“Did you find what you need, baby?”

Jackie's voice hit you like you were underwater, muffled and distant, eaten by the drumming sound of your heart beating in your ears.

She had her back to you, slender fingers running through some dusty old book in the children’s literature section, analyzing its spine with a tilted head and curious eyes. Beautiful — as she always was, be it in a party dress with a full face on or sprawled out in bed, hair everywhere, wearing that old band t-shirt that had long been claimed as her own. Your head buzzed from the sight yet again, never failing to make your knees falter even after three years together — Jackie standing there, going about her day like she didn't make the world slow down every time she smiled and twirled the ends of her hair out of habit.

Yes, you wanted to tell her, I've found what I'm looking for, she's right here, I found her three years ago in that elevator across the hall. I find her every time I walk into the kitchen in the morning. She's by my side, she's in my bed, she's right here on my phone screen, laughing underneath the clock.

But it wasn't time yet.

So you lied. Ignored the weight of the little velvet box at the bottom of your tote and shook your head, sticking to staring at the shelf, because you didn't trust your self-control enough to keep your eyes on her.

“Not yet,” you muttered, fighting the urge to get down on one knee and just do it right here, between the foreign literature section and the old lady at the register, ruining the plan you'd spent so long crafting in secret. “You see anything interesting?”

Jackie shook her head lazily, pulling the book she'd been looking at from the shelf, lifting it slightly so you could see it where you stood.

“Just this,” she stared at it again, a soft chuckle leaving her lips before she put it back where it belonged. “Guess How Much I Love You. I used to be obsessed with it as a kid.”

“Huh,” you ran your fingertips along some books, grounding yourself, trying to pick something good enough to work as a front. “I never really read it all the way through.”

“It’s cute. My grandma read it whenever she came over. Always said she'd let me keep it when I had my own kids,” Jackie let out a soft snort, shaking her head, eyes fond with the memory of her late grandmother. “But it got lost in the move after she went to Florida, so…”

“Guess we'll have to get our own,” you said absently, glancing at the register lady — Margaret — who gave you a discreet nod from the distance, signaling you were ready to go. “When the time comes.”

Jackie smiled, gentle and sweet — that same face she made every time you talked about building a future together. Your heart did something funny at the sight, spreading warmth across your chest, the certainty so strong that you had to fight the urge to fall to your knees again.

The hardest part about this process was definitely holding back from proposing every time you saw her face.

“I've got it,” you picked up a random book, something that looked edgy and scholar enough to pass, clutching its cover with a bit too much force. “Alright. Alright, we're ready to go.”

You went over the plan in your head about a hundred times as the both of you marched down to the register, making sure you knew every single step by heart.

You'd thought of it months ago.

The idea started brewing one particular night, sitting at a restaurant across from Jackie, staring at her gorgeous face in the candlelight over your fourth glass of champagne. She'd just gotten back from the restroom, lipstick retouched after a sneaky kiss, eyes glowing with the alcohol buzz. The interaction you'd had with the waiter while she was gone pounded in your head like a drum, leaving you electric, unable to think of anything else.

“More champagne, ma'am?” He’d asked, pouring when you nodded, smiling politely as he moved over to Jackie's empty glass. “And for your wife?”

“Oh, we're not—” you caught yourself mid-sentence, a big grin taking over your lips, your head shaking slightly. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

The word landed in your chest like a missing puzzle piece, settling with care, making so much sense you couldn't help the rush that moved up your body.

What were you waiting for?

You'd known Jackie for three years, you'd loved Jackie for three years, you’d long decided you wanted her in your life forever. You already lived together. You'd seen everything there was to see of each other — the good, the bad, the stressed out late afternoons and the lazy mornings. Every single person in your life adored her — your parents, your friends, all of the extended family you rarely ever got to see (and when you did, it was always where's Jackie?). It felt right. It was time. You were both in a good place in your separate lives, steady jobs, stable incomes. More and more in love with each day that passed. Still just as obsessed with each other as you had been at the start, maybe even more — definitely more, you realized as she sat back down at the table and you just looked at her like all your prayers had finally been answered.

You were ready.

You just had to figure out how to do it.

You'd thought about a fancy dinner like that one, but God no, that would be too lame. Too common. Maybe a beach cabin, somewhere nice and sandy, you could even make a weekend out of it — sure, it sounded amazing and she'd definitely like it, but it wasn't enough. It had to be perfect. Not necessarily big or flashy, just thoughtful. Jackie liked the small stuff, subtle glances when you knew she was tired and wanted to go home, the way you'd squeeze her hand when she was nervous. When you came home with a fresh bouquet of poppies just because — you knew she liked them, you saw them at the stand by your building, why not? When you chimed in with facts you thought she'd like to know, when you put on a movie you thought she'd like to watch, when you nudged her shoulder with a lazy laugh and whispered that's so you, because you knew what she liked and what she was like — because you knew her.

It had to be personal. Something that had to do with her, with you, with the two of you together as a couple.

The answer came on your way to work, when you drove by that old building downtown where it all started — the one with the vintage bookstore and the malfunctioning elevator. Yes. That was it. The perfect backdrop, the perfect place, the perfect story.

You'd walked into it later that week, taking the stairs this time, introducing yourself to the shop owner and telling her your plan — dishing out your story with Jackie from the very beginning, asking if she'd help. All you needed was for the elevator to get stuck at the right time. Margaret, you'd learned, was a sucker for romance novels, which made the whole thing a lot easier — she loved the idea, giving you her okay, telling you she could talk to the building manager and get him to cut the power on cue. The plan was ready. You just needed a way to get Jackie into the building without being too obvious.

So you came up with something. On your way to lunch, a Saturday, a quick detour because you “needed a book an older professor had recommended and you couldn't find it anywhere”. Maybe they’d have it there, at that old bookstore downtown — or so you told Jackie, who smiled fondly, remembering the spot where you'd first seen her face.

And now here you were, checking out a book you'd never even heard of for the sake of the surprise.

“There you go,” Margaret said, smiling expectantly, handing you the bag with a dreamy sigh. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” you nodded in response, buzzing with anticipation. “I will.”

Jackie laced her arm through yours affectionately, naturally, with the same tenderness she'd always reserved for you. She looked at the elevator doors, then at you, a soft chuckle leaving her lips.

“You wanna get in that old thing?”

You shrugged, smiling nervously, nodding.

“It’s worked for me before,” you nudged her playfully, needing her to get inside for the plan to work. “Come on, Taylor. Don't tell me you're scared.”

“Pfft, as if,” she stepped into the elevator, dragging you along with ease, head leaning against your shoulder after she pressed the floor button. “But if we get stuck again, I'm blaming you.”

Your heart rammed against your ribs, but you swallowed the nerves with a chuckle.

“As long as it ends like it did the first time, I think I'll be fine.”

Jackie laughed.

“What, so being trapped in a giant metal box for God knows how long is worth it to you if it means you get a makeout in the car?”

“A makeout in the car with you,” you nodded, smiling playfully at her. “I'd say the payoff's pretty great.”

The doors closed with a creak, dragged out, a shrill sound that contrasted Jackie's easy laugh.

“You're such a flirt.”

You kissed her head because you couldn't help it, heart going a mile a minute, knowing that all you could do now was wait.

And then it finally happened.

The elevator shuddered once, just slightly, a tiny leap that made your girlfriend's hand tighten around your arm. You braced yourself for the abrupt stop, that afternoon three years ago replaying in your head with each second that passed, and it was like you could see that version of Jackie standing there — with her pink scrubs and her neat ponytail and that mesmerizing smile that still made you weak in the knees. So much had changed, but you were still a lovesick fool that would do anything to orbit Jackie Taylor's world. And you knew it'd always be this way — for the rest of your life, you kept thinking, hopeful, eager, so excited you were getting impatient. You couldn't wait to grow old next to her.

“Was that—” Jackie, oblivious to the thousand thoughts that ran through your head, looked up — and just as she did, the hum of the motor came to a complete stop.

The lights flickered a couple of times before steadying, dimmer than before, shining in that pale gray tone of emergency bulbs that hadn't been replaced over at least the last decade.

Jackie let out a soft chuckle, disbelieving.

“I think I might've jinxed it.”

You smiled — it was time.

“Don't worry. A pretty girl I met here once told me it bounces back after a few minutes.”

Jackie's grin widened as she leaned closer, cheek to your shoulder, eyes shooting up to meet yours with a playful look.

“A pretty girl, huh?” She teased, clearly unfazed by the sudden stop, used to it after all those months as an intern at the hospital across the street.

“The prettiest.”

“Ohh,” she nodded, playing along. “You guys talk much?”

“Every day, actually,” you gave back everything she offered, discreetly reaching for the ring with your free hand, carefully waiting for a cue. “She's pretty great.”

“Wow,” Jackie lifted her head off your shoulder so she could see you better, smiling in that gorgeous way that made your heart overflow. “She must really like you if she's been putting up with you this long.”

“She does,” you chuckled. “A lot. Tells me all the time.”

“Sounds like you're a lucky girl,” she squeezed your bicep gently, eyes set on you with that quiet intensity they always held, big and hazel and so beautiful you couldn't help but stare back into. “Think she might be the one?”

“Oh, yeah. She is. I'm sure of it.”

“You're sure, huh?”

You nodded slightly, breath hitching for just a moment, the playful grin giving space to something more earnest.

And then you brought up your hand.

“I'm sure.”

Jackie's smile faltered right away, all the tease disappearing as her lips curved in a surprised O. Her brows furrowed, a choked up sound leaving her throat as those gorgeous eyes kept flickering from the box to your face, then back to the box.

“Oh my— you—” Her voice was shaky, a mix of astonishment and disbelief and emotion that made you feel like you were floating. “Are you actually—?” She shook her head, eyes wide. “If you’re fucking with me, I swear—”

You chuckled, trembling, restless fingers opening the box and showing her the ring.

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my God,” Jackie's arm left yours so she could use both hands to cover her mouth, standing up straighter now, letting out a choked breath as she stared at the ring in your hand. “You bought a ring. Oh my God. You're— you're doing this. Right now. You're really doing this.”

“I'm— I'm really doing this, Jax. I bought the ring and I've been—”

“Yes,” Jackie blurted out before you even asked, eyes already watery, staring at your face with fierce affection. “Fuck— yes. Yes, yes, yes, of course, yes.”

You let out a wet laugh, shaky fingers reaching for her hand, absently gravitating toward her for steadiness.

“Wait, baby, I didn't even get to—”

“I love you so fucking much,” Jackie launched herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you even had a chance to react — not that you'd ever deny it. “I love you, yes, a billion times yes.”

You held her tightly, letting the moment settle between you with a shaky laugh, sinking your head into her shoulder and grounding yourself in her scent. The ring was still in the box, hanging from your hand right on the small of Jackie's back, and you felt complete. You hadn't technically proposed yet, but the multiple yesses she gave were enough of an indicator that you'd be just fine.

“I love you,” you muttered against her skin, just loud enough for her to hear it, raspy and charged with emotion. “More than anything. So, so, so much, forever.”

Jackie pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another, then a few more. She pulled away slightly, arms still around your neck as she looked at you, watery eyes staring right back into yours.

“I love you too,” she chuckled, pulling back just a bit more, blinking away tears of joy with an excited smile. “Alright. Alright, I’m okay. You can… ask me now.”

You took a deep breath, lifting the ring again, that stupid grin never leaving your lips. You didn't get down on one knee — you didn't have to. You couldn't. Jackie’s hands were on the back of your neck, holding you close, making sure to keep you at eye-level as you spoke, and you'd never deny her that. The proximity she always wanted, the intimacy, the closeness. This moment was your own, her own, you didn't need anything else.

“Jacqueline Elizabeth Taylor,” you started, chuckling softly, pulling a tiny giggle from her at the formality, “when I met you, on this very elevator, you were standing right there by the buttons.”

Jackie laughed, gripping you lightly, forehead bumping against yours for a second.

“Really? That's what you're opening with, professor?”

You mimicked her, amused.

“I promise I'm getting somewhere with this. Plus, you've already said yes, so…”

She nudged you softly, stealing a cheeky kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Alright, alright. Do your worst.”

“As I was saying, I met you right here on this elevator. I stood in the corner right over there, head buried into the back-cover of a book, so keen on things like productivity and deadlines and making the most of what I could with my free time that I didn't bother to look up when I got in. And I should have. I mean, it was like the world was trying to tell me something I didn’t know yet,” you smiled at her, eyes twinkly and bright, your entire universe narrowed down to the woman in front of you. “Did you know I was going to take the stairs that day? I was. I hated elevators, but then it just… I don't know, I just went inside. I didn't think about it. Next thing I knew, I was there. And I usually just stayed on campus at lunch time. But I wanted to do something different that day, to check this bookstore someone I barely even talked to mentioned one time.”

Jackie pressed her lips together in a thin line, visibly trying to hold back tears.

“All those signs, all those things I was doing differently that led me to you, and it still wasn't enough. I got in the elevator and I heard someone walk in after me, but I didn't look up. I kept staring at that stupid book,” you chuckled, the vision clear in your head as if the moment had happened yesterday. “Until the elevator stopped. My first thought was that I shouldn't have listened to whatever voice told me not to take the stairs, but then I looked up. And I finally understood what whatever god or entity or higher power out there was trying to tell me all along.”

Jackie couldn't hold back the tears this time, already spilling over, fingers tightening around the back of your neck.

“Jackie, you make being stuck in an elevator fun. You make me wish that every elevator we ever go in together would stop so I’ll get more time next to you. You've given me a fresh perspective and you've made me see that there’s so much more to life than I’d ever thought before I met you,” your free hand met her waist, holding on for stability, for comfort, for reassurance. “I used to rush out of the house in the morning so I'd be the first in class, I used to spend nights and weekends buried in my laptop working on God knows what, I used to think that that's all I wanted in life. What was important. And then I saw you here in those pink scrubs and you just… fuck, you swept me right off my feet. You changed everything I'd ever believed in. You made me see that none of that matters if I don't have the one thing that’s truly fundamental to the life I want. You. Mornings in our apartment with your arms around me while I make the world's worst cup of coffee. Late nights in the bathtub with you, talking about so many things we don't even notice the water went cold. Sitting at the dinner table while you tell me all about your day at the hospital and you’re kind enough to dumb it down for me so I can understand what you're talking about.”

Jackie let out a wet chuckle, one hand drifting up to cup your face.

“You do the same thing for me.”

“I love you,” you kept going, emotional, melting into her touch in the way you always did. “I love you, Jackie, and I want to spend the rest of my life hoping to get stuck in elevators or traffic or long lines just because you're by my side. I wanna have the house, and the kids, and the matching rocking chairs on the porch until we're so old I won't even remember all the hospital stories, so you can tell me them all over again.”

You picked up the ring from the box, lifting it slightly, looking into Jackie's eyes.

“I am crazy about you, baby. Completely bonkers. And I want you for as long as you'll let me have you,” you took a deep breath. “So, what do you say? Will you spend the rest of your life drinking bad coffee and making out in the car with me?”

Jackie let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hand still cupping your face, eyes bright with happy tears, full of love.

“You're such a dork,” she leaned forward, touching her forehead to yours. “Of course I will. I’m completely bonkers about you too, you know.”

You chuckled.

“So…” You nudged her playfully, hand tightening around her waist. “Just to be sure, it is a yes, right? You left it kinda ambiguous there.”

Jackie rolled her eyes fondly, affectionate, sneaking a peck as she leaned in for another hug.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you, you idiot. I will be your wife and I will do the whole… house, and the babies, and the rocking chairs with you. And the bad coffee. And I'm gonna make you so happy you'll be all like… whaaat? You won't know what hit you.”

It was your turn to sob-laugh, taking in the version of Jackie you loved the most out of every single one you'd ever seen — the one with the walls down, not afraid to make a fool out of herself, the one she saved only for you.

“And I'm the dork,” you said dreamily, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I love you so much, Jax. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“And I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” she stared at you for a moment, earnest and soft, completely unguarded. And then she shook your shoulders with her hands. “Now, come on! Put that ring on me already!”

You laughed, pulling away just enough to take her hand, still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. Jackie stared at it, face wet and flushed, gorgeous. You were proud of it — you'd spent months trying to pick the right one, finally settling on a slim gold band with an emerald-cut diamond, its edges softened, elegant and delicate. The stone shone underneath the pale lights, its beams reminding you of the flecks of green and gold you saw every time you looked into Jackie's eyes.

Her face did something funny as she kept staring at it, entranced, shaking her head with a sob that let on just how emotional you'd managed to make her. She looked up at you, eyes full of love, lips parting for a second then closing again, like she couldn't quite find the right words to say — but it was fine, because didn't seem to need them. Instead, Jackie pulled you closer, finally giving you a proper kiss, fingers tangling in your hair as you let yourself melt into the arms of your fiancée.

“This is perfect,” she muttered, lower this time, salty and soft against your lips. “I can't wait to be your wife.”

All you could do was smile.

“And I can't wait to be yours.”

Jackie was getting impatient.

It was hard not to in her position.

Sure, she had a plan. She had a seven-year-old to think about, she'd been to hell and back after you broke each other's hearts and did the one thing you'd both vowed not to the first time around. She knew the road would be long. She knew there was a lot to get right, to talk through, to figure out before this thing turned real. She wasn't naive.

But that didn't make this any easier.

After that incredible, magical, perfect night in the beach cabin — tangled in the sheets for hours, making up for two whole years of being deprived of you —, Jackie knew she had boundaries to set. Rules that would keep her from following her heart and the little voice in the back of her mind and diving in head first. A tiny, funny, way-too-smart-for-her-age child to be considered. Her hand rested across your bare stomach, head on your chest, lips finding the warm skin of your jaw as you both took in the rising sun through the curtains (and God, had you really been up that long?).

You let out a soft breath, meeting her halfway with a peck.

“I love you,” you muttered gently, quietly, eyes sincere as you looked at her face, and the sight of you that close after so long was enough to make her head spin. “I'm so fucking happy to be with you again.”

“And I love you,” she couldn't help but whisper back, tracing absent circles on your abdomen and waist. “I'm happy too. Really happy. But, uh…”

She took a deep breath, searching for the right words to say — not wanting you to think that this had been just a moment of weakness for her. Jackie was well aware of what she wanted, she’d known it since the elevator, she'd known it all through the marriage and the divorce, she'd felt it every second of this trip. It panged at her chest every time she looked at you — every time she saw your sunkissed skin under the afternoon rays, or when you emerged from the bathroom with your hair wet and pushed back, and even when you said something silly just to make Emma laugh (especially then). She wanted you. She loved you, she missed you, she wanted her wife. She wanted to move back home. She wanted her family.

That's why she had to do this the right way.

You nodded, kissing her forehead for the tenth or fifteenth time since you'd found that position, and Jackie knew she didn't have to search for the right anything anymore. You were a mom too, to the same witty little girl, of course you understood.

“Yeah,” you tilted your head slightly, gesturing at the hall, at the end of which Emma slept peacefully in the other room. “Not just ourselves to think about here.”

Jackie nodded weakly, cuddling closer to your body, chasing your warmth.

“I really want to do this with you. Try again. I'd pick up where we left off in a heartbeat,” she stated the words with meaning — no use hiding it anymore, not when you'd spent the whole night whispering love confessions and heartfelt promises in her ear. “But… I mean, you were there. You saw the crying, and the clinging, and the tantrums over the smallest things. It— it got to her. And now she's finally in a good place again, so I don't wanna… rush into anything when I don't even know how we let it get to that point the first time around.”

You grabbed Jackie's hand, bringing it to your lips, pressing a reassuring kiss to her knuckles.

“We don't have to rush into it,” you muttered, voice so soft Jackie thought she might faint from how full it made her heart feel. “We'll… take it slow. For her. We'll work on whatever we have to work on and we'll talk for as many hours as we have to and we'll take it easy. At least for the first few months. So she doesn't get confused.”

Jackie tensed at the sound of the words slow and easy, even if she knew that's how it had to be, something tightening in her chest with the fear of letting you slip away again.

“How slow are we talking?”

You let out a soft chuckle, letting the arm you had around her pull her closer in a firm embrace.

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm not— God, Jackie, I'm not letting you go, not again, I promise. No matter what happens. I'm in this,” you kissed her hair tenderly. “I just meant… you know. Maybe we’ll start with weekends. All three of us, family movie night or a picnic in the park or something. And dinners. We can both… I don't know, tuck her in? Read her book together? Try to make it feel like us again so she'll get used to it?”

Jackie breathed, relieved, lacing her fingers through yours over your stomach.

“That… sounds good. Great, actually. Really sweet.”

“I just don’t wanna put her through any major changes again,” Jackie’s heart fluttered as she heard your words, the love and care you had for your daughter making her even more certain you were the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. “She's a really good kid. Don't wanna do anything to mess with that.”

“Yeah. She needs to be considered. Wouldn't feel right to just spring more change into her little head,” Jackie kissed your cheek, tender, loving. “Slow it is, then.”

“Slowly and surely,” you nudged her playfully, the gorgeous grin across your lips making her knees buckle. “Making up for lost time.”

And, well… the plan worked.

For the first month.

For thirty whole days, Jackie settled for seeing you in family outings and quick lunch breaks during the week if you could both spare the time and occasional dinners in with Emma after school. You'd do as planned — eat together at the table, laugh at your kid's magical second-grade stories, read Guess How Much I Love You and each give her a good night kiss when she fell asleep. Then, Jackie would lead you to the living room and you'd just sit and talk. Discuss where everything went wrong, how you could prevent it, come up with plans and promises and things to do together in order not to let it happen again.

