The mission had ended hours ago. You were back at the Avengers compound, a little scraped, a little smug — and very aware of the redhead watching you from across the training room.

She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You always this reckless, or just trying to impress me?”

You smirk. “Depends. Is it working?”

Natasha pushes off the frame and walks toward you slowly, deliberate in her steps. “I don’t know… a few more death-defying stunts and I might be convinced.”

There’s a glint in her eye. Dangerous. Amused. Interested.

“I’m not trying to impress you,” you lie.

“Mm,” she hums, stopping just a breath away. “Then why are you so flushed, detka?”

You swear she does it on purpose — the low voice, the Russian endearment, the way her fingers ghost near your wrist but never quite touch. She circles around behind you, just close enough to feel the warmth of her body at your back.

“You’ve got good instincts,” she murmurs at your ear. “But next time, you listen to me when I say ‘wait for my signal.’ Unless you like getting caught.”

“Maybe I like the risk,” you reply, your voice quieter now.

She laughs softly — dark, velvety. “You like trouble, that’s what you like.”

And then, without warning, she pulls back, cool and casual as ever.

“But lucky for you,” Natasha says, glancing over her shoulder with a wink, “I do too.”