replies.

You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.

“That’s because you never showed up when I first started here,” you remind her.

Her lips form a small pout before easing into something softer.

“And that happens to be one of my many regrets,” she says, tilting her head as her usual charming smile returns. “So I was thinking I could maybe learn a few things this time. If you’re willing to let me stay?”

You study her carefully, as though you might be able to uncover the real reason she would willingly spend her afternoon sitting through a public relations lecture, but her smile only grows as she holds your gaze without flinching.

A quiet sigh escapes you as you turn your head slightly to the side, already giving in.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

The door suddenly swings open before you can dwell on it further, and Peter rushes in, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.

You gesture toward the empty seat beside Kate without a word, then turn back toward the screen. With a press of the remote, the opening slide appears, displaying a list of common questions they are likely to face.

“Whether you like it or not, being public figures means you will eventually be questioned,” you begin. “By officials, by interviewers, and by civilians. You need to know how to respond properly so we avoid situations like this.”

You switch to the next slide, and the screen fills with headlines from various media outlets, each one paired with photos of you and Natasha taken over the years, all speculating on the same rapidly spreading story.

“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”

“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”

“From Business to Pleasure? Rumors Swirl Around Natasha Romanoff”

Natasha lets out a thoughtful hum as she studies the screen, then raises her hand slightly as if she were in an actual classroom.

“Do you think I could get copies of those pictures afterward?” she asks, her tone far too casual.

You send her a brief, warning look, choosing not to acknowledge the question as you continue.

“This is what happens when people are given just enough information to start filling in the gaps themselves,” you explain.

You shift your gaze toward Yelena, fixing her with a pointed look. She responds with a nonchalant thumbs up, entirely unbothered.

“You need to be mindful of both what you say and how you say it. People will take any opportunity to make assumptions or twist your words out of context,” you explain.

Kate raises her hand almost immediately.

“Do you mean like when Yelena told everyone that you left Natasha’s room in the middle of the night, so now people think you two slept together?” she asks, her curiosity entirely genuine.

Heat rises quickly to your face.

“That is not what happened! We were preparing for the government hearing and lost track of time,” you clarify.

Natasha lets out a quiet, amused sound as she props her head against her hand.

“Preparing?” she repeats, her voice threaded with mischief. “Is that what we are calling everything that happened that night?”

You shoot her a sharp look and bring your hands down firmly against the table in front of her.

“That is exactly what we are calling it, because that is all it was,” you state with emphasis.

Her smirk only deepens, and she answers your glare with a teasing wink.

You release a controlled breath through your nose and shake your head slightly as you try to regain control of the room. You should’ve known better. Natasha will always manage to find a way to throw you off balance.

Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.

“This is a perfect example of how easily misinformation spreads when statements are unclear and leave room for interpretation,” you continue.

Peter raises his hand with another question, and you nod for him to continue. As he launches into a detailed scenario that sounds far too specific to be entirely hypothetical, your focus remains on him until a subtle weight settles over your hand.

Your attention dips briefly.

Natasha has shifted closer, her hand now resting over yours, where it leans on the table.

When you glance at her, she lifts an eyebrow in silent question, as though asking whether she is allowed to continue.

You roll your eyes before turning back to Peter, answering his question while keeping your tone steady. You resume the presentation without acknowledging the contact, though you make no effort to pull your hand away.

For the remainder of the session, you try to ignore the warmth of her touch, as well as the slow, absent circles her thumb traces against your skin, while you begin wrapping up the lesson.

A call from Steve cuts through the room, signaling the start of their training session, and the others quickly gather their things.

“Next time, we will move on to practice scenarios,” you say to them, then shift your attention to Natasha. “Don’t leave yet, Romanoff. I need you for something.”

Her expression shifts, a playful glint appearing in her eyes as she leans forward, her fingers threading more deliberately through yours.

“Oh?” she murmurs, a slow, teasing smile forming as her gaze lingers on you. “And how exactly would you like me?”

Kate lets out a startled sound, while Peter nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to leave the room. Yelena laughs as she nudges the stunned Kate toward the door, clearly entertained by the whole situation.

“I meant for a public relations matter!” you say quickly, raising your voice slightly in the hope that they heard you before fixing Natasha with a pointed look.

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.

