Chapter 7
Tony woke first. It wasn’t unusual—he was a light sleeper, always attuned to the hum of his arc reactor and the static of his own thoughts. What was unusual was waking up with someone in his arms, the weight of Natasha pressed against his chest, her leg draped over his, her breath a soft, steady rhythm against his skin.
Her hair was a tangled mess against his shoulder, strands of blonde sprawled across the black silk sheets. His hand had a mind of its own, fingers slipping into her hair, twisting gently through the strands. He massaged her scalp in slow, careful circles, thumb brushing along the shell of her ear.
She murmured something in her sleep, a sound so small and content that it made his chest tighten. He kept up his gentle ministrations, letting his fingers drag along her scalp, tracing the curve of her hairline, and every now and then, he let his nails lightly scratch, earning more of those soft, blissful noises. His thumb traced the shell of her ear, and he felt the tension in her body melt further against him.
But then, Natasha stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and Tony froze. His hand paused mid-stroke, and he tensed beneath her, every muscle going rigid.
“Sorry—shit, sorry.” He started to pull away, slipping his arm back, but Natasha’s hand shot out, catching his wrist.
“No. I liked it.” Her voice was thick with sleep, each word a soft brush against his skin. “It’s... soothing.”
He blinked, a mix of disbelief and relief washing over his face. “You mean to tell me I’ve been losing sleep on the hard-ass floor for no reason?”
A laugh rumbled through her chest as she shifted closer, her leg brushing against his under the covers. “Well, you are known for your terrible decision-making, Stark.”
“Terrible decision-making?” He scoffed, his fingers tentatively returning to her hair. He resumed his gentle caresses, and when she didn’t pull away, his confidence grew. “You wound me. I’m nothing but good decisions and charm.”
“Oh, yeah?” Natasha’s fingers tapped lightly against his chest, tracing the outline of an old scar. “Like deciding to sneak into my room every night and then throwing out your back on the floor?”
Tony smirked, his lips curving into that boyish grin that made him look younger—like he wasn’t a man who’d seen too much, done too much. “It was either that or the couch, and I’m not a monster.”
Natasha rolled her eyes, settling more comfortably against him. “You’re also thirty-two. You know that, right?”
“Oh, here we go.” His voice was a mix of playful annoyance and genuine amusement. “I am not old.”
“No, but you are older,” she teased, drawing out the last word. “I should’ve gotten you some joint supplements at the market yesterday.”
“Careful, Romanoff,” he warned, though his fingers continued their soft ministrations through her hair. “Or I’ll start acting my age and make you call me ‘Mr. Stark.’”
Her nose scrunched up adorably, and she snorted. “Not a chance.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, his fingers still weaving through her hair, the room a cocoon of warmth and vulnerability. It felt natural—dangerously so.
“Maybe just maybe I’m starting to plateau a bit, but I have not left my prime Romanoff.”
She snorted, a sleepy smile curving her lips. “You said it, not me.”
“Hey, easy now.” Tony’s thumb grazed the edge of her temple, and he smirked. “But I’m not old.”
“Thirty-two is basically ancient.”
“I’m not even halfway through my prime.”
Natasha shifted, her leg brushing his under the covers, and she arched a brow. “Tell that to the way you were snoring last night.”
His mouth fell open in faux offense. “I do not snore.”
“You do.” She lifted her head, propping her chin on his chest, her hair splayed around her face like a sunlight halo. “Like an old man.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Am I?” She cocked her head, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his skin. “Or are you just embarrassed?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, lips twitching with a smirk. “Oh, please. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s you. You were hogging all the covers. I nearly froze to death.”
Natasha’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “You could’ve said something.”
“Yeah, right.” Tony scoffed, fingers still threading through her hair. “And risk waking up the Black Widow? I’d like to keep my organs inside my body, thanks.”
Her fingers danced along his chest, brushing over old scars, a touch so featherlight he almost didn’t notice. “I guess I’ll let it slide this time.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, her cheek settling back against his chest. Tony thought that was the end of it—until Natasha spoke again, her voice quieter, softer.
“You don’t snore,” she admitted. “But you do... whimper… or well groan.”
Tony stiffened beneath her. “What?”
“Little noises,” she clarified. “Like when I move away or when I try to get out of your grip.”
Heat crawled up his neck, and he opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off.
“It’s kind of cute.”
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Great. That’s exactly what I was going for—cute. Add that to my list of accolades.”
“It’s not a bad thing.” She turned her head, her lips brushing the cool metal of his arc reactor. “Means you don’t want me to go.”
Tony’s hand stilled in her hair, his thumb resting just behind her ear. “I don’t.”
Natasha’s fingers flexed against his skin, grounding him, and her voice dipped to something more vulnerable. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He swallowed, his throat tight, but he forced a smirk. “You say that now. Wait until you realize I’m an absolute gremlin before my morning coffee.”
Her lips curled, and she nudged his ribs with her elbow. “I’ve seen you drunk, Stark. I think I can handle you uncaffeinated.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“Yeah. You’re not that scary.”
Tony chuckled, the sound a rumble beneath her cheek. “You know, this might actually be my favorite morning ever.”
Natasha’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the room felt like a bubble—safe and warm, the world outside a distant, hazy thing. “Mine too.”
