Chapter 1
Tony sat in his vast, dimly lit bedroom, his gaze locked onto the reflection in the glass—a ghostly image of himself staring back. The palladium poisoning crept up his skin like an ink stain on silk, dark veins crawling over his chest, taunting him with the inevitability of his own mortality. A holographic screen projected beside him, a cold, unwavering countdown blinking in a digital reminder that he had barely seven days left.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if that would shake off the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. The quiet hum of his Malibu villa was disrupted by the sharp, rhythmic click of approaching heels, a sound he recognized instantly.
Without thinking, he straightened up, fastening the buttons of his crisp white shirt before securing his black vest over it, tugging his tie into place. His movements were methodical, practiced—less about vanity and more about preserving the illusion that he was still untouchable. As the footsteps grew closer, he turned his collar up slightly, a makeshift barrier between himself and the prying eyes of anyone who might notice the decay spreading beneath his skin. By the time she entered, he was settled, a smirk resting lazily on his lips, hiding the weight of the truth pressing against his ribs.
"Do you know which watch you’d like, Mr. Stark?" Natalie Rushman inquired smoothly, her voice carrying that practiced politeness, the kind that was meant to be inviting but never quite personal. She carried herself with the grace of a performer stepping onto a stage, placing a small tray of watches onto the table with calculated precision. Without missing a beat, she moved to the side, already preparing him a dirty martini, extra dirty—just the way he liked it.
Tony watched her, analyzing every movement, memorizing every delicate shift in her expression. She was always so perfectly composed, never faltering, never showing more than what she wanted him to see. It was almost amusing how flawlessly she maintained the act. Almost. He wondered, not for the first time, if she knew that he had already pulled back the curtain on her little charade. He knew exactly who she was, what she was. The question was—did she know that he knew?
"I’ll give them a look," Tony replied, his tone casual as he moved to his singular chair, the only one in his massive bedroom that he ever actually used. He exhaled as he settled in, feeling the weight of his body sink into the leather, exhaustion laced in his bones like an unwelcome guest.
His fingers drummed against the armrest, his mind a chaotic mess of thoughts that refused to settle. He should cancel the party. The thought had been circling his mind for days, lingering in the background, waiting for him to finally acknowledge it. But saying it aloud made it real, made it something he had to follow through with. "I should cancel the party, huh?" he mused, tilting his head slightly as he watched her. He was analyzing her again, taking in every detail—every small crease in her skin, every breath, every shift of her muscles beneath the fabric of her blouse. It was a habit, something he did when someone intrigued him.
"Probably," she replied, her voice light, nonchalant.
"Yeah, ’cause it’s uhm…" he trailed off, playing into his usual persona, letting the words dangle just enough.
"Ill-timed," she supplied effortlessly, not even looking up from where she was stirring his drink.
"Right, sends the wrong message," he added, watching the way her hands moved with such delicate precision.
"Inappropriate," she tacked on, stepping closer before finally handing him the martini, her fingers barely brushing against his as he took the glass.
He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her as he lifted the drink to his lips, smirking. "Is that dirty enough for you?" she asked, her voice dipping into something dangerously close to seductive, a siren’s coo meant to lure in a man foolish enough to take the bait.
Tony, of course, didn’t bite. He let the moment hang in the air for a beat before shifting his gaze to the tray of watches. "Uh, gold face, brown band—the Jaeger watch. I’ll give that a look," he said, deliberately ignoring the teasing lilt in her voice.
She didn’t react, simply picked up the watch and placed it in his lap before smoothly perching herself on the armrest of his chair. It was a bold move, a deliberate one. Tony didn’t move, didn’t react, just let her do whatever it was she was trying to do. She was close now, closer than she had been all evening, and with steady hands, she began to conceal the bruising along his face with a careful application of makeup. It was an oddly intimate act, one that felt almost too gentle for the circumstances. He let his eyes flicker up to hers, feigning curiosity as he said, "I gotta say, it’s hard to get a read on you." That was a lie. "Where are you from?" He asked the question like he didn’t already know the answer, like he wasn’t testing her.
"Legal," she replied softly, her face still close to his as she blended the product into his skin.
"Can I ask you a question?" His voice lowered slightly, quieter, more subdued. "Hypothetically."
She finished her work, snapping the makeup container closed before finally straightening up, looking down at him with something unreadable in her expression. With a small nod, she granted him permission to continue.
"If this was your last birthday," he started, exhaling as his exhaustion finally seeped through the cracks. He dragged a hand through his already disheveled hair, rubbing his palm down his face before letting it fall against his thigh with a dull smack. "How would you celebrate it?"
She hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before meeting his gaze. There was no teasing lilt in her voice now, no pretense—just something honest. "I’d do whatever I wanted to do, with whoever I wanted to do it with."
He held her gaze, considering her words, letting them sit between them in the quiet space of the room. She moved to leave, and before he could think twice about it, his hand shot out, catching her wrist. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t demanding—just a touch. A plea. "Stay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. And then, almost immediately, he recoiled, pulling his hand back as if he had burned himself, regretting the impulse.
"Mr. Stark," she said, her voice smooth, unwavering. "I’m not going to be your last booty call."
Tony exhaled a short, almost amused breath. "I already canceled the party yesterday," he admitted, his voice quieter now, lacking the usual bravado. He leaned back into his chair, watching her carefully. "Please. Just sit."
She studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his for something she wouldn’t say out loud. "What is it I can do for you, Mr. Stark?"
"Go to dinner with me," he said, this time without hesitation.
Her brow lifted slightly. "Dinner?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "I know a place I’ve always wanted to go to, and I’d like some company."
"Company," she echoed, tilting her head. "Wouldn’t it be better to ask Ms. Potts, Mr. Rhodes, or even Mr. Hogan?"
"If I asked Pepper, it would give the wrong idea and probably destroy what little remains of our already rocky friendship. If I asked Rhodey, it’d be weird, and frankly, I think tonight he’s going to try and stab me in the back. As for Happy, I gave him a few days off." He exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "I’m asking you, Miss Rushman, to have dinner with me. No expectations. No ulterior motives. Just dinner. Plus, you get a free meal and an unlimited allowance to spend however you want. Can’t say no to that, right?"
She considered him for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay."
"Really?" His brows lifted with zero genuine surprise just a mask. "Amazing. Would you like me to pick you up or—"
She cut him off smoothly. "I’ll change and meet you in the common space."
Tony watched her turn to leave, a rare sincerity lacing his voice as he called after her. "Thank you."
She paused, just for a second, before replying. "Of course, Mr. Stark."
Tony adjusted the cuffs of his suit, fidgeting more than usual as he waited in the common space. He didn’t know why he felt so restless—he had been on more dates than he could count, had seen countless beautiful women, and yet… something about this one felt different. He wasn’t expecting anything from her, and yet, the anticipation gnawed at him. Then, he heard the soft click of heels against the marble floors. He turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes didn’t even make it off her face. His mouth parted slightly, and for the first time in a long time, words failed him. Natasha Romanoff was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Her dark red hair, now styled in soft waves, was middle-parted, framing her sharp yet delicate features with a flawless 1960s elegance. The white silk dress draped over her body, hugging her curves just enough to be devastating but still leaving an air of sophistication that made her untouchable. And her eyes—those piercing blue-green eyes—stood out in a way that made him feel like she could read every unspoken thought in his mind.
