Your hands fly to the pulse points in his throat, closing your eyes and counting.

Normal. How is it normal? How was he alive? By every timeline that you had been estimating, the disease should have taken him days ago.

Your eyes finally land on his neck. The black, inky patches are gone, replaced with thin pink scars.

“Honey…?” For the first time in ages, your tone lifts. It sounds suspiciously like hope.

His smile grows wider. “It’s gone.”

For a second, it’s like your brain refuses to accept that this is real. That all your hopes came true. Your fingers trace his skin, trailing down the little lines that used to be tinted like ink. “H-How?”

Leon laughs softly. The sound catches somewhere between exhausted and relieved. Like he still can't quite believe it himself. "It's a long story."

"I have time."

Your voice comes out sharper than intended. His smile falters slightly. 

He should have expected this. You're a doctor. More importantly, you're his wife. He knows exactly what you've been carrying while he was gone. Every late-night symptom log. Every blood panel spread across the dining room table. Every quiet conversation where neither of you said the words out loud. Terminal.

Your hands move again before you realize it. One settles against his cheek. The other finds his wrist. You’re checking his pulse again.

Still normal.

You count again. Just to be sure. He lets you, patiently letting you reassure yourself as much as he needs. His blue eyes stay fixed on your face while you silently count heartbeats beneath your fingertips.

One. Two. Three. It sounds steady. Strong. Healthy.

Healthy.

The realization nearly buckles your knees.

"Oh my God." The whisper slips out before you can stop it.

Healthy. For months now, you’ve been watching him slip from between your fingertips. Each day getting worse. Each of his breaths looking more and more like they were his last. It’s like every single prayer has been answered.

A strange expression crosses Leon's face then. Something small. Fragile. Like he's been waiting for somebody else to say it first. Your fingers tighten around his wrist.

"Honey..." Your voice breaks. The sound seems to finally snap something inside both of you.

Leon exhales shakily. And suddenly you're moving.

Your arms wrap around him so hard it almost looks painful. The force of it makes him stumble backward a step into the doorway. Neither of you care. For a second, neither of you says anything. You just cling to him. He’s warm and alive and breathing, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. His arms close around you as if he could never do anything else.

His grip is strong. Stronger than they've felt in months. You hate that you notice it. You hate that part of your brain that spent so long monitoring his decline that it's still cataloging improvements automatically.

Your mind is catching details before you can stop it. The better tone to the muscles in his arms. The improvement in the color of his skin, a healthy flush instead of pale. His posture is straighter, you notice. If it wasn’t for the faint scars, you would have never known he was sick.

A sob escapes you before you can stop it. Then another.

"Honey…" His tone is quiet, a hand petting your hair.

"You idiot." The words come out muffled against his shoulder.

Leon actually laughs. A real laugh this time.

"You left." The words are more of a sob. "You left while you were dying."

"I know."

"You promised me you'd come home."

His grip tightens. "I know. I’m here."

Your hands fist into the back of his jacket. For weeks, you'd been preparing yourself. Not for a funeral. No, Leon Kennedy was never going to get something that merciful. You'd been preparing for a phone call. A body. A bloodstained dog tag. Some government official standing at your door with sympathetic eyes.

Anything except this. Anything except him standing in your entryway smiling like nothing happened.

"I thought I lost you." Tears continue to wet the fabric against your face. The dark blue of his shirt is even darker where the water touches it.

His head tilts down, kissing over your hair. “I did too.”

Eventually, you pull back enough to look at him again. Really look.

The dark circles beneath his eyes are lighter. His skin isn't grey anymore. For the first time in months, he doesn't look like a man being slowly eaten alive. He just looks like Leon.

Your Leon.

The sight almost makes you cry all over again. His thumb brushes beneath one of your eyes. "Hey."

You sniff. "What?"

That crooked smile appears. The one you've missed so much it physically hurts. 

"I told you I'd come home."

You were not drunk.

You were just…a little fuzzy.

A little warmer than usual.

A little slower at pronouncing your words correctly.

So, that did not count as drunk.

“Y’know,” you said, leaning one shoulder against the kitchen counter while pointing your cup vaguely in Mina’s direction, “you’re looking at me like I’m about to commit a crime.”

Mina deadpanned, “Because you’ve been staring at Grace like you’re one inconvenience away from arson.”

You gasped.

“Wow,” you said, scandalized. “That’s…so mean.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. “You just literally called the Bluetooth speaker a toaster twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, it does look like one.”

“It was glowing blue,” Mina added.

“That’s…not my problem if it looks like a toaster, okay?”

Mina and Natasha looked like they wanted to laugh and put you down like a wounded animal at the same time.

The party was small, just a bunch of mutuals and a few tag-alongs at your friend’s apartment. There were maybe twenty people total, music low enough to talk over, half-empty snack bowls on the coffee table, and fairy lights strung around the living room that made everything feel too soft and too intimate.

Which was unfortunate.

Because Grace is here after both of you were literally dragged out of your dorm, thanks to Mina and Natasha.

And Grace in small, cozy, warm lighting should’ve come with a warning.

She’d been by your side most of the night in that easy way she always was, drifting near you without either of you needing to say it out loud. She’d laughed at your stupid jokes, nudged your shoulder when you got dramatic, and looked at you a little too long a few times in a way that was making your already compromised brain very difficult to manage.

And now you were seven drinks in and trying very hard not to say something life-ruining.

Grace had gone down the short hallway a few minutes ago, probably to use the bathroom or take a breather for a quick minute.

Which was fine.

Totally fine.

You were normal about it.

Except you kept looking toward the hallway anyway.

Mina noticed and pointed it out, of course.

“You are down catastrophic,” she muttered.

You frowned at her. “W-Whaatt?”

She tilted her cup toward the hall. “You’ve checked if Grace is coming back for at least…eight times.”

“No…that is a slander.”

“You are slurring your words now, you know,” Natasha casually said before taking a sip from her drink.

“I am not slurrin’. I’m enunciating…creatively.”

They both laughed.

You were about to defend yourself from their insults, but when you looked toward the hallway again…and immediately stopped breathing.

Grace was there.

But she wasn’t alone.

Some girl…one of your friend’s mutuals, maybe, someone you vaguely recognized from earlier but definitely weren’t close with, had Grace backed into the corner where the hallway bent near the guest room.

Not aggressively.

Not violently.

But close.

Too close for your liking.

One hand on the wall beside Grace’s shoulder.

Head tilted.

Smiling in a way that instantly made your skin heat.

And Grace…

Grace was doing that thing.

That terrible, quiet thing she did when she got uncomfortable and didn’t know how to make someone stop without feeling bad.

Her smile was tight.

Polite, even.

Her shoulders stiff.

Her eyes flicking away.

And the second you saw it, something in your chest snapped so fast it almost made your ears ring.

You straightened so abruptly that Mina and Natasha blinked.

“Oh no…” Natasha said immediately.

You were already moving.

Not fast enough to fall over.

But fast enough to make it very clear you were not acting under the supervision of rational thought.

You crossed the living room, ignored at least five people trying to say your name, and turned into the hallway with the kind of reckless confidence only mild intoxication and unresolved feelings could produce.

“Grace.”

Both of them looked up.

Grace’s eyes widened the second she saw you.

And that one look, relieved, startled, soft, nearly made you black out right there.

The girl blinked. “Oh, hi.”

You inserted yourself directly into the space between them with all the subtlety of a train derailment.

“Hi,” you said.

Your voice came out suspiciously calm.

Which was bad, because calm for you usually meant you were seconds away from acting insane.

You reached for Grace without thinking, and your hand found her wrist, then slid instinctively down into her hand.

Warm.

Soft.

Immediate.

Grace went very still behind you.

You turned to the girl and smiled with every ounce of fake sweetness in your body.

“Sorry,” you said. “I need to steal her from you.”

The girl frowned. “We were talking.”

“Mm, yeah, yeah.” You nodded once. “Not anymore.”

Behind you, Grace made the tiniest choking sound, as if she tried her best not to let out a laugh.

The girl looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh of be offended. “Okay…?”

You squeezed Grace’s hand once.

Not even consciously.

Just because you needed to.

Because she was here.

Because she was warm.

Because some horrible, possessive little part of you wanted everyone in this apartment to know she was not available for random hallway flirting.

“She’s with me,” you said.

The girl raised a brow. “And?”

Your jaw tightened.

“She’s not interested…in you.”

The girl glanced over your shoulder toward Grace, then back at you. “Grace can say that herself.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

Because she was right.

Technically.

But also, technically, you were currently being held together by vodka, jealousy, and a deeply unhealthy amount of longing, so “technically” was no longer your concern.

The girl crossed her arms. “She’s single, isn’t she?”

And that…

That was it.

That was the exact moment your brain fully disconnected from your body.

Because yes.

Grace was single.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe you were sick of hearing it.

Maybe you were sick of people looking at Grace and seeing an opening when all you could see was her.

Maybe you were sick of acting like your feelings were subtle when they had clearly become everyone’s business except Grace’s.

Maybe you were just tipsy enough to stop caring about the consequences.

Whatever it was…

You didn’t think.

You just turned.

Lifted your free hand to Grace’s face.

And kissed her.

Everything stopped.

Your cup was long gone, abandoned somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway.

One of Grace’s sharp little inhales hit your mouth before the rest of the world disappeared.

And then…

God.

Grace kissed back.

Not for long.

Not enough to make it messy.

Just enough.

Just enough that your heart detonated instantly in your ribcage.

Her lips were soft and warm and stunned.

Her hand twitched in yours.

And for one impossible, reckless, world-ending second, it felt like your body had finally acted on something your heart had known for months.

Then you pulled back.

Barely.

Still close enough to feel her breath.

Still close enough that if Grace leaned in even an inch, you would’ve folded immediately.

The hallway was dead silent.

You turned your head just enough to look at the girl.

Your face was probably on fire.

Your pulse was trying to kill you.

But somehow…somehow, you still managed to say, “She’s not single.”

The girl stared at you.

Then at Grace.

Then back at you.

And very slowly, with the expression of someone realizing she had accidentally wandered into the middle of a very unresolved situationship, she lifted both hands in surrender.

“...Right, right,” she said.

Then, awkwardly, “Okay. My bad.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Slipping back toward the living room and out of the hallway with enough speed to make it clear she wanted absolutely no part in whatever the hell had just happened.

The second she disappeared…

The adrenaline left your body.

Completely.

And in its place came the full, horrifying realization of what you had just done.

You kissed Grace.

You kissed Grace.

You had just kissed Grace in the hallway of your friend’s apartment in front of another person, as if you were in a dramatic indie film directed by your emotional instability.

Your entire body went hot.

Then cold.

Then hot again.

You turned back to Grace slowly.

And nearly died on the spot.

Because Grace was staring at you.

Wide-eyed.

Pink-cheeked.

Breathing a little harder than usual.

Her lips slightly parted.

And now that the crisis was over, all that was left was you, her, and the kiss still hanging in the air between you like live electricity.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You immediately covered half your face with your free hand.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, more horrified this time. “I’m so— I mean, I’m not sorry, but I also— I didn’t— I mean, I did—”

Excellent.

Brilliant.

You sounded like your brain had fallen down the stairs.

Grace was still looking at you.

Still not speaking.

Which somehow made everything ten times worse.

You were still holding her hand.

You let go immediately as if you’d just touched a live wire.

“Sorry,” you blurted. “Not sorry for…for the kiss. I mean, not fully. I mean—”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Jesus Christ.”

You wanted to die.

Actually die.

Preferably instant.

But when you forced yourself to look at Grace again, she still wasn’t pulling away.

Still wasn’t upset.

Still wasn’t looking at you like you’d ruined anything.

If anything, she looked…

Stunned.

Soft, even.

Almost scared to move.

And somehow that made your heart pound even harder.

You swallowed.

Then laughed weakly, because if you didn’t laugh, you were pretty sure you were going to disintegrate into atoms.

“Okay,” you said, voice embarrassingly small now. “So that was…not very roommate-like of me.”

Grace’s cheeks went pinker.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Oh no.

Oh, this was somehow getting worse.

You dragged a hand through your hair and looked anywhere but directly into her eyes.

“I just—” you started, then stopped, then tried again. “She was annoying. A-And…too close. And you looked uncomfortable. A-And…when she said that you were single…I-I just—”

You made a helpless little motion with your hands that somehow conveyed absolutely nothing.

Grace’s mouth twitched.

Just barely.

That nearly killed you.

“N-No, don’t…don’t smile,” you said immediately, pointing at her like you had any right to be dramatic right now. “This is serious. I-I’m actively ruining my life in front of you, Grace.”

That did it.

Grace let out the tiniest, breathiest laugh.

And somehow that made you even more nervous.

Because now she was looking at you with something unbearably soft in her expression, and if she kept doing that, you were going to accidentally confess every thought you’d ever had about her.

Which, unfortunately, was exactly what happened.

Because your stupid, tipsy, emotionally compromised mouth kept moving.

“I mean— I w-wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to,” you muttered.

Grace froze.

You froze.

Then immediately wished the floor would open and consume you.

Your eyes widened.

“I mean— no, t-that’s not! I mean, it is what I meant…but not like—” You covered your face again. “Oh my God…”

Grace said your name softly.

That was somehow worse.

You lowered your hand just enough to peek at her.

She was still pink.

Still shy.

Still looking at you like she was trying very hard not to hope too quickly.

And suddenly, despite the embarrassment trying to kill you, one very clear thought pushed through all the panic that if you backed out now…you were going to hate yourself forever.

So, you swallowed.

Hard.

Looked at Grace properly.

And asked, voice small and stumbling and completely sincere, “Do you…w-wanna—”

You stopped.

Your throat closed.

Grace waited.

You tried again.

“Do you wanna maybe…like, if you want…only if you want—”

You groaned and rubbed at your face.

“God, this is humiliating.”

Grace made a tiny, helpless sound that might’ve been a laugh.

You looked back at her, cheeks burning so badly you thought you might actually combust.

Then forced the words out all at once before you lost your nerve.

“Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Terrible.

Your heart dropped straight into your shoes.

You stared at Grace in complete, naked panic.

“I-I know that was really fast,” you blurted. “And technically a really bad timing, and I’m kind of a little drunk, but not drunk enough to not mean it, and I know kissing you first and then asking is maybe a bit psychotic behavior, but I just—”

Grace kissed you.

This time, you were the one who stopped breathing.

It was soft.

Quick.

Shy.

Like she’d done it before, she could talk herself out of it.

And when she pulled back, her whole face was pink.

Her voice, when she spoke, was so quiet that you almost missed it.

“O-Okay…” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace looked down.

Then back up at you through her lashes.

Still pink.

Still shy.

Still devastating.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

Your brain fully left the chat.

You stared at her.

Grace stared back, clearly nervous now, too.

And then, because you had apparently become incapable of acting normal in her presence, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

Grace laughed.

Actually laughed.

And the sound hit you straight in the chest so hard it almost made your eyes sting.

You grinned before you could stop yourself.

A stupid, helpless, disbelieving grin.

“You’re my girlfriend?” you asked.

Grace’s smile turned shy and unbearably fond.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago.”

“Right…right.” You nodded seriously. “Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before you could say anything else humiliating, you reached for her, slower this time, giving her every chance to stop you.

She didn’t.

So you gently took her hand again.

And this time, when her fingers laced with yours, Grace squeezed first.

—

Grace had been trying very hard not to stare at you all night.

She was failing.

Spectacularly.

It wasn’t even your fault.

Well…

No, that was a lie.

It was at least partially your fault.

Because you’d had just enough to drink to become softer than usual, and that version of you was incredibly dangerous to Grace’s emotional stability.

You were warmer tonight.

Looser.

A little clingier in that absentminded way that made Grace’s heart behave as it had never once been trained to survive around you.

At one point, you’d leaned close enough for Grace to smell the sweetness of your drink and whispered, very seriously, “Y’look too pretty tonight.”

Grace had nearly folded on the spot.

You’d then immediately frowned and added, “That was rude of you, actually.”

Which had somehow made it worse.

So, yes.

Grace had spent the entire evening pretending she was normal while internally losing her mind every time you looked at her for more than two seconds.

She wasn’t doing a good job.

That was probably why she’d gone down the hallway in the first place.

To breathe.

To reset.

To stop herself from making eye contact with you and accidentally confessing in somebody’s kitchen.

Instead, she got cornered.

The girl had seemed harmless enough at first.

Familiar face.

Easy smile.

One of those social people who made conversation look effortless.

Grace had smiled politely when she got stopped in the hallway, because that was what Grace did.

Only for the conversation to shift into flirting so quickly and so obviously that Grace barely had time to process it.

And then suddenly the girl was closer.

Too close.

Close enough that Grace became aware of the wall at her back and the narrowing space around her and the fact that she didn’t know how to leave without making things weird.

Which, unfortunately, was Grace’s personal nightmare.

She hated being rude.

Hated confrontation.

Hated making people uncomfortable, even when she was the one currently uncomfortable.

So she’d smiled tightly.

Tried to respond politely.

Tried to angle herself away.

And secretly, stupidly, hopelessly wished for you.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just in the small, pathetic way Grace always wanted you when things got too difficult for her.

Because you noticed.

You always noticed.

And sure enough—

“Grace.”

Grace looked up so fast it almost hurt her neck.

And there you were.

Coming down the hallway with your cheeks flushed, your eyes sharp, and your entire body radiating the kind of energy Grace had only ever secretly fantasized about when she was being especially embarrassing at three in the morning.

Protective.

Possessive.

A little drunk.

A lot terrifying.

Grace’s heart tripped over itself instantly.

You didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even slow down.

You just walked straight up, stepped directly between Grace and the girl, and took Grace’s hand.

Took…

Her…

Hand.

Grace forgot how to function.

Actually forgot.

Because one second she’d been trapped in a conversation she didn’t know how to end, and the next, you were there…warm and solid and touching her like it was instinct.

Like, of course, your hand belonged in hers.

Grace stared at your joined hands like she might faint.

Then she looked at the side of your face.

And the expression there nearly finished the job.

You looked calm.

But Grace knew you.

Knew the tiny tension in your jaw.

The edge in your voice.

The way your fingers tightened around hers just slightly, like you were grounding yourself through her.

You were jealous.

Actually jealous.

And Grace, tragically, was not nearly evolved enough to be normal about that.

“She’s with me,” you said.

Grace nearly stopped breathing.

The girl frowned. “And?”

Grace should have said something then.

Should have intervened.

Should have reminded everyone involved that this was rapidly becoming a very public emotional crisis.

But she couldn’t.

Because she was too busy drowning in the fact that you were standing in front of her like this.

Defending her.

Claiming her.

Like you had every right.

Then the girl said it.

“She’s single, isn’t she?”

And Grace felt your whole body go still.

The shift was immediate.

Palpable.

Dangerous.

Grace had just enough time to think, ‘Oh no…’

Before you turned to her.

Your hand left hers only to rise to her face.

Grace’s entire body locked up.

Your fingers were warm against her cheek.

Your expression was unreadable for half a second.

And then you kissed her.

Grace’s brain shut off instantly.

No thoughts.

No logic.

No oxygen.

Just you.

Your lips on hers.

Soft, impulsive, warm from alcohol and adrenaline and all the things neither of you had ever said out loud.

And the most humiliating part?

Grace kissed back without even thinking.

Of course, she did.

She had wanted this for far too long to do anything else.

It wasn’t a long kiss.

Barely even a proper one.

But it was enough to completely alter the chemistry of Grace’s bloodstream forever.

When you pulled back, Grace was pretty sure her soul had left her body.

And then you looked at the girl and said, “She’s not single.”

Grace nearly died on impact.

Because no.

No, she absolutely was not surviving this.

The girl looked appropriately stunned, then awkwardly excused herself and disappeared down the hallway.

Grace didn’t care.

She couldn’t care.

Not when every atom in her body was still focused entirely on the fact that you had just kissed her.

In public.

To prove a point.

And now you were standing in front of her, looking like you had just become aware of your own mortality.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You covered your face.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, sounding even more horrified.

And despite everything…

Despite the fact that Grace’s heart was currently trying to punch her through her ribcage, some small part of her wanted to laugh.

Because, of course, this was how it would happen.

Of course, you would do something life-changing and then immediately short-circuit.

You started apologizing.

Then…un-apologizing.

Then tripping over your own words so badly, Grace had to physically stop herself from smiling too much.

Because even now…even after publicly kissing her…you were still somehow the most endearing disaster Grace had ever known.

Then you said, “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to.”

And Grace’s entire internal structure collapsed.

Because there it was.

The truth.

Not cleanly.

Nor smoothly.

But honestly.

And that was somehow even worse.

You looked horrified the second the words left your mouth, but it was too late.

Grace had heard them.

Felt them.

Stored them somewhere in her chest that would never be the same again.

Then you looked at her with that open, terrified expression and started trying to ask her something.

You stumbled over every other word.

Paused.

Restarted.

Looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you up whole.

And Grace had never loved you more than she did in that exact moment.

Then finally, cheeks burning and voice shaking, you asked, “Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Grace forgot how to breathe for the second time that night.

Because this…

This was not a dream.

This was not wishful thinking.

This was not one of the humiliating little scenarios she had imagined before bed and then immediately forced herself to forget.

You were here.

In front of her.

Red-faced and stammering and sincere.

Asking.

Grace looked at you.

At your nervous hands.

At your wide, uncertain eyes.

At the girl who had just crashed into her life like a meteor and apparently intended to stay there.

