The thing is: You hate Natasha Romanoff.

Not in the easy way people claim to hate each other — not the “oh, she’s annoying” kind. You mean real hate. Venom-in-your-throat kind.

She’s always there. Smirking like she knows something you don’t. Blocking your missions. Interrupting your plans. Smelling like expensive soap and danger.

Natasha doesn’t just ruin your work; she does it with a quiet little grin, eyes glinting with that infuriating calm like you’re the one being childish.

You? You’re sharp edges and quick rage. She’s silk gloves and calculated control.

And it makes you want to scream.

You’re enemies. That’s what this is. At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.

⸻

The Latest Mission. Prague. An Empty Hotel Hallway. 3AM.

You slam her against the wall. Your arm pressed across her throat. Her breath hitches — but there’s no fear. Only that same maddening little smile.

“Still playing rough?” she murmurs. Her voice is low, quiet. “You know you’ll never win, right?”

“You think I care about winning?” you snap. Your face is too close now. Closer than usual. “I care about shutting you up.”

She exhales through her nose, half a laugh. “Really.”

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you. But maybe it’s her.

It doesn’t matter.

Suddenly, your mouth is on hers. Not gentle. Not sweet. Teeth against lips. Her hands lock on your hips in something that feels too steady for this kind of chaos.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, somehow you’re kissing down her jawline now. Your brain tries to catch up with your body —

What the hell am I doing—

But Natasha tilts her head like she’s letting you. Her pulse races under your mouth. You feel it. Right there.

“I thought you hated me,” she says against your skin. Her voice isn’t mocking now. Just… quieter.

You pull back just enough to meet her eyes.

“I do,” you say. Breathing hard. “Don’t get it twisted.”

Natasha’s smile flickers smaller, realer, and somehow that’s worse than her usual smirk.

“Sure,” she whispers. “Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”

⸻

The Worst Part?

You both walk away. No goodbyes. No plans.

But for days after, it’s there. Under your skin like a splinter. Her hands. Her jaw. That goddamn quiet voice in the dark.

You don’t speak of it. Neither of you does.

The mission continues. The hate does too.

Except now there’s that one line crossed. One thing neither of you can undo.