A poor dreamer

“Seriously? Who?”

Natasha lifts her fork, tilting it just enough to indicate across the room without drawing attention.

“Carmen. From the front desk. They’ve been dating since last month.”

You follow the direction of her gesture, eyebrows rising when you notice Carmen sitting in the corner. Tablet in hand, sure, but her eyes keep flicking upward—straight toward Jenn in the line. When their gazes meet, there’s a secret smile, a tiny wave, something almost invisible unless you were looking for it.

“…Huh,” you murmur, reluctantly impressed.

Natasha only nods, as if it’s obvious. She resumes eating, believing that the subject of this particular conversation is over after her words.

You notice a tiny smear of sauce clinging near her lip, and without thinking, you lean in and dab it away with a napkin.

“You got a little something,” you say softly.

Natasha doesn’t even react in surprise at your touch. She just takes the napkin from you with a distracted “Thanks,” eyes still on her plate.

You lean back, resting your chin on your hand, studying her with something between admiration and exasperation.

“So how’d you figure that out?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing, slicing into her food with precise care.

“Jenn’s lunch routine changed. She used to eat in her office, now she shows up whenever Carmen’s here. Plus, Jenn’s been wearing that silver bracelet Carmen wore every day until about three weeks ago. And whenever Carmen’s shift ends early, Jenn conveniently leaves a couple minutes later—even though she usually stays late.”

You blink, almost dropping your fork at the overload of detail.

“And you just happen to notice all of that?”

“It’s part of being a spy,” Natasha says, looking up with a faint smirk. “People tell you things without realizing it. All you have to do is watch.”

Before you can retort, a new group enters the cafeteria. You nudge her arm, pointing at someone in the middle.

“Okay, what about—”

“Crushing on Jeremy from IT,” she interrupts smoothly, not even bothering to turn her head.

Your jaw drops. “You didn’t even look.”

“I don’t need to,” she replies coolly, taking a sip of her drink. “She rearranged her gym schedule to match his. Switched brands to that chalky protein powder he drinks. And she nearly concussed herself last week trying to follow him around a corner.”

You gape, then narrow your eyes at her.

“You say you’re not into romance,” you accuse, jabbing your fork toward her, “but you’re basically tuned into everyone’s relationship at SHIELD.”

Her smirk deepens just enough to be infuriating. 

“I don’t have to be into it to recognize it. Tells are tells. That’s all it is—patterns, shifts, little details.”

You hum, a grin tugging at your lips as something mischievous sparks in your chest. You lean forward, voice lowering with challenge.

“Alright then. Since you’re so confident…do me.”

Her brows rise. “Excuse me?”

You rest your chin in your palm, grinning excitedly. 

“Figure out my crush.”

For the first time, Natasha falters. Just a flicker—but you catch it. Surprise. Maybe confusion. Definitely something unsettled before she schools her features back into cool indifference.

“You have someone you like?”

You shrug, your smile turning smug. 

“Mmhmm. Guess you’re not as sharp with the little details as you thought.”

Her eyes narrow on you, and you don’t miss the way her grip tightens subtly on her fork.

“Give me until the end of the week,” she says finally, standing to gather her tray.

You smirk at her teasingly.

“You need that long?”

Her look turns flat. 

“We leave on mission tomorrow. With actual gunfire and people trying to kill us. You want me to prioritize your love life over keeping us alive?”

You tip your head in mock consideration. 

“Multitask, Romanoff.”

Her huff is half amusement, half irritation as she adjusts her tray and tablet before attempting to grab her bag. 

“Fine,” she grunts, conceding the challenge.

You sweep the bag from her overloaded hands before she can manage it. 

“End of the week,” you call as you stroll away, flashing her a playful grin. “Let’s see how good the Black Widow really is…at noticing the little details.”

Natasha watches you go, eyes narrowing just slightly. 

You don’t spare a single glance toward anyone else in the room. No tells. No obvious trails. For someone she spends so much time with, she realizes she never noticed there was someone you liked.

That thought alone bothers her more than anything.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha’s boots click quietly against the floor as she moves down the long row of lockers, her mind already sorting through mission details. She slows when she spots you in the next row, bent over the middle bench, lacing your boots.

She stops short, retreating a step back around the corner when she realizes you’re not alone. A weapons support tech she recognizes stands beside you, chatting animatedly while you respond with the same bright energy. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow when the other woman’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder before she departs with a smile. The touch is friendly, fleeting even, and yet irritating all the same. 

