Chapter 11
“Boss, you have a meeting in ten minutes.” FRIDAY’s voice cut through the warm cocoon of their bed, and Tony’s grip on Natasha tightened reflexively.
“No, I don’t,” he mumbled into her chest, the sound muffled by the soft fabric of his MIT hoodie. His lips grazed her skin, and he burrowed deeper, like a man trying to merge with her entirely.
“It’s urgent,” FRIDAY insisted, the AI’s tone as close to exasperated as a program could get.
Tony only groaned in response, his body a dead weight on top of Natasha’s. “Don’t care.”
“It’s very urgent.”
“Tell them I died,” he grumbled, his fingers curling under her hoodie, palms pressed to the bare skin of her waist. The coolness of his hands drew a shiver from Natasha, and he grinned against her.
Natasha groaned, the sound more of a whine. “Can’t you just... not?”
“I’d love nothing more,” he sighed, nuzzling into her again. “You’re much more important.”
She smirked, her hands finding his messy hair, brushing through the strands. “You say that now. Wait until Pepper calls.”
He huffed, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ll fire her.”
“You’d never.”
“I would.” His lips pressed an innocent kiss to her collarbone. “For you? Absolutely.”
“Liar.” She pinched his ear lightly, making him squirm.
“Fine,” he relented, lifting his head and giving her the most pitiful look. His hair stuck up in wild directions, his eyes bleary with sleep. “I really have to go?”
“Yes,” FRIDAY confirmed.
“Betrayed by my own creation,” he muttered. With a resigned sigh, he untangled himself from Natasha, lifting his weight off her slowly. She reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing his sides as if to tether him back to her.
“Rude,” she pouted, lips forming a soft, dissatisfied curve.
“I know.” He sat back on his knees, straddling her hips. The loss of his warmth sent a chill over her, and she crossed her arms over her chest, more for comfort than modesty.
“Work calls.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, her eyes narrowing. “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
He hesitated, guilt flashing across his expression. “I could—”
“Go,” she interrupted, the edge softening as she reached up to cup his cheek. She drew him down just enough to press a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Before FRIDAY calls in reinforcements.”
“Right.” His shoulders sagged, but he didn’t move to get up just yet. His thumb traced a small circle on her hip, a gentle, grounding touch. “You sure?”
Natasha rolled her eyes, a fondness hidden in the motion. “I’ll still be here when you’re done.”
He exhaled, some tension easing from his frame. “Promise?”
“Promise.” She pushed lightly on his chest, giving him a teasing shove. “Now, go. Before I change my mind and make you stay.”
The smirk that tugged at his lips was full of promise. “I might hold you to that.”
“Tony.”
“Okay, okay.” He finally peeled himself away, sliding off the bed with a stretch that made his back pop. He ran a hand through his hair, doing nothing to tame it, before he grabbed a discarded t-shirt off the floor.
Natasha watched him move, something warm and unfamiliar unfurling in her chest. She didn’t say anything, just let herself enjoy the sight of him—comfortable, real, hers.
Before he slipped out the door, he shot her one last look over his shoulder. “Don’t miss me too much.”
She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing as he ducked into the hallway.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, Natasha settled back into the blankets, the warmth of him lingering in the space he’d left behind.
~~~
Natasha lay in bed, staring at the ceiling long after Tony had left. The warmth of his body had faded, leaving only the cool sheets and the faint scent of him lingering on the pillow. She groaned, the sound muffled as she buried her face into his side of the bed, inhaling the comforting mix of his cologne and sleep. It would have been so easy to close her eyes and drift back into that half-dream state where he was still there, tangled up with her, but FRIDAY’s interruption had shattered the illusion. Begrudgingly, she threw the covers off, the chill of the room biting against her skin as she sat up. Her hair was a tousled mess, and she didn't bother fixing it as she moved through the motions of getting dressed. She chose a matching black Lululemon set—a tight jacket with nothing but a lace bra underneath and equally snug yoga pants that hugged every curve. The fabric stretched as she slipped on her running shoes, her movements methodical, almost mechanical. She needed to move, needed to shake off the unsettling sense of incompleteness that lingered in Tony’s absence.
