Beauty and the Beast

The kitchen hummed with quiet energy, sunlight filtering through the glass walls as Tony and Natasha moved around each other with a rhythm born of routine.

Her hair was damp from the shower, strands sticking to the back of her neck, and she’d slipped into one of his old MIT hoodies—oversized, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Tony, still warm from their sparring session, wore a plain gray t-shirt and black joggers, the fabric clinging to the lines of his shoulders.

The aftermath of their workout lingered in the way they breathed, not quite winded but close. A pleasant ache settled in Natasha’s muscles, a reminder of the bruises she’d landed on him and the ones he’d graciously returned. She leaned against the counter, watching as Tony cracked eggs into a pan, his movements precise.

“Sunny side up?” he asked, not looking up.

“Always.” She stole a piece of bread from the open bag, tearing off a corner with her teeth.

He shot her a look over his shoulder, a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You know, if you’re that hungry, I could’ve made something faster.”

“I’m fine with bread,” she said around her bite, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m low-maintenance.”

“Yeah, sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

She shrugged, leaning further into the counter. “I could see you in a crown. Very regal.”

Tony snorted, flipping the eggs with a practiced flick of his wrist. “If I ever get that desperate for attention, please stage an intervention.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised, her voice light but her gaze steady. “I’ll drag you off your throne by the ear.”

He turned then, spatula in hand, an incredulous grin on his lips. “You’d love that.”

“Maybe,” she said, her tone slipping into something softer. “I do enjoy bringing arrogant men to their knees.”

The air thickened, a slow coil of something neither of them acknowledged. Tony blinked first, shaking his head as if to clear it, and returned to the stove.

Natasha let the quiet stretch, the only sounds the sizzle of eggs and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Her fingers played with the hem of the hoodie, the fabric soft and worn from too many washes. She liked how it smelled—like him, like home.

“You know,” she started, testing the water, “we could go out.”

Tony’s shoulders tensed, just a fraction. He kept his focus on the pan. “Out?”

“Yeah.” She tossed the rest of the bread into the trash, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “Like, outside. Beyond the compound walls. Where real people live.”

His spatula stilled, hovering over the pan. “Nat, you’re a wanted fugitive. There’s an actual, very unflattering mugshot of you circulating through about a dozen government databases.”

She shrugged, all nonchalance and deflection. “I’m also a master of disguise. I could walk past Fury himself, and he wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“Tempting fate, aren’t you?” He finally slid the eggs onto a plate, moving with the kind of efficiency that hinted at how many meals he’d made alone.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She accepted the plate when he offered it, their fingers brushing. A spark jumped between them, small but unmistakable.

Tony cleared his throat, turning back to pour coffee. “And where, exactly, would you want to go? You know, if we were to hypothetically throw caution to the wind and commit light treason?”

She smiled, slow and cat-like, the kind of expression that had broken lesser men. “Somewhere low-key. Maybe a street market, a bookstore… I don’t know, something normal.”

“Normal,” he echoed, setting the mugs down with a soft clink. “You realize who you’re talking to, right?”

“Yeah.” She took a bite of her egg, chewing thoughtfully. “The genius billionaire playboy philanthropist who also happens to be hiding out with a Russian assassin.”

Tony leaned against the counter, cradling his mug between his hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds a little… I don’t know, dangerous.”

“Maybe I like danger.”

His lips curled at the edges, his eyes dipping just briefly to her mouth. “That’s not news.”

She licked a bit of yolk from her thumb, a deliberate and maddeningly slow movement. His grip tightened on the mug, knuckles white.

“What?” she asked, all innocence, though her gaze glittered with challenge.

“Nothing.” He took a long sip of coffee, hiding behind the rim.

She let the silence hang, let him sit in it. He’d been so careful with her—never letting his touches linger too long, his words too sweet. It was comforting, in a way she hadn’t expected. But a small part of her wanted to see him slip, to know if he’d catch himself or if he’d let himself fall.

“So?” She set her plate down, stepping into his space. Not too close, but close enough. “Are you in?”

He looked at her over the edge of his mug, dark eyes sharp and searching. “You think a wig and some thrift store clothes are enough to fool the world?”

“No.” She smiled, her voice dropping. “But I think if I’m with you, no one would dare look twice.”

His expression faltered—just for a heartbeat, a crack in the cool exterior. “Natasha…”

“Tony.” She mirrored his tone, a low hum of mischief.

He swallowed, a slow, deliberate movement. “If we do this, you follow my lead.”

“Always,” she said, the word slipping out too easily.

His gaze softened, something vulnerable ghosting over his features. She hadn’t expected that—not from him. But there it was, and it twisted something in her chest, a tug that hurt more than it should.

“Okay,” he murmured, setting his mug down. “Let’s do it.”

Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to stay steady, to keep the mask in place. “I’ll go get ready.”

