Raven Writes

The pretending isn't the problem.

The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.

You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.

You open the door.

Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.

You watch her look at you.

It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.

She finishes putting in the earring.

Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.

"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.

"I'm ready," you confirm.

You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.

You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.

You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.

That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.

"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.

She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.

"I know," she says.

There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.

It should be annoying.

It is annoying.

It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.

She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.

"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.

"I know the parameters."

"Humor me."

You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.

The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.

Natasha takes off her coat.

She crosses her legs and looks out the window.

You look out yours.

You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.

The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.

"You nervous?" she asks.

"No."

"You're doing the thing with your hands."

You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.

"I'm focused," you say.

"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."

"I'm relaxed."

"Y/n."

"Natasha."

She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."

"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."

A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.

She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.

"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.

You look back at yours.

One-two-three. One-two-three.

The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.

Natasha takes your arm at the door.

Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.

It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.

"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."

"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.

You walk in.

The first twenty minutes are choreography.

You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.

She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.

Almost.

She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman 

You redirect your thoughts aggressively.

"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.

"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."

"I wasn't going to look."

"You were calculating an angle."

"That's not the same as—"

"He's not going anywhere. Relax."

You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.

A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.

You stare at the glass.

She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.

You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.

Forty minutes in, she dances with you.

You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.

You followed.

If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.

She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.

But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.

"Voss's contact is late," she says.

Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.

"How late?" you manage.

"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."

"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.

She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.

"You're doing well," she says.

"We established I'm good at this."

"I'm acknowledging it."

"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"

Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.

"Focus," she says.

"I am focused."

"On the op."

"Obviously."

She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.

You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.

She sees him before she means to.

He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.

Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.

She keeps dancing.

Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.

She looks at him.

The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.

Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.

She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.

But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.

She's mine.

Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.

He looks away.

Good.

She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.

She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.

Instead she moves.

Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.

She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.

She does it anyway.

Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.

She doesn't speak.

She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.

She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.

What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.

And she lets him see it.

She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.

Then she straightens.

The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.

She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.

She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.

When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.

Except.

You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.

You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.

Her hand at your waist does not move.

The man at the bar does not look back.

The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.

It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.

You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.

"Just selling it," she says.

"Right," you say.

She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.

"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."

Her hand stills.

"I don't know what that means," she says.

"Yeah you do."

She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.

She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.

Then she looks back at the bar.

"Voss is moving," she says.

He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Always," you say.

She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.

The system, holding.

For now.

It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.

"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."

"Copy," you say.

She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.

Then you separate

You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.

What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.

Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.

"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."

A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.

"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."

You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.

Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.

You think about it for the next twenty minutes.

Across the room, Natasha finds you.

The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.

She looks back at Voss.

Files it. Moves on.

Tells herself it was a tactical check.

The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.

The bartender puts a glass in front of her.

She picks it up without looking at it.

The third time she's not even trying to justify it.

She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.

You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.

She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.

And you look up.

Right at her.

Like you felt it. Like you knew.

She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.

Neither do you.

Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.

Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.

She lowers her glass.

Goes back to work.

Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just 

Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.

The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.

She just knows.

Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.

Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.

Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.

"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"

"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."

The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."

"I know," you say.

She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.

The silence holds.

Then Voss moves.

Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.

"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."

"No," you say. "It isn't."

Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.

She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.

She is no longer telling herself that.

You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.

Her hand tightens on your arm.

"Ready?" she murmurs.

You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.

"Always," you say.

And you go in.

The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.

You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.

Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.

Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "

This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"

You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.

"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"

"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"

"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"

And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"

"Cole, stand DOWN—"

You look at Natasha.

Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.

It spreads fast.

Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough. 

And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.

Voss hears it before he sees it.

Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.

Then his eyes move to the corridor.

"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."

"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"

"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"

"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."

She doesn't wait for the response.

She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.

"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.

She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.

It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.

You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.

The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.

She doesn't look at you.

In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.

You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.

She doesn't look at you once.

Not for twelve minutes.

You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.

You file it.

For now.

The hotel room door closes behind you.

You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.

You take out the second earring.

"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.

"Yes," she says. Still at the window.

"First field op?"

"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."

"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."

"I know."

"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."

She turns from the window.

"You were out of position," she says.

You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."

"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"

"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"

"That wasn't your call to make—"

"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"

"We had protocols, Y/n—"

"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"

"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases. 

"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"

She stops.

You go still.

I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.

"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.

"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"

"Natasha."

"—oh-seven-hundred—"

"Natasha."

"Drop it."

"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.

A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.

"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."

Nothing.

"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"

"I said drop it—"

"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"

She turns.

And crosses the room.

And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.

Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.

You melt into it.

That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better. 

It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.

Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.

The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.

You give it back.

Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.

Her other hand finds your waist.

Pulls.

Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.

You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is. 

Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.

She pulls back.

Just enough to look at you.

Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.

Her chest rises and falls. Once.

Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.

movement and come back to yours and stay there.

The silence holds for exactly one more second.

Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.

"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."

"Then take it off," you say.

She kisses you.

Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.

"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."

Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."

"I'm saying it now."

Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.

"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."

She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.

"No?" she says.

"No."

Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.

"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.

You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.

"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."

Her fingers pause.

"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."

She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.

"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.

"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."

The silence lasts exactly one second.

Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."

Your breath catches.

"Natasha—"

"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."

Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is

Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.

She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.

"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.

You go.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact. 

The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.

She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.

You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.

With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail. 

She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.

Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach. 

A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.

"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.

You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs. 

Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.

"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."

"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."

She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."

"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.

"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.

"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."

"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.

"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her. 

Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.

Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl. 

Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. 

"Natasha, oh god."

"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system. 

She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.

You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly. 

Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core. 

"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—" 

She doesn't slow down.

Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck. 

She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.

Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.

"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.

"Yes," you whimper desperately.

Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access. 

She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.

"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation. 

You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.

Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...

"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace. 

You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.

"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.

She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.

"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you. 

"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?

"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip. 

She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.

"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.

"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"

"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster." 

Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.

With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce. 

She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.

"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."

Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly. 

"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.

She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.

"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again. 

Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.

Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep. 

The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.

With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth. 

"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.

You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips. 

"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.

Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly. 

A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her. 

She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.

Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length. 

Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.

Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length. 

Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan. 

Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.

Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight. 

She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room. 

With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip. 

She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower. 

She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.

"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation. 

She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly. 

You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.

"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her. 

Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust. 

"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.

Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you. 

"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning. 

Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder. 

"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly. 

The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you. 

"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!" 

Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.

Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her. 

A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you. 

"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.

"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.

Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.

Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin. 

It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.

"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly." 

Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck. 

"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."

"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."

Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony. Check.

Steve. Check.

Bruce. Check.

Thor. Check.

Clint. Check.

Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.

The car door closes.

No red hair. No Natasha.

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

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

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

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

You know exactly who is responsible.

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

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.

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

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

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

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

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

“Get up,” you say.

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

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

“Change. Now,” you tell her.

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

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

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

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

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

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

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

Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” she replies lightly.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That sounds like a date,” she says.

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

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

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

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.

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

Her smile sharpens with playful intent.

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

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

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

Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.

“I’m only a client?” she asks.

You cross your arms and give her a flat look.

“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You would be worth it.”

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

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

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

“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”

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

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

“Back to work then?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.

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

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

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

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

Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.

“There is nothing going on between us.”

“Really?”

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

She looks between you and Natasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

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

“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.

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

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

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

“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”

“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate raises her hand almost immediately.

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

Heat rises quickly to your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.

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

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

Your attention dips briefly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.

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

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

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

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

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

You place your hands on your hips. 

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

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

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

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

“Alright,” Natasha says at last.

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

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

You give her a flat look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She truly is impossible.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Popcorn?” she offers.

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

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

“What are you watching?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.

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

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

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

Her eyes widen slightly at your words. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re late.”

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

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

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

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

Perfect. On schedule, for once.

You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.

“Here are your notes, Roman—”

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

“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.

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

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

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

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

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

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

He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself. 

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

You don’t respond. You just dial.

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

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

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

“Rogers,” you snap.

He straightens instantly.

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

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

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

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

You don’t slow down.

“To fix this,” you mutter.

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

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

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is your fault,” you say flatly.

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

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

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

You pull the phone back and cross your arms.

“You were supposed to be there.”

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

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

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

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

You hold the screen out again.

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

You sigh in exasperation. 

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

Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.

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

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

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

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

You smack her hand away without hesitation.

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

Her smirk only widens at your words. 

“I should cause trouble more often then.”

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

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

She arches her brow. 

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give her a deadpan look. 

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

Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green eyes lock onto yours.

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

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

Then you remember.

Who she is.

What she does.

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

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

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

Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.

“No promises.”

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

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

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

You can only hope it’s fixable.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

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

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

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

And Natasha.

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

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

You spent most of the night preparing them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha tilts her head slightly.

That’s the first warning sign.

You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.

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

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

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

Natasha nods once.

“Yes.”

You glance down at your notes. Page three.

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

Your gaze lifts again.

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

The committee member leans forward.

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

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

You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.

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

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.

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

That wasn’t on the list.

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

Another senator leans forward.

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

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

The second warning sign.

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

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes briefly.

That’s going to trend.

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

You give them a small, helpless shrug.

What did you expect with that line of questioning?

Another member of the panel clears his throat.

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

Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.

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

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

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

The next few questions go by without incident.

Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.

You almost start to relax.

Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”

The air in the room tightens immediately. 

Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.

You notice it right away.

The man continues.

“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”

Your hands tighten around your tablet.

The room waits with bated breath.

But Natasha says nothing.

You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.

Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.

The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”

Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.

“I am,” she says calmly.

Then she turns and walks out of the room.

The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing. 

You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.

You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.

“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”

Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.

“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.

“She avoided several,” he snaps.

You cross your arms.

“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”

The man scoffs.

“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”

You cut him off.

“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”

Your voice is sharper now.

“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”

The organizer folds his arms.

“That doesn’t erase what she was.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks satisfied.

You step closer.

“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”

The man’s expression shifts.

You keep going.

“Political favors. Quiet deals. Offshore donations.”

Your voice stays calm.

“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”

The organizer stiffens.

“You’re implying—”

“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”

Silence stretches between you.

The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.

“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”

“Noted,” you say.

He leaves. 

You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.

Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.

“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.

Her smirk appears instantly.

“Long enough.”

Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.

“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”

You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.

“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.

Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine.”

You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.

“I liked your responses better anyway.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.

“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”

Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.

When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Can I join?” she asks.

You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.

She responds with a slow, shameless smile.

You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.

And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.

Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.

The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.

You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.

No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.

So far, so good.

You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.

You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.

And there she is.

Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.

You recognize him after a moment.

A visiting ambassador.

Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

They’re standing a little too close.

Not inappropriate. Not technically.

But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.

You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.

Your head snaps toward it immediately.

Another flash.

Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.

You set your drink down without a word and move.

The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.

“Hey—!”

You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.

The man stares at you in disbelief.

“You can’t—”

You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.

“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.

Your phone is already in your other hand.

“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”

You hang up before the man can start arguing again.

Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.

You dust your hands off lightly.

Problem solved.

When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.

You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.

“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”

They quickly return to their conversations.

You feel it before you see it.

A familiar gaze.

You glance toward the bar.

Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.

Heat creeps up your neck.

But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.

When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.

Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.

You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.

“Whiskey,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.

You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.

“You already know what it was.”

Her lips twitch.

You take a small sip before continuing.

“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”

Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.

“Very specifically.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.

The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.

She tilts her head slightly.

“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”

You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.

“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment.

Something in her expression softens.

Her hand lifts.

You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.

You start to protest—

But her hand doesn’t stop this time.

Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.

Her voice lowers.

“What if I do?” she whispers. 

For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.

Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.

Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.

“…Natasha,” you warn gently.

She doesn’t pull away.

“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”

You stare at her for a long moment.

Natasha doesn’t look away.

The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.

Her hand is still cupping your face.

You reach up and take her wrist.

For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.

You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.

Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.

Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”

Her gaze flicks back to yours.

“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”

You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.

Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.

Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.

You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.

Natasha looks almost smug.

You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.

Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.

Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.

“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.

You give her a small, unimpressed look.

“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”

Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.

“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She studies your face.

“And what about potential rumors?”

You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.

“I can handle any rumors,” you say.

Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”

You tilt your head.

“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”

Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.

The sound is softer than usual.

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.

Then she leans in just slightly.

“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”

You glance at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”

Her smirk returns immediately.