Tony’s fingers slowed in her hair, his expression shifting from playful to something more earnest. “You know... the blonde suits you.”
Her lips quirked into a smirk. “Really? I thought you preferred brunettes.”
He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through his chest. “I’m an equal-opportunity hair enthusiast, thank you very much.” His thumb traced a lazy line against her temple. “But seriously. It’s a good look on you. Though, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss your natural hair.”
Natasha raised a brow. “Oh, yeah? What was wrong with the red curls?”
“Absolutely nothing.” His eyes glimmered with mischief. “In fact, I think I liked them the most. When I first met you, I thought, ‘Wow, look at this angelic redhead who’s absolutely not going to kick my ass.’”
She snorted. “And how’d that turn out for you?”
“Well, you did kick my ass. Multiple times, actually.” He winced dramatically. “Pretty sure I still have a bruise from that training session in Berlin.”
Natasha laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. “You’re such a baby.”
“Old man, baby—I’m getting a lot of mixed signals here, Romanoff.”
Her fingers curled against his chest, nails dragging ever so lightly. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” He tugged a loose strand of blonde hair, watching it spring back into place. “But seriously, whatever color, whatever cut—you make it work.”
She blinked, something raw and unguarded flickering in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Silence wrapped around them, not uncomfortable but thick with unspoken things. Tony’s fingers resumed their gentle path through her hair, and Natasha let herself drift, savoring the softness of the moment.
But then, with a mischievous grin, Tony’s hand moved from her hair to her waist, fingers digging lightly into her side. “You know, speaking of kicking my ass—how about a rematch?”
Natasha’s eyes narrowed, but the smile on her lips betrayed her. “Oh, you think you can take me, Stark?”
“Well, I did call myself a decaffeinated gremlin.” His fingers flexed against her skin, teasing. “Might as well live up to it.”
She barely had time to react before he rolled them over, shifting his weight just enough to hover above her. His knees straddled her hips, his hands braced on either side of her head. His arc reactor cast a soft blue glow over her face, painting her features in gentle light.
Natasha arched a brow, her expression unimpressed. “Really? You think size is gonna save you?”
Tony’s lips curled into a smirk. “Size, charm, sheer stubbornness. I’m a triple threat.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she bucked her hips, twisting beneath him with a fluid grace that sent him toppling sideways. He let out a surprised yelp, and before he knew it, she had him on his back, her thighs pinning his hips, her hands trapping his wrists against the mattress.
“Triple threat, huh?” She leaned over him, strands of blonde hair framing her face. “You might want to work on that.”
He wriggled beneath her, but she held firm, a sly grin spreading across her lips. “Face it, Stark. You’re not gonna win.”
“Oh, really?” His tone was deceptively casual, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. “You sure about that?”
Her smirk remained, but there was a flicker of curiosity there. “Positive.”
“Hmm.” He let his head sink into the pillow, his expression turning soft, almost vulnerable. “Alright, alright. You win.”
Natasha’s grip on his wrists loosened, just a fraction. “That’s it? No more fight?”
Tony’s lips parted, his gaze dropping to her lips. “You know,” he said, his voice a low murmur, “if you wanted to kiss me, all you had to do was ask.”
Her eyes widened, and for a split second—just a breath—her grip faltered.
And that was all he needed.
With a sudden burst of movement, he twisted beneath her, his leg hooking around hers, and in a blink, their positions were reversed. Natasha found herself pressed into the mattress, her wrists now captured in his hands, his body warm and solid above hers.
Her mouth opened in shock, but Tony only grinned, his expression bright and triumphant. “Ha! I did it. I pinned the Black Widow!”
Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “You cheated.”
“All’s fair in love and war.” He tightened his grip ever so slightly, his thumbs brushing the inside of her wrists. “And besides, I had to get creative. You are the Black Widow, after all.”
She narrowed her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
A beat of silence passed, and then Natasha let out a breathy laugh, her body relaxing beneath him. “Yeah, I am.”
Tony’s grin softened, and slowly, he released her wrists, his hands settling on either side of her head. “You know, I’m really proud of this moment. I feel like I just unlocked an achievement.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that.” He shifted, giving her just enough room to breathe, though he made no move to fully get off her. “I’m gonna put this on my resume. ‘Pinned Natasha Romanoff.’ Right at the top.”
Natasha’s lips twitched. “Under ‘delusional,’ I assume?”
He gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. “Wounded. I am wounded.”
Natasha’s lips curled into a smirk, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. “Oh, you think that was bad? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Before Tony could react, she surged forward, rolling them over with a burst of strength that knocked the breath from his lungs. He found himself flat on his back again, Natasha’s thighs straddling his hips, her hands pressing his wrists into the mattress.
“Round two?” he panted, a wild grin spreading across his face. “You really are relentless.”
“What can I say?” She leaned down, her breath ghosting over his lips. “I don’t like losing.”
“Oh, is that why you always sneak into my workshop to beat my high scores?”
Her smirk widened. “It’s not my fault you’re bad at your own games.”
“Bad?” His voice rose an octave, mock indignation filling every syllable. “I’ll have you know I’m a tech genius, Romanoff.”
“A tech genius who couldn’t even rig his own coffee machine to not explode.”
