From the moment he joins the team, Natasha Romanoff decides she doesn’t like him.

It’s not personal. She tells herself that first. It’s professional instinct. He’s too confident, too loose with his posture and his words, leaning into briefings like they’re entertainment instead of preparation. He speaks when spoken to, but never hesitates. He smiles like he knows things other people don’t. Like he’s already measured the room and found it lacking.

Natasha watches him carefully. She always does with new assets. Especially ones Fury brings in quietly.

He’s good. That’s the problem.

In training, he keeps up with her. Not perfectly — she still beats him — but close enough to be irritating. He adapts quickly, learns her rhythms faster than he should. When she tries to throw him off, he laughs. When she pushes harder, he meets it without complaint. He never underestimates her, but he never fears her either.

She hates that most of all.

Their conversations are sharp-edged. Natasha calls him reckless. He calls her rigid. She accuses him of improvising too much. He accuses her of relying on control instead of instinct. They clash in front of the team, voices calm but dangerous, a quiet rivalry that never quite explodes.

But on missions, it works.

He watches her six without being asked. Adjusts routes when he sees her hesitate. Covers exits before she even reaches for them. When plans fall apart — because they always do — he doesn’t freeze. He moves. He trusts her calls, even when they’re risky. Especially when they’re risky.

Natasha notices. She wishes she didn’t.

There’s a mission overseas that goes wrong fast. Bad intel. Too many hostiles. She and him separated from the rest, pinned down in a narrow corridor with no clean escape. He stops joking entirely. His voice drops, steady and precise. He listens when she gives instructions, follows them exactly, no ego, no second-guessing.

They get out by inches.

Afterward, things shift.

The arguments fade into quieter conversations. The barbs soften, turn almost playful. Natasha still rolls her eyes when he grins at her across the room, but she doesn’t look away as quickly anymore. She starts noticing how tired he looks after long missions. How his humor disappears when civilians are involved. How he never talks about his past, not really.

Late nights find them in the same spaces without planning it. Sharing coffee. Sitting in silence. Existing near each other in a way that feels dangerous and familiar all at once.

Natasha doesn’t like the feeling growing in her chest.

She doesn’t like that she trusts him. Doesn’t like that she feels steadier when he’s nearby. Doesn’t like that she misses him when he’s gone.

And one evening, watching him laugh with the team, she understands the truth with a sharp, unwelcome clarity:

This was never hate.

It was resistance.

And she’s losing.