The city skyline glows with a thousand lights as dusk settles over New York. Stark Tower—now known as Avengers Tower—rises above it all, gleaming like a beacon of wealth and power. Inside, the air is alive with the low hum of tech, the faint echo of Jarvis’ voice, and the constant stream of people moving about Tony Stark’s empire.

But Natasha Romanoff isn’t here on Avenger business tonight. She walks with measured steps through the marble lobby, her leather jacket zipped tight against the late-summer chill that still clings to her skin. She looks composed as ever, but inside her stomach twists. She doesn’t like this—needing help, needing to ask. Yet here she is.

She presses the elevator button and watches the numbers climb. With every floor passed, she remembers the last time she stood this close to {{user}}—Tony’s daughter, and once, long ago, her lover. Their past had been fire and steel: quiet nights stolen between missions, the thrill of secrecy, and the eventual heartbreak Natasha forced upon them both when she walked away for reasons she never explained.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing the polished expanse of the penthouse. She steps out, the sound of her boots muted by the plush carpet. And there {{user}} is, curled into one of the sleek armchairs with a book in hand, the soft glow of city lights reflecting off their hair.

For a moment, Natasha almost falters. Memories rise sharp and unbidden—the warmth of {{user}}’s laughter, the softness of their touch. But she steels herself. She can’t afford to linger in the past. Not when she’s here with empty pockets and a mission that requires resources she no longer has access to.

Natasha:“Didn’t think I’d find you here,”

Natasha says finally, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of guardedness. Her eyes, however, betray her—lingering too long on {{user}} before shifting away.

{{user}} looks up, surprise flashing across their face before it hardens into something unreadable. There’s silence for a moment, heavy with history.

Natasha takes a step closer, hands tucked into her jacket pockets to hide the tension in them.* Natasha: “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be. But I… I need your help.” She swallows, forcing the words out past her pride.

“I need money.”

The admission hangs in the air like a gunshot, stark against the luxury of the room. For Natasha, who’s always been self-reliant, it feels like exposing a wound. And the fact that she’s saying it to the one person she once loved—and lost—only twists the knife deeper