brubru

You look up. It's nighttime.

The dark blue sky holds a full moon that rains down a pale glow, turning the white field around you luminous. Stars cluster into constellations in the distance. It's quiet. Not in the way where it scares you. Not in the way where your thoughts attempt to drag you under. It's a peaceful quiet where the world stands still for you.

Just for you.

You open your fist. The cotton balls roll away from your skin, plopping soundlessly onto the white expanse below. You drag your palm across the surface, tracking the soft texture. You press down with your full weight, expecting the fibers to collapse and drop you through, but they hold steady.

You gaze toward the distance, where the dark line of night seems to stretch on without an end. The scenery is identical in every direction.

A movement catches your eye. Your shadow stretches across the white surface, mimicking your posture. You look down at the dark shape. It tracks your frame perfectly, but it lacks any real definition. No features. No edges. Just a flat, black void cutting through the light.

But it's surely you.

When you raise your arm, the shadow raises its arm. When you tilt your head, the dark shape tilts its head.

You pause.

The shadow keeps moving for a fraction of a second before it snaps into a sudden standstill. It stops matching you entirely.

Staring at it makes your heart ache. You're perfectly fine with being a shadow drifting through life. Disappearing the moment the sun comes up to make room for real people—bright people with character, who roam and live and take up space.

You don't have to be special. You don't want to be. You don't need to be.

Flashes of green erupt across the dark sky. Ribbons of vibrant, shifting emerald and mint arc over your head, twisting like the aurora borealis you used to stare at in photos. They dance through the air, curving down toward you as if trying to make you smile.

The shades of green are too specific. You recognize them instantly.

"Please stop," you whisper, the sound catching in your throat. "Please don't treat me like I'm special."

The lights answer by swirling closer, tightening their perimeter until they weave into beautiful patterns around your body.

You had gotten used to the quiet. You had accepted being alone. Doing everything by yourself. Only counting on yourself

A wisp of the green light brushes past your cheekbone. For a moment, the air sparks with warmth and the smell of jasmine blooms. It reminds you of Wanda's hand against your cheek when you shared her desk. That familiar warmth. The kind that makes you want to let your head fall and let her hand support you.

A brighter, vibrant green light wraps around you, completely blocking out everything. It forms a thick, impenetrable wall—exactly like Natasha blocking out the chaotic world past the office doors.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your eyelids together until the pressure makes your temples throb, waiting until it's safe to look again.

When you open them, the sky is empty. The lights are gone without a trace. As if they were never there.

You're alone again.

You're used to this part. But your shoulders slump as if a weight was dropped on them. Your knees bend, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they threaten to drop your weight. You look back up at the empty sky, wishing you could see the green ribbons again, even though you're the one who just begged them to leave.

A part of you had hoped they would stay anyway, even when you turned your back.

It's fine. You're just a shadow, and the gorgeous lights have probably drifted away to find someone more beautiful. Someone who is a real person.

The corners of your mouth twitch upward into a small smile, but your gaze drops. It's exhausting being alone.

You lean back. The space beneath your heels fills with the soft give of the cotton, absorbing your weight as you sink into them. You feel completely weightless. You close your eyes, letting your muscles go slack. Your head tilts to the side, your cheek presses into the soft fibers.

Your heart still hurts. Even here, in this empty space with nothing but the moon, the stars, and the perfect comfort below you—a space made just for you—the reality catches up. You can't run away from the aching want to have someone else shoulder your burdens with you.

Or maybe two people.

The cotton slowly begins to compress beneath your spine, flattening millimeter by millimeter. The loft is disappearing. You don't know how far down the ground is.

Please, just let me stay here, you think, your fingers curling weakly, holding onto the cotton that remains. Let me stay in this place. Forever.

A sudden touch registers against your skin. Soft fingertips press against your ankle, tracing circles right over your veins.

Your eyes fly open. You crane your neck down to look, but the field is empty. There's no one there. You just continue to descend, your body getting heavier and heavier. Somehow, you know there's not much time left.

You lay your head back down, closing your eyes in acceptance.

"It's time to wake up, detka."

The softest, raspy voice reaches your ears, brushing against your skin with the same weight as the fingertips on your ankle.

And you fall.

—

The faint hum of the heater overhead. The rhythm of your own breaths, slow and even. The drag of pages turning in a book.

A hand rests on your ankle. The thumb moves occasionally, tracing a slow arc near the bone and over your veins.

Your eyes blink open. The fabric of the couch’s backrest comes into view, sharpening the more you blink. Your face is pressed into the pillow, squishing your cheek. It feels like there's a thick cloud surrounding your skull. Your thoughts lag, arriving one by one at a snail's pace.

Yesterday. Matt sitting in the common room. His grip on your hand. The suffocating smell of smoke filtering through the vent all night. Your burning eyes. Natasha demanding you take a nap. Her impossibly gentle voice.

You do feel slightly better after sleeping, but it's as though a weighted blanket has been draped over your mind and body. It's easy enough to maneuver around, but it makes itself known and stays as a nuisance in the back of your mind. Pain radiates in your throat when you try to swallow. Maybe you had been asleep longer than you thought.

You shake your head lightly, trying to force the fog away, but the clouds refuse to leave. It's still fuzzy. Thick, like cotton.

You force your shoulders back. Your spine arches slightly and the familiar popping of your vertebrae sounds through the office.

"Mmm…" A whiny groan catches in your throat at the sensation of your neck and back muscles stretching, slowly forcing themselves back to life.

The hand on your ankle squeezes lightly. You force your bleary eyes toward the source. Vibrant green eyes—identical to the light that had shielded you in the dream—are watching you with quiet amusement. A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

"How was your nap, sleeping beauty?" Natasha asks. Her tone is teasing, but a light seriousness remains in her eyes as she scans your face, tracking every twitch of your expression.

You blink a few times in a row. Your eyes don't sting as badly as they did earlier, though a slight burn still lingers behind your eyelids. It'll probably take another day to clear the prolonged exposure to the smoke. You still feel a dragging fatigue, but there are things you need to do. Spending your hours studying in Natasha and Wanda's offices instead of executing the regular tasks of an intern is already weighing heavily on your chest.

The office is slightly dim. Natasha must have lowered the blinds while you were asleep.

You flatten your palm against the couch cushion and push yourself up into a seated position. A wave of haziness washes over your vision, making the room sway before it clears within a few moments.

"I slept well. Thank you for the nap," you respond quietly. Your voice sounds weirdly scratchy, and trying to force the words out radiates a burning pain.

Natasha is seated in the open space next to your feet. Her hand remains wrapped around your ankle, the heat of her palm bleeding through your skin. The book she must have been reading is closed, resting flat on her thigh. Her body is shifted entirely toward you, treating you like the center of her attention.

"Your eyes look better than they did earlier," she notes, her thumb rubbing against your skin steadily.

She reaches for a water bottle on the coffee table that wasn't there before you closed your eyes. She cracks the plastic seal open for you and extends it. "Drink, detka. It sounds like your throat is dry."

Your fingers wrap around the plastic. "Thank you," you murmur gratefully.

Swallowing feels like sandpaper grating together. You take a long sip, but the cool moisture does little to ease the friction. The liquid slides down and stings like an open wound being doused with alcohol.

Detka. You repeat the word in your head. It's unfamiliar, but it's the exact same one she used right before you fell asleep. The way she structures her sentences makes it sound like a noun. She's calling you something.

Do you even want to ask? What if it's something bad? Maybe it's synonymous with troublesome.

There are more important things you should be asking, you remind yourself. Why are they treating you like you're special?

You set the bottom of the bottle against your thigh and glance up. Natasha has been watching you the entire time. Her lips are pulled into a rigid line. Her eyes look calculating. The shift is jarring compared to the teasing smile she had just a few minutes ago.

Maybe the thoughts getting stuck in your fuzzy head are showing plainly on your face.

"Nat—" you start, but a sharp knock on the door pulls her focus away.

Natasha’s shoulders look incredibly tense, barely moving as she turns her head toward the entrance.

"Let's talk about it later, okay?" She squeezes your ankle one last time before releasing it entirely. She casts a quick glance back at you, throwing you a smile that looks just a bit melancholic.

"Come in," she calls out.

Wanda walks in, her expression bright with a wide smile. You can almost picture sun rays following her steps as she crosses the room. Her soft yellow dress shirt matches her energy perfectly. It's the complete opposite of the dim room and the heavy mood hanging between you and Natasha.

The unspoken question sits like a wall in the space. Natasha must have anticipated it with how quickly she read your expression.

You smile back at Wanda, though the gesture lacks any real feeling. You're happy to see her, but your thoughts refuse to align properly. New questions twist alongside the old ones in your mind, but you already know they won't be answered right now.

Natasha rises from the couch and extends her arms above her head. She takes a deep breath, stretching her limbs, before looking down at you.

"I have to go to a meeting now." She gazes down at where her hand had just been resting on your ankle. A frown tugs at her lips. She looks like she's fighting a silent battle with herself.

"We'll all talk later," she says, giving a small nod to herself before offering you a tight smile. She reaches down, her fingers briefly brushing the bare skin of your ankle again.

She steps toward Wanda, who is looking between the two of you with a confused half-smile. Natasha leans in and kisses her cheek, whispering something low into her ear.

Wanda's eyebrows furrow at the words. She turns to look at Natasha, but she's already made her way to the door.

"Bye, girls. Have a good study session," Natasha says without turning around.

The door shuts with a soft thud.

Your gaze drifts back to Wanda, whose green eyes soften the longer she looks at you. She rounds the coffee table and slides onto the space right where Natasha was sitting just moments ago.

"Natasha told me you needed a nap. Do you feel better, honey?"

You look down to where your legs are still resting on top of the cushions. A heavy blanket is draped over your lap. The fabric feels far too warm against your heated skin. You shift your weight so your legs hang over the side of the couch, pushing the blanket away and bunching it into a divider between you and Wanda.

"I feel okay," you murmur, forcing a small smile. It isn't entirely the truth, but you do feel marginally better compared to when you arrived this morning.

Wanda scoots a fraction closer to you, ignoring the bunched fabric. "I've been stuck in a board meeting since I got here this morning," she says with a sigh of exasperation. Her eyes gleam as she turns her head to lock onto yours. "Can you guess what it was about?"

Your eyebrows pull together as you rack your brain for an answer. You've hardly discussed actual company logistics since you started your internship. Except for yesterday.

"Was it about the end of the quarter?" you guess with hesitation.

Wanda's nose wrinkles right at the bridge, her smile filling with affection. "Exactly, smart girl. I did say I would schedule a meeting right away after our conversation yesterday."