You'd give Jackie a slow, intense, mean kiss, saying goodbye with that fucking look on your face like you didn't really want to go — leaving her so dizzy she had to sit down for hours after you were gone.

And then she was just supposed to figure out how to fall asleep without your arms around her like that wasn't the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

Jackie was still sure of her plan — you'd been getting along really well, Emma was doing better in school and crying a lot less, things were generally great. But she wasn't made of steel. She wasn't Mother Theresa. She couldn't just sit there and think of the things she wanted you to do to her when she knew all it'd take to convince you to stay and actually do them was a smile and a please.

So after a while, she couldn't help it anymore. It was late, around midnight on a Friday, and she'd been watching you like a hawk all night long — cooking dinner in your work blouse and an apron, letting Emma stir and mix and crack the eggs without complaining once about the mess, pouring Jackie a glass of wine and telling her to relax as you cleaned her kitchen. You'd both put your daughter to bed as usual, you'd read the book and even done the voices, and Jackie simply stayed there, leaned against the doorframe, smiling dumbly as she took in the sight and replayed the night over and over in her head.

“Today at school Luke said his mom is the smartest person in the world just because she's a doctor,” Emma had said during dinner, wiggling her fork around, looking at you with an adamant head shake like that was the craziest thing she'd ever heard. “But I think he's wrong. You're way smarter, mom.”

You chuckled, easy, wiping something off her cheek with a napkin.

“Oh, then I'm the smartest person in the world?”

Emma nodded proudly, like that wasn't even a question, and Jackie smiled to herself. That little girl really looked up to you.

“Obviously. You're a teacher. Teachers have to be smart, they teach people everything.”

You swallowed your food with a smirk, shaking your head slightly.

“I don't know, bear,” you eyed Jackie briefly, just for a moment, letting your gaze land back on your daughter. “I'd say mama's a lot smarter.”

And now there you were, pulling off the apron she'd lent you and sitting on the couch with a soft sigh, ready to just sit and talk like you'd been doing for the past month.

“TGIF,” she joked, fondly looking back at Emma's shut bedroom door. “Out like a light every single time.”

“Oh, yeah,” you laughed. “You know how it is, the stress of a long week. Getting her well-earned rest.”

Jackie smiled, eyes focused on you, soft and earnest. You'd both done this enough times now for her to know by heart how the rest of the night would go. She'd talk about Emma, you'd joke around, she'd eventually land on some serious topic about the state of things between you and you'd carefully listen to everything she had to say. Then you'd give her the world's most unfairly dazing kiss and walk slow steps to the front door, leaving way too soon, all for the sake of the agreement.

But she didn't feel like talking tonight. And she didn't want to see you go.

“Hey,” she shifted closer to you, more intimate now that Emma was asleep, knees touching as her hand landed on your thigh. “Thanks for dinner tonight. And… you know, cleaning up. You didn't have to do all that.”

You smiled.

“Of course I did. You just came back from a 12 hour shift. No need to thank me.”

Jackie's heart fluttered in her chest for the hundredth time that night, because she knew you meant it. It was written all over your eyes and how they shined when you looked at her.

“Still,” she nudged you gently. “It was super nice of you. I really, really appreciate it.”

“Don't mention it, Jax. It's no problem. I'm happy to do it if it means I get to come over and see my girls.”

She looked at you for a moment, lips pressed together in a thin line, and her heart raced. She couldn't keep it in anymore — not when you kept doing all the right things, not when you kept saying all the right things.

“You know,” she bit her lip, buzzing with the thrill of one glass of wine and the sight of you — still in your work clothes, sitting on her couch, arm slung lazily around her shoulders. “We've been doing this for a month now.”

“We have,” you grinned proudly. “I'm really happy about it.”

“Me too. Really happy. But I mean, I was thinking we could maybe… take it further?” She cleared her throat. “I still think it's a little soon for Emma, but if, I don't know, you wanted to… spend the night or something, then we maybe could start with—”

“Yes,” you blurted out, not bothering to hide your eagerness, a wide smile taking over your lips. “Yes, yes, I'll spend the night. I'll totally spend the night.”

Jackie laughed, loving the enthusiasm — she didn't even have to say please.

“We have her game tomorrow morning anyway,” she said, hand still on your thigh. “We can all ride together. Start… being like that around her more often.”

You just kept nodding, tightening your embrace around her shoulders, fingertips lightly gripping her arm.

“Absolutely. Ride together in the morning. Sleep in the same bed. Yup.”

Jackie let out a genuine giggle, gently slapping your chest with her free hand.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you leaned forward, kissing the corner of her mouth, and for once she didn't feel her heart clench with the bittersweet feeling of a goodbye kiss — because this time you weren't leaving. “Come on, Taylor. Let's go to bed.”

And that's how Jackie ended up in this situation.

Well, in all fairness, there wasn't much she could complain about. She was waking up to the smell of coffee most mornings (surprisingly less bitter, as it turned out). She was constantly finding love notes on her nightstand and the bathroom mirror that left her swooning and smiling to herself for hours after you were gone. And for the first time in two-something years, she was actually getting laid — regularly, thoroughly, wrapped up in the intensity of your touch and your kiss and your gaze like you made a point out of showing her everything she'd been missing all that time.

Still, it wasn't enough. Jackie wanted more.

She wanted to wake up next to you every single day, not just two or three or however many nights a week you spent at each other's places. She didn't want there to be such a thing as “each other's places”. She wanted one house — your home, for you and her and Emma, she wanted her family. Her wife. And she was so close to getting it back. Three months into this arrangement and she hadn't second guessed it once, her hope growing a bit more every day just like her love for you.

But then she'd sit on Emma's bed on the nights you weren't around, watching the little girl breathe steadily, eyes closed in a deep sleep, and her heart would drop. She'd taken the divorce so hard. It was a lot for a five-year-old to go through — different houses, different schedules, going with one mom just when she started getting used to staying with the other. And now she was older, tougher, finally better — but, looking at her like that, it was clear she was still just a baby. Jackie's baby. So much like her mama it made Jackie's eyes well with tears whenever she thought about it.

She stared at Emma's big, shut eyes, at her pouty lips, at her button nose. At her honey blonde hair. At the picture of the two of them at the beach on the nightstand, holding each other tightly, sporting the same wide smile like carbon copies — the photo you'd taken on the last morning, just before you all went home. It made her heart ache. She saw so much of herself in that little girl. Young, confused, unable to express herself in a house where her feelings were never considered. Where her parents’ problems always splashed onto her. Where she didn't feel heard or seen — or even loved, when she stopped to really think about it.

She couldn't have the same happen to her baby.

She wanted you, she wanted so desperately to move back in and be with you for real, but three months was simply too soon for that kind of change. She'd have to wait longer — it was for the sake of her daughter, of your daughter.

Jackie turned the lights off, sniffling quietly, and tried to convince herself she could bear another few months like this before she fell asleep.

The next morning, she was sitting at the breakfast table across from Emma, sipping her coffee, watching as the little girl rubbed her eyes over a plate of scrambled eggs.

“So,” she smiled gently, motherly, looking at her daughter with enthusiasm, “what do you wanna do today?”

Emma grinned despite the sleepiness, puffy eyes crinkling up with the excitement of getting to pick the schedule for the day.

“Soccer,” she muttered. “And ice cream at the park. And inviting Callie over to play.”

Jackie chuckled, already familiar with Callie — Emma used to have her around all the time for playdates.

“Alright, bear. Then soccer and ice cream it is. And I'll give Callie's mom a call.”

“Yes!” The girl smiled eagerly. “I'm gonna show her the new worlds I unlocked in the Mario game. There's a castle that's on fire and the big boss is so hard to beat. Mom’s the only one that can do it.”

Jackie laughed softly, her heart warming every time your daughter mentioned you.

“Is that so?”

“Yup,” Emma took a big bite of food, nodding eagerly. “She's really good at it. But the TV in her house is not as big as the one here so I like it better when we play on this one.”

Jackie knew it — she'd been to your house regularly over the past few months, not to mention the fact that, well, it'd once been her house too. The TV she'd bought for her living room after the divorce was considerably bigger, a desperate effort to cheer Emma up about having to go back and forth between two different homes at the time.

Before she could say anything, Emma shrugged, kicking her feet underneath the table as she brought the fork up to her lips.

“It's okay, though,” she said absently. “We can just take this one when you move back in.”

Jackie froze.

She wasn't sure if she'd heard it right. Her heart soared in her chest as she set her coffee cup down with a trembling hand, blinking once as she stared at her daughter in absolute awe.

When you move back in, Emma had said, so certain, like it was a given. Absentmindedly bouncing her legs and eating breakfast as if she hadn't just made her mama's breathing completely stop.

Jackie thought back to the first few weeks after the divorce, when Emma would cry and cling to her at night, little arms wrapped around her neck as the girl kept calling your name, missing you, asking if you really weren't coming home to see her after work. She’d cradle the little girl on her lap like a baby, rocking gently, repeating over and over that she'd get to see you at the end of the week, that you lived in different houses now, that you'd both thought about it with your hearts and that's how it was going to be from now on. It took a while to sink in then. She could see Emma staring at the door, asking questions, clutching her hand extra hard when it was time to say goodbye for the week. Randomly mentioning you like she still had hope, not understanding the finality that came with a divorce.

Jackie wondered if that's what was happening now, though it didn't seem to make sense. Emma hadn't done that in a long time. She was well adjusted to the dynamic at this point — not crying about it anymore, saying goodbye with a hug and a kiss, packing up her stuff on Sunday morning without any complaints.

She took a deep breath, watching as the kid kept eating, eventually stopping to fiddle with the shark plushie she held faithfully against her lap.

“When I move back in?” Jackie finally asked, wondering if she'd underestimated just how observant her daughter was.

“Yup,” Emma nodded like it was obvious. “Unless mom moves in here, then she doesn't need to bring the TV.”

“Baby, what…” Jackie trailed off, catching herself, eyes slightly narrowed as she watched her little girl with care. “What makes you say that?”

Emma simply shrugged.

“I like this TV. So if we all live here she doesn't have to bring the other one.”

Jackie let out a startled chuckle, Emma's matter-of-factness making her head spin.

“No, bear. I meant… What makes you think we're all moving in together?”

“Duh,” Emma stared at her mother with raised eyebrows and a tilted head, and Jackie felt as if she was looking in the mirror. “Because you're married again. Married people live together.”

“You—” Jackie snorted, completely taken aback. “What do you mean we're married again?”

“Mom makes dinner. And you read my book together. And you two K-I-S-S,” Emma shrugged. “It's what married people do, right?”

Jackie was floored.

Sure, all the dinners and the tucking Emma in together and the family weekends had its purpose — easing into it with your daughter, getting her used to seeing her moms together again —, but Jackie didn't think she'd catch on that fast, especially without a talk. And she wasn't exactly aware Emma knew about the kissing.

“We… K-I-S-S?”

Emma giggled, narrowing her shoulders as she leaned over the table with a cheeky hand to the corner of her mouth like she told a secret.

“Kissing, mama,” she whispered, amused. “Like that day after my game.”

Jackie raised her brows. She remembered it. A few weeks earlier, the morning after you spent the night for the first time, coming home from Emma's soccer game. You'd driven them both home, stepping out of the car to watch them go inside, and Emma had run to the backyard to recreate a goal she'd scored. Jackie thought the coast was clear. The kid wasn't around anymore. So she leaned in slowly, casually, still warm with the buzz of your presence, and pressed a peck to your lips — quick, chaste, gentle. A small reassurance. She had no idea Emma had seen it.

She licked her lips, taking a deep breath.

“Bear,” she reached over, brushing a strand of messy hair away from Emma's face, letting her hand rest gently on the girl's shoulder. “Mama and mommy have been… talking about it. We're not married again. Not yet. But we want to be, if that's okay with you.”

Emma beamed.

“Yes! It's okay with me!” She leaned into Jackie's touch, hazel eyes twinkling. “Are you gonna do it today?”

Jackie laughed, dangerously close to crying, but she held the tears in for the sake of her kid.

“No, Em, that's not how it works,” she said tenderly, moving to run her fingers through her daughter's hair. “I just… I need to know you understand what this means. It means… mommy and mama will live together again. With you. In just one house, like it used to be. Are you sure you're okay with it?”

Emma nodded eagerly.

“Yes, mama. It's gonna be so fun,” she smiled widely. “Did you think about it with your heart?”

Jackie let out an endeared chuckle, and it was getting harder to keep the emotions in.

“Yeah, bear. I did. And your mom did too. We thought about it with all of our hearts.”

Emma giggled, excited, not interested in the plate of eggs before her anymore.

“So you can do it today!”

Jackie laughed.

“No, baby. That's not— it doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?!”

“Well, you don't just… Get married like that,” She explained, absently stroking her daughter's hair. “There needs to be a ring, a paper you get at city hall, you have to ask the other person…”

“I know! A proposal!” Emma nodded. “But you were married before. Do you still need to do all that?”

“Yeah. Gotta go through all of it again. That’s why it takes a while, baby.”

Emma thought for a second, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed like she meant business.

“So you don't just… go back? You have to go and get married all over again?”

Jackie nodded.

“Yes, bear. All over.”

Emma’s lips parted for a second, an idea visibly brewing in her head as she smiled eagerly.

“CAN I BE THE FLOWER GIRL?”

And that's how Jackie got to where she was now.

She'd been so keen on the thought of moving back home she hadn't exactly thought about the implications of it.

Moving back in wasn't enough. If she wanted to do this right, if she wanted to show just how much she wanted you back, she needed to go all out.

You'd been the one to make the first move, you'd been the one to ask her to be your girlfriend, you'd been the one to propose the first time around.

This time, she was going to surprise you.

Her heart raced when she thought about how perfectly you’d done it all those years ago — the elevator, the speech, the beautiful ring you'd picked out because it matched her eyes. It was going to be hard to top that. You'd set the bar so high she spent days trying to come up with a plan that would even come close to what you'd done.

After dwelling on it for way too long, she finally thought of something that would be just as representative as the first proposal. You'd met in that elevator, so you proposed on the elevator. It carried history. And this time, the beach cabin had been the place where you'd found your way back to each other.

That's where she had to do it.

The image was clear in Jackie's head — you, sitting at the balcony where you'd called her your wife again after two long years, admiring the sunset with her hand in yours. Emma, the biggest, loudest, most perfect symbol of your love, walking out with the ring. Jackie pouring her heart out, for once being the one to take the leap, asking you to be completely hers for the rest of your lives.

It was perfect.

All she had left to figure out was how to take you back there without raising suspicion.

Her birthday was in a month, which she guessed would work as an excuse. It'd give her enough time to prepare a speech as good as yours and to instruct Emma. She'd already had a conversation with the little girl after the breakfast talk, explaining very carefully that she could not mention anything marriage related in front of you — I'm gonna surprise mommy, okay? Can you keep a secret? —, and so far it was going well. Emma was actually holding her own, at least as far as Jackie saw, sticking to her role like she'd been born for it.

And now, it was a regular Sunday afternoon. Jackie was at your house — the house where she used to live with you and Emma —, the three of you lounging lazily on the couch, a kids’ movie on the screen she paid half-attention to. She was mentally bracing herself for the birthday talk. For asking you to go back to the cabin in a way that was natural enough. Hoping Emma would manage to still go with it even if she knew what the trip would really be about.

You shifted slightly, kissing the top of Emma's head gently as she lay on your shoulder, tucked in between both of her moms like that's exactly where she belonged.

“That's the best part,” the little girl muttered against you, staring focusedly at the screen as if she hadn't watched that movie about a hundred times before. “They're gonna sing the song. Pay attention, mom.”

You laughed softly, eyes full of warmth as you looked down at the little girl.

“Oh, I know that part, bear. I know it by heart. It really is the best one.”

And when the animated characters on the screen started singing, you sang along with them — every single word, doing the voices, putting on the silliest faces for your kid. Shaking her slightly, snuggling closer, making her laugh so hard her little knees bent as she held her stomach.

Jackie melted as she took in the scene, heart overflowing in her chest, so incredibly grateful to be able to witness something that special and that natural again. You. So in your element, being the version of yourself she loved the most. Making your little girl cry with laughter, so gentle, so unguarded she wanted to freeze time and stay in that moment forever.

Jackie could feel her heart turn to mush as she sat there, watching the both of you with tenderness, finally feeling complete after so long.

And when you looked up, meeting her eyes with a knowing smile for a brief second, suddenly it didn't make sense to wait anymore.

“Marry me,” she blurted out, unable to hold it in, voice earnest and low and true.

You took a second to process it, a dumb smile still on your lips as you turned your head in her direction.

“...What?”

“Marry me,” she repeated, louder this time, eyes focused on you.

She didn't have the speech ready, she wasn't at the beach, there was no sunset or white sand or the sound of the waves crashing against the shore in the background. Instead, she sat on the couch you'd bought together when she was pregnant with Emma. The only light in the room was the glow from the TV. The sound in the background was a silly song from a kids’ movie you apparently knew all the words to.

It was perfect.

She didn't need the magic, or the scenery, she didn't need the practiced words and the rehearsed moves. All she needed was you. Here, in your home, laughing with your daughter like you'd never stopped being a family even after everything that happened in the past.

The smile died on your lips as you looked at her, emotional but confused, eyes drifting down to the tiny person beside you.

“Jackie…” you muttered weakly, hesitantly, and she knew you were wondering what had happened to the whole taking it slow plan.

But before you could say anything else, Emma jumped off the couch in a hasty move.

“IT'S HAPPENING!” She yelled, rushing to Jackie's bedroom like she knew exactly what to do. “WAIT, MAMA! I'M GONNA GET THE RING!”

You let out a laugh, startled, head turning in every direction as you tried to understand what happened.

“Baby, what's— what's going on right now?”

Jackie grabbed both of your hands, grounding you, looking at you tenderly.

“I had a plan,” she tried explaining, not knowing exactly where to start. “Emma, she— we had a talk. She wants this. And I was gonna wait, I was gonna… do the big speech, and we were going to the beach, and you were gonna be all like… whaaat? But then you had to go and sing for her, and now I'm just—” she took a deep breath, hopelessly attempting to organize her thoughts. “Marry me, Y/N. Let me move back in. I want our family together again, I want my wife again, I wanna grow old with you. I want everything. The okay coffee and the stories on the rocking chairs and the makeouts in the car. You. You and Emma, and— and the ten other babies you and I are gonna have. I want you for the rest of my life, no takebacks this time, no more leaving. No more being apart.”

You let out a breath, brows slightly furrowing in pure endearment, lips curving in a tender smile.

“Ten babies?”

Jackie laughed.

“Alright. Maybe not ten. Maybe just one or two. We can figure it out later.”

You squeezed her hands, breath shuddering with excitement.

“...Emma's really okay with it?”

Jackie nodded.

“She’s… she's the one who gave me the idea, actually. To propose. She's been helping me plan it for a while.”

“Jacqueline Elizabeth Taylor,” you chuckled, shaking your head slightly. “You sneaky bastard.”

She laughed again, completely smitten, holding onto you like a lifeline.

“I have my moments,” she shrugged, cheeks already sore from smiling. “So… You gonna say anything about it or do you plan on just staring at me like that all day?”

A wide grin took over your lips.

“Well, actually, I was going to—”

The sound of the door slamming down the hall, followed by a desperate pitter-patter of tiny feet, interrupted you mid-sentence.

“WILL YOU MARRY HER?!” Emma yelled breathlessly, flying into the living room with the ring in one hand and the box in the other, stopping in front of you with flushed cheeks and an eager smile.

You narrowed your eyes, smiling big, pretending to dwell on it for a moment even though your eyes screamed it'd never really been a question.

“Yes, bear” you said, leaning forward to get on her level, bringing a gentle hand to her shoulder. “I will marry your mama.”

Jackie’s knees crumbled as she watched Emma hop up and down eagerly, turning toward her with all the innocence and joy of a seven-year-old who'd just gotten everything she’d ever wanted.

“SHE SAID YES!” The girl exclaimed. “SHE SAID YES! PUT THE RING ON HER!”

Jackie let out a wet laugh, unable to hold her feelings in, taking the ring as Emma basically threw it into her grasp. You held your hand out to her, shaking, and soon enough the ring was on your finger. Emerald-cut, golden band, a lot like the one you'd bought her — but firmer. More solid. A tiny E engraved into the back of it, symbolizing the little person who'd made it all happen.

“I love you,” you said earnestly, gently, staring into Jackie's eyes as she bit her lip. “I can't wait to be married to you again.”

“I love you too, baby. So much,” she squeezed your hand. “The both of you. More than anything in this world.”

Emma beamed brightly as she watched the scene, still jumping.

“YOU MAY KISS THE BRIDE! NOW!”

Jackie threw her head back as she laughed, unable to let go of your hand, leaning forward when you pulled her closer.

“You heard the officiant,” you joked. “You have to kiss the bride. Now.”

“Then kiss me.”

You leaned in, pressing a chaste peck to Jackie's lips — well-aware of the seven-year-old watching —, touching for just a moment before Emma erupted in cheers and you both pulled away with happy, genuine laughs.

“YES!” Your daughter yelled, launching herself forward, jumping onto the couch as she tried to wrap both of her moms in a hug. “BEST PROPOSAL EVER!”

Jackie closed her eyes, sinking into the clumsy hug, holding her two favorite girls in the world as close as she could.

She had her family back. Her wife. Everything she'd desperately wanted since she saw you walk into that elevator all those years ago.

“Work wife?” Emily spat the words out like they burnt her tongue and stared at Andy incredulously.

“Yeah,” Andy shrugged in response, an easy smile gracing her face. “You know, like your closest confidant, your safe person in the workplace.”

“Please.” Emily held up her hand, closing her eyes. “Never say that to me again.”

