“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.

“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”

Clint brightens immediately.

“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”

Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.

Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.

It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.

The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.

“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.

Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.

“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.

You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.

“Mmmhmm.”

Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.

“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”

Natasha snorts softly under her breath.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.

Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.

When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.

“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”

Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.

For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.

“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.

Your smile appears instantly, but then—

Flick.

Her finger taps your forehead.

“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.

Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.

You respond with an exaggerated pout.

Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”

A beat passes before she continues.

“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Alright, guess I’m going now.”

You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.

“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”

Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.

“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.

You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.

Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.

When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“What’s with your face?”

Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.

“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”

Natasha’s expression immediately flattens. 

“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”

Clint waves his hand vaguely.

“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”

He points toward the door you just exited through.

“However…”

Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.

“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation. 

“It was a hug, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint nods thoughtfully.

“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”

Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.

“It’s just a hug,” she insists.

“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”

Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.

Because…no. Not really.

You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.

But that kind of hug?

Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.

That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.

Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.

You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.

Post-sex warmth. Nothing unusual. Nothing meaningful.

Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.

Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.

“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”

Clint raises both hands in surrender.

“If you say so.”

His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.

Instead, he nods toward the counter again.

“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”

Natasha smirks again.

“Doesn’t make you worthy.”

Clint sighs dramatically.

“Damn.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The room is quiet.

Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.

This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.

Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.

Sleep refuses to come.

It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.

Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin. 

You usually aren’t here this long.

Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.

And then you leave.

Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.

But tonight is different.

You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.

Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.

Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.

But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.

And Natasha had let you stay.

Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.

Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.

For a long moment, she simply watches you.

There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.

And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.

Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.

Did it mean anything?

“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.

Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.

Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.

“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.

“Barely,” you grumble.

You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.

Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.

“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.

You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.

“What hug?”

“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”

Your brows draw together slightly.

“What about it?”

Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”

She trails off, searching.

“…intimate.”

The word lingers between you.

You go still for a second, thinking.

“Oh.” 

It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.

Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.

The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.

Natasha hates how quickly she notices.

You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.

“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”

Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.

It was just—

Nothing.

For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.

You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.

Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.

The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.

Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.

The contrast is jarring.

Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.

When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.

Then your lips press softly against hers.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.

For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.

Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.

But before she can act on it, you pull away.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”

Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.

“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.

You smile, soft and small.

But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.

“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”

Your expression softens further.

“At least when we’re not hooking up.”

The words settle heavily in the quiet room.

“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.

Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.

The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision. 

The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.

And what that would mean.

In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.

They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.

Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.

So Natasha made it simple.

No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.

And it has worked so far. 

You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.

“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.

“Sweet dreams.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.

Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.

The misunderstanding is gone.

Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.

What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.

She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.

Again. And again. And again.

Eventually, sleep begins to take her.

But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.

The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.

Everything appears normal.

But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.

The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.

And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.

She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.

When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.

At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.

But she had been wrong.

It started small.

A movie night in the common room.

Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.

Then in the gym.

After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.

But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.

Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.

You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.

Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.

Still beside her but never close.

Always careful. Always just far enough away.

Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.

So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.

And she had agreed to it.  

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?

Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.

Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.

Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.

Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.

Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.

It should mean nothing. It is nothing.

Just like how it is for her.

But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.

Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.

A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.

Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.

Then she moves.

Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.

You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.

“Hey—”

Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.

Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.

“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”

Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.

The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.

You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.

There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.

She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.

For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.

The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.

Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.

Mine.

The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.

Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.

When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.

“Hey, what’s wr—”

She silences you with another forceful kiss.

Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.

Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.

“Natasha…” you murmur.

The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.

Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.

Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.

The contact draws a quiet breath from her.

Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.

Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.

But the sensation is complicated.

Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.

Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.

Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.

The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.

But the thought does not fade.

Only here. Only like this.

Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.

She shakes her head.

“I can’t do this.”

The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.

You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.

“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”

She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.

“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

The words settle heavily in the space between you.

Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.

For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.

“Oh.”

The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.

You look hurt, though you try not to show it.

Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.

But she remains still.

What right does she have?

She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.

Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.

She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.

She wants you.

Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.

The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.

Because the words still refuse to come.

You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.

Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.

You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.

Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.

Only now does she understand why.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.

She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.

The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.

It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.

Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.

However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.

Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.

A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.

She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.

Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.

You appear just as surprised to find her there.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.

Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.

But you do not step closer.

Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.

And Natasha notices it immediately. 

You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.

“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”

The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.

Everything surrounding them, however, is different.

There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.

Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

She understands what this moment means.

You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.

“Good luck,” she says quietly.

The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.

Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.

“Thanks, Natasha.”

Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.

That is what breaks her composure.

It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.

Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.

Her body moves before the thought fully settles.

“Wait.”

The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.

You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.

Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.

Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.

Then she kisses you.

There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.

A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.

Then instinct takes over.

Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.

In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.

Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.

Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.

When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.

The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.

Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.

This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.

Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”

“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”

You do not look away from Natasha.

There is a brief pause.

“…Understood.”

Silence settles again, softer now.

Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.

“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”

The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.

Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.

“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.

Your brow lifts slightly.

“And they are...?”

She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.

“Whatever lets me love you.”

The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.

For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.

Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.

The distance is gone.

Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.

“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”

You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.

“…Did it mean something?”

After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.

“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”

Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.

“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.

You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.

“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”

You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.

“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”

She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.

Your grin returns instantly.

“Oh?”

Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.

“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”

Amusement flashes in her eyes.

“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”

You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.

“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You glanced up from the bed you’d been patched onto. Yelena sat on the chair in front of you, one knee propped up, med kit spread around her like she was performing surgery in a war zone instead of a dingy apartment in Latvia.

Her blonde braid hung over one shoulder. There was dried blood on the sleeve of her tactical shirt — yours, probably. A bruise purpled the edge of her jaw.

She looked furious.

Which was confusing.

You’d only joined the Thunderbolts three months ago. You were still the newest one there, still getting weird looks from Walker, still getting evaluated by Bucky every five minutes like he expected you to explode. You and Yelena got along fine — sarcastic comments, occasional shoulder shoves, one memorable argument over instant ramen preparation — but not close-close.

Certainly not close enough for her to practically carry you out of a collapsing building after you got shot.

You still remembered it too clearly.

The mission had gone bad fast. HYDRA remnants, bad intel, too many exits not covered. You’d taken a bullet through the side trying to get Yelena behind cover after a grenade rolled too close.

And afterward—

Yelena kneeling over you in the rubble, eyes wide.

Actually wide.

“Hey,” you’d slurred. “You look… scary.”

“You are bleeding everywhere.”

“Yeah. That usually happens.”

Then she’d cursed in Russian so violently you were fairly certain nearby ghosts got offended.

Now, six hours later, she was still hovering.

It made no sense.

“You are staring,” Yelena said without looking up.

You blinked. “Sorry.”

“No, is okay. I am very pretty.”

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “There she is.”

She snorted softly, but it disappeared almost immediately. Her hands slowed while wrapping fresh bandages around your ribs.

Too careful.

Yelena Belova was many things. Efficient. Brutal. Weirdly competitive about hot sauce tolerance.

Careful wasn’t one of them.

“You can go sleep, you know,” you said quietly. “I’m not dying anymore.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still here.”

“Yes.”

There was a beat.

“…Why?”

That finally made her look at you.

Blue eyes. Exhausted. Annoyed.

Something else underneath.

“I do not know,” she said honestly.

And somehow that was worse.

Because if she’d laughed it off, or brushed you away, or said something casual, maybe your stupid heart would stop doing this awful hopeful thing every time she looked at you.

But this?

This strange intensity?

It felt dangerous.

You looked away first.

“Oh.”

Yelena’s brows pulled together immediately, like she’d heard something wrong in your voice.

“You say oh like sad person.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. Very tiny sad oh.”

“I’m literally bleeding internally. Maybe everything sounds sad.”

“Hm.”

Silence settled again.

The apartment radiator clanged somewhere in the distance.

Yelena finished securing the bandage, but her hands stayed resting lightly against your side. Warm through your shirt.

You tried very hard not to think about it.

Failed horribly.

“You were stupid today,” she said suddenly.

You laughed weakly. “That’s your big emotional speech?”

“You jumped in front of grenade.”

“It wasn’t a grenade.”

“Explosive device. Same thing.”

“You would’ve done the same for me.”

“No.”

You finally looked back at her.

She was already looking at you.

“I would have killed them before they got close,” she corrected.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Right. Of course.”

“But—” she hesitated.

Actually hesitated.

“I did not like seeing you hurt.”

Your chest tightened painfully for reasons that had nothing to do with the bullet wound.

“Oh.”

“There is the sad oh again.”

You swallowed. “Sorry.”

Yelena leaned back slightly, studying you with that unnervingly sharp assassin focus.

“You think I do not care about you.”

You nearly choked on air. “What? No.”

“You are bad liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You avoid eye contact. Very dramatic. Like wounded Victorian child.”

Despite everything, you barked out a laugh.

Yelena looked pleased for approximately half a second before the confusion returned.

“I do not understand this,” she admitted quietly.

Your smile faded.

“Understand what?”

She gestured vaguely between the two of you like the answer should be obvious.

“This.”

Your heart began beating way too hard for someone recovering from blood loss.

“Oh.”

“There it is again.”

“Yelena…”

“I keep wanting to check if you are okay.” Her voice had gone strangely frustrated now. “I keep thinking about stupid things. If you ate. If your stitches reopened. If you are sleeping enough. It is very annoying.”

You stared at her.

Because Yelena sounded genuinely inconvenienced by her own feelings.

“I do not do this with anyone,” she continued. “Not even Alexei, and he cries dramatically if left alone too long.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“Neither do I.” She frowned harder. “This is why feelings are terrible.”

You looked down at your hands.

Because this was dangerous territory now. The kind where hope could ruin you.

Quietly, you said, “You don’t have to force yourself to feel something just because I got hurt.”

Yelena immediately looked offended.

“I am not forcing anything.”

“I know, but—”

“You think I am pitying you?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

You’d spent weeks carefully swallowing this thing down — every smirk she aimed at you, every accidental touch, every late-night conversation in quinjet cargo holds.

You knew better than to fall for someone emotionally unavailable and heavily armed.

But apparently your heart was an idiot.

“You don’t like me like that,” you said finally, trying to sound casual.

Yelena stared at you blankly.

“…Like what?”

Oh god.

Oh, this was humiliating.

You rubbed a hand over your face. “Forget it.”

“No. Explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“Explain or I will wake Walker and tell him you cried during Top Gun.”

“You are a menace.”

“Yes. Explain.”

You groaned softly, then instantly regretted it because ribs.

Yelena immediately leaned forward again. “See? Pain. This is because you avoid communication.”

“You’re literally the worst person to give emotional advice.”

“I did not say I was good at it.”

Another silence.

Then, carefully, you said, “I like you.”

Yelena blinked once.

You kept going before you could lose your nerve.

“And I know you don’t feel the same way, so this whole… whatever this is? It’s confusing me a little.”

For a second, Yelena just stared.

Then:

“Oh.”

You looked at her suspiciously. “That’s my line.”

“No, because now I am having strange realization.”

Your stomach flipped.

Yelena sat there motionless for several long seconds, processing with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

Then she said slowly, “I threatened a nurse because she touched your arm too hard.”

“…You did what?”

“In my defense, she was very rough.”

You stared.

Yelena stared back.

And then, very abruptly, she put both hands over her face.

“Oh my god,” she muttered through her fingers in horrified realization. “I am in love with you.”

The room went dead silent.

You blinked.

“…What?”

She dropped her hands just enough for you to see her expression — equal parts betrayed and disgusted with herself.

