Living in my mind

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You leave the entryway light on.

It’s been on for hours, a little amber square above the entrance to your luxury apartment, because you knew she would be late. The news had cut into your afternoon game show with the alert: a shooting at PittFest, multiple casualties and absolute chaos downtown. You’d stared at the screen with your phone in your hand, though you didn’t bother to call or even text. She never answers during her shifts because she can’t, and if she could, it would mean something is wrong. 

So you cooked dinner, cleaned up the apartment, and waited for her.

Your partner works in an ER. Late comes with the territory more often than not. 

It’s partner, by the way, not girlfriend. She makes that very clear, she’d shut it down years ago, citing she was not, in her words, “a fuckin’ teenager, for Christ’s sake.” Partner was the only word you both agreed on.

Dinner is long cold by the time you portion it onto a plate and slide it into the fridge, covering it with foil and doing your best not to feel abandoned. You turned the stove light on because you can’t stand overhead lighting when it starts to get dark outside. And then you hovered around the apartment for the rest of the evening with the windows open, listening for sirens, or for footsteps out in the hall, or for the little thunk the elevator leaves when it stops on your floor.

The end of her shift comes and goes without a word.

By the time you hear the key in the lock turn, you’re relieved instead of upset. 

“Dana?” you call, standing from the couch. “I made dinner, it’s in the fridge. I can heat it up if you want.”

The door shuts and there’s no answer.

You frown, pausing halfway between the couch and the kitchen. Usually she calls back immediately, a version of “Hey, baby,” or a comment about the shitty hospital food she had for lunch. Especially when she comes home to a cooked meal. Instead, there’s just movement, you can vaguely make out the scuff of shoes on the entryway tile.

“Dana?”

Still nothing. 

You pivot, rounding the corner toward the entry way, and stop dead in your tracks.

She’s standing just inside the apartment, her bag still slung over her shoulder and her coat unzipped. Her hair is still half-up in her favorite claw clip, though it’s a mess. Not a surprise after a day like today. 

But her face?

“Holy shit,” you gasp, moving toward her quickly.

Her left eye is swollen and bruised; skin dark down to her cheekbone. The bridge of her nose is mottled blue with faint purpling already beneath it. There’s dried blood just under one of her nostrils like she forgot to wipe it away.

“Dana, what the hell -” Your hands come up and cup her face carefully, afraid of hurting her but also unable to stop yourself from touching her. Her skin is cold, really cold. “Oh my god, what happened? Who did this to you?”

She recoils with a hiss when your thumbs brush too close to her nose, her eyes squeezing shut for a second. 

“I’m fine,” she mutters, but her voice is rough from exhaustion. “Just - just long a shift.”

“Fine?” your voice jumps an octave with panic. “You have a black eye, Dana, you’re - you’re -” You swallow hard. Up close you can see just how uncomfortable she looks, her jaw is clenched, from pain you assume, and her expression is worn out. “You’re hurt.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snaps. The same tone she probably uses on combative patients, but never with you. “It’s nothing.”

It is very much not nothing.

“Dana,” you say softly, refusing to let go of her face, even as she slides the backpack from her shoulders. “Talk to me, please.”

She doesn’t respond at first, but she doesn’t pull away either. She just stands there in your hands as she sheds her coat and you watch the fight drain from her eyes. 

“Angry patient took a swing,” she says quietly. “He caught me off-guard while I was having a smoke.”

“I’ll kill him.”

She huffs, a weak attempt at a laugh. “Get in line.”

You falter a little at that. You know the hospital would be dealing with it, they have security and cameras, and you’re sure Dr. Robinovich has already made a bigger deal out of this than Dana wants. 

“Come here,” you murmur, guiding her further into the apartment. “Let’s sit down, shoes off.”

She tries to pull from your grip. “I can’ -”

“No,” you cut in. “I’ll bet my last dollar this didn’t happen at the end of your shift, which means you worked through it. It’s time to relax.”

She’s silent as she lets you steer her toward the couch. She lets you keep a hand on her the whole way, and you’re not sure if it’s for her or for you. And when she sinks down onto the couch cushions, her eyes flutter shut again and she almost looks relieved. 

You kneel in front of her and settle your hands on her knees. “Stay right here,” you say. “I’m getting ice. And water. And - and something for the pain. Don’t move, okay?”

You hear her chuckle and are surprised to see a small but genuine smile on her face. “My own personal nurse,” she murmurs, looking down at you.

You hurry into the kitchen before she can change her mind. Ice clatters together in a ziplock baggy, your hands clumsy with adrenaline. You get her a glass of water and the entire ibuprofen bottle from the cabinet. She doesn’t even move, still exactly where you left her when you return. Slumped into the couch like someone who’s run out of fuel.

“Ice pack delivery,” you say softly. 

Her eyes crack open and track the items in your hands, then your face. You gently press the bundled ice to her swollen face and she inhales quickly as she hisses through her teeth.

“Sorry, sorry,” you whisper, pulling back a little.

“No, it’s -” She steadies the ice pack on her face herself. “It’s good, it’s just cold.”

Your other hand balances the water in your palm and the pill bottle in the crook of your arm. “Here, water. And ibuprofen.”

She takes the pills without argument, which makes you much more nervous than if she’d fought you. Dana doesn’t surrender control easily or often, especially not over her own body.

The bruising is bad. You catch sight of it again as she lowers her hands to take the water from you. It makes you both sick and angry, and you want to press for details, but you don’t. 

“Do you want me to heat up your dinner?” you ask, pivoting topics. “It’s still good, promise.”

Her stomach betrays her with a growl. “…yeah,” she admits. “I’m starving.”

Relief wells in your chest. It isn’t often you get compliant Dana, and you’re grateful for it tonight. “Okay, good. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

“Bossy,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

You hover while she eats. With her plate balanced carefully on her lap, the ice pack resting against her face in between bites, she moves very slowly. You keep refilling her water before she can ask, adjusting her napkin, nudging her fork back onto the plate anytime it threatens to fall off. Your knee bounces with nervous energy that you can’t burn off. Every time she winces it causes your heart to lurch.

“You know,” she eventually says through a mouthful of food, “most adults manage to feed themselves without supervision.”

It’s a joke, but you don’t smile. “You got punched in the face.”

“It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Dana.”

She sighs, poking at the remaining food on her plate. “I’m a big girl,” she says. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

But she doesn’t push you away or stop you when you steady the plate when she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

You practically have to force yourself not to touch her for a whole five seconds as you lean back away from her. “Okay,” you say. “Not coddling.”

She glances at you over the rim of her water glass as she takes a sip. “Mhm.”

When she eventually finishes her food, you take her plate before she can even sit up, let alone stand. You set the plate in the sink and come back immediately, perching on the coffee table in front of her. She’s leaned against the back of the couch, head tilted up and eyes closed again.

“Dana.”

She hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t open her eyes. 

“…don’t go back,” you whisper.

Her eyes open slowly.

“To the hospital,” you continue, your voice trembling now that the request is out there. “Please, you’re not safe there.” You swallow hard, trying to keep your plea even. “You’re running yourself into the ground for that place, I can’t -” You stop, unable to finish the thought. I can’t watch you get hurt again. I can’t lose you. You’re being dramatic, you know, but seeing here like this makes it too real.

For a really long moment, she just looks at you. Then she lets out a quiet laugh that sounds brittle. “Relax,” she says. “I’m done.”

You blink in surprise. “Done?”

She nods. “Done. Thirty years, and I’m done. And this, tonight…” she waves her hands up toward her face, toward the bruising that’s still not even fully there yet. “…this was the last straw.”

“Dana -”

“I brought my stuff home.”

She nods toward the backpack she left in the entryway. Slowly, she slides off the couch and retrieves it, and then dumps it on the coffee table next to you: out falls her stethoscope, a few pens in her favorite cup, and the photos you know she keeps taped to the Charge Nurse computer.

You don’t know what to say. You weren’t actually expecting her to agree to not go back, this must be weighing on her a lot heavier than she’s letting on. This is real, she’s really not going back.

“…okay,” you whisper. It’s not actually okay, none of this is okay, but you’re relieved. You reach out and take her hand, the one not still clutching the backpack, and brush your thumb over the back of it.

The rest of the evening passes slowly. With Dana not going to the hospital tomorrow, and you sure as hell not going to work while your partner is like this, there’s no reason to get up early, so you allow the late evening to blur into night without rushing to bed.

You clear the coffee table, moving quietly so you don’t jostle the couch where Dana still sits with her eyes closed. She insists she’s awake, but the exhaustion is evident even in her voice and she isn’t fooling you when her head begins to tilt forward.

By the time everything is cleaned up, she’s already shaking her limbs as she stands, trying to physically rid herself of sleepiness.

The shower is her idea. 

“I’m not broken, kid,” she says when you hesitate in the bathroom doorway with your arms folded across your chest. “You can get in here with me.”

You don’t bother to deny her. Dana can have whatever she wants tonight.

The shower is both long and gentle. She lets you wash her hair, either because she’s tired or because she doesn’t feel like fighting anymore. 

Back in the bedroom, you both get ready for bed in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward, but is certainly tense. At least, it feels that way for you. You keep glancing at her when you think she’s not looking, taking in the bruising, the way her mouth is permanently turned down into a subtle frown, the complete opposite of the Dana you’re used to.

The bed dips when she climbs in next to you, settling on her side facing the wall. Her body is stiff even now in the comfort of her own bed. You switch off the lamp and lay beside her, trying to give her space, if her earlier annoyance over your hovering was any indicator of how the rest of this evening will go. 

But to your surprise, she moves. The tiniest little backwards scoot in your direction, an invitation so rare that you might’ve imagined it.

Dana Evans is not the little spoon. You can count on one hand the number of times it’s happened over the years you’ve been together. Dana is in charge, Dana is the caretaker, Dana is the big spoon.

That doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arm over her, settling across her waist gently. Then you hear her sigh, see her body melt into the mattress beneath you, settling backwards until her back rests fully against your front.

Her hand finds your wrist and pulls it closer, anchoring it to her ribs just under her breasts. Even as her breathing evens out and she drifts off to sleep, her fingers loosen but she never actually lets go of you completely.

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Week 1

Dana sleeps.

Not the half-asleep dozing she’s always done between shifts, the kind that never actually let her get through a full REM cycle; but instead a deep, heavy sleep that has her completely unresponsive all night. She sleeps through alarms she hasn’t turned off yet, she doesn’t toss or turn, she sleeps through sunlight peeking through the windows and the noise of the late-morning traffic outside your apartment. And when she wakes up, she’s disoriented like she doesn’t know where she is or why she isn’t at work already.

You take those first few days off, of course. A quick email to your boss with a vague explanation, no details. There’s no change you’re leaving her alone right now, not when she’s in a vulnerable state like this.

Most mornings she goes from the bed to the couch with your blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair wet from a shower or sticking up with frizz when she skips one. The bruises on her face deepen to an almost black before leaking into a sickly yellow. She eats whatever you put in front of her and her appetite is unpredictable, like her body still thinks it’s at the hospital and can’t spare the time to eat, only to be ravenous later.

By the third day, she’s hovering in the kitchen while you cook, leaning against the counter with her arms folded because she’s supervising you more than she’s actually helping. 

“Smells good,” she says, her voice still a bit rough from her afternoon nap. 

Eventually, though, she reaches for a knife to start chopping vegetables at a speed that would’ve made her coworkers laugh - Charge Nurse Dana, notorious speed demon, reduced to veggie slicing like she’s teaching a cooking class for beginners. To her credit, you’re the cook in the relationship, your boring 9 to 5 giving you more free time than she’s ever had.

Later in the week, people start checking in. 

They text first, brief check-ins that you assume medical professionals do when they’re worried. Sometimes calls that she mostly ignores and voicemails she listens to on speaker while she stares at the ceiling for so long that you can almost see the war inside her.

You know she misses it, even if she doesn’t say it.

Then, inevitably, someone shows up.

You’re cubing chicken for the crockpot when the knock comes on your apartment door. Dana checks the peephole and you hear her call out that it’s Robby.

She opens the door to find him holding a paper bag from a takeout place two blocks away, the smell of greasy comfort food spilling into your entryway. 

“Jesus,” he says as he takes in the swelling that’s just now starting to go down under her left eye.

Dana shrugs casually. “You should see the other guy.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth does twitch. “I brought lunch,” he says as he holds up the bag like it’s proof of his usefulness. You all know it’s an excuse.

“Bribery works,” she replies. “She’s in there makin’ food, though.” You can practically hear her nodding toward you even though you can’t see them from the kitchen.

“It’s fine, this is for dinner anyways!” you call out to them.

You stay in the kitchen long past necessary, trying to give them the privacy you’re sure they need. But their voices drift in anyway.

“…shouldn’t have happened at all,” Robby is saying angrily. “Security still wants you to press charges. Administration is freaking out.”

Dana laughs, but it’s the same, ingenuine laugh you’ve heard all week. “Good, maybe they’ll fix something for once.”

There’s a pause where you can’t hear anything before Robby speaks again.

“You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

You grip the edge of the kitchen counter as you try to force yourself not to listen harder.

“…you serious about this?”

You know what he’s asking, and it causes your heart to beat rapidly.

When Dana doesn’t answer immediately, you imagine her staring at the floor, or maybe the wall absently. She always avoids eye contact with uncomfortable subjects, and this is one of them. 

“Yeah.” There’s silence from both of them for a moment before she adds, “I meant what I said. I’m done.”

You let out a heavy sigh, careful not to be too loud. You keep your back turned to the entrance to the living room even as the tension unwinds from your body at her admission to someone other than you that she isn’t going back to that place.

Robby also exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since he walked in, the real reason he came. “Thirty years is a long time,” he says.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t have to decide right now, you can just…take some time, you know?”

You finally peek out into the living room, quickly so they don’t see you. Robby is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s seeing her for the first time – this strange version of Dana Evans who isn’t in scrubs, who isn’t a Charge Nurse, who isn’t holding people together by sheer force of will because she’s too busy holding herself together instead.

“And if you change your mind?” he urges.

Dana shrugs casually. “Then I change my mind.”

“But not today.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not today.”

Robby nods slowly, accepting it even if he doesn’t like it. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “Well,” he says, forcing a lighter tone. PTMC will survive without you. Probably.”

“Barely,” she replies dryly.

They share a small, tired smile.

You step into the living room then, handing over paper plates for the takeout Robby’s brought and pretending you didn’t hear the conversation. Dana glances up at you as she thanks you. 

Later, after Robby leaves and the apartment settles back into the quiet of the afternoon, you notice her backpack is still where she always leaves it in the entryway, and you make the decision to put it away. It’s only in the hall closet, three feet from where it sat before, but those three feet make all the difference. It’s out of sight and mind, gone from your view because she’s not going to pack it up and take it to work tomorrow, and putting it away makes it not feel like a ticking clock on your sanity.

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Week 2

The second week brings energy.

On the second morning of the second week, you wake up to an empty bed and have a moment of panic before you hear the sound of cabinets open in the kitchen, followed by the clatter of a mug that’s been set down too hard on the kitchen counter.

You find Dana standing at the counter in clothes instead of pajamas, hair damp from a shower, with coffee in hand.

“Good morning,” she says casually, as if she hasn’t been sleeping sixteen hours a day for the past week.

“You’re…” you stare at her as you try to figure out the right word. “…vertical.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

There’s color in her face now, real color, not the flush from feverish sleep. The bruising has almost entirely faded to yellow, much less shocking against her skin. She looks…like herself.

Later in the day, she’s pacing. She’s restless, unable to sit still that’s the complete opposite of the way she’s spent the previous 10 days. She’s wiping counters that are already clean, reorganizing the drawers in your shared dresser, cleaning things in the apartment that you already keep spotless. You catch her standing at the large window that faces the street more than once.

“Do you want to go out?” you ask finally, when you can’t take it anymore.

She looks relieved at the question, like she didn’t want to bring it up yourself. But she quickly schools her expression into a more casual one.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Yeah, actually.”

The first outing is just the pharmacy, a quick in-and-out. You hover behind her the entire time, on-edge in a way you’ve never had to be around her before. She notices, of course, but she doesn’t call you out on it. She just bumps your shoulder lightly with hers and takes your hand every time she notices you getting restless.

By the time you make it back out to the car, she’s smiling. She’s clearly missed the Vitamin D and fresh air.

The grocery store is next. It’s hilariously normal, and Dana doesn’t seem half as nervous about being out and about as you are. At one point, you turn around and she’s disappeared, and she appears only a few moments later holding up a large box of something you like with a small smile on her face.

“I thought you were the one on bedrest,” you joke.

She snorts. “I was.”

You don’t miss her use of past tense.

Errands stack up after that, and you do them together: the post office, the gas station, a quick stop for takeout since you’re tired of cooking. Nothing strenuous, just normal life stuff that you’ve been avoiding ever since she left the hospital. People look at her face, then away quickly, most polite enough to stare. And she ignores them.

At home, she starts helping more. She jumps in when you’re folding laundry, she takes the trash out before you can get to it.

That night is different too. She still curls into you, she’s still the little spoon, like she’s gotten used to being the one held for once. One time, you wake up to find her already awake, watching you with a strange look on her face that disappears the second she realizes you’re looking up at her. 

“Go back to sleep,” she murmurs, brushing hair off your forehead. I

You do.

The next day, you’re putting groceries away after another trip; nothing that was urgent, just a restocking on things you use regularly. But behind you, footsteps approach you and arms slide into place around your waist.

Dana presses herself up against you from behind, her chin settling on your shoulder. 

“Missed this,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your neck.

Your hands pause with a box of pasta in your hands. “Me too.”

She doesn’t let go though, if anything, her hold on you tightens. You lean back into her, relaxing into her arms and letting yourself be held.

But then you feel it.

It’s not her hands on your body or her breath at your neck, it’s lower than that. Something that’s solid, unexpected pressure on your lower back that’s definitely not something that could be explained away as an item in her pocket with how it presses into the exact center of your back, just above your butt.

You drop the pasta box onto the counter.

“…Dana,” you say slowly, because surely there’s a logical explanation you’re not seeing here.

She hums against your shoulder, far more calm than you feel right now.

You turn your head just enough to see the side of her face. She isn’t looking at you, sharp eyes looking straight ahead, but there’s a smirk on her mouth, which is still pressed into the top of your shoulder. 

Your voice comes out incredulous. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Her hands move, one arm tightening around you, the other traveling to hold your hip. “What?” she asks, sounding deceptively innocent. “Too soon?”

“Too soon?” you echo, twisting in her arms as much as you can to look at her. “Dana, you’re still healing.”

She doesn’t move off you, but you can see her eyes narrow, some of the playfulness leaving her. “It’s been over a week,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

“I’m serious,” you say. “You don’t have to prove anything, I don’t want you to do too much too fast.”

She goes quiet, but whether it’s to consider your words or figure out her own, you’re not sure. Then she takes a deep breath, and you can practically feel the lecture coming.

“I don’t need you to be my mother,” she says. “I need you to be my partner.”

You’re facing the counter again, her arms locked so tight around you that turning toward her fully is impossible. But you don’t need to see her face. The conviction in her voice is enough, and you’re sure if you could see her, the expression on her face would match.

“You’ve been taking care of me for a week, and I grateful. Really,” she continues. “But I’m not broken. And I need my woman.”

You sigh dreamily despite yourself as she lifts her mouth from your shoulder and places a kiss to your neck. Your eyes close and your head tips back enough to give her room.

“Let me take care of you,” she murmurs against your skin. “I want to, I need you.”

The hand at your hip slides forwards, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. The fabric stretches around her wrist as she works her way inside, and you feel the pause when she realizes you’re bare underneath. No underwear. Her fingers drift lower, brushing over your mound, teasing lightly over your clit before swiping down through your slit.

“Already wet for me?” she teases, and you can hear the smile that’s returned to her face. 

You nod with a shaky breath, letting your hair fall over your face. Both hands brace on the counter in front of you, your knuckles whitening instantly.

Her middle and ring finger press inside you, and you stretch easily to accommodate. She doesn’t linger, immediately moving, pumping them deep and steady inside you, curling as she bottoms out and the heel of her palm grinds against your clit.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut as she fucks you with her fingers, made only worse by her ruthless teasing.

“Poor thing, all pent up.”

“You needed this more than I do.”

“Fuckin’ love this pretty pussy.”