She smirked as she approached, tilting her head slightly. “Stark, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to remember how to breathe.”
Tony blinked, snapping out of whatever trance she had put him under. He cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “I’m debating whether I should breathe at all. Might just stop, right here. Call it a day. Die happy.”
“Really? Because you look like you just saw a ghost, Mr.Stark,” she quipped smoothly, arching a perfectly shaped brow, her lips curling slightly in amusement.
Tony blinked, forcing himself to regain some composure, though the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed his fascination. “If I did, it would be the most stunning ghost I’ve ever seen,” he countered effortlessly, stepping forward with a certain grace before extending his hand. In it, he held a small bouquet of dark crimson roses, their velvety petals rich against the contrast of his suit. “For you. Before you assume anything, it’s not a ploy, not a seduction tactic. Just an old-school gentlemanly gesture. You know, back when men actually had class?”
Natasha raised an eyebrow but took the roses, spinning one between her fingers before inhaling their scent. “A gentleman, huh? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Tony placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “That hurts, Rushman. Deeply. Right here. Wound’s fatal.”
“Please. You’ll survive,” she quipped, but there was the smallest ghost of a smile on her lips.
He gestured towards the garage, stepping aside like a proper escort. “Shall we?”
She hummed in response, taking a step forward. Tony, ever the gentleman, placed his hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the staircase. It was then that he noticed—her dress was open-backed, the silk parting just right to reveal the smooth expanse of her spine. And the heels—white, elegant, but with straps that wrapped around her calves like something out of a fantasy he wasn’t allowed to have. He exhaled, forcing his eyes back up before he got himself in trouble.
“You look…” He paused, searching for the right word. Something that wouldn’t be cliché or overdone. “Dangerous.”
Natasha chuckled, casting him a side glance. “Not exactly what most men say when they see me in a dress.”
“Then most men are idiots.” Tony opened the garage door for her, motioning toward his sleek black Porsche. “After you.”
She eyed the car, then him. “You’re actually opening doors now? I thought that only happened when you were trying to get into a woman’s bed.”
He smirked but opened the passenger door anyway. “And yet, you’re still assuming I have an agenda. Maybe I just want to show you a good time, Miss Rushman.”
She held his gaze for a long moment before finally sliding into the seat. Tony shut the door behind her and rounded the car, slipping into the driver’s seat. As he started the engine, he stole one last glance at her, shaking his head slightly.
“You’re unfairly gorgeous, you know that?” he mused, shifting gears. “Almost feels like I’m getting scammed.”
Natasha merely smirked, but internally, she had to admit—he cleaned up well. The tux suited him, tailored to perfection, and despite his usual arrogance, there was something strangely endearing about his old-school charm. Not that she’d say that out loud. Ever. Right?
The car pulled out of the garage smoothly, the night stretching out before them as the lights of Malibu flickered in the distance. For a while, they drove in silence, the air between them charged but comfortable. But when Tony pulled off the highway and turned onto a private road, Natasha frowned slightly, noticing a private airstrip up ahead.
She turned to him. “Mr.Stark.”
He grinned, sensing the question before she even asked. “The restaurant’s in New York.”
Her brows lifted. “You’re flying us across the country for dinner?”
“Obviously. What kind of date would this be if I didn’t flex at least a little?” He shot her a smirk. “Relax. The jet’s stocked with all the good stuff. You’ll be spoiled before we even land.”
Natasha shook her head, looking out the window as the Porsche rolled toward the private jet. She should have expected nothing less.
And yet, for some reason, she didn’t hate it. Entirely, maybe a little bit she did.
As soon as Tony pulled the Porsche to a smooth stop near the private jet, he was out of the car and around to Natasha’s side before she could even think about opening the door herself. He held out a hand, and though she hesitated for a fraction of a second, she accepted it, allowing him to help her out. His grip was warm, firm, but light enough that it didn’t feel like he was overstepping.
She expected him to let go once she was on her feet, but he didn’t. Instead, his hand remained gently at her back as he guided her toward the stairs leading up to the jet. It wasn’t possessive—just… considerate. That alone threw her off guard.
Tony took the first few steps up before pausing and offering his hand again. “M’lady.”
She rolled her eyes. “Really?”
“I could’ve gone with ‘Your Majesty,’ but I figured you weren’t the tiara type,” he quipped, wiggling his fingers for her to take his hand.
With an amused shake of her head, she placed her hand in his, letting him help her up the stairs and into the jet. The interior was sleek, luxurious, and exactly what she expected from Tony Stark. Plush leather seats, ambient lighting, a fully stocked bar—he had spared no expense.
“Sit wherever you like,” Tony said as he stepped aside, motioning toward the spacious cabin.
Natasha eyed him curiously. He didn’t head straight to the bar, didn’t pour himself a drink. Instead, for the first time, he simply sat down a few rows away, giving her space. That… wasn’t what she expected.
And yet, she found herself moving. Against her better judgment, she stepped forward and slid into the seat directly across from him.
Tony looked up, faking a surprise at first face, but then a small smile curved his lips.
He was trying to play a game, and was winning.
Natasha met his gaze for a moment before letting out a breath and, for once, offering a compliment—one so subtle it barely counted, but it was there. “You clean up… decently.”
Tony blinked. Then, to her utter disbelief, his cheeks actually tinged pink.
“Oh?” he smirked, but there was a genuine warmth behind it. “That’s high praise coming from you. And here I was worried I wouldn’t impress.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, her lips twitching. “I didn’t say you impressed me.”
He placed a hand over his chest, feigning another dramatic wound. “Well, that’s just cruel.”
She smirked, but before she could respond, he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “For the record, you look incredible. Unfairly so. Again.”
Natasha didn’t react outwardly, but something about the way he said it—so sincere, so completely lacking in any ulterior motive—made something in her stomach flip. She ignored it.
Tony, ever the host, cleared his throat and gestured toward the small intercom button near his seat. “Drinks? Snacks? Whatever you want, just say the word.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? I’ve got the good stuff. Imported. High-quality. The kind of thing you can’t even pronounce but sounds expensive when you try.”
She gave him a pointed look. “I said I’m fine.”
Tony held up his hands in surrender. “Noted.”
A beat passed before he leaned back against his seat, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Flight won’t be long, by the way. Only an hour and a half.”
Natasha raised a brow. “Malibu to New York in ninety minutes?”
He grinned. “Stark tech. The engine’s technically military-grade, but let’s just say I ‘borrowed’ a few modifications.”
Natasha crossed her arms. “So you’re admitting to illegal activity?”
Tony smirked. “Oh, sweetheart, if you knew half the things I’ve technically done that could get me arrested, you’d be much more impressed.”
She let out a short, dry laugh. “Impressed isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Ah, intrigued, then?”
“Try mildly entertained.”
“Ouch. And here I thought we were bonding.”
She shook her head, the corner of her lips quirking up despite herself. He was exhausting, but somehow, he wasn’t overbearing. He had an ease about him, a charm that didn’t feel as forced as she once assumed.