“That was one time,” he protested, his hips shifting beneath her as he struggled to gain leverage. “And, technically, it was a controlled explosion.”
“Tell that to the scorch mark still on the ceiling.”
His lips twitched. “You know, you’re awfully chatty for someone who’s about to get their ass handed to them.”
She leaned in closer, her nose brushing his. “You think you can handle me, Stark?”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he flexed his wrists, twisting his hands in a practiced move that broke her hold. In a swift motion, he caught her around the waist and rolled them over again, pinning her beneath him. His chest heaved, every muscle taut, but his touch remained gentle—steady.
“Gotcha,” he whispered, his voice a low, victorious rumble.
Natasha only arched a brow. “You sure about that?”
Her leg shot up, wrapping around his waist. With a twist of her hips, she pulled him off balance, sending them tumbling sideways. They rolled together, a tangle of limbs and laughter, neither willing to give an inch.
Tony’s hands found her waist, his fingers digging into her sides, and she squealed—a sound so uncharacteristically light that he blinked. But it seemed he had no idea this was the first time she ever let herself react to being tickled.
“Did you just—”
“Shut up!” She smacked his chest, but it only made him laugh harder.
“Oh my god, you’re ticklish.” His hands moved again, this time with purpose. His fingers danced along her sides, pressing into the sensitive spots just above her hips.
“Stark, I swear—”
“What are you gonna do, Widow?” He grinned down at her, his hair tousled, the arc reactor casting soft blue light over his face. “You’re at my mercy.”
Her laughter broke free, unrestrained, and bright. She squirmed beneath him, her body twisting as she tried to escape his hold. But he had her pinned, his weight balanced perfectly, his knees on either side of her hips, his hands keeping her wrists captive.
“Say yeild,” he teased.
“Never.”
“Come on. One little word.”
“Not a chance.”
He leaned down, his nose brushing her ear. “What if I said please?”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment—just a moment—the air between them shifted. His voice was soft, warm against her skin, and his fingers eased their hold, trailing down to lace with hers.
But Natasha was nothing if not quick. She used his hesitation, her legs hooking around his waist again. With a sharp twist, she rolled them over, her body draped over his, their hands still intertwined.
He hovered above him, strands of blonde hair brushing his cheeks. “You talk too much.”
“You love it.”
Her lips quirked. “Debatable.”
“Oh, come on. You’d miss me if I were quiet.”
“Maybe.” Her fingers tightened around his. “But I’d survive.”
“Survive, sure. But thrive?” He shifted beneath her, his hips pressing up, and for a split second, her balance wavered. “I think not.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You really want to test me, Stark?”
“Always.”
And then, before she could react, his legs shifted, his foot hooking behind her ankle. He used the momentum to flip them again, his body twisting as they landed. This time, he pinned her with his entire weight, his chest pressing against hers, their faces just inches apart.
“Pinned,” he breathed, his voice rough with exertion. “Again.”
Her chest rose and fell beneath him, her breathing fast but controlled. “You fight dirty.”
“And you love it.”
“Now who’s talking too much?”
She smirked, hef nose brushing against his. “Alright, fine. I’ll shut up.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by their mingled breaths. His hands remained on her wrists, his thumbs tracing absent patterns over her skin.
Her voice came, soft and almost shy. “I’ll admit... that was a good move.”
Tony’s expression lit up, the boyish grin taking over his face. “High praise from the Black Widow herself.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” He released her wrists, his hands settling on the mattress on either side of her head. “I’m already drafting the press release. ‘Tony Stark Finally Defeats Natasha Romanoff—World Rejoices.’”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite behind it. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible?” Tony smirked, the word rolling off his tongue with a challenge. “You mean irresistible.”
“Oh, you want irresistible?” Natasha’s voice dropped, low and smooth, as she shifted her weight. Before Tony could process the shift in her tone, she had him flipped over, her thighs straddling his hips again.
He landed with a soft grunt, his hands instinctively finding her waist as she held him down. Her movements were fluid, confident—the kind of precision only the Black Widow possessed. She grinded down, just enough to make his breath hitch, his fingers tightening against the soft fabric of his own borrowed shirt.
Her lips hovered near his, the corner of her mouth quirking up as she whispered, “I’ll always be able to play dirtier.”
Before he could formulate a retort, she leaned in, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth—not quite a kiss, but enough to send a bolt of heat through his veins. She pulled back just as quickly, leaving him shell-shocked, staring up at her with wide eyes and a thousand unspoken words.
And then, as if nothing had happened, Natasha rose from the bed, slipping gracefully to her feet. The shirt hung loose on her frame, and his boxers sat low on her hips, the image both innocent and devastatingly casual. She moved toward the door, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a practiced flick.
It took Tony a beat too long to recover. He swallowed, dragging a hand over his face before he found his voice. “You know, for someone who claims to be a master spy, you’re terrible at keeping secrets.”
She paused in the doorway, half-turning to glance back at him. “And what secret would that be?”
“That you’re completely in love with me.”
She snorted, an unladylike sound that only made him grin wider. “Delusional, Stark.”