“I never received proper media training, remember?” she replies. “How am I supposed to know whether I said something that can be misunderstood for something else?”

Considering she’s a legendary spy, you do not believe a single word of that, and she knows it. Letting out a slow breath, you pull your hand free from hers and reach for your phone.

“I need you to make another statement,” you tell her. “You’re going to deny the rumors about us publicly.”

The playful edge fades from her expression, her lips pressing together in visible reluctance at the idea.

“Is that really necessary? I don’t particularly care what people say about me,” Natasha replies.

You place your hands on your hips. 

“Well, I do. Not all of those headlines are harmless or congratulatory, Natasha,” you explain. “I’m not going to sit back and let people suggest that you are using your position to pressure someone who works under you into a relationship.”

Her expression softens as she looks at you, something quieter settling in her gaze. Under that attention, you feel a flicker of sudden embarrassment and look away, turning instead to shut down the presentation on the screen.

“And it’s also part of my job,” you add more quietly as an afterthought.

A brief silence settles over the room, and you keep your focus on the computer in front of you rather than meeting her eyes.

“Alright,” Natasha says at last.

You glance up to find her resting her chin in her hand, watching you with quiet intent.

“I’ll do it,” she continues, a small smile returning. “After all, I still owe you two more press events without any issues.”

You give her a flat look.

“There was an issue at the last event,” you point out, gesturing toward her with the flash drive from the presentation.

Natasha makes a soft sound of protest and shakes her head.

“That was not my fault,” she counters, her smirk returning.

You let out a quiet sigh, something close to fond exasperation slipping through as you cross your arms.

“Just make sure you clarify what I was doing in your room that night,” you say.

A teasing smile curves her lips as she lifts an eyebrow.

“Of course,” she replies, her voice smooth as she lets the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach tighten. “We were just…” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze fixed on you as her tone drops with deliberate suggestion. “…preparing.”

You throw the flash drive at her with an embarrassed huff, and she laughs as she easily dodges it.

She truly is impossible.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

With Natasha’s official statement reinforcing that her relationship with you is strictly professional, along with a few carefully placed warnings to your contacts across several media outlets, the rumors begin to lose momentum. Speculation fades, and the narrative slowly corrects itself as the misunderstanding is cleared piece by piece.

Standing in the elevator, you continue watching the recorded press conference on your phone. Natasha sits across from an interviewer you specifically chose for their reliability, someone you trust not to twist her words into something damaging.

“So, just to clarify for our viewers,” the interviewer says, “nothing is happening between the two of you?”

“No,” Natasha replies with a soft chuckle. “I am fairly certain she would agree that I’m more trouble than I am worth.”

Your brows draw together at her response, and your hands lower slowly to your sides as the rest of the conversation fades into the background. The words echo something familiar, something you had said to her not long ago.

Before you can linger on the thought, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.

You step out and are immediately met with a familiar sight.

Natasha sits on the couch, cross-legged and completely at ease, a bowl of popcorn resting beside her while a laptop sits open on her lap with a movie playing. She turns her head at the sound of your approach and lifts the bowl slightly.

“Popcorn?” she offers.

You pause, taking in the scene, and after a brief moment of consideration, you power off your phone and tuck it away. The discussion about the next press event can wait.

Natasha’s brow lifts in quiet surprise as you walk around the couch and take a seat beside her, reaching over to take the bowl from her hands.

“What are you watching?” you ask.

A small smile forms on her lips as she settles back, shifting a little closer so you can see the screen more clearly.

“It’s Moonraker,” she answers, pressing play as the movie resumes.

You watch as James Bond leaps from a plane without a parachute, and you glance sideways at Natasha.

“Watching a famous spy while being one yourself feels a little cliché, don’t you think?” you remark.

She lets out a quiet laugh, turning toward you with a familiar smirk.

“That may be true,” she says, leaning slightly closer. “But do you know the difference?”

“What difference?” you ask, your voice quieter as you hold her gaze.

Natasha studies you for a moment before reaching into the bowl in your lap and taking a piece of popcorn.

“I look better doing it,” she replies, punctuating the statement with a teasing wink before leaning back and tossing the popcorn into her mouth, her attention returning to the screen.

You let out a soft breath of disbelief as you watch her, your gaze drifting briefly to her hand resting against the couch. The memory of the interview lingers in the back of your mind.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift slightly and rest your head gently against hers.