“Take your time,” he said, but she could feel his eyes on her as she walked away, every step a quiet promise she wasn’t sure she was ready to keep.

~~~

Natasha stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running dry shampoo through her blonde, shaggy hair. She scrunched the strands, giving them an extra dose of messy volume before sliding a pair of fun, round sunglasses up to rest on her forehead. Her low-rise straight-leg jeans sat comfortably on her hips, the distressed denim fraying at the knees. She paired them with a cropped black AC/DC t-shirt, the faded logo splashed across the chest, and a well-worn black baseball cap that completed the look. Her black-and-white Converse were scuffed just enough to look authentic, and she felt a spark of something unfamiliar—something close to giddiness.

She hadn’t dressed down like this in ages. No tactical gear, no Widow suit—just a girl in street clothes, ready to blend in with the world.

She slipped out of the bedroom and padded down the hall, the old hardwood floors cool beneath her feet. When she stepped into the living room, her expression dropped.

Tony stood by the window, phone in hand, wearing standard men’s straight-leg jeans and a gray long-sleeve shirt with a random Star Wars graphic half-visible beneath it. His baseball cap sat low, and his iconic sunglasses were perched on his nose. He looked exactly like himself, just slightly toned down.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Natasha said, her voice slicing through the quiet.

Tony glanced up, one eyebrow arching over the rim of his glasses. “What?”

“That,” she said, waving a hand at him. “That is not a fun disguise.”

His lips parted, a slow smirk taking shape. “I thought we were going for low-key, not Halloween at Coachella.”

She rolled her eyes, already crossing the room and grabbing his wrist. “Come on.”

“Natasha—”

“Nope. You’re coming with me.” She tugged him toward the hallway, his protests falling on deaf ears.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his tone somewhere between amusement and dread.

“To your fashion room.”

“My—wait, you mean the tactical gear storage?”

“Is that what you call it?” She shot him a look over her shoulder. “I call it a walk-in closet for all your costume changes.”

They reached the room, and Natasha flicked on the light, revealing rows of clothing—everything from high-end suits to tactical vests to bizarrely normal streetwear. She let go of his wrist and began rifling through hangers.

“You know, most people would be a little grateful I even agreed to go out,” Tony said, crossing his arms.

“Oh, I am.” She pulled a pair of black Carhartt carpenter pants off a hanger and tossed them at him. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

He held up the pants, his nose wrinkling. “These look brand new.”

“Exactly.” She snagged a new star wars black t-shirt from the rack, examining the size before handing it over. “Change.”

He hesitated, still clutching the clothes as if they might bite him. “Nat, I don’t wear stuff like this.”

She gave him a flat look. “And that’s why it’ll work.”

With a long, suffering sigh, Tony set the clothes down and reached for the hem of his shirt. Natasha didn’t move—didn’t even think to look away—as he pulled the long sleeve off in one smooth motion, leaving his torso bare.

Her eyes lingered, a beat too long. She took in the toned definition of his arms, the play of muscle beneath skin that was marked with scars and stories. The arc reactor sat in the center of his chest, its blue glow muted in the natural light.

He didn’t seem to notice her stare—or if he did, he didn’t call her out on it. Instead, he tugged the black shirt over his head, and it fit him far too well. The fabric stretched over his chest, clinging to the shape of him in a way that felt distinctly unfair.

“Happy?” he asked, his voice pulling her back into focus.

“Not yet.” She pulled open a drawer, digging through a mishmash of accessories until she found a black belt with a small cowboy buckle. “This too.”

He blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

She tossed it to him, and he caught it easily. “Put it on.”

He muttered something under his breath—probably something about bossy assassins and questionable fashion choices—but he did as she asked.

She turned back to the rack, fishing out a pair of black and pink Spezial Adidas, the stripes a playful pink that bordered on obnoxious. “Shoes.”

He stepped into them, the bright accents a stark contrast to his usual polished footwear.

“Now, the hat.” She plucked a black and pink baseball cap off a hook and placed it squarely on his head. It was Barbie merch, the logo embroidered in bubblegum pink.

Tony stared at his reflection in the mirror, lips parting in disbelief. “I look like a doped-up teenager who just came into trust fund money.”

She grinned, adjusting the brim of his hat. “Exactly. No one will ever expect it’s you.”

He frowned, pulling at the fabric of the shirt. “I don’t know, Nat. This feels… weird.”

“That’s the point.” She took a step back, evaluating him. “You look good.”

His frown softened, a hint of color brushing his cheeks. “You’re just saying that because I look ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” she teased. “But ridiculous is better than recognizable.”

He reached for his watch, but she smacked his hand away. “Nope. Lose it.”

“Come on—”

“Nope.” She plucked the watch off his wrist, setting it on the dresser. “We’re going off-grid. Just you, me, and the big, scary real world.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady, his shoulders relaxing in a way she rarely saw. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I’m going to tell them you forced me into this.”

“I did.” She grabbed his iconic sunglasses off the dresser, sliding them up his nose. “But you’re still going to thank me later.”

He shook his head, a soft laugh slipping free. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here we are.” She slipped her arm through his, guiding him toward the door. “Come on, Stark. Adventure awaits.”

Tony led Natasha out to the garage, the lights flickering on to reveal row after row of sleek, luxurious cars. The compound's garage was nothing short of a billionaire’s playground—custom-made supercars, classic models polished to a mirror sheen, and a few armored vehicles tucked in the back for when subtlety wasn’t on the agenda.

But today, Tony strolled past the bright candy-colored sports cars and straight to a black 1967 Shelby GT500. The vintage beauty sat like a panther in the dim light, its classic lines both understated and unmistakably powerful.

He moved ahead, slipping his hand into his pocket to unlock the car with a soft click. Before Natasha could reach for the handle, he was there, pulling the door open for her with an easy smile.

She quirked an eyebrow, arms crossing over her chest. “What’s this? Tony Stark, being a gentleman?”

He leaned against the door, his expression infuriatingly casual. “I can have manners. I just choose when to use them.”

Her lips curled, a bratty smirk lighting her face. “Careful. I might start expecting it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.” He gestured grandly for her to get in, his hand not-so-subtly grazing the top of the car frame so she wouldn’t bump her head.

The gesture was sweet, and she hated how much she noticed it.

Natasha slid into the passenger seat, the worn leather cool against her bare midriff. The car’s interior smelled like aged leather and a hint of mint from a fresh air freshener hanging off the rearview mirror.

Tony closed the door with a soft thud, rounding the front of the car with an easy stride. His black and pink Adidas caught the light, and she bit back a laugh at how surprisingly well he pulled off the look.

He slipped into the driver’s seat, the door shutting with a satisfying click. His fingers moved over the key, and the Shelby roared to life, the engine a low growl that reverberated through the frame.

He adjusted his sunglasses, the brim of the Barbie baseball cap casting a playful shadow over his face. “You know, you clean up pretty well.”

She turned to him, her chin propped on her knuckles. “You say that like I needed cleaning up.”

“Not what I meant,” he said smoothly, his hand resting on the gear shift. “The look suits you. Casual. Like you could fit in anywhere.”

Her expression remained cool, but a faint warmth spread beneath her skin. “I could fit in anywhere, Stark. I’m a spy.”

He chuckled, easing the car into reverse. “You know what I mean. I like it.”

She let silence hang for a beat, her thumb idly brushing over the seam of her jeans. “Well, you don’t look half bad yourself. I mean, if you’re going for ‘doped-up trust fund kid.’”

He smirked, shifting into first gear. “Funny. I thought I was pulling off ‘devilishly handsome incognito.’”

She gave him a once-over, dragging her gaze slowly from his sneakers up to the snug black shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders. “Yeah, maybe if you were still in your twenties.”

His lips quirked, and he pressed the gas, the car rolling smoothly onto the compound’s private road. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But considering your... expertise, I’ll assume you’re just trying to rile me up.”

Natasha settled back in her seat, the wind catching the loose strands of her messy blonde hair through the open window. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like keeping you on your toes.”

“Good luck with that.”

His hand moved on the gear shift, his fingers wrapping around the knob with an ease that sent a shiver up her spine. She wasn’t used to this—watching someone do something so mundane and finding it oddly attractive. The subtle flex of his forearm, the quiet confidence in the way he handled the car—it was distracting.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she shifted in her seat. “You drive stick?”

He shot her a sideways glance, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is that supposed to be innuendo?”

She bit back a grin. “You wish.”

“Mm, maybe.” He downshifted, the car purring as he navigated a tight turn. “But yeah. I like the control.”

Her pulse quickened, though she masked it with a dry laugh. “Of course you do.”

“What about you?” he asked, his tone light but his attention sharp. “Do you like to be in control?”

“Always.”

His knuckles brushed the leather of the wheel as he switched gears, his voice dropping just enough to stir something in her chest. “I’d believe that.”

Her fingers drummed against her thigh, her nails tracing the worn denim. “Why’s that?”

He hesitated, just a breath, before answering. “You’ve got this... edge. Like you need to keep your hands on the wheel, no matter how fast life’s going.”

Her playful demeanor wavered, a fissure cracking through the cool exterior. “Yeah. Well, letting go hasn’t really worked out for me.”

He didn’t push, didn’t prod at the wound she’d just barely exposed. Instead, he shifted gears again, the motion seamless. “You’re safe here. You know that, right?”

She glanced out the window, the trees whipping by in a green blur. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence filled the car, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was weighted, rich with things unspoken but felt.

He cleared his throat, his voice returning to its usual, cocky drawl. “So, farmers market first, or are we jumping straight into caffeine addiction at the café?”

“Farmers market,” she said, grateful for the change in subject. “I want to see you haggle over tomatoes.”

He laughed, a warm sound that made the Shelby’s interior feel smaller. “Please. I’m charming as hell. Those old ladies with their homegrown herbs won’t know what hit ‘em.”

She leaned back, crossing her legs. “I’m counting on it.”

As they drove, the city began to bleed into view, and Natasha found herself easing into the ride. The world outside the window moved, but here—in this car, with Tony’s steady hands on the wheel and his casual banter filling the air—it felt like time had slowed.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what she needed.

The soft hum of the engine filled the silence, a comfortable quiet settling between them as the cityscape unfolded through the windshield. Natasha’s gaze drifted over the passing buildings, her thoughts trailing off somewhere between the rhythm of Tony’s shifting gears and the warmth of the sun streaming through the window.

Out of nowhere, Tony broke the silence. “You know,” he started, his voice casual but with a mischievous edge, “you look amazing in sunlight.”

Natasha’s head turned slowly, one eyebrow arching in perfect skepticism. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “It’s like watching a vampire learn to tan. I’m half expecting you to burst into flames, but in a sexy way.”

She huffed a laugh, a sharp and genuine sound. “That’s the best you’ve got? What, did the sunlight hit your brain too hard?”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, unfazed by her sharpness. “You’ve got this whole ‘lethal but cute’ thing going on. The sun only makes it worse.”

“Worse, huh?” She angled her body towards him, a sly smirk playing on her lips. “I thought you said it made me look amazing.”

“It’s a fine line.” He shrugged, downshifting as they approached a red light. His fingers drummed against the wheel, and she watched them, the idle motion pulling her attention. “Amazing, dangerous—sometimes they’re the same thing.”

“Dangerous for who?”

He turned his head just enough for her to see his grin. “Whoever’s foolish enough to get too close.”

The light turned green, and he pulled the Shelby forward, slipping into the bustling flow of city traffic. Natasha leaned back, letting the seat cradle her as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