Natasha tied her shoes with quick, practiced motions, the rhythm of it grounding. She slipped in her headphones, the hum of music immediately dulling the edges of her thoughts. Her playlist started with something heavy, a beat that matched the rapid thud of her heart as she stepped into the hallway. The compound was quiet at this hour, the kind of stillness that made every footfall sound too loud. She didn’t bother with a warm-up—her body was always on the brink of motion, always ready. She took off at a run, her feet hitting the path with steady, relentless strides. Each step jarred through her bones, a welcome discomfort that pulled her focus from the empty bed behind her. The early morning air bit at her skin, sharp and bracing, and her breath plumed in front of her, misting the air. Her legs burned, muscles protesting as she pushed herself harder, faster. It wasn’t enough to distract her. Nothing was.
She ran until her lungs burned and her muscles trembled. When the ache turned from sharp to dull, she circled back to the compound’s gym. The facility was pristine, stocked with state-of-the-art equipment and enough space to handle even the Avengers’ most intense training sessions. Natasha barely spared the room a glance as she moved to the weights. Her body fell into the routine with the kind of precision that only years of training could forge. Squats, lunges, deadlifts—each movement deliberate and punishing. Sweat beaded along her hairline, trickling down the back of her neck and soaking into the fabric of her jacket. Her reflection in the mirrored wall looked as haunted as she felt, green eyes darkened with frustration and something far too close to longing. She could still feel the weight of Tony on top of her, his warmth seeping into her bones. The way he’d nuzzled into her chest, so at ease, so vulnerable—it was a memory that clung to her like a bruise.
Natasha moved to the sparring mats, slipping her gloves on and wrapping her hands with practiced ease. She began with jabs, light at first, then harder, each punch echoing in the empty gym. She pictured an opponent in front of her, some faceless figure to take the brunt of her frustration. But every time she swung, every time her fists made contact, it was Tony’s face that flashed through her mind. Not as a target—never that—but as a distraction. His smile, his laugh, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Her punches grew erratic, her focus splintering. She cursed under her breath, the sound swallowed by the thud of her fists against the bag. The session did little to calm her. If anything, it only left her more restless.
She tried meditation next, settling onto the cool floor of her room. She crossed her legs, rested her hands on her knees, and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed, each inhale and exhale a steady metronome. She focused on the rise and fall of her chest, on the feeling of the floor beneath her, solid and unyielding. But as soon as she slipped into that quiet place, Tony’s face surfaced behind her eyelids. This time, it wasn’t just his face—it was the curve of his shoulders, the lean lines of his torso, the way his skin had felt against hers. Her cheeks flushed, and she snapped her eyes open, the stillness shattered. Meditation was a lost cause.
Reading didn’t help either. She pulled a book off Tony’s shelf, something dense and scientific that should have required all her attention. But every sentence reminded her of him, of the way he’d read to her late at night when neither of them could sleep. His voice, soft and steady, had made even the most mundane topics sound fascinating. She threw the book aside, frustration curling in her gut. It was like he’d left traces of himself everywhere, haunting her in the daylight just as much as in the quiet hours of the night.
With nothing else to occupy her mind, she decided to binge-watch the Star Wars movies. The first time they’d watched them together, she’d spent more time watching Tony than the screen. His excitement had been contagious, his explanations a whirlwind of lore and passion. She hadn’t absorbed much of the plot, too enamored with the way his eyes lit up and how his hands moved as he spoke. This time, she would pay attention—for him.
Hours bled together, the light outside dimming as she worked her way through the series. Natasha lay curled on the couch, the remote loosely gripped in her hand as the final movie played. Her eyes were heavy, exhaustion tugging at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Not when every blaster shot and every lightsaber hum felt like a thread connecting her to Tony.
