Beauty and the Beast

For the rest of the afternoon, Tony and Natasha found solace in the quiet corners of the compound, nestled together on the plush sectional of his library. Tony, ever the whirlwind of energy, sat patiently with a worn paperback in hand. Natasha had suggested a few of her favorite novels, skeptical that Tony Stark—the man with a mind faster than most supercomputers—could slow down enough to appreciate the subtlety of fiction.

But he did. He asked questions, chuckled at the witty dialogue, and, occasionally, read aloud to her in a soothing baritone that drew her closer. His patience, his willingness to step into her world, melted the guarded parts of her heart.

When the sun began to dip, painting the walls with warm amber hues, Tony closed his book and nudged her with a playful smirk. “Go on, Romanoff. I know you take forever to get ready. Take your time.”

She quirked an eyebrow, lips curled into a half-smile. “I’m a trained assassin. I can get ready in under five minutes.”

“Yeah, but tonight you’re not an assassin. You’re my date.” His tone softened, and so did his gaze.

A rare blush bloomed on her cheeks as she slipped away to their room, her mind a pleasant hum of anticipation.

~~~

When Tony finished dressing, he stood before the full-length mirror, brushing imaginary lint off his white button-up. The horizontal black lines were thin, giving just enough contrast beneath the black vest and double-breasted pinstripe jacket. His white pants were impeccably tailored, flowing into sleek black dress shoes that looked as expensive as they did classic.

The tie—black with faint charcoal spiders and a single lighter gray one with a red widow splash—was his nod to her. Subtle, but thoughtful. It matched the pink beaded bracelet she’d made him wear and the small ferret necklace that hung beneath his shirt. His scruff was freshly shaven, goatee lined up to perfection. He’d trimmed his fade, adding a clean line that connected to his eyebrow slit. His hair remained tousled, the carefully curated chaos that was quintessentially Tony Stark.

But beneath the polished exterior, nerves simmered. One hand slipped into his pocket while the other fidgeted with the keys, the cold metal grounding him.

The sharp click of heels against concrete drew his focus, his thumb stuttering over the jagged edge of a key. He couldn’t bring himself to look, not yet. His heart pounded, each step closer winding the tension in his chest.

“Tony.” Her voice was soft, a gentle tug that unraveled his composure.

When he finally turned, the keys slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, echoing through the quiet hall. His jaw fell slack, his expression a perfect blend of awe and utter devastation.

Natasha stood before him, a vision in white. The ankle-length mesh skirt hugged her hips, the soft fabric skimming over her curves and hinting at the powerful muscles beneath. Her midriff peeked through, smooth skin and the faint lines of toned abs on display. The white mesh top was perfectly tailored, showing off just enough to captivate him while maintaining an air of elegance.

Her hair cascaded in loose, wavy curls, framing her face and spilling over her shoulders. Around her neck rested the necklace he’d given her, its delicate chain glinting under the lights. The matching bracelet adorned her wrist, and a thin anklet peeked out just above her white heels, the straps winding up her calf and vanishing beneath the hem of her skirt.

She approached slowly, a knowing smirk dancing on her lips. When she was close enough, she lifted a manicured finger and gently pushed his chin up, closing his mouth.

“You’ll catch spiders,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

Tony blinked, color flooding his cheeks. “Nat... You—wow. You look... breathtaking. Gorgeous. Ethereal.” His words tumbled out, each one more sincere than the last. “You could stop hearts, Romanoff.”

Her fingers slipped to his tie, straightening it with nimble precision. “Is that why yours is racing?”

He chuckled, a bashful sound as her hands smoothed over his chest. “Can you blame me? You could be wearing a paper bag, and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Natasha bent down, her movements fluid, and scooped up his fallen keys. She pressed them against his chest, her palm warm through the fabric of his vest. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep you on your toes.”

His breath hitched when her hand lingered, fingers brushing over the bead bracelet. He covered her hand with his own, giving a gentle squeeze. “I’m already there.”

As they made their way to the garage, Tony remained the perfect gentleman. He guided her with a hand at the small of her back, opened every door, and offered his arm as they descended the stairs. This time, instead of the usual flashy car, he led her to a pristine white 1969 Mustang with a rich red interior.

He opened the door for her, his hand steady as she settled into the passenger seat. She slipped inside with the grace of a dancer, her skirt fanning around her legs.

Once he joined her in the driver’s seat, Natasha’s gaze lingered on him. His profile—strong jaw, the sharp line of his goatee, the soft mess of his hair—looked almost unreal against the crimson leather.

“Has anyone told you how good you look in white?” she mused, her tone casual but the glint in her eyes anything but.

“Not recently,” he quipped, starting the engine. “But I’m willing to hear it a few more times if it’s from you.”

She leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “You clean up nicely, Stark.” Her lips lingered, warm against his skin. “And I’ll admit... You make being a gentleman look dangerously good.”

He bit back a grin, his hand flexing on the wheel. “You know, you’re not too bad yourself. I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to make me nervous.”

Her laughter was soft, a melody against the rumble of the car. “Is it working?”

He shifted, his gaze sliding to her. “Nat, the second I saw you, I forgot how to breathe.”

She feigned a dramatic sigh, but her blush betrayed her. “Good. Then maybe this date will be fun.”

Tony’s lips quirked up, his expression mischievous as he shifted gears, the diesel engine of the ‘69 Mustang purring beneath them. His hand moved over the stick shift with practiced ease, every motion smooth and controlled.

“Fun, huh?” His voice was a low rumble, almost drowned out by the hum of the engine. “You better be ready, Romanoff. I’ve got surprises up my sleeve.”

She leaned back, crossing her legs slowly, the slit in her mesh skirt parting just enough to reveal the elegant curve of her calf. “Is that right?” Her tone was light, but her eyes held a challenge. “Hope it’s better than the coffee you made this morning.”

“Hey!” He feigned offense, casting her a sideways glance as they pulled out of the compound’s gates. “You said it was good.”