It was one of those rare moments at Runway where everything was quiet, ominously so: like the calm before the storm. They were sitting outside a coffee shop together, Andy waiting to collect Miranda’s midday order, and Emily on her lunch break picking at a Caesar salad. It was total coincidence that they had bumped into each other, an unfortunate one at that. She had really just wanted to be alone.

Instead, Emily had been met by Andy sliding into the seat opposite, startling her attention away from texting you. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past Andy to have installed a tracker on her phone somehow. She shuddered at the thought.

“I’m just saying,” Andy continued, “you’re practically a married couple at work; it’s crazy that you’ve not got any label on your relationship.”

Emily returned to her salad, pushed away the doubt nagging at her mind, prompted by Andy’s prying. “Labels are for children.” She muttered, then lifted a forkful to her mouth. There was a pause, broken only by the sound of her crunching, and then a buzz from the table.

Emily picked up her phone, saw a notification from you and resisted the urge to melt

[12:47 pm] you’re actually eating something proper right?

She typed back a quick response.

caesar salad with a side of Andy harassing me

“That’s her now, isn’t it?” The aforementioned harasser asked, wiggling her eyebrows. “I can tell because you’re grinning like a child.”

“Alright,” She threw up her hands in surrender, bit back a harsh retort upon remembering that you were becoming rather good friends with Andy. “You’ve made your point and made me incredibly uncomfortable in the process. Your job here is done.”

Andy clapped her hands together gleefully, made a sound akin to a squeal, and at long last, she rose from her chair with the passing remark, “You’ll both thank me on your wedding day!”

Emily rolled her eyes, said “unlikely,” and bid her goodbye with an unenthusiastic wave. She took another bite of her salad, settling further into her chair and chewing distractedly.

An underlying sense of anxiety was lining the pit of her stomach. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help but linger on what the brunette had said. Andy had that tendency to worm her way under your skin and pick out exactly what was bothering you- journalistic instinct, one might name it. Emily had wondered for a while now whether this relationship was developing into something serious: an unfamiliar new venture for her. A wave of anxious nausea overtook her desire to eat. Suddenly, the salad leaves were bitter in her mouth, an unwelcome intrusion. She swallowed back a reluctant gulp and dropped her fork, finished with the meal.

Her phone pinged again with your name lighting up the small screen.

[12:51 pm] dinner at mine tonight? there’ll be no Andy’s to harass you there 

Usually, the sight of your name and the feeling that accompanied it would be sufficient to soothe whatever else was bothering her. Now, however, with the worry plaguing her mind, she felt even more sick. What would it be like to be in a serious committed relationship? To sacrifice the path of your life by making room for another person? Did you even want that?

But she was being ridiculous. The stoic, hardworking, in command Emily Charlton, driven to worry by you. She liked to be in constant control of her day, so actually, this was all Andy’s fault. Rather than enjoying her usual respite halfway through the day, she’d been assaulted by a barrage of awfully personal questions from the brunette regarding your relationship. Emily relegated the topic to the very back of her mind, filed alongside basic human necessities such as eating and drinking enough water. As always, her job had to come first.

She decided to end her lunch break, heading back to the office and resuming her list of tasks. The entire rest of her afternoon centred on preparing for a meeting with Miranda, which she soon found herself standing in the middle of.

“I just don’t see how this blurb is necessary.” Nigel gestured across the mock-up spread about Miranda’s desk. There were several photos of a suit, the lapel of the blazer peeled back to reveal a hint of burgundy red print in the lining. “It states the obvious next to a piece that’s meant to be a mystery… The text shouldn’t give so much away. It should evoke a feeling, not slap us round the face with the grand reveal.”

Miranda hummed thoughtfully, tapping a manicured nail against her desk. Having worked there for long enough, Emily recognised this body language meant Miranda probably agreed. She jotted down Nigel’s notes.

“You’re right,” Miranda murmured. “We need a rewrite, done quickly.”

She scribbled ‘rewrite’ next to the sentence.

“Emily...” Miranda called.

Her head whipped up, breath catching in her throat. Despite knowing Miranda perhaps better than she knew even herself, she was still terrified of doing wrong in front of the woman. She didn’t crave her validation as much as she used to, and that was partly thanks to you, but she also took great pride in her ability to anticipate Miranda’s every word… Which is why what she said next caught Emily completely off guard.

“Who’s that content writer you’re always following around like a lost puppy…? She’s good. Get her to do it.”

“I… Wh- Who do you mean?” She stuttered out- a total lie. Miranda meant you. But she couldn’t admit that, absolutely wouldn’t.

Miranda quirked an eyebrow. Nigel stared at her, somewhere between sympathy and humour. She felt her cheeks heat up, prayed her foundation would cover any redness to them.

“You’re not fooling anyone here,” Miranda spoke slowly. “I don’t care what my employees get up to in their spare time, as long as any relationships formed along the way don’t hinder their ability to work together.” She explained, in words as close to supportive as one could expect from the woman. “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?” Miranda asked mockingly, sarcastically, entirely aware that nobody who fought through this job would ever let anything get in the way.

“No.” She nodded, frantically attempting to regain control in the situation. “I’ll get her to do it right away.”

The rest of the meeting passed in an uneventful blur. Afterwards, the walk to your desk was torturous and yet over way too quickly. Emily hadn’t thought of what to say, nor an answer to your earlier question, nor recovered from the anxiety churning in her gut. And then, there you were, glancing up from your keyboard, registering who it was, and beaming at her.

“Hey!” You greeted, all else occupying your attention pushed aside by Emily’s presence. “How’s your day going?”

Emily let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. There you were, so pleased to see her, a relaxed grin adorning your face. Your perfume, the soft curl of a loose strand of hair, your warm gaze roaming over her body. Without saying a word, Emily felt reassured by you, made aware that all her prior concern had been futile. She leant against your desk as she had done so many times recently. “Strangely quiet… Although I’m afraid I’m about to ruin your peace.”

You frowned, the smile still gracing your cheeks. “Go on.”

“Miranda wants you to rewrite a description some incompetent moron came up with.” She placed the article down in front of you, her finger fast to find the words and trace over them. “The piece is meant to be a hinted reveal, but it ruins that surprise.”

“Oh yeah.” You shifted forward in your seat, skimming over the paragraph. “I can get that done in twenty minutes max.”

Emily allowed her gaze to shift over to you, the article lying forgotten in front of her. There was a gentle light reflecting in your eyes, a crease between your brows as you examined the photos. She had always reluctantly admired your written work, even back when you supposedly hated one another. And that penchant for finding the right words translated into how you spoke to her too- always knowing the right thing to say to her. Her heart fluttered in her chest, burning deep into your stomach as she watched you bite down on your lip.

Emily decided then that she needed your attention on her. She shuffled forwards, pressed a light kiss to the cheek closest to her and waited for your head to whip around.

The two of you had been keeping this unnamed relationship somewhere between subtle and secret in the office, but rules be damned after this latest revelation. “Miranda knows about us,” Emily whispered, words tickling your skin.  

“Yeah?” You asked, breathless, yet schooling your features into an unaffected mask. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes.” The word escaped her lips before she could stop it. “And Andy taught me an abhorrent new phrase today called work wives.”

“Work wives?” You repeated, chuckling.

“I know.” Emily rolled her eyes, smirking. She swallowed, tried to recall why on earth she had felt so anxious earlier and came up with no plausible explanation. Instead, she let the thought currently on her mind be vocalised. “It should at least start with work girlfriends.”

“Work girlfriends?” You hummed and considered it for a moment, your eyes dipping to Emily’s lips briefly. “I think I like that…”

Emily’s whole body shook pleasantly; adrenaline turned to relief turned to something more. She felt herself smiling, smitten and mesmerised by the way you stared back at her. Absolute adoration, a truth behind the joking pretence. Something that had previously caused her so much stress had been resolved so naturally.

Remembering where exactly she was right now, Emily attempted desperately to regain control of her expression, unable to quell the warmth suffusing into every limb.

At her wordlessness, you took on a teasing air, continuing, “Much better than work-friends-with-benefits or whatever it would be...”

She scoffed in amongst a soft laugh, bit her cheeks and turned away from your gleaming eyes to try and calm herself down.

After a beat, she added. “We can celebrate this promotion tonight at yours, then.”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright,” She tapped her finger on the article. “You’d better get to work so we can leave on time.”

That was it. Tag along on one of her birthday escapades across whatever red sun planet had caught her attention this time. One week, she’d promised. Seven days of questionable bars, stranger food, and whatever trouble Kara inevitably managed to find. Then she’d fly you back to Earth, stay a couple of days—maybe three, if you were lucky—and disappear into space all over again.

You’d hesitated.

Not because you hated parties. You actually loved them. You loved bar hopping and clubbing with Kendra in Metropolis when you could.

It’s just that it had been a while since the two of you had spent time together.

And it wasn’t that you hadn’t missed her.

You had!

It’s just that things between you had become... complicated.

Not in the dramatic, world-ending sort of complicated. More in the you kissed your best friend in the Justice Gang’s training room, she kissed you back, and then left Earth the very next day without so much as a goodbye, sort of complicated.

Which, admittedly, felt a little world-ending at the time. And it left the two of you somewhere strange. Not quite friends. Definitely not whatever came after friends. But not nothing either.

Neither of you brought it up.

Mostly because Kara was never on Earth long enough to have the conversation.

She came back when Clark needed an extra pair of hands or when she missed Krypto and wanted to see him or when she wanted more of those Asian candies she liked. Then she’d disappear again before you ever found the nerve to ask what the kiss had meant.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You didn't want to talk about it anyway.

And Kara clearly didn’t either.

It wasn’t like your stomach tightened every time she wandered into your orbit.

Or that your pulse skipped whenever she absentmindedly grabbed your shoulders to move you aside so she could squeeze past you in the cramped hallway of her ship.

Or that you’d caught yourself wondering, more than once, if she’d forgotten the kiss entirely.

Because that would be ridiculous. Right?

So everything was fine.

“—Doesn’t sound fine.”

Clark Kent, everybody. Delivering the million-dollar observation through a video call that’s cutting in and out every other sentence.

The signal wasn’t exactly built for conversations from several solar systems away. Mister Terrific was still ironing out the kinks in whatever intergalactic communication miracle he’d shoved into your phone, but naturally, Clark’s giant Kryptonian computer inside the Fortress of Solitude had the better connection.

Figures.

“You should tell Kara how you feel.”

Your migraine pulses a little harder behind your eyes.

“Clark,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. The bitter aftertaste of whatever alien liquor Kara had insisted you try still clings to your tongue. You reach for your glass—or at least this planet’s approximation of water—and take a long drink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on.”

His voice crackles beneath the music, every other word swallowed by static. You squint down at the tiny holographic image hovering above your phone. It’s mostly a blur of blue and red pixels with Clark’s face occasionally being visible.

“It can’t be that bad,” He continues. “You’re just overthinking it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I did the same thing with Lois!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“We had slightly different circumstances, I believe.”

“Very different.”

“The principle is still the same!” Clark insists. “You tell her how you feel. It’s just like ripping a Band-Aid.”

You snort, “You don’t even know what that feels like.”

He pauses, scratching his jaw, “…No. Not really.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You always found everything a little funnier when you drank.

Clark smiles. “But I understand the metaphor. It’s a good metaphor.”

Krypto was probably curled up on the bed back in Kara’s ship by now, blissfully unaware of loud music, questionable drinks, and unsolicited relationship advice from Superman of all people.

You’d never thought you’d be jealous of a dog.

“So,” Clark says after a burst of static, “where is Kara, anyway?”

“Um,” You glance over your shoulder toward the packed dance floor.

The room swims for a second, just enough to remind you you’d definitely crossed the line from pleasantly tipsy into maybe you should’ve stopped two drinks ago. Your eyes skim over a sea of unfamiliar faces in search of bright blonde hair.

“I actually don’t know. She went to get another dri—”

Suddenly, the music changes. Gone is the slow, warbling alien jazz that’s been humming through the bar all evening. A familiar guitar riff crashes through the speakers instead, something you recognize from Earth.  

You whip your head toward the DJ booth. Or maybe it’s a jukebox. You honestly can’t tell, and you don’t find either. You find Kara first.

She’s halfway across the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her sunglasses have slipped halfway down her nose, barely hanging on as she points excitedly toward the speakers before throwing both hands into the air.

Then she spots you.

She barrels toward you, and people have to jump out of her way. One unfortunate alien isn’t fast enough and loses half their drink when Kara clips their shoulder. She doesn’t even notice, or maybe doesn’t even care.

“There you are! My favourite person on this stupid planet!”

She reaches the booth in record time, nearly tripping over her own boots before catching herself against the edge of the table.

Then, without so much as asking, she plucks your phone straight out of your hand.

“Who’re talkin’ to?”

She squints at the tiny hologram.

“…Oh.”

“Hi, Kara!” Clark says cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”

“I know.”

She slides into the booth beside you with a dramatic sigh, shoulder bumping yours hard enough to make you sway.

“…Oh. I just wanted to call and tell you happy birthday.”

“Thanks, man.”

She pushes her glasses back onto the top of her head before looking sideways at you. Then, making absolutely sure Clark can’t see her, she mouths: What a loser.

You bite back a smile.

“Be nice.”

She rolls her eyes so dramatically you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.

“Okay, if that’s all. Thanks, Clark. Bye.”

“Wait, I actually wanted to ask—”

“Bye.”

She ends the call before he can finish and drops your phone back into your hand.

“He can’t leave us alone for one second.”

“He was checking on us.”

You slip your phone back into your pocket.

Kara only shrugs. Her attention drifts almost immediately, latching onto the glass sitting in front of you. “What’s this?” Before you can answer, she plucks it from the table and takes a long drink.

You open your mouth anyway. “It’s water.”

She slowly lowers the glass. “What the hell? What’d you get water for?”

“I was thirsty.”

She stares at the glass for another second before setting it down with a loud thunk. “Gross.”

You let out a laugh that’s closer to a breath, leaning your head on your fist. The pounding has subsided now, and you wonder if it’s because of the change of music or just because Kara is close to you again.

You look away, your smile fading. You’re trying your best to find the words to explain this feeling, to be honest with Kara, and finally to bite the bullet, but it all turns into a puddle of melted letters and colours. It’d be a lie if you said it wasn’t slowly killing you on the inside. She’s all you’ve been thinking about for weeks, running laps in your brain, tangling her fingers with your heartstrings.  

A sharp jab at your cheek makes you blink.

You glance at Kara, who’s already looking at you.

“Not having fun?” she asks, and you think this is the most serious she’s been in the last forty-eight hours.

You can feel your brows furrowing together. Have you been that obvious? You try to spring an answer as fast as you can, but the drinks you’ve had a couple hours ago have made your tongue heavy. Especially with the way she’s looking at you, with the way she’s leaning closer to hear whatever answer you’ll give her over the loud bass of the music.

Instead, you stare at her eyes, those sad, angry blue eyes and watch how they soften around you; how they get wider, like she really wants to see you.

“I’m just…” You finally hear the words come from your lips. Lips. Your lips are so dry. You swipe your tongue over them. Your mouth is so dry. Your eyelids are so heavy. Kara’s hair is so bright. Distracted, you find an answer. “Tired.”

“You’re tired?” Kara says, amused. She’s smiling at you, that stupid grin she has with teeth, all bite. “How could you be tired? We’ve barely been here four hours.”

You groan when Kara reaches for your shoulders, as if you shake it out of you. It works, you think. A little bit. You can tell from the way the dark blue clouds have parted from your head, and she’s all red suns and teasing smiles and red roses with thorns.

She tries to pull you to stand.

“Wanna get out of here?”

This planet was strange, and honestly a little disorientating. Beautiful, in a way, but strange enough that you couldn’t quite tell if the world was actually bending around you or if that was just the alien alcohol still in your system

Maybe it was the sky.

It had been purple when the sun was out, but now the darkness had settled into a deep, almost murky green, the colour bleeding into shades you couldn't quite name. Stars burned through it in strange clusters, brighter and closer than they ever looked from home.

The moment you step outside the dingy bar, the late-night breeze catches your hair and sends it floating above your head.

Finally.

A relieved sigh escapes you before you can stop it. You stretch your arms over your head, breathing in the cool, clean air as if you'd been underwater for the last six hours.

Kara stumbles out the door behind you. But she doesn’t trip like she would’ve if you were on yesterday’s planet. This planet had a strange gravity, lighter here than it was on Earth, making every step feel like you were walking half a second behind yourself.

She smiles as she walks past you, running her hands over your floating hair.

You follow.

Your steps are uneven, and you aren’t entirely sure whether that’s the alcohol or the planet. Every time your feet leave the ground, you feel weightless, like you could keep going and forget to come back down.

You find yourself sneaking glances at Kara. Her sunglasses are back over her eyes despite it being the dead of night, and she keeps looking down at her boots. You frown; you want to make a joke but can’t find anything to say.

You try not to look at her again. But every few seconds, you catch her looking at you.

And every time you turn your head, she looks away.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

Eventually, the ship comes into view. You’re only a few metres away now. You can see the soft orange glow of the little bed light through the tiny windows, warm and familiar against the strange colours of the planet. Home.

Or at least what’s been your home for the last few days, somewhere you can sleep.

Kara’s stopped walking. You only take another step before you notice she’s not beside you anymore. You turn just in time to watch her drop to the ground, her knees bucking, and she collapses.

You startle at first, thinking she’s hurt or that the drinks have gotten the best of her. It wouldn’t have been the first time this week you’d have to haul her over your shoulder and make the rest of the trip for the two of you.

But before you can start to panic, she’s groaning dramatically, sinking further into the grass and rolling to her back.

You stare at her. “Kara.”

“I’m soo tired.” She complains.

“You’re tired?”

“Just give me a second. I need this.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile growing on her face as you wait.

Eventually, she holds both hands out toward you.

“Okay. I’m good. Help me up.”

You step closer and take her hands. The wind suddenly shifts, blowing downward this time, and your hair falls across your face. Her fingers close around yours immediately. And you barely have the chance to blink before she’s pulling you down.

“Kara—!”

You lose your balance and fall, landing squarely on top of her. The air is knocked out of your lungs as your chests collide. You can feel Kara’s shaking as she laughs under you. Your hands are planted on either side of her, her arms caught beneath you. Your face is inches from hers when you shift, and you can feel her warm breath against your cheek.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Kara only grins, and there's not an ounce of guilt in her expression. She reaches up and pushes her sunglasses into her head. She lets the ends of your hair tickle her cheeks.

“I don’t wanna go back yet,” Kara tilts her chin at you, and you jerk back so her nose doesn’t brush with yours. You pretend you don’t see her noticing. “Stay here with me a bit?”

Her voice is quieter when she asks, and it makes something inside of you melt a little bit. There’s something behind her eyes that makes your stomach twist because you can’t name it. You want to find the name for it so badly it makes you sick.

So you roll off her and lie into the grass beside her.

And for a while, you both say nothing.

The grass is cool beneath your back.

Above you, the sky stretches endlessly, dark green and violet and littered with stars. Some are white. Some are blue. A few burn almost pink against the darkness.

You wonder if any of them have names.

You wonder if Kara knows them.

You wonder how many worlds she’s looked up at the sky from.

“Do you ever think about it?”

Kara’s voice pulls you out of your head. It's soft, you realize, an earnest tone she only ever keeps devoted with you. You turn your head to look at her; she’s already looking at you again.

“What?”

Her blonde hair fans around her head against the grass, catching the strange light from the sky until it looks almost silver at the edges.

She looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Our kiss.”

You flinch and look away. Not that you meant to, but you felt the heat crawling up your chest, neck and face. You didn’t want her to see you.

Your fingers curl into the grass below you. You can feel it again; her lips against yours; that faint memory; the softest encounter; the most gentle brush of skin. You remember the taste of her. Sweet lychee.

Kara had always loved those fruits and candies from East Asia, always coming back to Metropolis with bags of tropical flavours for everyone in the Justice Gang.

You try not to think of it. Instead, you’re trying to find constellations in the sky, if there even were any in this solar system. You can feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest; you worry it’ll burst from your ribs and jump into her hands.

“I don’t know.”

You swallow. In your head, you’ve played out this conversation thousands of times; admittedly, you imagined it happening when you were both sober, sitting down preferably. In a nice cafe in Metropolis, maybe. Somewhere bright enough for you to see her face in the sunlight and crowded enough that if she let you down you could slip away easily. Or maybe after a mission when she’s patching you up with a strange gentleness she’d never admit to having.

“I think about it often.”

Your head snaps toward her so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. But really it’s your eyes squinting and her blurry image in your view. She’s not looking at you anymore; she’s looking at the sky, and her eyes catch the shining stars.

“It’s funny,” Kara continues, “because Kendra told me friends kiss sometimes on Earth without it meaning anything. Like at sleepovers and stuff,” she says, and her mouth quirks in a faint smile.

You wonder briefly if Kara’s ever even had a sleepover before. You turn to her fully.

“But it’s different on Krypton. I mean, I didn’t have many friends my age there. But I knew kissing was something intimate. I remember mom and dad, and sometimes I’ve seen them kiss. And it wasn’t just to kiss each other; it was like…” she gestures vaguely at the air, and the sound of her jacket rustling soothes you. “So much more than just lips pressing together. It’s like a moment when two people share that same breath. So when you kissed me I just… I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

You never know what to say when Kara talks about Krypton. In those rare times she does, at least. But you notice there’s always this different look in her eye. Something distant. She never really looks at you when she talks about her home, always past and through you, at something you could never follow or begin to understand.

Tears burn in your eyes.