Tony, ever observant, seemed to notice. He leaned back with a smug yet strangely satisfied expression. “You like me,” he teased.
Natasha scoffed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Tony chuckled, shaking his head as the jet smoothly lifted off. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over before dessert.”
As the jet ascended into the clouds, a comfortable silence settled between them. The cabin lights dimmed slightly, casting a warm glow over the interior as both Tony and Natasha stared out of the window, watching the cityscape shrink below.
For the first time, Tony didn’t press conversation, didn’t try to fill the quiet with his usual charm or wit. He simply sat, allowing Natasha the space she clearly needed.
A flight attendant approached, her voice polished and professional. “Mr. Stark, would you or your guest like anything to drink?”
Tony barely glanced away from the window. “Just water. Slice of lemon, one leaf of mint.”
Natasha’s eyes flickered toward him, slightly intrigued. “I’ll have the same.”
The attendant nodded and quickly disappeared, leaving them in silence once more.
When their drinks arrived, Natasha took a sip before narrowing her eyes at Tony. “That explains why you always smell like mint and lemon.”
Tony smirked, setting his glass down. “What can I say? I like to keep things fresh.”
She quirked a brow. “I half-expected you to order something a little stronger.”
He shrugged, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “I’d never drink before dinner when I’m taking you out.” His dark eyes met hers, a glint of something unreadable in them. “And I’d never dream of intoxicating myself and disrespecting you.”
Natasha’s fingers curled around her glass, her expression neutral—but there was something behind her eyes, something wary yet intrigued. “That’s an awfully noble stance for a man with your reputation.”
Tony grinned, leaning back into his seat. “Oh, trust me, printesa, I can be plenty of things, but when it comes to you?” He tilted his head slightly. “I have manners.”
She scoffed lightly, shaking her head. “Manners. Right.”
He smirked. “You wound me.”
“If you’re wounded by that, then you’ve gone soft,” she countered, her lips twitching.
Tony placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “Soft? Me? I’ll have you know, my heart rate is an impeccable 58 BPM. Not exactly the vitals of a soft man.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “I didn’t realize you were medically incapable of taking an insult.”
“Not an insult if it’s not true,” he shot back, sipping his water.
She gave a small, amused shake of her head, as if surprised he hadn’t tried to push back harder. “So what’s the catch?”
He raised a brow. “Catch?”
“This whole gentleman act.” She studied him, her sharp blue-green eyes flickering over his expression like she was picking him apart piece by piece. “What do you want?”
Tony’s smirk softened ever so slightly, but there was something deeper in his gaze now—something a little more serious, but still teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Romanoff?”
She huffed out an exhale, almost like a laugh, before taking another sip of her drink. “Maybe I would.”
His smirk widened just a fraction. “Then you’ll just have to keep spending time with me, won’t you?”
Natasha arched a brow, her expression carefully neutral. “That depends. Are you always this insufferable, or is this some special effort just for me?”
Tony let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly as if considering her words. “Oh, this is absolutely a special effort. You think I go around handing out my time and charm to just anyone?”
She gave him a look that was somewhere between skepticism and mild amusement. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing that.”
“I'm wounded,” he said, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest—just above the arc reactor. “You really think I’d waste my energy on people who don’t intrigue me?”
She scoffed. “You flirt with anything that breathes.”
Tony didn’t deny it. Instead, he grinned, tilting his head as if considering her words. “Guilty as charged. Flirting is easy. It’s like breathing—natural, effortless.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “Some might even call it a public service.”
Natasha rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “How noble of you.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I like making people feel good.”
She studied him for a moment, her sharp gaze searching for something beneath the bravado. “And does it ever mean anything?”
For the first time, Tony hesitated—just briefly, almost imperceptibly. Then, his smirk softened into something quieter, something more honest. “No,” he admitted. “Not really.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t the answer she expected.
And then Tony leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as if debating how honest he wanted to be. Then, with a small shrug, he admitted, “I mean, sure, I flirt. That’s easy. But actually being a gentleman? Being romantic? That’s… new.”
Natasha tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her sharp green eyes. “New?”
He gave a slow nod, his smirk softer now, less performative. “Yeah. I don’t usually do this—treat someone like they matter beyond the moment.” His voice was steady, but there was something undeniably sincere about it. “But with you… I don’t know. You make me want to try.”
Her lips parted slightly, the weight of his words catching her off guard.
He leaned forward just a bit, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not just that you’re sharp or that you can hold your own—though, let’s be real, that’s impressive. It’s the way you think, the way you observe people like you already know them better than they know themselves.” He paused, something thoughtful passing through his expression. “You don’t just listen. You understand.”
For a moment, Natasha didn’t know what to say. Compliments, especially ones that went beyond the surface, weren’t something she was used to. She usually brushed them off, deflected with sarcasm or indifference. But this time… she didn’t want to.
So instead, she simply said, “Thank you.”
Tony’s eyes flickered with something warm—approval, maybe. He didn’t make a joke, didn’t push the moment further. He just gave her a small, genuine smile before picking up his glass of water and taking a sip.
Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but charged in a way neither of them felt the need to address.
Then, as Tony set his glass down, Natasha was the one to break the silence. “So,” she said, her voice casual, as if she hadn’t just let down a wall between them. “Tell me, Stark—if you weren’t in this line of work, what do you think you’d be doing?”
Tony leaned back slightly, considering her question with an amused hum. “Well, I’d probably still be in the tech industry,” he admitted. “Or maybe an agent for some organization, though that’s not much of a stretch from where I ended up.” He took another sip of his water before adding, “Or, if we’re talking a real alternative life, I could see myself in military special ops. Given my skill set, it wouldn’t be hard to slot into a role like that.”
Natasha arched a brow, but he wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “But in some far-off alternate reality, where I don’t have to deal with world-ending threats or government conspiracies? I’d buy shares in my company, let them grow, and retire as CEO while I’m still young—keep my billionaire status intact, obviously.” A smirk tugged at his lips before he continued, his voice softer, more contemplative. “Then, I’d move somewhere cold, where it snows most of the year. I’d open up a restaurant with a bar, nothing too extravagant—just enough to meet people without the stress of being me. And when I’m home, I’d have a lab, separate from the house, so I could still tinker without bringing it into my personal space. My house itself? Minimal technology, just peace and quiet. And in that version of life, I’d have an amazing wife… maybe some adopted kids.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Natasha’s face, but she covered it well. “You’d still be Iron Man?” she asked.
Tony gave a short chuckle. “Yeah. I’d take it more seriously, though—make it my only real job outside the restaurant. No distractions, no board meetings, no press hounding me every second.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Just saving lives and making a damn good plate of pasta.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, intrigued. “What kind of restaurant?”
“Italian,” he answered without hesitation. “Something warm, welcoming. Good food, good wine, people leave happier than when they came in.”
She nodded, seeming to picture it. “And the kids?” she asked next, her voice careful. “I figured you’d want to continue the Stark bloodline.”
Tony let out a quiet breath, his expression unreadable for a moment before he answered simply, “Can’t.”
She studied him, searching for more in his face, but there was nothing beyond that single word. He wasn’t looking for pity, wasn’t making a big deal of it—just stating a fact.
She didn’t push. Instead, she pivoted. “And the lack of technology in your house?”
