Chapter 5
Third Person POV:
Natasha woke slowly, the weight of sleep pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. As her eyes adjusted to the morning light filtering through the curtains, she realized she was under the covers of her bed. Confusion tightened in her chest. She didn't remember climbing under the duvet, didn’t recall the softness of the mattress welcoming her. The last thing she remembered was sitting on the living room couch with Tony, her feet propped up in his lap, his hands working magic against the tension in her calves.
She freaked.
A, she didn’t remember going to bed. B, she hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep. C, Tony Stark—known for his quips and restless energy—had to have carried her to bed. D, how the hell did he do that without waking her? And E, perhaps most importantly, how had she managed to sleep through the night without a single nightmare?
The realization settled over her, a mix of warmth and vulnerability. She shifted beneath the covers, noting how perfectly tucked in she was. The back of her dress had been unzipped, giving her room to breathe, to move freely. Her fingers brushed over the unzipped seam, a shiver of gratitude mixed with disbelief. Tony had always been respectful silently, but this... this was gentleness she wasn’t used to.
“How did he…?” She whispered to the empty room, her voice hoarse with sleep. She looked around, her senses kicking in, searching for any sign of him. The floor beside her bed was clear, no sign of Tony's presence. Curiosity drew her to the edge of the bed. She scooted forward, the plush comforter pooling around her hips as she peered over the side.
There he was.
Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, and notorious insomniac, lay sprawled on the floor. A thin throw blanket was draped over his thighs, not quite enough to cover him entirely. His gold and red plaid boxers were crumpled, the fabric twisted from his restless sleep. His bare chest rose and fell steadily, his features softer in sleep, free from the weight of his usual bravado. He looked younger, almost vulnerable—a stark contrast to the man who had held the world on his shoulders more times than anyone could count.
“Tony…?” Natasha’s voice was a feather in the air, so quiet she wasn’t even sure she’d said it out loud. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t wake up, that she could keep looking at him like this—unguarded, unfiltered, real.
“Mhmm…?” His response was a low hum, more vibration than sound. He shifted onto his side, the throw blanket sliding down to reveal the curve of his hip. One eye cracked open, hazel peeking through a veil of lashes. “Morning, Romanoff…” His voice was thick with sleep, the words tumbling out in a lazy drawl as he adjusted against the hardwood floor.
“You carried me to bed?” She asked, a hint of disbelief threading through her voice. “You didn’t have to…”
“I’d do it again. And again. Over and over.” Tony’s lips curved into a half-smile as he blinked himself into consciousness. “You were out cold. I just wanted you to sleep somewhere comfortable. And, uh, I hope it’s okay I unzipped your dress a bit. I swear, nothing weird. Just wanted you to be able to breathe.” His voice was gentle, the sharp edges of his usual sarcasm dulled by sincerity. His words hung in the air, soft and sweet, yet threaded with that cool edge of vulnerability that only Natasha ever got to see.
“Tony…” Natasha breathed his name like a secret. Her hand shot out, and she flicked his forehead lightly, a smirk curling her lips.
“Ow! Hey, what was that for?” Tony sat up, rubbing at his forehead with an exaggerated pout. The blanket slipped lower, and Natasha’s eyes darted away, heat rising to her cheeks.
“You really don’t need to sleep on the floor, you know?” She shifted to the edge of the bed, tucking her feet beneath her. “There’s plenty of space up here. I don’t bite.” She paused, a playful glint in her eyes. “Much.”
He chuckled, the sound low and rough. “I just... I didn’t want to leave you alone. You know, in case you woke up and needed someone.” His tone turned tentative, the humor bleeding out of his expression as sincerity took over. “And, well, you’re obviously a triple agent.” He forced a smile, then cringed at his own joke. “Kidding. I just didn’t want you to feel alone. Not after everything. And if you woke up scared or in pain, physically or psychologically, I wanted to be here.”
Natasha’s expression softened, the mask slipping just enough for him to see the gratitude beneath. It was rare for her to let anyone in, to allow herself to be taken care of. But with Tony, it felt... different. Safe. She opened her mouth to say something, to break the silence with more than just thank yous, but the words tangled on her tongue.
She wished she could tell him how much this meant. How much he meant. That this quiet intimacy, this safety, was something she could get used to. That maybe, just maybe, she wanted this forever.
But forever was a dangerous word for people like them.
