ᴊᴜɴᴇシ︎

“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.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 2

“I’ll be back Sunday night,” Ana said as she released him from the hug. “Probably late but I’ll be there Monday morning to take you to school.”

“Okay,” Caleb said. “Be careful.”

Ana smirked. “Promise.”

Caleb gave a satisfied nod and ran off to catch up with his friends. He still didn’t know the details about what she did and if she had it her way he would never know. He seemed to understand that whatever her new job was wasn’t illegal, not in the way jobs had been before, but it was still dangerous.

A car rumbled to a stop behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was you. If she didn’t know the sound of your car and how timely you always were she would have known by the way Caleb spun around with a wide smile across his face. He gave an excited wave which she assumed you returned before turning and hurrying into the building before the doors closed.

Ana turned around and just as expected you were sitting there in your Jeep, windows down, top off since it was warm enough, and music loud enough for her to hear but not shaking everything around you.

You were wearing the same sunglasses you had been wearing when she first met you. She didn’t need you to take them off to know your eyes hadn’t left her and were tracking her movements as she made her way towards you.

She hopped in the passenger seat and as she buckled her seatbelt your elbow was on the center console as you leaned towards her, just inches from her face when she looked up.

She stayed where she was, not moving back as she stared into your eyes behind the sunglasses. Despite everything, you still knew just how to annoy her without actually pushing her buttons.

“Kiss good morning?” You asked.

Ana started to lean in, her nose just barely brushing against yours. She glanced down through her lashes and saw a slow smirk starting to spread across your face.

She instantly pulled back and sat at forward in the seat. “Don’t we have a job?” She asked.

You frowned and pulled back a bit but made no move to face forward, let alone start actually getting a move on.

“Yeah,” you said, your shoulders slumping. “Should only be a few days. I wanted to make one stop before we head to Grace’s though.”

Ana raised a curious eyebrow at that. It wasn’t often you wanted to stop anywhere, besides, when there was a job Grace usually was on a time limit. You didn’t reveal any more though, you just turned around in your seat an looked out the window as if you were about to pull out into traffic.

“One more thing,” Ana said.

You turned to her, mouth partially open and probably ready to ask her what she wanted. She didn’t give you the chance though, she reached out with her hand and gently rested it on the side of your jaw to help pull you in for a kiss.

She felt you tense in surprise for a moment before quickly reciprocating the kiss. Just because the two of you were together and things were going better than she could have ever imagined with you didn’t mean she still didn’t make you like to work for it sometimes.

She finally broke the kiss, keeping her hand on your jaw so you stayed close. You made no move to pull away, if anything you leaned in a little more.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“Morning,” you said just as softly, smiling to yourself as you turned your attention back to the road.

Ana relaxed back into the seat. She had no idea where you wanted to stop but she was more than okay with going along for the ride. After everything, she had learned to enjoy the little moments, the two of you spent a lot of time in the car driving for jobs but it had slowly become one of her favorite ways to spend her time. It was the only time the two of you could get alone, there were moments outside the car of course but most of that time was spent with Caleb or with Grace. You didn’t seem to complain though; you actually seemed to really enjoy spending time with not just her but Caleb as well. She didn’t know how many dates you planned to take her on but then somehow ended up staying at home with her and Caleb playing games or all three of you going out to do something together.

After the fight and rescuing Grace, she was worried she would lose you. You had lost consciousness before they could even get you to the car. Your wounds didn’t seem to stop bleeding no matter what she did. Despite Grace’s reassuring words that you would be fine she found it hard to believe. Somehow it hadn’t been as bad as the silver bullet, injuries inflicted from a werewolf took longer to heal but they didn’t actively poison your body.

You had a habit of not changing in front of her. Not that you did that before. After the attack she noticed you a little more reserved when it came to certain things, like the first time she slipped her hand under your shirt and began light scratching your back, she felt the way your entire body tensed beneath her fingers.

You had refused to talk about it at first, so she went to Grace. Despite healing from werewolf injuries, anything left by claws or fangs had the habit of scarring if they went deep enough, which tended to happen. There was no question that your injuries were deep, she couldn’t get the image of giant slashes taken out of your flesh out of her head. You were scarred, she had felt them under your shirt, but you refused to fully show her. Even after she gently confronted you with the issue. You had talked and opened up; progress was being made but it would still take time for you to truly be comfortable. Which she was fine with, she had no problem going slow, both of you had your own reasons for that. Though, her main reason was Caleb and after you healed enough, she didn’t hesitate to bring you around more and include you in her and Caleb’s life.

She tilted her head as she took you in. You always respected her boundaries. She couldn’t believe how far the two of you had come. Not even a year ago she was refusing to let you even knock on the door if Caleb was still home and now, she had no problem letting you come over and play video games with him while she made dinner for the three of you.

She snapped out of her thoughts when she realized the two of you were no longer moving. She furrowed her brow as she looked around. You hadn’t driven too far from where she lived, you were parked on the side of the street in front of some sort of grey building. Nothing was really around though, no restaurants or anything that she figured you had been wanting to stop by.

“Where are we?” She asked.

“Come on,” was all you said, nodding for her to follow.

She raised an eyebrow, but when she realized you wouldn’t say anymore, she got out of the vehicle. You ran around to her side and led the way to a metal door with green paint peeling off it. You opened the door for her and allowed her to enter first.

She turned back to you in question, but you nodded for to keep going. There were a few rooms numbered as if it were an apartment complex as she walked down the hall. At the end of the hall was a large freight elevator.

She looked back at you, and you were already fiddling with your pocket before you pulled out a key. You inserted the key in the spot to the right of the elevator and gave it a turn. A few seconds later the elevator door rose, and you took Ana’s hand as the two of you stepped inside.

It wasn’t an overly large building, only a few floors at most, so the elevator didn’t take long to reach the top. When the door opened again, before her wasn’t another hallway but an entire room. The elevator opened directly into a loft.

She slowly stepped out of the elevator, unable to stop her curiosity as she took everything in. The kitchen was shiny and clean as if it had never been used. Then she looked to the living area. There was a couch that was clearly worn, possibly the most used thing in the loft. There was also a TV with some game systems and a long shelf under a large window filled with books.

Ana turned back to you and tilted her head. “Is this place yours?” She questioned.

You huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scratching the back of your neck as you refused to meet her eyes.