You reach for her blindly before you can think better of it. Your fingers find her pinky, a soft brush of warm skin. Kara’s head turns, eyes dropping to look at your hooked fingers, then back up at your face. She looks… sad.

Sure, Kara’s always had this sadness about her, an inner turmoil you’ve learnt about early on and still can’t find a way to understand. But this is different.

And an awful feeling sinks in your chest. It’s because of you.

“Did it… did it feel that way to you?”

“Don’t stress about it,” Kara snorts, but there’s no real humour to it, nor that sarcasm you’re oh so familiar with. “You didn’t know.”

You watch it happen before your eyes, the way she’s starting to shut you out. Walls rebuilding themselves before you, as if you haven’t spent the last few years trying to climb them.

She pulls her hand away from yours and presses both fists against her eyes.

Your stomach drops.

Was she crying?

“Kara.” You sit up. “Did it mean something to you?”

“Yeah,” She says quietly, dropping her hands from her face. Her eyes are wet, and she sits up next to you. Kara shrugs as if it’s not a big deal when she sees you look at her with a similar sadness. She drapes her arms over her knees, muttering, “It’s not like it matters.”

“Of course it does.”

That feeling of your heart jumping out of your chest returns when she looks at you again.

“It meant everything to me.”

She blinks at you. “…you’re serious? Because it’s not funny if you’re fucking with me.”

“I mean, I-I wouldn’t have kissed you in the first place if I wasn’t like into you or anythin—”

“You’re into me?” She asks flatly.

You narrow your eyes a bit. You’re at a loss with where to go further now, losing your words again. You’d thought it’d been obvious; your feelings have been spilling all over the place since the moment Kara put you on her ship.

“Well, yeah,” you say. “And don’t listen to Kendra about the friends kissing thing. It’s totally as big of a deal on Earth as it is on Krypton. At least it is to me. I don’t know what she’s getting up to at her sleepovers. But I also do find kissing… uhm… intimate.”

When you look at her again, you can see she’s grinning at you. Your heart swoops a little bit, knowing she’s about to say something crass by the glint in her eye. You always loved being on the receiving end of her taunts.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty hot,” Kara says.

You exhale a snort. “Charming.”

She rolls her eyes and takes your jaw in her hand gently. Now you’re certain, surely, that your heart can’t possibly beat any harder than it is right now. And Kara’s most definitely, surely, got the strings wrapped around her fingers. Her hands are so cold, and your cheeks are blazing. And her eyes are so blue, like bright glacier blue, and your head is spinning. You blink, and she’s closer. Blink again, and her breath twirls within yours.

You think you might explode if she doesn’t kiss you in the next second. Your pulse is a strange, sluggish-rushed beat on your neck, and she presses her pinky against it. You nearly squeal from excitement.

“Are you fucking with me, Kara?” You say, breathless, when she leans closer to your mouth just to swerve the last second and press her nose to the other side of your jaw.

The hand on the side of your face shifts when she laughs. You feel her thumb running across your cheekbones. You sigh, your eyes fluttering closed when she presses a shy kiss to the side of your neck. Her lips are chapped and dry, and it tickles a little.

Kara pulls away and looks at you, and your free hands find themselves tangled with hers against your hip. You squirm, squeezing her hand and leaning in to make the first move, but she shifts back just to look at the pout you make.

You draw closer. She softens her breath, but you still feel it on your mouth. She licks her lips. And you can tell she doesn’t do it on purpose, but it’s still unfair.

She turns and touches her lips to the edge of your mouth. Just a graze. Your vision blurs from the tiniest contact. You breathe a little too hard, or wheeze, and feel your spine tremble. That’s all it takes. “Please,” you whisper. Your eyes roll to hers. “Are you ever going to kiss—”

The “me” is smothered because she’s finally kissing you. You move to hold her tight, afraid that she could float away despite there being a red sun. Not that it matters; Kara’s holding you just as tightly, and she raises your linked hands to shake hers out of yours. Her newly freed hand touches your shoulder, then squeezes, pressing gently to push you back.

You’re suddenly anchored to the grass. You feel your heartbeat thrum and your stomach twist, but it’s good. No. Good doesn’t do it justice. Her lips are now smooth and soft, and the bite of her nails on your face feels just right. You’d love to see the little crescent moons later.

Only today, instead of surgical tools or medical files, her gentle fingers were dextrously weaving together long, flexible stems of yellow buttercups, white daisies, and sprigs of sweet-smelling clover that you had spent the last hour lazily plucking from the lawn around your spot.

You leaned back on one elbow, taking a slow sip of the chilled elderflower cordial you had picked up from the little bakery near the station, letting your eyes linger on her profile. Trinity had entirely shed her usual practical, crisp demeanor. Her dark hair was gathered up in a messy, loose bun with soft tendrils framing her face, catching the sunlight beautifully. Her shoulders, usually so squared and set against the chaos of her work, were completely dropped and relaxed.

Every now and then, she would hum a low, absentminded tune under her breath, her tongue poking out just a fraction of a millimetre between her lips as she carefully knotted a stubborn daisy stem into place without snapping the delicate blossom. It was a side of her that felt like a precious, private secret, a version of Trinity Santos that belonged only to sunny afternoons, quiet holidays, and you.

"You're staring," Trinity murmured without looking up, though the small, teasing curve at the corner of her mouth gave away how much she was enjoying the attention. Her fingers didn't miss a beat, expertly tucking a tiny spray of blue forget-me-nots into the leafy chain she was building. "If you stare at me like that for much longer, I'm going to start thinking you'd rather eat me than that strawberry tart we endured the bakery queue for."

"I could do both, Trin, I'm multi-talented," you replied softly, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you reached over to trail your fingertips lightly over the exposed skin of her forearm. Her skin was warm, smelling faintly suncream. "Besides, watching you take flower crown construction this seriously is genuinely the highlight of my summer. I think you've put more structural integrity into it than most engineers put into bridges."

Trinity finally paused, letting out a soft, melodious laugh that vibrated pleasantly in the warm summer air. She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with pure affection as she looked at you, the golden hour light softening her features into something breathtakingly gentle. She reached out with her free hand, lightly tapping the tip of your nose with a finger dusted in yellow pollen.

“It's all about tension control and knot security, sweetheart. You wouldn't want a stray breeze taking down my masterpiece, would you? This is high-stakes crafting." She held up the partially finished circle, turning it around in the sunlight to inspect her handiwork with mock sternness. "I'm making this for you, you know. You're going to wear it, and you're going to look like a majestic woodland deity whether you like it or not."

"I wouldn't dream of refusing," you chuckled, shifting closer to her on the blanket so your knees brushed against hers, feeling the delightful, grounding warmth of her presence.

The park around you was brimming with gentle life, a pair of mallards were waddling lazily toward the nearby pond, a distant ice cream van was playing a faint, tinkling melody, and the cool breeze carried the sweet scent of the nearby pergola. You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Trinity's cheek, feeling her give a contented little sigh as she leaned into your touch, her shoulder resting comfortably against yours while her fingers resumed their methodical, rhythmic weaving.

It was in that quiet, suspended moment of pure contentment that a tiny, unsteady shadow fell across the corner of your picnic blanket. You both blinked, turning your heads in unison to find a tiny toddler standing at the edge of your tartan rug.

She couldn't have been more than eighteen months old, dressed in a slightly oversized pair of denim dungarees embroidered with little strawberries and tiny yellow canvas shoes that creaked softly with every micro-adjustment of her balance. She had chubby, sun-kissed cheeks, a halo of wild blonde curls sticking out in every direction, and a tiny, drooly fist clutched firmly around a half-eaten digestive biscuit.

She was staring at the two of you with wide, dark, intensely curious eyes, her little legs swaying slightly as she worked up the courage to take another wobbling step forward into your space.

Trinity immediately froze, her hands dropping into her lap as a look of utter, soft-hearted wonder swept across her face. The sharp, decisive emergency doctor vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression so completely melted and tender that your heart did a sudden, heavy flip inside your chest.

"Well, hello there, little angel," Trinity breathed in a voice so soft and low it was almost a whisper, as if she were afraid that speaking too loudly might startle the tiny explorer away. She offered a small, gentle wave with just her fingertips, keeping her posture low and non-threatening.

The baby took one more adventurous, heel-to-toe toddler step onto the wool blanket, her little belly sticking out as she balanced herself, before letting out a soft, bubbled gurgle that sounded remarkably like a greeting. A few metres away behind her, a flustered parent was sitting on a bench near the flowerbeds, chatting on the phone and briefly turned away, entirely unaware that their little adventurer had gone on a gentle rogue expedition.

You looked from the tiny visitor over to Trinity, and the sight of Trinity's expression made your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of adoration. Trinity was absolutely beaming, her eyes crinkling deeply at the corners as she slowly lifted the flower crown she had just spent the last twenty minutes meticulously crafting.

The wreath was a perfect, delicate circle of bright blossoms and lush green leaves, made with so much care and precision, and without a second thought, Trinity held it out toward the little girl with both hands, offering it like a grand royal gift. "Look what I have," Trinity murmured softly, tilting her head with an inviting, warm smile that could have thawed a glacier. "Is this for you? Do you want to try it on?"

The toddler stared at the vibrant ring of flowers, her tiny mouth forming a perfect little 'O' of delight. She dropped her half-eaten biscuit onto the grass without a second thought, reaching out two chubby, dimpled hands toward the colorful crown.

With practiced, incredibly gentle grace, Trinity leaned forward, carefully hovering the ring over the baby's messy halo of curls before resting it feather-light upon her head. The contrast between Trinity’s long, elegant, skilled hands and the baby’s tiny, soft frame was so achingly precious that you felt tears of pure, simple happiness prickling at the backs of your eyes.

You sat there completely mesmerised, beaming so hard your cheeks genuinely began to ache, watching the absolute purity of the interaction unfold right in front of you.

The little girl put her hands up to her head, feeling the soft petals resting against her hair, and let out a delighted, squealing laugh that echoed softly across the quiet lawn. She took two tiny, triumphant steps in a circle, showing off her new floral headpiece to the grass, the trees, and the sky, before pointing a tiny finger at Trinity and babbling a series of cheerful, incomprehensible syllables.

Trinity let out a bright, breathless chuckle, her whole face illuminated with a joy so pure and unburdened by the stresses of the world that she looked practically radiant. "You look absolutely beautiful, little one," Trinity told her softly, reaching out to give the baby's tiny hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze with one finger. "A little summer princess."

Just then, the baby’s parent finally looked up, gasping in mild alarm as they spotted their little wanderer standing on a stranger's picnic blanket wearing a full wreath of fresh park flowers.

“Oh gosh, I am so sorry!" the parent called out, rushing over across the grass with an apologetic, embarrassed smile. "Maisie, what are you doing? You can't just go running onto people's picnics!"

"Oh, don't apologise, she's no trouble," Trinity said quickly, turning her warm smile onto the parent as she smoothed down her maxi skirt. "She's an absolute angel. She was just inspecting our floral arrangements."

"It's gorgeous, did you make this just now?" the parent asked, looking down at the intricate little crown resting atop Maisie's curls in total amazement. "That is so incredibly kind of you, thank you so much. Say thank you, Maisie!"

The tiny girl just offered a wet, toothy grin and a vague wave of her chubby arm, turning to wobble back toward her parent while holding her hands up to keep her prize secure on her head. The parent offered one last warm, grateful smile before scooping the little girl up into their arms and walking back toward the paved path, leaving the two of you sitting together again in the warm, golden light of the fading afternoon.

You turned back to Trinity, unable to contain the masses of love rushing through you. You slid across the blanket, wrapping your arms securely around her waist and burying your face into the warm nook of her neck, inhaling the comfort of her scent. Trinity let out a soft, surprised giggle before folding her arms around you, pulling you close against her chest and resting her chin softly on top of your head. You could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your cheek, calm and strong.

"What was that for?" Trinity asked softly, her thumb gently stroking the small of your back in long, soothing strokes that sent a wave of cozy relaxation straight down to your toes.

"You are just... the most wonderful human being in the entire world, Trin," you murmured against her skin, your voice thick with emotion as you looked up into her face, holding her gaze. "The way you looked at her. The way you just handed over something you worked so hard on without even thinking twice. I don't think I could possibly love you any more than I do right in this exact second."

Trinity’s breath hitched slightly, her eyes softening into an expression of profound, tender vulnerability. A soft flush crept up her cheeks, and she leaned down, pressing her lips gently against yours in a slow, sweet, lingering kiss that tasted like elderflower and warm sunshine. When she pulled back, just an inch or two away, her eyes were shining with a deep, quiet devotion that made the rest of the busy city fade away completely into background noise.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice full of an earnest, unshakable warmth as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "And besides, I had to give it to her. I need to practice making them anyway, because the next one is going to be even bigger and better, and it's going strictly on your head."

You chuckled softly, resting your forehead against hers, closing your eyes just to soak in the absolute perfection of the afternoon. The gentle breeze rustled the high oak branches above, showering the plaid blanket in tiny flickers of light and shadow, but wrapped up in Trinity’s arms, with the faint taste of strawberries on your tongue and the quiet promise of an endless, peaceful summer ahead, you knew there was nowhere else in the world you would ever rather be.

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When she first finds you, opening the heavy metal door, everything becomes blinding, color searing into your eyes. It’s been so long since you’ve seen light, since you’ve seen anything but the inky darkness that covered every inch of your cell. Your eyes don’t know how to adapt, how to focus on just one thing at the barrage of brightness, and you instantly clench them shut. It’s too much.

The next thing you’re bombarded with is the smell, the noise. It’s so loud as the sounds of what you think must be a battle outside your cell rage on. Shots ringing out, yelling, the cries of pain and anger and triumph all resound in your ears, giving you an immediate splitting headache. You can smell the metallic stench of blood, the acridness of the gunpowder, and the small comfort that is fresh air. You’ve been confined for so long. Even still, your stomach rolls as wave after wave of nausea starts to come.

Natasha looks at your small form scrambling to push yourself back into the shadows in the corner of your concrete room as if to get away from her… or what she’s bringing with her. She pauses at the sight, not having thought she’d find anyone. The other cells in your block were empty or, at least, the prisoners within were no longer standing.

You’re dirty, face and hands smudged with grime, clothes stained and torn, hair a tangled mess of knots. You haven’t been treated well here.

Your hands have shot up to your ears, your eyes are still tightly closed, and your body is trembling at the attack upon your senses.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” Natasha says softly in what she hopes is a comforting voice. She’s unsure you can hear much more than muffled words through your hands covering your ears, but she continues anyway. “My name’s Natasha. I’m here to help. Can you look at me?”

She doesn’t approach you yet, waiting to see if you’ll open your eyes, if you’ll drop your hands, if you’ll focus on her instead of whatever it is that is seemingly tormenting you.

She doesn’t realize that she’s being too loud. It’s just a murmur, but it’s too loud. Everything is too intense, too deafening, too much.

“Can you understand me?”

She’s met with silence. Maybe you’re deaf? Maybe you don’t know English? Maybe you can’t speak? Natasha wracks her brain with potential reasons as to why you aren’t reacting to her words with anything other than trying to block her out.

“Natasha! Where are you? We gotta go!” Steve calls from down the hallway, rushing over until he arrives at the entrance of your cell. He skirts to a stop when he sees you, when he registers that Natasha is speaking to someone, trying to talk you down, to convince you that you need to come with them. You aren’t responding. You look like you’re hurting, afflicted by something they don’t understand.

“We have to go now,” Natasha’s voice remains calm, “Can you come with us? Please?”

You don’t acknowledge her requests, and soon, they turn into pleas. The sounds of the battle are getting closer, and although she isn’t sure what the status is out there, judging by Steve’s tone of voice, it’s not good. They need to fall back. They’re running out of time.

“Natasha, we gotta-” Steve starts again.

“I heard you,” she says firmly over her shoulder, but she can’t rush this.

You recoil at her slightly raised voice and she notices, brows furrowing in thought. Is it sound? Your eyes are still shut. Is it light?

She quiets her volume, hoping it’ll help. “Please, we have to go now,” she repeats.

You shake your head, but she doesn’t think it’s a ‘no’ at her statement, rather a desperate motion to relieve yourself of everything that’s happening around you.

“Natasha,” Steve says for the third time, and she grits her teeth, not appreciating his constant reminders, but when she hears bullets beginning to ricochet off his shield as he holds it up to block the onslaught that’s steadily making its way toward the cell block they’re in, she knows he’s right.

The sound of metal reverberating off metal is sharp, and the noise makes your ears feel like they’re bleeding. Your hands press harder against the sides of your head, doing your best to force it all to stop. You’re dizzy, lightheaded, but somehow, despite the disorientation, the pain persists tenfold.

She can’t just leave you here. Not like this. She can’t abandon you to continue undergoing the unknown tortures you’ve already been put through enough of.

When you don’t shift, don’t attempt to get up, to follow, to even look at her, Natasha settles on a quick decision. She carefully steps into your cell, advancing toward you. What if you can’t walk?

“Can you stand up for me?”

Nothing.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I am going to pick you up now, okay?” she says slowly, uncertainly. She doesn’t know why you are here, what they’ve done to you, how you’ll react to her touch, but she has to try anyway.

You still don’t answer her. She—maybe mistakenly—takes your silence as an agreement, and then her hands find your body, one arm scooping you up under your knees, the other coming to support your back, clutching you against her chest so she can carry you out, carry you to safety.

And you’re screaming, suddenly fighting against her, trying to wrench yourself free as the feeling of anything begins to overwhelm you. It feels like your skin is burning. Her hair tickling your neck, her chest against your shoulder, her hands gripping your body, it’s all too much.

“Shhh, shhh, I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry,” Natasha murmurs even though she’s not sure what’s she’s apologizing for, “Please hold still. Just please.”

You begin clawing at her, scratching, needing to dislodge her hold, needing to get away, and Natasha has to grab your wrists with one hand, shifting you into a position that allows for it.

The restraint is worse. Although gentle, the pressure of her touch seems to hurt you more, your struggling increasing aggressively. You swear that she’s gripping you to bruising.

“No, no, shhh, hold still. You’re okay.” Natasha tries to be consoling, reassuring, to offer you any sort of respite from what you’re feeling, but it doesn’t work. You continue to thrash, writhing in pain, in unbearable agony. She tightens her arms around you to stop your flailing.

You’re still crying out, but your screams have transitioned into sobs and whimpers. Tears have begun rapidly flowing. God, they hurt too as they slide down your cheeks. It’s too much. You miss the cell, you miss the dark, you miss the quiet. You’ve dreamed of escape for so long, but you didn’t know that escape was going to hurt.

When Natasha finally breaks free of the building, Steve in front of the two of you, fending off the guards and assailants as they come, your senses are assaulted once more.

It’s chaos.

Sunlight, harsh and oppressive, beats down on you. You can smell the sweat of the people in combat. You’re flooded with the sounds of automatic fire and fists making contact with bodies. When you open your eyes for a moment, you can see the light of the world around you, a kaleidoscope, a mosaic of colors that only make everything worse.

Thoughts of green trees surrounding you, of a yellow sun, of a blue never-ending sky, always kept you company, kept you sane, when you had lay down at night, staring up at the blackness of the ceiling of your cell, longing for freedom, for the outside.

How wrong you were for wishing for this.

Your body doesn’t know how to cope, your ears are ringing, your entire being hurts, your head feels like something has smashed at it until cracking.

You begin to drift in an out of consciousness, head lolling against Natasha’s form, and you can’t help but seek out the darkness that’s beginning to take over, the relief that it’s offering you. You can only hope that it’ll take you soon.

It does.

Natasha almost breathes out a sigh of relief when you collapse against her, passing out, your frantic attempts to get away ceasing for the time being. But her relief wars with her concern as to why you’ve succumbed to unconsciousness, as to what caused it in the first place.

Her pace increases along with her worry, footsteps heavy as she runs with your body weighing her down. She’s doing her best not to jostle you, but she needs to get you to Bruce. She quickly makes her way back to the awaiting Quinjet, the others of the team filing in along with her.

Bruce is already there, and the moment he sees you, his eyes widen in surprise. He’s setting up the makeshift medical cot and grabbing his supplies, ready to assess your poor condition immediately.

No one expected to find a captive, locked up and mistreated, when they took off for the mission this morning. Wanda’s eyes soften in concern, Steve is watching your unconscious form closely, Natasha hovers by the cot, unwilling to leave your side, and Tony can’t help but open his mouth.

“Um, who is that?” he asks bluntly.

“Some prisoner Natasha found locked up,” Steve answers.

“Okay, and what’s wrong with her?”

“Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it, Tony?” Natasha snaps back. It’s not teasing. It’s annoyed. She’s too on edge to repress her responses to his bullshit right now.

Tony begins to ask another question, never one to heed the warnings in others’ tones.

But Natasha cuts in, not wanting to deal with him further, wanting answers instead. “Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t speak for a few more seconds, stethoscope pressed gently to your chest, listening intently. Soon, he’s removing the earpieces, gaze sweeping over everyone waiting for his evaluation before settling on Natasha.

“She’s bradycardic, but it could be due to the malnourishment. Respiratory rate is elevated… which is slightly unusual paired with the low heart rate. She also flinched when I touched her with the stethoscope. Pain, perhaps? When did she lose consciousness? Do we know why she lost consciousness?”

“She passed out on the way here while I was carrying her. It seemed like she was overloaded by the battle, by everything around her, but I’m not sure,” Natasha replies, gaze stuck on you.

Everyone’s quiet as they take in the information.

A beat passes. Then two.

“Maybe it’s a sensory thing?” Wanda speaks up.

“What?” Steve asks for clarification.

“You know, like touch and sight and stuff. Could that be it? Maybe she’s enhanced?”

