It was early April 2013; Washington D.C.'s chaos had faded, the Insight Helicarrier's crash smoke dissolved along the Potomac's banks. Hydra was crushed, S.H.I.E.L.D. scattered, and the world caught its breath—Natasha Romanoff and I, Ali Bozkurt, slipped away from it all, craving peace. In Maryland's countryside, deep in a forest near Chesapeake Bay, we rented a wooden bungalow—its roof mossy with shingles, front porch weathered planks, pines encircling it like a sanctuary. Post-mission, this escape felt like a honeymoon—too short at two days, but enough to be just us, unmoored from the world. My Queens cart stayed with Maria Teyze, Central Park's döner scent and simit calls a distant memory—here, only Natasha's presence, the forest's damp aroma, and a soul-filling calm remained. That first day, in the bungalow's tiny kitchen, I brewed Turkish tea—Barista (Master) guiding me as I tended the teapot; Natasha leaned on the counter, "You didn't fuss this much in Central Park," she teased, voice playfully sweet—as Black Widow, she rarely let her guard down, but here, with me, she shed that armor, just Natasha. "Anything for you, love," I said, handing her a cup—her green eyes locked on mine, a soft smile blooming, and time seemed to halt; tea steam swirled as we gazed, nothing else mattering.
By evening, we sat on the porch, wrapped in a thick blanket—clear skies, stars a jeweled field over the Chesapeake; the Milky Way stretched thin, a shooting star winking now and then. Natasha rested her head on my shoulder, red hair brushing my neck, her hands clutching mine under the blanket—her fingers cold, warming in my palm. Silence settled, a peaceful weight—until Natasha took a shaky breath. "Ali…" she said, voice trembling, almost a whisper, "There's something I couldn't tell you." I turned; her green eyes held a shadow—gone was the steely Black Widow; this woman was fragile, fearful, trembling like a leaf, lips parted, breath uneven. "What's wrong, Nat?" I said, gripping her hand tighter, arm around her shoulder—Red Room horrors flooded my mind; Natasha's past hid bleeding scars beneath a spy's veneer. "Red Room…" she began, voice cracking, eyes fixed on the porch's planks, "They had a… graduation ceremony." Her eyes welled, head bowed—I lifted her hands, cupped her face, gently tilting her chin, "Look at me, my love," I said, soft but firm—her gaze met mine, a tear sliding down. "They… sterilized us," she whispered, voice fading, "I can't be a mother, Ali—never, ever." Tears streamed, lips quivering—Red Room's brutal methods made agents "perfect weapons"; the hysterectomy stole a piece of her body and soul, an unbearable wound. "My poor angel," I thought, throat tightening—I cursed Red Room, that vile ceremony, those monsters, "Damn their humanity…" I raged inwardly, but hid it; I only wanted to show her love.
Her tears broke my heart—I pulled her to my chest, "Nat…" I said, voice shaky, eyes welling, "I'd sacrifice worlds for your tears, my heart's keeper. If you think this would make me leave you… you don't know me yet, love." Natasha stared, tears flowing—I ran fingers through her red hair, tangling in the strands, "God's power is boundless," I said, faith surging, voice steady yet gentle, "Unless He wills otherwise, never lose hope of motherhood, my soul's queen. Faith brings possibility—time comes, and we might hold a beautiful child." My eyes brimmed, voice cracked, a vision forming; "Eyes and beauty from her mother, stubbornness from her father…" I was crying now, tears falling into Natasha's hair—I breathed her scent, that floral, salty air, eyes shut, kissing her red strands, lips trembling. "So never think I'd leave you, my red-haired angel," I said, holding her tighter—Natasha sobbed, burying herself in my neck, hands clutching my shirt, tears soaking my chest. "Life with you is joy and paradise," I whispered, leaning to her ear, "Without you, it's torment and hell—all else is details." Natasha looked up, green eyes gleaming with tears, but a faint smile broke through—she rarely bared her soul, but now, she'd given it to me.
As her tears marked my chest, I lifted my gaze to hers—that fragile, trembling woman was my everything; starlight bathed her face, red hair a flame in the night. "So I'll ask again…" I said, clasping her hands, palms sweaty, heart racing, "Will you marry me?" Natasha froze—hearing the proposal, she surrendered, crying; words caught, she didn't answer, just threw herself into my arms, clinging as we kissed like tomorrow was gone. Her lips were salty, warm, fierce—my hands roamed her hair, hers tugged my shirt, the blanket already on the floor; the world vanished, only us left. "Natasha, my red-haired angel…" I gasped, lips parting briefly, "I'll never leave, never, my love. You're not alone anymore." I drank her scent like I'd die tomorrow—hands on her waist, I lifted her like a bride, Mortal Divine Body (Epic) gently carrying her to our bedroom. Wooden floors creaked, dim light glowing on Natasha's face—we sank to the bed, blankets tangling, starlight kissing our skin; no Red Room ghosts, no Hydra ruins, nothing else—just our love, our touch. Natasha rested on my chest, "I love you, Ali," she whispered—voice shaky, but true; such open words were rare, her greatest gift to me. "I love you too, forever," I said, lacing her fingers with mine—in the bungalow's hush, under stars, we vowed to stay together, no matter what. The forest's rustle blended with Natasha's breath as I closed my eyes—this was my heaven, and Natasha, my eternity.