The kitchen fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and the obscene slick sound of her fingers moving inside you.

“Fuck, Dana,” you gasp, bending at the waist until your forehead rests on your arms.

She pulls out abruptly, leaving you both empty and aching, her fingers wet and dripping. Before you can protest out loud, though, she shoves your leggings down and fumbles briefly with her own pants, pushing them just low enough to expose what you felt earlier: the harness snug around her hips, navy blue silicone hanging heavy between her thighs. The tip notches at your entrance as she positions herself.

“Dana, pl-” The rest of the word is punched from your lungs as she pushes inside you with one swift thrust. 

Her hands clamp down on your hips as she pauses to let you adjust to the intrusion. Her fingertips dig in harshly, squishing the fat of your hips in her hands. 

This is the Dana you know. Dominance and confidence are rolling off her in waves. This past week, all of your carefulness and her fragility, dissolves under the weight of this Dana.

When you let out a deep breath and she watches the tension drain from your body, she finally begins to move, pulling all the way out slowly before sliding back in, her thrusts slow and controlled. 

Her feet hook on the inside of yours, nudging them gently to encourage you to spread your legs for her. One hand splays on your lower back, holding you down, while the other stays planted on your hip, pulling you back to meet her hips.

“A-ah, shit - fuck, Dana -”

Your cries spark something inside her. She leans over you, her chest against your back and breath hot at your ear as her pace picks up. Her hips snap forward, harder, deeper, the strap driving into places your own fingers never could, hitting your cervix in a way that has your vision going white.

“Can’t believe I haven’t had you in over a week,” Dana grits out, her movements never slowing even as she speaks. “Missed this pussy so - fucking - much!” Each word is punctuated with particularly brutal thrusts that have you moaning loudly.

Your sounds egg her on more, her speed picking up until you can’t even think straight, and just as your last braincell tries to form a coherent thought, you’re cumming hard around the silicone, orgasm so sudden it has you letting out a loud, strangled sound. Your hips twitch wildly, running from her even though there’s nowhere to go, your hips trapped between hers and the counter.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. She just keeps driving into you, riding you through the aftershock until you’re reaching back blindly, grabbing at her hips with shaking hands, tears blurring your vision and your legs threatening to give out entirely until you’re nothing more than a puddle on the kitchen floor. 

The rest of the week is no better.

Dana fucks you on every surface in the entire apartment: in the bedroom, in the shower, bent over the front-loading dryer in the laundry room, splayed out on the island in the kitchen, even in front of the window that faces the street when she’s feeling particularly voyeuristic. 

Her energy has picked back up and her disposition channels entirely into ruining you every chance she gets. 

She has you riding her in reverse cowgirl so she can stare at your ass while she smokes a cigarette in bed (which you chastise her for later, even though you weren’t complaining in the moment, she reminds you). She’s rubbing her own cunt against yours, or over your mouth, or your thigh, or even once over your ass while you’re face-down on the bed. She has you stretching your legs over her shoulders while she shoves you into a mating press, the captain, the hot seat; any position she can fold you into, she’s doing it. 

By the end of week 2, you’re exhausted.

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Week 3

Dana is restless. 

Not in the way that she can’t sleep, or that she’s irritable. But it’s like she doesn’t know how to be still anymore. The apartment is too small for her, she’s pacing the boundaries of an invisible cage like a tiger. If you’re standing up, she’s standing up. If you grab your keys, she’s reaching for her shoes. A quick run to the store turns into you wandering the aisles together because she doesn’t want to go home and just be there.

She burns through energy the way she used to burn through double shifts. The restlessness spillins into everything: reorganizing cabinets and half-finished projects, long showers that end with your cheek pressed against the tile, hands that can’t stop touching you once they start until you’re both sweaty and panting. Mornings blur into afternoons, afternoons into nights, marked by the pull of her mouth and the heat of her skin instead of the time on the clock.

And when she isn’t touching you, she’s watching you.

You catch her constantly. She leans in the doorway while you cook, propped on one elbow while you answer work emails or sit in virtually in meetings, her expression unreadable and filled with something you can’t figure out how to name because you’ve never seen it on her face before. 

Something big is weighing in her mind, you can feel it. It’s partially in the way she watches you, and it’s made up of the restlessness that’s written into everything she does. She doesn’t talk about the hospital, but and you don’t ask. Partially because you already know, and because you don’t want to hear it out loud.

If this is the calm before the storm, at least you’re in it together.

It all comes to a head on the night you two host a dinner party. The idea was hers, and that should’ve been your first clue. She’s testing the waters.

It’s just dinner, for three people she’s known way longer than she’s known you. Three people who have seen her at her best, her worst, her bloodiest, her most exhausted. Three people who belong to the world she’s been avoiding talking about for weeks.

In the late afternoon, your apartment smells incredible: like garlic and onion and rosemary, with meat that’s been slow-simmered and smells rich. You’re dressed up like you’re ready for a job interview, in slacks that show off your ass and a shirt that shows off your figure a little too well for someone who’s just hosting a dinner for your partner’s friends.

The doorbell rings not long after and they arrive together.

You can hear them out in the hallway, voices overlapping and occasionally a burst of laughter. Dana opens the door and everything happens at once.

Robby barrels in first with his arms open, pulling Dana into a hug that’s so tight her feelings almost leave the floor. Jack crowds in right behind him with a hand landing on her shoulder, squeezing it with a reassuring smile. Lena slips through last, jugging a bottle of wine and her purse, her expression soft once she gets a good look at Dana.

“Look at you,” Robby says into Dana’s hair, sounding relieved. “You look good.”

“Better than when we last saw you,” Jack adds dryly.

Dana laughs, still half-buried into Robby’s shoulder. “Yeah, well. It’s not a hard bar to clear.”

Lena sets the wine down and steps in, cupping Dana’s face with both her hands and turning it gently side-to-side like she’s looking for any remaining damage. Once she seems satisfied that all of the bruising and swelling is gone, she pulls Dana into a hug of her own. “Missed you, boss.”

A complicated emotion flickers across Dana’s face at that, but it’s gone before you can quite figure out what it’s called.

And then they notice you.

“Hey!” Lena says immediately, arms opening just as wide. “C’mere.”

You barely have time to register what she’s saying before you’re pulled into a hug that smells like perfume and red wine. Robby joins in from one side, Jack from the other, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a three-person squeeze-fest that’s warm and a little overwhelming.

“Thank you,” Robby says quietly near your ear, obviously suggesting it’s for more than just dinner. “Seriously.”

Jack pats your back, firmly and twice. “You kept her alive for us.”

“Ignore him,” Lena laughs. “We loved you already.”

When they release you, you’re a little flushed and touched despite yourself.

Dana is watching the whole thing with crossed arms, looking both proud and tender.

The tension that’s been living under Dana’s skin all week seems to loosen as shoes are kicked off and coats are handed over and hung up. Someone grabs the red wine and heads for your kitchen. Voices bounce off the walls and the air feels warmer, your tiny apartment that’s normally just for you two feeling more alive than ever.

Your dinner table is crowded in the best way: serving dishes are passed hand-to-hand, wine refilled repeatedly without asking, elbows bumping as everyone settles in. Dana insists on carving the roast herself, waving off your offer to help. And then she settles at the head of the table out of pure habit, you immediately to her right instead of at the opposite end where you usually land.

“This is incredible,” Lena says around a mouthful of potatoes, pointing her fork at you. “If you ever leave her, I’m available.”

“Get in line,” Robby replies immediately. “I called dibs the minute I tasted the gravy.”

Jack laughs. “You two would starve in a week, neither of you can boil water without paging nutrition.”

“I think the implication is that I would cook,” you laugh.

“Excuse you,” Lena argues. “I can make toast.”

“Burning bread isn’t the same as toasting.”

Dana laughs and shakes her head as she reaches for her wine glass. “This is why nobody invites you anywhere, Jack.”

“You invited me.”

“Against my better judgment.” 

You catch the curl at the corner of her mouth as she says it - its fond, not biting.

Robby leans back in his chair, patting his stomach. “God, this beats the cafeteria mystery meat. Last Tuesday they served something that looked like a hockey puck.”

“That was meatloaf,” Jack says.

“It was a crime is what it was.”

“You all have it easy.” Lena turns to Dana. “Night shift gets the real horrors. By midnight, it’s just whatever’s left in the vending machines and the stale cookies nobody wanted during the day.”

“At least night shift doesn’t have administration breathing down your necks,” Robby counters. “Pick your poison.”

“At least admin goes home eventually,” Lena says. “I had a psych hold try to bite me last week.”

Dana’s fork pauses just before her mouth. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Lena waves it off. “They missed. Mostly just ruined a perfectly good set of scrubs.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jack says. “Better than the projectile vomited across three beds.”

“Do not continue this story while I’m eating,” Robby warns.

“I’m just saying, it was an impressive distance -”

“Jack.”

“Fine, fine.” He lifts his hands in surrender, then looks to Dana. “See what you’re missing? Top-tier entertainment.”

That same look from earlier shows itself on Dana’s face again before she schools her expression into a smile again, taking a sip of wine. You feel her foot slide against yours under the table.

Lena leans forward with her elbows on the table. “We did have a med student hurl during a trauma, though. Nearly took out a whole instrument tray.”

Jack groans. “I told them not to bring him in, kid looked like he was gonna pass out during rounds.”

“Natural selection,” Robby says.

“You’re awful,” Lena tells him, but she’s laughing.

Dana shakes her head. “First rule of trauma: don’t lock your knees.”

“Second rule is not to puke in your mask,” Robby adds.

“Third rule,” Jack throws in, “if you do puke, at least aim away from the patient.”

“Jesus,” you mutter to yourself.

All four of them turn to you at once, grinning. 

“Welcome to emergency medicine,” Lena says cheerfully, as if any of this is completely acceptable and polite dinner conversation.

Dana’s hand lands on your knee for a moment under the table, a silent apology paired with a small smile. 

Robby raises his glass. “To Dana not being there to witness any of this.”

There’s a moment that follows the toast where it’s not exactly awkward, but it’s heavier than the conversation has been so far.

But then Dana lifts her own glass a second later. “It’s a tragic loss for the hospital.”

“May we all be so lucky,” Lena adds.

Jack nudges Dana’s shoulder with his. “Seriously, though, it’s not the same.”

Her expression is soft as she sips her wine. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Well.”

You reach for the hand that’s on your knee, squeezing it gently. 

Jack clears his throat, apparently deciding to rescue the mood. “So, has she been completely insufferable these last few weeks?”

You open your mouth but then glance at Dana, who’s watching you with narrowed eyes. “…she’s been very helpful,” you settle on.

The table erupts with laughter.

“Oh my god,” Lena wheezes. “Blink twice if you need rescue.”

Jack leans forward. “I can get you out of here in like thirty seconds, tops.”

Dana kicks him lightly under the table. “Touch my partner and you die.”

The rest of dinner is easy and light. Plates are abandoned in favor of second glasses of wine, stories are told with embellishment that makes the hospital sound like some sort of thriller movie, told with shorthand communication that comes from years of comradery. But eventually the night winds down with the slow accumulation of cues: empty glasses, phones checked for the time, the slow gathering of belongings. 

Lena tries to stack plates, but stops when you insist she leave them, that you’ll take care of it.

Coats reappear and shoes are hunted down from the entryway.

“We’re doing this again,” Robby says as he pulls Dana into another hug. “Soon.”

“Yeah,” Lena adds. “Don’t disappear on us.”

“You know where we are,” comes from Jack.

Dana nods. “I know.”

Then they turn to you one-by-one, wrapping you in the same affection, promises tossed over shoulders as they disappear out your front door.

You don’t bother with the kitchen tonight, it can wait until the morning.

Instead, Dana disappears down the hall and when you join her in the bathroom, she’s already leaning over the sink, brushing her teeth with a distant expression in her eyes. You fall into the routine beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder with mint foam on your lips.

For a bit, the only sound is the rasp of toothbrushes. Then Dana spits, rinses, and sets her toothbrush down. She doesn’t look at you, instead she stares at herself in the mirror. 

“I think…” she starts, but then stops as she considers her words. “I think I want to go back.”

You close your eyes for a moment, mint still sharp on your tongue. 

You’ve felt it building all week. It lived in the pacing, the sleepless energy, the way she devoured the hospital stories tonight like she’s starving. She isn’t made to exist outside of that hospital for long. It’s carved into her bones, wired into who she is as a person. The woman you fell in love with is the woman that hospital made, you can’t hate it.

You rinse your mouth to buy yourself a second of time, then meet her gaze in the mirror. 

“…yeah,” you say finally. “I figured.”

Dana’s eyes search yours in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“I knew it was coming.” You nod. “I know you.”

You turn to face her instead of continuing through the mirror. “I’m not mad,” you add, because you can see the question on her face. “I’m just worried. What happened wasn’t a fluke, Dana. You got hurt, badly.”

“I know.” The way she says it isn’t dismissive or defensive. “I’m not going to go back the same,” she continues. “I want a real conversation with admin. Security, staffing, protocols, all of it. Not their usual ‘we’ll look into it’ bullshit.”

You search her face, looking for the familiar stubborn denial, or for the determination that sometimes scares you. Instead, you find her thoughtful, almost resolute. Like she’ll really push for big changes.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I can live with that.”

She looks relieved at that, and she reaches out, cupping your cheek, her thumb resting just under your ear. “I’ll be careful,” she murmurs.

You lean into her hand, closing your eyes for a second.

“C’mere,” she says quietly, pulling you to her. She wraps her arms around you, your cheek settling against her shoulder. She holds you tight, chin against your temple, and she presses a kiss into your hair. 

You finish getting ready for bed quickly after that. Not because it’s awkward, but because the exhaustion of the day has wrung everything out of you and you’re tired. Lights get turned off, your doors and windows are checked.

You settle into bed and she follows, an arm wrapping around your middle, her face tucking into the curve of your neck like you haven’t been holding her the same way for weeks now. Little spoon, right where you belong.

You fall asleep before she does.

Dana stays awake with her eyes open in the dark, listening to the rhythm of your breathing. 

Three weeks. It was three weeks of you doing your best to build a world inside your tiny shared apartment that she could survive in.

You took time off work without hesitation. You filled the fridge, managed the bills, you kept your home running like she wasn’t breaking down in the middle of it. You never made her feel like a burden, even when you were doing everything for her. You kept her going. Meals, medication, ice packs, clean laundry, your quiet company every second of every day keeping her sane when she couldn’t tolerate anything else. 

But even now, even when she wanted to go back to the place that scared you so badly, you weren’t trying to stop her from being who she is.

Her nose brushes the back of your neck as she sighs into your skin.

You’ve been her calm in the storm, not the cage. You deserve more than the half-life you’re living around her hospital chaos.

The word girlfriend was never an option for her. She hates it, it feels juvenile, temporary, meant for people who don’t know what they want. Partner had sufficed all this time, but now it doesn’t feel like enough.

Wife.

She presses her face deeper into your shoulder, finally closing her eyes as certainty settles over her.

Wife sounds better.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Natasha’s hands move to grip your waist, gently keeping you in place so she can pass you in the kitchen without bumping into you as she makes her way toward the coffee maker.

You don’t startle or stiffen. You know who the hands belong to. You’re familiar with their hold, with the feeling of their fingertips on you.

“Just me,” she murmurs anyway, voice soft in the early morning, giving you an affectionate squeeze before she lets go.

You turn, offering her a smile in greeting, one of your own hands raising to lightly brush along her back as she walks by.

This is the norm: Natasha’s touch on you, your touch on her. Her knee always manages to bump yours underneath the table during meals, your hand for some reason always reaches up to push a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear.

You’ve been best friends for years, the comfort you two feel with each other something that doesn’t come to many. It’s always felt different with Natasha than with anyone else. Easy, natural, innate.

Natasha is a constant, steadfast and dependable, loyal to a fault. No matter what happens, you know you’ll always have her.

“Are they…?” Steve asks one day, watching how Natasha’s arm is draped over your shoulders as you both sit much too close to one another for it to be platonic on the sofa, some forgotten show, you both prioritizing chatting, playing on the screen.

“Nope,” Wanda replies, the witch only ever getting more and more exasperated at the affectionate behavior that neither of you capitalize on with each day that passes.

“But-”

“I know,” she cuts him off.

That’s the end of it.

The party is well underway, and Natasha is pressed up against you constantly. She keeps telling herself that it’s just due to the crowd.

But regardless of her reason, you’re relishing in it, soaking up her hand against the small of your back leading you as you make your way through the ballroom, basking in the feeling of her shoulder grazing your own whenever you two stand side by side. Natasha’s eyes are on you tonight, her focus never straying, never distracted, never diverting, and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that she likes you as more than a friend too.

“May I have this dance?” Natasha asks a few hours into the party, smirk on her face, her hand extended toward you as an offer.

With the playful tone, you know that you can’t take the question seriously, can’t presume that she means it in any other way than just two friends dancing, but as usual, hope makes a home of your chest anyway.

You bite your lip shyly and nod, accepting her hand, fingers interlocking as Natasha gently tugs you toward the dance floor.

The song is slow, and when the hand not tangled with yours comes to settle on your waist, its warmth bleeding through the material of your dress, you curse the universe yet another time for making you have a crush on your best friend.

You’ve been cursing the universe a lot lately. Every time you notice your gaze lingering a second too long as Natasha peacefully reads in the armchair by the window, every time you find your voice softening when you shift from talking to someone else to talking to her, every time you realize that the reason you touched her was simply an aimless excuse.

Despite it all, despite you knowing you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t long for more, you shouldn’t pretend, you shouldn’t fantasize that this is real—you tuck your head into the crook of Natasha’s neck, resting your cheek against her collarbone as you sway to the music. Natasha suppresses a shiver at your warm breaths puffing along her skin.

You spend the rest of the night glued to her, one dance leading to another and then another. And still, once you finish dancing, your closeness isn’t severed. You both walk over to the couches, Natasha pulling you onto her lap, her arms wrapping around you as she holds you in a way that no one without further intent ever should.

You lean back into her without thinking about it, the movement second nature as touching Natasha has come to be, and you spend the rest of the party there. You’re curled into her body, snuggled into her chest, legs stretched out over her lap. At a certain point, you somehow manage to push yourself even closer, shifting until your head once again finds a way to be nuzzled under her chin.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” you tell the redhead after another couple of hours, words mumbled against her before pulling your head away to look up at her face. You don’t want to end the night, to remove yourself from her arms, but you’re growing tired, yawning constantly, and you have an early start to tomorrow. The party is slowly coming to an end anyway, the sea of people diminishing as many attendees are also electing to go home.

“Want me to walk you to your room?” Natasha asks, slackening her hold just a fraction, “Just so you don’t get lost.”

“I think I can manage to find my way to my bedroom,” you tease.

“For protection purposes then,” she playfully changes course… anything to prolong her time with you.

You roll your eyes at her new reason, but it’s a cover for the way warmth blooms within you at her seemingly wanting to you to stay. “I’ve got it,” you reassure, and for a moment—brief but unignorable—you consider pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek in goodbye, you imagine what her skin would be like under your lips. The gesture feels right right now, the action feels like it’d be natural, but you force yourself to hold back, not wanting to cross any lines even though they’ve perhaps already been crossed too many times before.

“Alright,” Natasha replies, giving you the adoring smile that causes your traitorous heart to flip flop with the belief that maybe she feels the same, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early for training,” you answer her, nodding.

Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. Damn her hands for always wanting to touch you. “Rest well,” Natasha murmurs.

You give her one last sweet smile of your own before walking away, dress trailing behind you with each step, Natasha watching your form as you go. She forcefully pushes down the longing for something more that always seems to come about with every look at you, refusing to acknowledge it as usual.

Only moments after you head down the hallway, rounding the corner toward the elevator, Wanda is at Natasha’s side.

She doesn’t ease into the topic. “You have to know how she feels about you.”

“What are you talking about?” Natash feigns ignorance, not glancing over at the witch, gaze still locked onto where you just disappeared.

“Natasha,” Wanda admonishes, well aware that she doesn’t need to elaborate.

Natasha closes her eyes as she sighs, mentally preparing for the conversation she’s always avoided, even with herself. “We’re friends, Wanda. Just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other the way she looks at you,” Wanda pauses for a moment before adding tentatively, “Or the way you look at her.”

Natasha stiffens at the implication.