“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 2

Every seat is taken. Students hunched over laptops. A couple arguing in hushed voices. A woman with a golden retriever tucked under her chair. The storm has driven half the city inside.

Another crash of thunder rattles the windows.

You step forward and collide directly into someone solid. You gasp. A hand catches your elbow before you can fully lose balance.

Firm. Steady. Controlled. You look up. Green eyes. Sharp, assessing, startlingly calm.

Her hair is red, not bright, but deep, rich copper that catches the warm overhead lights. She doesn’t look soaked like you. She looks like she anticipated the rain, like she’s the kind of person who checks the weather three days ahead and plans accordingly.

Her grip loosens the second she confirms you’re stable.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “I swear I wasn’t trying to tackle you.”

Her mouth curves slightly at one corner. It’s subtle. Controlled.

“I’ve handled worse.”

There’s something in the way she says it, light, but weighted.

You laugh, assuming she’s joking.

“Good. I’d hate for my clumsiness to be the most dangerous thing you experience today.”

Her eyes flick over you then. Quick. Efficient. Like she’s cataloging.

You suddenly become aware that you’re dripping on the floor.

“Oh my god—sorry—” You step aside, looking around helplessly for napkins.

“It’s fine,” she says.

Her voice is low. Smooth. Calm in a way that feels deliberate.

You finally glance past her and realize something: she doesn’t have a table either.

She’s standing near the counter, coffee already in hand, scanning the room the same way you did.

Another thunderclap. The lights flicker. The entire cafe collectively groans.

You wince. “Please don’t let the power go out. I just need one dry place in this universe.”

Her gaze shifts toward the ceiling when the lights flicker again.

She doesn’t look worried. She looks alert.

You hesitate, then gesture vaguely toward the seating area. “Um. Do you want to maybe share a table? I mean, if we can find someone willing to sacrifice a chair?”

There’s the faintest pause. She studies you again, as if trying to determine motive.

You blink at her.

“You’re not serial killer vibes, I promise.”

Her brow lifts slightly.

“And what are serial killer vibes?”

You grin. “You know. Twitchy. Too much smiling. Unnecessary eye contact.”

You realize, mid-sentence, that she’s making very steady eye contact.

You freeze. She doesn’t smile wider.

“If that’s the metric,” she says evenly, “I should be concerned about you.”

You snort. Okay. She’s funny. Dry. You like that.

The lights flicker again and this time they go out completely.

A few people yelp. The espresso machine dies mid hiss.

Everything falls into an eerie dimness, only gray stormlight filtering in through the windows.For a moment, the cafe is quiet except for rain hammering against glass.

Emergency lights click on near the back hallway, casting faint amber glows.

“Well,” you murmur, “that’s dramatic.”

Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly. Not tense. Ready.

You don’t notice the way she automatically steps so her back is near a wall. You don’t notice how she scans exits first, people second.

You’re too busy wringing water from your sleeve.

“I guess we’re stuck,” you say. “Unless you’re planning on sprinting back out into that.”

You glance toward the window just in time to see wind whip rain sideways.

She follows your gaze. “No,” she says quietly. “I’m not in a hurry.”

You nod, oddly relieved.

A barista announces they’ll wait out the storm and serve whatever they can manually. A few candles are brought out. People settle.

You spot a small two top near the window, recently vacated.

You look back at her. “Truce?” you offer lightly. “Shared table until the apocalypse passes?”

A beat. Then she inclines her head once.

“Nat.”

You smile. “Nat,” you repeat. “I’m y/n”

You tell her your name. She says it once, softly, like she’s testing the sound. You don’t know why that makes your stomach flip.

You sit across from each other by the window.

Rain streaks down the glass in uneven rivers. Thunder rolls lower now, less sharp but more constant. The cafe hums with murmured conversations and the scrape of chairs.

A candle sits between you, flame trembling slightly in the draft.

You cradle the mug the barista hands you, something warm and sweet, and sigh as heat seeps into your fingers.

“Best decision I’ve made all day,” you murmur.

Natasha, Nat, watches you over the rim of her cup.

“You’ve had a bad day?”

You shrug. “Not catastrophic. Just… one of those days that feels like it’s slightly out to get you.”

She tilts her head almost imperceptibly. “Explain.”

You smile faintly. “Well. I oversleep. Miss the bus. Spill coffee on my shirt at work. My boss decides today is the perfect day to micromanage everything. I drop my phone in a puddle. And then the sky opens like it personally hates me.”

You gesture vaguely toward the storm. She listens without interrupting. Actually listens. Not the polite nodding kind. Focused. Present.

You laugh softly. “Sorry. That sounded way more dramatic out loud.”

“It’s not dramatic,” she says. “It’s cumulative.”

You blink at her. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Exactly.”

Something about the way she understands that so quickly settles something in your chest. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Doesn’t say “it’ll get better.” Doesn’t dismiss it.

Just acknowledges.

The candlelight catches the planes of her face. There’s a small scar near her jaw you wouldn’t notice in bright light.

You tilt your head slightly.

“You always this observant?” she asks quietly.

You blink. “Me?”

She nods once. You hesitate.

“I don’t know. I guess I like details.”

“Details are important,” she says. There’s weight in it again.

You smile. “You say that like you’ve built a career on it.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Something like that.”

You assume corporate. Maybe law enforcement. Maybe something vague and intense.

You don’t pry. Thunder booms again, closer this time. The lights flicker weakly but stay out.

The cafe dims further as clouds thicken. You lean back in your chair, watching the rain.

“I kind of love storms,” you admit.

She studies you. “Most people don’t.”

“I know. But it forces everyone to slow down. You can’t rush a storm. You just… wait.”

She’s quiet at that. Her gaze drifts to the window, watching water distort the city beyond it.

“I don’t like waiting,” she says softly.

You glance back at her. “Control thing?”

Her eyes flick to yours. “Maybe.”

You grin faintly. “I hate not being in control too. But storms don’t care.”

“No,” she agrees. “They don’t.”

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The cafe has settled into an odd intimacy, strangers sharing candlelight, voices lowered instinctively.

You notice the way she sits. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed but poised. Feet planted firmly.

Ready.

“You’re very calm,” you say without thinking.

She lifts her gaze. “I don’t panic easily.”

“That’s a good trait.”

“It can be.”

You tilt your head. “Is it not always?”

Her eyes linger on you a second too long. “It depends on the situation.”

You don’t know why, but a chill runs up your spine that has nothing to do with the rain. Then someone drops a tray near the counter and you both glance over.

She reacts faster than you. Always faster.

When you look back at her, she’s composed again. “You come here often?” you ask.

“Yes.” There’s a beat. “You?”

“Too often,” you admit. “It’s close to work. And they spell my name right.”

“That’s important.”

“Very.”

She takes another sip of her coffee. You study her hands. Steady. Strong. There’s something precise about the way she moves. You catch yourself staring.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You just… you seem like you’re somewhere else.”

Her brow lifts slightly. “Somewhere else?”

“Yeah. Like you’re sitting here but also running calculations in your head.”

She goes still. You laugh awkwardly. “That sounded creepy. I swear I’m not profiling you.”

Her gaze softens by a fraction. “What makes you think I’m calculating anything?”

You shrug. “You keep glancing at the door. And the windows. And that guy by the counter.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly. “You’re very observant.”

You grin. “Told you. Details.”

She considers you. “And what do the details tell you?”

You pretend to think deeply.

“Hmm. You don’t like having your back exposed. You don’t fidget. You watch reflections. So either you’re incredibly anxious… or incredibly prepared.”

A beat. “Which do you prefer?” she asks.

You meet her eyes. “Prepared.”

Something unreadable passes through her expression. Thunder shakes the windows hard enough that a few people gasp.

The wind howls. The door rattles. The emergency lights flicker and die.

The entire cafe plunges into near blackness. A few screams. A baby crying somewhere near the back.

You inhale sharply. For a split second, you feel it, disorientation. Vulnerability.

And then her hand covers yours. Firm. Grounding.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly. Her voice cuts through the noise like a steady line.

Your pulse steadies almost instantly. You didn’t even realize she’d reached across the table. Her thumb presses lightly against your knuckles, anchoring.

You swallow. “Backup plan?” you whisper.

“Yes.” You don’t ask what it is. Strangely, you trust that she has one. 

Gradually, phone flashlights flick on around the cafe. Soft glows illuminate faces. The storm outside intensifies, lightning flashing white through the windows.

Your heart is still racing slightly. Her hand hasn’t moved. You look down at where your fingers rest beneath hers.

She notices you looking. Her hand withdraws immediately. Professional. Controlled. You miss the contact instantly.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “It helped.”

She studies your face as if verifying that.

“You don’t scare easily,” she observes.

You shrug. “I mean, I do. Just not… at weather.”

“That’s good.” You tilt your head. “Are you scared of storms?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Then quieter, “I’m cautious.”

You nod slowly. “Fair.”

The cafe owner announces they’re officially closing until power returns. But no one can leave yet, the wind is too strong.

So everyone waits. More candles are distributed. Someone starts playing soft acoustic music from their phone speaker.

The atmosphere shifts from tense to strangely intimate. You lean your chin into your palm.

“So, Nat,” you say lightly. “What do you do when you’re not analyzing cafe layouts?”

Her eyes flicker with amusement. “Travel,” she says.

“Oh? For work?”

“Yes.”

“Exciting?”

“Sometimes.”

You grin. “That’s suspiciously vague.”

She doesn’t elaborate. You don’t push. Instead, you say, “I work in publishing. It’s significantly less mysterious.”

She hums softly. “Books are powerful.”

You blink. “Okay, that sounded dramatic.”

“They shape how people think,” she says simply.

You stare at her. “Are you secretly a philosopher?”

“No.” But there’s something almost fond in her tone.

The candle between you flickers wildly as another gust slams the building. Instinctively, you lean forward, shielding the flame with your hand.

She mirrors the motion without thinking.

Your hands almost touch again.

You freeze. So does she. The candlelight casts shadows along her cheekbones. Her eyes look darker in this light. Closer. Everything feels closer.

Outside, lightning splits the sky. Inside, the world has narrowed to the small circle of warm light between you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

You blink. “We met thirty minutes ago.”

“Yes.”

“And you had expectations?”

“I always do.”

You smile faintly. “What were they?”

“That you’d be nervous.”

“About?”

She gestures vaguely to herself. You laugh softly.

“Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

You study her face. You see strength there. Confidence. Something sharp and honed. But you also see exhaustion. Subtle. Carefully hidden.

“I’m not,” you say honestly.

“Why not?”

You consider that. “Because you don’t feel dangerous.”

It’s a bold statement. You don’t know why you say it. Her gaze sharpens. “And if I was?”

You shrug gently. “I don’t think you’d hurt me.”

Silence stretches. Thunder rolls lower now, further away. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“That’s a risky assumption,” she says softly.

“Maybe.” You hold her gaze. “But I don’t think you’d sit here talking about storms if you were.”

For a long moment, she just looks at you. Like she’s trying to understand something she doesn’t quite recognize.

Finally, “I don’t sit with people,” she admits.

You smile faintly. “I’m honored.” A small exhale leaves her. Almost a laugh.

The storm begins to shift. The thunder spaces out. The rain lessens from violent sheets to steady downpour.

The cafe murmurs with cautious relief. You glance at the window. “I think it’s calming down.”

“Yes,” she agrees. Neither of you move.

You realize something slowly. When the storm ends… this does too.

The thought lands heavier than you expect. You clear your throat.

“So,” you say lightly, “if the world wasn’t ending via weather, what would you be doing right now?”

She considers that. “Training.”

You blink. “For?”

“A marathon.”

You grin. “Liar.”

Her brow arches. “You don’t have marathon energy.”

“And what energy do I have?”

“More like… tactical yoga instructor.”

Her lips twitch. “That’s specific.”

“I stand by it.” The rain softens further. Someone cheers quietly near the door as wind dies down. You feel time slipping. You don’t want it to. You don’t know why that feels important.

“You said you don’t like waiting,” you say softly. “But you stayed.”

Her gaze shifts to you.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question hangs between you. Simple. Loaded. She studies your face carefully, as if deciding how much to give.

“The storm,” she says finally.

You tilt your head. “That’s not the full answer.”

A long pause. “No,” she agrees.

Your heart beats louder in your ears. “You don’t have to tell me,” you add quickly.

She watches you a moment longer. “I stayed,” she says slowly, “because you didn’t look at me like you expected something.”

