angst galore

The Gilded Cage and the Ghost Within

The air at Accademia Medicea tasted of old money, fresh linen, and the faint, metallic tang of ambition. It was a scent Natasha Romanoff had been taught to recognize, to wear like a second skin. She moved through the grand, sun-drenched atrium, her fabricated identity: Nadia Nabokov, a scholarship student from a newly respectable Russian industrial family, settling comfortably around her. The other students were peacocks, their laughter too loud, their designer backpacks slung with practiced carelessness. They were performing wealth.

And then there was Y/N Medici.

She stood by a towering marble pillar, not posing, not seeking attention. She was simply present. Her posture was immaculate, a straight line from the crown of her head to the sole of her leather flats. She wasn’t wearing the most conspicuous labels, but the cut of her blazer, the quiet sheen of her silk shirt, whispered a price tag the others were shouting about. She held a tablet, her fingers moving with economical grace. She wasn’t arrogant. She was a fortress.

That’s not arrogance, Natasha thought, a predator’s instinct humming to life. That’s conditioning.

Their first class was Diplomatic Ethics, held in a soaring room with vaulted ceilings and tiered benches. Natasha saw her opportunity. Y/N was already seated, a notepad and fountain pen arranged with geometric precision before her. There was an empty seat beside her, a buffer zone most students respected. Natasha did not. She slid into the seat, her timing perfect, just as the professor was clearing his throat. She settled, her arm resting on the shared armrest, her shoulder a breath too close to Y/N’s.

Y/N’s pen stopped mid-word. She didn’t turn her head, but her gaze shifted, a flicker of dark lashes. “You’re in my personal space.” The voice was low, clear, and utterly devoid of accusation. It was a statement of fact, like noting the time.

Natasha let a slow smile curve her lips. “Already?”

“I allow it to be violated socially,” Y/N said, her gaze returning to her notes. “Not academically.”

Natasha had to physically suppress a laugh. Interesting. Most girls would have giggled, blushed, moved away. Y/N simply established a boundary and expected it to be honored. Gracious, but steel-edged.

The professor, a man with a face like a disappointed hawk, skipped any pleasantries. “Miss Medici. Explain why power structures collapse from the inside rather than the outside.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Because the outside is an enemy, and enemies forge unity. The inside is a parasite, a slow decay of trust. It introduces doubt where certainty is required, replacing loyalty with self-interest. It turns the foundation against itself. The collapse is not an invasion; it is a suicide.”

Her answer was flawless. Measured. Elegant. Utterly devoid of passion. It was a textbook recitation, but delivered with the authority of a queen.

Silence. Then Natasha raised her hand. “Yes, Miss… Nabokov?”

“With respect,” Natasha began, her voice pitched to carry just enough to challenge without being insolent, “collapse doesn’t come from power structures. It comes from people who believe they’re untouchable.”

The air in the room grew thick. The professor’s hawk-like gaze sharpened with interest. For the first time, Y/N turned her head fully, her eyes meeting Natasha’s. There was no offense there, only a calm, analytical curiosity.

“That assumes arrogance,” Y/N said, her tone even. “Not all power is blind.”

Natasha tilted her head, letting her gaze drift over Y/N’s face, committing the sharp line of her jaw, the intelligent glint in her eyes, to memory. “True. But all power is human.”

A dangerous smile touched the professor’s lips. “Excellent. Both of you.”

They had just been publicly anointed as intellectual rivals.

As students began to pack up, the spell was broken. Y/N continued to write for a moment longer, then capped her pen with a soft click. “You didn’t need to challenge me,” she said, still not looking at Natasha.

Natasha shrugged, gathering her own bag. “I wanted to see if you’d fold.”

Y/N finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, but held no trace of being bothered. “Did I?”

Natasha grinned, a genuine, predatory flash of teeth. “No. That’s… disappointing.”

A soft exhalation escaped Y/N’s lips, so brief it was almost imagined, the ghost of a laugh. It was the most unguarded sound she had made all day. “If you intend to antagonize me all semester, at least be honest about it.”

Natasha stood, leaning in just a fraction, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I intend to understand you.” She let the pause hang between them. “Antagonizing you is just a bonus.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, as Y/N watched her walk away, she wasn’t thinking about quarterly reports, or her father’s expectations, or the five-hundred-year-old weight of her name. She was thinking: Oh. She’s dangerous.

Circling Each Other

Proximity became a weapon, a schedule created by the Red Room and embraced by Natasha. They shared Advanced Economic Theory, Renaissance Art and Propaganda, and, most cruelly, a mandatory study period in the library where seating was assigned alphabetically. Medici and Nabokov. Side by side.

Natasha made it her mission to find the cracks in Y/N’s polished facade. “You know,” Natasha whispered one afternoon, leaning across their shared table, the scent of old books and Y/N’s faint, clean perfume filling the space, “you’re allowed to relax your shoulders. They won’t actually shatter.”

Y/N didn’t look up from her text on Florentine banking systems. “And here I thought this was my relaxed posture.”

The deadpan delivery was so perfect, so utterly sincere, that Natasha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Natasha played the part of the charmingly uncultured new-money girl, asking questions about proper place settings or the significance of a particular fresco. Y/N would correct her with a gentle, patient precision that was both infuriating and endearing. She never made Natasha feel stupid; she simply informed her.

But Natasha was watching. She saw the way Y/N’s smile was a timed event, appearing at the appropriate social cue but never quite reaching her eyes. She heard how Y/N referred to herself not as “I” but as “a Medici,” or “in my capacity.” She was a function, a role.

Once, after a gruelling lecture on dynastic succession, Y/N paused for a full ten seconds, her gaze fixed on the marble floor before she straightened her spine and resumed her note-taking. It was a flicker of discomfort, registered and filed away. Natasha, who had been trained to exploit such weakness, felt a strange, unwelcome ache. She thought about the life Y/N was being groomed for a perfect, political marriage, a legacy of cold power, she would make a perfect widow. She wouldn't wish that life on anyone, especially someone with a hidden laugh like that.

Y/N was watching, too. She noticed how Natasha’s stories about her family in St. Petersburg were just a little too smooth, a little too generic. She noticed how Natasha could navigate a crowded hallway with the silent grace of a panther, her body always angled for the best line of sight and the quickest exit. She noticed that Natasha’s brilliant, captivating smile vanished the second she thought no one was looking, replaced by a chilling, blankness.

The Language of Hands

The cracks began to show not in words, but in small, thoughtless actions. One evening in the library, Natasha was wrestling with a particularly dense passage on derivatives when she felt a light touch on her hand. Y/N had reached across, her finger pointing to a line in Natasha’s textbook.

“You’re misreading the liability structure,” Y/N said softly, her voice a low murmur in the hushed silence. “The risk isn’t in the asset itself; it’s in the counterparty guarantee. See how the obligation is layered?”

Her finger lingered for a second longer than necessary, a warm point of contact on Natasha’s skin. Natasha didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s. It was a test.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She simply met Natasha’s eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between them before she withdrew her hand, the moment broken. But the space between them had changed. It was no longer just a seat at a table; it was charged with a new, unspoken electricity.

Another time, they were walking across the quad after a late lecture. A group of boisterous students jostled past, and Y/N stumbled slightly on the cobblestones. Natasha’s hand shot out, steadying her by the small of her back. It was a firm, protective touch, and Y/N leaned into it for a half-second before regaining her composure and stepping away. The brief contact left an imprint on both of them, a ghost of warmth against the evening chill. They walked the rest of the way in a silence that was no longer merely companionable, but heavy with anticipation.

The Unforced Error

Natasha’s mission was a constant, low-frequency hum in the back of her mind. Her handlers wanted leverage. They wanted secrets. One afternoon, she saw her chance. Y/N was leaving the headmistress's office, looking more strained than usual. She clutched a leather-bound portfolio, the kind used for sensitive family documents.

Later, in their shared study period, Y/N set the portfolio on the table beside her, absently turning the combination lock. It was a simple, four-digit code. Natasha, feigning a stretch to relieve boredom, watched from the corner of her eye as Y/N’s thumb hovered over the dials. She didn’t enter the code, but her fingers twitched, forming a pattern: 1-4-8-9. The year Lorenzo de’ Medici died. Obvious. Predictable.

That night, Natasha slipped into the empty library. It was a simple matter to bypass the rudimentary alarm on the study room door. Her heart was a steady, cold drumbeat. This was what she was built for. She found the portfolio, the leather cool under her fingers. She spun the dials: 1-4-8-9. The lock clicked open.