“That would… make sense,” Bruce says slowly, “Given her potential pain response and Natasha’s description.”

Natasha’s jaw clenches. What did they do to you?

When you wake up, what greets you is the smell of antiseptics and disinfectants filling your nostrils, sterile and pungent. Another lab? A hospital?

The lighting—this time artificial fluorescents—blinds you. You wince, eyes narrowing against the severity before closing completely in an attempt to subdue it. You want to look at your surroundings, to survey the room and figure out where you are, but you can’t. You let out a small whimper.

Natasha’s already by your side when she notices you stirring, when she hears your expression of pain. She hasn’t moved much during the past three days you’ve been out. She’s always been like this, tasked with the continuous need to save, to take care. She doesn’t consider it a bad thing.

Upon seeing your reaction to the lights, she immediately stands up to walk to the switch, dimming them to their lowest setting. It’s still too much, but it’s an improvement.

“Better?” she asks softly, heading back toward you, returning to her seat beside your bed.

You wince again, this time at the volume of her voice. She’s not yelling—you’re aware of that—but it certainly sounds like she is, her voice echoing in your head, the words feeling as though they’re bouncing over and over between your skull.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, quieting even more, barely audible, but you hear it clearly, nonetheless.

She observes you as you lay there, your hands shaking, your body trembling again now that you’re awake. Whether or not it’s due to fear or pain, she’s unsure.

No… you’re not trembling. You’re shivering. If she’s going along with the heightened senses theory, the air-conditioned room must be too cold for your increased perception to temperature.

She moves to grab you another blanket but hesitates. Will the material make things worse for you? Scratchy hospital blankets aren’t necessarily the most pleasant. But you’re cold. But the texture. She doesn’t know what to do.

“Do you want a blanket?” She gives you the choice.

You’re silent.

“Do you talk?” she tries again, switching up her question.

You just look at her, watching her cautiously. You didn’t see her when she first discovered you back at that base, too busy being flooded by all the new sights and sounds and smells and feelings. Your eyes gradually adjust to the colors that you can still see despite the dark: the white of her suit, the red of her hair, the green of her eyes. It’s all so vivid. You can only look at her in small bursts.

“You’re so bright,” you murmur, almost as if to yourself.

Natasha tilts her head at the statement. She doesn’t fully understand, but if you have enhanced senses…

She’s about to respond when Bruce walks by the hospital room and halts abruptly in surprise when he sees you awake. He lingers thoughtfully by the doorway. “She’s awake,” he says, voice at a reasonable volume, but you flinch anyway. “I should run some diagnostics…”

Your eyes widen in fear. You spent so many days in a lab, strapped down, wires always hooked up to you, needles repeatedly piercing through your skin. You were constantly surrounded by white coats and safety goggles, latex gloves and medical procedures. You grew well acquainted with the biting cold that was the stainless steel examination table, and the scientists that worked on you grew well acquainted with your suffering… although, their familiarity with it never transformed into care or concern. Your body was simply an experiment to them, notepads never far from reach.

Natasha watches you stiffen.

“Bruce, get out,” she says suddenly, “You can run your tests later. Not now.”

He hesitates, his medical training really reinforcing the fact that he should conduct another physical on you now that you’re alert and responsive, but he doesn’t question her, knowing he won’t win this argument. He turns to leave at her request.

Natasha looks back toward you once he’s out of sight. You keep glancing at her and then looking away. The harsh white of the walls and floor and ceiling of the hospital room are easier to look at than the woman. She’s so colorful, vibrant and glowing. Your head begins to pound again.

“What did they do to you?” she questions gently, hoping you’ll explain now that you’re semi-talking, that you’ll provide some sort of clarity to the confusing person that you are.

The gifts finally stop.

It reminds you of when she first ghosted you. It’s not gradual. There’s no slow transition. They just… stop.

And for a while, you feel like you can breathe again. You think that this is it, that this is what you’ve been waiting for, the moment marking you beginning to heal.

But you also find yourself feeling dejected.

Natasha has really left, hasn’t she?

You can’t help but wonder if the lack of surprises and considerate—albeit misguided—gestures means that Natasha has moved on. Perhaps it’s not because Steve relayed your message, your desperation in that moment for her to leave you alone. Perhaps it’s simply because, as much as you don’t want to consider it, she no longer cares for you in the way you wish she did, in the way you wish she did with you, not whatever she was doing from a distance.

You tell yourself that you asked for this, that you need this in order to get over her. You tell yourself that you can breathe again. This is for the best.

Your friends have been pestering you about going on a date, about joining a dating app, about putting yourself back out there. Technically, your time without Natasha has been almost six months, if you include both times she disappeared. Because, despite her sending things, you’re still counting yourself as having been ghosted twice, even if it was unconventional the second time around. To many, six months is enough to have grieved and let go.

You won’t deny that you’ve thought about it, mulled over their words. It would technically be the next step toward recovering from all of the hurt. But even after it all, you’re not sure if you can. You still see her in anything that’s red, you still think of her whenever you witness a couple. The familiar way they interact while waiting for the bus together, the affectionate looks they exchange while sitting across from one another over a meal, it all reminds you of her. She may officially be gone from your life, but that doesn’t mean she’s gone from you.

You want to text, to call, to ask if she’s okay. You want to believe Steve when he said that she was worried about you. It means she still cares. But no, you’re done creating useless excuses for the woman who left you alone after making you feel as though she never would. You must have tricked yourself into thinking that through everything she did for you, every surprise of “I got your favorite” or concerned “Is your seatbelt on?” or affectionate “It made me think of you”.

You’re trying to cut yourself some slack, to start with baby steps, but it’s hard… and it’s even harder without her. She made your days easier when she was around, she helped you breathe, so maybe you were wrong. Maybe you can’t breathe better now that her absence is seemingly definite. You feel as though you’ve stagnated, like any progress you had been making in the beginning—originally glad that Natasha’s attempts at contact had stopped—has halted, and you worry that it won’t start again.

So, no, you can’t go on a date, you can’t join a dating app, and you can’t put yourself out there… not yet.

You’re on Natasha’s mind just as much, if not more.

She’s wanted to reach out to you too, but she feels as though she’s done enough. You requested—Steve had said that you begged—for her to leave you alone, so, after all the damage she’s done, even though it was with the best interests in mind, it’s the least she can do.

Now that the option of reconnecting has been taken away, Natasha’s plagued by the fact that she did this. If she was given just one more opportunity to prove to you that she truly isn’t what she’s made herself out to be, that she won’t hurt you again, that she would never hurt you again… well, it’s wishful thinking.

That’s not how the world works. The amount of regret she holds doesn’t equate to getting a third chance.

Yet Natasha can’t stop picking at her wounds. Letting them heal means letting you go. She looks at old pictures, goes through old text chains, and listens to old voicemails. It’s the only thing she can do to keep holding onto you.

And as much as it’s painful, it’s also comforting to reminisce about the good. The two of you are smiling in the photographs, bantering in the text messages, and you sound so adoring in the voicemails. You would often call and leave them before you went to bed—all soft and sleepy—on nights she couldn’t answer her phone due to a mission or other responsibility concerning saving the world. You would often call to simply inform her that you missed her, that you were thinking of her. Those were her favorite ones, coming back to your voice, your recounting of your day, your wishes to see her again soon. In them, you care about her, she makes you happy… just like she used to.

Natasha sighs, putting down her phone, having been dwelling and moping like she usually is during her free time. She’s just making everything worse for herself.

She can make you happy again. She knows that she can. Because if there’s anything you’re worthy of, it’s someone who’s going to try for you, grow for you. She couldn’t give you that before, but she’s ready to now, and she wants to show that to you.

But if she’s going to do this, she needs to be certain, needs to do it right. You deserve someone who isn’t going to take off when the relationship turns scary, because, when it comes down to it, that’s what she did. At first, she got intimidated by the gravity of her feelings for you, and then she got nervous regarding whether you would receive her return well after all the distance. What happens the next time she gets frightened?

Instead of becoming even more disheartened, her resolve strengthens.

What happens is that she’ll stay. She won’t flee, she won’t avoid, she’ll stay.

She’ll stay for you.

Now, how to convince you of that after her history of running when things got hard is something else entirely.

Natasha finds herself at your door, initially overflowing with determination. She’s knocked a few times, but there’s been no answer. She hopes that you’re simply not home. She hopes that you’re not ignoring her. She’s not sure she’ll be able to cope with that fact, even if it’s the response she’s earned. Her gaze drops to the floor, her determination begins to waver, and her shoulders slump as she resigns herself to waiting at your doorstep until you come home… or until you tell her to go away.

And then she hears your voice from around the corner, coming up the stairs. You’re speaking, and her brows furrow as she listens. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but your words are echoing through the empty hall, and when she figures out what it is you’re talking about on the phone call, it’s all she can do.

“I know, I know she likes me.”

“No, I get it. She is pretty.”

“Yeah, she did ask me out again,” you say to the person on the other end of the line.

Natasha’s heart drops. You’re moving on. You’ve moved on. She shouldn’t be here. She needs to leave before you see her.

But… no. That’s just what she would’ve done before, and she’s not going to be that person to you anymore. She’s going to be better. She forces her feet to remain in place, but she can’t force her hands to stop shaking.

You turn the corner, and when your eyes land on Natasha waiting for you outside your apartment, they widen in shock.

“Hey, I- I gotta go…” you trail off to your friend before hanging up, not hearing whatever they throw back at you, all of your attention now on the redhead in front of you.

Natasha feels like she’s dizzy. It’s the closest she’s been to you in months.

“Natasha,” you whisper.

Just the sight of you in front of her after all this time, the sound of your voice saying her name, has her face flushing and her heart racing. They’re such obvious signs that she’s alive, yet she feels like you’ve robbed her of her ability to breathe.

She murmurs your name back equally gently, but her softness stems from regret, while yours is from uncertainty.

You don’t respond with anything, unsure what there is for you to say. You don’t know why she’s here, why she’s chosen now to show up. It’s a random Tuesday evening. You just got off a shift at work.

“You’re going on a date?” Natasha asks weakly even though she knows she shouldn’t. The words tumble from her mouth without her permission. Her voice wobbles.

That snaps you out of your stupor, and you harden, your confusion becoming overtaken by indignation. She has no right to ask that, but before you can reply, affronted, Natasha speaks again.

“Please don’t go on a date with someone else.” She’s really digging herself into a hole.

“You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to ask that of me,” you tell her angrily, “Natasha, you left. Twice.”

“I know. Fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this,” she says before correcting herself, “I didn’t know how to do this.” Because she does know now—she’s figured it out—and she’s here to prove that to you.

You shake your head in disbelief and pain.

“Why are you here? Why were you sending me things? Why wouldn’t you let me move on? Why didn’t you come back?” Why, why, why, why. You don’t know if getting the answers to all the questions that have been burning at you is going to help anymore.

Natasha focuses on the last one. “I wanted to. I really wanted to, but I was scared.”

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, hand coming up to drag through your hair, messing it up. Natasha wants to smooth it out.

Tears have begun forming despite your displeasure.

“Why are you here now?”

“I needed to talk to you. I needed to see you, to tell you that it’ll be different, that I’m ready. I wasn’t before, but I’m ready… if you’ll give me another chance.”

“Nothing’s changed, Natasha,” you reply bitterly.

“That’s not true. Everything’s changed.”

You scoff. How can she think that? “You’ve been gone.”

“I’ve been around,” she starts, “I sent you-”

“No, you’ve been gone.” You cut her off firmly.

Natasha lets out a shaky breath. You’re right, and she reminds herself that she needs to be more than hollow protests and excuses. “I’ve been gone,” she admits, “But I’m here now. I swear, I’m here now.”

“You were supposed to be here before, and you still haven’t given me a reason.”

She attempts to settle herself, to keep herself from breaking, but her own tears begin to prickle at her eyes, and unlike you, she doesn’t resist them, doesn’t try to stop them from falling.

“I’ve never had something good, never had something for myself worth keeping. I’m so sorry that I didn’t know how to take care of you, but I want to learn. I’m ready to learn.” The first tear falls.

You’ve never seen her cry before.

“All my life, I’ve been taught that emotions were to be renounced, but you’ve shown me otherwise. There was an organization… the Red Room…” she trails off. It’s getting harder to speak, her throat closing up, as she tries to describe everything they taught her, everything they forced upon her. She can’t finish, can’t relinquish it all just yet, but she’s trying, and that’s more than she did before, “I don’t want to run from what I feel for you anymore, not if it means losing you.”

You deflate completely. She’s talking to you, revealing herself like she promised she would all of those months ago in the mall. You still never looked her up, still tuned out the conversations around you about the Black Widow’s “dark” history. They’re still her secrets to share.

You’re silent for more than a few seconds. “Slow,” you finally say, not fully trusting the redhead, but here she is, in front of you, giving herself to you. “We’ll go slow.”

Natasha will take any opportunity you’re willing to hand her right now, and although it’s probably not the right thing to say, she can’t help it. “You’re not going out with her then?” she asks quietly.

Life goes on without Natasha. Day after day, it just continues. For a while, you want it to stop, you wish you would be given a break, you need time to, for the second time, mourn the loss of the woman that you believe may have been the one, but over and over, the days keep coming, 24 hours repeating themselves with your job and errands and household chores until you manage to realize that, despite the pain, you’re able to muscle through.

You’re figuring out how to carry on, how to resume existing without Natasha’s presence there by your side.

It feels different this time around. The first time she ghosted you, there was confusion, hurt, frustration. This time, resignation settles deep within you. After the conversation you had with her at the mall, you were certain that things were going to be reconciled, that things would go back to the perfect way they were before, with movie nights and pizza, with a never-ending supply of soft kisses and her hand finding yours as if magnetized. But, besides that one note, signed off with her personal symbol, there’s no Natasha.

It’s been around two months at this point, and initially, you were determined to remain hopeful, adamant that she was going to return to you just like she promised—you didn’t want to move on—but now, you’re consciously pushing yourself to, encouraging yourself to put her and your messily ended relationship behind you, and little by little, it does get easier.

Until things begin happening, and then, they keep happening.

You don’t think much of them at first.

A bouquet of flowers shows up to your place of work with no name attached to it. Perhaps a secret admirer of a coworker? When no one steps up after a few days, you brush it off.

You’re at a bar with your friends, getting a drink after your shift. You pull out your card to pay when the bartender waves you off. “Tabs been paid,” he tells you, giving you no other information, leaving you standing there bewildered as he focuses his attention on other customers.

Your favorite takeout order arrives at your door after a particularly rough day one evening.

It must Natasha. It must be.

And with gift after gift, gesture after gesture, you become more and more sure that the redhead is the one behind all of this, doing as much as she can right now to communicate to you that she’s coming back. It may take a while, but she’s coming back.

It helps, for a little bit. Your trust in her rekindles, spreading throughout your chest with each little thing that she surprises you with, your belief that, at long last, she’ll make a reappearance no longer wavering.

But still, she never shows. You wait patiently, every night hoping, leaving your light on, leaving your door unlocked, but she never arrives to give you some explanation that you know you would readily accept… you’d accept anything, as long as it meant she’d stay in your arms forever this time.

She gives you just enough to keep your faith in her going, just enough to prevent your heart from beating for anyone else, just enough to stop you from letting her go, and it hurts.

One day, you can’t believe it, you struggle to wrap your head around it—it almost ruins you to admit—but one day, you find yourself wishing she would just stop.

She doesn’t realize.

It’s different to her. She thinks she’s giving you just enough to tell you that she’s still here, just enough to show you that she still wants you, just enough to prove that she’s always going to be yours, even from a distance.

But now, all it does is hurt.

You begin ignoring the flowers, leaving them to wilt on your desk at work or straight up throwing them away. You refuse the bartender’s offer of someone else already covering the cost of your drink, demanding to pay for it yourself. The takeout meals remain unopened, uneaten, on your doorstep.

And Natasha, always hidden in the background noise of your life, notices.

It’s been too long; she’s left you alone for too long. And now you’re trying to forget her, that must be why you’re rejecting her efforts, her feeble attempts at remaining close to you.

She initially had to lay low after the destruction of the Triskelion, after the landing of the Project Insight Helicarriers in the Potomac. She had new covers to build and new identities to sort out. So, she sent you the note, hoping it would be enough until she could come out of hiding.

But now that she’s finally able to return to you, after so much time apart, she finds herself scared. Because, what if you don’t want her anymore?

She already left you once, and although this time wasn’t voluntary, she can’t help but worry.

She began leaving signs of her presence, reminders of her existence, little bits and pieces of herself with the aim that you’d take them as evidence that she’s near.

But it certainly seems as though they’re not enough anymore.

And thus, she keeps pushing talking to you off. She’ll convince herself into it, tell herself that today is the day that she’s going to approach, and then walk away without making herself known. She’s stood outside of your apartment more than a handful of times, fist raised as if to knock, only to back away, unable to handle the thought that you don’t have any desire to see her.

But she misses you, and she still wants you—she still desperately wants you—even in her fear. She’s aware that she’s being a coward, unintentionally playing with your emotions, arguably stringing you along, but how is she to stop? How is she to let you move on when she doesn’t know how to herself? Because she’s going to talk to you. Maybe she doesn’t have the courage today, or tomorrow, but she will. She needs to.

She does what she feels like she can right now instead.

A knock on your door draws your attention one night.

You hesitate because, for a brief second, your breath catches. You think it just might be her this time; it just might be Natasha. But as quickly as it comes, you stomp down your hope, unwilling to be disappointed yet another time, months of no true contact between you and her having worn you down.

You slowly get up and unlock your door, opening it just a fraction to see who it is.

You’re filled with confusion when you see Captain America in front of your apartment. There’s no reason you can think of for him to be here. He may have been at the mall with Natasha that day, but you two didn’t exchange anything other than sideways glances.

You open the door wider.

“Captain America?” you question.

“Just ‘Steve’ is fine.”

You ignore that. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, as if thinking through his answer, as if weighing his options regarding how to say what he wants to say. “I know that she hasn’t been around. I just wanted to check on you,” he decides on. He doesn’t have to say her name. You’re almost glad that he didn’t.

But it’s not true—Captain America never has been good at deception—and you bristle at the lie, your temper flaring, and you can’t stop it. You know why he’s really here.

“She sent you, didn’t she?” you ask harshly, yet despite the snarl in your voice, the anger in your eyes, underneath it all, is hurt, and Steve can see that. He doesn’t rise to match you.

“She’s just worried about you,” he murmurs softly, attempting to assuage, not wanting to provoke you further.

“If that were true, she could’ve come here to check on me herself,” you scoff.

Steve remains quiet.

“It’s been her, hasn’t it?” you ask, knowing the answer but wanting confirmation anyway, “All this time. All the gifts, the food, the trying to take care of me from afar.”

He gives you a sympathetic look. He’s well aware of how Natasha’s been harming you from a distance, her good intentions only causing you pain and further heartache. He understands that she’s afraid—no, more than that… she’s terrified—but you’re also hurting.

You crumble at the expression on his face.

“She can’t keep doing this.” Your voice cracks on your words, and Steve watches as you begin to fall apart right in front of him, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. When the first one drops, your hand raises to hastily swipe at it. You’re sick of crying over her, and you will yourself to stop, but more and more tears keep coming.

“She can’t keep doing this,” you repeat, “Please. Please, tell her. She can’t- I can’t do this anymore-” You’re begging.

Steve knows you’re right. You’re slowly being broken down.

Natasha is desperate, almost frantic, when she sees Steve again. “How is she?” she asks anxiously, needing an answer, needing to know that you’re okay, that you haven’t forgotten about her.

There has to be a reason you’re refusing her gifts. Maybe you’re tired of your favorite meal, or maybe you’re just confused about who’s sending them to you now. Maybe she needs to be more clear, more obvious, that it’s her, that’s it’s her, that it’s always been her.

“Natasha,” Steve starts gently.

It’s not the tone she wants to hear. She begins bracing herself.

“Natasha, you have to stop.”

“No,” she mutters, almost to herself. “No, no.”

She looks away then, directing her attention to her phone, thumbs starting to fly across the screen, searching up your favorite band, wanting to surprise you with concert tickets. Perhaps that will make this better, make the ache her absence has caused go away. She pretends that she didn’t truly hear him.

“Natasha,” Steve says her name again, firmer this time.

“I’m just trying to-”

“I know what you’re trying to do, and you have to stop. It’s killing her.”

“You don’t know that-”

“You didn’t see her.”

Natasha’s motions halt. She puts her phone down. She can’t make eye contact, gaze fixated on a point on the ground. She’s trembling.

Just as you emotionally cracked before Steve, Natasha is on the verge of doing the same. He’s never seen her like this, so paralyzed by fear. He’s witnessed her take on men twice her size, jump out of a moving plane, look down the barrel of a gun, but right now? The Black Widow is scared, spiraling, frozen in place by the potential loss of the best thing to ever come into her life… and in doing so, she’s devastating the both of you.

“I don’t know what to do,” she finally says, voice small.

“Yes, you do,” Steve replies quietly.

Natasha finally glances up, anguished and pleading.

When Natasha first makes her way into your life, so does clarity. Everything around you starts to make sense.

It’s not as though things wholly change when she arrives. Your life doesn’t become complete because of her. Natasha doesn’t fill some void inside of you that was missing all this time. You never did believe in those clichés about needing another person to feel fulfilled… but with her comes someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to lean on, someone to just be with.

Bad day? Natasha. Family troubles? Natasha. Work drama, money stress, a fight with your friend? Natasha, Natasha, Natasha.