“Is it?” He rolled off the bed, his bare feet hitting the cool floor. “Because I distinctly remember you being all over me not 30 seconds ago.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he caught the twitch of her lips, the way she fought the smile threatening to break free. “You’re lucky I didn’t break a rib.”
“Oh, please.” He took a step forward, and then another, until he was close enough to see the flecks of blue in her green eyes. “We both know I could take it.”
Her gaze trailed over him, slow and assessing. “Careful. You’re starting to sound cocky.”
“Starting?” He arched a brow. “Natasha Romanoff, I was born cocky.”
She let out a dramatic sigh, her fingers tapping against the doorframe. “And here I thought you might actually surprise me today.”
His smirk deepened. “Oh, I’ve got surprises.”
Before she could respond, Tony bent low, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder in one smooth motion. She let out a yelp, her hands bracing against his back as he straightened, her weight balanced effortlessly against him.
“Tony!” She thumped a fist against his back, but there was no real force behind it. “Put me down!”
“Mm, nah.” He started walking, his strides leisurely as he moved toward the hallway. “I think I like you up there.”
“Stark!” Her legs kicked, but he only tightened his hold, his fingers splayed over the back of her thigh to keep her steady. “I swear, if you—”
“Careful,” he warned, his voice dripping with faux seriousness. “You might hurt the old man.”
Her breath hitched with a laugh, and she slumped against him, her cheek pressing against his bare back. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
She let out a soft hum, a noise that might have been agreement. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“Breakfast.” He adjusted his grip, his hand trailing over the fabric of his own shirt as it hung over her. “And I didn’t want to risk you stealing all the bacon before I got to the kitchen.”
“Me? Steal food?” She scoffed. “You’re projecting.”
“Oh, I fully intend to steal your food,” he said cheerfully. “I’m just not letting you get a head start.”
She huffed, but her body relaxed, her fists unclenching as her fingers curled gently against his back. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Before Natasha could retort, Tony shifted her off his shoulder with surprising gentleness. He set her down on the cool marble of the kitchen island, his hands lingering just long enough to steady her. The touch was warm, grounding, and for a moment, she found herself staring at him as if he’d just done something miraculous.
She was the Black Widow—she didn’t need gentle. But the way he did it, like it was second nature, chipped at her defenses.
“Comfy?” he asked, already turning away.
Her legs dangled over the edge, heels thumping softly against the cabinet below. “You could’ve just set me down on the floor.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He shot her a quick grin before moving to the coffee maker. His fingers moved with practiced ease, pulling beans from a container, measuring them out, setting the grinder to work. “You just sit there, princess. I’ve got it.”
“I can help.” She made a move to hop down, but his head snapped around, and the look he gave her had her freezing mid-motion.
“Nope.” He pointed the coffee scoop at her, his expression stern. “You stay right there.”
Her brow arched. “You don’t always have to do everything, Stark. You can accept help.”
“I know.” He resumed his work, the steady hum of the coffee grinder filling the space. “But I like making food for you. And I’ve seen you cook.”
She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He moved to the stove, turning on a burner and setting a pan down with a gentle clatter. “It means when you cook, it’s so textbook I worry you don’t even like food.”
Her lips parted, a mix of offense and amusement. “I like food.”
“Do you?” He opened the fridge, rummaging through the contents. “Because the last time you made dinner, it tasted like you followed a recipe from a CIA training manual.”
“Excuse me for knowing how to follow instructions.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a pout forming despite herself.
“That’s the problem,” he muttered, pulling out eggs and vegetables. “Cooking isn’t about instructions. It’s about instinct. Passion.”
She rolled her eyes, legs swinging idly as she watched him. “Not everything is about passion.”
He glanced over his shoulder, the sunlight catching on the dark gold flecks in his eyes. “Maybe not everything. But the best things are.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she shifted, the marble cool beneath her palms. “And what, exactly, are you so passionate about, chef?”
He cracked an egg with one hand, the yolk spilling into the pan with a satisfying sizzle. “This morning? Coffee. Bacon. And proving you wrong.”
She leaned back, bracing her hands behind her. “Good luck with that.”
“Oh, I don’t need luck.” He moved with an easy confidence, the spatula in his hand spinning like a weapon. “I’ve got skill.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?”
He huffed, tossing a handful of diced veggies into the pan. The sound of sizzling filled the air, mixing with the rich aroma of coffee brewing. “For someone who’s supposed to be a deadly assassin, you’re kind of a brat.”
Her jaw dropped, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a twitch of amusement. “I’m not a brat.”
“Really?” He filled a mug with coffee, the steam curling between them as he set it on the counter beside her. “Because right now, you look like a college kid who just got her allowance taken away.”
Her arms tightened over her chest, a petulant gesture. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“And yet,” he drawled, “you’re sitting there with your legs dangling, pouting at me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Careful, Stark.”
“What?” He grinned, the same maddening, boyish smirk that had both charmed and infuriated her since the day they’d met. “I’m just saying—it’s nice to see you finally acting your age.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but the heat behind her glare was more playful than dangerous. “You’re lucky you make good coffee.”
“Oh, I know.” He slid the pan expertly, flipping the contents with a quick, practiced motion. “And you’re lucky I didn’t record you just now. The great Black Widow, pouting.”
