Dating Natasha Romanoff isn’t a fairytale.

It’s late nights where she doesn’t ask where you’ve been, because she trusts you—but she notices the way your eyes don’t meet hers when you come through the door. It’s learning her brand of patience: silent, steady, watchful, like a cat who’ll sit outside your locked door for hours without knocking, but won’t leave.

Tonight, you’re in that space again.

The one where your thoughts spiral too loud to hear anything else, where your skin feels like it’s buzzing, where the idea of being seen—even by her—feels like too much. You didn’t mean to shut her out. You just… needed the quiet.

You hear the door click open anyway.

Natasha leans against the frame, wearing sweatpants and one of your old T-shirts. Her hair’s down, a little messy, like she’s been pacing or running her hands through it. She doesn’t say your name right away. She just looks at you, curled up on the couch, knees tucked under your chin.

“Are we fighting?” she asks finally, voice calm but threaded with something else.

“No,” you mumble. “I just… need space.”

She tilts her head. “Space from me?”

You hesitate, hating the way the answer lodges in your throat. “Sometimes I’m… too much. I don’t wanna—”

“Bother me?” she cuts in, sharp but quiet.

You nod, and her jaw tightens. Not in anger. In hurt.

“Here’s the thing, detka,” she says, crossing the room to sit beside you. “You don’t get to decide what’s ‘too much’ for me. That’s my choice. And if I’m here, it’s because I want to be here.”

You shift uncomfortably. “You don’t understand. My brain—”

“I understand more than you think,” she interrupts, softer now. “I’ve lived a lot of years convincing myself no one could handle my mess. You know what I learned? The people who want to stay… they stay.”

You stare at your hands, unsure what to say.

Natasha reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You can have space, lyubimaya. I’ll give you that. But don’t confuse space with distance. I’m not going anywhere. Even when you think I should.”

Something in your chest loosens at that.

You lean into her, just enough for your shoulder to press against hers. She doesn’t comment. She just sits there with you, breathing the same air, letting the silence stretch without snapping it.

And for the first time in days, it feels a little less heavy.

Because she’s still here. Because she always will be.