Inside were not financial records or blackmail material, but something far more intimate. It was a collection of architectural sketches and personal notes. Y/N was designing a wing of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi, not as a museum, but as a public arts education center for underprivileged children. The notes in the margins were in Y/N’s elegant script, but the thoughts were passionate, almost desperate. “Art should not be a cage. It must be a key.” “If the family’s legacy is only stone and gold, it is a tomb.”

Natasha felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. This wasn’t a vulnerability. It was a soul. She took a photo of a single, innocuous-looking page about structural load-bearing and sent it to her handlers with a note: “Academic focus on civic engineering. No immediate leverage.” Then she carefully re-locked the portfolio and left, the taste of betrayal like ash in her mouth.

The External Threat

The threat didn’t come with a bang. It came with a whisper. A new groundskeeper who asked too many questions about Y/N’s schedule. A failed attempt to breach the academy’s digital network, targeting Y/N’s personal file. And then, the accident.

A heavy stone frieze, undergoing restoration on the building’s facade, “malfunctioned,” crashing down just feet from where Y/N was walking. The world shattered into dust and screams. The groan of stressed metal and the percussive crash of ancient stone against marble echoed through the courtyard.

For a frozen second, Y/N just stood there, her mind refusing to process the chaos, her body paralyzed by a lifetime of being protected, not protecting.

Then, a force slammed into her, knocking her off her feet and behind a massive stone planter. The impact was jarring, the body covering hers a solid, unyielding weight. A hand clamped over her mouth, not roughly, but with absolute authority.

“Don’t scream,” a voice hissed in her ear. It was Natasha’s.

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against Natasha’s steady frame. She could feel Natasha’s heart, rhythmic beat that was terrifyingly composed. Dust filled the air, tasting of chalk and earth. Through the haze, Y/N saw the place where she had been standing a moment before. It was a crater of pulverized marble and twisted iron.

Natasha moved first, lifting her weight off Y/N with a fluid grace that defied the chaos. Her eyes were no longer the playful, teasing things Y/N was used to. They were sharp, scanning, calculating. “Are you hurt?”

Y/N could only nodded her head, her throat too tight to form words.

“Good. We’re leaving. Now.” Natasha grabbed her hand, her grip firm and certain. She didn’t head for the main archways, where teachers and security were already converging. She pulled Y/N towards a narrow service alley, her movements economical and sure.

They found themselves hidden in the cool, dim confines of a disused wine cellar beneath the library. The only light came from the narrow grate high on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the smell of dust and forgotten things.

Y/N finally found her voice, though it came out as a shaky whisper. “That wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Natasha said, her back against the stone wall, her gaze fixed on the cellar door. “It wasn’t.” She had a small cut on her forearm, a thin line of welling blood that she seemed oblivious to.

Without thinking, Y/N pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from her blazer pocket. She stepped closer, gently taking Natasha’s arm. Her fingers trembled as she wrapped the linen around the cut.

Natasha flinched at the touch, a barely perceptible tension that vanished as quickly as it came.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered, her eyes fixed on the makeshift bandage. She wasn’t thanking her as the Medici heir. She was thanking her as a girl who had almost been crushed.

Natasha looked down at her, at the dust smudging Y/N’s cheek, at the genuine terror and relief warring in her eyes. A strange, unfamiliar feeling twisted in her chest. This wasn’t part of the mission. The instinct to shield Y/N with her own body, to feel a surge of pure, unadulterated rage at the attempt on her life that was not in her orders.

“I was just here,” Natasha said, her voice softer than Y/N had ever heard it.

That night, huddled together in the darkness, the adrenaline gave way to a raw, quiet intimacy.

“I’m terrified,” Y/N confessed, her voice barely audible. “Not of dying. I’m terrified of failing this. My family… this legacy. I never asked for it, but if I break it, I break everything. I don’t know how to be a person and a Medici at the same time.”

Natasha’s own heart ached with a truth she couldn’t share. “I’ve never had a choice at all,” she murmured, the words feeling dangerously close to honesty. “Not about anything. My path was set for me before I could walk.”

In the darkness, with the dust of a near-death experience settling around them, it was enough. They were two girls trapped in gilded cages, and for the first time, they weren’t alone.

Falling

The wall between them didn’t just crack; it disintegrated. The study sessions in the library changed. Natasha would reach out, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s face, and Y/N would lean into the touch instead of pulling away.

Their first real date wasn’t a date. Natasha “forgot” her keycard and was locked out of her dorm after hours. Y/N simply let her into her own spacious, single suite. They sat on the plush rug, sharing a bottle of water Y/N had insisted on chilling, and talked for hours. Y/N showed Natasha the completed model of her arts center, her eyes alight with a passion Natasha had only glimpsed in shadows.

“You’re going to build it,” Natasha said, her voice filled with a certainty that surprised them both.

“I have to,” Y/N replied, her smile small but genuine. “It’s the only part of the Medici name that feels like mine.”

The first kiss happened in the music room, after hours. Natasha was teaching Y/N how to loosen her grip on a piano key, to let the note breathe instead of striking it. Her hand covered Y/N’s on the ivory, their fingers intertwined. Y/N turned her head, her eyes searching Natasha’s. There was no calculation in her gaze, only a desperate, hopeful longing.

Natasha closed the distance. The kiss was hesitant at first, then deepened, a silent acknowledgment of everything they couldn’t say. It tasted of relief and shared secrets.

Natasha’s handlers applied pressure. Reports were demanded. What are her vulnerabilities? What are her father’s plans? Create emotional leverage.

Natasha lied. She reported on Y/N’s academic brilliance, her formal demeanor, her unremarkable social circle. She delayed, obfuscated, protecting the girl she was supposed to be exploiting. The dramatic irony was a poison in the well.

They planned a summer. “You have to come to Florence,” Y/N said one evening, her head on Natasha’s shoulder as they looked out at the manicured grounds. “I’ll show you the real Uffizi, not the tourist version. We can walk the Palazzo Pitti garden.”

“I’d like that,” Natasha whispered, and the lie felt like a shard of glass in her throat. She was getting closer to the goal, closer to having the access the Red Room needed, but all she could think about was the way Y/N’s face lit up when she talked about art.

The Reveal

Y/N didn’t suspect Natasha emotionally. Trust, for her, was a binary state. She trusted Natasha completely.

But she was a Medici. She had been raised to observe patterns, to see the matrix beneath the reality.

It was the little things. Natasha referenced a specific 14th-century Medici banking tactic, one so obscure it was only discussed in internal family archives. During a security drill, when a flash-bang simulated an attack, Natasha’s reaction wasn’t fear; it was an immediate, tactical crouch, her eyes scanning for exits and threats with a precision no teenager should possess. She spoke of powerful families with an insider’s cynicism, not an outsider’s awe.

It wasn’t suspicion. It was due diligence. As the heir, anyone who got close was subject to a standard background verification through Medici security. It was a formality, a box to be checked. She authorized it without a second thought, a quiet administrative task on a Tuesday morning.

The report came back digitally, encrypted and direct to her tablet. She opened it expecting to see a simple, clean history: a birth certificate in St. Petersburg, school records, a family tree linked to a manufacturing conglomerate.

She saw nothing of the sort.

No verifiable childhood records before age twelve. Educational credentials loop back to shell institutions with ties to defunct state programs. Multiple passports under different names, all tied to the same biometric profile. And one name, flagged across a dozen intelligence agencies as a person of interest: NATALIA ALIANOVNA ROMANOVA. Alias: NATASHA ROMANOFF. NADIA NABOKOV Affiliation: RED ROOM.

Y/N read the file once. Then again. The words didn’t change. The world did.

The warmth in her chest didn’t shatter. It turned to ice. Every shared laugh, every whispered secret, every tender touch was re-contextualized in the cold, harsh light of this new reality. The piano lesson. The library study sessions. The night in the wine cellar. It was all a script. And she had been the perfect, willing audience.

She closed the tablet. The soft click of the case meeting the screen was the loudest sound she had ever heard. That silence, that complete lack of outward reaction, hurt worse than any scream.

The Break

The end wasn’t dramatic. It was clean.

The next morning, Y/N was gone before Natasha could meet her at her dorm door. At breakfast, she didn’t look at Natasha. She didn’t acknowledge her existence. Natasha felt a cold dread creep up her spine. She tried to catch her eye after class, but Y/N moved with an entourage of advisors and security, her posture more rigid, more controlled than ever. She was a Medici heir again. The girl was gone.