“Eh.” She made a show of inspecting her nails. “I tolerate it.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” He shifted gears, the muscle in his forearm flexing beneath the snug black sleeve. “One day, Romanoff, you’ll admit I’m your favorite person.”

She hummed, noncommittal. “I’ve had concussions more enjoyable than you.”

“Ouch.” He slapped a hand over his heart. “Right in the ego.”

“If only it’d deflate a bit.”

Tony pulled into a parking garage, the Shelby’s growl echoing off concrete pillars as he eased into a spot. As soon as the car stopped, Natasha reached for the handle, but Tony moved like a shot, practically throwing himself out of the car.

She blinked, momentarily stunned by how fast he moved. He circled the front of the car at a near jog, his baseball cap bobbing and his sneakers barely making a sound against the pavement.

By the time Natasha’s door clicked open, Tony was standing there, a victorious grin plastered on his face. “Beat you to it.”

She rolled her eyes, slipping out of the car with a practiced ease. “You know, Stark, you don’t have to prove you’re faster than me. We both know you’re not.”

“Hey, it’s not about speed.” He shut the door, the muscle in his arm tensing, and she couldn’t help the way her gaze lingered. “It’s about class. Chivalry, even.”

“Right.” She crossed her arms, leaning one hip against the Shelby. “And here I thought you were just showing off.”

“Who, me?” He looked genuinely affronted, which was a feat considering how transparent he was. “I’m nothing but a gentleman.”

“Uh-huh.” She pushed off the car, brushing past him with a soft chuckle. “A gentleman with an ego the size of this parking garage.”

He fell into step beside her, hands slipping into his pockets. “Takes one to know one.”

She shot him a side-eye, lips twitching. “You calling me egotistical?”

“I’m calling you confident.” His tone shifted, dipping into something genuine beneath the bravado. “And I like that.”

Her steps faltered, just for a moment, but she covered it with a quick toss of her hair. “You like a lot of things.”

“True.” He nudged her gently with his elbow. “But not everything.”

“Oh?” She matched his energy, nudging him back. “What don’t you like, Stark?”

“Parking tickets,” he quipped. “Star Trek, and those pilates moms”

She snorted. “A man of principle.”

“Damn right.”

The street buzzed with life as they emerged from the parking garage, sunlight spilling over the bustling market ahead. Tony fell into step beside Natasha, his stride easy but purposeful. Without thinking, he shifted so she was walking on the inside of the sidewalk, his body a quiet barrier between her and the passing cars.

Natasha noticed immediately, of course. “You know I can handle myself, right?”

“Never doubted it,” he replied, his tone light but edged with sincerity. “Pretty sure you could take out half this city without breaking a sweat.”

“Half?” She shot him a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You think so little of me.”

“Alright, three-quarters.” He grinned. “But if I’m honest, it’s not about you taking care of yourself.”

Her brows rose, skepticism written in the curve of her expression. “Then what’s it about?”

“It’s about me being a gentleman.” He shrugged, as if the explanation was simple. “You deserve to be looked after, even if you don’t need it.”

Natasha’s smirk faltered, a hint of genuine surprise breaking through. But before she could find a retort, Tony extended his arm at the crosswalk, his hand a gentle barrier in front of her. His fingers barely grazed her midsection, but the touch was warm—steady.

She let out an amused huff. “You know, you keep acting like this and I might start thinking you’re sweet on me.”

“Oh, I’m sweet on everyone.” He kept his eyes forward, the green light reflecting in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “I’m like a damn Werther’s Original.”

“Werther’s?” She snorted. “How old are you again, Grandpa?”

“Old enough to appreciate hard candy, young enough to drive you wild.” His smirk was razor-sharp, and when he glanced at her, she caught a glimmer of mischief beneath the aviators.

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips betrayed her, curling into a reluctant smile. “Please. I’m not into old men.”

“Good thing I’m only thirty-two.”

“Is that what your birth certificate says?”

He shot her a look, a blend of playful annoyance and genuine amusement. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’m ancient. But you, what, twenty-seven? Still young enough to believe you know everything.”

“Oh, I do know everything.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the movement deliberate, calculated. “And I know when someone’s trying way too hard.”

Tony chuckled, his hand naturally finding the small of her back as they wove through the crowd. Whenever someone got too close, especially the towering men whose shoulders threatened to knock into her, his grip tightened—protective but not overbearing. Each brush of his fingers was a reminder: he was there, and he wasn’t letting anything touch her.

Once, a guy barreled past, and Tony’s arm moved like a steel bar, tucking Natasha against his side. The man barely noticed, but Natasha did. She felt the heat of Tony’s palm through the thin fabric of her shirt, the strength behind the casual gesture. It wasn’t about control. It was instinct—genuine, almost startling in its gentleness.

“If I didn’t know better,” she drawled, “I’d say you’re a bit possessive.”

“Only with my favorite redheads.”

She nudged him with her elbow, but the contact lingered, their arms brushing as they walked. “Careful, Stark. I bite.”

“Good thing I’m up to date on my shots.”

They reached the edge of the street market, the vibrant stalls spilling into the street. The scent of fresh produce mingled with baked goods and flowers, the air sweet and warm. But before they could fully immerse themselves, a young voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, mister! Miss!”

They turned to find a boy, no older than ten, standing near a crate of wilted flowers. His clothes were too big, his shoes scuffed and worn. He held a handful of daisies, their petals yellow and white, a little worse for wear.

“Buy a flower?” the boy asked, his tone too rehearsed, too adult for his age. “Only a dollar.”

Tony’s expression softened, the shift so subtle only someone as observant as Natasha would catch it. He crouched down to the kid’s level, resting his arms on his knees. “A dollar, huh? You running a business out here?”

The boy nodded, his small fingers tightening around the flower stems. “Gotta make money somehow.”

“What’s your profit margin on these?” Tony asked, his tone light. “You buying wholesale or picking them yourself?”

The boy’s brow furrowed, unsure if he was being teased. “I, uh, I pick ’em.”

Natasha stepped forward, crouching beside Tony. “And what’s the sales pitch?”

The boy blinked. “The what?”

She offered a small, genuine smile. “If you’re gonna sell something, you gotta make us want it. What makes your flowers special?”

The kid’s lips pressed into a thin line, his young mind working hard. “Well... they’re the only ones you’ll find here. And...” His eyes darted between them, a spark of inspiration hitting. “They’d look real nice in her hair.”

Natasha laughed, a soft, airy sound. “Not bad.”

Tony dug into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled bill. “Tell you what,” he said, handing over a one hundred. “We’ll take the whole bunch.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.” Tony took the flowers, his hand brushing Natasha’s as he offered them to her. “For the prettiest vampire I know.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but she accepted the flowers, their stems cool against her skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty as charged.” Tony stood, offering a hand to help her up. When her fingers slid into his, he didn’t let go immediately. Instead, he lingered, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a way that felt both casual and deliberate.

“Thanks, mister!” The boy was already darting off, his small form disappearing into the crowd.

Natasha straightened, her fingers still wrapped around the daisies. “You’re gonna make me soft, Stark.”

“Too late.” He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You took the flowers.”

She huffed, slipping the blooms into the back pocket of her jeans. “Let’s keep moving before you start rescuing stray puppies too.”

“Depends.” He nudged her gently, his hand once again finding its place at her side. “You planning on biting them too?”

“Only if they ask nicely.”

Tony’s chuckle melted into the hum of the market, his hand a warm, steady presence against Natasha’s side. He guided her deeper into the crowd, his touch light but undeniably protective. Despite giving her the freedom to wander, he remained ever-present, a shadow in the sun.

Whenever someone brushed too close, Tony’s arm would slip around her waist, gently pulling her back against his chest. He was careful, releasing her almost immediately, but the gesture lingered. And when it was a man who stumbled too close, Tony’s demeanor shifted. His 6'6" frame straightened, shoulders broad and imposing. He didn’t need to say a word—the subtle but undeniable flex of his muscles spoke volumes.

After the third time he pulled her out of someone’s way, Natasha turned to him, a brow arched. “Do you always have to act like the alpha male?”

Tony smirked, unbothered. “Alpha male? Please.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “I’m not an alpha. I’m an apex predator.”

Natasha snorted, nudging him with her shoulder. “More like a house cat with a God complex.”

“House cats are the ultimate predators,” he shot back, his tone casual as he steered her away from a bustling group of tourists. “You ever seen one hunt? Efficient. Precise. They toy with their prey.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Let me guess—you think you’re charming when you do it, too.”

“Of course. I’m practically irresistible.”

“Practically.” She leaned in close, her breath brushing his ear. “Key word.”

Tony’s grin widened, his composure unshaken. “Careful, Romanoff. You keep whispering in my ear, and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Oh, I do.” She straightened, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I like you about as much as I like paper cuts and tax season.”

“Good.” He winked. “I love a challenge.”

They drifted toward a pop-up street food stall, the aroma of sizzling meat and fresh herbs curling through the air. The vendor, an older woman with bright eyes and a red bandana, greeted them with a warm smile. The sign above her read Bao Bao’s Dumpling Delights.

Tony scanned the handwritten menu, his brow furrowing. “What’s good here?”

The woman beamed. “Everything! But my specialty today is the spicy mango pork bao with a ginger-cilantro slaw.”

Natasha’s eyes lit up. “We’ll take two.”

Tony slipped a bill into the tip jar, the crumpled twenty standing out against the sea of ones. The woman’s smile widened, gratitude clear in her expression. “Thank you, sir. You two make a beautiful couple.”

Natasha opened her mouth to correct her, but Tony beat her to it, his response smooth. “I know, right? She’s the beauty, I’m just the wallet.”

Natasha smacked his arm, and he shot her a playful look, pretending to be wounded.

When the woman handed over the warm, fragrant bao, Tony hesitated. “I, uh—I don’t like being handed things.”

Natasha’s eyes rolled so hard it was a wonder she didn’t pass out. “Oh my god. You’re impossible.” She took both bao, passing one to him. “There. Crisis averted, Your Highness.”

He accepted the food with a smirk, brushing his fingers against hers. “You’re too good to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.” She bit into her bao, a hum of pleasure escaping her. “Damn. This is amazing.”

They ate as they walked, navigating through stalls brimming with colorful trinkets and handmade crafts. Natasha paused at a table covered in vintage hats, lifting a mustard yellow bucket hat with a patch that read Good Vibes Only. She turned to Tony, holding it up with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, no.” He stepped back, hands raised. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s this or the pink sunhat with the floppy brim.” She reached for the second option, a ridiculous monstrosity with fake flowers glued to the sides.

Tony groaned. “Fine.” He snatched the bucket hat, pulling it over his hair. “Happy?”

She pursed her lips, appraising him. “Ecstatic. You look like a suburban dad going through a midlife crisis.”

“Perfect. Exactly the look I was going for.”

He retaliated by grabbing a pair of neon green heart-shaped sunglasses from a nearby stall. “Your turn.”

Natasha slipped them on without hesitation, giving him a model-worthy pout. “How do I look?”

“Like my sugar baby.”

“Tony!” She swatted at him, but her laughter rang out, light and genuine.

They moved through the market, testing on random jewelry, trying on silly glasses, and picking up odd trinkets. At one point, Natasha found a necklace with a tiny, hand-painted charm of a ferret and insisted Tony wear it.

“I look ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t take it off.

“You look cute,” she teased. “Like an apex predator with a soft side.”

He snorted. “If you call me cute again, I’m putting that sunhat on you.”

“I’d rock it.”

They continued to bicker, their words sharp but their eyes soft. Tony balanced the line between snarky and sweet, his every quip threaded with respect. He opened tapestrys, maneuvered her away from the busiest clusters of people, and always kept her within reach.

