The alarm was deafening.

The sprinklers hadn’t gone off yet, but smoke curled thick and black through the Avengers’ kitchen, filling the air with the acrid stench of oil and burnt potatoes. Natasha Romanoff stood in the center of the chaos, red hair damp from sweat and steam, spatula still clutched in her gloved hand like a weapon. The skillet on the stove hissed, flames licking up the side as if daring anyone to intervene.

“For God’s sake, Romanoff!” Tony’s voice carried in from the doorway, half a laugh, half exasperation. “It was French fries, not a frag grenade.”

Natasha spun on him, eyes flashing like shards of green glass. “Shut up.” The two words were flat, sharp, final. Even Stark—the man who never missed a chance to make himself heard—took a step back.

Clint poked his head around the corner, already grinning like he’d been waiting years for this moment. “You know, Nat, the first step is turning the heat down—”

“I said shut up,” she snapped again, louder this time, and the way her voice cracked across the room silenced even him. Her jaw was tight, her knuckles white around the spatula. Smoke was making her eyes water, but she refused to look away from the pan like it was an opponent she still had to beat.

Steve entered with a fire extinguisher, calm as ever, and pulled the pin. Natasha’s hand shot out, stopping him before he could spray. “Don’t.”

“Nat, it’s on fire,” Steve said gently, like he was explaining physics to a child.

“I can handle it.”

And maybe that was the problem. Natasha Romanoff could handle almost anything—but the inferno eating her French fries wasn’t something fists or knives could fix. The others watched her, unsure if it was safer to risk the flames or her temper.

And then you walked in.

You coughed against the smoke, waving a hand in front of your face, your eyes landing first on the ruined stove, then on Natasha. Her cheeks were flushed, hair curling damp against her temple, fury radiating from her in waves. You should’ve laughed—it was ridiculous, the Black Widow losing a fight to a pan—but the look in her eyes stopped you cold. This wasn’t about French fries. Not really. It was about failure, about control slipping for half a second, about being seen vulnerable in a way she didn’t allow.

“Nat,” you said softly, stepping past Steve and Tony. “Hey. It’s okay.”

She turned on you then, firelight catching in her gaze, lips parting with a sharp retort that died the moment she saw your face. Her chest heaved, smoke clinging to her skin, but for once she didn’t speak. She just stood there, clutching that ridiculous spatula like it might anchor her, caught between rage and something else she couldn’t name.

You closed the distance, slow, steady, until you were next to her. Without asking, you reached for the stove dial and turned it off. The flames sputtered, coughed, and finally died with a hiss. Silence fell—broken only by the low groan of the exhaust fan and Natasha’s unsteady breath beside you.

You didn’t tease her. You didn’t scold. You just looked at her, your shoulder brushing hers through the smoke. “They’re just fries,” you murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Not the end of the world.”

For a moment, Natasha’s face softened—just a flicker, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before she set her jaw again. But she didn’t tell you to shut up. She didn’t push you away. She just let out a sharp exhale, almost a laugh, and dropped the spatula onto the counter like she’d been holding a blade too long.

Behind you, Tony cleared his throat. “Well. Crisis averted. Though I’m not eating anything she cooks, ever again.”

Natasha’s glare was immediate, but it didn’t have the same bite. Not while you were standing this close. Not while your presence was the only thing keeping her from snapping entirely.

In the haze of smoke and ruin, Natasha Romanoff—the woman who could dismantle an empire with her bare hands—stood silently beside you, and for once, let herself be human.