Steve Rogers was the perfect partner.

"Perfect in everything," Natasha Romanoff muttered under her breath, her fingers flying over the keyboard. The virus she had planted was slicing through layers of security in the company's mainframe—a company that had been quietly selling classified information to the Russian mafia. She tried to focus on her work, but the steady presence beside her was distracting in ways she refused to acknowledge.

"Romanoff," Steve said, his voice low but firm, as if he'd read her thoughts. He leaned slightly closer, his presence filling the space. His scent—clean, with a hint of leather—was an unwelcome comfort in the midst of chaos. "You almost done?"

Natasha's lips twitched in a smirk, though her eyes stayed glued to the screen. "I would've been done five minutes ago if we'd gone with my plan. But no, we had to sneak in quietly, Captain Morality."

Before Steve could respond, the sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the air. His reaction was instant. He grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him as his shield snapped into place with a resonant clang.

Pinned close against him, Natasha was acutely aware of every detail: the heat radiating from his body, the taut line of his jaw as he focused on their unseen attacker, the rhythmic thud of his heart that somehow matched her own. His arm brushed hers as he shifted, the solid weight of him a protective barrier she didn't want to need.

She swallowed hard, pushing back the strange, unwelcome warmth rising in her chest. "So," she said, keeping her voice light and teasing, "did you ever ask that receptionist out?"

Steve turned his head slightly, his blue eyes flicking to hers with disbelief. "Really? Right now, Romanoff? Maybe focus on surviving first."

The corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. "Aye, aye, Captain," she said, slipping out of his grasp as the gunfire ceased. Her fingers resumed their dance over the keyboard, but her mind was already miles ahead. An idea—a reckless, dangerous one—was forming.

The party at Stark Tower was predictably extravagant. Lights gleamed off the sleek metal walls, and soft music thrummed under the hum of chatter and laughter. Natasha Romanoff moved through the crowd like a shadow, her every step calculated but effortless.

Her black dress clung to her curves, the plunging neckline and slit up one side daring but not overt. Her red curls fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled like polished emeralds under the soft light. She exuded confidence—poised, untouchable, and, to Steve Rogers, utterly captivating.

He was trying not to stare.

"You're drooling, Cap," Sam Wilson said, elbowing him with a grin.

Steve tore his gaze away, his ears burning. He took a swig of his beer, hoping the familiar bitterness would mask his embarrassment. "I'm not drooling. I was just—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam interrupted, shaking his head. "Look, man, it's obvious. You've got it bad."

Steve frowned, turning his attention to the far side of the room, where Tony Stark was holding court with a small group of admirers. "I was just keeping an eye on things. Stark's parties tend to get... unpredictable."

Sam snorted. "Sure, keep telling yourself that. But as your friend, I'm just saying—maybe it's time you stopped pretending she doesn't affect you."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but a familiar voice cut in.

"Don't bother, Sam," Natasha said, slipping effortlessly into the conversation. "I've been telling him to ask out that receptionist for weeks."

Steve turned sharply, his face heating further as she flashed him a knowing smirk.

Before he could respond, Tony stumbled into their group, his trademark smirk firmly in place. "Pretty sure he's still a virgin," Stark quipped, swaying slightly as he raised his drink in mock salute.

The blood drained from Steve's face, only to return with a vengeance. "Guys, stop talking about my love life!"

"Or lack thereof," Tony added with a laugh, earning a snicker from Sam.

Natasha didn't laugh. Instead, she slipped her hand around Steve's arm, her touch a strange combination of light and firm. "Come with me," she said, her voice low but commanding.

Grateful for the escape, Steve followed her through the crowd. The warmth of her hand on his arm lingered even after she let go, and he tried not to overthink it.

She led him down a quiet corridor, the noise of the party fading with each step. Finally, she stopped outside a dimly lit room and turned to face him.

"Nat, what's—"

Before he could finish, she pushed him against the wall, her lips crashing into his.

The kiss was fire and electricity, shocking and consuming. For a moment, Steve froze, his mind struggling to catch up. But then instinct took over, and he kissed her back, his hands finding her waist.

Her lips were softer than he'd imagined, but her movements were firm, almost desperate. Each kiss revealed something new—her resolve, her vulnerability, her need.

When she pulled back, her green eyes were darker, her breathing uneven.

"Nat," he said, his voice hoarse, his hands still resting lightly on her waist. "What... what are you doing?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, her fingers traced the edges of his jaw, her touch soft but deliberate. "I'm making you stop waiting," she said finally, her voice low and steady.

"Waiting for what?" he asked, his brows furrowing as he searched her face.

"For someone to tell you it's okay to want something for yourself," she replied, her eyes locking with his. "It's okay to live, Steve. To feel."

Her words hit him like a blow, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at her. Slowly, his hands slid up her sides, his touch tentative but growing bolder.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha's lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no teasing in her expression now—only warmth and something dangerously close to hope. "I've never been more sure."

She silenced him with another kiss, her deft fingers slipping beneath his shirt, sending warm shivers over his skin. He didn't know what she was doing to him and yet he enjoyed it. Her touch and seductive caresses sending blood rushing through him. He never felt this feeling with no other woman and yet here it was, sending them both tumbling into the bed. Desire left unsatisfied simmered between them, a pair of blue eyes meeting green ones, both filled with lust. He knew what happened between a man and a woman, and yet, experiencing the feeling for the first time made him realize what he was missing out on. He let his body go, his hands combing through Natasha's red hair as they kissed feverishly. Her hands removed his leather jacket, along with the white shirt underneath and soon his pants were long gone as well. The need for her skin to touch his overpowered him, his calloused fingers gently hugging her dress past her shoulders, lips touching every inch of skin left exposed.

He wanted to see the beauty beneath him and yet the darkness gave him an chance to explore the valleys and plains of the female spy. They said no words, letting their bodies speak for themselves. Moans of pleasure coming from both of them as he entered her, Natasha's cries and his own grunts mixing together with every thrust of his hips. They rose to their climax, each one exploding into shudders and moans of pleasure before stilling into a tangle of limbs.

A sudden thought occurred to him, something rather important that he should have thought earlier, "Natasha," he said breathlessly, "I didn't use protection."

Natasha's soft chuckle rose from beneath, "No need for that, Rogers. It's impossible for me to get pregnant and I know you don't go around sleeping with other women."

He could hear the pain in her voice as she spoke of her infertility. Guilt filled him, his arms wrapping around her in an attempt to comfort her but the strong willed woman broke free from his embrace, a scuffle filling the darkness.

"Nat?" He spoke as he sat up in confusion.

The sounds of heels clicking against the floor filled the void, "I'll see you in the morning Steve," she murmured before leaving the room and taking his heart with her.