“I know you said you had a place, Grace said so as well but…” she trailed off, turning in a circle to take it all in again with the new information she had. “I honestly thought you just stayed with her.”

“I do, most of the time.”

You slowly walked past her till you were standing in the middle of the room. “But this is my space,” you said with a small shrug.

Ana took a few steps forward until she was standing in front of you.

“I go to Grace’s for full moons,” you continued. “And sometimes crash there after jobs. And I just like being around her, knowing I’m there if anything happens.”

“But I…” your eyes fell to the floor, your voice trailing off as if you didn’t want to say what you were about to.

“This is fully me,” you said, looking around the place. “And I wanted to share it with you…” your eyes fell to the floor again, seeming to refuse to meet her gaze.

She rested a hand on your cheek and forced you to look at her again. When your eyes met hers, she leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. You didn’t hesitate this time to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her closer.

When she broke the kiss, she rested her forehead against yours. “I love it,” she whispered. “It’s very you.”

You smiled at her words but kept your eyes closed until she stepped away. She walked a few steps away from you, doing a little spin in the open area as her eyes glanced over every inch of the place.

“The kitchen doesn’t look like it’s been used a day in its life,” Ana said, pointing at the kitchen in question.

You huffed out a laugh but didn’t seem able to deny the accusation. “I can promise you the microwave has been used,” you admitted.

Ana chuckled and walked back over to you. She wrapped her arms around your mid-section, pulling you in for a hug. One thing she was starting to greatly appreciate was how you always ran hot do to your wolf side.

“We should get going,” she whispered. “You know how Grace feels about you running late.”

You rolled your eyes but nodded along. She took your hand in her own, leaning into your side as you led her back out of the loft.

“So, do you actually have neighbors?” She asked as the two of you passed by the other doors again.

“Yeah,” you laughed. “It helps keep up appearances.”

“Not afraid of wolfing out with them right underneath you?”

You hesitated before shaking your head. “The loft is soundproof. There’s a lot that could still go wrong, but it’s never been an issue before. If I know it’s coming, I just go to Grace’s.”

Ana raised an eyebrow at that. She was sure it couldn’t be cheap sound proofing an entire loft. She also noticed that your space seemed significantly bigger than what she assumed was the size of the other ones, given how many doors were in the hallway.

“I own the building,” you said casually.

“So, you’re a landlord?” Ana asked.

You opened and closed your mouth a few times. “I guess technically, but I have other people to deal with it if issues arise.”

Ana rolled her eyes. She shouldn’t have been surprised. You had been with Grace for a while now and she knew how well she was paid. You could more than afford the entire building and to design the loft anyway you wanted even if no other tenants lived there.

As they got outside you held the door open, allowing Ana to get in first. You hopped in the driver’s seat and began making your way to Grace’s.

“Maybe I should invest in a car,” Ana said.

You glanced at her before focusing on the road again. “You don’t like riding with me?” You asked with a pout.

Ana shot you a glare but there was no heat behind it. “I also think I start looking for a house.”

She sighed as she looked out the window. “I think it would be nice to have a yard, have more space.”

You let out an understanding hum. “If you want help, just ask Grace,” you said. “Her realtor is the one who sold her the current place and helped me find the perfect loft.”

She could get a really nice place and as convenient as the apartment was for letting Caleb stay with neighbors, she could just hire someone to watch him. He was also getting old enough that she could probably start leaving him home alone, at least for a short period of time.

Before she knew it, they were pulling up to Grace’s mansion. She took a new look at the place, while she could probably more than afford a place close to the same size, she didn’t think she needed that much space.

You parked in your usual spot but before Ana could even unbuckle her seatbelt you were out of your seat. You ran around the car, already opening her door as she slid the seatbelt off.

Ana rolled her eyes but took your hand when it was offered. The two of you walked hand in hand into the house and towards Grace’s office. You didn’t even knock before swinging the door open with enough force to be dramatic but soft enough that you didn’t rattle the walls.

“You’re late,” Grace said without looking up from her files.

You rolled your eyes but showed no real annoyance at being scolded. “Barely,” you mumbled.

Grace shot you a glare over her computer screen. You looked away but couldn’t stop yourself from smirking.

“What’s the job?” Ana asked.

She glanced at the murder board Grace already had set up. As usual the board was covered, printed out articles covering the entire board, several even sticking off the sides.

“Looks like a big one,” Ana mumbled.

The more articles there were meant the more information found. More information also meant more victims or a case that went back years as opposed to months. A lack of articles meant a lack of information, but it tended to mean not as many victims which Ana always considered a plus.

“Strange noises coming out of here,” Grace said, pointing to a tree covered area on the map. “Always at nightfall.”

“Sounds like we’re camping again,” you commented.

Ana glanced over her shoulder to see you smirking. She rolled her eyes and focused her attention back on the board and what Grace was saying.

Grace provided as much information as she could and it seemed you were right, the two of you would be camping again. She didn’t mind camping, but she just hoped you weren’t about to end up dealing with wendigos again.

As always Grace had all the gear ready and you loaded up the car, refusing to let Ana help. She shot you a glare but couldn’t hide the small smile on her face.

“Stay in contact and be safe,” Grace said as she always did.

The two of you hopped in and began on your way. Ana rested her head against the seat, she knew it would be a long drive. She couldn’t believe how much her life had changed since meeting you. If she had succeeded in dismissing, you or had said no to Grace the second she saw her life would be in danger on a weekly basis she would probably still be looking for a job and she probably wouldn’t have as good as a relationship with her son as she did.

It wasn’t technically legal, but she was getting paid to help people. And they were good people, innocent people, not mob bosses and murderers paying her to get stitched up. The danger every week didn’t matter anymore, she didn’t question whether she would make it home after a job, she knew you would make sure she did.

It was crazy to think about considering she didn’t know what to expect after Abigail let her live, but she was happy. Her son was not only talking to her but wanted to spend time with her, she had a job, and she had you. She wished she could say she could do without the monsters, but she had come to enjoy that as well, despite the danger she loved learning more about this whole other world.

“What?” You asked.

Ana blinked a few times, she hadn’t realized she had been staring at you.

“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head.

You titled your head giving her a curious look but didn’t say anything. She never in her life imagined being with someone like you but you were exactly what she needed. The two of you worked flawlessly together now, on jobs and in life. It was something that probably should have scared her, but it didn’t. As long as you were by her side everything was going to be alright.

Daniela storms into the classroom, slamming the door so hard the walls practically rattle.

