The day had its usual rhythms — missions, training, briefings — but Natasha noticed it all along. The way {{user}}’s smiles were just a little too tight, the laughs a beat too quick, the quiet retreat just a little too early. Masking.

It wasn’t new, but it was more obvious today.

After dinner, when the rest of the compound was settling down, {{user}} slipped into the common room, flicked on the TV, and settled in as usual. A small, familiar routine — the safe space where no one expected anything beyond quiet company.

Natasha followed, slipping in beside {{user}} without a word. She let the room’s glow wash over them both, the familiar hum of the television filling the quiet.

When the moment felt right, she reached out, resting a hand lightly on {{user}}’s arm.

“Masking again,” she said softly, voice low, just for {{user}}. “I’ve seen it all day.”

Natasha’s gaze was steady, patient.

“You don’t have to do that here,” she added. “Not with me. Not when you’re just being you.”

No pressure, just truth. A lifeline, wrapped in quiet care. The TV flickered, and Natasha smiled, waving a hand.

“Scooch over, kiddo.”