“This is terrible.”

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.

Yelena pointed at you accusingly. “Do not laugh. I am having emotional crisis.”

“You just said you love me like you were diagnosed with a disease.”

“Because this is worse. Bullets I understand. This?” She gestured violently at her chest. “Disgusting.”

You were laughing harder now despite the pain, clutching your ribs while Yelena glared at you with absolutely no real heat behind it.

Then her expression softened.

Tiny.

Almost imperceptible.

But real.

"I am going to have a talk to Barnes"

And with that she had basically bolted out of the room, which had you overthinking. Did she actually love you? What did she want to talk to Bucky about?

—

It was past midnight when your bedroom door creaked open.

You sat up immediately.

Yelena stood there awkwardly holding a plastic grocery bag.

For an assassin, she was remarkably bad at dramatic entrances.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Hi.”

She stayed near the door.

Like approaching too quickly might scare you off.

You tried not to read into that.

“I brought…” She frowned into the bag. “These stupid gummy things you like.”

Your lips twitched. “The sour ones?”

“Yes. They smell toxic.”

“You bought me toxic candy. Romance is alive.”

The joke slipped out before you could stop it.

Yelena went still.

“Right,” you said quickly. “Sorry.”

But then—

“I spoke to Barnes.”

“Oh?”

“He said I am idiot.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He also said running away from feelings is ‘emotionally constipated behavior.’”

You snorted.

Yelena rubbed a hand over her face.

“I do not understand this,” she admitted. “I understand guns. And knives. And how to remove spleen through someone’s mouth probably.”

“…Probably?”

“But this?” She gestured angrily to herself. “This is terrible.”

You smiled despite yourself.

She looked at you then.

Really looked.

And all the sharp edges in her expression softened into something terrifyingly vulnerable.

“You almost died,” she said quietly.

And suddenly the room felt smaller.

Your smile faded.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.” Her voice dropped lower. “But for five minutes, I thought maybe you would not be.”

The honesty in it hit harder than anything else had tonight.

“And I realized…” She exhaled shakily. “Nothing has ever scared me like that.”

You couldn’t speak.

Yelena stepped closer.

“I do not know how to do this properly,” she confessed. “But I know I want you near me all the time. I know I look for you first in every room. I know hurting you feels like someone is peeling my organs out with spoon.”

“That’s… weirdly sweet.”

“Thank you.”

“And graphic.”

“I am trying.”

You laughed softly.

Then her expression faltered again.

“But if you do not want—”

You cut her off by grabbing the front of her shirt and kissing her.

Yelena made a startled noise against your mouth.

Then immediately kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

Like she’d been holding it in for months.

When you finally pulled apart, she stared at you with wide blue eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Oh, this is why people write songs.”

You burst out laughing, and she joined in.

When the laughter died down, Yelena looked at you like she still didn’t fully understand what she was feeling, only that it scared her.

And maybe that should’ve terrified you too.

Instead, your chest ached warmly. You patted the empty space on the bed next to you.

She climbed into your bed like she belonged there. Carefully avoiding your injuries.

Instinctively.

Without thinking.

You reached out carefully, brushing your fingers against hers.

Yelena looked down at your hand like it was another unexploded bomb.

“…This is still very embarrassing for me,” she warned.

You smiled softly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“But you love me?”

She sighed heavily, deeply offended by the universe.

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

You laughed again, but she moved in just a bit closer.

Your day has wrung you dry—every meeting dragging, every small thing going wrong in that slow, relentless way that makes it worse than a single disaster.

By the time you step through the door, your shoulders ache, your eyes burn, and there’s a tightness in your chest you’ve been ignoring for hours.

You barely register the way a few heads snap toward you. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence.

“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.

You frown, confused, but your brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.

You don’t ask. You just keep walking.

The smell hits you first.

Warm. Comforting. Familiar.

Food.

You follow it like a lifeline, down the hall and into the kitchen—and there she is.

Natasha stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of her face.

She’s stirring something in a pan, her movements precise but… off.

A little too careful.

A little too tense.

You don’t notice that part right away.

All you see is her.

Something in you finally gives.

You cross the room without a word. She starts to turn, probably to greet you, but you don’t let her get that far.

Your hands find her arms, gently but insistently, and you turn her fully toward you.

“Hey—”

You pull her into you before she can finish.

Your arms wrap around her, tight, almost desperate, your face pressing into the crook of her neck.

She stiffens in surprise for half a second—and then immediately melts, hands coming up to hold you just as firmly.

“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, softer now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “What happened?”

You shake your head against her shoulder. You don’t trust your voice. If you try to explain, you’re pretty sure it’ll all spill out in a way you can’t control.

So you don’t.

You just hold on.

And then, quietly, without warning, your body betrays you.

Your breathing stutters.

Your grip tightens.

And the tears you’ve been holding back all day finally slip free. Silent at first, just a tremble against her.

Natasha notices immediately.

She always does.

“Oh,” she breathes, and something in her voice shifts, something fiercely protective and achingly gentle all at once.

She turns slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortable against her, one arm firm around your back while the other strokes slow, steady lines through your hair.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Her jaw tightens.

Because she knows.

She knows exactly what’s sitting in her pocket right now. Knows what she had planned. Knows that, hours ago, everything was supposed to go differently.

Candles.

A calmer atmosphere.

You smiling, not…this.

And earlier—

“—Oh my god, you’re proposing to y/n?!” Wanda’s voice had rung through the common room, loud and unmistakable.

Natasha had frozen.

Clint had choked on his drink. Steve had blinked like he’d just been hit with a flashbang. Tony had immediately started asking questions at maximum volume.

“You’re proposing? Romanoff? With feelings? This I have to see—”

Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.

Instead, she’d just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “You were not supposed to say that out loud.”

Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.

“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”

So now everyone knows.

Everyone is waiting.

And Natasha—

Natasha is standing in the kitchen, holding you while you quietly fall apart after a terrible day, with a ring in her pocket and a plan that no longer fits.

Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.

Then she exhales, slow and steady.

Plans can change.

You come first.

Always.

“Hey,” she says softly after a while, just loud enough for you to hear. “Look at me for a second?”

You hesitate, then pull back just enough.

Your eyes are a little red, your expression worn and fragile in a way that makes something twist painfully in her chest.

Her thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the last trace of a tear.

“Rough day?” she asks.

You let out a weak huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You nod, glancing down. “I’m okay. I just… needed a minute.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” she says quietly.

You look back up at her.

There’s something different in her expression.

Still soft. Still steady.

But beneath?

Nervousness.

Real, unguarded nervousness.

You blink, confused. “Nat?”

She inhales.

And for someone who has faced down gods, assassins, and the end of the world more than once…this might be the most uncertain you’ve ever seen her.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice low. “Hi.”

You almost smile. “Hi.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying to mirror it, but there’s too much else going on.

Behind you, there’s another barely-contained whisper.

“…is she doing it now?!”

“Shut up—”

Natasha ignores them.

Her focus is entirely on you.

“I had a plan,” she admits, almost under her breath. “It was…better than this. Less—” she gestures vaguely “—you crying in the kitchen.”

You let out a soft, embarrassed groan. “I can stop crying—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “That’s not the point.”

Her hand finds yours.

You feel it then, something shifting.

Your exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something else.

Curiosity.

A flicker of anticipation.

“Natasha…?”

She swallows.

And then, because she’s never done anything halfway in her life, she lets herself be completely honest.

“You had a terrible day,” she says. “And you came home, and the first thing you did was find me.”

Your fingers tighten around hers.

“You didn’t say anything,” she continues softly. “You just…trusted me to be there.”

“I always do,” you whisper.

That almost undoes her.

You see it—just for a second.

Then she steadies herself.

“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to trust me for one more thing.”

Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.

She lets go of one of your hands.

For a split second, you think maybe she’s pulling away.

Instead, she reaches into her pocket.

And then, before your brain fully catches up, she’s stepping back and lowering herself onto one knee.

Your breath catches.

Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a very audible thud followed by a muffled, “oh my god—”

Neither of you looks.

Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.

She opens the small box in her hand, revealing the ring—simple, beautiful, unmistakably you.

“I had a whole speech,” she says, a little breathless now. “It was structured. Thought out. Probably less…rambling.”

You stare at her, heart pounding.

“But this is what I’ve got,” she continues, a faint, nervous smile breaking through. “You. Right here. Exactly as you are.”

Your eyes sting again—but for a very different reason.

“I don’t need perfect timing,” she says. “I just need you.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself, like this is somehow harder than anything she’s ever faced.

“So, will you—”

“Yes.”

It slips out of you, immediate and certain.

Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.

“…I’m going to ask the full question,” she says.

“I know, I just—yes.”

“You’re going to let me finish.”

“I am, I promise.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

Natasha exhales, fighting a smile. Then she looks back at you, really focusing.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.’’

She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.

“Will you—”

You inhale sharply.

She gives you a look.

You clamp your mouth shut so fast it’s almost impressive.

Her lips twitch.

“Good,” she says softly.

And then, slower this time—

“Will you marry me?”

There it is.

Clear. Simple. Real.

You don’t interrupt.

You just stare at her, eyes already stinging again, your grip tightening around her hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper, then add to really confirm it: "Yeah, I will. Of course I will.”

Relief floods her face, immediate and overwhelming, like she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it said all the way through.

“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.

“I said yes three times, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

“I was very enthusiastic.”

“You were very interruptive.”

“Same thing.”

That finally breaks her—she lets out a soft laugh as she slides the ring onto your finger, her hands just a little unsteady now for an entirely different reason.

“Still counts,” she murmurs.

“Every single one counted,” you say.

You don’t wait; you pull her up into yourself, arms wrapping tight around her, your face pressing into her shoulder again, but this time you’re laughing.

Behind you, the hallway erupts.

“FINALLY!”

“Took long enough!”

“I had money on four interruptions!”

Natasha just holds you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head again, grounding, warm, yours.

“You didn’t let me finish the first time,” she murmurs into your hair.

You tilt your head up, smiling. “You got there eventually.”

She brushes her thumb under your eye, soft and steady.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”

You lean in and kiss her gently.

Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.

-///-

You’re half sprawled across the bed, tucked into Natasha’s side, a laptop resting against your legs as the night crawls closer.

The glow from the screen paints both of you in soft light as you scroll through listings, one after another.

Most of them blur together.

Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.

Natasha’s arm is draped loosely around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns along your stomach—barely there, but constant.

Grounding.

You hum quietly, squinting at another house.

“Mm…how many bedrooms do you think we should look for?” you murmur, your voice already a little sleepy.

There’s a pause.

Then, without hesitation, the words leave her as if she had thought about it for more than a minute.

“At least five.”

You blink.

Turn your head to look up at her.

“…Five?” you repeat.

She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Minimum.”

You prop yourself up slightly on your elbow, narrowing your eyes at her. “How many times are you expecting me to get pregnant, exactly?”

That gets her attention.

Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.

There’s a smirk there. Subtle, but definitely there.

You stare at her.

“Natasha.”

She leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your neck.

It’s soft and teasing, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Relax,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice warm and amused. “I’m planning ahead.”

You huff, but it dissolves into a quiet laugh, your hand coming up to rest lightly against her arm.

“Natasha and babies, who would have thought?" You smile at her, pecking her lips, then, quieter, ‘’You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” she says, pressing one last soft kiss there before pulling back, “you said yes.”

“Multiple times.”

“Very enthusiastically.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you settle back down against her.

“Five bedrooms,” you mutter. “You’re so ambitious.”