She smirked. “I said it was decent. There’s a difference.”

Tony rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated, but the smile that followed was warm. His left hand remained steady on the wheel, while his right worked the stick shift, knuckles brushing against the polished wood of the gear knob.

Natasha found herself fixated on his hands—the calloused pads of his fingers, the veins that ran just beneath his skin, the way his muscles flexed and relaxed. She knew enough about cars to recognize the craftsmanship of the Mustang, every bolt and curve likely touched by Tony’s own hands.

“You built this, didn’t you?” Her voice softened, curiosity threading through.

“Every inch.” He shifted gears again, the car gliding onto the open road. “Found the frame rusting away in some old barn upstate. Took me a few months, but I needed the distraction.”

Her brows lifted. “And here I thought you just liked showing off.”

“Oh, I do.” He shot her a quick grin. “But this—this was for me. Well... until now. Tonight, it’s for you.”

She didn’t respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air. The cityscape stretched out before them, twilight casting long shadows that danced along the Mustang’s pristine white hood.

After a beat, Tony’s voice filled the space between them, softer now. “You know, you look... angelic in white.”

Natasha’s lips parted, a hint of surprise slipping through her usually guarded expression.

“I mean it,” he continued, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “I’ve seen you in tactical suits, in gowns, in sweats... but this?” His eyes darted to her, and she felt the weight of his gaze, heavy with reverence. “You look like a dream. Like something I’d see if I closed my eyes and wished for everything good in the world.”

Her pulse quickened, a heat crawling up her neck as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Careful, Stark. You keep talking like that, and I might start believing you.”

“Good.” His tone was firm, his sincerity striking. “Because you should. I know you’re this badass, unstoppable force, but... God, Nat. When you smile, when you let yourself relax—you light up a room. You light up me.”

Her defenses wavered, the sharp retort on her tongue dissolving. “You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“Not at all.” His expression was earnest, the kind of raw honesty she rarely encountered. “I’ve spent so long pretending to be the smartest guy in the room, the funniest, the most charming. But with you? I don’t have to pretend. You see through all of it, and you still... choose to be here. With me.”

Natasha swallowed, the vulnerability in his words curling around her heart. “Tony...”

He grinned, a boyish thing that made her chest ache. “What? You’re not getting all shy on me, are you?”

She narrowed her eyes, the bite returning. “I could say the same for you. You look like you’re about to combust.”

Tony’s laugh was bright, a sound that settled in her bones. “What can I say? I’ve got a stunning woman in my car, and she’s somehow still putting up with me.”

“Putting up with you is generous,” she teased, but the edge had dulled, warmth pooling beneath her words.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the rhythm of the road a soothing undercurrent. She reached over, her hand finding his arm, resting gently against the sinewy muscle. Her acrylic nails, almond-shaped with pristine white French tips, grazed along his forearm, tracing the curve of his veins.

Tony’s breath hitched, the sensation both gentle and electrifying. His hand remained steady on the stick shift, but she felt the tension coil beneath his skin.

“You know,” she began, her voice soft, “I never thought you’d clean up this well.”

He glanced at her, his lips curving. “You doubted me?”

“Not exactly.” Her thumb made lazy circles against his skin, her nails sending shivers through him. “But I didn’t expect this.”

“What? A suit? A car ride? Or me being utterly smitten with you?”

Her smile was slow, dangerous. “All of the above.”

Tony exhaled, a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Well, you deserve it. The date, the compliments... all of it.”

Natasha’s fingers tightened on his arm, her nails pressing just enough to draw a sharp inhale from him. “You’re not too bad yourself, Stark. I mean, look at you—all sharp lines and soft edges. You make messy hair look intentional. And this?” Her free hand reached up, brushing against the pink beaded bracelet on his wrist. “You wear it like it’s a Rolex.”

“Maybe because it’s priceless.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she bit her lip, a slip of vulnerability breaking through. “You keep saying things like that, and I might start thinking you’re a gentleman.”

“Let me take you out a few more times, and I’ll prove it.”

Her hand slid up his arm, over his bicep, and settled on his shoulder. The warmth of her palm seeped through his jacket, grounding him.

“I might just hold you to that,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the curve of his collarbone.

He shifted gears, his knuckles grazing her bare knee as he did. The touch was accidental, but it left sparks in its wake.

She leaned closer, the space between them shrinking. “You think you can handle me, Stark?”

His smile was slow, wicked. “I think I can try. And I’m a quick learner.”

Her breath fanned over his cheek as she whispered, “Good. Because I don’t play fair.”

His pulse thundered, the weight of her words and the heat of her touch weaving a spell around him. “Neither do I.”

The city blurred around them, the world reduced to the hum of the engine and the rhythm of their breathing. And as the car rolled down the winding road, the tension between them simmered—hot, undeniable, and beautifully dangerous.

Tony’s thumb stroked slow circles against the leather of the steering wheel, his gaze flicking between Natasha and the road. “You know,” he started, his voice warm and unfiltered, “I can’t stop looking at you.”

Natasha arched a brow, a smirk playing on her lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” he quipped, “because I’m pretty sure staring this much while driving is a crime. But I can’t help it. You look... ethereal.”

Her smirk softened into a genuine smile. “You keep saying things like that, and I might think you’re trying to win me over.”

“Oh, I’m not trying.” His lips curved, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I’m succeeding.”

She chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent a thrill through him. “Confident, are we?”

“With you on my arm? Absolutely.”

Natasha’s fingers traced idle patterns on his forearm, her nails a gentle, teasing scrape against his skin. “Well, you clean up nice too, Stark. I’d say you look almost respectable.”

