The ritual starts the same way every time.

You barely get your boots off before Natasha notices the way you favor one side, the way your shoulders sit too tight like you are bracing for something that already passed. She does not comment on the mission. She does not ask how bad it was. She just looks at you for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching, then nods once like a decision has been made.

“Sit,” she says quietly.

It is not an order. It never is. But you do it anyway.

She disappears into the bathroom and comes back with the kit she keeps stocked without ever admitting it is for you. Clean cloths. Antiseptic. Bandages folded with military precision. Ice packs already chilled. You think about how long she must have been doing this. How early she must have started.

She kneels in front of you, level with your hands. Her movements are practiced, calm, unhurried. The world shrinks to the space between you. The noise of the tower fades. The echoes of the mission dull at the edges.

“Let me see,” she murmurs.

You offer your hands. There are scrapes you had not noticed, knuckles raw, skin split in places that sting now that the adrenaline is gone. Natasha does not react. She never does. No wince. No lecture. Just focus.

She cleans each cut slowly, thoroughly. Her touch is firm but careful, like she is measuring the exact amount of pressure you can handle. When you flinch, just barely, her thumb pauses.

“Easy,” she says, softer now.

You breathe. She waits. Always waits.

The room smells faintly of antiseptic and something familiar that always clings to her, clean and warm and grounding. Her hands are steady. They always are. Even when yours shake.

She moves on to your arm, lifting the sleeve with gentle fingers. There is a bruise blooming dark and ugly beneath the skin. Natasha presses an ice pack against it, watching your face more than the injury.

“Hurts,” you admit.

“I know,” she replies.

She does not apologize. She does not promise it will be fine. She just holds the ice pack in place, her hand covering yours to keep it steady. The contact is simple. Intentional. It makes your chest tighten in a way you do not talk about.

This is how she shows care. Not with words. With presence.

When she finishes your hands, she does not move away. She checks your shoulder next, then your ribs, asking permission with a look rather than words. You nod. She proceeds.

Every mission ends this way. No matter how small the injuries. No matter how tired she is herself. She insists. It has become routine, like breathing. Like something she would notice if it was missing.

You once told her you could handle it yourself.

She had looked at you then, expression unreadable, before saying quietly, “I know. Let me do it anyway.”

She wraps the last bandage carefully, smoothing the edge with her thumb. Her touch lingers a second longer than necessary, like she is committing the moment to memory.

“There,” she says.

You do not move right away. Neither does she.

Natasha sits back on her heels, close enough that your knees almost touch. She exhales slowly, tension leaving her shoulders in a way that feels private, unguarded. For a second, she rests her forearm against your leg without thinking. When she realizes it, she does not pull away.

“You did good,” she says, almost under her breath.

Praise from her is rare. It settles deep.

You look at her and see what she does not say. That checking your injuries is her way of making sure you are still here. That this quiet care is how she anchors herself after chaos. That every bandage is a promise she does not voice.

She stands, finally, but stays close. Her hand brushes your shoulder as she passes, deliberate and grounding.

The ritual is complete.

Tomorrow, there will be another mission. Another fight. Another return.

And Natasha will be there, ice packs ready, hands steady, caring in the only way she knows how.