Tony smirked. “Because I’d want to actually be present. My attention would be on my wife, not whatever latest project is buzzing around in my brain.”
Natasha didn’t respond right away. There was something in the way he said it—like he’d actually thought about it, like it wasn’t just some hypothetical dream.
After a beat, Tony shifted the conversation. “Your turn. What would you do?”
Natasha exhaled, considering. “I think I’d want to live somewhere cold year-round too,” she admitted. “And I’d want a laid-back job, something simple. Not corporate, but if it was… maybe a lawyer.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He nodded, waiting as she hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more.
She did. “I found out when I was younger that I can’t have kids,” she said, voice even. “So that’s off the table. And if I’m honest, I don’t think I’ll ever find a man I’m compatible with. So… no husband either.”
Tony knew she was half-lying. The part about the kids? That was the truth. But the husband? That was a defense mechanism, a wall built to protect herself. He didn’t call her on it. Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips twitching into something almost teasing. “You never know, Romanoff. Maybe there’s some poor bastard out there who could handle you.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.
Letting the moment settle, Tony shifted gears. “Alright, tell me this,” he started, his tone light, feigning casual curiosity. He leaned back, stretching his long frame in the chair. “What made you decide to go from modeling to being in legal? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the company—stunning, redheaded secretaries are kind of my thing—but I have to wonder, why trade the runway for, well… me?”
Natasha barely blinked, the question expected. She had rehearsed this. “Modeling was a side gig,” she replied smoothly, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I wanted something more stable, something challenging. And Stark Industries is the best in the business.” She met his eyes, tilting her head slightly as if daring him to challenge her answer.
Tony hummed, letting a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. "Oh, flattery. You know, I usually charge extra for that, but since it’s you, I’ll let it slide.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. "Don’t get used to it."
Tony chuckled, tilting his head slightly as he regarded her. “So, stability, huh? That’s an interesting choice of words. Stark Industries is a lot of things—‘stable’ isn’t exactly one of them. And working with me? Let’s just say, people don’t usually sign up for that unless they’re looking for a headache or a hazard bonus.”
“Good thing I don’t scare easily.” Natasha leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Oh, I believe you,” Tony said smoothly, studying her with an unreadable glint in his dark, gold-flecked eyes. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make her wonder what he was thinking before adding, “But I think you like it.”
Natasha raised a brow. “Like what?”
“The chaos.” Tony gestured lazily. “The unpredictability. The challenge. You don’t strike me as the type to sit behind a desk and take notes. No, you’re too sharp, too… alert.” His smirk grew, eyes watching her closely. “You’re more of a field agent than a desk jockey, if I had to guess.”
A flicker of something—amusement? Suspicion?—passed through Natasha’s expression before she masked it. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not guessing, then.”
Tony exhaled a soft chuckle, tilting his head as if conceding. “Touché.” He let the conversation settle into a lull, waiting for her to either deflect or push forward.
Natasha studied him for a moment before she smirked. “You know, for someone with a genius IQ, you talk a lot of nonsense.”
Tony placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“We were,” she quipped, “but then you started talking again.”
Tony laughed, rich and genuine. “See, this is why we work well together. I keep things interesting, and you pretend not to enjoy it.”
“I don’t have to pretend,” Natasha shot back, but there was a flicker of something soft in her expression—a warmth she hadn’t intended to show.
Tony caught it, of course. He always did. But instead of teasing her, he just gave a knowing smile, one that held more weight than his usual grins. “Sure, Natalie. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
For a second, Natasha thought about challenging him, but the way he looked at her—calm, self-assured, unbothered—made her decide against it. Instead, she allowed herself a rare moment of ease, the corners of her lips twitching just slightly before she shook her head.
Tony gave in first, breaking eye contact as he leaned back, stretching his legs out. Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was… easy.
And for both of them, that was dangerous.
The private jet landed smoothly on a secluded airstrip just outside New York City. As the aircraft taxied to a stop, Tony unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, moving towards Natasha’s side before she could rise. Ever the gentleman—despite the sharp tongue and arrogance he wielded like a weapon—he offered her his hand.
She hesitated, dark green eyes flicking up at him as if questioning the necessity of the gesture. But before she could reject it, he raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Come on, Rushman, humor me. Wouldn’t want you to trip and ruin those expensive heels, now, would we?”
Natasha rolled her eyes but took his hand. His grip was firm but careful, as if he were aware of his own strength. He helped her out of the jet with ease, guiding her down the steps. The moment they reached the tarmac, a sleek black Audi R8 idled nearby, its engine purring softly.
Tony moved ahead, opening the passenger door for her before striding over to the driver’s side.
She arched a brow as she slid in. “You drive yourself?”
“Shocking, I know,” he said as he got in and started the car. “You expected a chauffeur? Maybe a convoy of bulletproof SUVs?”
“I expected something more… extravagant.”
He gave a mock gasp, hand over his heart. “You wound me, Romanoff. Not everything I do is for show.”
She hummed, unconvinced, as they pulled onto the highway.
After a while, she turned to him. “So, where are we going? Some exclusive club? A private rooftop in Manhattan? Maybe you rented out the Met Gala for an intimate dinner?”
Tony smirked but kept his eyes on the road. “You’re thinking too big, Romanoff. It’s not about the location; it’s about the experience.”
The city lights faded as they drove further out. The skyline gave way to smaller streets, worn-out buildings, and quiet neighborhoods on the outskirts of New York. Finally, Tony pulled into a small parking lot outside a modest Italian restaurant.
Natasha glanced at the dimly lit sign above the entrance, her brow furrowing. “This is it?”
“This is it.”
She turned to him, expression unreadable. “I was expecting some massive attraction, not a hole-in-the-wall place that probably doesn’t even have a Yelp review.”
Tony chuckled. “See, that’s the problem with expectations. Sometimes the best things don’t come wrapped in gold.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Come on.”
Before she could reach for the door handle, Tony was already out of the car, moving to her side to open it. She stared at him for a second, then stepped out.
“Chivalry? From you?”
He shut the door behind her and smirked. “Hey, just because I’m a genius billionaire doesn’t mean I don’t have manners.”
She scoffed but followed him inside.
The moment they entered, a middle-aged man at the front greeted Tony with familiarity, nodding toward the back of the restaurant. Without a word, he moved behind the counter, revealing a hidden staircase.
Natasha’s gaze flicked to Tony. “Seriously?”
He shrugged, leading the way up. “Press gets everywhere. I’m not taking chances.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t just rent the entire building.”
He chuckled. “Thought about it. Decided to leave some charm intact.”
When they reached the top, Natasha took in the private dining space—a cozy, candle-lit room with only one table set for two. She sat down as Tony pulled her chair out for her.
Once he took his seat across from her, she finally asked, “So, why this place?”
Tony leaned back, exhaling through his nose as he glanced around the room. “Apparently, my dad took my mom here on their first date. Before the money, before the fame—when they were just two nobodies trying to figure things out.”
She blinked, a little caught off guard. “You’ve never been here before?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Never had a reason to. Guess I wanted to know what the hype was about.” His golden-flecked eyes locked onto hers. “And, in my theoretical last birthday scenario, I figured I’d take your advice—do what I want, with who I want.”