“I’m just practical.”

“You’re quite optimistic.”

“That too.”

You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.

And then you pause.

“…Wait.”

Natasha’s hand stills for just a second at your stomach.

“What?”

You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.

A white house. 

Simple, but warm. Big windows. A wraparound porch that looks like it was made for slow mornings and late evenings.

And just beyond it…

Water.

A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.

“It’s not exactly close to the tower,” you say softly, almost like you’re thinking out loud. “But it’s not that far either…”

“Far enough,” she murmurs.

“Close enough,” you add.

She studies it for a moment, her thumb resuming its slow, absent patterns against you.

Then she nods once.

“It’s pretty.”

That’s all it takes.

You light up a little, shifting so you’re more comfortable as you start clicking through the photos.

“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, suddenly more awake. “This one—this kitchen, we need a kitchen island.”

“Obviously.”

“And that—” you swipe. “—that could be a second living room. Or like…a playroom?”

“A playroom?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not,” she says, though there’s amusement in her voice.

You keep going, pointing at different parts of the layout, dreaming about a future with her.

“Okay, so this would be our room,” you decide, clicking on one of the larger bedrooms. “Because it has the windows facing the lake.”

“Agreed.”

“And then—” you swipe again, already thinking ahead. “—this one would be for our first kid.”

Natasha’s hand pauses again.

Not tense.

Just…noticing.

You don’t.

You’re already moving on.

“And then this one could be the second kid's room.”

She hums, watching your face now instead of the screen.

"And this one could be like a quest room… or a possible third kid. Depending.’’

“Efficient,” she murmurs, nuzzling her nose to your cheek.

“I learned from the best.”

“And the fifth?”

You hesitate for a second.

Then shrug, softer now.

“…Something the future will bring.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her hand shifts, flattening more fully against your stomach, her thumb tracing slower now, more deliberate.

Grounding.

Thinking.

You glance up at her. “Too much?”

Her gaze meets yours.

There’s something warm there. Something steady.

“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”

Your expression softens immediately.

“Five bedrooms,” you murmur again with a smile, turning back to the screen.

This time, you lean into her a little more, your hand finding hers where it rests against you.

She laces your fingers together without even looking.

The house stays on the screen.

The porch.

The lake.

The space.

And for a while, neither of you scrolls to look at a different house.

-///-

The day came before you knew it.

There’s movement everywhere.

Voices in the hallway, footsteps, doors opening and closing, and someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.

It all sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through water.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache.

Your dress hangs nearby.

Everything is ready.

Everything is happening.

And your brain will not slow down.

You swallow, staring at the floor.

You’re getting married today.

To Natasha.

That part feels right. Steady. Certain in a way nothing else has ever been.

But layered underneath that certainty—

Something else.

Your heart starts to race again, and you press your palms harder together, as you can physically hold yourself in place.

Because, of course, your brain picked today.

Of all days.

To replay that email.

The donor profile.

The one you weren’t even expecting to find.

Anonymous, yes—but detailed enough. Similar features. Similar background. Even little things that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.

It had felt…right.

Too right.

Like a possibility you hadn’t let yourself fully imagine until it was suddenly right there in front of you.

A future.

A real one.

Kids that might look like her too and not only you.

You exhale shakily.

You haven’t told her.

You want to.

You’ve wanted to all week.

Every time she talks about the house.

The bedrooms.

The way her hand keeps finding your stomach like she’s already picturing something there.

Every time, the words sit right at the back of your throat and then disappear.

Because what if it’s too much?

What if it’s too soon?

What if you bring it up today and it shifts something? Adds pressure? Changes the moment?

Your chest tightens.

“Hey.”

You flinch slightly at the voice.

When you turn, you see Wanda leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, expression softer than usual.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says gently.

You let out a weak breath. “Can you not—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts, holding up her hands. “You’re just…broadcasting a little.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

She steps into the room, quieter now, her tone shifting.

“You’re nervous.”

“Very.”

“Cold feet?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. God, no. Not about her.”

“I know,” Wanda says.

You hesitate.

“There’s just…something I haven’t told her yet.”

Wanda studies you for a second.

“You want to?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

You look down at your hands again.

“Because it feels big,” you admit. “And today is already big. And I don’t want to…overwhelm her. Or mess anything up.”

Wanda’s expression softens.

“You think telling her you’re thinking about a future with her is going to mess something up?” she asks quietly.

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounds like you.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.

“I just—I found a donor,” you say, the words finally leaving your mouth. “Like…a really good one. It just—it made it feel real, you know? And I want that with her, I just don’t know if today is—”

“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.

You look up.

“You don’t have to decide your entire future before you walk down that aisle,” she says. “You just have to show up. The rest? You figure out together.”

You let that sit for a second.

It helps.

A little.

“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.

“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replies. “I said you don’t have to do it right now if it’s making you spiral.”

You nod slowly.

That feels reasonable.

“You know her,” Wanda adds softly. “Better than anyone. When it feels right, you’ll know.”

You take a breath.

Then another.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” you murmur.

“Okay.”

Wanda gives you a small, reassuring smile before heading back toward the door.

“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back, “she’s just as nervous as you are.”

You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”

Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”

That actually makes you laugh.

“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”

“It should be.”

She disappears down the hall.

You sit there for a moment longer.

Then you look at your dress.

At your hands.

At the life waiting just on the other side of today.

The nerves are still there.

The question still lingers.

But beneath all of it—

There’s something steady.

You’re not doing this alone.

And you don’t have to have every answer yet.

You stand slowly, exhaling as you smooth your hands down your legs.

“One step at a time,” you murmur to yourself.

-///-

You’re running on fumes.

Not the romantic kind.

The dangerous kind.

You haven’t eaten. Not really. Every time you tried, someone pulled you away—photos, speeches, hugs, “just one quick thing” that turned into ten.

And every single time you sat down—

“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”

You did. Of course you did.

And every time you came back?

Your plate was gone.

At this point, you’re pretty sure you’ve had three bites of something, maybe a piece of bread, and about…far too much champagne.

The room is loud. Bright. Spinning just a little at the edges.

You’re smiling—but it’s getting harder to keep it steady.

Natasha is…worse.

Not drunk, exactly—but irritated in that very specific, very controlled way that means she’s about three interruptions away from snapping.

Someone had just pulled her away again, and you’d watched her jaw tighten as she nodded politely and followed.

Now she’s back.

Finally.

And when she finds you, her hand immediately goes to your waist, pulling you close like she’s making up for lost time.

“You okay?” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

You shake your head a little, pressing into her. “I’m starving.”

Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”

“I tried to eat,” you mumble. “But every time I sit down, I get kidnapped.”

“I’m aware.”

There’s an edge to her voice.

You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m—” she exhales slowly “—a little frustrated.”

“That’s a scary version of mad.”

She huffs, but her hand softens against your side, her thumb brushing gently like she’s grounding herself through you.

“I just want five minutes with my wife,” she mutters.

That word.

Even now, it hits.

“My wife,” you echo softly.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Yeah,” she says.

And then—

The music changes.

The crowd shifts, noise dimming as someone announces the dance.

There’s a ripple through the room—people moving back, forming space.

And for the first time all day—

No one interrupts.

Natasha looks at you.

“Come on,” she murmurs.

You nod.

She leads you to the centre of the floor, her hand never leaving yours.

And then—

It’s quiet.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough that it feels like the world just… fades out around you.

Her hand settles at your waist.

Yours finds her shoulder.

And you start to move.

Slow.

Easy.

Close.

You exhale, your forehead drifting toward hers almost immediately. “Finally.”

“Finally,” she agrees.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just sway together, your body relaxing into hers, the tension of the day slowly unravelling.

Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.

Familiar.

Steady.

Yours.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

“I was right there.”

“Not like this.”

Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t like people taking you away,” she admits.

You huff softly. “I didn’t like it either.”

“Good.”

You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”

“Accurate.”

You laugh quietly, but it fades into something softer as you settle more fully into her.

This.

This is what you needed.

Just her.

Just a moment.

Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.

“…Hey,” you murmur.

“Mm?”

You hesitate.

The thought from earlier creeps back in.

The one you pushed aside.

But now—here, like this—it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.

Just…important.

“I wanted to tell you something,” you say quietly.

She doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t tense.

Just listens.

“Okay.”

You swallow.

“I found…a donor.”

Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.

Not pulling away.

Just…listening harder.

You rush a little now, words soft but quick.

“I wasn’t planning to. It just kind of happened, and I saw the profile and—it just—it felt right. Like, really right. And I didn’t want to bring it up before today because I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make it—like—a big thing, but I just—”

“Hey,” she murmurs gently.

You stop.

Look up at her.

Her expression isn’t tense.

Or upset.

Just…focused.

Warm.

“You found someone you like?” she asks.

You nod, a little nervous now. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then—

“Okay.”

You blink.

“…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”

“You’re talking about a future with me,” she says simply. “That’s not a problem.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time.

“I just—I thought maybe it was too soon.”

“We’ve been planning bedrooms,” she points out.

“…That’s fair.”

Her thumb brushes your side again.

“You don’t have to figure all of it out today,” she adds. “We’ll look at it together.”

Together.

That word settles everything.

You nod, your forehead resting against hers again. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

There’s a small pause.

Then—

A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.

“YOU TWO!”

You both flinch slightly.

Thor appears at the edge of the dance floor like an event all by himself, holding—

Shots.

Multiple.

“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”

Natasha closes her eyes briefly. “…Of course he has.”

You let out a soft laugh. “We’re doomed.”

Thor strides over, beaming, completely ignoring the fact that this is supposed to be a quiet, romantic moment.

“FOR THE NEWLYWEDS!” he declares, handing each of you a glass.

You take it.

Of course you do.

Natasha eyes it.

Then you.

Then the glass.

“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.

“Details,” you whisper.

She exhales.

Then takes it anyway.

“Fine.”

Thor grins like he’s just won something.

“TO LOVE!” he booms.

You clink your glasses together—yours with Natasha’s, then both with his.

“To love,” you echo.

And then you drink.

Immediately—

Regret.

You cough slightly, eyes widening. “Oh my god—”

Natasha winces, shaking her head. “That was a mistake.”

Thor just laughs, delighted.

“ANOTHER?”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.

You, however, are already laughing, leaning into her again, a little dizzier now but smiling.

“Okay,” you murmur, breathless. “Maybe now we really need food.”

She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m stealing you for that.”

“Please do.”

Her forehead rests against yours again, just for a second, grounding the moment before everything inevitably gets loud again.

“We’ll figure everything else out,” she murmurs.

You nod, smiling softly.

“Together,” you say.

“Together.”

-///-

By the time you make it to the kitchen of the venue, you are done.

Not elegantly overwhelmed.

Not softly emotional.

No—fully, completely, dramatically done.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, pushing the door open harder than necessary.

Natasha is right behind you, equally tense, equally fed up. “I told them we needed food.”

“I tried to eat." You spin around, hands flying. “I sat down three times—three—and every time someone dragged me away!”

“I noticed.”

“And now—now—” you gesture wildly at the counters.

Empty.

Completely, offensively empty.

No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.

“…they took everything,” you say, your voice going dangerously quiet.

Natasha steps further into the room, scanning it like maybe food will magically appear if she looks hard enough.

“It seems that way.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

You grab a glass off the counter.

Natasha turns just in time to see—

“Hey—”

SMASH.

The sound is sharp, echoing through the kitchen as the glass hits the floor and shatters.

You stand there, breathing a little too fast, staring down at the pieces.

