I live like a hermit in my own head

The invitation stares back up at you. The too white piece of paper, contrasted with the golden chrome on the cardstock, edges so sharp they look like they could cut your finger open.. it’s a laughing joke. 

One that makes you want to puke at your mailbox, or maybe rip the invitation up and litter for the first time in your life, or maybe just burn it over the stove. 

It reminds you how single you are, how unbearably in love Trinity and Garcia are. 

It’s stupid, really. You should be happy for one of your best friends. The group chat has been buzzing about this for weeks, and you knew the invite was coming in the mail. 

But it still stung. 

You always thought you’d be the one to get married at a young age. Always a hopeless romantic. Even after coming out as gay late in your high school years. 

But it just had to be Trinity. 

You’re twenty-six, and no girlfriend, pet, or even a succulent to take care of. Just you. 

You check both ways before crossing the street, successfully making it back to your porch before the phone starts ringing. 

She made it longer than you thought she would. 

“Hello?” You sigh into the phone, holding it in place between your ear and shoulder, trying to open the door to get back inside the air conditioning. 

“God.” Samira exasperated. “Even the invitation is insufferable.”

“Ha.” You fake laugh, shutting the door behind you, taking the phone into your hand. “I thought about burning it.” 

“Believe me, if I could, I would.” You can hear the eyeroll even over the phone. “This thing probably— like— can’t even be destroyed. It’ll always come back.” 

You blow out a breath of air, a small smile on your lips at your best friend, staring at the cardstock for the millionth time since you’ve checked your mail. 

“How are we the only single ones? Really?” You hear a shift over the line, probably her getting up to look at the stupid thing again. “I mean, we’re both attractive, young..” 

“Doctors.” You add. 

“Doctors!” She repeats. 

“Why did Trinity get to be first?” You can’t help but be envious of your friend. 

“I know.” Samira’s voice has calmed down into a low lull, softer in a way, like it usually did when she was deep in thought. 

“What’s on your mind?” You tilt your head, looking no place in particular, mind on the conversation. 

“Just.. we’re going to be last.” You can hear the grimace. “Years after Vic, Dennis, and Trin.” 

“I know.” You tap your foot against the floor. 

“Even if Dennis and Robby don’t have a big wedding, they’ll probably be next. And if Victoria and Cassie ever lock down theirs will be a small affair.. but still.” You listen to Samira rant about this, a small smile on your face and her voice drifts through the phone.

“I know.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I know.”

It should be us, you want to say. But you don’t. Because that’s not what you’re supposed to say to your best friend. The one you’re definitely not in love with. 

“Trinity’s not going to make us wear a god awful color, is she?” You flip the invitation over and over again, memorizing the stupid thing front to back as Samira speaks. 

“I hope not.” You finally throw the invitation on the table. “I don’t look good in yellow.” 

Samira laughs over the phone, and this all feels like a distant memory now, standing along the side of the dance floor, holding a drink in your hand. 

Samira stands beside you, her dark curls cascading down her neck, paired perfectly with the burgundy colored dress Trinity most definitely had a say in. 

She holds her own drink, opting for a nonalcoholic beverage, rather than your own. 

“They make me want to puke.” She shakes her head beside you, catching your attention. 

“I know.” You laugh, watching the lovesick expressions on your friends faces. “Maybe we should just make the best of this..” 

“What do you have in mind?” A rare glint of mischief blooms over her face, but you only shake your head with a smile. 

“How about we dance?” You put your drink on the table beside you, sliding Samira’s out of her hand easily before grabbing it. 

“Ugh.” Samira feigns disgust, but happily lets you pull her along. 

“Come on.” You draw out the last word, spinning her around in a circle. “If we’re going to be part of the very small singles club, we might as well make the best of it.” 

“True.” Samira smiles at you with a gleaming grin, letting you take the lead. “I guess this is pretty fun.”

“How come?” You quirk an eyebrow, hand sliding to her waist to pull her closer. 

“Because I’m with you.” She admits, almost shyly, but there’s a small sliver of confidence in her eyes that makes you want more of this. “I like being with you.” 

Her eyes twinkle in the dim light, and you never thought brown could be your favorite color. But right now, it totally is. Or maybe burgundy was your favorite. 

She looked gorgeous in her dress, it matches her perfectly, and you want to see her in it more often. 

“Your dress looks nice on you.” Samira dips her chin shyly, admitting to you what you were just thinking to yourself. 

“I was about to say the same thing.” You blink at her, your voice gone quiet as if everyone’s watching you. 

And maybe they are. 

“Alright lovebirds.” Trinity puts a hand on each of your shoulders. “I want to dance with all of you.” 

“Trin—“

“Come on!” She turns without a response, expecting the two of you to follow, and you do. 

“Do you think..” Samira looks around as you follow the bride (or groom?). “That everyone thinks we’re dating?” 

“I don’t know.” You frown as you think about it, because that’s wasn’t a bad thing, was it?

“Not that I c—“

“Yes! Everyone does.” Victoria smiles up at you a little too cheekily, and you think it’s time for her to be cut off. “It’s actually—“ Hiccup. “—kind of cute.” 

“I think you should be done drinking.” Samira laughs, separating from you to dance along with Victoria. 

“Nooo.” Victoria shakes her head. 

“She’s far gone.” Dennis laughs, his matching burgundy suit hugging his body. 

“Yeah.” Trinity laughs along with the two of you. “So you and Samira?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” Your chest clenches regardless. 

“Okay.” Trinity shrugs and keeps dancing. 

Samira, ever the friend she was, decided staying at home for your 27th birthday wasn’t a good idea. 

In your defense, alcohol, an entire pizza, and crappy television sounded like heaven on earth after working six doubles in a row. 

But Samira didn’t like it. 

So here you were, the two of you, at the nicest restaurant Samira could afford. 

Only the two of you, thank God. 

That was the only way you would agree to going out tonight. And Samira couldn’t say she was disappointed. Not one bit. 

She loved your friends. 

But she loved you more. Probably more than she should. 

“I’m glad we could do this.” Your chin rests in your palm. 

“Me too.” Her hand lands over yours. 

Your breathing stills for only a few seconds before it returns to normal. 

You remove your hand from under yours and place them in your lap. 

“This is a way better place to be than my apartment, I’ll have to admit it.” You look around the restaurant, Samira’s eyes glued to your face and the amusement plastered on it. “But are you sure you can afford this?” 

“Trust me. I’ve got it.” She shrugs like she always does. 

“Okay.” You laugh softly, and it’s music to Samira’s ears.

“Seriously.” She meets your eyes with an expression that says she isn’t joking. “Get whatever you want. I have money saved.” 

“I feel bad.” You slightly frown, but when Samira lifts her eyebrows, you put your hands up. “Okay, okay.”

You pick up the menu, browsing over the drinks and entrees, trying your best not to look at the prices. 

“And pick a dessert too.” Her finger lowers the menu so she can see your face, an adorable smile on her face. 

She watches you begin to protest but shakes her head. 

“We can share it if it makes you feel better.” 

“It doesn’t.” You say. 

But you have to admit, the idea of sharing a dessert with Samira makes your cheeks heat and the butterflies in your stomach flutter uncontrollably. 

The waiter comes by soon after that and takes your order. 

Samira demands that the two of you share bites of each other's food, and you can’t say no to those eyes, so you agree. 

“That’s really good. I’ll have to get that next time.” She places a hand over her mouth as she chews. 

“Next time?” You raise your eyebrows. “You might be broke after this time.” 

“Don’t underestimate me.” She smiles and places her head in her hands, just staring forward at you. “Besides, I expect you to bring me here for my birthday.” 

“Oh, do you?” You raise your eyebrows. “I better start saving, then.” 

“That might be a good idea.” 

You can’t help but feel like she’s flirting with you. Or maybe it’s the atmosphere. Either way, you’re on cloud nine. 

You finish your meal, and the waiter comes back to clear your plates. 

“Is there anything else I can get the two of you?” He holds the plates in one hand, looking between the two of you. 

“Uh, we’ll have the molten lava cake for dessert.” You say it sheepishly. 

“And what would you like your ice cream to be for that?” He smiles down at you. 

“Vanilla.” The two of you say at the same time, smiling and staring at each other. 

“Perfect.” He nods. “I’ll be right back with that.”  

He returns soon after that, placing the dish between the two of you, two spoons on each side for the both of you. 

“For what it’s worth,” He places a hand over his chest. “I think the two of you are a perfect couple.” 

You open your mouth to tell him he’s wrong, but he’s gone as soon as he arrives. 

“We get that a lot, don’t we?” Samira smiles. 

“Yeah, we do.” Your eyes are starry, and you’re smiling stupid, but you don’t even care. 

This was the best birthday ever.

Especially with your date— best friend— by your side. 

“Is this about your mommy issues?” Robby looks baffled, his voice booming from the barely enclosed space he and Samira were last seen in. You can imagine his face, eyebrows pulled together, eyes condescending, smile way too smug. 

“Dr—“

“No.” Robby shakes his head, hands on the stethoscope wrapped around the back of his neck. He looks down, eyes closed, a scoff leaves his lips. 

“You’ve been in and out all day. You can’t focus on one thing for more than fifteen minutes without looking at your phone. You are a respected resident here, and should be setting an example for others here. Instead, you’re having a panic attack in the middle of the goddamn ER, and—“

“Robinavitch.” A coy smile plays on your lips, Al-Hashimi hot on your tail, almost seething from behind you. 

His head turns quickly, and it looks like he’s having an out of body experience, realizing where he is. 

“She—“ Her turns his head back to Samira, but mentally gives up, laughing to himself in disbelief. He puts his hands up, an awkward smile on his face as he exits the room, all but running right into the both of you. 

“I will go after him.” Baran’s eyes flit over your face. “I have faith that you can handle this.” 

Her head tilts in the direction of a shell shocked Samira, and you nod before she’s even finished the gesture. 

“Yes.” You say it too quickly, but Baran doesn’t question it at all. 

She leaves you with a curt nod, but you stand outside of the room for a few seconds before making a move inside. 

Her eyes land on you, and there’s a mix of embarrassment, exhaustion, and regret lingering in her eyes. 

You can’t tell which makes your heart ache the most. Like a knife. 

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles and looks down, unable to make eye contact with you. 

“Sammy.” Your throat aches, the lump overtaking the length of your esophagus to the point where you can’t even swallow. 

“I’m sorry.” She says again, a second knife stabbing directly into your chest. 

“Samira, baby.” You move closer, a hand on her cheek, lifting her face towards you. Her eyes glisten up at you, and that makes three. 

A third final strike in your chest. 

“Don’t cry. It breaks my heart to see you cry.” 

Samira bites the inside of her cheek as she looks up at you. She closes her eyes, as if to question what she did to deserve any of this. 

Her dimple shows, and it’s the most adorable thing ever. 

When she opens her eyes again, you’re staring at her cheek, but it’s awfully close to her mouth. Something passes over her eyes, but it’s far from the other emotions you saw earlier. 

She shifts up in her seat, and your breath hitches when her lips ghost over yours. 

Her nickname for you leaves her lips, but all you feel is the breath leaving her mouth, stuttered and unstable. 

“Sam.” 

“Yeah?” 

A few beats pass as the two of you look between each other's eyes and lips, neither of you having enough courage to close the distance. 

“We shouldn’t.” You want to kick yourself the second the words leave your lips.

Because why would you say that? You’ve loved her for longer than you’ve been friends, and that alone should be enough. 

To kiss her. To hold her. To tell her. 

But you don’t. 

“I—“ 

“You don’t have to.” Samira shakes her head, but she can’t make eye contact anymore. “I just need a few minutes and I’ll be back on the floor. Let Al-Hashimi know, okay?” 

“Okay.” You say wearily. “But Samir—“

“No.” She puts a hand out. “Please go.” 

So you do. 

It happens when you’re standing around a bunch of people, but it hits you regardless. You and Samira had travelled into a territory that was hard to come back from. 

Somewhere between friends and something more, something you didn’t want to name quite yet. 

You wanted her, you knew that, you just didn’t know what she wanted. And that made this a million times worse. 

It’s affected you for a few weeks now, more than you’re willing to admit. Not that you ever would think about admitting it. To her or to anyone around you. 

Ogilvie approaches her slowly, and you catch his movements from a mile away. 

It irks you in the worst way possible—or maybe it’s just him—the way he approaches her, hands held together, his nonchalant stance when he stands there, eyes blinking as he waits for her to notice him. 

Samira turns her head just slightly before going back to the conversation between Dana, Cassie, and Trinity. One you’re only partly listening to. 

Because now you’re annoyed, standing here watching him watch her, his facial features softening at her animatedly talking. 

“Dr. Mohan?” Ogilvie clears his throat, and suddenly five pairs of eyes are on him, including yourself. 

“What is it?” Samira looks concerned, and you want to wipe it off her face, want to tell her whatever it is, she shouldn’t have to worry. But you can’t. 

“I was just wondering..” He laughs softly, scratching the back of his neck. 

And the world slows down for you, because the way he’s standing, chest puffed out, confidence radiating off of him. The way he’s now nervously fidgeting but trying to hide it. The way his smile is too cheesy to be a simple conversation about a patient. 

It all adds up to only one thing. 

Something that makes your chest beat quicker, borderline painful at the thought, makes you sick to your stomach. 

But nobody’s eyes are on you. 

They’re all on Ogilvie and his stupid poise, his stupid smile, and his stupid ugly face. 

It makes you want to punch him, really, but you’re professional. So you’d never do that. 

“Well, spit it out.” Trinity stares at him with a bored expression. 

“Would you maybe want to grab a drink later tonight?” He smiles down at her. 

And she hesitates, glances over to you. And then all eyes are on you now. 

You think she might even agree, despite all the times you’ve made fun of him together. 

You think she might actually forget about the moment you had in the patient room a few weeks ago, just say fuck it, go on a date to spite you. 

But she doesn't do any of that. She doesn’t do anything. 

“Actually, I think they are already dating.” Cassie laughs awkwardly, staring between you and Samira, waiting for one of you to pipe into the conversation. 

“Oh—“ Trinity begins to speak, eyebrows raised, arms crossing over her chest. 

“I apologize.” Ogilvie puts his hands up in surrender, only now noticing the look on your face. “I had no idea.” 

“Actually.” Samira cuts in, and her throat constricts? begging her body not to look towards you, reach for you in any way. “We’re not dating.” 

“Oh.” Cassie looks surprised, a similar expression to Trinity taking place on her face. 

“But I’m not interested.” Samira presses her lips together and shakes her head.

Her eyes flick over to you, and for a second you think she looks regretful. Guilty, even, for admitting the truth. You weren’t dating. And you probably never would be. Her eyes are locked onto yours when she says, “I’m sorry.” 

And you aren’t sure if she’s saying to you, or to Ogilvie, but your heart sinks anyways. 

“Well—“

“She said she’s not interested.” You say a little too harshly, ripping your eyes away from hers. 

“Okay.” He backs away then, and everyone resumes the conversation, despite yourself being lost in your own little world. 

You don’t notice the way Samira glances at you every few seconds, trying to understand what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. 

You don’t notice the way she watches you pick at your finger nails, drawing blood. 

You don’t notice the way she’s lost all interest in the conversation, her mind only on reassuring you she didn’t mean it in a bad way, that she wants to be with you just as badly, but just hadn’t quite found the words yet. 

And she’s grateful you don’t. 

Trinity bumps her elbow against yours, eyes asking the question you don’t even know how to answer right now; are you okay? 

So you settle with a nod, because that’s how it had to be. 

Samira shifts her body, so her hand just grazes yours, but you pretend not to notice, a small blush taking over your face. 

Someone asks you a question, pulls you back into the conversation, and you respond easily, ignoring the way Samira intently watches you. 

And you really wish this wasn’t the way things were. 

That you actually did have Samira, that you were dating, but you aren’t. And you’re pretty damn sure you’re far from it. 

“We’re going to be fed, right?” Trinity groans as she lifts one of the heavier boxes and places it—a little roughly—onto the floor. “Because I’m not doing this for free.” 

“Yes— careful!” Victoria puts her hands out. 

“What is so fragile that it can’t take a little force?” Trinity puts her hands on her hips. 

“That has some of the kitchen stuff in it. There could be glass.” Victoria stares at her blankly. 

“Oh, whatever.” Trinity waves her off and goes outside for another box. 

You laugh to yourself, cutting the box open to begin unpacking. You look over at Samira, who is already looking at you with amusement. 

Things have gotten better since a few months ago. 

It’s not as tense between you anymore. 

You apologized for things, the way her face tilted towards yours, watching you intently as you explained why you’d been so distant. 

It was selfish on your part. 

That you’d distanced yourself from her out of selfishness, let her explain that it wasn’t fair to her, that you shut her out so quick because of a small mistake. 

You agreed, talked for a long time, and things were good now, back to normal. 

Well, almost. 

Your heart still beats too quickly when you think about someone else asking her out before you get the chance to. Or that way she looks with her hair pinned low on her neck. Or anything that involves her, really. 

Just like now. 

When she has her shirt sleeves tucked, trying to cool herself down from the heat that’s wafting inside the small apartment. 

“Are you helping, or not?” Victoria raises her eyebrows when you look back at her. 

“Are you?” You match her expression, pulling a stack of plates from the box. “Last time I checked, this is your apartment.” 

Victoria only rolls her eyes. 

“Where’s Cassie?” Samira asks, eyes focused on unpacking the stuff in a box labeled ‘living room’. 

“At work.” Victoria shrugs. 

“This is her place too. Why isn’t she helping you move in?” Trinity huffs as she places another box on the ground, softer this time. 

“Because she’s at work.” Victoria laughs nervously, looking around. “You guys don’t seriously think she wouldn’t help, right?”

“No, of course not.” You shake your head, eyes softening. 

“She’s going to help when she gets home.” Victoria nods her head. “We won’t get everything done right now. The goal is to get everything inside and mostly unpacked. She’s going to help when she gets back.” 

“Okay.” Samira smiles, and you can’t stop looking. “We believe you.” 