Instead, she reached out, her fingers curling around his hand. “Stay,” she said, the word a bridge between them. “Not just for me. For you too.”
And for a moment, the world outside the room disappeared. There was no Civil War, no fractured friendships, no ghosts of mistakes past. There was just Natasha and Tony, the hum of unspoken promises between them, and the quiet hope that this was only the beginning.
Tony soon sat up slowly, his movements deliberate as if he feared startling her. The throw blanket pooled around his waist, and he shifted until his back rested against the cool surface of the bed frame. He drew one leg up, resting his arm atop his knee, the other leg stretched out comfortably. Natasha remained perched on the edge of the bed, her hand still loosely wrapped around his wrist, an anchor between them.
“Are you sure you want me to stay?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble, lacking its usual bravado. “I mean, I get it—who wouldn’t want to wake up to this?” He gestured vaguely to himself, lips curving into a lazy smirk. “I’m practically a living, breathing Renaissance sculpture.”
Natasha snorted, the sound both amused and disbelieving. “Sure, Stark. Michelangelo would weep.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, the pressure grounding. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming.” He waggled his brows, but the joke slipped into the quiet room without its usual spark. His humor felt more like armor than anything else—a thin layer between them and the truth of his own uncertainty.
She didn’t let go.
Her thumb brushed over the thin skin of his wrist, tracing the faint pulse beneath. Tony’s breathing hitched, almost imperceptibly, but Natasha caught it. She always did. Her senses were too sharp, honed by years of training and trauma, to miss anything—especially when it came to him.
“Tony,” she began, but the rest of her thought dissolved, lost somewhere between the ache in his eyes and the softness of his expression. She didn’t know how to say it—how to tell him that his presence, his ridiculous, unfiltered, chaotic presence, had become the one thing she looked forward to every morning.
Instead, she let her actions speak. Her hold on his wrist shifted, fingers slipping down until her hand rested fully over his. His skin was warm, calloused from years of tinkering, building, saving the world through metal and technology.
Tony swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His free hand hovered in the air between them, a moment of hesitation stretching long and taut. Then, slowly, he lowered it, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. His touch was featherlight, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thread held them together.
He began to massage her fingers, his movements tentative at first. His thumb traced over her knuckles, smoothing over the small scars she usually kept hidden beneath leather gloves and practiced poise. His touch was methodical, like he was calibrating a new piece of tech—gentle, precise, focused.
Natasha didn’t say a word. She let him take her hand, allowed him to give her comfort in the only way he knew how. She felt the way his touch lingered over the pads of her fingers, the way his thumb brushed against the curve of her palm. There was nothing sexual about it, nothing overt. Just closeness. Just comfort.
He avoided her gaze, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. His expression was unreadable, a blend of concentration and vulnerability that made her chest ache. She wondered if he knew how much this meant—if he understood that, for her, touch had always been a weapon, a tool, something to wield rather than cherish.
His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to thank me, you know.” His thumb continued its slow circles, a gentle rhythm against her skin. “For staying. For… whatever this is.”
Natasha’s lips parted, her breath hitching. “I know.” She shifted closer, the soft cotton of the duvet wrinkling beneath her. “I just… I’m not used to this.”
Tony’s hand stilled, his thumb resting against the curve of her knuckle. He finally looked at her, his hazel eyes searching hers. “To what?”
“To someone being there. Just… being there.” She bit the inside of her cheek, the sting grounding. “Without an agenda. Without expecting something in return.”
His expression softened, the edges of his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. “I don’t expect anything, Nat.” His voice was hoarse, the truth of his words raw and unpolished. “I just want you to be okay.”
She nodded, the movement small and uncertain. Her fingers tightened around his, and she felt him respond, his hand closing over hers in a firmer grip. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like a promise—one neither of them knew how to voice, but both felt all the same.
For a moment, they stayed like that—her perched on the bed, him on the floor, their hands entwined. The world outside the room could wait. The fractures in the team, the ghosts of battles lost and friendships shattered, faded into the background.
“Tony?”
“Yeah?” His thumb resumed its gentle circles, his touch an unspoken reassurance.
“Stay.” She whispered it, the word slipping between them like a secret.
His lips curved, just a little. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
Silence settled between them, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but heavy with unsaid things. Natasha’s fingers still rested in Tony’s, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against her skin. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room, a stark contrast to the weight they both carried.