Her smile is infectious. Your lips curve into a soft grin despite yourself.

She leans in even closer, her shoulder presses lightly against yours. She continues, "I was able to get to the bottom of the accounting bottleneck. You were right, darling. After a few targeted questions, I narrowed it down to one of the senior managers who was creating a disruptive atmosphere while also being far too lax about deadlines."

"So what will happen now?" you ask, your head tilting slightly. You're familiar with mock scenarios in textbooks, but actually witnessing how a large company approaches problems in the real world is entirely new to you.

"Well," Wanda starts, looking up toward the ceiling with a dangerous smile. "That manager has already been replaced as of twenty minutes ago. We'll just have to see how the person who took their spot fares under pressure."

You nod your head slowly in understanding. Good luck to them, you think to yourself. You have a feeling they'll need it based on the sharp glint in Wanda's eyes.

Wanda continues to talk about the meeting. She mentions names of executives you've never met, things that need to be improved, and projects that are going well. Her voice dips into a low register when she's a bit frustrated, then brightens when she talks about things the company is accomplishing.

You sit quietly, listening but not quite absorbing her words. A heavy throbbing is starting to build right behind your temples. Maybe you're still waking up. You nod when it feels appropriate, letting her sentences bounce off your foggy mind. You watch her expressions change—her brows furrowing, then smoothing out. Her eyes rolling, then crinkling at the corners when she smiles. An accent you can't entirely decipher becomes more prominent on certain words.

You could listen to her all day. Her voice feels like music in the quiet space.

Suddenly, she pauses and looks at you with a teasing smile. "Honey, are you even listening to me?"

She reaches out, her palm cupping your jawline while her index finger taps a playful rhythm against your cheek. Her hand feels cool against your skin.

No, not really.

"I'm listening," you respond earnestly. It's painful to speak but you swallow past the burn. You don't want to hurt her feelings.

She lets out a light chuckle. "You look like you're still half asleep," she says, squeezing your cheek lightly before her hand relaxes. She tilts her head, her eyes softening. "Your cheeks are still so warm from when you slept," she notes, leaning in closer to investigate.

Suddenly, her face scrunches up in confusion.

She leans in incredibly close, her chest almost brushing your shoulder as she breathes in deeply. Her hand drops from your face entirely. She leans back, her eyes hardening as she takes you in fully. Her lips pull into a thin line.

"Darling, you really shouldn't smoke," Wanda says, her voice dropping into a stern tone. "It's bad for you."

What?

The clouds swirling around your head clear instantly. Her expression. It's the exact same look that was leveled at you countless times when you were growing up. A look full of disappointment.

Your heart begins to race erratically, thudding violently against your ribs.

"I… I didn't smoke." Your voice trembles from your sharp pulse throbbing painfully in your throat.

Wanda raises one of her eyebrows. Her jaw remains tight.

She doesn't believe you.

Your hands begin to shake violently against your thighs. You curl your fingers inward, digging your nails deep into the center of your palm. The skin breaks. A dull, wet sting follows, but the actual pain doesn't register through the noise in your chest. You slide your other palm flat on top of the wound, clamping down hard to hide the tremor.

It's too familiar. That look.

It reminds you of the times in high school when you spent days studying for tests and losing sleep, running your system entirely on fumes. You had put your all into it, truly. But when the results arrived, the numbers were just good. Not great.

Your father had always told you that as long as you tried your best, then it was okay. You really had done everything you could, but your absolute best just wasn't enough to satisfy him. After seeing the results, he had looked at you and asked if you had truly tried. You were honest with him. You told him that you had given it your all.

But he gave you the exact same look that Wanda is giving you now. The flat, heavy skepticism that tells you your words means nothing.

Why is the truth never good enough? Why aren't you good enough?

It hurts.

You haven't felt this ache since the day you packed your bags and left your parents' house. The two years that followed had been empty, colorless, and safe. No one could hurt you because you refused to allow anyone to get close enough to try.

You allowed this hurt to happen. By smiling genuinely, laughing wholeheartedly, and opening up even a fraction. By deviating from the way you've been living so far.

Alone.

You pull your shoulders back, locking your spine into a perfectly straight line. Your hand reaches up, your fingers clawing through the tight knots that had formed in your hair while you slept. The strands catch, pulling harshly against your scalp, but you ignore the sting. You force your fingers through anyway, smoothing the hair down until it obeys.

Your hand slides down to your blouse. You glide your palm hard against the soft fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles over your chest until the presentation is pristine. If you stay around Wanda for much longer, you know you might crack.

The strings pull. Your lips tug automatically into your practiced smile.

Reaching out, you grab your phone off the coffee table. The lock screen shows it's right around lunchtime. Pressing the back of your hand against the cushion, you push yourself up into a full stand. Your legs wobble unsteadily under your weight, a cold shudder running through your thighs. It must be from lying down for so long or the lingering residual effects of your sleepless night.

You grab one of the straps of your backpack, hoisting the weight upward, and slide the straps over your shoulders.

"Darling—" Wanda starts, her eyes widening as she watches your sudden movements.

"May I go?" you ask politely, keeping your voice level and deferential. "I haven't been down to the sixtieth floor in a few days, and I'd like to check in with some of the analysts I met. Maybe I can eat lunch and study there for the rest of the day?"

Before she can answer, you reach down for the blanket bunched messily on the couch. Your fingers work quickly, lining up the corners and folding the heavy fabric into a perfect, flawless square.

"Wouldn't it be better to eat with Natasha and I?" Wanda asks quickly, an edge of urgency cutting through her voice. "We're planning to order from one of our favorite restaurants," she says, her tone lightening as if trying to pull you back.

You shake your head, keeping your eyes locked on the folded blanket. "I think I should get to know the people I'll be working with, since my time on this floor will end after tomorrow."

You turn your head toward the wooden door. You don't want to look at Wanda right now.

It's completely silent for a long moment before Wanda releases a heavy sigh.

"Okay," Wanda whispers, her voice cracking slightly before she raises the volume of her voice again. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

The term of endearment that had sent a warm flutter through your chest even a day ago sends a dull ache instead.

You nod, your chin dropping just enough to acknowledge the words. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good rest of your day."

You're already moving, your wobbly legs dragging your weight across the carpet toward the exit. You reach out, your fingers wrapping around the cold handle of the door and pulling it open.

"You too, honey," you hear Wanda say quietly behind you.

The wooden door clicks shut behind your back.

A wave of exhaustion makes you press your weight back into your heels, letting your head land gently against the door. The cool wood feels good against your hot scalp. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, your teeth gnawing back and forth.

Your eyes close against the bright space.

There's nothing special about you. You'll just become another nameless intern working at their company. Eventually, their attention will shift to someone brighter than you. Someone who is actually a real person. Someone special.

Your arm lifts, fingers twitching toward the cold handle, wanting to pull it open just to see Wanda again.

Instead, you force your hand back down to your side. The walk toward the elevator feels like wading through mud. You press the button for the sixtieth floor. The doors slide shut.

Just like the emerald lights in your dream, even if you wish they would appear before you again, they won't. Because you're the one that wished them away.

—

The doors slide open to the familiar, low chatter of the sixtieth floor. Analysts offer quick smiles along the walkway. Heading toward the far left corner, you navigate to the desk where you had spent so little time, setting your backpack against the side before taking a seat.

"Haven't seen you in a few days. How's the job shadow been going?"

Eli's playful voice rings out from the neighboring desk. Turning your head toward him, his teasing smile somehow manages to make you feel a bit better.

"It's been going well," you respond, forcing a small smile that fails to reach your eyes.

Eli tilts his head, squinting as he observes your face. "Doesn't look like it," he says bluntly.

Your gaze shifts down to your lap. Silence hangs heavy between you.

"I was kidding?" Eli chuckles awkwardly, clearly trying to salvage the conversation.

Your fingers find the plastic edge of the ID card hanging around your neck. "It's okay," you say, forcing a short laugh. "I'm just a little tired today."

"Whoa!" Eli exclaims suddenly, his tone forcing your chin up. "Your hand is bleeding."

A quick glance down confirms it. A small amount of blood is smeared across both of your palms.

Eli pulls his desk drawer open and reaches for a compact first aid kit. "I always have one of these on me. My boyfriend is a clumsy one," he says with a fond smile before leveling a focused look at your hands. "Is it okay if I take a look?"

You extend your arms toward him, palms up.

The moment his hand slides underneath yours to support your weight, the memory of Matt's crushing grip flashes through your system. Your fingers snap closed into a tight fist instinctively. Your teeth bite down hard on your bottom lip, and you avert your eyes to avoid Eli's searching gaze.

His hand stays exactly where it is below yours, holding your weight up gently. When he speaks, his voice is softer than earlier.

"I don't have any siblings, let alone a sister. So, sometimes I don't really know the best way to comfort girls. Sorry if I was too forward," he says apologetically.

The genuine tone makes you uncurl your fingers slowly. Shaking your head, you finally meet his eyes with a genuine smile. "Yeah, sounds like you need to work on it."

His jaw drops before he levels you with a playful glare. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure to clean your hand extra well with the antibacterial wipe. Brace yourself."

True to his word, Eli tears open a small foil packet. He begins to tell a story about the time his boyfriend tripped over absolutely nothing and broke his leg. The cold wipe dabs against your raw skin, his touch growing gentler the closer he gets to the crescent-shaped cuts your nails made.

"He still swears he tripped over a step. Can you believe that? We were walking down a flat sidewalk," he says, shaking his head exasperatedly.

You laugh along with him as the stories keep coming, his voice filling the quiet corner of the floor. Your focus stays anchored on his words. A strange numbness is settling over your skin. You hardly even feel the sharp sting of the alcohol against your open palms.

—

It's a slower night at the restaurant. Nights like these, Angie goes around feeding the waitstaff in the kitchen and asking about everyone's plans.

The metal pass is holding more of your weight than you'd like to admit. Your body has felt almost unbearably hot since leaving the office today, but you've dealt with much worse.

Angie had asked you to wait for a moment before returning to the floor. A quick sweep of your section already confirmed everyone is enjoying their meals.

Finally turning to you, Angie squints her eyes. "You look a bit off, sweetie. You feelin' alright?"

"I'm okay. I just didn't sleep enough last night. I should be fixed up by tomorrow," you say with a tired smile.

She gives you a blank stare like she doesn't believe you. "If you say so," she drawls out before looking through the small windows of the kitchen doors into the dining room. She points in the direction of the bar. "Nicole looks bored out there. Make use of her and take it easy today. It's okay to rely on the team, y'know?"

