It was a magical night in early April 2013; in Maryland's countryside near Chesapeake Bay, deep in a forest, a wooden bungalow held the world at bay, revolving only around Natasha Romanoff and me, Ali Bozkurt. The Insight Helicarrier's crash into the Potomac, Hydra's fall, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse—all that chaos faded, replaced by this humble cabin's warmth, the scent of pine, and our love's fervor. Moving from porch to bedroom felt like a dream's unfolding—carrying Natasha inside, starlight spilled through the window, painting the worn wooden walls and simple furnishings like a canvas; a creaky bedframe, blue quilt draped over, an old lamp swaying in the corner. I laid her gently on the bed; Mortal Divine Body (Epic) tempered to this moment's delicacy—Natasha's red hair fanned across the pillow, green eyes locked on mine, lips still damp with tears' traces, now softened by a smile, her face glowing in the starlight. The blanket lay abandoned on the porch, replaced by our entwined arms—I couldn't get enough of her scent; floral whispers, faint salty air, Natasha's unique essence, intoxicating me with every breath, seeping into my soul like an addiction. My hands roamed her hair, unable to stop caressing the red strands—each curl caught my fingers, quickening my heart, her touch flooding my spirit with peace. When our lips met, I felt addicted to kissing her—each kiss burned with pure, insatiable passion, her lips salty, warm, calling me; our bodies melded, not just physical closeness but a sacred dance of souls, a union. Natasha's breath quickened against my neck, her hands tugging my shirt's fabric—time dissolved, leaving only us; no Red Room shadows, no war's bloody scars, just our love, just our touch.
The bed's sheets tangled, dim light bathing our skin—Natasha's arms looped around my neck, my hands on her waist, we clung tightly; our skin touched, warmth merging. She looked into my eyes, "Ali…" she whispered, voice trembling yet warm—as Black Widow, she rarely bared emotions, Red Room's cold discipline her armor; but now, she'd surrendered her soul to me, that armor melted, revealing a fragile, true woman. "I'd never been in love…" I said, voice soft, eyes locked on hers, heart pounding like a drum, "Guess the Creator kept my heart for you alone. Thank God I found you, my angel-faced love." Natasha's lips quivered, green eyes welling—I cupped her face, thumbs gently wiping a tear; her skin soft, yet cool, as if Red Room's scars lingered like shadows. "Fate wove us together," I said, earnest, a vendor's sincerity in my tone, "Like immortal lovers—I remember the first time I saw you, summer 2010, at my Central Park cart…" I paused, smiling—Natasha was on a covert S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, tailing Tony Stark; she'd stopped by, asking, "How much?" I'd grinned, "Free for your beauty"—that day, a red-haired angel stood before me, claiming my heart. "You were pushing döner on me," Natasha said, a soft laugh breaking her past's pain—her eyes sparkled, "And I brushed you off," she added. I chuckled, "But here we are," I said, "You're my sanctuary—every touch feels like praying in a holy place."
Holding Natasha tightly, I pulled the quilt over us—sheets crumpled, the bed's creak a faint melody; our skin pressed close, warmth blending, breaths in sync, heartbeats a shared rhythm. I gazed at her, eyes brimming with boundless love, "I don't know what time brings," I said, voice firm yet tender, "Child or not, I'll never leave you, my angel-faced love. That's my vow—honest and true, a vendor's, a lover's, a man's word; slicing döner in Central Park or toppling Hydra on a Helicarrier, I'm the same man, always here for you." Natasha's eyes gleamed, a priceless smile blooming—Red Room taught her to bury feelings, but that smile erased her past's weight; "So let your heart rest easy, head high, and this smile never fade," I said, fingers brushing a red lock, strands slipping through. Natasha nestled into my chest, "I'm in for everything with you," she whispered—her voice held peace, surrender; Red Room's scars, wrapped in my love, began to heal. We clung close, slipping under the quilt—my hands on her waist, hers on my chest, locked together, we drifted to sleep; outside, the forest rustled, pines dancing in the breeze, inside, Natasha's breath—my heaven, and Natasha, my eternity. Dawn's first rays crept through the window, still entwined—sunlight played on Natasha's red hair, gilding her face; no Hydra, no war, nothing else—just us, our love, our sacred vow. Natasha's eyes fluttered open, "Morning," she whispered—I smiled, "Morning, my sanctuary," kissing her hand; this moment was our forever.