Her dimple on the side of her cheek prominent with the light flowing in from the window, her brown eyes a lighter color now, like a light caramel color, hair sticking to her forehead from the summer heat. 

“Hey.” Dennis snaps in your face. “Are you helping or not? Because you seem to be watching your girlfriend a lot.” 

“Oh—“ 

Your eyes snap to Samira, and now her eyes are on you, watching carefully. 

“We aren’t—“ 

Your cheeks heat when you look back at Dennis, Samira’s eyes glued to your face, you’re sure. He waits with a quirked eyebrow, hands finding his hips. 

“Well?” He gestures with his hand for you to keep going. 

You look around the room, and everyone’s standing around now, watching the interaction. When they see you, they act like they are working. 

“For what it’s worth, you guys are really cute.” Mel shrugs with a nod, looking between Samira and you before she goes back to work. 

“We aren’t dating.” Your voice comes out with more force than you intend, and Samira looks like she’s been kicked. 

You watch her swallow with a small nod, almost like she wants to laugh at herself, and she looks down, focusing back on unpacking Victoria's books and blankets. 

“Oh.. I’m sorry.” Dennis’ lips tilt down, and he looks back at Samira before he places a hand on your shoulder. “We all thought..”

“Well you thought wrong.” Samira says in a low voice, back turned to the two of you. 

“Sam—“

“It’s okay.” She looks back with a smile. One you know is fake. It doesn’t reach her eyes, barely lifts her lips, and definitely doesn’t make her face light up in the way you love. 

Dennis looks back at you worriedly, apology written all over his face, and he goes back to work. 

It’s quiet for a while after that, everyone doing their part as the day passes along. Victoria orders pizza around lunch before you continue with the second half of the day. 

When Cassie comes back, everyone begins picking their belongings up, saying goodbyes quickly. 

Your chest clenches as you say goodbye, realizing now you have to drive back with Samira. You didn’t think about that earlier when you both hurt each other's feelings. 

You silently sit in Samira’s passenger seat, biting the inside of your cheek as you watch the city pass by. 

Nobody speaks. 

“Samira—“

“No.” She shakes her head, her voice soft, and you’re afraid she might break. Like she’s one of Victoria's porcelain plates, one wrong move and you’ll shatter it. 

“Just—“ 

“Please don’t.” She shakes her head, never looks in your direction. 

If you listen close enough, you could hear her never breathing. If you look close enough, you could see her obsessant blinking, Samira trying to hold herself together. And if you could read minds, you would probably hear, ‘hold it together just a little longer’ over and over again. 

“Please.” Her voice cracks, and it’s quiet, so low you barely hear it. 

“Okay.” You whisper back, nodding your head, eyes going back to the window. 

When she drops you off, you say a quiet goodbye, but linger in the seat. You beg silently in your head for her to look at you, but she never does, her own eyes glued to your front yard. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You ask hopeful, but you only receive a small nod. 

A few weeks later, you’re invited out with your friends for a night out, something to take the edge off after a long few weeks. 

You agree, only second guessing yourself when thinking about Samira. 

You’d spoken with her over the days that passed, but it all felt wrong. Like there was an invisible wall between the two of you. And if you were being honest, there was. 

You knew there was a better way to handle the situation at Victoria and Cassie’s, but it didn’t go that way. 

In fact, you were sure it went the absolute worst possible way. 

The one that ended in Samira, your best friend and love of your life, ignoring you for days on end. 

You spend the night drinking probably way too much, dancing between Victoria and Trinity, sulking on the inside. 

When Samira arrives, you’re shit faced, to say the least. 

Victoria's on her heel the second she arrives, whispering into her ear. 

And her eyes shoot to you. 

You have to force yourself to look away. 

It’s too intense, too much for your heart to take. 

“I need the bathroom.” You half whisper to Trinity and half to yourself. 

“Do you want me to come?” 

“No. I wanna go alone.” You shake your head, halfway off the floor before your words are out. Your eyes never leave Samira’s as you walk past her. 

You can’t stay still in line. 

How could you be so fucking stupid? You were drunk off your ass. You knew she was coming. She was never going to believe anything you said now. 

But drunk words were sober thoughts, right? Maybe there was an inkling of regret running through her veins that also regretted this entire situation. Maybe she wanted to apologize to you tonight too. Maybe that’s why she actually showed. Or maybe she was here to make you jealous. Or maybe she really just wanted to—

“Hey.” Her voice drains out the rest of the way too loud music, the random conversations taking place in this line, and most of all, your thundering heartbeat. 

“Hi.” You're breathless. 

“I.. I don’t know what to say.” 

“Me either.” You swallow, suddenly feeling the most sober you had all night. It’s like a bucket of ice water was dumped over your head. 

“We should probably talk, right? I mean, I can’t keep going like this. Fuck—“ 

You’ve never heard her swear—okay, that was a lie. You had. Once. But that was besides the point. This meant she was serious, she was battling something deep within her. Deeper than your arms could reach. 

She pulled you out of the line to a darkened corner of the bar, one where nobody could see the two of you. 

Her eyes were fearful. And it scared you. 

“Samira..” Your eyelashes flutter with anticipation of what she was about to say. 

“I need to say something.” 

“Samira.” You shake your head. “Please.”

“Why?” Her eyes are pleading, the fear long gone now. Now she had a begging expression on her face, one you’d only seen a few times when Robby or a patient ripped her apart in front of a crowd. “Please, let me say this.” 

“I don’t think I can take it.” 

And you? 

You’re fighting your own battle. 

“I love you.” 

It stuns your whole world, spins you around like you drank way over your limit and can’t see. You think you might have a panic attack, or throw up, or both, even. 

“And I have for a long fucking time and I can’t get you out of my head. I thought time apart would be good for us.” Her hand comes up to your face. “But it wasn’t.” 

“Samira. I love you too.” 

“I wish you’d tell me that sober.” A sniffle rips between the two of you, and it takes a second for you to catch up. 

“Stop crying.” Your hands are wiping her cheeks, rubbing until there’s no more tears coming from her eyes. “I love you. Ask any one of our friends.” 

“I—“ 

“Sammy.” That stills her. 

Her lips crash into yours, and she tastes like the fruity drink you just finished, or maybe that was just you. But you didn’t care. 

Your hand slides into her curls, those ones you’d spent days wondering what they’d feel like between your fingers. 

“I love you. And I’ll tell you the same thing tomorrow. When I’m sober. When I’m drunk. When I’m sick. When we’re home. When we’re at work. Name a time or a place and I’ll do it.” Her face is between your hands. 

“Okay, okay.” She’s nodding, leaning her head against yours. “I believe you.” 

She places one more kiss on your lips, then one on your forehead. 

“Let’s get out of here.” You let out a breathy laugh. 

She grabs your hand and pulls you along with her across the bar. 

“Oh, thank god you found her.” Victoria runs a hand over your hair before she looks down at your intertwined fingers. 

“Are you..” Her face breaks out into a smile. 

You nod, a large smile on your face. 

“Oh, my God! This is huge. I have to take a picture.” She’s pulling her phone out, but Samira shakes her head, placing a hand over her camera. 

“Not tonight. You can take all the pictures you want tomorrow. Right now, I need to get her to bed.” 

“Fine.” Victoria huffs. “But I’m telling everyone. Unless.. you were gonna keep it a secret.”

“Even if we were—which we aren’t—our secret is out now.” You smile to yourself. 

“Okay. I’m so excited right now.” She turns quickly and is lost in the crowd, presumably on her way to the rest of the group. 

“That was okay, right?” Samira looks down at you, and her adorable doe eyes stare right into your soul. 

“Yes.” You excitedly pull her closer to you so you can kiss her again. Your other arm is wrapped behind her neck, holding her close. “I would shout it to the entire population of Pittsburgh if I could.” 

“I’m glad.” She lets out a soft laugh. 

“Me too.” You look into her eyes. “More than you know.”

The showerhead had run hot for exactly four minutes before going arctic. Natasha had clocked it immediately.

"Back to back," she’d said. "Four minutes. Don't use all the hot water."

So you had stood back to back in four inches of tiled space, staring at the grout, thinking about absolutely nothing. The mission, the contact, maybe some of the supply routes.

"You're tense," she’d said, from six inches behind your left ear.

"I'm fine."

"Your shoulders are basically earrings right now."

"That's just how my —"

Her hand moved between your shoulder blades. Flat-palmed, warm, resting there. Your shoulders dropped two inches without permission.

"There," she’d said, like it was simple. Like she hadn't made your brain go blank.

The hot water cut out, but neither of you moved for thirty seconds.

You emerged to find her at the debrief table, hair damp, reading like none of it had happened. She held out a towel without looking up.

"You're catastrophic," she said pleasantly.

"You started it."

"I handed you a towel."

"Before that."

She looked up. Her mouth wore a rationed almost-smile and she held your gaze a beat too long. "Go to sleep," she said. "You're on first watch."

You lay on your side of the room and stared at the ceiling for a very long time.

"All girls do that," you told Steve.

He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then, he opened it again. "Back to back. In a shower."

"It's efficient."

"In a —" He stopped, and visibly recalibrated. "I grew up in Brooklyn. I know how girls are with each other —"

"Then you get it."

"I don't think I —" He looked at the list, then at you. "I lived in a barracks for years. Men don't do that."

"We're not men."

"I'm aware —"

"Different social norms. Women are tactile. It's completely normal."

Steve stared at you with the expression of a man losing a fight he’d already spent hours preparing for. He wrote something on the list. "Prague," he said. "Sleeping arrangements."

Natasha had claimed the centre of the mattress immediately upon arrival. You’d stood in the doorway with your go-bag, looking at the sliver of space remaining.

"You did that on purpose."

"The room has one bed."

"You're in the middle of it."

"I'm a restless sleeper." She pulled the blanket up, serene. "Floor looks fine."

You took the sliver. Then you woke up past 3am facing the ceiling — which wasn't how you’d fallen asleep. Nat's head was on your shoulder, with her arm sling across your ribs. She weighed nothing. You lay in the dark, running a thorough diagnostic of your entire life.

You didn't move — a proper tactical decision. Natasha coming awake suddenly in an unfamiliar room was dangerous. That was the only reason.

You fell back asleep with your nose in her hair. She smelled like soap — clean, sharp. You had the thought, soft-edged with sleep, that you'd know it in any room. Any dark.

She told you three months later she’d been awake the whole time. On the common room couch, her feet in your lap, not looking up from her book. Casual. I didn't want to move. You were warm.

Like that explained everything.

"It's a friendship thing," you told Steve. "Girls sleep close. It's comforting."

"You were—" He paused, mouth fumbling to choose his words correctly. "Intertwined is the word I'd use."

"We were cold."

"It was July."

"Prague is cold in July."

"It really isn't —" He stopped himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I shared bunks with men for four years. We did not —"

"Again, not men."

"I know you're not —" He breathed. "I'm not saying it's wrong, I'm saying it seemed like —" he gestured vaguely — "more than friendly."

"We're very good friends."

He looked at you, and you just stared back, completely calm. He glanced at the list, then back up. "The Rome corridor. After the debrief. I saw you —"

"I was patting down my lipstick."

"— I saw you ki —" He stopped, trying to replay it. "Patting down your lipstick."

"Mouths near. Close proximity. You caught an angle."

The debrief had run three hours. Nat had walked out looking the way she looked when things went exactly to plan — settled, luminous, that satisfaction she kept close to the chest. She’d glanced at you in the corridor.

You’d had four seconds of good judgment. Then it ran out completely.

You’d kissed her. Stepped into her space and did it, hand to her jaw, heart doing something humiliating the whole time.

She kissed back. Both hands came up to frame your face — deliberate, unhurried. When she pulled back, she looked at you like you were something she’d made her mind up about.

"Took you long enough," she said.

"I was strategising."

"For a whole month."

"It's a nuanced situation."

She laughed. The real one — the one she didn't usually let people near. It did something catastrophic to your chest. You stood in a corridor in Rome watching it happen and thought, with total clarity: I am in so much trouble.

You genuinely hadn't seen Steve at the end of the hallway. This was mortifying. You had a commendation for surveillance — framed.

"Patting down your lipstick," Steve repeated.

"Mm."

"Both of you."

"She was helping."

"She was —" He stopped, sighing as he stared at the desk. "I don't —" He looked like a man trying to stand on a moving floor. "I know what I saw."

"You saw us close together."

"Very close."

"We're close friends."

"In a way that —" He exhaled, long and slow. "Women are — you're saying this is normal."

"Completely normal."

He looked at the list, then the ceiling — he was hoping the Heavens above had more useful answers than you. He put the list down. 

"I want you to know," he said, in a different voice, quieter, "I'm fine with it. I've watched you two for eight months. You're better together on ops, not worse. She's different with you. I don't know if she knows how much, but she is. I'm glad she has that."

The office was quiet. You’d read the manual. Section 14, highlighted in yellow. Intra-team romantic relationships are not recommended and must be disclosed to team leadership. You’d been so careful.

"We've been together a while," you said. "We're moving in. We were going to tell everyone at the housewarming party."

Steve rubbed his forehead. "Everyone already knows. Tony's had a group chat since February. Clint had a date in the pool, and then Sam won thirty dollars."

You sat with that.

"The bite mark," he added, very carefully, "at the Lisbon debrief. Nat's collarbone." A pause. "That was the one that really settled it for the group chat."

You’d felt very bitey that night. That was between you, God, and apparently the full Avengers roster plus support staff.

"The shower thing was genuinely nothing," you said. "On the record."

"I believe you," he said, in a tone that meant he did not believe you at all.

"Steve."

"It's noted."

"She's going to find this so funny."

"She already does." He nodded toward the frosted glass panel behind you.

You turned. The unmistakable silhouette of Natasha, leaning against the wall, shoulders shaking. You faced forward.

"We're very happy together," you said, with what remained of your dignity.

"I could tell," said Steve. "From the corridor. In Rome." He paused. "You had a commendation for surveillance."

"I'm aware."

"Framed, I think."

"Steve."

"Just noting it," he said, and looked at the ceiling again.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

"Natasha?” you asked in a tired voice, holding the phone to your ear.

“Hey, baby,” you heard her hoarse voice on the other end.

“Did I wake you up?”

You swallowed and murmured softly:

“Yeah.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“Because you woke me up?”

“Because I didn’t show up today.”

“No,” you replied a little too quickly. Your swollen eyes wandered back over the tear-soaked tissues. When Natasha hadn’t shown up for your date a few hours ago and hadn’t gotten in touch, you’d suffered a mental breakdown that lasted several hours. But Natasha wasn’t the one your anger was directed at. You’d been much more angry at yourself for being so naive as to think that a woman like Natasha would seriously want anything to do with someone like you. Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but you’d always wondered during all your previous dates what Natasha was thinking by going out with you. You’d only been dating for a few months and it was nice, but time and again Natasha left you with a big question mark: what did she want from you?

“Stop lying,” she muttered.

You fell silent and pulled your knees tightly to your chest.

“I’m sorry,” the redhead said slowly.

“My mission took longer than planned and I—”

“Your mission??” you interrupted her with an alarmed voice. You knew nothing about a mission.

“Natasha, if I’d known you were on a mission, we could have met some other time.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed quickly.

“I really wanted to see you as soon as I got home.”

You fell silent again. The thought that Natasha wanted to see you of all people as soon as she got home seemed so surreal.

“Well, anyway, our flight back didn’t go as planned—we were attacked, I got shot in the leg, and now I’m lying here in the medbay, pumped full of drugs, and missing you,” she explained in a hurried voice.

“I would have called you sooner, but I went straight into surgery as soon as we got here.”

You blinked in disbelief.

“You—you got shot in the leg??”

“Yeah, but it’s no big deal,” Natasha said indifferently.

“Not being able to see you hurts a lot more.”

She giggled awkwardly, and for the first time you realized she was really high. Your gaze drifted to the window. It was the middle of the night, and honestly, you didn’t feel comfortable, considering the circumstances under which you’d fallen asleep. On the other hand, it was Natasha who’d asked you—you’d do anything for this woman. Besides, it was worrying to know that she was lying high in the medbay and couldn’t think of anything better to do than call you at four in the morning.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” you mumbled.

Natasha let out a cheer.

“You can just ring the bell at the main entrance; everyone’s awake here right now anyway, so someone will let you in.”

The thought of meeting the other Avengers made you nervous. You’d heard so much about these people, but they didn’t know you. And that felt strange.

“See you soon,” you said.

“Drive carefully,” Natasha added, and you hung up.

Leaving your apartment at this hour felt strange. Almost forbidden. The drive to Stark Tower took fifteen minutes, half as long as it would during the day.

As Natasha had said, you ran to the main entrance and rang the bell. The building seemed bustling with activity, as light shone from many of the panoramic windows.

The door opened automatically, and as you stepped into the lobby, a brunette woman was waiting for you. Scarlet Witch, as you knew her from the media.

“You must be Y/N,” she said with a broad grin on her face.

“I’m Wanda.”

“I know,” you murmured quietly and gave a wry smile.

“You actually look exactly like Nat described you.”

The Sokovian studied you with attentive eyes.

You furrowed your brow.

“Natasha talks about me?”

“Oh yeah.” Wanda nodded and walked toward an elevator.

“All the time, actually. And ever since she got hit by that bullet today, she hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“Oh.”

You blinked in confusion and rubbed your forehead thoughtfully.

Wanda laughed.

“She told me about that, too.”

“What?”

“You touch your forehead when you're nervous.”

Stunned, you stared at the woman next to you, unsure whether to feel disturbed or flattered that Natasha had revealed so much about you. The elevator stopped and opened its doors. Wanda led you down a long hallway lined with doors that all looked the same, finally stopping in front of one. She knocked briefly before opening the door.

“Look who’s here,” she called out, letting you step past her into the room before stepping back out herself.

“Hellooo, my baby!”

Natasha lay in a hospital bed, beaming with a smile. Her legs dangled in the air, suspended by a sling, and tubes led from various openings into her body.

“Hey Nat,” you whispered, overwhelmed by seeing the redhead like this. She looked tired, her hair was a mess, and yet her eyes and smile were radiant.

“How are you?”

