Lottie

The restaurant was dim and quietly buzzing with people. Meanwhile you were on your second basket of bread and trying to convince yourself more than the waitress that your date was coming. He was some guy in your psych class with a football scholarship and a boatload of jock friends. You were starting to feel stupid for saying yes.

Minutes after you came to the conclusion he wasn’t coming, you noticed a pair of eyes on you. They belonged to one of the most beautiful women you’d ever seen. She was eyeing you like you were dinner on her plate. You tried not to make eye contact because that would be flat out awkward.

“Waiting for a date?” She called out after a moment. You looked up, surprised she was talking to you from so far away.

You looked around ashamedly before saying, “He stood me up.” The woman pouted a little.

“I’m sorry. How about you come join me?” Your eyes got buck in surprise. She chuckled. “No, really, it’s fine. Unless you want to keep conversing from here.”

You shook your head. “No. I’ll come.” You clumsily got your purse and crossed over to her table, sitting down across from her. “Hi.” You breathed out. She smiled behind her glass of wine before taking a sip.

“Hello, dear. What’s your name?” The woman asked, eyeing you unashamedly. You were a bit shy under her gaze. You told her your name. “That’s a beautiful name. I’m Wanda.” She draped her hand across the table, you shook it, taking into account how warm and moisturized her hand was.

“Great to meet you. And thank you! For letting me join you. I was ready to hit the road after the third basket of bread.” Wanda cooed sympathetically.

“Oh you poor girl. Order something. My treat.” She slid her menu to you, you opened your mouth, ready to say it was fine, but she stuck her hand up. “Order what you want. Please.” She insisted.

“Okay, if you say so, Wanda.” You tested out her name on your lips.

You and Wanda ordered your meals, and began to talk as you waited. “So what college do you attend?”

“Uh NYU. It’s a pretty okay school. We get bad reps though.” You chuckled as you thought of all the false stereotypes people said about your peers. Wanda couldn’t help but laugh herself.

“Yes, I’ve heard you befriend sewer rats and cartwheel around the subway.” Now that made you laugh harder.

“I’ve done the second one before, but I was drunk, in my defense!” You admitted, taking another sip of your wine.

During and after your meal, you and Wanda talked so much, by the time you looked up, the restaurant was about to close. She paid and you were ready to part until she asked.

“I know we’re total strangers, but would you maybe want to come back to my place? It’s just two blocks away.” And your answer was even crazier.

“Yes.” I mean what could go wrong? You could fight just fine and you had pepper spray on you.

Going outside, you notice a black car already parked outside waiting. “Oh, you called an uber?” You asked, getting into the car. Wanda chuckled and shook her head.

“This is my personal driver, dear.” It was so cold outside the warm air took you by surprise. You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, wow. Well uh, what do you do for work?” You couldn’t help but ask. You noticed her hand was on top of yours— when did that happen?

“Family business. Pays very well.” You nodded. That was vague, but she didn’t owe you that. In no time, you were rolling up to a very gorgeous apartment building. “I have the penthouse.”

“Must pay very well, then.” You chuckled. Her driver let you two out and the doorman got the door for you. She led you to the elevator. While it was going up, you decided to pry a bit more. “Are you like the head of the company?”

She nodded, her eyes flitting everywhere but your eyes. She had no shame and you were trying to ignore it. “Yes. I’m the head. I took over after my father’s death.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The elevator opened to the huge, gorgeous pent house. Your eyes went wide as you ushered yourself inside and as did Wanda.

“Don’t be sorry, just look at how old I am. My father had a full life. But enough about me,” she sat beside you on her brown couch. “Tell me about you? What’s your major at NYU?” She placed her hand on your thigh, you could feel heat creeping up your neck.

“Uhm.. business. It’s always interested me.” You told her with a nod. She kept a smile on her beautiful face as she subtly slid closer to you.

“Well, then. You’d be a great intern for me. Then again, a beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be working.” You chuckled, she was outright flirting with you. Maybe you should flirt back.

“Oh so that’s why you were staring at me. I thought I had something on my shirt.” Wanda laughed a little harder.

“You’re a bold one, hm? Can you dance?” You quirked an eyebrow.

“I can dance, why?” She stood up, walking over to a record player and pulling one of the records off a shelf that had many records on it. Watching her, you realized how risky you were— this could easily be the beginning of some crime documentary that Netflix takes on for a money grab. Then again, Wanda seems pretty sweet. Like a sugar mommy almost…

“Come dance with me, darling.” She stood in the space between her couch and kitchen with her hand outstretched. You got up and walked towards her, placing your hands on her waist awkwardly as she did the same but more confident. You two fell into a slow sway. “You truly are beautiful.” She admired. You smiled sheepishly.

“You are too.” You said shyly.

“I’m honestly grateful your date ditched. I would’ve been coming home alone if he hadn’t.” Wanda admitted.

“You probably would’ve still caught my eye.” You said honestly. Wanda smirked. “Seriously! You’re really pretty and really good at smooth talking. I sort of want your number.” You were getting bolder by the second thanks to that second glass of wine.

“I think I’ll be giving it to you. But what would you do with my number?” She asked, her hands trailing a little lower than what’s appropriate.

“I’d call you. Get to know you a little better I guess.” You shrugged. She hummed.

“So you think we could become something more?” You could feel your face heating up.

“Uhm.. maybe. I’d be stupid not to try.” She giggled.

“Well, then. I’m looking forward to your efforts, sweetheart.” She moved a piece of hair out of your face. You got so awkward, you just hid in the crook of her neck.

There was no warning, either. You got home one day and they broke the news on the other. You'd barely arrived, with your suitcase still packed and shoved under your bed, when they told you. They handed you a newspaper cutout. Someone wrote an entire piece on that old ranch.

You immediately knew what ranch it was. Right on the edge of a neighboring town, where sane people don't set foot. There's nothing to see there, after all. No nightlife, no bars, not even a diner. Just endless fields and the prospect of a heatstroke.

You never thought you'd have to go and confirm all of that yourself. Turns out you were wrong.

It's hot outside, but even inside the car, it's sweltering. Sweat is beading at the back of your neck, the radio is on too loud, and your parents are talking too much. You zone out until they start repeating your name.

"What?", you ask, snapping out of it. 

"Honey, this is such a great opportunity for you." Your mother turns around. "Young people need to experience things like this. I'm telling you, you're being all crabby now, but one day you'll thank us."

"If that day ever comes, you have the permission to shoot me."

"Y/N", your father cuts in. "Your mother is right, this will do you some good. Maybe you'll learn some responsibility for once. This year was a fucking disaster."

"James, don't curse."

"Sweetheart, she maxed out her credit card three times."

You roll your eyes and lean back again. Outside, you can see the side of Wyoming you never got to know. Golden fields, barns with peeling paint, wooden fences and dirt roads. A couple horses here and there. Not at all what you wanted.

You've been called spoiled before. By your grandma, your aunt, even your parents. This must be payback. Maybe some twisted way to correct your behavior.

The car pulls out onto one of the dirt roads you keep seeing. You drive past trees and old houses, until the landscape gets sparser. Somewhere in the distance, you see the ranch you saw in the newspaper. There's a pasture right nearby. 

A river, winding its way through trees and tall grass, glistens in the morning sunlight. From all the way over here, you can see the mountain range. You turn your head away.

At first, the ranch seems abandoned. Not a human, not even a horse, in sight. You hold the handle of your suitcase tighter and finally look at your parents.

"Is this a joke?", you ask. "Because if it is, well done. You taught me a lesson. Can I go now?"

"It's not a joke until you've got the money to replace your car", your dad says. He rubs his forehead. "Maybe we should go knock on the door."

"Don't knock."

All three of you turn around at the same time. For a moment that lasts way too long, all you can do is stare — this is not who you imagined owning the ranch. What popped into your mind had been an old man, with weathered skin and white hair. Someone grumpy, mean, who'd barely say a word to you.

You did not think it'd be a woman, and definitely not one this attractive. 

You take her all in, from head to toe. Cowboy hat pulled low, red hair in a braid, worn boots and straight jeans. Sweat on her brows, her hands still dirty from whatever she was doing before you arrived.

"And don't stare, either", she suddenly adds, throwing you a sharp glance. Maybe you weren't wrong about the 'mean' part after all. "Who's that?"

"That's Y/N."

"Bullshit. This is a summer job for high school students."

Your head whips around. "High school? I have a bachelor's!"

Both of your parents start sputtering excuses and explanations at once. You're not willing to listen to either of them, and neither is the woman with the cowboy hat. What she expected was a high schooler, maybe someone who just graduated. It said so in the advert, too. She lets out a sigh, kicks at a pebble and then interrupts them.

"Cut it out", she says. "I don't have time for this. Is she fit for the job or no?"

She's doing her best not to look at you. God knows what made you think it'd be appropriate to show up in shorts and a tiny top.

"Do I look like I am?", you immediately fire. 

"She is", your father says, anyway. "She'll be useful. Besides, she owes me a ton of money, so..."

"I don't need your backstory", she says, finally looking at you. She raises her eyebrows. "I'm Natasha. And if you're someone who'll complain all day, I don't want you here."

Complaining is an art you mastered over the years. It's as innate as breathing. But who said you couldn't tone it down for a month or two?

Part of you knows: for her, you could. You shoot her a smile and reach out your hand, which she gives a long stare before shaking it. You feel her calloused fingers rub against your smooth ones.

"No complaining", you promise, batting your eyes at her. "Now, what's the sleeping arrangement?" 

. . .

You're not sure what you were expecting. All you know is that your expectations were low, and despite that, it still managed to disappoint you.

The mattress is thin. The window barely closes. There's dust everywhere. Worst of all, you get confronted with the nightmare that is a shared bathroom. Not a space to yourself, but one that the other workers on the ranch will intrude on whenever they please.

You tiptoe back into your room, a towel wrapped around your body now. Water drips from your hair and skin, leaving a trail from the bathroom door to your dresser. You grab your hairbrush and startle when someone knocks on the door.

"All settled in?"

"Give me a minute", you say, rolling your eyes. Another knock, this time more impatient. "Jesus, what do you want?"

"I have work for you, so chop chop! Enough spa time."

You almost hesitate. She's your boss, technically. Then again, she's asking for it. You whip around and rip open the door, making her falter right in front of your eyes.

The towel is clinging to your damp skin. Your thighs are plush underneath. A water drop rolls down your collarbone. Your cheeks are flushed, your hair damp, and you can see the exact moment she loses her train of thought — before snapping out of it.

"Get dressed", she barks. "And then come outside."

Natasha leaves the bunkhouse. The wooden door slams shut behind her, rusty hinges squeaking and walls shaking. You smile and turn around to grab your suitcase. Surely she'd appreciate you wearing a more appropriate outfit for work.

By the time you get to the paddock, Natasha's distracted herself with the task of refilling the water and letting the horses back out of their cages. You stop next to the barn and peek inside. She's putting a bridle on a black horse. You can barely see a flash of red hair over the open stall door.

Liho says the nameplate on the stall. It's the only hand painted one. You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorframe, idly watching her. She gets up, pats the Friesian's neck and turns around. 

There's something about her that intrigues you. You wouldn't fuck her, probably — she seems too uptight for that. But she also seems so disciplined, so in control, that you wonder whether you could make her drop that persona for even a second.

She grabs a lead and turns back around. The sleeves of her Henley are rolled up, and dried mud is clinging to her boots. She seems distracted enough to give you the illusion of being undetected still. It's exactly why you flinch when she speaks up.

"Go into the hayloft and make some space."

You blink. "What?"

"Hayloft", she repeats. "Make space. I'm getting more hay bales tomorrow, I need the loft door to be free."

"Sounds like a shit ton of work."

"That's because it is."

Natasha leads Liho out of the stall and through the barn door. You quickly step aside. The horse is huge.

"You're not going to show me how it's done?", you ask, giving her a doe eyed look. "I could use some guidance."

She barely reacts. Hell, barely even looks at you — you're in a ribbed top, with a new pair of shorts. It's inappropriate, but she's always been someone to notice bodies, whether she likes it or not. The issue is that you're younger, and that the unspoken rule of ranchers not getting personal with staff keeps lingering in her mind. 

"They're hay bales", she says sharply. "I think you can handle that. When you're done, grab a bag of feed and get it outside."

"And those are...?"

"Feed room."

You open your mouth. Natasha takes one glance at your lips, silently halts every thought that was about to spill, and cuts you off.

"You'll figure it out. Now go."

Slightly miffed but nevertheless amused, you shut your mouth. You're getting her closer and closer to snapping. Natasha turns back around, her hold on Liho's lead a little too tight.

Ten minutes later, all kinds of amusement you felt earlier are gone. What's left is sweat, sweat everywhere, on your thighs and arms and brows. You take a deep, annoyed breath before picking up the next hay bale. It nearly slips from your damp fingers.

"How's it going?"

