You really hadn’t meant to do it. Scrolling through your professor’s Instagram late at night was a dangerous game to begin with. Natasha Romanoff didn’t post much, but when she did… it was impossible not to linger. That sharp line of her jaw. The way she carried herself like she owned every room she walked into, even in still photographs.

It was one in the morning when your thumb slipped. A red heart blinked alive on a photo from two months ago. Natasha in a navy pantsuit, hair tied back, smirking at something out of frame.

Your heart stopped. You panicked, immediately unliking it, but the damage was done. Notifications didn’t forget. And you… well. You barely slept that night, already dreading the next day.

When you entered her lecture hall the following afternoon, Natasha Romanoff was already there, standing at the front of the room with her notes in hand. And she was wearing the suit. The exact one. Navy blue, tailored sharp, the faint sheen of silk lining catching the light.

She didn’t look at you immediately. She let you suffer, finding your seat with shaky hands, the back of your neck burning.

But then — her eyes lifted from the page, found yours across the room.

And she smiled. Not the polite, professional smile she gave everyone else. Something slower. Something that said she knew.

“Afternoon,” Natasha began, her voice smooth, casual. “I trust you all did the reading.”

The class mumbled, shuffled, nodded. You just tried not to visibly combust.

Her lecture went on as normal — or at least it looked normal to anyone else. But every so often, her gaze would flick to you. Holding. Waiting.

At one point, she moved across the room, leaning against the edge of her desk. The suit jacket shifted, hugging her shoulders just so. She crossed her legs deliberately, then looked up and caught you staring.

“Miss {{user}},” she said suddenly, voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Your head snapped up. “Yes, Professor?”

“Do you find this subject matter… distracting?” Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at her lips.

You swallowed hard. “No. Not at all.”

“Good.” She let the word hang there, her gaze lingering a second too long before returning to her notes.

The rest of the class was a blur. You barely processed the material. The only thing you could focus on was the fact that Natasha Romanoff had gone out of her way to put on that suit. For you. For your mistake.

When the lecture finally ended, the other students filed out, voices echoing down the hallway. You lingered, stuffing your notebook slowly into your bag, trying to buy yourself courage.

Natasha’s voice drifted over, low, deliberate. “You should be more careful with what you ‘like,’ Miss {{user}}.”

Your head shot up. She was watching you, arms crossed, the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, I know,” she cut in smoothly, stepping closer. The click of her heels echoed in the empty room. “Accidents happen. But sometimes… accidents reveal more than intentions.”

She stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could smell her perfume — subtle, clean, with a bite of spice beneath.

Her smirk curved wider. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you liked it.”

And then she brushed past you, leaving the lecture hall without another word, the sharp line of her suit jacket disappearing through the door.

You stood frozen, heart racing, mind spinning.

Because Natasha Romanoff had seen everything. And instead of ignoring it—she’d chosen to play with fire.