It was almost three in the morning when the door opened, and Tony stepped inside. His black and white suit looked like it had been through hell—the vest rumpled, the tie hanging undone around his neck, and his jacket barely hanging off his shoulders. His hair was a mess, dark circles etched under his eyes, but he froze when he saw her. His shoes thudded against the floor as he toed them off, the sound jarring in the quiet room. His fingers moved to the lapels of his jacket, ready to shrug it off, but Natasha was already on her feet.
She reached him in a few quick strides, her movements smooth and precise despite the long hours. Her hands slipped under the jacket, her fingers brushing the heat of his skin as she helped him peel the fabric away. His expression softened, the surprise giving way to something warmer, something unguarded. He let her take the weight of the jacket, his arms falling limply to his sides as he watched her with a mix of exhaustion and adoration. She could see it in the way his lips quirked into a small, tired smile, in the way his shoulders sagged as if finally allowing himself to relax. The jacket slipped from her fingers, pooling on the floor between them, and she hesitated, her eyes searching his. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to—the way he looked at her was enough.
“Nat?”
Tony’s lips twitched into a smirk as he registered the familiar opening crawl of Star Wars. “Are you watching Star Wars?” His sarcasm was light, teasing, but as he processed it—really understood that she’d chosen his comfort movie—his expression softened.
“What, you think I just sit around and stare at the wall when you’re gone?” Natasha quipped, her voice smooth and sharp. She didn’t turn to face him, but he could hear the smirk in her tone. “I had to find something to do.”
“Oh, so you’re a sci-fi nerd now?” He stepped forward, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair.
“Please.” She finally turned to look at him, one brow arched, arms crossing over her chest. “If anything, I’m studying. Trying to understand what makes you tick.”
Tony chuckled, shaking his head. “All this for me? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be.” Natasha took another step closer, her fingers already reaching for his tie. “You owe me for making me sit through all these weird space politics.”
His breath hitched as she tugged the tie loose, her nimble fingers brushing against his collarbone. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh, I know.” She undid the buttons of his vest one by one, her touch deliberate yet casual. “Starting with letting me take care of this mess.”
Her hands slipped beneath the vest, easing it off his shoulders. Tony let it happen, his expression softening as she folded it neatly and set it aside. “Thank you,” he murmured, a quiet sincerity in his voice. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.
Natasha’s lips curled into a smirk. “A gentleman? I must really be special.”
“More than special.” His hands found her waist, fingers grazing the sleek fabric of her jacket. “You’re... you’re kind of everything.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the way her cheeks tinted pink. “You’re lucky I like you, Stark.”
“Like me?” His hands tightened slightly, pulling her just a little closer. “You sure you don’t love me?”
“Keep dreaming.” She shot back, but her voice was softer, the words lacking their usual bite.
“Every night.” He smirked, his thumbs tracing slow circles on her waist.
Before she could respond, her expression shifted. The playful edge dulled, giving way to something softer. Natasha’s arms slipped around his torso, pulling him against her. She pressed her cheek to his chest, her hold on him unwavering as if afraid he might disappear.
Tony’s reaction was instant. His arms enveloped her, drawing her into the warmth of his embrace. His chin rested atop her head, and he let his lips brush against her hair—a silent promise of safety. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice gentle.
“Hi,” she breathed back, the sound muffled against his chest.
They stood there for a while, wrapped in the quiet of the moment. His fingers wove into the hair at the nape of her neck, and he felt her relax against him, her shoulders losing their tension. He matched his breathing to hers, grounding them both.
Eventually, Natasha pulled back just enough to look up at him, her arms still looped around his waist. “Did you eat anything today?”
“I’m okay.” His lips quirked into a half-smile. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I’m not asking.” She raised an eyebrow, a spark of mischief returning to her expression. “I’m cooking for you.”
“Nat, you don’t have to—”
“Tony.” She cut him off, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of his dress shirt. “It’s only fair. You take care of me all the time. Let me return the favor.”
“I don’t want you to go out of your way.” He hesitated, the weight of the day still pressing down on him. “You should rest.”
She huffed, exasperated but with a playful glint in her eyes. “Please?”