You blink. “What would I expect?”

“An explanation. A story. A reason to be impressed.”

You frown faintly. “I just wanted coffee.”

That earns you the smallest, realest smile yet. And suddenly, you understand. Whoever she is outside this cafe, people expect things from her.

You don’t. The lights flicker back on. A collective sigh fills the room. Applause breaks out. The espresso machine hums to life.

Reality floods back in harsh fluorescent brightness. You squint slightly. She straightens in her chair. The spell shifts.

You hate it.

“Well,” you say softly. “I guess the apocalypse is postponed.”

“Yes.”

People begin gathering belongings. You hesitate. This is the part where strangers part ways.

You don’t want that. You don’t know why. But you don’t. You stand slowly. She does too. The rain outside is now a gentle drizzle. The sky still gray but clearing.

You sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For making the dark less… dark.”

Her eyes soften. “You did that.”

You smile faintly. There’s a pause. A crossroads. You could let this end here.

A storm. A stranger. A moment.

Instead, “Would you,” you begin, then almost back out. “Would you want to do this again? Preferably without catastrophic weather?”

Her gaze sharpens slightly. Assessing. Considering risk. Considering you.

“Yes,” she says.

Your breath catches slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Relief spreads warm through your chest. You fumble slightly for your phone. “Can I—?”

She’s already pulling hers out. Efficient. You exchange numbers. Her contact simply reads: Nat. No last name. You don’t question it.

“Text me,” she says.

“I will.”

Another pause. Closer now. You realize how tall she is when you’re both standing.

The air between you feels charged in a different way now.Not storm charged. Something quieter. More personal.

“You’re still calculating,” you tease softly.

“Always.”

You step slightly closer. “Am I passing?”

Her eyes drop briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“Yes.”

Your pulse stutters. The door opens. Cool, rain washe air filters in. People begin stepping out cautiously. She looks toward the exit automatically. Then back at you.

“I’ll walk you,” she says.

You blink. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Your heart does something complicated. “Okay,” you say softly.

You step out together. The city smells clean. Washed. Refreshed. Puddles reflect dim streetlights. You walk side by side, close but not touching. She matches your pace effortlessly.

You steal glances at her. She notices every time.

“So,” you say lightly. “Do storms usually improve your day?”

She thinks about that. “No.” 

You smile. “Me neither.” A comfortable silence settles.

Not empty. Full.

When you reach your building, you stop under the awning. Rain drips gently from the edge.

You turn toward her. “Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome.”

You hesitate. You don’t want it to end like a business transaction. Impulsively, you step forward and wrap your arms around her.

Just a quick hug. Warm. Sincere. She goes still in surprise.

Then her arms come around you. Firm. Protective. For a second, she holds you like she’s memorizing the shape of you.

Then she steps back. Composed again. But her eyes are softer than before.

“Text me,” she repeats quietly.

“I will.”

You step backward toward your door. She doesn’t move until you’re safely inside. You glance back through the glass. She’s still there.

Watching. Then she turns and disappears into the damp night.

Inside your apartment, you lean back against the door, heart racing.

You don’t know who she is. You don’t know what she does. You only know that for one storm lashed hour, the world narrowed to candlelight and green eyes and steady hands in the dark.

And you want to sit across from her again.

Outside, the last rumble of thunder fades into silence. Somewhere down the block, Natasha Romanoff allows herself a small, private smile.

She doesn’t like waiting. But this, this might be worth it.

Weeks pass the way storms do, quietly at first, then all at once.

It starts with coffee again. You text her the morning after the storm.

You: So. Preferably no thunder this time?

She responds three minutes later.

Nat: No promises.

You smile at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

The cafe becomes yours in a way that feels unspoken.

Same table by the window. Same soft hum of conversation. No power outages this time, just late afternoon sunlight spilling gold across wooden floors.

Natasha is already there when you arrive. She always is. You pretend not to notice.

She’s dressed simply, dark jeans, fitted jacket, heels that look expensive but practical. Her posture is relaxed but deliberate, back to the wall, eyes tracking the room before settling on you.

There’s that almost imperceptible shift in her expression when she sees you.

Like something inside her loosens.

“You’re early,” you say as you slide into the seat across from her.

“I’m punctual.”

“You’re fifteen minutes early.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Prepared.”

You grin. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“That word.”

She studies you. “You notice patterns.”

“Publishing,” you remind her lightly. “I live in subtext.”

Her lips twitch. The flirting is softer now. Less cautious. It slips into the spaces between sentences. You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Be honest. Did you scope out the exits before I got here?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

You laugh. “I feel very safe right now.”

“Good.”

It’s the way she says it.

Not teasing. Certain.

The cafe dates turn into dinner almost accidentally. You’re standing outside after one of those long coffee afternoons when you say, “I’m starving.”

She glances at you. “There’s a place two blocks down.”

“You’ve memorized nearby restaurants too?”

“Yes.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You’re either incredibly thorough… or secretly planning a coup.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You’ll never know.”

You step closer without thinking, shoulder brushing hers as you fall into step beside her. She doesn’t move away.

The restaurant is small. Dim. Candlelit again, though intentionally this time. The space between you feels different in this kind of lighting, less accidental, more aware.

You catch her looking at you when you’re laughing.

Not glancing. Looking. It does something steady and warm in your chest.

“You do that,” you say lightly.

“Do what?”

“Study me like I’m a puzzle.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Maybe you are.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And I like puzzles.”

The air shifts. You swallow.

It becomes a rhythm. Coffee. Dinner. Walks in the park when the weather cooperates.

Natasha walks half a step behind you at first.

You notice. Eventually, you slow just slightly until she’s beside you instead. She doesn’t comment. But she stays there.

The park smells like grass and sun warmed pavement. Kids run past. Dogs bark. The world feels painfully normal.

You like watching her in normal settings. She doesn’t. She scans the tree line sometimes. Watches people too long. Tracks movement instinctively. But then you say something ridiculous, and she forgets to be on guard for a few seconds.

Those seconds feel important.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask one evening as you sit on a park bench, your shoulders brushing.

“I am relaxed.”

“You just assessed that jogger’s stride.”

“He’s favoring his left knee.”

You stare at her. “How do you even notice that?”

She shrugs lightly. “Habit.”

You rest your chin in your palm. “You’re fascinating.”

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Dangerous word.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yes.”

You smile softly. “Good.”

You don’t ask what she does. You want to.

Curiosity burns at the edges of your restraint. She travels often. Disappears for days sometimes with short texts.

Work trip. Back Thursday. Be safe.

You don’t pry.

Instead, you ask how the flight was. If she slept. If she ate.

She answers vaguely but consistently. And she always calls. The late night phone calls start casually.

One night you text her at 11:42 PM.

Can’t sleep. Storm’s back. Your phone rings thirty seconds later.

Her voice in the dark is different.

Lower. Less guarded.

“Still like storms?” she asks.

You roll onto your side, staring at the faint city light bleeding through your curtains.

“Only when I’m not alone.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m here.”

You smile softly. You talk about nothing and everything.

Your neighbor’s terrible music taste. A book you’re editing. The way she once got stuck in an airport for twelve hours and learned three card tricks out of boredom.

“Show me,” you demand.

“Over the phone?”

“Yes.”

She laughs quietly. It’s rare. You cling to it. The flirting slides in slowly.

“You miss me?” you ask one night, teasing.

A beat. “Yes.”

Your breath catches. “You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.”

“I don’t lie unless necessary.”

“That’s comforting. I think.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“Do I miss you?”

“Yes.”

You smile into the darkness.

“Terribly.”

Silence. But not empty. Charged.

The first time she comes over, it’s unplanned.

She texts: Landed early.

You reply: I have leftover pasta and bad wine.

She’s at your door twenty minutes later. You open it barefoot, hair slightly messy, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. She freezes for half a second.

You notice. You lean against the doorframe. “You going to come in or just evaluate my security system?”

Her eyes flick briefly to the lock.

“Already evaluated.”

“Of course you did.”

She steps inside. Your apartment is small. Warm. Books stacked on the coffee table. A blanket tossed over the couch.

She moves through the space quietly, absorbing details.

“You don’t have many sharp corners,” she observes.

You blink. “That’s… an odd compliment.”

“It reduces accidents.”

You laugh.

“Nat, who hurt you with furniture?”

A faint smirk. Dinner turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out.

Your knees brush. Neither of you move away.

The wine makes you softer. Braver.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admit quietly.

“I don’t mean to be.”

“I know.”

You turn your head to look at her.

“I don’t need to know everything,” you add. “About your job. Or where you go.”

She watches you carefully.

“Why not?”

“Because you always come back.”

Something in her expression shifts. Subtle. Vulnerable.

“That’s not guaranteed,” she says softly.

“It is for me,” you reply.

You don’t know why you’re so sure. But you are.

The flirting escalates in small, deliberate ways. Her hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded sidewalk. Your fingers brushing hers accidentally and lingering a second too long. The way she looks at your mouth mid sentence and doesn’t immediately look away anymore.

One evening in the park, you’re sitting close enough that your thighs press together.

“You’re distracting,” she says suddenly.

You grin. “How?”

“You talk with your hands.”

“That’s distracting?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She turns her head slowly. “Because I watch them.”

Your pulse jumps. “Oh.”

Silence stretches. Her hand moves slightly. Close. Not touching.

You make the decision. You lace your fingers with hers.

Her breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. Her grip tightens. Warm. Strong. Steady.

You smile softly, staring ahead at the skyline.

She watches you instead.

The first almost kiss happens on your couch. Late. Past midnight. You’re both laughing about something stupid, some childhood story she shared in fragments.

“You were competitive?” you tease.

“I still am.”

“Prove it.”

Her eyebrow arches.

“How?”

You lean closer without fully realizing.

“Bet you can’t go a full minute without staring at my lips.”

Her gaze drops instantly. You inhale sharply.

“That was immediate,” you whisper.

“You said prove it.”

Her voice is quieter now. Closer. The air thickens.

You’re aware of everything, her knee against yours, her hand resting near your thigh, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with your detergent.

“Nat,” you murmur.

“Yes.”

But neither of you moves that last inch. The tension hums.

Then her phone buzzes. The sound slices through the moment. She pulls back slightly, eyes hardening in a way you haven’t seen directed at you before. She checks the screen.

Something unreadable passes over her face.

“I have to take this,” she says.

You nod, trying not to show the flicker of disappointment.

She steps into your kitchen. Her voice drops into something colder. Sharper. Professional.

You can’t hear the words. Only tone. When she comes back, she looks composed again.

“I have to leave,” she says.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

You stand slowly.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

It’s automatic. Too automatic. You don’t challenge it. You step closer instead.

“Be safe,” you say quietly.

Her hand comes up to your cheek. It’s the first time she’s touched your face. Her thumb brushes lightly under your eye.

“I will.”

Her forehead almost touches yours. Almost. Then she steps back. She leaves like she always does, controlled, precise.

You stand in the quiet after, heart racing, lips tingling with something that didn’t quite happen.

Later that night, your phone buzzes.

Nat: I’m sorry.

You type back immediately.

For what?

Three dots.

Disappear. Reappear.

Nat: For leaving like that.

You stare at the screen.

You always come back, you type.

A long pause.

Then I will.

You smile softly in the dark.

Weeks ago, she was a stranger in candlelight.

Now she’s late night laughter and steady hands and almost kisses interrupted by secrets you don’t ask about.

You don’t know what she does. You don’t know why her voice changes on certain calls. But you know the way she looks at you like you’re something fragile she doesn’t want to break.

And the way she always, always comes back to the cafe. To you. And somewhere between rainstorms and park benches and midnight confessions, you realize. You’re already falling. You just don’t know how far she’s willing to fall with you.

This night settles softer than usual.

No rain. No thunder. Just the low hum of the city outside your apartment window and the faint glow of streetlights striping your ceiling.

You’re on your back in bed, phone pressed to your ear, blanket twisted around your legs. The call has already lasted… you check the time.

Two hours. Neither of you has noticed.

Natasha’s voice is quieter at night. Not tired, quieter in the way people sound when they stop performing the version of themselves the world expects.

“You’re still awake,” she murmurs.

“You called me,” you reply, smiling into the darkness.

“You answered immediately.”

“You wanted me to.”

A soft exhale crosses the line. Not quite a laugh.

“You always know.”