“Almost?” He shot her a mock-offended look.

She grinned. “I mean, the messy hair kind of ruins it. But it wouldn’t be you without it.”

“Good.” He said nodding, “God, I’d hate to be anyone else.”

They volleyed back and forth, their words light but layered with meaning. Every compliment was a truth, every quip a promise. It wasn’t just banter—it was building something, brick by brick, word by word.

Tony’s hands moved effortlessly over the gear shift, his fingers brushing against her thigh as he did. It wasn’t intentional, but neither of them acknowledged it, the spark lingering between them.

When he finally turned off the main road, Natasha’s brow furrowed. “Where are we going?”

Tony’s only response was a secretive smile. He navigated the Mustang into a narrow alley, the diesel engine’s growl echoing off the brick walls. He eased the car into a secluded spot behind an unassuming building, the red interior of the car catching the golden glow of the streetlights.

Natasha’s confusion deepened, her lips parting to question him, but he was already out of the car. He buttoned his double-breasted suit jacket, the sharp lines of his attire juxtaposed against the grit of the alley. The contrast suited him—elegance amid chaos.

Before she could unbuckle her seatbelt, he was at her door, opening it with a flourish. His hand extended, his expression both playful and sincere. “M’lady.”

She rolled her eyes, but slipped her hand into his, allowing him to guide her out. The cool night air kissed her skin, and the warmth of his palm anchored her.

“What are we doing here?” she asked as he closed the door behind her.

His hand found the small of her back, a light but steady pressure as he led her toward the rusted metal of a fire escape. “Patience, Romanoff.”

Her eyes narrowed, the sharpness of her suspicion softened by the curiosity beneath. “I’m not a fan of surprises.”

“I know.” His voice was soft, a brush of warmth against the cool night. “But trust me.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t resist as he pulled down the fire escape ladder. The old metal groaned, a sound that should’ve been unsettling but felt oddly charming in the quiet of the alley.

He climbed first, his movements agile despite the formal wear. When he reached the top, he leaned over, offering his hand once more. She hesitated, but only for a moment, before taking it.

Her heels clicked against the metal stairs as they ascended, her white skirt catching the breeze. The city hummed around them, a distant melody of life continuing below as they rose above it.

When they reached the rooftop, Natasha’s breath caught in her throat.

The roof had been transformed into a hidden haven. Strung-up pixie lights cast a warm glow, their soft twinkle like stars brought down to earth. At the center of the space stood a small, round table draped in white linen, surrounded by a scattering of red rose petals. The petals created a vivid contrast against the rough concrete, a touch of romance amid the urban sprawl.

Beside the table, a simple wooden rack held an assortment of wines, their glass catching the candlelight. The flickering flames on the table’s candles danced, their light reflecting in Tony’s eyes as he helped her onto the rooftop.

He pulled out her chair, his movements careful and deliberate, as if afraid to disturb the magic of the moment. Natasha settled into the chair, her fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the table as Tony took his seat across from her.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling out his phone. “Just need to let the chef know we’re ready.” His thumbs danced over the screen, sending a quick message before he set it aside.

Her eyes remained fixed on him, a mix of amusement and awe. “You did all this?”

Tony’s expression turned bashful, a boyish charm slipping through. “I knew we couldn’t just go anywhere. Not with... everything.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the reality of who they were—their fame, their danger, their shadows. “And I figured you wouldn’t be thrilled if I rented out some fancy restaurant or did the whole five-star New York experience.”

Her lips curled. “You figured right.”

“So...” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his hands folding together. “I talked to this little family-owned place I’ve been coming to for years. They make the best ravioli, and I asked if I could... borrow their roof.”

Natasha’s expression softened, the edges of her usual composure blurring. “You did all this for me?”

“Of course.” His voice was unwavering. “You deserve something real. Something private. Something... special.”

She exhaled, a sound that held more emotion than she intended. “You really are full of surprises.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

Her smirk returned, sharp and teasing. “You’re on a roll. I’ll give you that.”

Tony chuckled, a low rumble that sent warmth through the cool night air. “I’ll take it.”

They sat in the golden glow of the lights, the world below them feeling distant and unimportant. There, on a rooftop under a canopy of stars and string lights, they weren’t Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff—genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and world-class spy. They were just two people, sharing a moment carved out of the chaos.

Natasha leaned back, her gaze sweeping over the setup. “You know, for a guy who usually throws billion-dollar parties, this is... impressive.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he teased. “I’m a man of many talents.”

She arched a brow. “Oh, I know. But this... it’s thoughtful. And I don’t think many people get to see this side of you.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. “That’s because this side of me only comes out when you’re around.”

Her cheeks flushed, the warmth spreading from where his skin met hers. “Careful, Stark. You keep saying things like that, and I might not want this night to end.”

“Then it won’t.” His voice was a promise, a quiet certainty that settled between them.

A gentle breeze rustled the pixie lights, their soft glow casting dancing shadows over the rooftop. The world beyond felt impossibly far away, leaving only the warmth of candlelight and the quiet hum of intimacy between them.

The waiter approached, a young man with a crisp white apron and an easy smile. His presence was respectful, his voice low as he addressed them. “Good evening. Have you had a chance to look over the menu?”

Tony smiled, the charm cranked up to a gentle, genuine warmth. “I’ll have the steak, medium rare, with a side salad. And the ravioli, of course.”

The waiter nodded, jotting down the order. His gaze shifted to Natasha, and she returned his polite smile with a nod. “I’ll have the ravioli and a salad, please.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Tony’s face, quick but not unnoticed. She always ordered steak—loved it, in fact—but he bit back the question, trusting she’d share if she wanted to.

