It was early June 2012; a week after Nick Fury's poignant visit to my cart, New York's summer heat had softened to a cool breeze. Queens' streets shed war's scars, Central Park's trees just starting to yellow. That evening, I closed my cart early—a restless ache, a longing stirred within; I pondered where I belonged amid this wild ride. I climbed into Tony Stark's high-tech van, filled a thermos with fresh Turkish tea, tossed in some simits, and drove to Coney Island, near a weathered lighthouse. I settled on an old, worn wooden bench at its base; cold wind stung my face, waves' rhythmic crash echoed—salty air filled my lungs as every moment since arriving in this world flashed by. Stark Expo's blast, Helicarrier chaos, my kick to Loki… I hummed Aşık Veysel's "On a long, narrow road, I walk day and night…"; the lyrics spilled from my lips, capturing my strange journey's soul. Tea glass in hand, I bit into a simit—seeking peace, alone, until a familiar shadow fell on the bench's other end.
"Good thing you came, Natasha," I thought, turning to her. Her red hair danced in the wind, black leather jacket slipping off her shoulders, jeans and boots defying the beach's chill—Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top spy, Red Room's cold killer, but tonight her eyes held a different spark, armor shed. "Lost your way, handsome?" she said, voice playful, a slight smile—her sharp wit softened with warmth. "You here to be my compass, lovely lady?" I shot back, matching her cheer—Natasha was stunning, I'd thought so since day one, but tonight she glowed differently; not a spy, just a woman. She sat beside me; I opened my bag, "Tea?" I said, pouring a glass from the thermos, "Got fresh simit too." She laughed, "Never short on anything, Ali," taking the glass—our fingers brushed, and a spark flared within me. The night unfolded with tea, simit, and a warm, funny, heart-lifting chat on that bench.
"I crack up picturing Loki that day," Natasha said, sipping tea, eyes gleaming, "Where'd you get that move?" I roared, "Pure luck," I said, breaking off simit, "Not my fault. How was I supposed to know gods have sensitive nuts?" Natasha lost it, "God or not, same biology!" she said, laughing until tears fell—she rarely showed emotion so freely, but this was raw, unfiltered. "You should hear Thor," I said, "still telling it in Asgard!" Our talk stretched—from war's chaos, Helicarrier's lahmacun order, to me saving civilians in New York's streets. With her, I forgot she was a spy—Black Widow's edge, coolness, gone; just Natasha. She seemed to drop her mask too—why, I wondered, but didn't ask; maybe her eyes held the answer.
Hours passed; stars sharpened in the sky, the lighthouse beam swept the shore. "Let me drive you home," I said, gentlemanly, standing. "Walk instead?" she said, eyes bright—I couldn't refuse. We strolled empty streets from Coney Island to her Brooklyn apartment, chatting—cool breeze, dim streetlights guiding, but a pang hit; I didn't want this to end. I shared my childhood, early days at my Queens cart, hours with my döner knife… She opened up, rare—her Red Room past was dark, but, "I used to love dancing," she said, voice distant. "Not too late," I grinned, "we'll waltz someday!" She laughed, "Maybe," winking. At her building's door, I stopped, looking at her. "Getting late," I said, reluctant, "wish it didn't end." "Same," she said, eyes meeting mine—silence fell, only distant waves audible. "Goodnight!" I said, stepping away—but something stopped me. "What's happening to me?" I thought, heart racing, even Mortal Divine Body (Epic) couldn't quell it.
I turned back; Natasha stood at the door, watching—surprised, but her eyes yielded. I rushed to her, hands on her waist, lifting her—carried her like a bride, she yelped, laughing. I kissed her, breathless; our lips met, passion igniting—heart defied reason. I kicked the door open—Mimicry & Adaptation Mastery (Epic) made me nimble—carrying Natasha inside. "Go, champ!" I thought, chuckling—habit kicked in, I didn't even ditch my shoes. In her dim-lit apartment, lips locked, we clung—bumped the couch, tumbled laughing to the floor, kissing unbroken. "Shower?" Natasha said, breathless, eyes ablaze. "Sure," I grinned—into the bathroom, hot water poured, bodies wet and close, passion merged. Until dawn, we burned with pure, intense love—shower steam fogged the glass, water danced on our skin. "I can't let her go… no way," I thought, holding her tight—bodies entwined, souls locked.
Under the shower, I ran fingers through her wet, gorgeous red hair; her scent filled me—salty sea air, floral shampoo, Natasha's unique essence. Her skin's warmth hit; I noticed scars on her shoulder—Red Room remnants, Budapest, past missions' pain. I froze, hand pulling back, but then gently traced them, kissed them—Natasha sighed softly, no protest; eyes closed, she surrendered. I kissed her addictive lips, skin, hair, with fervor—each touch whispering, "I want to heal her soul," no words for it. Every second with her was to soothe her scars, give peace—and she did the same; we mended each other's broken pieces. At dawn, exhausted but joyful, I held her; wet hair spilled on my chest, her breathing calm, serene—first light from the window framed her face in gold.
"Thought love was a dream," I mused, eyes locked on her, "turns out, it was right here. Blind me." Looking at Natasha, my eyes welled, "I love you, my red-haired angel," I said, voice shaky but sure—I couldn't live without her, Mortal Divine Body (Epic) felt hollow elsewise. Natasha's eyes opened, meeting mine; green irises glistened, "I love you, my pure-hearted love," she said, voice fragile, true—she rarely bared emotion, Red Room numbed her, but this was real, raw surrender. Words quiet, our eyes spoke our hearts; "Found my heart's keeper," I thought, smiling—on this long, narrow road, I'd found peace with Natasha.
A Ding! flashed the system screen:
"Achievement Reward: Black Widow's Heart - Espionage & Assassination Mastery (Epic)."
Description:
"Espionage & Assassination Mastery (Epic): Invisibility, strategy, lethal precision—Black Widow's skills mirrored; shadow movement, art of surprise."
I smiled, kissing Natasha, "Got the best reward already," I thought, "don't need this with my angel." She nestled into my chest, my hand in her hair—wars, aliens, gods, all faded; this moment was ours. Coney Island's lighthouse still gleamed far off; waves' hum slipped through the window as Natasha and I, in love's fire, lived my life's sweetest night—just the start.