“We’re friends,” she repeats more firmly, shutting down any potential of more from this exchange.

Wanda purses her lips, growing tired of Natasha’s stubbornness and of you doubting your significance to her. “If you aren’t going to let yourself have this, then you need to stop and let her move on.”

When Natasha doesn’t answer that, Wanda sighs as well and turns on her heel to return to what’s left of the party. There’s not much more to say to the obstinate redhead.

You’ve already made it back to your room, your dress half unzipped, when you realize that you forgot your phone at the party, having given it to Steve for safekeeping when you danced with Natasha.

You let out a tired exhale and rezip your dress, smoothing out the material before striding to your door. Your stare drifts to your heels that you hastily discarded upon your return, your feet aching at just the sight of them, and you elect to throw on a comfier pair of sneakers. The elevator ride to the ballroom is short, your fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on your thigh as the number goes down. You get to see Natasha again.

But what you see, you never expected.

Your stomach drops, your entire being faltering when you enter the ballroom and witness Natasha speaking to another woman. They’re close—too close—and Natasha has that look in her eye. You know that look; you’re well-acquainted with it. But it’s always been pointed at you every time you’ve seen it previously. It’s what made you feel like there was something between you two, and even though you’ve told yourself not to, you’ve always taken it as hopeful evidence that she returns your affections.

The woman’s hand comes up to brush against Natasha’s arm, the action blatantly suggestive, and Natasha doesn’t stop her. If anything, the redhead’s smile widens.

You turn around and quickly flee the ballroom, phone forgotten.

Natasha’s smile does widen at the woman’s advances, flattered, but what you fail to see after taking off is Natasha gently removing her hand from her bicep, Natasha politely turning her down, Natasha unable to bring herself to view anyone the way she views you.

You don’t make it to training the next morning, and you can’t find it in yourself to give Natasha a heads up. You can’t look at the text chain, can’t bear to see her name on your phone followed by the heart emoji that Natasha insisted you add. You can’t stomach the contact photo of her smiling.

Everything feels different now, your friendship—because that’s what this has always been despite you hoping that it was more, right?—feels tainted by the fact that you saw her with another woman. Everything’s changed. Has she always been talking to others, and you just never knew? Were you never special? Never significant? Never notable in her eyes?

What hurts the most is that, in spite of it all, you can’t villainize her. It’s not her fault you fell, it’s not her fault she doesn’t reciprocate, and it’s not her fault she was flirting with someone else. She doesn’t owe you anything. It only makes sense that others would want her like you do. There’s simply no way someone could see the redhead and not be in awe of her. The marvel that is Natasha Romanoff is unmissable.

But they don’t want her like you do, not really. Because they don’t know her like you do. You want her… every bit of her that you’ve already been given and more.

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s been months of pushing it off, but you’re finally telling yourself that you need to move on. It’s finally time. Your affections toward her are no longer able to be sheltered; your body is no longer a safe place for them now that your mind swirls with the newfound knowledge that Natasha doesn’t feel the same. Having confirmation that your feelings are unrequited—no longer in limbo like before when you were able to foolishly play make-believe that you two might’ve had a future—you can no longer remain just friends. You know you aren’t strong enough to handle the indirect rejections and constant heartbreak.

Natasha waits for you in the gym, warming up for longer than necessary, stalling until your arrival. But you never show, and her confusion and worry only grow with each passing minute. You’ve never stood her up before.

Eventually she abandons the pretense of working out, grabbing her towel and water bottle and leaving the gym, ending the session early when, after over an hour, there’s still no sign of you. With a puzzled expression on her face, she heads to your room.

She knocks. You know it’s her. You don’t respond.

She calls your name through the door. You pretend you don’t hear.

“You didn’t show up for training,” Natasha says, tone hesitant in a way it’s never been with you, “I just wanted to check up on you…” She trails off. “I don’t know if maybe you’ve just slept in, or…” There’s another pause. “Just, if you can hear me, come find me later?”

It’s phrased as a question. Your lack of response, your lack of acknowledgement, is throwing her for a loop. You’ve never ignored her before. Maybe you really are just still asleep, but she can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

And the feeling only furthers as time goes on.

You don’t find her later that day, or the next day, or the next.

You’re avoiding her. Not obviously, not enough to be called out on it yet, but breakfasts are cut short, and you take a seat on the opposite side of the table. You no longer attend movie nights, always giving the excuse that you’re too tired to make it through a film. During training with the team, you two used to immediately make eye contact and silently communicate that you’d be sparring partners—as if anyone was going to try and come between the two of you anyway—but now you’ve been voluntarily pairing yourself up with Wanda. And worst of all, you won’t let her touch you anymore.

There are no more late-night talks, no more sleepovers, no more lunches at the nearby cafe together, and Natasha feels as though a part of her is lost. She’s never been unsure of where she stood with you; you’ve never rebuffed her like this. The void you’ve left with her is not one she could’ve prepared for, not one she ever thought she’d have to fill.

Natasha doesn’t know how it could get any worse, but it does.

She arrives back from a mission, her body aching, everything in her begging for her to lay down. All she wants to do is to curl up on your bed, to have you run your hands through her hair just like you used to, her head in your lap. But for some still unknown reason, she’s lost her right to do that now.

As she trudges through the halls, practically dragging her feet in exhaustion, she passes by the common room on her way to her quarters and freezes at what she hears.

You’re laughing—giggling—at something some man sitting next to you said, and you’re leaning against him.

It’s the first time Natasha’s seen you in days, and you’re cuddled up next to some man? She can’t hold her tongue. “Who’s this?” she asks bluntly, announcing her presence.

You glance over the back of the sofa, eyes widening in surprise as you notice the redhead standing in the entryway. “Natasha,” you exhale her name, your voice softening involuntarily. You mentally berate yourself for that even though you know it was an inevitability.

You almost feel sheepish, almost feel guilty, like you’re doing something you aren’t supposed to, like you’re betraying her, but then the memory of the night of the party flits through your head, and your resolve strengthens along with the despair that has been a constant ever since seeing her with another. “I didn’t know you had gotten back already.”

She wants to say that that’s because you no longer wait for her in the landing bay like you used to, that you’re no longer there to greet her when she returns, your hands tracing over her body carefully, thoroughly checking her for injuries, worry radiating off of you until you’re certain that she’s come home unharmed, before you pull her into you for a hug.

But she doesn’t.

Her gaze flicks toward the man, a silent question.

“Oh,” you start awkwardly before introducing him. He’s still too close to you; his arm is still around you. If anything, he tightens his grip as if he can sense the unspoken feelings and tension in the air.

“He’s my-” You can’t finish. The word ‘partner’ feels wrong in your mouth. It feels like it’s getting stuck in your teeth. It doesn’t taste sweet the way thought it would, the way you know it would if you were talking about Natasha instead of him. You try to push that thought away.

“I’m her partner.” the man supplies next to you, finishing your sentence. If he picks up on your hesitation, your reluctance, he doesn’t voice it, and you nod in uncomfortable confirmation.

“My partner,” you agree quietly, and Natasha’s feels something in her break.

Natasha doesn’t like him. She doesn’t know him, but she doesn’t like him.

She doesn’t like the way he compliments you and the way you smile bashfully back. She doesn’t like the kisses he peppers across your face and how you ask for more. And fuck, she doesn’t like that he is always at the Compound, always near you, always touching you, always in the room.

She can never get a second alone with you anymore… not that you’d let her get close these days anyway.

Still, she tries. Her hand still reaches out for you habitually when you walk by, intending on skimming across your shoulder; her body still craves yours. She just wants to know where she went wrong.

She misses you.

She doesn’t realize that you miss her too—more than anything—that everything with the man is an act, an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to keep yourself away from the redhead who you’ve convinced yourself doesn’t love you the way you love her. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not a crush. It’s love.

Natasha brightens one afternoon when she sees you walking alone. For once, he’s not here.

“Hey, wait up a sec!” she calls out from down the hall, long steps quickly letting her catch up to you, her expression a hopeful smile that won out even over her nerves. This is it. This is when she finally gets to talk to you, to tell you how much she misses you, to tell you how she thinks brunch is way overdue and that you need to catch up, to tell you how watching you with him has been killing her.

Her hand raises to touch your arm as it would on any other day like before, but, to her dismay, you sidestep the gesture… because this isn’t any other day like before. Things have shifted between the two of you as much as she wishes they didn’t. She wonders if, by now, the distance is irreversible. She wonders if, at this point, telling you how she feels would even make a difference.

You give her a returning smile, but it comes off more like a grimace. She falters. You don’t want to see her. “Hey, I really have to go,” you answer her weakly, “I have a date. He’s- he’s probably already waiting for me.”

And then you’re rushing off without letting her respond, not looking back behind you.

Natasha just stands there, her hand still raised midair, and Wanda sees the whole thing.

Despite being happy for you, despite knowing that you deserve to move on, Wanda can’t help but feel sympathetic toward the woman who is standing there in front of her looking beyond heartbroken at your retreating figure.

“Natasha,” she says gently, walking over, her hand coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulder, “You chose to turn a blind eye. It’s only fair that she moves on. You have to let her.”

Days pass; weeks pass. Your relationship with Natasha continues to dwindle. She becomes an observer of your life, an outsider, no longer welcome to the day to day. You don’t come to her with your highs and lows. She has to assume that means you’re going to him.

It’s agony, being without you, not having you as a pivotal piece of her life anymore. She thinks about you with him at night when you’d usually be with her in her room, the two of you watching your favorite show before you eventually fall asleep with your head resting on her shoulder. She checks her phone periodically to see if you’ve maybe texted her, the two of you usually constantly sending messages back and forth, jokes or banter or updates throughout the day. She waits and waits for any sign that you may be coming back to her, may remember that she’s still there, still present, still cares for you, but she never receives one, and the loneliness is ever growing, ever pervading.

Until there’s a knock on her door one night.

Natasha, annoyed with whoever is knocking at this late hour, interrupting her wallowing, yanks open her door, ready to reprimand whoever is on the other side, but her demeanor changes when she sees it’s you, her face shifting from irritation to concern.

You’re crying. Tears are trailing down your cheeks.

She says your name, soft in the way that’s still only reserved for you even if you no longer know it.

Your bottom lip wobbles at the familiar sound of her voice, and it takes you a second to find your own, but when you do… “He broke up with me,” you whisper, and you suck in an uneven breath when you voice it out loud.

Natasha’s world screeches to a halt at your statement. You just said that he broke up with you?

“What?” she asks, needing you to say it again… because it can’t be true. It can’t.

You just nod sadly, another tear dropping. They’re not even because the breakup happened. Sure, it was out of nowhere, jarring, but for some reason, you’re not particularly torn up about it, and that’s the worst part. Your feelings regarding it—or lack thereof—only further cement the fact that you’re not actually over the redhead standing in front of you. You’ve been desperately trying to move on, but this only proves that you haven’t even come close to succeeding despite your best efforts.

“Are you okay?” Natasha questions gently, prompting, trying to tell you that you can talk to her if you need to… or that you can simply take comfort in her presence like you used to. She hopes that you still do even though it’s been a while.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, words interrupted by shaky breaths, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine. I think that’s the hard part.”

Natasha frowns at that. “What do you mean?”

“I guess- I guess I just never really liked him anyway.”

“What?” Hope flares within her even though maybe it shouldn’t.

You can’t answer.

Natasha says your name another time, imploring, almost begging, longing for one answer in particular.

“Natasha, I-” you break off, “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend. Hide. Dance around it.”

The hope flares brighter.

“I like you. I love you. I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore it, to move on, to-” You shake your head, frustrated at your words, at the situation, at yourself. “Look, I just- I just need you to tell me that you don’t feel the same. Maybe then I can-”

Natasha’s hand makes its way to your face, palm warm against your cheek, the action halting you in the middle of your sentence.

You look up at her questioningly, nervously.

“Can I kiss you?” she breathes out.

Your mind goes blank. You’re positive you didn’t hear her right. You don’t respond.

“Can I kiss you?” Natasha repeats again, and she can’t help the desperation that’s seeping into her tone.

Then you nod, slowly, dumbly, as if you can’t believe that what’s about to happen is about to happen.

And Natasha’s lips are on yours.

It isn’t short; it isn’t a gentle brush of the lips. It’s charged, all of the longing and desire and pain that’s been coursing through her these past weeks, all of the longing and desire and need that’s been festering these past years, coming out in the kiss.

When you break apart for air, both of your eyes still closed, Natasha leans her forehead against yours for a few seconds. She tilts her head to affectionately nudge your nose with hers before pressing one more kiss, much softer this time, to the corner of your mouth.

“You look like you need to catch your breath,” Natasha says when she finally opens her eyes to gaze at you again.

“I think I do,” you say, because you’re definitely breathless after that.

“Me too,” Natasha murmurs, but she doesn’t give either of you another moment to do so, her hands grabbing at your shirt, your body, and pulling you into her room, the door slamming closed behind you when you’re pushed up against it.

Your back hits the wood, and her lips reattach to yours. You shudder not only at the feeling of her tongue tracing your bottom lip but also her touch back on you after being so long without it.

Natasha’s hands are teasingly trailing up and down your side before moving under your shirt. Her fingers skim along your bare skin, and you can’t help but moan, the redhead taking advantage of your parted lips, her tongue now meeting yours.

But then you’re abruptly pulling back for some reason. “Wait, wait, Natasha, that woman-”

She pauses in her ministrations, her brain taking a moment to catch up to your words, her mind hazy from getting lost in you. “What woman?” she asks hoarsely.

“That woman from the party-” you try again.

It clicks in her head. She doesn’t know how, but you saw. “That woman from the party meant nothing,” she reassures you quickly, willing to give you more, to give you as much as you need, but hoping that that’s enough, because, fuck, she wants her lips back on yours as soon as possible.

You search her face, trying to gauge her sincerity, and you only find her gaze steady and unwavering, filled with earnestness and dedication. Your mouth reconnects with hers, tongue immediately requesting entrance again as you resume the kiss where it was at.

You’re too preoccupied with kissing her that you don’t realize her hand is traveling down to your thigh until she’s tugging it up and hooking it around her waist. Natasha swears her own core is overheating when you become flush against her in this way. She can feel you pulsing with need against her leg.

“Is this okay?” she asks, needing your permission despite your seemingly blatant desire, needing you to confirm that you’re just as desperate for her as she is for you.

“Yes, yes. Natasha, please.” It comes out a whimper, a beg.

Natasha then hurriedly shoves up your shirt at your consent, impatiently dragging down your bra, your breasts spilling out of it, and she whines when she gets her first look at you. Your nipples are achingly hard from both the chill in the air and her kisses, and her body thrums with something hot and sharp and dangerous as she takes you in. Your hair is a mess, your body is trembling, your clothes are rumpled from her rough handling. You’re beautiful.

She wastes no more time, unzipping your jeans and shoving her hand into them. She needs to touch you. Now.

And you’re absolutely soaked.

Your hips jerk like you can’t control them, and you can’t, your body moving completely on its own, following instinct, needing any and all stimulation that Natasha is currently willing to provide, and she doesn’t hesitate to press the tip of her middle finger to your clit, beginning to leisurely circle it. Your eyes slip shut.

“Tell me,” Natasha demands, voice low, “Did you think of me when he touched you?”

“He-” you stop, gasping, both pleasure and embarrassment stealing your words, “He never-”

“He never, what?” Natasha asks, her finger slowing further.

“He never touched me,” you finally choke out, voice breathy from a mix of need and shame. You’re grateful that your eyes are closed because you don’t want to see the look of pity on her face.

Natasha only just manages to catch and prevent herself from reacting when you admit that he never touched you, never brought you pleasure, never fulfilled you the way deserve. It’s not pity. It’s surprise; it’s anger.

“Well, then he’s a fool,” she answers quietly, “Leaving you untouched like that, letting his hands go to waste when they could’ve been on you, letting his fingers go to waste when they could’ve been in you.”

You shudder at the tone of her voice, and your hips buck off the door another time, your body restless, aching. You can feel yourself dripping, stickiness coating your thighs, and you know the woman is front and center to every response and reaction she receives from your body. You know she can feel just how much you want her. “Please, Natasha. Please touch me.”

“I’m going to make you feel so good, detka,” Natasha promises. It’s a vow. She’s determined to make up for every moment that the man neglected you, to replace them with love, with adoration, with her. Her touch was always made for you, after all.

Her finger abandons your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you whine, but your whine quickly transitions into a loud cry of her name when she suddenly shoves two fingers into your hole, your pussy immediately clenching around her digits.

Natasha’s breath stutters as she hears you. She wants to memorize every sound that escapes; she wants to press her mouth to your throat and feel them directly from the source. But she can’t. She needs to watch you, needs to see the way your brows scrunch up in focus, needs to witness the expression on your face when your entire body vibrates with desperation.

“Your body is mine. Your sounds are all for me,” she growls, but it’s not just possessive, and that’s what gets you. It’s worshipful in a way you’ve never experienced from anyone before. You’ve always wished for Natasha to be the one to show you what devotion truly is, and now that it’s happening, it feels like a dream.

Because her touch isn’t just dominating. It’s reverential. And you feel another gush of wetness leak from your pussy in response to the delicate way she’s holding you juxtaposed with the insistent way she’s fucking you.

You nod in agreement, irregular inhales and exhales leaving you nonstop, unable to do anything but plead for more, because… she’s right. You’re hers; you’ve always been hers.

“Say it,” she commands softly.

Her fingers speed up as well as if to prove her point, pistoning in and out of you, her pace quick and relentless as she waits for you to respond.

She fucks the words right out of you.

“I’m yours,” you moan, voicing the sentiment you’ve always felt but kept inside, “I’m yours. I’m yours, Natasha. I’m yours.”

Your vision is blurring with pleasure, your body is shaking, your pussy throbbing, and when you come, your back against Natasha’s door, your pants hastily pulled down, her fingers still plunging into you, caressing your walls with each stroke, her free hand everywhere, she doesn’t stop.

She makes you come again and again, until your body simply cannot handle another climax, until you fall limp against her chest, too tired to keep your eyes open, your knees giving out and you being held up only by her arms.

You wake the next morning in Natasha’s bed, curled into her sheets comfortably just like you’ve been hundreds of times before. Her mattress feels familiar, her pillow under your head feels familiar, but her arm around your waist feels different this time around, protective and securing. She’s holding you as if you’re still hers even in the light of day.

You roll over until you’re facing Natasha, your eyes fixated on her face, calm, relaxed from sleep.

You’re silent as you study her.

And her eyes flutter open slowly to find you staring. You don’t say anything, just gazing up at the woman who has stolen your breath away, but Natasha doesn’t take it as a good sign.

Her hold on you loosens. She begins to pull her arm away. “Are you regretting it now that morning has arrived?” she asks quietly, regarding you closely, watching your face as if it will give her an answer.

One afternoon, Barbara caught her staring at you across the classroom.

"Melissa."

"I'm observing."

"For a month?"

"She's good with the kids."

Barbara closed her book. "You like her."

"I don't do that anymore."

"That is fear talking."

"It's experience talkin'."

Barbara placed a gentle hand over hers. "You are allowed to want something good."

Before Melissa could respond, you jogged over.

"Sorry to interrupt. Tommy thinks Mr. Johnson is hiding a haunted doll in the boiler room. Half the class wants to hold a seance."

Melissa groaned. "I'm gonna kill him."

"I wanna see if it's a haunted doll or a taxidermy pigeon," you said brightly.

Barbara gave Melissa a look that said everything. Melissa refused to acknowledge it.

By Halloween, things escalated. Melissa arrived dressed as Scarlet Witch, ready to intimidate children into behaving. When you walked in wearing a perfectly matching costume, the whole staff froze.

Jacob let out a low whistle. "Well. They're in love."

Melissa threw a mini pumpkin at his head.

You grinned. "Great minds."

The kids went wild. Janine teared up. Ava livestreamed it with no explanation.

Later, after the sugar storm passed, you stayed behind to help clean up. No fuss. No need for a thank you. Just quiet teamwork.

"You don't have to," Melissa said.

"I know. I want to. That's what a team does."

"Say 'teamwork does dream work' and I'm lockin' you in the closet."

"Fair. But you're still stuck with me."

Melissa froze, then glanced up. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Always."

"Why Abbott? You coulda gone somewhere easier."

You shrugged. "I saw you yell at that district rep about the textbooks, and I thought, 'That's where I need to be. Learning from the one person who isn't scared."