“Excellent choices,” the waiter said. “I’ll bring out some fresh bread and your wine selection shortly.”

As he retreated, Tony’s attention snapped back to Natasha, his expression softening as if the candlelight itself had melted him.

“God, you’re beautiful.” The words slipped out, unfiltered and raw. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and threading his fingers together. “I mean, I’ve always known that. Obviously. But seeing you here, with the city lights behind you and the candles making your skin glow... it’s unreal.”

Natasha’s lips curled into a smirk, but her eyes shone with something more vulnerable. “You say that like you’re seeing me for the first time.”

“It feels like I am.” He exhaled, a breath heavy with meaning. “Every time, honestly. It’s like... I get to see new shades of you. Like tonight, with the white dress and the way you carry yourself. You look... angelic.”

Her cheeks flushed, the warmth a contrast to the cool breeze. “I’m not an angel, Tony.”

“Maybe not.” He grinned, a boyish tilt to his lips. “But you’re my angel, and that’s even better.”

Her expression faltered, the walls of her composure cracking just enough to let his words seep in. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Good ‘something else,’ I hope.”

“Definitely.” Her nails, perfectly manicured in white French tips, traced the rim of her wine glass. “And you’re not so bad yourself. The candlelight makes you look... softer. The rugged billionaire turned hopeless romantic.”

Tony chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “I’ll take that. Especially from you.”

She leaned in, mirroring his posture. “You should. You look good, Stark. I mean, really good. I’m not sure if it’s the suit or the scruff or just... you. But I like it.”

His grin widened, a flicker of mischief sparking in his eyes. “Keep talking like that, and I might get a big head.”

“Too late for that.” She shot back, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Fair.” He reached out, his fingers brushing over hers. “But seriously, Nat... you look incredible. I can’t take my eyes off you.”

Her thumb stroked over his knuckles, the gentle rhythm soothing. “Good. Because I don’t want you to.”

The moment lingered, their hands entwined atop the candlelit table as if the world outside this rooftop ceased to exist. The rhythmic stroke of Natasha’s thumb over Tony’s knuckles was a melody, a quiet reassurance that neither needed to say aloud.

The waiter returned, balancing a small basket of warm bread and a glass pitcher filled with ice water. The steam from the bread mixed with the cool night air, a comforting contrast.

“Here we are,” the waiter said, setting everything down with practiced grace. His eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief as he took in the couple. “You two make a beautiful couple, by the way. It’s nice to see love like this.”

Natasha’s cheeks bloomed with a soft pink, and Tony’s grin turned downright cocky. “Thanks, man. I think so, too.”

The waiter chuckled, nodding politely before slipping back toward the stairwell, leaving them in their bubble of soft light and whispered night sounds.

Tony wasted no time, plucking a piece of bread and tearing it in half. “You hear that, Romanoff? We’re a beautiful couple. Practically legendary.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Don’t let it go to your head, Stark. You’ve already got a mile-long ego.”

“Oh, my ego? I’m not the one who made a waiter blush with a single look.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I saw the way he looked at you. We might have to tip him extra for surviving that.”

Her laughter was a warm burst, carried away on the breeze. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming. Ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously—”

“—Full of yourself?”

He gasped, a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Me? Never. I’m just a humble guy, taking my stunning date on a rooftop dinner. No big deal.”

She raised an eyebrow, the soft clink of her nails against the glass as she poured them water. “Oh, is that what this is? A date?”

Tony’s expression shifted, the teasing melting into something softer. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Her playful demeanor faltered, a vulnerability slipping through the cracks of her ironclad exterior. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“Nat...” He set his bread down, the warmth of his hand returning to hers. “You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to do this. I wanted to... to show you how much you mean to me.”

Her fingers tightened around his, a quiet admission. “I’ve never... I’ve never really been on a date before.”

Tony’s brow lifted, the confession settling over him. “Not even before SHIELD?”

She shook her head, the movement slow and deliberate. “Not really. Everything was always... transactional. Or strategic. I’ve never just sat down with someone who wanted to be with me. Not for a mission, or an agenda... just for me.”

He exhaled softly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Well, then, I’m honored to be your first.”

She met his eyes, a storm of emotions swirling within those green depths. “I just... I’m not used to it. It’s scary.”

“Yeah.” His voice was gentle, a balm to the old wounds she didn’t need to voice. “I get that.”

Her lips parted, a question lingering, but he beat her to it.

“This is new for me, too.” His tone dropped, the honesty threading through every word. “I’ve been on dates, sure. But this is the first time I’ve actually wanted to be on one. Not for the thrill of a chase or because I was looking for... something temporary. I’m here because I want to be. With you.”

The weight of his admission hung between them, a ribbon of truth woven through the night air.

Natasha’s voice softened, a rare fragility. “You mean that?”

“With everything I’ve got.” He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re more than just... whatever label anyone tries to put on you. You’re more than the Black Widow or a spy or an Avenger. You’re Natasha. And that’s enough.”

Her breath hitched, the sound so quiet he barely caught it. “I don’t know how to do this. How to be... enough.”

“You already are.” His eyes held her steady, an anchor against the tide of her self-doubt. “And I’ll remind you as many times as you need to hear it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of promise, of patience, of the quiet understanding that healing was never linear but always worth it.

“Tony...” She started, then shook her head, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “I think I could get used to this.”