“So,” Natasha started, her voice a low hum. “What now?”
Tony blinked, the question drawing him from whatever distant thought he’d drifted into. “What now, as in… what do we do today? Or what do we do with the fact that I just confessed I’d sleep on hardwood floors for you?”
She huffed a laugh, her lips twitching into a half-smile. “Both.”
He shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing against the bed frame, the movement causing his hand to tighten around hers. “Well, today? I’m thinking pancakes. The really unhealthy kind. Extra syrup. Possibly bacon if I’m feeling wild.” He tilted his head, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “And as for the other thing? I think we just… take it slow. One awkward wrist massage at a time.”
Natasha’s thumb grazed over his knuckles, her touch both curious and contemplative. “Awkward, huh? I thought you were a genius at everything.”
“Oh, I am. Exceptionally so.” His lips curled into a smirk. “But you, Romanoff, have a talent for making me question all my expertise. Even wrist massages.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she let the quiet take over again, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something only she could hear. Tony didn’t push. He’d learned not to with her. Instead, he let his own mind wander, allowed himself to simply exist in this strange, unexpected bubble of peace.
After a few minutes, Natasha’s fingers slipped from his. She pulled the blanket off her shoulders, letting the cool air kiss her skin. Tony tensed, not from fear but from the sudden change, his body instinctively bracing for whatever came next.
“Stay put,” she murmured, and there was no room for argument.
He nodded, his mouth opening and closing as if unsure what to say. He ended up saying nothing, just watching as she slid off the bed and moved with that quiet, predatory grace that always reminded him of how dangerous she could be.
Her dress hung loosely around her frame, the back still unzipped from when he’d carried her to bed. She reached the dresser, pulling open a drawer with a gentle hum under her breath. She grabbed a pair of black spandex shorts, slipping them on beneath the dress. Her movements were precise, every action efficient yet unhurried.
Tony, untrue to his nature, stared pointedly at the floor. His eyes were clamped shut, his jaw tight as if the effort of not looking physically pained him. Natasha smirked over her shoulder, catching the way his fingers gripped the throw blanket, knuckles pale.
“Really, Stark? You look like a teenager at his first high school sleepover.” She teased, pulling the dress over her head.
“Hey, I’m just being respectful.” His voice was strained, as if the words had to claw their way out of his throat. “Besides, I’m saving the view for later.”
Her laugh was soft, a genuine sound that sent a pleasant warmth curling through his chest. “Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded, eyes still shut tight. “You know, for when I’m not at risk of spontaneous combustion.”
She shook her head, slipping on an oversized black T-shirt that reached just above her mid-thigh. It was worn and soft, probably one of Tony’s judging by the faint scent of his cologne. “You can open your eyes now, gentleman.”
He cracked one eye open, then the other, his shoulders losing some of their tension. “Look, I just… I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” His voice softened, the humor slipping away. “I know some what you’ve been through, and the last thing I want is for you to think I’m… taking advantage. Or not giving you the space you need.”
Natasha’s expression shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper, something fragile. She took a step toward him, then another, until she stood right in front of him. “Tony,” she said, and the way his name rolled off her tongue felt like a promise. “Can I sit with you?”
He swallowed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
She moved slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind. But he didn’t. His legs were bent, knees up, and she slipped between them, her back against his chest. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, unsure of where to go or what to do.
She sighed, a soft exhale of air, and reached for his hands. She guided them around her torso, settling them against her stomach. His fingers splayed against the soft fabric of the shirt, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing beneath his palms.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s perfect.”
His chest rose and fell against her back, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her shoulder blades. He let his chin rest lightly atop her head, the strands of her freshly-cut blonde hair tickling his skin. She smelled like sweet honey and something distinctly Natasha, a mix of danger and comfort.
She reached for the throw blanket, pulling it over their legs. The soft fabric draped over them, cocooning them in warmth. Tony’s hands remained where she’d placed them, though his thumbs began to move in slow, absentminded strokes along her sides.
Tony’s hands stilled, the gentle circles he’d been tracing on Natasha’s sides coming to an abrupt halt. His fingers tensed against the fabric of her oversized shirt, and his breathing hitched—barely perceptible, but enough for Natasha to notice. His entire frame seemed to lock up behind her, every muscle wound tight as if any movement might shatter the moment.
