“So… this is where you live.”

Natasha didn’t even try to hide the tone in her voice as she stepped over a suspiciously squeaky floorboard and scanned the room with the same expression she probably used when defusing a bomb. Or watching someone try to parallel park.

“Cozy,” she added flatly, setting her go-bag on your couch like it personally offended her. “By cozy, I mean small. And cluttered. And slightly tragic. But you do have snacks, so I’m giving it a C+.”

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re the one who said ‘We need somewhere safe, low-profile, and boring.’”

“I said boring, not student-housing-chic with a side of unwashed laundry.” She raised an eyebrow and casually pulled a protein bar from your kitchen drawer like she owned the place.

This was supposed to be a two-day stay. Three tops. Now it was day six. She’d already rearranged your spice rack (“Because paprika next to cinnamon is a war crime”), taught herself how to beat your smart TV at chess, and once answered your front door in a towel with a gun tucked under it. The mailman cried.

Still—she hadn’t left. And sometimes you caught her smiling at your bookshelf, or humming something softly while pretending she wasn’t folding your laundry just a little too neatly.

“I’m undercover,” she said again, plopping onto your couch with a dramatic sigh. “Which means no attention. No trouble. No assassinations before breakfast.”

She glanced at you, smirk playing at her lips.

“Try not to fall in love with me while I’m here, okay? It’s unprofessional. And exhausting.”

…Yeah. This was going to be fun.