“You know she’s still tangled up in that on-again, off-again thing with Tess from legal,” Natasha blurts as she finally approaches.

You turn, one brow raised, clearly amused.

“Even I know that tidbit,” you tease, tugging your boots tight and rising to your feet. Hands settle on your hips as you tilt your head at her. “What are you suggesting, that she’s my crush?” 

Natasha considers, tilting her head. For a split second, she weighs the possibility before dismissing it, shaking her head as she strides to her locker.

“No. She’s not your type.” 

You chuckle, leaning your shoulder against the lockers beside hers, arms folded loosely across your chest. 

“And what exactly do you think my type is?”

Her hand freezes halfway into her locker. The question digs in deeper than she expected. For all her observation skills, she realizes she has no answer. You flirt often, but always lightly, never with any real heat. Not once could she recall you showing actual romantic interest in anyone. 

Irritation stirs in her chest at the gap in her knowledge. Her lips press thin before she finally mutters, “Just…not her.”

You hum thoughtfully at her clipped tone, pushing off the locker. 

“Well, you’re right again, Romanoff. She was just dropping something off for me.”

Natasha answers with a noncommittal noise, keeping her face buried in the depths of her locker as she gathers her gear. The sound of rummaging nearly masks your footsteps when, suddenly, a tug at her arm pulls her around.

“What—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat when you step into her space, close enough that she freezes.

For one breathless second, her pulse spikes as you lean in.

But at the last instant, you angle past her face, fingers working deftly at her waist. Natasha’s breath stills as she feels the brush of your hand close the clasp of her utility belt.

Then you lean back, patting the red hourglass buckle at her front. 

“Got them to finish the repairs just in time,” you announce proudly, turning away toward your own locker.

Natasha releases the air she’d been holding in a slow rush, her hands curling at her sides as she fights to steady the pounding of her heart. The warmth on her cheek feels out of place and unexpected. She brushes at it with the back of her hand, annoyed with herself. Why did her body react like that?

Her gaze drifts back to you.

You hum absently while you pack your duffel, tossing items in without care. Same as always. Nothing new, nothing different. 

Nothing to explain her reaction.  

Something slips from your locker with the next careless toss. 

Natasha stoops and picks it up—a photo, edges worn. It’s the group shot at the shawarma shop after the battle in New York. She remembers the moment, remembers the exhaustion in her bones as she sits between Steve and Clint.

But what catches her eye now is you. You aren’t looking at the camera. Your gaze is angled toward the three of them instead.

“Have you heard from any of them recently?” you ask casually, drawing her attention.

Natasha blinks, processing your question for a beat before handing the photo back. 

“Uh, no. Clint’s on vacation. And last I heard Stark’s still rebuilding.” 

You hum softly, sliding the picture back onto the inside of your locker door. 

“What about Rogers?”

Her brows draw together. She glances at the photo again, as if she could trace the direction of your gaze, pinpoint whether it lingered on the Captain. Her tone cools. 

“What about him?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, zipping up your duffel. “It must be tough, adjusting to the modern world all alone.”

The spark of irritation comes so suddenly that it makes her jaw clench. Natasha slams her locker closed harder than she means to. 

“He’ll manage,” she says curtly before adding. “We should focus on our own jobs.”

You only laugh, throwing your duffel strap over one shoulder and—before she could react—snatching hers as well. 

“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” you say, walking towards the hangar bay.

Natasha lingers for a moment longer, her gaze sliding back to your locker. The group photo sits just inside. She exhales through her nose, trying to banish the nagging thoughts.

Steve Rogers probably isn’t your type either.

So why does just the possibility of it leave such a bitter taste in her mouth?

With a sigh, she follows after you, irritation simmering low in her chest and growing harder to explain.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha lounges on the lush couch in the grand hotel lobby, ankle crossed neatly over her knee, a glossy magazine balanced in her lap. 

To the casual eye, she’s absorbed in the pages, but in reality, her gaze darts over the rim of the paper—tracking staff as they carry trays of glassware into the ballroom, noting security placement, measuring the rhythm of movement in and out of the gilded doors.

The comm device crackles faintly in her ear, and your voice filters through, light and curious.

“Do you see our target yet?”

Natasha exhales a soft breath, flipping the page like she’s genuinely invested in the article. 