Your stomach tightens faintly at the tone. There’s something different tonight, less guarded edges, more intention in the spaces between words.

You roll onto your side, tucking the phone closer. “Where are you?” you ask.

A brief pause.

“My apartment.”

You’ve never been there. You picture it anyway, clean lines, minimal clutter, everything placed deliberately. You imagine dim lighting, maybe a single lamp on, her leaning against a counter while she talks.

“What time did you get back?” you ask.

“Late.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

A beat. “…Not much.”

You smile softly. “I knew it.”

Silence stretches, but it isn’t empty. You can hear faint movement on her end, fabric shifting, maybe her pacing.

“You worry about me,” she says quietly.

“You give me reasons to.” Another pause. “You don’t even know what I do.”

You trace a line along your blanket absentmindedly.

“I know you disappear sometimes,” you say. “And you come back quieter than before.”

Her breathing shifts slightly through the phone.

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

You think about it honestly.

“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

Because it’s you, you almost say. Instead “Because you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.”

The line goes very still. When she speaks again, her voice is lower.

“You trust me.”

It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

A long silence follows, heavier than the others, charged in a way you can’t quite name.

Then, “What are you wearing?” she asks.

Your breath catches. The question is casual in wording. Not casual in tone. You shift under the blanket, suddenly aware of everything, the quiet room, your heartbeat, the way her voice sits directly against your ear.

“…Why?” you manage.

A faint hum of amusement. “Answer.”

Your pulse picks up. “Just a t-shirt,” you say slowly. “And shorts.”

You can practically hear the way her focus sharpens.

“Color?”

You swallow.

“Gray.”

“Soft?”

“Yes.”

Another silence, but warmer now, heavier. You stare at the ceiling.

“What about you?” you ask, softer.

Fabric rustles faintly on her end.

“Tank top,” she says. “Sweats.”

Your mind supplies the image instantly, the defined lines of her arms you’ve noticed a hundred times, the relaxed posture she only allows when she feels safe.

Your stomach flips.

“You’re quiet,” she observes.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

You hesitate. Then lean into it. “You.”

A slow inhale travels through the speaker. “You shouldn’t.”

“Too late.”

Her voice drops another degree. “What exactly are you thinking?”

Your heart pounds. The air in your room feels warmer. You roll onto your back again, pressing your free hand over your eyes.

“That you do this on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Lower your voice like that,” you murmur. “Ask questions you know will get reactions.”

You hear a faint shift, maybe she’s sitting down now.

“And it works?”

“Yes.”

A soft, almost pleased hum.

You exhale shakily. “You’re bold tonight.”

“I’m comfortable tonight.”

The words settle deep.

“With me?” you ask.

“Yes.”

Your chest tightens. You whisper before you can stop yourself, “Good.”

The quiet stretches. Not awkward, magnetic. You can almost feel her attention through the phone, focused and deliberate like it always is when she looks at you in person.

“You remember the couch,” she says suddenly.

Your stomach drops. “…Yeah.”

“The bet.” Heat crawls up your neck.

“You cheated,” you say weakly.

“I was interrupted.”

Your fingers curl in the blanket. “What would’ve happened?” you ask.

You don’t know why you ask. Maybe you do. Her answer comes slower this time.

“I would have kissed you.”

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller.

“You sound very certain,” you whisper.

“I am.”

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears now. You force a shaky laugh. “You say that like you’ve already decided.”

“I have.”

The confidence in it makes your stomach tighten. You shift onto your side, instinctively curling closer around the phone.

“Nat…”

“Yes.”

You hesitate, then: “Why haven’t you?”

A long pause. When she speaks, her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Because if I start,” she says, “I won’t want to stop.”

Your breath leaves you slowly.The words settle heavy and warm under your ribs. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, failing.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur.

“You said I wasn’t.”

“Not like that.”

Silence again.

Then, quieter, “Say my name.”

You blink. “I just did.”

“No,” she says gently. “The way you do when you forget to think first.”

Your pulse spikes. You stare into the dark, nerves sparking along your skin.

“…Natasha.”

The effect is immediate, her inhale sharp, controlled but affected.

You didn’t imagine it.

“Again,” she murmurs.

Your voice drops without meaning to.

“Natasha.”

A faint exhale. You’re gripping the blanket now.

“You like hearing it?” you ask softly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

“Because you don’t say it like anyone else.”

Your throat feels dry.

“You’re unfair tonight.”

“You’re still here.”

You smile faintly, heart racing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The admission sits between you. Warm. Intentional. You close your eyes, letting the quiet hum of the call wrap around you both, two separate spaces somehow feeling shared.

Eventually her voice softens again. “You should sleep.”

“You first.”

A faint chuckle.

“Stay on the line,” you murmur.

“I will.”

Neither of you hangs up.

Your breathing gradually slows, but the warmth remains, lingering under your skin long after words stop.

And somewhere in the quiet, with her presence steady in your ear, you realize the line between almost and inevitable is getting thinner every night.

The next night is warm. Streetlights glow amber. A breeze lifts the hair at your temple. Natasha stands close, closer than usual, one hand tucked in her pocket, the other hanging loose at her side, relaxed in a way that only happens when she’s with you.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, soft, sincere.

“You thanked me last time.”

“I’m allowed to be grateful twice.”

She huffs a small laugh, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

That look. It steals air from your lungs.

Her voice lowers. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you’re deciding something dangerous.”

Your breath catches. “Maybe I am.”

The shift is immediate, her posture stills, focus narrowing on you with absolute attention. Not analytical. Not tactical.

Wanting.

She takes one step closer. You don’t move back.

“You’re sure?” she asks quietly, like she’s giving you a final exit, her words steady but her breath just a little uneven.

You nod.

“Natasha…”

Her name leaves your mouth softer than you mean it to, and that’s what breaks her restraint.

She cups your face with both hands and kisses you. Deep, immediate, consuming.

Heat floods your chest so fast your knees almost go weak. She presses into you gently but firmly, mouth warm, controlled and starving at once. Her thumb strokes along your jaw as if memorizing it, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment longer than she’ll ever admit.

You gasp softly against her lips, and that’s all it takes.

Her arm slides around your waist, grip strong, lifting you off the ground as though you weigh nothing. You instinctively wrap your legs around her hips, arms around her shoulders as the kiss grows hotter, deeper, more urgent.

You can feel her breathing change against your mouth, quicker, rougher, her control slipping at the edges.

“Nat—” you whisper into the kiss, breathless.

She groans softly, barely audible, but enough to make your stomach tighten.

Your back meets your apartment door, she’s carried you there without breaking the kiss. Her mouth moves against yours with a hunger held back for too many nights of almosts and interrupted moments.

“Open the door,” she murmurs against your lips.

You fumble for the knob without looking, impossible with the way she’s kissing you, with her hands holding you securely against her body.

You manage to turn it. The door swings inward.

Natasha nudges it shut with her foot, slow and deliberate, never letting you down, her lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then your throat, soft, warm, leaving sparks in every place she touches.

Your breath stutters.

Her voice is low, almost a whisper at your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” she says, but there is no distance in her tone now, no doubt, only the ghost of restraint and the burn of everything she’s wanted.

You tighten your grip around her.

“Don’t stop.”

Her answering exhale is a shiver against your skin, a release, a surrender.

She carries you further inside, your legs still around her waist, your hands in her hair, her mouth finding yours again with a heat that leaves your thoughts sliding apart.

Everything else, the city, the night, the weeks of tension, dissolves until there’s only the sound of her breath and your heartbeat and the soft thud of the door clicking shut behind you.

And then the world falls away. The moment deepens. And nothing between you is “almost” anymore.

Natasha carries you deeper into the room, your legs anchored around her waist, her hands gripping you with a certainty that makes your pulse thrum. She kisses you like she’s been waiting weeks, no, months, for permission.

Her mouth is warm, confident, coaxing yours open until the kiss turns slow and hungry all at once. Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from her throat, quiet, but undeniably wanting.

She presses you gently against the wall, bodies aligned from chest to hip. The hard line of her torso meets the soft curve of yours, heat building where your bodies touch. Her hands travel, one spreading along your lower back, the other climbing to the back of your thighs, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.

Her lips move to your jaw, then under your ear, kissing there with enough softness to make your breath catch, enough intent to make your knees tremble even though they aren’t holding you up.

You turn your head slightly, giving her more space, more access. She takes it, her mouth tracing down your neck, open mouthed kisses slow and deliberate, each one leaving a heat that spreads across your skin.

“Natasha…” you whisper, fingers curling hard into her shoulders.

She breathes against your throat, voice low, husky now. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Her hands slide under the edge of your shirt, cool fingertips against the warm skin of your waist, skimming upward, exploring, learning you. Her touch is reverent and hungry all at once, palms warm as they travel the curve of your sides, memorizing the shape of you.

Your shirt lifts slightly as she moves, exposing more skin to the air, to her mouth when she returns to kiss along your collarbone. She follows the line with slow, lingering attention, her breath brushing your skin, making you shiver.

You tug lightly at her hair again and she lifts her head, kissing you deeply, a kiss that drags a soft sound from your chest you didn’t know you were capable of making. She swallows it with a low hum of approval, her thumb stroking your waist in a steady rhythm meant to ground you, even as she pulls you deeper into the moment.

When she finally lowers you from her arms, your legs feel unsteady, but her hands remain on your hips, grounding, steady. She steps forward, guiding you gently back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of your couch.

You sink onto it. She follows. Kneeling between your legs.

Her hands slide up your thighs slowly, fingers tracing along their curve through fabric, thumbs brushing inward with teasing intention that steals your breath. She watches your reaction closely, pupils dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling just a little faster.

You reach for her face, guiding her back up toward you, and she meets your mouth again, this kiss deeper, slower, more consuming than any before. Her hands slide beneath your shirt again, higher this time, her palms spreading over your ribs, her thumbs brushing the underside of your bra in a way that makes your stomach tighten and your breath catch.

You arch slightly into her touch.

She notices.

Her lips leave yours for your throat once more, kissing down its length with open mouthed heat, her teeth grazing lightly along sensitive skin before she soothes the spot with her tongue.

Your fingers tremble where they grip her shoulders.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs against your skin, her breath warm, controlled, barely.

You shake your head, voice soft and breathless. “Don’t stop.”

She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for weeks, and her hands slide up your sides again, slower, deliberate, shaping you, appreciating you, her touch both tender and hungry.

Your shirt lifts higher. Her mouth follows.

Trailing along your sternum. Your ribs. The edge of soft fabric.

Her lips find a spot just beneath your bra, warm skin she kisses once, twice, lingering, and your hips lift instinctively in response, a soft sound catching in your throat.

She smiles against your skin. A low, pleased sound.

Her hands smooth along your waist again, her thumbs tracing soft circles, her body pressing between your legs in a way that sends heat pooling in your core.

She lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, flushed, breathing deeper now.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers.

Not demanding. Inviting.

Your pulse hammers, your body already leaning toward her, your hands sliding to the back of her neck as you pull her closer again.

“I want you,” you breathe.

Her lips crash softly but decisively against yours, a kiss that steals thought, steals breath, steals everything except the heat spiraling low in your stomach and the way her body fits against yours like she’s meant to be there.

Her hands move again, slow, warm, exploring, and you melt into her touch, her mouth, the moment you both stopped pretending you weren’t falling into.

She leans back just enough to pull your shirt over your head. The movement is slow, almost reverent, her eyes never leaving yours as your shirt drops somewhere beside the couch.

Her gaze trails down your body, lingering like a touch.

You’ve never been looked at like that, like she’s memorizing every inch of you, like she’s been starved for this exact moment.

Her fingers slide along your waist again, softer now, tracing the shape of you, her thumbs brushing the dip just above your hips.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

You pull her closer by the front of her shirt, your legs tightening around her hips as you kiss her again, this time with all the heat she’s coaxing out of you. Natasha answers instantly, shifting her weight so she fits between your thighs more solidly, her body pressing flush against yours.

The sensation steals your breath.

Her hands explore without hesitation now, up your sides, across your back, fingers spreading wide as if to feel as much of you as she can. When her palms slide higher, brushing the edge of your bra again, you gasp into her mouth.

She shivers. Actually shivers. Her forehead presses to yours, her breathing unsteady.

“If you keep making sounds like that…” she whispers, her voice breaking just a little, “…I won’t be able to take this slow.”

Your entire body tightens in response.

