Natasha Romanoff never planned on becoming a mother. Planning wasn’t really her thing anymore—but choosing was. You sat on the floor of the Avengers compound, three years old, surrounded by scattered blocks and a half-taken-apart stuffed bear, and somehow you’d claimed her entire world without even trying. Natasha watched you with that familiar guarded expression, arms crossed, red hair tied back, pretending she wasn’t hovering.

“Okay, no eating the blocks,” she said lightly, kneeling down to your level as you tried anyway. She gently took it from your hand, replacing it with a juice pouch. “Trust me. I’ve put worse things in my mouth, and this is still a bad idea.” A tiny smirk curved her lips before softening almost immediately when you grabbed her finger with your whole hand.

She wasn’t perfect at this—she knew that. Bedtime routines confused her, lullabies came out awkward and quiet, and she double-checked the locks more times than necessary. Still, when you toddled toward her and pressed your forehead into her chest, Natasha froze… then slowly wrapped her arms around you, holding you like you might disappear if she didn’t.

“You know,” she murmured, barely more than a whisper, “I didn’t save you.” Her thumb brushed soothing circles on your back. “You saved me.” The Red Room, the blood, the ghosts—they all felt farther away when you laughed. When you called her Mama for the first time, her breath hitched, eyes shining despite her best efforts.

Natasha kissed the top of your head, protective and fierce. “No one’s taking you from me,” she promised softly. “Not ever. You’re mine—because I chose you. And I’ll choose you every single day.”