“Still no,” she murmurs. “Nothing has changed since you asked me five minutes ago.”

Your sigh hums over the line, a note of boredom. Then your voice drops lower, the ghost of a teasing smile audible across the frequency.

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Her hand stalls mid-turn, the page hanging half-folded in her fingers. Natasha blinks once, forcing herself to return to her sharp and focused composure, but her chest betrays her with the faintest hitch.

Usually, she has no trouble brushing off your teasing, filing it under friendly banter and harmless distraction. 

But lately…lately the simple sound of your voice makes her pulse skip for some reason.

She clears her throat quietly, forcing her attention outward. 

Across the marble floor, movement catches her eye. A cluster of security streams through the doors, and in the center, exactly as expected, is the target.

“I see him,” she says, her voice cracking slightly, which she quickly covers with a soft cough.

On the comms, you shift, the rustle of fabric telling her you’re straightening in your seat.

“And the package?”

Her eyes flick between the security bodies and spot a slim metal case in the target’s hand. One of the guards moves to the front desk, and the target’s grip on the case shifts into perfect view. 

Natasha palms her phone and pretends to scroll before tilting it just enough to capture an image. She sends it over with a practiced ease.

“Nice work,” you say, approval warm in your tone. “It looks like that model requires a fingerprint scan to open.” 

Natasha lifts her phone to her ear, feigning a call as she considers the problem. 

Her gaze drifts toward the ballroom doors, where the staff are still bustling about.

At the threshold stands the event planner—clipboard hugged close, lips moving as she ticks off notes. When she glances up and her eyes catch sight of Natasha, her composure stumbles. She ducks her head, her cheeks flushing faintly as she pretends to fuss with her clipboard.

“So we lift the prints at the party,” Natasha says calmly, already slotting pieces of a plan into place.

Your soft laugh filters through with a hint of skepticism.

“And how exactly do you suppose we get inside?”

Natasha’s eyes flick back to the planner, who sneaks another look at her before quickly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

Natasha feels the corner of her mouth curve. She tips her head, gifting the woman a small, disarming smile and a subtle wave. The shy grin she earns in return confirms it—an opening.

Natasha lowers her magazine just enough to murmur, “I’m working on it.” 

Before you can reply, she rises smoothly from the couch and crosses the lobby, her stride confident but unhurried. She stops just beside the planner, her posture easy and her smile warm.

“You’ve done a beautiful job with the room,” Natasha says, voice low and sincere.

The compliment lands instantly. The woman beams, shoulders straightening.

“Oh! Thank you—it’s been exhausting, but I think it’s finally coming together. Are you…a guest?”

Natasha shakes her head lightly. 

“Helping a friend who is. Their luggage got lost during the flight, so I came to make sure they had what they needed.” She lets the pause linger a beat, then adds smoothly, “Though I may be pressing my luck asking if there’s any chance of being a plus-one.”

The planner’s brows lift, interest sparking exactly where Natasha expects it.

“We might have last-minute passes,” she says quickly, flipping through her clipboard. “I could add a note to add you if you’d still like to come.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Natasha replies, resting a hand lightly on the woman’s arm, her smile just this side of intimate. “I hope that means I’ll see you there too.”

The woman chuckles, biting back a grin, before one of the staff calls her name. She starts to go, but glances back.

“What’s your name? For the list.”

Natasha gives the alias assigned to her mission. The woman scribbles it onto her notes, then flashes her a quick wave. 

“It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Natasha answers smoothly, watching as she disappears into the organized chaos of final preparations.

Once she’s gone, Natasha raises her phone again, pretending to resume her call.

“And now we have a way in,” she says softly, satisfaction threading her tone.

Silence answers. The accomplished warmth in her chest cools into tight concern.

“Hello? Is everything okay?” she asks, turning toward the exit, ready to head back to you if needed.

Finally, your voice filters back through the comm.

“All good. Just some connection problems. I’m back now.”

Natasha frowns faintly. Something in your tone is off. It’s no longer playful, but clipped. Before she can press, you clear your throat, steering the moment away.

“Can you figure out what room he’s staying in? I’ll sneak in and take the case while you lift his prints at the party.”

The frown deepens. She doesn’t like the sharp pivot or the stiffness in your voice.

“Are you sure you’re—”

“Natasha.”

The curt way you say her name stills her instantly.

“Focus on our own jobs, remember?” you add with a teasing lilt, though the note rings hollow compared to earlier.

