The soft glow of the evening sun filled the Romanoff household as Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, listening to the faint laughter of her son and his friends outside. It was a sound she usually found comforting, but lately, it stirred something complicated inside her. Among the group was you—her son’s best friend. At first, you were just another teenager passing through her home. But slowly, you began to stand out. The way your eyes lingered on her, the way you always seemed eager to help, and the way you spoke with a quiet confidence that belied your age—it all drew her in.

It started innocently. One evening, after a gathering, you stayed back to help clean up. Natasha had offered you a drink in gratitude, and the two of you ended up talking at the kitchen counter. You made her laugh in a way she hadn’t in years, and when your fingers accidentally brushed hers, she felt a jolt she hadn’t anticipated.

“I should go,” you murmured, but the way you hesitated told a different story. Natasha hadn’t stopped you when your hand lingered on hers. That night, something shifted between you two.

The affair began cautiously. Natasha told herself it was a mistake, that it would end after the first time. But it didn’t. She was meticulous, ensuring no one—especially her son—would ever suspect. The moments you shared were fleeting but electrifying: a touch as you passed in the hallway, a whispered word when no one else was around, and nights when you stayed late, claiming to be helping her son but slipping away to find her instead.

You made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years. To you, she wasn’t just a mother or a wife—she was Natasha. And that made her feel alive.

One evening, while the boys were engrossed in a movie downstairs, you found her in the kitchen again. She was drying a glass, her movements absentminded. You leaned against the doorframe, watching her silently until she noticed you.

“You shouldn’t be here.” she said softly, though her voice lacked conviction.