And the answer came so easily it almost made her laugh.

She kissed you before she could lose her nerve.

Just once.

Soft and shy and quick.

And when she pulled back, you looked so stunned that Grace’s own nerves softened a little.

“Okay,” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace swallowed.

Then made herself say it properly, no matter how badly her heart was shaking.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

The expression on your face after that was going to live in Grace’s mind forever.

Pure disbelief.

Pure wonder.

Purely you.

And then, in a voice so reverent and stunned it almost made Grace burst into nervous laughter, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

That did make her laugh.

A real one this time.

Small, but real.

And when you asked, “You’re my girlfriend?” like you genuinely couldn’t process it, Grace had to bite back a smile.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago,” she reminded you.

You nodded solemnly like this was a legally binding point.

“Right…right. Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before she could say anything else, you reached for her hand.

Slowly this time.

Carefully.

Like you were asking.

Grace let you take her hand.

Then laced her fingers with yours on purpose.

Because if she was being honest, she’d wanted to do that for months too.

You didn’t mean to lie.

Okay, no.

That was false.

You absolutely meant to lie.

You just hadn’t expected it to backfire so catastrophically.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon outside the campus café while you and your friend Mina were sharing fries and pretending not to complain about your midterm grades.

Grace wasn’t there.

Which, in hindsight, might’ve been the only reason your brain malfunctioned so badly.

Mina had been talking about one of her professors when she suddenly went quiet and looked over your shoulder.

Then she said, very casually, “Your blonde girl is here.”

Your stomach dropped all of a sudden.

You turned before you could stop yourself.

And there she was.

Grace.

Walking across the courtyard with her backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little wind-tousled, sunlight catching on the edge of her glasses.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth was left open for a quick second when you saw what she was wearing, one of her gray tank tops under an unzipped hoodie.

You’re so close to just standing up and walk in front of Grace just to zip up her hoodie.

So, you looked away immediately.

Too late.

Mina saw everything.

“Oh…my God,” she said.

You froze. “What?”

She leaned across the table. “You are so obvious.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No…I don’t.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “You like her.”

Your soul left your body.

“No, I do not.”

Too fast.

Way too fast.

Mina blinked. “No?”

“No.”

She tilted her head. “Seriously?”

You forced yourself to sound casual. “She’s just Grace.”

Mina stared.

Then, slowly, to your absolute horror, her expression shifted.

Not teasing anymore.

Worse.

Something thoughtful.

“Wait,” she said. “So…you’re not into her?”

Your stomach sank.

Because you knew that tone.

And you knew Mina.

And you knew, with the icy certainty of incoming disaster, exactly where this was going.

Still, because fear made idiots out of everyone, apparently, you nodded.

“Nope.”

Mina’s lips curved.

“Oh,” she said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you saying it like that?”

She shrugged, far too innocent. “No reason.”

“Mina.”

She glanced past you again.

Then back.

And with the kind of calm that should’ve been considered emotional violence, she said, “I just think she’s cute.”

Your entire body short-circuited.

“...What?”

Mina grinned. “What? She is.”

Cute.

Grace.

Your—

No.

No, she was not yours.

Except the thought came so instinctively and possessively that it genuinely startled you.

And suddenly, all at once, you understood exactly how Grace must’ve felt watching Natasha grab your hand in the hallway.

It was horrible.

Actually horrible.

You hated it instantly.

And apparently, your body hated it too.

Because by the time you saw Grace again near the humanities building an hour later, your brain had completely surrendered to every territorial instinct you’d been suppressing for months.

Which was how you ended up marching straight toward her like a woman possessed.

Grace looked up the second she noticed you.

And the soft smile she gave you almost made you forget every coherent thought in your head.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

You did not stop at normal-person distance.

No, because apparently normalcy had abandoned you, you stepped right into her space and reached up to fix the folded collar of her hoodie without thinking.

Grace went completely still.

You also went completely still.

Because what the hell were you doing?

Grace looked down at your hand.

Then back up at you.

Her voice came out quiet and visibly flustered.

“U-Uh…”

Think.

Think of an excuse.

“It was crooked,” you said weakly.

Grace blinked. “Oh.”

You should’ve stepped back then.

You didn’t.

Because at that exact moment, Mina rounded the corner.

And the second you noticed her out of the corner of your eye, some deeply embarrassing possessive instinct hijacked your body completely.

So instead of moving away like a sane person, you let your hand slide from Grace’s collar to her shoulder.

Slowly.

Casually.

Like touching her was the most natural thing in the world.

Grace nearly dropped the iced coffee in her hand.

You pretended not to notice.

Mina, unfortunately, noticed everything.

“Hey,” Mina said.

Grace looked between the two of you, immediately confused. “Hi.”

“This is Grace,” you said before either of them could continue.

You didn’t know why you said it like that.

Like an introduction at a family gathering.

Like a warning.

Like you were putting your body between Grace and a situation you had technically created yourself.

Mina’s smile sharpened.

Grace looked even more confused.

And you?

You were seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

Mina crossed her arms. “So…this is Grace.”

Grace glanced at you. “S-Should I be…concerned?”

You laughed too quickly. “No.”

Mina looked delighted. “Actually, you should be a little concerned.”

“Mina.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “I’m just saying, your roommate’s very protective of you, Grace,” she said, putting her attention on Grace.

Roommate.

The word hit weirdly hard in your chest.

Because yes, Grace was your roommate.

The girl whose bed was six feet away from yours.

The girl who borrowed your highlighters and stole your snacks and looked unfairly soft when she fell asleep with a book open on her chest.

The girl you are absolutely, undeniably screwed over.

Your hand tightened slightly on Grace’s shoulder before you even realized you were doing it.

Grace noticed.

Of course, she does.

And suddenly she was looking at you with this quiet, dangerous sort of focus that made your entire body heat up.

Mina noticed that too.

Then, because she was evil, she smiled at Grace and said, “I was actually just telling her that I think you’re cute.”

Your soul left your body.

You turned so fast you nearly got whiplash. “Mina.”

“What?”

Grace blinked.

Then looked at you.

Then at Mina.

Then back at you.

And the worst part?

She looked…interested.

Not smug.

Not smug at all.

But definitely, definitely paying attention.

Which somehow made this ten times worse.

You forced out a laugh. “She’s joking.”

“Hm? No, I’m not joking,” Mina said.

You wanted to pass away on the spot.

Immediately.

Preferably in the middle of traffic.

But before you could recover, Grace, quiet, shy, dangerous little Grace, tilted her head and asked, very softly, “Did she?”

You stopped breathing.

Mina looked between the two of you and practically vibrated with delight.

You stared at Grace.

Grace stared back.

And for the first time all day, your possessiveness curdled into something much more fragile.

Because suddenly this didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt like a test.

And you had no idea if you were brave enough to pass it.

—

Grace knew something was wrong the second you touched her.

Not wrong in a bad way.

Wrong in a ‘this is going to haunt me for the next three weeks’ kind of way.

Because you were acting strange.

And by strange, she meant by you touching her…a lot.

Far more than usual.

And while Grace would’ve loved to simply enjoy that without overanalyzing every single second of it, unfortunately, her brain had never done anything quietly in its life.

So when you’d crossed the walkway like you were on a mission and reached up to fix her hoodie collar with those soft, careful fingers of yours, Grace had almost forgotten how to breathe.

You were so close.

Close enough for Grace to smell your perfume.

Close enough to see the tiny shine of your lip gloss in the afternoon light.

Close enough to completely ruin her ability to think.

And then your hand had stayed.

On her shoulder.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Possessive.

Like you have always belonged there.

Grace had nearly blacked out on impact.

She was still recovering when the other girl, Mina, apparently, showed up.

Grace didn’t know much about her beyond the fact that she was one of your friends and had the expression of someone actively clocking a situation in real time.

And unfortunately, Grace was also clocking a situation in real time.

Mostly because you were acting…weird.

Not bad weird.

Just…different.

More touchy.

More attentive.

More…there.

Present.

Like you were suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between Grace and the rest of the world and had decided you didn’t like anyone so close to her proximity…unless it’s you.

And if Grace had been a little less hopelessly in love with you, maybe she would’ve questioned it sooner.

Instead, all she could think was, ‘Oh no…this is going to kill me.’

Mina smiled at her. “So…you’re Grace.”

Grace nodded carefully. “Y-Yeah…”

“Hm, she talks about you a lot.”

Your hand tightened slightly on Grace’s shoulder.

Grace stopped functioning.

You laughed too quickly. “No, I don’t.”

Mina looked delighted. “Oh, come on. You literally do.”

Grace looked at you.

You were suddenly refusing eye contact with everyone on Earth.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

And then, because apparently the universe wanted Grace dead, you moved even closer.

Close enough that your arm brushed hers.

Close enough that Grace could feel your body heat through her sleeve.

Grace’s heart started trying to claw its way out of her chest.

You smiled tightly at Mina. “Grace and I were just heading back to the dorm.”

Grace blinked.

We were?

Since when?

But before she could question it, your hand slid from her shoulder to lightly catch her hand.

And that…

That nearly sent Grace directly into the afterlife.

Because you didn’t just touch her.

You held on to her hand.

Like you didn’t want anyone else to.

Like she was something you were instinctively trying to keep close.

Grace stared down at your hand for one stunned second before looking back up at your face.

You looked…determined.

And flustered.

And maybe a little panicked…which is new for Grace.

Which should’ve confused Grace more than it did.

Instead, something warm and dangerous bloomed low in her chest.

Because this…

Whatever this was that made you act…weird.

It felt suspiciously close to jealousy.

And if Grace had suffered through enough of her own silent yearning to recognize it in someone else, then she knew exactly what she was looking at.

You were jealous.

The realization hit her so hard she nearly smiled.

Nearly, of course…she can’t just assume things.

Besides, if she smiled now, you’d know.

And Grace still wasn’t sure she’d survive that.

Then Mina, apparently committed to making the situation unlivable, smiled and said, “I was actually just telling her earlier that I think you’re cute.”

Grace blinked.

Then looked at you.

Then at Mina.

Then back at you.

And oh…

Oh…

The way your expression tightened.

The way your grip shifted.

The way something almost offended and territorial flashed behind your eyes for half a second.

Yeah, that was jealousy.

You’re definitely jealous.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Grace thought, ‘Maybe I’m not the only one suffering here.’

That thought gave her just enough courage to do something dangerous.

Something small.

But dangerous.

She tilted her head slightly and looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Then asked, in a voice quieter than usual but just confident enough to ruin your life, “Did she?”

You froze.

Mina looked thrilled.

And Grace…she nearly lost her nerve immediately.

Because she hadn’t meant for the question to sound like that.

Hadn’t meant for it to come out so soft.

So intimate.

Like she was asking for something more than clarification.

But it was too late now.

The words were already there.

Suspended between all three of you.

And when you looked at her, Grace felt her entire body go warm.

Because you looked caught.

Like a secret had been dragged into daylight, and you didn’t know whether to run from it or protect it.

Mina, blessedly, seemed to sense she had caused enough damage for one afternoon.

She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving before this turns into something I should charge admission for.”

You made a strangled sound. “Mina—”

“Talk to your roommate,” she said pointedly.

Then she walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving you and Grace alone in the middle of the pathway with too much sunlight, too many feelings, and your hand still wrapped around her hand.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

And then, very slowly, Grace looked down at your intertwined hands.

Then back at you.

Your eyes widened in delayed horror.

You let go immediately.

“Oh…my God.”

Grace bit inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

“What?’

“I don’t know w-what that was…” you muttered, dragging a hand over your face.

Grace studied you carefully.

Pink cheeks.

Avoiding eye contact.

Suddenly, very interested in the floor.

Cute.

She didn’t know you could be this cute when flustered.

And maybe…just maybe Grace had finally earned the right to be a little brave.

Just a little.

So she tilted her head and asked quietly, “Were you jealous?”

Your head snapped up, as if you were set on cracking your neck.

“What?”

Grace’s pulse jumped.

She almost backed out.

Almost.

But then she thought about Natasha’s hand on your hand.

About every time she’d swallowed down the truth.

About every night spent in the same room with you, wanting too much and saying too little.

And somehow, against all odds, she held your gaze.

“You were being weird,” she said softly.

You stared at her in disbelief. “I was not being weird.”

Grace looked pointedly at the hand you’d just had on her hand.

You followed her gaze.

Then immediately looked offended.

“That wasn’t even remotely weird.”

“It was a little weird.”

“No…it was not.”

“Fine, but you introduced me like I was your wife.”

You choked on your own saliva so violently that Grace almost laughed.

“Grace!”

“What?” she asked, and this time there was the tiniest, tiniest edge of confidence in her voice. “You kind of did.”

Your face went fully pink.

Grace nearly lost all motor function.

Because she’d done it.

She’d actually made you flustered.

And now she wanted to do it again and again.

Which felt dangerous.

Very dangerous.

You stared at her for a long second.

Then muttered, “You’re oddly enjoying this.”

Grace looked away for half a second, trying and failing to hide the tiny smile threatening to give her away.

“Maybe a little.”

You scoffed and covered your face.

Grace’s chest warmed so suddenly, and so deeply, it almost scared her.

Because she’d imagined this.

Not exactly this.

But something like it.

You, flustered because of her.

You, close enough to touch.

You…looking at her like there was something here worth being nervous over.

And maybe there was.

Maybe there had been for a while.

Your hand dropped from your face slowly.

And when you looked at her this time, there was no playful outrage left.

Just something softer.

Something much more dangerous.

Grace’s pulse climbed.

Because she knew that look.

It was the same one you wore in the dorm late at night when the world got quiet, and it was just the two of you and all the things neither of you knew how to say.

You stepped closer.

Not much.

Just enough.

And suddenly, the space between you felt fragile.

Charged.

Your voice came out quieter than before.

“What if I was?”

Grace forgot how to breathe…completely.

“What?” she asked and hated how small her voice sounded.

You swallowed.

Then looked at her with the kind of honesty that made Grace’s chest hurt.

“What if I was jealous?”

The whole world went still.

No footsteps.

No distant chatter.

No rustle of trees overhead.

Nothing.

Just you.

Just Grace.

Just that one impossible question hanging between you like a lit match.

And for one terrifying second, Grace thought, ‘This is it.’

This was the moment.

The one she’d been circling for months now.

The one that could either give her everything she wanted or completely ruin the fragile, precious thing both of you already had.

And somehow, despite all of that, despite every instinct telling her to protect herself, Grace looked at you and answered with the most honest thing she’d said in weeks.

“I think…” she said softly, “I-I’d like that.”

You stared at her.

Grace stared back.

And then…

Very, very faintly…

You smiled.

Not teasing.

Not embarrassed.

Just warm.

Soft.

Like something inside you had finally exhaled.

Dorming with you was either the best thing that had ever happened to Grace Ashcroft—or the beginning of her psychological collapse.

There was no in-between.

Because on one hand, she got things no one else did.

She got your sleepy voice at eight in the morning when your alarm went off and buried your face in your pillow instead of turning it off.

She got to hear your little muttered complaints while getting ready for class, your half-awake rumbling while brushing your teeth, and the way you stood in front of the mirror with your hair still damp and your tote bag hanging off one shoulder while deciding whether your outfit looked “academically appropriate enough” or not.

She got your late-night yawns.

Your ‘Are you still awake?’ whispered across the dark room.

Your feet brushing hers under the desk when you were both pretending to study and absolutely not retaining anything.

And worst of all…

She got used to your presence.

That was the dangerous part.

Because once Grace got used to your presence, everything else became impossible.

The empty side of the room when you had class before her.

The quiet when you stayed out late with friends.

The strange, stupid little ache in her chest whenever someone else got more of your time than she did.

It was ridiculous.

Embarrassing.

And, unfortunately, very real.

Which was why Grace was currently suffering in silence in the back of your Intro to Behavioral Science lecture while your friend Natasha leaned far too close into your space for Grace’s sanity.

Natasha was saying something that made you laugh.

Then she bumped your shoulder.

Then, as if God personally hated Grace, Natasha rested her hand on your forearm while still talking.

Grace stared at it.

Actually stared.

Like if she looked hard enough, the hand would disappear.

It did not.

You just smiled and kept listening to the lecture.

And suddenly Grace’s stomach twisted in a way she hated.

Not because she thought anything was happening.

Natasha is your friend.

Just a friend.

Grace knows that.

The problem was much simpler.

Much more pathetic.

Grace wanted that closeness.

Wanted it in the soft, humiliating, deeply inconvenient way people only wanted things they had no idea how to ask for.

She wanted to be the one leaning into your space.

Wanted to be the one who could touch your arm and not have to overthink it for the next six business days.

Wanted to be the person your attention naturally drifted toward.

And she had no right to want any of it.

Because she was your roommate.

Your friend.

The girl who shared a cramped dorm with you, folded laundry at the foot of her bed while pretending not to watch you dance around the room to songs you swore were “study music”, and said things like, ‘don’t forget your umbrella’ instead of ‘I think I’m in love with you and it’s ruining my life.’

So she stayed quiet.

And suffered.

Like an idiot.

The professor continued talking at the front of the room, but Grace barely heard any of it.

She was too busy trying not to look at the way Natasha had now leaned close enough to whisper in your ear.

You laughed again.

Grace looked down at her notes so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

Focus.

She needs to focus.

This was college, not some emotional warfare.

And yet somehow, every day around you felt like both.

“Grace?”

She blinked.

The room had gone quieter.

The professor was looking directly at her now.

Her stomach dropped. “Y-Yes?”

The professor sighed, “Since you seem distracted, why don’t you tell us the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation?”

Grace’s mind emptied itself immediately.

Nothing.

Not one useful thought.

Just static and the distance echo of your laugh.

She opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

And then, softly from a few seats ahead, your whispered voice drifted back just enough for her to hear.

“Internal versus external rewards.”

Grace looked up.

You didn’t turn around.

You just tapped your pen against your notebook once, as if nothing had happened.

Grace swallowed.

Then repeated the answer.

The professor nodded and moved on.

But Grace barely heard the rest of the lecture after that.

Because all she could think about was the fact that you’d noticed.

Again.

You always noticed.

And somehow, that only made wanting you worse.

After class, the hallway spilled with students and noise and the usual chaos of people trying to leave all at once.

Grace packed her bag more slowly than necessary, mostly because if she left too quickly, she’d have to walk beside you and Natasha.

And if she left too late, she’d still have to watch you leave with Natasha.

Which, unfortunately, happened anyway.

By the time Grace stepped into the hallway, she saw Natasha already beside you, leaning in close as the two of you talked.

Then Natasha did the unforgivable.

She hooked her fingers around your hand.

Grace stopped dead.

Your hand.

Why does Natasha always hold your hand?

It was such a small thing.

Such a harmless thing.

And yet it lodged under Grace’s ribs like a splinter.

“Cafeteria?” Natasha asked.

You adjusted your tote bag. “Maybe. I’m starving.”

“Good,” Natasha said, lightly tugging you closer. “Come suffer through overcooked pasta with me.” Grace should’ve kept walking.

She really should have.

Instead, before she could stop herself, she heard her own voice cut in.

“Professor Lewis said the reflection paper’s due tonight.”

Both of you looked at her.

Grace immediately wanted to fling herself down the stairwell.

Natasha frowned. “What?”

Grace gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “T-The reflection paper…”

That was not true.

Not even remotely.

You knew it instantly.

Grace could tell by the way your expression shifted.

Not annoyed.

Worse.

You’re amused.

And…maybe, just maybe…a little fond.

“Huh…I almost forgot about that,” you said smoothly, going along.

Grace blinked.

Natasha looked between the two of you. “There’s a reflection paper?”

You nodded with a straight face. “Apparently, yeah.”

Natasha groaned. “That class is really trying to kill me.”

She released your hand with a sigh. “Fine. Text me later?”

“Mhm, later,” you said.

Then she disappeared down the hall.

And the second she was gone, silence dropped between you and Grace.

Grace suddenly became interested in everything except your face.

The lockers.

The floor.

Even the poster for student elections peeling off the wall, she noticed.

Anywhere but your face that’s looking at her.

Because if she looked at you, she was pretty sure she’d combust on impact.

You stepped closer.

“Grace.”

Her pulse jumped. “Y-Yeah?”

“You just lied.”

Grace adjusted her bag strap. “W-What? No…I-I didn’t.”

You laughed softly.

That made it so much worse.

“Grace.”

There was something in your tone that made her chest ache.

Warm.

Knowing.

Too…gentle.

“S-She was distracting,” Grace muttered before she could stop herself.

The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

Your brows lifted.

“Distracting?”

Grace wanted to die instantly.

“In c-class,” she added weakly.

“Hm, in class,” you repeated, and now there was definitely amusement in your voice.

Grace stared at the floor harder as if waiting for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Then you took one step closer.

Then another.

And now you were standing right in front of her, close enough that Grace could smell your shampoo and the faint sweetness of your lip balm, close enough that her brain short-circuited on impact.

“Were you jealous?” you asked softly.

Grace nearly died choking on her own spit.

“N-N-No!”

Too fast.

Way too fast.

You folded your arms, trying…and failing…not to smile.

“Hm, well, that sounded like a lie.”

“I-It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“I-It wasn’t…”

“Grace…you literally invented a homework just to get rid of my friend from me.”

Grace opened her mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because there was no recovering from that.

And you were still looking at her like that.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too…pretty.

And, too dangerous for Grace’s sake.