"I know," you respond with an appeasing tone. "I'll make sure to use her." You push off the pass. It takes a moment to stabilize yourself. Luckily, Angie is still looking into the dining room.

A glance at the clock on the wall shows only around an hour left of your shift. Returning back to the house after your internship today hadn't felt daunting, since you knew Matt would be sleeping in preparation for his shift. But with the conclusion of your restaurant shift overlapping perfectly with the exact hour he wakes up, the idea of stepping back through the front door feels impossible.

A tired sigh escapes your throat. You'll just have to fold the napkins slower tonight to avoid running into him.

—

It's Friday. Usually, the end of the week brings a sense of relief with it being the last day of classes. This week, the relief is entirely different. Come Monday morning, your schedule returns to the regular tasks of a standard intern. You'll finally be able to keep your head down and blend back into the crowd.

An email from Cindy had arrived first thing this morning. She apologized for not being able to escort you due to an assignment she's currently working on, instructing you to head up to Wanda's office on your own.

Wanda. You repeat the name silently in your head.

The thought of her sends immediate pricks of discomfort through your chest. It's hard to distinguish if the feeling is pain or unease. Your arm accidentally brushes against the metal wall of the elevator, sending a sharp wave of pins and needles across your skin.

Ever since your alarm went off, a heavy mound of pressure has been building right behind your eyes and forehead. Lifting your head off the pillow this morning had taken a massive effort despite the mundane motion. Your heated skin feels exceptionally sensitive, turning every slight movement of your limbs into a radiating ache. It's exhausting just to remain standing.

The elevator doors slide open to the C-suite floor, revealing the pristine marble floor. A part of you wishes you could just drop everything and lie flat against that cool stone. But this level of exhaustion and discomfort has become commonplace. You can bear with it.

Breaths become more labored with every step until you reach Wanda's office door. Pressing your hand against the wood takes some of the burden off your body before you knock twice.

Despite the fatigue, you force your mind to stay sharp. This is the last day. You'll only see them in passing after this. The conflicting feelings and the warmth you feel around them will disappear.

Are you okay with that?

The question flashes through your mind against your will.

You have to be okay with this. Maybe it's better that it's now. You knew you would walk away one day, before they could leave you broken. Before you accidentally give pieces of yourself away that can never be retrieved.

"Come in," Wanda calls out from behind the door.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten your posture with effort and plaster on a neutral expression. You turn the handle and push open the door, revealing Wanda sitting at her desk. She stands immediately upon seeing you.

The door shuts behind you.

The same chair from before is pulled up next to her desk in the same spot. The sight makes the pressure in your head build. Stepping up to the desk, Wanda watches you the entire way, her mouth opening and closing as if she doesn't know where to start.

So, you start for her.

"I have a few questions about some of the topics in one of my classes. It's going to be covered pretty extensively on the final. When would you have time to answer them?" you ask politely. You keep your voice low, knowing if you raise it any higher, it'll break and send you into a coughing fit.

"Darling, I think we should talk," Wanda says earnestly, tilting her head to search your eyes that keep averting from hers.

"Is it in relation to my internship?" you ask indifferently, setting your backpack down and pulling out your materials.

The creak of Wanda sitting down is the only sound in the office.

"No," she starts hesitantly. "About yesterday."

Looking up, you plaster on an apologetic smile. You try to ignore the scent of jasmine swirling around you. It pulls at your heart and threatens to break your resolve. Your thumb presses hard into the bandage on your palm.

"My first final is on Monday. I already sent Cindy my schedule," you respond. "Would we be able to schedule a time to talk about it another day? I'm a bit behind on studying."

Wanda looks like she's completely withering away. Her shoulders droop, her hands find each other to grasp tightly, and the corners of her lips pull down. The sight almost makes you want to say anything and everything just to bring back her bright smile. To have her call you smart girl and send that fuzzy feeling through your body like she did a few days ago.

But the instinct to protect your heart overrides everything else. These feelings will pass with time.

"I can answer some questions now," Wanda says with a weak smile.

"Okay," you respond, forcing your eyes down to your notebook page. "I made a note here. How would you…"

—

Natasha never ended up stopping by. She was called into an emergency meeting with investor and public relations in lieu of the upcoming earnings release. It feels fitting.

The look Wanda had given you when you said goodbye instead of I'll see you later still sticks with you even now, standing in the breakroom at the restaurant preparing for your shift. It was a look that made it apparent that this was final.

You take a deep breath in through your mouth. Your nose had become increasingly more clogged as the day wore on. You had to hide your sniffles between performative throat clears that made your throat burn during your time alone with Wanda.

You practice your smile in the breakroom mirror. It's reminiscent of the time before meeting them. It doesn't reach your eyes. It stays strictly within the line of cheerful and flat—just enough of a curve to let people know you're engaged in the conversation. It's hard to hold even this manufactured smile today.

Natasha patting your stomach to even out your breaths. Wanda praising you when you gave her department solutions. That's the problem when you become too comfortable and allow color to seep into your world. When the world turns gray again, you miss the light blue of the sky. You miss the orange-red rays of the sun. The vibrant green of their eyes. It tears a hole through you.

But it'll heal even if it takes a while.

Just get through this shift, you think to yourself, trying to force a surge of energy into your mind.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Sliding it out, you glance at the message preview on the screen. It's Matt.

You shut your eyes tightly before opening them again to read the text.

I'm not working tonight. Let's hang out. I'll be waiting in the common room.

There's no apology for that night. Not even an acknowledgment. Fear courses through your system at the thought of returning home to find him sitting in the exact same spot. His calloused hand gripping yours. The suffocating mixture of smoke and alcohol on his breath. The looming possibility of what could have happened if your house leader hadn't arrived in time.

The sharp sound of the breakroom door opening pulls you out of your thoughts. Suddenly, your own frantic breaths become loudly clear to you.

Your coworker, Nicole, is leaning against the doorframe with a smile. "Hi," she greets you. "You're a finance major, right?"

You force your breathing to even out momentarily, contorting your expression into a polite, practiced smile. "Yeah, I am. Why do you ask?" Your voice sounds scratchy, but you maintain the pleasant cadence you were taught.

"A couple of my friends who're finance majors dined here a few nights ago and recognized you," Nicole says with a chuckle. "They asked if I would ask you to come to a party tonight. They said they've been wanting to talk to you, but couldn't find the confidence. I'll be going as well, if you want to head over together after this?"

She looks at you with hopeful eyes. You have yet to go to a single university party. Not that you ever really wanted to. The idea of standing in a crowded room with music blaring and drinks sloshing around sounds unappealing.

I'll be waiting in the common room.

The memory of the text forces your thumb to press hard into your bandage, sending sharp signals of pain through your body.

"I…" you start hesitantly, "I don't have a change of clothes." Going to this party sounds vastly better than facing Matt, but the logistics are an immediate problem.

Nicole's expression shifts into an excited smile. "Don't worry, I have an extra change of clothes right here in my locker. I promise it'll be fun. There are so many people who have been wanting the chance to talk to you."

Her body turns around to face the kitchen walkway, sending a fleeting smile back your way. "We'll talk more after the shift. I'm so excited!" she exclaims before walking away.

—

The dining room fills with a heavy rush of regulars, making the shift drag while simultaneously passing in a blur. Every step makes your joints feel stiff, like creaking bones. Even a light touch against your skin sends sharp pinpricks across your body. But you continue to chat with ease, keeping your speech charismatic and your expressions engaged. It's one of the times where you're thankful this is programmed into you.

A few customers ask about your voice, noticing the raspy edge. Hiding the scratchiness is becoming a struggle as your throat continues to swell. You brush it off with a practiced excuse, telling them you've just been talking too much lately. It wasn't exactly a lie.

The shift finally ends, leaving you in the breakroom with Nicole. She hands you a gray long-sleeve shirt and a white skirt. It's freezing outside, but with what feels like literal lava burning beneath your skin, the light clothing sounds like a relief.

You unbutton your work shirt and slide it off. The fabric of Nicole’s shirt feels like sandpaper, scraping hard against your skin as you pull it over your head. The neckline cuts low, stopping just above your breasts. It's far less coverage than you ever wear, but you've also never been to a university party. Maybe this was the norm with how quickly it could get hot in a crowd of people.

You unzip your trousers, step out of them, and pull on the skirt. The sudden blast of cool air against your bare legs brings a brief second of relief. But it doesn't last long. The relief vanishes, and the room turns far too cold. Your body doesn't normally regulate its temperature well, but for the past day, it's been a pendulum. Swinging violently from a sauna to the arctic.

Nicole throws out names of people you don't know, but who are apparently in many of your same classes. You nod and hum in understanding whenever she complains about the boys in her lectures.

You stuff your work clothes into your locker. You'll be back tomorrow anyway.

Turning around at the same time, you both stand fully dressed. Nicole sends you a wide grin. "I can see why the guys were begging me to ask you to come," she says, followed by a sharp whistle.

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly. The motion backfires, sending a dull, throbbing ache straight through your temples.

"I'm sure that's why they asked you, too," you respond teasingly, forcing the pain down.

You open the door to the breakroom and look around. The kitchen staff have already cleaned thoroughly and are grabbing their personal things to leave.

"I think we should head out so we don't hold anyone back. Ready?" you ask, turning back around.

"You bet!" Nicole calls out, grabbing her keys. She jingles them in a sporadic beat.

Despite your body screaming at you to lie down, you can't help but laugh a little at her energy.

—

Bright fairy lights string across the front yards along the sidewalk. It's a block dominated by fraternities and sororities, most having decided the weekend before finals is the perfect time to throw a party. Loud, bass-heavy music bleeds from house to house, blending together as students drift between lawns to meet up with friends.

Walking beside Nicole, you discuss university life and expected final grades. The freezing night air bites sharply against the exposed skin of your upper chest and bare legs.

Some people call out greetings to Nicole as you approach the fraternity house where the finance and accounting majors are congregating. In front of you, drunk students sway unsteadily, barely catching their balance before they tip sideways.

The street is familiar. Your daily bus route passes right by this block early in the journey. Your own house sits only a short distance away.

Excited shouting and screaming echo from the next lawn over. Sparing a brief glance, you watch a few people lying starfish on the grass, giggling to themselves as they fail to push themselves back up, only to collapse and laugh all over again.

Nicole laughs, pointing toward a crowd hyping up a student shotgunning a beer. Apparently, it's someone from one of her classes, the onlookers push them to drink even faster.

The sound of your name being shouted from the crowd steals your attention.

"Hey!" a voice calls out.

