The rain had settled into a heavy, miserable drizzle by the time the rusted yellow cab screeched to a halt under the neon sign of the dumpling shop on Mott Street.
Natasha shoved the cab door open, practically dragging Jack out by his heavy, grease-stained coat collar. His left foot was still wearing Tony Stark’s gold-and-red Mark 42 flight boot—completely drained of power now, clanking dead and heavy against the wet pavement like a three-hundred-pound iron cinder block.
CLANG. DRAG. CLANG.
"Lift your foot, Jack," Natasha muttered through her teeth, hauling him up the narrow, dark stairs of the Chinatown walk-up. "I am not calling a tow truck for your shoe."
"Are you kidding?!" Jack cackled, his chest vibrating against her shoulder with a wet, raspy hehehe. "This is custom footwear, Red! High-tech orthotics! Stark’s paying for my posture realignment!"
"Stark is currently calculating the invoice for his ’65 Shelby Cobra," Natasha said, unlocking the heavy deadbolt on the safehouse door with one hand while holding Jack upright with the other. "Which means SHIELD’s legal department is going to have a collective aneurism by six tomorrow morning."
She shoved him inside.
The apartment was pitch black except for the flickering red neon light from the pawnshop across the street bleeding through the dirty window blinds. Felicia was nowhere to be found—probably out pulling another midnight heist or catching up on beauty sleep at one of her private lofts in Soho.
Jack stumbled backward onto the squeaky spring sofa, his iron boot thudging onto the floorboards hard enough to make the ceiling fan rattle downstairs.
He sprawled out, leaning his head back against the worn velvet cushion, his wide, bloodshot eyes shining in the faint red neon gloom. The [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] was buzzing behind his forehead, a warm, quiet static that made every dull ache in his ribs feel like somebody else's problem.
Natasha tossed her wet jacket onto the back of a chair, kicked off her tactical boots, and walked over to the tiny laminate counter. She grabbed an unlit candle, struck a match, and set it on the low coffee table between them.
The soft orange flame flickered, casting sharp shadows across her high cheekbones and the dark, messy curls clinging to her neck.
"You know..." Jack whispered, his voice dropping into a raspy, conspiratorial hum as he watched her. "...this is real cozy, Red. Candlelight... rain on the glass... quiet room... Just needs a bottle of cheap wine and a couple of hand grenades to set the mood."
Natasha walked over, stopping right in front of the sofa. She leaned down, resting her hands on her knees, bringing her face barely four inches from his. The faint scent of rain, gunpowder, and expensive French perfume drifted over him.
"You smell like burnt motor oil, Jack," she murmured softly, her steel-grey eyes unblinking as she scanned his pale, bruised face.
"And you smell like danger, sweetheart," Jack grinned, his split lip stretching wide, blood-stained teeth flashing under the candle flame. "My favorite flavor. Tell me... did you drag me back here to interrogate me, or are we finally skipping to the part where you realize you're madly in love with a certified lunatic?"
Natasha let out a tiny, breathless scoff—a sound so rare and quiet it was almost a whisper.
"In love?" Natasha tilted her head, her lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. "Jack, in my line of work, 'love' is a liability. And you? You're not even a liability. You're an environmental hazard."
"An exotic environmental hazard," Jack corrected, pointing a dirty finger at her nose. "Admit it! You like the thrill! You've spent your whole life dealing with stoic super-soldiers, billionaire nerds, and guys with bows and arrows. Boring! Predictable! But me?"
He leaned forward, his face closing the gap until his forehead almost touched hers, his raspy voice dropping into a low, hypnotic purr.
"...you never know what I'm gonna do next..." Jack hummed. "...dare to guess, Natty... dare to guess..."
Natasha didn't pull back. Instead, her right hand moved like a striking viper—fingers sliding gently under his chin, thumb resting right against the warm pulse point on his jaw.
Her touch was surprisingly soft, but her grip was firm enough to hold a grown man still.
"Here’s my guess," Natasha whispered, her thumb brushing over the rough stubble on his cheek. "If you call me 'Natty' again... I'm going to take that candle, drop it on your coat, and watch you burn while I finish my tea."
Jack stared into her eyes, his wide, maniacal smile slowly relaxing into something darker, deeper, and completely unfazed.
"God..." Jack rasped softly, his chest rising in a dry chuckle. "...you really know how to sweep a guy off his feet."
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