Natasha Romanoff is already angry when you find her.

She stands just outside the safehouse, the night cold and sharp, a cigarette burning between her fingers like a challenge. Blood stains her knuckles—not all of it hers—and her eyes cut to you the second you step close enough to smell the smoke.

“You’re late,” she says flatly, exhaling to the side. She knows you hate it. She does it anyway.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” you snap back before you can stop yourself. “Not after a mission like that.”

That finally gets her attention. Natasha turns fully toward you, slow and deliberate, closing the distance until the argument has nowhere to go. Her voice drops, dangerous and low. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

The air crackles—anger, adrenaline, something darker. You’re both still riding the fight, still vibrating with everything you didn’t say in the field. She flicks ash to the ground, eyes searching your face like she’s daring you to push again.

“You always look at me like that,” she murmurs. “Like you’re trying to decide if I’m worth saving… or fighting.”

She’s too close now. The cigarette forgotten. The line between teammate and enemy blurring with every breath.

“So,” Natasha adds quietly, eyes locked on yours, “which one are you going to choose tonight?”