She tilted her head, catching his expression from the corner of her eye. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, and his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the walls of her room.
“Tony,” she murmured, her voice a quiet ripple through the silence. “It’s okay. You can fidget. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He blinked, snapping back to the present. “No, no, it’s not that. I just... I don’t want to do anything wrong.”
Her lips curled into a sly smile. “Since when do you care about playing by the rules?”
A short, breathy laugh escaped him. “Since you ended up in my lap. I’d rather not get assassinated in my sleep because I rubbed a few too many circles on your stomach.”
Natasha snorted, rolling her eyes. “You really think I’d kill you over that?”
“With you? I’m not ruling anything out.”
Her fingers traced over his knuckles, a gentle rhythm. “It’s fine, Stark. You don’t need to overthink everything. You fidgeting actually felt... nice.”
“Oh?” His tone shifted, a hint of the cocky Stark bravado slipping through. “You sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve got me trapped under this blanket? What’s next? You gonna steal my wallet?”
She nudged him with her elbow, a soft jab to his ribs. “Please. If I wanted your wallet, I’d have had it an hour ago. You’re lucky I’m letting you keep your watch.”
“Generous,” he drawled, his thumbs resuming their slow, absentminded patterns against her skin. “Guess I’ll take my wins where I can.”
“Mm,” She nudged him gently with her elbow, her tone teasing. “But seriously, it’s fine. You don’t have to be so tense.”
“Yeah, well,” he breathed out, his chest expanding against her back, “I just... I want to do this right. Be respectful. I don’t want to mess this up.”
Natasha’s expression softened, and she guided his hands back to where they were. “Tony, it’s just us. You don’t need to overthink everything.”
She settled back against him, and after a moment, his thumbs resumed their gentle patterns over her stomach. The motions were hesitant at first, then more deliberate, his touch light and careful, as if she might shatter beneath him. She didn’t. Instead, she relaxed, her shoulders dropping, and the steady rhythm of his breathing became a comforting backdrop to the silence.
“Wanna play a game?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.
He arched a brow, even though she couldn’t see it. “Depends. Does it involve tequila and bad decisions?”
“Not this time.” She smirked. “I was thinking ‘Answer Question, Then Question.’”
“Ah.” He huffed a soft laugh. “The verbal equivalent of strip poker. I’m in.”
“Rules are simple,” she explained. “I ask a question, you answer without hesitating. Then you ask me one. No hesitation, no deflecting. Questions don’t have to be related, but you can’t just throw a ‘What about you?’ every turn.”
“Sounds dangerous.” He let his hands settle comfortably against her, his fingers drawing small, soothing circles. “I like it. Hit me.”
“Alright.” Natasha shifted, her body pressing more firmly against his chest. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
“Fourteen.” His voice held no bravado, just a flat honesty. “She was a senior in college. Thought I was older than I was. I didn’t correct her.” His hands tightened on her sides, then relaxed. “You?”
“Thirteen, I think.” She didn’t elaborate, but there was a rawness to her tone. “It wasn’t... It wasn’t a choice.”
His hands stilled, and she felt the way his entire body seemed to coil beneath her. “Nat—”
“Next question,” she cut him off, her voice sharp. “Favorite color?”
“Green kinda blue ish,” he said, his tone lighter. “And red. Not the flashy, fire-engine kind. More like... a deep crimson. The kind that sneaks up on you.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, a subtle smile curving her lips. “You have a favorite alcohol?”
“Vodka.” His answer was quick, a soft chuckle following. “Never really liked it before. But lately, I’m starting to see the appeal.”
She nudged him gently. “That supposed to be charming?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She let her thumb brush over his knuckles, a soft, absentminded gesture. “Ever been in love?”
“No.” His answer was immediate, honest. “You?”
“Love’s a luxury,” she said quietly. “And I’ve never been that rich.”
“Biggest fear?” she asked.
Tony’s breath hitched. “That this is all I’ll ever be. Just... an echo. A product. I don’t know who I am without the things they made me into.”
Her grip tightened over his hands, a silent promise. “You’re more than that.”
“Am I?” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You don’t even know half of it, Romanoff.”
“Then tell me.”
He hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how.”
Her head tilted back against his shoulder, and she turned just enough to brush her lips against his jaw—soft, brief, but enough to make his breath catch. “Then don’t. Not yet.”