Someone from the crowd sways slightly as he walks quickly toward you and Nicole. Without warning, he wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders. The sudden weight feels like he's dragging you straight down. You force your legs to lock, bracing your joints so you both don't collapse onto the sidewalk.

"I'm so glad you made it. I've been wanting to talk to you for forever," he slurs, his face too close.

"Oh, knock it off, Tyler." Nicole shoves his arm off your neck.

A sharp breath of relief escapes your throat. Tyler raises his hands in surrender, though one arm hangs clearly higher than the other.

"Us in finance are just friendly folk, Nicole. Right?" he says, sending a heavy wink your way.

"Right…" you respond, pulling your lips into an awkward, flat smile.

Nicole pipes up from beside you, leveling him with a look of disgust. "This is why you don't have a girlfriend."

Tyler rolls his eyes, but his pupils track so slowly it looks like he's seeing stars. Stealing a quick glance at Nicole, he wraps his heavy arm right back around your shoulders and forces you forward. Your legs shake violently beneath your weight.

"Hey!" Nicole calls out, following close behind. "Tyler, let her go." Her tone sounds playful on the surface, but a sharp edge cuts beneath the words.

He ignores her completely, pressing your body forward until you cross the threshold into the house.

The interior is pure chaos. Strobe lights flash erratically, sending blinding white needles straight through the heavy pressure behind your eyes. To your left, a beer pong game dominates the common room. The players slam their hands hard against the folding table whenever they miss, sending loud bangs that slice through the bass-heavy music. Crowds of students pack the space holding red cups, swaying and spilling alcohol onto the floor.

People turn their heads to track you as you pass by, their expressions shifting into pure surprise.

Tyler proudly marches you straight up to a large group standing near the beer pong table. He pats your shoulder once before finally releasing his grip.

The group looks you up and down in shock. One of the guys lets out a sharp whistle. "Wow, Tyler. How'd you manage to get finance's princess here?" His gaze travels between your face and below your chin. You pull your arms close against your chest, trying to shield yourself from the look.

"I worked my magic," Tyler slurs, leaning his weight into you. Your footing slips, and you stumble slightly before forcing your legs to catch yourself. The suffocating heat of the packed room sends sharp arrows of pain straight to your brain.

"You mean I worked my magic?" Nicole cuts in from behind. Her hands find your shoulders, holding your frame steady against Tyler's weight.

Turning your head, you give her a grateful smile. It feels like your brain is actively turning to mush. The space is too crowded. Too many eyes are locked on you.

One of the girls in the group catches your eye, offering a soft smile. "Hi," she says politely. "I've seen you in a few of my classes, but I didn't know how to approach you."

"Hi," you respond kindly. Her and Nicole's soothing voices feel like a balm against the pounding bass. "It's nice to meet you." You give her a gentle smile, lacking the energy for anything more.

The girl leans her head in a bit closer, her mouth near your ear. "I can see why people are so interested in you," she whispers playfully. "But if anyone bothers you, let me know."

"Me too," Nicole adds. You hadn't noticed her leaning in to listen, but she squeezes your shoulders lightly. "I'm going to go say hi to some of my friends real quick. If it gets too hot in here, let me know. I'll go outside and cool off with you. You feel a little warm already," she notes, studying your face carefully.

Nicole has already been so kind. You refuse to hold her back from having fun.

"I'm okay," you respond, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go say hi to your friends," you say brightly, playfully pushing her toward a group looking at her expectantly. She throws a grin your way before disappearing into the crowd.

Immediately, Tyler presses his arm hard against yours. "So, what can I get you to drink, princess?" he asks loudly over the music.

"Just water is good, please." It isn't that you've never touched alcohol before, but the liquid always sits like a heavy rock in your stomach. It makes your brain fuzzy and your limbs refuse to cooperate. It's terrifying. It isn't the same gentle fuzziness that Wanda gave you.

Stop, you command yourself, cutting the thought off before it can dig deeper into your chest.

"Loosen up a little. Just one drink. Pretty please?" Tyler begs. He leans his face so close you're almost positive you could get drunk just from the heavy scent of vodka lingering on his breath.

"Tyler," the girl in the group warns, her voice laced with annoyance.

But the guys around him continue to press, their voices overlapping and bouncing off the walls.

"Come on, you can have the same thing as me."

"I'll make you whatever you'd like."

"Here," one of them says, shoving a red cup straight into your face. "Have some of mine."

The smell of cheap alcohol fills your nose, mixing with the suffocating heat of the room.

It's too much. You pull out your phone, casting a quick glance at the blank screen.

"Sorry, I have to get this," you say apologetically. "I'll be right back."

You wiggle your way out from under Tyler's weight. The group groans in unison as you back away.

Turning on your heel, you navigate your way through the packed room. The hot bodies of drunk students press heavily against yours, sending your heart into a rhythm that's far from steady. You force your way through the crowd faster, desperate for oxygen.

You're almost at the front door when someone's cold hand grips your wrist harshly.

You try to yank your arm away with a violent jerk, but their fingers refuse to yield. Your chest tightens. You need to get out of here. Right now.

"Is it really you?" a heavily accented voice sounds from behind you.

The lava burning beneath your skin freezes into solid ice.

No. There's no way.

Turning your head slightly, you peek over your shoulder. You're met with faces you could never forget. The two faces you've longed to see, that you've missed dearly, and that you've always felt incredibly guilty toward. A brunette and a blonde.

Kate and Yelena.

You can't do this right now. You never want to explain the reality of why you left them behind.

Yelena’s grip stays locked on your wrist while Kate stands right behind her. Their eyes widen in shock as they take in the side of your face.

Using their surprise, you rip your arm out of Yelena's grasp.

You stride quickly out the front door, the freezing night air doing nothing to clear the pressure in your head. Your eyes are frantic, scanning the front yard before you hit the concrete sidewalk and throw your weight around the corner. You need to be anywhere but here.

Rapid footsteps echo on the pavement behind you.

"Wait!" Kate calls out, repeating the word over and over into the night.

You don't stop. The remaining strength begins to wane in your legs, your knees threatening to buckle.

A hand clamps onto your shoulder, forcing your body to spin around. Yelena had always been faster than you in high school. It's exactly the same even now.

She levels a glare at you, gripping your shoulder tighter until her fingers dig into your collarbone. "What gives you the right to run away?" she yells, her voice echoing loudly around the empty space.

You cast a glance at your surroundings, grateful that the loud music bleeding from the houses makes it unlikely anyone else is listening to the commotion.

Reaching up with a shaky hand, you try to pry her fingers off your shoulder, trying to uncurl them one by one. "Let go," you grit out, your raw throat burning from the strain.

"So you can what? Run away again?" Yelena mocks sarcastically, refusing to budge. "You already did that two years ago."

Silence hangs heavy in the cold air, only the sound of your ragged breaths registering between you.

You force your eyes up, catching Kate's gaze immediately. She looks like she wants to reach out and pull you away from Yelena's grip, but she can't find it in herself to move. Her posture is frozen, as if she's terrified that any sudden movement will make you vanish again. Tears barely hold on above her lower lashes.

"I always wondered what happened," Yelena starts, her voice dropping into a low, raw register. "That maybe Kate and I had not been good enough friends. That we were not as close as I thought we were."

Her fingers claw tightly at your skin. Through the anger in her voice, you hadn't noticed the shakiness behind it. A gleam of moisture breaks through her glare as her eyes drop down to where her hand is gripping your shoulder for dear life.

"But at least when I pictured you, even without us, I thought you were happy. You were off somewhere smiling and laughing," she says shakily, before her voice spikes again. "But here you are, looking like this. How dare you?"

She forcefully shakes you by the shoulder. The sudden motion makes your vision blur and a wave of suffocating heat rushes back to your skin.

Kate steps forward, pulling Yelena's hand off your frame. "Stop it!" she cries out desperately. Tears track down her cheeks, glinting under the pale light of the streetlights. "Just stop," she whispers.

Turning to you, Kate meets your eyes with a watery smile. "Yelena and I need to sober up. Let's talk about this at a later time, okay?" she asks, the desperation clear in her voice.

You shake your head despite the sudden wave of dizziness. It feels like your consciousness is barely holding on by a thread. You won't be seeing them again after tonight.

"Why?" Kate pleads, her smile vanishing. "Why can't we talk after this?"

"Because…" you start weakly, your voice breaking entirely on the last syllable.

You sway unevenly on the pavement. Your breaths come out dangerously shallow and fast. Kate disappears and reappears in your blurry vision. The next thing you know, Kate has your arm slung over her shoulder, holding your weight up.

"Did you drink something? What's going on?" she asks frantically.

Yelena presses her palm flat against your forehead. The sudden chill of her skin feels welcome against the boiling of your blood.

"She is burning up," Yelena says, trying to search your eyes.

"I didn't drink anything," you manage to whisper.

You droop heavily into Kate, your legs completely failing. Everything around you looks pixelated. It's almost scary, but whatever is dragging your consciousness down calls to you, promising sweet relief. You want to listen to it.

A sharp, muffled sound cuts through the air from behind you, but you don't move.

Kate and Yelena's faces are suddenly lit up by a bright, sweeping beam of light Their eyes remain frantic, but a wave of relief washes over their expressions as well.

"Hey, I got your text to pick you up. Don't drink so much next time," an annoyed, raspy voice calls out. It's instantly familiar.

The sound of a heavy car door opening echoes down the street, followed by quick, decisive steps on the asphalt.

"What's going on? Did they drink too much?" the person asks, stepping in to help Kate support your body. Your head rolls helplessly to the side, leaning flat against their shoulder.

"She said she didn't drink anything," Kate says breathlessly. "I think she might have a fever. She feels really hot."

You look up slowly, trying to force your jaw to work so you can tell them all you can just walk home. It isn't far.

You're instantly silenced by vibrant green eyes looking down at you, alarmed.

"Natasha?" you mumble out, your voice barely a breath.

Yelena's hand freezes against your forehead.

"Yes, detka, it's me. I'm here," Natasha murmurs softly, her tone shifting instantly.

Yelena's hand drops away from your skin. She stands frozen, looking between the two of you in disbelief.

Natasha moves so she's standing directly in front of you. She pulls one of your arms over her shoulder. "I've got her," she says evenly to Kate.

Glancing at Kate, you see her eyebrows pulled together in hesitation, but she allows your arm to slide off her shoulder. Natasha places your other arm across her neck. Her hands find their way to the back of your thighs, and suddenly gravity isn't pulling you down as harshly. Your chest presses flat against Natasha's as she lifts you up, adjusting her grip beneath you.

