Chapter 6
The Stark estate was a relic frozen in time. Every creaking wooden beam and dust-coated chandelier told stories of a bygone era, untouched since 1979. The house, built in the 1600s, was breathtakingly grand yet desperately in need of work. Tony had hired only local contractors—small, family-run businesses—to assist with the structural issues, electrical rewiring, and the plumbing nightmares that lurked beneath the surface. Natasha had expected him to stand back and let the workers do their thing, but to her surprise, Tony Stark was everywhere—fixing, building, and restoring with a skillset that seemed far too refined for a billionaire playboy. He knew the house inside and out by the time they had spent just a week there, and every issue she pointed out was addressed almost immediately. It was as if the house had never been neglected.
The roof was the first major project. While the hired roofers worked tirelessly, Tony tackled the internal damages, moving from room to room with effortless efficiency. Natasha would often find him crouched under a sink, arms slick with grease as he wrestled with pipes that had seen better days, or standing on a ladder, rewiring century-old electrical systems as if it were second nature. There was no fanfare, no boasting. He never sought praise, never even acknowledged his work. But Natasha noticed. And she couldn't deny how much it intrigued her.
Whenever she muttered something about repainting a room or restoring a piece of furniture to match the original aesthetic of the house, it would be done—no questions asked, no conversation about it. The next day, the walls would be the exact color she had imagined, and the furniture would look as if it had been pulled straight from history and gently polished back to life. It was as if Tony could read her mind, executing every unspoken thought with precision. The estate was slowly transforming into something both of them could call home.
Tony in work mode was something she hadn’t expected to find attractive, yet she did. The sight of him shirtless, muscles taut and glistening with sweat, covered in sawdust or smeared with oil, was enough to send her thoughts spiraling. He had a certain effortless ruggedness about him—despite the expensive grooming products and the clear care he took in his appearance, he could get his hands dirty without hesitation. And somehow, that only made him more appealing. The contrast of a billionaire genius working with his bare hands, in tight shirts that clung to his broad chest and baggy cargo pants slung low on his hips, did things to her she wasn’t ready to admit.
Despite the constant work on the estate, they never skipped their daily workouts. No matter how exhausted Tony was from repairing century-old damages, he always joined her for a run or training session. If he had time, he did both. And if he was tied up in projects, she would find breakfast waiting for her when she finished her shower—a hot cup of coffee and whatever meal Tony had managed to throw together. It was something so simple, yet something that made her stomach twist in unfamiliar ways.
The kitchens had been fully restored, a testament to Tony's meticulous nature. He had poured hours into ensuring they reflected their original grandeur while still being fully functional. Most of the rooms were now inhabitable, though the list of problems seemed never-ending. Yet Tony never once complained. Whenever a new issue arose, he tackled it with the same quiet determination, as if fixing the house was some kind of unspoken promise.
Dinner was their one unspoken rule. No matter what time it was—whether it was 3 a.m. or 4:30 in the afternoon—they ate together. Natasha had made sure of it. Tony might survive on caffeine and sheer willpower, but she wouldn’t let him. More often than not, he cooked, showing off skills that she hadn’t known he possessed. And more often than not, he did it shirtless, fresh from the shower, smelling like expensive soap and whatever cologne lingered on his skin. He would sit her on the counter, press a spoon to her lips, and say, “Tell me what you think.” And each time, she pretended like it didn’t affect her. Like she wasn’t staring at the way water still clung to his collarbones, the way his fingers moved effortlessly as he chopped herbs or stirred sauces.
Evenings ended with drinks, a habit that had shifted into something she hadn’t expected. Tony never drank alone anymore. He never touched a glass unless she was there, and Natasha found herself relieved by that fact. It was no longer an escape for him, something to numb whatever haunted him. It had become a quiet ritual between them—sharing a drink before bed, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking until the early hours of the morning.
The mansion was still full of secrets. Tony had uncovered a few hidden passageways, detailing them with casual amusement but never truly letting her in on what he planned to do with them. There was history in every corner, and Tony took his time with each piece, treating the estate with the reverence of someone honoring a legacy rather than simply restoring an old house. It was strange seeing him care so much about a place he had never stepped foot in before, but Natasha knew better than to question it.
She had started to notice other things too. Tony never fully slept. She would hear him moving in the middle of the night, pacing, working. His mind never stopped, his body never truly rested. There were moments when she would catch him staring at nothing, lost in thought, his expression unreadable. But the moment she called his name, the mask would slip back into place, and he would flash her that infuriating smirk as if he hadn’t just been somewhere else entirely.
Despite all the time they had spent together, despite everything he had done for her, Tony was still a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. He was open and yet completely guarded. Charming and yet devastatingly unreadable. There were pieces of him she knew she would never have access to, shadows of a past she wasn’t allowed to see. And while Natasha had her suspicions that there was far more to him than the world knew, she had no proof. No reason to believe he was anything more than the man he let her see.
Three and a half months had passed in what felt like an instant. The house was still far from perfect, but it was livable, their home slowly taking shape in a way neither of them had expected. They had spent the past few days working on the gazebo, a space that now stood finished, adorned with the pixie lights Natasha had hung the night before. Now, as they sat beneath it, candles flickering around them, the weight of the past few months settled over them in quiet contentment.
Tony swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the golden liquid catch the light. Natasha sat beside him, her vodka on the rocks untouched for the moment. The air was warm, the scent of fresh wood and blooming flowers mixing together, a stark contrast to the dust and sweat that had defined their days.
“This place is really starting to be yours, Stark,” Natasha murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.
Tony glanced at her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “It was always ours, Romanoff,” he said simply, as if it had been a foregone conclusion.
She didn’t respond right away, just took a slow sip of her drink, letting his words settle. Maybe he was right. Maybe, despite everything, despite the ghosts that still lingered in the halls, this was theirs. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind that at all.
She glanced at him, watching the way the candlelight flickered in his dark gold-flecked eyes. He had done so much in the past few months—more than she ever expected. And yet, he never asked for anything in return.
"You're a hard man to figure out, Stark," she murmured, taking a slow sip of her drink.
Tony smirked, tilting his glass toward her in a silent toast. "Good. Keeps things interesting, doesn't it?"
She rolled her eyes, but the smile that tugged at her lips was real.
Yeah. It really did.