You almost drop the hay bale. Natasha, sensing you'd have your troubles with this task, decided to leave Liho in the paddock and see how you're doing. Apparently, not even your extremely low expectations were met.

"Great", you mutter, tightening your grip. "Don't you have work to do?"

She eyes the dampness sticking to your skin. "Warm up here, huh?"

You clench your jaw. It's not 'warm' — it's like being boiled alive. Summers in rural Wyoming are hot, but being trapped in a loft with a ton of hay and little to no ventilation? Doing physical labor you are not used to? 

You haul the hay bale to the other side of the loft, where you've been stacking them. The loft door is almost free, aside from one or two hay bales you still have to move. 

"Finish up here", she says, tapping her knuckles against the wall before starting to go down the ladder again, "then get me that feed bag."

Half an hour later, once the horses are in the paddock and having their second feed, you drop into the grass by the fence. Not just the grass is cold, but the air is cooling down as well, which is much welcomed. You're not used to hauling things around, so doing it for an hour straight managed to suck all energy from you.

Natasha isn't impressed. Your complaints fell on deaf ears, but that doesn't mean they haven't been ticking her off. You're trying, she can see that, but you're also exactly what she's always refused to hire — a girl from the city, someone who's had their every wish come true since the day they were born, who rejects any kind of effort. Sweet, yes, maybe a little naive in a sense, but bratty and mouthy as well.

"Get up", she says, closing the fence. "I have work for you."

You stare at the grass, absently smoothing down your baby hairs. The heat made them stick up like little antennas.

"What?", you finally ask, looking at her.

"Work", she repeats. "No rest for the weak. I got some water troughs that need to be scrubbed before I get the horses back into their stalls."

You shake your head. "You're joking. I haven't even had lunch yet!"

She raises her eyebrows. There go the complaints again, she thinks. Her eyes flit to the grass stains on your thighs.

"That's why you pack lunch", she says. "You'll survive. Now go."

You exhale. Your hand absently rips out a few blades of grass. "No", you say, defying her for the first time that afternoon. 

Natasha stares at you. Part of her is surprised it took that long to hear that word come out of your mouth. When she saw you for the first time, just hours earlier, she feared it'd happen much sooner. 

"No?", she repeats. 

"No", you say. "No, I'm not scrubbing your stupid troughs. I'm covered in sweat, I'm hungry, and those hay bales killed my arms. So no."

A few seconds pass. You expect the worst — pack your stuff, call your parents, get the hell out of here. You're not in the position to be demanding things. You're here to work, give it your all, even if you're about to pass out.

Or so you thought. Natasha crosses her arms and nods at the bunkhouse.

"There's stuff in the fridge", she says. For some reason, she's pleased you didn't fold. "What?"

You're staring. Unmoving. "You're joking", you repeat, this time for a different reason.

"Get your ass into the kitchen", she says. "What, I thought you were hungry?"

"I am."

"So?" She nods at the bunkhouse again. "Go on, I don't have all night."

You give her another wary look. When she doesn't react — not a word, nor look — you push up from the ground and wipe your hands on your shorts. 

Ten minutes later, you're back in the barn. You and Natasha work next to each other, scrubbing in silence, and for the first time that day, you don't seem to mind being there that much.

. . .

Early morning. You weren't supposed to get up before 7am — but the stupid chickens are loud, and even after a week of being on the ranch you still aren't used to them, so you slipped into the shower an hour before your alarm would've gone off. 

Natasha's been up for a bit longer than you. Work doesn't allow her to sleep in, after all, and she likes to get her morning chores done as quickly as possible. Feed the horses, check the water troughs, clean the stalls. Only once the horses are outside, she lets herself grab her bowl of oatmeal.

Summer mornings are when she's most alive. Out here on her ranch, they're special. Cold air, golden light. It's like the whole ranch gets to exhale for once. Of course she had to hire the one person that could ruin them for her.

"Up and about already?", you call, shutting the door to the bunkhouse after you. "You wake up this early every day?"

Natasha doesn't look up. "Some people have work."

"I'm working too, aren't I?"

"I suppose."

She can't hear your footsteps in the soft grass, but she can tell you're coming closer. She's right — moments later, the fence moves ever so slightly as you climb onto it.

Her eyes move on their own accord. They find a pair of cowboy boots, bare legs straddling the fence, a pair of smooth hands holding on tight. She looks at your face and raises her eyebrows.

"Can't tell me you don't get lonely out here", you tease. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

"Taking care of stuff", she says vaguely. "You're in a good mood. I don't like it."

You shoot her a grin, the sun hitting all of you. Natasha turns her head away again. You're a disruption, but somehow, you fit into this a little too well. Now that you're not sweaty and pissed off about having to haul around heavy hay bales, you almost seem to like it.

The horses seem to like you, too. Natasha watches Liho come closer, her head bobbing slightly in your direction, ears forward. You reach out your hand without thinking, and the Friesian sniffs it before nuzzling your palm.

"Huh", Natasha mutters. "At least someone's warming up to you."

Liho doesn't like most people. Natasha knows better than to tell you that, though. You'd never let her forget, she's sure.

Your fingers brush along the horses face, up to the top of her head. 

"What shampoo does she use?"

Natasha tilts her head, and you nod at Liho.

"She's very soft", you add. You pause, eyes twinkling. "Hey, when do I get to saddle up and ride one of these?"

Her reaction is immediate and blunt. She slides off the fence with a scoff, empty bowl in hand, and steers Liho away from you. Not just anyone gets to touch her horses, let alone ride them. Letting Liho come so close in the first place is something she didn't expect from herself.

"You've got work to do", she dismisses. "I left some tack in the barn. It needs cleaning."

You roll your eyes, swinging your leg off the fence. "Like I know how to do that."

"Sponge", Natasha immediately fires. "Soap. Condition the leather when you're done. Can't be that hard."

Somehow, her snippy response doesn't stun you in the slightest. Your lips curl a little instead — you expected her to snap out of it sooner or later. She's got a reputation to keep, after all. Can't let herself soften up even a little. Especially can't let herself get softened up by the spoiled city girl.

She watches you head to the barn, one hand pressed to Liho's crest. Out of sight, out of mind, but you never stay out of sight for long.

She's caught herself thinking about you more than once. They're non work related thoughts, too, some curious, others dismissive. She's trying to convince herself you're not all that. You're bratty, so mouthy she wants to slap you sometimes. 

Work is what distracts her best, so that's what she gets started on. She pats Liho's warm neck before leaving the paddock. She's got a new cow coming in around 9am, so she'll have to prep a pen and get some paperwork filled out. One of her horses is injured, and she'll take a look at the injury to decide whether a vet is necessary.

Her plan pans out. Over the next few hours, she doesn't even catch a glimpse of you. You have your list of chores now, ranging from sweeping barn aisles to checking the chicken coop for eggs. Mistrust has started to turn into something more secure.

The sun begins rising, the air starts heating up. Early morning shifts into noon. Natasha's used to how it makes the ranch change within just hours. Everything is sweaty and repressed, too hot to endure. This is when the accidental sunburns happen, when she starts snapping at people. You included.

You're lucky enough not to run into her, though. She gets the horses into the barn so they don't overheat and leaves again. 

It's lunchtime. She eats a bowl of rice and beans, leans back against the wall of the shed, and then dozes off. You round the corner to find her with one arm slung over her eyes and her feet crossed at the ankles.

You can't help yourself. Your eyes trail over her bare arms, tan and sweaty from the heat. Her breathing is slow and even. You're not sure how long she's been asleep, but your footsteps didn't wake her up, so work really must've knocked her out.

You sink down next to her without thinking too much. Grass rustles, and Natasha lets out a quiet breath. It only takes minutes for her to wake up — she's not used to longer naps.

Your head tilts when her arm moves off her face. Drowsy eyes meet yours, and your lips twitch into a smile. She sighs and covers her face again, cheeks flushed from the heat and your proximity.

Her nap was short. She had some sort of dream, anyway, and though the details disappeared the moment she saw you sitting next to her, she distinctly remembers seeing your face.

"Got nothing else to do?"

"Thought you could use some company." You glance at her red cheeks. "You'll burn to a crisp out here."

"I'm fine", she mumbles. She peeks at your face. "Done with work?"

"All done."

"I don't believe you."

You roll your eyes, shifting until you're sitting cross legged. Natasha looks again, finding the grass stains on your thighs and the sweat soaking into your top before she can look for either.

"Alright", she says. "Let's find something else for you to do."

You scoff, watching her get up like it's nothing. You're not used to the chickens, and you're definitely not used to the heat and how it affects everything you do. 

"Now?", you complain. "It's sweltering." 

"Mhm", she hums. She nods at you. "Get off your ass."

You furrow your eyebrows. "No way."

"No?"

You shake your head. You expect some sort of reaction — snapping, getting impatient, anything. Natasha shrugs and walks around the shed instead, disappearing from your sight. When she doesn't return, you hum happily and plop into the grass. The second you stretch out, cold water shoots straight at your legs.

You jolt up with a gasp, trying to pull away, but the stream of the hose moves up to your chest. You roll over and scramble up, Natasha laughing behind you.

"Wasn't that hard", she says, turning the water off. You glare at her.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know."

"Asking you nicely wasn't working", she shoots back. "Come on. The horses need grooming."

You stay rooted in place, your soaked clothes clinging to your body. Natasha nods at you and starts walking. You have no choice but to follow.

. . .

At sunset, everything burns orange.

The animals are fed, the ranch is quiet. Most of the horses are back inside the stable, and the workers are finishing up for the day. So are you — you did the last water check of the day, collected the tools left in the field and then made your way into the kitchen.

You're outside now, getting closer to the pasture. The heat has mellowed, but the grass brushing your ankles is still a little warm. You pause by the fence when you see Liho.

Natasha takes all her horses for rides, but Liho gets special treatment. You lean against the fence and watch her. 

From the other side of the fence, it looks easy. The reins in her hand are slack, her body less tense than when she's doing stuff around the ranch. There's that cowboy hat on her head, too, pulled low enough to hide some of her face. 

Dust gets kicked up, and Liho speeds up a little. Hooves hit the ground, a galloping steady rhythm you'd remember for a while. 

Natasha isn't doing much steering. Instead, Liho is in control. They're partners, you realize, and maybe that's why it looks so easy. Like you could do it too.

Natasha seems more at ease out here. You were mostly staring at the horse at first — the rhythm of her gait, and the sunlight hitting her black fur — but then, your eyes trail back up. A cowboy hat, a red braid down her back, and her top darkened at the spine.

It's hot. She's hot. She's older, competent, her thighs gripping the saddle in a way that makes you think about your own thighs gripping her. You still wouldn't fuck her, but you let your thoughts drift a bit, only enough to get a taste.

Natasha still hasn't spotted you. She's put quite some distance between herself and the ranch, as she tends to do when she takes Liho out for rides. She doesn't always go far, though, so she clicks her tongue and makes Liho turn back around. 

They slow as they approach the fence, and you abandon your daydreams the moment she notices you.

Her eyebrows rise in silent question. You shift, almost leaning your full body weight against the fence, and tilt your head up. 

"That was good."

"That's it?", she asks. "Good?"

"Very good", you drawl, a smile forming on your face. Natasha scoffs, bringing Liho to a stop right in front of the fence.

"Why are you out here?", she inquires. "You're done with work?"

You roll your eyes and lean backwards, hands gripping the fence. "Christ. All I hear from you is work, work, work. You should lighten up a little. Maybe get high sometime."

At the mention of drugs, her face turns disapproving. She grabs the saddle horn and swings herself off Liho's back, landing on her feet. You don't make a move to help her open the gate.

"You're sure you won't let me ride?", you ask, walking back to the ranch with her. 

Natasha glances at you. "You know how to ride?"

"You're doubting me?"

"Thought that was obvious."

You slip into the stable together. Natasha takes the reins off Liho, puts the saddle aside. She's trying to be subtle, but she knows you can tell she's thinking about it. The thought of you on a horse doesn't sit right with her — you may think you know everything, but you don't, and testing that luck on the back of a horse sounds plain stupid. 

She turns around to you leaning against one of the stalls, your hand stretched out to let the horse inside sniff it. She sighs and feels herself cave.

"You'll do what I say", she says.

You look at her. "What?"

"I'll teach you how to ride", she says, waving her hand dismissively. "But you'll do what I say."

It's a bad idea — she can tell by looking at your face. But Natasha's not someone to back out, so it's too late now.

. . .

The heat isn't the only reason your top is soaked. 

It's early afternoon. Though it's still hot, you've passed the peak heat threshold. You were adamant about getting this done today, and since Natasha has plans for the night, you were forced to ditch your usual nap.

You expected this to be easier. You're on the back of a horse, your body rigid. The stallion is only walking, but all his back muscles are moving from side to side, almost like a boat rocking on water.

Natasha furrows her eyebrows — she keeps giving you instructions, but you keep bouncing anyway. She doesn't want to imagine what a trot would look like.

"You good up there?"

You curse, sweat running down the back of your neck. "Fuck. You make it look easy."