He blinked, the word threading through him with a surprising force. “Okay.” His voice was small, almost shy. “If you really want to.”
Her face lit up, the rare and genuine brightness of her smile sending a pleasant warmth through his chest. Without warning, she launched herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.
He laughed, the sound vibrating between them as he tightened his hold around her. “You’re kind of incredible, you know that?”
She hummed, the noise a soft, contented vibration against his skin. “I know.”
Natasha’s fingers moved deftly to the buttons of Tony’s dress shirt, undoing each with practiced ease. The fabric parted, revealing his skin beneath, the faint marks of a long day still evident in the lines of his shoulders and the soft rise and fall of his chest. She nudged the shirt off his arms, folding it neatly with the rest of his suit. Her touch remained gentle as she guided him to the couch, her hands brushing over his belt buckle before she slid it free, folding it just as meticulously.
“Sit,” she said softly, her voice a blend of command and care. Tony obeyed, sinking into the cushions as if they might swallow him whole. His eyes stayed on her, a mix of curiosity and exhaustion.
When she poured him a glass of whiskey into a crystal tumbler, the amber liquid catching the dim light, he accepted it with both hands. “Thank you,” he said, his voice carrying a weight of gratitude. It was as if every little act of kindness she offered unraveled him further.
Natasha only nodded, slipping into the kitchen. She moved with a purpose, gathering ingredients for a 30-minute chicken noodle soup. She knew Tony well enough to recognize he wouldn’t have the patience for a long meal, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him slipping away from her, even if just to retreat into his own thoughts.
She set a pot on the stove, the rhythm of her knife against the cutting board steady as she chopped carrots, celery, and tender chicken. Broth simmered, filling the room with a warmth that rivaled the glow of the television still playing in the living room.
Lost in the motion, she didn’t hear him approach until he was already leaning against a support beam. His whiskey glass was still half-full, the crystal reflecting the amber hues as he cradled it against his chest.
A soft hum slipped past Natasha’s lips, a gentle melody that mingled with the sound of the bubbling broth. It was something sweet and familiar, but as soon as she realized Tony was there, she cut off abruptly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“Hey, don’t stop,” he nearly whined, a playful edge to his tone. His expression, however, was completely sincere. “It was… nice.”
She shifted, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He took a step forward, a bit unsteady, as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between them. His eyes, however, were clear, focused entirely on her. “Please?”
Her lips twitched, the corner of her mouth pulling into a small, reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”
“I know.” His smile widened, the earlier weariness giving way to something softer. “You love it.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she nudged him toward the kitchen island, guiding him to sit on the countertop. Tony perched there, his feet dangling just above the floor, looking for all the world like a kid at storytime.
He didn’t say much as she cooked, simply watching her. His fingers wrapped around his glass, but he only sipped it occasionally. His eyes tracked the way she moved, the delicate way she stirred the pot, the brief moments when she’d hum under her breath.
As the soup began to come together, Natasha moved to his side. She dipped a spoon into the broth, blowing gently to cool it before holding it up to his lips. “Taste.”
Tony leaned forward, his lips brushing the spoon. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise as the flavor hit his tongue. “Wow.”
“What?” She raised an eyebrow, already expecting one of his quips.
“It’s… different,” he said, the honesty in his voice cutting through the usual layer of sarcasm. “Everything else you’ve made was good, but this? This is really good.”
She gave him a look, a mixture of skepticism and amusement. “Are you saying my cooking is usually bad?”
“No, no.” He shook his head quickly, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “I’m saying it’s usually… professional. Like eating in a high-end restaurant. It’s perfect but kind of... sterile.”
“Sterile?” She couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine sound that filled the room.
“Yeah.” He shifted, setting his glass aside so he could focus entirely on her. “This tastes like… you.”
Her laughter died down, leaving a soft, warm silence in its place. “You say the weirdest things.”
“But I mean them.” His fingers found the edge of her sleeve, playing with the fabric absentmindedly. “It’s good. It’s really good.”
She hummed, a soft sound of acknowledgment. “Well, if you’re nice, maybe I’ll cook for you more often.”