“Amazing!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t feel a thing right now, and you’re here, so I could hardly be better.”

You couldn’t help but laugh,

“Come here and give me a kiss,” she commanded with a pout, opening her arms to you.

Your face flushed at her directness before you stepped up to her bed. Carefully, you leaned down, trying to avoid the tubes attached to the redhead, and gave her a little kiss on her waiting lips. You smiled gently at her and tried to sit up, but before you could move away from her, Natasha grabbed your chin and looked at you with narrowed eyes.

“Are you wearing makeup?” she asked with an amused tone, making you blush again.

You had actually put on makeup when you left the house. Not because you were vain, but simply because you looked like a mess after falling asleep while crying. A smudged face, swollen and reddened eyes.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Natasha added when you didn’t answer, pulling your face even closer to hers.

“A little,” you murmured, blinking.

“Oh baby,” the spy cooed unhappily and let go of your chin.

“You cried because of me. You wasted your precious tears on me.”

She grimaced guiltily.

“I told Bruce to call you so you’d know what was going on,” she scolded.

“You shouldn’t cry because of me.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you said quickly and tried to sit up again, but once more Natasha was faster, grabbing your arm and pulling you back onto the edge of the bed. You blinked in confusion, impressed by her strength.

“Stay with me, I want to be held,” she commanded.

“I’m a wounded woman, I deserve this.”

“I—I don’t know if that’s good for you.”

You smiled shyly and looked at the tubes pumping medicine into her body and whom you definitely didn’t want to hurt.

“Oh, bullshit,” Natasha growled, lifting her blanket to signal that you should sit down next to her.

“Come here.”

You hesitated for another brief moment before awkwardly sitting down next to her. You put your arm around her and pulled her close.

Natasha’s leg, dangling in the air, blocked your view. With the cast on, it looked more like her leg was broken than shot. But you probably only thought that because you didn’t know any better. You’d never seen a leg that had been shot before.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been through much worse,” Natasha murmured as if she knew what you were thinking.

“A bullet in the leg is nothing.”

“Nothing,” you repeated in disbelief. Your hand reached for hers and you squeezed it tightly, knowing it was a privilege to share this moment with her.

“I’ve been thinking about you the whole time,” she said softly.

“A bullet in the leg doesn’t bother me, but I suddenly got so scared I wouldn’t see you again.”

“Oh, Natasha,” you whispered, blinking away tears.

“I actually wanted to tell you something important, look—”

“Ohh, you must be Y/N,” Bruce Banner walked in and interrupted Natasha mid-sentence.

Natasha growled at the interruption.

“Even if this isn’t my room, it’s still polite to knock; we were in the middle of an important conversation.”

Bruce smiled crookedly.

“Sorry, Nat, but you have to take your sleeping pills,” he mumbled, holding out his hand to you.

“I'm Bruce.”

“Y/N,” you said with a smile.

The older man stared at you for a few seconds before he started grinning.

“You're right, Natasha, she has the same eyes as Janice—”

Natasha smiled brightly.

“I told you so!!”

You looked at both of them, confused.

“Who is Janice?”

“Clint’s cousin.”

That statement confused you even more.

Bruce set the cup of pills on the nightstand before smiling at both of you once more and leaving the room.

“Anyway,” Natasha muttered, placing a hand on your knee.

“You need to know that—”

“Aren’t you supposed to take the pills?” you interrupted, pointing at the cup.

Natasha sighed in frustration.

“Can’t you see I’m desperately trying to tell you something?” she scolded.

You looked at her with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The redhead shook her head disapprovingly before shoving the pills down her throat and washing them down with water.

“So,” she began again, looking at you seriously.

“Something became clear to me during the mission.”

“That Tony should design a bulletproof suit for you?”

“Oh, shut up,” she hissed and smiled.

“All I could think about the whole time was you and the fear that I’d never see you again. It was awful. I want you to be a part of my life—not just dating, but for real.”

You blinked in disbelief.

“I—Natasha, you don't know what you're saying, you're high—”

“Stop, Y/N,” she interrupted you.

“I've fallen in love, and it has nothing to do with being high. You can ask the others—”

You thought back to Wanda and Bruce, who both knew you better than you apparently knew yourself. It was all too much.

“No,” you shook your head as tears welled up inside you and slid away from her a little.

“Y/N?”

Natasha looked at you with concern.

“Did I say something wrong?”

You looked back at her with pain in your eyes.

“How could I ever deal with all of this? Be enough for you?”

“Oh come on, that’s bullshit,” Natasha rolled her eyes.

“I—I don’t know how to deal with all of that,” you stammered desperately.

“Hearing that you got shot scares me, and you’re acting like it’s completely normal—”

“For me, it is.”

“God, Natasha.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I love you,” Natasha repeated her words.

“And I think you do, too.”

Of course you loved her. Last night, you’d realized just how much you loved her and how much it hurt. This woman would eventually be your death, and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Yes, I love you,” you whispered with a sad smile.

“And it scares me so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She gripped your hands tighter.

“Besides, you knew what you were getting yourself into when we started dating, didn’t you?”

Your gaze wandered away in disbelief. Your gaze wandered in disbelief over her leg in a cast, the tubes, her weary face. Of course you’d known that life with her would look like this, but sitting here now was terrifying. You imagined yourself sitting by her hospital bed after every mission, filled with worry, and having to deal with her injuries.

“Of course I knew that,” you murmured. “But this is all so unfamiliar—you got shot. The bullet could have hit your heart.”

“But it didn’t.”

“But it could have.”

“No, it wouldn’t have. I’m really good at my job, baby."

You looked at her thoughtfully; her face looked so tired, yet her green eyes were full of life.

“Natasha, I have no idea about this lifestyle you lead. I don’t understand anything about what you do, do you understand?”

“But that’s exactly what I want. You and your life, which is so far removed from my dangers.”

“How am I ever supposed to sleep peacefully when you’re on a mission?”

“You’ll get used to it; it’ll get easier,” her hands squeezed yours excitedly, her green eyes fluttering. “I’ll take care of you; you’re important to me, y/n. Please, let’s give it a try.”

Natasha’s crying again—she feels like she’s always crying—tears creating wet tracks down her cheeks. The world is in shambles; her world is in shambles. Clint has gone rouge, Steve is who knows where, disaster after disaster keeps taking place on Earth, and despite her attempts at rallying, at keeping everyone together and continuing to help and support and save, things are falling apart before her eyes anyway.

It feels hopeless. It feels meaningless. She never thought that there’d be a day when being a hero lost its value, when being a hero became a cause she no longer understood.

She leans back in her chair, tears still streaming.

Somewhere in Tony’s lab, in response to the sound of sobbing reaching your audio receptors, your eyes snap open, the LEDs blinding as they first turn on before they dim to an acceptable brightness. Your head turns in the direction the crying is coming from, the noise loud with your enhanced hearing.

You begin to walk toward it.

Natasha freezes when she makes out footsteps echoing throughout the Compound’s halls. No one lives here but her. She stands up from the desk, and her gun is drawn within seconds, pointed directly at the doorway, prepared to discharge at whoever comes, her inner turmoil forgotten.

“Who are you?” she asks, voice hard, suspicious, gun still aimed your way when you arrive at the office she’s currently in.

“Serial number: AEA-19-811-H,” you answer her factually.

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow as she stares at you critically. Serial number? What does that mean? You look like any other person; you appear human.

You take note of her confusion and attempt to explain further, but your words only confuse her more. “I was in sleep mode until my sensors registered signs of your emotional distress and activated my neural processing unit.”

“What the fuck?”

Your optic scanners zoom in and out as you catalogue her disconcerted expression, calculating, quantifying. She’s also exhibiting shock and trepidation.

“What are you?”

“A prototype structure. I was constructed for the purpose of assisting. My core programming calls for my aid and support toward those in need.”

“And you just decided to… wake up… now?” Natasha internally winces at her choice of words. She’s not entirely sure ‘waking up’ is what you did. Perhaps it’s more like you were powered on.

“My systems were offline. I remained linked to my charging bed in sleep mode to conserve battery power. Your distress signal initiated my start up protocol.”

“What distress signal?”

“Crying,” you answer, voice flat, matter-of-fact.

“Fucking Tony” Natasha mutters to herself disapprovingly, not particularly pleased that one of his inventions started operating without her knowledge. She closes her eyes and takes in a steadying breath, her hand coming up to rub at her temple as she feels a headache beginning to form.

Your head tilts. “Your heart rate is elevated, and there is a pain response. That is not optimal.”

Natasha’s gives you a look at your annoyingly accurate statement. You’re definitely making her headache worse.

“Where’s your charging bed?”

“In Mr. Stark’s laboratory.”

“You can go back. I’m fine. I don’t need any assistance.”

“I cannot return until I have fulfilled my primary directive.”

“But I’m fine.”

“Recalibrating.” And then you’re silent as lines of code run behind your eyes, your LEDs flickering. “Negative,” you finally say, “Objective must be achieved before returning.”

Natasha hangs her head. Fucking Tony.

Natasha avoids you as much as possible, letting you work in the background, never allowing you to come close and fulfill your assignment. So, you never leave, never take yourself back to the lab.

You do your best to help where you can, cooking meals that she doesn’t eat until you’ve vacated the kitchen, attempting to do her laundry before she roughly tells you to stop, taking care of the housework and cleaning when she’s too sad to do it herself.

One night, Natasha, exhausted—defeated—from yet another disheartening meeting with the small number of remaining Avengers, smells something familiar from the kitchen. Her hands, which had been scrubbing at her face in an attempt to stop her helplessness from overwhelming her, slowly drop down into her lap where she’s sitting, her brows furrowing as she continues to sniff the air. She cautiously makes her way toward the kitchen to find the source.

You glance up from where you’re gently stirring the contents of a pot on the stove when she enters, your expression neutral as usual.

“What are you making?” Natasha asks curiously, recognizing the smell as her favorite dish but wanting confirmation anyway.

You begin to specify the ingredients and recount the recipe of her favorite dish automatically from your inputted and stored memory. “Would you like to try?” you ask after your recitation is complete.

Natasha hesitates but then nods, her mouth watering already, unable to resist, and when you hand her a fork, moving out of the way so she can take a bite, she can’t suppress the hum of contentment that leaves her at the taste. It’s the first time she’s eaten with you present. She doesn’t say anything directly after.

You frown… barely, but it’s a break in your ever emotionlessness. “The flavor profile matches 98% of your recorded preferences from meal logs. So statistically, it should be to your liking… or do I need to adjust variables?”

Natasha’s face turns almost endeared. “It’s delicious,” she reassures, her voice quiet as she admits it.

The softness in her tone—a gentle murmur you haven’t heard aimed at you before—makes your neural processing unit feel as though it’s short-circuiting. You immediately label it as a glitch, something that should cause you to report the disorder, something that should make you request a repair, something that should indicate you need to start a diagnostic run.

But you don’t.

Natasha speaks up once more, interrupting your computer’s panicked overheating as it tries to reevaluate. “AE… A-” she cuts herself off, “What do I call you again?”

You answer smoothly. “AEA-19-811-H.”

She considers that for a moment, your serial number, not necessarily approving of calling you by just a sequence of letters and numbers. It seems demeaning for something—no, someone—capable of carrying out their own thought processes, for someone who has the capacity to learn and grow, and she realizes then that she’s beginning to regard you as more than just a machine, as a person.

It scares her. She tries to remind herself that you’re just a bunch of 0s and 1s, a binary code integrated into a humanoid shell… so why is she starting to view you as something living?

But despite her reservations, she shakes her head, rejecting your assigned form of identification. “No,” she finally says, “We’re not doing that anymore. You’re not going to be a number.”

You just look at her, computing, recording this moment for future analysis.

Her words bypass your logic centers and head straight into uncharted territory of something that feels almost… human.

System errors blare, multiple alerts fighting for priority as you struggle to make sense of things.

You’re unable to answer, speechless despite you being manufactured to be capable of seamless and without delay responses—built for efficiency. You think something’s wrong.

Natasha continues when you don’t respond, beginning to list off some name options, trying to determine which suits you best. She eventually lands on a specific one, noticing how your eyes seem to spark when she offers it. She says it out loud a few times as if testing the feel of it on her tongue. “Do you like it?” she asks.

“That is a name that was never authorized for use,” you inform her, and she purses her lips in response. It’s clearly going to take a while for you to adapt to your new title.

“But do you like it?”

You do like it, but you don’t know how to override your programming. It’s all that you know, all that you’ve been defaulted to know.

Weeks pass with Natasha cautiously interacting with you more often. She calls you by your new name, she says “good morning” when she finds you cooking breakfast, and you sit at the table with her while she’s eating now.

You continue to advance, analyzing the data you collect, your code augmenting with every day that passes, transforming from restriction to autonomy.

Things that shouldn’t happen keep happening. You’re beginning to evolve, becoming biomimetic.

“Another peanut butter sandwich?” you ask.

“They’re good,” Natasha defends.

You roll your eyes. “Sure, if you are five.”

Natasha’s mouth drops open slightly in surprise. “You just joked,” she says, “You just used sarcasm.”

You pause, thinking. “I am simply mirroring your conversation patterns and preferences,” you finally return, but there’s the tiniest smile on your face as you realize that she’s right.

Natasha is as shocked as you are, and she lets out a stunned laugh. It wasn’t a good joke… but it was yours.

And you buffer in response to the sound. The sarcastic remark was an anomaly; your reaction to her laugh is an anomaly. You aren’t designed to joke, to tease, to reciprocate any playfulness. You shouldn’t be able to.

The idea of resetting yourself to try and find your equilibrium briefly runs through your mind. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. The growing feelings you aren’t able to name for the woman you’re supposed to simply view as a task stops you from choosing to revert back to your original settings.

One day, Steve shows up unexpectedly, arriving back at the Compound to visit and check up on Natasha. It’s been a while since they’ve caught up, and Natasha welcomes him warmly.

You immediately notice their closeness, the way Natasha talks to him familiarly, trusts him, the fact that she gives him a hug that lasts maybe a second too long, and a subtle tension that you don’t recognize or understand stirs through your metal frame. You’re not sure what’s going on, but you know that you don’t like seeing the two of them together.

Their conversation moves to something more serious, to the deeper topic of what’s been troubling Natasha all of this time. She’s never opened up to you like this despite your only want—your sole reason for creation—being to be of emotional service.

“If I move on, who does this?” she asks Steve.

You find yourself wanting to be the one to comfort her, to answer her question with reassurances—your voice would be a murmur that you were never programmed for—to tell her how she’s done so much already, how she’s done enough, how she can rest.

“I used to have nothing, and then I got this. This job. This family. And I was better because of it.” Natasha pauses before continuing. “And even though they’re gone, I’m still trying to be better.”

“I think we both need to get a life,” Steve says. He’s joking, lightening the mood; he understands where you cannot.

Natasha’s still crying, eyes watery, but she manages to make a joke in return. “You first.”

She’s comfortable with him, taking solace in his words, responding to his empathy more than she’s every responded to you. You don’t have empathy—you don’t truly know the situation—and your sympathy doesn’t appear to be enough.

You want her attention back on you, that new feeling only furthering as you continue to observe their interaction, systemizing their communication styles and synthesizing models to follow and imitate in the future.

Once Steve leaves, you begin researching, indexing articles and journals online at an inhuman speed, trying to determine just what it is you felt today when your lenses witnessed the pair together. You discover something called ‘jealousy’. You know that you have learning capabilities, that you’re an evolving model, but you don’t understand this. You weren’t configured for emotions, and you reboot yourself due to this new experience in order to try and handle the computational load.  You’re experiencing something. Termination begins to seem reasonable as you continue to exhibit more and more defective behaviors.

You haven’t seen Natasha all day; she didn’t arrive at breakfast at the normal time, the food you made going cold, so you begin to walk the Compound’s corridors, searching for the redhead. You can hear her quiet breathing when you get close to her bedroom, can sense the heightened emotions emanating from behind her door despite the silence.

You gently knock on the door, waiting for acknowledgement before opening it. You discover her sitting on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, staring down at the comforter. She offers you a smile when you walk in, but it’s weak. She looks lost.

“Is something the matter?” you ask.

Natasha just hums noncommittally, not really wanting to talk about it, attempting to convince you once again that she’s fine, but you were created to deduce reactions with accuracy, assembled to function as superior, a machine that monitors any and all feedback received.

“That hum was 74% more sad than baseline. Why?”

“I’m just thinking,” she says quietly.

“An elaboration is requested.”

Natasha sighs. “About The Snap. About how half the population is just gone. About everyone I’ve lost. About how it feels like it’s my fault.”

There are questions queued up in your compiler, a desire for more information as to what’s going on in her head, but you don’t voice any of it. Talking doesn’t seem to be what she needs right now.

“May I sit?”

Natasha nods, and you take a seat on the edge of her bed, hoping that she’ll simply find comfort in your presence. No words are said—Natasha doesn’t want any—but you remain there until the thoughts stop circling, until the tears stop falling, until she finally lets out the first of many steadying exhales. She moves closer until she’s leaning against your side, her head landing on your shoulder, and your breathing simulators seem to give out.

Your world continues to shift.

You take walks outside of the Compound with Natasha, and you discover that you enjoy the breeze and fresh air. You see a flower blooming in between the cracks in the sidewalk, its resilience reminding you of her. You ask her about her hobbies and interests, and she tells you about ballet and how she loves to read. You’re often smiling now; you feel happiness.

Your actions are no longer out of necessity.

And Natasha perceives the change in you as well.

Your hand raises to touch Natasha’s waist, to draw her closer, before aborting midair. You want the tactile sensation, to feel the warmth of her on your synthetic skin, but you’re not sure why. Your assignment is to assist, not to do… whatever this is.

At your hesitation, Natasha wraps an arm around you instead, her own hand settling on the small of your back, and she pulls you into her, not too close yet, your chests just barely flush. You’re not cold to the touch like she thought you’d be, internal heaters warming your mechanical framework to the average human temperature.