"That's the point", she says. "Hey, sit deeper. Heels down, balance on the stirrups. You're starting to bounce again."

Natasha smirks. She chose her easiest horse for you — a Tennessee walker, chestnut brown, thirteen years old and calm enough to deal with someone inexperienced. She loves Rocket almost as much as she loves Liho. He's the gentlest of the bunch.

Yet, you're managing to irritate the stallion like no other has before. He slows down when you tug at the reigns. The movement is far from gentle, and he comes to a full halt with his ears pinned and his tail swishing. Natasha stares at you, her arms crossed.

"What?", you finally ask, all out of breath. You still manage to sound defiant.

"You were bouncing", she clarifies. "A lot. Liho would've sent you flying to the other side of the ranch."

You narrow your eyes, the reigns feeling slippery in your sweating hands. "I think I was doing more than okay."

Rocket stomps, sending dust flying. He doesn't seem to agree with you. Natasha glances at him, then steps to your side. Her hand cups your knee.

"Don't grip", she says, repositioning it. "Relax a little, alright? We'll go slow and steady."

A warm palm pressed right against your knee. You feel it through your jeans, heartbeat thudding as it slides up to your thigh. Natasha looks up, and you meet her eyes. 

Neither of you says anything. She doesn't move her hand, either. It stays on your thigh, feeling the heat radiate from beneath worn denim. 

"Scoot a little."

You kink your eyebrows at her words. She's let go of your thigh to grab the cantle of the saddle, her eyes still locked with yours. You do as she says, making space behind you, and she climbs up.

Her heat is the first thing you notice. It's different than regular summer heat — it's alive, moving, suddenly all over you when her arms reach around your middle. She grabs the reins, but you barely notice them slipping out of your hands.

Then, her scent. You're not sure what cologne she uses, but it's all over you too. Her breath hits your shoulder and she tightens the reins.

"Don't be so tense", she mumbles, getting Rocket to walk again. "Feel how I'm sitting?"

You let out a breathy laugh. "Oh, I feel it."

"Ease into it", she encourages. "Don't lean forward so much."

You rarely listen, but this time, you do. You lean backwards, right against her chest, and Natasha's eyebrows furrow. This is what she wanted, isn't it? It feels wrong, anyway. If anyone catches her all snuggled up with the stable girl, she'll become the talk of the town in no time.

To her frustration, it feels nice as well. Your back is snug against her front, and the fact you're not moving shows you're starting to trust the whole process. When you're not rambling and complaining all the time, you're a delight to be around. 

She does it without telling you first. You only realize when Rocket starts speeding up and you go back to bouncing in your seat.

"Are you crazy?", you protest, teeth chattering. "Slow down!"

"Move with the horse", she replies. "You're all bouncy again."

You want to talk back to her, but Rocket keeps speeding up and forcing your attention on him. The wind is a furious blast at this point, too dry and hot to feel nice. Your eyes are tearing up, your thighs are burning with the effort of gripping the saddle, and the only reason you haven't been sent flying backwards off the horse is Natasha.

She tries to bite back a smirk. Making you suffer has become a fun pastime by this point. She can feel your heart slamming against your ribs where her arm is pressed against your side, panicked as a rabbit, and decides to have mercy.

It only lasted a minute, but it felt like forever. Rocket slows down until he's back to walking comfortably, and you sit there with your mouth shut and your hands locked around the saddle horn.

"Wasn't that bad", Natasha argues, adjusting her hat. "You're still too tense, though."

"Fuck off", you mutter. You glance at her when she dismounts, her eyes full of amusement. "My ass hurts."

"Mhm", she hums. "Try walking."

You don't get it at first, but once your legs hit the ground, you understand — your thighs are sore, your legs jelly. Natasha can't help but think about all the little foals she's watched take their first steps.

"Right in time for the summer fest", she says, closing the gate to the paddock. "You're joining?"

You give her a look. "Me?"

"You", she nods. "Take the night off. Why not?"

Part of her hopes you'll say no. The night will be easier to navigate without you there. Alcohol, loud music, dancing, guys hitting on girls. She'd spend the entire time making sure you don't get into trouble.

You grin and reach over, almost snatching the hat off her head. She swats your hand away.

"Sure", you say. 

Natasha exhales, her hand holding onto the brim of her hat. Of course.

. . .

Just like that, all of a sudden, you fit in. It's unlike any party you've ever been to, but you're not out of place — on the contrary. No one batted an eye when you walked in. No one but Natasha.

It's one of the ranch hands that helped you. She walked past as you were trying on some of the clothes you brought, not that there were a lot, and suggested you borrow some of hers. A sundress and a pair of cowboy boots later, you're stepping into what has to be a repurposed old barn.

You don't see Natasha in the herd of people crammed into the large space. They're moving, constantly, alcohol in their hands and loud music drowning out most of their voices. A man squeezes by, then reverses, his hand stretching out.

"Dance?", he asks. You glance at the sweat forming on his upper lip.

"I'm good."

"No worries", he says loudly, moving along. You turn around and start making your way through the crowd.

Country music is playing. It's a cover of an artist you somewhat know, performed by a local band. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling, wrapped around wooden beams. It's a warm night, but all the dancing bodies are trapping heat and making it unbearable.

You step over a puddle of beer to reach the small bar they set up. Natasha, sitting on the other side of the room, keeps a close eye on you. You're young, full of dumb decisions. If she isn't careful you'll end up too hungover to work tomorrow.

She's watching you, and she knows others are watching her doing that. Word spread fast. It took one neighbor spotting the two of you on a horse together, and now, the entire town knows. Nobody is sure what exactly they know, but they're talking about it, anyway.

"That's Romanoff's new girl", a woman says. "Sweet thing."

"Whiskey in a tea cup", her friend replies. "They're all the same, ain't they?"

Natasha doesn't look up. You're leaning against the bar, arms crossed atop it. You're on your tiptoes, rocking up and down and smiling at the bartender. He slides over a glass of bourbon.

You turn around and spot her. She's sitting on a wooden stool, her legs spread and her sleeveless top exposing the firm outlines of her arms. You pause for a second, the whiskey glass lifted to your lips, before taking a couple steps towards her.

She gives a thin lipped smile and holds up her beer. "You made it."

"Barely", you say, sliding into the seat next to her. A small round table separates you. "The directions you gave me were faulty."

"I'm sure." 

"Be glad I didn't get lost", you tease. "You'd miss me on the ranch. Don't deny it."

She doesn't. She leans back and looks at you, her eyebrows raised, before nodding at the party happening around you. "What do you think?"

Your eyes sweep across the room. They've started to line dance now — at least a handful have. Kids are running around, disrupting the flow of the dance, and the music has become even louder.

"Very tame", you grin, looking at her again. "Could turn it up a notch. But it ain't bad."

"Ain't?", she repeats.

"You pick stuff up."

Natasha laughs and nods, bringing the beer back up to her lips. She hasn't had a lot of beer yet — only half a bottle — but she has a feeling she'll need more.

The party keeps moving at a breezy pace. Alcohol flows, people chat. Men ask women for dances. Natasha stops talking after a while, her eyes absently scanning the crowd. She only snaps out of it when a man comes up to you.

She anticipated it. She sees the stares, and to be blunt, she understands the stares. The sundress you're wearing is short, barely reaching your knees. Then, the cowboy boots. The face topping it all off.

He grabs your hand and pulls you to your feet. Before Natasha can deflate in her seat, you reach for her and tug her along.

"Can you dance?", you ask. She bumps into someone and curses. It's too loud.

"What?"

"Teach me!", you yell.

You end up in the crossfire of the crowd, bodies colliding, her wrist in your hand. You spin around and get closer. Natasha, who's starting to believe she may have never had a choice in the first place, puts one hand on your waist and grabs yours with the other. 

It's a simple two step. Easy enough, she's hoping. She's done it countless times before.

"Like this", she tells you. "Look at my feet. Quick, quick, slow, slow."

You nod, pressing closer and following her movement. Quick, quick, slow, slow, and you step on her foot.

"Dang it!"

"Don't cuss", she says. "Come on. It's easy."

You find your way back to her, getting closer until your front is almost flush with hers. Cowboy boots stomp and scrape the wooden floors. You feel her breath and watch her face get more flushed.

Your fingers tighten around hers. She lets go of your waist to spin you around and pull you closer again. It's not quite how you two-step, but she thinks she can make an exception here.

"Again", she says. "Two quick, two slow. Don't look at me, look at your feet."

"I am", you lie. You're staring right at her. 

It's the alcohol, probably. Granted, she had less than a bottle, and it was just some beer. She still needs an explanation for this. Why else would her voice soften?

"Doing good", Natasha mumbles, slightly out of breath. "One more."

The song ends way too quickly. You're halfway into a spin when it stops, and you both come to a stuttering halt. You stay glued together for a moment, until it starts becoming obvious to both you and the people around you, and then she pulls away.

You watch her return to her seat. Her attitude flipped, and it's apparent. She's back to being exactly how she was the day you first met her. 

You stand there and stare for a second, breath heaving and brain running on full speed. Do you approach her? Not now, probably. Doesn't sound smart. 

You turn around and go back to the bar for a second drink. Tennessee whiskey, the bartender recommends. He slides over a tumbler full of it before proceeding to ask whether you're free tonight. You shake your head and dip. 

The whiskey is a little lighter than the bourbon was. It's a punch of vanilla and spice, hitting your throat and your blood alcohol levels right away. You linger next to the wall and finish the tumbler in small sips.

You're not looking at Natasha. You're not even sure where she went — her seat was empty when you looked at it again, and now, you can't find her. It's for the better, probably. Maybe you pushed it too far. She's still your boss, after all.

The people around you start dancing again. It's a slow two step this time, and it's mostly lovers dancing to the song now. You watch them for a moment, shake your head at the same guy trying to pull you in for a dance, and then set your tumbler aside. You slip out through the door and into the chilly summer night.

They set up a tent next to the barn. There's people out here as well, barbecuing and drinking beer out of coolers. Your eyes sweep across the tables, but when you don't find what you're looking for, you turn around. 

You saw the river the day you got here. You didn't think it'd be close to the ranch, but you found it when walking to the summer fest. You find your way back to it now.

You hear the water before you see it. Moonlight reflects off the moving surface, the water glittering in the darkness. It smells clean, a little earthy, and you sit down on the piece of timber next to it. 

It's calm out here, quiet. Your thoughts go back to Natasha, to the dance and everything surrounding it. You didn't do anything wrong, you're sure. She could've said no and returned back to her seat. She didn't have to get so close. 

You don't know how long you sit there before you start to hear footsteps. You turn around when gravel crunches, only to look straight at Natasha. She's got her hat pulled low, her face almost covered.

When she noticed you were gone, she freaked out a little. You had alcohol, after all. The area is considered safe, and locals don't see an issue with being out late at night; but you're not from this town, and for some reason, she thought you'd actually get lost this time.

"Christ", she mutters, stopping a few feet away from you. "What the fuck are you doing?"

You shrug. "Wanted to escape the noise."

"Could've told me you'd leave", she snaps.

"Didn't seem like you cared", you shoot back. "You disappeared first."

Her shoulders slump a little. She swore to herself she wouldn't, but she feels guilty. Now that she's looking at your face, she does. There wasn't anything else she could've done, though. That dance tested every boundary she set up for herself.

She kicks at some gravel, then walks up to you.

"I went outside", she clarifies. "I needed some space. Took me two minutes until I came back."

You give her a defiant look, but the embarrassment sits deep in your chest. Maybe you overreacted. You shouldn't have wandered off.

"How was I supposed to know?"

"You weren't", she admits. "But don't do that again."

"You sound concerned", you tease, straightening up. She lifts her eyebrows. "Why's that?"

Gone is the embarrassment. Natasha stares at you, her jaw twitching. She can't explain herself, but lord knows you'll come up with something. Whether that'll end up being true is a question she won't answer.

"I think it's time for bed", she says. "You sound drunk. How much did you have?"

"Not nearly as much as I'm used to", you dismiss and get up. "Now answer my question."

You're face to face now, the distance between you becoming smaller. Natasha feels her body go rigid when it shrinks to inches, you suddenly all up in her space, smelling of whiskey and a perfume you managed to bring.

Heat all over her skin. She exhales, trying not to panic. Everything is still under control. It's late, you're both tipsy, your hormones are acting up. Then, your hands settle on her waist, and her head dips instinctively.

Her lips hover in front of yours. She can almost taste the whiskey she's smelling, and that's when you let out a breathy laugh.

She freezes, her eyes searching your face. You're way too close, yet you're not backing away. You're smiling, daring her, and she refuses to play along and give you the satisfaction.

"Party's over", she says quietly. She takes a step back. "We're going home."

"Tired already?", you say, hands slipping. "I could go all night."

"I'm sure you could", she mutters. You make your way back to the trail that leads to the ranch.