Her mouth opened, then shut, a soundless laugh escaping her. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
The words hung between them, not heavy but not weightless either. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, the ceramic heating her skin. “I tolerate it.”
“Mm.” He plated the eggs, garnishing them with a bit of fresh herbs he’d pulled from somewhere—probably an absurdly overpriced hydroponic garden he’d built into the pantry. “Whatever you say, Romanoff.”
She took a sip of her coffee, the bitter warmth settling into her chest. “For the record, I could totally help.”
“Oh, I know you could.” He slid the plate toward her, nudging it just within reach. “But I like taking care of you.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge dulled by something quieter, more vulnerable. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He leaned against the counter, folding his arms as he mirrored her posture. “But I want to.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, the only sound the soft hiss of the pan cooling on the stove. She bit her lip, the gesture uncharacteristically shy, before finally breaking the quiet.
“Thank you.”
His smile was softer this time, the bravado settling into something genuine. “Anytime.”
She picked up her fork, nudging the food around her plate. “If this is terrible, I’m never letting you cook for me again.”
He gasped, a dramatic hand over his heart. “Wounded. Again.”
Her lips quirked up, and she took a bite, the flavors bright and surprisingly comforting. “You’re lucky,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “This is actually good.”
“Good?” He arched a brow. “Nat, come on. It’s spectacular.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
Tony just grinned, the kind of smirk that was equal parts charm and challenge. Before Natasha could react, he slipped a few crispy strips of bacon and a perfectly sliced avocado onto her plate. She squinted at him, immediately suspicious, but he was already reaching for her coffee mug.
“Hey—” She tightened her grip on the warm ceramic, but he easily pried it from her hands, his fingers brushing hers with casual confidence.
“Trust me,” he said, his voice soft yet unyielding.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what every conman says.”
“Good thing I’m not a conman, then.” He stepped back, balancing both the plate and the mug in one hand.
“Stark.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he spun on his heel and marched out onto the balcony, his strides quick and deliberate. Natasha watched, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement, as he set her breakfast down on the small round table outside.
“Show-off,” she muttered, but the corners of her lips betrayed her with a smirk.
Before she could hop off the counter, Tony was back inside. His hands were warm and sure as he scooped her up bridal style, the motion fluid and easy as if she weighed nothing at all.
“Seriously?” She wriggled in his grip, her fists halfheartedly pressing against his chest. “Put me down.”
“Nope.” He popped the 'p,' his eyes dancing with mischief.
“I swear to god—”
“You’re adorable when you’re mad.”
Her lips parted in an offended gasp. “Take that back.”
“No can do, sweetheart.” He tightened his hold, cradling her against his chest. Despite herself, Natasha felt the fight drain out of her, her body relaxing into him. His skin was warm against her cheek, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she murmured, but her voice had lost its edge.
“You caught me.” He carried her onto the balcony, stepping into the morning sunlight. The air was crisp, the kind that nipped at exposed skin but promised warmth if you stayed in it long enough. He moved with care, settling her into the cushioned outdoor chair with the kind of precision usually reserved for handling fragile tech.
Natasha adjusted, folding her legs beneath her and pulling the blanket draped over the chair into her lap. She shot him a look, a blend of gratitude and exasperation. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
Tony dropped into the chair across from her, balancing his own plate on his knee. “I know.” He bit into a piece of bacon, the crunch breaking the quiet. “But you’re worth the effort.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed, the pink spreading beneath the pale morning light. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Just wait till I get the mimosas going.”
She laughed, soft and genuine, and the sound seemed to settle into the space between them, filling it with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. She picked up her fork, spearing a bit of avocado and egg. “So, what’s on the agenda today, Mr. Stark?”
“Well, I was thinking...” He tapped his fork against his plate, considering. “We could go down to the workshop, maybe tinker with that new suit design for you. Or we could play hooky, take the day off again, and do absolutely nothing.”
Her lips quirked up. “You? Not working? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I can relax,” he protested, and when she arched a skeptical brow, he doubled down. “I can! I relax all the time.”
“Right,” she drawled. “That’s why you were up at three a.m. last night, mumbling about calibrations in your sleep.”
He paused, a bite of avocado halfway to his mouth. “I don’t do that.”
“You do.” She bit into her toast, her expression delightfully smug. “You also whimper, and groan. Especially when I try to move away.”
Tony’s mouth fell open, a mixture of horror and disbelief. “I do not whimper.”
“Oh, you do.” She sipped her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Like a sad little puppy.”
“Now you’re just making things up.”
She leaned back, cradling the mug in her hands. “I thought it was cute.”
He blinked, whatever retort he had dying on his tongue. “You... did?”
She shrugged, but the softness in her expression undercut her nonchalance. “Yeah.”
He stared at her, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow. Her hair caught in the breeze, strands of blonde mixing with sunlight, and Tony felt something in his chest tighten—something that had nothing to do with the arc reactor.
“Well.” He cleared his throat, setting his plate down. “You’re pretty cute yourself, Romanoff.”
“Careful.” She pointed her fork at him, a playful glint in her eye. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Is that a promise?”
Her lips curled, wicked and inviting. “Depends. How good are those mimosas?”
Tony’s lips quirked up, a slow, self-assured smirk. “Legendary. I make them strong enough to knock out Thor but sweet enough to keep you coming back for more.”