A few heads turn, whispers follow — and then, inevitably, someone decides to be brave.

“Hey, Avanzini!” a guy from the back drawls, smirking. “Heard you killed it at the party.”

Another snickers. “Yeah, real star performance. You taking requests now, or was that a one-night show?”

Laughter ripples through the room.

For the first time in a blue moon, Miss Perfect isn’t so perfect.

Daniela clenches her jaw, tosses her bag onto her desk, and mutters, “Piss off, idiots,” before dropping into her chair.

Her fingers drum restlessly against the wood. Someone must’ve recorded her. The video’s probably everywhere by now.

Before she can stew on it further, one of the boys pipes up again, snickering. “Maybe we should ask her for a repeat performance!”

Before she can respond, Mr. Grant cuts in sharply, voice calm but edged. “Unless one of you wants detention until you graduate, I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

The class goes quiet. A few awkward coughs follow.

Daniela doesn’t look up. She can still feel their eyes — curious, mocking, waiting. She keeps hers trained on the desk, jaw tight.

A few minutes later, the door opens again.

You shuffle in, late as usual, your backpack half-zipped and your hair a mess from running. Mr. Grant’s expression tightens the moment he sees you, his patience already hanging by a thread.

“Nice of you to join us, Miss (L/N),” he says, each word heavy with restrained irritation.

“Sorry,” you mumble, flashing a sheepish grin that doesn’t land, and slide into your seat as quietly as possible.

But the room feels different today — heavier, sharper. You can practically feel the tension hanging in the air. It takes only one glance across the rows to realize why.

Daniela.

She’s sitting stiffly in her chair, eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending you’re invisible. Her posture is perfect, too perfect — like she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.

You hesitate, watching her for a moment longer than you should, before finally tearing your gaze away.

For once, you don’t say anything. Neither does she.

But in the quiet between you, the unspoken things are loud enough to drown out the whole class.

“We’re continuing our lesson today,” Mr. Grant announces, grabbing your attention. “Open your books to page one hundred and twelve, and we’ll get started.”

You rummage through your backpack, shoving crumpled notes, loose pens, and an empty snack wrapper out of the way until you finally pull out your dog-eared copy of the literature book.

Mr. Grant clears his throat, addressing the class. “Today, we’re doing something a little different. I want you all to write your own interpretation of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘A Dream Within a Dream.’”

A chorus of groans echoes around the room.

You can’t even blame them. It’s Monday, first thing in the morning, and half the class is still mentally asleep. Not to mention it’s English — the one subject that drains the life out of everyone before noon.

“As you work,” Mr. Grant continues, “remember, this isn’t just an analysis. It’s meant to be creative — personal. I want you to explore what you think Poe meant.”

Creative and personal. Right. Because nothing screams creativity like trying to rewrite a guy who spent his life writing about death and despair.

You flip open the book and stare at the page.

“Take this kiss upon the brow…”

You mutter the line under your breath, tapping your pencil against the desk.

“And, in parting from you now…”

Your brow furrows. How are you supposed to “interpret” something that’s basically just a sad poem about life falling apart?

“Is all that we see or seem / But a dream within a dream?”

You exhale through your nose, slouching back in your chair.

This assignment already feels like a nightmare within a nightmare.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The bell finally rings, slicing through the silence like mercy. Chairs scrape, papers rustle, and everyone rushes to get the hell out before Mr. Grant can assign homework.

Daniela takes her time. Not because she wants to — her head’s still pounding — but because standing up too fast feels like a bad idea.

Emily’s already at the door, chattering about lunch plans with Yoonchae, who keeps glancing between her and you like she’s watching the setup to some drama.

“You coming?” Emily asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“In a sec,” Daniela mutters, stuffing her notebook into her backpack. “Just need a minute.”

Emily shrugs, dragging Yoonchae out with her. But not before the latter gives Daniela a look — the kind that says we’re not done talking about this.

The room empties fast, the noise fading until there’s just the faint scratch of pencils and the hum of the ceiling fan.

Daniela’s about to leave when she catches sight of you at your desk — still there, still pretending to be busy with something.

For half a second, she thinks about walking the other way. Pretending none of last night happened. Pretending she didn’t almost—

No. Don’t think about it.

You glance up just then, like you felt her staring. There’s that awkward pause — too quiet, too aware.

You open your mouth, maybe to say something, maybe just her name, but Daniela’s faster.

“Don’t,” she says sharply, yanking her bag onto her shoulder. “Whatever you’re gonna say, don’t.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” she interrupts. “And I don’t wanna hear it.”

She heads for the door, voice quieter now. “Just… forget it, okay?”

Her hand’s on the doorknob when she stops — just for a moment, just long enough for the silence to thicken.

Then she mutters, without turning around, “You’re good at that anyway.”

And she’s gone before you can ask what she means.

The afternoon sun hits like a spotlight the second Daniela steps out of the building. The air’s heavy and humid, the kind that clings to your skin.

She squints, throwing a hand over her eyes as Emily waves her over from under a tree.

“Finally,” Emily groans, tossing her phone into her bag. “What took you so long? Mr. Grant keeping you hostage again?”

Daniela rolls her eyes. “Nah. Just didn’t feel like rushing out with the stampede.”

Yoonchae sips from her iced coffee, the straw clicking against the lid. “You look dead,” she says flatly. “Party hangover or emotional hangover?”

Emily snickers. “Or both.”

Daniela gives them both a look. “Wow, thanks for the concern, guys. Really feeling the love.”

Emily leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So… you gonna tell us what actually happened last night, or do we have to rely on the very unreliable grapevine?”

Yoonchae perks up. “Oh yeah, Megan said she saw you leave with someone.”

Daniela freezes mid-step. “She what?”

Emily grins. “Don’t act surprised. Word travels fast when half the school was at that party.”

“She’s exaggerating,” Daniela says quickly, pulling her hair tie off and redoing her ponytail just to keep her hands busy. “Nothing happened.”

Yoonchae arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Daniela stops walking, turning to face them. “Yeah. Positive.”

There’s a pause — that kind of silence where everyone knows there’s more to the story but no one’s sure if it’s worth pushing.

Emily sighs dramatically. “You’re such a bad liar.”

Daniela smirks, forcing some bite back into her tone. “And you’re such a bad friend for assuming I’m lying.

But the heat in her face betrays her, and Yoonchae catches it instantly. “You so like her,” she says, eyes widening in mock realization.