Your body tenses immediately. Unwrapping one of your arms, you push your palm against her shoulder with a weak nudge.

"I can get home by myself," you argue, but the words lack any real strength.

Natasha adjusts her grip so only one arm supports your weight. Her other hand wraps around your fingers, lifting your arm and slinging it securely back around her neck. Sliding up to the back of your head, her fingers press lightly, guiding your face down until your cheek squishes flat against her shoulder.

"I'm sure you can," she says in a quiet, appeasing tone, her body beginning to rock side to side like she's lulling you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy, beginning to droop against your will. "You don't have to, though."

She uses her palm to cover your exposed ear. "Wanda, I need you to drive instead," Natasha calls out.

The muffled sound is a relief. The surrounding party noises were starting to send sharp, throbbing stabs straight to your brain.

You feel the motion of Natasha walking, holding you steadily so your body barely shifts. The sound of a car door clicking open echoes nearby before Natasha leans down, her breath brushing close to your ear. She slides onto the seat and tucks your legs close to the outside of her thighs, wrapping both arms around your frame to hold you close.

Your lips rest almost directly against the side of her neck.

"It's too hot," you whine quietly, your skin heating at the contact.

Natasha's hand begins to pat your back in a slow, steady rhythm. "I know, detka. It'll be better soon. Just sleep for now."

"Natasha, is that our sweet girl?" Wanda's voice projects from the front, sounding as if she's turned completely around in the driver’s seat.

"Yes," Natasha responds in a low register. "So drive carefully. We have precious cargo."

The steady rhythm of the patting continues against your back. Your eyes close.

The sharp sound of two more doors opening and closing pierces through the space, though the noises of the outside world are starting to fade into a distant hum.

"Natasha," Yelena’s voice cuts in from the seat beside you, her tone a tense mixture of anger and confusion. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Lena. Let's talk at their place. Let her sleep," Kate says from behind you.

A disgruntled, heavy sigh sounds through the vehicle.

"Let's go home," Natasha directs toward the front.

You press your face even closer into the curve of Natasha's neck. The heat is suffocating, but being held against her brings a completely different type of warmth. One that lets you know you're safe.

Using the last bit of your strength, your arms squeeze a bit tighter around her shoulders. Your mind drifts, slipping away from the waking world.

Right before the dark takes over, you swear you see a pair of gorgeous green lights—two slightly different shades—swirling together in the shadows around you.

They came back. —

A/N: Lots of drama. Butttt, we were able to get R out of that house, at least for tonight. Just like how Natasha can't help but baby, I also can't help but baby you guys too. I keep adding to the ending to make it softer because I don't want you guys to finish the chapter feeling sad 😅 In exchange for the drama filled chapter, in the next chapter I promise: Wanda and R will talk, we'll learn more about why Natasha and Wanda are interested in her, maybe make it a little subby.

Thank you guys as always for reading and the comments/asks. It always makes writing the story more fun ♡

Wanda sighs. “Sleep good?”

“Like a baby.”

Wanda pushes a plate of pancakes towards you, the plate stopping in line with a bowl of berries.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Wanda replies softly.

Natasha settles beside you at the island, stealing a strawberry from your bowl before you can stop her. “Hey.”

“You weren't eating it.”

“I was about to,” you groan.

“You hesitated.”

“That doesn't mean you can just take it.”

“It does in Russia,” Natasha replies with a smug smile.

“It absolutely does not.”

Wanda laughs quietly to herself while flipping another pancake. You miss the look she shares with Natasha completely. Natasha doesn't. Three years. Three years of lingering touches, extra blankets left outside your room, favourite snacks mysteriously appearing in the kitchen and invitations to every movie night. Three years. And somehow you still thought they were just being friendly.

“Y/N?” Wanda asks.

“Mm?”

“You know we care about you, right?”

You blink. “Obviously.” Natasha nearly chokes on her coffee. Wanda sighs. “What?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you both looking at me like that?”

Neither answers. Because if they start that conversation at eight in the morning Natasha might genuinely lose her mind.

Natasha sighs again. “You wanna come to our room tonight? We're gonna have another movie night.”

You hum. “Maybe. What are you watching?”

Wanda smiles, sweet as sugar. “Anything you want, detka.”

Wanda calls you that often. It's Russian. You have no idea what she's saying. You can only assume it's something friendly.

“Jurassic Park?” you ask. It had been a favourite of yours since childhood.

“Seriously?” Wanda asks. She had been planning for something vaguely rom-com esque. Titanic, or Notting Hill or even The Princess Bride. But no, you want Jurassic Park.

Natasha sighs a little, smiling. This was the woman they both fell in love with. “Jurassic Park it is then.”

“We need snacks,” you tell them seriously. “Especially dinosaur shaped nuggets. It's important.”

Wanda rolls her eyes lovingly, sharing Natasha's silent sentiment. “Alright. Nuggets then.”

________________________________________

Wanda and Natasha's room in the compound is dark. It's clear when you walk in that the lighting has been dimmed beyond what's reasonable, but a few candles light up the area around the coffee table. Clearly they'd already prepared for the movie before you'd even got there.

A fresh bouquet of roses sits on a cupboard at the side of the room, strategically placed to catch the perfect amount of light through the window, though the curtains where now shut. In the center of the coffee table is a large plate, covered by aluminium foil. Probably the Dino nuggets. Next to the plate is two smaller bowls, each containing sweets and chocolate, and one larger one that you can already see is heaped with steaming popcorn.

“Wanda? Nat?” you call, walking towards the couch.

“Coming!” a voice echoes from the bedroom, before the two women appear carrying a blanket and extra pillows. Somewhere in a kitchen-like area, a kettle clicks off.

“I'll finish the hot chocolate,” Natasha says quietly to Wanda, draping the blanket over the couch arm.

“I'm so excited. Thanks for inviting me!” you thank Wanda cheerfully as she places cushions carefully on the couch, murmuring something about 'again' and 'oblivious' under her breath.

Wanda claims the left side of the couch, while Natasha, returning with the hot chocolates, claims the right side. You slide carefully in between them, reaching over Natasha to pass the blanket over the three of you. Natasha forces her eyes away from the side of your face, almost too close for her heart to take.

“Are you ready for literally the best movie of your whole lives?” you ask, already leaning forward to claim a handful of dinosaur-shaped nuggets.

Natasha claims your free hand under the blankets, her thumb rubbing quietly over your knuckles, moving soothinly up and down with the rise and fall of the bones. “Mm. I trust you, it must be amazing.”

“It is. You'll love it.”

Wanda leans forward to grab one of the small bowls of chocolate and sweets, fingers moving through them to find what she's looking for: Love Hearts. She flips the sweet over from the sunglasses face to the words which read "BE MINE."

She smiles down at it, passing it to you just as the opening scene begins, the classic music playing as the fossil digsite appears onscreen. “Aw, Wands, I'm already yours. You guys are my best friends.”

Natasha's eye twitches, not that you notice. “Yeah. Best friends.”

Natasha's hand stops moving against yours. Not because of the movie. Because Wanda has just physically handed you a sweet that says BE MINE and somehow you've interpreted it as friendship. Again. Across the couch, Wanda looks ready to throw herself into the nearest volcano.

You remain blissfully unaware. "Oh!" you whisper excitedly as the T-Rex escapes. "This is the best part."

"Mm," Natasha replies absently.

Wanda reaches into the bowl again. Another Love Heart. This one reads KISS ME. Natasha watches with interest. Wanda places it directly into your hand.

You squint at it. "Oh." Hope sparks instantly in both women. You smile. "You want one too?"

Then you hand it to Natasha.Silence. Natasha stares at the sweet. Wanda stares at the ceiling.

You happily eat another dinosaur nugget. "Guys?" Neither answers. "Are you okay?"

"Fantastic," Natasha says flatly.

"Wonderful," Wanda agrees.

You find yourself leaning against Natasha halfway through the movie, her hand still rubbing circles across your knuckles, her other arm around your back. Wanda is leant against you too, her head tucked against your side, one arm resting around your waist.

“You're a comfy pillow, detka,” Wanda whispers quietly beneath the scream of Lex as a raptor snaps behind the door, only held shut by the weight of Alan and Ellie.

“Thanks. Nat's pretty comfy too.” Both women sigh a final time.

The movie ends around midnight. By then, Wanda has somehow ended up half asleep against your shoulder while Natasha's arm remains draped along the back of the couch behind you. The credits roll.

You stretch. "That was amazing."

"Mm."

"Told you."

________________________________________

Tony's parties are always big. Alcohol, dozens of people, and a pumping bass that rattles your bones. Dim lighting in the main room, expensive food and even more costly spirits. Chatter surrounds you, faces you recognise and faces you don't. Mostly faces you don't.

Your eyes search the crowds for any familiar face you could talk to, and finally your eyes find Maria Hill.

“Maria!” you call, approaching her. “Hey.”

“Hey, Y/N. I've been looking for you. I wanted to ask if you'd come for dinner with me sometime.”

“Maybe. Where at?” you ask.

Across the room, Natasha and Wanda finally find you, Natasha's eyes narrowing as she sees you talking to Maria. “Wands.”

“I know.”

The two women watch as Maria makes you laugh loudly at a comment, her hand frequently grazing yours. You only laugh louder, throwing your hair over your shoulder.

Natasha's jaw clenches tight, she'd probably break a tooth if she clenched it anymore. Wanda's hand was a stark white where it was balled into a fist, her nails leaving small cresents in her palm as Maria leans into you.

And more annoyingly? You don't step away. Infact, you seem to lean in as well, meeting Maria's lips halfway.

The room seems to freeze. Not for you. For Wanda and Natasha. Because after three years of flirting, three years of movie nights and hand-holding and buying your favourite snacks and looking at you like you hung the moon...Maria Hill gets a kiss. In under ten minutes.

"Nat."

"I saw."

"Tell me I imagined that,” Wanda says tightly.

"You did not."

Across the room, Maria is smiling. You're smiling too. Wanda briefly considers committing a crime.

“See you tomorrow?” Maria asks as she pulls away.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” you repeat, watching her walk away. As you turn around, you freeze, caught under Wanda and Natasha's steely gaze. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Natasha replies. “What was that?”

“What?”

“With Maria,” Wanda adds, a sickly sweet smile across her lips.

“She asked me to dinner tomorrow, that's all,” you tell them truthfully.

“And?”

You tilt your head slightly. “And...I'm going?”

Natasha hums, pushing her tongue against her cheek to stop any...unsavoury words from coming out.

“Nat,” Wanda warns.

“You kissed her.”

“Was I... not meant to?” you ask.