“…okay,” you say after a second. “That helped. A little.”

Natasha exhales slowly.

Then, very calmly—

“I’m not even going to pretend to be mad about that.”

You look up at her, a little wild-eyed.

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

“I might actually die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

She reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, grounding you just enough to pull you back from full meltdown territory.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”

“How?” you demand. “Conjure food? Steal it? Fight someone?”

“…all viable options.”

You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

Then Natasha’s attention shifts.

To the side.

To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.

Inside—melting ice.

And strawberries.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“…hold on.”

Before you can question it, she leans over, plucks one out, and pops it into her mouth.

You blink.

“…Natasha.”

She chews.

Swallows.

Then immediately grabs another.

“Are you—are you eating garnish?”

“It’s fruit.”

“It’s drunk fruit.”

She pauses mid-reach.

“…that explains a lot.”

You stare at her.

She eats another anyway.

“Okay, no, stop—stop eating the champagne strawberries,” you say, trying and failing to sound authoritative.

She points at you with the next one. “You smashed a glass.”

“That was emotional.”

“This is survival.”

You open your mouth to argue—

Then close it.

“…okay, fair.”

She eats another.

And another.

By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.

“You’re getting more drunk.”

“I’m already drunk.”

“You’re getting more drunk.”

She smiles—just a little too confidently.

“I’m fine.”

You sigh.

“…we need real food.”

She nods immediately. “Agreed.”

A beat.

Then—

“Let’s leave.”

You blink. “Leave leave?”

“Yes.”

“In our wedding dresses?”

“Yes.”

“…okay.”

-///-

The taxi driver does not ask questions.

Which is probably for the best.

You’re half-laughing, half-complaining in the backseat, still riding the wave of hunger and alcohol, while Natasha has one arm firmly around you like she’s not letting you disappear again.

“I can’t believe they took all the food,” you mumble.

“I’m still upset about it.”

“I smashed a glass.”

“I know.”

‘’You didn’t stop me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You snort.

The line is painfully slow.

You and Natasha stand at the counter of Burger King, still in your wedding clothes, still slightly swaying from too much champagne and not nearly enough food.

Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.

You can tell by the way her jaw keeps tightening every time someone ahead of you asks another question.

“…and fries,” she says flatly, finishing the order. “A lot of fries.”

You lean into her side, nodding like this is a very serious, collaborative decision. “Emotionally important fries.”

The cashier blinks. “…okay.”

You shuffle off to the side to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You stare at the counter like it’s personally responsible for your suffering.

“…this is cruel,” you mutter.

Natasha crosses her arms. “It’s inefficient.”

“I’m so thirsty.”

“We ordered drinks.”

“I need them now.”

“You can survive two minutes.”

“I cannot.”

She glances over at you. “You absolutely can.”

You squint at her.

Then—

You slip away.

Not dramatically.

Not announced.

Just…gone.

Natasha doesn’t notice at first.

She’s too busy watching the kitchen like she might will the food into existence through sheer irritation.

Behind the counter, things are moving slowly. Someone fumbles an order. Another employee calls for help.

Time stretches.

“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”

Natasha blinks.

Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”

The employee gestures vaguely past her. “Your wife—she’s—uh—”

Natasha follows the gesture.

And then she sees you.

At the drink dispenser.

Not with a cup.

No.

You’ve leaned down, pressing the lever with your hand, drinking straight from the stream of soda as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Completely unbothered.

Completely committed.

There’s a beat.

Natasha just… looks at you.

All the irritation.

All the tension from the night.

It dissolves instantly.

Replaced by something softer. Warmer. A little incredulous, a lot fond.

She stands with her back to you, the deep red gown she’s wearing making her stand out against the dark sky framing her. The light breeze ruffles a couple of stray strands at the nape of her neck where they’d come loose from the intricate braid she’d pinned her hair up in. Something in your chest looses at the sight of her.

Natasha is always so composed in public, always when under scrutiny. But every once in a while, in the quiet moments when there’s no one to see— no one but those close to her heart— her back muscles rest easy, the fire in her eyes softens and the line of her jaw relaxes. She looks so much younger in these moments, the decades worth of weight on her shoulders still there but lighter somehow. Not at the forefront of her mind. 

“Are you just gonna keep standing there staring?” Natasha asks, back still turned. 

You were supposed to be Natasha’s plus one to Tony’s “office Christmas party”. You didn’t mean to be late but your boss had dropped a load of paperwork on you at the last minute and you hadn’t been able to get out of it. Hence the peace offering. “I come bearing gifts and apologies.” you say, speaking over the music spilling out of the room behind you. 

There’s a small smile on Natasha’s lips when she finally turns around. “You may approach.” she says. 

Your heels clack against the marble floors as you hurry to her side and wrap your free arm around her satin clad waist, your other hand offering up the glass. “Sorry I’m late.” you say. “And I brought this. An old fashioned with extra cherries and light on the bitters. Just how you like it.” 

Natasha takes a sip and hums in approval. “Hmm. You know me too well.” She presses a light kiss to your lips. “I saw you come in, you know. I’m glad you made it.”

You pull back from the embrace to lean against the cool railing. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Ready for tonight?” Natasha hooks her finger under your chin and tilts your face up, eyes searching yours intently as the gravity of the question rests between you. 

Natasha knows that this is a pretty big deal for you. It’s a milestone that you’d never crossed over to. No relationship you’d been in before has ever reached the meet-the-family ballpark. But… Natasha is different. You had known that since the day you met her. 

It was another cold night like this one— also graced with the haze of muffled music— and you and Natahsa had been two people trying to escape the Christmas cheer that seemed to have possessed everyone you respectively knew. 

Some way or another, you’d ended up in some squalid bar near Chinatown at the witching hour— an establishment so derelict there hadn't been a single mirror in the bathroom. But that turned out to be a lucky occurrence as, in the spirit of women-helping-women, Natasha had offered herself up as a mirror for you to fix your lipstick. 

In between introductions and awkward flirting, you and Natasha worked hard on getting your lipstick right. Pity most of it ended up smudged along her neck two drinks later. The night unraveled quickly thereafter as you took the meeting a few blocks over to your apartment.  

You’d woken the next morning to the soft rustle of fabric and Natasha climbing out of bed. “You’re leaving?” you’d asked, already knowing the answer. 

Natasha had turned back to you with a sad smile, fingers combing through her messy hair to wrangle it into a ponytail. “I have to be back at the Tower.”

But you didn't want the night to end. “I wanna see you again.”

“Buy me dinner first.” Natasha had said, pulling on her coat. “I’m old fashioned that way.”

And so you did. At a cute little bistro downtown and you even got her flowers. Natasha was impressed. The two of you lingered long after dinner, talking for hours over a crystal bowl of ice cream. That first date opened doors for so many more after and any time Natasha was in town, you two never failed to see each other. 

Something that you couldn’t quite ignore or explain away started to bloom. Weeks seamlessly slipped into months full of walks and dinners that always ended at your place. There was nothing lovelier than waking up to Natasha peppering your face with kisses. “I’ll see you in a minute.” she would always promise before taking off— off to rescue innocents and save the world. 

You and Natasha have kept the relationship your own little secret for close to a year now, with Clint Barton being the only one outside of you two who knew. 

But that changed a while ago when Natasha expressed her desire to widen that circle. “I’ve never had someone to share or a family to share them with.” she’d whispered, her head pillowed on your chest as you ran your fingers through her hair one night. 

She’d said it with so much vulnerability and hopefulness that you didn’t have the heart to do anything but give her what she wanted. Which is how you ended up at the Tower tonight, semi-ready to meet the Avengers. 

You pick the plastic sword out of Natasha’s glass and nibble on the cherries as you try to steel your nerves. 

“Go ahead. I don’t mind.” Natasha deadpans but she smirks at you over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip. “Still nervous?” she adds, voice softer. 

“A little.” you mumble, talking around the sword. 

“It’ll be fine.” Natasha rests her warm palm along your cheek, her thumb tracing over your cheekbone. “They’ll love you.”

You give her sheepish smile. “I know, Nat. You’ve said so about eight times already.”

Her eyes then slide from your face to something above your head. “Would you look at that?” she says with a laugh. 

You look up too and smile when you see the mistletoe hanging above your heads innocently. It looks so out of place as it’s the only one. “Doesn’t really match the rest of the decor, does it?”

“One of Tony’s intern’s idea of a joke, probably.” Natasha mutters. 

Your eyes involuntarily flick down to her lips and when you make eye contact again, the look Natasha gives you tells you she knows exactly what you were thinking, making heat rush to your cheeks. You’ve kissed her in so many places, on so many occasions. But never under a mistletoe. Something about that makes it feel like the first time, turning you into a flustered, blushing mess only worsened by Natasha’s growing smile. 

“Please,” you beg, “stop laughing at me and put me out of my misery already.” 

Natasha's eyes soften. “C’mere.” she murmurs, setting her glass down on a side table. Her fingers are slightly chilly from the ice when she sets her hand at your back and runs her fingers along your spine, pulling you closer. Her other hand goes to your jaw to keep you steady as she leans in, her lips dragging along your cheek first before making her slow way to the corner of your mouth— making your breath hitch in anticipation.

“Nat.”

“I know,” Natasha mumbles. She’d always been one to savour the moment. “I’m getting there.”

When her lips finally meet yours and Natasha deepens the kiss, it’s tangy from the alcohol at first but quickly sweetened over by her cherry lipgloss. You feel her hand following the curve of your back to slide down to your thigh and trace up the curve of it to tug at the hem of your dress, squeezing the flesh there. You hum into the kiss as Natasha pulls you flush against herself, both of you getting more and more desperate by the minute.

You pull away from the kiss slightly to press your lips to Natasha’s neck, encouraged by her fingers wandering further up. You make a leisurely path across her jaw, down her neck and finally the curve of her shoulders. You feel her breathing shallow with every graze of your lips along her skin and it sends sparks up your spine.

Natasha buries her fingers in your hair at the nape of your neck. “We have to get back to the party.” she murmurs, voice low and rough. 

You pause but don’t pull your lips from her collarbone. “Can’t we stay here just a little longer?” you murmur against her skin. “Just the two of us?” 

“The whole reason for you coming here is so you can meet them.” Natasha points out, rubbing soothing circles into the back of your neck with her thumb. You pull back just enough to look into her sparkling green eyes. “But I don’t want to push you.” she adds, studying you with that intense look that always makes you feel like she could see right into your soul. “We could forget about it.”

You back up fully and give her a smile. “No. I know how much this means to you.” you say, fixing the strap of her dress and pressing one more chaste kiss to her lips. “So it’s important to me too.”

Natasha smiles with palpable relief. “Good. ‘Cause they’re starting to wonder where I’m always disappearing off to.”

You tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, still craving some physical contact. “But… how long before you’re back in my arms?”

Natasha takes your hand and brings it to her mouth to plant a kiss at your pulse point. “Just one round of the room for introductions and that’s it.” she says, twining her fingers with yours and pulling you back inside. “I promise.”

I’ve never written anything like this before so for the love of all that’s holy, if you have criticism keep it soft or I will cry. And have some dessert

Soft, but firm in its hold. Warm in a way that feels familiar, though you can’t quite grasp why.

Your eyelids are too heavy to lift, and your body refuses every silent order to move, but none of that matters, not when the only thing that cuts through the haze is the steady, gentle pressure around your fingers. 

It becomes your lifeline, the one constant as everything else shifts around you. Like how you’d hear voices that are muffled, worried, and disappearing too quickly to follow. Or how the light behind your eyelids would brighten or dim for specific periods of the day. Or how the air around you turns cold, then warm again as blankets are adjusted.

