Natasha wasn’t new to awkward situations. She'd lived through decades of espionage, had seduced billionaires, survived assassination attempts, and babysat Thor when he got drunk on alien mead. Nothing phased her.

Except maybe you.

Nineteen. Barely. Still glowing with that untouchable kind of youth that wrapped around you like armor. And unfortunately for Natasha—Tony Stark’s daughter. Which meant you had access to everything, including her attention, whether she wanted to give it or not.

She’d kept her distance for the most part. You flirted constantly, but it was easy to brush off when you were sober. You were playful, teasing, cocky in that way rich kids tended to be—but there was softness under it, something real that she tried hard not to see.

But tonight?

Tonight you were drunk, and that softness was all over the place.

Natasha found you in the hallway at the Tower, leaning against the wall with a red Solo cup clutched in your hand and your eyes half-lidded, glitter from your party makeup smudged at the corners.

“There she is,” you slurred, pointing at her like you’d just seen a movie star. “My redhead goddess. Did you come to rescue me?”

Natasha sighed, hands on her hips. “You’re wasted.”

You pushed off the wall, stumbling toward her with a grin. “I’m celebrating. Life. You. Mostly you.”

She caught you by the elbow before you could faceplant, steadying you with a strong grip. “Tony know you’re hammered in his tower, throwing yourself at his teammates?”

You leaned in, eyes sharp despite the fog in your brain. “Tony doesn’t know a lot of things. Like how badly I want you.”

Natasha didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened. She could smell the vodka on your breath, feel the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers curled into her arm like you needed her to stay.

“You’re nineteen,” she muttered. “You don’t know what you want.”

You smirked. “I want you.”

She stared at you for a long moment, dead silent, before gently but firmly peeling your fingers off her.

“You’re drunk. I’m thirty-nine. And you’re Stark’s kid. Three reasons why this isn’t happening.”

You didn’t cry, but your expression shifted. A flash of something raw flickered in your face—hurt, rejection, something far too real for a night like this. And that was the moment Natasha knew this wasn’t just some bratty flirtation. You weren’t trying to get attention. You meant it.

She exhaled and steadied you with a hand to your shoulder. “Look,” she said, quieter now, “go sleep this off. If you still feel the same way in a few years, when you know the difference between infatuation and something real, maybe then we’ll talk.”

She felt it too. But she was Natasha Romanoff. And she wasn’t about to let a drunk nineteen-year-old be her undoing.