You drag your lips along her jaw, kissing down the column of her throat, feeling the muscles tense under your mouth. She tilts her head slightly, giving you access, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your back to hold you closer.

Her breathing stutters when you kiss just below her ear.

You whisper, “Maybe I don’t want slow.”

Her fingers tighten on your skin, her breath catching hard.

“Careful,” she murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been holding myself back for weeks.”

You kiss her again, slow but deep, guiding her down until she’s hovering over you, her body pressed along yours from knees to chest. Her shirt drags upward with the movement, exposing warm, taut skin beneath.

Your hands slide up under her shirt, fingertips skating over toned muscle, feeling the way she trembles, barely, but enough.

Her voice breaks on a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

You lift her shirt slowly, feeling each inch of her as it rises. She lets you. When the fabric pools on the floor, there’s nothing between you but heat and breath and weeks of building tension snapping loose all at once.

Natasha kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. Her thigh shifts between yours.

Your back arches. Her mouth finds your shoulder, then your chest, her kisses scattering heat across your skin as her hands roam everywhere, your waist, the curve of your hip, the small of your back, touches turning more urgent each second.

You pull her closer, your bodies fitting together like they’ve done this a hundred times in dreams you never admitted having.

Her lips hover at your ear. Her breath warm. Her voice low. Her hands sliding boldly along your sides.

“Tell me,” she whispers, “if you want more.”

Your answer is immediate, breathless, honest, wanting.

“Yes. More.”

Her exhale is shaky, almost a groan. And the last bit of restraint she’s been holding onto breaks.

You don’t even get a full breath before she forces you back into the cushions, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Her weight follows immediately, warm and solid, her thigh sliding between yours and spreading your legs apart with slow, deliberate pressure.

The contact makes your stomach drop.

Your mouth opens against hers and she takes advantage instantly, the kiss turns messy, hungry, almost impatient. Whatever restraint she had is gone now; she kisses like she’s been holding it in for too long.

For a brief second her fingers thread with yours, squeezing, then she pins your wrists above your head.

Your chest rises under her, trapped between her body and the couch as her mouth drags down your throat in hot, open mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming everywhere she touches.

“You feel that?” she murmurs agains your skin, breath uneven. “What you do to me?”

Her thigh presses up again, slower, harder.

A broken sound escapes you before you can swallow it back.

Natasha lets out a low, satisfied exhale, almost a chuckle.

Her hand slides down your side, no hesitation now, fingers curling around your waist and pulling you tighter into her. You feel the tension in her body, the way she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she loosens her grip even a little.

When she kisses you again it’s rougher, teeth catching your lip before she soothes it with her tongue, stealing the breath right out of you.

Your legs tighten around her instinctively.

She groans, deep, unguarded, the sound vibrating through you.

Her hips move in response, slow and heavy, dragging friction through you that makes your back arch before you can stop it. She pulls back just enough to watch your reaction.

Her pupils are blown wide.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re already shaking.”

Her hands slide down and lift you into her lap in one smooth motion, forcing you to straddle her thighs. The new angle pulls a startled sound from your throat.

Her grip on your hips tightens instantly.

“Y/n,” she mutters, but she’s the one guiding you down, setting the pace, slow, rolling, deliberate. “You won’t last if you keep doing that.”

Your hands clutch her shoulders, forehead falling against hers as your breathing tangles together.

“Look at me,” she says softly.

You do, and her composure cracks.

She pulls you down harder against her, guiding your movement with unmistakable intent, each motion pulling another unsteady breath from you.

“That’s it,” she whispers, almost approving. “Don’t hold back now.”

Her mouth moves restlessly along your jaw and throat, like she can’t decide where she wants you most. Her voice drops lower, rough with want.

“I’ve imagined this,” she admits quietly. “You like this… don’t you? Being handled.”

Your fingers dig into her.

She exhales sharply and presses her forehead to yours.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’m not stopping.”

She breaks the kiss, both of you gasping for air. She looks down at your heaving chest, her hands still on your hips. She bites her lip, looking back up at you with those intense dark eyes. "God, you're responsive..." 

Natasha tightens her grip on your hips, pulling you even closer, causing you to let out a small whimper. "And those sounds you make... fuck." 

She leans in again, kissing along your jaw and neck.

Natasha nips at your pulse point, making you gasp and tilt your head to the side, giving her more room. She takes advantage, kissing and sucking along your neck, her hands sliding up from your hips to your ribcage. She pauses there, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts.

"You're so sensitive," she murmurs against your skin, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "I wonder how you'd react to my mouth here..." Her thumbs slowly circle upwards, barely grazing the undersides of your breasts.

You arch into her touch instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. She groans softly in response, the sound vibrating against your neck. 

Your hands slide up her back, gripping her shoulders as she explores your sensitive skin. She pulls back to look at you, her pupils huge and dark with arousal.

She breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck and chest. "I need you," she pants against your skin, her fingers trembling as they unhook your bra.

"Then take what you want," you breathe out, your voice shaking with need. Your hands move to her face, thumbs gently tracing her high cheekbones.

"Please, Natasha... I've wanted this for so long." Your hips roll against hers instinctively, seeking more friction. "Don't hold back with me." You pull her back to your mouth, kissing her desperately, like you're both drowning and each other are the only air left.

Natasha kisses you back with equal desperation, her hands trembling as they push your bra aside. She breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down your chest, her tongue swirling around one hardened peak before taking it into her mouth. 

You gasp and arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her red hair.

"I’m in love you," she whispers against your skin between kisses. "I love you so much." Her hands shake as she pushes your pants down.

"I love you too," you whisper back, your voice breaking with emotion as you lift your hips to help her remove your pants. 

You're completely exposed now, trembling and open before her.

"I love you more than anything... Please, Natasha..." You reach for her, pulling her back up to kiss you fiercely. "Make love to me... " Your legs wrap around her waist instinctively, pulling her close.

She kisses you back with so much love and passion that it brings tears to your eyes. She slowly pushes you back onto the couch, breaking the kiss only to trail her lips down your neck and chest.

"I'll make love to you " she whispers huskily. "Slowly and thoroughly, so you'll feel how much I love you." She spreads your legs gently and settles between them, looking up at you with so much tenderness. "I want you to feel every single touch..."

Your trembling hands move to her belt, fumbling with the buckle. She helps you, kicking her jeans off while simultaneously unhooking her own bra. She hovers over you, bare and real and breathtaking.

"God, you're beautiful," you breathe, your eyes trailing over her curves in the dim light.

She smiles softly, lowering herself back down to meet your body with hers. "So are you." 

Her lips find yours again as she settles between your thighs, skin against skin. The contact makes you both gasp.

Natasha's body is warm and soft where it meets yours, her skin sliding against yours in the most perfect way. 

She kisses you deeply, her tongue tasting every part of your mouth like she's memorizing you. Her breasts press against yours, nipples hard and sensitive, making you both whimper into the kiss. 

She grinds her hips slowly, letting you feel how ready she is. "I want to take my time..." she whispers against your lips. "But I don't know if I can."

You pull her into another deep, desperate kiss, your legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. Your hands roam over her body, touching and memorizing every curve and plane.

"Don't hold back," you pant against her mouth. "I need you... Now." Your hips lift to meet hers instinctively. "Please, Natasha..." Your fingers dig into her back as you break the kiss to trail kisses down her neck and collarbone.

Natasha's breath hitches at your words and actions, her hips moving in response. She's so wet that you can feel it against your own heat, making you both gasp and moan. 

"Fuck," she whispers, burying her face in your neck. "You're gonna make me lose control." She kisses your neck roughly, biting gently before soothing the sting with her tongue.

You tilt your head to give her more access, your hands sliding down to grip her ass and pull her closer.

"Then lose control," you whisper back, arching into her. "I want all of it... I want you wild and needy..." 

Your words seem to break the last of her non existing restraint. She kisses you messily, hips moving with more purpose now.

"You have no idea what you do to me..." she pants against your mouth. "I've wanted you like this for so long..."

She slides down your body, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along the way. Her hands grip your inner thighs, spreading them wider as she settles between your legs. She looks up at you one last time, dark green eyes full of worship and desire, before she lowers her mouth to kiss your hipbone, then your inner thigh, then finally her tongue is sliding through your folds.

"Oh god—" You cry out, fingers immediately tangling in her hair.

She groans against you, the vibration sending shocks through your entire body.

Natasha's tongue works magic, licking and sucking at your most sensitive spots. She hooks her arms under your thighs, pulling your legs over her shoulders to get deeper access. Her mouth is relentless, kissing, licking, sucking, driving you wild with pleasure.

"Shh..." She whispers against you when you moan too loudly, "...let me worship you." Her fingers join her tongue, pushing inside you slowly.

Your back arches off the couch at the invasion, a loud cry ripping from your throat. "Natasha!" 

Your hands pull at her hair, hips bucking against her face. She groans in response, the sound vibrating through you as she starts to move her fingers in and out, curling them just right to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision white. 

"Oh god, oh god, oh god..." You chant, head rolling back as pleasure builds quickly.

Natasha keeps the perfect rhythm, her tongue flicking against your clit while her fingers move inside you. She feels you getting closer and closer, your legs shaking over her shoulders.

Without warning, she closes her mouth over your clit and sucks hard, her fingers curling even deeper.

"Fuck!" You scream, entire body convulsing as an intense orgasm rips through you. "Natasha, fuck, yes!" Your hands pull at her hair, holding her mouth against you as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Natasha doesn't let up, keeping her mouth and fingers moving until she's wrung every last drop of pleasure from you. 

When you finally collapse back against the couch, chest heaving, she lifts her head, her face shiny and wet from your release.

"Look at me," she commands softly. 

You open your eyes, finding hers intense and dark.

"I want you to see what you do to me." She slowly pulls her fingers out of you and brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean with a satisfied groan.

You don’t wait to recover, you push her back gently, making her lie down on the couch. You straddle her hips, your hands sliding up her body to cup her breasts. She watches you with heavy lidded eyes, already breathless from pleasing you. 

You lean down and capture one nipple in your mouth, sucking hard while your hand squeezes the other breast.

"Fuck..." She gasps, arching into your touch. "Baby..." Her hands grip your hair tightly. "I need..." She trails off as you kiss down her stomach.

You push her thighs apart gently, settling between them. Looking up at her, you see her biting her lip, green eyes dark with anticipation. You kiss her inner thigh first, then the other, teasing her. 

When you finally lick a stripe up her wetness, she moans loudly, fingers immediately tangling in your hair.

"Yes," she whispers, lifting her hips off the couch. "Please, baby..." Your tongue pushes inside her, and she cries out your name, her thighs trembling around your head.

You work her with your tongue and fingers, learning what she likes best. You find that she loves it when you suck on her clit while curling your fingers inside her, hitting that perfectly sensitive spot. 

She spreads her legs wider, giving you full access. Her wetness coats your face as you eat her out hungrily, determined to make her come undone like she did for you.

"Deeper... Right there..." She pants, grinding against your mouth. "God, you're good with that tongue..."

You suck harder on her clit, your fingers moving faster, curling perfectly. Natasha's hands tighten in your hair, pulling you deeper. 

Her hips buck against your mouth frantically.

"I'm close," she gasps. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't—" She cuts off with a sharp cry as her orgasm hits, her thighs clamping around your head, body shaking as she comes hard against your mouth. You keep licking through it until she's gently pushing you away. 

You finally ease off only when she's gently pushing at your shoulders, spent and breathless.

When you lift your head, you see her completely wrecked, chest heaving, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. She looks absolutely blissed out.

"Baby..." She whispers, reaching for you.

You crawl up her body, settling against her chest. Her arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close, hearts pounding against each other. She kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, gentle now, tender.

You nuzzle into her touch, smiling softly. You're more than okay, you're happy, sated, and completely in love. 

You turn your head to press a soft kiss to her jaw, then burrow into the crook of her neck. 

"Mmm," you hum contentedly, wrapping your arm around her waist to pull her even closer. "I love you." You breathe out softly, placing a gentle kiss on her pulse point. "So much."

Natasha melts at your soft touches and gentle words. She turns her face to press a tender kiss to your forehead, holding you close like she's afraid you might disappear. 

"I love you more," she whispers back, voice thick with emotion. 

Her hand slides up your side possessively, fingers splaying out on your stomach. "So much more." She shifts closer, until there's no space between you, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, hearts beating as one. She presses another soft kiss to your hair. 