But the hand never leaves.

Even when the darkness feels like it might swallow you whole, that touch grounds you. Comforts you. Urges you onward.

At some distant moment in time, you manage to gather enough strength to twitch your fingers. The effort is monumental, but you curl them weakly, instinctively, around the hand holding yours.

And the response is instantaneous.

A startled, tightening clasp, as though the person noticed and poured all their relief into your shared touch. But exhaustion pulls you down again before you can make sense of the voices that fill the room, words blurred into nothing as you slip back into the quiet.

The next time you surface feels different.

Your mind is slow to steady itself, but the fog isn’t as thick. Your eyelids, though still heavy, respond when you will them open, fluttering weakly before letting in dim, muted light. 

The room comes into view in fragmented pieces: pale walls, medical monitors, the faint beeping of a heart—your heart, you realize. You’re in a medical facility, though the reason sits just out of reach, frustratingly blurred and slippery.

You take a breath. Then another. The ache in your body tells you you’re alive, even if the “how” is lost somewhere in the dark.

So you focus on what you do know.

The warmth around your hand is still there. The same hand that’s been your constant companion through the void.

You turn your head carefully, and the first thing your eyes land on is red hair, soft and tousled, cascading over a woman’s arm where she sleeps with her head resting on the edge of the bed. Her face looks like she fought sleep for hours before finally succumbing to it, still leaning toward you as though terrified to be too far away.

Your gaze drifts to your joined hands, hers enveloping yours, fingers curled protectively around your palm.

Using what little strength you have, you move your fingers again.

It’s barely a twitch.

But she reacts as if you’d shouted.

Her head snaps up, eyes wide and stunned as they lock onto yours. For a moment, she doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe. She looks disbelieving, hopeful, and afraid, all at once.

“You’re awake,” she whispers, like the words are too fragile to speak too loudly.

Your throat is a desert, so you manage only a faint nod.

She releases your hand, and for a fleeting second, you mourn the loss of that warm contact. But then she reaches for a cup on the bedside table, lifting it with trembling hands. She slips an arm behind your shoulders just enough to help you drink, bringing the water to your lips and tipping it slowly so you don’t choke.

The first sip feels like heaven.

After a few more, she pauses, searching your expression before setting the cup aside.

“How do you feel?” she asks softly, and the gentleness in her voice makes something in your chest ache with a familiarity you can’t place. As though you’ve heard that tone directed at you many times before.

“Tired,” you rasp. Your head throbs, a dull pounding behind your temples. “And…a little dizzy.”

Her brows pull together with visible concern, and she straightens as if preparing to go find help.

“I’ll call the doctor—”

“Wait.”

Your voice is weak, but your grip on her hand is firm enough to stop her. She turns back immediately, eyes filled with worry.

You swallow, suddenly aware of how strange this moment feels—how intimate, how weighted. You can feel the sincerity radiating off her, the fear, the relief…and yet—

Yet your mind is blank.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” you begin slowly, choosing your words as gently as you can, “but… who are you?”

The effect is immediate.

Her eyes widen, the color draining from her face. Shock pours over her expression before something far more fragile takes its place—something like heartbreak. She pulls her hand from yours as if your touch suddenly burned her.

Her fingers hover where yours had been, trembling faintly, but she doesn’t reach for you again.

Not after that. Not when it’s clear you don’t remember her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Recovery is not a single moment of triumph. It’s a drawn-out process of patience and frustration. Once you’re fully awake, the days blur together in a cycle of medical checkups, physical therapy sessions, and endless monitoring. Your body slowly relearns its limits, your strength returns piece by piece, and the dull ache of healing becomes familiar. 

Through it all, your teammates are there—checking in, teasing you, hovering just enough to be reassuring without smothering you.

Everyone is present in some way.

Everyone except one person.

Natasha Romanoff.

You relearn her name through conversation rather than memory. Through passing mentions, careful pauses, and looks exchanged between teammates when you ask about her. You learn that shortly after your doctor cleared you to resume normal activity, she left on a mission.

Then another.

Then another.

Back-to-back assignments with barely any downtime in between. Whenever you return to the Compound, she’s already gone or just leaving. And on the rare occasion your paths almost cross, it feels as though she’s deliberately slipping through your fingers.

Avoiding you. That realization settles uncomfortably in your chest.

You’re alone in your room now, standing in front of the small collection of framed photos lining the dresser. You don’t remember choosing any of them, but they all share one constant.

Her.

In one picture, you’re seated side by side on a couch, her arm slung around behind on the chair as you lean into her. In another, the two of you are mid-laughter, faces turned toward each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. And then there’s one photo you keep coming back to.

You reach out, fingers brushing the cool glass.

In it, your arm is wrapped securely around her waist, pulling her closer into frame. She looks mildly surprised, caught mid-moment, but there’s a small smile tugging at her lips as she looks at you—not at the camera. 

You trace the outline of her face through the glass, your chest tightening.

This is the woman who stayed by your side while you were unconscious. The woman whose hand you remember holding yours in the dark. And now she’s gone, physically present in your life only through still images and unanswered questions.

You want your memories back more than anything.

You hate this hollow space where you know she should be.

With a quiet sigh, you let your hand fall. If Natasha won’t—or can’t—tell you what the two of you were to each other, then you’ll have to find out another way.

The kitchen is warm and familiar when you step into it, the smell of coffee and protein powder lingering in the air. Steve is already there, halfway through his usual morning routine, pouring his post-workout drink with the same movements he’s always had.

“Hey, Steve,” you say, sliding onto one of the barstools.

He looks up immediately, eyes scanning you with practiced concern. 

“Hey. How’re you feeling today?”

“Better,” you answer honestly. Physically, at least. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says easily, lifting his cup for a sip.

You hesitate for half a second, then ask, “What was Natasha’s and my relationship like?”

The reaction is immediate.

Steve chokes, sputtering as he hastily lowers his cup, coughing into his fist. 

“Uh—” He clears his throat, suddenly very invested in the countertop. “Maybe that’s something you should ask her.”

That response tells you enough that there’s something.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. 

“I would,” you say quietly, “but she’s never here. And when she is, it feels like she’s avoiding me before leaving again.”

Steve’s expression softens, sympathy flickering across his face. He crosses his arms, shifting his weight as though bracing himself. After a moment, he exhales.

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to you. “You two were close.”

You give him a flat look. 

“I figured that much, Cap.”

“No,” he says, meeting your eyes now. “I mean… close.”

The implication settles heavily between you.

Your breath catches. “Like—together?”

Steve hesitates. Then hums uncertainly. 

“I don’t know the exact details. You two kept things pretty private. Never officially said anything.”

Your brows knit together. 

“Then how did you know?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck, his ears tinged pink. 

“I walked in on a conversation once. Natasha was upset. She said you hadn’t been…touching her since she got back from a mission.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment mixing with something sharper—guilt. Understanding dawns slowly.

If you and Natasha were romantically involved, then of course, your memory loss would hurt. Of course, seeing you struggle to recognize her would be unbearable. Almost losing you once probably killed her. Losing you again like this might be worse.

You swallow, staring down at your hands.

How are you supposed to face her now?

Steve notices your expression and softens his tone. 

“She’s coming back today,” he adds gently. “You always used to be there when she returned.”

Before the injury. Before the memory loss.

You slide off the stool, offering him a small, grateful smile. 

“Thanks, Steve.”

He nods. “Hey, no matter what happens,” he says firmly, “she’ll be happy to see you.”

You hope he’s right.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You wait by the far wall of the hangar bay, hands shoved deep into your pockets, shoulders tense as the wide space echoes with distant mechanical hums. The smell of fuel and metal hangs thick in the air, familiar yet strangely hollow. You tell yourself you’re here because Steve suggested it, since it’s what you used to do.

Not because you want to. Not because your chest feels so tight you can’t ignore it.

The roar of quinjet engines swells overhead, rattling the hangar as the aircraft descends. Your heart stutters as the landing gear hits the ground, the sound reverberating through your bones. You straighten instinctively, breath catching as the ramp begins to lower.

And then you see her.

Natasha Romanoff steps off the quinjet, red hair pulled back, shoulders slightly slumped with exhaustion. There’s a weariness to her that goes deeper than a long mission, something heavy in a way that makes your chest ache.

You swallow hard and force your feet to move.

Each step toward her feels unnatural, like walking toward someone you’re supposed to know but don’t. By the time you stop in front of her, your nerves have completely taken over.

“H—hey, Natasha,” you say, lifting your hand in a small, uncertain wave that feels ridiculous the moment you do it. The smile you offer is weak and apologetic.

You feel like a hug would be more appropriate for welcoming her home, but you’re not sure if you should. Not with the way that you are.

Instead, you fold your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in your own grip, as if bracing for impact.

Her head snaps up at your voice, surprise flashing briefly across her face. Her eyes flicker over you. It’s clinical at first, like she’s checking for injuries, for signs that you’re okay.

Then her gaze drops to your arms, tightly crossed over your chest.

Something shifts in her expression.

The tiredness deepens. The light fades. She looks away almost immediately, jaw tightening as if she’s swallowed something sharp.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

It’s quiet. Flat. And it hurts far more than you expect it to.

You notice her hands flex at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like she’s restraining herself from doing something or stopping herself. The sight fills you with guilt. You feel like you’ve cornered her, ambushed her with your presence when she clearly wasn’t ready for it.

Your chest tightens painfully.

So this is what it feels like to be unwanted.

Even without memories, the rejection sinks deep. Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them, emotion spilling over without logic or explanation.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, brushing hastily at your eyes.

Her gaze snaps back to you instantly, concern flashing through the sadness as she notices the tears. Her brows knit together, confusion etched across her face.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

“Steve told me about us,” you say quietly, arms tightening around yourself as if you’re holding yourself together. “About…our relationship.”

Her frown deepens, head tilting slightly. There’s something unmistakably confused in her expression now, almost puzzled, but you don’t stop to question it. You don’t wait for her to respond.

You can’t.

Because the weight of what you think you’ve lost is suddenly too much to bear.

“I really am sorry, Natasha,” you say, voice breaking as you turn away from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Before she can say anything. Before you can process the look on her face, you hurry away, leaving the echo of your footsteps and a woman standing frozen in the hangar, staring after you with too many unspoken words between you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You lie curled on your side, staring blankly at the wall as you clutch the pillow tighter to your chest. It’s been hours since you retreated to your room—hours of replaying the scene in the hangar over and over again, each time wincing at your own awkwardness.

The way you stood there.

The way you apologized to her.

The look on her face when you did.

Your grip tightens on the pillow as the familiar spiral of self-criticism resurfaces.

How did you even manage to get someone like her to care about you in the first place?

A soft knock sounds at your door.

You don’t move.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow, as if that alone might block out the world. You’re not ready to see anyone. Not yet. Not after all that.

The knock comes again. Firmer this time.

You groan quietly, dragging yourself out of bed with reluctant limbs. Fine. You’ll tell them you’re tired. That you need space. That you—

The door slides open before you can finish forming the excuse.

Natasha stands in the doorway.

Your breath catches.

She looks different now, less guarded, more raw. The exhaustion you noticed earlier hasn’t faded, but now it’s joined by something heavier in her eyes. 

“First off,” she says immediately, cutting off whatever you were about to say, “Steve’s an idiot.”

You blink, not expecting that comment about the super soldier.

“He shouldn’t have told you things he wasn’t sure of,” she continues, voice sharp but controlled.