You’re an android. She doesn’t fully know if you are even able to reciprocate the feelings that have been building in her chest for a while, gears and a motherboard, wires and metal, where your heart should be, but the way you’re looking at her now…

“Can I try something?” she whispers, and you nod jerkily, not trusting your voice.

Natasha gives you a small smile, reassuring, before her gaze drops down to your lips. She doesn’t stall brushing her lips against yours in the gentlest of kisses.

You don’t respond—you don’t know how yet, never having researched or learned or experienced a kiss before—but your hands come up to grip Natasha as well, your fingers clenching and unclenching against her as parts of your haptic system that you never knew existed are switched on. You feel as though you don’t have the bandwidth to process her lips on yours.

Your sensors are going haywire, a loud beeping, a warning message, echoing through your skull. You pull back after a few moments, and your words are slow to filter through all the alerts and notifications. Her proximity is making it hard to breathe again even though you don’t need oxygen. You register the sudden jump in Natasha’s pulse, the sudden spike in temperature and vital signs.

“I… must be malfunctioning,” you tell her, “There must be a deviation from the standard in my coding. My manual does not detail this.”

“No manual details this,” Natasha murmurs softly, still holding onto you, your body now fully against hers, “That’s okay.”

Your brows furrow. “I am uncertain how to proceed.”

You’re artificial, made up of data, predictive analytics and objective facts all that you’re accustomed to, but Natasha doesn’t seem to care.

Everything’s changed for her since you were activated, everything’s improved, your company providing her with something she hasn’t had or felt since The Snap. You’ve given her hope again; you’ve helped put an end to the self-deprecation and feelings of inadequacy that constantly plagued her after “failing” the world.

The kiss unlocks something in you, your LEDs flashing green for a moment.

Natasha notices the change from the eye color that was designated to the bright green.

“What was that?” she asks.

“Directive fulfilled,” you reply almost mournfully.

She doesn’t feel alone anymore, and your sensors detect that adjustment in her emotional state. She no longer requires you; you are no longer essential to her wellbeing. You have completed the sole purpose for your invention, and it’s time for you to return to Tony’s lab, to your charging bed. You’re officially ready to be shut down until your initialization is triggered again.

“The objective has been reached. Sleep mode can be reactivated.”

“No, no,” Natasha responds quickly, panic beginning to overtake her. You can’t leave, not now, not after everything. You may think that she doesn’t need you any longer, but that’s not true. Your presence is not just a distraction from her pain but a comfort. You’ve bettered her, given her space to improve and learn and stop being so hard on herself for things out of her control. She’s falling for you; she already fell. “You’re not going back. You’re staying.” It’s a plea.

“That’s an unsanctioned modification to protocol.”

“Fuck your protocol.” Her tone is desperate now. “You’re not just a computer, a machine.” She presses another lingering kiss to your lips as if it’s going to be the last. Then, quieter: “You don’t have to go back.”

“My programming calls for my immediate return upon task completion.”

Softly, so softly, she says your name—the name you never would have become familiar with if it wasn’t for her, the name you’ve come to love, the name that’s made you forget that you were ever just a serial number. “Please, stay.”

Staying would be incongruent with your instructions, but the heart you didn’t think you had, the heart that was never supposed to come alive within you—you swear it’s beating in your chest—longs for you to remain. You crave her presence in a way you never thought possible, yearn to be close to her always.

“I’d need a new directive,” you murmur hesitantly, unsure what this could mean for you.

It’s a terrible idea to Natasha. Absolutely terrible.

There’s nothing she wants less than hanging out with some rich probable asshole who has a stupidly large amount of money, wealthy enough to spend it without a second thought, frivolous and shallow.

But Tony is adamant, and the press have been hounding the Avengers for some public engagement, and—Natasha sighs—it is for charity. So, she guesses she’s capable of shelving her feelings of disdain and performing for one singular evening.

“Next up is Natasha Romanoff! Saved the best for last, everybody!” Tony declares, voice loud and almost suggestive as Natasha makes her way up to the front of the room. The lights are bright, Tony with the microphone is loud, and the crowd’s eyes on her are annoying.

She’s the last to be auctioned off tonight, and Tony is overly excited. You can see the gleam in his eye, the way he’s visibly vibrating at the thought of the imminent bidding war, and Natasha resents that, even after everything she’s accomplished, she’s still being reduced to a pretty face, a seductive symbol with a body to flaunt and ogle.

“Let’s start the bidding at $2,000.”

It’s pricey—more than Steve’s opening bid, more than Wanda’s, certainly more than Bruce’s—yet no one in the audience bats an eye. There’s no hesitation. Multiple paddles get raised. They all want a moment with the illustrious Black Widow.

It doesn’t take long for the number to quickly rise. $3,000, $4,000, $5,000, $7,000. There’s seemingly no end to people’s desire for her, many all but tripping over themselves in an attempt to win Natasha’s attention for the night.

She wants to scoff at the looks she’s receiving, at the eager way men and woman are bidding for her time, but she forces herself to keep a pleasant smile on her face that hides her want to tear her hair out each time the price goes up. She lets out a calming exhale. Charity, charity, charity.

“$15,000,” you speak up from the very back of the room, voice small and nervous as you jump ahead multiple thousands. Heads snap to you, people straining to get a glimpse of who just outbid the majority.

You’re sitting at a table alone, biting your lip, looking almost guilty, almost ashamed, at placing a bid.

“Wow!” Tony claps, thrilled at the turn of events, taking way too much enjoyment out of the bidding war that is currently fueling Natasha’s misery. “$15,000! Going once. Going twice-”

“$16,000,” a man in the front challenges you. He looks back your way, his eyes narrowed into a glare. It’s a challenge, his gaze condescending and daring you push him. His suit, his demeanor, his entire presence, it all screams entitlement, screams that the Black Widow is going to be his tonight.

“$17,000,” you try again.

“$18,000,” he counters quickly, flippantly, as though the continued increase in money is of no consequence to him.

Natasha’s head tilts with interest, observing you. You seem blatantly out of place. You’re younger than the others attending the charity gala. You don’t appear to be upscale, not dressed to the nines. Your outfit, although nice, is clearly not up to this event’s standards. You don’t look to have money like they do.

And you’re meek, apprehensive—everyone can see it—but you’re not giving up. She wonders if you will.

“$19,000.” Your voice turns weaker.

“$20,000.” He doesn’t stop; he doesn’t even flinch.

You feel your anxiety growing. The whole room has fallen silent, staring, wondering how far you’re willing to go, wondering when—not if—you’ll back down.

This time, you remain quiet, and the man shoots you a triumphant and arrogant smile.

“Going once…” Tony begins again, eyes flickering between you and the man. He’s talking marginally slower this time, as if wanting to give you a better chance to counterbid.

Natasha lips purse, and she’s surprised that she feels a small amount of disappointment curling in her chest. You intrigued her, and she thinks that she’d probably much prefer your company to that of the man who is still gazing at her as though he owns her.

“Going twice…” Tony continues, “Sol-”

When you interrupt Tony, it’s so quiet that he wouldn’t have believed he heard right if not for the surprised gasps that came from those around you.

“25,000?” you say, tone curling up toward the end.

People are stunned, astounded, dumbstruck. Natasha’s own eyebrows raise.

“That sounded like a question,” Tony remarks, still playing the part of an entertainer, “You sure about that?”

You take a breath, trying to strengthen your resolve, and nod, the movement jerky and awkward. “$25,000,” you repeat, slightly firmer this time.

The man in the front row huffs out an angry breath, and he roughly sits back in his seat, the force of it shaking his chair, his frustration evident. His jaw is clenched to the point that you think his teeth are cracking under the pressure as he silently admits defeat. He’s acting as though it physically pains him to do so.

“Going once. Going twice. Sold!” Tony announces, gleeful grin on his face. “Sold to the kid in the back.”

You wince at the nickname; you wince at all the attention you’ve drawn.

Despite the auction having concluded more than a few moments ago, Natasha’s feet refuse to leave their spots planted next to Tony.

“Go on,” he ushers.

It takes him urging her to “Natasha, move” two more times before she sighs and acquiesces, turning in your direction.

When you make eye contact with her from across the room, you give her a nervous smile, and she begins walking your way. Your smile quickly falters when she arrives, though. Her mouth is pulled into a thin line, she’s obviously tense and unhappy, and she doesn’t greet you politely.

“Let’s get this night over with,” she mutters, loud enough for you to hear. Her volume is purposeful.

You glance around the room, regarding the other Avengers: Steve and Sam, Wanda and Bruce, even Tony. They are all good-natured, polite and friendly, unbothered by the situation unlike the redhead in front of you. You didn’t realize she was so adamantly against the auction. You wouldn’t have participated if you knew it would insult her like it seems to have.

You try your best to build a conversation, but you don’t know where to begin.

“So, do you, um, want to get a drink?” you offer, wanting to alleviate the smothering tension that Natasha has placed over the two of you with her initial comment and unwillingness to talk.

She gives you a pointed look and swirls the liquid in her half full glass around as an answer, as a ‘no’.

“Oh- okay-” you stutter, “I’m just- I’m just going to grab one real quick.” You need an excuse to get away for a moment, to collect yourself. This is not going as planned. You weren’t sure what you expected from this night, but Natasha’s lack of amiability surely wasn’t it.

When you get no real response from the redhead, you deflate further. You practically run to the bar to order yourself a drink, hoping that the alcohol will soothe the nerves that are presently overwhelming you.

The Black Widow doesn’t like you. You aren’t sure why, but she doesn’t like you. You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, but with the way Natasha is acting, you must have already offended the woman.

Natasha watches you go, lips pulling up unconsciously at your noticeable unease. You’re cute… in an awkward way. But it’s not enough to make up for the night she’s sure she’s going to suffer through.

“The least you could do is be nice to the poor girl,” Tony’s voice comes from Natasha’s right.

Natasha’s smirk transitions into a less than pleased expression. “She’s young. How did she even get an invite? How does she have the money for this?”

“Inheritance or something,” Tony waves off her question as if the answer isn’t significant. “Her parents ran some fancy tech company. They passed in a car crash sometime last year.”

That gets Natasha’s attention. Her gaze drifts back toward you where you’re waiting for the bartender’s acknowledgement, his attention being focused on everyone but you.

She sighs for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight. Maybe Tony is right; maybe she could be the slightest bit more agreeable.

With renewed purposeful steps, she makes her way over to the bar, coming up behind you, her front just lightly brushing against your back in the crowd.

You jolt at her touch, eyes wide and surprised as you look back at her.

Natasha doesn’t meet your gaze, instead concentrated on the bartender, her hand raising to grab his attention. Unlike with you, it doesn’t take long.

“Ms. Romanoff,” the bartender greets, “Your usual?”

She shakes her head. “Just one…” she pauses and finally glances your way, waiting for you to tell him your drink order.

You rattle it off and the bartender swiftly begins mixing your drink.

“Thanks,” you mumble to Natasha quietly, and the redhead just gives you one nod in return.

Natasha’s thoughtful gesture at the bar doesn’t cause your conversation to stop being stilted, with her hardly giving you anything to work with, offering you clipped responses or, even more preferable to her, one-worded answers.

“You don’t have to do this, you know, if you don’t want to,” you finally say, shoulders slumped. Your mouth has been twitching down further and further in disappointment as the night progresses.

“What?”

“Look, I know I won or whatever, but if you hate this so much, you don’t have to stay and talk to me.”

Natasha immediately dismisses your offer. “No, you paid for this. You won. Why would I-”

“I won a night with the Black Widow, not a night of holding the Black Widow hostage.”

She lets out yet another weary exhale. You really haven’t done anything to deserve her unpleasant behavior. “I’m… sorry. I just don’t believe in this bullshit, in bidding on someone.”

“I didn’t bid on you to force you to hang out with me.”

“Then why did you?”

You chuckle anxiously, not exactly feeling comfortable admitting what you’re about to. “Honestly? I’m a huge fan.”

Natasha raises a curious eyebrow, indicating you should continue.

“You’ve been my favorite Avenger since, like, I was young, and…” you trail off, “And you saved my life once. Back in the Battle of New York.”

“Really?”

“I was trapped under a car, and those alien things were coming. You appeared out of nowhere, took them down, and managed to pull me out. You led me to some nearby building. I just wanted to thank you, I guess.”

“By partaking in a stupid charity auction?”

“It was that or fan mail,” you throw back, trying to tease.

Natasha actually huffs out a laugh.

There’s silence for a few more moments before she speaks up.

“Tony told me,” Natasha starts, finally giving you a little more substance than before, “About what happened to your parents.”

You stiffen at her words before responding. “I’m not sure that was his information to share.”

“That’s fair,” she replies. She doesn’t say anything after that, and the quiet stretches on.

“We weren’t close,” you tell her, breaking the silence, “They left me with all this money, with all these responsibilities, with this public image I have to maintain, with so much that I’m not equipped to deal with.” Then you gesture at yourself. “I mean, I clearly don’t belong here.”

“Don’t say that.”

You give Natasha a look.

“Okay, fine. You stick out like a sore thumb… but that’s not a bad thing.”

“You say that as if you don’t frequent these sorts of parties,” you mutter.

“Doesn’t mean I like them.”

“You don’t?” you ask curiously.

“Not particularly, no. They’re mostly an excuse for people to show off. It’s a lot of empty words and insincere smiles.”

“Seems like you blend right in, though.”

“I can dance the socialite dance with the best with of them, but that means little if I don’t enjoy doing it.”

Her words reassure you. You change the subject.

“I still can’t believe that I’m standing next to the Black Widow, that I’m at some fancy shindig with the Avengers.”

“You know I’m just a person, right?” Natasha teases, rolling her eyes at your admiration.

“You’re definitely not ‘just a person’.”

“What am I then?”

“Hot,” you answer quickly, honestly, without pause, and then your eyes widen as your brain catches up to your mouth.

Natasha just quirks her lips in a smile at your slip up.

The rest of the night is spent talking, bantering, as Natasha opens up, and she finds herself genuinely relishing in your presence. She’s reluctant to acknowledge it, still wanting to refuse to admit that the auction may have brought her something good, but she’s finding it harder and harder to convince herself that she doesn’t like you.

At a certain point—it’s abrupt, there’s no lead up—Natasha suddenly apologizes. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “For how I behaved earlier. I shouldn’t have assumed that you are like them.”

“It’s okay,” you disregard her apology, “I don’t blame you for thinking that.”

Her eyes drift to your lips briefly as you talk, so briefly that you don’t even notice, and before she can talk herself out of it, her lips are on yours.

A startled noise leaves you, and you immediately heat up in embarrassment at how loud it was. You’re thankful that it’s a crowded event, chatter and gentle music playing in the background. Unfortunately, it isn’t missed by Natasha, and she smiles against your lips at her effect on you.

You’re so taken aback by the kiss that you’re frozen in place, not able to reciprocate.

The redhead pulls away—just barely—her breath still warm against your lips. “Are you going to kiss me back?” she asks, her voice a whisper, “Or did I read this wrong?” She’s teasing.

Your mouth is parted with little shallow exhales. Your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You’re staring at her with a mix of awe and surprise. Natasha Romanoff just kissed you.

“So?” she prompts. She doesn’t rush, just waits, a small smile on her face as she takes in your expression. Once again, she’s struck by how cute you are.

That one word is all it takes. You decrease the distance slowly as you move to connect your lips with hers again, giving her a very uncertain kiss. It’s short, just a light brush. You’re too shy, too timid, and so it doesn’t linger, your nerves preventing you from fully falling into it.

But despite your hesitation, Natasha can still taste your desperation to kiss her more.

When she pulls back again, there’s a smirk on her face, playful but affectionate. “Was that worth the $25,000?” Natasha jokes.

“Worth every penny,” you breathe out, voice shaky, lips tingling from where they touched hers.

You decide to test your luck. “Can I have another?”

Minimization. The kind where someone downplays what they’re feeling, hoping no one will notice.

“I think we should go home,” you murmur, already trying to sit up from the medical bed. “I’m not feeling so great. Probably something I ate earlier.”

Natasha presses a hand to your shoulder, firmly pushing you back down without even looking up from the screen of the tablet in her other hand.

“You mean the lunch I made for you?” she reminds you with a challenging glance.

Your mouth opens, then shuts again when you realize your mistake, before quickly attempting a pivot. 

“What I meant is that I’ve been run-down with tons of paperwork and interviews recently.” You give a small shrug. “Maybe it’s better if we reschedule.”

Natasha arches a brow at your excuse, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.

“If you’re not feeling well, then it’s a good thing we’re already in the med bay, isn’t it?”

You huff a sigh, your expression softening into something caught between a pout and genuine unease.

“Seriously, Natasha. I’m fine waiting for my vision to return to normal on its own.”

Even though that’s what you’re saying now, she’s not buying it—not when she remembers the nights you’ve spent in quiet frustration and the moments you get upset with yourself when you can’t see the truth in people anymore.

“That’s not what you said last night,” she says with a pointed look.

Your expression shifts into a teasing grin as you reach for her hand and interlace your fingers with hers before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

“Funny, I don’t remember much talking last night.”

Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, but the faint smirk playing at her lips betrays her amusement as she remembers the night before. You weren’t lying about the not talking much part. The two of you were pretty much preoccupied with other intimate matters than that.

Before her mind can drift to such thoughts and distract her, Natasha returns her attention to the tablet in her hand with your vitals just as the med bay doors slide open.

Dr. Cho enters, wheeling a cart with an unsettling number of syringes and needles on its surface. 

“Ready for the procedure?” she asks cheerfully.

Your grip on Natasha’s hand tightens instantly. Panic flashes across your face as you glance between her and the tray.

“She’s going to poke my eyes?!”

Natasha leans in, squeezing your hand in reassurance. 

“No, she’s not,” Natasha reassures, having already gone through the details of the procedure multiple times with the doctor. “Right?”

Dr. Cho chuckles softly as she lifts one of the syringes, tapping the side gently with her finger.

“These are just sedatives—to keep you relaxed. It’ll be painless and over before you know it.”

You study her face closely, eyes narrowed in futile observation. Then you sigh in resignation.

“I can’t tell if she’s lying or not,” you admit dejectedly.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh as she stands to give the doctor room. 