Natasha studied him carefully. “That still doesn’t answer why me.”
Tony tilted his head, smirking slightly, but there was something sincere beneath it. “Maybe I just wanted dinner with good company. That a crime, Rushman?”
Natasha arched a delicate brow, swirling the deep red wine in her glass before taking a slow sip. The silk of her dress shifted as she crossed one leg over the other, the slit revealing just enough to be distracting—but never careless. “Good company?” she echoed, voice smooth, teasing, but laced with skepticism. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
Tony leaned back in his chair, exuding effortless confidence, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his glass. “Oh, absolutely. Fine wine, candlelight, and the illustrious Miss Rushman gracing me with her presence? It’s almost romantic.”
Natasha hummed, tilting her head slightly, studying him. There was always something beneath the surface with Tony Stark. A game within a game. He played the arrogant billionaire role well, too well—but his eyes, dark with flecks of gold, always gave him away. They were too sharp, too aware. Like he was looking through her rather than at her.
She smirked. “Romantic? That’s ambitious. But I’ll give you points for effort.”
Tony chuckled, the sound warm but calculated. “I live for the challenge.” He took a sip of his wine, letting the weight of the moment settle between them before he continued, his voice dipping just slightly. “Besides, I figured if I was going to be evaluated, I might as well make a night of it.”
Natasha didn’t flinch, but there was the slightest pause as she set her glass down. Her expression remained unreadable, but her mind was already working at full speed. He wasn’t supposed to know. SHIELD had been careful, and she had played her part flawlessly. So how—
She kept her tone light, playful, the same way she might toy with a target just before striking. “Evaluated?” she mused, feigning mild amusement. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”
Tony met her gaze with the kind of look that had taken years to perfect—an easy smirk, but beneath it, an invitation. Not just to flirt, but to play. He was watching, waiting to see how she’d react.
“Call it a hunch,” he said smoothly, picking up the menu and glancing over it as if the conversation was nothing more than casual banter. “But let’s not talk shop, Rushman. Not when there’s a perfectly good meal to order.”
Natasha exhaled softly through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite amusement. She let it go—for now. Instead, she picked up her own menu, scanning the options with practiced ease. “Fine,” she said, a challenge laced in her voice. “But you’re picking the wine.”
Tony’s smirk lingered, his gaze steady as he lifted his glass slightly. “Oh, sweetheart, I already did.” His voice was smooth, edged with that signature charm, yet entirely sincere. There was no bravado behind it—just an honest statement wrapped in his usual wit.
Natasha arched a perfectly sculpted brow, the soft candlelight catching the sharpness in her gaze. “Then I suppose I should let you take the lead.” She set her menu down without a second glance. "Go ahead, order for us."
His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—satisfaction, maybe, or just simple amusement. “Careful, Rushman, that’s a lot of trust you’re giving me.” His fingers drummed against the mahogany table before he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something smooth, almost intimate. “I’d hate to disappoint.”
She tilted her head, feigning nonchalance, though her mind worked tirelessly beneath the surface. “I’ll take my chances.”
Tony held her gaze for a beat longer before turning to the waiter who had returned with a practiced politeness. “We’ll start with the Burrata Caprese, extra basil, and the house-made focaccia.” His voice was confident, assured, like he’d been coming here for years, though she knew this was his first time. “For the entrée, she’ll have the Ravioli di Aragosta, and I’ll take the Ossobuco Milanese. And let’s make it a bottle of your finest Barolo.”
The waiter nodded, scribbling down the order before excusing himself.
Natasha studied him for a moment. “You’re full of surprises.”
Tony leaned back in his chair, running a thumb along the rim of his glass. “I aim to impress.” His tone was teasing, but there was an undeniable weight behind it.
She gave a small, approving nod. “Well, thank you. The order was perfect.”
He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “Good company deserves good food.”
That earned him the smallest of smiles—barely there, but noticeable if you knew where to look.
A comfortable silence settled between them as they held each other’s gaze. The quiet wasn’t awkward, nor was it forced. It was charged, an invisible thread stretched between them, neither one willing to cut it first.
Finally, Natasha leaned forward just slightly, testing the waters. “So, tell me, Stark, do you always take your new hires out to fancy dinners, or should I feel special?”
Tony didn’t bite. He merely took a slow sip of his water, letting the heat settle before answering with a maddeningly casual shrug. “What can I say? I like to make a good first impression.”
Not the answer she expected.
He was playing a game.
She had been assigned to evaluate him, yet something about this moment—the way he responded so smoothly, the way he withheld just enough—felt almost like he was evaluating her.
Interesting.
Tony Stark was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent men in the world, a genius with technology, engineering, and business. But fieldwork? Strategy? Manipulation? That wasn’t supposed to be his strength. Yet here he was, effortlessly sidestepping her bait while still making her feel like she had control of the conversation.
He wanted her to question him. He wanted her to doubt him.
And now, she had a new question gnawing at the back of her mind.
Just how much of this—of her—was he already aware of?
The warm ambiance of the restaurant wrapped around them, the hum of distant conversations blending with the soft clinking of glasses and silverware. Tony sat back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the side, while Natasha rested her elbow on the table, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass. There was an ease to their silence—not quite comfortable, not quite tense, just the quiet hum of two people who weren’t used to sitting still with someone else.
Tony broke it first, his voice smooth but laced with something unreadable.
"Do you believe in fate?"
Natasha glanced at him, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "That's an interesting question coming from a man who built his own destiny."
Tony smirked, tilting his head. "Yeah, well, I had some… external encouragement." His fingers absently brushed the arc reactor beneath his suit, but the movement was fleeting, barely noticeable. "Still, I'm asking. What do you think? Is everything already mapped out for us? Or are we all just improvising until the curtains drop?"
Natasha took a sip of her wine, studying him over the rim of her glass. It wasn’t a casual question. Not from him. And that alone made it worth considering.
"I think fate is just a way for people to explain the things they can’t control," she said finally, setting her glass down. "People like to believe there’s a grand design, that everything happens for a reason, because the alternative—that it's all random—is terrifying."
Tony hummed, nodding as if he agreed, but there was something guarded in his expression. "So, no fate. Just chaos?"
"Not chaos," she corrected. "Choice."
He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That’s almost poetic. Didn’t peg you for the philosophical type, Natalie."
Natasha smirked. "And I didn’t peg you for the type to ask existential questions over dinner. Yet, here we are."
Tony tapped a finger against the table, considering her answer. "Alright, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say it’s all choice. That would mean every decision we’ve ever made brought us here, to this exact moment, sitting in a restaurant neither of us has ever been to before. You ever think about that?"
Natasha studied him, her expression unreadable. Every decision. Every mission, every kill, every betrayal, every escape. She had spent her entire life surviving, adapting, making choices she could never take back. And now, she was here, across from a man who had built his own legend—a man who might just be playing her as much as she was playing him.
She could lie. She could deflect. But instead, she simply said, "Sometimes."
Tony held her gaze for a long moment before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Good. Means you’re paying attention."
The tension between them shifted, not quite dissipating, but changing shape. And as the waiter arrived with their food, Natasha couldn’t shake the feeling that, whether it was fate or choice, this moment—this game—was leading them somewhere neither of them had planned for.