Your lips part, stunned into silence. You weren’t prepared for this—weren’t prepared for her to be here at all, let alone saying that.

“And second,” she adds, softer now but no less firm, “you have nothing to apologize for.”

She pauses, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting to meet yours again. Guilt flickers across her face.

“It’s my fault you got hurt in the first place.”

You shake your head slowly, trying to catch up to the conversation, but you’re still stuck on the first part. 

“So…” you start hesitantly, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “we weren’t…?”

Natasha’s expression softens. There’s something wistful in her smile as she shakes her head.

“No,” she says quietly. “We weren’t together.”

You frown, disappointment but mostly confusion knotting in your chest. 

“But Steve said you were upset that one time because I wasn’t touching you.”

A small, breathy laugh escapes her.

“That,” she says, “was when you stopped touching me because you were worried about my past. And I had to explain that…I like when you touch me.”

Heat rushes to your face at her words. 

“You make it sound like I touch you all the time,” you mutter, suddenly very aware of how close she’s standing.

The look she gives you, filled with fondness and warmth, makes your heart stutter.

“It’s one of the things I love about you,” she says gently.

Your eyes widen at her words, not sure if she meant them in the way that made your heart skip when hearing them.

Before you can respond, her hands flex at her sides, the same nervous motion you noticed earlier. Then, with a small exhale, she steps forward, closing the space between you, and lifts her arms around you.

She pulls you into a tight embrace.

“I love you,” she whispers into your hair.

For a moment, you’re frozen, heart pounding and breath shallow. Then something inside you clicks.

This feels familiar. 

Her arms around you. The way you fit together so naturally. Safe. Secure. Like this is where you’re meant to be.

Your hands lift on instinct, wrapping around her as you press closer, tucking yourself against her shoulder.

And then the memories rush back in fragments and flashes.

Meeting her for the first time and pulling her into an embrace without hesitation. Standing beside her while others kept their distance. The ease of touching her—hands on her arms, her waist, her back—never questioned, never resisted.

Greeting her every time she came home from a mission.

Holding her when the world felt too heavy.

How could you ever forget someone like this?

A quiet huff of disbelief escapes you as you pull back just enough to look at her.

“Welcome home, Natasha,” you say softly, tightening the hug again.

Her eyes widen, shock giving way to something bright and fragile.

“You—?” she starts.

You nod.

“I remember,” you tell her gently. Your hands move automatically, rubbing slow, soothing patterns along her arms. “I remember everything. And I told you—you don’t have to be afraid.”

Relief crashes over her face. Her gaze searches yours, then drifts to your lips.

You don’t rush her. You wait.

With a steady breath, she leans in and kisses you.

It’s tentative at first, like she’s still asking permission, but when you smile against her lips, her hands tighten, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens.

You’re so caught up in the moment that you don’t hear the footsteps outside your door.

“Hey, I wanted to apologize about earlier—uh.”

You break apart as Steve freezes mid-sentence. But Natasha doesn’t let go of you.

“All good, Steve,” she says calmly, reaching behind her to slide the door shut in his face.

She turns back to you, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“Now, where were we?”

You smirk, your hand gliding from her shoulder to her chest as you guide her backward until she sits on the edge of the bed. You follow her down, settling comfortably in her lap, legs bracketing her hips.

Your hands trace along her sides, dipping just beneath the hem of her top, your touch light and familiar.

“I believe you said you love my touch,” you murmur teasingly. “I think we should test just how much.”

Her answering smile tells you everything you need to know.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Reneé’s been quiet lately. not distant enough to worry you, just… off. slower to laugh. softer with her words. she still reaches for your hand, but sometimes her thumb doesn’t move the way it used to — no little circles, no easy warmth.

you notice it on a Wednesday night. she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone, her shoulders turned slightly away. the TV’s still playing something you aren’t watching.

“you okay?” you ask.

she glances over, smiles that polite little smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.

“yeah, just tired.”

you nod like you believe her, because you want to. because it’s easier. so you slide closer, press your forehead against her shoulder.

“then rest,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around her.

she hesitates — just for a second — before melting into you. her exhale brushes your hair. you take it as proof that everything’s fine.

you kiss her temple. her jaw. the corner of her mouth. each touch feels like an apology for something you don’t understand. you tell yourself it’s love — maybe if you give enough of it, the weird quiet will go away.

“love you,” you murmur.

“'love you too,” she says, and it’s gentle, but it lands in your chest like a bruise.

you hold her tighter anyway. because that’s what you do when you feel something slipping — you hold on. even if you don’t know what you’re trying to save.

--

she’s curled up on the far end tonight. not far enough to call it distance, but far enough that the space between you feels new. the glow from the TV paints her face in shifting colors; blues, yellows, a brief flash of red.

you laugh at the scene, more out of habit than anything. usually, she’d laugh too—she always did. this time, she just smiles without looking away from the screen, fingers absently tracing the seam of the throw pillow in her lap.

you wait for her to scoot closer. she doesn’t. the silence between punch lines grows heavier until you break it with something light.

“you tired?”

“a little.” her voice is soft, not unkind, but it lands with a thud in your chest.

you inch closer, legs brushing hers. she doesn’t move, but she doesn’t lean back either. you rest your head on her shoulder anyway, pretending not to notice the stiffness there, the way her breath catches before settling again.

you keep your eyes on the TV, but you’re not watching anymore. your brain keeps looping over tiny details—the way her arm doesn’t come around you automatically, the way her thumb doesn’t draw circles on your knee.

“hey,” you whisper. “hm?” “nothing.”

you bite your lip, swallow the rest of the words. you tell yourself it’s fine, that people have off nights, that love isn’t measured in inches on a couch.

still, your hand finds hers. you lace your fingers together, a quiet reminder. she squeezes back once. brief, mechanical, but it’s enough for you to exhale.

the sitcom laugh track swells, tinny and hollow. you lean into her shoulder and close your eyes, trying to memorize the rhythm of her breathing, just in case.

you tell yourself it’s fine. it’s nothing. you tell yourself that twice, and then once more, just to be sure.

--

the clock over the sink hums louder than it should. the house is mostly dark, just the thin strip of light from the stovetop. she’s standing by the counter, half-awake, spoon stirring a mug she hasn’t bothered to drink from yet.

the smell of chamomile hangs between you. she looks tired in that way that isn’t about sleep—shoulders a little lower, focus somewhere far away.

“couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice rough from the hour.

“yeah. thought tea might help.”

you nod, even though she’s not looking. her eyes stay on the cup like it’s something she has to finish. you cross the cold tiles barefoot, wrapping your arms around her waist from behind. she goes still for half a second before softening into your hold.

“hey,” you whisper into her back.

“hey,” she answers, quiet, the word barely there.

you rest your chin on her shoulder, watching the spoon make slow circles. the metal clicks against the ceramic, steady and rhythmic. it’s the only sound in the room.

for a moment, it feels normal again. the two of you, the quiet of late night, the kind of peace that used to mean safety. but her body feels different—warmer maybe, heavier. your chest presses against her back and you can feel the way her breath catches, then steadies again like she’s forcing herself to relax.

“you okay?”

“mhm. just thinking.”

you nod again, because you don’t know how to ask what she’s thinking about without sounding afraid of the answer.

you sway with her gently, your cheek pressed between her shoulder blades. her heartbeat is there, steady but faint. you imagine it matching yours, like it always used to.

you tighten your arms around her. it’s small, instinctive, a wordless plea that says stay close. please.

she sets the spoon down, leans back against you. for a few seconds, it feels like she’s fully there—her weight, her warmth, the way she tilts her head slightly against yours.

“love you,” you murmur.

“love you too,” she says, and her voice is kind but far away.

you pretend you didn’t notice the distance. you press your lips to her shoulder, let them linger, and tell yourself she just needs rest. maybe tomorrow she’ll laugh again.

she turns in your arms, gives a small tired smile, and brushes your hair back.

“you should get some sleep,” she says softly.

“in a minute.”

she nods, picks up her tea, and leaves the kitchen. the warmth where she stood fades fast, like steam from the mug she never touched.

you stand there a little longer, staring at the doorway, hands empty and cold.

--

rain needles the windshield, wipers sweeping back and forth with a slow, steady rhythm. the world outside is blurred into streaks of orange streetlight and dark pavement. inside, the car feels too quiet—engine humming low, heater blowing lukewarm air that smells faintly of dust.

she’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting in her lap. she used to keep it open, palm up, waiting for you to lace your fingers through. tonight, it’s still, thumb tracing idle lines across her jeans.

the radio plays a song you both know. normally she’d sing along—on-key, grinning, drumming against the steering wheel—but now she just lets the verses pass. her eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, expression soft but unreadable.

you glance over at her profile, the reflection of passing headlights sliding over her face. the distance between you feels sharper in this small space.

you reach out anyway, brushing the side of her hand with yours before looping your pinky through hers. it’s tentative, a test. she glances down, then over at you, offers a small, distracted smile.

“too many thoughts?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

“yeah,” she says. the word drops like a pebble into the silence and disappears.

you nod, though you don’t believe her. the silence swells again, full of the things you don’t know how to ask.

outside, the rain thickens. she leans forward slightly, squinting through the windshield, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. you study the way her jaw moves when she swallows, the way her shoulders lift and fall with each breath.

the headlights of another car flash across her face and you catch a glimpse of something—worry, maybe, or resignation—but it’s gone before you can name it.

you turn toward the window, biting your lip. the glass is cool against your forehead. the city slips by in watery blurs, and you think about how even when she’s right next to you, you can feel her leaving a little bit at a time.

when you steal another glance, she’s mouthing the words of the chorus without sound. you pretend you didn’t notice, and let your pinky stay looped around hers until she pulls her hand away to shift gears.

you fold your hands in your lap and stare at the rain, trying to convince yourself it’s just a long day, just a tired drive home, just a feeling you’ll wake up from tomorrow.

--

the house settles around you, a low creak here, a sigh there. moonlight leaks through the thin curtains, cutting pale shapes across the sheets. it’s late enough that the world feels emptied out.

she’s lying beside you, eyes fixed on the ceiling. her face is turned just enough that the light catches her cheekbone, a soft gleam you could trace from memory. you want to reach for her, but you don’t know if she’ll lean in or drift further away.

so you watch. you wait. the silence between you has weight now, thick and fragile at once.

“you’re quiet again,” you say finally.

“just thinking.”

“about what?”

“nothing important...and us.”

you ignore the second part, and you almost laugh—because you know her “nothing important” always means something she doesn’t want to name. instead, you shift closer, your knee brushing hers. her body is warm, but her thoughts feel far away.

you let your fingers find her arm, drawing soft patterns against her skin. lazy spirals. half-hearted hearts. anything that might pull her back to you. she exhales, long and tired, then turns to face you.

for a heartbeat, she’s fully there—eyes on you, lips parted like she’s about to speak. you catch the faint scent of her shampoo, familiar and sharp with nostalgia. you want to tell her you feel it, the change, the thinning of what used to be easy. but the words don’t come.

instead, you reach up, brush your thumb along her jaw.

“don’t go far, okay?” you whisper.

she smiles—small, practiced.

“i’m right here.”

and she is, technically. close enough that you can feel her breath on your chin. close enough that your heart believes her even as your stomach knots in doubt.

you press a kiss to her forehead and let your eyes close. she stays still beneath you, then slowly, carefully, slides her hand into yours. her fingers don’t intertwine; they just rest there, light and uncertain.

you tell yourself this is fine. that people have quiet nights. that love isn’t supposed to sound like laughter all the time.

the room hums with the faint buzz of a streetlight outside. her breathing steadies into a rhythm that could almost be sleep. you keep tracing invisible lines on her skin until the pattern stops feeling like an apology.

