Chapter Text
You stare at the vase of flowers as if it might suddenly explain itself.
Your favorite blooms sit perfectly arranged in the center of the counter, fresh and impossibly vibrant and tied with a ribbon. Your eyes pinch in confusion as you turn the vase slowly, searching for some hidden clue.
There’s only a small card tucked between the stems, your name written in a neat, pretty handwriting but no signature.
You tilt the card toward the light, half-expecting invisible ink or a second note to appear, but there’s nothing.
“Something wrong?” Natasha’s voice drifts in from the doorway.
You glance up.
She leans casually against the frame, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that effortless way she has. There’s a hint of amusement in her expression as she watches you inspect the flowers.
“I don’t know who sent these to me,” you say, turning the vase another inch. “There’s no name. Just…this.”
Natasha hums softly and pushes herself off the doorframe. Her footsteps are quiet as she moves beside you at the counter. She reaches out, fingers gentle as she brush one of the petals, examining it with a thoughtful look.
“They’re nice,” she says before adding quieter. “Maybe you have a secret admirer."
The idea makes you huff under your breath, shaking your head.
“Yeah, right. Or it’s a prank from one of the guys.”
Natasha’s lips twitch in amusement, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she adjusts one of the stems, like she already knows exactly how the arrangement is supposed to look.
“But do you like them?” she asks after a moment, her voice softer now.
You pause. The question catches you off guard.
Looking back at the bouquet, you realize how carefully it’s put together. The colors, the types of flowers. Someone clearly paid attention. Whoever sent them knew your favorites, even the ones you only mentioned once in passing.
Your expression softens despite yourself. You slide the vase a little closer to yourself, fingertips brushing the cool glass.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I do.”
Natasha nods once, a small, almost relieved motion. You don’t notice the faint smile that settles on her lips, subtle and fond, as she watches you admire the flowers.
Her arms come to rest casually on the counter, but her fingers linger near the ribbon tied around the stems, absentmindedly smoothing it flat.
“That’s good,” she says, voice low and warm.
You miss the way her gaze drops briefly to the card, to the handwriting that looks suspiciously like her own, before she looks back up at you, expression perfectly neutral again…except for the softness that never quite leaves her eyes.
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