Melissa felt her heart thud. "That's real nice."

"I mean it." You stepped closer. "You're tough, sure, but you're also one of the kindest people I've ever met. You make people feel safe. And I like you. A lot. If that's weird, I can climb out the window."

Melissa stared. She could reject this. Keep the wall up. Play it safe.

But you were right there. Brave. Honest. Looking at her like she was worth something.

"I might feel somethin' too."

"Might?"

"Definitely," she said softly.

You lit up. "So what now?"

Melissa stepped in and kissed you.

It was careful and slow, just enough to make the paper bats on the wall seem alive.

When you pulled back, you whispered, "Best Halloween ever."

"Don't get cocky," Melissa said, but she was smiling. "But yeah. Pretty damn good."

"Wanna go out? Dinner sometime?"

"Only if you know the good pizza spots."

"I know all of them."

"Then yes. And don't tell Jacob."

A faint voice echoed from the hallway. "Too late!"

Melissa groaned. "I'm gonna kill him."

You laughed, and she let you take her hand.

By Monday, everyone would know. They always did. But tonight, in the glow of plastic pumpkins and scattered candy wrappers, Melissa let herself be happy.

Part 4

Addison always loved how quiet nights like this felt, how the world outside their bedroom seemed to blur and hush itself as if in reverence to the closeness they shared. The curtains were drawn, allowing only a faint golden streetlight to trickle into the room. Their bodies were tangled beneath the sheets, warm skin against warm skin, the hum of the air conditioning low and steady like a heartbeat.

Your breath fanned softly over Addison’s neck, uneven and quick from their kiss, and her fingers were still threaded in Addison’s hair as though you didn’t want to let go. Addison kissed you again, slower this time. Lips brushing gently, tasting of mint and nerves. She could feel you melt into her, the way you always did, like you belonged nowhere else.

But something felt…off. There was tension in your jaw, the slightest hitch in your exhale. You were responding, yes, but something in you felt guarded. Not cold, not distant, just…tucked away. Protected.

Addison pulled back slightly, enough to catch your eyes in the low light. “You okay?”

You blinked, like you were snapping out of a fog. You gave Addison a small smile, the kind that looked practiced. “Yeah.” you said too quickly. Then, softer, “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired, I think.”

Addison studied you for a moment longer. “You sure?”

You leaned in and kissed her again. “I promise. I’m just tired.” It was enough to make Addison nod. Enough to pretend she believed it.

They curled into each other after that, arms wrapped tight, legs tangled beneath the sheets. You rested your head against Addison’s chest and fell asleep in minutes, your breathing evening out in a rhythm Addison had grown to recognize, one of the few sounds in the world that ever truly settled her.

But tonight, she couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling in silence, listening to the low hum of the city beyond the windows, the occasional car passing on the street below. Her hand absentmindedly traced circles over your back. She should have been at peace. Tomorrow was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

So why did it feel like something was slipping through her fingers?

It started as a whisper of doubt, small, easy to ignore. But the longer she lay there, the louder it got. Does she want this? Is she marrying me because she loves me, or because it feels like the safe thing to do?

They had been through so much. The hospital. The trauma. The blood-soaked floors and sleepless nights. And Natasha. Always Natasha.

Addison had seen the way you looked at her. The way your voice softened around her name. The way your hands shook just after a shift when Natasha was hurt, or angry, or just not there. And yes, she knew what you’d been through, more than anyone else, Natasha had stood in the fire with you. But fire changes people.

And now here they were. One night away from vows and rings and promises. And Addison couldn’t help but wonder if you were still sorting through the ashes.

She turned her head slightly to look at her fiancée. Your face was relaxed in sleep, but even now, there was a crease in your brow like you were worried about something..dreaming of something painful or unresolved.

Her heart squeezed. She wanted to believe that love was enough. That time and safety and quiet mornings like this would be the cure. But deep down, she knew that healing wasn’t linear. And it didn’t always lead to her.

What if I’m just a chapter she needs to close? What if she’s still in love with Natasha, and she doesn’t even know it yet?

The thought terrified her more than anything. She didn’t want to compete. She didn’t want to win. She just wanted you to be sure. To be honest.

She lay there until the sky began to shift outside the window, until the soft blue of dawn painted the ceiling she’d been staring at all night. Her body ached with stillness, but she hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. She turned to you again, brushing a strand of hair away from your cheek. You stirred, murmuring something inaudible, but didn’t wake.

Addison watched you sleep for a few more seconds, then whispered to the quiet, “I hope I’m what you want.” It wasn’t a prayer. It was a plea.

The Ceremony

Addison had imagined this day so many times. The way you would walk toward her. The way your eyes would shine. The way their hands would tremble together at the altar, not from fear, but from love.

And for a moment, it really did feel like that. You looked beautiful, painfully, unfairly beautiful. There was a softness to you today, but something pulled behind your eyes. Still, you smiled when your fingers met. You whispered, “You make me feel safe.”

Addison had remembered that line, remembered your voice trembling in that on-call room, bathed in red lights and desperation. Back then, it was a lifeline.

Now, it sounded like goodbye.

The officiant’s voice was a distant hum in Addison’s ears. She tried to stay present, grounding herself in your touch, the warmth of your palm, the way your bouquet trembled ever so slightly.

But then..A shift. Chairs scraping softly. A body rising. A voice clearing. Addison didn’t have to look to know who it was. She felt it before she saw it. Like a shadow crossing over sunlight.

Natasha stood. There was something terrifying about how quiet the room went, how no one dared breathe. Addison turned slowly, like she already knew what was coming.

“I love you.” Natasha said.

No theatrics. No desperate pleading. Just truth, laid bare and raw in the middle of the most carefully planned moment of their lives.

And you..God..your face. Addison knew that look. It was the look of someone who had just remembered what their heart sounded like.

She let her eyes linger on you for one more second before she turned back to face the aisle. The officiant said nothing. No one moved. Time had stopped for everyone, except Addison.

Addison blinked. Her throat was dry, but her voice came out calm, even kind.

“Y/n..”

You looked at her, tears already welling, but Addison smiled, and it was the most painful one she’d ever worn.

“Go.” she said softly, so only you could hear. Your lips parted. A protest, maybe. A denial. But it never came. Addison gave a small nod, stepping back, gently slipping the ring from her own finger and folding it into your palm.

She turned, walking away from the altar before anyone else could speak. Before her knees gave out. Before the tears came. She made it to the back of the room, where the light from the chapel windows spilled onto the floor like a path she hadn’t wanted to take. She paused there, just once, looking back, not at you, not even at Natasha.

Just at the space between you. And she smiled again, this time with no bitterness. Only ache. Let her go, she thought. Let her be brave enough to choose what scares her, because maybe that’s the only real kind of love there is.

Then she left. Not because she wanted to. But because she loved you enough to.

A Few Weeks Later

Hospitals don’t pause for heartbreak. They don’t slow down for regret or love or fallout. People bleed regardless of who stood up at whose wedding. People die. People live. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead just the same.

Addison was gone. No goodbyes, at least not the kind people talked about. Her office cleared out overnight. A clean break, like a ghost. Some say she transferred to a private practice in Chicago. Others didn’t ask. The halls that once echoed with her clipped heels felt…emptier.

People whispered. Nurses by the elevators. Surgical residents around vending machines. But not everyone knew what happened. Not everyone had heard Natasha say “I love you” like a gunshot across an altar.

But you had. You heard it in your bones. You replayed it every night since, like a wound you couldn’t stop touching. Sometimes, you thought you imagined it. But then you’d walk the halls and see Natasha, leaning against a nurse’s station, reading a chart with one hand and sipping her too-hot coffee with the other, and it all came flooding back.

It didn’t feel real until it happened in daylight. The first time you ran into each other was two days after the wedding. A post-op floor, late afternoon. You were leaving, fingers still stained with the marker from rounds. Natasha came around the corner at the same time.

You stopped. Just for a second. Your heart crashed against your ribs. Natasha looked tired, shadows under her eyes, her hair pulled back with one loose strand falling over her cheek. She looked like everything you had ever wanted.

“Hey.” Natasha said, her voice low. Gentle.

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Hi.”

Neither moved. The hallway buzzed quietly, monitors, beeping, an intern’s laughter from down the hall. Natasha stepped aside, letting you pass.

But you didn’t move. You stared at her, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to say something. You wanted to touch her. But the air between you was thick with too much.

Natasha was the one who finally broke it. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“I just…” Natasha looked away, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I couldn’t watch you promise your life to someone else. Not when I-”

“You love me.” you said. “I know.”

Silence. Then you smiled, sad and small. “You broke her.”

Natasha flinched.

“She loved me. I did love her.” you said, voice cracking like glass. “But not like this.”

There it was again. That this. This ache in your chest, the way your body responded just by being near Natasha. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

Natasha didn’t speak. She just looked at you like she was holding back every emotion she’d ever swallowed down. Her jaw clenched. Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers twitching slightly like they wanted to reach out and didn’t dare.

You stepped closer. It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. Just…close. “I still don’t know if we’re ready for this.” you whispered.

Natasha nodded. “Neither do I.”

“But I want it anyway.”

Your hands brushed, barely, and that single second of contact was enough to set every nerve in your body on fire.

Then footsteps. A nurse coming around the corner. Natasha stepped back again, a wall returning between you. And just like that, it was over. For now.

You passed each other in the halls more often after that. It felt unintentional. It wasn’t. You found yourself taking long ways. Natasha lingered at stations longer than she used to. Your glances were longer. Your silences, louder.

Some noticed. Some didn’t. Dr. Bailey gave Natasha one hard, disappointed look during a trauma consult and didn’t speak to her for the rest of the shift. Jo had taken you aside one day, tried to ask how you were holding up, but you just nodded and said you were “okay.”

That was the lie you were living in now: okay.

But inside, you were anything but. You were burning. Every time Natasha leaned over you to glance at a chart. Every time your hands brushed reaching for the same surgical tray. Every time you heard that deep, rasped voice say your name in passing..You were drowning in what if.

You hadn’t kissed her since the wedding. Hadn’t touched her beyond accidental brushes. But every part of you was waiting..aching, for when you did.

Because this wasn’t a clean love. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was broken. Haunted. Tangled up in grief and guilt and a thousand unsaid things. But it was yours. And somehow, that made it the most real thing you’d ever known.

It started like any other day in the hospital. Rounds. A consult. A triple espresso. Natasha had barely glanced at her schedule, just another emergency trauma to scrub in for. Chest trauma, GSW to the right lung. She barely noticed the OR assignment.

Until she stepped into it. Room 6.

Her breath caught before she even realized why. The sterile light. The exact angle of the surgical tray. The same wall. The same beeping monitor.

Her hands trembled in their gloves. No. Not here.

She shut it down, buried it deep. There was no time. The patient was crashing, and she had to keep her head clear. She moved like instinct, the way she always did, pushing through the nausea curling in her stomach.

Then the door opened, and you walked in.

Scrubbed in, eyes bright with determination. And for a split second, just one, Natasha saw blood again. All over the floor. All over you. Your body pale and shaking, a bullet lodged beneath your ribs, the shooter screaming. Natasha standing between you.

“Scrubbed in for the assist.” Your eyes already locked on Natasha’s with that soft smile you always gave her before a surgery. And in an instant-

“Out.” Natasha snapped.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Out of this OR. Now.”

She didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp. But her chest was tightening and her hands were shaking, and she needed you out of that room before she collapsed in front of everyone.

You stepped forward, voice low. “Nat, what’s going on?”

“I said get her out!” Natasha barked, eyes back on the surgical field.

You froze. You’d never heard Natasha use that tone with you. Never felt so dismissed, so unwanted. Without a word, you turned and walked out, jaw clenched, confusion and anger flooding your chest like acid.

You waited. In the corridor. You didn’t know why, should’ve left, should’ve cooled off. But something about the way Natasha had looked at you…It didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like fear. But fear of what? When Natasha finally emerged, peeling off her cap and mask, you were on her in an instant.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed.

Natasha looked startled. “Y/n-“

“No. Don’t ‘Y/n’ me. You called me for that surgery. You asked for me. And then you kick me out like I’m..like I’m some kind of mistake?”

“Don’t do this here.”

“No, exactly here. Because I need to know, are we doing this or not?” Your voice cracked at the edge. “You say you love me, you stand up at my wedding, you wreck my entire life for me, and now I’m not even allowed in the OR with you?”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were!” Your voice cracked, barely kept under control. “You say you love me, and then treat me like I’m something you can’t even look at!”

Natasha’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t read.

“I’m not some fragile kid you have to protect from everything!” you snapped. “I deserve to know why you-”

“Do you know what OR that was?” Natasha interrupted, voice low, sharp as a scalpel.

You stopped. “What?”

“Do you even know what room that was?” Natasha asked again, breath shaking now. “Do you remember the last time you were in there?”

You blinked. “No, I don’t-”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed your wrist, not rough, not unkind, and pulled you into an empty on-call room. The door clicked shut behind you. You pulled away, furious and hurt. “What is this? You don’t get to shut me out and then just-”

“I almost lost you!” Natasha said, voice ragged.

You froze. Natasha looked at you, really looked at you, and all the walls were gone. Her hands were shaking. Her breathing uneven.

“That was the room..” she whispered. “The day of the shooting. You were brought in there. Bleeding out. And I..God, I was holding pressure on your wound and screaming at people to move, to help, and then the shooter…”

She paused, swallowing hard, eyes wet now. “He came in. Gun in his hand. Pointed it at you, at me. I thought, I thought he was going to kill you in front of me. You were barely breathing, and I couldn’t-” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t do anything. Just press my hands into your body and hope it was enough.”

“I..I was told some of it.” you said softly. “That I coded. That it was close. But you never…you never told me everything.”

“No.” Natasha said, meeting your eyes now, voice low, rough. “Because I couldn’t. Because I see it in my head every damn night.”

Your anger dissolved into silence. Tears were rising fast in your throat now too.

“I didn’t push you away because I don’t want you.” Natasha whispered. “I pushed you away because I couldn’t breathe. Because the thought of seeing you fall again, bleeding, and being helpless again-“

She reached up, gently, as if asking permission, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “..terrifies me.”

You swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a breath. “I’m okay. I survived.”

“I didn’t.” Natasha whispered. “Not really. Not until now.”

Silence fell between you, heavy, but softer now. You reached out, slowly, taking Natasha’s hand in yours.

“Next time you’re scared.” you said, “tell me. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m trying.” Natasha said, voice thick. “It’s just… new.”

“Next time you’re afraid.” you whispered, “you tell me.”

Natasha nodded, breath shaking. “I will.”

“Good.” you said, voice breaking. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The sun was melting into the horizon as the day finally began to settle. The hospital, usually alive with the clatter of gurneys and clipped footsteps, had quieted. The worst had passed. Most of the staff had gone home. You walked slowly down the long hallway toward the exit, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your chest still full of residual emotion from everything that had unraveled just hours ago.

The weight of the day pressed on your back: the look on Natasha’s face in the OR, the yelling, the tears in the on-call room.. You adjusted your coat as you reached the front doors, eyes low, ready to disappear into the cool spring air.

But when you stepped out into the evening, you stopped short. There, leaning against a car like a scene from a dream, or a movie you didn’t remember buying a ticket to, was Natasha Romanoff.

Still in her dark coat, arms crossed, hands tucked under her arms. Hair a little windblown. Eyes tired, but soft in that way that made you forget every coherent thought.

Natasha straightened when she saw you. “Hey.”

You blinked, surprised. “Waiting for someone?”

Natasha gave a small smirk. “Just a beautiful, terrifying girl I might be falling recklessly in love with.”

You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head, the edges of your mouth lifting. “Still mad at you.”

“I know.” Natasha said, taking a step closer. “I deserve it. But I’m hoping you’ll let me make it up to you. There’s this place across town. Best pasta in the city. And wine that might be strong enough to make you forget the last twelve hours.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You asking me on a date?”

“I’m asking you to let me love you outside the hospital walls for once.”

That line made your chest ache in the best possible way.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, staring at the woman who, a few weeks ago, blew apart your life with three words in front of a full chapel. And now she was here. Not running. Not hiding.

Showing up.

“Fine.” you finally said, lips twitching. “But if the wine sucks, I’m walking home.”

Natasha smiled. “Fair.”

She opened the passenger door for you, not with dramatic flair, but with quiet reverence. You rolled your eyes at the gesture, but you didn’t protest. You slid in, the familiar scent of leather and Natasha’s cologne wrapping around you like a memory.

The ride was quiet for a while. Not awkward. Just… full. Full of what you’d said earlier, full of what you hadn’t. The city passed you by, golden and pink in the fading light.

Natasha’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. “I kept thinking about what you said earlier.” she murmured. “About pushing you away. About hurting you.”

You looked over, face softening. “You didn’t mean to.” you said. “I know that now. But God, Natasha, you scared me. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I had to start bracing for losing you again.”

Natasha nodded, jaw tight. “It scared me too. Not because I don’t want this, but because I do. So much it’s messy and terrifying. You weren’t just a moment. You’re…everything.”

You turned to the window, blinking back the unexpected heat in your eyes. “Why didn’t you ever tell me all of it?” you asked quietly. “About the shooting. About that day.”

“I think I was waiting for you to walk away.” Natasha admitted. “So I kept parts of it to myself, just in case. Like if you didn’t know how bad it was for me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much when you left.”

You looked at her, stunned. “I gave up everything for you.”

“I know.” Natasha said. Her voice cracked. “And I’m trying to believe I deserve that.”

The place was small, warm, tucked away on a side street. Candlelight flickered from each table. It smelled like garlic, wine, and basil. Comfort and romance in equal measure.

You were seated in a quiet corner. The server seemed to recognize Natasha, maybe not by name, but by presence, and left you alone after taking your order.

The first few bites were eaten in silence. You could feel Natasha watching you across the table, but not in a predatory way. More like she was memorizing something. Holding onto the rare peace between you.

Finally, Natasha spoke. “I’m sorry about the wedding. About the way I did it.”

You looked up, surprised. “You regret saying it?”

“No.” Natasha said quickly. “Not for a second. But I regret how much it hurt you. And Addison. You deserved something better than chaos. I didn’t mean to steal your choice. I just-”

“You didn’t.” you said softly, setting your fork down. “You didn’t steal anything. You gave me clarity. That whole day, I kept thinking something felt wrong. And then you said it. And I knew.”

Natasha’s shoulders dropped a little. “Do you ever… wish you’d stayed? With her?”

You met her eyes and shook your head. “I felt safe with her. I loved her. But when you stood up, I felt alive. And I haven’t stopped since.”

The silence stretched again, this time heavier with emotion. Natasha leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”

You smiled gently, eyes glistening. “I know.”

“No.” Natasha said. “I mean, I’m in love with you in a way I didn’t think I could be. Not after everything. Not with the blood and the grief and the guilt. But you, God, Y/n, you made it through the worst of me and you’re still here.”

“I’m here because I love you too.” you said. “Even when you’re distant. Even when you’re scared. Even when you don’t know how to let people love you back.”

Natasha looked away for a moment, blinking fast. You reached across the table and took her hand. No grand speech. Just a soft, grounding touch. Natasha turned her palm upward and laced your fingers together.

“I want more nights like this.” Natasha said. “Dinner. Quiet. Real life. I want to learn how to do that with you.”

“Then let’s learn,” you said. “One night at a time.”

The apartment was dimly lit when you got back, the city casting long shadows across the floor. Natasha unlocked the door, stepping inside with you trailing behind, fingers brushing as you entered. She kicked off her boots and turned back to you, with that look again. That quiet, reverent one.

“Come here.” she said, barely above a whisper.

You stepped closer, heart fluttering. Natasha cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs gently stroking your cheeks like she was learning you all over again. “I thought I knew what love felt like..” she murmured. “But then you came into my life like a fucking meteor. And suddenly nothing else measured.”

You laughed softly, breath shaky. “You’re such a sap when you’re tired-”

Natasha kissed you, slow, deep, with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. Her hands slid to the back of your neck, holding you there like she couldn’t bear for you to pull away.

You didn’t rush. Clothes came off gradually, drawn out between kisses and soft laughter and little sighs of I missed you even though you’d been side by side all day. Natasha peeled off your shirt with deliberate slowness, her hands warm as they roamed bare skin, rediscovering what had once been instinctual.