Natasha actually closes her eyes. Wanda stares at you. You stare back. “I feel like I'm missing something.”

“You are missing several things,” Natasha replies.

“A lot of things,” Wanda agrees.

You frown. “Okay?”

“Y/N,” Wanda says carefully, like she's approaching a wounded animal. “Why did Maria kiss you?”

You blink. “Because she likes me?”

“Correct.”

“Okay.”

“And why are you going to dinner with her?” Natasha asks now.

“Because she likes me.”

“Right.”

You nod. Wanda waits. You wait. Natasha waits. Nothing happens. “Detka,” Wanda says weakly, “please tell me you're doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“The thing.” Natasha confirms.

“What thing?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“The—” Wanda gestures wildly between all three of you. “This!”

You look at Natasha for help. Natasha looks like she's aged ten years. “Y/N,” she says, voice unusually patient. “How many movie nights have we had?”

You think about it. “Lots?”

“How many times have we invited anyone else?”

“None?”

“Correct.”

Wanda points at herself. “Who buys your favourite snacks?”

“You.”

“Who remembers your coffee order?”

“You.”

“Who spent two hours searching three grocery stores because you said one specific brand of dinosaur nuggets tasted better?” Wanda continues.

“...you?”

“Who holds your hand every movie night?”

“Nat.”

Natasha points at herself now. “Who bought you flowers on your birthday?”

“You.”

“And Valentine's Day?”

“You.”

“And the random Tuesday in June?”

“You.” You pause. “The flowers was because they were pretty.”

Natasha physically pinches the bridge of her nose. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“The flowers were for you.”

“I know.”

“No.” Wanda's voice comes out strangled. “No, detka, I don't think you do.”

You look between them. Then back. Then between them again. Something slowly starts connecting. Very slowly. “Oh.”

Wanda freezes. Natasha freezes. “Oh?” Wanda repeats carefully.

Your eyes widen. “OH.”

“OH?” Natasha echoes.

“You were flirting with me?”

The silence is deafening. “You are only just figuring that out?” Natasha asks.

“I gave you a sweet that said 'BE MINE!'” Wanda tells you.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE SHARING!”

Wanda makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

“You handed me one that said 'KISS ME!'” you reply.

“You gave it to Natasha!” Wanda reminds you incredulously.

“I thought she wanted it!”

Natasha looks ready to launch herself out the nearest window.

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly,” Wanda says.

“Oh my god.”. you repeat again.

“Three years,” Natasha mutters.

You stare at them. Then a new realization hits. “Wait.” Both women look at you. “You like me?”

Wanda immediately softens. “Yeah, detka.”

“Very much,” Natasha adds quietly.

“Both of you?” The women nod. “That's a THING?” They nod again.

The jealousy suddenly makes sense. The flowers. The hand-holding. The pet names. The movie nights. The way they always saved you a seat between them. Your face burns. “Oh.”

Nobody speaks. The music from Tony's party thumps somewhere behind you, people laughing and talking around the room, but all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat. Wanda and Natasha are staring at you like they're waiting for a bomb to go off. Which, honestly, is fair. Because it kind of feels like one just did.

"You both like me," you say slowly.

"Yes," Wanda replies.

"Romantically."

"Very romantically," Natasha confirms.

You blink. "Together."

"Yes."

"At the same time."

"That's generally how this works, detka."

You stare at them. Wanda stares back. Natasha stares back. You stare some more. "Is that legal?"

Natasha actually chokes. Wanda covers her face with both hands. "What?" you ask.

"No, no," Natasha says between laughs. "Please explain your thought process."

"I didn't know three people could date."

"Well, they can."

"Oh." A pause. "Oh." Another pause. "Oh my god."

"That's the fourth time you've said that," Wanda points out.

"Because this is a lot of information!"

Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose. "We've been trying to tell you for years."

"I thought you were friendly."

"Friendly?" Wanda repeats.

"We bought you flowers!" Natasha adds.

"Friends buy flowers."

"On Valentine's Day!"

"I thought you were being supportive."

Natasha looks physically pained. "Detka, I held your hand through three entire movies."

"I thought you were affectionate."

"I kissed your forehead."

"I thought you were sleepy."

Wanda laughs so hard she nearly doubles over. Natasha points accusingly at you. "You sat between us every movie night."

"Because there was space."

"The candles?"

"I thought you liked candles."

"The roses?"

"I thought you liked flowers."

"The hot chocolate?"

"I thought you were being nice!"

"We were being nice!"

"Exactly!"

Wanda is openly crying with laughter now. "Nat," she wheezes. "She really had no idea."

"Clearly."

You look between them again. Then another thought occurs to you. "Wait."

The laughter dies immediately. Wanda straightens. Natasha straightens. "If Maria hadn't kissed me..." Neither woman answers. Your eyes widen. "You would've kept doing this forever."

Wanda opens her mouth. Closes it. Natasha sighs. "...possibly."

"Natasha!"

"What?" she asks. "You thought the Valentine's flowers were friendship flowers."

"There are friendship flowers!"

"Not twelve red roses!"

You groan loudly and cover your face. "Oh my god."

"There it is again," Wanda says.

"The flowers?"

"Flirting." Natasha tells you.

"The movie nights?"

"Flirting." She repeats.

"The hot chocolate?"

"Flirting." Wanda confirms.

"The dinosaur nuggets?"

Natasha shrugs. "Those were just dinosaur nuggets."

"THANK GOD." You sigh in relief. "Wait," you say suddenly.

Wanda and Natasha immediately tense. "Now what?"

You point between them. "So if you were flirting with me..."

"Yes?" Wanda asks cautiously.

"And you two are dating..."

"Yes?" Natasha echoes.

"And Maria was flirting with me..."

"...yes?"

You blink. "Do I flirt back?" The silence is immediate. Natasha stares. Wanda stares. You stare back. "I don't know how this works!" you defend.

Wanda makes a strangled noise. "You've never flirted with anyone?"

"I don't think so."

"You kissed Maria."

"That happened very fast."

Natasha laughs despite herself, rubbing a hand over her face. "Detka, do you want to go on a date with us?"

"Was that easier?" Wanda asks.

"Much."

"Good."

You think for a moment. Then another. Then another. Natasha starts looking nervous.Actually nervous. Which feels impossible. Wanda notices it too.

And suddenly your chest does something strange. A warm, fluttery feeling. One you've definitely felt before. Movie nights. Hot chocolate. Holding Natasha's hand. Listening to Wanda ramble about a book she liked. Watching them look for dinosaur nuggets because you'd mentioned them once. "Oh."

"There it is again," Natasha mutters.

"No, I think this one's important."

Wanda's expression softens immediately. "Yeah?"

Your face warms. "I think I like you too."

For a second neither woman moves. "Both of us?" Wanda asks.

"Yeah."

"Romantically?" Natasha asks.

“Yeah.”

Natasha laughs so hard she doubles over. Wanda is smiling now. The soft smile. The one reserved entirely for you. "You have no idea how long we've waited to hear that."

"Apparently three years."

"Three years and four months," Natasha corrects automatically.

You stare. "You counted?"

"I am deeply in love with you."

"That's slightly terrifying,” you admit.

Wanda reaches for your hand first. Gentle. Giving you every chance to pull away. You don't. Her fingers lace through yours. Natasha steps closer a second later.

"So..." you say.

"So?" Wanda replies.

"What happens now?"

Natasha and Wanda exchange a look. Then Wanda leans forward first. Slow enough for you to stop her. You don't.

Her lips brush yours softly. Warm. Sweet. Far less terrifying than you expected. When she pulls back, she's smiling. And then Natasha is there too, cupping your cheek gently before kissing you just as softly. Your brain promptly forgets how to function. "Oh."

Natasha groans. Wanda bursts out laughing. "Was that another important one?" Wanda asks.

You nod. "Definitely an important one."

Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.

You deserve this pain.

Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.

It feels like pity.

An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.

Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?

You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…

“Perfect.”

Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.

Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.

You flinch.

Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.

You just want to sleep.

Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.

You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.

You still need to…

Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.

The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.

Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.

Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.

You just want to sleep.

—

You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.

Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.

Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.

Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.

You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.

Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.

Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.

Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.

You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.

The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.

This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.

Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.

—

The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.

Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.

"Next," you call out.

The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.

A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.

"We’ll make it again with oat milk."

You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.

So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.

You continue anyway.

You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.

At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.

But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.

—

The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.

Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.

You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.

This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.

Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.

Everything after that could be figured out later.

You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.

—

You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.

The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.

When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.

Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.

You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.

You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.

It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.

But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.

—

You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.

The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.

Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.

Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.

You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.

You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.

But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.

Why is it only getting colder?

Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.

The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.

Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.

Like it did during your interview with Wanda.

It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.

But it never fully culminates.

Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.

Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.

You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.

Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.

The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.

You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.

The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.

You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.

Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.

You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.

Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.

The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.

Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.

A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.

She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.

You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.

Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.

Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.

You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.

“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”

Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.

Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.

You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.

1:05 AM.

The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.

First day.

The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.

2:23 AM.

If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.

What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?

You check the time.

2:51 AM.

Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.

You check the time.

3:15 AM.

They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…

—

The alarm blares through the room.

You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.

Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.

Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.

A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.

That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.

You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.

A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.

You take a single step toward your bedroom door.

Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.

The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.

You can do this.

The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.

The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.

Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.

Not today.

The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.

Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.

Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.

The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.

You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.

Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.

You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.

—

You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.

Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.

Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.

Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.

The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.

Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.

Not today.

—

The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.

Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.

The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.

You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.

Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.

You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.

The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.

You’re present.

It feels good.

The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.

Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.

She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.

“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”

You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.

The floor numbers rise on the digital display.

—

Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.

“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”

He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.

He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.

Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.

Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.

“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.

You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.

“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.

Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.

A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.

You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.

Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.

You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.

The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.

Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.

Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.

A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.

Why? Everything was going so well.

Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.

Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.

Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.

Wanda steps into view.

She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.

You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.

Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.

You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.

Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.

Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.

A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.

The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.

“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.

“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”

You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.

She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.

She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.

Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention.  Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.

Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.

“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.

Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.

The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.

A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.

Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.

The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.

A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.

Your head snaps up.

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.

It hasn’t even been a minute.

Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.

Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.

Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.

The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.

A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.

Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”

Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.

“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”

Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”

Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.

Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.

You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.

“Let’s go.”

She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.

The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.

The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.

Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.

She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.

“She can come in.”

Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.

The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.

Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.

“Sit,” she says simply.

She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.

The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.

Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.

Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.

You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.

Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.

The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.

“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.

That’s a lie, you think tiredly.

“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.

Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.

“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”

Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.

“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”

The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.

She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.

Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.

You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.

The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.

Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.

The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.

A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.