She raised a brow, tapping her fork against her plate. “Big promises, Stark. I’m not so easily impressed.”
“Well,” he sipped his coffee, the steam curling around his face, “I’ve got at least twenty more years of drinking experience on you, baby widow.”
Natasha’s eyes narrowed, the challenge lighting them up like embers. “Twenty years and still a lightweight?”
“Oh, I’m not the one who passed out after fourteen shots of vodka at Clint’s last birthday.”
She scoffed, setting her mug down with a clink. “That was Russian vodka. It practically came out of a nuclear reactor. Even Clint was seeing double.”
Tony took another leisurely bite of avocado, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath the thin lines of scars and soft dusting of dark hair. “Excuses, excuses. Meanwhile, I was still winning at pool. And taking names.”
“Yeah, well, maybe next time you can put that liver of steel to use and actually cook with something to solve the alcohol poisoning.” She tilted her head, watching him through her lashes. “I know you’ve got some Gordon Ramsay wannabe in you.”
“Trust me, when I cook, it’s more than just food. It’s an experience. Better then whatever ‘Gamsay’ can do” He leaned back, stretching his legs out, and Natasha’s gaze drifted over him.
She hadn’t meant to, but her eyes lingered. On the way his boxers hung low on his hips, the band of dark fabric accentuating the deep cut of his V-line. The definition of his abs, not just a set of hard lines but the kind of muscle that came from a life lived on adrenaline and sleepless nights. His biceps, thick and flexed as he brought his coffee to his lips, the veins running down his forearms like rivers under his skin. His hands—big, rough, but with a surprising gentleness she had come to crave.
She’d never admit it out loud, but she even liked the scruff on his jaw. The goatee she’d once mocked as “douchey” had grown on her. Now, it added to his devil-may-care charm, the kind of rugged look that made him appear both annoyingly kissable and completely untamed.
His hair, tousled and messy, framed his face perfectly. She could almost picture her fingers threading through it, tugging just enough to make him groan—
“You’re staring, Romanoff.”
Her gaze snapped back up to find him watching her, amusement dancing behind his eyes.
She rolled her shoulders back, all feigned nonchalance. “You wish.”
“Oh, I know.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, every bit the arrogant genius. “And I can’t blame you. I mean, I am a sight first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah, a sight for sore eyes.” She took a long, deliberate sip of her coffee, the warmth a poor substitute for the heat building under her skin.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Speaking of sights, you’re not exactly playing fair either.”
Her brows rose, lips curving. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He gestured to her, still draped in his oversized nerd shirt and his boxers. The shirt hung loose on her frame, the collar slipping just enough to show the delicate curve of her collarbone, the hem barely grazing the tops of her toned thighs. “You steal my clothes, and then expect me not to look? That’s entrapment.”
“Funny,” she said, twirling a piece of bacon between her fingers, “I thought you liked a challenge.”
“Oh, I do.” His voice dropped, playful yet edged with something more. “And I always rise to the occasion.”
She almost choked on her coffee. “God, Stark, you’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
He grinned, sharp and infectious. “Well, if tolerating me means spending your mornings eating my cooking and wearing my clothes, I’ll take it.”
Natasha rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “You know, if you keep this up, I might start thinking you’re actually flirting with me.”
He leaned back, arms behind his head, the movement making his abs ripple in a way that was downright unfair. “You mean all my hard work has been for nothing? Damn. I thought the cheesy pickup lines were finally breaking through that assassin exterior.”
“Maybe try one that doesn’t sound like it belongs on a bathroom stall.”
“Alright.” He cleared his throat, putting on an exaggeratedly serious face. “Are you a magician? Because whenever I look at you, everyone else disappears.”
She bit back a laugh, her tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Stark.”
“I’ll take that as a win.”
They fell into a rhythm, the banter easy and the food slowly disappearing from their plates. The morning sunlight bathed them in gold, and for a moment, it felt like nothing could touch them.
“Honestly,” Tony said between bites, “I can’t remember the last time breakfast was this good.”
Her lips twitched. “It’s the company.”
He nodded sagely. “Exactly. My company is fantastic.”
She threw a piece of toast at him. He caught it, grinning.
“Careful, Romanoff. I might have to take you over my knee.”
Her brow arched. “You’d have to catch me first.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Natasha’s lips quirked, her expression somewhere between a dare and a taunt. “You know, I expected more from the great Tony Stark. I thought the world’s most eligible bachelor would have more than stale pickup lines and lukewarm charm.”
His eyes narrowed, a spark of mischief dancing behind them. “Is that a challenge?”
“Consider it more of a warning.” She sipped her coffee, her expression cool, but the tilt of her lips betrayed her. “I’d hate for you to strain yourself.”
He chuckled, low and rumbling. “Trust me, Romanoff, I’ve got stamina for days.”
Her brows lifted, and a heat crept up her neck. “Prove it.”
His tongue darted over his bottom lip, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “You know, I’ve met a lot of people—brilliant minds, beautiful faces, sweet talkers. But none of them make me want to spend an entire morning just sitting here, trying to peel back every layer of you.”
Her fingers tightened around her mug, a hitch in her breath. “And what exactly do you think you’ll find?”
