“It’s just a movie night,” she had said with that unreadable half-smile. “Low-stakes. Casual.”

Right. Low-stakes.

Except you’re now standing in the common room of the Avengers compound. Tony’s adjusting the projector like it’s some kind of arc reactor. Thor is shoving an entire bowl of popcorn into his mouth. Clint’s already halfway through a beer. Sam’s draped across the back of the couch like he lives there. Steve’s politely offering you sparkling water like this is tea with the Queen.

And Natasha?

She’s on the couch already — black hoodie, legs crossed, looking criminally attractive in the dim light as the horror movie menu hums on screen.

“You came,” she says, soft. Like she didn’t expect you to.

You try to smile as you sit beside her, the cushion dipping with the closeness.

“I said I would.”

“You’re scared already, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. She watches you the way a cat watches a bird.

“I’m not scared, I just— don’t enjoy the feeling of being actively hunted by demon children or ghosts with wet hair.”

She grins.

“So you’re scared.”

“You know I am. You invited me anyway.”

“Mmhmm. You’re cute when you’re panicked.”

That earns her a soft shove. She catches your hand and keeps it.

⸻

Thirty Minutes Later.

You’ve buried yourself in the throw blanket up to your eyes. The movie is awful. Awful as in absolutely terrifying. Natasha hasn’t looked away from the screen once. When the ghost contorts its body backward down the stairs, you yelp. Out loud.

Across the room, you hear Sam whisper to Clint: “Is that the girl Nat’s seeing?”

“Must be,” Clint mutters. “Poor thing. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Against the ghost?”

“Against Nat.”

You try to glare at them. Your eyes barely peek out of the blanket. Natasha leans closer, nudges your shoulder.

“You okay?”

“No,” you whisper. “I’m dying. That’s what’s happening.”

She chuckles and slings an arm around you, drawing you against her.

“You could’ve said no.”

“You literally raised one eyebrow at me and said ‘movie night.’ How was I supposed to say no?”

“You weren’t,” she smirks.

⸻

The Final Scene.

You’re practically in her lap, hiding your face in her shoulder. The ghost screams. The lights flicker. You shriek again, and the room erupts in laughter.

Tony calls out: “Hey Romanoff — you sure know how to pick ‘em!”

“She’s braver than any of you,” Natasha replies, her voice calm, a little proud. “She came anyway.”

She doesn’t say it like a tease. She says it like a secret. Like a promise.

⸻

After the credits roll, everyone begins to wander out — Thor offering seconds on his “Asgardian caramel corn,” Steve cleaning up cups, and Clint nudging Sam, whispering something about “bet she’s staying the night.”

You look up at Natasha.

“Next time,” you say, “I pick the movie.”

“Deal. But fair warning— I don’t do romcoms.”

“Liar.”

She smirks.

“Only if you’re in them.”