A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.

“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.

Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.

Don't fail now.

You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.

You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.

The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.

You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.

“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”

You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.

“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”

Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”

Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.

Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.

“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”

A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.

“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”

She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.

Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.

You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.

She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”

Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.

“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”

You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.

—

Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.

Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.

It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.

You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.

The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.

The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.

His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.

Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar

The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.

Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.

Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.

“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”

Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.

Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”

You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.

Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.

But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.

Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”

—

The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.

You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.

Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.

Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.

A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.

Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.

—

“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.

“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.

“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.

“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.

Silence follows for a moment.  Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.

A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.

“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.

The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.

“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.

—

A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)

At the sound of your approach, she looks up, her lips curving into her signature smirk. There’s a glint in her eyes that feels heavy, almost expectant, as she pushes off the wall. Before you even reach her side, she silently extends her hand toward you—an open invitation she’s been offering more and more lately. 

It’s a quiet, domestic gesture that still catches you off guard. As you slip your hand into hers, feeling the familiar warmth of her palm, you can’t help but marvel at how much your relationship has changed. She always insists on walking you back to your quarters, joking that you’d get lost without her, but the way she holds onto you feels like more than just a guide. 

It’s a dizzying contrast to the woman you met months ago. Sometimes, when she squeezes your hand or offers you a warm smile, you still see the ghost of the cold mask she wore the day you first met. 

The memory of that mission is still sharp. Your team had been chosen as backup for the Avengers—a standard data retrieval with too many variables. You were assigned to follow the infamous Black Widow. Back then, "Natasha" didn't exist. She was just a shadow in tactical gear, one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s greatest assets. 

You had tried to bridge the gap during the transport, offering a polite, "Hi—" 

"Just follow orders and stay out of my way," she’d snapped. She hadn't even looked at you, her eyes fixed on her gear, dismissing your entire existence with a single breath. 

Yikes, you had thought, adjusting the holsters on your leg. So much for getting along.

The jet had touched down shortly after, and the mission began before you could even blink. Natasha was the leader and you quietly followed her as the team cleared the area. That is, until the variables S.H.I.E.L.D ignored came screaming into play. A hidden pressure plate triggered an explosion that buckled the hallway you were scouting, the ceiling groaned as it began to rain concrete. 

Without a second though, you grabbed the back of Natasha’s tactical suit and lunged forward, clearing the collapse just as the hallway crumbled into a wall of stone behind you. You stood there for a heartbeat in the settling dust, breathing heavily, only for the silence to be shattered by the thud of combat boots. 

Enemy agents swarmed the room from the far end. In the chaos of the crossfire, a stray bullet tore through Natasha’s thigh. You saw her try to take a step only for her to stumble and was forced to one knee. 

You didn't think twice. You stepped in front of her, planting your feet and returning fire with focused precision. You didn't stop until the last enemy fell, leaving the room in a ringing, heavy silence.

Dropping your weapon to the side, you immediately knelt in the dust, ripping a pack of gauze from your med-kit. You pressed it firmly against her wound, but you felt her rough, tactical glove catch your wrists, trying to shove your hands away. 

You met her piercing green eyes with a glare of your own. “Stop,” you commanded, your voice labored but steady. “I’m already holding pressure.” 

She was dangerously pale, her breath coming out ragged. Even wounded, she tried to sharpen her gaze into something lethal. “I didn’t need you to protect me,” she hissed, her fingers digging into your skin. “Don’t try to act like a hero.” 

“Isn’t that how you try to act every day?” you bit back. Then, you let your voice soften, your thumb brushing unintentionally against the edge of her glove. “I don’t need to be a hero, and I wasn't trying to be. But if me playing hero is what kept you alive today, then that’s fine. You can be mad at me later—right now, you’re going to let me treat your injury.” 

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of her. A heavy sigh escaped her instead. She scanned your face, her green eyes searching for something, before finally dropping her gaze. 

She reached for her own med-kit just as you reached out to stop her. She brushed your hand away with a roll of her eyes, but the movement lacked its previous bite. “Fine, 'Hero.' Keep pressure on my leg since you’re so insistent.” 

Before you could respond, she reached her hand toward your neck. You jolted as a sharp rush of pain flared from your throat. You hadn't even realized a bullet had grazed you, missing your carotid artery by a terrifyingly small margin. 

“Let me take care of your wounds at least,” she murmured. You tried to flinch away from the sting, but she caught your chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she held you in place. “Stay still, will you?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritability, though her eyes were uncharacteristically soft as she watched the blood seeping through the gauze. 

She was looking at the wound as if she were seeing a ghost.

“Thank you,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “For protecting me.”

Your eyes widened. You could tell by the slight tremor in her touch that she wasn’t used to being the one who needed shielding. Her expression was becoming unsure, so you didn’t let her sit in the feeling for long.

“No problem at all, Miss Widow,” you teased, a playful lilt returning to your voice. “Happy to be your hero today.” 

You let out a breathless laugh, the movement caused her hand to shift against your skin. Natasha met your eyes with a perfectly deadpan stare, though the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable. 

“I so want to take that back,” she said flatly, her eyes lingering on your neck for a second too long. 

The moment of quiet was shattered as Captain America burst through the rubble, his shield clearing the path for the rest of the team. In the chaos of extraction, you were pulled in separate directions. You were shuffled onto a transport jet where medics worked on your neck, while Natasha was rushed ahead—her blood loss had been significant, her face a ghostly shade of pale as they lifted her onto a gurney. 

By the time you landed at the Tower, she was already gone. You spent the next few hours in the medbay getting stitched up, feeling a strange hollowness now that the adrenaline had faded. Thankfully, your team had emerged with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises, but your mind kept drifting back to the slight rasp of Natasha’s voice when she thanked you

You figured that was it. You were on different levels. She was an Avenger and you were merely a team leader for the backup team. You’d go back to your separate lives and meet the next time the Avengers required assistance. 

You didn't expect to see her again so soon. 

A few days later, as you exited the training room after a light workout, you froze. Leaning against the wall beside the door was Natasha. She looked better—her color had returned—but she was propped up by a crutch under her arm, the wrapping surrounding her leg visible under the fabric of her sweatpants. 

A relieved smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “I don’t think you should be training, Miss Widow,” you said, your voice warm. 

“Just Natasha is fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding more like she was trying—and failing—to be exasperated with you. She shifted her weight on the crutch, her green eyes scanning the fresh stitches on your neck. Her gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away. 

“I’m not here to train. I was just... passing by the wing after getting cleared to leave. I’m off missions for a few weeks.” She cleared her throat, gesturing vaguely toward the residential hallway. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Since I’m already here.” 

You knew the residential floor was in the opposite direction of the medbay, and there was absolutely no way she just happened to have passed by this area. You felt like there was more to it but you didn't want to press her.

“I would’ve been so lonely on that five-minute walk by myself,” you teased, your eyes filled with a playful mirth. “Though I will say, I’ll be walking. It’ll be more of a hobble for you.” 

She let out a dry, short laugh. “Shut up and keep your pace down, Hero.” 

That was months ago. Now, there are no crutches or excuses—just Natasha. She’s become someone you look forward to seeing every day. Even though you were just friends, you couldn't help but feel like there was something more bubbling under the surface. 

As you walk, your thumb finds its way across the back of her hand. Her skin always feels a little cool, a sharp contrast to yours, which always seems to run warm. She responds by squeezing your hand more firmly, and when you steal a glance at her, she’s wearing a tiny, private smile. She keeps her gaze on the hallway, guiding the two of you until you finally reach your door. 

Your heart sinks a little when you see the metal nameplate. The walk is always too short, and the thought of letting go already feels like a loss. 

The first time she reached for your hand, it had caught you completely off guard. Now, it’s just a part of the day—a quiet ritual that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbles. She sounds a little bummed, like she’s just as unready for the walk to end as you are. “Same time?” 

“Tomorrow,” you promise softly. 

You honestly wonder how she manages to find the time for this every day. You wonder if she’d ever do this for anyone else, but the way she looks at you—as if you’re the only person in the entire building worth her attention—makes you believe this is just for you. 

She slowly starts to pull away, her fingertips sliding across your palm and down the length of your fingers, dragging out the contact until the very last second. She waits until you’ve stepped inside and turned back toward her to give her one last smile before she finally heads off, her steps light with a subtle, happy bounce that says more than she ever could. — It starts gradually—the need to feel her more. She invites you to watch a movie with the Avengers, whom you thankfully have a good relationship with. She leads you to the couch, letting you sit first before sinking down so close that you can feel the heat of her thigh against yours. She turns to you, her gentle gaze meeting yours for a second, before she turns back toward the screen as the movie begins. 

You find yourself tuned into her every move. You feel her tense during the suspenseful scenes and relax during the quiet ones. Those little tells her body gives—the glimpses she gives you—send a rush of warmth through you. Eventually, you can’t help but watch her instead of the screen. 

Without really thinking about it, you reach for her hand where it rests on her thigh. You intertwine your fingers in that familiar way, the ritual you usually save for after your workouts. Your hands are both a little rough from training, but in this moment, all you can feel is the overwhelming softness she brings to your life. 

You look down at your joined hands, your fingertips dragging across her palm. You find a small scab that has formed there and rub it gently before your fingers drift down to the underside of her wrist. The skin there is pale, and you can faintly see the blue-green veins underneath. 

An injury brought you together, but you won't let it happen again. You promise that to yourself as you trace the veins that travel from her wrist to her palm. 

Suddenly, Natasha’s hand envelopes yours, stopping your movements. You look up to find her already staring at you, her eyes unbearably tender. 

“You know…” she whispers, her voice low over the sound of the movie, “that’s the first time you’ve held my hand first.” 

Your lips curve into a playful, soft smile—the kind you save just for her. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.” 

Your voice matches her quiet whisper, but the happiness in your tone is obvious. 

“I wasn’t,” she whispers back, stubbornly turning her head to face the screen again. 

“Mhmm,” you murmur. You intertwine your fingers with hers again, your thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the back of her hand. 

As you watch her, you notice the tips of her ears turning a faint, tell-tale pink. You smile to yourself, leaning back into the cushions. She’s acting tough, but you catch her glancing your way throughout the rest of the movie, her hand squeezing yours just a little tighter every time.  — A member of your team went against orders during a base raid today, and the fallout was messy. Thankfully, the injuries were minimal, though you’re currently sporting a jagged cut above your eyebrow. You haven't even had time to reach the medbay before the other team leader, John, corners you in the hall. 