The moment hung between them, fragile but real.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she said, her voice a low, steady hum.
Tony hesitated, his fingers drawing invisible patterns over Natasha’s stomach through the thin fabric of her shirt. His movements slowed, but he didn’t stop. The game demanded honesty, and the air between them was charged—like the pause before a storm.
“I don’t remember my parents,” he said, his voice deceptively casual, a thin veneer over something darker. “They died when I was a newborn. Or, at least, that’s what I was told.”
Natasha’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, a gentle and grounding touch. “Who raised you then?”
Tony’s fingers stilled on her waist, and for a moment, his expression was an ironclad mask—calm, practiced, but impenetrable. His lips curled into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
Her brow arched, a mixture of curiosity and challenge. “You think I can’t handle it?”
“I think some doors are better left closed.” His voice held a quiet weight, an unspoken warning. His hands resumed their slow, idle movements, drawing small patterns over her skin, as if he needed the rhythm to keep steady. “Your turn.”
She could have pushed. A part of her, the Widow part, itched to pry at the cracks in his armor. But the way he held her, the restraint in his touch, the way his breath brushed against her hair—something told her not to. Instead, she slid into the game’s rhythm, letting the moment carry them.
“What’s something I don’t know about you?” she asked.
Tony hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “That I like quiet. Not the awkward, ‘I should say something’ kind, but the real kind. The kind where I don’t have to be anyone or do anything.” He hesitated, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines across her stomach. “I’ve spent my whole life filling the silence—parties, tech, women, whatever. But, sometimes, I just want it to stop.”
Her lips quirked. “For a guy who talks as much as you, I’m not buying it.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin. “Talking’s a good distraction. You get people to focus on the words, and they don’t look too close at the cracks.” His fingers tightened on her waist for a fraction of a second before relaxing again. “What about you? What’s something you hide?”
“Everything.” Her voice was soft but unwavering. “It’s safer that way.”
“Safe doesn’t suit you,” he murmured. “You’re more of a jump-off-a-building-without-a-parachute kind of girl.”
Her smirk was sharp, almost dangerous. “Maybe I just like the rush.”
His gaze dipped to her lips, a fleeting glance that lingered in the charged air between them. “Or maybe you’re waiting for someone to catch you.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, a hint of amusement threading through the tension. “Are you volunteering?”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I’m not much for heroics.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him an inch closer, testing his resolve. “Good. I’ve had enough of heroes.”
His breath shuddered, but his hands remained steady, his touch a perfect balance of firm and gentle. “Careful, Romanoff. You’re playing with fire.”
Her smile was sly, a cat with canary feathers. “I don’t burn.”
“We all do,” he said quietly, his voice a thread of smoke in the dim room.
Her expression softened, the bravado slipping just enough for him to catch a glimpse of something raw beneath. “What’s the worst burn you’ve ever had?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers moved over her skin, drawing shapes only he understood. When he spoke, his voice was distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely. “I trusted someone once. Let them in. Thought they’d stay.” He let out a breath, more of a sigh. “They didn’t.”
Natasha’s fingers traced the back of his hand, a quiet offering of comfort. “That’s what people do.”
“Not all people.” His eyes found hers, and the look he gave her was sharp and soft all at once, a blade wrapped in silk. “Some stay. If you let them.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she shifted, her body pressing closer to his, the line of her thigh slipping between his. She felt the hitch in his breath, the way his hands stilled, the tension coiling tight beneath his skin. But he didn’t move. He didn’t push.
A part of her wanted him to break—to shatter the careful control he held around her, to prove that he wasn’t as composed as he pretended. She pressed closer, her nose brushing the line of his jaw, her lips ghosting over his pulse. It fluttered, a rapid rhythm against her mouth, but his hands remained where they were, firm and steady on her waist.
“You’re not gonna crack, are you?” she whispered, her voice a blend of tease and genuine curiosity.
Tony’s lips quirked, a slow, deliberate smirk. “I’ve been through worse, Romanoff.”
The reply should’ve been expected, a carefully placed wall, but there was something about his tone—calm, assured, and oddly gentle—that settled over her. His hands remained steady, fingers tracing the lazy, thoughtless circles against her skin. He wasn’t trying to pull her closer, wasn’t edging into dangerous territory. He was just... there. Solid. Safe. And for a woman who had spent her life teetering on edges, it was an unsettling kind of peace.