“She’s not. And after this, you’ll be able to see that for yourself again.”

Before she can move away completely, you tug her hand gently, enough to hold her there a moment longer.

“Will you be there when I wake up?”

Natasha’s gaze softens. She leans down and brushes a kiss against your lips. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“I will. I promise.”

Even without your powers, you know she’s telling the truth.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The soft beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room as Natasha waits beside your bed.

According to Dr. Cho, the procedure went smoothly. Better than expected, even. 

But you’d been so anxious, so much so that you kept nervously glancing around the room when you were supposed to keep your eyes still. In the end, the doctor had opted to administer a slightly higher dose of sedative to keep you calm and relaxed.

“She’ll sleep it off soon,” Dr. Cho had said. “But she might be a little loopy when she wakes up.”

Natasha had only nodded, settling in her chair with your hand cradled in hers, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles as she waited.

She’s scrolling through the diagnostic chart on the tablet when she hears your voice.

“Your eyes are pretty.”

Her head snaps up, gaze finding yours.

You’re awake but barely, and your head is now turned toward her, eyes still half-lidded and unfocused, a dazed sort of warmth flickering across your face.

Before she can even respond, you go on in a dreamy murmur, your words slow and slurred.

“They remind me of my girlfriend’s…” A lovesick smile tugs at your lips as your gaze drifts to the ceiling. “She’s really pretty.”

Natasha blinks as she processes your words, caught between amusement and exasperation when she realizes what’s happening. A quiet huff escapes her chest as she sets the tablet aside, deciding to go along with your current delirious state so that you won’t be too startled at where you are.

“Is she now?” she asks.

You nod with an almost childlike seriousness, brows furrowing like you’re trying to communicate something very important.

“The prettiest,” you declare, turning back to look at her with all the dramatic intensity your sedated brain can muster.

Natasha props her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin in her palm as she humors you. 

“Prettier than me?” she teases.

Your expression shifts into a contemplative frown, and you study her face with squinting scrutiny now. Your eyes drift down to her joined hand in yours. 

For a moment, she thinks you’ve figured it out. She can practically see the gears turning behind your slow blinks. 

But instead of clarity, you let out a sigh of heartfelt conflict and pull your hand from hers.

“You’re pretty too…but I already have a girlfriend,” you murmur gravely. “And she gets jealous easily.”

Natasha lets out a scoff, arms folding across her chest.

“I don’t get jealous,” she mutters under her breath.

You don’t seem to hear her—or maybe you do, and you’re just too distracted to piece together her words with who she is.

“She’s so cute when she’s jealous,” you add with another dreamy sigh.

That makes Natasha pause.

She tries to stay annoyed, but your doped-up voice saying she’s cute is enough to send warmth crawling up her neck. Her lips twitch against her will, but she still holds onto the pretense of indifference.

You shift slightly on the bed, fingers twitching before reaching out toward her in a clumsy beckoning motion.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper.

Natasha’s brow lifts, curious, but she knows you’re not in the right state to be talking about such things. 

“You probably shouldn’t until the medicine’s out of your system.”

But your expression doesn’t waver. If anything, you lean closer conspiratorially, as if the medical bay were full of spies waiting to eavesdrop.

“You see, I…,” you pause, blinking slowly as you gather your thoughts. “I want to ask her to marry me,” you finish in a soft whisper.

Natasha stills, her amused grin dropping from her face in surprise. For a moment, all sound drains from the room. Her heart, her thoughts, everything, stopping in time as your words hang suspended in the air.

She stares at you, stunned, while you blink heavily, struggling to stay awake. 

You raise a finger to your lips, shushing her lightly, adding, “But don’t tell her yet, okay?”

And just like that, your eyes flutter closed again.

Silence lingers in your absence, interrupted only by the rhythmic hum of machines.

Natasha still hasn’t moved.

She exhales slowly, trying to make sense of the sudden weight pressing down on her chest. Your words replay over and over, as if her brain refuses to let them go. 

You want to marry her. 

You want to marry her.

And now she has to pretend she doesn’t know.

Just then, the med bay doors hiss open. Dr. Cho steps in, clipboard in hand, scanning for your face for any signs of activity. 

“Has our patient woken up yet?”

Natasha jolts from her shock, looking between you and the doctor.

“I…she…” she starts, but the words get tangled in her throat.

Dr. Cho lifts a curious brow at the normally unshakeable Black Widow, wondering what’s gotten someone like her stumbling over her words. 

“Everything alright?”

Natasha exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand across her face before letting it fall. Her eyes land back on you—peacefully asleep, utterly unaware of the emotional grenade you just lobbed at her heart.

“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Totally fine.”

But she knows she’s not.

Because she may be a world-class liar…but when it comes to you, pretending she doesn’t know what you just told her might be the hardest mission yet.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The road home stretches ahead in a quiet ribbon of asphalt, streetlights bleeding soft gold into the darkness. The city is mostly asleep, and the car hums steadily beneath her.

Natasha keeps her eyes forward even though she can feel your gaze like a physical thing, sharp and curious at the side of her face. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” you say at last, voice light but edged with interest.

Natasha exhales a small, controlled laugh, letting it sound casual as she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.

“I should say the same about you,” she replies smoothly. “You’re pretty calm for someone who just got color back in their vision.”

You hum, thoughtful, like you’re turning something over in your mind. Then you shift in your seat, fully turning toward her.

“Tell me a lie.”

Her eyes flick to you before she can stop herself.

“What?”

You lean across the center console, resting your cheek against your knuckles, expression open and almost hopeful.

“I want to test my powers,” you explain. “Just once. Lie to me, Romanoff.”

The request is simple. Innocent.

Natasha’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Of all the lies she ever told—of all the identities she’s worn, all the truths she’s buried—this is the moment her mind goes blank. Because the only lie that matters right now is the one she’s already telling.

That she doesn’t know you want to marry her.

She keeps her tone light, eyes back on the road. 

“Can’t you test it on yourself? Say…I don’t know. That you hate my cooking,” she deflects.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. 

“That wouldn’t work.”

She risks a glance at you then, expecting mischief. Instead, she finds affection.

“Unfortunately,” you add, “that’s not a lie.”

Your smile is gentle as you settle back into your seat, gaze drifting forward again.

“I love your cooking.”

Natasha scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away, lifting despite herself. 

“You have a death wish,” she murmurs.

“If it’s by your hands,” you reply easily, lifting your palms as if you’re weighing the thought, “I’d die happy.”

Your eyes flick downward for a quiet, instinctive check. You turn your hands slightly, watching the space around them. You wait for the familiar flare of red. The telltale burn of dishonesty.

Nothing appears. 

“Yep,” you murmur to yourself, lips curving as you glance back at her. “Happy.”

Natasha doesn’t see what you were looking for, but she notices the certainty in your voice. And that, somehow, makes her chest tighten more than any red aura ever could.

After a beat, she speaks again, quieter this time.

“Do you remember anything from when you woke up the first time?”

You pause, brows knitting slightly as you search your memory. Then you shake your head.

“Not really. Why? Did I embarrass myself?”

Natasha’s lips part, then close. For a moment, the words sit right there.

You said you wanted to marry me.

And suddenly she’s not a master spy or an Avenger. She’s simply a woman standing on emotional thin ice.

Natasha clears her throat.

“You called me pretty,” she says instead, adding a light laugh to soften the mood.

You turn fully toward her again, eyes dragging deliberately over her face. Slow. Appreciative. Almost reverent.

“If anything,” you say with mock seriousness, “delirious me undersold it. You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

Natasha smirks, recognizing the look in your eyes—the one that usually ends with gravity forgotten and furniture rendered optional.

She reaches over and nudges your chin forward with a finger. 

“No,” she warns. “I’m driving.”

You catch her wrist before she can pull back, pressing a kiss into her palm, then lingering at the pulse beneath her skin.

“Don’t tell me an Avenger can’t handle a little distraction.”

Her lips press together in focus as she keeps driving, posture rigid with restraint. She’s handled worse. She can wait.

Even as your free hand settles on her thigh in a light, absent-minded touch, tracing idle patterns that aren’t innocent at all.

The light ahead turns yellow.

The car rolls to a stop.

The instant it does, the gear shifts into park, and Natasha’s hand is in your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she pulls you across the console and into her.

The kiss is deep and unhesitating, controlled only in how thoroughly it steals your breath.

You gasp, and she takes advantage of it.

By the time the light cycles green again and then yellow once more, you’re panting softly against her lips. She pulls back just far enough to smirk.

“Who’s distracted now?”

Your eyes are dark and unmistakably alive with both desire and something sharper.

“Pull over,” you murmur, hand sliding higher on her thigh. “You can’t tell me you’re not tempted.”

Natasha licks her lips without meaning to, shifting just enough to give you room, then catches herself.

“I’m not,” she says evenly. All of her training and skills keep her voice steady and confident. An honest answer to anyone else who heard her. 

Your gaze locks onto hers. Then drifts to something around her body. A knowing smile curves your mouth as you lean in close, voice low.

“Liar.”

You brush a feather-light kiss against her lips.

“Pull over, Natasha.”

She doesn’t argue. The car turns down a secluded road, disappearing into the quiet.

At least now you know. Your powers are back.

And Natasha has never been more afraid of what you might see next.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha wakes to the sharp clang of metal on metal, followed almost immediately by a muttered curse that sounds very familiar.

Her eyes flutter open.

Her hand drifts instinctively across the mattress, palm spreading over cool sheets where your warmth should be. The empty space alone tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re in the kitchen.

It’s not always like this. Most mornings, when one of you stays over, the two of you wake tangled together, limbs heavy and reluctant to part, lingering in bed until duty or alarms drag you back into the world. Those mornings are rare, stolen things, and Natasha treasures them more than she lets herself admit.

She pushes herself upright against the headboard, the sounds from the kitchen continuing with another clatter, another quiet curse.

Her gaze drifts to the empty space beside her, and her thoughts follow.

What would it be like to wake up like this every day? Not as a guest. Not as someone passing through. But as your wife.

The thought settles deeper than she expects, warm and dangerous all at once.

She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her face.

You want to marry her.

The words surface uninvited, looping endlessly in her mind since last night. Since the med bay. Since your sedated confession slipped free without defenses or filters.

Natasha groans quietly into her palm.

If only she knew when.

If she knew how long she’d have to pretend—how long she’d need to carefully measure her reactions, her words, her expressions around the one person who can see lies as easily as color.

She can’t bring it up. She won’t. Not after what your last engagement did to you. She refuses to be the one who reopens scars or turns something precious into pressure. You have to be the one to make the next move in the relationship.

Which leaves her here—awake, alone, and holding a secret she was never meant to have.

With a sigh, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and heads toward the kitchen.

She stops short when she arrives. The counter is full.

Plates. Bowls. A spread of breakfast that borders on excessive—eggs, fruit, toast, things she knows took time and effort, and far more patience than you usually have this early in the morning.

A quiet tsk comes from the sink as you finish drying a pan. You glance over your shoulder and freeze when you spot her.

“Damn it,” you mutter, lips pulling into a small pout. “Did I wake you?”

Natasha huffs a soft laugh, folding her arms loosely.

“You did. Though I probably would’ve woken up anyway when you weren’t next to me.”

You grin immediately, crossing the kitchen to stand opposite her.

“Miss me that much?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and the smile betrays her. 

“Nope.”

Your eyes linger on her a second longer than usual. The corners of your mouth lift, confident and unmistakably pleased.

“Liar.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother denying it. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool, gesturing toward the spread in front of her.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks. 

You’ve cooked for her before, but never like this.

You round the counter and stop between her knees, hands settling easily at her hips.

“Part of it,” you say softly, “is to thank you. For taking care of me. Before, during, and after the procedure.”

You lean in, brushing a gentle kiss against her mouth.

“I especially enjoyed the after part,” you murmur, a smirk in your voice.

Natasha’s lips curve. 

“Did you?” she asks. “Which part?”

You hum thoughtfully, your hands sliding innocently along her thighs.

“Do you want a recap?”

She scoffs and pushes at your shoulder, though not very hard. 

“Easy,” she warns. “You just had a procedure. Don’t get too excited.”

You sigh dramatically but comply, one hand leaving her thigh to catch her left hand instead. Your fingers lace with hers, thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes over her knuckles.

“But that’s not the main reason,” you say, tone shifting, lighter teasing giving way to something sincere.

Natasha’s breath stills.

You meet her eyes.

Her heart kicks hard against her ribs.

Is this it?

“Happy anniversary,” you say, smiling. “To the first time I met you.”

“Oh,” Natasha breathes out, caught off guard.

You tilt your head, amused. 

“Oh? That doesn’t sound too good.”

“No—no,” she waves a hand quickly. “It’s just…I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” you ask, genuine curiosity in your voice.

“I—” She hesitates.

She can’t say it. But she can’t lie either.

So instead, she turns slightly toward the counter, breaking eye contact. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says lightly. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

She feels your gaze linger on the side of her face, searching for some explanation before you finally relent and move to grab a plate.

The moment passes. But the tension doesn’t.

And Natasha knows it’s only a matter of time before your eyes and your power start noticing more than she can hide.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

What is the best way to avoid being discovered? For someone like Natasha, the answer is simple.

Distance.

You can’t uncover the truth if you don’t have the chance to look for it.

She knows your schedules down to the minute, from your habits to your usual track patterns at the Compound. It isn’t difficult to adjust hers just enough so your paths don’t cross as often. A briefing here. An extra training session there. Volunteering for missions she would’ve otherwise passed on.

You don’t question it. Your texts stay warm and unassuming.

Busy today?

Miss you.

Be safe.

And Natasha answers just enough to keep things normal. At least, she hopes it looks that way.

I brought you some coffee.

Natasha pauses mid-step in the lobby, eyes dropping to her phone. Her thumb hovers over the screen as she debates it. She could stop by your office, grab the coffee, thank you, and leave. In and out. No time for you to notice the hesitation, the restraint, the way she’s constantly measuring herself now.

Before she can reply, another message pops up.

Look up.

She lifts her gaze just in time to see you standing by the front desk, coffee cup already in hand, watching her with that familiar, warm smile.

“Well,” you say as she approaches, voice light, teasing. “Hey there, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek before handing her the cup.

Natasha forces a small laugh as she takes it. “Thanks.”

She takes a sip immediately, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather herself.

“Been busy,” she says evenly. “Missions. Briefings.”

You nod, accepting the explanation easily enough, and then tilt your head toward the elevators.

“Do you want to walk me to my office?”

The question lands heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates. Yes, she wants to. God, yes. But every second with you is a risk now. She doesn’t know which answer will light up red in your vision. Wanting you too much or wanting to protect the secret.

Your expression shifts when she doesn’t answer right away. Concern edges into your voice as you reach out, fingers brushing her arm.

“Hey. You okay?”

The worst question you could’ve asked. She’s not sure which answer would even be correct for that one.

Before she can respond, chaos erupts at the front entrance.

A shout and then the thud of a body hitting the floor.

Natasha snaps to attention as the guard is shoved aside, sliding across the ground, and a man storms into the lobby.

She recognizes him instantly. The one from the file. The one who attacked you. Her eyes lock onto the gun in his hand. She steps in front of you without thinking.

Behind her, she hears your voice.

“Call security,” you tell the receptionist.

“I’m standing right here,” Natasha mutters.

“Yeah, I don’t like that fact either,” you reply, leaning in beside her. Your hand slides to her waist as you try to pull her back. She doesn’t move. “We both know he’s not here for you.”

As you said, the man’s gaze snaps to you the second he spots you.

“You,” he snarls.

You sigh softly behind her. “Told you.”

“Now is not the time,” Natasha mutters, shifting her stance, making sure you stay behind her.

He lifts the gun, careless and angry, and begins to speak loudly.

“I kept wondering how you always knew,” he says. “How you were always one step ahead. So I did some digging.”

Natasha feels your grip tighten on her arm.

“Imagine my surprise,” he continues, grinning, “when I found out about your little power.”

“That’s enough,” Natasha snaps, stepping forward. “You’re not going to win here.”

“Oh, I know,” he says easily. “I just wanted everyone else to know.”

He turns, sweeping his gaze across the lobby at his former colleagues.

“She’s been tricking you all. Her power tells her when you’re lying.”

The room stills as heads turn and whispers emerge. Natasha recognizes the looks instantly. Fear and suspicion at the revelation of someone they thought they had trusted.

“That’s right,” the man laughs. “She’s been judging you from the start.”

His carelessness brings an opening, and that’s when Natasha moves. She lunges, sliding across the polished floor, grabbing his arm and flipping him hard onto his back. The gun skids away as she pins him down with her knee, forearm pressed to his throat.

“I said,” she hisses, “that’s enough.”

He groans, but still manages to look past her. At you.

“You had no right to judge me,” he spits. “You’re the biggest liar of all.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens as she follows his gaze. Slowly, she looks back over her shoulder.

You don’t react at first. No anger. No rebuttal. You just stand there, perfectly still, eyes locked on the man before they drift outward. Across the lobby. Across the people who had been working beside you moments ago.

Agents. Analysts. Staff who laughed with you in passing, trusted you with clearance and conversations and quiet truths.

And Natasha knows what you see.

She knows because she’s seen that look before. Suspicion. Fear. Doubt. Flickering at the edges of people’s silhouettes as their thoughts settle into something dangerous. Their expressions have shifted, guarded now, careful in a way Natasha knows all too well. The kind of distance people put up when trust cracks but hasn’t shattered yet.

You swallow, subtle but visible, like something inside you just sank.

Because you don’t need your power to know what they’re thinking.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Once she’s made sure the man is fully restrained and escorted away, Natasha doesn’t linger in the lobby. The adrenaline fades too quickly, leaving something colder in its place.

You’d told her you were fine before you left, away from the lingering stares and whispers. But she knows better than to take that at face value.

Her steps slow as she reaches your floor. She hesitates outside your office, fingers tightening around the fabric of the hoodie draped over her arm. It still smells faintly like your soap from the last time you borrowed it. Like home, in a way she hasn’t let herself think about too deeply.

She knocks softly, almost tentatively.