It's silent between you now. You're walking next to each other, side by side, the moon only providing enough light for you to vaguely discern your surroundings. Natasha's wide awake and confused, slightly irritated by her own behavior as well.

She walks you back to the bunkhouse with her hands in her pockets. You look at her when you stop in front of the door, and she takes a breath.

"I'm giving you the day off", she finally says. "Tomorrow."

"What?" You frown. "No. No, that-"

"You're taking the day off", she says, interrupting you. "Go for a walk. Visit your family. Whatever. Just..."

You raise your eyebrows. You thought Natasha would get sick of you. You didn't think it'd happen like this, though.

"I get it", you say. She licks her lips and nods, glancing at the door. "I'll stay out of your way."

The door creaks open. You disappear inside, no more words exchanged, and Natasha tries pushing down the feeling of regret bubbling up. Before she can change her mind and follow you into the bunkhouse, she turns around.

. . .

Without you, the stable feels empty. A dozen horses, grunting and blowing and chugging water, don't fill the silence. Natasha sets the broom aside and pauses, her mind drifting.

You were serious when you said you'd stay out of her way. Instead of joining her on the fence by the paddock for breakfast, as you've been doing the past week, you just...didn't show up. Maybe you were in the bunkhouse, still asleep, or maybe you left the ranch for the day. She doesn't know.

It's hot outside. She's done with work for now, which means she should take a break and get some lunch in. She's been thinking too much though, so she grabs a saddle and some tacks and enters Liho's paddock.

She hopes it'll be easier to distract herself when seated on a horse's back. She'll have to focus, both on the horse and their surroundings, and on herself as well. Maybe she'll stop regretting what she did last night.

Liho can sense the agitation inside her. She sidesteps, flicks her ears at Natasha's fumbling with the cinch. When she jerks the bridle, Liho tosses her head. 

"Sorry, sorry", Natasha mumbles. "All good?"

All she gets in response is a long huff. Natasha bites her lip — now they're both irritated.

She mounts up, anyway. She's sure Liho will feel better after a long ride as well, and though that's true, part of her also knows she's telling herself that to feel better about dragging her out into the early afternoon sun.

At this hour of the day, the fields are empty and endless. People are inside eating lunch and avoiding the heat. They get enough sun around here as it is. No need to soak it up.

Natasha pulls her cowboy hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. She presses her heels into Liho's sides to coax her into a trot, the vast landscape next to them starting to move by at a quicker pace.

She has no real direction, and neither does Liho. All she knows is that they're getting further away from the town. If she knew, she may have turned around.

The soft lapping of water is what she hears first. Cottonwoods block most of her view, but once they've gotten past those, she spots the river.

You don't see her, but she sees you. You're wading through the water, only in white underwear and with your hair soaking wet. Water drops glisten on smooth skin, the sun lights up each inch of your body, and Natasha loses her train of thought.

That's where you went. Instead of going into the city or visiting your parents, you took a picnic trip to the river. There's a checkered blanket spread out next to it, with an empty plate and a bottle of water, and your clothes tossed onto a piece of wood.

Her eyes quickly find you again. Your bra is sheer from the water, and so are your briefs. She shifts on the horse, trying her best to keep riding before you notice her — but then you look up and it's too late.

Your eyes meet. Neither of you do anything about this. Water splashes against your thighs, you shoot her a smile, and that's when she tugs at the reins and makes Liho turn around.

Within seconds, they're gone. You stay in the water for another minute, then get out and dry yourself off with an old shirt. The way back to the ranch feels much shorter, but maybe that's because you're in a rush.

Natasha hears the gate creak from all the way in the stable. She pauses alongside Liho, whose ears perk up at the noise. She only gets to wonder about it for a few seconds, and then, the door opens.

You slip in, now in a dress and with your face glowy from the water. Natasha stops and stares. Maybe she got a heatstroke during those ten minutes she spent outside.

But no. You're real. You make a beeline for her, and when you're in proximity, she lets out a quiet noise.

"Why'd you leave?", you demand. Natasha exhales in a shudder. "I saw how you looked at me. So why'd you leave?"

She shakes her head, not saying anything. You furrow your eyebrows.

"Natasha", you empathize. "Say something. There's no way you have nothing to say to me."

"I don't", she snaps. "You're making this up."

Your breath is heavy. You step closer, until you're so close that she can smell the river water clinging to your skin and clothes. She swallows, her hands balling into fists.

"Liar", you whisper. She stares, her heart pounding, and then she closes that last bit of space left between you.

Lips, hot and plush and searching, press against yours. Her hands find your waist. You get closer, wrapping your arms around her neck, and part your lips to deepen the kiss. There you go, stumbling into something that might be the biggest mistake you could've possibly made, but neither of you consider it enough to care.

It's like the horses all shut up the moment you kissed. Natasha walks you backwards, her hands squeezing and groping at your now clothed hips. You end up against the wall in the small room that leads up to the hayloft. 

You don't stop. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, and you drum your fingers down her chest until you find the zipper of her jeans. She's got a very specific picture of you in her head — almost fully naked, only covered by small pieces of drenched fabric — and she's desperate to see it again.

"Wait", she pants, fumbling with your dress. "Can I?"

You nod frantically. The dress falls to the floor and Natasha's eyes dart lower. You let her stare for a moment, her hands keeping a tight hold on your hips, before you tip up her head. Her lips find yours again.

"Let's go upstairs", you tell her between kisses. She nods. 

The ground is covered in hay. You end up on your back, with Natasha on top of you. The first time you were in the hayloft, you hated her guts. Things have taken a turn for the better.

You've both been holding back for days, maybe weeks, and it shows. Her lips collide with yours, time after time again, before she starts moving her mouth down your jaw. Your fingers tangle in her red hair and you lift your head enough to watch her mouth drag across your chest.

She watches you take off your bra, her thumbs hooking into the sides of your briefs. You lift your hips enough to let them slide off.

"You're so flushed", you say, smiling at the pink color dusting her cheeks. "It's cute."

"Shush", she mutters. She buries her face in against your stomach, her hands smoothing down your thighs. Spit slick lips start making their way south and you gasp, your hips bucking.

It's frantic and dizzying. She gropes your thighs, her lips pressing against them and sucking marks into the supple skin. You're aching and soaked, each kiss making you more impatient.

"Natasha", you whine, reaching down to grab a fistful of hair. "There."

You guide her between your legs. She lets out a moan as her tongue presses against your cunt. Your back arches at the much needed sensation, and she only grinds her face deeper when she tastes you.

She's messy, you notice through heady arousal. Her kisses are sloppy, slick with spit and your own wetness. Her fingers are curled into your thighs with such force that you're sure they'll leave marks.

Your stomach tenses at her tongue pushes in deep. One hand is buried in her hair, the other uselessly scratching at the wooden floor you're on.  Your hips twitch upwards when she buries her entire face against you.

You'll come way too soon. She's eager, unrelenting, shoving you towards an orgasm you already know will knock all air out of you. You clench around her tongue, your chest heaving and sweaty, and let out another loud moan.

Natasha does hope no one will waltz into the stable while you're up there. Most of her workers stay out unless she asks them to do something, but she can never be sure. It's not enough to make her stop, though — especially not now that you're so close.

Heat floods you. She's eating you out like she's trying to fit all of you into her mouth at once. Energy has coiled deep in your belly, you can't think anymore, and when the coil snaps, it all floods outwards in one overwhelming burst.

Your back arches and your head falls backwards. Muscle spasms all throughout your body, and when they begin to slow down, Natasha lifts her head. You give a lazy glance at her face.

"Fuck", you mumble, still out of breath. Her face is a mess. 

"That bad, huh?"

You grin and reach out for her. She crawls up and kisses your mouth, her fingers brushing your hair aside. The afterglow is hitting you hard, with your muscles limp and your brain on timeout, so Natasha rolls over and pulls you onto her chest. 

It's silent at first. Then, the noises of your surroundings break through the little bubble you created for yourself, and you start to hear the horses downstairs and cows outside. A truck drives past the ranch, the wind howls, and you nuzzle her neck.

"You could give me more days off, you know."

She lets out a weary laugh. "No shot. You'll be up 7am sharp tomorrow. I need you around here."

"Mhm?" You lift your head, eyebrows raised. "You do?"

"Just enough not to kick you out", she mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple. "So don't tempt me."

You roll your eyes and slump into her chest again. You're not sure how long you stay like this — naked, curled up between stacks of hay, skin hot and heads fuzzy. The only thing you know is that something changed.

. . .

The animals can sense it before anyone else. The horses are restless, hind legs shifting and ears pinned, their tails swishing. The ranch dogs are pacing, following you around, and the chickens haven't left the coop since early morning.

You're still clueless. You're crouched next to the stable, a water trough in front of you. It's the third trough of the morning you're scrubbing. You're starting to get sick of it.

"How's it going?", Natasha calls. You look up and see her leading the horses outside. 

"I'll punch you."

"Yeah, yeah." She grins, walking towards the paddock. Liho stops and stomps, blowing air out through her nostrils. "Hey, come on. What's the matter with you?"

You frown at the Friesian. Liho is calm, usually — at least with Natasha she is. You've never seen her resist the paddock, either.

"Is she alright?"

"She's fine", Natasha dismisses. It's a sunny day, with a clear sky and a light breeze. It's not as hot as it's been the past weeks. "It might rain later. She's a little nervous, but she'll be better once we get her into the paddock."

You nod, reaching for the brush again. Your arms are starting to hurt, but it's the last trough you need to get cleaned, so you're pushing through it.

Over the next few hours, the weather changes. Dark clouds start crowding the sky, drowning out the sun. The temperature drops, and the light breeze turns into a wind that's gaining in intensity. 

You're sitting on the porch of Natasha's house, bowls of potato soup in your hands. She keeps forgetting to eat — not because she isn't hungry, but because she's watching the horses and the rapidly changing weather like a hawk. She's wary of storms.

"You okay?", you ask, licking the spoon clean. She glances at you. 

"Huh?"

"You seem distracted."

"Oh", she says. "It's okay. Just trying to gauge the situation."

You nod, the spoon clinking when you drop it into your empty bowl. You get up, lean over to kiss her cheek, and then make your way into the kitchen. Natasha watches you leave before shifting her focus back to the animals.

By 5pm, the sky has turned a dark gray. It's raining. Thunder rumbles in the far distance. Natasha's in the living room with you when she hears a noise outside.

Not just any noise — it's the horses, outside in the paddock, panicking. High pitched whinnies and sharp squeals, loud enough to travel from the paddock to the open window of her living room.

You lift your head, a frown on your face. "What was that?"

Natasha gives you a fleeting look. Outside, the thunder is getting louder. So are the horses. She gets up and reaches for jacket, her red hair loose for once. 

"The horses", she says, already slipping out through the door with a flashlight in her hand. "I have to go get them inside."

You trail after her. You're not sure whether you'll be of any help — she doesn't let you handle the horses by yourself, and she especially won't let today be the first time she does. You don't get far, anyway.

Natasha whips around. You stop right in front of the porch, feeling the rain start to soak into your clothes and hair. 

"What do you think you're doing?", she asks sharply. "Go back inside."

"I can't let you do this alone", you protest. You can see the paddock from her house. The horses are freaking out, and the storm that's started to roll in is only making it worse. "There's twelve of them, Nat!"

"Y/N, go inside", she repeats. "I'll be fine. Now go."

Truth is, she could use a helping hand. The issue is that you'd be absolutely useless. The horses weigh anywhere from a thousand to two thousand pounds. They've done damage without meaning to before, and now that they're under this kind of stress, she can't let someone who has no experience go near them.

You stand there, staring and doubting her. She's right, though. If you get injured, she'll have far bigger problems than a couple panicked horses.

You don't have a choice. You stay back on the porch and watch her hurry towards the paddock, her body becoming less visible the further she progresses.

It's a huge storm, the biggest of the summer so far. The rain is lashing at her face, the sky briefly gets lit up by lightning. She tries to quickly count the horses — and the result is sobering. She counts twice, and both times, she only gets to eleven.

On the other side of the paddock, she spots parts of the fence torn to the ground. Max is gone. 

She hears footsteps behind her. She whips around, expecting you to have rebelled against her orders and followed her outside, but it's Steve. She wouldn't trust most of the people working on the ranch with a situation like this, but she trusts him.

"Get them inside", she barks, already running towards Liho. "I need to find Max."

"On it!"

Natasha attaches the reins to her halter, then she swings herself onto Liho's bare back. No time, no saddle. 

It's not ideal, but she knew that. The storm is getting worse by the second. Liho's coat is slick beneath her jeans, and paired with her sharp movements, not falling off becomes a challenge. 

There aren't many horses she'd trust in a storm like this, though. When it comes down to it, Liho is the one she can count on.

She charges through mud, her head slightly lowered. Natasha's soaked through at this point, from head to toe, despite the jacket and thick boots. Her heart pounds as she scans the area around them, but Max is nowhere to be found.

