Chapter Text
Being the PR manager for the Avengers means accepting that disasters don’t end when the smoke clears. These sorts of things linger in conversation. They trend on social media. They get dissected by twenty-four-hour news cycles and podcast hosts with Wi-Fi and opinions.
Your job is to take the wreckage and turn it into something acceptable, maybe heroic even. Preferably before lunch.
Which is exactly why you’re currently pacing the Tower’s press prep room with a phone glued to your ear and a headache blooming behind your eyes.
“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.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~