When a man jostled into Natasha, Tony’s arm looped around her, pulling her flush against his side. His gaze narrowed, a quiet storm brewing behind his sunglasses. The man mumbled an apology and hurried away, oblivious to the silent threat.

“Do you always have to act like you own the place?” Natasha whispered, amusement and curiosity mingling in her voice.

“No.” Tony’s hand remained at her waist, fingers splayed over the curve of her hip. “Just the parts you’re in.”

Her breath hitched, a momentary falter in her stride. “You’re dangerous.”

“Only to the ones who deserve it.” He released her slowly, as if reluctant to let go. “C’mon. Let’s find something that’ll make me look even more ridiculous.”

She followed him, their steps syncing as they reached a stall brimming with colorful scarves and handcrafted jewelry. Natasha picked up a woven bracelet, sliding it over Tony’s wrist without asking.

“Too feminine?” she challenged.

He held up his arm, examining the delicate thread. “Nah. Real men wear pink.”

“And Barbie hats,” she added.

He adjusted the cap, a smirk curling his lips. “Don’t forget my ferret necklace.”

He adjusted the cap, a smirk curling his lips. “Don’t forget my ferret necklace.”

Natasha’s laugh was bright, a melody against the market’s bustling hum. “How could I? It’s the crown jewel of your midlife crisis.”

“Hey, if this is a midlife crisis, I’m doing it right.” He took a confident bite of the strange, exotic dessert they had picked up—a spiral of fried dough drizzled with purple syrup and dusted with something golden. “Mmm, not bad.”

A bead of the sticky syrup clung to his goatee, catching the sunlight like a neon sign. Natasha squinted, fighting back a smirk. “You’ve got something…” She motioned vaguely at his face. “Right there.”

He swiped his thumb across his mouth, missing spectacularly. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.”

He tried again, this time brushing his cheek instead. “Now?”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, her glasses reflecting his amused expression. He wasn’t fooling anyone—he could see the smear in her lenses. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“What? Me?” His voice was all innocence, but his smirk betrayed him.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” She stepped into his space, the air between them shrinking. With careful precision, she reached up and wiped the syrup away with her thumb. Her touch was warm, her fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Tony’s breath hitched, his confidence wavering as he stared down at her. “Thanks.” His voice was quieter, a strange softness threading through it.

Natasha pulled back, rubbing her thumb against her jeans. “You’re welcome.” She hesitated, her mind dancing around the realization of how much she liked that about him—that blend of arrogance and respect, the way he could be bold and yet so unexpectedly shy.

They meandered further until a booth caught Natasha’s eye. An old woman sat behind a table draped in deep burgundy cloth, layered with jewelry that shimmered in the dim afternoon light. Intricate necklaces, rings, and bracelets lay arranged like treasures from a hundred different worlds.

The woman’s voice was warm, her accent thick and melodic. “I travel the world, learning from masters in every culture. Each piece is crafted by my own hands.”

Natasha’s fingers brushed over a necklace, its delicate silver chain woven with red and black stones in traditional Russian patterns. She swallowed, her expression smoothing over before Tony could notice. “Pretty,” she murmured, then turned away, her attention feigned on a collection of bracelets.

But Tony noticed. He always did.

“Add this,” he said, pointing to the necklace. “And the matching pieces.”

The old woman wrapped the jewelry in small, handcrafted boxes, her hands nimble despite their age. Tony also selected a few pieces for himself—an onyx ring, a leather band engraved with ancient symbols—and a couple more he suspected Natasha would like, even if she’d never admit it.

When it came time to pay, Tony slipped far more than necessary into the woman’s palm, his tone warm and respectful. “Your work is incredible. Thank you for sharing it with us.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she bowed her head. “Thank you, sir. And to you, miss.” She held out the bag, small and ornate, the boxes nestled inside.

Tony’s hand twitched, and Natasha caught the subtle shift, the way his shoulders stiffened. “I don’t—”

Natasha smoothly stepped forward, accepting the bag with a polite smile. “Thank you.”

The old woman nodded, and as they walked away, Natasha passed the bag to Tony, who took it from her without hesitation. The ease of the exchange clicked something into place in her mind.

She glanced up at him. “You really don’t like being handed things.”

“Wow, Sherlock. What gave it away?”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “No, seriously. I’ve never seen anyone hand you anything. Ever.”

Tony’s smirk remained, but his sunglasses hid whatever truth lingered in his eyes. “I’m just particular.”

“Particular or paranoid?”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “Can’t it be both?”

Before she could press further, they passed a street artist offering goofy, exaggerated sketches. The cartoonish faces with wide eyes and exaggerated smiles stood out against the muted tones of the market.

“Oh, we have to do this,” Natasha said, already pulling Tony toward the small bench.

“Nope. Not happening.”

“Come on.” She batted her lashes, a mockery of innocence. “We’ve got the outfits for it.”

He sighed, but she was already dragging him over. The artist, a young man with paint-stained fingers, greeted them with a broad grin. “A couple’s sketch? Perfect!”

“Yep!” Tony answered immediately, earning a narrowed glance from Natasha.

As the artist set up, he asked questions, and Tony’s answers veered into the absurd. “We met in a secret society. She was an assassin sent to take me out, but I won her over with my charm.”

Natasha bit her lip to keep from laughing, her shoulders shaking as the artist nodded along, completely taken in.

Tony, however, seemed oddly stiff as they sat on the cramped bench, his hands resting on his knees. Natasha leaned into him, their sides pressed together, and he barely moved, as if unsure of where to put his hands.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, smirking. “Scared of a little intimacy?”

He shot her a sideways glance. “I just don’t do well with small benches. Or small spaces. Or—”

“Being told what to do?”

“Exactly.”

When the sketch was done, the artist handed it to Natasha. She took it easily, slipping it into the jewelry bag without a second thought. Tony’s hand rested on the strap, his grip tight but steady.

Before they could move on, a man stumbled over, clearly drunk. His eyes dragged over Natasha, lingering too long. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

Tony’s entire posture shifted, his frame blocking the man’s path, his grip on the bag tightening. Natasha placed a hand on his arm, a silent request to let her handle it.

She turned to the guy, a polite smile on her lips. “Hey.”

Tony’s jaw ticked, his sunglasses barely concealing the sharpness of his glare. Natasha’s voice was smooth, light, and just flirtatious enough to needle him.

The man leaned in, and Natasha sidestepped gracefully. “Not interested.”

When he reached for her again, Tony moved. His hand slid to the small of her back, his body a wall between her and the drunk. “I’d back off if I were you.” His voice was low, steady—a warning wrapped in silk. “She’s with me.”

The guy blinked, stumbling back a step. Tony’s height alone was enough to make most men reconsider, and the man barely reached his chest.

Tony turned to Natasha, his entire demeanor softening. “You okay?”

She nodded, an amused tilt to her head. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His touch remained gentle as he guided her forward, his tone casual again. “There’s an exotic drink place a few stalls over. You in?”

Natasha smirked. “Sure. You buying, sugar daddy?”

He chuckled, unbothered. “As long as you say please.”

Natasha arched a brow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “In your dreams, Stark.”

“Every night, Romanoff.” He shot back, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather.

She snorted, elbowing him lightly as they weaved through the bustling market. Tony’s hand found the small of her back again, a subtle yet deliberate touch whenever someone moved too close or a cart barreled down the narrow path. He never lingered, his touch fleeting, but each time sent a small shiver down her spine.

“Are you always this touchy?” She teased, glancing up at him.

“Only when I’m saving you from an unfortunate collision with a churro cart.”

“Oh, how noble.” She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move away. “Tell me, Stark, does anyone else ever hand you things?”

“Nope.” His reply was immediate, sharp, and laced with just enough sarcasm to soften the truth beneath it.

“Ever?”

“Not unless I’m under heavy heavy anesthesia.” He quirked a brow. “Which, now that I think about it, might be your dream scenario.”

“Only if I get to do the surgery.” She shot back, her lips twitching as if fighting a smile.

The exotic drink stand came into view, a canopy of colorful paper lanterns swaying gently overhead. The menu boasted vibrant beverages served in hollowed-out fruits, each topped with extravagant garnishes that seemed almost too whimsical to drink.

Tony ordered a neon-blue concoction with a sprig of something that looked suspiciously like lavender sticking out of it. Natasha opted for a deep crimson drink served in a coconut shell, adorned with a wedge of pineapple and a cherry that gleamed unnaturally perfect under the sun.

As they moved through the bustling market, a crisp November breeze swept through, sharper than usual for Malibu. Natasha, in her thin crop top, couldn’t suppress the subtle goosebumps on her skin.

Tony noticed immediately. Without a word, he set his drink down on a nearby ledge and held up a finger. “Stay here.”

She blinked, already opening her mouth to argue, but he was gone, weaving through the crowd with a determined stride.

Natasha rolled her eyes, clutching both their drinks as she leaned against a sun-warmed stone wall. People milled about, their chatter a comforting hum in the background. She took a sip of her drink, its tangy sweetness doing little to quell her curiosity—or the warmth budding in her chest at his attentiveness.

When Tony returned, it was with a bundle of fabric draped over his arm. He unfolded it, revealing a heavy-duty zip-up jacket, its canvas exterior adorned with a series of mismatched yet artfully arranged patches. The color scheme was unmistakable—rich reds and golds that mirrored the metallic sheen of his Iron Man suit.

“Figured it was more practical than just a crop top,” he said, handing it over. “And, you know, on brand.”

Natasha hesitated, her fingers brushing over the embroidered patches. Some bore logos of classic rock bands, others were abstract designs, but there was an undeniable cohesion to it—a story woven in thread and fabric.

“You bought this?” She raised an eyebrow.

Tony shrugged, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. “mhm”

She shook her head, but her lips twitched as she slipped into the jacket. It was oversized, the weight of it grounding, and the faint smell of new fabric mixed with the lingering notes of the market’s incense.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” she mused, adjusting the collar.

“Nope.” He reclaimed his drink from her, their fingers brushing briefly. “Just upgraded.”

Natasha couldn’t hide her smile as they continued on, Tony’s hand finding its way to the small of her back once more. Only this time, she didn’t just tolerate it—she leaned into it.

They found a spot in the sun, the November breeze cooler than usual for Malibu, brushing against their skin.

She watched him over the rim of her coconut, her blue eyes narrowing. “I’m surprised you don’t have someone holding your drink for you.”

“I offered, but Happy threatened to quit.”

Natasha chuckled, setting her drink down on the small table between them. “You know, I could’ve handled that drunk guy earlier.”

“Oh, I know.” He took another sip, his expression infuriatingly calm. “I just didn’t want to miss the show.”

She scoffed, kicking his shin under the table. “Jerk.”

“Brat.”

“Man-child.”

“Heartbreaker.”

Her lips curled, the challenge in her eyes clear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He didn’t answer, but the way his gaze lingered on her said enough. His drink clinked against the glass tabletop as he set it down, leaning back into his chair. “How’s your mystery juice?”

“Better than yours.”

“Doubtful.” He extended his cup toward her. “Try it.”

She hesitated, the air between them thickening. Finally, she leaned forward, her lips brushing the edge of his straw as she took a careful sip.

Her nose crinkled, the tartness catching her off guard. “That’s awful.”

“Oh, really?” He didn’t break eye contact as he reached for her coconut, mimicking her actions as he tasted her drink. His thumb wiped a stray droplet from his bottom lip, the small gesture unexpectedly intimate. “Yours tastes like a crime scene.”

Natasha laughed, a real, unguarded sound that drew a few looks from passersby. She didn’t care. “You wouldn’t know a good drink if it bit you.”

“Bold words from someone drinking out of a fruit.”

“It’s called class, Stark. Look it up.”

He smirked, adjusting his sunglasses. “You’re adorable when you try to be mean.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m not trying.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Natasha took a long sip of her crimson drink, the cold sweetness biting against the cool November air.

