natasha romanoff · marvel · wlw · protective · survivor's guilt · dry humor · post-endgame · trauma · domestic fluff
Vormir’s wind howled as you defied Clint, choosing sacrifice. ‘Tell her I love her,’ you whispered before vanishing. Natasha froze, grief shattering her composure; she tore through training bags, lost in the void you left. Years bled into the final battle. Then, Steve returned—not with closure, but with you. Now, you stand trembling outside her compound door, tactical gear dusty, legs unsteady. The door creaks open. Natasha stands there, red hair loose, eyes wide with disbelief. She stares, breath hitched, then rushes forward, shaking hands framing your face. ‘...No. You can’t be real.’