“I don’t like yn,” Daniela says too quickly.

Emily grins. “You didn’t even ask who.”

Daniela exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You two are insufferable.”

Yoonchae giggles, bumping her shoulder. “Whatever you say, Avanzini.”

Daniela just keeps walking ahead, her jaw tight. She can hear them laughing behind her, but her mind, she’s still seeing the look on your face when she tried to kiss you — that split second of shock before she pulled away, pretending it meant nothing. Pretending it was nothing.

And God, she hopes you believed it.

The diner’s half-lit, the hum of neon signs bleeding through the windows as you step inside. You spot Manon and Megan already waiting in a corner booth — both looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

You slide in across from them, setting your phone on the table. “Thanks for coming,” you start, voice low. “I know it’s last minute, but we need to talk about the deal.”

Manon raises an eyebrow. “So this is an emergency meeting.”

You nod. “ I did fumble a bit. If we don’t sort it out tonight, the whole thing’s gonna fall apart.”

Megan exhales, leaning back against the seat. “I swear, every time you say ‘emergency,’ I lose a year off my life.”

“Then you’ll die young,” you mutter, flipping open your notebook. “I need to tell you what happened—”

You stop.

Because right by the counter, laughing quietly as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, is Daniela Avanzini.

She’s with Emily and Yoonchae — their dance jackets still tied around their waists, sneakers squeaking faintly against the tiled floor.

Daniela looks tired, like she’s been pushing herself all day, but somehow still manages to pull the room’s attention toward her.

You freeze. The noise of the diner fades, your pen hovering over the page.

Manon follows your gaze, frowning. “...Seriously?”

Megan turns her head. “Oh, this just got interesting.”

You weren’t expecting her. You weren’t supposed to see her.

You can feel Manon’s gaze follow yours. “What?” she asks, then looks over her shoulder. “Oh. Ohhh no.”

Megan sighs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Daniela looks up at that exact moment. Her eyes meet yours. Then, as if the universe is playing a joke, she blinks once — and looks right past you, like she’s never seen you before in her life.

You sit back slowly, pretending to scroll through your phone. “She saw me,” you mutter under your breath.

“She ignored you,” Manon corrects, tone flat.

“That’s worse,” Megan adds helpfully.

Across the diner, Daniela slides out of the booth, muttering something to Emily. The three girls head out together, the bell above the door jingling behind them.

You stare at the empty booth they left behind.

“What the hell just happened?” you whisper.

Manon drums her fingers on the table, not even looking at you. “I don’t know, but whatever it was, it’s not helping your odds.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “She’s impossible.”

Megan snorts. “So are you. Perfect match, really.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her. “I hate both of you.”

Manon smirks. “Sure you do.”

Outside the diner, Daniela, Emily, and Yoonchae huddle against the night air. The neon sign flickers above them, bathing the sidewalk in uneven light.

Emily’s the first to break the silence. “So… are we gonna talk about what just happened, or are we pretending that didn’t happen?”

Daniela tightens her jacket, exhaling sharply. “Nothing happened.”

“Uh-huh,” Yoonchae says flatly. “Totally nothing. You just bolted out of a diner like you saw your ex or a ghost.”

Daniela glares. “I didn’t bolt. I just—didn’t feel like staying.”

Emily crosses her arms. “She looked kinda hurt, you know. Or confused. Maybe both.”

Daniela snorts. “Good.”

Emily blinks. “Good? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Daniela looks away, jaw tightening. “It means I don’t owe her anything.”

There’s a beat of silence — only the sound of passing cars and Yoonchae sipping her milkshake through a straw that’s already half-crushed.

“Right,” Yoonchae mutters. “You so don’t care. That’s why you’ve been scowling ever since you saw her.”

Daniela turns toward her. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Nope,” Yoonchae says, smiling faintly. “And neither do you, when it’s about her.”

Daniela groans, tugging at her ponytail. “Let’s just go. I’ve had enough for one night.”

The three of them walk off down the street, their laughter fading behind them — though Daniela’s the only one not joining in.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You’re sitting on the gym bleachers, watching the dance team wrap up their routine. Chalk dust lingers in the air from their turns, glittering faintly under the fluorescent lights.

Daniela moves like she owns the floor — precise, graceful, untouchable. It’s almost unfair how good she is, especially when she’s pretending you don’t exist.

Behind you, Manon breaks the silence. “So explain to me again why you didn’t kiss her?”

You groan. “We’re not doing this right now.”

Megan props her chin on her hand. “Oh, we are doing this right now. You had the perfect setup.”

“Yeah,” Lara chimes in, not even looking up from her phone. “The mood, the lighting, the tension— you couldn’t script that better.”

You glare at her. “She was drunk, Lara.”

Megan lifts a brow. “And you’re saying that like it’s a bad thing?”

“And I’m saying I’m not a creep,” you shoot back.

Manon snorts. “Congratulations, Saint Y/N. Now she hates you.”

“She doesn’t hate me,” you mutter, even if your voice doesn’t sound too sure.

Manon leans forward, squinting toward the floor. “No, you’re right. She doesn’t hate you.”

A pause.

“She just wants to murder you.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort—

THWAP!

A piece of chalk explodes against the bleacher beside you, bursting into a white puff that coats your sleeve. You flinch, coughing, while Manon and Megan burst into laughter.

“Holy shit!” Megan wheezes. “She sniped you!”

You glance down at the powder all over your arm, then look toward the culprit. Daniela stands near the mirror wall, a faintly smug smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t even bother hiding it.

“Did she just—” Lara starts.

“Yeah,” you mutter, wiping the chalk off. “She did.”

Manon grins. “I’d call that progress.”

You shake your head, watching Daniela get back to the choreography like nothing happened. “If progress means getting assaulted by chalk, sure.”

She spins, sharp and clean, a flicker of amusement in her eyes when she catches you still staring.

You exhale. “At least she hasn’t forgotten me.”

Manon smirks. “Good. Means you’ve still got a chance — assuming she doesn’t switch to something heavier next time.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Daniela and Emily walk through the courtyard after class, sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. Students are scattered across the benches, chatting, handing out flyers, doing what college kids do when pretending they aren’t drowning in deadlines.

Daniela slows when she notices a large poster taped neatly to the campus wall:

“UNIVERSITY SPRING FORMAL — APRIL 23, 8PM | DRESS CODE: FORMAL GLAM.”