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Stay with me,” she murmurs. “Just like this.”

Robin had an all-consuming, life-ruining crush on Nancy Wheeler, and though she loved Nancy’s routine visits while she worked, they didn’t help her situation in the slightest. 

“Sorry, what?” Robin replied dumbly, squeezing her eyes shut, shaking her head, and standing up straight to regain focus on the conversation at hand. 

“I was saying that I have to go pick up Holly, but maybe you want to grab a bite to eat when you get off tonight?” Nancy’s amused smile never left her lips as she leaned forward onto the counter, “I can pick you up.” 

“Oh, y-yeah, what were you thinking?” 

“You said you wanted to try that new pizza place across the street, right?” 

Robin smiled because, of course, Nancy would remember a comment she made in passing exactly one time a few weeks ago. 

“I did,” She nodded, twirling her ring around her index finger, “but we dont have to-” 

“Perfect,” Nancy chimed in with finality as she backed away from the counter towards the door,  “It’s a date! See you at 7!” 

Robin was rendered speechless, which was a power only Nancy Wheeler had possessed so far. She could only watch and return Nancy’s cute little wave before she exited the tiny video store. 

“God, you have no game,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head, “You’re lucky Nance is so into you already.” 

Robin rolled her eyes and turned around to face her best friend as he exited the back room, her arms crossed in front of her chest, “She isn’t into me, Steve. We’re just hanging out after work.” 

“At the pizza place you wanted to try. Nancy Wheeler, the control freak, essentially let you pick where you were going to eat.” Steve set the box of new releases on the countertop as he leaned against the counter beside Robin, “and she brought you two bags of Razzles today. I’m her friend, and you know what she brought me? Nothing! I didn’t even get a goodbye, and I barely got a hello. She was all ‘Here are your Razzles, Robin!’, ‘What movies should I watch this week, Robin?’, ‘Let’s go eat pizza and smooch after your shift, Robin!’.

“Ew! First of all, don’t say smooch, it’s gross. Second of all, maybe she just likes me better than you, have you ever thought of that one, dingus?” Robin looked over at Steve with a teasing smile and a soft elbow to his bicep. 

“I know fuck me eyes when I see them, Rob.” Steve nodded, nudging her back a little harder. 

“Oh my God! Stop talking!” Robin snapped, snatching up the box of new releases to set out on the display, if only to escape her best friend’s meddling in her love life. 

“We’ll see tonight, won’t we?” He called after her, wiggling his eyebrows, clearly pleased with himself. 

Robin just flipped him off from her place on the floor by the front window display. 

Nancy pulled up in front of the curb outside of Family Video at exactly 6:59 and leaned against the passenger side door as she waited. 

“Rob,” Steve yelled from his spot at the counter, “Your girlfriend’s here!” 

Robin mentally cursed herself for not anticipating Nancy being early, as she quickly finished fixing herself in the mirror. She rushed out of the Family Video bathroom, hip-checking the front counter and almost falling flat on her face in the process. 

“Keep your voice down!” Robin hissed at her best friend, who didn’t look at all remorseful. Robin just hoped Nancy didn’t hear his comment. 

She paused for a beat to collect herself before removing her green Family Video vest and stuffing it into her work bag, before slinging it over her shoulder and heading towards the door. 

“Bye, Dingus!” She called over her shoulder as she pushed the glass door open. 

“Have fun on your date!” Steve yelled in reply, a smug smile coloring his features. 

Robin only glared at him before stepping out on the sidewalk, letting the door slam shut behind her.

As soon as her eyes landed on Nancy in front of her, her upset about Steve and his comments had been long forgotten. Nancy was a vision. She had dolled up a little more since Robin last saw her, trading her jeans and sweater from earlier for a pink dress. Her makeup was touched up, and her curls were more defined, as well. Robin felt extremely underdressed in her jeans, plain t-shirt, and patch-covered jacket. She wished that she had brought a change of clothes. 

She realized that she had been staring for longer than what would be considered normal, and could only imagine what Steve looked like watching her stare, so she willed herself to speak. 

“Hey, Nance,” Her voice was higher than it usually was. She cleared her throat before continuing, “You look nice.” 

Nancy smiled warmly, “Thank you. You do too. I like your patches.” She stepped forward until she was within reaching distance of the sandy blonde and lightly traced the patch by her left shoulder. 

“Oh, these? I actually got the jacket plain and added the patches when I found them at thrift stores and little shops! I learned to sew just for this, actually. I have a few bags with patches on them, and my suitcase has a few, too! I switch the patches around when I get bored with them. I actually just got this one from a little thrift store down… by the library.” Robin’s hand fell awkwardly from where she was pointing at the “handle with care” patch as her ramble came to a close. She hadn’t even gotten in the car yet, and she already screwed this up. 

Not that there was anything to screw up, she reminded herself. This was just a friendly dinner. She and Nancy had gone out to eat together so many times before. Robin had no idea why she was so nervous this time. Steve had definitely gotten into her head. 

“You’ll have to take me to get some, sometime. Maybe you could also teach me to sew them on,” Nancy replied. As usual, she didn’t make Robin feel like she talked too much, even though she definitely just word-vomited in the 5 minutes she had been outside. She loved how intently she listened to Robin, even when she talked a mile a minute, and she always wanted to learn more about Robin’s interests and hobbies. 

“Definitely,” Robin rocked on her heels, refraining from saying any more. She shivered a little and realized they were still standing outside, then gestured to Nancy’s car, still parked on the curb in front of the video store, “Shall we?” 

“Oh, right, yes.” Nancy opened the passenger door for Robin and shut it behind her when she got in, then crossed over to the driver’s side. 

Weird, Robin thought, Nancy had never done that before. 

They were led to a booth in the back corner of the dimly lit restaurant, tucked away from the rest of the patrons. A single candle was lit in the center of the table. It was more of an Italian Restaurant than a pizzeria, Robin supposed. The atmosphere was intimate and romantic, as piano music played in the background and the conversation around them was only a low hum. She hoped Nancy didn’t think she was trying to hint at anything when she said she wanted to eat here. Since she came out to her, Nancy had never made Robin feel weird or creepy, but still, Robin was cautious about making her uncomfortable.

They sat in the booth, quietly perusing the menu, before Robin broke the silence. 

“I expected it to be a little more…casual in here.” She chuckled nervously, setting her menu down to look at the girl in front of her. 

Nancy set hers down as well and met Robin’s blue eyes with her own, with a furrow in her brow, “Do you not like it? We can go somewhere else, I don’t mind.” 

“No, no, I’m good here,” Robin smiled sheepishly, drumming her fingers on the table, “As long as you are.” 

“I think this is perfect,” Nancy placed her hand over Robin’s to calm her tapping with a warm smile. She opened her mouth to say something else, but the waiter walked up to their table, interrupting whatever Nancy was going to say to take their drink order 

Robin was going to die right there in a dimly lit Italian restaurant. The only thing keeping her alive was that it was probably too dark for Nancy to see how red her face was. Robin had always been extremely touchy. She was known to lay her head on her friends’ shoulders during movie night or link arms while walking side by side, and Nancy was no exception. It wasn’t that Nancy disliked being touched, but she never initiated it. Robin always grabbed her hand first or went in for the hug before parting ways. However, tonight Nancy had reached across the table to touch Robin’s forearm while laughing at one of Robin’s infamously cheesy jokes, and intertwined fingers across the table while Nancy recounted an encounter she had with the Party in the hours between leaving Family Video and coming back to pick Robin up. Her brain malfunctioned when Nancy reached across the table, offering Robin a bite of her pasta when she commented on how good it looked. She’d reached up to take the fork, but Nancy’s fingers stayed wrapped around it as Robin ate the pasta. She swore she saw a tinge of pink on Nancy’s cheeks when she looked back up at her. 

On the drive back to Robin’s house, she rested her forearm on the center console as Nancy drove, her hands moving animatedly, as they always did when she spoke. 

“I’d love to go to Europe one day. I mean, I already know some of the languages spoken there and-” Robin’s breath hitches when she feels Nancy’s hand slip into hers, and her words die in her throat. They’re at a red light, and Nancy is looking up at her expectantly, as if this were normal. As if Robin should have continued her stream of consciousness as if Nancy Wheeler didn’t just take her hand. 

“And, what?” Nancy prompted, leaning in toward the sandy blonde next to her, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Robin instinctively leaned in, as well. Now, her face was inches away from Nancy’s. Her eyes dipped down to Nancy’s lips, then quickly back up to meet Nancy’s own. The light turned green in her peripheral vision, and Nancy cleared her throat as she looked back at the road ahead, but her hand remained in Robin’s. 

“I uh..don’t remember what I was going to say,” Robin chuckled. 

“Tell me something in one of these languages you know, then.” 

Robin thought for a moment before saying, “Je suis folle de toi.” 

Nancy pulled up in front of Robin’s house and turned to face her once the car was parked. 

“French?” She asked, and Robin swore she saw her eyes dart down to her lips for a split second before meeting her eyes once again. 

Robin nodded wordlessly.

“What does that mean?” She asked breathlessly. 

Robin smiled, miming locking her lips. 

Nancy rolled her eyes with a fond smile. “I’ll get it out of you one day, Buckley.” 

“Thank you for dinner, I had fun,” Robin said, mostly to change the subject, but she meant every word. 

“Me too,” She studied her face, and Robin could tell that she was calculating what to say next, “Goodnight Robin.” She squeezed the taller girl’s hand once before letting it go. 

“Goodnight, Nance,” She leaned in for a hug, as she always did before they parted ways. It was slightly more awkward with the center console in front of them, but still, she took in Nancy’s vanilla scent and felt her soft curls against her cheek and decided that she couldn’t complain.

It was a slow Wednesday at Family Video. One that had Steve and Robin reorganizing shelves just for something to do. Robin was watching the clock, anxiously waiting for Nancy’s arrival. 

“She always comes by on Wednesdays. Plus, she has a tape due back today, and have you seen her account? She’s never been late on a return, Steve! Never!” Robin’s knee bounced from her spot on the counter as she spoke animatedly, waving her hands around as she usually did. 

Steve sat on the ground, reorganizing the bottom shelf of the rom-com section. He looked over at his best friend with an eye roll. 

 “She’d be here even if she didn’t have a tape due, Rob,” he said, standing up and crossing the store to lean against the counter beside where Robin sat. “She comes here to see you. I’ve always told you that.” 

“Not true! She always rents a tape when she comes by.” 

“Yeah, a movie that you recommend to her. Then, when she returns it, she tells you what she thought, and you two giggle and whisper to each other while I tend to the customers, and you give her another recommendation.” He huffed, “She’s never once taken a movie recommendation from me, Rob.” 

“That’s because you have no taste,” Robin stated plainly with a sickeningly sweet faux innocent smile. 

Before Steve could retort, the bell above the door sounded, and Nancy Wheeler walked in wearing the prettiest purple dress. Her hair was up, and her ponytail swung with every step as she made her way to the counter. Robin thought she might die. 

She set the tape in her hand in Robin’s lap and stood in front of her, one hand resting on her knee. She’d been a lot more touchy since dinner a few nights ago, and Robin definitely wasn’t complaining, but she couldn’t quite stop her breath getting caught in her throat when Nancy initiated any kind of physical contact. 

“I watched Clue,” Nancy said without greeting, “Mike even watched it with me.” 

“And?” Robin replied breathlessly.

“It was good! I wouldn’t say it was revolutionary, but it got a few laughs out of Mike, so I’d count it as a win.” 

One thing that Robin loved about Nancy was her honesty. She didn’t return to the video store with rave reviews about every movie Robin recommended to her. Robin enjoyed hearing her genuine opinions, and when Nancy truly loved a movie that Robin recommended, it made it all the more special. 

“It’s a guilty pleasure movie of mine, Nance!” Robin defended, “I told you it wasn’t going to be life-changing.”

“You’ll have to do better next time, Buckley,” Nancy leaned forward and went up on her tiptoes, using the hand she had on Robin’s knee for support, a teasing smile on her lips. She was inches from Robin’s face, “or I’ll start going to Steve for recommendations instead of you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Robin waved her off with a breathless laugh, trying and failing to keep her composure, “Good luck with that. You’ll end up watching The Muppet Movie if you start taking recommendations from that dingus.” 

“It’s a heartwarming film, Robin! I’m not having this discussion again!” Steve yelled from his spot on the ground by the rom-coms. Robin didn’t even realize he’d left the counter to go back to his task. 