Her best bet are the woods nearby. She remembers when another horse escaped once — her mother's, an old mare that passed a few years ago. It'd been storming as well. They ended up finding her seeking shelter in that same wooded area.

"Easy, girl", she pants, guiding her with her knees. They take a sharp turn, and Natasha nearly slides right off. "There we go."

Her hooves are thundering not unlike the storm raging around them. Natasha pans her flashlight between the trees, her eyes narrowed. Trees, trees, nothing but trees. She almost gives up, but she moves the flashlight to the left one more time and finds an all too familiar Appaloosa. 

Natasha exhales. Now comes the hardest part.

You're still on the porch, waiting, cold rain soaking you to the bone. It's been half an hour, maybe. You're not sure. You refuse to check. Your worry has grown rapidly, becoming almost unbearable. Each time you hear movement, you pause. Each time, it isn't Natasha.

Until it is. She's out of breath, her red hair dripping and her white top sheer. Her clothes are clinging to her skin. She looks up and quickly figures out you never left the porch.

"You're fucking insane", she breathes, hurrying up the stairs. "You're shivering!"

Her arms wrap around you. She leans in, her lips as cold as yours when she kisses you. You grab her face, the relief that she made it back safe suddenly the sweetest thing in the world.

"I'm fine", you dismiss. Her forehead leans against yours. "Did you find him?"

"He was in the woods", she says. "I went there with Liho. Getting them both back was a struggle, but we made it."

You make a noise at the revelation, but before you can voice the concerns flooding your head, she grabs you and steers you inside. Warmth hits you, and you only now realize how fucking cold you were.

She leads you all the way to her bedroom. You watch her grab a large towel and put it over your shoulders.

"I'm okay", you insist. She mutters a curse and begins drying you off. "Hey. Nat."

No shot. When she doesn't reply, you cup her face and pull her into a kiss. Sweat, rain, saliva mix between you, but neither of you care. The towel drops to the floor, her hands replacing it, and you press closer and closer as the adrenaline keeps rushing through your bodies.

Her palms are hot as they rub down your sides. You slide your own hands down her chest, pushing gently until she ends up seated on the bed with you in her lap.

"I'm okay, I'm okay", you whisper, placing frantic kisses along her jaw. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"You're still cold", she mumbles. Her hands find the front of your shorts. "Fucking idiot. You could've frozen to death."

"True", you hum against her skin. "Warm me up."

Heat shoots through her own body at your words. She opens your shorts and pulls them off, her hands smoothing up your thighs. You let go of her to tug off your top, and when she's met with the view of your bare chest, she lets out a quiet noise and leans in.

Your nipple is pebbled against her tongue. She sucks on it, gently scrapes it with her teeth. Your back arches and pushes more of the soft tissue into her mouth. One of her hands slips between your legs.

You're soaked in more than one way, it turns out. She moans, pumping her fingers into you and feeling how tight you are. You sigh at the stretch and slowly lower your hips to push more of her into you.

The rain hasn't stopped — it's only gotten worse. It's whipping against the windows, the wind howling and the storm raging. But you're inside, safe and warm, her fingers nestled between your legs, and whatever is going on outside is none of your concern.

You roll your hips down against her fingers, then lift them again. Natasha opens her eyes to look up at you. It's a view she could get used to.

Her thumb presses against your clit. You let out a shuddering exhale, starting to ride her fingers faster.

Each thrust makes you more desperate. You're sweaty, hot all over, chasing the discomfort you felt earlier away. She curls her fingers without warning, making you moan.

"Not cold anymore?", she mumbles. You shake your head. "Thought so."

You slump against her, hips still moving. Her hand moves with your hips now, fingers thrusting upward each time you sink down on them, and you feel them hit something that sends shock waves through you.

A deep thrust is all it takes, and you come around her fingers. The orgasm hits you hard enough to make you go still, but Natasha keeps pumping her fingers until you let out a quiet groan.

You end up in her bed together, bodies naked and covers pulled up high. Her head is on your chest, your fingers running through her damp hair. For the first time in hours, the storm outside begins to mellow.

. . .

"I could stay on the ranch", you suggest, watching her wipe the counter. She pauses.

"Bullshit. You've got school."

"I graduated."

"What about your master's?"

You shrug. She sighs and reaches for an apple, which she chops into uneven pieces. You grab a chunk and pop it into your mouth.

You've been having this conversation for days. You haven't managed to come to a conclusion yet. You don't want to leave, Natasha doesn't want you to leave, but she's right — you applied for a master's program at DU and got accepted. Backing out seems like a dumb idea.

You've only been here two months, after all. Your parents would kill you if you threw this opportunity away for a woman you, at least in their mind, hardly know.

"What?", you ask. "Don't think it'd be worth it?"

Natasha glances at you. "I don't know", she admits. 

"I think it would be."

She grimaces. You lean over and peck the frown off her face, then slide off the counter. You go outside, both of you, into the midday sun you've gotten so used to.

The fence has been fixed. Liho walks up to it and you feed her an apple chunk. You stay there for a while — you eat apple chunks, watch the horses. You end up climbing on the fence and balancing on it.

"We've got work", Natasha reminds you. She's standing in front of you.

"What?" You sigh. "Spare me. I've got two days left with you!"

"Work still needs to get done", she says. "That's the number one rule here."

You stare at her, not making a move to get off the fence. It doesn't take long for her to get fed up with you, and once she does, she wraps her arms around your thighs to get you back down.

"Hey!", you protest.

"Feed bags", she huffs, setting you down on your feet. "Now. You know where they are."

You give her a look that makes her hesitate. Then she leans in and kisses your mouth, quick enough to make it an apology, but not long enough to make her cave. Lord knows she'd rather be in bed with you than work.

The day flies by. You meet up a few times — after she repairs the barn roof, before you groom Rocket. You end up in the hayloft, behind the barn. She kisses you, her lips parting and your tongues meeting. You're both sweaty and tired from the heat, but neither of you care.

Time passes no matter how much you try to stretch those last days you have. The thought of leaving doesn't become easier. You were fighting tooth and nail when your parents said you'd work here over the summer, but now, you'd rather summer never ends.

Packing your suitcase feels more like a chore than ranch work does now. Natasha leans against the doorframe, watching you, until you slam the suitcase shut. She hesitates for a moment, then makes her way over to you.

"Got everything?", she asks, wrapping her arm around your shoulders. 

"Pretty sure I do."

It's quiet inside the bunkhouse. Everyone else left for the day — Natasha shooed them into town to grab a few things and to leave the two of undisturbed. She's not sure wants them to see her watching you leave.

She leans in to kiss you. It's tame at first, only a press of lips, but you quickly become more frantic. You grab the front of her top and clash her lips back against yours, a moan escaping you.

You don't have enough time, you both realize, but you end up against the wall anyway. Right as you push her hand between your legs, a car honks outside. You part with a sigh.

"That's it, huh", she mumbles, her cheeks a little more pink than usual. 

"I could tell them to leave", you plead. She shakes her head. "It's not like it's their decision."

"It's not", she agrees, then hesitates. "Come on. I'll get your stuff."

Ten minutes later, you've shoved everything into your parents' car. You poke your head out of the window, absently biting your lip. There isn't much left to say now.

Natasha leans against the fence. Her lips pull into a small smile. She feels her heart in her throat.

"This time, next summer?"

"You know it."

You feel the car start when your father turns the ignition key. It begins to roll, slowly but never slow enough, and you let out a shaky exhale. Natasha tips her cowboy hat, watching you leave until the car is out of sight.

It was humiliating.

“Pass the salt.”

You nearly dropped the entire container into your soup.

Natasha blinked at you from across the dinner table.

“…You okay?”

“Yep,” you answered too quickly.

Sam snorted into his drink.

You kicked him under the table without looking.

Natasha took the salt from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for maybe half a second.

You stopped breathing.

Actually stopped.

She frowned a little. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Mhm.”

Your voice cracked.

Clint outright choked laughing.

—

Natasha, somehow, did not get it.

Which made absolutely no sense because she was literally one of the best spies in the world.

She could tell when people lied before they even opened their mouths. She noticed tiny shifts in posture, changes in breathing, microexpressions.

But apparently your painfully obvious crush existed in a blind spot.

Or maybe—

Maybe she noticed and just didn’t care.

That possibility haunted you most.

So you avoided her.

Not dramatically. You weren’t hiding behind walls or sprinting in the opposite direction.

You just… strategically disappeared.

If Natasha entered the kitchen, suddenly you remembered you had laundry.

If she sat beside you during movie night, you’d excuse yourself for water you didn’t need.

If she tried talking to you one-on-one for too long, your brain melted into static.

It got so bad that one morning Steve found you fully climbing back out of the common room window.

“…Why are you using the fire escape?”

You glanced past him.

Natasha was inside making coffee.

“…Fresh air.”

Steve looked unconvinced.

“You live on the thirty-eighth floor.”

“Cardio?”

—

The thing was, Natasha made it impossible.

She wasn’t even trying.

She’d casually sling an arm around your shoulder after missions.

She’d smirk at you from across the training room.

She’d praise you in that low, rough voice like it was nothing.

“Nice shot.”

“Good work.”

“You’re improving.”

And every single time, your brain replayed it for the next six business days.

The worst part?

Natasha liked being around you.

A lot.

She liked your dry sarcasm. She liked how you got protective over the team despite being newer and younger. She liked how your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck after training.

She especially liked making you flustered.

Not maliciously.

It was just… cute.

You’d get all stiff and avoid eye contact while trying so hard to act normal.

And Natasha, despite decades of emotional repression and spy instincts, had somehow mistaken your crush for intimidation.

Which honestly offended her a little.

One night after a mission, she cornered Clint in the kitchen while he dug through the fridge.

“She’s scared of me.”

Clint stared at her.

Then he started laughing.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Clint.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then realization slowly crossed his face.

“Oh my God,” he said again, quieter this time. “You like her too.”

Natasha scoffed immediately. “I do not.”

“Nat.”

“I don’t.”

“You look at her like she personally invented sunlight.”

Natasha opened her mouth.

Closed it.

“…That dramatic?”

“Worse.”

—

After that conversation, Natasha started paying attention.

And suddenly everything clicked into place.

The nervous fidgeting.

The avoiding.

The staring when you thought she wasn’t looking.

The way you’d go completely silent whenever she sat too close.

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hit her so hard she nearly walked into a glass door.

You had a crush on her.

A big one.

And somehow, impossibly—

Natasha felt warmth bloom low in her chest at the thought.

—

The next few days were torture for both of you.

Because now Natasha noticed everything.

Like how your ears turned red when she touched your arm.

Or how you always looked for her first after missions.

Or how your entire face softened whenever you thought no one was watching.

It was unbearably endearing.

Which became a problem when Natasha started getting shy too.

Not externally, obviously.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t really do externally shy.

But internally?

Disaster.

You smiled at her in the elevator one morning and she forgot what floor she needed.

You complimented her fighting stance during training (something which you had taken a whole of 30 minutes to muster up the courage for) and she spent the next hour punching the bag hard enough to split seams.

It was deeply inconvenient.

—

The breaking point came during movie night.

You were curled into the far corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves shoved over your hands, trying very hard to focus on the screen.

Natasha arrived late carrying popcorn.

Your heart immediately started acting traitorous.

There was exactly one open spot left.

Beside you.

Of course.

You contemplated death briefly.

Natasha sat down close enough that your shoulders touched.

You froze.

Completely.

She noticed instantly.

And this time, instead of pretending not to, Natasha tilted her head slightly.

“You always this nervous around me?”

Your eyes widened.

“…No?”

“Liar.”

The fondness in her voice made your stomach flip.

You stared determinedly at the TV.

“I’m not nervous.”

Natasha hummed softly. “So if I did this—”

Her fingers slipped carefully around your wrist where it rested against your knee.

Gentle.

Warm.

You nearly short-circuited. Luckily no one noticed, at least, they pretended not to

“Shut up,” you muttered weakly, still staring straight ahead.

Natasha’s thumb brushed against your pulse.

Way too aware. She was way too aware of how fast your heartbeat got.

Her expression softened.

“You know,” she murmured quietly enough just for you, “for someone so confident around everyone else…”

You finally looked at her.

Big mistake.

Natasha was already watching you with this small, impossibly soft smile.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Just… warm.

Your face burned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Probably.”

But she still didn’t let go of your wrist.

Actually, her fingers slid down slowly until they tangled with yours.

Your brain stopped functioning entirely.

Natasha squeezed your hand once.

Then, very casually, she leaned her head against your shoulder.

You looked at her like she’d personally rewritten reality.

Natasha didn’t look up from the movie.

But you caught the tiny smile tugging at her mouth when your fingers squeezed hers back.

Natasha rarely failed at a mission, and when she did, it was always salvageable in some way or another. The consequences rarely affected her directly, and if they did, she’d still get through.

This time, however, she could feel the said consequences in the chill creeping up her spine, in the damp seeping into her feet and numbing every extremity. She didn’t have long left. Her energy was waning, and it was becoming difficult to move. Soon, frostbite would take its hold, sacrificing a limb at a time until the blood froze in her veins and her heart stopped pumping.