She stares at it for a second, lips pursed. “Spring Formal,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Emily to hear.

Emily tilts her head. “You going?”

Daniela raises a brow. “Do I look like someone who enjoys forced small talk in heels?”

Emily laughs. “It’s not that bad. Free food, music, maybe a photo booth if Student Council has a budget this year.”

Daniela hums, clearly unconvinced. “And a hundred couples pretending their relationships will survive after graduation.”

Emily gives her a look. “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”

Daniela smiles faintly. “I’m a dancer, not a romantic.”

Emily chuckles, bumping her shoulder lightly. “You could still go for the fun of it.”

Daniela glances back at the flyer one last time before they start walking again. “Maybe,” she says, though her tone makes it sound like a definite no.

“Just imagine it,” Emily teases. “You in a gown, lights, music—”

Daniela cuts her off with a quiet laugh. “Emily, if I wanted to suffer in uncomfortable shoes surrounded by drunk people, I’d just go to another one of Manon’s parties.”

Emily bursts out laughing as they head down the path, the conversation fading into light chatter about their next rehearsal.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You meet up with Manon behind the gym after class, the air thick with that weird, sticky kind of silence that says neither of you really wants to be here.

She’s leaning against the railing, arms crossed, looking every bit as tired of this as you are — but there’s still that glint in her eyes. The one that means she’s not letting this go.

It’s been a week since Daniela last talked to you. No messages, no eye contact — not even an insult muttered under her breath. Just silence.

Except for that one time she “accidentally” sent a piece of chalk flying straight past your head during class.

You’ve started to feel it in your chest — the guilt. Heavy, sour, and impossible to shake.

“Our college’s spring formal is soon, right?” Manon suddenly asks.

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

Manon pulls an envelope out of her jacket and slaps it against your chest. “Take her.”

You stare at her. “Take Daniela? Are you insane?”

Manon rolls her eyes. “You want her to stop ignoring you, don’t you? There’s your chance.”

You shove the envelope back. “No. I don’t care anymore. I can’t do this. It’s sick.”

“Four hundred bucks,” she says flatly, holding it out again.

You freeze. “You’re paying me again?”

“I know you want that valorant skin.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous. I thought you wanted out of this whole thing.”

“I did,” she admits quietly, looking off to the side.

“Yeah, well, things have changed,” Manon says, voice quieter than usual. “Sophia kissed me.”

You stare at her. “She what?”

“We’re not together yet,” she adds quickly, eyes darting away. “But I think we’re close. The only thing holding her back right now is her sister.”

Manon pushes a stack of cash into your chest — crisp bills folded neatly, like she planned this. “That’s why I need you to do this now. Take Daniela to the formal. Come on… help a friend out?”

You look down at the money in your palm, then up at her.

Part of you wants to throw it back. The guilt’s been sitting heavy in your chest for days, and this just makes it worse.

But you also know Manon wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter to her.

You swallow hard. “...Fine.”

Manon exhales, relief flickering in her expression. “Thank you. Seriously.”

You just nod, slipping the cash into your pocket — but your stomach twists all the same.

You already knew she’d be here.

Daniela Avanzini had a habit of showing up at the record store every Thursday after dance practice — like clockwork. You told yourself you were just passing by, but deep down, you knew that was a lie.

Sure enough, there she was in the rock section, flipping through vinyls like she was auditioning for a moody indie film. You smirk, strolling up beside her.

“Excuse me,” you start casually, “you seen Riot! by Paramore anywhere?”

She doesn’t even glance at you. “And what are you doing here?”

“I heard there’s a sale going on,” you lie smoothly.

Her eyes flick toward you, unimpressed. “You’re so…” she starts, irritation creeping into her tone.

“Charming?” you cut in with a grin.

Daniela scoffs, rolling her eyes and stepping aside. “Unwelcome.”

You lean on the rack, smirking. “You’re not as mean as you think you are.”

She looks you up and down. “And you’re not as badass as you think you are.”

“OOO,” you drawl, grinning wider. “Someone’s still got their panties in a twist.”

“Don’t for one minute think you had any effect on my anything, let alone my panties. Moron.”

“Then what did I have an effect on?”

She turns away from you, rifling through the vinyls like you’re not even there. “Other than making me want to puke? Nothing.”

Daniela grabs a record, shoves it hard against your chest — Paramore’s Riot! — and shoulders past you on her way out, knocking you back a step.

You blink, looking down at the vinyl in your hands, then back at the door she just stormed through.

“Yeah,” you mutter to yourself. “She totally doesn’t care.”

Daniela pushes through the door, the little bell above it jingling way too cheerfully for her mood.

She exhales hard, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets as she stalks down the sidewalk. Her pulse is still racing — not from anger, she tells herself, but from sheer annoyance.

Obviously.

Because that’s what that was. Annoying. Not… whatever the hell that flutter in her chest was when you smiled at her like you actually enjoyed getting on her nerves. She scoffs under her breath, kicking a pebble off the curb. “Idiot,” she mutters — and it’s unclear if she means you or herself.

You spot Sunghoon at his locker, trumpet case slung over his shoulder, that same dopey grin he’s been wearing ever since that party. Word around school says he and the drunk girl — Lia? Leah? Something like that — are dating now. First girlfriend, first kiss, first everything. Cute.

You clear your throat as you approach. “Hey, lover boy.”

He jumps a little, turning toward you. “Oh—uh, hey. You’re that person from the party, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, flashing him a small smirk. “Looks like things worked out for you.”

He rubs the back of his neck, blushing. “Yeah. Guess I should thank you for that.”

“You should,” you agree easily. “Actually, maybe you can.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

You pull a folded hundred-dollar bill from your pocket and hold it between two fingers. “You’re the marching band leader, right?”

“...Yeah?”

“Then do me a favor.” You press the bill into his hand before he can protest. “Play something for me when I ask. Nothing crazy, nothing illegal. Just… loud.”

Sunghoon stares at the money like it might explode. “Uh—sure? I mean, I guess? But what for?”

You grin, already turning to leave. “You owe me one, remember? Consider this me cashing in early.”

And before he can ask another question, you’re already halfway down the hall — leaving him blinking after you, the bill still crumpled in his hand.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You look out over the school field as the dance team and marching band members practice below.

You scan the controls for the school’s stadium audio before plucking the cordless microphone off its stand. You find the switch labeled FIELD MIC ANNOUNCE and turn it up.