Grace’s throat tightened.

Because she should’ve deflected.

Should’ve changed the subject.

Should’ve laughed it off.

Instead, all she could feel was the truth pressing hard against the back of her teeth.

Yes…

She was jealous.

In the softest, stupidest, most humiliating way possible.

She was jealous every time someone got your easy affection.

Every time someone touched you without thinking.

Every time someone else got the version of you she wanted to keep all to herself.

Grace’s voice came out quieter than she intended.

“I-I j-just…” she started.

Then stopped.

Your expression softened instantly.

And that nearly undid her.

“Hm? You just what?” you asked gently.

Grace looked at you.

At the warmth in your eyes.

At the patience there.

At the terrifying possibility that maybe you wouldn’t look at her like she was ridiculous if she actually told you the truth.

And for one impossible second, she almost did.

Almost.

Then…her fear won, like it always did.

Grace looked down.

“N-Nothing. Forget it.”

The silence after that was small.

Tender.

Painful.

Then your fingers brushed her wrist.

Light.

Treading carefully, as if scared to break her apart.

Still…it’s enough to make Grace freeze.

She looked up…at your face.

You were watching her with a softness that felt almost unbearable.

“Grace,” you said quietly, “you know you can tell me things, right?”

That nearly broke her.

For something so soft and careful, it almost broke her.

Because you meant it.

And God, she wanted to.

She wanted to tell you she liked you so much it made her physically miserable.

Wanted to tell you that she thought about you when you were literally across the room because apparently that was still somehow too far.

Wanted to tell you that agreeing to dorm with you had become both her favorite and worst decision because she got all these tiny pieces of you without ever being brave enough to ask for more.

But the words got stuck where they always did.

So instead…Grace gave you the smallest truth she could manage.

“I-I know…”

Your thumb brushed once against the inside of her wrist before you let go.

And Grace hated how much she missed it immediately.

You looked at her for one long second.

Then smiled.

Small.

Warm.

Dangerously understanding.

“Okay,” you said.

And somehow, that made Grace want you even more.

Which felt deeply unfair, considering she was already sleeping six feet away from the girl ruining her life unconsciously.

—

You knew Grace liked you.

Not because she said it.

God, no.

Grace Ashcroft would rather quietly disintegrate than confess her feelings without a full internal war first.

No, you knew because Grace was terrible at hiding it.

Subtle, yes…sometimes.

But terrible, really terrible.

It was in the way she always waited for you after class, even when she pretended she “just happened” to be done at the same time.

It’s the way she remembered tiny things you’d mentioned once at two in the morning and then acted like it was no big deal.

The way she’d push your charger closer when your phone battery was dying before you even asked.

The way she got weirdly quiet whenever one of your friends became too touchy with you.

And if you were being honest, it was also in the way she looked at you when she thought you were asleep.

You’d caught it once.

One night after a brutal week of deadlines, you’d been half-awake and facing the wall when you felt it…that quiet, familiar weight of being looked at.

You hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t opened your eyes.

But you’d known.

And something about that had stayed with you ever since.

Because Grace looked at you like she was trying not to.

Like every soft thing she felt was a secret she didn’t know how to survive.

And the worst part?

You looked right back.

You had feelings for Grace that had become a genuine problem somewhere between shared midnight snacks and her absentmindedly tossing one of her hoodies onto your bed because “you always steal it anyway.”

It was bad.

Hopelessly bad.

So when Grace had lied through her teeth to stop you from having lunch with Natasha, you should’ve been annoyed.

Instead, you found it so stupidly endearing that it almost felt like your heart was being squeezed tightly.

Because jealousy looked unfairly good on Grace.

Not in a toxic way.

Nor in a controlling way.

Just in a very ‘oh, she wants me close and doesn’t know what to do about it’ kind of way.

And honestly? That was ruining you.

Still, there was something underneath all of it that made your chest ache.

Because every time Grace got close to saying something real, she stopped herself.

Every time you thought she might finally let you in, she pulled back.

And maybe that was why, later that night, you found yourself opening your shared dorm room door as quietly as possible after your shower and pausing when you realized Grace was already in bed.

Or…pretending to be.

The room was dim except for the soft glow of your desk lamp.

Grace was facing the wall, blanket pulled up a little too neatly.

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

You smiled to yourself.

Then you padded across the room in your sleep shorts and oversized shirt, drying your hair with a towel as you moved.

“Are you awake?” you asked softly.

There was a pause.

Then, from beneath the blanket. “Maybe.”

You laughed under your breath.

Cute.

Very dangerously cute.

You hung your towel onto the chair and climbed onto your bed, but instead of settling in right away, you turned onto your side to face her across the narrow space between your beds.

“Grace.”

She shifted.

Then, slowly, rolled over to face you.

Your heart did something deeply embarrassing when you saw her.

Messy hair.

Sleep-heavy eyes.

One arm tucked under her pillow.

Soft gray shirt.

You swear after you told her that you love seeing her in that gray tank top, she kept wearing gray clothes most of the time inside the dorm.

Unfair.

Actually unfair.

“What?” she asked quietly.

You looked at her for a second.

Then said, “You were cute earlier.”

Grace blinked, her sleep-heavy eyes widened.

Then immediately looked like she wanted to evaporate.

“No…I-I wasn’t.”

“You were, though.”

“I was having a crisis.”

“Yeah…that can be cute too.”

Grace groaned softly and dragged part of the blanket over her face.

You laughed.

“You literally lied to stop me from eating cafeteria pasta with Natasha.”

“She was touching you too much,” Grace mumbled from behind the blanket.

The room went still.

Grace went still under her blanket too.

Then, very slowly, she lowered the blanket from her face.

Your heart nearly stopped.

Because she looked so horrified.

Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Like she was already bracing for your rejection.

You softened immediately.

“Grace…”

Her cheeks were pink now.

Even in the dim light, you could see it.

“I-I didn’t m-mean…”

You sighed, “No, it’s alright,” you said softly.

Grace looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And for a second, there was no room in the world except this one.

No campus.

No classes.

No friends.

Just the dark, the quiet, and the girl across from you who looked like she’d been carrying too much of herself alone for too long.

So you did the only thing that felt right at the moment.

You pushed yourself up, crossed the tiny space between your beds, and sat on the edge of hers.

Grace froze, completely.

You smiled a little. “Relax.”

“You’re on my bed.”

“Mhm, very observant of you.”

Grace stared at you.

You stared back.

Then, more softly, you said, “For the record…”

Her eyes lifted to yours.

“I didn’t mind.”

Her brows furrowed. “Didn’t mind…what?”

You held her gaze.

“The…jealousy,” you tried to say casually.

Grace froze so completely you thought she might actually stop breathing.

Then, slowly, color climbed across her cheeks.

You had to physically stop yourself from smiling too hard.

Because there it was.

That tiny, secret thing between you.

Still unnamed.

Unresolved.

But very…very real.

And judging by the way Grace looked at you now, like you’d just handed her something fragile and dangerous, she felt it too.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

And somewhere in that silence, with your knee almost brushing hers and the soft hum of the dorm air conditioner filling the room, you realized with painful certainty that this was going to ruin you both.

Grace absolutely hates being confrontational. Not only does she not want you to be mad at her. It completely throws her entire world in disarray.

She would prefer to work out the problem with you right away. But sometimes that doesn’t always work out. If a fight last longer than a day, she can’t focus…she can’t focus on her responsibilities or work.

She will even reach out to you more often than she usually does via text. Her biggest fear when she’s giving you space to cool down that you’ll completely forget about her. Abandon her on the spot.

When you 2 argue, each second she’s talking to you, she’s gradually getting more upset and stumbling over her words more. Her mouth is moving faster than her brain and sometimes she will say things she doesn’t mean.

When she’s angry at you, she looking everywhere except at you. She’s talking faster and sweating more. By the end of some of your arguments with her she’s drenched.

She rarely raises her voice at you. In fact, the first time it happened it left her completely stunned. Never in a million years would she think she would be yelling at you. And once it’s over she’s beside herself with it.

Grace is the better listener compared to you. She’s analytical so of course she’s going to analyze everything you have to say first. Once she’s processed all the information, she’s coming up with several solutions to fix this. She’s a natural problem solver.

You love her with all your heart, but sometimes you can’t help but be pessimistic. Grace believes in her relationship with you. She’s not giving up on this. And when Grace is feeling at her lowest, she’s shutting down. But you are there for her, you promise to weather this dark storm with her no matter what.

One thing you 2 are very proud of, no matter the argument or how intense it gets neither of you have ever stormed off. Sure there are times when it feels like that is the better solution. But you 2 are staying put and trying to patch things up and come up with the best solution.

Both of you know disagreements and fights are bound to happen. Nobody is perfect. Grace tends to apologize first even when she isn’t at fault. You are usually calling yourself the biggest idiot for making her sad. But at the end of the day, you both are will to fight for this. Fight for each other.

When you 2 finally do makeup, she’s stuck to you like glue. Honestly needy Grace is the hottest kind of Grace. You’re going into the bedroom to get something she’s right beside you. You’re in the kitchen rummaging through the fridge, she’s standing on her tippy toes looking over your shoulder. This woman never wants you to be out of her life again.

When she’s saying sorry, she’s more affectionate. Grace may be shy, but when you 2 patch it up, she’s more touchy with you. Physical touch after an argument is her way of saying she’s sorry too and she wouldn’t know what she would do with the feel of you.

When she leaves for work before you, she has your favorite coffee ready for you in your thermo. She’s leaving cute sticky notes about you on the bathroom mirror for you to see bright and early in the morning. She’s even leaving work earlier to spend as much time with you.

When she’s coming home from work, you surprise her with a romantic candle lit dinner. You are making her favorite dish or grabbing something from her favorite takeout spot. You want to show her how she means the world to you.

When you are saying you are sorry, you’re the gift giver. Grace isn’t big on flowers. Don’t get her wrong she loves when you surprise her with a beautiful bouquet every now and then. But you are surprising her with a stack of her favorite graphic novels. Or installing a newer and bigger memory card for her laptop.

She notices your pregnancy even before you do. Your scent changed, a milky-freshness added to your already sweet pheromones.

When you finally took a test, the little two lines were clear as day.

Cue Grace panicking about literally everything.

She spends hours with her nose stuck in her laptop, googling everything there is to google about pregnancy, babies, and small children. (And maybe joining r/parents.)

You’re violently nauseous most mornings? You might have hyperemesis gravidarum, and you need to see your OBGYN. You’re really thirsty all the time? Yup, that means you must have gestational diabetes.

You get sick and tired of her hovering really quick.

She only really calms down after the first ultrasound, when she finally sees her pup for the first time.

Grace almost can’t believe what she’s seeing– that tiny little dot on the screen was alive. Your pup. Her pup.

She cries during the appointment, which in turn makes you cry. The sonographer may or may not have also started crying.

You get really clingy. Really, really clingy. Grace is not one for PDA, but she just has to suck it up and accept it.

You hang onto her side while grocery shopping, her body is stiff under your touch, but you know it's just because she feels awkward.

However, when it’s just you two, Grace doesn’t mind letting you make yourself comfortable in her lap.

In fact, she is just as clingy as you. She sleeps with her head buried into your neck, legs intertwined with yours. When she works from home, you’re always right there with her.

Both you and Grace become even more protective over Emily.

Emily sleeps in your nest nearly every night, cuddled next to you and Grace. She always smells like the pair of you, her milky-pup scent now almost unnoticeable.

You laid asleep in your carefully curated nest, Emily’s face tucked into your neck. Grace slept behind you, her arm wrapped around your waist. Emily let out a soft whine in her sleep, nose scrunching as she nuzzled closer to you. Grace immediately shot up, eyes open and alert. When she realized that everyone was fine, and her pup was safe, she felt her breathing even. She laid back down beside you, pressing her cheek to your back.

You had a hard time sending Emily off to school, your instincts telling you to keep both her and Grace at your side 24/7.

Grace isn’t a very ‘stereotypical’ alpha, but the moment you start to show, something switches in her.

She gets overly possessive and protective, especially when it comes to other alpha’s. One time, she literally growled at an alpha who she thought was looking at you for too long, even though they were much taller and more muscular than she was. That alpha wasn’t even actually looking at you...

When you start nearing the end of your pregnancy, things start getting real for Grace.

She wants to be a good mom, just like her own.

You find her one night hunched over a picture of Alyssa, her eyes wet with tears.

“Grace?” You called out, waddling into your bedroom. Grace looked up from the photo, sniffling. You took a seat next to her, affectionately nuzzling your nose into her cheek. She took your hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

“What’s going on?” You asked quietly, turning Grace’s head to make eye-contact with you. She let out a soft sigh, her lip quivering.

“I–I just… I miss my mom.” She admitted, her voice breaking. “I wish she–she was here. Sometimes I f-feel so l-lost without her.”

You frown, gently squeezing her hand. You always wondered what life would be like if Alyssa was still here. She would love Emily, and she would be so proud of Grace.

“She would be so proud of you.” You assured the alpha, smiling. “And she would love Emily, and the baby… and me, of course.”

Grace half-giggled, half-sobbed. She leaned her head on your shoulder, one of her hands automatically finding its way to your bump. “I love you.” She whispered, closing her eyes.

“I love you too.” You responded, resting your head against hers.

When you go into labor, she freaks the fuck out.

Leon comes to the house to watch Emily, and as soon as he arrives you two are out the door.

The hospital experience wasn’t the greatest; you were obviously stressed and uncomfortable, which made Grace extremely anxious.

After nearly an entire day of grueling labor, your daughter was born.

Grace was a mess when she scented little Alyssa for the first time, her hands shaking. She’d never held a person so tiny…

Grace held the tiny pup to her chest, her eyes welling with tears. She felt her lip quiver as the little one yawned, gently rubbing her tiny back. Everything about Alyssa was small, from her little button nose, down to her tiny toes. Grace couldn’t be more in love.

The pup had little wisps of blonde hair on her head, just like Grace.

Emily was absolutely enamored with her little sister, and she was so gentle with her.

Natasha sees your name flash up on her phone and she smiles, picking up immediately “Hey baby… Missing me?”

“Hello. Is this Natasha?”

Natasha sits up at the sound of a stranger’s voice. Who the Hell has your phone and why? Her mind races through a million possibilities before the stranger continues “I’m here with Y/N; she said you were her girlfriend. She’s uh… She’s had quite a lot to drink and I didn’t want to let her go home on her own. Do you think you could come pick her up?”

Before the stranger has even finished Natasha’s pulled on her leather jacket, hunting around for her car keys “Yeah, yeah, of course. Just let me know where you are, I’m on my way.”

The woman gives Natasha the name of a bar across town and then she hangs up the phone, rushing out to her car. Why were you out getting drunk by yourself? That wasn’t like you at all. Natasha was the one who drank, no matter the occasion whereas you’d sometimes have one glass of wine and then stop. You weren’t one for hard spirits and you’d told Natasha previously you didn’t like getting drunk. Admittedly Natasha had been a little worried about you lately. You’ve always been quieter and more reserved than her, that’s what she’d loved about you. Last time you’d hung out though you’d been even quieter than usual, brushing off Natasha's concerns.

It takes Natasha about twenty minutes to make it to the bar and she finds you outside with a woman. You’re sobbing while this woman keeps her arm around you, trying to keep you upright. Natasha runs over, taking you into her own arms “Thanks for looking after her and for calling me. I’ll get her home.”

“I didn’t realise when she said Natasha she meant- Anyway, it was no problem. Hope she’s okay.”

Natasha looks down at you, your arms now wrapped around her waist as you cry loudly into her chest. She kisses the top of your head, rocking you back and forth “It’s okay… It’s okay, I’ve got you…”

You’re in no state to be moved right now so Natasha just holds you, whispering gentle reassurances. Every time someone glances in your direction she fixes them with a hard glare and they quickly look away, scurrying off. Natasha runs her fingers through your hair, kissing your forehead until your tears eventually subside and then she guides you back to the car, settling you into the passenger’s seat.

She turns up the radio in the car, letting you look out the window, hoping that’ll stop you from feeling sick. You hadn’t mentioned it but then you hadn’t said a word yet. Natasha’s never seen you drunk before, she has no idea what to expect. At one point you do gag so Natasha quickly pulls the car over but you take several deep breaths and then mumble that you’re okay so Natasha keeps driving until you get back to her place.

Natasha has her own apartment and she’s proud of it. At first the space had overwhelmed her a little but with your help she’d managed to decorate it in a way that pleased her. She was pretty minimalist, but she did love photos and pictures so you’d helped her pick out some of her favourites, frame them and then hang them up. It’s the first place that has ever truly felt like home to Natasha, even more so when you’re there with her.

Once you’re inside she sits down on her couch, pulling you into her lap and kissing your forehead “What happened baby? Why did you drink so much?”

“I’m sad,” You tell her, your eyes still teary.

“Why are you so sad? Who’s upset my baby girl?”

Natasha never speaks like this in front of anyone else but she knows how much you love when she softens her voice and calls you cute pet names. For you, she’d do anything. You’re her biggest weakness.

You cry harder so Natasha kisses the top of her head, waiting patiently for you to tell her the problem. She knows you’ve been feeling a bit of stress at work so she assumes it’s that. There’s always something worrying you and stressing you out – you both have a long standing joke that you wouldn’t be able to handle Nat’s job, you’d fall apart from the pressure. Natasha never undermines how stressful your own work can be though, letting you blow off steam whenever you come round, rubbing your feet as you complain about your difficult customers and your workload.

“I’m not good enough for you!” You suddenly burst, sobbing harder.

Natasha frowns, taken aback by your words “What? Who told you that?”

“Nobody I just know I’m not,” You whine. “You’re cool and brave and- And- And I’m a wimp and ugly and-”

“Hey, you’re not ugly!” Natasha insists, her hand cupping your cheek. “And you’re not a wimp. Or any other negative thing you’re about to say about yourself.”

“You could date literally anyone, why did you settle for me?”

“I didn’t settle for anything. I love you, you know I love you,” Natasha kisses your tear-stained cheek. “Shh, please don’t say that, you’re gonna break my heart baby.”

“I don’t deserve you!” You wail.

Natasha rests her head against the top of yours, closing her eyes as she rocks you back and forth, listening to your anguished cries “So why did you drink so much?”

“I was sad and I wanted to not feel sad anymore but now I feel very sad.”

“Alcohol’s a depressant, it’ll do that,” Natasha murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You should’ve just told me.”

“I’m always moaning to you about my problems, I didn’t wanna bother you-”

“You don’t bother me! I want to hear what’s going on with you. What I don’t want is for you to go to random bars and get drunk all by yourself,” Natasha sighs, kissing the top of your head. “Why are you suddenly so worried about this?”

You sniffle and suddenly you can’t stop talking. Tell her all about your childhood, how boys had asked you out as a joke, how you’d explored your sexuality but every girl you’d dated had told you were too needy, how your parents had always favoured your younger sister. About your parents alcoholism, how you always promised yourself you wouldn’t get drunk and how you feel uncomfortable around drunk people, even now. How you’d never come first for anyone and now you blamed yourself. If only you weren’t so needy, so pathetic, you’d be worthy of love. Natasha listens, letting you get it off your chest, her hand rubbing up and down your back.

“You can do so much better than me,” You sob.

Natasha kisses the top of your head again and whispers “You know what though? I often think that about you. That you could do so much better than me.”

You blow a raspberry “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I’m an assassin; I have so much blood on my hands. Every time someone sees you with me you get put in more danger. You’re so sweet and kind and funny, and I’m… Emotionally unavailable a lot of the time. I have nightmares and I’m… I’m needy too.”

You hiccup, your tears starting to subside as you look up at her. Natasha reaches over to the coffee table, picking up a bottle of water and placing it in your hands “I can’t wait to deal with your first hangover tomorrow.”

You take a long swig of the water, realising for the first time just how thirsty you are – partly from all the alcohol, and partly from all the crying. You wipe at the tears on your face, your make-up now so smudged that you look like a little panda. Natasha thinks it’s cute and kisses your cheek “You’re my beautiful girlfriend, my baby girl and I love you. Knowing you’ve been feeling this insecure kills me.”

“I didn’t realise… You feel the same?”

“Sometimes. But I’m also really selfish because even if I’m not good enough for you, I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You smile, your head against her shoulder “You’re my favourite.”

“You’re my favourite. And you’ll always come first for me,” Natasha kisses your forehead. “No more drinking sessions by yourself. And no more self doubt. I won’t allow it.”

Natasha lifts you easily into her arms, ignoring your squeals of protest which are half-hearted anyway. She carries you through to her bedroom, lowering you onto the floor. She helps you out of your clothes, letting you wear one of her oversized t-shirts as pyjamas then gently wipes off all your make-up. Natasha kisses your red, shiny face and then pulls you into her arms “Get some sleep. You’re gonna wake up with a hell of a headache.”

You groan, nuzzling your face into her neck “Will you look after me?”

“Yeah baby, of course,” Natasha reassures you, running her hand through your messy hair. “Always.”

At first, the compound felt like it was holding its breath. Vision moved through the halls with his usual precision, but something colder sat beneath his calm now. He spoke little unless necessary, and when he did, his tone was clipped and professional.

Wanda kept her distance.

If they crossed paths, the silence between them was heavy enough that even the others noticed. Steve attempted to mediate once, but Wanda shut the conversation down gently.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” she told him.

And Steve respected that.