Natasha swallows, turning back into the lobby, her expression once again carefully neutral.

“…Yeah. Sure,” she mutters, though the word sits heavy in her chest.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha sits cross-legged on the narrow bed, eyes tracking you as you pace the length of the safehouse. The single room feels even smaller with your restless movement, your gaze fixed on the tablet in your hands as you scroll through hotel blueprints.

You mutter to yourself occasionally, weighing entry points and fallback routes, but when she tries to interject, all she gets are clipped one-word answers or noncommittal hums.

She narrows her eyes. Something is off—it has been off since the hotel lobby. She just can’t put her finger on what.

A sharp knock breaks the tense quiet. Both of you freeze for half a beat, instincts snapping in. You exchange a look, then move in a practiced tandem.

Natasha slips from the bed, gun in hand from beneath the nightstand, while you draw one hidden by the doorframe.

“Oi! Open up already! I haven’t got all day!”

Natasha exhales sharply at the familiar voice. You relax too, though your weapon stays in your hand until you swing the door open.

Mason leans casually against the frame, suitcase in hand. His brow arches at the sight of your guns.

“Always a warm welcome with the two of you,” he deadpans, brushing past you into the room.

Natasha huffs, tucking her weapon away. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I called him,” you say, shutting the door and turning to Mason expectantly. “Did you get it?”

He presents the case with mock ceremony. 

“Here you are. Now we’re square, yeah?”

You take the case and tilt your head in consideration. 

“Is one favor really enough after what you put me through at that last safehouse?”

“Hey,” Mason protests with a hand raised, grinning, “I was trapped there with you, too.”

Natasha frowns, her gaze darting between you and him. There’s an ease in your banter with Mason—inside jokes, stories she isn’t part of. The space between you two is minimal also, too casual for her liking. She tells herself it’s nothing, but irritation prickles anyway.

The irritation grows as she realizes you’ve spoken more words to Mason in these few minutes than you have to her in the past hours. Before she can think better of it, she’s already stepping forward, pressing Mason back toward the door with a polite but firm hand.

“Alright, we need to prep for tonight,” she says briskly, ushering him over the threshold. “Thanks for the delivery. Until next time.”

His brows lift, but before he can argue, the door clicks shut and locks.

She turns to find you perched on the bed with the case, already working the clasps.

“That was a little rude,” you comment, a grin tugging at your lips when you glance at her. The teasing tone doesn’t match the way you immediately look back down, shutting her out again.

Natasha’s patience snaps. 

“Alright, what’s up with you?” she demands, folding her arms as she steps closer.

You stop fiddling with the lock, lift your eyes, and fix her with a steady look. 

“That woman at the hotel,” you say flatly.

Natasha blinks in confusion. 

“What about her?”

“How did you know she was interested in you?” Your shrug is casual, but the words are sharp. “That’s why you went over, right? Because you already knew she’d say yes.”

The question hangs heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates, suddenly cautious. She could give you a dozen technical answers, but instinct tells her the wrong one might make things worse. She taps her fingers against her arm, searching.

“I just…noticed,” she admits finally. “The little details. How someone looks, shifts, reacts. I can always tell when they like something—or someone.”

Your expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the slight clench of your jaw tells her she’s only made it worse. You hum, noncommittal, and turn back to the case.

Frustration knots in Natasha’s chest. She can feel you slipping back into silence, shutting her out again.

The locks pop open.

She leans forward instinctively, expecting some weapon or device.

Instead, you pull out a long red dress. Without a word, you rise and step in front of her, holding it up against her body.

“I knew it would look good on you,” you murmur, appraising her with softened eyes for a brief second. Then you drape the dress onto the bed and brush past her, back to your tablet. “Now you can notice all the people interested in you later at the party.”

This time, the edge in your voice is unmistakable.

Natasha’s mouth opens to respond, but she falters. She doesn’t actually know what the issue is, only that she’s missing something, and the fact that she can’t see it bothers her more than she wants to admit.

You curl up on the sofa, tablet balanced on your knee, already scanning blueprints as if she’s no longer in the room.

Natasha sighs, staring at the red dress lying stark against the drab blanket, before dragging a hand down her face. Confusion and annoyance churn together, and for once she has no read. No clear tells.

