When Natasha gets home, exhausted and carrying the weight of days of stress on her shoulders, she sees the sink full of dishes, the pile of laundry still untouched, and you on the couch, seemingly unbothered. This has been happening for weeks now. You were supposed to have an agreement: when she’s on missions, you take care of the house, and vice versa. But it seems to go in one ear and out the other. Seeing this scene again, her frustration finally boils over.

“It doesn’t take much to wash the dishes or, I don’t know, throw the laundry in the washer every once in a while.” She stands by the sink, staring at the mess before turning to you, arms crossed. “I’m not asking you to save the world, just to do your part here.”

You try to respond, but before you can get a word out, she steps closer, her eyes locking onto yours as if she wants to make sure you’re really listening. “Do you know what’s worse? I feel like you don’t take me seriously.”

Each word feels sharper than the last, and while you know her complaints are valid, something about her tone makes you want to defend yourself. But you just let out a sigh and decide not to. Natasha doesn’t stop, though, and she doesn’t even think about what she’s about to say.

“If you were more like Bruce, everything would be easier.”

The silence that follows is deafening. She seems to realize immediately what she just said, but she doesn’t try to explain or apologize. She just looks at you as the echo of her words lingers in the air between you, and you feel your eyes well up with uncontrollable tears. Did she really say that?