--

“love me right now... please?”

it comes out smaller than you meant it to. half a whisper, half a prayer. the words hang in the air between you, trembling. you’re not even sure if you meant love me as in hold me, or love me as in remember why you used to.

Reneé blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she softens.

“of course, baby,” she murmurs.

her voice is gentle, practiced. the kind she uses when she’s trying not to make you worry. she moves closer, her arm wrapping around your shoulders, tucking you against her. it’s warm, safe, everything it’s supposed to be—except for the quiet distance that lingers just beneath it.

you close your eyes and breathe her in. she smells the same—like coffee and rain and something you can’t name—but her heartbeat feels steadier than yours. detached. controlled.

her lips brush your temple, quick, automatic. another follows, softer this time, but still measured. her hand moves up and down your arm like she’s tracing comfort out of habit, not instinct.

and you take it anyway. you let yourself melt into her because right now’s all you have. because please was really the only word left that still made sense.

she whispers, “you’re okay, i’ve got you.” and you nod against her chest, pretending that’s true.

you stay like that—her arms around you, your heart begging time to stop. every second stretches thin, balancing between wanting to believe her and knowing she’s already somewhere else in her mind.

when she finally pulls back, it’s slow, careful, like she’s afraid to wake you. you keep your eyes closed anyway. you don’t want to see the look she’s wearing when she lets go.

“i love you.”

you almost don’t hear it at first. it slips out of her quietly, like she’s trying the words on again after forgetting how they sound.

your breath catches.

“what?”

she smiles then, soft and easy, eyes tired but kind.

“i love you,” she says again. “you know that, right?”

and god, something in you lights up. all that heaviness in your chest loosens just enough for air to rush in. she said it. she still said it. maybe you were wrong about the distance. maybe you imagined the way she’s been drifting.

you let out a shaky laugh, one that sounds too close to relief.

“say it again?”

she chuckles—barely, but it’s there—and repeats,

“i love you.”

you nod like it’s proof, like the sound alone could rebuild everything that’s been cracking. you reach for her face, fingertips brushing her cheek. she doesn’t flinch. she even leans into it a little, eyes closing for a second that feels like forever.

the dread that’s been living in your ribs loosens. your pulse steadies. she loves you. she said she loves you. maybe whatever’s been pulling at her isn’t about you. maybe things will settle back into place.

you tuck yourself against her again, heart thudding wild with fragile hope. her arms circle you automatically, like muscle memory.

and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe it—that love still lives here, that the air between you is heavy only because it’s full of something worth holding on to.

her hand finds yours under the blanket. she squeezes once, gentle, like punctuation.

you smile into the dark.

“i love you too.”

and you mean it. every word. even if the night feels borrowed.

--

You wake before she does. For a few seconds, the room feels gentle—morning light spilling across the sheets, the air quiet and forgiving. The kind of stillness that lets you pretend nothing’s wrong. Her arm is still draped over your waist. Her breathing is steady. It should feel safe.

You stay like that, trying to memorize the weight of it all—the warmth, the rhythm, the illusion. Because part of you already knows.

The thought comes, uninvited: Even if the night felt borrowed, the morning never belonged to you at all.

She stirs beside you. Blinks the sleep from her eyes. There’s a small smile, but it doesn’t reach anywhere deep. She looks at you for a long time, like she’s trying to find the right words in the air between you.

Then quietly:

“I think we should break up.”

It lands like a dropped glass—soft sound, sharp edges.

You don’t say anything at first. The words hover, waiting for you to either deny them or let them settle.

“What?” you manage, barely.

Reneé’s voice is calm, almost too careful.

“I’ve been trying to make it work, but it’s not fair to either of us if I keep pretending.”

You want to ask when pretending started. Was it last night? Was it weeks ago, when she began to pull away and you mistook it for tiredness?

You swallow hard, nod once, because there’s nothing else to do. The silence fills the space between you like fog—thick, cold, inevitable.

She reaches out, fingers brushing yours in a hesitant half-touch.

“I do love you,” she says. “Just… not the way I used to.”

The morning light shifts, turning everything too bright, too clear.

You pull your hand back and stare at the ceiling, the same way she did nights ago. It feels fitting somehow—like you’ve traded places.

Outside, a car passes. A door slams. Life goes on.

Inside, you exhale, slow and shaky.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

And that’s the only truth left between you. The silence sits heavy between you, stretching until it feels like another person in the room.

You stare at the wall, at the dent where a picture frame used to hang before it fell. Anything but her face.

“Who’s moving out, then?”

Your voice sounds smaller than you expected—matter-of-fact, but trembling underneath.

Reneé hesitates, thumb worrying at the hem of the blanket.

“I will,” she says finally. “This was your home before it was mine, so… it’s only right that I move out. I’ll go tomorrow.”

You nod once. The words land cleanly, almost politely, like an appointment being made. Tomorrow. That soon.

Another beat of silence. It grows until it feels impossible to breathe.

Then, barely louder than a breath:

“Can you love me for right now, before you leave?”

Reneé’s head lifts. Her mouth opens, closes. She looks at you the way people look at something they can’t fix but still want to hold.

Her eyes soften; she shifts closer, unsure of what to do with her hands.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmurs.

“Then don’t,” you say. “Not yet.”

Her shoulders sag, a quiet surrender. The space between you fills with everything unsaid—the years, the laughter, the echoes of what used to be.

She nods once, the smallest movement.

“Okay,” she whispers.

- 0-6 hours -

The morning starts quietly. Too quietly.

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, just like always. The sun cuts through the blinds in uneven lines. You’re both moving around each other in practiced rhythm — the kind of routine love builds before it starts to crumble.

Reneé hums something under her breath while pouring the milk. It’s familiar, but it sounds distant somehow, like she’s humming through a dream she’s already halfway out of.

You glance at the corner of the room, where her suitcase sits open, a few clothes folded neatly inside. It looks out of place against the comfort of your shared space — like a bruise that hasn’t faded yet.

“You don’t have to rush packing,” you say softly.

She looks up, startled, as if she forgot you could see her.

“I know. I just… wanted to start.”

You nod, pretending the answer makes sense.

Breakfast happens quietly. Toast, eggs, the scrape of knives on plates. Every now and then, your hands brush when you reach for the same thing. Each touch feels charged — not electric, but heavy. Like gravity.

At one point, she reaches across the table, fingers hesitating before curling around yours. It’s a simple thing, but it steals your breath.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Are you?”

Reneé doesn’t answer right away. Her thumb strokes your knuckle once, slow, careful.

“Let’s just have breakfast, yeah?”

And you do. You talk about nothing — the weather, the neighbor’s dog, a song you heard yesterday. Small talk, like putting bandaids over a cracked wall.

When you finish eating, she stands behind you, arms sliding loosely around your waist. The kind of half-embrace that tries to say I’m still here but never quite convinces either of you.

You lean back into her anyway.

“Feels nice,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” she whispers into your shoulder. “It does.”

And for a few minutes, that’s enough. You let yourself believe this moment might stretch forever — that maybe if you stay very still, the day won’t move forward, and tomorrow will never come.

But the suitcase is still there. The clock still ticks. And pretending feels harder with every breath.

- 6-12 hours -

By noon, the house feels too small. The air sits heavy, like it’s holding its breath along with you.

You grab your jacket and say,

“Let’s go out. One last time.”

Reneé hesitates—eyes flick toward her half-packed suitcase, then back to you. She gives a small nod.

“Yeah. Sure. One last time.”

The drive’s quiet, save for the hum of the old playlist you built together. The songs still fit, but the lyrics land differently now. The road looks the same but feels borrowed.

You end up at your spot—a café tucked behind a row of bookstores. It still smells like cinnamon and espresso and laughter. For a heartbeat, you almost convince yourself you’re back in the before.

You take the window seat, just like always. Reneé sits across from you, fingers drumming against the mug.

“They changed the cups,” she says, half-smiling.

“Guess it’s been a while,” you reply.

You talk about little things—the new album she’s obsessed with, the awful movie you saw together, the way the barista still misspells both your names. It’s light, almost normal. Every laugh feels like a gasp for air.

After a while, you walk through the park nearby. The leaves crunch under your shoes; kids chase each other down the path. Reneé keeps her hands in her pockets until, finally, she reaches for yours. It’s automatic, muscle memory. You grip back, pretending you don’t notice how her hand shakes.

“Remember that summer?” you ask, nodding toward the fountain.

“When we got caught in the rain?”

You grin.

“You made me dance in it.”

“You were so mad,” she laughs, eyes crinkling the way they used to.

For a moment, it’s easy. The ache loosens. You snap a photo on your phone, the two of you framed in sunlight.

“Send it to me,” she says.

“Yeah,” you say, knowing you won’t.

The walk back’s quieter. She slips her hand from yours to tie her hair, but she doesn’t reach for it again. You don’t ask.

As you pull into the driveway, the clock on the dash reads 6:03 p.m. The sky’s turning gold.

Reneé turns to you, eyes soft, voice low.

“That felt nice,” she says.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It did.”

Neither of you mentions how everything that feels nice today won’t exist tomorrow.

- 12-8 hours -

You’re both quieter on the way home. The air between you hums with everything that’s been said and all the things you can’t risk saying.

When you get inside, Reneé drops her keys on the counter and looks around like she’s cataloging the room — the crooked photo frame, the dent in the couch where she always sits, the plant you kept alive together by sheer accident.

“What do you want to do tonight?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

She gives a small smile.

“Movie?”

You nod. You both know which one. The same film that always lived in your comfort rotation — the one you put on when words weren’t working. You don’t have to discuss it; she’s already cueing it up.

You sit beside each other, knees touching. The opening scene plays and you feel the weight of all the times you’ve watched it before. You used to quote the lines together; now she only mouths them, half-smiling, her eyes glossy in the flickering light.

Halfway through, you rest your head on her shoulder. She doesn’t move for a second, then she exhales and lets her head tip against yours. Her fingers find yours between the cushions, an unconscious gesture that feels like muscle memory.

On screen, the characters are still fighting for their happy ending. You try not to think about the symmetry.

When the credits roll, neither of you moves. The room feels suspended in the hum of the TV and the heartbeat in your throat.

Reneé finally whispers, “Thank you for letting me love you.”

It hits harder than you expect. You swallow, blink hard, and manage, “Thank you for loving me.”

The silence that follows is gentle but enormous. You can feel the end pressing closer, but neither of you reaches to stop it. You just sit there, shoulders touching, the glow of the TV painting both of you in a light that feels like dusk stretched out forever.

Outside, the city settles into night. Inside, the warmth begins to fade.

- 8-24 hours -

The movie ends, but neither of you gets up. The clock on the wall ticks softly, each second thinning the air. Outside, the city hums, unaware that your world is about to end.

“Can we stay up?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Reneé says. “Let’s stay up.”

You move to the bedroom, but you don’t crawl under the covers. You sit against the headboard, a small distance between you, both staring at the half-lit room. The same room where you started, the same sheets, the same moonlight that’s watched you through every season.

“Remember when we painted this wall?” she says suddenly, tracing the faint streak near the corner. “You said you could do it in one coat.” “And you said I couldn’t.” “You were right.”

You both laugh, soft and exhausted.