Just the unsettling certainty that she’s failed to notice some detail that matters most.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha smooths her palms down the dress, the fabric gliding beneath her fingers. You were right—it fits perfectly. Too perfectly. She wonders, fleetingly, if Mason guessed her measurements or if you had given them.

When she finally exits the bathroom, she finds you already geared up in your black tactical suit, adjusting the straps across your shoulders, with your focus tight on your equipment.

“Can you help me with this?” Natasha asks quietly, turning her back to you and gathering her hair into one hand to bare the zipper.

“Sure,” you reply. The nonchalance of your tone makes her want to sigh, but she keeps still, bowing her head slightly so you have easier access.

Your palm steadies her lower back as your other hand finds the zipper and tugs it slowly upward. The soft scrape of metal teeth closing echoes in her ears. At the top, your breath ghost against the nape of her neck.

“You look beautiful, Natasha,” you whisper faintly, almost as if you didn’t mean to say it aloud. Then, just as quickly, your touch and presence vanish as you step away.

Natasha stays rooted to the spot. She releases her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and lifts her gaze to the mirror across the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of her reflection.

A flush blooms across her cheeks, one she can’t write off as heat or adrenaline. She knows this expression. The flicker of awareness, the telltale glow in the eyes, the way her pulse jumps—details she’s read a hundred times in others, but never noticed in herself.

Her head snaps over her shoulder. 

You’re focused on your gear again, oblivious to the rush of thoughts in her mind as the memory of your whisper hums in her ears.

Unconsciously, her heart beats faster, and the urge to step back into your space nearly overwhelms her. Her hand flexes at her side, restless.

But then she remembers. 

You already told her you like someone. The reminder settles like a stone in her chest. Natasha breathes deeply, pressing her feelings down beneath years of training.

As if sensing her stare, you glance up and offer her a small, reassuring smile. 

“Ready, Romanoff?”

Her throat tightens, and she forces herself to nod.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The party is bright and loud, chandeliers scattering light across polished floors and velvet drapes.

Natasha slips through with ease, greeted warmly by the planner who ushers her inside. A few pleasantries exchanged, and the woman is called away, leaving Natasha free to focus on the mission.

The target is easy to find, seated with his cluster of guards. 

Natasha approaches, glass of wine in hand.

One guard steps in her path, his palm pressing firmly against her shoulder. Natasha knocks his hand away, cold irritation flashing in her eyes, until the target waves him aside.

His leer is obvious, his gaze shameless. 

Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes, pasting on a coy smile instead as she takes the offered seat beside him. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit of the dress shifting to bare a line of skin. Predictably, his attention locks there.

A few flirtatious remarks and practiced laughs later, he’s pliant in her hands. She passes him her glass under the guise of sharing. When she takes it back, her “slip” sends the last drops spilling onto him. Her apologies tumble out sweet and flustered, and he waves her off with a smile, completely unaware that his fingerprints are now captured on her scanner after she leaves his side.

“I got the prints,” she murmurs into the comm, moving swiftly toward the exit.

Static crackles before your voice cuts through, strained and layered with the sounds of impact and shattering glass.

“That’s… great.” A grunt follows, then the crash of something breaking.

Natasha freezes, then picks up her pace. 

“What’s happening?”

More noise filters in—grunts, a muffled curse, the slam of bodies colliding. Your voice returns, breathless but firm.

“I’ve got the case too. Just…finishing up here.”

Natasha presses the elevator button repeatedly, muttering under her breath. 

“You could just admit you need help.”

Your laugh comes, dramatic and almost mocking, despite the strain. 

“What? Everything’s fine.” Another grunt follows, less convincing this time.

When the elevator doors slide open, she bolts down the hall toward the sound of chaos. One door hangs ajar.

Natasha bursts in, gun raised—only to see you drop the last guard with a final, clean strike.

You straighten, sweat-damp hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling. Spotting her, you flash a crooked grin.

“See? All good.”

You stoop to pick up the case and head past her, but Natasha steps into your path, hand pressing firmly to your shoulder. She tilts your chin with practiced precision, inspecting your face.

The moment her fingers brush your temple, you flinch. Her hand comes away slick with red. Natasha’s jaw tightens. She grips your chin again, forcing your eyes to hers.

“Next time, just ask for help.” Her tone is sharp and low.

You only stare back, wide-eyed, lips parting without words. 

That’s when Natasha realizes just how close she is, her body angled into yours, her grip still holding you there.

Heat climbs her cheeks before she notices something else. 

