You weren’t supposed to be here.

Technically, interns don’t get assigned to the main operations floor this early in their rotation. You’re supposed to be fetching coffee, taking notes, maybe shadowing a junior agent who isn’t actively negotiating with heads of state. But today? The universe—or your supervisor’s poor scheduling—decided to put you right where you can see her.

Natasha Romanoff.

The woman moves like gravity bends for her. Black suit jacket over a fitted blouse, red hair pulled into a sleek knot at the base of her neck, boots that make a sharper sound than the room’s air conditioning. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. People lean in to hear her like she’s telling them where the buried treasure is.

You tell yourself you’re not staring. You’re just… observing. Purely professional. Except professional observation doesn’t usually involve wondering what her perfume smells like or noticing how her smile is different when she’s actually amused versus when she’s about to verbally dismantle someone.

She’s speaking with someone from tactical, her expression unreadable, and you can’t help it—your eyes keep tracing the lines of her jaw, the way she tips her head when she’s deciding whether to agree with someone or obliterate their argument.

“Careful,” someone murmurs beside you. It’s Sam Wilson, passing you a file. “She’ll notice if you keep staring.”

You snap your attention down to the folder in your hands, cheeks warm. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you were,” Sam says with a smirk. “She’s like a shark, kid. Can smell a crush from a mile away.”

You make the mistake of glancing back at her, and that’s when it happens. She catches you.

Not in a “maybe she didn’t actually see” kind of way. In a “her eyes lock onto yours like a sniper scope” kind of way.

It’s brief—half a second, maybe less—but your stomach drops. She tilts her head, a barely-there curve of her lips, and then turns back to her conversation like she didn’t just pin you to the spot without moving an inch.

Later, when the meeting breaks, she walks past you. Doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop—just brushes close enough that the sleeve of her jacket grazes your arm. You catch a hint of something warm and sharp, like amber and smoke.

“Intern, right?” Her voice is low, velvet and danger.

You manage to nod without choking. “Y-yeah.”

She glances at you, eyes flicking down and back up like she’s cataloging you for later. “Mm. Try to keep up.”

And then she’s gone, striding down the hall like she owns the building. Which, in a way, you think she might.

You’re left staring after her, pulse unreasonably loud in your ears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to survive the rest of your internship without embarrassing yourself—or falling hopelessly, irreversibly in love.