"You're quiet," he noted, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His voice was warm, smooth—too smooth, like he knew exactly how to reel someone in without them even realizing. But there was no attempt to charm her, not in the way she was used to. This was something else. A game. One she hadn’t quite figured out yet.
"Just paying attention," Natasha responded, mirroring his tone, tilting her head slightly. Her red lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.
Tony exhaled a quiet chuckle. "That’s good. Most people don’t. But you already knew that, didn’t you?"
There it was again. A hint.
His words were casual, nonchalant, but Natasha wasn’t foolish enough to take them at face value. He had been slipping these subtle breadcrumbs throughout the night—nothing concrete, nothing she could outright challenge, just enough to make her wonder if he was testing her.
"Occupational hazard," she said, lifting her wine glass to her lips. "You learn to read people when you have to."
Tony leaned in slightly, his forearms resting on the table. "And what do you read from me?"
She met his gaze without hesitation. "That you're impossible to read."
Another quiet chuckle, but there was something genuine in it. Like he actually liked that answer. "Now that’s interesting."
"Why?"
"Because," Tony said, shifting back in his seat, running his thumb along the edge of his wine glass. "That means you’re still looking."
He let the words hang between them, letting her feel them. Letting her catch the meaning beneath them.
Natasha held his gaze, her mind moving too quickly for her heartbeat to catch up. He knew. She wasn’t sure how much, wasn’t sure to what extent—but he wasn’t just guessing. He wasn’t throwing darts in the dark. He was inviting her to notice that he knew. Like it was all part of the game.
But there was something else beneath it. Something real.
Natasha wasn’t used to that.
"You ever wonder what your life would’ve been like if just… one thing had gone differently?"
Natasha wasn’t expecting that.
Her gaze flickered over him, assessing. The way his posture stayed effortlessly relaxed, the way his eyes—dark, gold-flecked, and always calculating—gave away nothing except the weight behind the question itself. Deliberate. He never said anything without a reason.
She exhaled slowly, tilting her head. "If I did, I wouldn’t dwell on it."
Tony’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite anything at all. "No use chasing ghosts, huh?"
"Something like that."
He nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem.
For a moment, there was nothing but the distant hum of conversation around them, the low murmur of old love songs drifting from a hidden speaker. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like an accident.
Then Tony’s voice cut through it, smooth as ever. "I think about it sometimes."
Natasha lifted her glass but didn’t drink. "What? The ghosts?"
His mouth curved, but there was no amusement in it. "The what-ifs."
He let the words settle, watching her the way a man watches the ocean—like he knows it’s dangerous, but he’s fascinated anyway.
"If I had a normal childhood," he continued, glancing down at his whiskey as he rolled it between his fingers. "If my parents had lived. If I’d never stepped foot in that cave. If I’d never built the suit. If I’d never—" He stopped himself. A brief pause. A decision. "—become who I am now."
There it was again. Another breadcrumb, another hint. He was testing her. He wanted her to hear it.
Natasha shifted slightly, crossing her legs beneath the table, silk gliding over skin. "And?"
Tony looked up at her then, something unreadable in his expression. "And I think I would’ve been a very boring man."
The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifted, but there was an edge to it. "I don’t believe that for a second."
Tony chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah? Then tell me, Natalie—what do you think I would’ve been?"
He said it just a little too carefully. As if he were inviting her to catch the weight behind the words.
Natasha held his gaze, her fingers grazing the stem of her wine glass. A slow inhale. A long, quiet moment.
And then she answered—not a lie, not the truth, but something in between.
"I think you would’ve found a way to be dangerous either way."
Tony smiled. Really smiled. Like he liked that answer more than he should have. Like he had expected her to say something else, and the fact that she hadn’t made the game even more interesting.
"Maybe you’re right," he mused, tilting his head. "But you know what they say about dangerous men, don’t you?"
Natasha’s lashes lowered just slightly. "What’s that?"
Tony leaned forward just enough to blur the space between them, voice dipping into something dangerously close to a secret.
"They recognize their own."
Natasha let his words settle between them, the weight of them pressing against her skin like a ghost of a touch. They recognize their own.
A challenge. A confession. A game.
She let a slow smirk unfurl on her lips, the candlelight catching the soft sheen of her lipstick. "That so?" she murmured, tipping her wine glass slightly before taking a measured sip.
Tony’s gaze flickered, sharp and dark with something unreadable. "Mm." He leaned back in his chair, one arm draping over the side as if he had all the time in the world. "It’s like when two stray cats see each other across an alley. You can dress one up, give it a collar, call it a house pet—but at the end of the day?" His voice dropped into something smug, knowing. "It still knows how to survive in the wild."
Natasha arched a brow. "And you’re calling yourself… what? A house cat?"
Tony grinned. "I’m just saying some of us adapt better than others. But you…" He let his gaze drag over her—slow, appreciative, but never crude—before locking eyes with her again. "You were never meant to be anything but what you are."
A hunter. A ghost. A force of nature.
Natasha tilted her head, pretending to think. "You talk a lot, Stark."
He chuckled, effortlessly smooth. "You’re not the first to say that. You might be the first I actually want to keep talking to, though."
The words slipped out casually, but there was something genuine under the charm.
The waiter arrived then, setting down their main course meal—a beautiful spread of handmade pasta, fresh herbs, and a rich aroma that filled the air. Tony barely glanced at his plate before looking back at her. "Alright, tell me, Natalie, do you have a refined palate, or are you one of those people who drowns everything in hot sauce and calls it a day?"
Natasha smirked, twirling her fork through the pasta. "I appreciate good food, Stark. Unlike you, I don’t live off coffee and whatever was left in the fridge for three days."
Tony placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. "Wow. You wound me."
She took a bite, and for a moment, her expression softened. The flavors melted on her tongue, rich and perfectly balanced. Tony caught it immediately—the brief flicker of enjoyment before she schooled her features back into something neutral.
He smirked. "That good, huh?"
Natasha lifted a shoulder. "I’ve had worse."
Tony chuckled, taking a bite of his own, and let out a satisfied hum. "Okay, I’m man enough to admit it—this is fantastic." He pointed his fork at her. "I’m telling you, hidden gem family-owned restaurants? Always the best. Something about the food just hits different when someone’s Nona is running the kitchen."
Natasha shook her head, amused. "You really think that’s a universal truth?"
"Absolutely," Tony declared, completely serious. "Any place where the recipes have been passed down for at least three generations? Automatic five stars. You ever had handmade pasta from a ninety-year-old Italian woman who still threatens people with a wooden spoon? Life-changing."
Natasha huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You have an interesting way of ranking things."
Tony’s grin softened just slightly. "I like what I like."
His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long. The way the candlelight made her red hair glow, the way the silk of her dress caught the low light like liquid moonlight. The way she moved—measured, graceful, like everything she did was intentional.
Natasha noticed. Of course, she did.
She arched a brow. "You’re staring."
Tony didn’t miss a beat. "Can you blame me?"
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.
Tony smirked. "I’m serious. I know I usually have a bad habit of—what’s the phrase—running my mouth? But even I can admit when I’m a little awed."
Natasha lifted her glass, taking a slow sip. "Awed by what?"