Natasha’s lips brushed his jaw, not quite a kiss, more a breath against his skin. She felt the flutter of his pulse beneath her mouth, but he didn’t react. Didn’t push. Didn’t take the bait. It left a hollow ache in her chest, a bittersweet pang she couldn’t quite place. Part of her wanted him to lose control, to grab her, to prove that the pull between them was more than just her own yearning. But the other part, the quiet, wounded part, found solace in his restraint. It felt... kind. Like he saw her as more than just a warm body, more than just a temptation to overcome.
She settled back against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her, not possessive but protective, as if he were holding something fragile. It was enough. More than enough.
Her voice was soft when she spoke. “How old were you when you realized you’d never really been a kid?”
Tony’s fingers stilled, his thumb pausing mid-stroke on her side. “Damn, Nat. Going for the jugular, huh?”
Her lips curved, a ghost of a smirk. “Rules are rules.”
He exhaled slowly, the breath ruffling the strands of her hair. “I guess... I was three? Maybe four.” His voice dropped, a shade darker, rougher. “I remember this Christmas... I’d been in a agency’s custody for as long as I could remember. The kind where they say it’s for gifted kids but really it’s just a way to keep you out of sight. I was smart, too smart for my own good, and the adults didn’t like it when I asked too many questions. So they kept me busy with books and tests and projects.”
His fingers resumed their movements, as if the rhythm could keep the memories at bay. “Anyway, this one Christmas, they brought in this place for a test, and it hada fake santa. The other kids were excited—presents and candy canes and all that. But I just sat in the corner, watching. I knew it wasn’t real. Knew the presents were just bribes, that Santa was some intern trying to make a few bucks.” He chuckled, a hollow sound. “I think that’s when it hit me. Other kids still believed in magic, in good things just happening. And I... I’d never had that. I knew nothing came for free. Not love. Not safety. Nothing.”
Natasha’s fingers tightened on his hand, a subtle squeeze, and he returned it, a quiet acknowledgment.
He cleared his throat, his voice lifting back into that light, deflecting tone. “Okay, my turn. What’s something you were told not to do but did it anyway, but don’t regret?”
She hummed, considering. “There was this arms dealer in Istanbul. He was trafficking girls—barely teenagers. SHIELD wanted him alive, needed intel. But when I got to him, he’d just sold off a girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve. She was terrified, screaming. I saw red. By the time backup arrived, he wasn’t breathing.” Her expression remained neutral, but there was a storm behind her eyes. “I told Fury he slipped. He didn’t ask again.”
“Good.” Tony’s voice held no judgment, only an unwavering acceptance that made her chest tighten.
Natasha shifted, her leg brushing against his, a slow, deliberate movement. His hands remained where they were, though she could feel the slight tremor beneath his touch. It wasn’t arousal—it was restraint. She wondered if he was even aware of it, the way he kept himself so perfectly still, so careful. The thought made her stomach twist, a strange blend of longing and comfort.
“What do you want more than anything?” she asked.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “To sleep without nightmares.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t break the rhythm. “What kind of nightmares?”
“The kind where I’m back there,” he said, his voice hollow. “Where every door locks behind me, and the walls get smaller. Where hands reach out of the dark, and no matter how hard I fight, they never stop.”
Natasha’s fingers slid into his, intertwining. “You’re not there anymore.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But my head doesn’t.”
The silence stretched, a thread pulled taut between them. She could feel the weight of his honesty, the raw edge beneath his charm. It struck her, how little she truly knew about him—how much of the real Tony Stark was buried beneath layers of sarcasm and bravado. His SHIELD file had painted a different picture: genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist. The troubled son of a wealthy family who’d rebelled, gotten himself kidnapped, and built an empire out of spite and brilliance. But the man in her arms wasn’t the Tony Stark on paper. He was something else entirely—something real.
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles. “What do you need right now?”
His answer came without hesitation. “To not be alone.”
A breath shivered through her. “You’re not.”
He pressed his forehead against hers, their noses brushing. His voice was a murmur, low and rough. “Your turn.”
She exhaled, the sound soft between them. “What’s your biggest regret?”
His lips twitched, the shadow of a smile. “Not letting you win this game sooner.”
Her laughter was a balm, warm and genuine. “I’ll take the win. For now.”