The extraction began at dusk. Two black, unmarked sedans pulled up to the main entrance. Men in dark suits, Medici security, moved with quiet efficiency. They weren’t there to arrest Natasha. They were there to remove a contaminant.

Natasha was stuffing clothes into a bag, movements sharp and economical, the way she’d been taught to pack in under thirty seconds. She didn’t hear the door open. She just felt the air change, the temperature dropping by several degrees.

She turned.

Y/N was standing there, alone in the doorway. No security. No entourage. Just her, silhouetted against the light of the hallway, looking like a marble statue come to mourn.

“Y/N…” Natasha’s voice was rough, the name catching in her throat. It was the first time she’d said it without a layer of performance.

Y/N’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened. “I loved you.”

The words weren’t an accusation. They were a verdict. Delivered with the same calm, devastating precision she used to dissect a hostile takeover. They were a fact. A past-tense fact.

“I know,” Natasha whispered. The admission was ripped from her, raw and unguarded. It was the only truth she had left to give, and it was the cruellest weapon she could have used. It confirmed everything. The vulnerability, the connection, the late-night confessions, it wasn’t just a mission. It was real. And the betrayal was, too.

A flicker of something, maybe pain crossed Y/N’s face before being extinguished by a chilling resolve.

“They’ll be here in two minutes,” she said, her voice flat. “My father’s men. They don’t take prisoners. They erase problems.”

Natasha stared at her, a hundred unspoken things dying on her tongue. Why are you telling me this?

Y/N’s gaze held hers, a final, unreadable transaction. “You taught me that all power is human.” Her voice was a monotone, but the words trembled with a repressed fury. “You’re not a problem. You’re a lesson.”

She took a step back, a deliberate, final movement. “This is my one and only act of sentimentality. Don’t make me regret it.”

And then she was gone.

The two minutes were a lifetime. Natasha didn’t hesitate. She slung the bag over her shoulder, didn’t bother to zip it, and moved to the window. It was a three-story drop to manicured hedges. She’d jumped from worse. With one last look at the empty doorway, she slipped out into the night, disappearing into the shadows just as the heavy, purposeful footsteps of Medici security echoed down the hall.

Epilogue

Six months later.

Natasha Romanoff, now fully herself, stood on a rooftop in Prague, the wind whipping her hair. The mission in Milan was a failure, but she had been reassigned. The Red Room was pragmatic. Failure was a data point.

She scanned the financial news on a secure tablet. A headline caught her eye: Medici Heir Announces Landmark Philanthropic Endeavor. There was a photo of Y/N, standing before a press conference. She looked different. The stiffness was gone, replaced by a calm, unshakable authority. She wasn’t performing the role of heir; she was embodying it. The article detailed the groundbreaking of the "Centro Medici per le Arti Giovanili," a public arts education center in Florence. It was Y/N’s design, Y/N’s vision. She had done it. She was building her legacy.

Natasha felt a pang in her chest, a complex mixture of pride and profound loss. Y/N had taken the lesson and built something stronger from it. She had taken the betrayal and turned it into a foundation.

As Natasha watched the image of the woman she had loved and broken, a single, encrypted message appeared on her screen from an unknown source. It was just four words.

You were my lesson, too.

Natasha’s breath hitched. She knew, with absolute certainty, who had sent it. She looked back at the photo of Y/N, who for a fleeting moment seemed to look directly out of the screen, not at the camera, but at her.

You weren’t magically healed or fixed, but you were doing a lot better.

The days had fallen into a routine that you hadn’t realized you were slipping into until it was already there. Wake up. Help with whatever needed doing. Try not to hover. Try not to apologize too much. Try not to feel like you were taking up space you hadn’t earned.

Some days were easier than others.

Some mornings you woke up already tired, your body tense before you even opened your eyes. Some nights you laid on the couch staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle, convinced you heard something that wasn’t there.

You’d had nightmares before.

Small ones.

The kind that made you wake up sweating but unable to remember exactly why.

This one was different.

This one felt too real.

That night, you curled up with your blanket the way you always did, and laid down on the couch with your hands tucked against your chest. The house was quiet. The clock ticked. Insects buzzed softly somewhere outside.

You weren’t thinking about Dreykov when you fell asleep, or Madam B.

You were thinking about how Fanny had climbed halfway into your lap earlier and refused to move, nudging your hand until you pet her. And how when you’d looked up, you’d caught Natasha watching the two of you with something almost unreadable in her expression.

Content, almost soft. It made something in your chest feel strange in a way you’d never experienced before meeting Natasha.

But that was what made it worse.

Because when the dream started, it didn’t feel like a dream at all.

You were on the couch, exactly where you had fallen asleep. The room was dark, moonlight shining in through the windows. Everything looked the way it usually did. Everything looked real.

You were awake, and you knew it.

Then you heard the door creak open. No knock, no sound of the latch being fiddled with as if it was already left unlocked. Your heart dropped instantly as footsteps crossed the floor.

Slow. Familiar. But not Natasha’s.

You tried to sit up, yet you couldn’t move. It was like you were trapped inside your own body.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in the doorway.

Madam B.

She looked exactly the same. Hair pinned back neatly. Dress unwrinkled. Expression pleasant in that way that never meant anything good.

Behind her, just barely visible in the low light, was Dreykov.

He didn’t step inside. He never had to in order to control a room. The authority in his presence was enough to make people obey.

Your heart was pounding so hard you weren’t sure how it didn’t wake you up.

“There you are,” Madam B said, her heels clicking against the wood. “You didn’t think you could just leave, did you? After everything we did for you?”

You shook your head, breath coming shallow and fast.

“I didn’t—I didn’t—”

She reached you in three steps. Her hand came down onto your shoulders, pushing you further into the cushions.

“No,” you whispered. “Please. I didn’t do anything.”

Dreykov loomed behind her, silent, watching. He was always watching.

“We gave you everything.” Madam B said. “And you still owe us.”

She grabbed your wrists, pinned your arms and held you down. Her fingernails were painfully sharp as they dug into your skin.

You started to struggle. Your body moved now, frantic and clumsy, but it didn’t matter. She was stronger than you remembered.

She always was.

“I don’t work anymore,” you cried. “I don’t—I don’t do that anymore—”

“That's enough.” Dreykov said finally as he stepped forward.

Madam B hauled you upright, forcefully yanking you off the couch. Your feet barely had a chance to touch the floor.

“No,” you tried to say, but it came out weak, broken.

You kicked, and twisted, and clawed uselessly at her sleeve. Panic ripped through you so fast it felt like your body was tearing itself apart as she dragged you toward the door.

“No,” you gasped. “Please—please—”

She didn’t even look at you. When she yanked you harder, when your feet left the floor, when your throat locked, you screamed.

And your eyes flew open.

You jerked up, your heart hammering so hard it hurt. Your lungs burned like you hadn’t breathed in minutes. Your hands clawed at the blanket, at the air, at anything you could find.

“No—no—no—no—”

“Hey. Hey. You’re okay.”

You felt gentle hands on your arms. They were warm, grounding.

“Hey, look at me,”

You did.

It was Natasha. Her hair was loose, falling messily around her shoulders. She must have just woken up.

She was kneeling in front of the couch, one hand on your forearm, the other hovering like she wasn’t sure if she should touch you more.

Your vision kept blurring with tears, and the room wouldn’t stop moving. “They were here,” you choked. “They were—”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know.”

Your chest hitched violently. You tried to curl in on yourself, but you couldn’t stop shaking enough to do so.

“I heard you from the kitchen,” she continued. “You were screaming.”

You dragged in a breath that your lungs desperately needed. “They were going to take me back.” you whispered.

Natasha didn’t contradict you. Didn’t tell you it was just a dream, or that it wasn’t real. She just watched you, eyes heavy with something that looked dangerously close to concern, or maybe fear.

For you.

She stood abruptly. “Get your boots.”

You blinked at her. “What?”

“Boots,” she repeated. “Jacket too.”

“It’s—” you glanced toward the dark windows. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“I—” you swallowed. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“You’re not sleeping right now anyway,” she said, like she knew your mind was still racing. Somehow, she was right. “And I’m not going to let you sit here with your heart trying to break its way out of your chest.”

You hesitated.

Everything in you wanted to just curl up into the couch with your blanket and disappear.

Natasha softened. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll just walk.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere.”

That almost made you laugh, and you didn’t have the chance to say anything else before Natasha was already moving, holding out your boots and jacket she’d grabbed from the front door.

So you took them.

