The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



No one would ever look at Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, who had ruthlessly killed any target of any age for years and think ‘tender.’ But there wasn’t any other word that quite felt right to Clint as he watched her cuddling his sleeping newborn, a small smile on her face, one finger delicately tracing over the soft fuzz of Lila’s hair.

“She’s beautiful,” Natasha said quietly, smile only a little brighter, unfading.

He shared a glance with Laura, who seemed to mirror his contented wonder at the sight of their friend. “Just like her mom,” he answered, grinning.

Laura swatted him.

Natasha didn’t even look up, just cradled Lila in her arms and softly hummed a lullaby Clint didn’t recognize.

There was one other word that fit, he thought suddenly. This moment looked just like love.


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