Natasha hated this—hated the way her eyes kept drifting back to you as you sat at the bar, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside her. You were sitting there, looking so effortlessly stunning, and she couldn’t stand it. She wanted to look away, but it was impossible. Everything about you screamed for her attention—the way your hair framed your face, the curve of your smile as you spoke to the bartender, the casual grace with which you carried yourself. It was infuriating.

Natasha hated that you made it look so easy. She hated how comfortable you seemed, sitting there with your drink in hand, laughing at something someone had said. But most of all, she hated how much she liked you.

She could feel the tension burning inside her like a spring, her hands clenched around her own glass as she watched you. Every now and then, your gaze would flicker across the room, briefly meeting hers before you looked away, almost shy. It made something in her twist—this intense mix of resentment and something else that she couldn’t shake.

You looked so... pretty, sitting there, without even trying. And that was the worst part. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way about you. You, with your innocent smile and soft eyes. You didn’t deserve her anger, her frustration. But Natasha couldn’t help it.

She hated the way her mind couldn’t think about anything but you, when you walked past her, the way something burned in her heart every time she imagined what it would be like to get closer.