Y/N Tries to Stay Away

For the first few days after the fight, Y/N tried to give Wanda space. She volunteered for missions, patrols, recon assignments—anything that kept her out of the compound for long stretches.

But the imprint didn’t care about her intentions.

No matter how long she stayed away, she could still feel Wanda. Not physically, not exactly, but the pull was constant—like gravity, like a compass needle that refused to point anywhere else.

She would find herself drifting toward Wanda’s floor of the compound without realizing it, pausing outside the hallway and turning back before she reached the door.

It was exhausting.

Nat noticed almost immediately.

“You’re pacing,” Nat said one evening in the training room.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“You circle the same hallway three times a night,” Nat replied casually, stretching her shoulders. “Like a wolf guarding territory.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Nat studied her for a moment.

“…Ah,” she said quietly.

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

Nat raised both hands in surrender. “Didn’t say anything.”

Wanda Notices Too

Wanda noticed something was different.

Y/N wasn’t avoiding her—not really—but she kept a careful distance. When they were in the same room, Y/N was attentive without hovering, quiet without disappearing.

And yet Wanda always felt… watched.

Not in a threatening way.

More like a presence.

Like someone making sure she was safe without stepping into her space.

Once, Wanda woke up in the middle of the night and stepped into the hallway for water. Down at the far end, Y/N sat against the wall outside the stairwell, half asleep in wolf form.

Guarding.

When Y/N realized Wanda had seen her, she stood immediately and muttered something about “fresh air” before disappearing outside.

Wanda didn’t comment.

But she didn’t forget.

---

The rest of the Avengers adjusted to the new dynamic slowly. Vision worked mostly with Steve and Tony on strategy and planning, while Y/N spent more time training with Nat, Bucky, and Sam. Wanda floated between both groups depending on the day.

No one said anything outright—but the fracture inside the team was obvious.

Only Nat occasionally poked at it.

One afternoon in the gym, she tossed Wanda a towel. “You know the big wolf practically orbits you, right?” Nat said casually.

Wanda frowned. “She doesn’t.”

Nat just hummed.

---

Despite everything, Y/N still gravitated toward Wanda without realizing it. Not deliberately—just instinct. After a mission where Wanda pushed herself too hard, Y/N silently placed a protein bar and water beside her before walking away.

Another night, Wanda fell asleep reading on the couch. The compound had gone quiet hours ago, the lights in the common room dim, the television still playing some muted documentary no one had been watching. Wanda had curled into the corner of the couch with a book in her hands, intending to read a few pages before bed. She never made it past the third chapter.

Y/N noticed first. She had been sitting on the floor near the window, pretending to scroll through something on her phone while actually listening to the steady rhythm of Wanda’s breathing. The moment it deepened—slow and even—she glanced over.

Wanda was asleep.

The book had slipped halfway down her chest, fingers still loosely holding the edge of the page. A strand of hair had fallen across her face, rising and falling gently with each breath.

Y/N stared for a long moment, then sighed softly. “…You’re going to wreck your neck like that,” she murmured under her breath.

Carefully, she stood. The movement was quiet, deliberate. She approached the couch like she was stepping into fragile territory.

“Wanda,” Y/N said gently, nudging the book away.

No response.

Her eyes softened. “Alright,” she muttered.

With slow, careful movements, Y/N slid one arm beneath Wanda’s knees and the other around her back. She lifted her easily. Wanda stirred faintly but didn’t wake, her head instinctively settling against Y/N’s shoulder. The warmth of her breath brushed Y/N’s neck.

Y/N’s steps slowed for a fraction of a second. The imprint tugged hard in her chest.

Steady, she reminded herself.

She carried Wanda down the hallway, careful not to bump the doorframe as she nudged it open with her foot. The room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp the only light. Y/N crossed the room and lowered her gently onto the mattress.

She was just about to pull her hands away—

When Wanda moved.

Her eyes opened halfway, hazy with sleep. Before Y/N could step back, Wanda’s hands lifted and curled loosely around the back of Y/N’s neck, stopping her from pulling away.

“Stay,” Wanda murmured sleepily.

Y/N froze. Her breath caught.

“Wanda…” she said quietly, unsure.

Wanda blinked a few times, waking a little more. Her hands were still resting behind Y/N’s neck, fingers loosely threaded in the short hair there.

“You’re leaving again,” Wanda said softly.

Y/N hesitated. “…You were asleep.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Wanda studied her face now, more awake, the sleep fading slowly from her expression. There was something searching in her gaze.

“Why are you being distant?” she asked quietly.

The question hit harder than Y/N expected. Her shoulders tensed slightly.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Wanda replied gently. “You don’t sit next to me anymore. You leave rooms early. You keep volunteering for missions.”

Y/N swallowed. Her eyes dropped briefly to the mattress beside Wanda before lifting again.

“…Because it feels like it’s my fault,” she admitted.

Wanda frowned slightly. “What is?”

“You and Vision,” Y/N said, voice quieter now. “Breaking up.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Wanda stared at her for a moment. “Y/N,” she said softly.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Y/N continued quickly. “I know I made things complicated. I kept showing up, sleeping outside your door, being around all the time—”

“Hey,” Wanda interrupted gently.

Her hands tightened slightly behind Y/N’s neck, keeping her from pulling away.

“I already told you,” Wanda said, her voice steady despite the softness of it. “You were not the reason.”

Y/N shook her head faintly. “It didn’t help.”

“Maybe not,” Wanda admitted. “But the decision was mine.”

Her thumb brushed lightly against the back of Y/N’s neck without her realizing it.

“I didn’t break up with him because of you,” Wanda continued. “I broke up with him because he didn’t trust me.”

Y/N held her gaze, conflicted.

Wanda sighed softly. “You listen to me,” she added. “You respect my boundaries. When I ask you to stop, you stop.” Her eyes softened. “That matters.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Then Wanda shifted slightly on the bed, still holding Y/N loosely. “You’re not allowed to disappear because you think you ruined my life,” she added quietly.

A faint, surprised huff escaped Y/N. “…I wasn’t planning on disappearing.”

“Good.”

Wanda’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained serious. “Because I’d notice.”

The imprint in Y/N’s chest twisted painfully at that.

She exhaled slowly. “…Okay.”

Wanda’s hands finally loosened around her neck, but neither of them moved away immediately. The room was quiet—comfortable, complicated.

Wanda studied Y/N for another second, her hands still loosely resting at the back of her neck. Then a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“…Now come on,” she said softly.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Wanda’s smile widened just a little. “You know.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then she understood.

A quiet breath left her as she stepped back from the bed. The shift came easily—bones stretching, muscles reshaping, heat rippling through her body in a familiar wave. In seconds, the massive wolf stood where she had been, fur catching the warm light of the bedside lamp.

Wanda’s face lit up immediately. “There you are,” she murmured.

She reached forward without hesitation, both hands sinking into the thick fur around Y/N’s head. Her fingers ruffled through it affectionately, scratching behind one ear before sliding down along the side of her neck.

“That’s my little wolf.”

The words were soft. Fond.

And they hit Y/N like a lightning strike.

Her heart skipped so hard it nearly made her dizzy. Overwhelmed by the warmth in Wanda’s voice, Y/N leaned forward and—without thinking—licked Wanda’s cheek.

A full, unapologetic wolf lick.

Wanda squeaked.

Then she burst into laughter.

“Oh my—!” she gasped, wiping at her cheek while Y/N pulled back slightly, ears flattening in immediate embarrassment.

Wanda shook her head, still giggling, and wrapped her arms around Y/N’s massive neck, burying her face briefly into the thick fur. “You’re unbelievable,” she murmured, voice warm with amusement.

Y/N huffed quietly, clearly apologetic.

After a moment, Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her properly. Her smile softened, something more serious settling into her eyes.

“Hey,” she said gently.

Y/N’s ears twitched forward.

Wanda’s fingers slid back into the fur at the base of her neck, steady and grounding.

“Don’t do that again.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly.

Wanda sighed softly. “Don’t pull away like that,” she clarified. “Don’t distance yourself because you think you’re the reason things ended with Vision.”

Her thumb brushed slowly through the thick fur.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Wanda continued quietly. “You didn’t cause that.”

Y/N let out a soft huff, acknowledging her words even if the guilt hadn’t fully left.

Wanda smiled again, softer now. “Good,” she murmured.

Then, without overthinking it, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Y/N’s muzzle.

Y/N froze instantly.

Golden eyes widened, heart hammering in her chest as if it might burst.

Wanda didn’t seem to realize the effect she’d just had. She simply settled back into her pillows with a small, content sigh, one hand still resting in Y/N’s fur.

“Goodnight, my little wolf,” she murmured sleepily.

And Y/N stayed right there beside the bed long after Wanda drifted off again—heart still racing from a single, innocent kiss.

---

Morning came slowly to the compound.

Soft sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the living area, catching dust motes in the air and warming the polished floor. The kitchen was already alive with quiet morning sounds—coffee brewing, a pan sizzling faintly on the stove. Steve sat at the table reading through a tablet, glasses low on his nose. Bucky leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, while Sam rummaged through the fridge like it had personally offended him.

Nat noticed the footsteps first and looked up just as Wanda appeared at the top of the stairs.

Wanda looked… better. Still a little sleepy, hair loose around her shoulders, but the tight tension that had clung to her the past few weeks had softened.

And right behind her—Y/N.

In human form this time, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of her sweatpants, trying very hard to look like she wasn’t instinctively staying half a step behind Wanda.

Nat’s brow lifted slightly.

Well.

That answered a few questions.

“Morning,” Wanda said as she stepped into the room.

“Morning,” Steve replied, glancing up.

Sam leaned around the fridge door. “Hey, sleeping beauty—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because Vision had just walked into the room.

The android froze the moment he saw them: Wanda standing in front, Y/N just behind her, close enough that it was obvious they had come down together. Something flickered across Vision’s face—too fast for most people to catch.

But Y/N saw it.

And Nat definitely did.

Vision’s gaze moved slowly from Wanda… to Y/N.

Then back again.

The silence stretched.

“Good morning,” Vision said finally. His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“Morning,” Wanda replied, equally neutral as she moved toward the coffee maker.

Y/N followed automatically—until she realized what she was doing and stopped a few steps away instead. The habit caught up with her too late. She froze mid-step, shoulders tightening as she forced herself to stay where she was. Old instincts tugged at her chest, urging her to stay close, but she clenched her jaw and held her ground.

Space. Give her space.

She started to step back—

But Wanda turned.

Before Y/N could retreat, Wanda reached out and took her hand. The contact was warm and natural, like it wasn’t something she’d even thought twice about. Wanda gave a small tug, pulling Y/N forward toward the kitchen.

“Come on,” she said casually.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard, but allowed herself to be pulled along.

Behind them, Sam’s head slowly emerged from inside the refrigerator again.

Wanda didn’t seem to notice the room watching. She guided Y/N up to the counter, finally letting go of her hand only once they reached the kitchen island.

“What do you want to eat?” Wanda asked, glancing toward the cabinets.

Y/N stared at her for half a second like she’d just been asked a trick question.

“…Food?” she offered.

Nat snorted from the table.

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but smiled anyway, opening the fridge. “Very helpful.” She pulled out a carton of eggs and a container of fruit. “Do you want eggs?” she asked over her shoulder.

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Scrambled or fried?”

“…Yes.”

Bucky huffed into his coffee.

Wanda turned to look at Y/N, one eyebrow lifting. “You are absolutely useless in the morning.”

Y/N rubbed the back of her neck, slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t know there would be a quiz.”

Wanda shook her head with a quiet laugh and started cooking anyway.

Across the room, Steve tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t witnessing the entire exchange. Nat leaned back in her chair, watching with open amusement.

And down the hallway—

A door shut harder than necessary.

Y/N’s ears metaphorically twitched at the sound, but when she glanced toward the hall, Wanda simply slid a plate in front of her.

“Eat,” Wanda said.

Y/N looked down at the food, then back at Wanda.

“…Thanks.”

Wanda shrugged lightly, leaning against the counter beside her.

“No problem.”

---

One Month Later

The Quinjet hummed steadily as it cut through the night sky, city lights far below reduced to scattered constellations.

Inside, the mood was focused—quiet but alert.

Steve stood near the center console, holographic blueprints projected in front of him. The warehouse district flickered in midair—loading docks, entry points, security grids.

“This is a retrieval,” Steve reminded them, voice calm but firm. “Same group as last month. They kept a backup copy of the intel. We go in, secure the data drive, and get out. No unnecessary engagement.”

Nat leaned against the wall, cleaning a pistol with absent efficiency. “Perimeter cameras show light rotation. Eight to ten guards. Mostly small arms.”

“Copy’s supposedly in the lower archive room,” Bucky added from his seat, metal arm resting against his knee. “Concrete walls. One main stairwell. Two emergency exits.”

Wanda stood beside Y/N, arms crossed as she studied the hologram, faint red energy flickering lazily at her fingertips while tracing a possible entry route. Y/N sat on the floor near the ramp with her back against the wall, one knee raised, eyes closed—not asleep. Listening.

Wanda glanced down at her briefly, almost unconsciously checking on her.

Steve noticed. “Y/N.”

Her eyes opened immediately.

“You good?”

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

The Quinjet began its descent.

Landing gear lowered with a mechanical whine as the abandoned industrial zone came into view—dark buildings, rusted fencing, empty lots. The jet touched down two blocks from the target and the ramp lowered slowly, cold night air rushing inside.

Immediately something felt wrong.

Nat’s posture shifted first. She didn’t move forward, simply scanning the empty street.

“…Too quiet.”

Bucky stepped down beside her, metal hand flexing once. “Yeah. No patrol movement.”

Steve frowned. “Thermal?”

“Minimal,” Nat replied. “Which doesn’t match what we saw an hour ago.”

Wanda stepped down next, Y/N following close behind. The second Y/N’s boots hit the pavement, her expression changed. She inhaled deeply. The air tasted wrong. Heavy. Metallic. Her head tilted slightly as she focused, filtering past wind, distant traffic, and the low electrical hum of streetlights. Then her eyes opened.

“There’s more,” she said quietly.

Steve looked at her. “More what?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpened toward the warehouse. “Heartbeats.”

Wanda stilled beside her.

“How many?” Bucky asked.

Y/N focused harder. “…At least thirty.” Silence settled over the team.

Nat swore under her breath. “We were told ten.”

“They’re not moving much,” Y/N added. “Spread out. Elevated positions too.”

Steve’s jaw set. “Ambush.”

Wanda’s red glow brightened faintly as she stepped a little closer to Y/N without thinking.

Steve made the call quickly. “We don’t abort yet. Move slow. Tight formation. Nat, left flank. Bucky right.”

His gaze shifted. “Wanda, stay with Y/N.”

Neither of them argued.

They advanced toward the warehouse, boots silent against cracked pavement. Every shadow felt heavier. Every window darker.

Halfway to the entrance, Y/N stopped.

Her nose lifted again. Her eyes widened.

“…They know we’re here.”

Right on cue—The warehouse lights snapped on. Gunfire erupted from the rooftops. The first bullets hit the pavement before the echo of the gunfire finished bouncing off the buildings.

“MOVE!” Steve barked.

They scattered in practiced formation.

Nat rolled behind a rusted delivery truck, returning fire in sharp, controlled bursts. Bucky spun right, metal arm snapping up to catch a bullet mid-air before he hurled it back toward a sniper nest. Concrete exploded a heartbeat later.

Wanda lifted her hands, scarlet energy flaring outward into a defensive shield as rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the barrier.

Y/N didn’t shift. Not yet. She sprinted forward low, weaving between debris, dodging incoming fire with almost unnatural timing. A gunman dropped from a fire escape ahead of her—she closed the distance in three strides, driving her elbow into his throat before sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard. She didn’t slow.

“Rooftop—two more!” she called, already pivoting.

Bucky’s rifle barked. One dropped.

The second threw a flash grenade.

“Down!” Nat shouted.

Y/N reacted instantly. She grabbed Wanda by the arm and yanked her behind a concrete barrier just as the grenade detonated. White light swallowed the alley, ears ringing.

But they didn’t lose formation.

Steve charged straight through the smoke, shield slamming into a cluster of armed men rushing from the warehouse entrance. He moved like a battering ram—precise, controlled, overwhelming.

“We push inside!” he ordered. “Open space out here favors them!”

It made sense.

Too many elevated positions. Too many angles.

They advanced toward the warehouse doors under covering fire. Y/N ducked under a baton swing and drove her knee into the attacker’s ribs. Another came from her blind spot—she twisted, catching his wrist and slamming him face-first into a steel container.

Her senses screamed.

More movement. More heartbeats.

“They’re repositioning!” she shouted. “They’re funneling us!”

“Inside!” Nat snapped. “Now!”

They breached the warehouse doors together. The moment they crossed the threshold—The gunfire stopped. Silence swallowed the space. The interior was cavernous: stacked crates, overhead catwalks, dim industrial lights flickering weakly across concrete floors. Too still.

Wanda’s gaze swept the rafters. “I don’t like this.”

“Keep moving,” Steve said, advancing cautiously.

They moved deeper inside.

Then—Metal shutters slammed down behind them with a thunderous crash.

“Trap!” Bucky shouted.

Overhead lights flared blindingly bright. Figures emerged from behind crates, from catwalks, from hidden doorways.

Not ten.

Not thirty.

More. 

Heavily armed. Organized. A voice crackled over the loudspeakers.

“Avengers. Thank you for entering the containment zone.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t random. This was designed.

“They wanted us inside,” Nat muttered.

Gunfire erupted again—this time from every direction. Wanda threw up a shield, scarlet energy flaring outward as bullets hammered against it in rapid succession. The impacts vibrated through her arms, forcing her to brace her stance as the pressure mounted.

“Move!” Steve shouted. “Stairs—north side! Roof access!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She darted forward, cutting through the line of attackers with controlled brutality—disarming one, dropping another with a crushing elbow before pivoting to intercept a third. She moved like a blade: precise, efficient, no wasted motion.

But for every body that dropped, two more stepped into place.

“They’re rotating squads!” she called. “This is organized!”

Nat picked off a sniper on the catwalk while Bucky laid down suppressive fire. Steve smashed through a barricade, carving a path toward the metal staircase leading upward.

They made it halfway across the loading bay when—

A mechanical click echoed beneath their boots.

Y/N’s head snapped downward.

“Don’t—”

The floor gave way.

A rectangular section of reinforced steel dropped open beneath Bucky’s feet.

“Barnes!” Steve shouted.

Bucky fell.

Wanda reacted instantly. Scarlet energy snapped around his torso mid-air, halting his descent inches above the darkness. He slammed against the side of the shaft, teeth gritting as he tried to find purchase.

“I’ve got you!” Wanda strained, pulling him upward—

Then another click. Y/N’s stomach dropped. The floor beneath her shifted. She barely had time to look up before the metal panel under her boots split apart. She fell.

“Y/N!” Wanda screamed. Without thinking—without hesitation—Wanda released Bucky.

Nat lunged forward, catching Bucky’s arm just as Wanda launched herself into the open shaft.

“WANDA!” Steve roared. But it was too late.

Both of them vanished into the darkness below. The trapdoor snapped shut again with a brutal clang. Silence swallowed the loading bay for half a heartbeat. Then the gunfire resumed.

Steve turned, fury flashing across his face. “We regroup! NOW!”

But beneath the warehouse—Wanda fell through blackness.

And far below—Y/N hit the ground hard.

Wanda’s scream echoed through the shaft as she dropped into pure darkness. Instinct kicked in. Scarlet energy flared around her body, slowing her descent—but the fall had already disoriented her. The shaft was tight, metallic, the air thick with dust.

She couldn’t see.

“Y/N!” she shouted into the void.

No answer.

Her boots hovered inches above what she thought might be the floor—

Then something collided with her.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist midair. A solid body braced beneath her.

They hit the ground together, but not violently—Y/N absorbing the impact and rolling so Wanda landed against her chest instead of concrete.

The air left Y/N’s lungs in a rough exhale.

Wanda gasped, gripping the front of her shirt. “Y/N?”

“I’ve got you,” Y/N said breathlessly in the dark.

For a split second, Wanda didn’t care where they were.

She clutched tighter.

Then reality rushed back in.

Above them the trapdoor had sealed completely. No light. No sound from the battle anymore. Just the faint hum of distant machinery.

Y/N shifted beneath her, rising carefully while keeping one arm around Wanda’s waist.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Wanda nodded before realizing Y/N probably couldn’t see it. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.”

A lie.

Wanda heard the strain in her breathing, but there was no time to argue. Scarlet light bloomed faintly in her palm, illuminating the space around them.

They stood in a long, narrow corridor—reinforced concrete walls, industrial piping running along the ceiling. No visible exits except the shaft above.

Which was now sealed.

Y/N scanned quickly. “That wasn’t random.”

“No,” Wanda whispered. “It wasn’t.”

The floor beneath them vibrated faintly. A distant clang echoed down the corridor. Wanda’s light brightened instinctively, shadows stretching along the concrete.

Y/N’s head tilted slightly—not toward the sound, but toward the glow.

“Turn it off,” she said quietly.

Wanda blinked. “What? We can’t see.”

“I can.”

Something in Y/N’s voice had changed—lower, steadier. Focused.

Wanda looked at her properly. In the dim red glow, Y/N’s eyes weren’t Y/E/C anymore. They were gold. Bright. Reflective.

Wanda’s breath caught. “Oh.”

Y/N gave a small nod. “They’ll see you before you see them if you keep that on.”