He’s relentless, getting right in your face and shouting. You try to resolve it calmly, but he doesn't seem to care. Your apology is just noise to him. His hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, his fingers digging in so hard you know they'll leave bruises. You try to wrench your arm free, but the exhaustion from the mission has sapped all your strength. 

When he finally lets go, it’s not because he’s finished. You look up to find Natasha standing there, her eyes filled with a terrifying, steady fire. She steps directly in front of you, her hand immediately finding your wrist. She caresses the skin where the bruises are already starting to bloom, her touch a stark contrast to the cold stare she’s leveling at John. 

She points a finger at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

The temperature in the hallway seems to drop twenty degrees. She sounds like ice, yet she continues to stroke your wrist with her thumb, a secret pocket of warmth meant only for you. John starts stuttering out excuses that don't make sense, and you feel Natasha’s hand tense against yours. She’s ready to tear him apart. 

You wrap your hand around her index finger, squeezing lightly—a quiet warning to dial it back. Her shoulders drop a fraction, but she isn't done. 

“There’s a proper procedure for everything,” she snaps, her voice like a whip. “You think you can just—” 

She falters when you lean forward, resting your forehead right between her shoulder blades. It’s a bold move, and you feel the way her breath hitches. Her voice loses its edge, sounding much weaker than it did a second ago. “You can... explain yourself later. Go.” 

John doesn't need to be told twice. He scampers off, looking genuinely terrified. 

Natasha turns to face you, a slight pout on her lips and an annoyed look in her eyes. “I was defending you, you know,” she says, sounding disappointed. “Until you distracted me.”

“I distracted you?” you ask innocently. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” You smile sweetly at her.

She tries to glare at you, but she can’t quite hold it against your smile. She sighs, looking like she knows she’s already lost. She reaches up, her thumb brushing gently over the cut above your eyebrow.

“Let’s get this checked out,” she says softly. She interlocks her fingers with yours, leading you toward the medbay. She doesn't let go once—not even while the doctor is putting in the stitches. — You sit directly behind Natasha in the conference room as Steve goes over the mission details. The stakes are high and the intel is thin—exactly the kind of unknown that makes your skin crawl. You’ll be on Natasha’s team again, which usually brings you relief, but the variables are stacking up. HYDRA is suspected of developing a massive explosive, and S.H.I.E.L.D needs the data destroyed yesterday. 

The anxiety starts to settle in your chest. Without realizing it, you dig your nail into your palm, only stopping when a sharp sting of pain tells you you’ve drawn blood. Your hands won't stay still. 

You’re trapped in your own head when you feel something warm tap against the top of your thigh. You recognize the weight immediately. Natasha’s hand rests there, palm up, even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the formations Steve is displaying. 

You place your hand in hers. The moment your palms press together, your heart rate starts to slow. You catch a glimpse of those blue-green veins on her wrist, and the promise you made to yourself echoes in your mind. Never again.

You relax into your chair, your fingertips tapping against hers in a rhythm only the two of you know. You catch the slight curve of her lips—a move so imperceptible no one else in the room would notice. But you always have your eyes on her. 

Her fingertips wiggle against yours, as if she’s playing a game, and you respond by squeezing her hand lightly. It still surprises you how much strength is hidden in her thin fingers. You let go just enough to trap her middle finger between your thumb and index finger. You begin to drag them up and down, feeling the ridges of her skin and rubbing your thumb against the smooth surface of her nail. 

You get lost in the motion, alternating between her middle and ring fingers. You trace the calluses in a repetitive, slow, up-and-down stroke. 

A minute passes before you feel Natasha’s hand suddenly tense. Her fingers curl, trapping yours tightly against her palm. She turns around in her chair, and your breath catches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her usual composure is gone. 

“Are you messing with me?” she whispers. Even in a whisper, you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.

“What do you mean?” you whisper back, tilting your head. You were just playing with her hand like you always do to stay calm.

She gives you a hard, searching stare. Like she’s looking for some kind of hidden agenda, but after seeing the genuine cluelessness in your eyes, she lets out a heavy sigh.

“Do you not like it?” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sad.

The tips of her ears turn a deep, vivid red. She looks like she’s fighting an internal battle, finally covering her face with her free hand.

“No…” she mumbles through her fingers. “You can continue.”

You smile happily at her as she turns back to the front with a low, frustrated groan. — You kept your promise, though you can sense Natasha still feels a flicker of guilt. She keeps glancing at the white bandage wrapped around your bicep while she speaks to one of Tony’s business partners. The mission was successful against all odds, so Tony is hosting a victory party—though you suspect he would’ve found any excuse to throw one. 

You and Natasha are seated at the bar, finally taking a breather after greeting team members and guests. She looks beautiful in her grey dress. The fabric hugs her curves perfectly, and in the dim lounge lighting, she looks almost ethereal. 

You reach out, resting your hand against her waist. You feel the subtle flex of her abdomen under your fingertips as she turns toward you. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she reaches up and hooks a finger under the strap of your navy dress, sliding it back onto your shoulder where it had slipped. 

Then, instead of pulling away, she drops her hand back down and covers yours, pinning your palm firmly against her waist. 

It’s a possessive, quiet gesture. She continues talking to the guest, but her thumb starts to stroke the back of your hand, holding you there as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. Being this close to her—feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress—makes that familiar flutter in your chest turn into heavy, quick beats. 

You watch her profile as she continues to speak. The polite smiles and practiced pleasantries she gives the room are a stark contrast to the deep, late-night conversations you share, or the private smiles she saves just for you. Between the adrenaline of the mission and the noise of the crowd, you can feel your social battery starting to wane. You’re just grateful that Natasha always seems to notice. She effortlessly shifts the focus of the conversation to herself whenever you start to go quiet. 

Needing to feel her groundedness, you gently pull her hand from her waist and rest it on the wooden bartop. You cover it with both of yours, pressing your palms against the front and back of her hand. It always makes you feel better, as if simply touching her can transfer her calm strength directly to you. 

You glance down at her hand, noticing the neat nail polish she’s applied. The dark red color shines softly in the low, amber light of the lounge. They look perfect—sleek and sharp, just like her. Yet, the ends are rounded out, giving them a subtle softness that also feels just like the woman she is when the world isn't watching. 

You find yourself tracing the shape of her nails, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you get lost in the repetitive, soothing motion. To anyone else, you’re just a pair of friends sitting at the bar. But to you, this is the only place in the room that feels like home. 

You pause, your fingertip hovering. Something feels different.

You trace the tip of your index finger across the tops of her nails again, more carefully this time. There is no question about it. The nails on her ring and middle fingers are shorter—filed down significantly more than the others.

Did she accidentally trim them too short? you wonder. You continue to drag your fingertip across the top ridge of those two specific nails, the texture smooth and consistent. Something tells you it isn’t a mistake, though. Natasha does everything with intention. She doesn't just slip up with a nail file. 

You drag your fingertip across even slower, feeling how perfectly rounded they are. It’s as if she took extra care to make sure there wasn't a single jagged edge left. Maybe they broke during the mission and she had no choice but to even them out, you tell yourself, nodding slightly as if that answer finally makes sense. 

Satisfied with your theory, you bring her middle and ring fingers together, trapping them against your palm. You run your fingertip over both nails at once, over and over, lost in the repetitive sensation. 

You’re so focused on the task that you don’t notice the way Natasha has gone completely still. The guest she was talking to is still halfway through a sentence, but Natasha isn't even pretending to listen anymore. Her hand is trembling in yours, and her breath is coming out in shallow, shaky hitches that make the fabric of her dress flutter. 

She turns sharply to you, her pupils dilating the second they meet your eyes, the green barely visible. They hold a heat you thought you’d imagined before, but seeing them now—raw and unhidden—you realize this isn’t the first time she's looked at you this way. She looks completely wrecked. 

She leans in, her face so close that her breath fans against your ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?” 

Her voice is low, breathless, and heavy. The heat of her words makes a shiver race down your spine, pinning you to the barstool. You don't pull away. Instead, you rest your head lightly against hers. 

“Testing?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine confusion. 

She tilts her head, her lips so close that a slight upward tilt of your chin would bring them together. “Yes, testing. I let you get away with it during the mission briefing, but there’s no way you don't know what you’re doing.” 

She presses the tips of those two specific fingers against your palm, stroking them downward. She repeats the motion, her gaze unwavering and intense. 

“I just noticed they were shorter,” you murmur back, your heart hammering. “I was just wondering why. Is that... not okay?” 

She lets out a ragged sigh against your lips. “You’re driving me crazy.” 

Before you can get another word out, she presses her fingers harder into your palm, curling them slightly. “You really want to know why they’re shorter?” she asks, the hunger in her eyes finally spilling over. 

You feel the heat radiating between you, the specific points where her fingertips are pressed into your skin beginning to sweat. You know there’s a deeper meaning to her words—something you’re right on the edge of understanding—but all you can focus on is the sheer weight of her desire. It’s intoxicating. 

“Tell me why,” you breathe against her lips.  

You hear her sharp intake of breath before she finally lets it go. Her lips meet yours as if she couldn't wait a single second longer. They move with an unrestrained, desperate hunger, her free hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold you in place. She’s all heat and when she lightly bites your bottom lip, a jolt of pure electricity leaves you breathless. 

She pulls back just enough to look at you, both of your ragged breaths the only sound in the small space between you. Her eyes are dark, focused, and entirely yours. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“I’ll show you why,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy promise. 

She interlocks her fingers with yours, tugging you toward the elevator with a purposeful stride. And she shows you why—over and over—all night long. — You wake to the soft, ticklish sensation of Natasha running her fingertips over your spine. Opening your eyes takes a bit of effort, and the first thing you see is the scattered evidence of last night. A collection of deep hickeys you left blooming just above her collarbone. 

You reach out, pressing your thumb gently against the one with the darkest hue. Natasha flinches slightly, a small intake of breath catching in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. You look up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with a soft surprise that quickly melts into pure affection. 

“This means you’re mine, you know,” you murmur, your voice still scratchy and deep from last night’s activities. 

She smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they only do for you. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she reaches under the tangled sheets, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She presses firmly against a mark she left there, making you jolt. 

“And this means you’re mine,” she teases, her voice a low hum. 

Her expression softens as she leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels a lot like love. She pulls back just a fraction, a playful glint returning to her gaze as she looks at your hand resting near her heart. 

“So…” she drawls out, her nails stroking your palm. “Were they short enough for you?” —

What was supposed to be a 1-2k word short fic about something that happened at the bar last week turned into double the length because I started to think, "but how did they meet tho?" Then I figured I should make it a bit cutesy for all the cutie patootie readers. So yeah, this is how it ended up 😂 Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated :)