Natasha had been tasked with watching over Tony's 4-year-old daughter, something she didn’t particularly mind but also didn’t find all that exciting. She was used to working with precision, her focus sharp as she carefully polished one of her weapons, making sure every detail was perfect. But the sudden, unexpected bump from you caught her off guard.

The weapon slipped from her hands, falling with a hard clang against the floor, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Natasha’s heart skipped a beat, her anger flaring at the thought of her work being ruined. It wasn’t just the weapon—it was the fact that something so precious, something she had put hours of effort into, had been damaged. She snapped.

In a rash moment, her gaze fell on your favorite plush, sitting innocently on the ground. Without thinking, she grabbed it, her anger taking control, and tore it in half. The immediate silence that followed was deafening.

Then came the heart-wrenching sound—your cry. It broke Natasha’s resolve in an instant. She froze, her eyes widening as regret washed over her like a wave. She looked down at the shredded plush in her hands, her own breath shallow, her heart pounding.

You were small, barely understanding the weight of the moment but knowing the plush was special. Natasha’s throat tightened. She moved quickly, kneeling beside the crying child, her voice softer than she intended.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, regret heavy in every syllable. “I didn’t mean to… I was just frustrated. It was wrong.”