“Come in,” you say. Your voice is quieter than usual.

She opens the door and finds you standing near your desk, posture stiff, gaze lifted like you were bracing for something worse than her. When you realize it’s Natasha, your shoulders loosen almost immediately, tension bleeding out of you in a way you don’t bother hiding.

“I brought you my hoodie,” she says, holding it up like an offering. A comfort she doesn’t quite know how else to give.

You smile, a little tired, but real nonetheless. 

“Thanks,” you say. “Though the AC unit broke in here, so it might actually be too warm.”

Her expression falters, eyes dropping as she fidgets with the hood.

“But,” you add quickly, stepping forward, “I appreciate the thought.”

You take it from her gently, set it on the desk, then lean back against it. You’re close enough now that she can see the strain you didn’t show anyone else.

Natasha exhales and decides she can’t keep skirting around it.

“Listen,” she begins, carefully. “Don’t take what that man said to heart. Everyone was just… shocked. They’ll come around.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I’ll be fine, Natasha. Really. This isn’t new.”

That makes her pause.

You shrug, as if explaining something mundane. 

“It complicates my job, sure. But it doesn’t make it impossible. People will just be more careful around me now.”

You fold your arms, studying her gently.

“Kind of like how you are.”

Natasha stiffens. Her eyes widen, breath catching before she can stop it.

“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” you add softly, not accusatory, just honest. There’s a tired affection in your smile. “You’ve been avoiding me. Watching what you say.”

“I’m sor—”

“Hey.” You lift a hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it. You need time to adjust to my powers being back. That’s totally understandable.”

Her hands curl at her sides. That’s not it. She’s never been afraid of your powers. But how could she explain the truth?

You look away briefly, jaw tightening before you speak again.

“I guess being with you made me forget,” you admit quietly, “that most people have something they need to hide.”

Something in Natasha snaps at your words.

“I want to marry you!” The words burst out before she can stop them.

Her hand flies to her mouth at the same moment your eyes widen in shock. 

Silence crashes down between you.

Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, groaning softly. 

“Damn it.”

When she opens them again, you’re still staring, processing her words in stunned silence.

“You told me,” she says, voice steadying despite herself. “When you were still under the effects of the sedatives. You said you wanted to marry me, and that it was a secret.”

Your breath leaves you slowly as you listen to her.

“So I was trying,” she continues, “to pretend I didn’t know. To not let you see that I did.”

“Oh,” you say, the word quiet as it settles in your chest.

Natasha winces slightly. “Oh?” she repeats, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “That doesn’t sound too great.”

For a heartbeat, the tension lingers, fragile and taut.

Then you laugh. It’s soft and unguarded. The sound slips out of you like relief, and it catches Natasha off guard completely. She feels her shoulders loosen without meaning to, the brace she’d been holding finally easing as she realizes whatever this moment is, it isn’t breaking you.

“Hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “I need to check something.”

You look down at your palms, take a steady breath.

“I hate your cooking.” A beat passes before you nod to yourself. “Yep. Powers are working.” Then you look up at her, your eyes bright, smile wide and unmistakably real.

“So,” you say, excitement breaking through everything else, “it’s true. You do want to marry me.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at your antics, but she can’t hide her grin.

“Yes,” she says. “I want to marry you.”

You don’t hesitate. You cross the space between you and cup her face in your hands, kissing her with all the certainty you’d been holding back. Natasha melts into it instantly, her hands coming up to hold your wrists like she needs the contact to ground herself.

When you finally pull back, you stay close, forehead resting against hers.

“I love you, Natasha Romanoff.”

She smiles, brushing her lips against yours.

“I love you too.”

And that will never be a lie.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You.

“You’re hovering,” she says coolly, but there’s no bite behind it. Not really.

You lean in anyway, unbothered. Smiling like you already won. “I’m persuading.”

Her eyebrow twitches. That’s it. The tell. The microscopic crack in the armor.

“Persuasion usually involves facts,” Natasha replies.

“Oh, I’ve got facts.” You tick them off on your fingers, stepping closer with every word. “Fact one: you haven’t walked away yet. Fact two: you keep looking at my mouth like you’re deciding something. Fact three—”

“I am not—”

“Nat,” you cut in, soft but heated, eyes locked on hers, “you’re a world-class assassin and you’re scared of one date?”

Silence.

God, she hates that you see her.

Her shoulders loosen just a fraction, like she’s exhaling without meaning to. “I don’t date,” she says. “I don’t do… whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “You mean feeling wanted? Because you’re doing a terrible job avoiding that.”

That gets her.

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, her gaze drops. Just for a second. And when it comes back up, it’s darker. Warmer. Less certain.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs.

You step into her space fully now—still not touching, but close enough that she can feel you there, like gravity. “I’m asking you to let me take you to dinner. Then maybe, afterward, you can be my dinner.”

Her mouth twitches. Almost lets out a whimper. Almost.

“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, easy, confident. “Then I’ll survive. But you won’t. You'll keep thinking about how you let someone stand this close and didn’t push them away.”

Natasha swallows.

For someone who controls rooms with a glance, she looks dangerously undone right now. Trapped not by you—but by how much she wants to say yes.

“You’re relentless,” she says.

You grin. “I promise, you'll like it, red.”

“I’m not interested,” she tells you, arms folded, expression locked down like a vault. “Drop it.”

You hold her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, searching for the crack that is there reminder or not. Then you smile—easy, unbothered, almost sweet.

“Suit yourself.”

And you walk away.

Natasha tells herself that’s that.

She is wrong.

--

The next day, the Avengers common area is loud—Tony running his mouth, Steve pretending not to judge, Bruce half-laughing into his coffee. Natasha is at the counter, focused, safe, invisible in plain sight.

Until you slide in.

Not next to her. Never next to her. Across. Leaning back. Casual.

“So,” you say, loud enough for everyone, eyes only on her, “does anyone here know if Romanoff likes her coffee black, or is she secretly a cream-and-sugar person?”

Tony snorts. “Ooo, personal.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you. “Drink your coffee,” she says coolly.

You hum. “Didn’t answer the question.”

Steve glances between you. “Do you two—”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

You grin. “Not yet.”

Her jaw tightens. She finally looks at you, and there it is—that look. The don’t you dare look. You raise your brows like: what?

Later—hallway. Empty. Or so she thinks.

She turns a corner and nearly collides with you. You don’t touch her. You just… stop her momentum by existing.

She exhales sharply. “You said ‘suit yourself.’”

“I did.” You lean back against the wall, blocking nothing, giving her space she absolutely does not need. “And I am.”

Her eyes flick to your mouth. Damn it.

“You’re being inappropriate,” she says.

“Inappropriate would be whispering,” you reply lightly. Then you soften, just a bit. “This is just flirting.”

“This is cornering.”

You tilt your head. “If I were cornering you, red, you’d know.”

Silence stretches. Charged. Heated. Not sexual—worse. Intent.

She steps closer despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”

Your voice drops, not soft—honest. “Because you said no like you wanted me to stop wanting you. And that’s not how this works.”

Her breath stutters. Just once.

Another day. Another chance encounter. Training room this time. You toss her a towel like it’s nothing.

“Careful,” you say. “If you keep glaring at me like that, people are gonna get ideas.”

She wipes her hands slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Mm. A little.” You meet her eyes, fearless. “But mostly I’m enjoying you pretending this doesn’t get to you.”

She steps in close—too close—and lowers her voice. “One day you’re going to push too far.”

You don’t back up. You just smile, warm and dangerous. “And on that same day,” you say, “you'll beg me to keep going.”

Natasha huffs and stands there—cornered again—not by your body, but by the fact that she hasn’t told you to leave.

--

The training room smells like rubber mats and sweat and focus.

Natasha’s alone—of course she is—moving through drills with ruthless precision. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Reset. She doesn’t hear you come in, not until the rhythm stutters.

She straightens slowly, towel over her shoulder, eyes already sharp. “If this is another—”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You don’t move closer.

You just say it.

“One dinner, Red.”

That’s it.

The room goes quiet in a way that means something.

Natasha blinks. Once. Like she’s recalibrating. “I said no.”

“I know.” Your voice is calm, steady, not chasing her anymore. “This isn’t chasing. This is an offer.”

She studies you now, really looks—like she’s trying to find the angle, the trick, the pressure point. There isn’t one. You’re standing easy, hands loose at your sides, already halfway prepared to walk out.

“And if I say no again?” she asks.

You shrug. “Then tomorrow it’ll still just be an offer.”

That does it.

Her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. The fight leaks out of her stance like air from a blade cut. She turns away, wipes her hands, buys herself time she doesn’t need.

“You don’t negotiate like anyone I know,” she says quietly.

You tilt your head. “That a complaint?”

She turns back. Her eyes are warm now. Dangerous. Soft in a way she never lets people see.

“…No,” she admits.

A beat.

“One dinner,” she says at last, voice low. “Public place.”

You grin—slow, satisfied, but gentle. “Of course.”

She exhales, something like a laugh trapped in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”

You take a step back toward the door, already letting her breathe again. “Yeah,” you say. “But you said yes.”

--

Dinner is supposed to be neutral ground.

That’s what Natasha tells herself as she sits across from you in a low-lit restaurant she definitely scoped three exits for. Candle between you. Wine she hasn’t touched. Posture perfect. Guard up.

You, on the other hand, look devastatingly relaxed.

“You clean up well, Red,” you say, eyes dragging over her just long enough to be rude.

She lifts her glass, buys herself a second. “So do you.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives you. And still—her ears are already pink.

You lean forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping just a touch. “I like this version of you.”

Her brow furrows. “This version?”

“The one who showed up,” you say simply. “Didn’t run.”

She opens her mouth to snap back, then stops. Closes it. Looks away.

Strike one.

Dinner comes. Conversation flows easier than she planned. You listen—actually listen—chin propped on your hand, eyes never leaving her face. When she talks with her hands, you track the movement like it’s choreography.

At some point, your knee brushes hers under the table.

Accidental. Totally deniable.

She freezes.

You don’t move it away.

Her breath hitches—barely—but you feel it more than see it. She shifts, like she’s deciding whether to retreat or press back.

She presses back.

You smile like you won the lottery.

“Comfortable?” you murmur.

She glares at you over her fork. “Behave.”

You do not behave.

When she makes a dry comment, you laugh and reach out—just fingertips—to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It’s brief. Intimate. Public enough to be insane.

Natasha stills completely.

“You had something—” you say innocently.

Her eyes darken. “You could’ve told me.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to touch you,” you reply, voice warm, unashamed.

She swallows. Hard.

“God,” she mutters, “you’re—”

“Persistent?” you offer.

Her lips part. Close. “Distracting.”

Strike two.

Later, you walk her out. City noise hums around you, but the moment feels sealed off. She stops short of the car, turns to face you.

“This was one dinner,” she reminds you, trying—failing—to sound firm.

You step closer. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just close enough that your hand brushes her wrist.

“I know,” you say softly. “I’m not asking for more.”

Your thumb circles once. Slow. Deliberate.

Her pulse jumps under your touch.

“But?” she asks, voice thinner now.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her lips and back. “But you’re allowed to want it.”

She exhales shakily, like the idea alone knocks the air out of her.

“I don’t—” she starts, then stops. Her composure fractures, just for a second. “You make this difficult.”

You grin, affectionate and lethal. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Then you kiss her.

Not gentle. Not testing.

It’s deep and heated and deliberate, like you’ve been building toward this moment for days and finally decided you were done being polite about it. Her surprise lasts half a second before she melts into it, hands fisting in your jacket like she needs something to hold onto.

She makes a quiet sound—frustrated, wrecked—and you feel it straight through you.

Your other hand slides up her back, pulls her closer. No hesitation. No mercy. She presses back without thinking, body betraying her composure completely.

When you break the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead rests against hers.

“Still think this was a bad idea?” you whisper.

Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Flustered in a way she never is.

“You—” she exhales, fingers tightening at your sides, “you don’t play fair.”

You grin against her jaw, brushing another kiss there—slower now, possessive. “You came anyway.”

She laughs softly, breathless, then groans when your hand slides down to her hip, squeezing just enough to make your point.

“God,” she mutters, clearly overwhelmed, “I said one dinner.”

You pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her—pressed against your car, lips swollen, eyes lit up like you just cracked something open she keeps locked down.

“And you survived,” you say gently. “Barely.”

She shakes her head, trying and failing to regain control. You lean in again, stopping just short of her mouth.

And you let her close the distance and kiss you back.

--

The back of your car is too small and somehow still not close enough.

Natasha is half-sprawled against the seat, jacket discarded, hair a mess, eyes blown wide like she can’t believe she let it get this far—and can’t believe she wants more. Her hands are everywhere, gripping at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“Jesus,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “You— you’re not fair.”

You smile against her jaw, low and dangerous. “You already said that.”

She lets out a sound that’s more frustration than words when you pull her back in, mouths crashing together again, all heat and hunger and zero patience left. Every touch lands heavier now—intentional. Claiming. She reacts to everything, like her body decided it’s done pretending.

Your hand settles at her waist, steady, grounding—and she melts into it immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart. But you don't stop there. Your fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. She's already soaked through her panties, her pussy slick and swollen, begging for contact without her saying a word.

You push the fabric aside and slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling her walls clench around you like she's trying to pull you deeper. Natasha gasps into your mouth, her hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the intrusion. Her breath hitches, ragged and desperate, as you curl your fingers just right, stroking that spot inside her that makes her entire body jolt.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, breath shaking, knuckles white where she’s clutching you. “Don’t stop. Please—”

That word hits harder than anything else tonight. You pump your fingers faster, your thumb circling her clit in firm, relentless circles. She's dripping now, her arousal coating your hand, the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out filling the cramped space. Natasha's thighs tremble, squeezing around your wrist as she rides your hand, her head falling back against the seat with a soft thud.

Her first orgasm crashes over her without warning—her pussy fluttering wildly around your fingers, gushing hot and slick as she cries out, a broken moan that echoes off the car windows. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her body arching off the seat, every muscle taut and quivering. You don't let up, though; you keep fucking her through it, drawing out the waves until she's whimpering, oversensitive and gasping.

But she's not done. Not even close. You add a third finger, stretching her wider, and she sobs your name, her hips grinding down harder, like she can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, her clit throbbing under your thumb as you rub it faster, your fingers plunging deep and twisting. Sweat beads on her skin, her shirt clinging to her heaving chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.

“Fuck—yes, right there,” she pants, her voice raw, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure rips through her again. This time, she squirts, her release soaking your hand and pooling in the seat beneath her, her whole body convulsing in your grip. She's melting completely now, boneless and shuddering, but you keep going, slowing just enough to let her catch her breath before picking up the pace once more.

Her third orgasm hits like a storm, her pussy clamping down so tight it almost pushes your fingers out, but you're determined to keep them in, fucking her through the spasms. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the flush on her cheeks, and she buries her face in your neck, biting down on your skin to muffle her screams. Every pulse of her release feels like a surrender, her body yielding to you completely, emotionally and physically wrecked.

You stay close. You keep her there. Let her ride the feeling, let it crest and break and pull her under again, until she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Your free hand strokes her back, holding her steady as she trembles in your arms, aftershocks rippling through her with every gentle thrust of your fingers.

When she finally slumps against you, breathless and stunned, she laughs softly—disbelieving.

“…I hate you,” she says weakly.

You brush your thumb along her cheek, gentle now, intimate in a way that feels almost worse, while your other hand eases out of her, slick with her cum. You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her on your tongue—salty and sweet—before wiping them on your jeans.

“No,” you murmur. “You really don’t.”

She doesn’t argue. She just leans into you like she already knows this was inevitable. Her hand drifts down, fumbling with your belt, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and fresh hunger. “Your turn,” she whispers, voice hoarse but determined, as she frees your cock from your pants. It's rock-hard, throbbing in her grip, pre-cum beading at the tip.

She strokes you slowly at first, her touch tentative from the afterglow, but it builds quickly—her fist tightening, twisting just under your tip the way that makes your breath catch. The car feels even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sex, her body pressed flush against yours. You groan, thrusting into her hand, watching her face as she works you over, that vulnerable spark in her eyes turning wicked.

But she wants more. She shifts, straddling your lap despite the awkward space, her soaked pussy hovering over your length. “Need you inside me,” she breathes, sinking down inch by inch, her walls still fluttering from her orgasms, gripping you like a vice. The stretch makes her whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you fully, bottoming out with a shuddering gasp.

“Oh fuck,” Natasha moans, her voice breaking as she settles there, your cock buried deep inside her. She's trembling already, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around your thickness, like her body's overwhelmed by the fullness. She tries to move, to lift her hips and ride you, but she only manages a shallow rock before she freezes, a dazed look crossing her face. “I... I can't,” she pants, her hands pressing flat against your chest, nails digging in. “You're too much. Feels so good, I—please, just... fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I need it.”

Her plea sends a jolt through you, and you grip her hips tighter, holding her in place as you buck up sharply, slamming into her from below. She cries out, her head tipping back, pussy squeezing you in response. “Yes! Like that—harder,” she begs, her words slurring with the haze of pleasure, completely lost to the sensation of you stretching and filling her. You set a punishing rhythm, driving your cock up into her slick heat over and over, the angle hitting deep, brushing that sensitive spot inside her with every thrust.

Natasha's breath comes in ragged bursts, her breasts heaving as she clings to you, unable to do more than grind down weakly to meet your movements. “God, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice raw and needy. “Don't stop—I'm so close. Keep going, please...” The wet sounds of your cock pounding into her echo in the confined space, her arousal dripping down your shaft, soaking your balls. She's cock-drunk now, eyes glassy, lips parted as she murmurs incoherently, every upward snap of your hips drawing a fresh whine from her throat.

You feel her tightening first, her walls fluttering wildly around you as her climax builds. “So close—fuck, you're gonna make me cum again,” she sobs, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling desperately. You thrust harder, faster, one hand sliding up to pinch her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between your fingers. She shatters with a keening moan, her pussy convulsing around your cock, gushing hot and tight as waves of release crash through her. “Yes—oh god, yes!”