The gravel crunched softly under your boots as you followed her down the path that cut through the edge of the farm. The night air was cold, but it helped. A little. The kind of cold that brought you back down to earth. To reality.

Natasha didn’t try to fill the silence. She walked beside you, not too close, but just enough for you to know she was there. Like she was guarding you but didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed by it.

You were still halfway stuck in the nightmare. Your body had woken up, but your mind hadn’t caught up yet.

Every shadow looked suspicious. Every sound made your shoulders tense. You kept replaying the feeling of their hands on you, of being dragged, of not being able to move.

Fanny padded along beside you, tail low, ears perked like she knew something was wrong.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. Counting steps. Grounding yourself. Trying not to spiral.

After a few minutes, Natasha finally spoke.

“You don’t have to,” she started. “But do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head immediately. “No. Not really.”

She nodded like she’d expected that. Like she respected your boundaries.

“Okay.”

And she left it there.

That almost made it worse.

Because she didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Didn’t make you feel like you owed her an explanation. She just kept walking, as if she was willing to walk in silence all night if that’s what you needed.

You stared at the ground. You thought about how she’d come running when you screamed. How she hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t asked questions. Hadn’t told you to just go back to sleep. How she was here, right now, walking through the cold with you when she could be warm in her bed.

You swallowed.

You told yourself you didn’t want to burden her. That you were too much.

But the thought didn’t stick the way it used to. Because if she’d wanted you gone, you wouldn’t be here and neither would she.

“My mom died when I was eight,” you said suddenly.

Natasha nearly stopped in her tracks, but she quickly masked her surprise and looked at you, waiting for you to keep going if you wanted.

You hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out.

You stared straight ahead, your heart pounding in your ears.

“She got sick.” you continued, your voice quiet. “She tried to hide it at first. I think she just didn’t want to scare me.”

Your throat tightened at the distant memory. “She got weaker. Then one morning, she just didn’t wake up.

Natasha’s gaze dropped and her jaw clenched ever so slightly.

“I didn’t really know my dad,” you went on. “He was never around. I don’t even remember his face that well. So after she died, I guess I had no one.”

You shrugged as if it was nothing. As if you’d gotten used to being disappointed. To living with the terrible hand of cards life had dealt you.

“I lived on the street for a bit. Stole food. Slept wherever I could.” you hesitated at what came next. “Then Dreykov found me.”

Natasha exhaled slowly through her nose at the name. If she had any idea exactly who that man was and what he had done the day he showed up at her doorstep, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold herself back knowing what she knows now.

“He said he’d take care of me. And he did, I guess. Technically.” you let out a humorless laugh. “It felt like I’d finally been saved.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but her expression changed. Softened. Saddened. You swallowed, suddenly embarrassed for ever believing that had been true.

“Then when I got older, Madam B said it was time I started earning my keep. Called it work.”

You didn’t look at Natasha.

You couldn’t.

“I didn’t know any better. I just did what I was told to survive.”

Your chest felt too tight, and you could feel tears welling up in your eyes again. There’s no way Natasha would still look at you the same way. Not after everything you’d just dumped on her.

Natasha turned fully toward you.

Her face was tight. Not angry, not crying. Just restrained. And sad. Like she was holding something inside herself so it wouldn’t explode.

“You never had anywhere else to go,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

You shook your head.

“Until now.”

That was the part that made you break. You hated that it did. “I thought if I ever left, they’d find me. And he almost did.”

Natasha stepped closer. Not touching. Just closer than she was before. “You’re safe here,” she told you.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, that’s what scares me.”

Her eyes softened at the admission. “Why?”

“Because I don’t know how to be safe.” you said. “And I don’t know what happens when I mess it up.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then spoke gently as she carefully chose her words. “You’re not going to be punished for being human.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You nodded like you understood, but your chest ached in a way that said you didn’t. Not yet.

“And you don’t have to be perfect,” she added. “Not with me.”

You looked at her.

Really looked at her.

She meant it.

And somehow, after everything, that was what finally made your shoulders drop. Not all the way. But enough.

Fanny brushed against your leg and bumped your hand with her head, prompting you to give her a few pets. It probably relaxed you more than it did her.

And for the first time that night, the silence didn’t feel so dangerous to you anymore.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To your surprise, nothing changed.

That was the strangest part.

After the night you told Natasha everything, after the nightmare, the walk, the words you hadn’t ever planned on saying out loud, you half expected something to shift.

For her to look at you differently. For her to hover too much or distance herself out of disgust. For her to treat you like glass or finally realize you weren’t worth it.

But Natasha didn’t treat you differently.

She still passed you coffee in the mornings without comment. Still asked if you wanted eggs or toast. Still watched Fanny steal your socks and pretended not to notice when you let it happen. Still helped you when you held tools wrong. Still stood too close sometimes without realizing it.

And somehow, that was harder than if she had changed.

It left you unsure what to do with yourself.

About a week after the nightmare, you were outside with Fanny, sitting on the bottom step of the porch while she gnawed on a stick like it was the most interesting thing in the world. The sky was bright as could be, and the clouds stretched thin like cotton.

Natasha came out of the barn, wiping her hands on a rag.

She stopped when she saw you.

Not in a dramatic way. She just paused. Like something had suddenly come to her mind.

“You ever ridden a horse?” she asked.

You blinked and shook your head. “No.”

“Want to try?”

You thought about it for a second. Out of all the things she’d taught you about the farm, this would one hundred percent be the most difficult. You didn’t know how to control a horse. But again, you didn’t know how to do any of what you could now before Natasha.

“Sure,” you finally decided.

Immediately you regretted it.

She led you toward the fence line where one of the horses stood, chewing lazily at the pile of hay. The horse lifted her head when Natasha approached, ears flicking.

“This is Willow,” Natasha said, resting a hand against the horse’s neck. Willow immediately leaned into the touch.

You stared at her. “She’s huge.”

“She’s a horse.” Natasha replied.

“That does not make me feel any better.”

Natasha smirked faintly, running her hand down Willow’s neck in a slow, comforting motion. The horse snorted softly, clearly pleased with the attention. You watched the way Natasha handled her. Gentle but sure, like she trusted the animal completely.

“She won’t hurt you,” Natasha assured. “She’s the calmest one I’ve got. If she were any more relaxed, she’d be on the ground.”

Willow flicked her tail at the praise.

Fanny, apparently deciding this was her moment, trotted over and sniffed Willow’s leg like she was inspecting her. Then she sneezed when a piece of the horse's fur snuck up her nose.

Willow lowered her head and snorted in Fanny’s face.

Fanny barked, obviously offended.

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Natasha’s gaze found you. Just a quick look. But it lingered longer than she meant for it to.

“See?” she said. “Even Fanny likes her.”

You eyed Willow again. Then Natasha. Then Willow.

“Okay,” you said. “But if I die, this is your fault.”

Natasha’s mouth curled upward. “Noted.”

She showed you how to stand beside the saddle, how to place your foot in the stirrup. Her voice was calm, and patient. She didn’t rush you at all.

“Put your weight here,” she explained. “Then push up.”

You tried.

And you barely made it off the ground before embarrassingly wobbling back down, but you expected that.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

Natasha’s hands found her hips as she forced herself to look at the ground, her shoulders trembling as she tried not to snicker.

“You’re laughing,” you accused.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I absolutely am not.” she cleared her throat to compose herself. “Just try again.”

You did. This time you got a little higher. Then slipped, grabbing onto the saddle in a panic. Fanny barked like she was enjoying watching you struggle.

“Oh my god,” you said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

She barked once more and flopped down in the grass, her chin resting on her paws, settling in to watch the show.

Natasha stepped closer, placing one hand lightly at your waist. “You’ve got it,” she gently encouraged. “Lean into it.”

You suddenly became intensely aware of her hand. Of how close she was. Of how steady her voice sounded. You nodded, even though your brain had stopped functioning momentarily.

You tried again.

This time, you made it.

Barely.

You landed on the saddle awkwardly, stiff as a board. “I’m up,” you exclaimed, like you didn’t quite believe it.

Natasha looked up at you, her eyes softening. “Yeah,” she said. “You are.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest stupidly, and all you could do was swallow nervously.

You adjusted your grip on the reins, unsure what to do with your legs, your hands, your entire body. Your posture felt wrong. Too stiff. Willow shifted beneath you, and you froze, deciding it was probably best to sit still like a mannequin instead of an actual person.

“I don’t think she likes me.” you murmered.

Natasha huffed a small laugh. “She likes you just fine. You’re just…very tense.”