“Good.” He mirrored her expression, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, the conversation shifted—into the safe spaces of shared stories, quiet laughter, and the kind of honesty that felt like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. They spoke about everything and nothing, peeling back layers and letting the candlelight fill the gaps where words fell short.

When the food arrived, it felt like an interruption, but neither minded. The connection between them had already been made, and nothing—not even the world beyond this rooftop—could break it.

As the waiter disappeared back down the stairwell, Tony picked up his knife and fork, his movements precise as he began slicing into his steak. The blade slid through the tender meat effortlessly, each slice thin and perfectly even. Natasha watched, one eyebrow arching in curiosity as he set his own plate aside and reached for her salad plate.

“Tony, what are you—”

He didn’t answer, focused instead on transferring more than half of his steak onto her plate. The rich scent of perfectly seasoned meat mingled with the crisp, fresh aroma of the salad. Once satisfied, he handed the plate back to her, a stubborn set to his jaw.

“You love steak,” he said simply, as if it explained everything. “And I don’t get why you didn’t order it, but we’re sharing. End of discussion.”

Her lips parted, the beginnings of a protest forming, but the unwavering look in his eyes made it clear there was no room for argument. She let out a sigh, somewhere between exasperated and endeared, before picking up her fork. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” He flashed her a grin, boyish and full of mischief.

Natasha couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but there was no hiding the warmth in them. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He dug into his own food, the rhythmic clink of silverware filling the space between them.

The first bite was heaven. The steak melted on her tongue, and the bright tang of the salad balanced perfectly with the savory richness. “God, this is good.”

Tony smirked, not bothering to hide his pride. “Told you. I know my food.”

She gave him a pointed look, a bite of steak halfway to her mouth. “You know a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna tell you you’re right.”

“Oh, but I am right.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Admit it, Romanoff. Best steak you’ve ever had.”

She took another bite, letting out a soft, involuntary hum of delight. “Fine. You were right.”

His fork paused mid-air, his expression nothing short of triumphant. “Say that again. Slower.”

She tossed a piece of lettuce at him, her aim dead on. “Don’t push it.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, trading bites of food and stories in between. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a blend of teasing banter and genuine moments that filled the cool night air with warmth.

But midway through a story about a disastrous Stark Industries gala, Tony’s chair scraped against the rooftop as he stood abruptly. Natasha’s hand stilled, fork hovering over her plate as she watched him.

“What—?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slipped off his double-breasted suit jacket, the fine fabric folding effortlessly over his forearm as he stepped around the table. Natasha’s confusion only deepened until he gently draped the jacket over her shoulders.

The warmth of the material and his lingering scent surrounded her, the gesture so unexpectedly tender it made her heart stutter. His fingers lingered at the collar, straightening it before he moved back to his seat.

Now, with just the crisp white button-up, his fitted vest, and that playful spider-themed tie, he somehow looked even more like himself. The snug fabric of his shirt accentuated his biceps, the muscles flexing subtly with each movement as he adjusted his vest. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal his toned forearms, veins prominent beneath the skin—a detail she hadn’t realized she found so damn attractive.

Her cheeks flushed, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. “You look... really good.”

His lips curved into a soft, genuine smile—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and banished every trace of his usual bravado. “Thank you.” His voice was quiet, full of a warmth that settled deep in her chest.

She swallowed, her fingers clutching the lapels of his jacket a little tighter. “I mean it. You clean up nice, Stark.”

“Well, I had to keep up with you.” He took a sip of his water, his gaze steady over the rim of the glass. “You make it hard for a guy to look even half as good.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t shy away. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, a playful glint in her eyes. “Good thing I like a challenge.”

“Oh, I know you do.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The air between them shifted, charged and heady. Beneath the soft glow of the pixie lights, surrounded by the city skyline and the candlelit intimacy of their rooftop haven, something unspoken pulsed between them.

Her hand, still resting on his jacket, slid down to the table, her fingers tracing invisible patterns against the wood. “You really outdid yourself tonight.”

He shrugged, but the gesture was tinged with a vulnerability she rarely saw. “You deserve it. And more.”

For a moment, neither spoke. They just sat there, the world narrowing to the shared space between them—the soft brush of candlelight, the quiet hum of the city below, and the rhythm of their breaths syncing as if pulled by the same invisible thread.

And for the first time in a long while, Natasha felt... seen. Not as the Black Widow or the master spy, but as Natasha. A woman sitting across from a man who looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Tony set his fork down, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the white linen napkin. His eyes sparkled with a mix of contentment and mischief as he leaned back in his chair. “How about dessert?”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

His lips curled into a slow grin. “Perfect. What are you in the mood for? They’ve got cannoli, panna cotta, gelato... Oh, and tiramisu.”

Her eyes lit up, a spark of genuine excitement that made his chest tighten. “Tiramisu.”

“Great choice.”

She bit her lip, a playful edge to her voice. “But only if we split it.”

He pretended to mull it over, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain, Romanoff.”

She shrugged, a sly smile curving her lips. “Then I guess you’ll just have to share.”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

When the waiter returned, Tony ordered a slice of tiramisu and two forks. The older man nodded approvingly, offering them a knowing smile as he disappeared back through the door.