Natasha immediately turns toward you, but you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, avoiding her questioning look.

“I didn’t mean you when I said it,” you murmur.

She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.

“I meant everything else that comes with this job,” you continue, quieter now. “That’s what is troublesome. Not you.”

After a moment, you turn your head and offer her a small, sincere smile.

“You would be worth it too, Natasha,” you add softly.

Her eyes widen slightly at your words. 

The reaction makes warmth rise to your face almost immediately, a flicker of embarrassment settling in your chest. You quickly clear your throat as you turn your attention back to the screen, putting distance between yourself and the weight of what you just said.

“Start the movie from the beginning, Romanoff,” you say, aiming for a casual tone that does not quite hold.

She does not respond right away. You can feel her gaze lingering on you, steady and searching, but you keep your focus fixed on the screen, unwilling to turn and discover whether her expression holds surprise, amusement, or that soft look that always manages to unsettle your heart in ways you would rather not examine too closely.

A quiet, warm laugh eventually slips from her, and she reaches forward to restart the film. As the opening scene begins again, her hand shifts beneath yours, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that feels entirely natural.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you allow your hand to remain where it is, resting comfortably in hers.

After a moment, she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, then lowering it once more to rest between you.

“This feels like a very nice date,” she says casually.

“This is not a date,” you reply with a quiet sigh, sending her a brief sideways glare.

Natasha only smiles, that same knowing expression settling back into place.

“Whatever you say.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“He did what?!” you hiss, stopping short of throwing your folder across the room purely on principle. 

You press your fingers hard against your temple as Pepper explains that Tony’s newest, impulsive purchase of a construction site during a fight had been spectacularly destroyed in under a couple of minutes.

“Yes, I understand it was technically taking responsibility,” you say tightly. “No, that doesn’t stop the optics from being a nightmare.” A pause. Then, quieter and resigned, “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

You end the call before she can apologize on Tony’s behalf again.

Before you can even process what you’d need to do for that problem, the doors slide open behind you.

“Hey,” Steve Rogers says easily, strolling in with a casual gait. “How’s it going?”

You turn around and face the super soldier with a reprimanding glare.

“You’re late.”

You flip open your folder with practiced precision, pull out a neatly annotated sheet, and press it into his hands. 

“Highlighted sections are your main talking points. Civilian relief efforts. Accountability. Team unity. If a question veers off course, you pivot. Smile, acknowledge, redirect. Got it?”

“Oh. Uh—okay,” he says, already skimming the page, brow furrowing as he murmurs the bullet points under his breath.

You’re about to remind him to breathe when the doors open again.

Perfect. On schedule, for once.

You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.

“Here are your notes, Roman—”

The words die in your throat, and you immediately pull your notes back from reach. 

“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.

Clint Barton looks down at himself, pats his chest, his arms, then grins cheekily. 

“Nope,” he says. “Definitely not Romanoff.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

“This is not happening right now,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

It’s not surprising. Natasha Romanoff treating a mandatory press event like a suggestion at best is practically tradition. Still, you’d allowed yourself the faint, dangerous hope that today might have been different.

“Barton,” you say calmly, checking the time on your phone, “I don’t have the energy for this. Where is she?”

He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“I owed her a favor. And now,” he says, gesturing to himself with a flourish, “you have me.”

You don’t respond. You just dial.

“Yes,” you say the moment the line connects. “Pull Romanoff’s name from the panel.” A beat. “I don’t care that it’s already printed. I don’t care if they already noticed. Do it.”

Protests crackle through the speaker. You hang up before they finish.

Across the room, Steve is still by the doors, shoulders hunched, quietly rehearsing under his breath, as if this were a mission briefing rather than a media circus.

“Rogers,” you snap.

He straightens instantly.

“Stick to the notes,” you say firmly. Then you turn, leveling Clint with a look that could curdle vibranium. “And you—stay out of that room.” You point toward the wall separating you from the sea of cameras and questions waiting on the other side.

Clint raises both hands in surrender and gives you two thumbs up.

You push past him, silently fuming at the things you have to deal with.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice sing-song and far too amused.

You don’t slow down.

“To fix this,” you mutter.

Like every other mess the so-called Earth’s Mightiest Heroes leave behind.