“Well, I’m sitting on a living animal.” you said like it was obvious. “That feels like something I should be tense about.”

She stepped closer, resting a hand on Willow, the other brushing briefly against your calf as she adjusted your foot in the stirrup. The contact was quick. Still, it sent a strange, warm jolt through you.

“Relax,” she told you gently. “She can feel everything.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Right. That just makes it more likely I’ll fall and break a leg.”

She smiled at that, just a little, like she was trying not to laugh. You glanced down at her, suddenly very aware of how high up you were, and how close she was. Close enough that if you leaned the wrong way, you’d probably tip straight into her.

“I feel ridiculous,” you admitted.

“You look fine.”

You squinted at her. “You’re lying.”

She shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

You huffed, and Willow flicked her ear back like she was listening. Remember what Natasha had said to do, you exhaled, trying to let the tension drain out of you. Willow took a few slow steps forward, testing you. You wobbled instantly.

Natasha immediately followed Willow’s movement, one hand hovering near your knee, not quite touching.

“You’re okay,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

Willow sighed softly, her ears twitching.

Just when you were starting to think maybe you can do this, something bursted out from the brush nearby. A bird, probably. You never saw it.

But Willow did.

She startled, jumping sideways with a sharp grunt.

You yelped as your balance vanished instantly. Your hands slipped, your body leaned, and gravity pulled you sideways with her.

And then suddenly you weren’t falling.

Natasha reacted fast, her arms wrapped around you and pulled you free of the saddle, bracing your weight against her as your feet just barely touched down. One second you were sure you were about to eat dirt, and the next, you were pressed against her, her grip firm and steady.

You clung to her without thinking, your hands gripping instinctively at her jacket. A part of you was shocked at how safe you felt, half in her arms, despite falling off a horse a second ago.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice low.

You nodded, breath uneven. “Yeah. I think. That was—”

“Unexpected,” she finished.

“Terrifying.”

She gave a quiet huff of amusement.

Willow stood calmly now, blinking slowly, ears flicking like she hadn’t just nearly paralyzed you. Fanny trotted over, sniffed your boots, then licked your hand like she was checking to make sure you were okay.

After that, she sat down and glanced between you and Natasha, her head tilted. The look made you painfully aware of the fact that you were still in Natasha’s arms.

You shifted, finally pulling back just enough to breathe normally again. “Did you see that?” you asked Fanny, pointing at the horse. “I almost died.”

Fanny simply wagged her tail.

You turned to Natasha, then added, “And before you say anything, I told you. If I died, it was going to be your fault.”

Natasha shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you were so sure Willow was the calmest horse you had.”

Natasha’s grin grew even more despite herself. “She is the calmest horse I have.” she said. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Rude.” you muttered, but the corners of your lips pulled upwards anyway.

She lingered there for a second longer than necessary, like she was making sure you were actually okay, like she wasn’t quite ready to step away yet. And when she finally did, you felt it again. That unfamiliar, stupid little absence in your chest.

You told yourself it was just leftover adrenaline. That was the only logical explanation.

But the way your pulse still felt uneven, the way you kept catching her looking at you when she thought you weren’t paying attention as she adjusted the saddle on Willow, didn’t feel logical.

It felt like something else was there.

And for once, you didn’t feel the need to run from it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were kneeling in the chicken pen, collecting the good, edible eggs when Natasha appeared. Her boots half untied, hair braided back as usual, holding two fishing rods like a lightbulb had suddenly gone off in her head in the middle of preparing lunch.

“Do you want to go fishing?” she asked.

You blinked up at her. “You fish?”

She gave you an unimpressed look. “I live on a farm.”

“That does not automatically mean you fish.”

“Come on,” she pleaded. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you’d like it.”

You let out a sigh, setting down the basket of eggs. “Right now?”

She shrugged. “We’re both awake. The creek is probably calm today. Seems like a good enough reason.”

You considered it.

You didn’t know anything about fishing. Not even the basics. You didn’t know how to hold the rod or how to tell if a fish was actually biting or if it was just water doing what water does.

But she was standing there, sunlight catching in her hair, looking at you like she wasn’t expecting anything from you despite her obvious excitement for teaching you to fish.

“Sure, why not.”

Her mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile.

The creek sat just behind the house, winding through a thin line of trees that hid it from anyone who wasn’t looking for it. The water was clear enough that you could see the smooth stones beneath the surface, worn down by years of gentle movement.

Sunlight filtered through the branches, reflecting off the water in certain areas. It smelled like wet earth and something faintly sweet.

Natasha walked a few steps ahead of you, carrying both fishing rods. She had a small tin of bait tucked under her arm, and every now and then she glanced back to make sure you were still following.

Fanny trotted between you, nose to the ground, tail wagging lazily as she investigated every stick, every leaf, every insect.

“So,” you said after a moment, squinting at the water. “What if I’m really bad at this?”

Natasha glanced at you, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You probably will be.”

“Wow.” you said, though you smiled anyway.

She shrugged, but there was something warm in her eyes. “The chickens scared you. You were bad at chopping wood. You fell off Willow multiple times. But you made it through all of them.”

“I almost had a heart attack each time.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “You’re very dramatic, you know?”

You huffed, but you were still smiling.

She stopped near a bend in the creek where the water slowed and deepened slightly. The surface rippled gently, sunlight flashing across it.

“This is a good spot,” she decided.

You eyed the water suspiciously. “Do the fish know that?”

She handed you one of the rods. “Well, we’re about to find out.”

You took it carefully, like you were still unsure of this whole thing.

She knelt beside you, setting the tin down on a flat rock. “Okay. First rule. Patience.”

You stared at her. “I already don’t like this.”

She chuckled and began attaching the bait to the hook with quick, practiced fingers. “You don’t need to yank. You don’t panic. You let the line do the work.”

You nodded along even though you knew you were probably going to end up doing the opposite.

She showed you how to cast, stepping behind you just slightly to guide you. She demonstrated once. It was smooth and controlled. She made it look easy.

Then she handed the rod back to you.

“Your turn.”

You took a deep breath to steady yourself, then swung. And way too far. The hook whipped backwards and snagged onto a low branch behind you.

Fanny barked and ran over to the tree, jumping at the branch as if she was trying to retrieve the hook for you.

Natasha froze and slowly turned.

You closed your eyes. “Don’t say it.”

She bit her lip to stifle her laugh, but failed.

“Oh my god,” you muttered.

She reached over, carefully freeing the line. “Okay. Try again. Maybe a little less…enthusiasm this time.”

“I was just trying to be confident with it.”

“You were violent.” she adjusted your grip on the rod, her fingers briefly brushing yours. It was accidental, but it still made your stomach flip.

“Looser,” she said quietly. “You’re gripping it like it’s going to fly out your hands.”

“I guarantee there’s an extremely high chance it will at some point.”

She snorted at that.

You tried again. This time, the line sailed out over the water, landing with a soft splash, and you looked back at her like you’d just performed a miracle.

Her gaze on you was warm and fond. “See?” she said. “You’re learning.”

Your chest warmed stupidly, again. You stood there, watching the line bob gently on the surface as the quiet stretched.

You didn’t get a bite for a while. You shifted your weight to one foot, then shifted it back. Tried to fan yourself with your hand. Stared at the water as if you expected something magical to happen.

“How long is this supposed to take?” you asked.

Natasha shrugged, leaning against a tree. “Minutes. Sometimes hours.”

Your jaw dropped. “Hours?!”

She smirked. “That’s fishing.”

You sighed and then looked back at the line. Fanny appeared beside you, sticking her nose experimentally near the water, and then suddenly snapping at it.

“See?” you said. “Even Fanny doesn’t like this.”

“She’s chasing her reflection.” Natasha deadpanned.

You watched the dog as she trotted along the creek, occasionally biting at the water when it splashed her too roughly. It made you snort aloud.

A few minutes passed before Natasha spoke up again.

“You’ve got one.” she said.

You blinked as if you’d zoned out. “What?”

“You’ve got one right now.”

You had completely missed the tug. You panicked and yanked, too hard. The line snapped upward, the hook coming up empty.

You stared at it. “I—”

Natasha bit her lip again, a grin tugging at her lips. “That one’s on you.”

“I didn’t even feel it!”

She chuckled. “They’re sneaky sometimes.”

You huffed and casted again. This time, you felt it when the fish took the bait. The line pulled tight and you eyes widened as you began to reel.

“Natasha—Natasha—Natasha.”

“Easy, slow down.”

You reeled, too aggressively, again. The fish surfaced, flopping around in the air, and then slipped free from the hook. You scoffed loudly, raising your hands in disbelief.