“Oh, I can be very nice.” His voice dropped, the words carrying a promise that had nothing to do with food.
“Is that so?” Natasha’s voice was smooth, a challenge wrapped in silk. She stirred the soup, the spoon scraping gently against the bottom of the pot as the broth began to simmer.
Tony’s lips curled, the promise in his eyes more potent than any seasoning she could add. “I can show you, you know. Might need some encouragement, though.”
Natasha shot him a sideways glance, the arch of her brow a perfect mirror to the smirk on her lips. “You need encouragement to behave? That’s new.”
“Well, if I’m gonna be nice, I might as well get something out of it.” He leaned back against the counter, his legs swinging lazily as he watched her, his expression an intoxicating mix of mischief and genuine affection.
“Yeah?” She leaned into him, her shoulder brushing his. “And what exactly do you want, Stark?”
He pretended to think about it, his lips pursed as if the answer wasn’t already written all over his face. “I’d settle for a kiss. Or maybe you could sing for me again.”
Natasha rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re annoying.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Close enough.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest.
As the soup began to boil and the water for the pasta started to bubble, Natasha pulled back. “We should change while this finishes.”
Tony groaned, his head tipping back dramatically. “Nat, I’m too lazy.”
Her glare was immediate, sharp enough to cut through his theatrics. “Now.”
He straightened with a whine, dragging his feet as he moved toward his room. “You’re such a hard-ass.”
“You love it.” She shot back, her smirk never fading.
“I tolerate it,” he mimicked, earning another pointed look.
Tony shuffled away, his straight-leg trousers hanging just slightly off his hips, the waistband dipping low enough to reveal a tempting sliver of skin. Natasha’s gaze lingered, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his back. But it was the scars—those pale, uneven lines scattered across his skin—that pulled her out of her admiration. Her smirk faltered, replaced by a softness she didn’t often let show.
When they met back in the kitchen, Natasha wore one of Tony’s AC/DC shirts, the faded black fabric draping over her frame. He hadn’t realized she’d taken it, but seeing her in it now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. The shirt hung just above a pair of black spandex shorts, the snug material clinging to her thighs and highlighting the curve of her hips.
Tony, on the other hand, had swapped his suit for a tight black compression tank top that hugged his torso, the fabric stretching over the hard planes of his chest. His arc reactor glowed faintly through the material, a soft blue halo against his skin. He paired the top with retro early 2000s Nike windbreaker pants, the baggy silhouette a stark contrast to the fitted shirt. His feet were clad in black Nike socks, the casual look somehow making him even more endearing.
Natasha’s lips quirked up as she took him in. “Looking good, Stark.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, flexing just enough to make her roll her eyes. “I could say the same, but it looks like my wardrobe’s shrinking.”
“Oh?” She moved past him, brushing close enough to make his breath hitch. “I could return your shirt if you want.”
“Absolutely not.” He shot her a pointed look, his eyes raking over her with unabashed appreciation. “It’s yours now.”
She hummed, a pleased sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Good. I like this one.”
Tony’s smirk widened, his teeth catching on his bottom lip as he took a step closer. “I like you in that one.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He mirrored her hum, the sound deep and resonant. “You look better in it than I ever did.”
Natasha’s lips parted, a soft laugh escaping before she could hold it back. “You sure about that? You fill out a black tank T-shirt pretty well.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, his smile turning wicked. “Careful, Romanoff. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms as she arched a brow. “Good. I plan on going everywhere.”
Tony’s smirk softened into something genuine. “You know, you really are amazing.”
Natasha blinked, a bit thrown by the sudden sincerity. “Oh yeah? What brought this on?”
He shrugged, his smile small but warm. “Just you. You make everything look easy—even putting up with me.”
She opened her mouth, no doubt ready with a retort, but instead, she just shook her head, a rare, bashful smile curving her lips. “You’re not so bad yourself, Stark.”