It’s part of your job after all, to deal with these sorts of messes, even if one of them is a frustrating red-haired agent who especially enjoys being your problem to clean up.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your knuckles rap sharply against the door, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway. You don’t bother knocking again. You already know she heard you.

As you wait, your phone buzzes with a notification. You glance down and check the messages.  

It’s a photo from one of the press assistants.

Steve sits at the panel, but he’s not facing the audience of reporters. Instead, he’s looking to the person on his left with rapt attention. Clint is sprawled in the chair beside the Captain, boots up on the table, microphone in hand, mid-gesture as if he’s counting off points in a story no one asked to hear.

“Oh, God,” you mutter, scrubbing a hand down your face.

Another problem to deal with, just as you’re handling this one.

Right on cue, the door opens, and your most frequent problem appears in front of you.

You don’t give her a chance to speak. You simply turn your phone around and shove it into her line of sight.

“This is your fault,” you say flatly.

Natasha glances at the screen for half a second before lifting her gaze back to you, lips already curling into an amused smirk.

“Well,” she says lightly, “hello to you too.”

She’s dressed down in a black tank top, loose sweats, and hair pulled back without effort, and somehow she still looks good, and that only makes your irritation feel worse. 

You pull the phone back and cross your arms.

“You were supposed to be there.”

She mirrors you, folding her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, completely unbothered by your tone. 

“Steve’s handling it,” she says. “He’s good at that earnest, heroic thing. Besides, I wasn’t even part of that mission.”

You let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve perfected for moments exactly like this, and start tapping through your phone.

“No,” you say, finally finding what you’re looking for. “You were supposed to be there to clear up this rumor.”

You hold the screen out again.

An article fills the display with a scandalous headline. Below it is a photo of Natasha at Tony’s most recent party, leaning far too close to a national ambassador at the bar, her smile caught mid-flirt.

You sigh in exasperation. 

“How do you manage to have a playboy reputation worse than Stark’s?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.

“Please. I breathe near someone, and suddenly it’s a scandal. According to them, I’ve slept with half the world’s diplomats.”

“Which is exactly why you were supposed to deny it publicly today,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Instead, I’ve got Barton out there improvising some story.”

Natasha chuckles, low and soft, and shakes her head. She steps closer to you and reaches up, her thumb brushing lightly between your brows.

“You always get this little crease right here when you’re angry,” she murmurs. “It’s cute.”

You smack her hand away without hesitation.

“It’s stress,” you snap. “Which means I’m apparently adorable every time I have to chase after you.”

Her smirk only widens at your words. 

“I should cause trouble more often then.”

You ignore that, not bothering to entertain her usual flirting banter any further. You still need something to mitigate the whole rumor mill.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” you sigh in exasperation.

She arches her brow. 

“Like what?”

“You always make it look like you’re one step from bringing them to your bedroom,” you challenge.

Natasha pauses just long enough to eye you suspiciously. Then she sighs dramatically and gestures dismissively with her hand. 

“I didn’t sleep with anyone if that’s what you’re asking about. We just talked politics. Not exactly the kind of foreplay I’m into.”

You press the stop button on your phone, ending the recording immediately before her little suggestive comment and nod in satisfaction. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” You turn the phone back toward her. “Now sign here so that I can release this as your statement.”

Her mouth parts slightly as realization hits. She blinks at you for a moment and then finally laughs under her breath, impressed despite herself. Without breaking eye contact, she traces her signature on the screen with her finger.

“Well played,” she admits. “A little underhanded though.”

You give her a deadpan look. 

“I work with superhumans, gods, narcissists, and spies. It’s a required skill at this point,” you say simply before directing your focus to your phone.

Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.

You feel it even when you refuse to look back up. You focus on your phone instead, thumbs moving quickly as you forward statements, tag editors, and lock down follow-ups. This is familiar territory. Safe territory. Paperwork and damage control don’t flirt back.

You’re almost impressed she’s managed to hold her tongue this long.

Almost.

Then she shifts with the soft scuff of her foot against the floor as she pushes off the wall like she’s made a decision.

The subtle change draws your attention, despite how hard you try to resist.

“Well,” Natasha says lightly, breaking the silence, “I think you’ve kept me long enough.”