You made it to the bed half-dressed, tangled in limbs and emotion. Natasha leaned down, brushing her lips across your collarbone. “No rushing tonight. No giving back. I don’t want anything from you but your sounds, your breath, the way you fall apart for me.”

You whimpered softly at that, already breathless before anything began. Natasha took her time. She mapped every inch of your skin with her hands first, no goal in mind, just memorizing. She kissed your neck, your shoulder, the curve beneath your ribs, whispering into each press of her mouth.

“This skin.” she murmured, fingertips sliding up your waist. “I’ve held it when it bled. I’ve watched it heal. I want to keep it safe now.”

Your breath trembled. Natasha moved lower, down to your thighs, nudging them apart with reverence more than hunger. She settled between them but didn’t touch yet. Just looked.

“You’re so beautiful..” she said softly. “Not just your body. You. The way you care. The way you carry pain and still smile. The way you let me be soft when I forgot how.”

You reached down, fingertips brushing Natasha’s cheek. She leaned into the touch before pressing a kiss to your palm, then slowly moved lower. When she finally touched you, tongue warm and slow, fingers gently pressing into soft heat, it wasn’t with urgency. It was worship.

You moaned, back arching slightly. Natasha’s voice came low against you: “That’s it. Let me take care of you.”

Her fingers were deep now, steady, curling in that way she knew, slow and sure. Her mouth was soft around you, teasing and tasting in waves—not to push you too far, but to keep you right there, in the space between pleasure and surrender.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your other hand tangled in Natasha’s hair, grounding yourself in her.

“I’ve got you..” Natasha whispered between strokes, her lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “I want you to let go. For me. Just feel me. Nothing else matters.”

You whimpered, your voice cracking. “Natasha…”

She reached up with her free hand, locking your fingers. “I’m here. Look at me.” she whispered.

You opened your eyes, met hers, and that was what undid you. The pleasure hit like a tide, deep, intense, drawn out. You gasped, your entire body trembling, thighs shaking, heart racing. Natasha never looked away. She stayed there, eyes locked, fingers and mouth guiding you through it until you finally collapsed into the mattress, every muscle unspooled.

She was beside you in seconds, pulling you in, wrapping arms around you. You curled against her chest, still trembling, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like you didn’t want to be anywhere else. Natasha kissed your temple. Then your forehead. Then held you tighter.

“You don’t owe me anything.” she whispered. “You’re enough just like this.” You let out a shaky laugh into her neck. “You’re dangerous when you’re sweet.”

Natasha smiled softly, brushing hair from your face. “I’ll be dangerous for you. But I’ll always be sweet to you.” You stayed like that, quiet, hearts beating in sync, no masks, no defenses. Just Natasha and you, together, seen and safe.

You woke to the feeling of warmth. Natasha was wrapped around you like a blanket, one leg slung lazily over yours, her face tucked just beneath your chin, breath warm against your skin. Your hands were still intertwined, held between you like you’d never let go.

You smiled into the soft mess of red hair and didn’t move. For once, there was no rush. No trauma pager. No pounding adrenaline. Just the quiet hum of a Saturday morning and the slow, steady rhythm of someone you loved breathing beside you.

After a few minutes, Natasha stirred. She didn’t open her eyes, just groaned softly, her nose brushing your neck. “Too early..” she mumbled.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It’s nearly eight.”

She made a faint grumbling sound, then kissed your collarbone in lazy retaliation. “Still too early.”

But after a moment, she opened her eyes and looked up, bleary and adoring. “Morning.”

“Morning.” you whispered back.

You stayed like that for a few more moments, smiling, warm, limbs tangled under the covers, until Natasha finally pulled back and sat up, stretching like a cat.

You watched her from the pillow, half in awe. “You’re unfairly attractive in the morning.”

Natasha smirked over her shoulder. “Flattery this early? What do you want?”

“Coffee.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You’re lucky I love you.”

She padded off to the kitchen, hair a sleepy mess, wearing only one of her shirts. You followed soon after, sliding onto a stool at the counter while Natasha moved through her kitchen.

“Mugs are in the cabinet, sleepyhead.” Natasha teased, pouring two cups with steady hands. “And I made toast.”

You blinked. “You made toast? And didn’t burn it?”

Natasha turned, faux insulted. “I’m a highly trained trauma surgeon. I think I can handle bread.”

You giggled, taking the offered mug. “Thank you.”

You ate quietly for a few minutes, coffee, buttered toast, shared glances over the rim of mugs. Then Natasha cleared her throat, eyes down but smile tugging at her lips.

“I forgot to tell you.” she said. “There’s a new intern rotating with me starting today. From Boston Gen.”

You raised a brow. “Already getting transferred? Must be fancy.”

“She’s supposed to shadow me to learn some minimally invasive techniques we’re testing in trauma cases.” Natasha took a sip of her coffee, then looked up, a little too casual. “I might’ve also… requested a change in her schedule.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of change?”

“She’s working a little more…on your floor.”

You tried not to grin. “So she’s shadowing you but you’re staying near me?”

Natasha shrugged, not even pretending to be subtle. “What can I say? You make lunch breaks better.”

You laughed into your coffee. “God, you’re so soft now.”

Natasha leaned across the island and kissed you. “Only for you.”

They walked to the car with hands brushing, smiles shared, and the kind of quiet that only comes from knowing you don’t have to fill every silence. Natasha drove, of course, controlled and confident behind the wheel, one hand always on the gearshift, the other occasionally slipping over to rest on your thigh during red lights.

You fiddled with the radio until you found a mellow playlist, something warm, acoustic, the kind of thing that sounded like the morning felt.

As you pulled into the hospital parking lot, Natasha parked, but didn’t move to get out. Instead, she turned to you and took your hand, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You know..” she said softly, “I still get that feeling when I look at you. Like I’m getting away with something I don’t deserve.”

You turned to her, eyes shining. “You deserve this. You deserve me. Every morning. Every night. You don’t have to question that anymore.”

Natasha kissed you again, soft, slow, grateful. Then you got out of the car, walking toward the hospital side by side, not touching, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need to. The space between you was already full.

And when you stepped into the building, past the chaos and the clipped voices and the beeping monitors, Natasha looked over her shoulder, just once, and smiled. You smiled back.

The resident lounge was buzzing with end-of-rounds energy. Lab coats flung over chairs, scrubs wrinkled from too many hours, and half-drunk coffee cups balancing dangerously on clipboards.

You sat at the back table with your colleagues. You were laughing over something Marcus had said about the vending machine eating his badge when Riya leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Okay, so what’s going on with you and Dr. Romanoff?”

You blinked, pretending to feign confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Riya said, grinning. “She literally walks through the trauma wing like she’s in a noir film and only softens when you’re around.”

“Is she as scary up close as she looks from far away?” Ellie asked, clearly fascinated. “Or like…a sexy scary?”

“Both.” you muttered into your coffee, which earned a chorus of oohs and laughter.

“She’s been in a better mood lately..” Marcus observed. “And you’ve been glowing.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks pink. “Can we not analyze my love life at the same table where we eat pudding cups?” But you were smiling.

An hour later, you were elbow-deep in a procedure in Room 212, an emergency laceration irrigation on a trauma patient who was more combative than expected. It wasn’t major, but it was messy, tissue bleeding fast, and your hands were starting to cramp from the angle.

“Shit..” you muttered under your breath, adjusting your grip. “Clamp. No! damn it, not that one-”

“Here.” said a calm voice behind you.

A gloved hand reached forward, taking the instrument you were fumbling with and gently sliding it into place, just so. The pressure changed. The bleeding stopped. The wound opened perfectly.

You looked up, startled. The woman beside you was composed, maybe a few years older than you. Dark curls tucked into her surgical cap, brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Her movements were clean, flawless. Her hands didn’t shake. Her technique was textbook, but refined.

“Didn’t mean to step on your toes.” the woman said softly, stepping back as you finished suturing. “Just figured you could use a third hand.”

You blinked. “No, that was..thank you. Seriously. You saved me at least twenty minutes of cursing and gauze.”

The woman gave a small smile, offering her gloved hand. “Dr. Leena Roux. I just transferred in. Trauma rotation under Dr. Romanoff.”

Your brain clicked into place. This is her. “The one from Boston Gen?” you asked, unpeeling a glove.

“That’s me.” Leena’s smile widened. “She speaks very highly of you, by the way.”

You blinked. “Of me?”

“She said you don’t just know the steps, you know why they matter. That’s rare.”

You felt your face warm, both at the compliment and at the fact that Natasha had spoken about you like that.

“Well.” you said, clearing your throat, “I’ve heard good things about you too.”

Leena tilted her head slightly. “I hope I live up to the legend.”

Later, you stood finishing your chart, when Natasha appeared like she always did, quiet, assured, presence wrapped in black scrubs and unreadable expressions. But when she saw Leena standing beside you, Natasha’s face softened.

“There you are.” Natasha said to her intern, then to you, “She find her way to you already?”

“She did.” you said, glancing at Leena with a little smile. “She’s good. Really good.”

Natasha nodded, subtly proud. “She’ll be shadowing the floor more often. I figured you two might learn something from each other.”

“Happy to.” Leena said.

And for a brief second, you saw Natasha through Leena’s eyes, sharp, brilliant, quietly magnetic. But you didn’t feel threatened. You felt proud.

Because you knew Natasha. You knew the way she curled into your body at night, the way she whispered I’ve got you when no one else was listening. And even with someone else nearby, someone just as capable, you knew where you stood.

Still, you couldn’t help the way your curiosity piqued. Leena’s style was clean, measured. Her surgical decisions were precise, strategic. You weren’t drawn to her in the way you were drawn to Natasha, but you were intrigued. Impressed.

Leena caught your eye, like she could read your thoughts. “If you ever want to compare notes, or technique, I’m happy to trade.”

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

Natasha watched you with a small, knowing look, half fond, half amused. And then, softly, almost teasingly, she murmured to you, “Don’t fall in love. I’m very possessive.”

You smirked. “Relax. I’m professionally curious.”

“Mm. That’s how it starts.” And with a shared glance and a quiet laugh, the day moved on.

But against Natasha’s intentions, you and Leena ended up paired for a consult in the ICU. Leena asked sharp questions, offered insight without overstepping, and when they left the room, you found yourself smiling. Just in the way people do when they feel seen by someone speaking their language.

“Dr. Y/l/n?” Leena asked that afternoon, catching you by the nurse’s station. “Would you mind showing me your notes on the anterior laparotomy case? Your approach was cleaner than what I’ve seen.”

You blinked. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll pull it up.”

You spent fifteen minutes going over it, shoulder to shoulder, leaning over your tablet, trading technique and short jokes. It was easy. Natural. Friendly. But when Natasha passed you in the hallway, not saying anything, just one quick glance, you felt the pause in her step.

By Day Four, it became a pattern. You didn’t seek Leena out, but she found you everywhere. At the coffee cart. At the lab. At the board. Your conversations were always professional, cases, methods, technique. But Natasha began noticing the little things.

The way you laughed around her. The way Leena lingered after saying goodbye. The way Leena’s eyes sometimes flicked between you when Natasha entered the room, like she was sizing up something unspoken.

That night, in the privacy of your shared silence at home, Natasha finally spoke. “She likes you.”

You looked up from your tea. “She respects me.”

“Same difference.” Natasha muttered.

You tilted your head, amused. “Nat.”

Natasha didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do. I just…I see the way she looks at you. Like she wants something she hasn’t earned.”

You set your mug down. “Do you think I’d give her anything to take?”

Natasha was quiet for a second. Then she shook her head. “No. I just hate the feeling of someone circling something that’s mine.”

Your heart stuttered at the word. Mine.

You crossed the distance between you, slid into Natasha’s lap, cupped her face. “You don’t have to stake your claim.” you said. “I already chose you. I keep choosing you.”

Natasha rested her forehead against yours, her breath unsteady. “I know. I just…I don’t always know how to share you. Not even professionally.”

Days later, Natasha’s jealousy didn’t come out in eye rolls or sharpness. It came out in awareness.

She started showing up at your side more often, reviewing cases, joining check-ins she normally wouldn’t. She didn’t interrupt Leena and you, but she was present. Watching. Listening.

And you noticed.During one shared case, you leaned in and whispered, “You do realize you’re hovering?”

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re brooding.”

“I’m being thorough.”

You smiled. “You’re adorable when you pretend you’re not jealous.”

Natasha’s voice was low, amused, but firm. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re literally standing between me and her like a bodyguard.”

“Coincidence.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before walking away. Natasha watched you go.

It was the kind of surgery that left you focused, but breathing. A bowel resection, delicate but routine. Natasha and you were scrubbed in side by side, working in perfect rhythm. It had become your unspoken language.

Natasha passed you a retractor without being asked. You anticipated her next stitch before she voiced it. Silence in the room felt like safety, not tension. Just the soft hum of the monitor, the steady beep of a life held between hands.

You were deep in the procedure when the OR door opened behind you. “Apologies for the interruption.”

You didn’t look up, too focused on the sutures, but Natasha turned her head slightly. Leena stepped inside, fully scrubbed and gowned, her eyes bright behind her mask.

“I’ve got OR 4 in ten.” she said, speaking low and professional. “Just had a quick question about that arterial clamp you mentioned this morning. You said you’d walk me through it after shift?”

Natasha nodded once. “Right. I remember.”

Leena hesitated. “Are you free this evening? Or should I catch you before morning rounds tomorrow?”

There was nothing suggestive in her tone, just honest curiosity. But something about the timing, the ease with which she asked, the slight glance toward you, Natasha didn’t pause.

“No, I’m already busy tonight.” she said, eyes still on the patient. “With my wife.”

Your hands faltered. Just a second. Just a stutter in the motion of your needle holder. Leena blinked. “Oh. Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not. I’ll find you tomorrow morning,” Natasha said, smooth and unreadable.

Leena gave a clipped nod and slipped out just as fast as she’d come. The door closed.

And the OR was silent again. Except now, you could hear your own heartbeat. Wife.

You didn’t dare look at Natasha, but you could feel her watching, quietly, like she was gauging the damage she’d done with a single word. You placed your final stitch, fingers trembling slightly. You set your tools aside and straightened, your voice quieter than usual.

“You said that like you’ve said it before.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “I have.”

You looked at her now, really looked. Your heart was in your throat. “Why?”

A pause. Natasha stepped closer, but not too close. Just enough that you had to meet her eyes.

“Because that’s how I see you.” she said softly. “Not a girlfriend. Not a phase. Not some complicated thing I can’t name. You feel like home. Like a partner in every way.”

Your breath caught. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say. All you knew was that the word wife hadn’t scared you like you thought it might.

The monitor beeped steadily beside you. And without another word, Natasha reached over, brushed her gloved fingers against your forearm, a touch too brief to be noticed by anyone else, but enough to steady you. Enough to say this is real.

At the evening, you sat cross-legged on Natasha’s couch, your hair damp from the shower, wearing one of Natasha’s old sweatshirts and a pair of shorts that didn’t quite belong to you either. The living room was quiet, just a soft lamp on in the corner, the muted flicker of the city outside the window, and the familiar hum of Natasha in the kitchen.

She was making tea. Not because you needed it. But because she always made tea after a long shift, and tonight wasn’t different, except that it was.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. My wife.

The word hadn’t left your mind since you’d heard it in OR. Since it fell from Natasha’s mouth like it was natural, like it was true, and had been for a while.

And maybe it was. The kettle clicked off. A few seconds later, Natasha walked in with two mugs, her hair still wet at the ends, her face clean and soft in the warm light. She handed you a mug and sat beside you, one leg tucked beneath her, mirroring the way you always ended up, close, comfortable, quietly wrapped around each other.

You didn’t speak right away. You took a sip. Then another. You stared at your mug, then glanced up, your voice quiet but clear.

“Did you really mean it?”

Natasha looked over. “Mean what?”

You met her eyes. “What you said. In the OR.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat, and you felt your heart swell so fast it almost hurt.

“You didn’t say it like you were trying to make a point.” you said softly. “You said it like it was…just true.”

Natasha leaned in a little closer, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, her knuckles gently brushing your shoulder.

“Because it is.” she said. “I’ve been through a lot in my life, you. But you’re the first thing I ever chose without fear. Not because I needed you. Not because you saved me. But because I see you. And I want every version of you, angry, messy, brilliant, kind.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t have to say it just to make me feel safe.”

“I’m saying it because you are my safe.” Natasha said. “And I want you to know, if someday you want to make it official, if you ever want that word to be real, not just something I say in passing…”

She hesitated. “I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

The words landed like something final. Something whole. You blinked back sudden tears, laughing gently through your nose. “You really know how to sneak that in, don’t you?”

Natasha smiled. “Didn’t say I was proposing. I’m just…telling you what’s real.”

You set your mug down, turned toward her fully. You took Natasha’s hand and laced your fingers together, then pressed your forehead against hers.

“You’re real.” you whispered. “This is real.”

Natasha nodded. “So real it scares the shit out of me.”

“Good.” you murmured. “Me too.”

You kissed, not rushed, not heavy, just quiet and sure, like you were sealing something. Natasha pulled you close and you stayed like that for a while, curled together on the couch, warm tea forgotten.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice soft against Natasha’s shoulder.

“I don’t need a ring yet. I don’t need a dress or a crowd.”

Natasha’s hand traced lazy patterns along your back. “What do you need?”

You looked up at her, eyes shining. “You. Just you.”

Natasha leaned down and kissed you again, longer this time. When you pulled apart, she whispered, “Then you’ve got me. For good.”

Outside, the city went on. Inside, you stayed wrapped in each other, quiet, certain, and finally, finally home.

-

-

-

Steve finally manages to recover, blinking at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“I’m gonna need a little more context.”

Natasha shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere past him. 

“Just making a point. I’ve kissed you before. We’re still just friends.”

“That was different,” Steve says slowly, carefully, like he’s not entirely sure where this conversation is headed. “We were on the run. It was for a mission.”

“Right,” Natasha nods quickly, seizing on that. “Exactly. So sometimes a kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Steve sets down his coffee, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Did you kiss someone, Nat?”

She scoffs immediately, a sharp breath meant to dismiss the question, but her shoulders stiffen, betraying her.

“No,” she says too quickly, brushing past it. “Why would you ask that?”

Before Steve can press further, the kitchen door slides open.

You step in, pausing just briefly when your eyes meet hers. A flicker of something passes between you—then it’s gone, replaced by your familiar, easy smile.

“Morning,” you say, grabbing an apple from the counter before sliding easily into the space beside her. “You two solving world peace already?”

Natasha’s grip on her mug tightens. Her pulse trips over itself at your closeness, at the casual brush of your shoulder against hers.

“Morning,” she mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Steve returns your greeting while watching both of you now with a curious gaze, noticing the subtle shift in the air. 

You shrug lightly.

“Decided to turn in early last night,” you respond before turning to Natasha. “Sorry, I didn’t see you when you got back, Nat.”

Natasha shakes her head, brushing off the apology.

“It’s fine,” she says simply. 

But it’s not. Not really. She had looked for you last night when she came back from her mission, hoping for your usual smile at the hangar. Instead, FRIDAY informed her you were already asleep. She’d swallowed her disappointment and told herself it didn’t matter.

Natasha takes another sip to keep herself occupied from further conversation. Unfortunately, it seems you have no intention of letting her do that.

“Can I have some?”

Natasha glances at you with a raise of her brow, and you give her a small smile as you nod at the mug in her hand.

“There’s more brewing,” she responds, gesturing to the coffee machine in the corner.

You don’t move her gaze from hers.

“I know,” you grin. “But I want yours.”

Natasha sighs, long-suffering but fond, and hands it over.

You take it with a bright smile in thanks, drinking the last of it with satisfaction.

Natasha watches you as you finish, her lips twitching slightly into the ghost of a smile before she can stop it.

Something about that simple exchange makes the room feel smaller. 

Steve observes you two quietly, picking up on the subtle tension that hums under the surface like a taut wire. You and Natasha have always been close. That’s not new. But something feels different now.

“Well, I’m heading to the training room,” you announce, handing Natasha back the mug and tossing the apple in your hand once before catching it again. “See you two later.”

You’re gone before either of them can respond.

The silence that follows stretches.

Steve leans against the table, watching the doorway you disappeared through before turning his eyes back to Natasha. 