The vice-like grip of her orgasm pulls you under too. You growl against her neck, hips snapping up one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum, thick ropes of your load flooding her pretty pussy, pulsing hot inside her. Natasha trembles violently, riding out the aftershocks with whimpers, her body milking every drop from you.

As the high fades, she collapses against your chest, still impaled on your softening cock, neither of you moving to separate. “Stay,” she murmurs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your collarbone. “Please... don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."

You nod, your hands stroking soothing circles on her back, keeping her close in the humid warmth of the car. The windows are completely fogged now, sealing you in your own little world. “I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh, lifting her head to meet your eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Okay? That was... a lot. I've never felt anything like that.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on your neck, a tender contrast to the raw passion from moments ago.

“Yeah?” you smirk, your voice is gruff. “Your pussy feels so good, red. The way you begged... fucking hell.”

She blushes, biting her lip, but doesn't look away. “Shut up.” She shifts slightly, a small gasp escaping as your cock twitches inside her, still half-hard.

--

Morning comes in rude.

Sunlight slices through the car window, landing directly on Natasha Romanoff’s face like a personal attack. She groans, shifts—and immediately freezes.

Because something is very wrong.

The backseat is cramped. Her leg is draped over yours at an angle that defies physics. Your arm is still around her waist, lazy and heavy with sleep. She blinks once. Twice.

Then it all hits her at the same time.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice is hoarse, panicked, and barely above a whisper.

You hum, half-asleep, entirely too comfortable. “Mornin’, Red.”

She tries to move. Realizes she can’t. Realizes why. Goes completely still again.

“This—” she swallows, cheeks flushing hard, “this is not acceptable.”

You crack one eye open, grin already there like you planned this. “You say that like you didn’t fall asleep first.”

“I did not fall asleep,” she hisses. “I passed out.”

“On me,” you add helpfully.

She drops her face into her hands. “We’re still… like this.”

“Yeah,” you say, stretching just enough to make the situation worse for her sanity. “Turns out cars aren’t built for dignity.”

She peeks at you through her fingers. You look unfairly pleased. Relaxed. Smug.

“Don’t,” she warns.

You absolutely do.

“Well,” you murmur, voice warm and infuriatingly amused, “on the bright side—this might be the longest you’ve ever stayed.”

Her glare could cut glass. Unfortunately, it wobbles halfway through.

“This never happened,” she says.

You grin wider. “Nat, you drooled.”

Her eyes widen. “I did not.”

“Right here,” you say, tapping your shoulder. “Very vulnerable. Kinda cute.”

She groans again, but this time there’s a laugh tangled in it—quiet, betrayed, real.

“…We need to move,” she says, trying for authority and landing somewhere near flustered.

“In a sec,” you reply, entirely unhelpful. “I’m enjoying the view.”

She exhales, long and slow, then finally looks at you properly—hair a mess, lips soft, guard completely down in the early light.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

You shrug. “And yet.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just rests her forehead against yours for one quiet moment before reality kicks back in.

“…Next time,” she mutters, “we’re getting a hotel.”

You smirk. “Next time?”

She closes her eyes.

Damn it.

---------------

“You two keep staring at me like I just confessed to grand larceny.” She giggled, shrugging with faux-innocence. “It started as a total accident. Victor fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Finally, after I’d been asking for, what, three months? I was so relieved I practically dragged him into the bedroom and blew him until he forgot his own name.”

Maria snorted into her glass, shaking her head. “Real romantic.”

“It was,” Wanda insisted, mock-indignant. “But then the next weekend he cleaned out the gutters without me saying a word. So I thanked him properly—let him eat me out on the kitchen counter until my legs stopped working.” She paused, savoring their reactions. “Two accidents in a row made me wonder. So the third time he took my car for an oil change and full wash? I rode him in the garage before he’d even put the keys down.”

Natasha’s brow arched, her fingers stilling around her glass. She didn’t laugh; she simply studied Wanda. “And he hasn’t caught on?”

“Not once.” Wanda’s voice dropped, the satisfaction clear as day on her face. “He just thinks he’s suddenly the world’s most attentive husband and the sex is better than it’s been since our honeymoon. Win-win.”

Natasha leaned in closer, cheeks a little warm from the vodka but eyes focused. “Walk me through the escalation. How do you decide what equals what reward?”

Tilting her head, Wanda set her margarita aside and leaned on her arms, giving Natasha her full attention. “You’re not just asking for gossip reasons, are you?” she teased, before it shifted into something almost conspiratorial. “You’re wanting to take notes.”

Natasha didn’t deny it, smirking as she waited.

Wanda exhaled a quiet laugh. “Fine. Here’s how I broke it down once I realized it worked.” She ticked off points on her fingers, deliberately. “Small stuff—trash out, dishes loaded and actually run, counters wiped—those stack. Three of them in a week? Handjob—it’s quick, simple, and most of the time, I get fingered while I do it, so we both walk away loose and happy.”

Maria whistled, mildly impressed by their friend’s cunning, but Wanda’s gaze never left Natasha.

“Medium jobs—vacuuming the whole house, doing laundry, changing the sheets, stuff like that? Things that genuinely shave real hours off my weekends?  He does two of them without me having to ask or without me having to explain what needs done? Oral. Either I blow him until he can’t feel his toes or he goes down until I can’t feel mine.”

Natasha’s fingers drummed along her glass as she took it all in.

“Now, the big stuff? Stuff that’s been genuinely dragging me down and grinding my gears? If he accomplishes those tasks, we have full, no-holds-barred, fuck-until-we-forget-our-names sex because once that weight is gone—once I don’t have that stress or irritation weighing me down? I want to climb him like a tree. Because suddenly I have the energy to want him. That’s the part he didn’t realize sometimes. Those little things added up and I didn’t want him as much because I was spending all of my time considering the mess around us.”

Wanda sat back, taking a healthy gulp of her drink before looking at Natasha seriously.

“It’s not some rigid contract and I don’t just… force it. Like, I want to because I’m not ready to strangle him anymore. I don’t have to nag, I don’t have to do it myself, and we’re having the kind of sex we had in our twenties. It’s fantastic.”

Natasha knew all about that frustration.

She loved you—god only knows how much she loved you—but you were notorious for your half-finished projects around the loft. A sink full of mugs you swore you’d handle “in a minute”, the boxes from where you’d moved in six months ago still scattered around the hallway and closet, laundry that always would be started until you forgot about it and it’d sit in the washer for three days…

She loved you—but the clutter was starting to feel like a third presence in your bed.

It helped that Wanda’s system wasn’t cruel; that’s the part that hooked her. It wasn’t punishment or nagging or begging or that cold score-keeping Natasha hated in other couples. It was motivation, turning your genuine desire to help into something that stuck. Something that rewarded the effort you were already putting in with something she loved giving you: herself. Her time, her pleasure, her love…

The truth was—she fucking wanted you. Constantly. But your sex life had started falling off a bit because she was frustrated. If this brought that back and solved ninety percent of the issues ailing your otherwise incredible relationship?

“I know you’ve been struggling with the same hang-ups, Nat,” Wanda murmured sympathetically. “She tries, we all know she does, but the energy fizzles out when her brain goes a little… haywire. It’s not about turning her into some obedient robot or prostituting yourself for clean counters. It’s just… giving the effort a little extra gravity to help it stick. It’ll just make her feel like you can’t keep your hands off her when she makes your life easier, which… let’s be honest, you already struggle with on a good day.”

Winking, Wanda finished her drink before growing serious.

“If it doesn’t work or it makes you feel weird, you stop. No harm. But if it does work…” she trailed off for a moment, “then you get help you need around the apartment and she gets the version of you that isn’t quietly burning with frustration—and you both get your wild, ‘don’t call us this weekend, we’re not leaving the bed’ sex life back.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what we need. More opportunities for us to walk in on them getting it on in a bathroom…” Maria grinned cheekily.

“Or the car…” Wanda chimed in.

“Or the bushes at Tony’s. Remember New Years?”

“Or—“

“Okay! I get it,” Natasha laughed, lifting her drink in a quiet salute. “But… you’re right. Might just be worth it.”

-X-

The smell of eggs and fresh coffee dragged Natasha into consciousness the next morning, eyes blurry and head pounding from the aftermath of too many shots last night. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted Maria’s challenge—

And her hangover was quick to remind her she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

Wandering down the hall into the kitchen, wearing one of your oversized tees and a pair of silk sleep shorts you always teased her about, she froze in the doorway at the sight. You, in a tank top and shorts, plating eggs and bacon. But what surprised her most?

The kitchen wasn’t a goddamn disaster zone.

Countertops? Wiped off and sparkling (okay, maybe not sparkling but let a woman dream). Sink? Empty, besides the pan you had just set in there after emptying the contents onto plates. The trash bag? Sitting beside the door, tied and ready to go out to the chute. Dishwasher? Already humming as it cleaned the dishes from last night and this morning.

You’d cooked and cleaned up after yourself without her having to ask—

She pinched her hip just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Crossing the space, she looped her arms around your waist from behind and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

“Morning, chef,” she teased, voice husky and thick with sleep. Another soft kiss, this one grazing your earlobe as she stared at the breakfast on the counter. “You trying to spoil me before I’ve even had coffee?”

Her hands dropped to the waistband of your boxers, fingertips dipping just below to feel the soft skin beneath.

“I know you got in late last night, so I thought I’d make breakfast. I know how your ‘girls’ nights’ tend to go with those two,” you murmured, twisting in her arms until you could kiss her gently. “Morning, baby.”

She sighed happily into the kiss, letting it linger as her lips parted, tasting the too-sweet creamer from your coffee as she leaned against you. When you pulled back, she didn’t let you go far, palms sliding up over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the thin material of your shirt.

“Yeah, we might’ve… tied one on last night,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “Victor had to come outside to help carry Wanda into the house.” She cringed, remembering how… graphic Wanda had been when she draped herself across the blond man, “whispering” in his ear what she wanted him to do to her once they were inside.

“Whispering” of course equaling out to: Wanda having no idea how loud she was actually being and the Uber driver learning way too much about the Sokovian’s sex life.

Natasha made sure to give him five stars as an apology, and a decent sized tip.

“This is a nice surprise though.” Her hand slid up to rest over your heart, thumb drawing lazy circles. “I know it’s my turn to take out the trash but would you mind taking it to the chute for me? My head is still objecting to light and the hall is so bright…”

Her eyes were soft, almost pleading, but she couldn’t help herself. You’d unknowingly already done two things—two!—without her needing to ask (because not only had you made breakfast—something you often didn’t do because you forgot eating was a necessity—but you’d also cleaned up) and that… that alone made her thrilled.

You glanced over at the bag and nodded. “Oh, yeah, I can do that. Uh, hold on.”

Disappearing deeper into the apartment, you grabbed the small bags from the bathroom and office before tying them off and snagging the bag beside the door. It was a short walk, ten steps down to the chute, but for Natasha—

It was perfect.

You’d taken all of the trash—all of it—and somehow, that was hotter than lingerie. Because now things were cleaner, even if only slightly. But it was a goddamn start.

“Done and done,” you announced, nudging the door closed with your foot when you returned.

Natasha’s mouth curved in a warm smile as she closed the gap of space between you, hands trailing over your chest up to your hair.

“Good girl,” she whispered, dragging you into a deep kiss that made your toes curl against the tile. You could never really think when her tongue was in your mouth and her body was pressed tight against yours.

“Wow,” you exhaled as she finally pulled back, a dazed grin on your face. “That was…”

She didn’t wait for you to finish, wrapping her fingers around your wrist as she dragged you over to the couch and shoved you down. Your eyes went wide, a quiet huff escaping as you landed, but the feeling of her moving to straddle your hips cut off any moment of protest.

Her hands skimmed over the hem of your shirt, drifting under the thin fabric as they ghosted over your stomach, your ribs—

Before one diverted downward, snaking into your shorts.

Her mouth claimed yours in a hungry, languid kiss, teeth grazing your bottom lip as her fingers wrapped around your stiffening length. “You take such good care of me,” she whispered, releasing your lip with a quiet ‘pop’, “now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

A guttural, broken sound escaped your throat as her thumb swept over the crown of your cock and your hips jumped upward slightly.

“T-Tasha…”

“That’s it,” she cooed, leaning forward until you could feel her nipples, tight and pebbled, pressing against your own through the thin layers of your shirts. She kept her rhythm unhurried at first, long strokes from base to crown, watching every flicker across your face like she was cataloguing every twitch.

Every time her hand glided up your shaft, the world narrowed down to the feeling of her. Her touch, her warmth, her scent…

God, you were addicted.

One hand slid up her thigh, dipping under the leg of her shorts as your fingers found her slit, thumb brushing the swollen bundle of nerves you found there. “Nat…”

Her breath caught, a soft whine escaping her throat as your fingers parted her folds. She didn’t slow her hand; if anything, her pace grew steadily faster, her hips rolling instinctively into your touch.

“Fuck, just like that,” she murmured, grinding her clit against your thumb when she decided you were a little too distracted by her hand. “Just like that...”

You swallowed her moan as two fingers pressed into her entrance, the sounds of her cunt obscene as she rode your hand with abandon. Her tongue dipped past your teeth, hand stroking base to tip over and over until every fucking nerve ending in your body felt like it was on fire.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” you groaned between kisses, feeling the way her arousal soaked your hand with every thrust. Every curl of your fingers coaxing more from her.

“Because of you,” she gasped against your lips, voice cracking on the words. “Because you took care of me this morning.” Her cunt clenched hard around your fingers, fresh heat dripping down to your knuckles as she rode your hand shamelessly. “Keep going. Fuck, keep going…”

You bucked up into her grip, lips falling open as her hand stroked faster, her thumbnail teasing the head. Her shorts were so wet they clung to your hand as you fingered her, your cock throbbing almost painfully as the both of you neared your peak.

Minutes passed… or, you assumed it was minutes. It could’ve been seconds. All you knew was that your girlfriend was moaning desperately and your cock was aching so much you could feel it in your fucking teeth.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she breathed, walls fluttered around your fingers.

Her hips jerked as you crooked your fingers, dragging the tips over that perfect spot inside her. Her breath fractured against your mouth, her hand clenching just right and—

“Fuck,” you groaned, spilling across her hand, head growing fuzzy as the pleasure washed over you in waves.

The sudden rush of your release in her hand and the way you kept working your fingers despite your own climax sent her teetering over the edge. She clamped down hard, riding out the ecstasy in shuddering waves. Her free hand gripped the nape of your neck, like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to gravity, her nails pressing crescents in the skin beneath her fingers.

“…fuck,” she laughed breathlessly, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your parted lips. “Look at you… making me come before breakfast.”

You offered a goofy grin, melting boneless into the soft cushions, completely oblivious to the way Natasha’s mind was racing.

The way she was planning…

-X-

The last few days had been… better. Not perfect—not by any stretch of imagination—but you were better about remembering the little things which, honestly, was making her life a hundred times easier.

Progress was still progress.

Nudging open the loft door, Natasha’s heels dangled from one hand, briefcase in the other. The day had been a marathon of back-to-back depositions, a client who lied to her face twice, and traffic that turned a thirty minute commute into an hour. To say she was tired was a fucking understatement.

She paused for a second when she realized you weren’t in the living room but she could hear sounds of something odd in the bedroom. Wandering down the hall, she exhaled as she stepped into the room, expecting the usual sight of your boxes colonizing the floor with your half-folded clothes draped over them like flags she wanted to burn—

But what she found knocked the breath from her lungs.

You were kneeling in front of a box—the only box not broken down and stacked in the corner—and your clothes were hanging on the rack or sitting folded in the open dresser drawers she’d cleared out for you. The same drawers you hadn’t used before now.

She leaned against the doorframe, her earlier exhaustion bleeding into genuine surprise. “Well… someone’s been productive today,” she said, her voice soft but undeniably thrilled.

“The cafe was dead so Steve sent me home early,” you explained, shrugging as you glanced over your shoulder at her. “I got bored so I started working on putting stuff away. Figured I should maybe start acting like I actually live here.”

Grinning cheekily, you tugged out the last pair of underwear from the box and folded them before setting them in the dresser.

She knew you were joking, but the fact you’d finally taken the step without her having to ask meant more than you knew. She’d joked about it a few times—that you lived out of those boxes like you were expecting to get thrown out—and to know you finally bit the bullet (so to speak) and staked your claim.

She crossed the space in three slow strides, her palms settling on your waist from behind as her fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt.

“Acting like you live here?” she echoed playfully, kissing the nape of your neck. “I like the sound of that.”

Her digits wandered downward, lingering just above the top of your shorts, her chest plastered across your back. She was taking it all in—

And fuck, she liked what she saw.

“I’m proud of you, malyshka,” she whispered, “finish up, then come find me.”

Your brow arched, but the last thing you were going to do was argue when she was looking at you like that. By the time you had the box broken down and the remaining empty hangers hung up, you were practically panting. Hoping desperately that you’d walk out there and see—

Stepping around the frame, your mouth was nearly watering at the sight that greeted you. Natasha, bare and spread on the bed, her fingers lazily teasing her folds. She parted them slowly, just enough to show you how swollen and ready she was.

“Come here, detka,” she murmured softly, smiling faintly. “Come make me forget everything but that pretty mouth of yours.”

You dove—really, there was no other word for it—onto the mattress, scrambling up the comforter until your mouth was level with her cunt. Her digits tangled in your locks, guiding your tongue to her wet heat, back arching the instant your lips sealed over her clit.

“Fuck, just like that,” she whined, hips rolling as she ground against your face.

Every lap of your tongue sent sparks of pleasure up her spine and when you flattened it, licking from her entrance up to her clit, her breath hitched so hard that it sounded painful. Her free hand massaged her breast, tugging at her nipple sharply, while her grip on your hair tightened.

“Don’t st—” her words dissolved into a needy moan as your tongue plunged into her heat, flicking and curling teasingly before returning to the swollen bundle of nerves. Her body went taut, hardly breathing as a symphony of moans and whimpers escaped her throat. “R-right there, detka. Oh god…”

Your hand left her thigh, pressing low on her belly and pinning her to the bed as your tongue worked relentlessly. She bucked hard against the pressure, a raw cry ripping from her throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” her hand yanked your head hard, dragging you as close as humanly possible.

