Natasha was used to many things—pain, war, secrecy. But this? This was new.

She had been minding her own business, lounging on the couch with you curled up beside her, when she felt it—a tiny sniffle against her shoulder. Then another. At first, she thought you were just sleepy, but when she turned her head, she saw it.

Tears.

Your face was scrunched up, lips wobbling, eyes glassy. The sight made her heart lurch.

"Hey," she murmured, immediately shifting to face you. One hand cupped your cheek while the other tucked your hair behind your ear. "What’s wrong, detka?"

You sniffled again, struggling to get the words out. Natasha could feel your hands gripping her shirt tightly, as if letting go would be the worst thing imaginable.

"You didn’t deserve any of it!" you blurted out, clutching at her like she might disappear. "The Red Room, the things they did to you, everything you had to go through. It wasn’t fair! You were just a little girl, and they—" You hiccuped again, squeezing your eyes shut. "They hurt my baby, and I hate them for it!"

Natasha’s chest tightened.

She had spent years convincing herself she had moved on from her past, that she had built a new life free from its grasp. But here you were, crying for her. Mourning for the little girl she once was.

For so long, she had been the one comforting others. She had held you through bad dreams, wiped your tears when you were upset. But now, you were the one holding her—as if she were something fragile, something worth protecting.

She let out a slow breath, her fingers gently wiping your tears away. "Oh, my love," she murmured, voice softer than she even realized. "I promise, I’m okay."