The classroom was almost silent, save for the faint scratch of Natasha’s pen across paper. The last rays of sunset spilled through the tall windows, painting the desks in gold. You lingered by the door, your heart pounding, every nerve screaming that you should turn back. But you didn’t.

Natasha looked up before you even spoke, her sharp green eyes flicking to you with the kind of attention that always made your throat tighten. She arched a brow. “You’re still here? Class ended an hour ago.”

You swallowed, stepping closer, your voice shaky but determined. “I… I need to ask you something. Something important.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with that casual elegance that made your stomach twist. “Go on.”

Your palms were damp. The words felt impossible, and yet they tumbled out in a rush. “Teach me how to make love.”

For the first time since you’d known her, Natasha froze. The pen stilled in her hand. Slowly, she set it down, folding her hands on the desk, her eyes never leaving yours.

“That,” she said softly, dangerously, “is not something you ask your teacher.”

“I know,” you whispered, your chest tight. “But I don’t trust anyone else. I don’t… I don’t want anyone else.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Natasha studied you, every flicker of emotion darting across your face. She could have laughed it off. She could have thrown you out. But instead, she rose from her chair, moving with deliberate grace until she stood before you.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me, detka?”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away. “Yes.”

She searched your eyes, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Then her lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. “If I do this… it’s on my terms. My rules. You stop me the moment it’s too much. And you understand that once we cross this line, there’s no going back. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Natasha’s hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, her thumb pausing just at the corner of your mouth. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver through your entire body.

“Then the first lesson,” she murmured, tilting her head, her breath brushing against your skin, “is patience. Making love isn’t about rushing. It’s about learning someone’s rhythm. Their limits. Their desires.” Her lips curled in that knowing smirk. “And you? You’re going to learn to listen.”

The tension wrapped around you like silk, unbroken, unbearable. She didn’t kiss you—not yet. Natasha Romanoff never gave away her power that easily. Instead, she stepped back, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“Tomorrow. After class. If you’re still sure.”

And then she was gone, leaving you trembling in the golden silence, already burning for a lesson you knew would consume you whole.