Your head snaps up. Instinct takes over before logic can catch up, and you look past her into the room, suspicion flaring sharp and immediate.

“Don’t tell me you have someone waiting in there this whole time,” you say in panic, preparing yourself to develop some cover before more rumors can spread.

Her smirk blooms, the kind she wears when she knows she’s already won something.

“I meant,” she says smoothly, “you kept me from my bed.”

Natasha takes a step closer. Then another. Before you can stop her, she lifts her hand, fingers warm against your skin as she tilts your chin up just enough to force your attention back to her. 

Green eyes lock onto yours.

“But,” she adds softly, “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

For exactly one heartbeat, your carefully built walls falter. Your pulse stutters. Heat flares low and dangerously. For a split second, it would be so easy to forget the job, the rules, the reasons you’ve built this distance brick by brick.

Then you remember.

Who she is.

What she does.

And most importantly, how much she enjoys teasing you like this.

You push her hand away and step back, reclaiming space to clear and cool your mind.

“Be at the next press call,” you say evenly, your voice steadier than you feel. You turn away before she can read anything on your face. “And please try not to stand too close to anyone in the future.”

Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.

“No promises.”

You don’t respond. You just keep walking. Not until you’re safely out of her sight do you let your expression crack, stern composure giving way to the helpless heat creeping up your cheeks. 

At least this problem is handled. You exhale slowly, forcing the feeling down where it belongs, already bracing yourself for the next mess waiting to be cleaned up.

Because if Clint is still holding a microphone, there’s no way whatever he’s saying is harmless.

You can only hope it’s fixable.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hearing room smells faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. The kind of room designed to make people feel small.

Unfortunately for the people seated behind the long crescent table at the front, Natasha Romanoff has never been particularly good at feeling small.

You stand along the side wall of the room, tablet tucked against your chest, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool wood paneling. From here, you have a clear line of sight to everything: the committee members, the press row, the cameras perched on tripods like watchful birds.

And Natasha.

She sits calmly at the witness table, as if this is the least stressful place she could possibly be.

Your tablet screen glows softly with neatly organized notes of talking points, diplomatic phrasing, redirect strategies, and neutral language suggestions meant to keep the hearing smooth and uneventful.

You spent most of the night preparing them.

And you know very well she’s not going to follow half of them.

Still, there’s always a first time for anything.

Natasha sits with one ankle crossed casually over the other beneath the table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded together like she’s waiting for a lunch order instead of answering questions from a congressional oversight committee.

Her expression is perfectly composed, but then her attention drifts.

Her eyes flick across the room for barely a second before settling on you, where you stand against the wall. When she catches you watching her, one corner of her mouth curves upward. A quick wink follows.

You immediately look down at your tablet, pretending to review your notes.

You recognize that teasing look. And you sigh quietly to yourself at how your heart still fell for it.

Across the table, one of the committee members adjusts his glasses and leans toward his microphone.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he begins, voice carrying the dry superiority of someone who has never really cared about anything but himself. “Given your…complicated background, many citizens are concerned about the level of autonomy the Avengers currently operate under.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly.

That’s the first warning sign.

You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.

“Complicated,” Natasha repeats mildly. Her eyes flick toward you again before returning to the man across the table and giving him a playful smirk. “That’s a polite way of saying assassin.”

The room shifts uncomfortably. Someone in the press row shifts in their chair. A few reporters glance up from their screens. Still, the man presses on.

“You spent years working for foreign intelligence agencies, including organizations hostile to this country.”

Natasha nods once.

“Yes.”

You glance down at your notes. Page three.

If questioned about past affiliations, acknowledge and redirect to present-day service.

Your gaze lifts again.

Natasha doesn’t even glance in your direction as she does not follow that suggestion, choosing not to say anything further to defend herself.

The committee member leans forward.

“And yet the public is expected to trust that someone with that background now acts in their best interest.”

Natasha’s lips curve slightly as her eyes slide toward you again.

You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.

“Well,” she says calmly, “it seems to be working out so far.”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.

You pinch the bridge of your nose at her cheeky response.

That wasn’t on the list.

Across the room, Natasha watches the gesture, her smile deepening subtly.

Another senator leans forward.

“Let’s not pretend the Avengers have some spotless record here. Property damage, civilian casualties, unsanctioned interventions—”

The smile disappears from her face as Natasha straightens slightly in her chair.