With that, she turned back to the stove, ladling generous portions of the soup into two bowls. The steam curled in the air, the rich aroma filling the kitchen as she moved with practiced ease. She handed him his bowl, her fingers brushing against his, and nudged him back toward the living room.
“C’mon. Movie’s not gonna finish itself.”
He let her guide him, her hand firm on his back as she steered him to the couch. They settled in, Natasha curling into his side as they ate in comfortable silence. The final Star Wars movie played on, the glow of the screen washing over them, but neither seemed too invested in the plot.
Tony finished his first bowl quickly, his appetite surprising even himself. When he went back for seconds—and then thirds—Natasha’s expression shifted into something proud, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of her lips. She stole his fourth glass of whiskey, smirking over the rim of the crystal glass as she sipped, and he didn’t have the heart to protest.
By the time the credits rolled, both their bowls were empty, and the bottle of whiskey was dangerously low. Natasha clicked off the TV, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The room settled into a quiet that felt delicate, like the wrong word could shatter it.
“When you had that urgent meeting today...” Natasha’s voice broke the silence, quiet and careful. “It made me mad I couldn’t go with you.”
Tony chuckled, the sound soft and a bit rough from the whiskey. “You wanted to sit in a room full of suits while I argued about funding and tech specs? You must be bored.”
She didn’t laugh. Instead, her expression remained fixed, her brows drawing together in a way that made his chest tighten.
“Nat?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I just... I hate feeling useless. Like I’m stuck waiting around while you handle everything.”
The levity drained from his face, and he pulled back just enough to take her glass, setting it gently on the coffee table. He straightened, turning to face her fully, his hands resting on his knees as he cleared his throat.
“I was gonna do this over dinner,” he began, his voice steady but his hands fidgeting with the hem of his tank. “But I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
Natasha’s gaze sharpened, her body tensing as if bracing for impact.
“Today’s meeting...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It was about you.”
Her breath hitched, but she stayed silent.
“I convinced Fury that this whole time you’ve been a triple agent. That you were secretly working with me, and everything with Cap’s team was just a ruse.”
Her eyes widened, a spark of disbelief flaring to life. “Tony—”
“I lied.” He raised a hand, halting her. “But it was the only way. I thought... I thought it’d be better this way. I wanted to tell you over a nice dinner or something, but... Nat, you’re a free woman. You’re an Avenger again.”
Her lips parted, the words taking a moment to sink in. When they did, her expression shifted—shock, joy, a flicker of uncertainty. She managed a weak snicker. “You really pulled off a triple-agent story, huh?”
He grinned, but it was gentle, a quiet kind of pride in his eyes. “I had a good inspiration.”
She let out a breath, the sound shaky. Then, before he could react, she threw her arms around him, hugging him so tightly his ribs ached. “Thank you. God, Tony, thank you. I don’t—”
Her voice cracked, and she buried her face into his chest, her words muffled against his shirt. “I’m still so sorry. For what I did. For choosing Steve. For betraying you. I can’t—sometimes I can’t even look at myself because I remember how much I hurt you.”
He pulled back just enough to cup her face, his thumbs brushing away the dampness at the corners of her eyes. “Natasha, it’s okay. I’ve forgiven you. Hell, I trust you more than anyone on this planet.”
Her breath shuddered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”
His lips quirked up, soft and a bit sad. “Funny. I was just thinking I’m the lucky one. I mean, seriously—how did I hit the jackpot with you?”
She chuckled, a wet, broken sound. “You didn’t hit the jackpot. You should find someone better.”
He rolled his eyes, a spark of his usual sass slipping through. “Oh, yeah? Who, exactly? You got a list of applicants?”
Her snide smirk returned, the expression grounding them both. “If you so much as look at someone else, I’ll break their legs.”
“Noted.” His voice dipped, playful. “Good thing I’ve got no intention of letting you go. Unless, of course, you ask me to.”
She narrowed her eyes, but there was a glimmer of warmth behind them. “And if I never ask?”
His fingers tightened on her waist, pulling her closer. “Then I’m never letting you go.”
Natasha bit her lip, but the smile she couldn’t hide was all the answer he needed.