The mic crackles with feedback when you bring it to your lips. Here goes nothing.

“You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

And, as expected, you end up in detention after that.

The room is quiet, the air thick with that stale mix of dust and disinfectant. You rest your head against the cool surface of the table, eyes half-shut, trying not to think about the absolute humiliation of earlier.

Mr. Sohey paces around the room, hands behind his back, occasionally glancing at the students like he’s just waiting for someone to mess up. He stops at the desk next to yours.

“You look pretty nervous.”

“Yes, sir,” Heeseung replies, voice shaky.

Mr. Sohey tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your eyes…” He leans in, squinting. “They’re all bloodshot.”

Heeseung gulps. “Yes, s-sir.”

Mr. Sohey sighs. “You’ve got vape pods again, don’t you?”

Heeseung hesitates, then reluctantly pulls one out of his pocket and places it in Mr. Sohey’s open hand.

“I’m confiscating this,” Mr. Sohey mutters, walking back to the teacher’s desk and setting it down beside his coffee mug.

You hear the creak of the classroom door opening, followed by Daniela’s voice.

“Sir? Uh—Mr. Sohey?” she calls out, poking her head through the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but… I wanted to talk about something important. It’s about the upcoming recital.”

Mr. Sohey raises a brow. “This can’t wait?”

“It’s urgent,” she says quickly.

He sighs, clearly irritated but gestures for her to go on.

Daniela takes a step inside, then glances at you—eyes sharp, whispering loudly, “Window. Now.”

“Window?!” you whisper back, panic flashing in your voice. “What do you mean, window?”

Mr. Sohey starts to turn his head toward you, but Daniela suddenly grabs his attention again. “So, uh! About the choreography—yeah, I think our finale’s missing something. Like maybe more fireworks. Or fog. Or—uh, maybe lasers?”

“Lasers?” Mr. Sohey deadpans.

“Yeah! I read somewhere that lighting effects can enhance emotional connection during performances.”

He crosses his arms. “Daniela, this isn’t a concert.”

You slide your chair back quietly, inching toward the open window.

Mr. Sohey begins to turn again, but Daniela panics and blurts, “By the way, sir—your arms look kinda… toned? You been lifting?”

“What?” he says, thrown off.

“I mean, just—wow, good for you!” she says, grabbing his sleeve. “Strong teacher energy. Very inspiring.”

“Daniela.”

“Not the point, right. Sorry. Anyway—about the dance formations, I was thinking—”

You’re halfway out the window now, peering down. Second floor. Not ideal. But a thick tree branch stretches close enough. You can make it. Probably.

Inside, Daniela keeps talking faster. “You know how we always go for symmetry in our sets? What if—hear me out—we do misdirection instead?”

Mr. Sohey frowns. “Misdirection?”

“Yeah!” she says, nodding furiously. “You know… distract the audience with one side while the other surprises them. Like, classic performance psychology!”

Mr. Sohey tilts his head. “Did I teach you that?”

“Yep!”

“…I don’t remember teaching that.”

“You totally did,” she lies, waving her hands. “Anyway, the point is, it’ll wow the judges—”

You take a deep breath and leap, catching onto the branch with a grunt. The leaves rustle violently as you hang there for a moment before pulling yourself steady.

Then—BOOM!

The window flashes in a burst of multicolored light. Glitter sprays out into the air. Daniela coughs, covered in sparkles, while Mr. Sohey stares at the mini fireworks fountain she must’ve set off near his desk.

Heeseung’s jaw drops.

And you? You’re already halfway down the tree, choking back laughter as you hear Mr. Sohey’s voice echoing out the window:

“DANIELA! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME—?!”

You bolt out the window, hitting the ground with a muffled thud. The air outside feels sharper now, like freedom. You glance around—no sign of Mr. Sohey yet. Perfect.

You take off running across the side courtyard, sneakers pounding against the concrete until you reach the nearest open hallway door. You slip inside, sliding behind a row of lockers just as footsteps echo from behind.

“Hey! You there!”

Mr. Sohey’s voice booms down the corridor.

Shit.

You dart into the nearest empty classroom, shut the door softly, and lean against it, catching your breath.

A few seconds later, the same window you jumped from creaks open again.

You blink in disbelief as Daniela hauls herself inside, muttering curses under her breath. Her hair’s a mess, sleeves rolled up, eyes burning with annoyance.

“She just left!” she huffs, brushing off her skirt. “I did all the hard work and the dickhead left me.”

You clear your throat. “You mean… me?”

She spins around, startled. “You— you’re still here?”

You grin, lifting your hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t think you’d miss me that fast.”

Daniela glares, stepping closer. “You bailed on me mid-distraction! I literally risked detention again for your stupid escape!”

“Yeah, and you were incredible,” you say quickly. “Oscar-worthy performance, really. I’d clap if it wouldn’t get us caught.”

She narrows her eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Technically, I’m efficient,” you quip, inching toward the second window on the opposite wall. “But hey, if you’re still mad, we can make a break for it together. You climb, I cover.”

“Cover?” she repeats.

You flash her a grin. “Yeah. I’m great at running from authority figures.”

Before she can respond, you throw the window open and swing one leg out. “See you on the outside, Avanzini.”

“Wait—”

Too late. You’re gone, footsteps fading down the alley.

Daniela stands there, staring after you, muttering, “Idiot.”

But the small, rented pedal boat rocks beneath your weight as it glides lazily across the lake. Daniela sits opposite you, her sundress brushing against her knees, her hair catching the light like it’s doing it on purpose.

You grin as she tries to steer. “You sure you know what you’re doing, captain?”

Daniela shoots you a look. “I read the manual.”

“It’s a pedal boat, not a spaceship.”

“I like to be prepared.” She straightens up, pedaling more rhythmically now, like she’s competing in some invisible event. “Unlike you, apparently.”

You lean back, hands behind your head. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

Her brows rise. “The lake?”

You smirk. “Sure. The lake.”

She rolls her eyes, but you catch the corner of her mouth twitch upward.

A moment passes before she says, “You know, this wasn’t on the itinerary.”

“You made an itinerary?”

“Of course I did,” she says matter-of-factly. “If you want things to go right, you plan them.”

You tilt your head. “So you don’t like when things go wrong, huh?”

“I don’t like when people waste potential,” she replies, glancing out toward the rippling water. “You do everything right, people trust you. They expect it. It’s better that way.”