Before her, you weren’t aware that a single person could bring something as simple as calm. Support and comfort were things that you always took in bits and pieces from those around you, not wanting to burden anyone with anything too significant or lengthy. But even though you haven’t known each other long, Natasha never makes you feel as though you need to shy away, only ever offering you acceptance and understanding, giving you the space you need you show all of yourself without worry. Your relationship evolves to be one of a paired gives and takes, meeting each other halfway on some days and maybe a little more or a little less than that on others.

And the best part about it all? You have no doubt that your feelings are reciprocated. She may be a little more secretive than you, not as ready to spill the skeletons in her closet with another person, but you can see it in the soft smile that appears on her face whenever you two are together, in the look she gives you when she thinks you’re not paying attention.

You don’t know it, but the soft smile is often there even when you are apart, just thoughts of you, memories of you, having to flit through her mind. You are always on her mind these days; she is always smiling.

The relationship moves quickly, and Natasha and you don’t just find a partner in each other. You find yourselves a home.

But you also hit her hard and fast, and unlike you, instead of embracing the overwhelming emotions—strong and consuming—Natasha takes them as a warning sign, bright red and inevitable.

You scare her more than she wants to admit. She’s dated around, been in short-lived relationships, but they never amounted to anything serious or meaningful… until you. You instantly made her heartbeat fluctuate wildly, and even if she disregards the imaginary arrhythmias she started experiencing when she met you, she can’t ignore the very principles she was raised upon.

How is she supposed to accept the feelings she holds for you when all she has been taught since she was a young child is that feelings are contemptible, deserving of something even greater than a simple dismissal? It was drilled into her as a rule, a fundamental; there’s now an ingrained reaction to reject. She used to tell anyone who asked that emotions weighed her down, habitually repeating the words—“love is for children”—but she knows now that that’s a lie. You aren’t a weight. No heaviness settles in her chest when you are around. You are a revelation. You elevate her life.

Apparently though, it doesn’t matter.

Because she stops answering your calls, she stops texting you back, she shrugs off your invitations for coffee or lunch or to come over, and eventually, she ignores the last thing you ask of her: an answer to the question of what happened, a request for an explanation, a request for closure.

Blending in, sneaking around, not getting caught—none of it is new to Natasha. Steve seems a little out of his depth, but her? She’s well versed in the ins and outs of going on the run, able to seamlessly integrate with the others around her and remain unseen… but she didn’t think one of the people she was going to need to hide from included you.

“Shit,” Natasha murmurs under her breath, eyes flicking up briefly a few times to something in the crowd before dropping back down to one of the store’s display laptops in front of her.

“What?” Steve asks in response, his own gaze following hers as he searches for whatever it is that made her curse.

“No, don’t look up,” she hisses, “Don’t make eye contact.”

“They’re here?” he asks, alarmed, referring to the ‘SHIELD’ agents that are currently tailing them.

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

Despite Natasha’s warning, Steve continues looking around. He finally spots someone, you, staring right back, your eyes narrowed scrutinizingly at the two of them as if trying to determine if what you’re seeing is real.

“Fuck,” Natasha curses again as she sees that you’ve definitely noticed them.

“Nat, who is that?” Steve questions.

“That’s my…” Her sentence fades off as the word ‘girlfriend’ sits on the tip of her tongue. “We went on a few dates a few months ago. Okay, more than a few dates. I ghosted her.”

“You, what?”

“Ghosted her. You heard me.”

“Why? Did you not like her?”

Natasha pauses before answering, not really wanting to get into it with him, and especially not wanting to get into it right now.

Because she did like you; she does like you… more than she ever thought possible, if she’s being honest. And her feelings haven’t diminished like she was hoping for despite the distance she created. You two simply fit, so when you left—were pushed away—it only made sense that your absence was going to be felt by her.

She only has herself to blame.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she finally says.

Natasha would have huffed out a small laugh at Steve’s baffled expression if it wasn’t for the fact that you have begun walking their way. She slams the laptop shut.

“We need to go.”

“Did you figure out what’s on the drive? Get the information?”

“We’ll come back.”

She swiftly walks toward the exit of the Apple store, not allowing Steve to protest again, forcing him to follow if he doesn’t want to be left behind. She pulls at her hood to conceal her face from you as she passes, like you aren’t already watching her, like you haven’t been staring this whole time.

To her disappointment, you go after them, pushing open the doors with a little more force than necessary and glancing around to determine which way she’s gone. You catch a flash of red hair—unmistakably hers—and you’re moving in that direction.

“Natasha,” you call out.

She ignores you.

“Natasha,” you say again. Louder this time.

Still, she doesn’t turn around, intentionally keeping her head down, practically dragging Steve along as she speedwalks away.

“She wants to talk to you,” Steve tells her plainly.

“I can hear her, Steve” Natasha mutters.

You try another time, becoming exasperated. “Natasha, seriously? You’re running? This is childish.”

Nosy heads turn at your declaration, at your volume, raised so that your words reach the redhead multiple steps ahead, interests peaked at the drama that is going to potentially unfold.

Natasha sighs, deflating. You’re not going to drop this, and you’re drawing too much attention. It’s not the best time, given the fact that Steve and she are attempting to remain low, so, yes, she is technically running, but perhaps she shouldn’t be running from you.

“Go…” she begins to instruct Steve, trailing off into a groan, “Honestly, fuck if I know. Go scout out the area or something, make sure it’s still clear while I handle this.”

Steve gives her a pointed look—a ‘deal with your shit like an adult’—and then he’s striding off to ensure that they haven’t been followed as Natasha waits in place for you to catch up and start the conversation that she clearly needs to have.

You make your way over to her, steps brisk.

When you arrive, you don’t hesitate. “You ghosted me.”

“‘Hello’ to you too,” Natasha says sarcastically, deflecting, but her nonanswer is an answer in itself. She knows that outright denying it would just be silly.

“Why?” you press.

Natasha remains silent, and you frown, frustration beginning to war with your confusion. “I thought things were going well. Was it something I did?”

The beginnings of your self-blame get her to respond. “No, no, no, detka that’s not-”

The term of endearment escapes her mouth naturally. She loved calling you sweet things, and even now, it feels instinctual to want to give you pet names and affection and…

She lets out a defeated exhale when she sees the hurt flash in your eyes at the slip up.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I liked you.”

“Past tense,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. It’s a pained statement, not a question.

“Not past tense,” she corrects herself immediately, “It’s just really complicated.”

“‘It’s complicated’? That’s what you’re giving me? That’s so cliché. Don’t I deserve more than that?”

Natasha shakes her head. She doesn’t know how to explain without putting you somewhere you shouldn’t be, and this certainly isn’t the place to be having this conversation.

She grabs a hold of your arm gently—you stiffen in response, the comfort you always felt at her touch out of reach now—and begins to lead you away from the central area of the mall and toward a more unoccupied corner.

She likes you—she truly does. And therein lies the problem.

Then, tack on the fact that you’re a civilian. With everything that’s happened to SHIELD recently, the new discovery of HYDRA’s infiltration, of HYDRA’s embedment in SHIELD’s very foundation, she doesn’t want you to get caught up in the crossfire… literally.

An aloof redheaded spy who chooses the silent treatment over communication is not worth the trouble, in her opinion.

“Look, you don’t know who I am, what I’m involved in. It’s not safe for you.”

It’s a presumption on her part. You never seemed to regard her differently as so many do, often awestruck at her very existence or giving her special treatment that she knows she doesn’t deserve any more than anyone else. You never gave her any indication that you were even aware of her identity as an Avenger or agent.

And Natasha relished in it. It was unexpected, different, refreshing. So, she never corrected you, never told you that she is well-known and famous and celebrated. She tried her best to keep up the pretense of being a normal person, of someone without a lifetime of combat training and a specialization in firearms.

But then you give her a look. “Of course, I know who you are.”

She can’t suppress her surprise. “But-”

You cut her off, not unkindly but matter-of-factly. “I googled your name after our second date. You have quite the internet presence. It wasn’t rocket science.”

Natasha falters for a moment. “Well, you don’t know everything,” she says back, face shadowing with something akin to regret at the reminder of all that’s taken place today. SHIELD’s future downfall seems imminent, and she isn’t sure how she’s going to come to terms with the loss of not only her place of work but also her purpose. The agency had guided her in her attempts to do good in this world, to make amends for her history, her wrongdoings… or so she thought.

She didn’t realize how much she was relying on SHIELD until the prospect of it getting taken away became possible. The now mistaken belief that she had successfully determined right from wrong to help atone for the lives she had ruined, the lives she took, was her compass. To learn that north isn’t north, south isn’t south, that she’s been helping an organization working for malevolency… she’s been uprooted; she’s adrift. She isn’t sure where or how she’s supposed to go from here.

You can see the conflict in her eyes, the tumultuous feelings that are taking over. Natasha may still not be ready to let go of the tight grip she’s got on some of her secrets just yet, but she can’t hide the turmoil that they’re bringing her.

You want to ask. You want to demand. She left you on ‘read’ for months after building a relationship with you, so it’s only fair… but you let out a steadying breath and remind yourself of what you two had before. Gives and takes, and right now, she needs more.

There’s nothing you can do in this moment besides offer comfort and believe in her as she tackles something filled with dangers that you can’t even begin to imagine, as she only continues to find further reasons to strengthen her unwavering commitment to save. You want to give her that same calm that she always gave you.

“I don’t know everything,” you affirm, “And you don’t have to tell me everything, not yet, but I’d like to learn it, eventually, if you’d let me.”

The unstable feeling that has been thrust upon her, the tightness in her chest, seems to lessen, to unfurl, at your words.

Steve comes out of nowhere, almost running toward the two of you. His eyes glance over to you for a second before returning to Natasha. “They’re here. Time to go,” he says urgently.

She gives him a small nod, but she’s still facing you. An apologetic look makes its way to her face. “I’m sorry. We really have to take care of this.”

You nod in understanding. Whatever is happening right now isn’t something you’re privy to yet, still one of the private matters that you’re hopeful she’ll explain to you someday.

“You’ll call me?” you ask, “After you sort this all out? Save the world another time?”

Natasha doesn’t have the same faith in herself that you do. “I’ll call you if I save the world another time.”

You scoff lightly at her reluctance to admit that she’s capable, at her unwillingness to believe that she has what it takes, has the determination and dedication that you don’t think anyone else can parallel.

“If anyone can, it’s you… and I guess having a super soldier on your side doesn’t hurt.” You shoot Steve a playful glance, trying to insert some levity into the goodbye that you, at the base of it, wish you didn’t need to have.

Then you’re stepping closer. “Come back safe to me,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and although you’re beginning to feel your concern for her well-being increasing, you force yourself to turn and walk away, casting one last glance and supportive smile over your shoulder.

Days pass, then a week, or maybe two.

You hear that Natasha has been called to Washington, D.C.

You hear that she doesn’t walk out with charges or in handcuffs.

Yet you never hear from her.

You don’t watch the coverage; you don’t watch the recording. You don’t google her name a second time now that her secrets have been released, because they haven’t been released. Not really. They’ve been leaked, forced out of her.

They’re still hers… or they are to you. And you’re still going to let her tell you them herself, just like you promised that day in the mall.

But Natasha doesn’t come, and after over a month of waiting, you resign yourself to the fact that perhaps she’s not going to.

You built yourself a home, and you thought she felt the same, but maybe the smile she gave you wasn’t enough to offset whatever it is going on behind closed doors.

You arrive at your apartment one day to a note left on your doorstep. “Couldn’t let you think I was ghosting you twice. ⧖”

Evening after evening spent together, date after date she continues to take you on, Natasha has charmed her way into your life.

You’re enamored, captivated, smitten, but uncertainty swirls within you as Natasha keeps brushing off your attempts at defining what you two are to each other, always changing the subject or deflecting, always distracting you with smooth redirections involving asking about your day or soft kisses along your neck… and how are you to rebuff the redhead when her perfect lips are gently requesting to be on your skin?

You’re always confused recently, convincing yourself one day that Natasha wants to be in a relationship with you before convincing yourself another that perhaps you are nothing more than a short-term fling, but Natasha invites you over to the Compound for dinner and to meet the other Avengers for the first time.

That has to be a good sign, right? She wouldn’t bring you to her home and introduce you to her family if she didn’t want to date you… right?

She picks you up at 7 p.m. sharp, opens the passenger door for you, and gently helps you into the car. She drives the familiar route back to the Compound, her hand affectionately placed on your thigh, pulls into the garage, and parks, heading around to your side of the vehicle to chivalrously open your door for you again.

“Ready?” Natasha asks.

You’re nervous but eager, hoping that this will be the night that solidifies everything between you two. “Ready,” you affirm, giving her a small smile before following her into the building.

She leads you through the halls, heading straight for the common room where the others are waiting.

The Avengers look up upon your arrival, all already present, excited to meet you and spend time with Natasha’s… whatever you are.

Introductions go smoothly, the team incredibly welcoming. You get along well with everybody, the group moving from having dinner to sitting on the sofas in the common room together, conversation flowing, all of them interested in learning about you.

You’re seated next to Natasha, your thighs pressed together, her arm lazily draped along the back of the couch behind you as her fingers trace soft circles onto your shoulder.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” Natasha murmurs, pressing her face into the crook of your neck for a moment, lips brushing against your skin as she speaks before giving you a kiss under your jaw, “I’ll be right back.”

She shoots everyone—mainly Tony—a look that says to ‘be good, be nice, behave’ since you’re here for the first time and exits the room.

Almost immediately after she leaves, Tony, ignoring her pointed stare, slides up next to you, taking Natasha’s seat, a grin that you consider much to suspicious to be polite plastered on his face.

“So, you’re the woman who’s stolen our dear Black Widow’s heart.”

You aren’t sure what to say to that, considering you aren’t sure where you stand with Natasha, so you remain silent. That doesn’t seem to be a problem for Tony whose mouth can never remain shut for long.

“You know,” he drawls thoughtfully, “I’m a little surprised that Natasha’s spending so much time with you.” His statement isn’t said maliciously, more like he’s simply thinking out loud.

“Tony, don’t,” Steve warns, but the billionaire doesn’t listen.

“What? I’m just saying. It’s not as though Natasha is known for settling down.”

Your attention is piqued.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Tony,” Steve warns again, voice firmer this time, knowing that this is about to spiral into a bad misunderstanding if it continues. But true to his habit of almost never thinking about the consequences of his actions, Tony answers your question without pause.

“I mean that her bedroom is basically a revolving door of women. I swear, she usually brings a new girl here every night.”

Well, that’s new information, and it’s not particularly comforting given your already unknown relationship status.

Steve addresses you, trying to reassure, trying to settle the spiking nerves that he can clearly see on your face. “Ignore him. He’s not saying that she’s doing that now. Natasha seems to really like you.”

But it’s too late. The damage is done, the seed of doubt planted in your mind.

Your eyes shoot over in the direction Natasha had walked off, to the spot where she had disappeared from view. You should wait until she comes back, you should talk to her, get clarification, but you can’t. Not right now. Not after hearing someone close to her subtly imply that you may be nothing more than another number to add to her body count. Not after being told that your apparently most likely not-girlfriend may only be to with you with the end goal of getting into your pants.

You take a breath. You stand up. You’re not going to cry here.

Your gaze moves to Tony, voice small but steady when you talk to him. “Order me an Uber please.”

Tony seems to realize his mistake when you try to leave. “Hey, hey, wait a sec-”

You interrupt. “You’ve officially ruined my night, and you’re rich. The least you could do is pay for my ride home.”

“There’s no need to leave so-”

You halt Tony’s sentence with the look you send his way. It isn’t angry; it’s resigned.

Steve is disapproving at but unsurprised by the billionaire’s behavior, Bruce has a grimace on his face, Wanda looks disappointed and concerned at how the situation is unfolding, and Clint is absolutely fuming. But everyone remains silent. No one attempts to convince you to stay. They can tell by your slightly shaking hands, by your slowly becoming glassy eyes, that you won’t listen, and that, for your sake, you need to go.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair. Right away,” Tony agrees as you rattle off your address, regret filling him as he registers the impact his words made, the effect they had on you and will potentially have on Natasha’s new relationship. He quickly pulls out his phone to call you an Uber.

It doesn’t take long for it to arrive, and you waste no time heading out of the Compound, bidding everyone a polite farewell with an ‘it was nice to meet you’.

Natasha happens to be coming back from the bathroom when you’re beginning to walk out of the common room, the two of you passing by each other in the hall, but you’re trying to leave without saying goodbye, and you don’t meet her eyes. She frowns at what is blatantly a quick escape on your part, a hasty but unsuccessful attempt to avoid her.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, voice soft despite her confusion.

“Leave me alone, Natasha.”

It’s not exactly fair—she doesn’t know what she’s done, and you’re refusing to explain it to her—but you don’t have it in you to do it tonight.

She’s almost affronted, not sure what brought on such a significant change in your mood, what appears to be a full 180. She thought the night was going well. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and she couldn’t have wished for a better first meeting between you and her family.

She calls out your name as you continue to walk away, and you hear her footsteps chasing after you down the hall. “Wait, hold on, did something happen?” she asks, concerned. She looks back at the others in a silent question, noticing Tony’s sheepish expression. “Did Tony say something to you?”

“Nothing happened,” you reply, “Just figured out some things.”

“What are you talking about?”

You finally turn to face her, your emotions bubbling over, hurt and wounded. “Is that really all I am to you?”

“What are you talking about?” Natasha repeats, brows furrowing further as she tries to decipher just what’s going on.

Your expression is guarded, betrayed, and she doesn’t understand why. What could’ve occurred in the small amount of time she was gone? It’s only been a few minutes.

“Tony just cleared some things up. Heard all about you loving to collect notches on your bedpost.”

Natasha freezes, caught off guard, breath hitching as she realizes what all this is about. She wants to curse Tony for bringing potential ruin upon something that had only just begun. She definitely plans to after this.

But she doesn’t say anything back yet, she’s not able to say anything back yet, paralyzed by surprise and fear at you potentially leaving. She hadn’t yet told you about her history of only having casual relationships, not wanting to scare you away when you’ve always been different. She’s not sure how to remedy this. This can’t be how it ends.

“If you didn’t want to date me, you should’ve just said something instead of leading me on.”

She remains quiet, panicking, racking her brain to find the right thing to say.

Because it’s not that she doesn’t want to define the relationship; that’s not it at all. It’s that she’s worried about putting a target on your back. The Black Widow has made so many enemies, has so many people that want to hurt her, and they won’t hesitate to use you in order to do just that. Being associated with her will never bring safety. Since meeting you, she’s tried to be as careful as possible about the dates she’s planned, about the time she’s spent with you, always looking behind her back, always making sure she’s armed, always choosing locations that are less populated. So, it’s not as though she doesn’t want to call you hers—she wants to—but she’s scared.

You feel your chest growing tight at her continued silence; you feel tears beginning to form. After Tony’s comments practically reaffirming your worries that Natasha doesn’t actually like you, while you weren’t realistically expecting her to deny it, you were still foolishly hoping. You couldn’t suppress the thought that, even though there’s evidently a pattern with her, maybe you were different.

She’s been so affectionate, so considerate, so seemingly caring… and you’ve been so stupid.

“Nothing to say?” you prompt quietly, frustration clear but restrained, your feelings valid but perhaps misplaced given your lack of willingness to communicate at the moment.

Natasha still doesn’t know how to diffuse the situation, is still frozen due to the conversation she wasn’t expecting or prepared to have yet. It was supposed to be a good night, one full of entertainment and amusement and laughter, one that involved introducing you to the only other people beside you important to her, one that should’ve helped prove to you that she truly wants you but is just nervous to voice it out loud.

Despite wanting to immediately contradict Tony’s words, wanting to immediately comfort you and reassure you that nothing he said applies to you, she can’t bring herself to do so. She wants to protect you, but now her own need to protect herself and her feelings curl within her and force themselves to be known. She makes a split-second decision—a knee-jerk reaction given both her past and her endless desire to keep you safe—and it’s the wrong one, regret replacing her vulnerability immediately after the words come out and she sees how you break right in front of her.

“Did you expect something different?”

Your entire demeanor shifts into one of devastation. Your first tear drops despite you not agreeing to let it fall. You had just been hardened, walls up, but the question shakes all of that from you. “I just thought-”

She continues. Why can’t she stop?

“You just thought… what? That I liked you? That I didn’t want to just fuck you?”

Everything in you tries to convince you to not fall apart. Natasha can’t mean that—she simply can’t—not after everything. Hearing her so harshly, so crudely, confirm Tony’s words is an entirely new level of hurt as she demeans your relationship—or lack thereof—into something insignificant. Your head drops as a few more tears trail down your cheeks, but when you look up again, your jaw is clenched and your eyes are cold. You look hurt but, once again, resigned, unwilling to let the pain be any more obvious on your face than it already is.

You let out a steadying exhale. You don’t want to believe it. After everything, she can’t just belittle what’s between you two, can’t reduce it to an inconsequential hookup. You say all you can think of.

“Don’t act like this wasn’t real just because it’s hard for you,” you murmur. It may be said softly, but it’s final, and then you’re turning and walking off, exiting the Compound and getting into the car that seems to be awaiting your arrival.

You wake up in some sort of room… no, a cell.

Your head is pounding, feeling as though someone hit you hard. And perhaps someone did, because you can’t remember anything beyond getting into a dark-colored vehicle that was supposed to just take you home.

You glance around at your surroundings, your eyesight not quite there yet with both the throbbing in your skull and the dim lighting that’s coming through the one singular window on the door.

The walls are concrete; the floor is concrete. It’s freezing against you, and you notice that you’re shivering. You push yourself up into a sitting position and scoot backwards until your back hits a solid surface, putting as much distance between you and the door as possible, not knowing what or who is going to come through it.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed when you hear the sound of the lock clicking, the sound of the door creaking open. It feels like hours. It could’ve been over a day. They’ve kept the room dark, damp and cold; no one has come to feed you or tell you what’s going on, why this is happening to you. Fear and anxiety have overtaken you as you’ve been left on your own to drown in them.