She’d racked her brains for every ounce of training, mentally replaying each lesson and experience, but found her preparation for this situation sorely lacking. Natasha had done everything she could. She’d done well to even last this long.

And as her internal organs started to shut down, her brain falling into a freezing fog and quelling down the sense of panic at the prospect of death, she would refuse to admit this was a failure. Natasha had lived longer than she’d expected. During her time at the Red Room, every day felt like her last. Following graduation, each mission risked a swift and merciless end. Her recent role as an Avenger only heightened this possibility. No. Natasha hadn’t failed…

Her eyes had been screwed shut for longer than she could remember, and the snow pelting her face had long since lost its effect. As she huddled, knees to her chest to preserve any remaining body heat, the crude attempt at a shelter collapsing all around her, she realised she felt suddenly warm. Burning up. This was it, the final stage of freezing to death. Yet, she ignored all her mind told her to do, remaining as still as the icicles forming all around her.

And then.

“Natasha!”

A voice on the breeze. A hallucination, surely. Some kind of religious relief beckoning her to the afterlife, hopefully.

“Nat!”

It was familiar to her, but her muddled mind couldn’t quite place why. All sense told her not to move, though curiosity peeked through her survival instincts. Natasha cracked open an eye, feeling like it was defrosting despite the cold air now brushing its surface.

A figure moving towards her. Black against the white snow. A blur of motion. But most importantly, real.

The figure approached her at an urgent pace, snow sent flying all around them as they trudged through the knee-high white blanket. The figure crouched down in front of her, hands reaching out to touch her shoulders, imploring her to move. The touch filled her with life, not warmth, but a cold shake that reminded her she was still alive.

Both her eyes were open now, blinking away the doziness.

“Nat, please. Say something. Do something. Anything.”

The figure was out of breath, fear filling their eyes as they regarded her. God, she must’ve looked rough. She wished colour would return to her cheeks so that they would not be so concerned. Willing her lips to move sent sparks of pain scattering across the surface of her skin, but something deep inside her chest told her she had to reply. Had to soothe your worry.

“I…” Her lips numb, her voice cracking.

You stared at her pleadingly, caringly. Natasha wished she could remember the details lingering just out of her periphery. Deep down, she knew who you were, why you were here, but her brain wasn’t functioning properly.

“Thank you.” Was all she managed instead, watching tears pool in the corner of your eyes and hoping the liquid wouldn’t freeze there.

“Come on.” You moved abruptly, further than she had dared to venture.

She was jealous of how easily movement came to you. Her limbs were stiff, forcing her to be still and save energy. But she trusted you, noticing the care with which you laced your arm under her own, hauled her up from the cold, soft ground, and into the harsh beating of the wind. In the distance, a helicopter, its propellers spinning in a blur of grey, whipping the snow into a frenzy. Finally, her instincts kicked in as she lunged towards it.

“One step at a time.” You chided beside her, rushing forward for support. Without you, she would have fallen straight to the ground. If she did, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get up again.

Each slow step forward was painfully cold, each muscle aching from the endless shivering. You were practically holding her up.

“God, I don’t know how you survived this long…” You murmured. “But not long now, not much further.”

And you were right. A few more stumbling steps that felt like a lifetime, and she was crashing against the vehicle, fingers tense against the cool metal surface. You lifted her up, guided her from hands and knees to collapse against a seat- warm and soft. There was a slam that made her jump as you tugged the door shut, and then, a gentle whirring sound as the helicopter kicked into life.

“How the fuck is she alive?” Another voice, a man’s from the pilot’s cockpit, barely audible.

Natasha was unwilling to grace him with an answer, even if she was mildly offended at the disbelief in his voice. It hadn’t been that long, had it? There was a brush against her ears as she realised you were tugging a pair of headphones over her ears, protecting her from the deafening roar as you took off. She wanted to thank you again, but the heat circulating inside stung her, silenced her.

“Just get us out of here!” was your eventual response, shrill through the microphone, laced with frustration.

“Alright. It’s about a half an hour journey back to base.”

True to his word, the ground was growing further away out the window, transforming into a white blur below. Her sanctuary for the last day was disappearing from view, and Natasha found herself suddenly unmoored. Flashes of memories filtered back into her consciousness, each one a new form of nightmare. The HYDRA base they had been investigating out in the wilderness turned out to be a trap. Natasha’s partners on the mission hadn’t gotten away in time, and she had no choice but to flee, pursued by HYDRA agents further and further into the vast wintry desert. There hadn’t been time to note the direction or distance of travel.

Lost soon became an understatement... But now, the scream of the helicopter’s engine rang in her ears, a stark reflection of the other agent’s final moments. It had been hellish. Her chest hung low with a sense of failure.

Yet, one memory brought back a sense of safety: you. Natasha remembered being endlessly grateful that you hadn’t been selected for this mission. She had a bad feeling about it from the start, proven correct in her instincts. Now, sitting beside her, your gaze was fixed on the window, but she could see you chewing your lip anxiously.