“So,” he says, voice even, “something you’d like to share?”

Natasha scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pivots to rinse out her mug. 

“This has nothing to do with her.”

Her tone is dry and dismissive. But her mind betrays her.

She remembers the way the two of you had been curled up on the couch in the common room just a few nights ago. 

A rare, quiet evening with no missions, no alarms, just shared stories and laughter over absurd field mishaps. Your knees touching hers. Her arm draped along the back of the sofa. 

You leaning closer, head tilted back slightly as you laughed, completely at ease.

Natasha remembers the way her fingers twitched with the urge to touch you. 

How, without quite realizing it, her hand lifted to cup your cheek. 

The moment stretched, her breath caught, and then she leaned in.

The kiss was soft, hesitant in the way that Natasha had not fully comprehended what she had done.

When she does, she goes to pull away when you suddenly kiss her back.

Your hand had come up, anchoring against her shoulder, the other sliding to the back of her neck as you deepened it, slow and sure. 

Then, the elevator chimed.

And the moment shattered.

Instinctively, Natasha pulls back, jumping to her end of the couch by the time the other team members come into the room. 

Next thing she knows, you were swept up by a conversation with Wanda while Natasha sat there frozen, lips parted, heartbeat wild, her hand brushing over her mouth in disbelief. 

The warmth of your kiss still lingering on her skin like a brand.

You never brought it up again.

Neither did she.

And now, days later, she finds herself standing in the kitchen convincing herself that friends kiss sometimes. 

That it doesn’t have to mean anything. That it didn’t mean anything.

“Sure, Nat,” Steve says slowly, watching her a little too closely now. “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything...”

Natasha relaxes slightly, but before the relief can take hold in her mind, Steve continues nonchalantly.

“…unless you want it to.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her jaw sets just slightly as she stares into her empty mug. Then, with a sigh, she curses herself for even asking Steve.

His words just brought up a flurry of new problems for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

She did it again.

She’s doing it again.

What started as a simple spar at your request had quickly escalated—one move leading to another, until she had you pinned flat on the mat. Her knees straddled your hips, hands locking your wrists above your head with effortless control.

You were both breathless, sweat-slicked skin flushed from exertion.

Then you smiled up at her, teeth flashing, that same teasing spark in your eyes that always got under her skin, and Natasha couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think past the heat in her chest. Her gaze dropped, lingering on the curve of your parted lips as you panted beneath her.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was hungry, claiming, as if making up for every second she hadn’t let herself think about the feel of your lips since that night on the couch. Her grip loosened, hands sliding from your wrists to your sides, fingertips brushing over the sliver of skin just above your waistband.

Like before, you didn’t pull away.

Instead, your arms curled around her shoulders, pulling her closer with a quiet urgency. 

Her mouth moved against yours again, and again—slow, deliberate, until your breath caught and you exhaled her name in a moan that made something in her pulse stutter.

“Natasha…”

Her name on your lips.

It cracked through the haze like a whip.

And she freezes.

Reality slams back in, fast and merciless. 

Natasha pulls away suddenly, breathing hard as her eyes search yours. Her hands lift, hovering like she wasn’t sure where to place them anymore.

“Shit,” she mutters, shaken. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

You blink at her, dazed and confused, lips still parted.

But before you can say anything, the door slides open.

“Damn,” Sam’s voice calls out as he steps into the training room, towel slung over his shoulder. He pauses at the sight, then lets out a low whistle and smirks.

“Give her a break, Romanoff. She’s already red in the face.”

Natasha straightens back instinctively, only to realize the flush on your face wasn’t from exertion.

You let out a breath of laughter, dragging a hand through your hair. 

“I’m fine,” you say, voice light, easy. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your palm lightly taps Natasha’s thigh—a subtle, casual cue.

She blinks at you, still hovering above, startled by how calmly you are taking all of this. Then she shifts, climbing off with fluid grace, but her mind still reels. 

Why weren’t you reacting differently? Why were you acting like what just happened between you two was normal for friends?

You push yourself to your feet and turn to offer your hand down to her.

Without hesitation, she takes it.

Your grip is warm and steady as you help her up. Before she can say anything, you brush your hand over her shoulder, flicking away the dust from your earlier scuffle. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, you pat her cheek twice, a gentle, reassuring touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, softer this time.

And then you walk off coolly and composed, leaving her standing there.

Staring.

Processing.

“What the hell…” Natasha mutters under her breath.

Sam moves beside her, picking up a dumbbell nonchalantly like he hadn’t just walked in on something.

“Hey, Sam?” she asks, still staring after you. 

“Yeah?”

“Friends can kiss, right?” she asks. “Like… that’s a normal thing friends do sometimes?”

Sam pauses mid-curl and turns to look at her with a slow grin. 

“What kind of friends you got, Romanoff?” he chuckles. “’Cause I’d love an introduction.”

Natasha doesn’t respond.

Her eyes are still locked on the door you disappeared through, her thoughts a whirlwind of tangled lines she couldn’t figure out how or if she wanted to untangle.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The movie plays on, its flickering light casting soft shadows across the darkened room. But Natasha isn’t watching it.

She’s trying to. Or at least pretending to.

Her eyes are on the screen, but her mind drifts, tangled in thoughts she can’t quite sort through. The question loops endlessly in her head like a broken reel.

Can friends kiss? Should friends kiss? Did it mean anything?

You shift slightly beside her, and the motion draws her out of the haze. Then comes a soft sound—a small yawn, muffled behind your hand. 

Natasha glances down at you.

Your head rests gently against her shoulder, your body curled comfortably into the side of hers. You’ve been like that for most of the movie—close, warm, familiar. Nothing new for the two of you. 

But now, it feels different. Everything feels different.

She tilts her head toward you slightly. 

“We can stop here if you want,” she offers, her voice low. “You’re tired.”

You shake your head with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open. 

“It’s fine. It’s almost finished anyway.”

Natasha studies your face for a moment longer, searching for something beneath your words. Then she relaxes, leaning her head against yours again, letting the rhythm of your breathing soothe her.

But only a few minutes pass before she feels your body grow heavier against her, your breath evening out. She shifts subtly to glance at you, and sure enough, your eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

A quiet exhale escapes her lips.

She lets the laptop finish playing the credits, then carefully reaches over to close it, setting it on the nightstand without disturbing you too much.

As she leans back again, her eyes linger on you, peaceful and completely unaware of the storm still quietly waging inside her.

She hesitates.

You’d probably sleep better in your own bed. Less risk of a sore neck.

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her fingers lightly against your arm to wake you. “Want me to carry you to your room?”

You stir, eyes fluttering open, still half-lost in sleep. You look up at her, your gaze soft and unguarded.

“Can I sleep here?”

Natasha stills.

The way your face is tilted toward hers makes her heart stutter. You’re so close, lips parted slightly, your breath warm against her cheek.

Her fingers tighten against the sheets.

She should say no. But she doesn’t.

“…Sure,” she says instead, voice barely audible.

You smile in that sleepy, content way that always makes her chest ache, and shift to lie back more fully on the bed, your head finding the pillow beside hers like it’s always belonged there.

Natasha stays seated for a moment, just watching you. Studying the soft lines of your expression. The trust etched so easily into every part of you.

Then your eye cracks open, lazy and amused, and you pat the empty space beside you.

“Come on,” you murmur. “You should sleep too.”

Natasha swallows.

She moves beneath the covers slowly, cautiously, like the sheets might burn her. The moment her weight settles, you immediately scoot closer, nuzzling into the curve of her body with a comfort that’s almost too much.

She freezes.

Her arms hover mid-air, unsure where to land. Her instincts war with her confusion about the situation.

But then you sigh softly, and it eases something in her. She lets her arms wrap around you, tentatively at first, then fully. Her hand rests lightly against your back.

Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to.

Her heart beats too loud. Her thoughts race too fast.

But your breathing, soft and steady, grounds her.

You’re not overthinking this. You’re not avoiding eye contact or spiraling like she is. You’re just there. 

Maybe she is overreacting.

So she presses her lips to the top of your head, just barely a kiss, light and reverent.

And tells herself it’s fine.

That it’s just something friends do.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The corridor outside the tech lab is mostly quiet, the hum of machinery muffled behind glass walls. Natasha had only meant to drop by to check on some routine data upload from her last mission, but she slows as she rounds the corner and catches sight of you through the glass.

You’re leaning against the counter in the lab, your stance relaxed, familiar. A quiet, polite smile plays on your lips as you speak to one of the newer lab techs, who is a little awkward in their stance and clearly trying to flirt.

Natasha pauses at the entrance, something instinctual anchoring her in place. 

“I just figured,” the technician says, nervously fidgeting with their hands, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

Natasha blinks. Her fingers tighten unconsciously around the datapad in her hand.

You let out a soft chuckle, not unkind. 

“That’s sweet,” you say, your tone warm but edged with gentle finality, “but I’m actually already seeing someone.”

Natasha frowns, her heart skipping heavily.

Since when?

The lab tech falters only slightly, nodding good-naturedly.

“Ah. No worries. It was worth a shot.”

“We could still be friends,” you offer kindly.

They chuckle lightly as they gather their things, nodding in agreement.

“Well, if they mess up,” the tech jokes, “you know where to find me.”

You smile again, a brief lift of your brow.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They leave, footsteps fading down the hall.

Natasha stays frozen for a beat longer, her brain racing as she tries to understand. A strange, unfamiliar tightness lingers in her chest, something sharp and green and burning low.

Why didn’t you ever tell her you were seeing someone?

The question echoes through her like a bruise, throbbing harder the longer she thinks about it.

A few seconds pass before she finally moves, stepping into view from where she’d been half-hidden around the corner. Her approach is quiet, boots soft on the tile, but you look up at the sound anyway.

“Nat, hey,” you greet, still casual, like you hadn’t just said something that made her stomach drop unexpectedly.

Natasha crosses her arms across her chest.

“Were you ever going to introduce me to them?”

You blink at her, brow furrowing.

“Who?”

“The person you’re seeing.”

There’s a flicker of confusion in your expression, your head tilting slightly as if trying to piece together something obvious that you’ve somehow missed.

“That’d be…difficult,” you answer slowly.

Her heart skips again—this time not from surprise, but from something closer to hurt. 

“Why?” she presses, a little sharper now. “You don’t want them to meet your friends?”

Your mouth parts slightly. You study her, eyes narrowing faintly, not in anger, but in realization. 

“Is that what you are?” you ask quietly. “Just my friend?”

Natasha hesitates. Her arms tighten around herself, defensive.

“I thought I was,” she says with a shrug that tries too hard to be casual.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it feels like it stretches forever.

You nod slowly, the movement small and almost imperceptible. 

“Right,” you murmur. “My mistake.”

And even though you smile, easy and familiar, there’s a flicker behind it. Something small and wounded that vanishes just as quickly as it appears. Like it costs a little more this time to offer it.

“I thought we were something more.”

Natasha’s lips part in stunned silence.

You shake your head slightly, not in denial, just…regret. 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Before she can find her voice, before she can reach out and ask what you mean—what she means to you—you step past her.

“I’ve got to prep for my mission,” you say quietly. “I’ll see you after, Nat.”

And then you’re gone.

The hallway seems impossibly still.

Natasha doesn’t move.

She just stands there, frozen in place, her eyes still on the space where you’d been just seconds ago.

I thought we were something more.

The words echo in her chest like a hollow ring of glass about to break.

Natasha presses a hand lightly to her sternum, as if she could push the ache away.

But it lingers. Deep and burning.

She knew it.

She knows it now more than ever.

Friends don’t kiss.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hangar is nearly silent at this hour, long past the time anyone should still be awake.

But Natasha is.

She leans against a metal railing in the far corner of the bay, arms crossed loosely, her mind racing in quiet loops. The empty stretch of concrete around her does little to ease the restless energy in her body. She’s been replaying your last conversation for hours now, trying to decipher what it meant, what you meant.

The distant hum of turbines pulls her attention up.

The Quinjet descends slowly, its engines quieting as it settles onto the landing pad. Her spine straightens involuntarily. She catches herself smoothing her palm against her thigh, like she’s bracing for something.

The ramp lowers with a hiss, and then there you are.

You spot her the moment you step down.

Your steps falter just a bit, surprised but not displeased. Your expression shifts into something soft and unreadable before you offer a faint smile.

“Hey,” you greet lightly. “You’re still up?”

Natasha picks up on the subtle wariness in your voice. Not distrust, just a layer of confusion she knows she put there.

“I wanted to talk,” she says, quieter now, her arms unfolding slightly. “If that’s okay.”

You pause. Then, after a breath, you nod.

“Yeah… we probably should’ve had this talk before I went around thinking we were something other than friends,” you joke, a little self-deprecating, but not cruel.

Natasha winces, her mouth twitching. She knows she earned that.

You exhale and tilt your head toward the hallway. 

“Come on. Let’s talk in my room. I need to get this mission stink off me.”

She follows without hesitation, grateful for the return of your usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, you do,” she quips back.

You gasp in mock offense, throwing a look over your shoulder. 

“Wow. Brutal honesty? No mercy, huh?”

Natasha just smirks. “Would you prefer lies?”

“Only the flattering kind,” you call as you enter your room.

Natasha follows in after you with a small chuckle. She sits at the edge of your bed, hands in her lap, waiting as you disappear into your bathroom. She hears the rush of water from the shower and feels oddly tense like she’s waiting for a mission to start, but this one requires emotional precision she hasn’t quite mastered.

When the bathroom door finally opens, and you emerge, a towel draped around your shoulders, skin still damp and fresh from the steam, Natasha’s thoughts short-circuit for a moment.

Her gaze catches on the curve of your neck, the soft line of your collarbone—

She tears her eyes away, scolding herself silently.

This is exactly how things got so muddled.

You shoot her an amused look as you dry your hair with the towel. 

“You gonna stare all night or talk?”

Natasha clears her throat, suddenly focused on her hands again. 

“Right. Sorry. I just…wanted to ask something.”

You toss the towel aside as you nod.

“Ask away.”

She hesitates. 

“Why…why did you think we were dating?”

You blink, surprised at the question. Then you let out a soft breath and sit beside her on the bed.

“Well,” you begin, voice easy but edged with a thread of honesty, “months ago, you asked me to go to the Avengers Festival with you. We spent the whole day together. Just us.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Natasha replies quietly.

“I did. And I was even more excited when I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

You glance at her, gauging her reaction.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line. 

“Only it wasn’t… to me.”

“Right,” you say, a hint of disappointment in your tone before you continue with a sigh. “But then you invited me to that new restaurant for dinner the next night.”

“You mentioned it once. I thought you’d want to go.”

“I did mention it. To Wanda. I didn’t expect you to remember something I had said in passing.”

Natasha lowers her gaze. 

“I do,” she murmurs.

You smile faintly. 

“Then came movie nights. Every week. Just us.”

“You hadn’t seen any of the classics. I thought it’d be fun.”

“And it was,” you say before teasingly adding as you lightly nudge her shoulders. “Especially learning you know all the lines.”

There’s a pause. Then your voice softens.

“Then…you kissed me.”

Natasha’s breath catches.

“Twice,” you continue.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Three times,” you correct with a small smile, “if we’re counting the one where you got nervous and bailed halfway through, settling for the top of my head instead when you thought I was asleep.”

Natasha swallows, stunned into silence.

“Well?” you ask gently. “You gonna explain? Because last time I checked…”

You shift toward her, slow and deliberate.

“…friends don’t kiss.”

She searches for an answer. Any answer. But none of them feel true. Not the ones she told herself, not the ones that let her avoid the real thing.

“These past days I've been trying to convince myself that kissing didn’t have to mean anything,” Natasha admits, voice small. “That I could just…”

She trails off.

“Avoid what you actually felt?” you offer, your tone gentle, not accusatory.

She meets your eyes then, and something in her cracks. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to admit I wanted something more. Because if I did…and you didn’t…”

“I did,” you interrupt softly.

Your hand lifts to her hair, your fingers brushing a few loose strands back, tucking them gently behind her ear.

“I do.”

Her breath trembles.

You stroke her cheek with your thumb, grounding her.

“No more mixed signals, Nat,” you say with a playful edge, though your eyes are sincere. “You’re gonna have to be more direct, or I’ll start thinking I made it all up.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Her hands slide to your waist as she pulls you closer, steady and sure.

“Tomorrow night…will you go out with me?” she murmurs.

You grin, raising a brow.

“On a date?”

She nods, smiling now too.

“On a date.”

You lean your forehead against hers.

“Then I’d love to.”

There’s a beat of stillness, warmth blooming in the quiet between you. Then Natasha’s gaze flicks behind you toward the bed and back at you, one brow rising.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

You raise an amused brow.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You smirk playfully.

“Because, in case you’re unsure…” you whisper, tilting your head closer to hers. “…friends don’t typically sleep with each other either.”

Natasha’s eyes sparkle, a soft smile forming on her face.

“Then it’s a good thing,” she says, drawing you in, her voice a low murmur at your lips, “that we’re not just friends anymore.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The first thing you felt was warmth. Not the comfortable, wrapped in your own blankets kind of warmth. No..this was different. Too warm and too solid.

A slow, creeping dread settled in your stomach before your brain even caught up. Something was wrong. Your bed wasn’t this soft. Your sheets weren’t this silky. And..oh God, your room didn’t smell like this. Clean, crisp linen. A faint trace of something expensive. Something dangerous.

Your breath hitched as the weight beside you shifted, a slow, unconscious movement. Someone was next to you. Your entire body locked up. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.

Your pulse skyrocketed as your fingers clutched the edge of the covers. Your entire life flashed before your eyes. Because you weren’t just in a stranger’s bed. You were in a stranger’s bed naked.

A slow, excruciating turn of your head confirmed your worst nightmare. There, draped across the pillow like a goddamn work of art, lay the most devastatingly attractive woman you had ever seen in your life. Red hair, tousled from sleep. A sharp, elegant jawline. Bare shoulders, toned arms, and, oh.

You whipped your gaze away, biting down on your lip to keep from making an undignified noise. You were going to die.

Memories flashed, fragments of last night slamming into you like a truck. The bar. The teasing smirk. A hand at the small of your back. A whisper at your ear. Your legs shaking as you stumbled through a door. The sheer heat of a body pressing you into the mattress. Oh my God!!

You bolted upright, panic exploding through your chest as you threw the covers off, eyes scanning the room for your clothes. There, jeans by the nightstand. Your shirt, hanging from the damn lamp.

“Fuck..” you whimpered, scrambling out of bed as quietly as possible. Your hands trembled as you shoved one leg into your jeans, your movements frantic. What did I do? What the hell did I do?! You had never done something like this. Never!!

A one-night stand? With a woman who was clearly older, clearly experienced, and clearly too damn attractive for your own good? No. Absolutely not. No. This wasn’t your life-

“Leaving so soon?”

Your soul left your body. You froze, every nerve ending screaming at the sound of that voice, low, smooth, amused as hell. Slowly, so slowly, you turned. And immediately wished you hadn’t.

The woman was awake now. And stretching. Naked. Completely, unapologetically, naked. You made a sound that could only be described as a dying animal. You whipped your gaze away so fast you nearly snapped your own neck. “Sorry..”

A low chuckle. “Cute.”

Your entire body locked up, heat rushing to your face. “You’re- you’re naked..”

“Mmm.” The woman sounded smug. “So were you, if I remember correctly.”

You clutched your jeans tighter, swallowing a scream. “I-I was drunk!”

“I was too.” she mused. “But didn’t seem to bother you when you were on your knees for me.”

Your knees buckled. “I-I have to go!” you blurted, tripping over yourself in your desperate attempt to shove your foot into your jeans.

The sheets rustled. And then, bare feet on the floor. Your stomach dropped. Your body locked as a presence closed in behind you. Overwhelming and too close. You sucked in a breath, hands trembling as you reached for your shirt.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” The voice was lower now, teasing, dangerous. You felt it before you saw it, a ghost of warmth at your exposed shoulder. A deliberate, torturously slow touch that never quite landed.

Your stomach flipped. “You were so eager last night..” she murmured, voice mocking, sinful. “Kept saying my name over and over again. Clutching my hair like your life depended on it-”

“S-Stop!! I don’t remember that!” you squeaked, your face burning.

A smirk. “Shame.”

