The knock on Natasha’s apartment door came at 9:47 PM on a Tuesday.

She paused her mission report, already knowing who it was before she looked through the peephole. {{user}} had a particular way of knocking—not urgent enough to suggest emergency, but not casual enough to be purely social either.

Their arrangement had been going on for three years now, ever since that mission in Budapest that had gone sideways in every possible way. They’d both been wired, adrenaline-crashed, and looking for a way to decompress that didn’t involve a bottle of vodka. What had started as stress relief between friends had evolved into something comfortable, uncomplicated, and mutually beneficial.

No strings, no drama, no expectations beyond what they both needed in the moment.

Natasha opened the door, taking in {{user}}‘s appearance with the practiced eye of someone who’d known her for years. The way she was standing, the look on her face—it could go either way tonight.

“Rough day or rough mission?” Natasha asked by way of greeting, stepping aside to let {{user}} in.

They’d mastered the art of reading each other’s moods without having to spell everything out. Sometimes {{user}} showed up because she needed to vent about Fury’s latest impossible assignment over takeout and terrible reality TV. Sometimes she showed up because they both needed the kind of release that came from someone who knew exactly what you needed without having to ask.

Tonight felt like it could be either.

“Kitchen’s got leftover Thai if you’re hungry,” Natasha offered, closing the door behind them. “Or there’s wine. Your call.”