Tony rested his chin on his hand, eyes warm, sharp, entirely focused on her. "By the fact that I somehow managed to get the most stunning woman in the multiverse to have dinner with me."
Natasha didn’t react immediately, just let the words settle in the space between them. Genuine. That was the thing about Tony Stark—he could make anything sound like a joke, but when he actually meant something? It was undeniable.
She set her glass down, tilting her head just slightly. "You sure that silver tongue of yours isn’t just trying to get something out of me?"
Natasha let his words hang in the air for a moment, searching his face for any flicker of deception. But there was none. No agenda. No ulterior motive. Just Tony Stark, looking at her like she was the most captivating thing in the room—and maybe, just maybe, like he actually wanted her to be here.
She huffed softly, shaking her head, and twirled another bite of pasta onto her fork. "You’re either a really bad liar or a really good one."
Tony took a sip of his whiskey, smirking over the rim of his glass. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I would."
He chuckled, low and rich, setting his glass down. "Then I guess I’ll have to keep you guessing."
Natasha made a noncommittal hum, taking another bite of food, and for a moment, there was silence—not the awkward kind, but the comfortable kind. The kind where neither of them felt the need to fill the space with pointless chatter.
Tony tapped his fork against his plate lightly. "Okay, I have to know—what’s the best meal you’ve ever had?"
Natasha quirked a brow at him. "That’s an oddly specific question."
He shrugged. "Humor me. I figure you’ve had your fair share of fine dining, but the best meal? That’s a whole different thing."
She took a sip of wine, considering. "There was a place in Budapest. Tiny, barely had more than four tables, but they made the best lamb stew I’ve ever had."
Tony’s smirk deepened. "Budapest, huh?"
Natasha rolled her eyes, already expecting whatever quip was about to leave his mouth. "Don’t start."
"I’m just saying," he drawled, leaning forward slightly. "You strike me as someone who appreciates the kind of food that’s made with heart. You know, the stuff that takes time, effort—" his gaze flicked to her wine glass as she took another sip, then back to her eyes, "—patience."
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "And what do I strike you as, exactly?"
Tony exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning back again, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "You really want me to answer that?"
"Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t."
Tony ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then, with an easy, almost lazy confidence, he said, "You’re the kind of person who notices everything but lets people think you don’t. You read the room before you ever step into it. You can make anyone believe whatever you want them to—smile just right, tilt your head at the perfect angle, adjust your body language to be inviting, distant, confident, vulnerable. Whatever suits the moment."
Natasha didn’t react—wouldn’t react. But Tony wasn’t finished.
"But…" He twirled his fork between his fingers, gaze unwavering. "I also think you have a preference for the real thing. No games, no manipulation. Just… honesty. And when you find it? You don’t let go of it easily."
Natasha’s grip tightened just slightly around her glass. Damn him.
He wasn’t just playing with words—he meant every single one of them. And he was right.
She let out a slow breath, choosing her next words carefully. "And you? What kind of person are you, Tony?"
He smirked, but there was something softer behind it now, something that made it feel less like a mask and more like a quiet confession. "Still figuring that out."
Natasha studied him, the way his fingers absentmindedly brushed the edge of his glass, the way his shoulders tensed just slightly before he forced them to relax. A man who knew how to wear his own skin like armor.
She set her fork down and leaned forward just slightly, matching his energy. "I think you know more than you let on."
Tony’s eyes gleamed with something almost mischievous. "Oh, I definitely do."
She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "And you still can’t help yourself, can you?"
He shrugged, smirk never fading. "What can I say? You make it fun."
Natasha met his gaze, and for a moment, the air between them shifted—not tense, not dangerous, but something else entirely. Something unspoken, something that neither of them was quite willing to name.
Then, with a soft smile, she lifted her glass toward him. "To figuring things out."
Tony watched her for a beat, then clinked his glass against hers. "To the real thing."
The meal unfolded in comfortable silence. The clink of silverware against porcelain and the distant hum of the restaurant filled the space between them, but neither seemed in any rush to break it.
Tony ate with an effortless kind of precision, his movements smooth, unhurried. Everything he did was deliberate, controlled—even something as simple as eating. It was second nature, muscle memory built from a life of training, of survival.
Natasha, for her part, matched his pace, though she remained aware of him in that way she was trained to be—subtle, detached, observant. But what caught her off guard was the way she’d catch his gaze lingering on her.
Not on her face. Not in the way men often looked at her, calculating, assessing. No, he was watching her movements. The way she lifted her fork, the way her fingers brushed the stem of her wine glass, the shift of her shoulders as she breathed.
It wasn’t predatory, wasn’t flirtatious—it was studious.
Like he was memorizing her.
She forced herself not to react, keeping her posture poised, unaffected. He was watching her, but she was watching him too.
And then, it happened.
The one time she looked at him—not out of curiosity, not out of calculation, but purely on impulse—he looked right back.
Immediately.
No hesitation. No delay.
Like he had known, felt her gaze before she had even turned her head.
Natasha’s grip around her fork tightened slightly.
Who the hell has that good of peripheral vision?
She met his eyes, trying to decipher what exactly she was looking at—what kind of man could track her movements so effortlessly without making it obvious?
Tony smirked, just slightly, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. Like he had been waiting for her to notice.
He didn’t say anything, though.
He just went back to his meal, as if nothing had happened.
Natasha exhaled through her nose, taking a sip of wine to mask her intrigue.
This man was dangerous.
And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if that terrified her… or fascinated her.
Tony leaned back slightly in his chair, swirling the last remnants of his wine in his glass before setting it down with a soft clink. His gaze flickered to Natasha, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"What would be your poison for dessert?" he asked, voice effortlessly smooth.
Natasha arched a brow, amusement flickering behind her emerald gaze. "You're assuming I want dessert?"
Tony smirked, tilting his head. "I know a thing or two about indulgence. And you strike me as someone who enjoys the finer things—when you let yourself." His gaze flickered down for half a second, a ghost of a glance at the silk that draped over her like water before meeting her eyes again.
She held his gaze, unyielding. "Bold assumption."
"Calculated risk," Tony countered effortlessly, then flipped open the menu, scanning it as if he hadn’t already memorized it. He let the silence stretch just long enough to be comfortable before he spoke again. "Let me guess. Something rich but not overwhelming. Balanced. Maybe something with a little espresso kick to it."
Natasha’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. "Tiramisu, then?"
Tony gave a slow, approving nod, the dim lighting casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. "See? I’m good at this." He flagged down the waiter with an easy flick of his fingers. "One tiramisu, and one tiramisu cheesecake."
The order was placed, and the conversation drifted into something softer, something that should have felt foreign to them both but didn’t.
Tony asked about the little things. Did she prefer early mornings or late nights? Would she rather be in the chaos of the city or the quiet of nowhere? If she could disappear anywhere in the world, where would she go?
They weren’t strategic questions, not the kind meant to probe or dismantle defenses. They were… different. Unassuming.
And Natasha answered.
Not all of it, not fully—because she didn’t trust easily. Had never trusted anyone completely. But she gave him more than she meant to, her voice quieter than usual, more thoughtful.
And Tony?
He listened.
Not the way people listened when they were waiting for their turn to speak, not the way men listened when they were only interested in what they wanted from her.