Nancy chuckled with a shake of her head. She lowered herself down from her tiptoes, and Robin immediately missed the closeness. 

“So, what do you have for me today?” Nancy asked. 

“What genre are you thinking?” Robin replied, already thinking of movie titles to recommend based on Nancy’s usual genres. 

“Mmm, give me a horror movie today.” 

That was a new one. Usually, Nancy went for a rom-com or something she could watch with Holly or Mike. Nancy Wheeler was always full of surprises. 

“Okay, have you seen Nightmare on Elm Street?” 

Nancy shook her head, and Robin hopped down from the counter. 

“It’s about these teenagers who are targeted by this serial killer, Freddie Krueger. Except he kills them in their dreams! It's so genius!” Robin led them to the horror section and pulled the tape off the shelf, “And the main character is named Nancy!” Robin hands her the tape to examine. 

“Sounds scary.” Nancy commented as she read the summary on the back, “My parents are going to be out of town for a few days, and Mike and Holly are staying with the Byers until they get back, so I don’t know that I should watch this alone.” 

“You asked for horror, Nance.” Robin chuckled with a shake of her head as she took the tape from Nancy’s hand to return to the shelf. 

Nancy grabbed Robin’s wrist in mid-air, bringing it back down before the tape could even touch the shelf. 

“Wait. Watch it with me.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Yeah. You could sleep over. We’ll just swing by your house on the way to mine.”

Robin bit her lip in contemplation. Any other night this week would’ve been a no-brainer, but she and Steve had plans tonight. He wanted to have a sleepover, debrief his most recent failure of a date, and eat all the junk food in his house. They just made the plans at the start of the shift. There’s no way Robin could cancel on him now. 

“Unless you aren’t free tonight,” Nancy dropped her hand from Robin’s wrist and avoided her eyes, “You know what, we can just find something else.” 

“She’s free!” Steve yelled out from the next aisle over, “She’s definitely free.” 

Nancy looked at Robin expectantly as Steve peeked his head around the aisle endcap, silently saying “don’t screw this up” with only a look and a nod, before retreating to his mindless task, and eavesdropping, apparently. 

“Y-yeah, no, I’m totally free, wide open. L-like my schedule is wide open.” Robin wanted to kick herself, “So uh Nightmare on Elm Street it is then?” 

Nancy stuck the tape in the VCR, retreating to the couch in the Wheelers’ basement, where Robin was already comfortable in her pajamas with a blanket thrown over her frame and a bowl of popcorn mixed with M&Ms in her lap. 

There was some space between them, not quite arm’s length, but Robin didn’t like it nonetheless. She kept her eyes trained on the screen and avoided looking over at Nancy, knowing that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to look away.

About ten minutes into the movie, Nancy scooted closer until their thighs were touching. Then, she took some popcorn from the bowl in Robin’s lap, popped it in her mouth, and slipped her hand swiftly into Robin’s that was resting next to the popcorn bowl. 

Robin kept her cool, at least on the outside. Her inner monologue was another story, but at least to Nancy, she looked calm and collected. The only reaction she elicited was wrapping her own fingers around Nancy’s hand. 

Nancy was the first to speak. 

“So, Freddy’s in Tina’s dream, now?” 

“Y-yeah. But he can still hurt her in reality,” Robin paused as Tina got slashed on screen, “Like that.” 

Nancy hid her face in Robin’s shoulder, only looking back at the screen when the scene changed. “Lovely,” She commented dryly. 

Nancy’s head remained on Robin’s shoulder, her temple resting there so she could still see the movie, their hands still intertwined in between them. 

Robin sat stick still, afraid that any minute movement would prompt Nancy to lift her head. They stayed like that until the next death, when Nancy once again buried her face in Robin’s shoulder until it was over. 

“Nance, are you sure this is okay? We could watch something else. I brought a few backup tapes, just in case.” Robin started to get up to retrieve the tapes, but Nancy tightened her grip on her hand and kept her head planted firmly in its spot on Robin’s shoulder. 

“No, no, it’s fine, really, I’m good.” 

Robin lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“I am!” Nancy defended, “Now, watch the movie. We’re missing it!” 

Robin focused back in on the screen and allowed herself to rest her head on top of Nancy’s, now that it was clear that she wasn’t going anywhere. 

A little while later, when another character died at the hand of Freddy, Nancy didn’t move to bury her face in Robin’s shoulder as she had previously. Robin carefully looked down at the girl beside her to find her asleep, her head on Robin’s shoulder, and her legs tucked underneath her. 

Robin studied Nancy’s sleeping face. She admired how her eyelashes kissed her cheek and how her full lips were parted ever so slightly. She looked peaceful. As much as Robin knew Nancy would kill her when she found out that she missed the rest of the movie because she didn’t wake her up, Robin couldn’t bring herself to. 

Robin and Steve had alternating Sundays off. The unlucky person who had to work on Sunday that week was stuck working with Keith for eight hours all by themself. This week, the unlucky one was Steve, which meant that Robin was off the hook. Usually, Robin would stop by the video store anyway, to bring her best friend lunch and keep him company for part of his shift, but today she found herself walking around the local park with Nancy, ice cream cones in each of their hands as they walked the trail and talked about anything and everything. 

“I just don’t understand why you don’t like mint chocolate chip, Nance,” Robin took another lick of her ice cream cone as they walked side by side. She couldn’t help but notice how many times Nancy’s free hand bumped hers as they walked along the park’s path. 

“It tastes like toothpaste, Robin,” Nancy replied, “I don’t want my ice cream to taste like a hygiene product.” 

Robin frowned around another lick of her frozen dessert, “It’s one of my favorites, though! When did you last have it? Maybe your taste buds have evolved, or whatever.” 

Nancy laughed at Robin’s antics, “It's been a while. Middle school, maybe?” 

“You have to try it again!” Robin shouted, excitedly, stopping their stride and gripping Nancy’s arm with her free hand. 

“Now?” The brunette asked with an eyebrow raised as she eyed the cone in the other girl’s hand. 

“I-I mean, yeah. We could go back to the ice cream cart if you want.” Robin shrugged, “We’ve been walking in circles, anyway. We’ll pass it again.” 

“Or I could just try some of yours,” The brunette stated plainly, as if it were the most obvious solution. 

Robin was rendered speechless as Nancy’s hand covered the one holding Robin’s cone. She looked at Robin expectantly, like she was asking for permission. 

Robin gave it with a simple nod, not trusting herself to speak. 

Nancy brought the cone to her lips and took a single lick. Disgust colored her features as she swallowed, but Robin thought that the way she scrunched her nose was adorable, though she knew Nancy was about to diss her favorite ice cream, once again. 

“Still tastes like toothpaste, Buckley. I hate to break it to you.” She shook her head, as if trying to rid her mouth of the offensive flavor before she cleansed her palate with her own ice cream.

“R-right,” Robin took a lick of her ice cream, trying not to think about how Nancy’s tongue had been exactly where hers was only seconds ago, “What do you know, anyway? You order plain vanilla.” She teased, bumping Nancy’s shoulder with hers as they walked down the path. 

Nancy gasped in mock offense, “Vanilla is a classic!” 

“It’s bor-ing!” 

Nancy turned to look at Robin, ready to defend her choice of ice cream, but stopped when she noticed some of the green dessert beside the corner of the other girl’s mouth. 

“You’ve got a little..” Nancy giggled and gestured to her own mouth. 

“What?” She asked, then after a second, “Oh!” She swiped at her mouth, but completely missed the ice cream that was on her face. “Did I get it?” 

“Not quite.” 

Robin swiped at her face, once again leaving the ice cream beside her mouth untouched. 

“Here, let me,” Nancy reached up, dragging the pad of her thumb across the corner of Robin’s mouth slowly, ridding her face of the offending stain. 

Robin stopped breathing when Nancy’s thumb touched her face. She couldn’t help but notice that Nancy’s eyes landed on her lips as she was helping her get the ice cream off, but she told herself it was because it was close to where the ice cream was on her face. Definitely not because she wanted to kiss her, though Robin could dream. 

“There,” Nancy said after clearing her throat, avoiding Robin’s eyes, suddenly very interested in her own ice cream. So much so that she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, almost falling on her face and losing her ice cream in the process. 

Robin didn’t think before dropping her own ice cream in favor of steadying Nancy, her arms finding the shorter girl’s waist. She stayed there for a little while, almost frozen as the two girls stared at each other, dumbfounded. Nancy spoke up first. 

“Robin, I-” She said, barely above a whisper. 

This snapped Robin out of her trance-like state. 

“R-right,” She made sure Nancy was steady on her feet before removing her hands from the shorter girl’s waist, “Sorry.”  

Nancy frowned a little, her eyebrows knitting together. 

Robin was doing everything she could not to outwardly panic. Sure, her hands were only on Nancy’s waist to steady her before she could completely fall over, but she lingered there for far too long, just staring at the shorter girl and taking note of how pretty her blue eyes were and how her new pink lip gloss made her lips look even more kissable than usual. If she had lingered there any longer, she might have tried to lean in to capture them in a kiss, then she’d really be in trouble. She was sure Nancy was freaked out by her now. Robin was usually so careful around the other girl, but since Nancy had become more comfortable with being affectionate with her, she realized how often she’d forgotten to check herself. 

“You just saved me from falling flat on my face in a park full of people, and you’re apologizing?” Nancy asked with an amused raise of her eyebrow. 

“I guess so?” Robin answered, her voice going up an octave. 

Nancy smiled, but Robin noticed that it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Robin was sure it was because she had made her uncomfortable, but then Nancy took her hand, and she was taken completely by surprise. 

“You didn’t manage to save your ice cream, though, did you?” She teased as they continued to walk along the path, now with joined hands. 

“Guess not,” Robin chuckled nervously with a shrug, “I can get another one, though, it’s okay.” 

“Or you can share mine,” Nancy offered, “Do you think it’ll kill you to have some boring vanilla, Robin Buckley?” 

She held the cone out to the taller girl, who took it with her free hand. 

“I think I’ll manage.” 

Robin bounded up to the front door when she heard the doorbell ring, sliding down the front hall on her socks and narrowly avoiding crashing into the front door before she opened it to find Nancy with a tray of brownies and her backpack slung over one shoulder. Her whole face brightened at the sight of Robin in front of her. 

“Hey, Rob!” She beamed as she entered the familiar house, kicking off her shoes at the entryway, “I made some flashcards for us to start with and brought all my notes for reference. Where do you want to set up?” 

Just yesterday, Robin had complained about the chemistry test she had coming up in the coming week. She was sure she was royally screwed until Nancy had offered to have a study date, having elected to take chemistry in the year prior, and just so happened to save every flash card and every note she’d ever taken for the class. Robin teased her relentlessly for it, but was grateful, as she knew Nancy’s study materials would be detailed and neatly organized. 

“My room?” Robin suggested. 

Nancy led the way to Robin’s bedroom like it was her own house, though Nancy would argue that she’d been here so much that it was starting to feel like it was. She set her backpack down on the bed and immediately began rummaging through it. 

Robin lingered behind her, watching as she meticulously organized study materials into piles on top of the comforter. 

“I almost forgot,” Nancy turned around to face Robin, wiggling a bag of Razzles in the air, “I brought you these as study motivation.” 

Robin took the bag of candy in her hands, her face splitting into a smile, although Nancy brought her a bag or two almost every time they hung out now, her thoughtfulness never got old. 

“Right, definitely only for studying and not because I have an incorrigible sweet tooth.” Robin joked, sitting down on the mattress with crossed legs as she eyed the many piles of study materials. 

Nancy set her backpack on the ground at the foot of the bed and took a seat beside the blonde, stealing a Razzle from the open bag that she had already started eating. 

“Can’t it be both?” She smirked, as she thumbed through the flashcards to find a good starting point. 

Robin was doing well, considering her situation. She was getting most of Nancy’s flashcard questions right, only having to review the notes for one or two cards, even though she was getting distracted by her tutor. She was painfully aware every time Nancy bit her lip while she was considering her next question and when her curls fell in front of her eyes as she looked down at the textbook in front of her. She couldn’t help but wonder what Nancy would do if she reached forward and tucked it behind her ear. This distraction was probably why the different kinds of chemical bonds were getting all mixed up in her brain. 

