Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Letters. So many of them; some long, others a bit shorter, some others even carrying little post-it notes inside. Natasha knew they were yours because it was, undeniably, your handwriting.
She had found the stack inside a bag that caught her attention as she was looking for a hoodie of yours in her closet— thief tendencies aside.
Her eyes scanned through the written words; blue, red, black, even green ink. But what surprised her the most... the dates. The earliest dated back to two years ago. And if there was anything that could take Natasha Romanoff's breath away was the fact that every single one of those letters were addressed to her.
Every single one of them. Again, in your very recognizable handwriting.
Natasha’s heart started beating strongly at the discovery. Not at the fact that you write— she knows that. Now that you're dating, you leave sweet little notes on the fridge, inside her jacket pockets, between the pages of the books she's reading— but at the clear proof that you had been talking to her through letters because, evidently, there had been so many things you couldn't actually say out loud.
She carefully picked up the oldest one, her fingers hovered over the folded paper. She shouldn't. She knew she shouldn't. The bag had been closed for a reason, these weren't left on the kitchen counter for her to find. They weren't slipped beneath her pillow with a tiny heart drawn in the corner like the notes you gave her now. They were hidden. Private.
Natasha placed the letters back down. Then picked it up again, and unfolded it anyway.
You asked me today why I always know when you're having a bad day. I lied.
"Lucky guess," I said. It isn't. I know because your shoulders tense before your face changes, because you stop making sarcastic comments, because your footsteps become quieter.
I notice everything about you. I don't know when that happened.
Natasha swallowed. She remembered that day, she remembered you sitting beside her. Neither of you speaking. She hadn't realized you'd been paying that much attention.
Then another. She couldn't stop.
The letters weren't dramatic declarations.
They were snapshots. Tiny pieces of your heart left behind on paper.
You fell asleep during movie night today.
You hugged me for exactly four seconds longer than usual.
I think your favorite color isn't actually black.
You looked happy today. I think that's becoming my favorite sight.
Natasha laughed softly through the sting behind her eyes.
The handwriting changed over time, it became steadier. More confident... until it didn't.
The ink had blurred. Tears. Natasha's chest tightened before she'd even begun reading.
I think I'm in love with you.
The room became impossibly quiet.
There. I finally wrote it.
I can't say it to your face. I'm terrified.
You're my best friend. You're the safest place I've ever known.
And somehow that's exactly why I can't tell you.
The sentence stopped there. It had been crossed out so hard the paper had nearly torn.
Below it, in different ink, you'd written only one line.
Maybe one day I'll be brave enough.
She remembered that week, you had been quieter. She'd asked if everything was alright. You'd smiled, "just tired." You liar.
By the time she reached the last letter, she was crying. Not sobbing, Natasha Romanoff rarely sobbed, but silent tears rolled down her cheeks anyway.
The bedroom door clicked open. "There you are," you called. "Did you happen to—"
Your eyes landed on the letters scattered across the bed. Then on Natasha. Then on the page still trembling in her hands. The color drained from your face.
"...Oh." Silence. "I can explain."
Natasha looked up, gently wiping her tears away. "You wrote all of these?" she murmured so softly.
"I wasn't supposed to find them," Natasha said, clearly knowing her crime.
"I wasn't supposed to read them."
Another small shake of your head.
Natasha crossed the room before you could say another word, and cupped your face with both hands. "You loved me all this time," she whispered.
"You never told me," her thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.
"I couldn't," you whispered back.
"You thought I'd leave." You didn't answer. You didn't have to.
Natasha rested her forehead against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The letters lay forgotten on the bed behind you, proof of years spent loving each other in silence, proof that, somehow, despite all the fear, you had found your way to the same ending.
"Can I keep them?" Natasha whispered against you.
You laughed softly through your tears. "You want them?"
"I want every version of you," she smiled warmly. "The girl who could only love me on paper, the woman who leaves me notes in my lunch. All of you."
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