Another metallic clang echoed, closer now. Wanda swallowed and let the light fade. Darkness swallowed them whole.

For half a second panic surged—her human eyes useless in the pitch black. Then Y/N’s hand found hers. “I’ve got you,” she murmured again. And this time, Wanda believed it.

Metal boots scraped somewhere down the corridor.

“They’re coming from both ends,” Y/N said quietly. “About twelve. Maybe more behind them.”

“How do you—”

“I can hear their gear shifting. Heartbeats.”

Wanda’s pulse jumped at that.

Y/N exhaled once.

“Hold on.”

The shift wasn’t explosive this time. It was controlled—bone reshaping, fabric tearing softly as her body expanded into muscle and fur.

In seconds the massive wolf stood where Y/N had been.

The corridor suddenly felt too small.

Golden eyes glowed in the darkness like twin embers.

Wanda felt rather than saw the transformation—bones shifting, fabric tearing, the corridor filling with the sheer presence of something ancient and powerful.

On, Y/N thought loudly.

Wanda didn’t argue.

She climbed onto Y/N’s back in one smooth motion, fingers tangling into the thick fur at the base of her neck. The wolf adjusted instantly, lowering slightly to steady her before rising again, powerful muscles coiling beneath Wanda like restrained thunder.

Y/N’s tail flicked once—a grounding gesture.

Hold tight.

Then she moved. Not reckless. Not wild.

Precise.

Her paws struck the concrete silently despite her size, claws finding grip where human boots would slip. She chose the darker end of the corridor—the direction with fewer heartbeats.

Gunfire erupted behind them as someone caught the faint outline of movement. Bullets sparked against metal piping.

Wanda instinctively raised a small shield behind them, just enough to deflect the nearest rounds without lighting up the corridor.

Left in six steps, Y/N thought sharply.

Wanda trusted her.

At the sixth stride Y/N veered left into a narrower passage just as armed men flooded into the corridor they’d abandoned. The wolf accelerated. Air rushed past Wanda’s face as Y/N moved faster than seemed possible in such tight quarters.

A soldier stepped into view ahead.

Y/N didn’t slow. She leapt.

The impact was brutal and efficient. The soldier slammed into the wall and dropped unconscious before he could cry out.

More ahead, Y/N warned.

Wanda closed her eyes briefly, reaching outward with her mind instead of her sight. She let her awareness stretch past the darkness and concrete, brushing against the sharp edges of foreign thoughts—fear, adrenaline, clipped orders over comms.

“They’re trying to herd us,” Wanda said—but the words weren’t spoken.

They echoed directly inside Y/N’s mind.

Y/N stumbled for half a stride, startled.

You’re in my head.

Only a little, Wanda replied, focused. Left corridor is blocked. They’re funneling us toward something bigger.

Y/N’s ears flattened as she ran.

Like a containment room.

Another cluster of heartbeats pulsed ahead—tight, waiting.

“Don’t go straight,” Wanda murmured aloud this time, tightening her grip in the fur at Y/N’s neck. “There’s something at the end.” Gunfire erupted again behind them, closer now.

Y/N made a split-second decision. She accelerated—not toward the corridor, but straight at the wall.

Wanda barely had time to react.

Y/N lowered her shoulder and slammed into the concrete. The wall cracked.

Again.

Concrete splintered under the third impact. They burst through into an adjacent chamber, dust exploding into the air behind them. Shouts echoed from the corridor they’d abandoned.

They didn’t expect that, Y/N thought grimly.

Wanda flashed a brief pulse of scarlet light across the room—quick, controlled.

Industrial generators. Maintenance ducts. No guards.

For now.

“They’re redirecting,” Wanda warned, feeling confusion ripple through nearby minds as it shifted into pursuit.

Y/N’s breathing had deepened, but remained steady.

Which way?

Wanda reached out again, brushing against thoughts more carefully this time.

“There’s an external access hatch two levels up. Fewer minds that way.”

Y/N didn’t question it.

She found a vertical maintenance shaft and leapt, claws digging into metal rungs as she climbed with Wanda still on her back.

Below them, boots thundered into the broken chamber. Spotlights cut through the dust. Orders were shouted.

“They’re sealing exits!” Wanda warned.

Then we don’t use doors.

Y/N reached the next level and barreled forward, ignoring the corridors entirely. She smashed through a ventilation barrier instead.

Cold night air hit them seconds later. They burst out onto the side of the warehouse structure—Into open space.

Searchlights snapped on instantly, blinding white beams sweeping across the rooftop before locking onto them. “There!” someone shouted from below.

Gunfire followed.

Y/N lunged forward across the rooftop without hesitation, claws scraping gravel and metal as bullets sparked around them. Wanda clung tighter, one arm buried in thick fur while the other rose instinctively.

Scarlet energy flared outward in controlled bursts—not attacking blindly but deflecting, redirecting. A line of incoming rounds twisted midair and scattered harmlessly off course.

“Helicopter, three o’clock!” Wanda warned.

Rotors thundered overhead as a mounted gun pivoted downward.

Y/N veered sharply left just as a spray of heavy rounds tore through the rooftop where they’d been. Concrete exploded behind them.

Wanda reached for the comm in her ear. “Steve! Status?”

Static.

“Steve, do you copy?”

Nothing.

Her chest tightened.

“Nat?” she tried.

A beat passed.

Then—

“Go,” Nat’s voice crackled through the comm, breathless but steady. “They’re focused on you two. Don’t double back. We’ll find our own exit.”

“What about Steve?” Wanda demanded.

“Barnes has him. We’re moving. Just go!”

The line cut out.

Wanda swallowed. “They’re clear,” she told Y/N quickly. “Nat says run.”

Y/N didn’t need to be told twice.

She sprinted.

The rooftop ended abruptly in a wide gap between buildings. Three stories below, armed men swarmed the street.

Y/N gathered herself.

Hold tight.

She leapt.

For a massive creature carrying another person, the jump was impossibly graceful. They cleared the gap, landed hard on the opposite rooftop—and didn’t slow.

More gunfire. More shouting.

A second helicopter dipped lower, its spotlight tracking them like prey.

“They’re herding us toward the river,” Wanda realized, sensing the shifting movements below.

Good, Y/N replied.

Wanda blinked. “Good?”

Open space. Fewer walls. I can run faster.

Y/N reached the edge of the final building and jumped again—this time dropping straight to street level. They landed in an alley, concrete cracking beneath the impact.

Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance while searchlights swept overhead.

“Left!” Wanda called, sensing a thinner patrol grid.

Y/N pivoted instantly and accelerated—faster, faster, her paws barely touching the ground. Gunfire faded behind them as helicopters struggled to track their path between buildings.

Moments later Y/N burst out of the industrial district and into the trees lining the riverbank. Darkness swallowed them.

The rotors overhead faltered. Searchlights lost lock.

Branches whipped past as Y/N plunged deeper into the forest without slowing. She didn’t follow trails or clear paths—cutting through dense brush, leaping fallen logs, splashing through shallow water to break scent and sound. Every few minutes she changed direction sharply.

Behind them the helicopters circled once. Twice. Then drifted farther away.

Wanda kept one hand threaded in thick fur while the other hovered low with faint scarlet light—just enough to sense approaching minds. Nothing close. Only distant confusion.

Y/N ran another mile. Then another. Only when her lungs began to burn did she slow to a fast trot. Then finally— She stopped.

The forest was deep here. Thick canopy overhead. No city glow. No engine noise. Just wind moving through leaves and the distant rush of water. Y/N stood perfectly still, ears flicking, head tilting as she listened in every direction. Heartbeats. None but Wanda’s and her own.

After a long moment her thoughts came quieter.

I think we lost them.

She turned her massive head carefully to glance back at Wanda on her back.

Are you okay?

Wanda’s fingers were still gripping fur, but her breathing had steadied. Adrenaline hummed in her veins, though the panic had faded.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “You?”

A short pause.

Fine.

Another lie—but smaller this time. Y/N lowered herself slightly so Wanda could slide off. Wanda did, boots touching damp earth. The forest felt enormous. And very, very empty.

Y/N shifted her weight, scanning the trees again.

We shouldn’t stay in one place too long.

Wanda nodded. “Agreed.”

Y/N’s focus sharpened.

We find shelter. Something covered. High ground if possible.

She started forward at a slower pace, weaving through the trees but still alert.

Wanda walked close beside her, occasionally brushing her hand against the thick fur at Y/N’s side—like she needed the reassurance that she was real.

Behind them, the city lights were gone. The team was gone. The compound was gone. It was just them. The forest. And whatever this ambush had truly meant.

They moved deeper into the forest. The darkness here was different from the city’s—alive, layered. Every rustle sounded louder, every shadow closer. Wanda kept glancing over her shoulder, nerves still humming from the chase.

Y/N noticed. She slowed, then lowered herself without a word.

Up, she thought gently.

Wanda hesitated for half a second before climbing onto her back. The warmth of thick fur under her palms steadied her instantly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Y/N huffed softly and resumed moving. They climbed gradually into rougher terrain, trees thinning as rocky outcroppings appeared. The air grew colder. After another careful stretch, Y/N stopped. A cave entrance opened between two jagged rocks—partially hidden by brush, angled upward so rain wouldn’t collect. She approached cautiously, sniffing the air.

Empty.

Old animal scent, nothing recent.

This works.

She stepped inside. The cave wasn’t deep, but it was sheltered from the wind and dry, the ground mostly stone with patches of packed dirt.

Y/N lowered herself so Wanda could slide off. Wanda stepped down carefully, arms wrapping around herself as the chill finally caught up now that the adrenaline had faded. The cave was cold.

Y/N stepped back toward the entrance and shifted. Bones compressed, fur receded, and the air shimmered around her. Seconds later she stood in human form, barefoot on the cold stone. Her boots had torn apart during the earlier transformation, and her clothes were stretched and ripped at the seams—still covering her, but barely. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m going to look for branches,” Y/N said quietly. “And food if I can find it.”

Wanda frowned. “You don’t have shoes.”

“I’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t bravado. Even now her skin radiated faint warmth, the cold barely touching her.

Y/N glanced toward the dark forest outside, assessing. “You stay here,” she added. “Don’t use your powers unless you have to. They might still be scanning.”

Wanda nodded slowly.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer and brushed her fingers lightly against Wanda’s arm. “You’re safe here,” she said.

Then she turned and disappeared back into the forest—barefoot and silent despite the rocky ground.

Wanda stood alone in the cave. The silence pressed in. For the first time since the fall through the trapdoor, reality settled fully.

They were cut off.

No compound.

No team.

No idea what had just happened.

Just forest, cold air, and the distant sound of wind through the trees.

She wrapped her arms around herself and waited.

---

The cave grew colder as the night deepened. Wanda tried to keep moving—pacing a little, rubbing her hands together—but the stone floor leached warmth from her bones. Without adrenaline to keep her warm, the chill settled in fully. Her teeth were starting to chatter when she finally heard it: footsteps. Soft. Controlled. Familiar.

Y/N stepped into the cave entrance in her human form, barefoot but steady despite the rough terrain. A thick fallen log rested across one shoulder; tucked into the torn fold of her shirt were gathered wild fruits, and in her free hand she carried a freshly hunted rabbit. The moment her eyes landed on Wanda, she froze.

Wanda was shivering.

Y/N dropped everything immediately. The log hit the ground with a heavy thud. Fruits rolled across the stone. The rabbit landed beside them.

“You’re freezing,” Y/N said, crossing the cave in two quick strides.

“I’m fine,” Wanda tried—but her voice shook.

Y/N didn’t argue. She knelt and moved quickly, snapping the log into smaller pieces with efficient strength and stacking them in the center of the cave. The thinner branches she’d collected were arranged underneath. No lighter. No matches.

She looked at Wanda. “Just a spark,” she said softly.

Wanda crouched beside her and extended her fingers, keeping the glow small. A thin thread of scarlet brushed the dry bark. It caught immediately. Flames licked upward.

Y/N fed the kindling gradually until the fire took hold, warm orange light filling the cave and pushing back the darkness and cold. Without thinking, she shifted closer. “Here,” she murmured.

Y/N sat behind Wanda and gently pulled her back against her chest, wrapping her arms loosely around her shoulders—not trapping her, just anchoring. Her body was warm, almost unnaturally so. The difference was immediate.

Wanda sighed softly as heat seeped back into her skin.

“I told you I’d be fine,” Y/N said quietly, a faint edge of self-reproach in her voice.

Wanda leaned back into her without hesitation. “I wasn’t doubting that.”

The fire crackled softly between them. For a while neither spoke. Eventually Y/N reached for the rabbit and began preparing it with quiet efficiency, movements careful and practiced.

Wanda watched the flames.

Slowly, the shaking stopped.

---

The fire grew steadier, casting flickering gold across the cave walls. Y/N worked in silence, skin glowing warm in the firelight as she cleaned and dressed the rabbit with practiced movements. The urgency of battle had faded; only quiet focus remained.

Wanda leaned back against her, still wrapped in Y/N’s arms. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the contact until she had it again. The cave smelled of smoke, earth, and something grounding.

After a few minutes Y/N skewered the meat onto a sharpened branch and held it over the flames. “You should eat,” she said softly. “You burned a lot of energy tonight.”

Wanda hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t move away.

“Are you hurt?” she asked after a moment.

Y/N hesitated. “Just tired.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly. “That wasn’t my question.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “I’m fine.”

Wanda didn’t push. Instead she shifted slightly, resting one hand over Y/N’s forearm where it wrapped around her.

“I’m glad you caught me,” she said softly.

Y/N’s grip tightened just a fraction. “I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

The rabbit began to cook, its scent slowly filling the cave. Wanda watched the flames for a moment before speaking again.

“They knew,” she murmured. “About the backup intel. About us coming.”

Y/N nodded against her hair. “Yeah.”

“They wanted us separated.”

“Yeah.”

The weight of that settled between them. This hadn’t been random. It had been surgical. And it had worked.

Wanda swallowed. “Do you think Steve and Nat are okay?”

Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. “They’re not easy to kill.”

Not reassurance. Just truth.

The fire crackled as wind shifted outside the cave. For the first time since the fight, the quiet didn’t feel tense. It felt… isolated.

Wanda finally leaned forward enough to glance back at her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For not leaving me.”

Y/N blinked once, almost confused by the idea. “I wouldn’t,” she said.

And she meant it the way gravity meant falling.

Firelight danced in her golden-brown eyes.

And for now—

That was enough.

---

The fire burned down to a steady glow by the time they finished eating. Wanda had insisted Y/N take more than half the rabbit. Y/N had pretended to argue but ate it anyway. The fruits were divided quietly between them—simple, grounding.

For a few minutes afterward they sat shoulder to shoulder, listening to the forest breathe. Y/N’s posture hadn’t relaxed once. Her head tilted subtly now and then, listening, mapping the night, measuring distance between sounds.

Finally she spoke.

“We should sleep.”

Wanda glanced at her. “You can rest first. I’ll stay on guard.”

Y/N shook her head immediately. “No.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted gently. “We can both sleep.”

Wanda frowned. “What if someone finds us?”

“If something gets within half a mile, I’ll hear it,” Y/N said calmly. “If it gets closer than that, I’ll smell it. And if it steps within a hundred meters…” She tilted her head faintly, almost playful. “It won’t get that far.”

Wanda studied her face. “You’re sure?”

Y/N nodded once. “Wolf instincts.”

No arrogance—just certainty.

After a quiet beat, Y/N stood and stepped away from the fading firelight. She shifted. The transformation flowed smoothly—bones lengthening, shoulders broadening, fur cascading outward until her massive wolf form filled nearly half the cave. Golden eyes flickered in the dim light as she lowered herself near the warmest part of the cave wall.

Her thoughts brushed gently against Wanda’s mind.

Come here.

Wanda’s lips curved. She stood and walked over without hesitation.

Y/N shifted slightly to make room, curling her body into a protective crescent. Thick fur brushed Wanda’s legs.

You’ll stay warm, Y/N thought quietly. I run hot.

Wanda knelt and lay down carefully, settling into the space between Y/N’s chest and belly. The fur was impossibly soft and warm, the steady rise and fall of breath beneath her cheek grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

Y/N’s tail wrapped loosely over her legs—not trapping, just covering.

Wanda sighed softly as tension eased from her muscles. “This is… nice,” she murmured.

Y/N huffed faintly, one ear flicking toward the forest outside.

After a moment Wanda felt something else—a low vibration beneath her ear. Not quite a purr, but close. Her hand slid into the thick fur instinctively.

“You’re doing that again,” she whispered sleepily.

The vibration faltered for a second. Then resumed.

Wanda smiled.

The cave grew quieter. The forest breathed.

And for the first time since the ambush—

They both closed their eyes.

---

Next Morning

Morning came slowly.

Not with sunlight—very little reached the cave—but with a subtle shift in the air. The forest changed tone at dawn. Birds tested their voices. The wind softened.

Wanda stirred first.

She was warm. Very warm.

Her cheek pressed into thick fur, fingers tangled in it, her legs tucked beneath something heavy and protective. For a moment she didn’t remember where she was.

Then the night returned in fragments.

Warehouse.

Trapdoor.

Running.

Firelight.

Cave.

She blinked her eyes open.

Golden eyes were already watching her.

Y/N was awake—completely awake. Her head was slightly lifted, ears angled toward the cave entrance, body still curled around Wanda like it had been all night.

“You didn’t sleep,” Wanda murmured, voice thick with sleep.

A soft huff answered her.

I did, Y/N thought gently. Lightly.

Wanda shifted onto one elbow. The fire had burned down to ash. The air was cold again—but manageable with Y/N’s steady warmth.

“How long have you been up?”

Since the birds started.

Wanda smiled faintly. “That’s not a real time.”

Y/N’s tail flicked once in mild amusement.

Nothing came close, she added. Closest movement was a deer about four hundred meters east. Wind shifted after that.

Of course she knew the direction.

Wanda studied her for another moment. Even in wolf form the tension was visible—the alert shoulders, the constant listening.

“You’re still listening.”

Always.

Wanda reached up and scratched gently behind her ear.

“You can relax a little.”

Y/N leaned into the touch before catching herself.

I am relaxed.

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

The wolf blinked slowly.

Then, after a beat:

Mostly.

Wanda laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly off the cave walls.

For a moment they simply looked at each other in the dim light.

No helicopters.

No gunfire.

No shouting.

Just morning.

Wanda’s expression slowly shifted.

“We need to figure out what happened.”

Y/N’s ears twitched. Yeah.

“And we need to reach the others.”

A pause.

Okay.

Wanda pushed herself up, brushing leaves and stray fur from her clothes. Cool morning air crept through the cave entrance.

Y/N shifted back to human form, the change fluid and quiet. She rolled her shoulders once, bare feet settling on the cold stone without complaint.

“We shouldn’t use standard comms,” Wanda said, thinking aloud. “If they trapped us that deliberately, they’re probably monitoring known frequencies.”

Y/N nodded. “Safe house?”

Wanda hesitated. “…No.”

Y/N frowned slightly.

“If they planned that ambush, they’ve probably mapped every Avengers-associated property within a hundred miles—safe houses, supply caches, known routes.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Yeah. They’d expect that.”

Silence settled between them again.

They didn’t know where the others were.

They didn’t know who orchestrated the trap.

They didn’t even know if the Quinjet survived.

“We need something normal,” Wanda said finally. “Somewhere no one expects us.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Normal?”

“A motel. Small town. Cash payment. No enhanced activity.”

Y/N blinked once. “…That’s very human.”

Wanda gave her a tired smile. “Exactly.”

Y/N considered it, then nodded. “We move west. There’s a highway about three miles from here.”

Wanda glanced down at Y/N’s torn clothes and bare feet. “Hold on.”

She stepped closer, lifting her hands. Scarlet threads of energy wove through the air, stitching torn fabric back together. The ripped seams sealed, the shirt and pants reshaping cleanly.

Y/N looked down at herself, mildly impressed. “…Convenient.”

Wanda smirked faintly. “Try not to shred them again.”

Y/N huffed. “No promises.”

Wanda knelt briefly and focused again. Scarlet light gathered around Y/N’s feet, forming simple dark sneakers—sturdy and anonymous.

Y/N flexed her toes experimentally. “…You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met a moment longer than necessary.

Then Wanda stepped back. “Let’s go.”

They moved through the trees together—quieter now, less frantic than the night before. After about forty minutes, the forest thinned. The faint hum of distant traffic reached Y/N first.

“We’re close.”

Wanda nodded.

The treeline opened onto a two-lane highway cutting through open fields. Half a mile down stood a small gas station—and beyond it, a roadside motel sign flickering in tired neon.

VACANCY.

Wanda exhaled slowly. “Okay,” she murmured. “Step one.”

Y/N scanned the area carefully. No unusual heartbeats. No tactical vehicles. Just normal morning traffic.

“Cash only,” Y/N reminded her.

Wanda slipped a hand into her jacket. Thankfully chaos magic didn’t just repair clothes—it could produce a few believable bills.

“Normal,” Wanda repeated quietly.

For now—

They would disappear in plain sight.

---

The motel office smelled like stale coffee and cleaning spray. A tired man behind the counter barely glanced up when Wanda pushed open the door. She kept her hood up, posture loose—normal.

“Room?” he asked flatly.

“Just one night.”

Cash slid across the counter. No questions. A key card slid back.

Room 17.

They crossed the cracked parking lot in silence, morning sun fully up now. The world looked painfully ordinary after the chaos of the night before.