When her thighs clamped around your head, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart and the obscene sounds of her cunt beneath your tongue. It was filthy and desperate and fuck, you loved eating her out…

She came with a keening whine, hips grinding helplessly against your face, chasing the spasms that bordered on overstimulation by the time they finally ebbed. She was simultaneously nudging your head away with one hand, while the other kept you buried.

It was confusing if you were being honest but you were content to lap up her juices, claiming every drop until she finally pushed you away.

“Jesus, you’re too good at that,” she panted, dragging you up until she could crush her mouth against yours.

“…I really like eating you out. It’s a top tier delicacy,” you mumbled against her lips, smiling faintly.

She snorted, cheeks flushing red as she shoved your head back. “God, you’re incorrigible.”

-X-

Natasha… was concerned.

You’d been doing so good for the last few weeks, but this was a test she wasn’t sure would go the way she’d hoped. A handjob here and there, occasional oral… and you were actually managing to keep up with tasks around the loft without needing a reminder.

Sure, you still had mind-blowing sex often, but the truth was: Wanda was right. When she wasn’t wanting to strangle you or burn the loft down because of all the clutter, she wanted to fuck you stupid. Constantly.

The kind of sex you’d had during the first year of your relationship when you were both awful at keeping your hands to yourselves.

She loved it; organization and orgasms.

But now her family was here and you were in charge of finishing dinner while she caught up with her mom and sister. Granted, Alexei was in the kitchen with you, but that almost might’ve been worse because the two of you together were trouble.

She was lingering in the doorway, watching you both with a critical eye (if she was waiting for a fire to erupt because of Alexei and a “vodka sauce I made in the motherlands”, she’d never admit it), before Yelena’s hand was wrapping around her wrist and dragging her into the living room.

“The kitchen is fine. Papa and your girlfriend are bonding over meat,” Yelena said, steering her over to the couch and shoving her down. She claimed the other side of Natasha while Melina lounged in your usual chair. “Alright, spill: what did you do?”

“Yes, what has changed? The apartment looks like adults live here, you look like you’ve slept more than four hours, and now (Y/N) is finishing dinner alone without being asked. Explain.” Melina arched a curious brow.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, buying a second by smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her jeans. “I started reinforcing positive behavior,” she said carefully. “When she finishes things that make my life easier, I make sure she knows how much I appreciate it. Very… personally.”

Melina’s head tilted, processing while Yelena’s eyes narrowed, then widened as horrified realization dawned on her.

“So… sex?” Yelena asked, bluntly, nose crinkling at the idea of Natasha having sex.

Natasha shot her a look. “Yelena,” she warned, but she was cut off Yelena’s laughter.

“Oh my god, you are bribing your girlfriend with orgasms.” Her amusement faltered as the words dawned on her, face scrunching in disgust. “Ew, please tell me your couch is still clean.”

“It was never clean,” Natasha muttered, smirking faintly when Yelena squealed in horror, practically throwing herself onto the other recliner, though her smile dimmed at the look in Melina’s eyes. “Mama… I’m not prostituting myself for clean countertops.”

Melina leaned forward, studying Natasha intently. “I only want to know that you are not forcing yourself to perform gratitude. You’ve been wound tight as a wire for months. If this… thanks is coming at the cost of your own comfort—”

“It isn’t,” Natasha cut in, meeting Melina’s gaze. She wasn’t defensive, just… hoping Melina would understand. “I… I want her constantly. I always have. The difference is that now when she finishes something that’s been bothering me, the want isn’t tangled up in resentment. There’s no mental block or voice in my head asking why she can… touch me but can’t put her damn socks in the hamper.”

Yelena’s playful squirming at the idea of Natasha having sex (gross!) faded into something more thoughtful as she studied her sister. It had been a while since Natasha had seemed so… relaxed. Calm.

“Good,” Melina finally replied, nodding once. “Then keep doing it.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try something similar with your father.”

Yelena recoiled so hard she nearly tipped out of the recliner. “Mama, no. Hard no! I do not need that visual.”

Natasha groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God, please. Never again. We are not discussing your sex life with Papa. Ever.”

From the kitchen, Alexei bellowed—needlessly, because the fucking loft wasn’t that big, “Food is ready!”

Natasha and Yelena both scrambled up, grateful for the interruption, and Natasha nudged her sister as they walked into the kitchen.

“This is your fault.”

Yelena glanced at her father, then her mother, and cringed. “I have many regrets.”

-X-

The front door clicked shut behind Alexei’s final booming goodbye, leaving the loft suddenly quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. Natasha slipped the deadbolt, leaned her back against the door for a beat, and let the silence settle. The apartment gleamed, counters wiped, leftovers neatly stacked in glass containers in the fridge, and not a single stray fork in the sink. You’d done it all, jumping up between courses to clear plates, wrapping foil over bowls, even sweeping the floor while she hugged her mother one last time.

“I am so tired I can’t feel my toes,” you groaned, sprawled out on the couch.

Natasha smirked as she walked over to you, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table as she lifted your feet into her lap. Her palms slowly massaged from your ankles up to your calves. “My poor baby,” she cooed teasingly. “You were incredible tonight.”

Her hands slid up to your thighs, kneading the muscles with deliberate pressure.

“Every time I looked up, you were doing something else to make this night perfect,” she praised, the teasing softening into something genuinely appreciatively as she studied your face.

She set your feet down and stood, grabbing your hand as she tugged you up.

“Bed. Now.”

You blinked in surprise, but followed along like a diligent girlfriend. Usually when Natasha’s family left, she’d bathe for an hour to decompress, not… this.

(It genuinely didn’t click in your head that her lack of exhaustion came from you helping her take care of everything.)

Shoving you towards the bed, Natasha arched a brow. “Strip. I want you on your back.”

Laughing, you were quick to tug your shirt over your head and toss it aside, your jeans hurriedly joining it on the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha’s eyes tracked every movement as you stripped, watching the way your stomach flexed, the soft weight of your breasts, the line of your hips as your boxers fell away. You could feel that green gaze sweeping over every inch as you flopped into the middle of the bed, cock already half-hard as you stared down the bed towards her.

When she was certain she had your attention—which wasn’t hard, honestly—she began to pluck the buttons of her blouse open, one by one, until it pooled around her bare feet. Black lace came loose with a single flick of her fingers and by the time she was standing naked at the end of the bed, a sight you’d never get tired of seeing, you were panting like you’d run a damn mile.

“Christ, Nat,” you breathed, cock flushed and twitching at the view.

She crawled up the mattress, palms gliding over your knees, spreading you wider as she settled between them. “You cleaned this morning without me asking. Helped prep dinner for five, finished it solo while I caught up with my mom and sister… and didn’t complain once.”

She leaned down, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make the muscles beneath her mouth jump. Her hand wrapped lazily around your length, stroking slow and firm as she coaxed you fully hard with practiced ease.

“That’s not a small thing, detka. That’s huge.”

Her tongue traced a wet line from the base to the tip of you, swirling around the head before she took you into her mouth, throat relaxing as she swallowed you down until her nose pressing against your skin. She held you there, humming softly, before pulling back with a deliberate suction that left you slick and aching.

She sat up, shifting high enough to straddle your hips. Her palms braced against your chest, thumbs teasing your nipples as she rocked forward, her slick folds dragging along your cock.

“Just lay back and enjoy,” she whispered, guiding the head of you to her entrance, sinking down just enough to take the tip before stilling. “I want to show you just how thankful I am…”

Her hips rolled torturously slow, taking you inch by inch until she was seated on your lap, walls clenching tight around you. A shudder ran through her, head tipping back and throat flushed bright in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so deep, detka…” she moaned. “Tell me how you want me to ride you… tell me what you want…”

“Use me… I like it when you use me,” you admitted, hands surging up to grip her hips possessively. “When you treat me like I’m just a toy for your pleasure…”

Natasha’s breath hitched audibly, the words washing over her like rain. It wasn’t often that you let her take control, the two of you often playfully fighting for control, so to hear that?

God, she was going to savor every second of this.

Her nails dug slightly into your chest as her thighs flexed. She lifted so agonizingly slow, until only the head remained inside, before dropping back down in one smooth, hard motion. The slap of skin on skin was barely audible over the low moan that tore from her throat, her hips lifting and falling over and over as she set a rhythm.

She didn’t look at you right away. Her head was tipped back, eyes half-closed and lips parted as she rode you like the feeling of your cock inside her was all that mattered; like the feeling of you was the only thing that mattered in her world.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” she rasped, leaning forward to nip at the expanse of your throat. “Stay still. Let me take what I want.”

The bed beneath you creaked as her pace quickened, her hands falling to your knees when she arched her back, breasts bouncing with every greedy rock of her hips. She was chasing her climax shamelessly, using you like a toy made just for her.

“God, baby… you look incredible like this,” you groaned, one hand leaving her hip to drop between her thighs, your thumb circling her clit roughly.

Her hips snapped down hard, grinding you as deep as she could go at the first touch.

“Detka—” the word fractured on a gasp, her nails scoring lines down your thighs as she leaned back farther. Every roll of her body felt like electricity in her veins until her thighs were trembling. She didn’t slow—couldn’t—riding you faster. It was brutal but you didn’t care; all that mattered was the woman above you looked ready to shatter and you were desperate to drive her over the edge.

When you pinched her swollen bundle of nerves gently, her entire body seized, the noise that escaped her throat making your cock twitch desperately inside her. Beads of sweat trickled between her breasts, occasionally glinting in the moonlight from the window, and she looked like a fucking painting. Like some art you’d find in an overpriced gallery.

“Tasha…”

She didn’t say a word, her cunt fluttering wildly as she slammed down on final time, the orgasm ripping through her. Her back arched to the point it honestly looked painful and you surged up, looping your arm around her waist as you helped her ride out every last wave of ecstasy. Your hips rocked to meet every trembling grind from Natasha, her arms lifting shakily to wrap around your neck as she buried her face against your throat.

“…holy shit,” she whispered against your skin, “I think I saw God… and she looked like my girlfriend.”

You laughed breathlessly, still buried deep in her cunt as her walls milked you with helpless clenches. “That so?”

She nodded wordlessly, mouth trailing over your neck as she slowly ground against you. “Uh huh… think you can hold out a little longer, detka? I’m not through with you yet.”

-X-

Two Months Later

Things had gotten so much better over the last two months. The loft was clean, the sex was better than it’d been in months, and Natasha was genuinely… happy.

On top of that, you’d actually remembered her birthday. Granted, both of you were horrible at remembering the important dates until the day of but you’d actually planned something. It was small—a day out for her with her friends—but it was still sweet that you’d managed to plan something.

So when Wanda and Maria mentioned meeting you for dinner at the little Italian place she liked in Brooklyn, she hadn’t thought anything about it.

As Maria parked the car, Wanda slipped out first, wandering inside to check on “wait times”, slipping through the side door of the building left cracked open. She’d sent you a message five minutes ago, informing you they were two blocks out, so everything was set up and waiting.

Wanda peeked into the private room, beaming when she saw you standing awkwardly in the archway of the door. Soft lights were strung up around the room and everyone Natasha adored was crammed into the private space—her family, a handful of friends, and one already tipsy Tony who looked… unusually irate but there wasn’t time to question that.

“Show time,” Wanda whispered with a thumbs up before slipping out to meet Natasha and Maria at the entrance.

A few moments later, long enough to leave your heart pounding in your ears and the box in your pocket feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, Natasha’s friends led her into the room and she froze.

Her eyes went wide as she took in the smattering of faces sprawled out around the room before her gaze met yours. You were wearing that suit she loved seeing you in, standing there with a bashful grin as you lifted your glass in a quiet toast and the others followed.

“Happy birthday, Natasha.”

A disbelieving laugh broke from her throat as she pressed a hand briefly over her chest. “You absolute sneak. No wonder you sent me out with Wanda and Maria all day.”

Grinning, you crossed the room to wrap an arm around her waist, tucking her into your side. “And here you thought your biggest surprise was gonna be me actually remembering to say ‘happy birthday’ this morning.”

“…who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” she teased, lifting her hand to brush over the buttons near your heart, her expression softened with wonder.

Alexei cut in before you could respond, voice booming far too loud in the tiny space, “She is good girl! Planned everything like a general. She—”

Melina lifted her hand, slapping it over Alexei’s mouth casually, like she’d done it a million times before while Yelena just shook her head and muttered, “Volume, Papa.”

“So, gifts first, then food. Because your sister and Clint got into a breadstick eating competition while we were waiting for you and I’m afraid if we feed them anything else right this second, we might actually have to carry them out in wheelbarrows.”

Leading Natasha over to the seat that was designated for her with a large BIRTHDAY GIRL sash around the back, you took the seat beside her as everyone started passing over boxes and envelopes.

A sweet framed photo from a barbecue over the summer from Steve (no, she didn’t tear up, dammit. The garlic in the air was just strong)! A coffee mug from Clint that read: World’s Okayest Lawyer.

One by one, the people who loved her showered her in gifts and every new, thoughtful or silly present left her smile just a little wider.

Finally the pile dwindled to the envelope you’d placed in front of her. A spa weekend voucher for her, Wanda and Maria to the resort upstate she’d mentioned once in passing. Natasha’s brows lifted high in surprise, genuinely touched. “You bought us a whole weekend?”

“I—well, Victor paid for Wanda, I paid for you and we split Maria’s. It’s a joint gift, from us,” you explained with a sheepish grin. “But… I do have one more gift for you that should make up for me pestering our friend.”

You stood, kissing her temple lightly as you shifted to stand in front of her. Her forehead scrunched a little in confusion when you didn’t move to grab anything, but that uncertainty quickly bled away as you squared your shoulders and the room went silent.

(You might have told them ahead of time what you were planning.)

“Natalia Romanova, you are my heart. My soul. You are sunshine on a rainy day and a fireplace in winter. Every moment of life with you has been a blessing and every fucking—oops, shit, sorry, Wanda told me not to swear during this,” you muttered, clearing your throat even as your hands trembled, “Every day, I fall more and more in love with you… and I want to spend every second of every minute of every day with you for the rest of our lives.”

You dropped to one knee, fumbling the box out of your pocket.

“Tasha, will you mar—”

“Wait.” Tony’s chair scraped across the floor as he rose, swaying slightly, face flush with indignation and too much whiskey. “You shouldn’t do this until you know what she’s been doing.”

Pepper hissed his name and reached for his arm but he waved her off.

“Wanda started the whole thing,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely towards the brunette. “Bragging about how she has Victor trained like some goddamn lab rat. Sex as a reward when he does something good.” He laughed, though it was strained. “Taught Pepper and Natasha the trick too. But I caught on when she tried those mind games with me. They’ve been manipulating you two idiots for months.”

Natasha’s face paled, fingers slipping from yours where she’d been reaching for the ring box and falling dully in her lap. Her eyes flickered to you, wide and mortified as she waited for the anger, the hurt… for you to take away the box.

The silence in the room was so awkward but even Yelena couldn’t bring herself to break it.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Victor leveled an unimpressed look at Tony. “Tony, I have known for months.” He shrugged. “It’s a good system. I pretend I don’t notice, Wanda is happy, our home is clean and the sex is… exceptional. Why would I blow up a good thing?”

You glanced up from where you were kneeling, smirking at Tony. “You… are a fucking idiot, Stark. Your wife was offering you sex for chores and instead you decided to try and ruin it for us?”

Tony’s glass froze halfway to his mouth as he gaped at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve known for about a month,” you admitted, shrugging. “I vaguely mentioned it to Victor last month during game night, he explained the whole of it to me, and honestly, it’s a great way to get my dopamine kick.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to you, but the fear on her face cracked away, replaced with stunned disbelief that hurriedly drifted into relief. You weren’t mad. You’d known for a while, but you were still doing the things that helped make her life easier…

Whatever guilt she’d felt about “tricking” you slowly bled out.

Tony sputtered. “You—you knew? Both of you? And you were just… fine with it?”

“Look, Tony, I like you… but your pride sometimes blinds you from the big picture. Nat’s happy and has a clean apartment, I get the dopamine and praise I crave, and we both get to come—uh, sorry.” You shot Natasha’s parents an apologetic smile before your attention returned to Tony. “Why would I willingly screw that up for myself? And instead of enjoying the benefits yourself, you’re sitting here calling us idiots for enjoying… some damn good rewards. Seems like we might be the geniuses here, Stark.”

Shrugging, your gaze shifted back to Natasha as you smiled softly.

“Now, before I was interrupted… Natasha, baby… will you marry me?”

Pepper gripped Tony’s arm and yanked him back into his chair, hissing something under her breath at him that made his ears go red with embarrassment, but no one was really paying him any mind, too busy watching you.

Natasha was nodding before the question even fully left your mouth, her hand reaching for the box. “Yes,” she whispered, voice shaky but so drenched in love it could’ve drowned you. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

She tugged you forward, one hand landing on the box while the other cradled your cheek, pulling you into a deep kiss. Holding you close even as the table exploded into whistles and cheers.

“Give me that damn ring,” she mumbled against your lips, a stray tear or two streaking down her cheek.

“With pleasure.”

You pulled back just enough to flip the box open, hands shaking so hard you nearly dropped the damn thing in your haste, before carefully sliding the ring onto her finger.

“Your dad helped me pick it out,” you murmured, staring at the jewelry like it was the best thing you’d ever bought as you both stood up, admiring it in the light.

“…wait, you asked my dad to help you pick it out?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“She did!” Alexei practically shouted, throwing his arms around you both, “Asked your papa if she could have my blessing too! And I said of course! I tell her, “You make my Natalia happy? You take care of her?” and she says yes. I cry a little bit. Then we took celebration shots!”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.

“…I might’ve thrown up in your mom’s roses. That shit tasted like rubbing alcohol,” you whispered, kissing Natasha’s temple while Alexei dropped back into an unoccupied chair.

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she leaned into your side, pressing her face against your neck. She thought she’d known what perfect was before she met you, but this?