Somewhere, between Tony walking through the door and this moment, there was a spark of something and as per usual, Natasha doused it before it could flicker into a flame.

His sure is met by an easy smile that is all surface as Natasha nods. Like they're both winning here. Carefully, she unfolds her legs from underneath herself and steps onto the cold floor.

Rather than returning immediately to her side of the bed -- he gave her the one closest to the window after he caught her staring at the view one time too many -- Natasha passes by the soft arm chair in the corner. Her robe slips down her shoulders with a rasp of silk against silk, and she drapes it across one of the arm rests in a pool of silk and feathers.

"I have the charity gala," she reminds him. The dinner alone is an excruciating four hours. Then add on the mingling and dancing after and suddenly it's way past midnight. "You might actually beat me home for once."

Home. The word slips across her lips like it means nothing. She pads back to the bed like the remnants of her heart don't ache in her chest. She tucks her legs in underneath the covers and lays down on the soft and clean sheets. A servant changes them daily. Another luxury Natasha thought she'd never get used to, that she now takes for granted.

"You should sleep." Natasha settles on her side, back turned against Tony. This was easier when they just fell into bed occasionally after parties that ran too long. When he sketched out calculations on her skin of how long it'd be before he made her fall apart, and she did her best to beat his math, before they both fell asleep in each other's arms exhausted and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

"You'll need your wits about you tomorrow."