Chapter 5
The rhythmic thud of her feet against the damp earth was the only sound Natasha had focused on for the past hour. The crisp morning air of upstate New York filled her lungs as she finished her run, her muscles warm and loose beneath the fabric of her hoodie. The sun had barely crested the horizon when she started, and now, golden light streamed through the towering trees surrounding the Stark estate.
But something felt… off.
Tony was an insomniac at best and a full-blown lunatic when left unsupervised. She had expected to hear him hours ago—some snarky comment, the smell of coffee he didn’t even drink, or maybe some erratic classical music blaring from whatever godforsaken lab he had set up in this massive house. But there had been nothing.
No sight of him. No sarcastic greeting. No offhand remark about how she looked suspiciously like someone preparing for a heist instead of a morning jog.
Her brows furrowed slightly as she stepped inside, wiping the sheen of sweat from her forehead. The place was eerily silent. That never meant anything good.
Then she heard it.
A low, mechanical hum. Followed by the whir of power tools.
Natasha rolled her shoulders, following the sound down the halls, past the grand staircase, and toward the more communal section of the estate. It wasn’t until she reached the dance studio doors that she realized where it was coming from.
Frowning, she pushed them open.
And froze.
Tony Stark was kneeling in the middle of the studio, shirt clinging to his torso in a way that should have been illegal, black Carhartt pants hanging low on his hips. His hair was a mess, sweat dampening the strands as they curled against his forehead, but what really caught her attention was the sheer size of him.
She had always known he was built—really built. The man was 6’6, a wall of honed muscle with a body carved from a lifetime of pain and regrets, but watching him now, forearms flexing as he ran an industrial sander over newly installed hardwood floors, she could only stand there and stare.
He moved with an effortless precision, like he had done this a million times before, barely breaking stride as she entered. Then, without looking up, he turned off the sander, the sudden silence stretching between them.
He glanced at her, dark brown eyes flecked with molten gold, his gaze sharp but amused. “Morning, Romanoff.”
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “What the hell are you doing?”
Tony wiped his forearm across his forehead, streaking sawdust across his skin. “Installing new floors. Kind of obvious.”
Her eyes flickered over the room. Against the far wall, neatly stacked supplies—wood stain, sealants, a bucket of epoxy, and an assortment of high-end power tools—lined up with military precision. A nail gun rested on a pile of wood, and beside it, an electric saw, a carpenter’s square, and what looked like actual blueprints.
She raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly did you get all of this?”
Tony smirked, pushing himself to his feet in a single smooth motion. “Ordered it before I got here. Had to pick everything up with my truck.”
Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly. “…Your truck?”
He gestured vaguely. “Brand new diesel. Stick shift.”
She stared at him, processing. “You bought a truck?”
“Yeah.”
“A diesel truck?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know how to drive stick?”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Nat, I can land a jet on a moving aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean with half the thrusters down. You think I can’t handle a six-speed?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Stark.”
He grinned. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She looked back at the floor, realizing the sheer amount of work he must have done overnight. The planks were meticulously laid out, already being sanded down to an even surface.
“How long have you been at this?”
Tony checked his watch—then realized he wasn’t wearing one. He shrugged. “Since last night.”
Natasha’s brows lifted. “You’ve been working on this for twelve hours?”
“Give or take.”
She exhaled, glancing around again. “And what exactly are you doing to it?”
Tony motioned toward the supplies. “The wood’s rare, imported from a tiny region in South America. It’s stronger, more flexible—perfect for a dance studio. I’m sanding it down now, resealing it, then putting a layer of epoxy over the top so it’s easier to move on. Gonna install a better mirror and bar too.”
She stared at him for a beat.
“…Since when are you good at construction?”
Tony smirked, bending down to adjust the sander. “Jack of all trades, Romanoff.”
Her eyes lingered on him, watching the way his biceps flexed as he tightened a bolt, before she forced herself to look away.
She scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Tony winked. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Natasha had never seen Tony work with his hands like this before—not like this. Not in a way that was so methodical, so precise, so… effortlessly skilled. She had expected many things from him—arrogance, playfulness, an easy kind of genius that never had to try too hard—but not this. Not the way he handled the wood with the same precision he used to build his Iron Man suits, the way his movements were fluid yet calculated, how he barely looked at the tools in his hands, as if they were merely extensions of himself.
She sat across the room, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe, watching.
He was wearing black Carhartt pants, his usual tight AC/DC shirt hugging his frame in ways that made it impossible to ignore just how built he was. His muscles flexed with every motion—biceps straining as he maneuvered the sander over the aged wooden floors, veins prominent in his forearms as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Natasha was certain he didn’t even notice her staring, too focused on his work to care about anything else.
That was what surprised her most. The focus. The patience. The absolute competence.
Tony Stark, billionaire, Iron Man, the smartest man on the planet—on his hands and knees sanding a dance studio floor that hadn’t been touched since before he was born.
Natasha had always thought of him as someone who built with technology, with circuits and metal and equations running through his mind faster than any normal person could keep up with. But this? This was different. This was raw. Skilled hands shaping something from nothing. And she couldn’t stop watching.
She had told herself she wasn’t staring. That she was merely observing, analyzing—like any good spy would. But the truth was, she was completely and utterly enthralled.
She watched as Tony switched tools, grabbing the nail gun with an ease that made her wonder if there was anything he didn’t know how to use. He aligned the floorboards with practiced precision, pressing down with his weight, muscles flexing as he secured each piece. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just raw skill and confidence.
The sight of him working like this—silent, focused, competent in a way that had nothing to do with genius or warfare—hit her in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
Tony wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead, smearing a line of sawdust across his skin before glancing up, catching her staring.
Natasha didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t bother trying to pretend she hadn’t been watching him like a damn hawk.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, smirking just enough to keep it from looking like something softer. “Didn’t know you had this in you, Stark.”
Tony leaned back on his heels, one hand resting on his thigh, the other gripping the nail gun loosely. His lips curled into that ever-present smirk of his, but there was something amused—maybe even knowing—lurking behind those gold-flecked eyes.
“Nat,” he drawled, voice smooth, teasing, “there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
And wasn’t that the truth?