Natasha was tired, but most importantly, she was safe. As sleep began to take its hold, she felt herself leaning into your side. You jolted at first, then, feeling her relax against you, encircled an arm around her waist and held her there tightly.

~~~

The crackling of the fireplace was mesmerising, a warmth reflected in the amber of Natasha’s drink, equally as warming when she tossed back another mouthful. Stark had insisted that escaping near death was drink worthy, even if her eyes were threatening to close with every blink. Snow continued to fall outside the large windows, visible now even long after the sun had set.

Being on the inside looking out was a lot more pleasant than freezing to death, she mused.

While conducting a search party for Natasha, SHIELD had taken over a local ski resort. It was a big empty place, and yet it wasn’t cavernous or cold. The wooden structure perpetuated a homely feel, and the marble floors adorned with large Persian rugs suggested it was usually a retreat for the wealthy. A selection of worn leather armchairs and tattered sofas- the kind you simply melted into- were all arranged around the grand fireplace. There was a reception desk in her periphery, marking it as the foyer.

She had been directed to her private room earlier, normally a suite for some ungrateful millionaire. The bed there was much fancier than the freezing cold ground, the large quilted duvet more appealing than the blanket of snow she had suffered the last few days. She would’ve been perfectly content to collapse and recuperate in there. Alas, the entire Avengers team had opted to pause whatever they were doing and join SHIELD in searching for her. Natasha reluctantly admitted she was touched by the thought.

The SHIELD brigade had since packed up following her return to civilisation, efficient as always. Thus, the building was as drained of life as Natasha felt, leaving only herself, Tony, Bruce, Clint and Y/N to make use of the fireplace. Conversation had dwindled a few minutes ago, melting into a comforting exhaustion. The sensation of sitting down after a long day, knowing that you wouldn’t have to get up again... Except it hadn’t just been a long day. It had been ten days. Natasha had lost all pretence of time out there in the wilderness.

A thorough examination by the top SHIELD medics showed the toll it had taken on her body, and she set herself the task of not dwelling on it, so that her mind would not follow suit.

That exclamation of, “How the fuck is she alive?” was beginning to make a lot more sense.

Reminded of the journey back, Natasha glanced to her left. You were sharing the same sofa, leaning on the far-left side, closer to the fire. Your gaze was determinedly fixed on the fireplace, an attempt to seem nonchalant, but Natasha could see how this was merely an act. Your brow was furrowed, hands were clasped so tightly around a glass that she could see the strained outline of your knuckles poking through your skin.

Apparently, having noticed her staring, you cleared your throat.

“I think I’m going to head to bed.” You started gathering yourself together, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“Alright...” Bruce was the first to answer.

The rest all watched you stand in a pensive silence. You were often the first to join and the last to leave, basking in the rare time you all got sat together. You were usually chatty, reserved, but funny. Tonight you had been mute.

“Night, guys. Don’t stay up too late.” You appeared to sweep across the room with an easy smile, bidding everyone goodnight, but again you remained unfocused. Your smile was forced.

There was a general murmured response, and then you were gone. Footsteps echoed through the main lobby, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle click of a door shutting. The air besides Natasha was cooler now. She shivered, shuffling closer to the fire, feeling the warmth of where you had been sitting.

“You know…” Clint began, then trailed off, a sheepish expression about him. “Y/N was the last one looking for you.” He confessed suddenly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he continued watching the fire dance and crackle.

Natasha’s lips drew into a taut line as she considered his words, the implication behind them.

Tony nodded, prompting Clint to continue.

“Long after we all thought you were dead. You should’ve been dead.” Clint ranted, assuaging his own guilt more than anything. “I mean, all the experts SHIELD brought in were telling us to presume you were dead. The odds of surviving out there… in those conditions… Well, one in a million…” He fell quiet again.

“Point is,” Tony leaned forward in his seat, catching Natasha’s full attention. “Y/N never stopped looking for you. We were all starting to pack up, and meanwhile, she was bribing a SHIELD pilot to fly her out for one more day. I mean, that’s probably why she’s so exhausted now… When have we known Y/N to be the first one to go to bed?”

Despite everything, Natasha smiled at this.

Being rescued was a hazy memory already, filed away into the part of her brain under lock and key- not to be touched unless absolutely necessary. But in the field of static white, she remembered you. The full black tactical suit a stark contrast against the snow. She ached then with the cold, and now at the concern in your expression. To have caused you such fear, that was Natasha’s greatest failure. Not the mission. Not the near-death experience. But the thought of harming you. The regret that she might’ve died without…

Her brain ground to a halt. She wouldn’t let herself get swept away in such imaginings.

The group had fallen silent again, but now, the pressure of several weighted gazes was resting upon her. She knew what realisation they were trying to push her towards. For all Clint’s hints, for Tony’s teasing and Bruce’s confused stares, none of them were subtle people. Surely, for them to not only notice how Natasha felt about you, but also to push her towards some bigger picture meant you must feel the same?

Natasha found herself sweating. The fire was too hot, the sofa beneath her too soft, and her friend’s persistence too much to handle.

“Well, it’s just as hard being the rescued as it is the rescuer.” She joked. No one reacted.

“I’m going to bed, too.” Natasha stood up, her bones aching from the recent strain. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

If anyone bid her goodnight, she didn’t hear it.

Apart from Tony settling back into the armchair with a sigh, and a murmured, “go get ‘em, tiger.”

At first, Natasha truly did mean to head to her bedroom, but her legs didn’t seem to carry her that way. The gentle sound of a door clicking was a subtle cue, but sufficient to make a gamble as to which room you were staying in. She paced down the corridor, purposefully neglecting to switch on any lights until she saw it: a gentle golden glow emanating from the crack beneath one of the doors. Your bedroom.

She halted in front of it. Gulped and tapped her knuckles against the wood. Two sharp, distinct knocks. Her mind hadn’t quite caught up with her actions yet, but it was too late for change, and too early for regret. All she wanted, all she needed, was you.

A second later, and the door creaked open, your face peeking through the gap. Illuminated by the warm bedside lamp, your face was glowing with a frustration that immediately melted to concern upon realising it was Natasha on the other side.

“Are you okay?” You swung the door open the rest of the way, allowing Natasha to notice that you had changed into pyjamas. Her heart involuntarily skipped a beat, and she found herself unable to answer. Her mouth was dry as she traced over the comfortable, informal clothing. It was a glimpse of you she rarely saw. “Nat?” You called, frown lines deepening.

“Uh, yeah.” Natasha shook her head and clasped her hands together in front of her. You observed every moment closely, as a trained agent should, to look for any sign of weakness. Or in this case, any pain that she might show to justify your concern. “I just didn’t want to be alone.” Natasha’s voice was low, her head bowed slightly.

Nerves weren’t something Natasha gave into often. Even on death’s door, she had felt largely calm. But now, with you standing before her, open and warm, it took everything in her not to shake. The air in the corridor was cold, and snow still fell outside.

“Of course,” you jolted into action, stepping aside, “come in.”

Entering your room was easy, one foot over the threshold at a time. Though it did nothing to lessen her nerves. If anything, they were heightened by your proximity. Liking someone wasn’t a sensation Natasha had ever experienced, let alone given in to. It was all unfamiliar territory. Yet, with you, warm familiarity bloomed throughout her body, soothed the aches in her muscles and the chill from her bones.

“Sit down.” You inclined your head towards your bed.

Natasha’s mouth was dry as she followed the instructions, perched tense on the far end. You sat next to her, slowly, softly. Natasha’s eyes darted up to you, oh so close, and if her gaze lingered on your lips for a beat too long, you didn’t mention it.

“I would ask if you’re alright, but I think I know the answer.” You muttered, unwilling to tear your eyes away from Natasha’s.

She smiled. “I’m better now.”

You mirrored the expression, then lowered your hands to the bed and scooted closer to her. Warmth always radiated from human contact, but yours was special.

You seemed to read her mind, your smile widening. “Warm enough?” You asked.

Natasha nodded. “Definitely…” More silence, and then, a gentle confession wormed its way from Natasha’s heart to the very tip of her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, but the smile didn’t drop from your lips. “That’s alright. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

You raised a hand, and Natasha noted how you trembled, barely dared to breathe as it drew closer to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned in, seeking more of that addictive heat you always radiated. Cold air was replaced by your lips, warm against her own. You huffed out a breath through your nose, a sigh of warm air fanning across her face. She brought her own hand to grasp your waist, fingers running along a sliver of warm skin there. Her stomach was twisting, burning in just the right way as the kiss deepened.

The kind that happened so abruptly it completely stole the air from your lungs and made your body lose its axis. You gasped, grabbing blindly for the handrail in the confined space, a cry of pain escaping your lips as your ankle twisted beneath you at the same moment the lights went out... 

Pain shot up your leg.

"Shit-"

Stupid, stupid heels, stupid job. And most of all, fucking stupid elevator.

For half-second, there was only silence in the box you were trapped in. Heavy silence and the blood rushing in your ears before it raced south to warm up your ankle.

Then the cables screamed. The entire lift dipped a terrifying inch, maybe more - metal screeching against metal, and your body slammed into the mirrored wall behind you, the impact knocking a strangled cry from your throat.

"Oh my God," you whispered, widening eyes darting around in the dark. "Oh my God, oh my God-"

The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the small space in a sickly red glow.

Your hands were already shaking. You sucked in a deep breath before lunging for the control panel, hitting the red button in clouded panic. Door open. A soft, broken whimper slipped out as heat bloomed around your ankle, sharp and throbbing. 

You exhaled hard, eyes narrowing as you hit the alarm button. Alarm, alarm, alarm again. You pressed it so hard your fingertip hurt.

Nothing.

The alarm gave a weak, frankly pathetic buzz that died almost instantly.

"Hello?" Your voice cracked as you leaned toward the speaker anyway. "Hello?! Can anybody hear me? I-I’m stuck, I-"

The elevator answered with another grinding groan before it slowly - so slowly it felt like moving in slow-motion - shifted again. Lower, just a tiny, insignificant fraction, but it was enough. Enough for your brain to supply the images: snapping cables, freefall, the box crumpling like a soda can when it hit the bottom. 

With you inside it. 

All because you refused to come to work early to climb up twenty-five flights of stairs.

Your knees gave out before you even realized it was happening, you slid down the mirrored wall, your back dragging against the cold surface until you hit the floor. You brought your injured ankle closer, only now realizing just how much it was burning. You were probably not going to be able to walk out of there - if the doors accepted to open again one day, that was.

Oh, God.

You did not like small spaces.

You did not like not being in control.

You definitely did not like the sound of metal giving up.

"It’s fine," you muttered to yourself, breath coming too fast. "It’s fine. Elevators don’t just-"

The car dropped another inch.

You screamed, hoping if you were loud enough whatever Gods there were out there would come and get you out of here themselves.

⧗

Natasha Romanoff had been halfway through her second coffee at their usual café when the call came in.

Elevator malfunction in a building downtown with presumably one occupant trapped. Structural concerns.

She was already on her feet before the dispatcher finished.

"Alright, let’s move," Clint muttered, tossing his cup in the trash and dragging a hand through his hair. "Too early for this kind of bullshit."

The engine roared to life, their sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as they cut across the streets.

Natasha stood in the back of the truck, one hand braced against the rail, the other clenched tight at her side. Her jaw was set hard enough to ache. Elevator calls were unpredictable, they could go either way - minor inconvenience or catastrophic failure. She sure hoped it was not the latest. However, the words structural concerns made something cold coil in her stomach.

They pulled up in under seven minutes, fortunately they were not far from the building when they received the call.

Natasha was out of the truck before it had fully stopped.

A small crowd had gathered outside the building, tension thick in the air. She scanned them once, before zeroing in on the man pacing near the entrance.

The building manager looked pale, sweating through his shirt. 

"It’s stuck between floors," he rushed out as she approached. "We think twenty-one and twenty-two. We tried resetting the system, but it’s not responding. And we h-heard-" His voice wavered. "Someone said they heard it drop."

Natasha’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes went sharper - dangerously so - as she recognized the situation for what it was.

"How many people are inside?"

"One. I-I think."

"You think?" Natasha scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Name?"

"I-I don’t know?"

She shook her head, of course he did not, why would he know anything useful? Natasha was already turning away from him, biting down the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming at him. 

"Team’s arriving in ten." Clint said, jogging up to reach her side. 

Natasha let out a short breath, pinching the bridge of her nose for half a second as she forced herself to think rationally.

Ten minutes.

Yeah, no.

Her gaze snapped back to the building, already calculating distances, access points, worst-case scenarios.

"That’s too fucking long. I’m not waiting." 

Clint exhaled, looking at her as if he already knew the end of the story.

"Nat-"

"I’m going." She cut him off, already heading inside.

⧗

Inside the elevator, you were crying now. 

Quiet and panicked tears that refused to stop, slipping endlessly down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest hitched in uneven rhythms, every inhale too sharp, every exhale too shallow.

As if it was not bad luck enough already, you had discovered your so-called waterproof mascara was not as waterproof as the bold words on the package made it sound to be. You had dark streaks smudged beneath your eyes, sticky and uneven, making your reflection in the mirrored wall look... ridiculous, or pathetic. Or both.

You looked like an actress trying too hard to win an award for a drama.

And then there was your last straw; your damn phone. Because you had also discovered that you had no service inside this creepy box. Because, of course there was not. You had tried 911 anyway - once, twice or maybe five times - but each attempt failed before it even began, before you could hope. No signal, no lifeline, nothing.

The red emergency light was still on, though. Making everything inside feel smaller, the walls too close, the ceiling too low. And the air hotter, thin, like every ragged breath you took was not quite enough to fill your aching lungs. And just for that, you were grateful for being the only one here. You could not imagine panicking like this in front of someone else. Or even being stuck for God knew how long in here with someone else.

Especially that creepy Dylan guy who could not take a hint to save his life. So, yeah... you supposed the situation could be worse. 

Another groan tore through the walls as soon as you finished your thought. 

God, you really should learn to hold your tongue. 

It was the third in under five minutes, you had been counting.

Your hands flew up to your ears, palms pressing hard as you squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could block it out, as if ignoring it might somehow make it all stop.

"I don’t want to die," you whispered to no one, to yourself, to whatever Gods out there that must have heard you by now but seemingly decided to do nothing about your case. "Please, please, I don’t want to die."

Your voice sounded so small to your own ears, like it did not even matter. And then, there was a sudden metallic clang echoing from above. As if answering you, finally.

Your hands slipped from your ears, hovering uselessly in the air as your brows pulled together, confusion cutting through the panic.

Another clang, louder this time.

And then... voices? Were you hearing voices? If that was true, they were definitely muffled, distant and barely distinguishable. Though you were not quite sure you had not started imagining things. That was what the brain was supposed to do, right? Hallucinate something comforting when reality became too much?

Your head snapped up at another sound, your heart beating with newfound hope.

"Hello!?" You shouted, scrambling to your feet as best as you could, a sharp whimper escaping when your ankle screamed in protest. You clung to the handrail, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall, slowly sinking back into a sitting position. "I-I’m in here! Please! Anyone?"

Something heavy thudded against the top of the elevator.

Then a voice. You were sure of it this time. It was clear and calm and authoritative.

"Fire department! We hear you."

The sob that tore out of you was immediate and uncontrollable. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard as if you could somehow contain the sound, but it shook through your whole body anyway.

"We’re going to get you out," the voice continued. A beacon in the chaos. A lighthouse in the fog. "I need you to step back from the doors."

"I-I am!" Your voice cracked badly, but you stumbled back as much as your ankle allowed, deciding to ignore the new noise coming from the elevator.

Tools met metal then. A harsh, grating sound filled the air as something outside strained against the doors. The entire elevator creaked in protest, a deep and very unsettling groan vibrating through the walls.

You watched, unable to look away, as the doors jerked before you felt the elevator shift under your feet.

The elevator fucking moved beneath your feet.

"No, no, no-" You choked, panic surging back as you slid down the wall again, your body refusing to stay upright.

"Hey!"

The voice was closer now. Right outside. Your head snapped up from where you thought the person was, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Stay with me. What’s your name?"

For a second, you forgot how to speak.

You swallowed hard, whispering it back in a shaky tone.

"I’m Natasha. I need you to look at me when I get this open. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded frantically before realizing she could not see you as she called out your name to make sure you were listening.

"Yes-yes, I can do that." You finally breathed.

A sharp grunt echoed from the other side.

Then suddenly a gloved hand appeared, forcing its way between the doors.

You held your breath as the gap widened, one inch first.

Then two. The metal shrieked in protest like it was alive, like it was fighting her every step of the way.

But then, you saw her.

First, her arm - muscles straining, veins taut beneath sweat-dusted skin, shiny bicep flexing hard as she forced the doors apart manually.

Then her shoulder, the short black sleeve of her shirt covering most of it, stretching tight.

Then her face.