“Oh, that’s the fun part.” His gaze traced over her face, lingering on the soft curve of her mouth, the sharp edge of her cheekbone. “You’re like a novel in a language no one’s cracked yet. Every look, every smirk, every insult—it’s like a new page. And I want to read every damn word.”
Natasha’s lips parted, but her expression remained neutral. Almost. “You talk a lot of game, Stark.”
“Only when it’s worth it.” His voice remained steady, but his fingers tapped a soft rhythm on the table, betraying the rush beneath his skin. “And you? You’re more than worth it. You’ve got this way of moving through a room, like you’re a shadow and a spotlight all at once. You make people notice you, but they never get close enough to see the real thing.”
Her pulse thrummed, an unfamiliar sensation. “And you think you see the real thing?”
He smiled, softer now. “I think I see glimpses. Like when you hum under your breath when you think no one’s around. Or the way you scrunch your nose when something actually makes you laugh. You’ve got these little tells, Romanoff. And I’m a sucker for them.”
She swallowed, the mask slipping for a heartbeat. “Is that so?”
“And don’t even get me started on the physical.” His tone turned playful, but the undercurrent of heat was unmistakable. “I mean, look at you. You steal my clothes and manage to make my old college hoodie look like it belongs in a museum. You’ve got this quiet strength, this elegance that makes it impossible to look away.”
Her cheeks flushed, a hint of color rising beneath the cool exterior. “You always this smooth?”
He tilted his head, his thumb brushing over his lower lip as if holding back another line. “Only when I’ve got an audience worth impressing.”
Her laughter broke free, a soft, genuine sound. “Impressing me, huh? You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“I know.” His expression turned earnest, a rare softness overtaking his usual bravado. “But it’s not just because of the way you look—though, God, Romanoff, you make my boxers look like lingerie. It’s the way you see people. You act like nothing matters, but I’ve seen you sit with Clint for hours when he’s having a bad day. I’ve seen the way you memorize everyone’s coffee orders, or how you always take the seat with the best view of the exits.”
Her breath caught, and she bit her lip, holding back a response.
“You’re careful with everyone but ruthless with yourself,” he added, his voice a shade softer. “And that? That’s why I can’t get enough of you.”
Silence hung between them, thick and electric. Natasha’s expression remained calm, but her fingers flexed around the edge of her coffee mug.
“So,” he prompted, his grin reemerging, “still disappointed?”
She shook her head, a breathless laugh escaping. “Not bad, Stark. Not bad at all.”
He spread his arms, ever the showman. “I aim to please.”
“Well,” she leaned forward, her voice a purr, “you might’ve met your match.”
“Oh?”
She matched his intensity, her eyes tracing over him—the tousled hair, the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint scars that told stories only he knew. “You talk a big game, but I know the man behind it. You’re not just the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. You’re the guy who spends hours engineering a solution for a teammate’s suit. The guy who remembers everyone’s birthdays, even when you pretend not to care.”
His smirk faltered, something tender cracking through.
“You think you hide behind all this charm,” she continued, “but I see you. I see the way you deflect with jokes but always manage to find the right thing to say when it counts. You’re more than that arc reactor and the swagger, Tony. You’re the man who still hasn’t figured out how to accept love without earning it.”
He exhaled, a rush of air that seemed to take his balance with it. “Romanoff—”
“And physically?” She let her gaze drop, dragging over the expanse of his chest, the cut of his abs, the thick muscle of his thighs. “You’ve got this whole rugged genius thing going on. Big hands, broad shoulders, and that scruffy hair that makes you look like you’ve just stumbled out of bed.”
He ran a hand through said hair, a flush creeping up his neck. “You like the scruff, huh?”
She shrugged, playing it cool. “Didn’t at first. Thought it made you look like a frat boy who never grew up.”
“Ouch.”
“But now?” Her smile sharpened, and she leaned back, all confidence. “It suits you. Makes you look a little dangerous.”
His lips parted, but for once, words failed him.
“What’s wrong, Stark?” she teased. “Cat got your tongue?”
He recovered quickly, flashing a grin. “Just wondering how long I can keep you talking before you admit you like me.”
Her brows rose, an echo of his earlier challenge. “I think my breakfast just got a little too sweet.”
“Yeah?” He picked up his mug, his voice smooth and steady despite the rapid beat of his pulse. “You want me to tone it down?”
“Not a chance.” She bit into a piece of bacon, a slow, deliberate move. “I want to see if you can keep up.”
Tony’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes dark and sharp. “Oh, sweetheart, keeping up with you is the easy part. It’s getting you to admit you’re impressed that’s the real challenge.”
Natasha’s brow arched, a playful edge to her expression. “You really think you’re up for it?”
He leaned back, the morning sun casting a warm glow over his bare chest. “I’ve built an empire, redesigned the idea of technology, and turned a cave into a workshop. You think one redhead with a sharp tongue and a stolen T-shirt is gonna throw me off my game?”
She hummed, a low, considering sound. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Their plates gradually found their way to the table, breakfast forgotten in favor of the charged space between them. They both nursed their coffees, fingers wrapped around the warm mugs, but neither seemed to notice the cooling liquid.
