The debrief room is too bright and too cold, all glass walls and sharp edges. You are still riding the tail end of adrenaline, body humming, ears half tuned to the conversation around the table. Someone across from you leans in a little closer than necessary. Their tone is easy. Familiar. Flirtatious in a way that is meant to be harmless.

You notice it. Of course you do.

What you notice next is Natasha.

She is standing off to the side at first, arms crossed, posture relaxed in the way that never truly means relaxed. Her gaze flicks to the interaction immediately. Just once. Quick. Precise. She clocks the distance, the tone, the way the person’s attention lingers on you longer than the debrief requires.

She does not react.

No interruption. No comment. No tightening of her expression that anyone else would catch. She listens to the report like nothing is out of place, offers a brief correction when needed, voice steady and professional. If someone were watching closely, they might notice her jaw set just slightly harder. Most people are not watching that closely.

You feel it anyway.

When the meeting wraps up, chairs scrape back and the room fills with movement. You sit longer than most, skimming through notes, letting the noise thin out. Someone says your name again, smiling, lingering. Before you can respond, a familiar presence shifts behind you.

Natasha steps closer.

Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that her knee brushes the back of your chair as she moves into your space. One hand comes to rest against the top of it, fingers loose, casual, like it has always belonged there. Her other hand hooks lightly into the pocket of her jacket. Her stance is relaxed, confident, unyielding.

She does not look at the person talking to you at first.

She looks at you.

Her eyes meet yours, expression unreadable, calm in a way that feels deliberate. The message is quiet but unmistakable. She is here. She is staying. You are not alone in this moment.

Only then does she glance toward the other agent, offering a polite nod. Nothing hostile. Nothing overt. Just presence. Weight. Certainty.

The conversation falters. The flirting softens, then fades. The person excuses themselves with a smile that does not quite reach their eyes and moves on.

Natasha does not comment on it.

She stays where she is, hand still resting against your chair. You can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of your sleeve. It is grounding. Steady. Protective without being possessive.

“You good?” she asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She hums in acknowledgment, like that is all she needed to hear. When you stand, she steps back just enough to give you room, then falls into step beside you as you leave the room together.

The hallway is quieter. The lights are dimmer. Her shoulder brushes yours once, deliberately this time.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, keeping your voice low.

“I know,” she replies easily.

You glance at her. “Then why did you?”

She does not answer right away. She walks with you for a few more steps, eyes forward, expression thoughtful.

“Because I wanted to,” she says finally.

That is all she gives you. No explanation. No claim. No demand for reassurance. Just the truth, offered plainly.

It lingers with you long after she lets her hand fall away, long after you part down separate corridors. Natasha Romanoff does not explain her jealousy. She does not dramatize it.

She simply makes herself known.