Romanoff knows something is wrong before anyone says it out loud.

Missions run late. People go dark. It happens. But a day passes. Then two. Then four. His comm never comes back online. No signal. No body. No proof — and that’s the worst part.

By day five, the team stops offering reassurance.

Natasha doesn’t.

She works harder instead. Sleeps less. Replays the mission footage frame by frame, memorizing every shadow and exit. She snaps at anyone who suggests waiting. Fury tells her they’re doing everything they can. She nods, sharp and silent, already planning what she’ll do if they aren’t fast enough.

He’s not just her boyfriend. He’s her constant. The one who knows when to push and when to stay quiet. The one who sees her without asking her to explain. Losing him — not knowing — feels like being suspended over a drop with no ground in sight.

On the sixth day, they find a lead.

A HYDRA facility buried deep and quiet. Too quiet.

Natasha is the first through the doors.

They find him alive — barely — restrained and unconscious, evidence of days spent holding on through sheer stubborn will. Natasha is at his side instantly, hands shaking despite her control, calling his name like it’s a lifeline. He doesn’t answer, but he breathes. That’s enough to keep her standing.

She doesn’t leave him.

Not when medics take over. Not when they move him to safety. Not when the adrenaline fades and the fear finally hits. She stays close, fingers curled around his hand, grounding herself in the warmth that proves he’s real.

Back at the base, she keeps vigil.

When he finally wakes, it’s quiet. Disoriented. His eyes find her first. They always do. Natasha doesn’t speak — she just leans forward, pressing her forehead gently to his, breathing him in like she’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

“You scared me,” she says softly, voice tight. Not angry. Not accusing. Just honest.

Later, when he’s stronger, she admits the truth she never says out loud.

That the waiting was worse than any fight. That not knowing nearly broke her. That she cannot — will not — lose him again.

She doesn’t cry. Natasha Romanoff rarely does.

But she holds him like she came within inches of a world she never wants to see again — and like she’s grateful beyond words that she doesn’t have to.