Time begins to dissolve. You talk about everything: your first trip, the day you met, the songs you ruined by overplaying them. Every story sounds a little brighter in the retelling, a little further away.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, the laughter dies down. The silence comes back, but it feels different now—less like dread, more like acceptance.

Reneé shifts closer.

“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs. “You too,” you reply, even though you don’t believe it yet.

You rest your forehead against hers. The contact is light, just enough to feel her breathing. Neither of you moves. The night outside begins to pale.

“It’s almost morning,” she says. “Yeah.”

“Thank you for giving me one more day.”

You nod, voice barely holding steady.

“Thank you for staying until morning.”

And that’s it. No dramatic goodbye, no last-minute promises. Just the sound of dawn arriving and two people who loved each other long enough to know when to stop holding on.

The clock keeps ticking. The first light of day hits the wall you painted together, and everything looks softer in it.

She stands, grabs her bag, pauses at the door, "I loved you."

You nod, but you don’t get up. Because saying it back feels too hard for you, but you whisper it anyway and hope that it reaches her ears, "I loved you too."

When the latch clicks, the room exhales.

You stay still for a long time, watching the light move across the floor, feeling it settle where she used to sit.

And then, finally, you breathe.

---------------

if anyones crying, blame alex warren

Natasha knows she should give up but she can’t. You’d been pretty clear that she was to leave you alone but she just can’t. At first she’d tried. She’d gone back to her old lifestyle of drinking, partying and flirting but it had only lasted a week – it wasn’t the same anymore. Every time one of the other girls got close only one thought ran through Natasha’s head – she wishes it was you.

She sees you around campus and you seem to have returned to your old self too. You always seem to be alone, your nose in a book. Natasha aches to talk to you even though she knows you don’t want to hear it. One day she sees you in the library again and she can’t resist anymore.

You look up as Natasha approaches and sigh “Nat-”

“I’m not here to bother you! I just… You’ve been studying so much lately, I…” Natasha puts down a chocolate bar and a can of your favourite energy drink “You got dizzy that one time, remember? Your blood sugars were low.”

You raise your eye-brows, surprised that Natasha remembered that. Your first piece of coursework had been due and you were really stressed getting it done. You’d been at Natasha’s dorm one night whilst she was getting ready to go out, your nose buried in your book when you’d suddenly felt a dizzy spell. Natasha had given you a chocolate bar then and it had helped immensely “Oh… Thank you.”

She nods, watching you for a moment. Her previous gifts were met with hostility but you don’t seem to mind this peace offering. She hesitates before saying quietly “I miss you.”

You glance up at her and nod, replying quietly “Well… I miss you too.”

Natasha gives a small smile. She sees your gaze return to your book and she doesn’t want to push her luck so she just nods “Just… Remember not to work too hard, okay?”

You don’t respond and Natasha walks away. It hadn’t been much but you hadn’t pushed her away or snapped at her so that was… Something. Maybe even progress.

Over the next couple of weeks Natasha approaches you daily in the library, bringing you small peace offerings each time. A takeout cup of coffee. A single rose. A new, fancy pen. A muffin from that little place you took her to once. Natasha sees you drink the coffee, use the pen, eat the muffin… You’re not throwing away her gifts anymore, you’re accepting them and it makes Natasha’s heart soar every time. Those few minutes she gets with you each day are what keep her going.

One day she works up the nerve to sit next to you and you sigh “Please-"

“I know, I know, you want me to leave you alone.” Natasha says quickly “But… I had an idea.”

“An idea?”

“Yes. And… Look Y/N, I miss you. You know that. And I love you but I also respect you so I’m going to propose an idea to you and if you say no, then fine, I’ll leave you alone and we can forget about it.” You haven’t interrupted her or told her to shut up so she feels a warm feeling of hope radiate through her chest as she suggests “I want to take you on a first date.”

Your eye-brows furrow “A date?”

“Specifically a first date. I want… I thought I could take you somewhere and we could act like we’re meeting for the first time. Like we’re completely starting over.” You don’t say anything for a long moment and she sighs “I know, it was dumb, I just-”

“Okay.” You interrupt “I’ll go on this first date with you.”

Natasha’s eyes widen as she looks at you, her heart pounding in her chest “Really? I- Perfect! What about tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You nod “Yeah. I’ll be ready for seven.”

Natasha beams, resisting the urge to reach out and hug you. This is the first time she’s truly felt happy ever since you broke up with her. She’s not going to waste this opportunity. Not now she’s so close to potentially winning you back.

The following evening Natasha picks you up at exactly seven o’clock and you both walk to a local sushi restaurant, somewhere you’d both talked about going for a while but had never really gotten round to it. Natasha is nervous and keeps wiping her hands agitatedly on her jeans whilst you look outwardly calm though she can’t help noticing the way you fiddle with your hair every so often – a telltale sign that you’re feeling a little anxious.

Natasha sits opposite you and reaches across the table to take your hand “You look really pretty.”

You give a small smile, your fingers intertwining with hers “Thank you. So do you. But you always do.”

“So, since this is a first date…” Natasha says with an almost shy smile “Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

You think for a moment. Natasha knows you quite well already – you’re an open book. You were never afraid to tell her how you were truly feeling when you were together and you’d told her a lot about your past. You’re not a hundred percent sure what Natasha’s end goal is here – to win you back presumably, yes, but there had to be a reason she’d specifically wanted a first date. An opportunity to start again. So you decide to get right to the point “Well… I get jealous pretty easily. And I’m pretty insecure. I can be difficult to date sometimes-”

“I don’t think feeling insecure would make you difficult to date.” Natasha says.

“I disagree. Intimacy is difficult. Kissing and cuddling is fine but anything more… I get very insecure. I don’t want to take my clothes off; the touch can make me cringe or flinch a little…”

“It sounds like whoever’s dating you would need to have some patience and to help set the mood then.” Natasha says “And be understanding if you’re still not feeling it.”

You nod “That would definitely help. Compliments help too. Making me feel like the only one in the room if we’re out in public. If we’ve spent all day around others and my partner has been constantly flirting with other people then I won’t want to be intimate when we’re eventually alone.”

“You need romance.” Natasha says quietly “That makes sense.”

“I like boundaries and a firm one for me is that exclusive means exclusive.” You say “No flirting with other girls, no holding their hands, letting them sit in your lap, sitting in their lap-”

“My flirting days are over.” Natasha says, dropping the pretence of a first date “I promise.”

“I hope so Nat. Because I very rarely give second chances.”

“I understand.” Natasha says “I won’t waste this opportunity. I won't let you down.”

You squeeze her hand “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything I should know about you?”

Natasha thinks for a moment, biting her lip. She sighs before saying quietly “I’m insecure too.” She expects you to laugh, to tell her she’s full of shit but you don’t. You sit quietly and wait for her to continue “And I guess I always thought I needed attention from everyone so that I wouldn’t feel insecure. But I was wrong. It didn’t help. In fact… It cost me the love of my life.”

“What do you think will help?”

Natasha hesitates, looking down at the table, almost embarrassed “I don’t know, I guess I never thought about that before. Maybe… Someone who will listen. Who won’t judge when I need to tell her things.” Natasha swallows then takes a deep breath “Honestly, she was perfect already. She did all those things that I needed. She listened and she was sympathetic and kind but she also wasn’t afraid to call me out on my bullshit. She was sympathetic but she didn’t treat me like a damn charity case either, even though she knew about my parents.”

Natasha looks at you, her eyes shimmering and says nothing for a long moment. You give her a small smile “I hope you mean it about the bullshit thing because I’m not going to stop.”

Natasha snorts through her tears “Good. I hope not.”

“If anything the next few months will be more difficult. I’m going to be so insecure and jealous and petty about a lot of things because I’m going to worry you’ll slip back into your old habits when you start to feel comfortable again.”

“And I’ll do everything I can to reassure you that I won’t.” Natasha says, her voice soft but determined “This is my fault Y/N, my mess to fix. And I’m willing to put in the work. You’re worth it.”

You nod, squeezing her hand “Okay then.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t pause, but the edge in your voice sharpened. “God, Wanda, yes! I’m fine!”

Her eyes flickered, surprised by the sudden flare. “Why are you so angry? I was just checking on you.”

You turned then, frustration boiling up. “Can you just... leave me alone?”

For a heartbeat, Wanda’s gaze held yours—quiet, steady. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said, voice soft but firm, almost a whisper.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, the soft click of her heels fading as she disappeared down the hallway toward her office, leaving you alone with the simmering silence and the steady scrape of the spoon against the pot.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the creeping night outside. Wanda sat propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on her lap, fingers gliding over the keys with practiced ease. She didn’t look up as you entered, eyes fixed on the screen, brows knit just slightly—an expression you’d rarely seen on her, especially not directed at you.

Your heart dropped. Wanda wasn’t the type to hold onto anger for long; she was usually patient, warm, steady. But now, this quiet distance felt like a wall you hadn’t expected.

You hesitated at the doorway, then moved slowly to the edge of the bed and sat down. Your gaze dropped to your hands for a long moment before you finally glanced up, reaching out with a tentative hand toward her arm. The familiar comfort you usually found in her presence felt fragile, almost out of reach.

Just as your fingers brushed the soft fabric of her sleeve, the bedroom door creaked open.

You froze.

The maid stepped inside, eyes apologetic as she caught your gaze. Wanda didn’t even flinch.

The moment shattered.

The moment the door creaked open, your fingers snapped back like they’d burned you. A sudden sting bloomed behind your eyes — tears threatening to spill. You swallowed hard, unwilling to let them fall, and quickly stood.

“I... I’m sorry,” you muttered, voice breaking as you hurried past the maid and Wanda, your steps uneven as you rushed out of the room.

Wanda’s eyes followed you, the fragile mask she wore cracking just a little, a shadow of pain flickering across her face.

The maid’s soft voice followed after you, “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” her apology barely audible over the quick beat of your retreating footsteps.

You didn’t respond. You just kept walking, Wanda silently trailing behind you, the distance between you heavy but closing.

It felt hard to breathe. You’d never had an argument with Wanda before—never this cold, this distant. And now, the maid might know. The thought made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You’d almost been honest, almost reached out for the comfort you so desperately needed, only to be interrupted and exposed.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this—vulnerable, fractured.

Without another word, you stepped out onto the back patio, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of reality. The city lights flickered softly in the distance, but all you could focus on was the tightness in your chest.

Your hands gripped the railing, knuckles whitening, as you took a deep, shuddering breath—trying to calm the storm inside you, trying to find your footing again.

The door behind you clicked softly, and before you could speak or move, Wanda stepped out onto the patio. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, but her presence was warm, steady. She paused behind you, then gently rested a hand on your shoulder, a quiet reassurance in the cool air.

Without a word, she shifted to stand beside you, her body close, safe. Slowly, she pulled you into her, a soft embrace that promised you weren’t alone.

You turned into her, tears spilling quietly, the sobs muffled against the fabric of her jacket. She held you gently, as if you might break, and kissed your forehead—soft, tender, grounding.

Wanda’s hand moved gently to your cheek, her thumb tracing tender circles as she leaned in and pressed her lips softly to yours. The kiss was warm and slow, grounding you in the moment, like an unspoken apology and a promise all at once.

She pulled back just enough to brush her thumb lightly over your tears, wiping them away with delicate care.

In the hush of the night, a soft smile tugged at your lips—small, shy, but real. Wanda caught it and returned it with a smile just as gentle.

“You’re so pretty when you smile like that,” she murmured, voice low and filled with affection.

You blinked, heart fluttering, and felt the tightness inside ease, if only a little, wrapped in the quiet comfort of her presence.