The red emergency light behind you clashed with the brighter hallway lights spilling in from outside, casting her in something almost unreal. The glow caught on the edges of her helmet, creating a halo effect that made her look-

Not real. Not human, at least. 

You had been asking for a God all this time when you should have prayed for an angel.

A streak of red hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, and her green eyes locked onto yours with sharp, unwavering focus.

"Hey, you’re okay." She said, as if it were fact, her lips offering you a small yet gentle smile.

The doors opened wider, revealing the misalignment - the elevator sitting a good foot below the hallway floor.

Natasha’s gaze assessed the inside in seconds.

"Alright. It’s stable," she called over her shoulder to someone you could not see  before nodding at whatever answer she received. Then her gaze softened as it returned to you. "Can you walk?"

You tried, but the second you put weight on your ankle, pain exploded up your leg, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

You gasped, shaking your head, your hands gripping the bar tighter.

"I-I don’t think so. My ankle, I-"

You expected frustration, maybe impatience. Anything of that range. But Natasha just nodded once, quick and decisive as she shifted closer.

"It’s okay. That’s alright," her voice lowered slightly before she braced one boot against the frame and forced the doors wider with a low, controlled exhale. "We’ll adjust."

Behind her, you could hear someone securing something metal against the frame above. More clanging. More tools. The elevator trembled faintly and you flinched.

Her eyes snapped back to yours instantly.

"Hey," she said, firmer this time. "Stay with me. It’s secured from the top. It’s not going anywhere, alright?"

You searched her face for a lie or at least doubt but did not find any. Just certainty.

Natasha adjusted her footing, one boot planted firmly on the hallway floor, the other testing the edge of the elevator.

"I’m coming in," she warned, her tone turning serious again. "It might shake a little when I transfer my weight. That’s normal, you do not need to panic."

Normal...

You almost wanted to laugh at how fragile that word sounded. But you nodded anyway, your throat tight, your eyes locked on her like she was the only stable thing left in the world.

Your gaze caught on a strange, almost irrelevant detail - the glint of light along her left ear. Multiple piercings, small pieces of metal catching the hallway light. Your brain latched onto that stupid detail even through the panic you could feel rising.

Behind her, you caught a glimpse of movement - her colleague stepping in, rope in hand. He clipped it to her harness with practiced ease, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring tap.

She did not look back.

The elevator dipped half an inch the moment she slid through the gap with controlled precision. You gasped, hands flying to the wall.

Natasha did not even flinch, she simply moved like she trusted it - like she understood the language of metal and tension and load-bearing structures better than fear ever could. She crouched in front of you immediately, one of her gloved hands finding your arm without hesitation.

Up close, she was even more unfairly breathtaking. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her temple. A faint smudge of grease near her jaw. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing but warm. 

Your entire world narrowed to green.

"Hi." She said quietly, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk that made you weak in the knees.

Your brain short-circuited.

Great.

Of all the moments.

Of all the possible moments.

You had to be a gay disaster right now. Of course. And get caught while checking her out.

You let out a shaky, hysterical half-laugh - still reeling from seeing her entering your space so easily. 

"Hi."

Before you could utter another word, another distant metallic groan echoed through the shaft, low and threatening. 

Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly.

"Alright. We’re going to lift you out," she said, focus snapping back into place. "As you can see the car is about a foot low, so I’ll boost you up to Clint - that guy over there. He’ll grab you, and I’ll be right behind. Got any questions?"

You shook your head quickly, instinctively shifting closer to her as the elevator creaked again, your breath catching.

"We’re not falling," Natasha murmured, her hoarse voice wrapping around your ears. "I’ve got you. All I need is for you to wrap your arms around my shoulders. Can you do that?"

The certainty in her tone did something to your spiraling mind.

You scooted closer and circled your arms around her neck. You tried not to wince too much as she carefully slipped one very muscular arm carefully behind your back and the other under your knees before lifting you effortlessly. Like you weightless nothing at all. 

The elevator trembled faintly as she stood, but she adjusted without hesitation, her stance shifting in tiny, precise movements - like balance was something she negotiated with gravity every single day.

You looked at her, suddenly hyper-aware of the proximity. The strength coiled in her arms. The heat of her body through her clothes. The steadiness of her breathing compared to your own chaotic one.

"Oh God-" You choked as the car trembled all around you, your fingertips digging into the fabric of her shirt.

"Shh, it’s okay. I would not be in here with you if it wasn’t secure," she said steadily, her hot breath ghosting your cheek as she turned, bracing her back against one wall and her boot against the other to give herself leverage. "I don’t gamble with old elevators."

You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking nervously around as the walls creaked.

"That probably doesn’t sound as... comforting as you want it to be..."

A soft huff of amusement brushed your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck raising in consequence.

"Okay, then I don’t gamble with pretty girls I’m rescuing," she corrected, chuckling faintly at the openly shocked look you gave her. "Alright," she added, like she had not just short-circuited your brain entirely, again. "It might feel like it’s moving like crazy, okay?"

"Okay..." You grumbled weakly, not liking her last words very much.

"Clint!" She called upward, her voice snapping back into command. "I’ve got her, we’re moving."

A man’s face appeared at the gap, giving you both a quick thumbs-up.

"Copy that."

"On three..." She murmured to you, but mostly to herself. 

And then she was moving. Natasha bent slightly, grounding her stance - then pushed upward with controlled, explosive strength.

You cried out - not from pain, but from the sudden motion of everything. And then hands grabbed you under the arms.

"You’re good." The man, Clint, reassured you as he hauled you onto the hallway floor.

The second you were clear of the elevator, your body sagged in relief. The carpet felt like heaven beneath your palms.

You twisted immediately, panic snapping back just as fast.

"Natas-"

The elevator shifted again just as she grabbed the frame to pull herself up.

There was a loud, ugly snap from somewhere above. You froze, lips parting. Everything inside you went cold.

Natasha did not panic, she surged upward in one fluid movement, boots scraping harshly against the metal as she hauled herself through the gap.

The elevator dropped five inches the moment her weight cleared it.

A collective gasp rippled from both you and Clint. You stared at the open shaft, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

A second later, Natasha rolled onto her back beside you, her breathing heavier now, not uncontrolled, but very real as she took off her helmet. For the first time, you could actually see the adrenaline in her eyes.

Clint let out a low whistle, patting her shoulder as he helped her out of the harness. 

Natasha pushed herself up, completely ignoring him, her eyes already on you.

"You okay?"

You nodded numbly before a sudden, illogical anger spread through your veins.

"You said it wouldn’t do that!" You exclaimed, smacking her arm.

Her eyebrow lifted, surprise flickering briefly across her face - ignoring Clint’s snort behind her as he walked away.

"Actually," Natasha replied, far too calm for your liking. "I said it would not collapse with you in it, not that it would not move at all..." She said, lips threatening to pull into a smirk that she forced herself to contain - like she knew exactly how close she was to getting hit again.

"Oh my God." You groaned into your hands, dragging your hands over your face, fingers pressing hard into your hairline.

But the second you felt your throat closing in again, something in you shattered completely. And then, before you realized it, you were shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline you had been running on for what felt like hours disappeared from your system all at once, leaving nothing behind to hold you together.

Your hands started shaking, then your arms, then everything.

Natasha was immediately on her knees in front of you, tugging off her gloves as she reached for your forearms.

"Hey-hey. Stay with me."

You could not stop crying.

You tried to speak, you really did, but nothing came out except broken gasps that refused to form words.

Her warm hands closed around your wrists, warm and firm, her thumbs pressing gently but insistently against your pulse points.

"Breathe with me," she instructed gently. "In."

You tried. Failed a few times, but she did not lose patience. She shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of her, close enough that her presence alone started to anchor you, almost close enough to press her forehead lightly to yours.

"Come on, I know you can do it. In," she repeated before taking a slow, deliberate breath - deep enough that you could see it, feel it. "And out."

Your body followed the rhythm instinctively before your mind could catch up.

In.

Out.

In-

Out...

The world slowly stopped spinning quite so violently. The noise faded. The impossible tightness in your chest loosened just enough for air to finally, generously reach your lungs.

And suddenly you were made very aware that you were half in her lap. Very aware that your hands were fisted in the front of her shirt.

"I-I really thought I was going to die..." You whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.

Her thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping away tears and smeared mascara.

"Well, clearly you didn’t." She said quietly.

Your laugh came out wet and shaky. 

"That’s... that’s because you’re apparently made of steel."

One corner of her mouth lifted.

"Sometimes I wish."

You huffed something that might have been a watery chuckle.

Your face crumpled again as the last of the adrenaline drained out of you, leaving you raw and exposed. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed your face into her shoulder, your arms wrapping around her.

You felt Natasha freeze for half a second before her arms came around you as well. Firm and protective.

"It’s alright. I’ve got you." She repeated softly.

You were still trembling, a faint tremor running through your body. If you had not been so close perhaps she would not have even noticed it. But she was close and she did notice.

"It’s over now. You’re safe." She murmured, shifting a little closer on her knees. Slowly, hesitantly, one of her hands came up to rest against the back of your head.

You pulled back once your brain caught up with the realization of just how close you suddenly were, your entire face heating up with embarrassment. 

"Sorry-I just, you saved-"

"No, no," she said quietly, shaking her head. "It’s okay. Really. I get it."

There was an awkward pause before you realized her hand was still on you. She seemed to realize it too as she withdrew, clearing her throat slightly.

"I’m... I should probably check your ankle?"

You nodded, wiping at your face in a completely useless attempt to fix or even hide the damage.

"Sorry," you muttered. "I’m not usually this... dramatic?"

A corner of her mouth twitched as she shot you a knowing look. 

"You weren’t. But even if you were, you were trapped in a failing elevator. So... I think you’re allowed," she replied, shifting to your extended leg. "I always preferred stairs, you know."

Her hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined your ankle. You hissed when she pressed along the outer bone.

"Yeah," she murmured. "That’s tender."

Her thumb brushed lightly over the area before she leaned back.

"Looks like a sprain. Maybe a mild one. You’re lucky." 

Lucky.

You almost laughed in disbelief again.

Natasha glanced toward the stairwell where two more firefighters were coordinating with the building manager.

"Medics are downstairs," Clint called over. "Stairwells all clear."

Natasha looked back at you, assessing as she pursed her lips.

"Alright," she said, decisive again. "You’re not putting weight on that."

You blinked. 

"I can hop-"

"Nope."

Before you could argue further, she slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees again, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all just like she previously did.

Another startled sound left you, hands instinctively flying to her shoulders. 

"Natasha-"

"Relax..." She said smoothly, adjusting you against her chest. 

"You don’t have to carry me all the way," you muttered, acutely aware of how solid she felt under your hands. And how steady she was. Which was a very welcomed thing after the situation you experienced. "I can... hobble... or something."

She snorted softly as she began the descent.

"Well, I think you already had your elevator moment. Let’s not add 'faceplanting down the stairs' to today’s crazy résumé."

Your lips parted in offended disbelief. 

"Yeah," she said dryly. "You’ve done enough dramatic for one afternoon."

You actually gasped this time. 

"Excuse me-"

"The screaming?"

"I was falling!"

"You dropped an inch."

"An inch is a lot when you think you’re about to die!"

That earned you a low, amused hum, deep enough that you felt it vibrate through her chest where you were pressed against her.

God. This was unfair.

She took the steps steadily, controlled, one at a time. Her grip never faltered, not even slightly - which was also very much unfair. You looked up at her face, catching her eyes flickering over yours before lingering. There was a beat where you hesitated, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the seemingly amused look on her face, your cheeks warming up under the attention.

"...What?" You asked warily, narrowing your eyes slightly.

There was a pause, followed by a flicker of mischief in her green eyes.

"Nothing."

"Natasha."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was actively trying not to laugh.

"You look like a raccoon."

You stared at her, blinking in confusion.

"I-what...?"

She nodded solemnly, tipping her chin toward your face. 

"Mascara situation. It’s... everywhere, very feral, very committed."

You stared at her, scandalized.

"I almost died and you’re bullying me?"

"I’m not bullying you," she replied gravely, adjusting you slightly higher in her arms. "I’m appreciating the aesthetic. You fully committed to the smoky eye look."

A choked sound escaped you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you tried to glare at her. Your lips betrayed you first, twitching at the corners despite your best effort.

She caught it instantly.

"There it is..." She murmured.

"I hate you." You muttered, though your voice wobbled with a laugh.

"Kinda doubt that."

You could not help but smile at her, shaking your head before awkwardly wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.

"Better," she said quietly. "That’s better."

You rolled your eyes, though there was no heat behind the action. 

"You’re unbelievable."

"Meh, I’ve been called worse."

The stairwell echoed with distant voices and the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, but in the space between you, everything felt... quieter. You bit down your lip, really wishing you were not imagining things.

Now that the panic had ebbed, you found yourself studying her properly.

Freckles scattered beneath a sheen of sweat. A faint cut near her brow. Green eyes that had locked onto yours like you mattered the second those devilish doors opened.

"Am I heavy?" You asked suddenly.

 Natasha scoffed, giving your face a clear once over.

"I lift people twice your size in full gear."

"Oh," you said, pretending to consider her words. "So I’m light like... what? A backpack?"

She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely thinking it through.

"Mhm... More like an angry kitten."

You gasped, smacking her shoulder. 

"Raccoon and kitten? Pick a species, Natasha."

"Raccoon aesthetic," she corrected smoothly. "Kitten attitude."

You were fully smiling now.

It felt strange - how easily she could pull you out of that spiral without even really knowing you. Like she had simply decided fear did not get to win today.

She reached the final flight, the soft afternoon light filtering up faintly from the lobby below. Sirens flashing through the glass doors.

You hesitate, talking yourself out of saying what you wanted to, but when will you ever get the chance to if not now?

"Alright, I have to ask... Do I at least look like a cute raccoon?" You asked quietly after a full minute of convincing yourself to finally get the words out.

Natasha did not hesitate, her lips offering you a charming smile.

"Oh, the cutest I’ve ever rescued, for sure."

Your stomach flipped in a way that did not resemble anything you experienced in the elevators.

The lobby doors burst open as you finally stepped out into the open air. The cool breeze hit your face and you inhaled sharply - you had not realized how badly you needed that until your lungs filled with it. It was perhaps the first full breath that did not feel like borrowed oxygen.

Paramedics hurried forward with a stretcher, voices overlapping as they approached. But Natasha did not set you down immediately.

"Possible ankle sprain. No loss of consciousness. Minor shock." She reported, her tone shifting seamlessly back to professional as her eyes flicked to one of the medics who nodded at her.

"We’ll take it from here."

You tightened your grip on Natasha for half a second longer than necessary. She looked down at you again, something unreadable flickering in her expression now that the urgency was over. She crouched, lowering you carefully onto the stretcher, hands lingering at your waist just long enough to make your pulse jump.

The sudden loss of contact felt... noticeable.

She stepped back as the medics started examining your ankle, asking questions.

You answered automatically but your attention never really left her, your eyes neither.

Natasha ran a hand through her slightly disheveled red hair, pushing it back from her face as the wind picked up. The adrenaline was still humming under her skin, you could see it in the way her jaw was set too tight, her fingers almost buzzing with restless energy. But she was already shifting back into that composed, controlled version of herself. She spoke briefly with Clint, answering a question from someone else. And suddenly, the thought of her just... walking away felt unbearable. And unfair.

"Natasha?"

She turned immediately at your voice, brows lifting.

You swallowed, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now.

"Yeah?"

Your throat felt tight again, but not from fear.

"Thank you. Truly," the words were simple, too small compared to what she had done, but you meant them with everything in you. "Thank you for saving my life."

Her teasing edge from earlier left her completely.

For a moment, she did not look like the confident firefighter who had climbed into a failing elevator without hesitation. She just looked like a woman who had been very, very scared of being too late.

"You’re welcome, just... doing my job." She said quietly, smiling at you as she reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Your heart did that stupid thing again.

One of the medics cleared her throat nearby, smiling sheepishly as she interrupted the... moment. 

"We’re going to transport her for X-rays."

Natasha nodded absently, not pulling her hand away until she absolutely had to, her eyes staying on yours.

"You’ll be okay?" She asked.

You hesitated, biting down your lips. Then, before you could overthink it-

"...Will you visit the hospital raccoon?"

Her mouth curved slowly, something warm and amused - and dare you say even relief - settling into her expression.

"I’ll make sure to bring waterproof mascara recommendations."

You scoffed, swatting her hand away playfully. She winked at you, watching as the stretcher you were on reached the ambulance doors.

"You’re safe now." She whispered, winking at you.

And the way she had said it, certain like a promise made you unable to not smile back. You believed her completely.

Hope you enjoyed this silly fic!🤭 Actually working on a longer fic right now but I had this idea for a while so here it is!! See you - hopefully - soon :))

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works