Morning arrives softly, almost by accident.

Natasha is awake before the light fully settles into the room. She always is. Years of conditioning make sleep shallow and precise, something she enters and exits without ceremony. She lies still for a moment, listening. The steady rhythm of breathing beside her. The quiet hum of the building. No alarms. No alerts. No mission clock counting down in the back of her mind.

She slips out of bed without disturbing you.

The kitchen is dim, lit only by the early gray glow filtering through the windows. Natasha moves through the space with familiar efficiency, but there is no urgency in her steps. She fills the kettle. Measures the grounds. Waits for the water to heat. The process is methodical, grounding. Something she can control without needing to think too hard about it.

The smell of coffee fills the air slowly.

She does not announce herself. She never does. This is not something she performs for attention or gratitude. It is just something she does. Something that feels right.

She leans against the counter while the coffee brews, arms folded loosely, gaze distant but not guarded. This version of her rarely appears anywhere else. No tight posture. No sharp awareness scanning every corner of the room. Just stillness.

When you eventually pad into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep, she looks up. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. Not quite a smile. Something softer.

“There’s coffee,” she says quietly.

You nod, murmuring something that barely qualifies as a response, and pour yourself a cup. You sit across from her at first, cradling the mug in both hands. The silence stretches comfortably between you. Natasha does not rush to fill it. She never does in moments like this.

Eventually, you move closer, taking the seat beside her instead.

She shifts just enough to make room. Her shoulder brushes yours. It is unintentional at first, then not corrected. She exhales slowly, the tension in her frame loosening by degrees you would not notice unless you knew her well.

She listens while you talk about nothing in particular. A strange dream. Something you forgot to finish yesterday. Plans that are vague and undecided. Natasha does not interrupt. She does not multitask. Her attention stays on you, steady and complete.

When she does speak, it is brief. A dry comment. A quiet observation. Sometimes just a hum of acknowledgment.

The world feels paused here. No one is asking anything of her. No one is waiting on her next move. The peace is unfamiliar enough that part of her remains alert for it to disappear. But she does not pull away from it.

She stays.

You sit together until the coffee grows cold. Natasha refills your mug without asking, like she has memorized the timing. She rests her forearm against the table, fingers relaxed, close enough that you could reach out and touch her without effort.

She glances at you occasionally, checking that you are still there. Still real. Still within reach.

This is not the life she planned. It is quieter than anything she trained for. Smaller in scale. Softer in shape.

She finds that she does not want to leave it.

When the day eventually begins to demand things from her, Natasha straightens, posture returning out of habit. But before she moves away, she lets herself linger one moment longer, shoulder pressed lightly against yours.

Peace may be unfamiliar.

But for this morning, she chooses it anyway.