You look up as some light enters your cell from the door swinging open, a man standing in the entrance, his shadow falling upon you. The first words you hear from him aren’t encouraging.

“So, it’s true. The Black Widow has fallen for a civilian. How pathetic.”

You suppress a flinch… not just at his tone, not just at the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he’s excited to personally break, not just at how you finally realize why you are here, but also at how incorrect he is. Natasha didn’t fall for you, as much as you wish she had. You’re nothing special to her.

You try to tell him that.

“You’re wasting your time. She isn’t coming for me,” you force out, and he easily picks up on the sadness, the dejection in your tone.

“Oh?” he asks, laughing, “I don’t believe you… but if that is the case, regardless, you and I are still going to have some fun.”

It takes a full week for Natasha to figure out that something is wrong.

She spends the first few days calling, texting, showing up at your door in hopes that you’ll listen to her desperate apologies and explanation.

‘Please just let me talk to you.’

‘Can I call you?’

‘Text me back. Please, text me back.’

‘I made a mistake. I didn’t mean any of it. Please, give me another chance.’

‘You’re different. I swear I’ve never felt this way before.’

‘Tony is an ass. Nothing he said was true. I’m an ass. Nothing I said was true.’

‘I can’t lose you before I even truly got you.’

‘I’ll be at our favorite coffee shop tomorrow waiting for you, if you’ll let me explain.’

After 72 hours of tortuous silent treatment, with no response to any of her messages or voicemails, she decides that perhaps space is what you need. You certainly seem to be asking for it.

So, despite it paining her to do so, space is what she gives you.

Seven days later, she can’t resist checking your location. She shouldn’t, and she knows that she shouldn’t—she should respect your privacy—but she hasn’t heard from you at all, and although you have every right to ignore her and most likely are ignoring her, what if?

So, she opens the ‘Find My’ app and watches it load.

Locating… locating… locating…

No location available.

Alarm bells go off in her head, because that’s not you unsharing your location with her, that’s you missing.

She tries to remain calm, tries to think about potential possibilities that don’t include something dangerous and life-threatening. Your phone could be off. Perhaps you don’t have Wi-Fi or service right now. Maybe you disabled your location.

But she knows better. It’s the middle of the night, and you should be at home… with your phone on, with Wi-Fi, with service, and why would you disable your location right now?

She’s on her feet in a second, quickly leaving her room, hitting the Compound’s alarm and waking all of the other Avengers despite the late hour, needing to recruit their help to find you.

Pain is all you’ve come to learn here. You’ve come to expect it.

Every time the door opens to your cell, you instinctively shrink back, knowing that new bruises are going to be given to your body, that new blood is going to splash against your skin.

They keep taking you to some nearby room that you’re growing too familiar with, tying you to some chair that you’re coming to know too well, the ropes chafing your already rubbed raw wrists.

They don’t ask questions; they don’t interrogate you about Natasha or the Avengers or superheroes.

It’s just pain.

You’re not here to spill secrets, just blood. You’re bait.

Another hit to your head has your vision swimming, your mind jumbling up further.

Your thoughts always flit back to Natasha at times like this. You miss her. You miss her soft eyes and soft smile when she looks your way, her soft hands when they’re running along your skin, her soft voice when she’s speaking to you. You try to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be taunting yourself with something that’ll never be, that she doesn’t care for you in that way, but it’s futile.

She’s your comfort. She’s what you’re holding on to. She’s keeping you going.

You’re brought back to your senses when the man speaks.

“You really are a sight. I can see why she likes you. But I think you look better like this,” he gestures to your beaten and bloodied form, black and blue coloring your cheekbone, red dripping from your mouth.

You’ve stopped responding, stopped begging and pleading for them to leave you alone, stopped trying to explain that Natasha isn’t going to come for you.

They don’t seem to care.

Only one grainy photo of you tied up, head lolling, reaching Natasha’s phone, is needed for things to escalate.

She hasn’t been eating, hasn’t been sleeping. She’s been scouring every corner of the web, reaching out to every informant she knows, picking apart the entire world to find any information on your whereabouts.

They think that it’s the right move to lure her in. They don’t know.

Natasha and the others arrive at your location less than 12 hours later from when she received the text, armed and ready, the Black Widow on full display for everyone to see.

And that’s when they realize that they’ve made a mistake messing with somebody that’s hers.

“Natasha, go find her!” Steve calls out from where he’s currently fending off a swarm of four guards.

Shots ring out, Natasha’s aim ever perfect as she takes down multiple assailants in seconds, bullets meeting their marks without fail.

She nods at him once and then turns to head down the corridor, leaving Steve and the rest of the team to handle the battle behind her. She slowly creeps her way through the building, eyes flicking down each hall, looking for any potential threats or signs of you, opening every door until… there you are.

She rushes forward, roughly dropping down onto the ground, gun forgotten, knees scraping against the concrete, but she barely feels the sting.

You’re unconscious—you don’t look alive—and she frantically presses two fingers to your pulse point in search of something, anything, fluttering under your skin.

The steady thump of your heart greets her, and she breathes out a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived when she takes in the condition you’re in.

There’s so much blood, soaked through your clothes, dried and clumping in your hair. You’ve got a split lip and a large bruise under your eye. There’s a still bleeding cut across your cheek, and your arms and legs don’t look much better. She almost doesn’t want to know what she’ll find under your torn and stained clothing.

Natasha wants to cry at the sight. She is crying at the sight.

Her hand raises to gently brush a strand of hair out of your face before she immediately moves to undo the ropes restraining you. Your body drops forward when they fall away, no longer held up by your arms being tied behind the back of the chair. She catches you easily, her gaze taking in the chafed skin of your wrists for a moment.

“Wake up. Please wake up,” Natasha murmurs, tapping at your cheek with her fingers in an attempt to get you to respond, “Come on, you have to wake up.”

Your eyes flutter at her gentle rousing, opening weakly to gaze up at her.

“Oh, thank god,” she breathes out. She examines everything about you, the state you’re in, making sure you’re not going to simply vanish from her arms, and then she shifts to desperate, shattered apologies.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Natasha begins to say, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a quick succession. She’s not sure you’re really hearing her, really registering what she’s saying, but she needs to tell you anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She’s apologizing for everything. The defensive lies that pushed you away that night, the kidnapping and torture that knowing her caused you to suffer through. She’s brought upon you so much pain recently, both emotional and physical. She doesn’t know how to make up for it.

You hum before managing a slurred response. “S’okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she keeps repeating, “They hurt you. They hurt you.” It’s said devastatingly. It’s true.

“M’okay,” you mumble next.

She doesn’t deserve your reassurances.

Not after everything she’s done.

She picks you up and carries you out the door, your body cradled against her own.

The next few days, Natasha doesn’t let you out of her sight; she refuses to leave your side. You’ve been moved to her room from the Compound’s medical bay, stitched up and bandaged, given painkillers and antibiotics. You’re healing, but concern, fear, still courses through her every time she sees you.

She’s always looking at you like you’re about to be taken away, like your wounds will reopen and your blood will splatter the walls and the next moment you’ll simply be… gone.

You keep reassuring her.

“Bruises heal; blood washes off,” you tell her softly, your hand always trying to rise up to cup her face. The movement always pulls on your stitches, and you wince. You keep trying anyway.

Natasha always cups your cheek instead, eyes watering, tears welling in their corners every time you attempt to soothe her worries. She’s been crying a lot lately.

“I’m sorry,” she tells you for the umpteenth time.

“I know,” you tell her for the umpteenth time back.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll never hurt you again.”

When Tony approaches you one Wednesday afternoon during the middle of your shift about how he’s thinking about hiring another assistant, you frown.

“Are you gearing up to fire me?”

“No, no,” he reassures quickly, “Can’t get rid of my best assistant. You just have so much on your plate that I figured you could use an extra set of hands.”

You can’t argue with that. Working for the Tony Stark certainly doesn’t leave you with a lot a free time. Between paperwork and scheduling, press conferences and subsequent damage control, you’re always busy.

“Pepper suggested this, didn’t she?”

Tony looks sheepish, but it’s true. It’s not like he pays attention to your workload or the exhaustion caused by it.

“You’ll be training her,” he says instead of answering your question—an answer in itself—and then he leaves you to continue whatever it was you were doing before you were interrupted.

You sigh. While training a new hire isn’t something you necessarily want to do, you can’t deny that having another person around to tackle the constant barrage of responsibilities is going to be helpful.

It’s only a few days later when you arrive at the office and see someone new. Green eyes, red hair, black dress. She’s striking, and the way she looks at you, gaze deceptively warm, smile disarmingly pleasant… you pause in the doorway before catching yourself and continuing walking toward your desk.

You have to consciously remind yourself not to turn back to stare as you set your things down.

“Good morning,” she greets, friendly and, although you don’t know it, fake. She holds out her hand to shake yours politely. “I’m Natalie Rushman. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You introduce yourself back, offering her a smile of your own.

“Tony told me all about you,” she continues, “You’re the one training me, right?”

You nod. “That’d be me. Let’s get started.”

Training Natalie goes smoothly… almost too smoothly. The entire onboarding process is easier than anticipated. She picks up on everything effortlessly; there’s nothing that seems to pose a challenge for her. She’s a quick learner, seems experienced in fast paced, constantly changing environments—which is exactly what one has to deal with with Tony—and handles the billionaire well, navigating his sarcastic comments and remarks without hesitation. She even throws snark back at him when she feels that it’s necessary.

She’s charming, with the way she talks and the way she holds herself, winning over everyone in the office quickly.

You can’t help but keep a close eye on her.

You don’t know what it is, you can’t put your finger on it, but something doesn’t sit right with you.

Maybe it’s how Natalie pauses for a second too long before replying to any personal questions, and when she does finally answer, it’s always with a deflection that only dances around without truly responding. Maybe it’s how her eyes sweep over the entire room every time she enters, surveying the layout, the exits, the people within. Or maybe it’s how you’ve never seen her sit with her back to the door, always seemingly on alert.

She’s well-versed in more than she should be, her resume only further providing evidence that she’s overqualified for this position. She’s too skilled for someone wanting to simply work under Tony Stark. Martial arts, multilingual abilities—French, Italian, Russian, and even Latin—her education at Harvard Law and USC, a short modeling career.

You want to ask Tony if he ran a real background check on her as opposed to just a quick Google search, because why would someone like her—definitely able to get a job anywhere else—want to be an assistant? Not even an assistant but an assistant’s assistant.

Yet your reservations do nothing to stop you from feeling something you’re unwilling to name.

There’s a board meeting today, and Tony has requested both your and Natalie’s presence to take notes during it, needing you to record minutes and maintain records.

You step through the conference room doors and are instantly greeted with the sight of multiple men, pressed suit jackets and trousers filling your vision, their overconfident demeanors and haughty beliefs that they’re superior to others able to be felt from the get-go.

You internally sigh—you hate board meetings—but make your way further into the room, nevertheless, beginning to pull out a chair to take a seat around the table, Natalie in tow.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” one of the men asks, expression affronted as if he’s personally offended that you’d put yourself near him, on the same level as him.

“I’m sitting down,” you reply, not confused but resigned to the treatment you often receive.

“At our table?” he counters.

You close your eyes, trying to maintain your composure, and this time, you actually let out an attempt at a calming breath. It’s not the first time some businessman has questioned you sitting down instead of standing in—practically exiled to—a corner of the room, a pen and pad of paper in hand, jotting down notes as if that’s all you’re worth.

Unfortunately for you, Tony isn’t here yet to defend you as he usually does, always stepping in and cutting off any further belittling comments as to what they believe your place is.

But to your surprise, you apparently don’t need him. Natalie intervenes immediately, her glare enough to slice through the entire room, the look in her eyes enough to silence anyone who so much as considers speaking up now.

“She has every right to have a place at the table,” she says. Her tone isn’t harsh, her words not hissed out despite the tension she feels but seamlessly hides brewing in her frame. It’s calm, composed, and oh so devastating in its self-possession.

“And who exactly are you?” he throws back at her.

“I’m her assistant, and I’ll be sitting as well.”

The man opens his mouth, no doubt to reply with an indignant argument, but Natalie coldly interrupts. “Some supercilious businessman like you, full of nothing but worthless agendas, silly formal proposals, and hollow words, sitting yourself on top of a high horse you have no right to be riding. You are simple, small, with an inferiority complex because you know that you’re nowhere near important enough to rival anyone else. So, you’ll remain in your own seat at the table and realize that her seat and mine hold equal weight despite our positions.”

Silence follows. Natalie commands the room. No one dares to disagree.

And you? You’re floored at her defense of you, touched by her protectiveness, impressed and maybe a little turned on, but you push down that last one and refuse to acknowledge or admit to it, focusing instead on the fact that she unexpectedly stood up for you when she didn’t have to.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it takes for you to come to the conclusion that Natalie Rushman is the best assistant you will ever have.

She’s efficient in a way that borders on unsettling, she predicts your schedule before you confirm it, and she has never once asked you to repeat yourself. You’ve worked with sharp people your whole career, but Natalie is something else.

Your feelings sneak up on you.

It’s in how you finally manage to make her laugh at one of your bad jokes, the sound loud and unguarded. She’s caught off guard herself, surprised by the noise that’s broken free, quickly schooling her expression back into one of professionalism and actually going as far as to apologize for the break in her composure. But her eyes remain soft even after the mask returns. It’s in the nights where you both stay after hours at the office because you’re editing some important contract that Tony needs to be finalized by the morning. She hands you a mug of coffee—exactly how you like it—without you asking her to, without you telling her your coffee order, recognizing and anticipating the need before you do. It’s in the way she begins shifting her chair slightly closer than necessary to your own when you both are poring over some documents, and if your shoulders lightly brush, well…

You keep telling yourself that there’s no need to rush, telling yourself that you have all the time in the world to figure out what’s going on between you two. You’re wrong.

The Stark Expo doesn’t go as planned.

You and Pepper both watch as Natalie restrains Justin Hammer, pinning him to the console, and confusion swirls within you. But it’s not just confusion; it’s understanding. Everything’s clicking into place. She truly isn’t who you thought she was, and you were right to be wary all along. Although, somewhere along the way, that wariness evolved into trust.

After receiving the answers she needs from Hammer, she takes off, steps rapid as she heads to the exit of the building, making it to Happy in record time and demanding that he drive her to Hammer Industries to find Ivan Vanko… whoever that is.

You chase after her, disregarding the fact that it might not be the best decision. “Natalie! Wait!” you call out to her, raising your voice to be heard over the screams and exclamations of fear that are coming from all the other attendees.

She whips around. “What are you doing following me?” she asks. Her voice is sharp. She’s never spoken to you that way before.

“I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not.”

“Natalie,” you try again, turning desperate. You don’t want her to go alone; you don’t know that she’s capable of handling herself.

She softens at your pleading tone, unable to help it, and you see the change in her expression.

“You can’t come with me,” she says gently, “It’s not safe for you.”

“But you’re going. It’s not safe for you either.”

“I’m trained for this.”

You’re begging with your eyes for an explanation, for reassurance that everything you’ve grown to know about her isn’t a lie, but neither come.

“Your name’s not Natalie, is it?” you ask quietly.

“No, it’s not,” Natasha murmurs back.

You’re silent. You knew this—you always had your suspicions—but the confirmation still hurts. She deceived you. Were the late-night conversations and developing closeness just lies too?

“No more questions?” Natalie—should you still call her that?—prompts, having figured there would be more requests for information. You certainly deserve to get it.

“Would you answer me honestly if there were?”

It’s Natalie’s turn to be quiet. “No,” she finally says, her tone sounding almost regretful, but it’s the truth. And maybe it’s the first truth you’ve been given since meeting her.

With one last look at you, she’s hurrying into the car, Happy in the driver’s seat, and they’re speeding away from you into the night, leaving you standing on the street alone. You didn’t know that that would be the last glimpse you’d get of her; she didn’t say goodbye.

Tony gives you the next day off, the next week off, to recover from the battle, from the chaos you were put through, and when you return to work, the ghost of soreness still aching in your muscles, your legs still feeling as though they’re shaky from fear and cramping from all the running away, Natalie’s not there.

You ask Tony about her whereabouts, and his gaze hardens when he answers you. He tells you that she disappeared after that night, that “good riddance”, that she was only trouble.

You’ve worked in the Avengers’ records room for a while now, largely left alone, unbothered by and uninvolved with the chaotic day to day that takes place outside of your small bubble. It’s quiet there, with just your filing system to keep you company.

And you like it that way.

You’re not an agent, not a superhero, not a fighter. You’re not built to withstand bullets or knives or pain… and it seems that you’re not built to withstand Natasha Romanoff either.

Records requests are online now—everything’s digitalized in this day and age, and especially so in the Avengers Tower—so when the Black Widow walks into your records office one morning to get a file in person rather than submitting a formal request, you’re already confused.

At first, you don’t realize anyone is there, too preoccupied with reorganizing your already organized archive, always trying to further optimize the system, and Natasha’s footsteps are almost completely silent on the polished concrete floor anyway.

But she makes herself known, an echoing “Hello?” called out into the seemingly empty room.

You frown from your position between the large shelves and filing cabinets when you hear someone’s voice. Who could possibly be here? No one’s ever here but you.

You make your way to the front counter, emerging from the labyrinth that is the records room, your eyes widening in surprise when you see Natasha standing there patiently waiting. One of her eyebrows is raised when you finally appear out of the depths.

“Can…” you trail off for a moment, brows furrowed as you just stare at her—a physical, tangible person—in front of you. “Can I help you?” you try again, this time finishing your sentence.

“I need subfile AVN-2208-B,” Natasha says, straight to the point.

“Okay,” you answer her, mentally running through all the possible locations that record could be in given the Avengers’ extensive archives. You easily track it down in your mind, but for some reason, you make no move to go retrieve it, your feet remaining firmly planted as if you can’t walk anymore, still just looking at her with open confusion.

“Are you… going to go get it for me?” Natasha asks, smirking.

The small pull of her lips only makes you want to freeze up more.

“Oh- oh! Be right back,” you reply, and then you’re quickly running off to the designated shelf, partially to grab the file, partially to flee. You return not long after rushing away, having tracked it down easily, and you jerkily offer the manila folder over to her.

“Here you are.” Your fingers brush on the pass off, and you practically recoil back away from her, the action heavily exaggerated in your panic.

Natasha’s smirk widens. “That was quick,” she remarks, and her eyes jump up from the dossier now in her hands to meet your own.

You can only hold eye contact with her for a few seconds, her intense gaze causing you to glance back at the floor, at the wall, at the file she’s now got in her grasp… anywhere but her. You begin straightening up some papers on the counter, attempting to give yourself something to do, something to distract yourself with instead of the redhead who you can feel still staring at you.

The way your fingers touched when you handed her the folder was purposeful on her part. What can she say? You’re cute, and she’s enjoying the nervous way you’re reacting to her. She hasn’t even said anything that brazen to you yet but look at you.

“Are you always like this when someone comes in?”

“Like what?”

“Jumpy,” she throws back simply.

You mouth opens and closes; you can’t answer. The small counter between you two right now doesn’t feel like enough.

If Natasha notices you short-circuiting, which she obviously does, she takes it in stride, not minding or commenting on your inability to speak when you remain silent. “Well, this was fun. See you soon,” she tosses over her shoulder as she heads toward the exit of the room.

‘Soon’? She’s coming back? Again? In person? How soon is ‘soon’? You’re fucked.

Apparently, ‘soon’ meant soon.

Natasha strolls back into your records room seven days later, seeking another classified report. You fumble through helping her yet again.

“I need AVN-0033 today.”

Your lips purse as you think. That’s an older number, not a file that you have readily available. For once, you’re not quite sure where to find something off the top of your head. So, you type the reference number into the computer database, fingers clacking wildly on the keyboard as you miss the correct keys and hit the incorrect ones, backspacing and typing over and over again. You enter the wrong case number twice.

“That’s… going to require some digging,” you tell her after you finally manage to successfully look up the documents’ whereabouts.

“No rush,” Natasha replies, smirking, “I like watching you work.”

You stand up abruptly from your desk chair when she says that, somehow managing to knock both it over and the cup of pens and pencils on the counter at the same time.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

She returns once every week, sometimes more.

And the requests start getting more elaborate. Older mission files, cross-referenced documents, long-term archived reports that haven’t seen the light of day in years. Honestly, you’re beginning to suspect that some of the records don’t even exist, and when they do, they absolutely could’ve been requested online.

But still, there she is, standing in your office, all the time.

Despite her constant visits, you never get accustomed to her presence. You’re still a mess, bumping your head into open file cabinet drawers when you’re bent down looking for something, hitting your hip on the corner of the desk because you weren’t watching where you were going, walking in the completely wrong direction at first to collect a file that you should know is on the other side of the room.

Natasha never helps.

“That was almost a full sentence. Progress.”

“You’ve almost dropped that three times. Am I that distracting?”

“I’ve gotten faster responses in interrogations.”

And the worst one of all: “Relax. I already like you.”

One day, after multiple occasions filled with Natasha’s teasing and playful flirting, she comes in and, this time, doesn’t ask you for anything.

“Did you need another file?” you question when you see her leaning against the counter.

“Nope,” Natasha responds casually, “Just returning this.” She hands you the folder that she checked out last week.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from her. You may not be surprised when your hands graze again, but that certainly doesn’t make the contact any easier to cope with.

“No problem,” she replies, and then she’s walking out of the room with no other words spoken to you.