Fanny barked like she was mocking you.

Natasha laughed as you stared at the water in betrayal.

“That was rude.”

“I think you scared it.” she said.

“I was excited!”

She huffed a chuckle, attaching another piece of bait for you. “I could tell.”

You tried again. By the third time, you were doing a lot better. Your movements were slower. More careful. More patient. And when you felt the line jerk, harder this time, you tried to follow her instructions.

“Oh—oh—Natasha,” you called out. “I’ve got another one.”

She straightened and came to your side instantly. “Easy. Reel it in, slow.”

You tried. You really did. But when the rod bent sharply, your balance faltered, and your boots slipped on the muddy bank. You shrieked.

“Wait—don’t—”

She was too late.

Your foot flew out from under you and you went down with a splash, cold water soaking you instantly as you landed on your back in the creek.

You gasped, half laughing, half shocked.

Then you heard Natasha’s laugh despite her clear attempts at restraining herself. “Oh my god.” she said, breathless as she came to the edge of the water. “Are you okay?”

You sat up, water dripping from your hair, eyes narrowing. “Oh, so you think this is funny?”

She bit her lip, trying to stop the smirk tugging at her mouth.

That sealed her fate.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. She had just enough time to yelp before she went in with you, face first, water soaking her pants as she landed beside you with a splash.

Natasha looked up, sputtering water from her mouth, brushing back the hair that came loose from her braid and stuck to her face. She stared at you in shock. You stared back, already grinning at the sight of her in the same predicament as you.

Both of you then bursted out into giggles.

Fanny lost her mind. The dog barked eagerly from the bank, tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggled, sprinting back and forth like she couldn’t decide who to rescue first.

“You’re a menace.” Natasha said, sitting up from where she laid on her stomach in the water.

“You laughed at me.” you shot back. “That’s on you.”

She shook her head, still chuckling. Her eyes then began to rake over your body, as if she hadn’t forgotten the way you’d tumbled in just a minute before despite your laughter at it.

“You alright?” she asked again, quieter this time.

You nodded.

Something about the way she was looking at you in that moment made your chest feel too full. Her concern softening into admiration, water dripping from her lashes, sleeves rolled up, entirely focused on you.

You swallowed, realizing how close to you she was sitting. For some reason you didn’t think. You leaned in and kissed her before your brain even had the chance to catch up.

It was quick. Soft and gentle. More like a question than anything else.

Natasha froze, but only for a split second before she was kissing you back. Her lips moved with more certainty than yours, and her hand came up to rest lightly at your cheek.

Then reality suddenly hit you all at once.

You pulled back fast, your heart racing. “Oh god—I’m so sorry—I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I—”

She didn’t let you finish. Her lips were back on yours the moment she understood your panic. Natasha reached out, steadying you again as she kissed you slowly, with more intention than the first one. Her hand was warm against your jaw.

You froze. Then melted instantly.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” she murmured. “Not ever.”

Your breath shook. “I just—” you started, but struggled to find the words.

“I know.” she reassured gently.

“I don’t know how to do this.” you whispered. “I don’t know how to…feel this. Or be with someone. Or—”

“Then we figure it out.” her thumb brushed your cheek gently. “Together.”

You leaned in again and you didn’t want to have to pull away. The creek kept flowing around you. The world stayed exactly the same.

But something between you didn’t.

And for the first time, change somehow didn’t scare you.

Natasha hadn’t gone looking.

She told herself it was out of respect. That you had made your choice. That chasing you down would’ve turned kindness into something else entirely. Still, the thought of you had stubbornly settled in.

Town came into view just before midday, dust kicking up beneath the wagon as Natasha guided the horse down the stretch of road. The air smelled different here. It was heavier, crowded with smoke and people. She didn’t stay long in town unless she had to.

Today, she had to.

She stopped near the produce stall tucked between the general store and the blacksmith, where crates were already stacked high with early harvest goods. The man waiting there was broad shouldered and sunburnt, hat tipped back on his head as he wiped his hands on his trousers.

“Romanoff,” he greeted easily. “Right on time.”

“You know I always am,” Natasha replied, hopping down from the wagon with practiced ease. “Crops held up better than I expected after the storm.”

He peeked into the crates as she began unloading, inspecting the bundled greens, the sacks of grain, the crates of apples. He picked one up, turning it over in his hand.

“Good color,” he observed. “You’ve got good soil out there. Nice and quiet land.”

“And that’s the way I like it,” Natasha chuckled lightly.

He snorted. “Well you can’t argue with that.”

They worked in easy silence for a few minutes, the transaction routine. When everything was accounted for, the man reached into his pocket and counted out the payment, pressing the bills into her palm.

“Price still fair?” he asked.

“It’ll do,” Natasha said, tucking the money away.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded toward the road. “You don’t stay long when you come through.”

“Well there’s not much reason to.” she replied honestly. “Everything I need is back at the farm.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged.

She climb into the wagon again, clicking her tongue to set the horse moving. As she turned down the main stretch of town, she felt that sense of being watched, assessed. The town always had a way of doing that.

Which is why she meant to leave straight away.

But as she passed the general store, she remembered the nearly empty tin on her shelf back home. Salt. She’d meant to pick some up last trip and forgot. It wasn’t something she could go without for long, not with winter coming soon.

She slowed the wagon.

“One stop,” she muttered to herself, guiding the horse toward the hitching post.

She tied the reins, gave the horse a reassuring pat, and headed down the street on foot. The usual commotion of the town pressed in around her. Laughter spilling from doorways, boots scuffing, the clink of glasses and coins.

She kept her eyes trained forward.

The general store was just past the saloon.

The Red Room.

Natasha didn’t look at it as she passed. She didn’t need to. The place carried a weight she could feel even without meeting its windows. The low hum of music bleeding through the walls, the laughter pitched just a little too loud to be genuine.

She was almost past it when she heard the voice from the alley beside the saloon.

Harsh. Cutting. Sharp enough to slice through the noise of the street. Not loud enough to draw a crowd, but enough to be heard by someone who knew how to listen.

Natasha slowed. She hadn’t meant to stop. She had no reason to. But something about the tone snagged her attention.

Then she heard it.

You.

The desperate apologies. The way someone spoke at you, and the way you didn’t have the courage to say anything remotely disrespectful back in return.

Natasha turned toward the alley, and then the sound cut through the space, unmistakable in its harshness.

A slap, and her hand curled into a fist before she’d consciously make the decision to move.

~ ~

The man smelled like whiskey and smoke.

You noticed it the moment you stepped up to him from behind the counter, the sharp sting of alcohol layered over sweat and tobacco. He was already watching you too closely, gaze sliding over you like you were something to be assessed rather than addressed.

“Didn’t think I’d get you today,” he said, lips curling into something that might’ve been a smile. “Thought Madam B kept her favorites busy.”

You forced your expression to display politeness. You’d learned that trick early on. Smile without warmth. Keep your eyes blank. Don’t give them anything they could claim later.

“Afternoon,” you greeted. “What’ll you have?”

He ordered without looking at the board. He didn’t need to. He’d been there often enough to know exactly what he wanted. While you poured the drink, his hand settled on the bar, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm that grew louder the longer you took.

When you slid the glass toward him, his fingers brushed yours. Lingering.

“Back room,” he instructed, already pushing off the stool. “Madam B said you were available.”

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t been made aware of that. Hadn’t agreed to it.

You’d dealt with this man before.

He was rough. Unkind.

And you didn’t think you could handle that today.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the far end of the bar where Madam B stood, counting coins with her back turned, seemingly relaxed and unconcerned with anything happening around her.

The man leaned in closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Don’t make this difficult.”

You swallowed.

“I can’t.” you whispered.

The words were soft. Almost swallowed by the noise of the room, the clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the just barely out of tune piano. For a second, you thought maybe it would pass. Maybe he wouldn’t hear it.

He did.

His brow creased. “The hell you mean you can’t?”

“I just…I can’t,” you repeated, steadier this time. “Not today.”

The man laughed under his breath, like you’d just told a joke he didn’t find particularly funny. “You’re funny,” he said. “Madam B don’t pay you to be funny.”

“I know,” you replied. Your hands curled behind the bar, fingers digging into the wood to keep them from shaking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t…right now.”

That was when his expression shifted. Not anger yet. Something colder. Appraisal.

“Then get someone else,” he snapped. “Or get Madam.”

“I will,” you said quickly. “I’ll get her.”