Inside, the room was small but clean enough—two towels folded at the foot of a queen bed, faded carpet, a humming air conditioner.

The door clicked shut.

For the first time since the warehouse—

They were inside four walls again.

Wanda turned the deadbolt. Y/N stood in the middle of the room for a moment, scanning and listening, shoulders still tight.

“It’s fine,” Wanda said gently. “No one’s tracking us right now.”

Y/N nodded once. “Can I shower first.”

“Of course!” Wanda didn’t argue.

Twenty minutes later steam drifted from the bathroom as Y/N stepped out wearing borrowed motel sweats and a plain shirt Wanda had conjured to replace the torn one. Her hair was damp and pushed back loosely.

She looked… human again.

Just exhausted.

“You should eat something else,” Wanda said quietly.

Y/N shook her head. “I’m okay.”

That word again.

Wanda took her turn in the shower, letting hot water beat against her shoulders longer than she intended. The tension in her muscles didn’t vanish—but it dulled.

When she stepped back into the room, toweling her hair dry—

Y/N was already asleep.

Not resting.

Gone.

She’d barely reached the bed before collapsing sideways across it, one arm draped loosely over her stomach, breathing deep and heavy. Completely unconscious.

Wanda paused in the doorway.

Y/N had pushed herself too far—running on instinct and adrenaline for too long.

She crossed the room quietly and sat on the edge of the bed. Up close, the exhaustion was obvious: faint bruises along her ribs, a shallow cut near her collarbone, tension still faintly etched into her brow even in sleep.

Wanda brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

“You liar,” she murmured softly.

I’m fine.

She shook her head faintly.

Carefully, Wanda slid under the covers beside her—not too close at first. But Y/N reacted even in sleep. Her body shifted instinctively toward the warmth, one arm draped over Wanda’s waist, breathing steady, grounded.

Wanda lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

They were fugitives now.

Separated from the team.

Hunted by someone organized enough to ambush Avengers.

She turned her head slightly to look at Y/N.

But right now—

They were safe.

---

At Night

Darkness filled the motel room again. Thin curtains barely blocked the neon glow of the vacancy sign outside, its red pulses washing faintly across the ceiling.

Wanda was warm. Too warm. An arm lay heavy across her waist, steady breath against her shoulder. For a moment she forgot everything. Then—A faint crackle. Static. A low, distorted tone.

Y/N’s eyes opened instantly. She didn’t move at first—just listened. There. Another faint burst of interference. Her head turned slowly toward the small table near the door. The comm unit. Wanda had set it there before showering. Y/N blinked away the last layer of sleep and nudged Wanda lightly. “Wanda,” she murmured, voice thick but alert.

Wanda stirred. “What—?”

“The comm.”

Another crackle—clearer this time. Wanda shot upright, heart racing. The signal was faint but unmistakable, pushing through interference. She scrambled off the bed and grabbed the device.

“Hello?” she said quickly, keeping her voice low.

Static. Then— “…da?”

Wanda’s breath caught. “Nat?”

The line buzzed, then steadied slightly. “About time,” Nat’s voice came through, strained but alive. “You two took a scenic route.”

Relief hit Wanda so hard her knees nearly buckled. “We’re okay,” she said quickly. “Are you?”

“Alive. Steve and Bucky too.”

Wanda closed her eyes briefly. Thank God.

“Quinjet’s gone,” Nat continued. “Warehouse was scrubbed. Professional job.”

“Who?” Wanda asked.

“Still working on that.”

Y/N had risen from the bed, standing close enough to hear every word.

“Are you safe?” Wanda pressed.

“For now. We scattered. Low profile. No Avengers signatures. No Stark tech. No obvious magic.”

“Same here,” Wanda said.

A small pause. Then Nat’s voice lowered. “They wanted you separated.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked to Y/N. “We figured.”

Another burst of static. “We’ll regroup,” Nat said. “But not yet. Lay low. Switch locations every twenty-four hours. Use public networks sparingly.”

Wanda nodded instinctively, even though Nat couldn’t see her. “Copy.”

Nat’s tone shifted slightly.

“And Wanda?”

“Yeah?”

“You two good?”

Wanda hesitated, glancing at Y/N. Y/N stood steady beside her—alert, protective, present. “We’re okay,” Wanda said quietly.

A beat.

“Good,” Nat replied. “We’ll ping again when it’s safe.” The line went dead.

The room fell silent except for the low hum of the air conditioner. Wanda lowered the comm slowly. “They’re alive,” she said.

Y/N exhaled, tension leaving her shoulders for the first time since the ambush. “Good.”

Wanda looked up at her. “We’re not going back anytime soon.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

Outside, the neon sign flickered again. Inside the dim motel room, the two of them stood there—fugitives by circumstance, but no longer alone.

The silence after the comm went dead felt different. Not heavy. Not panicked. Focused. Wanda set the device back on the table and leaned against it, arms crossing loosely. “So,” she said quietly, “we rotate locations. No patterns. No powers in public unless absolutely necessary.”

Y/N nodded. “No shifting unless we’re clear.”

“No obvious cash trails.”

“No staying more than a night.”

They fell into planning easily—strategy, survival, contingencies. It felt strangely calm now that the immediate chaos had passed. “If they scrubbed the warehouse that fast,” Wanda said, pacing slowly, “this wasn’t some random mercenary group.”

“No,” Y/N agreed. “They had numbers. Coordination. Infrastructure.”

“And they knew about the backup intel.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. “Which means they knew we’d come.”

Wanda’s expression darkened. “Someone fed them the mission details.”

The thought hung in the room. Neither said it aloud. Inside job.

After a moment Wanda sighed and sat back on the edge of the bed. “Okay. We lay low. Maybe move further west tomorrow—smaller towns.”

Y/N leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, thoughtful.

Her stomach growled. Loudly. The sound filled the quiet room with zero dignity.

Wanda blinked.

Y/N stiffened. It growled again.

Wanda tried—she really tried—not to laugh. A small sound escaped anyway.

Y/N looked personally betrayed by her own body. “It’s been hours,” she muttered defensively.

Wanda’s smile softened. “You carried me through a city and ran through a forest. You’re allowed to be hungry.”

Another rumble.

Y/N glanced down at her stomach like it had committed treason.

Wanda stood, still smiling, and stepped closer. “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Y/N hesitated. “Public.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“I’m recognizable.”

Wanda tilted her head. “So am I.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “That’s my point.”

Wanda lowered her voice. “Simple diner. Cash. Sit near the exit.”

Y/N still looked uncertain.

“And,” Wanda added, a spark returning to her tone, “we should buy supplies.”

Y/N’s posture shifted immediately to practical. “Like what?”

“Backpacks. First aid kit. Clothes that don’t scream ‘Avengers.’ Toiletries. Maybe a prepaid phone.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Water purification tablets. Flashlights. Cash from different places.”

Wanda smiled faintly. “See? You’re already planning.”

Y/N glanced toward the window, thinking.

Wanda, meanwhile, was staring at her. Specifically—at her hair.

Y/N noticed after a moment. “What?”

Wanda’s lips curved slightly. “…Maybe we should change our hair.”

Y/N blinked. “Our… hair.”

“Color,” Wanda clarified. “Easiest visual identifier.”

Y/N instinctively touched her dark hair. “You want to dye it?”

“Temporary,” Wanda said with a shrug. “Drugstore kit.”

Y/N studied her. “You’re enjoying this.”

Wanda tried to look innocent. “Maybe a little.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “What color.”

Wanda stepped closer, examining her thoughtfully. “Blonde would be obvious. Mine is already red… not blue.”

Wanda laughed softly. “No. Not blue.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Maybe lighter brown. Or dark auburn.”

Y/N looked like she was mentally assessing the strategic threat of hair dye. “And you?”

Wanda shrugged. “I could go darker.”

Y/N studied her for a moment. “You don’t have to.”

Wanda’s smile softened. “I know.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then Y/N sighed. “Fine. We eat. We shop. We change our hair.”

Her stomach growled again on cue.

Wanda covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “Dinner first,” she said gently.

And for the first time since the trapdoor—

This felt almost like an adventure instead of an escape.

---

Later that night they slipped back into Room 17 carrying plastic bags—cheap backpacks, basic toiletries, a prepaid phone, bottled water, and two small boxes of temporary hair dye.

The motel bathroom was barely big enough for both of them.

Yellow light. Cracked mirror. A faint hum from the vent overhead.

Wanda stood at the sink reading the instructions on the dye box while Y/N hovered awkwardly near the door.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Y/N asked.

“It’s hair dye,” Wanda replied dryly. “Not gamma radiation.”

Y/N grunted softly.

She reached up and pulled her shirt over her head.

Wanda turned at the movement—

And froze.

Y/N was shirtless except for her sports bra. Lean muscle defined her frame, faint scars tracing along her ribs and shoulder—marks left by Hydra and everything she’d survived.

Wanda had seen her like this before.

Training.

Medical checks.

After missions.

But this felt different.

The cramped bathroom.

The quiet.

The proximity.

Her gaze drifted down Y/N’s torso before she could stop herself.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, sudden and sharp.

She blinked.

Shook her head slightly.

Get it together. She’s your friend!

“Everything okay?” Y/N asked, completely unaware, expression open and almost innocent.

Wanda swallowed. “Yeah. Fine.”

She focused very hard on the dye box in her hands.

“Sit,” she added, gesturing toward the closed toilet lid.

Y/N obeyed without question, turning her back and sitting down. Damp hair brushed the back of her neck.

Wanda slipped on the thin plastic gloves and mixed the dye carefully, hands steady again.

She stepped closer.

Very close.

Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Y/N’s skin.

“Lean forward a little,” Wanda murmured.

Y/N did.

Wanda began applying the dye to her short hair, working methodically, careful not to drip. The chemical scent filled the small space.

For a while neither spoke.

Wanda’s fingers brushed lightly over Y/N’s scalp as she worked.

Y/N’s shoulders relaxed a little more with every pass.

“…You’re very focused,” Y/N said quietly.

“I’m trying not to stain your face.”

A small huff of amusement.

Silence again.

Up close Wanda could see the faint tension in Y/N’s posture—even sitting down she held herself like someone ready to move at any moment.

“You can relax,” Wanda said softly.

“I am.”

Wanda smiled faintly behind her.

“You say that a lot.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Wanda finished coating the last section of hair and stepped back.

“Okay,” she said. “We wait.”

Y/N looked up at her through the mirror.

Their eyes met.

For a second—

The small bathroom felt even smaller.

Wanda looked away first.

“My turn after this,” she said quickly.

Y/N nodded.

But the faint flush creeping up her neck wasn’t entirely from the heat.

---

The motel room was dim except for the glow of the TV, a late-night sitcom murmuring softly in the background.

Wanda sat cross-legged on the bed, watching without really seeing.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam drifted out first.

Then Y/N stepped into the room, towel in hand, drying her hair.

Wanda looked up—

And froze.

The new color caught the light differently—dark auburn now, richer and deeper, sharpening Y/N’s features. Damp strands fell over her forehead as she rubbed them with the towel.

She was still shirtless.

Sports bra. Sweatpants low on her hips. Bare feet.

And that hair—

Wanda’s breath hitched.

Heat pooled low in her stomach again, sharper this time. Her gaze dropped for half a second before she forced it back up.

Stop it.

We are just friends.

Why am I—

Y/N tilted her head. “Wanda?”

No response.

She stepped closer.

“Wanda?”

A hand waved slowly in front of her face.

Wanda blinked hard, dragged back to the moment.

“Sorry—what?”

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked, brows knitting slightly. “You were staring.”

Heat rushed to Wanda’s cheeks.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, sitting up straighter.

Y/N hesitated. Her hand drifted to her damp hair.

“…It looks bad, right?”

The uncertainty was genuine.

She thought Wanda had been staring because she didn’t like it.

Wanda looked at her again—this time deliberately.

The color suited her. Made her eyes warmer. Softer. Dangerous in a completely different way.

“No,” Wanda said a little too fast.

Y/N blinked.

“It looks… really good,” Wanda corrected, voice quieter.

Y/N studied her face carefully.

Wanda held her gaze.

“It suits you.”

A faint flush crept up Y/N’s neck.

“…Oh.”

She rubbed the back of her head, still damp from the shower. And Wanda felt that warm flutter again—stronger now.

She inhaled sharply.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

This was ridiculous. They were stressed. On the run. Exhausted. That was all.

Right?

Y/N shifted her weight, unaware of the chaos she was causing.

Wanda’s pulse jumped.

“I—” she started, then abruptly stood from the bed.

Too fast.

“Bathroom,” she blurted.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“My turn,” Wanda added quickly, already moving past her.

Her arm brushed Y/N’s lightly as she passed. The contact sent another sharp spark through her. Wanda hissed softly under her breath.

Get it together.

Behind her, Y/N turned slightly.

“I can help—” she began.

But the bathroom door had already clicked shut.

Inside, Wanda leaned back against it and exhaled hard. Her heart was racing like she’d just sprinted. She pressed her palms to her cheeks.

“What is wrong with me?” she muttered.

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not now.

Not here.

Not with everything else happening.

She closed her eyes and focused on something simple—breathing, grounding, control.

Outside the door, Y/N stood there a moment longer, confused.

“…Okay,” she murmured to herself.

Then she stepped away, giving Wanda space.

Because that’s what she always did.

And somehow—

That only made it worse.

---

When Wanda finally stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind her, the room somehow felt smaller.

Her hair was darker now—deep brown, almost black under the dim motel lighting. It framed her face differently, making her eyes stand out sharper and brighter.

Y/N looked up from where she sat on the edge of the bed.

And froze.

For a moment she simply stared—not confused, not uncertain.

Just… stunned.

Wanda felt it instantly, the weight of that gaze settling over her. Her stomach tightened.

Y/N stood slowly. “You—” she started, then stopped.

Wanda’s heart began to pound.

“You look…” Y/N swallowed, then smiled softly. “Beautiful.”

The word landed gently. And hit hard. Heat rushed up Wanda’s neck.

She turned away too quickly. “Okay,” she said, already moving toward the bed. “We should sleep.”

She pulled back the covers and slid under them without another glance, turning so her back faced Y/N. “Big day tomorrow,” she added, her voice just slightly higher than normal.

Silence followed.

Y/N stood there, replaying the last ten seconds in her head.

You look beautiful.

That was good, right? That was… appropriate? Slowly she moved to the other side of the bed.

“Did I…” Y/N hesitated. “…say something wrong?”

Wanda stiffened beneath the covers. “No.”

“You left very fast.”

“I’m just tired.”

Y/N frowned faintly. She climbed into bed carefully, leaving a respectful space between them this time.

Too much space.

The room hummed quietly with the AC.

After a moment Y/N tried again. “If I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t mean to.”

That did it.

Wanda rolled slightly onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

“You didn’t,” she said softly.

Y/N still looked unconvinced.

Wanda sighed, then lifted a hand and patted the bed beside her.

A simple gesture.

Y/N blinked.

“…Come here.”

The hesitation lasted only a second. Then Y/N shifted closer, still careful, leaving a small gap between them like she was afraid of crossing some invisible line.

Wanda turned onto her side to face her. The new color in Y/N’s hair caught the low red glow from the sign outside, softer now, almost copper. Wanda reached out slowly and brushed her fingers through it.

Y/N went completely still.

“It’s fine,” Wanda murmured. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

Her fingers combed through the short strands, slow and soothing.

Y/N’s shoulders gradually relaxed.

“You can just… sleep,” Wanda added quietly.

Y/N swallowed and nodded, shifting a little closer until their knees brushed lightly beneath the covers.

Wanda kept running her fingers through her hair, thumb occasionally grazing her temple. The tension slowly left Y/N’s face.

Her breathing deepened.

“I meant when I said you look beautiful,” Y/N murmured sleepily, eyes already half-closed.

Wanda’s heart skipped.

This time she didn’t pull away. She simply kept stroking her hair.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered.

Within minutes Y/N’s breathing evened out.

Asleep.

Wanda stayed awake a little longer, fingers still resting lightly in her hair.

The motel room was dim, lit only by the faint red flicker from the sign outside. Every few seconds it cast shifting shadows across Y/N’s face, softening the sharp lines and catching in the auburn strands Wanda had helped color just hours ago.

Wanda’s hand stilled.

Get it together.

They were just friends.

Y/N had said it the way someone might say you look beautiful. It didn’t have to mean anything.

It didn’t have to mean—

Her stomach tightened again at the memory.

Stop.

This wasn’t the time to spiral. They were on the run. Possibly hunted. Separated from the team and still unsure who had betrayed them. Feelings could wait. Complications could wait.

Wanda gently slid her hand from Y/N’s hair and rested it on her own chest instead, grounding herself. She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Just friends.

Outside, a truck passed along the highway. The neon sign buzzed faintly.

Tomorrow they would leave this place. Change motels. Buy supplies. Stay invisible.

She closed her eyes.

And eventually—

Sleep took her too.

---

She lets out a soft, questioning babble, something between a coo and a complaint.

Natasha’s expression softens instantly.

“Ne volnuisya (Don’t worry),” she murmurs, her Russian slipping in without thought, the cadence low and soothing. “My spravimsya (We’ve got this).”

The effect is immediate. Lena giggles, feet kicking lightly as she pats the tray in front of her with growing excitement.

That earns a quiet smile from Natasha, pride flickering across her face before she schools it into mock seriousness again. She raises the spoon carefully and opens her mouth wide.

“Ahhh…”

Lena blinks once and then mirrors her perfectly, mouth opening in a delighted, exaggerated “ah,” chin tipped up expectantly.

Natasha bites back a laugh as she guides the spoon forward steadily. The food disappears without incident.

“There we go,” she murmurs, gentle as she wipes the faintest smear from Lena’s chin with her thumb.

No mess. No spills. A miracle.

Natasha sets the spoon down with a satisfied plop and claps her hands once in triumph.

“Molodets, zayka moya! (Well done, my little bunny!),” she coos.

Lena’s face lights up. She squeals and immediately claps too, enthusiastic and wildly off-rhythm.

“Oh?” you call as you step out from the hallway. “And what did our little Lena do?”

Natasha looks up immediately and rises to meet you, pressing a familiar kiss to your cheek before answering, pride warm in her voice. 

“She finished her entire breakfast with no mess.”

As if summoned by the praise, Lena continues clapping, clearly still riding the high of her accomplishment.

Natasha glances back at her daughter and nods solemnly.

“Da, molodets (Yes, well done),” she affirms, as though addressing a fellow Avenger after a successful mission.

Lena beams, kicks her feet against the chair, and squeals again.

You laugh under your breath, warmth filling your chest until Natasha’s attention shifts back to you, and her smile falters. Her eyes drop, taking in the unmistakable sight of your SHIELD uniform.

“Where are you going?”

You wince a little, already feeling guilty about the whole situation.

“Something’s acting up in the security system,” you explain. “They need me to take a look. It shouldn’t take long.”

Natasha leans back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.

“What about breakfast?”

You wave a hand lightly, stepping a half-step farther from the stove, where the scrambled eggs sit waiting in the pan. Your face scrunches faintly at the usually rich and buttery smell that now suddenly feels overwhelming.

“It’s okay. I’m not really hungry,” you say.

Natasha’s brows furrow deeper.

“You’re always hungry in the morning.”

You offer a small apologetic shrug.

“Guess my stomach’s feeling weird today.”

That doesn’t reassure her at all. Natasha’s eyes sharpen, scanning you head to toe. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go then,” she says, voice lowering in concern, before her lips twist slightly, disappointment slipping through before she can hide it. “Plus, I thought we could start on the Russian lessons today with Lena.”

From the high chair, Lena watches the two of you closely. Then suddenly, she crosses her arms too. It’s less intimidating and more like she’s hugging herself, but the intent to copy her mother is unmistakable.

She follows it up with a dramatic raspberry in your direction.

You gasp softly, pressing your hand to your chest as if wounded. 

“Nu vy moi malyshi…(Oh, my poor little babies…),” you say, looking at the two of them with pouts on their faces.  

You cup Natasha’s cheeks first and pull her closer, kissing the tip of her nose, then her cheek, and then finally her lips, lingering just long enough to feel her soften beneath it.

“Prostite menya? (Forgive me?),” you whisper against her lips.

For a second, Natasha remains firm in her stance before she exhales, resignation already creeping in, and shakes her head.

“Your Russian,” she mutters. “It’s becoming a dangerous weapon.”

You smirk, pressing one more kiss to her lips. 

“I learn from the best,” you tease.

Then you turn your attention to the other Romanoff in the room.

“And what about you, hm?” you murmur, crouching just slightly so you’re at her eye level. “Does my little Lena want a hug from her mommy?”

The answer is immediate. Lena’s arms shoot forward, fingers opening and closing urgently as she babbles with determined insistence. There’s no hesitation in her actions, just complete confidence that you’ll hold her.

You lift her easily and spin once in place. 

Lena lets out a delighted shriek, head tipping back as laughter spills freely from her, one tiny hand clutching at your collar as the other wraps around your shoulder.

Natasha watches the exchange with a long but fond, exaggerated sigh.

“I can’t believe she folded instantly,” she says, shaking her head. 

You grin, pressing your forehead gently to Lena’s. 

“Well, she’s just copying you,” you say softly. “Aren’t you? Copying your mama?”

“Mmm,” Lena hums happily, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, and then she promptly shoves a fistful of your uniform collar straight into her mouth.

