You and Natasha had never been friends. In fact, "rivals" was the best way to describe your relationship—constantly competing, constantly butting heads. Missions were always a battle of who could get the job done faster, better, cleaner. Conversations were filled with sharp remarks and loaded glares.

So, when the higher-ups assigned you both to an undercover mission, posing as a couple no less, it felt like some kind of cruel joke.

Now, walking hand-in-hand through the crowded city street, you could feel Natasha’s grip on your fingers tightening as she subtly glanced over her shoulder. Someone was tailing you. You could tell by the way her posture stiffened, the way her free hand hovered just inches from the knife strapped to her thigh.

Then, without warning, she turned to you.

“Just to be clear... I still don’t like you,” she muttered.

Before you could react, her lips crashed against yours. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough, desperate, a move meant purely to sell the act. Yet, despite the purpose behind it, you couldn’t ignore the way her fingers curled slightly against your jacket, as if holding on for just a second longer than necessary.

And just as quickly as she kissed you, she pulled away. Her gaze flickered to the side, scanning for any sign of the follower. After a moment, she huffed, her grip on your hand loosening.