You whimpered. You needed to leave. Before you did something stupid, like look at her again. “I- I have work!” you blurted, nearly falling over yourself as you shoved your arms through your shirt. “I- I have my first day-”

“Oh?” The amusement in her voice was undeniable. “First day?”

Your blood ran cold. You had said too much. But before you could backtrack, before you could even process the absolute disaster you had just walked into, she moved. Closer.

A single finger ghosted down your spine. Barely there. Not touching. Not quite. But enough. Enough to shatter every last coherent thought in your brain.

Your knees buckled, a firm grip caught your waist, steadying you. “Careful, sweetheart.” the redhead purred, lips dangerously close to your ear now. “Wouldn’t want you falling apart before your shift even starts.”

You made a noise you would never admit to. That was it. You were leaving. “I-I gotta go!” you sputtered, yanking yourself free and bolting toward the door, nearly tripping over your own shoes.

You didn’t look back.

You stumbled into the hospital lobby, heart still racing, legs still weak, body still on fire from this morning’s disaster. There was no time to process, before you could even take a breath, you were swept into a sea of white coats and nervous chatter. The new interns, all buzzing with a mix of excitement and terror.

You needed to get it together. You needed to forget. You needed to pretend you hadn’t just woken up in some impossibly sexy, dangerously confident woman’s bed.

“Are you okay?”

Your head snapped up, startled. A guy, tall, dark hair, sharp eyes, watched you curiously. “Yeah.” you lied instantly, gripping your bag’s strap like a lifeline. “Totally fine. First-day jitters, y’know?”

He smirked. “Oh yeah, we’re all on the verge of puking, don’t worry. I’m Levi, by the way.”

“Y/n.” you replied, shaking his hand, “are way too calm about this.”

He chuckled, and soon, more introductions followed, Taryn, Helm, DeLuca names and faces blurring together in your already-frazzled mind.

Then, a clap cut through the chaos. “Alright, listen up!”

A senior resident had arrived, scanning the group with a sharp, assessing gaze. “Welcome to hell. You’re the new interns, which means you’re at the bottom of the food chain. You don’t speak unless spoken to, you don’t slow us down, and most importantly, you don’t kill anyone. Got it?”

A chorus of nervous “Yes, doctor.”

Between navigating the endless white hallways, trying (and failing) to keep up with the nonstop stream of medical jargon, and the sheer terror of knowing you were now responsible for actual patients, you were barely holding it together.

But finally, finally, you felt like you were catching your breath. Until you slammed straight into someone. The impact sent you stumbling back, clipboard slipping from your grasp, papers flying everywhere.

“Crap, sorry-” you started, already bending down to grab your things. Then you looked up. And your blood turned to ice.

Your heart sank, breath caught in your throat, the entire hospital suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating, too cruel.

Because standing before you, in full scrubs, arms crossed, an obnoxiously amused smirk plastered across her face, was your one-night stand. The woman whose bed you had fled from like your life depended on it.

The woman you had spent the entire morning trying to erase from your memory. Pure delight flickered in her emerald eyes, her smirk widening as she took you in.

“Well, well.” she drawled, clearly entertained. “Look what the hospital dragged in.”

You wanted to die. “You..!” The word stuck in your throat, barely making it out as you gripped the edges of your coat. “You work here?!”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, her arms folding across her chest like this was the funniest thing she’d seen all day. “I do now.” Her gaze flicked to your intern badge, amusement curling at her lips. “And you, Dr. Y/l/n… are probably my new intern.”

You stopped breathing. Your stomach plummeted. Your jaw tightened, heat crawling up your neck, not from embarrassment, not from flustered panic, but from pure, burning frustration.

This couldn’t be happening. No, this was actually a nightmare. You clenched your fists, forcing your voice to stay professional, even. “No.” you said flatly. “No! You are not my attending!”

Natasha arched a brow, that damn smirk never fading. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

You gritted your teeth. “Don’t call me that.”

She chuckled, tilting her head slightly. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

You flinched. Hands curling into fists. Jaw locking. Blood boiling. You had worked your ass off to get here. You had sacrificed everything to stand among the best, to become a damn surgeon. And now? Now you had to work under the woman you had made the worst mistake of your life with? Absolutely not.

“This is unprofessional!” you snapped. “I don’t care what happened last night, but here? In this hospital? You are my boss. Nothing more.”

Natasha’s grin widened, far too entertained. “Boss?” she echoed, feigning innocence as she took a step closer. “That’s funny. Didn’t seem like you minded me being in charge last night.”

Your blood boiled. Your body tensed, face burning, not in embarrassment, but in sheer, unfiltered frustration. “I don’t want to work under you.” you bit out.

Natasha’s eyes gleamed, her smirk turning downright wicked. “Oh, sweetheart.” she murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous. “You already did.”

You nearly exploded. Heat rushed to your face. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to say something, to argue, to shut her down, to tell her exactly where she could shove her insufferable smirk.

But you couldn’t afford this. This was your career. Your future. So instead, you forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, forced yourself to be the bigger person.

“This is a professional environment.” you said stiffly, snatching your clipboard off the ground. “I don’t care what happened. It’s done. It’s over. I’ll switch teams if I have to, but I refuse to let this interfere with my job.”

Natasha hummed, mockingly considering your words. “You do that..” she mused. “But until then, Dr. Y/l/n…you’re stuck with me.”

Your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as you swallowed the thousand curses sitting at the tip of your tongue. You straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and without another word, stormed past her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break.

——

The ER was chaotic, but in a way that was almost comforting. Here, surrounded by the hum of beeping monitors, the shuffle of rushing nurses, the sharp calls of orders being thrown across the room, you could breathe again.

Here, you could focus. You could forget. Forget the fact that you had woken up in Natasha Romanoff’s bed. Forget the way you had slammed straight into her in the hallway like some kind of rom-com protagonist in a fever dream. Forget the way she had smirked, amused as hell, like she hadn’t just wrecked your entire existence with one night.

Because right now? There was a patient to save. And that was all that mattered. A nurse shoved a chart into your hands as you jogged toward the trauma bay. “27-year-old male, motor vehicle accident. Multiple lacerations, blunt abdominal trauma, and a closed femur fracture. BP’s dropping, and he’s tachycardic. He’s all yours.”

Your first real patient. Your heart leapt into your throat, but you didn’t hesitate. “Got it.”

Pushing through the curtain, you snapped on gloves, immediately assessing the scene. The man on the stretcher was ashen, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Blood soaked through his torn shirt, pooling from a deep gash across his abdomen. His leg, bent at an unnatural angle, lay immobilized.

Internal bleeding. Hemorrhagic shock. “Sir, can you hear me?” you asked, pressing a hand against his shoulder.

The man groaned, eyelids fluttering. “Hurts…”

“I know, we’re going to help you.” you assured him, eyes flicking to the monitors.

He was crashing. “We need two large-bore IVs.” you said, voice steady. “Hang a liter of lactated Ringer’s. Crossmatch for blood.”

“Already on it.” a nurse confirmed.

Grabbing trauma shears, you cut through his bloodied shirt. The wound was deep, gaping. Bad. Focus.

You reached for the ultrasound probe, pressing it against his abdomen, and there it was. Dark, pooling black on the screen. Blood. Internal hemorrhage. Your stomach clenched.

“Scan is positive.” you reported quickly. “He’s bleeding into his abdomen.”

“We need imaging.” a nurse said, already prepping the portable X-ray for his leg.

You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’ll get an abdominal CT after he’s stabilized-”

Then the monitor alarm blared. BP dropping. Heart rate spiking. “Pressure’s tanking!” a nurse shouted.

Your pulse skyrocketed. You knew what to do. You knew, but suddenly, everything felt too fast. Your mind whited out. Your hands shook as you grabbed the saline bag, fumbling with the IV.

“We- we need to push more fluids, get blood down here-”

“Move.”

The voice was sharp. Cold. Unyielding. Before you could process, Natasha swept past you, taking control of the situation without hesitation. Gone was the amused, smug woman from earlier. Gone was the flirty, teasing tone.

This was Dr. Romanoff. And she was all business. “Push a unit of O-negative now.” she ordered, her voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. “I want a second line in, 18 gauge. Keep the fluids running. Prep for an emergency laparotomy.”

The room snapped into motion. No hesitation. No wasted time. Natasha’s hands moved expertly, assessing the injury with calculated precision. “He’s peritoneal. This isn’t something we wait on.” she said briskly. “He’s going up to the OR.”

The OR. You stared, blindsided, mind short-circuiting. You had expected Natasha to take over. To push you aside and tell you to go chart it like a good little intern.

But the OR? That meant surgery. That meant you were going with her. “He’s going up?” you repeated stupidly, voice higher than it should’ve been.

Natasha shot you a look. “That’s what I just said. Unless you want to stand here and watch him bleed out?”

You snapped out of it. “N-No, I- right, OR. Got it.”

“Then move.”

She didn’t wait, already calling ahead to the surgical team as the gurney rolled forward. You hesitated for only a second before grabbing the other side, helping push the stretcher toward the elevator. Your heart hammered, adrenaline surging through your veins.

This was happening. You were going into the OR. On your first day. As the elevator doors slid shut, Natasha finally looked at you. Not with amusement. Not with the teasing glint she had worn this morning. This was different. This was real.

“Do not freeze up in there.” she said, her tone cool, firm. “If I let you assist, you stay focused. If you panic again, I’m kicking you off the table. Understood?”

You swallowed. You nodded. “Understood.”

She studied you for a beat, then nodded. The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to the bright, sterile lights of the operating room. And just like that, you were in it. Bright overhead lights glared down on the open abdomen of the man on the table, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, mixing with the sterile burn of antiseptics. The beeping monitors echoed through the room, a steady, nerve-wracking reminder of how little time they had.

Your hands shook as you stepped up to the table, gloved fingers hovering over the surgical field. “Y/l/n, you are assisting me, not standing there like an idiot.” Natasha snapped, not even glancing up. “Hands on the field. Now.”

You snapped into motion, placing your hands on the edges of the incision, breath uneven as you took in the damage. Blood. So much blood. The patient’s abdomen was a mess of pooling crimson, dark and slick, spilling out with every passing second. Too much blood.

“He’s still bleeding out.” Natasha said briskly, already moving, hands precise, unforgiving, unstoppable. “I need a better view. Retract.”

Scrambling for the retractor, you adjusted your grip, unsteady fingers pulling back the edges of the incision, exposing the ruptured spleen beneath.

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “The splenic artery’s still hemorrhaging..” she growled. “Suction, NOW.”

You fumbled with the suction catheter, pressing it into the cavity, watching as more blood gushed out, fast and relentless.

“Another clamp.” she ordered, hand outstretched, not even looking up as the instrument was placed into her palm. “Suction here. I need a clearer field.”

The nurse complied instantly, moving in sync with her. Natasha was in control, the chaos of the OR bending to her will, her focus so absolute that for a moment, you were just trying to keep up. You had never seen someone move like that, so sure of every decision, so damn precise. And you had certainly never seen this version of Natasha before.

Gone was the teasing smirk, the smug amusement, this was nothing like the woman who had toyed with you in the hallway, nothing like the one who had made you feel like the punchline of some inside joke. This Natasha was something else entirely.

“Y/l/n, I need you to assist.”

The words snapped you back into focus. You moved to the other side of the table, the weight of the moment slamming into you. This was real. This was happening. Your heart pounded, but you nodded, swallowing the nerves that threatened to choke you.

You were ready. Or at least, you thought you were. Then it all went wrong. The blood flow surged again, faster than expected. The clamp slipped from its position. A sudden gush of dark, arterial blood flooded the cavity, spilling over the sterile drapes, soaking everything in red.

The room changed instantly. A beat of silence, then voices overlapping“BP dropping-” “He’s losing pressure-” “Get another unit of blood down here-”

Your vision blurred. The sounds around you became distant, muffled like they were coming from underwater. The instruments in your hands felt foreign, too heavy, too light at the same time. You could feel the eyes on you, the other surgeons, the nurses, the interns watching from the observation deck above, staring down at you like a lab experiment about to fail.

Your breath caught in your throat. You were freezing. Natasha’s hands had stopped. She wasn’t fixing it. She was waiting. The realization hit like a slap. She wasn’t saving you. She was letting it happen. Letting you drown in the moment. Because if you couldn’t handle this, if you couldn’t keep it together when things got bad, you had no business being in this OR.

Your lungs burned. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You couldn’t breathe- A touch. Not harsh. Not demanding. Just a single gloved hand pressing against the back of yours, steady, deliberate.

Not taking over. Not fixing it for you. Just grounding you. “Look at me.”

The words weren’t sharp this time. They weren’t barked over the chaos. They were quiet. Firm. Your eyes flickered up, locking onto green. Natasha was looking at you. Not the patient. Not the monitors. You.

Not mocking. Not amused. Just watching. Your chest tightened, but then, something clicked. You had trained for this. You knew what to do.

The blood obscured the view, but the clamp had only slipped, it wasn’t lost. You forced your hands to steady, gripping the instrument properly this time. Found the artery beneath the pooling blood. Slid the clamp into place, securing it with the exact pressure needed to stop the hemorrhaging without crushing the tissue.

The bleeding slowed. The monitors stabilized. For a second, the entire OR seemed to pause. Then Natasha nodded, expression unreadable, and went back to work. “Good.” she said simply. “Now keep up.”

And just like that, you were back in it. The panic didn’t disappear completely, but it shifted, settling into something you could control. Your breath steadied. Your hands followed Natasha’s instructions, each movement more sure than the last.

By the time they were ready to close, you could barely believe it. You had almost fallen apart, but you had done it. And Natasha had let you break just enough to prove you could put yourself back together.

As you placed the last suture, Natasha watched you for a moment, then simply pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the tray. Without looking at you, she said, “You won’t forget that moment.”

The hallway outside the OR was quieter than it should have been, considering how loud your heart was pounding. The rush of the surgery still coursed through your veins, but it wasn’t just the adrenaline anymore.

It was her. Natasha. The woman who had pushed you to the edge in that OR. The woman who had watched you struggle. The woman who had let you drown just enough before forcing you to swim. And now, she was standing against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like she already owned the world.

Or worse..like she owned you. “Not bad.” she mused, tilting her head slightly, watching you with undeniable interest. “For an intern.”

You swallowed, fingers curling into your scrub top as you forced yourself to breathe. You should walk away. You should thank her, say Goodnight, Dr. Romanoff, and pretend your legs weren’t seconds from giving out.

But something was gnawing at you. Had been since you stepped into that OR. Natasha had picked you. But why?

The question stuck in your throat, creeping under your skin until you couldn’t ignore it. You forced yourself to ask. “Did you..Did you pick me because we-”

God, you wished you could swallow the words back down. But Natasha was already on you. She stepped forward, slow, predatory, her smirk deepening as she leaned in just enough to make your body lock up.

“Because we fucked?”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The heat of her body, her presence, too overwhelming, too much. And then, just for a second..That teasing flickered. Just for a second, Natasha’s smirk softened. And when she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“I picked you because you were the best.” she said, her eyes locking onto yours like she was pinning you in place. “Because you had the highest scores. Because your recommendations spoke for themselves. Because I wanted to see if you could handle real pressure.”

Your chest tightened. And somehow, that made everything so much worse. Because you had been afraid of the answer. Afraid that this morning had been a mistake you would never outrun, a stain that would follow your career before it had even started.

But it wasn’t. Natasha had picked you because you were good. And somehow, that made everything so much worse. You barely had time to process it before someone else entered the hallway.

“Dr. Romanoff.”

You turned just as another surgeon approached, her stride purposeful, her eyes locked onto Natasha like she knew exactly what she wanted. She didn’t even glance at you. Instead, she stepped in close, fingers grazing Natasha’s arm with easy familiarity, her touch dragging just enough to linger.

“I’m waiting for you..” she murmured, voice low. Suggestive. “Sleeping room.”

Your stomach twisted. And Natasha? Natasha just smiled. Not her usual smirk. Not teasing. Not mocking. Something pleased. Something interested. She turned back to you, her smirk curling just enough to be infuriating.

“I’ve got business to do.” she said smoothly. “See you around, Dr. Y/l/n.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t move. You just stood there, watching as Natasha turned, as she let that other woman lead her away, as she disappeared down the hall like none of this even mattered.

Like you weren’t still standing there, pulse still racing, skin still burning from where she had touched you. And maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe this was exactly what you should have expected.

Maybe Natasha had only been proving a point, showing you that you had nothing to prove. That you had been chosen for your talent, not for a night you barely remembered. But the sick feeling in your stomach said otherwise. The way your skin still tingled said otherwise. And the fact that Natasha hadn’t looked back?

That said everything.

Part 2

-

-

-

The room is quiet, except for the soft, steady breathing of your friends. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a faint golden glow through the sheer curtains. It’s peaceful—until you stir slightly, shifting in your sleep, and realize something feels…off. 

Your arm. 

It’s draped over someone. Warm. Comfortable. 

You blink, still groggy, but as your vision clears, the realization slams into you like a truck. 

It’s Agatha. 

Your breath catches in your throat. WTF? Your pulse picks up, your whole body going rigid as the weight of the situation sinks in. 

When the hell did this happen? You don’t even remember moving in your sleep, let alone ending up in this position. 

You need to move. Now. 

Very, very slowly, you start to retract your arm, making sure not to make any sudden movements. But then—Agatha shifts. 

Your entire body locks up as she turns ever so slightly toward you, her face now just inches from yours. Her breathing remains soft, steady, oblivious to your internal crisis. But you? You’re completely frozen, hyper-aware of the way her lips are barely parted, of the faint scent of lavender and something deeper, something distinctly her lingering between you. 

You swallow hard. She’s still asleep. It’s fine. Just move—carefully. 

Your eyes flick to the others—Wanda, still curled up on her side, completely knocked out. Jen, Alice and Lilia, equally dead to the world. No one saw. No one knows. Good. 

You take a slow, careful breath and start again, inching your arm away, moving like you’re defusing a bomb. 

Finally, after what feels like forever, you pull back completely. You don’t dare look at Agatha again as you carefully, so carefully, shift away from her warmth and push yourself upright. 

The second you’re free, you slip out of the mattress and quietly make your way toward the bathroom, your heart still hammering in your chest. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

You brace yourself against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair’s a mess, your face is flushed, and your mind is racing. 

What the hell was that? 

Shaking your head, you reach for the faucet, splashing cool water onto your face, trying—desperately—to get it together. 

When everyone finally wakes up, you do everything in your power to avoid looking at Agatha. You keep your head down, focusing on your food, trying to act as normal as possible. But inside? You’re spiraling. 

Your mind keeps replaying the morning over and over. How long had your arm been around her? Did you move in your sleep, or—God, what if she had been the one to move closer? No. No, that’s insane. Right? You shake the thought away, stabbing at your scrambled eggs like they personally offended you. 

Meanwhile, Agatha is just casually eating pancakes, completely unbothered. Because of course she is. She doesn’t even know about it. Meanwhile, you’re sitting here, losing your damn mind. 

Wanda, ever perceptive, narrows her eyes at you from across the table. “You good?” she asks, sipping her coffee. 

You blink at her, then quickly nod. “Yeah. Just… head hurts. Probably a hangover.” 

It’s not a complete lie. Your head does feel kind of heavy, but that’s not really the problem. The real problem is the fact that you woke up cuddling Agatha-fucking-Harkness and now you have to act like everything is fine. 

The conversation at the table continues, and you do your best to stay quiet, to blend in. But then Lilia, ever the social butterfly, claps her hands together. “Okay, so. I was thinking—since we had a cute little slumber party last night, why not go all out and hit the town tonight?” 

“Oh, I’m so down for that,” Alice chimes in immediately. “It’s been forever since we had a real night out.” 

Wanda nods. “I could use some dancing.” 

You, however, tense at the idea. The last thing you want is another night of potential chaos, not when you’re still recovering from this morning’s crisis. “I don’t know…” you start hesitantly, but before you can even finish, Alice is already rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, come on. We’re all going,” she insists, nudging you. “Don’t be lame.” 

Jen raises a brow at you. “Yeah, don’t be lame.” 

You sigh, already knowing you’ve lost this battle. “Fine.” 

Jen grins. “Great! Then pre-game at my villa. Be there at six.” 

And just like that, your fate for the night is sealed. After breakfast, you retreat to your villa, hoping—praying—that you can shake off whatever this morning was before the sun sets. 