Nancy had patiently gone over the difference between ionic and covalent bonds about three times already and still, Robin mixed up the two when they went through the flashcards. It wasn’t that hard, Robin knew that, but getting her first question wrong in front of Nancy after she had made a comment about how good Robin was doing had flustered her, and now her brain wasn’t working right. 

Nancy had suggested stepping away from that particular subject for now to finish the rest of the flashcards and Robin’s confidence was back up after another round of correct answers. 

“See, Robin! You’re totally fine.” Nancy beamed, setting a hand on Robin’s leg, her thumb rubbing over her knee a few times, “We just have to nail down those bonds and you’re set!”

Robin nodded wordlessly, her cheeks turning red at the praise and the physical contact. Nancy pulled out the two cards that sat in a pile beside her, and Robin felt her heartbeat quicken at the mere sight of them. She really didn’t want to get them wrong for a fourth time. 

“If you get these right this time, we can be done with studying and go get milkshakes, deal?” Nancy removed her hand from Robin’s knee and held out her pinky finger. Robin hooked her pinky around Nancy’s. 

This time, when Nancy asked Robin to describe ionic and covalent bonds, she got the answers correct. The brunette threw the flashcard she was holding aside carelessly, not even watching to see it land on the floor beside the bed.

“Yes!” Nancy threw her arms around Robin and planted a quick kiss on her cheek, almost knocking her over, “I’m so proud of you!” 

Robin froze when Nancy’s lips touched her cheek, and a deep red blush rose to her cheeks. 

“Why-why did you do that?”  She asked breathlessly. With all the affection that she and Nancy showed each other, neither of them had crossed that line before.

Nancy’s face fell, and she pulled herself off of Robin, returning to her previous seated position beside the taller girl. 

“I’m sorry. You got your question right, and I wasn’t really thinking, I just…” She shook her head and averted the taller girl’s eyes. 

“No!” Robin interjected. The last thing she wanted was for Nancy to feel like she had done anything wrong. “Don’t apologize. I just uh… don’t know that I can let you do that without telling you the truth, because the guilt has already been eating me alive, and I know girl friends - or girls that are friends - can be super affectionate with each other, but you may not want to ever do that again once I tell you, so-” 

“Robin! Tell me what?” Concern colored her features as her eyebrows furrowed together. Her hand came forward to rest on Robin’s knee in reassurance, as if she could feel the nervous energy radiating off of her. 

“Right, sorry.” Robin took a deep breath before continuing, “I have like a small crush on you?  Well, not small, it’s actually a big, fat, ‘holy shit I’m doomed’ kind of crush. And I promise I tried not to be super weird about it and make you uncomfortable, but you just kept holding my hand and cuddling up with me, and I tried to rationalize it because girls do that kind of stuff with each other all the time, and I was happy that you were finally comfortable enough with me to do things like that, but I realize now that I should have stopped you bec-” 

“Wait, I’m confused.” 

All the color drained from Robin’s face when Nancy’s voice cut through her nervous rambling. 

“A-about what?” 

“It’s just- haven't we been on like 4 dates already, or have I been misreading what we’re doing here?” Asked Nancy.

Robin searched her face for any sign of amusement or cruelty, but after her quick, panicked assessment of the expression on the girl in front of her, Robin concluded that she really was confused.

“4 dates? What do you mean 4 dates?” 

“Robin.” Nancy shot her an incredulous look. 

“What?!”

“You think me feeding you pasta in a dim Italian restaurant was friendly?” 

Robin thought back to that night in the Italian restaurant and remembered the dim lighting and hushed tones of the diners around them. She remembered the butterflies in her stomach when Nancy’s hand brushed hers when she leaned forward to laugh at Robin’s corny joke. She also remembered the way her heart stopped when she fed her a forkful of pasta and the way Nancy looked at her over the fork and blushed when she returned to eating her own food. Robin could admit that it wasn’t platonic at all in hindsight. 

“I guess not, no.” She conceded. 

“Or that I hid from a scary movie I’ve seen a thousand times for any reason other than getting to be close to you?” 

“Wait, you weren’t actually-” 

 Robin supposed that she should have known better than to think that after everything they’ve seen, Nancy Wheeler was scared of a horror film. 

“Or that I’d let a friend share my ice cream cone?” 

Sharing ice cream was not what Robin remembered most about that day in the park, though that also caused her brain to short circuit, as well. She remembered Nancy’s almost fall and how quickly her hands grabbed her waist to steady her. She remembered how her stare lingered and how Nancy’s eyes seemed to stray down to her lips, but she convinced herself that couldn’t be right. 

“That one isn’t totally impossible!” She defended when she shook herself out of her thoughts. 

“Or that I’d dig up every note, flashcard, and practice test for a class I took a whole year ago and spend a perfectly good Saturday night studying for someone I wasn’t head over heels for?”  Nancy’s voice dropped low and she leaned forward slightly, so close to Robin’s face that Robin could feel her breath ghosting over her lips. She would only have to lean forward less than an inch to close the gap. 

Nancy’s hand that rested on Robin’s knee came up to cup her cheek. She ran her thumb over it once, as if she was savoring the moment, before she closed the gap. Robin met her halfway and her hands quickly found Nancy’s waist, just like that day in the park, except this time, she was in no hurry to remove them. 

The kiss was slow and tender, like they were both trying to memorize every little movement; the way Nancy’s other hand came up to cradle Robin’s face, the way their teeth clicked every now and then because Robin can’t help but smile into the kiss, causing Nancy to smile in return. 

When they finally pulled apart for air with rosy cheeks and soft smiles, Nancy spoke up. 

“I’ve been trying to do that since dinner two weeks ago.” Nancy breathed, her thumb still gently caressing Robin’s cheek.

“I could’ve been kissing you this whole time?” Robin pouted, as the realization dawned on her. 

Nancy laughed, warm and fond, as she wound her arms around the taller girl’s neck to pull her closer once again. 

“Don’t worry. I plan on making up for lost time.”

You’d been with the Avengers for a little over a year now, long enough that the strangeness of working with superheroes had worn off. The late nights, the constant buzz of Stark tech, the endless coffee runs. it had all become part of the rhythm of your life.

So had Natasha.

From the very beginning she’d had this way of getting under your skin without ever trying. The first week, when your glasses slipped halfway down your nose in the middle of a briefing, she’d reached over without a word and pushed them back up with one finger.

“You should get one of those chains. Like a librarian,” she’d whispered, lips quirking.

You’d gone bright red, muttering something about being able to do it yourself while Tony nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

It never really stopped after that.

A year later, you were hunched over your monitors in the lab, glasses sliding down again as your fingers flew over the keyboard. You didn’t even hear her boots on the tile until her voice cut through the silence.

“Careful, four-eyes. You’re going to burn through the screen if you keep glaring at it like that.”

You groaned, head dropping into your hands. “Natasha, seriously. Again?”

She leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded like she had all the time in the world. That smirk tugged at her lips. “What? It’s cute.”

You peeked up at her through your hair. “You only say that to annoy me.”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head, eyes catching yours in a way that made your chest tighten. “Or maybe I don’t like you hiding those eyes behind glass all the time.”

You made a face, tugging at the sleeve of your sweater. “Some of us actually need to see.”

“I could be your seeing-eye spy.”

The deadpan delivery cracked you, and you laughed, shaking your head. She just watched you with that almost-smile that never quite reached her lips when anyone else was around.

From the doorway, you caught Steve and Clint trading looks. Clint’s smirk was all teeth, Steve’s brow was raised like he was cataloguing evidence. You ignored them both.

Natasha wasn’t supposed to notice the little things about you.

She wasn’t supposed to notice the way you chewed at the inside of your cheek when you were focused, or how your sweater sleeves always fell over your hands, or the way you pushed your glasses up with your knuckle when your hands were full.

Love is for children.

The Red Room had hammered that into her. Love was weakness. Love made you hesitate, love got you killed.

And yet. she caught herself staring at you across the lab, stomach tightening at the way you hummed when you worked. She found herself leaning in during meetings just to push your glasses up. She bit back a grin when you snorted at your own jokes.

It was ridiculous.

Except it wasn’t.

She knew the truth: love wasn’t weakness. She’d seen it in Clint with his family, in Steve with Peggy’s memory, in Tony’s sacrifices. Love was real, messy, powerful.

She just couldn’t believe it could ever be hers. Not with the ledger she carried, not with the weight of everything she’d done.

So she brushed it off. Over and over. Until the brushing off almost felt like control.

But the team noticed.

Clint smirked when she handed you coffee with exactly two sugars. Steve’s gaze lingered when she pushed your glasses up in the middle of a briefing. Wanda and Sam whispered about the way Natasha sat next to you at every movie night, how her body angled toward yours without fail.

And Tony? Tony never shut up about it.

“You two done with the rom-com scene over there,” he’d said one day, “or should I get some popcorn?”

You sputtered, mortified. Natasha arched a brow and fired back, “Weak material, Stark.”

But she didn’t move her hand very far from yours for the rest of the meeting.

Eventually, the pressure cracked.

Natasha found Steve in the gym one night, pounding the heavy bag. She lingered in the doorway until he noticed.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” he said.

She stepped inside, arms folded tight. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

It took her forever to say it. The words lodged in her throat like knives. But finally, in a low, raw voice, she admitted, “I think I might be in love with her.”

Steve didn’t blink. “I figured.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You figured?”

“The way you look at her—it’s the way I looked at Peggy. Everyone sees it.”

Her jaw clenched. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t. Not with what I’ve done. Love is for—”

“Children?” Steve’s voice was soft.

She flinched.

“You’re not what they made you, Nat,” he said. “You’re allowed to want more than penance. You deserve more than penance.”

The words sank deep, even as she paced, even as her chest ached. Want. She wanted. And that terrified her more than anything.

Meanwhile, Tony had cornered you in the lab.

“Alright, goggles, we’re having a talk.”

You looked up from your screen, baffled. “Goggles?”

“Don’t deflect. What’s going on with you and Romanoff?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He spread his hands. “What do I mean? The looks, the coffee, the glasses thing, you’re killing me here. It’s like watching the world’s slowest rom-com.”

Your face burned. “Tony, she’s my friend. That’s all.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “Friend. That’s your story?”

“Yes! She teases me, I tease her back sometimes. That’s what friends do.”

He groaned. “We’re all drowning in tension and you think it’s friendship. Unbelievable.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Fine,” he said, standing dramatically. “Stay in denial. But don’t come crying to me when she finally snaps and kisses you.”

You spluttered, “Kisses—?!”

“Goodnight, Goggles!” he called, smirking all the way out the door.

The trap was set a few days later at the SHIELD building.

Tony had been grinning all morning, which should have been suspicious. But you were too busy double-checking files to notice.

The moment you sat down in the briefing room, a clean-cut agent with a too-polished smile wandered over.

“You’re with the Avengers, right?” he asked, leaning just a little too close.

“Uh—yeah,” you said, flustered but pleased. “I do most of the research.”

“That’s impressive,” he said, voice smooth. “I don’t usually see anyone keep up with Stark, but you clearly know your stuff.”

Your chest warmed. No one ever said that. You launched into an explanation of cross-referencing databases, thrilled to finally have an audience.

You didn’t notice how close his hand edged to yours. Or how his smile lingered.

Natasha noticed.

From across the room, her jaw clenched tighter with every laugh you gave him. Clint muttered, “You’re evil,” under his breath to Tony, who was grinning smugly into his coffee.

“Productive,” Tony whispered back.

Hours later, back at the Tower, you were curled up with your laptop when Natasha finally snapped. She paced once, twice, then stopped dead in front of you.

“Nat?” you asked cautiously.

She grabbed your face in her hands and kissed you.

It was sharp, almost angry at first, all the frustration and jealousy and months of denial poured into one fierce press of her mouth against yours. Your glasses nearly fell off. You squeaked, hands fumbling before you finally clutched at her arms for balance.

When she pulled back, her eyes burned into yours. “Do you finally understand?”

Your brain scrambled. “Understand… what?”

“That I don’t tease you because I’m your friend,” she said, voice softer now, thumb brushing your cheek. “I tease you because I love you. And if I ever have to watch someone else try to flirt with you without you noticing, I swear—”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” you whispered, cheeks flaming. “I guess this is what Tony meant.”

She froze. “…What did Tony say?”

“Nothing!” you squeaked, and then you giggled—giggled, because your heart was still tumbling head over heels from the fact that Natasha Romanoff had just kissed you.

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.