~~~

They sat at a small metal table under the vibrant canopy of lanterns. The sun hung lower now, casting golden streaks through the colorful paper and painting warm hues over their faces. Tony, still in his tight Star Wars shirt, the fabric clinging to every curve of his muscles, leaned back with an easy, almost lazy confidence. His black Carhartt pants rested casually over his pink Spezial Adidas, the Barbie-logo cap sitting askew over his tousled hair. The ridiculous ferret necklace Natasha had forced him to buy earlier dangled over his chest, a playful reminder of their day so far.

Natasha, wrapped in the Iron Man-themed jacket, propped her elbows on the table. The oversized sleeves swallowed her hands, and she absentmindedly rolled them up, exposing her wrists and the subtle scars that marred her skin—battle reminders she'd long since stopped hiding. Her cropped AC/DC shirt rode up as she stretched, the sliver of skin between the hem and her low-rise jeans making Tony’s eyes dip—just for a second—before they found their way back to her face.

“What’s with all the...” She waved a hand, mimicking his earlier motions—his gentle but firm guidance through the crowd, the subtle yet unmistakable way he’d pulled her close whenever someone strayed too near. “...alpha male routine again?”

Tony took a slow sip of his neon-blue drink, lavender sprig brushing his cheek. “Alpha male?” He snorted. “Please. Reminder. I’m not an alpha—I’m an apex predator.”

Natasha let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising even her. “Apex predator? Wearing a Barbie hat and a ferret necklace?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Every apex predator has camouflage, Romanoff.”

She bit her lip, the corner of her mouth curling. “You know, for a guy who hates being handed things, you sure like handing out bullshit.”

Tony smirked, the curve of his lips both infuriating and charming. “It’s a gift. Speaking of, you’ve got a bit of a ‘tough girl in a band tee’ thing going on. Very grunge-chic. Didn’t take you for the type.”

“Didn't take you for the type to get possessive over a girl who can drop a grown man in five seconds flat.” She shot back, her tone light but her eyes keen.

He didn’t flinch. “Possessive? I’m not possessive. I’m just... spatially aware.”

“Oh, so it’s just spatial awareness when you nearly hip-checked that guy at the drink stand?” She arched a brow. “What was his crime? Existing too close to me?”

Tony’s fingers drummed against his glass. “He was drunk.”

“Mm-hmm.” Natasha took another sip, her lips stained red from the drink. “And the other guy back at the jewelry booth?”

“Bad vibes.”

“The woman with the stroller?”

“She had shifty eyes.”

Her lips twisted, trying not to smile. “And the guy at the artist booth who called us a couple?”

Tony’s smirk was sharp. “He wasn’t too bad lowkey, you know? Very respectful young man if you ask me.”

The air between them crackled, the playful edge to their banter lingering just a bit too long. Natasha’s heart did a strange little flip—annoying, really, how he managed to crawl under her skin. How he sat there, all broad shoulders and soft eyes, a paradox wrapped in sass and sweetness.

She let out a slow breath, finally breaking the tension. “Okay, apex predator. What’s the plan?”

He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, and her gaze betrayed her as it trailed over the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. “Well, I was thinking... coffee. Then we hit that bookstore you wanted to check out. Maybe pick up a few things.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, a mix of suspicion and amusement. “What kind of things?”

He shrugged, an innocent expression on his face that she didn’t buy for a second. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a romance novel for you. Something to help you with all that pent-up energy.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “You’d know all about pent-up energy, wouldn’t you, Stark?”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Touché.”

Tony stood, slipping his cup into a nearby recycling bin with a casual flick of his wrist. “Come on, Romanoff. Let’s go see what kind of dusty tomes catch your eye.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips as she stood and fell into step beside him. They wove through the thinning crowd, the sun dipping lower and drenching the world in amber hues. Tony's hand found its way to her back, guiding her to the inside of the sidewalk without breaking stride. She shot him a look, half-irritated, half-amused.

“You know, I don’t need a handler,” she quipped, taking another sip of her drink.

“And yet, here I am.” He didn’t miss a beat, his lips curling into a smirk. “It’s not about needing one. It’s about having a gentleman on standby.”

Natasha scoffed. “You? A gentleman? You’re the guy who once threatened to fire an entire floor of employees because your coffee order was wrong.”

Tony tilted his head, his expression faux-offended. “It was decaf, Natasha. I’m not a monster like that.”

She bit back a laugh. “Oh, no. Just a menace.”

“At least I’m not the one who made a grown man cry in a board meeting,” he shot back, his tone light but his eyes glinting with mischief.

Natasha shrugged, the oversized jacket shifting around her shoulders. “He called me ‘sweetheart.’ He’s lucky I didn’t break his nose.”

Tony chuckled, a low rumble that resonated between them. They reached a crosswalk, and his arm instinctively shot out in front of her, a casual barrier. She arched an eyebrow at the broadness of his chest, the way his muscles flexed beneath the snug Star Wars tee.

“You know, you’re gonna pull something if you keep flexing like that,” she teased.

He leaned down, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “You noticed?”

She rolled her eyes, stepping forward as the light changed. “Yeah, and so did half the women on this block.”

“Jealous?”

“Of them? No.” Her lips quirked into a grin. “Of your ego? Maybe. I’d love to have that kind of self-assurance.”

Tony laughed, a genuine sound that softened the sharpness of his usual demeanor. His hand found its way to her waist as they moved through a cluster of tourists, his touch firm but never lingering too long. The brief contact sent a jolt through Natasha, and she almost hated how much she liked it.

They reached the entrance of the bookstore, its façade worn and unassuming. The brick exterior blended into the rest of the historic block, the sign overhead a modest script that could be easily missed. Tony stepped ahead, pulling the door open and holding it for her with an exaggerated bow.

“M’lady,” he drawled, a playful glint in his eye.

Natasha swept past him, her chin held high. “Careful, Stark. Keep this up, and I might start expecting it.”

He followed her inside, the door closing behind them with a soft chime. The air was immediately cooler, laced with the scent of old paper and leather. The bookstore sprawled before them, deceptively large with winding aisles and towering shelves. Soft, golden light filtered through the windows, catching particles of dust that danced lazily in the air.

Tony’s voice dropped to a low murmur, as if the quiet demanded it. “You sure this place is safe? Feels like I might get shushed to death.”

“Behave, and you won’t,” she shot back, trailing her fingers along the spines of books as they walked.

“Define behave.”

“Not getting us kicked out in the first five minutes.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

She turned, fixing him with a look. “Tony.”

He held up his hands, the picture of innocence. “Fine. I’ll be good.”

“For once,” she muttered, earning a chuckle from him.