The time passes quickly, and before you know it, the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting deep hues of orange and purple across the sky. You stand before the mirror, putting the final touches on your outfit—a black satin slip dress with a high thigh slit, paired with Bottega Veneta Spritz Strap Pumps. The thin diamond tennis bracelet on your wrist catches the light as you adjust your RCJ 14K Yellow Gold Long Polished Teardrop Dangling Earrings. Your hair is sleek and straight, every strand perfectly in place, and your makeup is soft glam—sultry but effortless. You throw on your Black Saint Laurent Le 5 à 7 Mini bag, taking one last glance at your reflection. 

You’re putting in extra effort tonight, not that you’d ever admit why. 

With a deep breath, you head out and make your way to Jen’s villa for pre-game. Music hums through the space, laughter fills the air, and the energy is already buzzing. You keep your distance from Agatha, making it a point to steer clear whenever possible. Not that anyone notices—after all, you and Agatha aren’t exactly known for being close. Just two people existing in the same space. That’s all. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

Drinks are poured, shots are taken, and the group is in high spirits by the time you all pile into the van heading to the club. The moment you step inside, you quickly drag Wanda to sit beside you, using her as a barrier between you and Agatha. You don’t even glance in her direction, focusing instead on the road ahead. 

Tonight, you’re determined to have fun. To forget. 

Or at least, try to. 

At the club, the music is pounding, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and perfume. Neon lights flash in dizzying patterns over the dance floor, illuminating the crowd as they move in sync with the heavy bass. The energy inside is infectious—an intoxicating blend of excitement and chaos, like anything could happen tonight. 

You and your friends weave through the crowd, heading straight for the bar. The bartender barely acknowledges you as he pours drinks with practiced efficiency. Once everyone has their orders, you settle into a booth across from the bar section. The conversation flows effortlessly, laughter mixing with the pounding music and occasional cheers from the crowd. It’s comfortable, fun—until your glass is empty, and you find yourself hyper-aware of a certain presence nearby. 

Agatha. 

You refuse to glance in her direction, even though you know she’s there, sitting with the others. It’s ridiculous, really—acting like avoiding eye contact will make the morning’s incident disappear. But the memory of waking up with your arm draped over her is still seared into your mind, making your pulse quicken despite your best efforts to act normal. 

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you announce, standing up. 

No one pays much attention as you weave through the crowd back to the bar. You slide onto a barstool, signaling the bartender. 

“Whiskey, neat.” 

As you wait, a figure slides into the seat next to you. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a familiar voice says smoothly. 

You turn, and there she is—Rio Vidal. 

Your brain momentarily short-circuits. 

“Uh… hi,” you stutter, caught off guard. 

Rio smirks, clearly amused by your reaction. Her white silk shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be distracting, tucked into black tailored pants that accentuate her frame. Her hair is in a messy bun, and somehow, that only makes her look more put together. She looks effortlessly hot. 

“You were at my flower shop yesterday. And now here you are,” she muses, tilting her head. 

“Wow, fate,” you tease, mirroring her smirk. 

Your whiskey arrives, and you take a sip, feeling bolder under the influence of alcohol and Rio’s presence. 

“My friends are here, too,” you say, nodding toward your booth. 

Rio follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a raised brow. “And yet, you’re over here. With me.” 

“What can I say? I like good company,” you quip. 

The conversation flows easily. You tell her what you actually do for a living, and Rio raises an eyebrow, setting her drink down with a quiet clink. 

"Wait, you’re a CEO? Of a tech company?" she repeats, clearly impressed, but there’s also a hint of amusement in her tone, like she’s reevaluating you. 

“You don’t believe me?” you challenge, feigning offense, tilting your head slightly. 

“Oh, I believe you." She studies you for a second, then smirks. "It just wasn’t what I was expecting." She takes a sip of her own drink, her gaze lingering on you over the rim of her glass. "Guess I should stop underestimating you, huh?" 

Somehow, you find yourself bringing up last night’s dare. 

“So, funny story,” you start, grinning, “I actually texted you last night.” 

Rio tilts her head. “What?” 

“My friends dared me to text you. Just a ‘hey~’ but, um, yeah… you kinda blocked me,” you admit, laughing. 

Rio chuckles, shaking her head. “That was you? I thought it was some random prank. Guess I should unblock you, huh?” 

Before you can respond, Wanda approaches. She glances between you and Rio, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. 

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” she teases, but her eyes gleam with amusement. 

“Wanda,” you warn. 

“Rio,” Wanda greets, offering a polite nod. 

“Wanda,” Rio acknowledges smoothly. 

Wanda shoots you one last smirk before sauntering off, leaving you with Rio again. 

As the drinks keep flowing, you grow bolder, a little more reckless. Your fingers brush Rio’s arm when you laugh, the warmth of her skin lingering against yours. You lean in just a little too close, your faces inches apart, her cologne mixing with the scent of whiskey on your breath. And Rio—she doesn’t move away. Instead, she smirks, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The moment stretches, charged and unspoken, the club's music pulsing around you like a heartbeat. 

The conversation shifts into deeper territory. Rio talks about her work, her passions—the way she started her flower shop, how she loves the artistry behind arranging bouquets, how she finds peace in the quiet moments before the shop opens. She speaks with a quiet intensity, her hands moving as she describes the feeling of working with something alive, something delicate. 

You find yourself listening closely, watching the way her brows furrow when she talks about the struggles of running a business, how her voice softens when she mentions the flowers her mother used to love. There's something deeply personal about the way she shares these things, as if she’s not used to talking about herself like this. 

The way she gestures with her hands when she speaks, the intelligence in her eyes—it’s familiar. Too familiar. 

She reminds you of Agatha. 

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, a whisper of something you don’t want to examine too closely. 

“Come dance with me,” Rio suddenly says, extending a hand. 

“Oh, I don’t really—” 

“Come on,” she insists, grabbing your hand before you can protest further. 

You let her pull you onto the dance floor, the alcohol buzzing in your veins. She’s a good dancer—confident, fluid. The way she moves her hips, the way her brown eyes lock onto yours—it’s hypnotic. 

And yet, as you sway to the music, as Rio pulls you closer, your mind betrays you. 

For a split second, you imagine Agatha in her place. 

That thought snaps you back to reality. 

“I— I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, pulling away. 

Before Rio can respond, you slip through the crowd, your heart pounding as you make your way to the restroom, desperate to catch your breath. 

While you’re inside the cubicle, trying to steady your breathing, the bathroom door swings open with a loud creak, followed by the sharp click of heels against the tile floor. You freeze. Then, you hear it—that voice. 

Agatha. 

She’s on the phone. 

Your stomach tightens as you strain to listen, her words clipped, her tone sharp. At first, it sounds like she’s instructing Ralph to find something in their house, but the irritation in her voice grows quickly. 

“What do you mean you can’t find it?” she snaps. 

A pause. You imagine Ralph giving some lazy excuse on the other end. 

A scoff. “Are you serious right now?” 

Then, her voice changes—lower, colder. “I left you alone for two weeks. Two. Weeks. And you still can’t handle basic responsibilities?” 

There’s another pause. Then Agatha actually lets out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. "Must be nice to just sit back and have a good time while I’m the one keeping everything from falling apart." 

Your breath catches. 

She sounds nothing like the Agatha you’re used to—calm, in control, always with a teasing edge. No, this is different. This is raw, her voice trembling with frustration, exhaustion. Like she’s at the end of her rope. 

Ralph must say something that makes it worse because her voice turns even more bitter. 

“Real problems?” she repeats, disbelief dripping from her words. “What do you even know about real problems, Ralph?” 

Her footsteps pace across the bathroom floor, the sharp tap of her heels echoing in the quiet space. 

“You have no job. No responsibilities. You just sit in a house that I pay for, acting like you’re the one suffering.” 

Silence. Then, a sharp inhale—like she’s trying to hold something back. 

“You don’t even care, do you?” she asks, softer this time. But there’s something broken in her voice now, something she can’t hide anymore. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

It’s not your business. You shouldn’t be listening. But you can’t move. You can’t stop hearing it. 

Then, the final blow comes. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Agatha says, and her voice isn’t raised, isn’t full of anger—it’s just… final. “We’re done, Ralph. It’s over.” 

Silence stretches. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. 

Then, a quiet, “Okay then.” 

And the call ends. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing. Then, the unmistakable sound of a quiet sob. 

Your chest tightens. 

You stay frozen in the stall, hands gripping your own arms, feeling like an intruder in a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else to witness. 

Then, Agatha moves. You hear the creak of another cubicle door opening, then the soft click of it closing. 

Now’s your chance. 

You push the door open as quietly as possible, stepping out on light feet, careful not to make a sound. You glance once at the closed cubicle where Agatha is, then slip out of the bathroom, the air outside feeling heavier than before. 

You make your way back to the bar section, swallowing hard. When you reach Rio, she gives you a curious look, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, studying you. 

You force a smile, shaking off the weight in your chest. “Yeah. Just—needed a moment.” 

Rio doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press. 

You pick up your drink, taking a longer sip than necessary, forcing yourself to focus back on her. It’s fine. You’re fine. 

But out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha walk out of the bathroom, heading toward the booth seating. She looks composed, but there’s something in her eyes—something not quite put together. 

And you know. 

She’s not okay. 

After some time, Jen walks over to you, looking a little uneasy. She sighs, rubbing her temple before speaking. "Hey, we’re heading out early. Lilia’s not feeling well—her stomach is killing her. And Alice… well, she’s a little too drunk right now." 

You glance over at Alice, who is giggling at something Wanda is saying, her head resting lazily against Lilia’s shoulder. Wanda looks like she’s already bracing herself for the chaos of getting them both back to their villas. 

"Do you need help?" you ask, already preparing to get up. 

Jen shakes her head. "No, we got it. But…" She hesitates, then nods in Agatha’s direction. "She doesn’t want to leave. Said she wants to drink more. Can you keep an eye on her?"  

Your stomach twists. Yeah, you do know why. 

You glance toward Agatha, sitting alone at the booth, swirling the last of her drink, her eyes distant. You swallow, forcing down the hesitance rising in your chest. 

"Yeah," you say finally. "I got her." 

Jen offers a grateful smile and squeezes your arm lightly. "Thanks. I owe you one." 

She turns back to Alice and Lilia, helping Wanda guide them toward the exit. You watch them leave, then exhale slowly, glancing back at Agatha. 

You’re still talking to Rio, but your attention keeps drifting. You steal glances toward Agatha, watching the way she nurses her drink, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the glass. There’s something heavy in her posture, something resigned. You know why she’s like this, and it breaks you a little to see her like that. It takes everything in you not to go to her immediately, to fix whatever’s weighing her down. 

Rio notices. 

She nudges your arm, her eyes flickering to Agatha. "Hey, I was thinking of staying a bit longer, but…" She trails off, tilting her head slightly toward the woman sitting alone. "Your friend needs you tonight." 

You shift uncomfortably, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You don’t want Rio to go—not yet. But at the same time, you don’t want to stay put either—you want to go to Agatha. But she’s right. 

"You sure?" you ask, glancing at her. 

Rio smiles, an easy, knowing look in her eyes. "Yeah. You got this?" 

You hesitate for a moment, looking back at Agatha. There’s something about the way she’s sitting, like the weight of the world is pressing down on her shoulders. 

You nod. "Yeah. I got this." 

Rio gives you a small smile and squeezes your shoulder briefly before stepping back. As she turns to leave, you call out, "Unblock me and give me a call, okay?" 

She glances back over her shoulder, smirks, and nods. "We’ll see." 

And just like that, she’s gone. 

You stand up from the bar stool and head toward the booth where Agatha is sitting. She’s slouched against the seat, swirling the last of her drink, eyes distant. You hesitate for a second before sliding in beside her, leaving just enough space to not feel intrusive. 

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha speaks, her voice laced with something unreadable. "So… is the date over?" 

You huff a quiet laugh, picking up your whiskey. "It wasn’t a date." 

She hums, taking a long sip of her drink like it’s water. "Could’ve fooled me." 

Something about her tone makes you pause, but before you can figure it out, Agatha lets out a shaky breath—and then, just like that, she breaks. 

Tears slip down her cheeks, silent at first. Then, her shoulders shake, and she quickly wipes at her face like she’s ashamed to be seen like this. Your chest tightens at the sight. 

You inch closer, hesitating only for a moment before placing a gentle hand on her back. She leans into the touch ever so slightly. 

"Are you okay?" Your voice is quiet, careful. 

Agatha swallows hard, staring at the table. It takes her a few seconds before she finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "What did I do wrong?" 

She keeps going, her words spilling out faster than she can catch them. "I tried, you know? I really did. But it was never enough. It’s like… no matter what I did, he always had one foot out the door." 

You don’t say anything—just let her talk, let her get it all out. 

"It’s over, Y/N," she says, voice breaking. "Like, really over." 

You knew this already, but hearing her say it still twists something deep inside you. You squeeze her arm gently. "I’m sorry, Agatha. I know this… I know this hurts." 

She sniffles, laughing bitterly. "You don’t have to do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Act like you care. We both know I’ve been nothing but a pain in your ass." 

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. "Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You think you’re the only one? We’ve both been a pain in each other’s ass." 

Agatha lets out a dry chuckle, wiping at her cheek. "Fair point." 

You soften just a little, tilting your head at her. "But I do care, Agatha. More than you think." 

Agatha turns to look at you then, eyes glossy and searching. For a moment, you think she might say something, but instead, she reaches for her drink and downs the rest of it in one go. 

Eventually, the two of you move to the bar. The crowd has thinned out, leaving just a few stragglers nursing their drinks. You don’t drink anymore, but Agatha does. She’s still crying, though it’s quieter now, more subdued. 

She nudges you with her elbow, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You’re actually a good listener. Who would’ve thought?" 

You chuckle. "I have my moments." 

"Mm." She rests her chin on her palm, studying you. "I guess you’re not so bad." 

"High praise." 

The night stretches on, and before you know it, Agatha is completely drunk. You don’t hesitate to call an Uber. When it arrives, you help her up, but she stumbles against you, unable to walk straight. 

"Alright, come on," you murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist to guide her outside. She leans heavily against you, her breath warm against your shoulder. 

You place her inside the passenger seat and slide in beside her. The driver doesn’t say anything, used to late-night drunks, but you keep talking to Agatha, making sure she doesn’t fall asleep. 

"We’re almost there," you whisper as the car pulls up to the resort. 

She suddenly perks up, a drowsy smile on her lips, her head lolling slightly to the side. "You know what?" she slurs, blinking up at you like she’s just had the most brilliant idea. 

You tilt your head, amused. "What?" 

And then, completely out of nowhere, she starts singing, voice hushed and syrupy. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You blink, caught entirely off guard. "Agatha—" 

She points a wobbly finger at you, her expression serious despite the alcohol in her system. "You’d be like heaven to touch…" 

Your face is on fire, but you can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes. "Oh my god." 

She keeps going, her voice lilting unevenly, slightly out of tune but full of feeling. "I wanna hold you so much…" Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, something flickers between you. Something dangerous. Something you don’t have the strength to analyze right now. 

You shake your head, breathless in disbelief. "Alright, Frankie Valli, let’s get you to bed." 

She giggles but doesn’t stop singing, leaning into you as you guide her toward her villa. "At long last, love has arrived…" 

"Oh, for the love of—" You sigh dramatically, but there’s no real frustration behind it. 

She clings to your arm, her grip surprisingly firm. "And I thank God I’m alive…" Her voice hitches, and there’s a moment—just a fleeting second—where she looks at you like she means every word she’s singing. 

Your throat tightens. You pretend not to notice. 

By the time you get her to the door, her voice is softer, the words slurring together. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You sigh, unlocking the door with some difficulty. "Alright, Agatha. Time to sleep." 

She hums, resting her head against your shoulder for just a moment before murmuring, "Mmm. You’re warm." 

You swallow hard, ignoring the way your heart stumbles over itself. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, inside." 

And even though she’s drunk, and this whole situation is ridiculous, you can’t help but feel your heart clench at the sight of her like this—so vulnerable, so utterly unlike the Agatha Harkness you once knew. 

You guide Agatha upstairs to her bedroom, careful with every step as she leans heavily against you. When you finally reach her bed, you help her sit down gently, her body swaying slightly. Her eyes are glassy, lost in thoughts you can’t quite reach. 

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. She doesn’t respond, just stares at the floor. 

You hurry downstairs, filling a glass of water and grabbing some Advil from the kitchen. When you return, she’s not lying down like you expected. Instead, she’s still sitting at the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking, quiet sobs wracking her frame. 

Your stomach twists. 

“Agatha?” You set the glass and the Advil down on the nightstand and immediately sit beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

She lets out a shuddering breath, wiping at her face. “Whatever I do… I’ll never be enough.” 

Her voice is so small, so broken, it nearly shatters you. 

Your heart clenches as you reach for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into you, her body warm despite the chill in her words. “That’s not true,” you say firmly. “You are enough, Agatha. Ralph is just too damn stupid to see it.” 

She laughs wetly, shaking her head. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” You pull back slightly, looking at her. “You are brilliant. You’re sharp, funny in that mean, sarcastic way. You care about the people you love, even if you pretend not to. You have this way of making people feel… seen.” 

Your throat tightens as you speak. You don’t even realize you’re getting emotional until your voice cracks slightly on the last word. You blink rapidly, trying to hold it together. 

Agatha notices. 

She gently pulls away from the hug, and when you meet her gaze, there’s something intense in the way she looks at you. Her eyes are searching, tracing every part of your face like she’s trying to memorize it, like she’s grasping onto something unspoken between you. 

Then, so softly, she whispers your name, her voice barely above a breath, like it holds the weight of everything she can’t say out loud. 

Your breath catches, a lump forming in your throat as the moment stretches, fragile and heavy all at once. 

Before you can fully process what’s happening, she cups your cheek, her touch warm, grounding. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming— 

And then she leans in. 

Her lips meet yours, gentle and soft, everything you’ve ever wanted—except not like this. Not when she’s vulnerable, not when she’s breaking right in front of you. 

You freeze for a second, torn between every part of you that has dreamed of this moment and the part of you that knows it isn’t right. 

With every ounce of willpower, you gently pull away, your hands on her shoulders. “Agatha…” 

She blinks at you, confused, her lips still parted. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing right now,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

A flicker of something passes through her eyes—hurt, maybe, or realization. But you don’t let yourself look too closely. You stand up, stepping back. “You need to sleep, Agatha.” 

She doesn’t argue, just watches you with something unreadable in her gaze. And then, just like that, you turn, walking to the door. 

You close it softly behind you as you leave her villa, your heart pounding, your mind an absolute mess. 

When you get to your villa, you head straight to your bedroom. The silence is suffocating. After the noise of the club, the villa feels too quiet. Too empty. But your mind is loud. The moment you close the door behind you, it all crashes down at once. 

You drop your keys onto the table with a shaky breath, your fingers lingering on the cool surface as if grounding yourself will stop the spiraling thoughts. You stumble toward the bed, collapsing onto it without bothering to change. Your dress clings to your skin, the faint scent of perfume and alcohol mixing with something heavier—something painful. 

You replay the kiss over and over again. Not just the kiss itself, but the way Agatha looked at you before it happened—the glassiness in her eyes, the slight tremble in her lips, the way she whispered your name like it meant something. Like you meant something. 

Your heart clenches as you remember how she leaned in, like you were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. And for a second, you let yourself believe it. For a second, you let yourself want it. But now, in the quiet of your room, the reality is sharp, cutting through any illusion you might have entertained. 

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. What else is there to do? Cry? Maybe. But what good would that do? 

If this kiss had meant something, Agatha wouldn’t have done it like this. She wouldn’t have done it drunk, desperate, tangled in the mess of her failing marriage. You know it wasn’t about you. It was about escaping, about numbing whatever pain she was feeling. And you were just there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to sleep, to forget—but how could you? Every time you close your eyes, you see her again. Feel the ghost of her lips, the heat of her breath, the way she fit against you like she belonged there. 

Your fingers brush against your lips as if trying to erase the feeling, but it lingers. It sinks into your skin, into your chest, into every part of you, refusing to let go. 

With a frustrated sigh, you press a pillow over your face, trying to drown out the ache, the longing, the stupid, unrelenting hope that still clings to the edges of your heart. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does. 

Because even with your eyes open, even with the distance between you, Agatha is still there. And that’s the cruelest part of all.