You stepped around the counter, relief flickering faintly in your chest despite knowing you weren’t out of the woods just yet. Madam B was there before you could take two steps.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked pleasantly, her voice smooth as polished glass.

The man scoffed. “Your girl here thinks she gets to say no.”

Madam B’s eyes landed on you. The pleasant curve of her mouth didn’t move, but something behind her eyes hardened.

“Is that so?” she wondered.

You nodded once. “I’m sorry,” you apologized. “I just can’t take him today.”

Madam B only smiled wider. “Of course you can,” she said, tone light, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You must be confused, darling.”

“I’m not.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. The silence that followed was brief but absolute.

Madam B’s hand closed around your arm. “Come with me,” she demanded, her smile still lingering, uneasy. “We’ll get this sorted out right away.”

Her grip tightened as she steered you toward the back door, nails pressing hard enough to draw blood. You didn’t resist. You knew better than that. The room swallowed you whole, noise rushing back in as the door swung shut behind you.

The back corridor smelled like old smoke and something else unpleasant.

Madam B didn’t stop until you were outside, the door slamming open into the narrow alley behind the saloon. The music dulled instantly, replaced by the distant hum of the street and the drip of water from the gutter.

Madam B released you only to shove you back against the brick wall.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” she asked, the charming act gone now, voice sharp and low. “You don’t get to decide who you take.”

“I wasn’t trying to decide,” you explained. “I just—I couldn’t with him today. I can take someone else. I can work longer—”

Madam B laughed. Short and humorless. “You’ve embarrassed me,” she snapped. “In front of a paying client.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Intent doesn’t matter,” Madam B cut in. “Perception does.”

She stepped closer until there was nowhere left for you to retreat. “People don’t come here to be told no. They come here because they expect compliance. And you—” her finger jabbed sharply into your chest, “—are not special enough to forget that.”

Your jaw tightened. Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. You stared at the brick just over Madam B’s shoulder.

Madam B’s gaze narrowed at the lack of reaction.

The slap came fast.

Your head snapped to the side, the sting blooming hot across your cheek as you stumbled further into the wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, a sharp gasp tearing free before you could stop it.

“There,” Madam B said contently. “That’s what it takes to make you remember?”

She leaned in close, voice dropping to a low hiss. “You don’t refuse clients. Ever. And if you try it again, I won’t be the one correcting you.”

Madam B barely had time to straighten before someone grabbed her.

The force came from behind. Firm and unyielding. Fingers locked onto her shoulder and hauled her back, hard enough that her spine met the brick wall with a dull, jarring thud. The air left her lungs in a sharp burst as a solid forearm came up and pressed across her throat, pinning her there.

Natasha stood in front of her.

Her expression wasn’t fuming. It wasn’t furious. It was cold and calm. That was probably the most chilling part.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” Natasha’s voice was low. “Putting your hands on her like that.”

Madam B’s surprise flickered into anger almost immediately. She scoffed, her chin lifting despite the arm at her neck. “This matter doesn’t concern you.”

She glanced briefly over her shoulder, tracking where you stood pressed against the wall a few steps away just to check on you. One hand hovered near your cheek like you weren’t sure you should touch the sting blooming there yet.

Your eyes were wide, glassy. Not crying, not yet, but stunned, shaken in that quiet way Natasha recognized immediately from the night she took you in from the storm.

“It does now.” her forearm pressed harder, just enough to make Madam B’s breath catch. “You don’t touch her again.”

Madam B only laughed thinly. “What? You think you can just take her?” her eyes flicked to where you stood just behind Natasha, calculating. “She’s not going anywhere until she makes back every penny she owes.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched tighter.

She eased the pressure just enough to free one hand, reaching into her coat and pulling out a thick fold of bills, edges worn soft from use. She didn’t count it. Didn’t hesitate. Just shoved it into Madam B’s chest, the force of it knocking the breath from her again.

“That’s enough,” Natasha said. “And if it isn’t then you can figure out another way to make your money because she’s done.”

Madam B’s eyes dropped despite herself and her fingers curled around the cash. Natasha didn’t give her more time to change her mind.

She stepped back, releasing her grip fully, already turning away like the decision had been made the moment she’d heard your voice in the alley.

Madam B slumped along the wall, coughing once, glaring, but she didn’t follow.

Natasha crossed the short distance to you in three strides. Up close, the red mark on your cheek stood out starkly against your skin. You looked at her like you weren’t quite sure this was real, like the rug might be pulled out from under you any second.

She reached out slowly, and took your hand. Her grip was firm, grounding as she guided you out of the alley and into the open street.

You stumbled once, breath hitching as reality finally caught up with you, and Natasha slowed instantly. “You shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, panic seeping through now that the moment had passed. “I can’t just leave. I can’t—he’ll—”

Natasha stopped.

She turned fully toward you, hands settling on your shoulders. Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into her, just an inch, like your body trusted Natasha even while your mind scrambled for reasons not to.

“Look at me,” Natasha said gently.

You did.

Your eyes were wet now, fear and guilt and disbelief all tangled together. The faint red mark on your cheek made something ache in Natasha’s chest.

“Do you want to stay here?” she asked.

The question was simple, but it still made you swallow nervously. Your eyes traveled back toward the alley, then returned to Natasha. You shook your head.

“No.”

That was enough for her.

Natasha nodded once, something inside her settling into place. “Then come back with me,” she said.

You didn’t answer right away.

The word hovered just behind your teeth, held back by habit, by fear, by the quiet voice that told you taking things offered never came without a cost.

Natasha didn’t rush you. She didn’t push, didn’t try to coax you. She simply waited.

Finally, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Okay.”

Natasha nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Come on.”

The wagon waited where Natasha had left it. She climbed up first, checking the seat, adjusting the blanket she’d left there. Then she turned and offered her hand.

You hesitated only a moment before taking it.

Natasha’s grip was steady enough that you didn’t have to scramble. She helped you up, made sure you were settled, adjusting the blanket without asking, tugging it around your legs.

“I’ve got one more stop,” Natasha said as she took the reins. “Won’t take long.”

You nodded, your eyes locked onto the street ahead. “Okay.”

The stop was quick. In and out. A few coins exchanged, a sack tossed into the back of the wagon. Natasha didn’t stay long, only having a brief conversation with the shopkeeper. She climbed back up, clicked her tongue, and the wagon rolled forward.

The noise of town began to fade slowly as the wagon rolled on.

You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been holding yourself until that moment. Your shoulders dropped, just a little. Your hands loosened in your lap. The knot in your chest didn’t disappear, but it stopped clawing for your attention.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Natasha kept her eyes on the road, posture easy but alert, one hand resting loose on the reins. She didn’t look over at you, didn’t try to fill the quiet. She just let you breathe, for probably the first real time since you left the farm.

You watched the buildings slip away behind you. Each mile you put between yourself and the town felt like pressure easing off your lungs.

The wagon creaked softly beneath you.

Then Natasha spoke.

“Who was she?” the question landed gently, her curiosity mixed with concern.

She didn’t mean to pressure you, but you stiffened anyway.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt. Your eyes staring straight ahead, fixed on nothing in particular, mouth opening once before closing again.

“Madam B,” you said finally. “Dreykov owns the place, but she keeps track of all the girls. Who owes what. Who takes each client.”

Natasha nodded, slowly. Her eyes still focused forward.

She didn’t push. Didn’t ask what had set the woman off, didn’t ask what had happened before she walked into that alley. She already had a decent idea, and if you wanted to fill in the gaps, you would.

The wagon rolled on, the sound of the wheels filling the silence. After a few more minutes, you shifted beside her and drew a breath that shook despite your effort to steady it.

“Why did you do that for me?” you asked, your voice softer this time.

Natasha was quiet for a moment longer than necessary. She adjusted the reins again, mostly to give her hands something to do.

“I didn’t really think about it,” she answered.

That wasn’t entirely true. Of course she’d thought about it. The money. The risk. But none of that was what mattered in that moment, and she wasn’t about to put the weight of it on you.

“You were cornered,” she continued. “And she was hurting you.” she paused for a brief second. “That’s where I stopped weighing my options.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. You’d never had anyone step in like that before. Not for someone like you. Your gaze drifted over despite yourself, landing on Natasha’s profile.

“You didn’t have to.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose. She knew that. She just didn’t know how you expected her to see you like that, and keep walking. To let it be your problem to handle alone.

Another stretch of road passed beneath you.

“I’ve been around people like her,” Natasha said. “They don’t stop unless someone makes them.” she looked at you this time, just long enough to meet your eyes. “And I wasn’t going to leave you there.”