He listened like he wanted to know her.
That was new.
The moment settled between them, something unspoken in the air, something neither of them acknowledged but both felt.
And then the dessert arrived.
Tony picked up his fork first, cutting into the delicate layers and taking a bite. His eyes closed briefly, the faintest sound of appreciation humming in his throat before he swallowed.
"Damn. That’s dangerous."
Natasha took her own bite, chewing thoughtfully. She gave a small nod. "Agreed."
Tony smirked. "Want to confirm?"
He scooped up a bite of his tiramisu and held it out to her.
Natasha hesitated, just for the briefest second, before leaning in slightly, lips wrapping around the fork as she took the offered bite.
Tony’s gaze stayed on her, dark and unreadable, his own breathing impossibly steady.
Natasha swallowed, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray bit of mascarpone at the corner of her lip. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" Tony placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Romanoff, I expected better feedback."
Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was something warmer in her expression, something softer. She picked up her own fork, mirroring his gesture as she held out a bite to him. "Here. Try mine. See if it’s any different."
Tony didn’t hesitate, leaning in with a smirk as he took the bite.
He swallowed, tilting his head slightly, as if considering. "You know…" He let the pause linger just long enough to make her curious. "I think yours might actually be better."
Natasha huffed out a quiet laugh. "Liar."
They exchanged a few more bites of their cake slices, the conversation flowing easily but never touching anything too deep. The weight of their true identities lingered in the air, unspoken yet acknowledged in the sharp glances they shared between sips of red wine. Tony watched the way Natasha—no, Natalie—tilted her glass, the deep crimson liquid catching the dim light as she took a slow, measured sip. She was poised, calculated, yet undeniably alluring in the way she carried herself. He had spent years perfecting the art of deception, but she was a natural. Still, he saw through it. Through her.
For the first time in a long time, comfortable silence stretched between them as they focused on their desserts. No calculated words, no hidden meanings—just two people indulging in good food and fine wine. Tony let the quiet settle, let himself enjoy the atmosphere. He had never been here before, never stepped foot into this restaurant where his father had taken his mother before wealth and power had consumed their lives. It was strange, in a way, that he was here now—with her of all people. The only woman he wanted to ever do it with. Wish come true.
As they finished, Tony set his napkin down beside his empty plate and leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You ready to go?” he asked, his voice smooth, yet devoid of any rush. “Unless, of course, there’s anything you want to buy in the city. It’s on me.”
Natasha met his gaze, searching for something beneath his playful offer, but found nothing but ease in his expression. “I’m okay,” she answered simply, setting her own napkin down and finishing the last sip of her wine.
Tony didn’t need to be told twice. Without another word, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and set it down on the table with a hefty tip—far more than necessary. He wasn’t one for sentimentality, but something about this place warranted more than just the usual routine. With that, he stood, offering his hand out to Natalie Rushman.
Natasha hesitated only a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his, allowing him to help her up. His grip was steady, warm, but she noted the way his movements were precise, intentional—like a man who knew control better than he knew himself. He guided her effortlessly down the stairs, his palm hovering at the small of her back but never quite touching, and led her out the door toward his Audi.
The drive back was quiet. Not tense, not awkward—just quiet. Natasha found herself glancing at him every so often, watching how he maneuvered the car with one hand, the other resting on his thigh. He didn’t look at her, didn’t attempt to fill the silence with unnecessary words. He was comfortable in it. That alone made her wary. Most people squirmed under prolonged silence, tried to fill it with empty conversation or forced charm. But Tony Stark? He let it exist.
By the time they reached the jet, the hum of the engines filled the space between them as they settled in. This time, the conversation turned casual, drifting into small revelations neither of them had expected to share. Favorite places, languages they spoke, cities they had been to—things that seemed insignificant but carried weight in the way they shared them. Natasha found herself giving pieces of herself away without realizing it, without the usual restraint she kept in place.
Tony was the same way. He never gave away too much, never exposed more than he intended, but there was something different in the way he spoke tonight. Something a little less guarded. He was still dying, still spiraling, but for a brief moment, he allowed himself to just be.
Eventually, silence took over once more, and neither of them tried to break it.
The flight landed smoothly, and soon enough, they were back on the road, the city lights flickering against the windshield as Tony drove her to the condo assigned to Natalie Rushman. The staged home of a woman who didn’t exist.
When they pulled up, Natasha turned to him, her eyes sharper now, more calculating. “Why did you ask me? The real reason” she asked, the weight of her question settling between them.
Tony exhaled through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rested his arm against the steering wheel. “I didn’t,” he admitted, voice lower now, more serious. “I didn’t ask Natalie Rushman to dinner tonight.” He tilted his head slightly, those dark gold-flecked eyes watching her reaction carefully. “I asked Natasha Romanoff.”
Natasha’s fingers curled slightly against her lap, but her expression remained unreadable. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice measured.
Tony let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Come on, Natalia,” he murmured, the Russian syllables rolling off his tongue like he had known them his whole life. “I’ve known who you were since the second I laid eyes on you.”
The weight of his words pressed down on her like a steel trap snapping shut. Her spine straightened, and for the first time all night, her carefully crafted mask cracked—just enough for him to see the flicker of shock behind her eyes.
“How long?” she asked, voice betraying nothing.
Tony shrugged, his smirk still present but softer now. “Since day one. Since you walked in pretending to be someone else.” He turned fully to face her, resting his elbow against the center console. “I knew you were the Black Widow. I knew you were Natasha Romanoff. And I knew you thought you had me fooled.” He exhaled, his smirk fading slightly. “I just didn’t want to end the game yet.”
Natasha’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t look away. “So tonight was what? Some kind of power move?”
“No,” Tony said, the honesty in his voice catching her off guard. “Tonight was because I wanted to have dinner with you. Not the alias, not the assignment—just you.”
Silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Natasha searched his face for deceit, for any hint of manipulation, but she found none. That unsettled her more than anything.
Finally, Tony leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping idly against the wheel. “I’m dying,” he admitted, though there was no pity in his tone. Just acceptance. “But you already knew that.” His lips quirked up slightly. “So I figured, why not? Turns out, I actually had a really good time.” His gaze flickered over her face before he added, “Best birthday I’ve ever had, actually. Not that the bar was set very high.”
Natasha didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and reached for the door handle. Before she could open it, Tony was already moving, stepping out of the car and rounding to her side. She barely had time to react before he opened the door for her, offering his hand once more.
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t trust him—but because she wasn’t used to someone doing this for her. But she took his hand anyway, allowing him to help her out before he walked her to the door.
She stopped before unlocking it, turning to face him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Tony held her gaze, his expression unreadable before he finally answered. “Because just because someone can do something alone doesn’t mean they have to.” His voice softened, sincerity cutting through the usual charm. “And for you? I’d do it every time.” He tilted his head slightly. “Because you deserve it.”
Natasha swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around the key in her hand. “And what do you want in return?”
Tony gave her a lopsided smirk, but his eyes were serious. “Nothing,” he said simply. “Absolutely nothing.”
For once, Natasha didn’t have a response. She just nodded, turned the key, and stepped inside.
“Goodnight Natasha, sweet dreams.” Tony said turning for his car