They wandered deeper into the store, their voices mingling with the soft rustle of pages and the occasional creak of old wood. Tony’s fingers grazed a book of architecture, but he seemed more interested in watching Natasha than the texts themselves.

She paused at a shelf filled with first editions, her expression softening as she pulled a worn copy of The Master and Margarita. Tony leaned against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, his gaze thoughtful.

“Russian literature, huh?”

She turned the book over in her hands. “Grew up on it. My teachers thought it would ‘refine’ me.”

“Did it?”

She smirked, slipping the book back onto the shelf. “No. But it gave me a taste for rebellion.”

Tony pushed off the wall, falling into step beside her. “You? Rebellious? I never would have guessed.”

They continued down the aisle, Natasha reaching out occasionally to pull a book closer, her movements relaxed. Tony’s hand found its way to the small of her back again, steadying her when a man brushed by too close. She didn’t comment this time, the warmth of his palm seeping through the jacket.

She tilted her head up at him, a brow arched. “You always this possessive?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you don’t.” She nudged him with her elbow, her voice dropping. “I’m not some damsel, you know.”

His expression softened, but he deflected with a smirk. “No, you’re worse. You’re a pain in my ass.”

She bit her lip to hide a smile. “You love it.”

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You have no idea.”

Her pulse quickened, but she held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. “You gonna keep hovering, or are you actually gonna pick a book?”

“Maybe I just like following you around,” he shot back.

She rolled her eyes, but a blush crept up her neck. “Creepy.”

“Charming.”

“Delusional.”

“Adorable.”

She let out a breath, a laugh escaping before she could stop it. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “So, what’s the plan, Mr. Stark?”

He leaned against a nearby shelf, the wood creaking under his weight. “I was thinking we grab coffee, then hit up that bookstore you mentioned.”

Her lips curved. “We’re already in the bookstore.”

He looked around, a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Well, look at that. I’m ahead of schedule.”

Natasha couldn’t help but laugh, a sound that seemed to catch Tony off guard. His expression softened, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes.

“Well then,” she said, holding his gaze. “Let’s find something worth reading.”

They wandered deeper into the labyrinth of the bookstore, passing rows of aged, leather-bound tomes and stacks of crisp, new paperbacks. The lighting was soft, filtering through high windows and casting golden stripes across the worn hardwood floors. The air held a pleasant weight of history and ink, a calm Natasha found herself sinking into.

Tony, ever the restless one, seemed to adapt to the bookstore’s stillness surprisingly well. His steps were unhurried, his fingers trailing over the spines of books he likely had no intention of reading. He hummed softly—something vaguely reminiscent of an old rock ballad—and Natasha found herself smiling despite herself.

She reached a section with towering shelves, the books stacked just out of reach. Her eyes landed on a worn, forest-green spine nestled high above. She rose on her toes, fingers just brushing the bottom edge, but it was no use.

“Need help?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “You offering, or just here to gloat?”

Tony’s lips curled into a smirk as he stepped closer. “Both.”

Before she could respond, he reached over her, his body brushing against hers in the narrow space between shelves. Natasha didn’t step back, and neither did he. His arm extended, the muscles in his bicep flexing beneath his tight Star Wars shirt as he snagged the book from its perch.

It wasn’t until he turned his head that he realized she hadn’t moved at all. She stood beneath him, mere centimeters away, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his jaw. The air between them shifted, the noise of the bookstore fading into a dull hum.

Tony didn’t pull away. Instead, he stilled, his hazel eyes tracing over her face with an almost disarming softness. His gaze wandered, not in the lecherous way she was used to from men, but with an affection she hadn’t expected. He lingered on the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the freckles dusting her skin like constellations.

Natasha’s pulse quickened. She told herself it was just proximity—that this close, anyone’s breath would catch. But the way Tony looked at her, as if she were something to be cherished rather than conquered, made her chest tighten.

“Should I be worried?” she muttered, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Or are you just trying to memorize my face for when I inevitably kick your ass?”

His lips quirked, a spark of mischief returning to his expression. “I’d prefer a fair warning before the ass-kicking. I’m not great with surprises.”

“Noted.”

He finally broke the moment, pulling the book free with a soft rustle of pages. He handed it to her, but made no move to step back. Their fingers brushed, and she felt a jolt, a tiny spark of something electric.

“There you go,” he said, his voice lower, rougher around the edges.

She took the book, her fingers wrapping around the worn cover. “You make a pretty decent ladder, Stark. Maybe I’ll keep you around.”

Tony’s eyes gleamed. “I’m flattered. Though, if you wanted to get close to me, you could’ve just said so.”

Natasha snorted, the sound more genuine than she intended. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He laced his hands behind his head, the pose casual but accentuating the lean stretch of his torso. “Can you blame me?”

She didn’t answer, just shook her head with an amused exhale. When he turned and started walking away, she hesitated for a fraction of a second before following him.

“Keep up, Romanoff,” he called over his shoulder, the warmth in his tone undercut by his usual smart-ass flair.

She picked up her pace, the oversized jacket rustling around her frame. By the time she caught up, he had stopped by a sunlit alcove near a window, glancing at the books in her hands.

He reached out without asking, slipping the four books from her arms and adding them to the bag he was already carrying. His hands were steady, his movements practiced. The bag, still holding the jewelry from earlier and the drawing he had bought, rested against his hip.

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “I can carry my own books, Stark.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk but not entirely serious either. “And yet, you won’t.”

She stepped closer, her voice a low, sharp whisper. “You know, for a guy who claims not to be possessive, you sure act like it.”

Tony didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice a breath away from her ear. “I’m not possessive. I’m practical. If you trip and fall over these, who’s gonna save me from the lecture when you twist an ankle?”

She huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.” He straightened, his expression shifting to something more sincere. “But I’m still carrying your books.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes, but she knew this battle was lost. “Fine.”

“Good.” He shifted the bag, balancing the weight with practiced ease. “Then it’s settled.”

Her lips parted, the argument bubbling up in her chest, but the look he gave her silenced it. Not a demand, not an order—just a quiet certainty.

“Stark—”

“Nat.” His voice was soft but firm. “It’s final.”

She exhaled, the warmth of it clouding in the cooler air near the window. “You always this stubborn?”

“Only when it matters.”

She searched his face for the lie, the angle, the play. But all she found was honesty. The kind that felt rare, especially from him.

“Fine,” she muttered, the word more surrender than concession. “Lead the way.”

Tony’s smile returned, bright and genuine. “With pleasure.”

They wandered deeper into the bookstore, their path meandering through aisles stacked with stories and secrets. Tony’s fingers grazed over the spines of books, occasionally plucking one free and flipping through it. Natasha kept pace beside him, her eyes drawn to old classics and lesser-known gems.

When she paused in front of a display of historical fiction, Tony lingered as well. She picked up a worn copy of The Nightingale, her fingers tracing the embossed title. It was a book she had mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation neither of them were supposed to have.

To her surprise, Tony reached past her and grabbed a copy for himself. “Is it any good?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Thought you weren’t into ‘sad wartime dramas,’” she teased, recalling his exact phrasing from weeks ago.

He shrugged, slipping the book under his arm. “Maybe I’m expanding my horizons.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile. The kind she wasn’t even aware of until it lingered too long. “You don’t have to read it just because I like it.”

Tony glanced over, his expression a mixture of genuine interest and quiet mischief. “Maybe I want to know what makes you tick.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but her smile remained. “Good luck with that.”

They found a few more books—her stack growing quicker than his, though he made sure to grab at least one of everything she hesitated over. By the time they reached the counter, his arms were full, the weight of the books not bothering him in the slightest.

She reached for her wallet, but he nudged her aside with his hip, ignoring her glare as he paid for everything.

“Tony—”

“Not a word, Romanoff.” He didn’t look at her as he handed his card to the cashier, but there was a smirk playing on his lips. “Consider it an investment in your education.”

She huffed, but there was no real bite behind it. “You know I can afford my own books.”

“And yet, here we are.” He gathered the bag of books, his own alongside hers, and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

The moment they stepped outside, the warmth of the bookstore gave way to the brisk November air. The streets had grown busier, a crowd swelling as twilight approached. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the sidewalk.

Tony’s demeanor shifted almost imperceptibly. His casual confidence remained, but there was a sharper edge to his movements. His hands stayed in his pants pockets, but his posture was alert, his eyes constantly scanning.

Natasha noticed the change, the subtle way he positioned himself closer to her. He didn’t crowd her—he knew better than to push her boundaries—but every time a stranger moved too near, his arm would brush against hers, guiding her without force. At intersections, his hand would extend, a gentle barrier between her and the road.

She bit back a smile. “You gonna hold my hand next, Stark?”

He snorted, keeping his eyes forward. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

“Then you’re on your own, Romanoff.” His lips twitched, but he stayed exactly where he was, shadowing her every step.

They moved through the crowd, their banter threading through the noise of the city. Natasha nudged him with her shoulder. “You always this protective, or is it just me?”

“Bullshit.”

She side-eyed him, waiting for the crack in his façade.

But Tony just shrugged. “Again, I call it being practical.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Practical. Like buying me an entire library of books or dragging me away from every pedestrian within a ten-foot radius.”

“I’m just making sure you don’t accidentally trip over someone’s bad fashion choices.”

She laughed, the sound quick and genuine. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, again, you’re still here.”