As soon as they were alone, Natasha raised a brow, her expression coy. “You know, we can’t really share from this far away.”

Tony’s mouth quirked into a smirk. “You make an excellent point.” He dragged his chair forward, the metal legs scraping softly against the concrete. He stopped halfway, the chair positioned at the middle of the table. “How’s this?”

She merely hummed, her expression unimpressed. “Still too far.”

He huffed, standing and scooting the chair closer, until only a slim gap remained between them. “Now?”

Her lips twisted into a smirk, a glint of challenge in her green eyes. “Still too far.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” He didn’t hesitate this time. With a few more steps, he pushed his chair flush against hers, their knees brushing under the table. He sat back down, their shoulders touching, warmth radiating between them. “Better?”

“Much.” She let her head rest against his shoulder, the gesture both tender and intimate. Her arm snaked around his, her fingers finding his hand. She traced light circles over his knuckles, her acrylic nails sending a gentle shiver up his spine.

Tony let out a soft breath, tilting his head to brush his lips against the crown of her hair. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
She feigned innocence. “Me? I’m an angel.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “An angel with a very sharp halo.”
Her fingers tightened around his, her thumb brushing the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Wouldn’t you rather me be sharp than dull?”
He turned his head, his nose just grazing her temple. “You could never be dull.”
She shifted slightly, her head still resting on his shoulder but her gaze now angled up at him. “You’re laying it on thick tonight, Stark.”
“Can you blame me?” He tilted his head, his voice dropping into something softer, more vulnerable. “You look like a dream, and I’m just trying to keep myself from pinching my own arm.”
Her lips curled into a gentle smile, the kind that was rare and real. “You’re kind of a sap.”
He sighed dramatically. “Guilty as charged.”
She laughed, the sound a soft melody against the backdrop of the city. “I like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She twisted their fingers together, her nails gently scraping over his skin. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good.” Her voice was sure, her words wrapping around him like a promise. “You make me feel... safe.”
His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, a silent assurance. “That’s all I want.”
Silence stretched between them, comfortable and full. He lifted their entwined hands, brushing his lips against her knuckles. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
Her cheeks flushed, a delicate pink beneath the candlelight. “I’m starting to believe it.”

His eyes never left hers, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. “I’ll keep saying it until you do.”

She bit her lip, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not used to this.”

“I know.” He rested his cheek against her hair, his thumb sweeping over her hand in soothing strokes. “We’ll take it slow. As slow as you need.”

Her arm tightened around his, her body molding to his side. “Thank you.”

The waiter reappeared, carefully setting down a plate with a generous slice of tiramisu, two forks resting on the rim. He smiled at the sight of them, their intimacy as undeniable as the soft glow of the candles.

“You two are quite the couple,” he said warmly. “It’s nice to see.”

Natasha’s lips parted in surprise, but Tony just beamed, his smile so genuine it made her heart ache. “Thank you,” he said, his voice light. “We think so, too.”

The waiter chuckled and slipped away, leaving them alone once more.

Tony picked up one of the forks, spearing a bite of the delicate dessert. “Alright, Miss Too-Far-Away, ready to share?”

She released his arm, only to loop her own through it again, her body tucked close to his. “I’m ready.”

He brought the fork to her lips, the creamy layers of mascarpone and espresso-soaked ladyfingers inches away. “Open up.”

She did, her lips closing around the fork, her eyes never leaving his. His pulse quickened, the simple act infused with an intimacy that went beyond the sweetness on her tongue.

When he took a bite himself, she smiled, a soft hum escaping her. “You were right again.”

“I usually am.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Careful. Your ego’s showing.”

“Only because you keep feeding it.”

Her nails resumed their gentle path along his hand, the motion soothing and electric all at once. “You make it easy.”

Natasha’s fingers slipped away from his hand, and with a quick, deft motion, she plucked his fork from his grasp. Tony’s brows shot up, amusement dancing in his eyes as she speared a generous bite of tiramisu.

“Oh, so this is how it’s going to be?” he teased.

She only smirked, bringing the fork to his lips. “Open up, Stark.”

He chuckled but obeyed, letting her feed him. The flavors melted on his tongue, but he barely noticed, too focused on the way her lips curved with satisfaction.

“Good?” she asked, her voice smooth and warm.

He nodded, swallowing. “Very.”

She went for another bite, but this time a dollop of the mascarpone cream found its way onto his goatee. Natasha’s lips twitched, and before he could react, her thumb swiped over the spot, her touch lingering.

“There,” she murmured, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip in a way that made his breath hitch. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

His voice was a rasp. “Guess I’m lucky you brought me here, then.”

She didn’t pull away, her hand hovering near his face, her thumb still pressed gently to his lip. His lips parted, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath with them. But then, with a soft exhale, she withdrew, her hand returning to rest on his arm.

Tony cleared his throat, a hint of a smirk breaking through his dazed expression. “You know, I don’t usually let people steal my fork.”

She grinned, a little wicked. “Guess I’m special.”

“Very.” He reached over, taking the fork back, his fingers brushing against hers. “My turn.”

Natasha arched a brow but allowed him to guide the utensil, the bite of tiramisu hovering near her lips. She leaned forward, the tip of her tongue just grazing the cream before her lips closed around the fork. His pulse quickened, and he was sure she could hear it over the soft hum of the city below.

“Mmm.” She licked her lips, savoring the taste. “You were right. Feeding each other is better.”

He chuckled, dipping the fork into the dessert again. “I always am.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the affection beneath it. “Modesty looks good on you.”

“Oh, I’m very modest. I’m like, the most modest.”