You study her for a second, the sunlight bouncing off her collarbone. “So you’d rather disappoint yourself than disappoint them.”

Her pedaling slows, just slightly. “That’s not—”

“Not true?” you finish, leaning forward. “Or just not easy to admit?”

Daniela looks at you, lips pressed together, then shakes her head and laughs softly. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you say, grin widening. “But I make good company.”

“Debatable.”

The boat drifts for a bit, silence settling in—comfortable, this time. You reach down to splash a bit of water in her direction.

“Hey!” she yelps, pulling back. “You did not just—”

You splash again, and she shrieks, grabbing the little plastic oar beside her. “You are so childish!”

“Relax, Dani, it’s just water.”

She glares at you, trying hard not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” you say with a wink.

Her smile finally breaks through, bright and reluctant. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Worth it,” you murmur.

For a second, it’s quiet again—just the gentle sound of pedals turning and the lake around you glowing gold under the late afternoon sun.

he smallest, most reluctant smile creeps across her face anyway.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ ·

SPLOP.

The paintball bursts right against your chest, leaving a huge streak of neon pink across your vest. Daniela lowers her marker, lips curved into the most smug smile you’ve ever seen.

“Headshot,” she says proudly.

You squint. “That was my chest.”

“Close enough.”

You tilt your head and take aim. “You know what’s close enough?”

THWACK.

The paintball smacks her right in the stomach, leaving a perfect blotch of blue.

Daniela gasps, staring down at the paint. “You— you hit me!”

“You hit me first!” you shoot back, laughing.

“That doesn’t mean you get to ruin my outfit!” she yells, running for cover behind a wooden barricade.

“It’s literally a paintball uniform, princess!”

She peeks out, eyes narrowed. “Stop calling me that!”

“Oh, sorry. Perfect student Daniela Laforteza, cum laude of the paintball arena.” You fire another round. It lands right beside her arm.

She gasps again—half scandalized, half laughing—and pops out just long enough to shoot one back. It splatters against your shoulder.

“Nice aim,” you admit.

“Top of my class,” she replies with a grin, ducking again.

You charge forward, weaving between barrels until you corner her. Daniela holds her marker up in surrender, cheeks flushed, streaks of blue and pink splattered across her face. “Okay, fine! You win.”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping closer. “Didn’t expect Miss Perfect to give up that easily.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Guilty.” You sling an arm around her shoulder—then smash a paintball against the top of her head.

She lets out a squeal. “You did not just—!”

You’re already laughing as she lunges at you, tackling you behind the barricade. The two of you end up in a heap on the ground, both covered in paint and breathless from laughing too hard.

Daniela glares at you, strands of her hair stuck to her forehead, the last traces of her “perfect” composure long gone.

You both freeze where you’ve fallen, her hand still gripping your sleeve, your chest pressed against hers. For a moment, all you hear are the distant pops of paintballs from other players — muffled, far away.

Daniela laughs softly, her voice catching. “You’re so—”

“Annoying?” you offer.

She smirks. “Predictable.”

“Predictably charming, though.”

She scoffs, but she doesn’t pull away. There’s paint on her cheek — a little streak of blue that somehow makes her look more real, less untouchable. You reach up and swipe your thumb across it. “You’ve officially ruined your perfect record, you know.”

“Oh no,” she says in mock horror. “Paintball scandal hits the headlines. Straight-A girl loses composure.”

“World-ending stuff,” you whisper.

“Totally.”

You’re both grinning, and then neither of you are. The air shifts — quieter, slower. Her eyes flick from your mouth back up to your eyes, then down again.

“Can I—” you start, barely a whisper.

She nods before you even finish.

You lean in, and the kiss lands soft — unsure at first, then warmer when she relaxes into it. Her fingers find the collar of your vest, tugging you just a little closer.

You taste the faint sweetness of her lip gloss and the adrenaline still humming through your veins.

It’s quick — just a few seconds — before she pulls back, blinking, her cheeks flushed.

You smile. “You missed a spot.”

She blinks. “What?”

You dip forward again, pressing another kiss against her lips. “There.”

Daniela lets out a tiny laugh against your mouth. “That’s cheating.”

“You started it,” you whisper, your forehead resting against hers.

She hums. “Maybe I’ll let you win this round.”

And right as she says it — SPLAT!

A stray paintball hits you square on the side of the head.

“What the—” you shout, jerking up.

Daniela bursts out laughing, covering her mouth. “Guess that’s karma for gloating.”

You look at her, dripping paint, and sigh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” she says, grinning as she scrambles to her feet and sprints away.

You chase after her, paintball gun in hand, both of you laughing as the chaos picks right back up.

“Try me.”

Her glare softens into a reluctant smile. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you keep hanging out with me.”

Daniela just shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “Maybe I like being a little imperfect sometimes.”

You grin. “Guess I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Unfortunately,” she says—though her smile betrays her words.

You and Daniela walk side by side, helmets off, splattered with blue and yellow paint. The afternoon sun dips low, painting the whole field in gold.

She’s quiet for once, brushing dried paint off her arm as you both cross the bridge back to the docks.

“So,” you start, glancing at her. “Guess the perfect student’s record isn’t so clean anymore.”

She scoffs, half-laughing. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not. Straight-A Daniela Laforteza caught committing her first crime—paint-related assault.”

She nudges you with her elbow. “You were the one who hit me first.”

“Self-defense,” you argue, grinning. “You were being intimidating.”

Daniela rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop smiling. For a while, there’s just the sound of your footsteps and the creak of the dock under your shoes. Then she sighs.

“You know… it felt kinda nice,” she says softly. “Not worrying about being perfect for once.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

She nods, looking out over the lake. “I’ve always done everything right — every grade, every contest, every decision. But sometimes it’s like… I don’t even know if any of it’s really me.”

You watch her for a second before saying, “So maybe it’s time you start messing up more often.”

That gets a laugh out of her — small but real. “That’s your advice? ‘Mess up more often?’”

“Hey, it’s working for me,” you say, hands in your pockets. “Look where that got me.”

She gives you a side glance. “Detention, a paintball war, and a potential head injury?”

“And,” you add, smirking, “a kiss from the dance leader. Pretty good trade-off.”

Her face turns red instantly. “Oh my God, shut up.”

“You shut up,” you shoot back, laughing.

She shakes her head but smiles, trying to hide it. “You’re impossible.”

