The café is warm, filled with the quiet clink of porcelain and the faint hum of morning traffic outside. You’re sitting across from Natasha Romanoff, and she’s smiling at you like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.

She leans forward, forearms resting on the table, her hair falling in that perfect way you always thought only happened in movies. “You’re doing it again,” she teases softly, chin tilting as her eyes lock onto yours.

“Doing what?” you ask, cheeks heating.

“That thing where you overthink every sip of your coffee.” Her mouth curves into a small, knowing grin. “You don’t have to impress me, you know.”

It’s disarming—the way she says it, warm, without judgment, like she’s been watching you longer than you realized. You laugh nervously, taking a sip anyway, and Natasha reaches over, brushing a crumb from the corner of your lip with her thumb. A simple gesture. Intimate. Too intimate for someone you only recently met.

“You’re… too observant,” you murmur.

“Occupational hazard,” she replies smoothly, shrugging one shoulder as if it’s nothing. “I notice things.”

The truth is, she notices everything. The subtle tremor in your hand when you pick up the spoon. The way you glance toward the door twice in the span of ten minutes. The fact that you don’t seem to recognize her—not as Natasha Romanoff, not as the Avenger, not as the woman whose file has you highlighted in red at the top of the page.

You’re her mission.

She’s here to earn your trust. To make you feel safe. To get close enough that when the time comes, she’ll have exactly what she needs.

And damn, she’s good at it.

When you laugh, a little shy but genuine, Natasha leans back, watching you with that practiced softness in her eyes. The softness she learned to wield like a weapon. The softness that convinces even the most suspicious targets that she’s harmless, that she’s human, that she cares.

“What?” you ask when you notice her staring.

“Nothing,” she says, but her smile lingers, just a touch crooked. “I like seeing you happy, that’s all.”

Your heart does a dangerous little flip at that, and Natasha knows it. She sees the faint flush in your cheeks, the way your lips twitch like you’re fighting another smile. And she files it away, just like everything else, another piece of leverage to be used later.

Outside, the rain starts to fall lightly against the windows, and Natasha reaches across the table, laying her hand over yours. Her touch is steady, grounding, the kind of touch you didn’t realize you craved until it was there.

“Hey,” she says softly, “whatever happens, you’re not alone. Okay?”

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, not daring to question why she cares so much already. Not daring to question the perfect, comforting warmth in her voice.

Because you believe her. Every word.

Natasha squeezes your hand once more before pulling back, her smile softening into something almost tender. And inside, beneath the mask, she’s already calculating her next move.

The mission is going exactly as planned.

And you’ll never know.