Her laugh was light, her head resting back against his shoulder. “If modesty was measured by ego, you’d win, hands down.”

He nudged her gently, his elbow brushing her side. “Harsh.”

“True.”

“Alright, Miss Modest. Tell me something.”

Her brow quirked, curiosity piqued. “What?”

He offered her another bite, watching her lips close around the fork. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

Her chewing slowed, and he instantly regretted the question, but then she swallowed and set the fork down, her expression thoughtful.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to paint,” she admitted quietly. “But not, like, professional stuff. Just... messy, abstract. Something that doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Tony’s expression softened. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re precise. Methodical. But I get it. There’s something freeing about not having to get it right.”

Her lips curled. “Exactly. I’ve spent my whole life aiming for perfect. Sometimes I just want... chaos.”

His fingers tightened around hers. “You deserve that. The freedom to make a mess.”

“What about you?” she asked, her voice a gentle nudge. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

He hesitated, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the back of her hand. “I always wanted to play the piano.”

Her brows rose. “You don’t?”

“I mean, I know how. Technically. But I wanted to play. Like, really play. Without thinking. Just... feel it.”

Her expression turned thoughtful. “Then why don’t you?”

His smile was wistful. “Because I never make time for it. There’s always something more important.”

She studied him, her gaze both sharp and tender. “Maybe you should start.”

“Maybe I will.”

Silence settled over them, but it was the kind that wrapped around them like a blanket—soft and safe. Tony took another bite of the dessert, then offered her the fork again. She accepted, their fingers brushing, a quiet promise in the touch.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “we could do both.”

“Both?”

“Painting and piano.” Her head rested against his shoulder, her voice a whisper against his collar. “You play. I’ll paint. No expectations. No rules.”

His heart clenched, an ache he hadn’t realized was there. “I’d like that.”

Her thumb resumed its gentle path over his knuckles, the rhythm steady and sure. “Good.”

And as they sat there, the city lights twinkling around them, tiramisu shared between soft words and softer touches, Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff found themselves on the edge of something neither had expected—something real, something raw, and something entirely theirs.

The last bite of tiramisu vanished between them, and Natasha leaned back with a soft, satisfied sigh. The candlelight cast warm hues across her skin, and Tony couldn’t help but steal another lingering look at her, as if imprinting every detail into his memory.

The waiter returned with the bill, but Tony had already slipped his card into the black leather holder before Natasha could even think about reaching for it. She shot him a mock glare, but he only grinned, entirely unrepentant.

“Really?” she quipped, arching a brow. “I could’ve paid.”

“I know.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and his voice dropped to a low murmur. “But I wanted to. Let me spoil you a little, Romanoff.”

Her lips curled, but there was a soft gratitude in her expression, something unspoken but deeply felt.

When the waiter returned, Tony handed back the receipt with a flourish, signing off on the generous $500 tip. The waiter’s eyes widened, a rush of gratitude spilling over as he stammered his thanks.

“Thank you both,” he said, his voice bright and sincere. “You two are such a lovely couple. Have a wonderful night.”

Natasha’s cheeks tinged with pink, but she didn’t correct him. Tony only chuckled under his breath, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand one last time before he stood.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice soft.

She nodded, and he helped her to her feet, his hand warm and steady in hers. With a gentle hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the edge of the roof where the fire escape awaited.

Ever the gentleman, Tony climbed down first, extending a hand to help her down. Natasha hesitated, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You know I could probably leap down and beat you to the car.”

“I know.” He flashed her a smirk. “But humor me.”

She rolled her eyes but slipped her hand into his. His grip was strong yet careful, his other hand ready beneath her as she descended the steps. The cool metal of the fire escape contrasted sharply with his warmth, and she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of something both safe and exhilarating.

When they reached the bottom, Tony led the way to the car, his steps confident but unhurried. He opened the passenger door for her, his hand lingering on the frame as she slid in.

“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, her eyes meeting his with a sincerity that made his chest ache.

He nodded, his lips curving into a gentle smile before he closed the door. The world outside the glass felt dimmer without him beside her, but then he appeared in the driver’s seat, the hum of the engine wrapping around them like a quiet promise.

As he adjusted the mirrors and slid his hands over the steering wheel, Natasha couldn’t help but admire him. The crisp white of his shirt clung to the cut of his muscles, his rolled-up sleeves showcasing his forearms, the veins beneath his skin a roadmap of strength and elegance.

“Thank you,” he murmured, shifting the car into reverse. “For letting me take you out.”

Her lips curled, a slow, genuine smile. “Thank you. You look… really good right now, you know.”

His grin was immediate, a boyish charm breaking through the smooth veneer of the billionaire playboy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leaned back against the seat, the seatbelt pressing gently against her, but all she could feel was the weight of his gaze. “That shirt is working overtime, Stark.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm as he guided the car out of the alley. “Careful, Romanoff. You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

Her laugh filled the car, soft and unguarded. “You’re not half bad.”

His grin widened, and as they pulled onto the main road, the city lights swept over them, painting their world in gold and silver. Natasha’s hand found its way to his arm again, her fingers tracing light, thoughtful patterns over his skin.

And as the night stretched out ahead of them, neither could shake the sense that something had shifted—something delicate and powerful, a new thread woven into the tapestry of who they were.