The second warning sign.

You lower your tablet slowly, hoping that someone on the panel has enough sense to stop pushing and insulting the people she considers her family.

“—one could argue the Avengers cause nearly as many problems as they solve.”

Natasha studies him for a moment. Then she smiles. It’s the smile that usually means someone is about to regret something.

“Respectfully,” she says smoothly, “the people who tend to complain the loudest about the Avengers are usually the ones who call us when aliens start falling out of the sky.”

The press row shifts again. A few reporters start typing faster.

You close your eyes briefly.

That’s going to trend.

Across the room, one of the senior organizers shoots you a pointed look.

You give them a small, helpless shrug.

What did you expect with that line of questioning?

Another member of the panel clears his throat.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he says sharply, “this isn’t a stage for clever remarks.”

Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.

“You’re right,” she agrees pleasantly. “It’s a stage for questions. So, please, continue.”

The room goes still for a moment, surprised by her sudden compliance.

You watch her closely. Natasha is actually doing remarkably well. Better than expected, honestly.

The next few questions go by without incident.

Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.

You almost start to relax.

Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”

The air in the room tightens immediately. 

Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.

You notice it right away.

The man continues.

“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”

Your hands tighten around your tablet.

The room waits with bated breath.

But Natasha says nothing.

You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.

Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.

The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”

Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.

“I am,” she says calmly.

Then she turns and walks out of the room.

The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing. 

You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.

You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.

“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”

Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.

“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.

“She avoided several,” he snaps.

You cross your arms.

“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”

The man scoffs.

“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”

You cut him off.

“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”

Your voice is sharper now.

“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”

The organizer folds his arms.

“That doesn’t erase what she was.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks satisfied.

You step closer.

“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”

The man’s expression shifts.

You keep going.

“Political favors. Quiet deals. Offshore donations.”

Your voice stays calm.

“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”

The organizer stiffens.

“You’re implying—”

“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”

Silence stretches between you.

The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.

“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”

“Noted,” you say.

He leaves. 

You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.

Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.

“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.

Her smirk appears instantly.

“Long enough.”

Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.

“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”

You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.

“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.

Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine.”

You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.

“I liked your responses better anyway.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.

“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”

Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.

When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Can I join?” she asks.

You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.

She responds with a slow, shameless smile.

You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.

And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.

Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.

The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.

You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.

No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.

So far, so good.

You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.

You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.

And there she is.

Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.

You recognize him after a moment.

A visiting ambassador.

Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

They’re standing a little too close.

Not inappropriate. Not technically.

But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.

You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.

Your head snaps toward it immediately.

Another flash.

Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.

You set your drink down without a word and move.

The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.

“Hey—!”

You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.

The man stares at you in disbelief.

“You can’t—”

You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.

“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.

Your phone is already in your other hand.

“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”

You hang up before the man can start arguing again.

Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.

You dust your hands off lightly.

Problem solved.

When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.

You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.

“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”

They quickly return to their conversations.

You feel it before you see it.

A familiar gaze.

You glance toward the bar.

Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.

Heat creeps up your neck.

But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.

When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.

Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.

You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.

“Whiskey,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.

You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.

“You already know what it was.”

Her lips twitch.

You take a small sip before continuing.

“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”

Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.

“Very specifically.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.

The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.

She tilts her head slightly.

“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”

You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.

“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment.

Something in her expression softens.

Her hand lifts.

You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.

You start to protest—

But her hand doesn’t stop this time.

Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.

Her voice lowers.

“What if I do?” she whispers. 

For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.

Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.

Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.

“…Natasha,” you warn gently.

She doesn’t pull away.

“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”

You stare at her for a long moment.

Natasha doesn’t look away.

The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.

Her hand is still cupping your face.

You reach up and take her wrist.

For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.

You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.

Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.

Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”

Her gaze flicks back to yours.

“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”

You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.

Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.

Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.

You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.

Natasha looks almost smug.

You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.

Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.

Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.

“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.

You give her a small, unimpressed look.

“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”

Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.

“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She studies your face.

“And what about potential rumors?”

You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.

“I can handle any rumors,” you say.

Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”

You tilt your head.

“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”

Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.

The sound is softer than usual.

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.

Then she leans in just slightly.

“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”

You glance at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”

Her smirk returns immediately.

“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~