“Ah. Nope,” Natasha says immediately, stepping in. She carefully pries the damp fabric free and scoops Lena back into her arms. “We are not eating tactical gear today.”

She settles Lena against her hip, then looks back at you. The humor fades just enough to reveal something steadier underneath.

“Be careful,” she says seriously.

You smile, light and reassuring, even as you reach for your keys. 

“I’m just going to headquarters.”

Natasha steps closer anyway. She rests her forehead against yours, eyes closing for a brief second, as if anchoring herself with your presence.

“Still,” she whispers. “Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

You open your mouth to reply, but a small hand presses against your cheek first.

“Mmbuhmm,” Lena echoes solemnly from between the two of you, clearly convinced she’s participated correctly.

You laugh softly and press a kiss to Lena’s chubby cheek before leaning in to kiss Natasha, gentler and lingering, pulling away only until you feel her hum of satisfaction.

“I’ll see you two tonight,” you say.

At the door, you pause and look back once more. 

Natasha stands in the kitchen holding Lena, both of them watching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wait for you to come home.

You give them a little wave, and then the door closes behind you. 

The quiet settles in quickly afterwards.

Almost immediately, Natasha feels Lena shift in her arms. She looks down and sees it—the glassy eyes, the way her bottom lip trembles just slightly as she stares at the spot where you’d been.

Natasha reacts without hesitation.

“Ya zdes, zayka moya, (I’m here, my little bunny),” she murmurs softly, turning Lena inward so her full attention is pulled away from the door. 

Lena blinks through her blurry eyes, focus snapping back as Natasha’s face fills her vision. Her fingers curl uncertainly against Natasha’s shirt, and she glances once more toward the door before letting out a small, wavering sound.

Natasha bounces her gently, swaying just enough to be comforting.

“Come on,” she says lightly. “Want to go play in your castle?”

That does it. Lena’s eyes widen, interest overriding sadness instantly at the suggestion of playing with one of the many toys the other Avengers have gifted her. She pats Natasha’s shoulder insistently like she’s already decided where they’re headed.

Natasha exhales in quiet relief, a soft laugh slipping free.

“Alright,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into Lena’s hair as she turns down the hallway. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha carefully eases the baby bottle from Lena’s loose grip, pausing when her daughter makes a tiny sound in her sleep. 

But Lena doesn’t stir any more than that. She remains sprawled comfortably atop her chaotic nest of plush toys, one leg thrown over a stuffed bear, lashes resting softly against flushed cheeks.

Natasha exhales in relief when she sees that Lena is still fast asleep after she completely removes the bottle from her grip. She stays there a moment longer, crouched beside the couch, just watching. The rise and fall of Lena’s chest. The way her fingers twitch occasionally, like she’s chasing something pleasant in her dreams.

Peaceful and safe. 

It still feels unreal. There was a time when Natasha was taught that she could never have something like this. The Red Room made sure of that. Made sure of many things. And yet here she is, kneeling in the quiet of her own living room, watching her daughter nap without fear.

Her little miracle. 

A soft chime breaks the silence.

Natasha’s head snaps up instantly, spine straightening as every instinct she’s ever honed clicks into place. The security notification echoes faintly through the house, indicating there’s movement at the front door camera.

She glances back at Lena, still soundly asleep.

Careful not to make a sound, Natasha rises and slips her hand into a hidden compartment along the wall. Her fingers curl easily around the grip of a handgun as she moves toward the entryway.

At the security panel, she taps the live feed. Her shoulders drop immediately. She tucks the weapon away with an irritated sigh and unlocks the door just as it swings open.

Yelena breezes inside without hesitation, already scanning the house.

“Where is she?” Yelena demands, eyes darting from room to room.

Natasha shuts the door behind her with an exasperated sigh.

“Hi, Yelena,” she says dryly. “Nice to see you. My day’s been fine, thanks for asking.”

Yelena reappears from the hallway and gives her a flat look.

“If I wanted to see you, I would’ve just called,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “Now, where is my niece?”

Natasha rolls her eyes and turns toward the living room.

Yelena follows and pauses when she sees Lena bundled among blankets and plush toys.

“She’s napping,” Natasha reveals.

Her gasp is immediate and offended.

“Ah, suka, (Ah, bitch),” she says sharply, shooting Natasha a glare. “You changed her nap schedule.”

“I did not,” Natasha replies, leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed. “She just wore herself out faster today.”

Before Yelena can argue, a soft, sleepy sound drifts up from the couch.

“Mmm…shu…ka…”

The world stops. Natasha and Yelena stand frozen, staring at each other with increasingly horrified and panicked expressions.

Yelena breaks first, exhaling deeply. 

“Oh shi—”

Natasha’s hand clamps over Yelena’s mouth with lightning speed.

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses.

Slowly, they both lean over the couch and look down.

Lena is sitting up now, hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep but very much open. She blinks at them curiously, then presses her tiny hand over her mouth, mimicking her mama’s action.

Natasha immediately lowers her hand from Yelena’s face.

“Maybe,” Yelena whispers carefully, “we heard wrong.”

Natasha gives her a warning glare. Then she moves quickly to Lena, scooping her up with practiced gentleness.

“Hey, zayka moya (my little bunny),” Natasha murmurs softly, smoothing a hand over Lena’s hair. “Did we wake you?”

Lena rubs at her eyes, then squints at Natasha. Her gaze drifts to Yelena, and then back to Natasha.

“Su…ka,” she mumbles hesitantly.

Natasha’s smile freezes for one second before she adjusts Lena against her shoulder, cradling the back of her head protectively to keep her from seeing her true feelings on her face. She looks over her daughter’s shoulder.

The glare she gives Yelena is lethal.

I am going to kill you, she mouths.

Yelena lifts both hands instantly. 

“You said she was asleep!”

“You’re going to help me fix this,” Natasha says calmly despite everything, rocking Lena back and forth while internally spiraling.

“How?” Yelena asks. “She already said it.”

Natasha starts pacing as she thinks.

You cannot find out that your daughter’s first word is a Russian curse word. That simply cannot happen.

“I just need to teach her something else,” Natasha decides aloud.

She stops and turns Lena to face her.

“Right, Lena?” she says gently. “You’ll learn a different word for mama.”

Lena babbles happily in response, then reaches toward Yelena, making grabby hands.

Natasha sighs as Yelena takes her.

“I don’t know,” Yelena says, bouncing Lena lightly and poking her side until she giggles. “You can’t really control what she says. She’s a baby.”

Natasha rubs a hand over her face, then glances at the clock.

You won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time.

“I taught her mother Russian,” Natasha mutters. “I can teach my daughter one different word.”

“Suka! (Bitch!)” Lena chirps brightly, patting Yelena’s cheeks.

Natasha groans, dragging both hands down her face.

Yelena grins.

“This is going to be fun,” she says cheerfully.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It turns out this is not fun. Not even a little.

By the second hour, Yelena’s smug amusement has worn thin, reduced to the occasional snort from the kitchen. By the third, Natasha’s confidence has cracked completely, splintering under the weight of repetition, tiny fists, and one extremely committed toddler mouth.

Now she’s kneeling on the floor beside the couch, one forearm slung over the cushion, her forehead pressed into the fabric in quiet, undignified defeat. The tight braid she’d started the morning with has loosened, strands slipping free to tickle her cheek and cling to her neck with the faint sheen of sweat.

On top of her head sits Lena. Well—half sits, half sprawls.

Lena hugs her mama’s head like it’s a plush toy, chubby cheek mashed into Natasha’s hair as she shoves a determined fistful of red strands straight into her mouth. One socked foot kicks lazily in the air, heel thumping against the couch in an idle, content rhythm.

“Lena,” Natasha pleads, her voice muffled and roughened by fabric. “Please. Say anything else.”

“Mmmmbof,” Lena replies cheerfully into Natasha’s hair, and then blows a wet raspberry for emphasis.

Natasha groans.

From the kitchen doorway, Yelena watches the scene with open fascination, leaning against the frame as she crunches loudly on a snack.

“Wow,” she drawls. “Truly groundbreaking teaching methods. How did you ever manage to teach your wife Russian?”

Natasha shifts just enough to breathe, carefully prying her hair from Lena’s grip before lifting both hands to cup the toddler’s ears. She tilts her head just enough to glare at her sister.

“The same way we made Lena,” she says flatly.

Yelena chokes, sputtering and face blanching as she bends forward, one hand braced on the doorframe.

“Ew,” she gasps once she recovers, recoiling dramatically. “You two are lucky that sorcery is required. Otherwise, this place would be crawling with tiny children screaming Russian obscenities.”

Natasha smirks, victorious for exactly half a second, before it softens as she looks back down.

Lena is now copying her. She presses her own tiny hands over Natasha’s, squishing her ears, eyes sparkling with triumph.

Natasha exhales a laugh and slides her hands down to Lena’s cheeks instead, thumbs brushing gently. Lena giggles and squirms, grabbing at her own little boots and rocking in place with uncontained delight.

“Mmmbuv,” Lena babbles happily.

Natasha leans in, resting her forehead against her daughter’s, nose brushing nose.

“Would you like that, zayka moya (my little bunny)?” she murmurs. “A little sister. Just like Aunt Yelena. Causing you trouble every time she visits.”

“Hey!” Yelena protests, abandoning the doorway to lean her forearms over the back of the couch.

Lena laughs at the raised voice and turns toward her aunt, face lighting up.

“Suka (Bitch),” she announces proudly.

Yelena snorts and lifts her hand for a high-five.

“You said it.”

Natasha slaps Yelena’s hand away mid-air without looking.

“Don’t encourage it.”

Before Yelena can retaliate, a phone rings, echoing in the room.

Natasha freezes for half a beat before reaching into her pocket. She glances at the screen, displaying your name, and answers immediately, her voice smoothing into practiced calm despite her internal panic.

“Hey,” she greets casually.

“How are my two favorite girls?” you ask.

Natasha’s eyes flick down to Lena, who is staring at the phone with far too much interest. Natasha subtly turns away, covering the microphone with her palm in case the little girl gets any idea to blurt out her new favorite word.

“Everything’s good,” she says quickly. “She napped early. And Yelena’s been here.”

“Uh oh,” you tease.

Despite your kidding tone, Natasha’s stomach drops anyway, panic flaring sharp and fast.

“There’s no ‘uh oh,’” she says too fast. “Everything is fine.”

“Smooth,” Yelena whispers.

Natasha shoots her a warning look.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, skepticism bleeding through just enough to make Natasha wince. She’s already mentally rehearsing how to recover when you speak again.

“Actually, I called to see if you can bring me the USB drive from my desk? I need it to override some stuff here, but I forgot to bring it with me.”

Relief hits her like a wave at the change of subject.

Natasha glances back at Lena, who is now wielding a plush toy like a weapon while Yelena defends herself with another, dramatically collapsing every time she’s struck.

“Sure,” Natasha says. “I’ll ask Yelena to watch Lena.”

“I got her!” Yelena calls, already scooping Lena up.

Natasha gives her a thumbs-up before returning her attention to you.

“I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, Natasha.”

She exhales, shoulders finally loosening in relief. Then your voice comes back, softer, quieter.

“Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

Natasha melts instantly, ducking her head to hide the smile that spreads across her face.

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu (I love you too),” she replies, warm and sincere.

She ends the call and turns, only to find Lena staring at her, transfixed, like her eyes are absorbing every little interaction.

Natasha pastes on a reassuring smile and presses a kiss to Lena’s hair before moving to grab the USB from your desk. When she comes back, Lena is giggling in Yelena’s arms, delighted by ridiculous faces and exaggerated noises.

Moving towards the front, Natasha slips on her jacket and grabs her keys, then stops in sudden realization.

Laughter is no longer echoing in the home. 

Natasha turns back around to find Lena’s eyes locked on her.

She isn’t squirming playfully in Yelena’s arms anymore. Instead, her little hands are clasped in front of her chest, fingers twisting together like she’s holding herself together. 

With her mama’s gaze on her, her lower lip trembles. Not a cry yet, just the fragile warning of one. Meanwhile, tears begin to pool, bright and unshed.

Something in Natasha’s chest cracks clean through.

She crosses the room in three quick strides and takes Lena without a word, pulling her close.

“Nope,” Natasha mutters, already adjusting her against her shoulder. “We’re going together.”

Lena exhales shakily and melts into her, fingers clutching at Natasha’s jacket as she buries her face into her collarbone.

Natasha grabs Lena’s jacket and little hat, bundling her up with efficient tenderness.  

When she finishes, Lena clings to her tighter, arms wrapped firmly around her neck.

Yelena leans against the hallway wall, watching quietly.

“What if she says it in front of her?” she finally asks.

Natasha opens the door and glances back coolly.

“Then I’m telling her it’s your fault.”

“Hey—!”

The door shuts. Behind it, Yelena huffs before shuddering at the thought of facing your wrath.

“Ah,” she mutters. “Suka (bitch).”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha chuckles under her breath as Lena arches backward in her arms, nearly upside down, her tiny boots kicking the air happily. The lights of the SHIELD headquarters reflect in her bright eyes while she twists left, then right, offering enthusiastic waves to every agent who so much as glances her way.

Each returned wave earns a delighted squeal.

“Careful, Lena,” Natasha murmurs, though there’s no real bite to it. One arm stays firm around the toddler’s waist while the other braces her back, years of balance and instinct making the movement effortless. “You’re going to launch yourself at some point.”

Lena only giggles harder, flopping dramatically in the opposite direction as if to test the theory.

Eventually, Natasha eases her upright again, cradling her securely against her shoulder as they step into the control room. The hum of computers and overlapping voices fills the space, screens glowing in neat rows.

The sudden change in stimulation seems to settle Lena. She relaxes almost instantly, pressing her cheek against Natasha’s shoulder, thumb brushing absently against the collar of her jacket.

“Mma…mmbu,” she mumbles into the fabric.

Natasha turns her head slightly, brushing her lips over Lena’s temple.

“What was that, zayka moya (my little bunny)?”

Lena lifts her head, clearly preparing to repeat her gibberish, but she’s interrupted.

“Well, look who decided to finally come for a visit.”

Natasha doesn’t need to turn to know that voice.

Tony Stark steps away from a cluster of agents hunched over a console, a playful smirk already in place. He tugs lightly at the cuffs of his jacket as he approaches, hands slipping into his pockets.

He nods once at Natasha in greeting. 

“Romanoff.”

Then he tilts his head dramatically at Lena.

“Mini Romanoff.”

Lena beams at the attention and claps wildly, the sound echoing faintly in the control room.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“What are you doing here, Tony?”

He hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the console behind him.

“Well, when your wife couldn’t figure out what was wrong, she called me to take over,” he says with exaggerated humility. “At least someone recognizes my genius.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow slightly. That’s strange. You wouldn’t just give up on a problem like that.

Lena watches the shift in her mama’s expression closely. Her little brows furrow in concentration as she studies Natasha’s face, processing it.

Then, with perfect timing and confidence, she looks at Tony and points her finger at him.

“Suka (Bitch).”

The word rings out far clearer than any of her previous babbles. The room instantly goes quiet.

Tony’s eyes widen comically. His head snaps toward Natasha, then back to Lena.

“Nat. You didn’t—”

“I didn’t,” Natasha cuts in firmly, tightening her hold on Lena in immediate defense.

Tony lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head.

“Oh, wait until Captain hears about this.”

Natasha steps forward and grabs the front of his suit, fingers fisting into the fabric near his collar.

“Are you really sure you want to do that?” she asks calmly. Her tone is not loud. It doesn’t need to be for one to hear the threat underneath.

Tony clears his throat, attempting to appear unaffected.

“Kidding. You know I was kidding.”

Unfortunately for him, during the intimidating conversation, Lena found something far more interesting in her observation of her mama.

Before anyone can react, her tiny fist wraps around his tie and yanks hard.

Tony’s composure vanishes as the silk tightens instantly around his throat.

“Uh—Nat—” he chokes, both hands flying up to try and pry her fingers loose. “Your child—she’s—”

Oblivious to his choked gasps, Lena shrieks in delight, swinging the captured tie back and forth like a trophy.

Natasha watches for a moment, just long enough for Tony to suffer, before exhaling through her nose.

“Otpustí, zayka moya (let go, my little bunny),” she murmurs gently against Lena’s hair.

Immediately, Lena freezes mid-swing and turns her head to look at Natasha, surprised. Her free hand floats to her mouth.

“Mmm?” she questions softly.

Natasha gives her a solemn nod.

Lena looks back down at her clenched fist. Then very slowly, her fingers uncurl until the tie drops. She leans forward to watch it fall, then looks up at Tony with wide, innocent eyes.

“Gah?” she offers, like an apology.

Tony attempts to maintain an offended expression. It lasts approximately two seconds before he looks away, rubbing at his throat.

“It’s fine,” he rasps. “I didn’t need to breathe anyway.”

Natasha huffs a small laugh, adjusting Lena higher on her hip. Then she scans the room.

“Now, where’s my wife?”

Tony, still disentangling the abused tie from around his neck, gestures vaguely down the hall.

“She said she wasn’t feeling good, so she went to the medical bay.”

Natasha straightens immediately, the humor draining from her face.

“Why did you tell me that sooner?” Natasha demands.

Tony waves the wrinkled tie at her.

“Because I was being strangled by your daughter.”

Lena claps proudly at that, clearly interpreting it as praise.

Natasha’s lips twitch despite herself, but the smile fades quickly.

You hadn’t said anything about feeling worse when you called her. 

“Mma..mm?” Lena questions as she observes the frown on her mama’s face.

Natasha presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to Lena’s temple.

“Come on,” she murmurs softly. “Let’s go find your mommy.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha hears your voice before she sees you. She’s just rounding the corner outside the medical bay doors, Lena balanced comfortably on her hip, when your tone carries down the hallway.

“And I’m telling you, it’s not possible.”

Inside, Dr. Cho sighs, patient but clearly at the end of her explanations. 

“Look. I don’t know about the mystical parts of the process. You’d have to consult with Doctor Strange about that. However, I do know the medical parts. And the results are clear. You’re—”

“Natasha!” you call abruptly.

Natasha steps into view just as you straighten on the edge of the medical bed, clearly having cut Dr. Cho off mid-sentence. Your eyes are slightly widened in surprise, almost panicked.

Dr. Cho gives you a look when you subtly wave her away. The kind that says we are not finished. But she merely gathers her tablet and paperwork with composed efficiency before turning to Natasha with a nod.

“I’ll give you two some privacy.”

As she passes, Lena twists in Natasha’s arms to watch her go. Tiny fingers lift in a delayed imitation of a wave.

“Buhba,” she mumbles.

Dr. Cho smiles at the toddler and waves back before slipping out. 

“Oh?” you coo immediately, arms extending toward your daughter with grabby hands. “Is my little Lena trying to say her first word?”

Natasha stiffens almost imperceptibly, eyes darting to Lena in panic. But thankfully, no Russian curse word falls from her lips. Instead, she reaches out to you also.

“Mmm,” Lena coos excitedly.

Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Natasha crosses the room and gently transfers Lena into your waiting arms. The toddler immediately melts against your chest with a contented hum, one hand fisting into your shirt.

Natasha watches the two of you for a long, fond second. Then reality returns. She steps closer and presses the back of her hand to your forehead.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. “Stark said you weren’t feeling too great.”

You press your lips together before nodding.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t look at her. Instead, you adjust Lena in your lap, smoothing her hair, kissing the top of her head.

Nothing about the way you responded and how you’re acting reassures her at all. Natasha crosses her arms.

A beat later, Lena crosses hers too, looking up at you expectantly.

Between the two of them, you stand no chance. You glance briefly at Natasha before adding softly, “It’s nothing, really. Just some nausea.”

Her eyes narrow.

You shift, looking everywhere but at her.

That’s all the confirmation she needs.

You sigh when you glance back at her once more and see the look that tells you she’s caught you.

Resigned, you pat the spot beside you.

Natasha sits without a word.

“Mmm?” Lena coos curiously when you pass her back. 

Natasha settles cross-legged on the bed beside you, placing Lena in her lap, arms wrapped securely around her little body.

She waits as Lena also fixes you with a similar curious expression.

You inhale deeply.

“Do you remember a few weeks ago,” you begin slowly, “when Lena got sick, and we stayed home to take care of her?”

Natasha’s hold tightens instinctively around the toddler at the memory. Feverish cheeks. Sleepless nights. Cold cloths and whispered lullabies.

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

“Well…I was supposed to go see Doctor Strange that week for my usual appointment. But I forgot. Everything was so chaotic. Lena had the fever. We weren’t sleeping.”

Your words start to tumble over each other.

Natasha reaches forward and takes your hand, her thumb tracing slow, steady circles over your knuckles. The simple motion calms you instantly.

A second later, a smaller hand settles halfway over hers and halfway over yours.

You laugh softly, giving Lena’s hand a grateful pat before lifting your gaze back to Natasha.

“Do you remember,” you ask carefully, “after that…when Lena spent the weekend with your parents?”

Natasha’s mouth curves into a slow smile. Her thumb slides to the inside of your palm, pressing there with deliberate pressure.

“I definitely remember that,” she murmurs, her voice dropping lower.

You huff at her, warmth rising into your cheeks, but the smile fades as your eyes fall to your tangled hands. You swallow, steadying yourself, gathering your nerve.

“Natasha,” you say gently.

She tilts her head to meet your lowered gaze. 

“I’m pregnant.”