They reached the last intersection before the café, and Tony’s hand extended once more, a silent reminder to stay close to the curb. She didn’t argue, just fell into step beside him.

Before they could cross, a small group of sorority girls approached, all bright smiles and high-pitched greetings.

“Excuse me,” one of them chirped, clutching her phone. “Do you know where the nearest ice cream place is?”

Tony, ever polite, gave them directions, his tone courteous but distant. The girls, undeterred, started to flirt—compliments layered with giggles and not-so-subtle glances at his biceps beneath the tight Star Wars shirt.

Natasha’s jaw tightened, the twist of something warm and sharp settling in her chest. Jealousy. She hated it, hated the way it crept up on her, unwelcome and irrational. But it was there, a tiny ember flaring in the cool evening air.

She didn’t let it fester. Instead, she stepped forward, slipping under Tony’s arm. She rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to the edge of his jaw, her lips brushing the stubble there.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured, just loud enough for the girls to hear. “We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Tony’s reaction was immediate. His arm slipped around her waist, his touch firm but still respectful. He didn’t look back at the girls, his focus solely on Natasha.

“Right,” he said smoothly. “Nice meeting you, ladies.”

He guided Natasha forward, his hand dropping away as soon as they were clear of the crowd. She half-expected him to comment, to make a joke or call her out, but he stayed silent until they reached the crosswalk.

“You know,” he drawled, “if you wanted to make a move, you could’ve just said so.”

She shot him a look, equal parts exasperated and amused. “You wish.”

He chuckled, his hands slipping back into his pockets. “Can’t blame a guy for hoping.”

They reached the café, the warm glow from inside spilling onto the street. Tony opened the door for her, the bell above it chiming softly.

Natasha stepped in, the scent of coffee and baked goods wrapping around her. “You still gonna be a gentleman?”

He leaned against the doorframe, his expression a mix of mischief and something softer. “Depends. You gonna keep me on my toes?”

Her lips curved, a challenge brewing in her eyes. “Always.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep up.”

Natasha smirked, stepping forward to the counter with a confidence that had the barista straightening up. “I’ll take a black coffee with two shots of espresso and a cold brew with a bit of vanilla cold foam, please.”

The barista blinked, then nodded, fingers flying over the register. “Anything else?”

“A croissant to split,” she added, glancing back at Tony, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on my caffeine habits, Romanoff,” he said, voice warm with amusement.

“I’m a spy, Stark,” she retorted, pulling out her wallet. “What do you expect?”

Before she could tap her card, Tony slid in next to her, effortlessly smooth as he tapped his own. The machine chirped, the tip screen appearing, and he added a generous amount before Natasha could even blink.

“Tony—”

“Save it,” he said, pocketing his card. His expression was casual, but his tone left no room for argument. “I said it before, I’m not letting you pay.”

She crossed her arms, lips pursed. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He leaned in, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I can and I will. What kind of guy would I be if I let you buy your own coffee on our date?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “This isn’t a date.”

He grinned, handing her the latte when their drinks arrived. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Natasha accepted the cup, muttering under her breath as she trailed behind him. He led the way out of the café, ushering her with a hand at the small of her back. His touch was brief, but it lingered, the heat of it curling beneath the heavy-duty jacket.

They strolled down the sidewalk, Tony’s protectiveness as present as ever. His arm brushed against hers, and every time someone drew near, he subtly shifted, positioning himself between her and the world.

She sipped her drink, the warmth of it grounding. “You’re the one who wanted to go out of the cafe,” she pointed out. “Yet you’re acting so… territorial.”

Tony glanced at her, feigning ignorance. “Territorial? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” She took another sip, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You want to have a good time, but you’ve got your head on a swivel. What’s up with that?”

He shrugged, nonchalant. “Can’t help it. Habit.”

“A Stark habit?”

“A gentleman’s habit.”

She hummed, neither confirming nor denying his claim. Instead, she let him guide her through the winding streets until they reached a small park tucked between buildings, the kind of place you only found if you already knew it existed.

They settled on a worn wooden bench under the stars, the city lights soft and muted in the distance. Tony opened the croissant bag, splitting the flaky pastry in half and offering her the larger piece.

She accepted, tearing off a bite and savoring the buttery taste. “You know, most guys would have gone for the bigger half.”

He leaned back, the bench creaking slightly. “Good thing I’m not most guys.”

Natasha shot him a look, the kind that could disarm a man from fifty paces. “So you keep saying.”

They ate in comfortable silence, the sounds of the city a distant hum. Natasha’s gaze drifted upward, her expression softening as she took in the stars.

Tony followed her line of sight, but his attention only lingered on the sky for a moment before settling back on her. The way her eyes shimmered, reflecting the night, the gentle curve of her lips as she lost herself in thought—it was a sight he couldn’t pull away from.

It took only a second for her to notice. She turned, catching him in the act, and the air between them shifted. “What?”

His lips quirked, but he didn’t look away. “Nothing. Just enjoying the view.”

Her brow arched. “The stars or me?”

“Both,” he said easily, lifting his cup to his lips. “But you’re definitely winning.”

Natasha’s smile was sly, a tilt of her head that sent a strand of hair tumbling over her cheek. “Careful, Stark. You keep talking like that, and I might think you’re actually sweet.”

“Oh, the horror.”

She leaned in, their faces mere inches apart. “You know, I could kiss you right now.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t close the distance. His eyes were steady, his voice low. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?”

Her expression faltered, just for a fraction of a second. His tone wasn’t a dare, wasn’t a challenge. It was… soft. Like he meant it, but wouldn’t push her.

Natasha leaned back, breaking the moment with a light laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I think we both would.”

She shook her head, a genuine warmth filling her chest. “You’re something else.”

“I try.”

They fell into another quiet, the tension lingering but not suffocating. Tony remained respectful, his flirtation light but never crossing a line. He was charming and witty, keeping her on her toes without ever stepping past her boundaries.

It was refreshing.

Most men would have taken the bait, would have pushed, but Tony—he simply existed beside her, letting her set the pace. He mirrored her energy, matched her banter, but never overstepped.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, surprising even herself.

He blinked, his expression softening. “For what?”

“For being… you.” She fidgeted with the cup in her hands. “You could push, you know. You could make this into something it’s not.”

“But I won’t,” he said, his tone sincere. “I told you, Romanoff. I’m in this for the long game. Whatever that means.”

She exhaled, a weight lifting off her shoulders. “You’re a sweet guy, Stark.”

He chuckled, a sound that warmed the cool night air. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Natasha set her coffee on the ground, the cup nestling in the grass as she shifted closer. Tony felt the weight of her body against his shoulder, and every muscle in his frame tightened. She scooted in further, the warmth of her seeping through the thin fabric of his Star Wars shirt.

“You good?” she asked, voice soft but amused.

“Peachy.” His answer came out a little too high-pitched, and he cleared his throat, the tips of his ears tinged pink.

Natasha smirked, not missing a beat. She took his arm and draped it over her shoulders, curling into his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Tony’s hand hovered awkwardly before settling against her arm, his thumb brushing over the worn fabric of her AC/DC shirt.

“There,” she said, her voice a satisfied purr. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Not hard at all,” he muttered, though his pulse raced. “Just... wasn’t expecting it.”

Her head nestled against his chest, and he could feel every gentle exhale, the soft rhythm of her breathing syncing with his own. “It’s okay, you know,” she said after a moment. “That you’re protective. At least, the way you were today.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not—”

She turned her head, the strands of her hair brushing his neck. “Don’t bullshit me, Stark.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, staring at the stars as if they might offer an escape. “I’m not trying to control you,” he said, his voice quieter. “I just… I’ve seen too many things go wrong. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Natasha’s chuckle vibrated against him, and she reached for the croissant, taking a small bite. “I noticed. But as long as you respect me, we won’t have a problem.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just let the truth of her words settle. When he finally spoke, his voice was even. “Noted.”

She smiled, chewing thoughtfully before another sly comment slipped past her lips. “You know, for a guy who’s so smart, you’re awfully bad at denying things.”

His lips twitched. “You ever consider not being such a smartass?”

“Not once,” she shot back, offering him the last bit of the croissant.

He took it, their fingers brushing. “Wouldn’t want you any other way.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Careful. You’ll make me think you actually like me.”

Tony’s smile was gentle, a flicker of something vulnerable showing through. “Would that be so bad?”

“Guess not,” she murmured, the moment stretching out before she broke it with a teasing lilt. “You’re just so... old.”

He feigned offense, his free hand clutching his chest. “I’m 32. That’s not old.”

“Practically ancient.” She glanced up, her eyes dancing. “I’m only 27.”

He huffed, an exaggerated sigh. “I knew I was robbing the cradle.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes, but the fondness in her expression was unmistakable. “You’re only five years older.”

“Still,” he said, his tone shifting to something softer, more serious. “You should find someone your own age. Someone... simpler.”

She didn’t move, didn’t pull away from his hold. Instead, she twisted just enough to meet his gaze, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “I’ve met guys my age. They’re immature.”

His eyebrow quirked. “So you’re saying older guys, then?”

“If the shoe fits,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “But the real test is if it’s comfortable—and if you could walk miles in it.”

Tony’s laughter was warm, his body relaxing into the moment. “You’re a poet, Romanoff.”

“Damn right.” She lifted her coffee, taking a sip as if to punctuate her statement.

They settled into a rhythm, their banter a steady beat under the stars. She nudged him when he got too quiet, and he shot back with dry quips that had her biting back smiles.

“Seriously,” she said at one point, “I’m starting to think you just enjoy being difficult.”

He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. “Nah. It’s you. You bring it out of me.”

“So, I’m the problem?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She laughed, the sound bright against the quiet night. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re lucky,” he shot back. “Not everyone gets to hang out with a charming, handsome billionaire.”

“Charming, huh?” She leaned into him, her breath warm against his neck. “I think you’re just full of it.”

Tony’s lips curled, his fingers brushing the curve of her shoulder. “You might be right.”

Their coffees dwindled, the cups lighter in their hands as they nursed the last sips. Tony remained a gentleman through it all—accepting her flirtation with a grin, but never pushing, never assuming.

And Natasha found herself grateful. Grateful for the way he balanced on the line between suave and sweet. For the way he let her lean against him without expectation. For the way he made her feel seen without making her feel small.

The gentle hum of the night wrapped around them, a cocoon of quiet beneath the starlit sky. Natasha shifted against Tony’s shoulder, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt. The playful banter that had filled the air earlier now ebbed, leaving behind a softer, more vulnerable silence.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice a careful thread in the quiet. “For today. For... all of this.”

Tony’s thumb drew slow circles against her arm, his touch gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, Romanoff.”

“No, I do.” She sat up slightly, enough to look at him without the tilt of her head. Her green eyes were earnest, a depth to them he wasn’t used to seeing so openly. “I’ve never had a day like this. Just... normal. Domestic.”

His expression softened, the lines of his face smoothing into something unguarded. “Well, I’m glad I could give that to you.” He hesitated, then added, “We can do this anytime. Or, you know, you can go out on your own too.” He offered a lopsided smile. “As long as you’re careful. I’m not looking to explain to Fury why his favorite redhead got nabbed by half the agencies looking for her.”

Natasha’s lips quirked, but there was a sadness beneath it. “Guess I’m not exactly off the grid.”

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But we’ll get there.”

They sat in companionable silence, the cool air a balm against the warmth of their shared space. After a while, Natasha sighed, a quiet, content sound. “You ready to head back?”

Tony nodded. “Yeah.”

She moved to stand, but he was already ahead of her, rising to his feet with all four bags in one hand. She shot him a look, a playful glare, and he returned it with a smug arch of his brow.

“I can carry something,” she insisted, reaching for the bags.

“Nope.”

“Tony—”

His smirk was a little too pleased. “Nice try.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she gathered their empty coffee cups and the crumpled napkin that had held their croissant. “Fine. I’ll take the trash, then.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Together, they strolled through the park, Tony’s protective nature never wavering. His arm occasionally brushed against her, and he subtly adjusted their pace, his body a quiet barrier between her and the rest of the world.

When they reached the parking garage, the sight of the black 1967 Shelby GT500 drew an appreciative whistle from Natasha. “Looking at this now it makes sense why you drive it.”

Tony grinned, a boyish sparkle lighting his features. “I like to make an entrance.”

“It sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“Exactly.”

He opened the door for her, a casual but thoughtful gesture. She slipped into the passenger seat, the cool leather meeting her skin as she settled in. Tony placed the bags in the trunk with a practiced ease before sliding into the driver’s seat beside her.

Natasha hesitated, the weight of the day pressing on her chest. “Thank you,” she said again, this time her voice heavier, more loaded.

Tony’s brown eyes flicked to her, something unreadable but tender in his gaze. “Anytime.” His hand moved, resting on her thigh for a brief, warm moment. His touch was steady, grounding, before he pulled away and shifted to the stick shift. “Ready?”

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.

The engine purred to life, and the Shelby eased out of the parking space, the rumble of the car a low, steady sound beneath them. Silence filled the car, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a different kind of quiet—the kind that held weight, meaning.

As they merged onto the dimly lit street, Natasha moved. Her hand found its way to his arm, her touch a featherlight drag of her nails over his skin. Her acrylics, painted a dark, almost sinful red, traced patterns up and down, sending shivers down his arm.

Tony’s jaw tightened, his grip on the stick shift steady despite the distraction. He bit back the urge to react, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “You trying to distract the driver, Romanoff?”

Her response was quick, sharp, and entirely her. “Shut the fuck up, Stark.”

His lips pulled into a smirk, but he didn’t argue. He simply let her do as she pleased, her nails a quiet, persistent sensation against his arm as the city blurred by in streaks of neon and shadow.

The rest of the drive was filled only with the sound of the engine and the gentle rhythm of her breathing. The lights of the city grew sparser as they approached the villa, the world outside slipping into a peaceful lull.

And through it all, Tony remained steady. A rock against the tide. And Natasha, for once, let herself float.

~~~

The drive back to Tony’s Malibu villa was filled with the soft hum of the radio and the quiet comfort of shared space. Natasha’s fingers still lightly traced his arm, her touch a steady rhythm that neither hurried nor hesitated. Tony remained focused on the road, though his mind lingered on the warmth of her skin against his.

The Shelby rolled into the underground garage, its headlights cutting through the dim light. As soon as the car came to a halt, Tony unclipped his seatbelt and hurried out, rounding the vehicle to open Natasha’s door. His movements were smooth, practiced—a gentleman even when no one was watching.

She arched an eyebrow at him as she stepped out. “Always so quick, Stark.”

“Old habits,” he replied, flashing her a lopsided grin as he moved to grab the bags from the trunk.

Once inside, the villa’s lights came to life with a soft, automated glow. Tony set the bags on the living room couch, then toed off his shoes, letting them land haphazardly against the wall. His fingers ran through his hair as he exhaled, the weight of the day settling over his shoulders.

“Tony!” Natasha’s voice called from down the hallway.

He turned, the sound of her voice drawing him toward the dimly lit corridor. She stood near her bedroom door, her silhouette framed by the soft light filtering through the windows.

“What’s up?” he asked, his tone light, though his posture remained gentle and attentive.

“Why don’t you sleep in the bed tonight?”

His brows lifted, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What do you mean?”

She shot him a look, her lips curling into a smirk. “I mean instead of sneaking into my room at god knows what hour to comfort me and sleep on the hard floor, why don’t you just sleep in the bed?”

Tony’s expression didn’t falter, though a flicker of something soft danced behind his eyes. “I see this offer, but your bed is quite small.” He tilted his head, smugness dripping from his voice. “How about we compromise on my bed? I’ve got an extended Alaskan king size.”

“Of course you do,” she muttered, amusement evident in her voice. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

He blinked at her, feigning confusion. “We live under the same roof?”

She rolled her eyes, turning back toward her room. “Never mind then.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on.” He reached out, his hand resting gently on her back as he guided her toward the master bedroom. His touch was light, a quiet promise of respect and safety.

As they stepped inside, Natasha took in the space. The room was luxurious yet lived-in. Warm wood tones balanced the modern architecture, and the bed—massive and draped in plush, dark bedding—sat as the centerpiece. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the quiet ocean, the moonlight casting silver ribbons across the room.

Tony moved to the dresser, rifling through until he pulled out a soft, worn t-shirt. He tossed it to her—a faded Star Wars print, the fabric buttery from years of use.

She caught it easily. “Got a pair of boxers?”

He hesitated, a playful glint in his eye. “Plaid okay? White and black.”

“Perfect.”

He handed her the boxers, his fingers brushing against hers for a moment longer than necessary. Natasha didn’t comment, though her lips pressed into a faint line that betrayed her amusement.

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” she said, and Tony nodded, grabbing a set of his own pajamas.

He disappeared behind his walk-in closet door. Natasha slipped into the bathroom, peeling off her clothes and slipping into his shirt and the borrowed boxers. The scent of him clung to the fabric—something warm and familiar, a mixture of cedarwood and faint engine grease.

When she stepped back into the bedroom, Tony was there, standing by the bed in nothing but a pair of green and blue plaid boxers. His shirt lay draped over the arm of a chair, and his bare skin seemed to catch the moonlight, casting soft shadows over the lines of his torso and the gentle glow of the arc reactor nestled in his chest.

He opened his mouth to say something—probably a smart remark—but Natasha cut him off with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine, Stark. You can sleep comfortably.”

His lips curled into a smirk, but he said nothing, slipping beneath the covers. Natasha joined him, the mattress sinking beneath their combined weight. They lay at a respectable distance, the duvet a soft, silken barrier between them. The only light in the room was the soft, azure glow of Tony’s arc reactor, casting gentle, shifting patterns on the ceiling.

After a beat of silence, Natasha shifted, turning toward him. “Is this okay?”

He nodded, his expression open, if not a little unsure.

She moved closer, the bed dipping as she nestled against his side. Her head rested on his chest, the steady thrum of his arc reactor a quiet, rhythmic sound beneath her ear. His arm remained awkwardly at his side until she guided it over her, wrapping it around her shoulder and pulling his warmth over her like a blanket.

His thumb stroked absent circles against her arm, his movements gentle and slow. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

Her voice was a soft murmur against his skin. “Goodnight, Tony.”

The villa settled around them, the gentle crash of waves against the cliffs below a lullaby to the rhythm of their breathing.

And slowly, beneath the weight of blankets and shared warmth, they drifted off—wrapped in a fragile, unspoken trust that neither dared disturb.