~~~

The drive back to the Malibu villa was bathed in the soft glow of coastal streetlights, the quiet hum of the engine a comfortable backdrop to their shared silence. Tony occasionally glanced over at Natasha, the gentle upturn of her lips and the way her hair framed her face stealing his breath every time.

When they finally pulled into the expansive driveway, Tony was out of the car in an instant, moving around to open her door. His hand was warm and steady as she slipped her fingers into his, letting him guide her out of the car.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a quiet but sincere sentiment.

“Anytime.” His voice was soft, a lingering promise woven into the word.

He opened every door on their way inside, his hand ever-present at the small of her back, guiding but never pushing. The villa was quiet, the gentle lapping of waves beyond the glass walls the only sound until the soft click of the front door behind them.

As they reached the stairs, Tony hesitated, his tongue tripping over the question forming on his lips. “So, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, a boyish shyness overtaking him. “Do you—are you tired? Or… would you maybe want to watch a movie? Or go to bed. I mean—uh, not like, together, unless—” His eyes widened, mortification flooding his expression. “Not that I—um—”

Natasha’s lips twitched, amusement dancing in her green eyes. “Do you want to watch a movie, Stark?”

He exhaled a relieved chuckle. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“What movie?”

A spark lit behind his eyes, and his voice dropped with playful confidence. “How do you feel about Star Wars?”

Her brows lifted, a hint of mischief curling her lips. “I’ve never seen it.”

He gasped dramatically, a hand over his chest. “Blasphemy! How have I gone this long without correcting this grave injustice?”

Her laugh was warm and unguarded as she nudged his shoulder. “Then fix it, genius.”

With a playful salute, he led the way into the living room. Instead of the more formal movie room, he chose the cozy intimacy of the sunken living space, the L-shaped couch nestled beneath a wall-sized projector screen.

“FRIDAY, start A New Hope on the projector, and pause it” he instructed, his voice firm yet soft. “And dim the lights—only the projector, please.”

“Of course, Mister Stark.” The AI’s smooth reply was followed by the gentle dimming of the lights, leaving the room bathed in the cool glow of the paused opening crawl.

“I’ll get changed,” Natasha said, already padding down the hall.

“Yeah, me too,” Tony called back, darting into his room.

He was the first to return, clad in a snug Star Wars retro Han Solo T-shirt that hugged the lines of his chest and biceps. His black and dark gray plaid pajama pants sat low on his hips, white Nike socks completing the comfortable look. He moved around the room with easy efficiency, setting a bottle of red wine and two glasses on the coffee table. Fresh popcorn filled a bowl, and an assortment of chocolates and candies surrounded it, offering both sweetness and comfort.

He was just settling the final touches when Natasha reappeared. She wore his old MIT hoodie, the dark material swallowing her frame but only enhancing the casual intimacy of the moment. Spandex shorts peeked out from beneath the hem, showing off toned legs that made his mouth go dry.

Her hair was down, loose waves framing her face, and the sight of her in his clothes sent a warm, possessive hum through him.

“You know,” she started, leaning against the doorframe, “you can be comfortable. You don’t have to wear the pants and shirt. I don’t mind.”

He grinned, half-amused, half-shy. “I’ll keep that in mind. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She smirked, sauntering over to the couch. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

Her confidence sent a shiver down his spine, and he moved to sit, hesitating only a moment before choosing a spot at the far end of the couch. Natasha sprawled out, laying on her side, but the distance between them was palpable.

Moments later, he cleared his throat and gently lifted her legs, settling them over his lap. “You’re welcome to stretch out.”

She hummed, unpausing the movie. The room filled with the opening notes of John Williams’ score, and Tony’s hands found her calves, his thumbs brushing soft, absent-minded circles over her skin.

When he stilled, uncertain, she let out a quiet breath. “You can keep going.”

His fingers resumed their rhythm, the gentle kneading coaxing a contented sigh from her. As the movie played, his nerdy side emerged in full force, and he leaned into explaining the intricate details of the story. His voice became animated, his hands moving as he spoke, and the passion in his words drew Natasha in more than the movie itself.

Around twenty minutes in, she turned her head, her eyes finding him through the dim glow of the projector. “Tony.”

“Hmm?” He was mid-explanation, his hands drawing shapes in the air as he detailed the ship designs.

“You’re allowed to lay down too.”

He hesitated, glancing at the other end of the couch. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

He shifted, moving to the opposite section of the L, but Natasha’s hand shot out, slender fingers curling around his wrist. With a playful tug, she pulled him down, his body landing over hers with a soft ‘oof.’

“Better,” she said, a smirk dancing on her lips as her arms wrapped around him, drawing him against her chest.

His brain short-circuited for a moment, heat flushing his cheeks as he settled his weight carefully over her. The warmth of her body seeped into him, the rise and fall of her breathing a soothing lullaby.

“Um—” His voice wavered, and he chuckled nervously. “Is this okay?”

Her hands slipped into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. “It’s perfect.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering shut as her fingers moved, coaxing quiet, contented sounds from him.

When he found his voice again, it was softer, more vulnerable. “You, uh—missed a lot.”

“Then catch me up.”

Her touch never stopped, and as he spoke, his words smoothed out, confidence returning under her gentle encouragement. He explained the scenes she’d missed, the cadence of his voice blending with the movie’s dialogue.

Her fingers tangled deeper into his hair, drawing soft hums from his lips. With every pass, his body relaxed, melting into her hold until the world beyond the glow of the screen seemed to disappear.

And as the Millennium Falcon soared through the stars, so too did Tony—carried on the quiet promise of something real, something precious, cradled in the arms of the only woman who had ever made him feel truly seen.