Which is… weird. Usually Natasha always hangs around, always stalls, always delays her departure, wanting to draw out her time with you for as long as she can. It seems like it’s a fun little game to her: seeing how many times she can get you to stutter or fluster or make a fool of yourself in one visit, and she’s always trying to beat her high score.

This prompt exit is a bewildering break in the pattern you’ve come to know.

When you look down at the folder though, you see something scrawled on the top right corner.

When Natasha walks into your restaurant for the first time, you don’t think much of it. She’s just another customer for you to serve… albeit a beautiful one.

“Hi! Welcome in! How’s your night treating you?” you ask cheerily, giving her your best smile.

She offers you a huff through her nose and brushes off your question.

Okay, well, you can try and work with that. You persevere despite her lack of receptive response. “Here’s our menu. I’ll be back shortly to take your order,” you tell her, flashing her another smile.

Natasha grabs the menu from you without another word, so you take the hint and give her some space and time to peruse her options.

When you return to her table, she orders one of the simplest things on the menu—a burger, fries, and a water.

She doesn’t address or speak to you any further, ignoring your continued polite attempts at a small, pleasant conversation.

She leaves without a “thank you” or a “have a good night”, exiting the restaurant without a backward glance.

And she doesn’t tip.

Oh, so she’s not just another customer. She’s the fucking worst.

One week has passed since you last saw Natasha, and yet, you’re still ranting about the minimal interaction. You can’t stop; anger and irritation have been present every moment of your shifts since that day no matter what you do.

“She was just so rude,” you say hotly for what is probably the umpteenth time, “Literally, infuriating.”

“Uh huh,” your coworker responds, bored, having heard this basically on repeat.

“I just- I can’t fucking believe the nerve of her.”

“I hear you.”

“The absolute audacity to walk in here, barely say a word to me, and then not leave a tip.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I’m a great server, a fucking delight… and, not to mention, I’m downright adorable. No one doesn’t tip me.”

Your coworker has finally had enough of your tirades. “Dude, just let it go,” she sighs exasperatedly, “You’re, like, obsessed with her.”

“The fuck? I am not obsessed with her,” you deny immediately, spitting out the words as if just the thought disgusts you.

“You haven’t shut up about her since you saw her. Just admit you thought she had that super hot aloof and mysterious thing going on and you liked it.”

“I didn’t find her hot!” you argue, taking genuine offense at the fact that your coworker could think something like that about you.

“Sure, you didn’t.”

“No, seriously, I didn’t. I don’t,” you declare vehemently before muttering under your breath, “I swear, if she shows her face again, I’m going to-”

“Well, you’ve got your chance.”

“What?”

“She’s here.” Your coworker nods her head in the direction of where Natasha is, seated at the same table as the last time she was here. “She’s been here. Eavesdropping probably. You haven’t been quiet.”

Your gaze snaps over to Natasha, finding her already staring. One of her eyebrows quirks up as you make eye contact. “You didn’t think to warn me?” you hiss, alarmed, voice finally dropping to a lower volume as you look back at your coworker.

Your coworker just shrugs, unbothered, and then she walks away from you, heading to the back, leaving you alone behind the counter.

Natasha’s still watching you, eyes intense and unmeetable. You’re fleeing to the back after your coworker in just seconds.

You don’t emerge until you’re sure the redhead has left the restaurant, too sheepish and embarrassed to face her. You make your way over to her booth to clean up her dishes, and there, left on the table, is several crumpled bills. It’s the biggest tip you’ve ever received—the biggest tip you’ve ever seen—and, written on the merchant copy of the receipt in sloppy scrawl underneath her signature… ‘Fair enough’.

You don’t know how or why; the whole situation doesn’t make sense to you. You insulted Natasha, and yet she left that huge tip and agreeing note… and she continues to show up, over and over, arriving at the same time every week. She becomes a regular, always coming in during your shifts, always seating herself in your section, and always alone.

Your coworker teases you relentlessly. “She likes you,” she singsongs.

You have to frantically shush her every time, her loudness way too much for the small restaurant, the redhead surely able to overhear. “There’s no way she does,” you reject her statement, “I insulted her. A lot. Multiple times. And she made it clear that she heard me.”

“Yeah, and she also told you that you were right.”

“That doesn’t mean she likes me.”

“Don’t play dumb, and don’t pretend you don’t like her too.”

“How many times do we have to do this. I don’t like her.”

Despite the less-than-respectful-on-her-part first interaction, despite the less-than-respectful-on-your-part second interaction, you two do develop a sort of routine. Natasha sits in the same booth every visit; you memorize her order and put it in with the kitchen before she has to ask. She begins to smile and talk a bit more; you learn that her silences, when present, aren’t impolite.

You don’t want to admit it—because how could your heart possibly betray you like this by fluttering every time you see her stroll through the restaurant doors?—but you can’t keep lying to yourself about how you aren’t beginning to like her. She’s not totally unpleasant anymore, you guess.

“Your usual,” you say as you deliver the burger, fries, and water glass to Natasha’s table.

She flashes you a small grin, and, like what’s typical for her now, thanks you, her voice soft when she talks. “You always know just what I need.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress your own smile. “You ‘need’ the same thing every time. It’s not hard.”

Unconsciously, you find yourself happy that she’s always unaccompanied, with no one in tow, and although you don’t think you’ll ever stop ignoring your coworker’s claims—“Just accept that she has a crush on you”—you’re secretly pleased at being told that perhaps Natasha likes you. Your coworker was right. She really does have a super hot aloof and mysterious thing going on.

It’s a Thursday when Natasha next comes in, which is… weird. She’s a Wednesday patron, a 6:30 p.m. Wednesday patron, to be exact. She’s always on time. So, when she arrives at the restaurant on a different day than normal, at a different time than normal—right before you’re off, actually—and sits at a different table than normal, it’s beyond unexpected.

Your coworker shoots you a confused look when she watches the redhead make her way into her section instead of yours, and although you’re puzzled and perhaps ever so slightly jealous, you technically are supposed to be clocking out in a few minutes, so it’s not like you could serve her anyway.

Maybe she just really wanted another burger earlier than normal, and maybe she just didn’t want to sit by the window tonight.

You can’t help but eavesdrop on Natasha’s order. Will she be switching that up too?

“Can I get you your usual?” your coworker asks her.

Natasha shakes her head. “Not yet,” she answers, “I’m actually waiting for someone this time.”

You falter, heart sinking in your chest in a funny way that you don’t want to acknowledge. She’s on a date. Your eyes flick to the front doors, wondering just when the person meeting with her will be walking through them. You don’t want to be here for that.

You remove your apron and fold it over your forearm with maybe a little too much force, you grab your bag from the back possibly somewhat too roughly, and you make your way out of the back room, heading toward the exit with purpose. You happen to have to pass Natasha’s booth on your way. You don’t make eye contact.

You’re stopped by a hand reaching out to grab your wrist, and you whip around, confused and surprised at being stopped by her.

“Where are you going?” she asks, voice gentle as she tries to soothe your clear agitation.

“I’m off,” you reply, and you can’t help but throw something a bit more bitter her way as well. “But you know that already.” It’s a definitive statement. She’s familiar with your schedule by now; she’s been here enough times to have learned it.

“I do know,” she confirms.

It makes you even angrier, and your annoyance, stemming from jealousy, flares. You open your mouth to shoot back some retort, but she beats you to it.

“Well? Are you just going to stand there? Aren’t you going to sit?”

You freeze, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Table for two today,” she informs you even though you’re well aware, grinning in amusement at how obvious it is that you’re trying to connect the dots.

And then it clicks… and you slowly slip your bag off your shoulder… and you slowly take a seat across from her… and you slowly find yourself smiling instead of frowning in hurt.

Your coworker returns to the table, smirking knowingly, an ‘I so told you so’ expression on her face as she gives you a pointed look. “Your date finally show? Ready to order now?” she addresses Natasha.

Natasha nods, turning to face your coworker. “Yeah, I’ll take my usual, and…” She then looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to relay what you want to eat. “Get whatever you’d like. It’s on me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I work here. I get all my meals for free.”

Yet every step felt heavy, drawn out, as if you were wading through wet cement.

For six months, this floor had been a labyrinth of high-stakes survival. And for six months, one person had been your compass— Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi.

You had learned Dr. Al-Hashimi's silence better than any medical textbook. A slight tilt of her head meant re-examine the chart. A sharp pause in the middle of triage meant you missed something crucial. A quiet, barely noticeable nod meant good work. And on the rarest occasions—moments you locked away in the back of your mind like smuggled goods—a faint, fleeting curve of Dr. Al-Hashimi's lips meant you had done the impossible. You had impressed her.

You had also spent those six months learning the art of micro-discipline: keep your hands busy with patient charts so they don't shake; keep your eyes on the telemetry monitors so you don't track the way Baran's jaw tightened under stress; look away after three seconds. Four seconds was a risk. Five was a confession.

"Are your charts complete?"

The voice cut through the background roar of the emergency room. Cool. Measured. Impossibly composed.

Your heart did its customary, embarrassing jump against your ribs. You didn't look up immediately—you needed two seconds to smooth your face into something strictly professional. When you finally raised your head, Dr. Al-Hashimi was leaning against the edge of the central workstation, arms folded over iconic lululemon jacket. Late hour, an endless stream of trauma admissions, and yet Baran looked completely unflappable.

"Almost," you said, tapping your pen against the laminate counter.

"Almost isn't complete."

A small, courageous spark ignited in your chest. The shift was almost over. The traditional authority between you was bleeding out with every tick of the wall clock.

"Well you won't be supervising my work anymore, Dr. Al-Hashimi," you said, your voice dropping an octave.

Baran didn't blink, but the subtle tension in her shoulders shifted. Her dark eyes held your gaze, letting her rigid sternness soften just enough to reveal the exhaustion underneath.

"No," Baran said softly. "I won't."

The quiet weight of those three words pulled the air right out of your lungs. The light banter died on your tongue.

You had both been running this invisible marathon for half a year, keeping a careful, agonizing distance, pretending the static in the air every time your hands brushed over a chart was just atmospheric pressure. You were standing on the sharp edge of the inevitable—the end of the rotation, the final goodbye, the unspoken truth you had buried under lab results and ED rounds.

Dr. Al-Hashimi glanced up at the clock above the central desk. 18:44— the night shift is bound to clock in, in the next 16 minutes. She looked around the chaotic floor, then met your eyes again.

"Walk with me."

"Where?"

"Doctor’s lounge."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You have asked me that question for six months," Baran noted, pushing off from the desk.

"And you have never answered it."

"I am still yncertain if you are in trouble or not."

Baran turned, heading down the quiet back hallway behind the resuscitation bays where the resident call rooms were tucked away. You hesitated for a fraction of a second, your pulse hammering against your throat, before pulling your stethoscope from around your neck, dropping it on the counter, and following.

The walk away from the main floor was completely silent.

When you reached the door to the unused call room, Baran pushed it open, stepping into the dim, windowless room and holding the door until you slipped inside.

Click.

The sound of the door closing shut out the muffled sirens and alarms of the ED entirely. In the tight, quiet space, it sounded like a lock turning.

You stood near the small laminate desk, suddenly, acutely hyper-aware of your own body. Your hands felt clumsy, your scrubs too thin, the distance between you entirely too small.

Dr. Al-Hashimi took off her lululemon jacket, slipping it off to drape it over the single back chair. She unclipped her hospital badge. Then, slowly, she removed her wire-rimmed glasses and set them down on the desk. Without the frame, Baran's dark eyes looked deeper, unfiltered, stripped of her professional armor.

"You have done well," Baran said.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, trying to anchor yourself. "That's it?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know," you murmured, watching Baran's chest rise and fall. "Perhaps a serious discussion? Maybe even a speech to commemorate the great work I’ve done in your department?" You jested.

"You hate speeches."

"Yours are particularly long so… only yours."

"I see."

Then it happened.

Baran’s lips parted slightly, and the corners of her mouth curved upward. It was not the formal smile she offered to patients, nor the strict, professional approval she gave during rounds. It was warm. Intimate. Unprotected.

You felt a sudden, fierce heat flare under your skin. Unable to maintain direct eye contact in the small room, you looked away at the wall.

"Thank you," you swallowed hard, your voice losing its edge. "For... everything."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with all the things that couldn't be written in emergency medical records. Baran didn't move, but the air felt charged, as if a thunderstorm were trapped inside the four walls.

"Tomorrow," Baran said quietly, her voice low and deliberate, "you will no longer be my resident."

You looked back up, your defense mechanisms crumbling. "No I wont, and?"

Dr. Al-Hashimi didn't flinch. She took a slow step forward, closing half the remaining distance between you in the narrow room. The distance was no longer a professional buffer— it was an open question.

"And tomorrow," Baran said, her eyes locked onto yours, "perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner."

The breath caught in your throat. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

"Dinner?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

"Dinner."

"As in... a date?"

Baran raised a single, elegant eyebrow, a ghost of her sharp ED persona bleeding through the softness. "I am fully aware of what dinner implies."

A sudden, breathless laugh broke through your shock—a complete release of six months' worth of built-up tension. "You waited until my rotation ended?"

"I waited until it was appropriate."

"Six months?"

"Six very long months," Baran corrected quietly, her voice losing its playful edge, dropping into something raw and entirely unscripted.

Your smile softened, turning into something open, vulnerable, and undeniably real. The lingering fear of crossing a line evaporated, replaced by the electric realization that every stolen glance, every lingering touch over a chart, had been mutual.

You took a deliberate step forward, eliminating the space between you until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from Baran.

"You could have just asked," you soft-spokenly said.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Dr. Al-Hashimi reached out, her fingers hovering near the desk before picking up her glasses again. She held them loosely, her knuckles brushing near your hip, close enough to feel the friction of the fabric.

"Because you were my resident," Baran said simply.

The answer was logical, strictly professional, and entirely disciplined. Yet, spoken in the quiet privacy of the call room, it was the most devastatingly romantic thing you had ever heard.

You closed the final inch between you, your eyes tracing the curve of Baran's jaw, down to the quick flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

"And tomorrow?" you whispered.

Slowly, deliberately, she looked up, her gaze steady, unwavering, and completely unshielded.

"Tomorrow," Baran replied softly, "you're not."

“Nothing,” you said, but there was a smile on your face.

“Fine, don’t tell me. Whatever.” Yolanda accepted everything from Perlah, preparing to take your stitches out. The bruising on your face was nearly gone, just a little bit of yellow discoloration left. “Ready to get back at it?”

“Absolutely. I can only hope that Shamsi clears me once this fully heals. She’ll kill me if I fuck it up now.” You let out a dry chuckle.

“Very true.” Yolanda gestured for you to sit down. “You know the drill.”

You held your palm up as you took a seat. “You know, ‘Landa, don't think I haven't noticed just how much you've gone out of your way to help me. I would've thought you'd be ecstatic that I can't get in your way anymore.”

Yolanda scowled. “You're reading into things. I am glad you're not getting in my way.”

“You seem to be intentionally jumping in front of me,” you said with a raised eyebrow. You barely flinched as she pulled out the first stitch.

“You got hurt on the job,” she said. “I might hate you, but we surgeons have to stick together.”

“I thought the surgeon's motto was all for one?” you joked, and then Yolanda's words settled in. “You hate me?”

Yolanda froze. “No, I—” She choked down whatever words were going to come out, those first two leaving before she could stop them. She swallowed, very aware of your eyes catching every single movement on her face.

She continued carefully. “I just thought that was our… our thing. You know, we're always arguing. The rival trauma surgeons who hate each other's guts.”

The look in your eyes, of abject rejection, made Yolanda's words die in her throat. She tried to surface something that would make you feel better, and then your face relaxed into a grin.

“I'm joking, ‘Landa,” you said with a pat to her shoulder with your free hand. You laughed as she blinked at you in confusion. “Obviously I know you don't hate me. I've seen what you do to people you genuinely hate.”

She frowned. “Fuck you,” she snapped.

Your grin didn't fade. “There she is. I was getting worried someone had replaced the real Yolanda Garcia with someone who was incapable of being mean.”

You winced as Yolanda pulled a bit too hard on the stitches.

“You deserved that,” she said.

You chuckled. “I suppose I do.” You worried your bottom teeth in your lip. “Are we going to keep dancing around this?”

“Around what?” She cut the next stitch and started pulling that one out.

“How badly you want to drag me down to your house and fuck me,” you said.

The bluntness of your statement hit Yolanda like a truck. You said it like you were describing the weather, or reading scan results to a patient. She turned her head, expecting to see Perlah staring at you, but she wasn’t there. When did she leave?

“What—what are you talking about?” she stammered, glad that her blush wasn't showing on her cheeks. “What gave you that idea? You, me, us? Really?”

“Do you really think you're not obviously checking me out?” you asked. You lowered your voice. “I wore these clothes hoping you would.”

Yolanda, against her better judgment, looked down at your chest. She hadn't intentionally been ogling you, and had barely registered where she was looking in general. But now that you mentioned it, your shirt was low-cut, your bra straps thin and visible next to the tank top. Your bare shoulders showed off more skin than Yolanda could have ever seen while at work. And your jeans were tight, too. Very tight.

Okay, yeah, now she was ogling you.

“You're such a fucking tease,” she growled, hoping her voice didn't shake too much. It was hard not to think about taking action to reveal even more of your skin.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” you said. “Tell me you don't want to shut me up with those gorgeous lips of yours, or that you don't want to just bend me over this table and—”

“Enough,” she snapped. “Unless you want me to mess up your stitches and you have to take more time off of work.”

Mercifully, you stopped talking. You stared at Yolanda as she removed the final stitch and placed a bandage over the mostly-healed wound.

“We can't do this,” Yolanda said as she started tossing things in their respective bins.

“Why not?”

“We're at work.”

“Is that the only thing holding you back, ‘Landa?” you asked. Yolanda heard you stand up. “So if we were anywhere else, you wouldn’t hesitate in telling me what you really feel about me? About us? Or do you not want this?”

Yolanda couldn’t take it any longer. She turned on her heel and marched towards you with enough speed to send you scrambling back up against the wall. She planted one hand on your collarbone to pin you there and another on the wall to hold herself up.

She kissed you ferociously. She was pissed. Pissed at you constantly teasing her, at you somehow seeing right through her, at how you were constantly on her mind, at how you’d gotten yourself injured when she couldn’t be there to protect you. It was infuriating just how easily you’d wormed your way into her life and just how difficult it was for Yolanda to be rid of you. And how much she didn’t want to be rid of you.

She was not kind. Her kiss was all teeth and tongue and want.

Your lips were just as sweet and soft as she imagined they would be. The noises you made in surprise and need just spurned her on. Her thumb trailed up from your collarbone to your throat and pressed ever so gently on your pulse point. She could feel your heart racing.

Yolanda parted from your lips, but she was far from done. She tipped her head down and trailed kisses across your jaw and then started sucking on your neck. She delighted in the way you shivered when her teeth dragged across your skin. It only urged her on to where she was seriously considering yanking your shirt off and taking a better look at your bra, maybe seeing what was under that, too.

You were right, she wanted to bend you down over that table and hear more of those noises you make.

The coldness of your hand on Yolanda’s stomach pushing her back shattered her lust-drunk haze. She stared at you in confusion. Your lips were still parted, your pupils blown, but there was something more. Maybe it was the way your lips were smiling or that look in your eyes, but everything screamed I told you so.

“God damn it,” someone said. Yolanda whirled around to see three people standing by the curtain. The open curtain. Mohan, Langdon, and the security guard Ahmad. Langdon had been the one to speak.

“Well I'll be damned,” Ahmad said. In his hands he had a sizable wad of cash.

“Told you,” Mohan said. She held her hand out and waved her fingers in the traditional ‘hand it over’ motion. The security guard slapped the wad of cash into her hand with a shake of his head.

“You couldn't have waited? I had you on for when she got cleared for work,” Langdon groaned.

“What the fuck!” Yolanda shook her head. “Were you betting on this? Us?”

You pushed yourself off the wall and Yolanda watched with wide eyes as Mohan strode forwards and planted a single twenty dollar bill in your hand.

“This is insider trading,” Ahmad said with his eyes narrowed.

“It's my money, I can do whatever I want with it,” Mohan said.

“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Yolanda told you with an accusatory finger. She didn't want to show just how shaken up she was, not with three bystanders there, all of whom had been staring at her while she made out with her coworker in one of the emergency rooms.

You folded the bill up and gave Yolanda a sly wink. “What?” you asked innocently. “I finally got what I always wanted. And I got twenty dollars. Thanks, Dr. Garcia, I will see you in a few days.” You brushed past everyone and slipped out of the room.

“What are you three still staring at?” Yolanda snapped. “Show's over.” She glared even harder at Mohan. “You've definitely done enough.”

Mohan grinned. “I'll go dry my tears with my hard-earned money,” she said.

“Gross,” Langdon said. “I would not put any of that near my eyes.” He shot Yolanda a look. “Take care, Yoyo,” he said, backing up before she could tear him to shreds.

She finally settled her glare on Ahmad, who raised his hands. “Hey, I'm just the bookkeeper,” he said.

Finally, it was just Yolanda in that room. Her heart was still pounding and she was still coming to grips with the fact that she'd actually kissed you. And apparently fallen so deep that it had all happened with an audience.

Your stupid smirk afterwards just made her blood boil.

She spent the rest of her shift coming up with ideas on how to get back at you, to punish you privately. Because she wasn't mad that she'd kissed you, gave you a bruise on your neck in the shape of her teeth, nearly tore your skimpy shirt off. She was mad that you'd apparently been one step ahead of her the entire time.

It didn’t really occur to her that she never thought about cutting you off. No, she wanted you even more now.