You bump her shoulder lightly. “Yeah, but admit it—you needed a little impossible.”

Daniela doesn’t answer right away. She looks out at the lake again, her hair catching the sunlight, lips curving into the faintest smile.

“Maybe I did,” she says finally.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The two of you sit at the edge of the dock now, legs dangling above the rippling water. Daniela’s fingers trace idle circles on the surface as the evening breeze carries the sound of laughter from the paintball field behind you.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out and glance at the screen — OPERATION : DANIELA AVANZINI.

Your stomach drops.

A message from Manon flashes on-screen:

“Heard what you guys did today. She’s softening up. Just one more step before the ball bro.”

You quickly swipe the screen dark, heart pounding.

“What was that?” Daniela asks, peeking curiously.

“Uh—nothing,” you blurt out a little too fast.

She raises a brow. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

You shove the phone into your pocket and force a laugh. “Just… Manon being Manon. You know how she is.”

Daniela hums, unconvinced but too tired to push. “Right.”

For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you — the only sound is the gentle lap of water against the wood.

You glance at her again, at the faint paint streak still smudged on her cheek, at the easy smile that wasn’t there a week ago.

And guilt starts to coil low in your chest.

You lean back on your hands and say quietly, “You got paint on your face again.”

She laughs and reaches for her reflection in the water. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head. “Here, I’ll get it.”

You reach over and wipe the paint away with your thumb, maybe letting your hand linger just a little longer than it should.

Her breath hitches, and she looks at you for a moment — curious, searching.

“Thanks,” she says softly.

You smile back, trying to ignore the ache in your chest.

Because if she ever found out about that message…

She’d never look at you like this again.

The walk home is quiet — the kind that feels too peaceful after a day that wasn’t supposed to mean this much. The air’s cool, carrying the faint smell of wet grass and dust.

Daniela kicks at a pebble, her shoes dangling from one hand. Her arm brushes yours every now and then, light and unintentional — though neither of you step away.

“Today was fun,” she says after a moment, her voice soft but sure.

You glance at her. “Fun? From Miss Perfect herself? That’s rare.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You make it sound like I never have fun.”

“You kinda don’t,” you tease, bumping your shoulder into hers.

Daniela lets out a breath — half a laugh, half a sigh. “Maybe that’s true. The recital’s in a few days, and it’s like… everyone expects me to be flawless. I can’t even breathe without someone reminding me to ‘stay focused’ or ‘don’t mess up.’”

You look at her, seeing the faint exhaustion behind her smile. “You’ll do fine. You always do.”

“Yeah,” she says, but it sounds more like a question. Then, suddenly, she stops walking and stares at the empty road ahead.

The streetlights stretch far down, and there’s no one else around — just the soft hum of the night.

Then she grins. “Screw it.”

“Uh oh,” you mutter. “That’s not something ‘Miss Perfect’ usually says.”

“Exactly.” Daniela slips her shoes back on, takes a deep breath, and starts jogging toward the middle of the street.

“Daniela—what are you doing?”

“YOLO!” she yells, arms out like wings as she spins under the streetlight, laughing. “Come on!”

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re insane!”

“Maybe I am!” she calls back. “But it feels good!”

So you jog after her, then sprint — both of you running down the quiet road, laughing like you’ve forgotten the world.

The cool night air rushes past, and for once, Daniela doesn’t look like the girl who’s always under pressure. She looks free — hair flying, smile wide, eyes alive.

When she finally slows to a stop, she’s breathless, cheeks flushed. “I needed that,” she admits between laughs.

“Yeah?” you say, still catching your breath. “You look like you just ran from your problems.”

Daniela smiles, soft and tired but lighter somehow. “Maybe I did.”

You watch her — the way her hair falls across her face, the way her shoulders finally relax, the way she just exists without the weight of perfection crushing her.

She’s happy.

Daniela is happy. Not just “kind of” happy — fully, completely, honestly happy.

That smile. That laugh. How she’s so damn effortlessly herself and how goddamn carefree she is.

And she’s so… beautiful.

You’ve dated girls before. You’ve had girlfriends before. You know what it’s like to get close to someone, to kiss and hold and mean it.

But was it ever like this?

You’ve never felt like this before. Never.

Not something obsessive, or dizzying, or dramatic. Nothing that makes the world stop spinning — except maybe when she laughs.

But with Daniela…

It’s different. It’s quieter. Heavier. Realer.

Like standing right at the edge of something you can’t name but don’t want to step away from.

Like every heartbeat is trying to tell you something you’re not ready to admit.

Like your chest is too small to hold everything you’re suddenly feeling.

Is this—

Whatever this is—

Is this what love’s supposed to feel like?

…

If it isn’t, then your heart really needs to chill out, because it’s acting like it just ran a marathon.

By the time you reach Daniela’s house, the street’s gone still. The only light comes from the lamppost across the road, spilling gold over the cracks in the pavement.

You stop at her gate, shoving your hands into your pockets. “So,” you start, trying to sound casual, “the ball is coming up.”

Daniela exhales, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah.”

“Come with me,” you say. It comes out softer than you expect.

She looks at you, her expression unreadable. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” You smile, trying to ease the tension. “We’d clean up nice. Promise.”

She shakes her head, a small, tired laugh escaping her. “The ball’s stupid.”

“It’s not that stupid.”

“It really is,” she insists. “It’s loud and fake and… I don’t know. Not me.”

You take a step closer. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be fake. Maybe it could just be us.”

Her eyes flicker up to yours. “Why are you so set on this?”

“I’m not—” you stop yourself, realizing how defensive you sound. “I just thought you’d want a night that wasn’t all about pressure and being perfect.”

She crosses her arms. “What’s in it for you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Everything you do, there’s always a reason. So what’s yours?”

“Maybe I just like spending time with you,” you say, your voice quieter now.

She tilts her head, searching your face for something you can’t name. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I’m not—” you start, but she’s already looking away.

The silence between you stretches until it hurts. You reach into your pocket, pull out a cigarette just to have something to do with your hands. Before you can light it, Daniela takes it, tosses it into the gutter.

“You don’t need that,” she says.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Apparently, I don’t need much of anything.”

She hesitates, her voice barely above a whisper. “Goodnight.”

You watch her disappear through the gate, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should.

For a long moment, you just stand there — the chill settling deep in your chest.

Then, under your breath, you whisper to no one:

“I really shouldn’t have agreed to Manon’s deal.”