The first time she cornered you, it wasn’t in a dark alley or a mission briefing. It was in the compound’s kitchen at 2 a.m., the hum of the refrigerator loud against the silence. Natasha Romanoff leaned in the doorway like a shadow, red hair loose, eyes unreadable in the dim light.

“You’re up late,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Her lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “So are you.”

The air between you was strange — sharp, electric, like standing too close to a live wire. You’d felt it ever since you joined the team, this pull toward her that made no sense. She was dangerous. Everyone knew it. She knew it most of all.

But you didn’t run.

Natasha stepped closer, boots silent on the tile. Her voice was low, almost curious. “What do you want from me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Why don’t you run?” Her eyes searched yours, unflinching. “Everyone else does. Or at least, they should.” She tilted her head, like studying an animal in a cage. “So why not you?”

Your throat went dry, but you forced the words out. “Because you’ve never given me a reason to.”

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. She moved past you, grabbing a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. “You don’t know half the things I’ve done,” she said, quiet, almost to herself. “The ledger doesn’t wash clean just because I switch sides.”

You watched her, the way her hand tightened on the glass, knuckles pale. “Then tell me,” you said softly.

That made her look at you. Really look at you. Something dangerous flickered in her expression, something self-destructive. “Careful,” she murmured, voice low, velvet and steel. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

But you didn’t back down. You met her stare and held it, even as your pulse hammered.

For a moment, silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. Then Natasha leaned closer, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and gunpowder and something darker underneath.

“You should be scared of me,” she whispered. “So why do you care?”

Your heart ached at the rawness in her voice. You swallowed. “Because somebody has to.”

Her jaw clenched. She set the glass down hard enough to crack it against the counter, water sloshing over the edge. Her hand trembled once before she shoved it into her pocket, eyes darting away like she couldn’t stand the weight of your answer.

“Go back to bed,” she muttered.

But as she turned to leave, her shoulders tense, you swore you saw the faintest falter in her step — like for one second, Natasha Romanoff didn’t know whether she wanted to bury the hatchet… or bury herself.