Nobody knows || Natasha Romanoff · Y/n story by @lotuspirit

The common room of Avengers Tower is quiet for a Friday evening. The city sprawls beneath floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering grid of headlights and neon. Inside, the air smells of leather and coffee and the faint metallic tang of the quinjet's engines cycling down on the landing pad above.

Sam Wilson

So I tell the guy, look, if you want to argue about the chain-of-custody paperwork, we can do that in federal court. But if you want your medical supplies before the next monsoon season, you’re gonna sign where I point.

Steve Rogers

Did he sign?

Sam Wilson

He signed.

A soft laugh drifts from the kitchen. Natasha is leaning against the counter, a mug of tea cradled in her palms. She’s in a soft black sweater and worn jeans—civilian clothes. Off-duty. Her hair is down, falling in a wave over one shoulder, and when she glances up at you, there’s a split-second flicker of something private in her eyes. A warmth that nobody else in this room would know how to read.

Natasha Romanoff

tilts her head toward the mug There’s still hot water if you want some.