Your gaze flickers—downward, just for a breath, to her mouth—before darting away, and the color deepening on your face clearly isn’t just from exertion.

Her heart stutters. She recognizes this detail, too.

You pull back abruptly, her hand falling from your jaw.

“Let’s get moving before reinforcements show,” you mutter, brushing past without meeting her eyes.

Natasha turns and watches you go, pulse still racing, and suspicion coiling in her chest. Of all people, she knows these kinds of tells the best, and she knows exactly what they mean.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha drops the last strip of gauze into the first-aid box and snaps the lid shut, but she doesn’t move away from you. She stays planted in front of the bed, her knees brushing yours as you sit at the edge, head still tilted slightly from where she bandaged you.

You squirm under her gaze, eyes fixed anywhere but her face—the window, the wall, the worn carpet. She notices every flick of your eyes, every shift of your shoulders. It’s not discomfort. It’s just nerves.

You sigh finally, rubbing at your palms. 

“Alright, I’ll call for back-up next time,” you mutter. “Just…stop whatever intimidation tactic this is.”

Natasha huffs, a low, amused sound. 

“This isn’t intimidation.”

Before you can retreat further, she lifts her hand and cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. She tilts your face up toward hers, and the moment your eyes meet, she catches it—the sudden flush rising under your skin, the slight hitch of your breath.

Her own lips curve, triumphant and almost disbelieving.

“I knew it,” she whispers, more to herself than to you.

Your brows furrow. “Knew what?”

Her smile deepens. She kneels onto the bed, closing the distance, until she’s almost straddling your thighs. 

You lean back instinctively, bracing yourself on your elbows as she hovers above you.

“The person you like,” Natasha murmurs, voice low, teasing yet fragile at the edges. “Is it me?”

You blink in surprise, startled, your words stuttering in your throat. 

“How…?”

Natasha’s grin softens into something warmer. Her fingers slide up from your jaw to cradle your face fully, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth. She leans in until your noses brush, her breath fanning over your lips.

“I notice things. Always have,” she murmurs. “But somehow I missed the one right in front of me.”

Before you can answer, she tilts your chin up and presses her mouth to yours in a soft, tentative kiss—testing, tasting, a question asked with her lips.

For a heartbeat, you’re frozen, caught between disbelief and the flood of warmth crashing through you. Then instinct takes over. Your hands rise almost on their own, sliding over the curve of her waist until your palms spread firmly against her hips, grounding both of you in the moment.

You kiss her back, slow at first, savoring the softness of her lips against yours. The tentative edge fades as you angle your head slightly, deepening the kiss, letting her feel in the press of your mouth what words never managed to say.

Natasha exhales against you, a shiver running through her that you feel in the flex of her body beneath your touch. The hand cradling your face tightens just a fraction, as though she’s afraid you’ll pull away.

Instead, you slip one hand up from her hip to her lower back, drawing her closer until there’s no space left between you.

When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s only because she needs to breathe. She stays close, resting her forehead against yours, her lips brushing yours with every shallow inhale.

You can feel the rapid beat of her heart in the way her chest rises against yours.

Her eyes open, and this time, you don’t look away. You keep her close, thumbs brushing soft circles over her waist, silently telling her the answer she already suspects.

“Sorry it took me so long to notice that little detail,” she breathes, her voice breaking faintly on the words.

A laugh escapes you, shaky but relieved. 

“What I feel for you is nothing little, Natasha Romanoff,” you murmur, brushing your lips against hers again.

This time, she doesn’t hesitate. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier—no longer testing but answering.

Natasha shifts forward, pressing you back against the mattress, her hands sliding to your shoulders, anchoring herself as she kisses you harder.

Your fingers tighten on her waist, tracing the outline of her dress, feeling her shiver under your touch.

She parts her lips under yours, a soft sound escaping her throat, equal parts relief and want.

The safehouse fades—the hum of the heater, the smell of antiseptic, the muffled city sounds outside—until there’s only the warmth of her body and the weight of the moment, long overdue.

Natasha breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, her forehead still against yours, her lips grazing your mouth with each word.

“Tell me if this is too much.”

You shake your head slightly, eyes locked with hers.

“Not even close.”

She smiles, a real, unguarded smile, before capturing your lips again—this time slower, deeper, her hands sliding behind your neck as yours explore the curve of her back, both of you surrendering to this little detail that the two of you share.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~