The words settle between you, and everything in the room seems to still.

Stunned, Natasha simply blinks, still processing the revelation. Her gaze drops to your stomach, then lifts back to your eyes, searching your face as if trying to decide whether your words are real.

“Natasha?” you prompt softly, waving your fingers in front of her face.

“Mmma?” Lena adds, peering up at her mother’s stunned expression. She reaches up and pats Natasha’s cheek insistently.

That breaks the spell.

Natasha exhales.

“Wow,” she breathes. “I…wow.”

You smile nervously and lift your hand to cup her cheek.

“Ya lishil tebya dara rechi, lyubov moya? (Have I left you speechless, my love?)”

A soft laugh escapes her. She brings your hand to her lips and kisses your knuckles.

“Vsegda. (Always.)”

Her green eyes steady on yours.

“How do you feel?” she asks quietly.

You look down at your hands in your lap.

“Surprised,” you admit. “Though that explains the recent morning nausea.”

Natasha’s expression shifts immediately, protective instinct snapping into place.

“And I thought it was my cooking,” she says lightly, trying to ease the tension. “Now that I know, I’ll make you something for it tomorrow morning.”

You smile gratefully. Then your fingers start picking at the edge of the med bed.

“I’m also…embarrassed,” you confess. “I should’ve been more careful. Especially since magic is involved in all of this.”

You gesture between the two of you and point at Lena, who tilts her head curiously at you.

Natasha takes both your hands firmly, stopping the anxious motion.

“Hey.” Her voice is steady. “Don’t forget that I had some responsibility in this, too.”

You laugh softly before intertwining your fingers with hers and pulling her hands close to your chest.

“And honestly…” You hesitate. “I’m a little excited.”

You look up at her, a vulnerable expression on your face as you gauge her reaction.

“But what do you think?”

Natasha glances down at Lena, who is staring at her intently, head tilted, thumb resting against her mouth.

“Mmm?” Lena prompts.

Natasha smiles. Then she looks back at you without any doubt or hesitation.

“I’d love to have another child with you.”

Her hand cups your cheek. She leans forward and kisses you softly. When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

“Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

You smile, but before you can respond, a tiny hand wedges between your faces, patting Natasha’s cheek insistently.

“Mmmbuv…mmam,” Lena babbles.

You laugh and gently cup her cheeks.

“I think she’s trying to copy her mama again.”

Natasha pauses and remembers how Lena has been watching her all day while babbling what she initially thought was just gibberish, but now she wonders. She tilts her head and meets Lena’s gaze directly. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu (I love you),” she says, slow and clear.

Lena’s brows knit together in fierce concentration before she reaches up and cups Natasha’s cheeks in both hands.

“Lu…bu,” she says proudly.

Natasha’s smile grows, and she nods, repeating the word more slowly. 

“Lyu–blyu.”

Lena presses her lips together, studying Natasha carefully, and then suddenly dissolves into giggles.

“Lyublyu, mama.”

Everything stills. Natasha’s breath catches before a soft, disbelieving laugh escapes her as she pulls Lena close, pressing kisses into her hair.

“Molodets, zayka moya (Well done, my little bunny),” she affirms proudly.

Lena giggles, clapping her hands happily. The sight fills her with pride and excitement.

“Well,” Natasha murmurs thickly, glancing at you over Lena’s head, her eyes shining, “I guess we’re doing this again then.”

You scoot closer, resting your head on her shoulder while your hand gently brushes over Lena’s hair.

“You’re a good mom, Natasha,” you say quietly, knowing how much she worried the first time you had Lena.

Natasha leans into you, humming softly in contentment as Lena plays with both of your hands. The moment settles into a warm, peaceful stillness until Natasha suddenly stiffens.

“Actually…” she begins, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. “I have a confession.”

You lift your head, looking at her curiously.

She winces a little before admitting, “Those weren’t Lena’s first words. And before I tell you what they were…just know it was Yelena’s fault.”

Your brows rise higher as you wait for her to continue.

Meanwhile, Lena laughs and claps her hands, happily watching the two of you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You move quietly toward the couch, careful to keep your footsteps soft against the floor. The glow from the television washes the room in flickering light, painting everything in slow-moving shadows. Leaning over the back of the couch, you peek down at the two figures curled together.

Natasha is fast asleep, her head tipped slightly to the side, one arm wrapped securely around Lena. The toddler is tucked into her like a tiny echo, cheeks pressed against Natasha’s collarbone, lashes resting heavily against her skin. A blanket has half-slipped to the floor, forgotten sometime during the movie neither of them managed to finish.

Your chest warms at the sight. For a moment, you just watch them breathe, slow, even, and perfectly in sync.

Gently, you reach forward and ease the remote from Natasha’s loose grip. The television clicks off, and the room settles into a softer, quieter hush. You lean farther across the couch to place the remote on the table, careful not to jostle them.

Your face ends up inches from Natasha’s.

Before you can react, she tilts her chin up and steals a kiss, catching your lips in a slow, mischievous press. 

The soft gasp that escapes you only seems to amuse her. You feel the curve of her smirk against your mouth as her hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers warm and familiar as she draws you closer.

You melt into the kiss, one hand bracing against the back of the couch. It lingers, gentle and unhurried, until you finally pull away, resting your forehead against hers. Your breath mingles with hers as you give a quiet shake of your head, a fond reprimand in your eyes.

“Ah, ty melkiy prokaznik (Oh, you little sneak),” you murmur softly. 

Natasha’s smirk widens, her tongue brushing over her lips as though savoring the moment. Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“Talking to me in Russian is just going to make me want you more.”

You huff a quiet laugh, tapping the tip of her nose lightly.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s bring Lena to her room.”

Your hand slides to her jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of her cheek as you tilt her face up and graze your nose against hers. Your voice lowers, teasing and warm.

“Then you can see how many Russian curse words you can pull from me.”

Her eyes darken instantly, a spark igniting behind them as she watches you straighten.

Carefully, you slip your arms beneath Lena and lift her from Natasha’s embrace. The toddler stirs only slightly, curling instinctively toward your warmth, her small hand fisting into your shirt.

Natasha rises beside you, her palm settling naturally at your waist. With her free hand, she brushes a loose strand of hair from Lena’s sleeping face, her expression softening into something quieter.

Even half-asleep, Lena finds Natasha’s fingers and holds on, tiny grip, stubborn and trusting as she cuddles closer to your chest.

Three heartbeats in this loving home.

And one more on the way.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“He did what?!” you hiss, stopping short of throwing your folder across the room purely on principle. 

You press your fingers hard against your temple as Pepper explains that Tony’s newest, impulsive purchase of a construction site during a fight had been spectacularly destroyed in under a couple of minutes.

“Yes, I understand it was technically taking responsibility,” you say tightly. “No, that doesn’t stop the optics from being a nightmare.” A pause. Then, quieter and resigned, “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

You end the call before she can apologize on Tony’s behalf again.

Before you can even process what you’d need to do for that problem, the doors slide open behind you.

“Hey,” Steve Rogers says easily, strolling in with a casual gait. “How’s it going?”

You turn around and face the super soldier with a reprimanding glare.

“You’re late.”

You flip open your folder with practiced precision, pull out a neatly annotated sheet, and press it into his hands. 

“Highlighted sections are your main talking points. Civilian relief efforts. Accountability. Team unity. If a question veers off course, you pivot. Smile, acknowledge, redirect. Got it?”

“Oh. Uh—okay,” he says, already skimming the page, brow furrowing as he murmurs the bullet points under his breath.

You’re about to remind him to breathe when the doors open again.

Perfect. On schedule, for once.

You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.

“Here are your notes, Roman—”

The words die in your throat, and you immediately pull your notes back from reach. 

“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.

Clint Barton looks down at himself, pats his chest, his arms, then grins cheekily. 

“Nope,” he says. “Definitely not Romanoff.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

“This is not happening right now,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

It’s not surprising. Natasha Romanoff treating a mandatory press event like a suggestion at best is practically tradition. Still, you’d allowed yourself the faint, dangerous hope that today might have been different.

“Barton,” you say calmly, checking the time on your phone, “I don’t have the energy for this. Where is she?”

He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“I owed her a favor. And now,” he says, gesturing to himself with a flourish, “you have me.”

You don’t respond. You just dial.

“Yes,” you say the moment the line connects. “Pull Romanoff’s name from the panel.” A beat. “I don’t care that it’s already printed. I don’t care if they already noticed. Do it.”

Protests crackle through the speaker. You hang up before they finish.

Across the room, Steve is still by the doors, shoulders hunched, quietly rehearsing under his breath, as if this were a mission briefing rather than a media circus.

“Rogers,” you snap.

He straightens instantly.

“Stick to the notes,” you say firmly. Then you turn, leveling Clint with a look that could curdle vibranium. “And you—stay out of that room.” You point toward the wall separating you from the sea of cameras and questions waiting on the other side.

Clint raises both hands in surrender and gives you two thumbs up.

You push past him, silently fuming at the things you have to deal with.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice sing-song and far too amused.

You don’t slow down.

“To fix this,” you mutter.

Like every other mess the so-called Earth’s Mightiest Heroes leave behind.

It’s part of your job after all, to deal with these sorts of messes, even if one of them is a frustrating red-haired agent who especially enjoys being your problem to clean up.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your knuckles rap sharply against the door, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway. You don’t bother knocking again. You already know she heard you.

As you wait, your phone buzzes with a notification. You glance down and check the messages.  

It’s a photo from one of the press assistants.

Steve sits at the panel, but he’s not facing the audience of reporters. Instead, he’s looking to the person on his left with rapt attention. Clint is sprawled in the chair beside the Captain, boots up on the table, microphone in hand, mid-gesture as if he’s counting off points in a story no one asked to hear.

“Oh, God,” you mutter, scrubbing a hand down your face.

Another problem to deal with, just as you’re handling this one.

Right on cue, the door opens, and your most frequent problem appears in front of you.

You don’t give her a chance to speak. You simply turn your phone around and shove it into her line of sight.

“This is your fault,” you say flatly.

Natasha glances at the screen for half a second before lifting her gaze back to you, lips already curling into an amused smirk.

“Well,” she says lightly, “hello to you too.”

She’s dressed down in a black tank top, loose sweats, and hair pulled back without effort, and somehow she still looks good, and that only makes your irritation feel worse. 

You pull the phone back and cross your arms.

“You were supposed to be there.”

She mirrors you, folding her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, completely unbothered by your tone. 

“Steve’s handling it,” she says. “He’s good at that earnest, heroic thing. Besides, I wasn’t even part of that mission.”

You let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve perfected for moments exactly like this, and start tapping through your phone.

“No,” you say, finally finding what you’re looking for. “You were supposed to be there to clear up this rumor.”

You hold the screen out again.

An article fills the display with a scandalous headline. Below it is a photo of Natasha at Tony’s most recent party, leaning far too close to a national ambassador at the bar, her smile caught mid-flirt.

You sigh in exasperation. 

“How do you manage to have a playboy reputation worse than Stark’s?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.

“Please. I breathe near someone, and suddenly it’s a scandal. According to them, I’ve slept with half the world’s diplomats.”

“Which is exactly why you were supposed to deny it publicly today,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Instead, I’ve got Barton out there improvising some story.”

Natasha chuckles, low and soft, and shakes her head. She steps closer to you and reaches up, her thumb brushing lightly between your brows.

“You always get this little crease right here when you’re angry,” she murmurs. “It’s cute.”

You smack her hand away without hesitation.

“It’s stress,” you snap. “Which means I’m apparently adorable every time I have to chase after you.”

Her smirk only widens at your words. 

“I should cause trouble more often then.”

You ignore that, not bothering to entertain her usual flirting banter any further. You still need something to mitigate the whole rumor mill.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” you sigh in exasperation.

She arches her brow. 

“Like what?”

“You always make it look like you’re one step from bringing them to your bedroom,” you challenge.

Natasha pauses just long enough to eye you suspiciously. Then she sighs dramatically and gestures dismissively with her hand. 

“I didn’t sleep with anyone if that’s what you’re asking about. We just talked politics. Not exactly the kind of foreplay I’m into.”

You press the stop button on your phone, ending the recording immediately before her little suggestive comment and nod in satisfaction. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” You turn the phone back toward her. “Now sign here so that I can release this as your statement.”

Her mouth parts slightly as realization hits. She blinks at you for a moment and then finally laughs under her breath, impressed despite herself. Without breaking eye contact, she traces her signature on the screen with her finger.

“Well played,” she admits. “A little underhanded though.”

You give her a deadpan look. 

“I work with superhumans, gods, narcissists, and spies. It’s a required skill at this point,” you say simply before directing your focus to your phone.

Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.

You feel it even when you refuse to look back up. You focus on your phone instead, thumbs moving quickly as you forward statements, tag editors, and lock down follow-ups. This is familiar territory. Safe territory. Paperwork and damage control don’t flirt back.

You’re almost impressed she’s managed to hold her tongue this long.

Almost.

Then she shifts with the soft scuff of her foot against the floor as she pushes off the wall like she’s made a decision.

The subtle change draws your attention, despite how hard you try to resist.

“Well,” Natasha says lightly, breaking the silence, “I think you’ve kept me long enough.”

Your head snaps up. Instinct takes over before logic can catch up, and you look past her into the room, suspicion flaring sharp and immediate.

“Don’t tell me you have someone waiting in there this whole time,” you say in panic, preparing yourself to develop some cover before more rumors can spread.

Her smirk blooms, the kind she wears when she knows she’s already won something.

“I meant,” she says smoothly, “you kept me from my bed.”

Natasha takes a step closer. Then another. Before you can stop her, she lifts her hand, fingers warm against your skin as she tilts your chin up just enough to force your attention back to her. 

Green eyes lock onto yours.

“But,” she adds softly, “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

For exactly one heartbeat, your carefully built walls falter. Your pulse stutters. Heat flares low and dangerously. For a split second, it would be so easy to forget the job, the rules, the reasons you’ve built this distance brick by brick.

Then you remember.

Who she is.

What she does.

And most importantly, how much she enjoys teasing you like this.

You push her hand away and step back, reclaiming space to clear and cool your mind.

“Be at the next press call,” you say evenly, your voice steadier than you feel. You turn away before she can read anything on your face. “And please try not to stand too close to anyone in the future.”

Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.

“No promises.”

You don’t respond. You just keep walking. Not until you’re safely out of her sight do you let your expression crack, stern composure giving way to the helpless heat creeping up your cheeks. 

At least this problem is handled. You exhale slowly, forcing the feeling down where it belongs, already bracing yourself for the next mess waiting to be cleaned up.

Because if Clint is still holding a microphone, there’s no way whatever he’s saying is harmless.

You can only hope it’s fixable.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hearing room smells faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. The kind of room designed to make people feel small.

Unfortunately for the people seated behind the long crescent table at the front, Natasha Romanoff has never been particularly good at feeling small.

You stand along the side wall of the room, tablet tucked against your chest, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool wood paneling. From here, you have a clear line of sight to everything: the committee members, the press row, the cameras perched on tripods like watchful birds.

And Natasha.

She sits calmly at the witness table, as if this is the least stressful place she could possibly be.

Your tablet screen glows softly with neatly organized notes of talking points, diplomatic phrasing, redirect strategies, and neutral language suggestions meant to keep the hearing smooth and uneventful.

You spent most of the night preparing them.

And you know very well she’s not going to follow half of them.

Still, there’s always a first time for anything.

Natasha sits with one ankle crossed casually over the other beneath the table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded together like she’s waiting for a lunch order instead of answering questions from a congressional oversight committee.

Her expression is perfectly composed, but then her attention drifts.

Her eyes flick across the room for barely a second before settling on you, where you stand against the wall. When she catches you watching her, one corner of her mouth curves upward. A quick wink follows.

You immediately look down at your tablet, pretending to review your notes.

You recognize that teasing look. And you sigh quietly to yourself at how your heart still fell for it.

Across the table, one of the committee members adjusts his glasses and leans toward his microphone.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he begins, voice carrying the dry superiority of someone who has never really cared about anything but himself. “Given your…complicated background, many citizens are concerned about the level of autonomy the Avengers currently operate under.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly.

That’s the first warning sign.

You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.

“Complicated,” Natasha repeats mildly. Her eyes flick toward you again before returning to the man across the table and giving him a playful smirk. “That’s a polite way of saying assassin.”

The room shifts uncomfortably. Someone in the press row shifts in their chair. A few reporters glance up from their screens. Still, the man presses on.

“You spent years working for foreign intelligence agencies, including organizations hostile to this country.”

Natasha nods once.

“Yes.”

You glance down at your notes. Page three.

If questioned about past affiliations, acknowledge and redirect to present-day service.

Your gaze lifts again.

Natasha doesn’t even glance in your direction as she does not follow that suggestion, choosing not to say anything further to defend herself.

The committee member leans forward.

“And yet the public is expected to trust that someone with that background now acts in their best interest.”

Natasha’s lips curve slightly as her eyes slide toward you again.

You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.

“Well,” she says calmly, “it seems to be working out so far.”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.

You pinch the bridge of your nose at her cheeky response.

That wasn’t on the list.

Across the room, Natasha watches the gesture, her smile deepening subtly.

Another senator leans forward.

“Let’s not pretend the Avengers have some spotless record here. Property damage, civilian casualties, unsanctioned interventions—”

The smile disappears from her face as Natasha straightens slightly in her chair.

The second warning sign.

You lower your tablet slowly, hoping that someone on the panel has enough sense to stop pushing and insulting the people she considers her family.

“—one could argue the Avengers cause nearly as many problems as they solve.”

Natasha studies him for a moment. Then she smiles. It’s the smile that usually means someone is about to regret something.

“Respectfully,” she says smoothly, “the people who tend to complain the loudest about the Avengers are usually the ones who call us when aliens start falling out of the sky.”

The press row shifts again. A few reporters start typing faster.

You close your eyes briefly.

That’s going to trend.

Across the room, one of the senior organizers shoots you a pointed look.

You give them a small, helpless shrug.

What did you expect with that line of questioning?

Another member of the panel clears his throat.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he says sharply, “this isn’t a stage for clever remarks.”

Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.

“You’re right,” she agrees pleasantly. “It’s a stage for questions. So, please, continue.”

The room goes still for a moment, surprised by her sudden compliance.

You watch her closely. Natasha is actually doing remarkably well. Better than expected, honestly.

The next few questions go by without incident.

Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.

You almost start to relax.

Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”

The air in the room tightens immediately. 

Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.

You notice it right away.

The man continues.

“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”

Your hands tighten around your tablet.

The room waits with bated breath.

But Natasha says nothing.

You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.

Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.

The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”

Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.

“I am,” she says calmly.

Then she turns and walks out of the room.

The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing. 

You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.

You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.

“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”

Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.

“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.

“She avoided several,” he snaps.

You cross your arms.

“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”

The man scoffs.

“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”

You cut him off.

“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”

Your voice is sharper now.

“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”

The organizer folds his arms.

“That doesn’t erase what she was.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks satisfied.

You step closer.

“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”

The man’s expression shifts.

You keep going.

“Political favors. Quiet deals. Offshore donations.”

Your voice stays calm.

“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”

The organizer stiffens.

“You’re implying—”

“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”

Silence stretches between you.

The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.

“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”

“Noted,” you say.

He leaves. 

You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.

Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.

“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.

Her smirk appears instantly.

“Long enough.”

Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.

“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”

You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.

“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.

Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine.”

You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.

“I liked your responses better anyway.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.

“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”

Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.

When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Can I join?” she asks.

You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.

She responds with a slow, shameless smile.

You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.

And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.

Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.

The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.

You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.

No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.

So far, so good.

You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.

You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.

And there she is.

Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.

You recognize him after a moment.

A visiting ambassador.

Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

They’re standing a little too close.

Not inappropriate. Not technically.

But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.

You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.

Your head snaps toward it immediately.

Another flash.

Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.

You set your drink down without a word and move.

The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.

“Hey—!”

You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.

The man stares at you in disbelief.

“You can’t—”

You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.

“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.

Your phone is already in your other hand.

“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”

You hang up before the man can start arguing again.

Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.

You dust your hands off lightly.

Problem solved.

When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.

You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.

“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”

They quickly return to their conversations.

You feel it before you see it.

A familiar gaze.

You glance toward the bar.

Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.

Heat creeps up your neck.

But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.

When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.

Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.

You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.

“Whiskey,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.

You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.

“You already know what it was.”

Her lips twitch.

You take a small sip before continuing.

“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”

Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.

“Very specifically.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.

The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.

She tilts her head slightly.

“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”

You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.

“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment.

Something in her expression softens.

Her hand lifts.

You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.

You start to protest—

But her hand doesn’t stop this time.

Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.

Her voice lowers.

“What if I do?” she whispers. 

For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.

Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.

Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.

“…Natasha,” you warn gently.

She doesn’t pull away.

“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”

You stare at her for a long moment.

Natasha doesn’t look away.

The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.

Her hand is still cupping your face.

You reach up and take her wrist.

For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.

You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.

Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.

Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”

Her gaze flicks back to yours.

“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”

You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.

Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.

Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.

You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.

Natasha looks almost smug.

You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.

Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.

Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.

“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.

You give her a small, unimpressed look.

“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”

Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.

“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She studies your face.

“And what about potential rumors?”

You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.

“I can handle any rumors,” you say.

Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”

You tilt your head.

“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”

Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.

The sound is softer than usual.

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.

Then she leans in just slightly.

“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”

You glance at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”

Her smirk returns immediately.

“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~