The training mat was already slick with sweat when it happened. Natasha had been drilling you for nearly an hour, moving faster, hitting harder, demanding more. You were tired, your guard slipping, but you refused to call it quits — not when she was watching you so closely.

“Again,” she ordered, circling you, baton twirling loosely in her hand.

You braced, hands up, heart pounding. She lunged, quick as lightning, and you tried to counter, tried to block—

But she didn’t pull the strike fast enough.

Her baton slammed into your ribs, sharp and brutal. The breath exploded out of you in a choked gasp as pain lanced through your side. You staggered back, clutching your ribs, vision blurring.

“—Shit.” Natasha froze, eyes widening just slightly, the closest she ever got to alarm. She lowered the baton instantly. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you croaked, cutting her off. The words came out high and shaky.

Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t believe you.

But before she could press, you spun on your heel and stormed off the mat, ignoring the ache with every step, ignoring the way your chest burned just trying to breathe. You could feel her eyes on you the whole way out of the gym.

By the time you made it to your room, you were shaking. You slammed the door, leaned against it, and slid down until you were curled on the floor, pressing both hands against your side. Tears stung, hot and unwanted.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

But worse was the humiliation.

You didn’t want her to see you weak. Not Natasha Romanoff — the woman who could take down anyone without breaking a sweat, who’d been through hell and somehow come out sharper for it. If she thought you couldn’t handle one training session, she’d never look at you the same way again.

So you bit your lip, hard, and forced yourself to muffle the sobs threatening to spill out.

A knock came. Sharp. Controlled.

You stiffened.

“Open the door.” Her voice. Low, firm, with that undertone that made refusing nearly impossible.

You swallowed, not moving.

Another pause. Then softer: “Please.”

Your chest clenched. Slowly, you stood, opening the door just enough to see her.

Natasha stood there, no weapons, no armor of sarcasm. Just… watching you. Her eyes flicked over your face, down to the way you held your side, and her jaw tightened.

“I hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.

You shook your head quickly. “It’s fine, I’m fine—”

“Don’t.” Her tone cut through the air, sharper than the baton had been. Then she exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not here.”

Your throat burned. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”

For the first time since you met her, something cracked in her expression — a flash of guilt, raw and real. She stepped closer, slow enough that you could stop her if you wanted. When you didn’t, she reached out, brushing her fingers just under your chin, tilting your face toward hers.

“If you were weak,” she murmured, “you wouldn’t still be here. You wouldn’t have lasted this long with me breathing down your neck. You’re strong, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Your breath caught, ribs aching with the motion. She noticed, of course she did, and her hand fell away, replaced by a rare softness in her voice.

“I should’ve pulled the hit. That’s on me.”

You blinked, startled. “You’re… apologizing?”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips, though it didn’t hide the regret in her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

Silence settled, heavier but gentler than before. You let your door open wider, stepping back slightly. Natasha hesitated, then followed you inside.

And for the first time all day, the pain didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.