“You know,” Tony began, his tone shifting, “I used to think you were just another mystery I wanted to solve. Something shiny and dangerous—like one of my prototypes. But it’s not that.”
She stilled, a trace of vulnerability beneath the poised exterior. “What is it, then?”
“It’s the way you drink your coffee black because you think cream and sugar are a distraction. It’s how you braid your hair when you’re about to fight, but you always leave a few strands loose, like you can’t let go of that softness completely.”
Her pulse quickened, and she swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
“It’s how you pretend you don’t care about anyone, but you know every agent’s name at the compound. How you slip an extra protein bar into Clint’s bag because you know he’ll forget to eat.” His voice dropped, soft and intimate. “It’s how you sit on the edge of the bed every morning, just staring out the window, like you’re waiting for the world to give you permission to breathe.”
Her mug lowered slowly, fingers slack against the porcelain. “Tony—”
“And you think I’m the one who needs to keep up?” He chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “I’m just trying to catch my breath around you, Romanoff.”
Natasha’s cheeks flushed, a delicate pink that betrayed the calm in her eyes. “I thought you said you had stamina.”
“Only human,” he murmured, the sincerity behind his words palpable.
She shifted, her bare legs curling beneath her, and she took a sip of coffee to mask the soft exhale that escaped her. “You always this good at reading people?”
“Only when I’m invested.” His gaze never wavered, each word dipped in truth. “And with you? I’m all in.”
The admission sat between them, warm and unyielding. Natasha found herself leaning into it, into him, before she could catch herself. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not.” He set his mug down, his fingers brushing over the rim. “But nothing worth it ever is.”
Her lips quirked, a smirk battling with the softness threatening to break through. “I thought you liked things easy, Stark.”
“I like things real.” His expression gentled, the kind of look that unraveled her piece by piece. “And you? You’re as real as it gets.”
She bit her lip, a rare uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “You keep talking like this, and I might actually start to believe you.”
He leaned forward, closing the space between them. “Good. Because I mean every word.”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at him—at the tousled hair, the soft scruff along his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm with her own.
“You’re dangerous, Stark.”
A slow, disarming smile spread across his lips. “And you love dangerous things.”
She let out a soft laugh, and it felt like surrender. “Maybe I do.”
He reached out, his hand brushing over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. “Let me show you.”
Her fingers curled under his, their skin a warm, quiet connection. “You think you can?”
Her eyes darkened, a new kind of challenge sparking. “Then show me.”
Tony’s smile softened, a perfect blend of confidence and reverence. “I will. I’ll show you just how much you mean. How every inch of you deserves to be cherished, praised, and validated.” His voice dropped, gentle and sincere. “I’d trade everything—my suits, my company, all of it—just for you.”
He brought her hand to his lips, his warm breath grazing her knuckles. One by one, he kissed each finger, his lips brushing over her skin with a devotion that left Natasha’s pulse fluttering.
Her bravado faltered as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then traced a path up her arm. His lips were soft, lingering, and each kiss felt like a promise. Her cheeks warmed, a blush spreading over her skin as his touch moved higher.
When he reached her collarbone, he paused, his lips pressing gently against her skin. The kiss was unhurried—more reverent than seductive—and Natasha’s breath hitched.
He continued, his lips trailing a deliberate line up the curve of her neck. His pace was torturously slow, each kiss a test of her resolve. She bit her lip, a poor attempt to stifle the soft sound that threatened to escape.
Tony’s lips grazed her temple, his warmth soaking into her skin, and then he kissed down her jaw, each touch more delicate than the last. He stopped just shy of her lips, a tease of closeness that made her eyes flutter shut.
But he didn’t give in. Instead, he shifted, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His voice, low and velvety, sent a shiver through her. “Let me take you out on a real date.”
A groan slipped past her lips, and Tony chuckled, the sound a quiet rumble against her skin. Before she could muster a reply, he pulled back, his expression unguarded and sincere.
Without a word, he slipped from his seat, lowering himself onto his knees in front of her. Natasha’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and something softer unraveling in her chest.
Tony plucked a delicate white flower from the potted plant on the table, the simple act infused with a playful elegance. He presented it to her, the tiny bloom nestled between his fingers.
“Natasha Romanoff,” he said, his tone both grand and tender, “will you do me the honor of going on a date with me?”
Her lips quirked, but beneath the snark, her expression was touched. “You realize you look ridiculous, right?”
“Ridiculously charming, I hope.” He waggled his brows, the boyishness of the gesture at odds with the depth in his eyes.
She sighed, a theatrical roll of her eyes, but it did nothing to hide the blush painting her cheeks. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”
Tony’s face split into a grin, his joy as contagious as it was genuine. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”
Her hand reached out, fingers brushing over his cheek. His stubble tickled her palm, and she traced the line of his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.
Her fingers drifted into his hair, the strands soft and slightly messy. She smoothed them back, her thumb tracing a gentle path over his temple. “You keep surprising me, Stark.”
He leaned into her touch, his eyes half-closed, as if savoring the moment. “Good. I plan to keep doing that.”
Her lips curved, and this time, there was no shield, no walls between them. “I’m counting on it.”
The air between them remained charged, the promise of more lingering in the quiet space of the balcony. Neither rushed to fill the silence—content, for now, to just exist in this newfound closeness.