Literally I rewrote this thing like 5-6 times before I was happy with it. I'm totally not a perfectionist haha what

It's nice to be posting again! Hope you enjoy! :)

He just can't figure it out. For months now, she's been so cold, and then this.

Ever since she arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D., she's been distant and closed off. She's met his warmth with hostility, his courtesy with scorn, his smiles with glares, his openness with silence. Even just last night, when they reached the safe house, his offer to take the couch so she wouldn't have to share the bed was accepted with a mere nod – not a hint of gratitude for his recognition of her personal space.

Not that he minds, of course – her aloofness has never bothered him, and his motive in treating her with respect is not to earn her thanks. His goal has always been more long-term – to get her to get her to open up, to break down her walls, to cause her to become the person he's only caught fleeting glimpses of. He's always known that it will be a long process, but that, eventually, his efforts will be rewarded. And until then, he continues to be warm, courteous, open, and, especially, patient.

And then this morning, he barely had time to sit up on the lumpy couch and switch on a news network, searching for signs of their exploits last night, when she emerged, glowing, from the bedroom, crossed the room, and climbed into his lap, putting her arms around his neck.

And now he's sitting here, stunned motionless as she rubs her face in his shoulder, fingers fiddling with the back of his shirt. His mind is swirling with questions, and he furrows his brow, trying to work out what he's done to merit such treatment from Natasha Romanoff. He just can't figure it out.

Minutes pass, and he remains silent, not wanting to speak and end the moment prematurely.

"You okay?" he asks finally.

She hums an affirmation, resting her cheek on his shoulder as her fingers continue to toy with his shirt.

He pauses, doubtful.

"Sure?"

She straightens then, and he can see a rare smile sparkling behind her eyes, tugging lightly at one corner of her lips.

"Does something have to be wrong for me to hug you?"

He hesitates, unsure how to respond.

She drops his head onto his other shoulder then, one hand idling on his bicep.

"It's a nice day," she murmurs. "Why the hell not."

Her arms go around his neck again, her breath warm against his skin, and at last he begins to understand. It is a nice day – they got the intel they needed, they're well-rested, sunlight is streaming through the windows, and they're waiting in a warm, quiet safe house for exfil to bring them home. Natasha is euphoric. He still has a long way to go before she genuinely starts to open up to him; this is just one of those rare glimpses of the person she tries to keep hidden.

He smiles then, amazed that he, of all people, happens to be the target of this burst of affection. Hesitantly, he strokes a hand down her back, and she melts into him like a cat, warm and soft and relaxed. He finds the end of one of her long curls and fingers it gently; for once, she clearly doesn't mind being touched.

He knows this moment could end at any time; within a few minutes, she'll get up and go back to being the cold, distant, unsmiling Natasha he's used to. He'll continue being warm and courteous and open and patient, and neither of them will reference this day again.

So he closes his eyes, wraps his arms around her, and savors the moment while it lasts.