Natasha’s voice softened without her meaning for it to, and something else in her chest softened even more. “You trusted me enough to come back,” she reminded you. “That has to count for something, right?”

You looked down at your hands, fingers curled loosely in your lap. You hadn’t even realized you’d trusted Natasha until now. It had just happened, the way you lean toward warmth without thinking when you’re cold for too long.

The wagon rolled on, the space between you light as the ride back to the farm continued. Quiet in a way that made you feel a type of security you hadn’t felt in a while.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A week had passed since Natasha brought you back.

It was quieter than town had ever been. Not just less noise, but less tension. No voices raised through thin walls. No footsteps outside your door at odd hours. No waiting for something to go wrong. The days played out gently, almost predictably. Cool air in the mornings, warm light creeping across the fields, the low, steady sounds of the farm waking up around you.

It should’ve been comforting.

Instead, it felt strange. Almost unsettling. Like your body hadn’t yet learned that it didn’t need to be on guard all the time.

You’d expected to feel like a guest. Or a burden.

Someone only temporarily tolerated. But Natasha moved around you like your presence made sense here, like there was nothing unusual about another chair pulled up to the table or another pair of boots by the door. She didn’t hover, didn’t watch you like you might disappear again.

She just adjusted. Made space for you.

But still, the guilt lingered.

So you asked for one thing.

To help.

You didn’t want to just exist in her space. Didn’t want to feel like something she’d picked up and set down out of obligation. You wanted to earn it. Wanted your hands to be useful, your presence justified. Wanted to feel like you weren’t someone she’d just rescued, but someone who belonged here because they worked for it.

Natasha hadn’t argued. She’d studied you for a long moment, quiet and unreadable, then nodded once.

“Alright,” she’d said simply. “We’ll start small.”

That was how you ended up standing in the dirt behind the house with a metal bucket held in your palms, staring down a cluster of chickens like they were a threat she hadn’t been properly warned you about.

“They’re staring at me,” you said quietly, shoulders tense, eyes flicking between each of them.

Natasha leaned against the fence beside you, arms crossed loosely. “Yeah,” she said. “They tend to do that.”

“They’re judging me.”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “They judge everyone.”

You shifted your weight, the grain inside the bucket rattling softly. “Are you sure they don’t bite?”

“I’m sure,” Natasha said. Then, after a pause just long enough to be suspicious. “Most of the time.”

You shot her a look. “That’s not reassuring.”

She shrugged, unapologetic, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “You’ll survive.”

You took a cautious step forward. Instantly, the chickens surged closer, feathers rustling, bodies pressing toward the fence all at once. Your stomach dropped.

“Oh—oh no,” you murmured. “Why are they moving like that?”

“They know food when they see it.”

“I don’t like how fast they know.”

Natasha pushed off the fence and stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel her presence at your side without her touching you. “Just toss some out,” she instructed calmly. “They’ll focus on that.”

You reached into the bucket, grabbed a small handful, and scattered it. For a moment, nothing happened.

You let out a careful breath. “Okay. Okay, maybe this isn’t so—”

Just before you could finish your sentence, one of the hens launched itself straight toward your chest.

You yelped. Sharp, undignified, and stumbled back, nearly dropping the bucket as wings flapped far too close to your face.

“Nope,” you said immediately. “No. I’m done. I changed my mind.”

Natasha laughed before she could stop herself. It just slipped out, and for a moment it softened everything. She was already moving, one hand catching the bucket before it tipped, the other landing lightly on your arm to steady you.

“Easy,” she said, still smiling. “She’s not trying to hurt you.”

“She flew at me,” you insisted, pointing accusingly at the hen. “That one. That one has intent.”

“That’s Agnes,” Natasha replied. “She can be rude sometimes.”

You stared at her in disbelief. “You named her?”

“She earned it.”

Another chicken flapped too close and you leaned toward Natasha without thinking, your shoulder brushing her arm. The movement was instinctive, happening before you could stop it. And you froze the second you realized what you’d done.

“Sorry,” you apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Natasha said immediately, her voice lower now. Her hand stayed on your arm, warm and comforting. “You’re fine.”

She didn’t make a thing of it. Didn’t tease. Didn’t tell you to relax. Just stayed there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve got you,” she added quietly. “I’m watching them.”

Something in your chest eased at that. You nodded, trusting her without stopping to question why it felt so easy with her. Why your body believed her before your mind could catch up.

She showed you again, slower this time. Where to stand. How to scatter the grain wider. How not to let them crowd you.

You followed her lead, movements awkward but determined. When another chicken jumped, you flinched, but you didn’t retreat.

Natasha just watched you with a soft grin. “See?” she said, a hint of quiet pride in her voice. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

You let out a breath that turned into a reluctant laugh. “I feel like I’m losing a fight I didn’t agree to.”

“That’s the farm for you,” she chuckled, crossing her arms and taking a step back to let you work.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. And you kept going, Natasha close enough to make you feel safe, yet far enough to let the task feel like yours.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Another week passed, almost without you noticing it.

That alone felt strange.

Back in town, at The Red Rood, time would drag. Each day something to get through rather than live. Here, it slipped by almost effortlessly.

Mornings blurred into afternoons. The routine settled in easily. You still woke up tense sometimes, still caught yourself listening for sounds that never came, but you were adjusting.

You were still careful. Still mindful of yourself. But it didn’t take quite as much effort anymore.

Natasha noticed, even if she didn’t say anything.

That morning, she handed you a pair of gloves without comment and jerked her head toward the chopping block set a little ways from the house.

“Firewood’s getting low,” she explained. “Thought we could take care of it before it gets cold again.”

You nodded instantly. Too quickly for someone who’s never done it before. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

She glanced at you, one eyebrow lifting just slightly. “I should probably show you first.”

“Right,” you said, then added softer as if remembering yourself. “If you don’t mind, please.”

The chopping block was worn smooth in the middle, years of use carved into it. A stack of logs sat beside it. The axe leaned against the stump, heavier looking than you’d expected.

Fanny trotted over the moment you stopped walking, tail wagging like she’d been invited personally. She sniffed at the logs, sneezed, then sat down a little too close to the stump.

Natasha threw her hands out in disbelief. “You’re sitting in exactly the worst possible place right now.”

The dog simply stared at her with a panting smile on her face, choosing to stay put.

Natasha sighed. “You’re going to lose a tail one of these days.”

Fanny tilted her head and whined, clearly unimpressed at the statement.

She demonstrated first. She set the log, raised the axe, and brought it down clean. The log split with a sharp crack.

Your eyes widened despite yourself. “Okay.”

Natasha glanced at you, then back to the stump, her voice softer when she spoke. “Hey. Don’t psych yourself out.” she encouraged, like she was reminding you to breathe. “It doesn’t have to look like that yet.”

“I’m not—” you stopped before you could finish the lie. “I am. I am psyching myself out.”

She stepped aside, handing you the axe handle first. “Just take it slow.”

You wrapped your hands around it. The weight surprised you, dragging your arms down a little.

You swallowed. “This is starting to feel like a bad idea.”

Natasha huffed a quiet laugh and shook her head, amusement soft at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”

“That’s what you said about the chickens.”

“And you lived to talk about it.”

“Barely.”

Natasha couldn’t stop the grin that snuck onto her face before noticing your completely improper positioning when you stepped up to the stump.

“Alright,” she sighed. “The first thing is your stance.” she nudged your foot with the toe of her boot. “Wider. You don’t want to wobble.”

You adjusted accordingly, immediately feeling awkward. “Like this?”

“A little more.” she stepped closer behind you, and gently shifted your shoulders. You froze for half a second, your heart racing from nothing that had to do with the axe in your hands or the log you were about to chop.

“There,” she said and stepped back. “That’s better.”

You lifted the axe, too stiff, too careful, and brought it down. It clipped the edge of the log instead of the center, knocking it off balance. The wood rolled off the stump and hit the ground with a dull thud. You froze, staring at it like it had personally betrayed you.

“Hey,” Natasha said, calm as ever. “That’s normal. Happens all the time.”

You let out a shaky laugh you hadn’t planned on. “Liar.”

This time she smiled, small and warm. “Alright. Maybe not all the time. But you’re doing fine.”

Natasha reset the log for you and stepped back, allowing you to try again. “Remember, feet shoulder width apart. Try putting one hand near the head and one lower down. You don’t want to muscle it, you want to let gravity do the work.”

You nod like you understand. You absolutely do not. You try again. This time the axe bites into the wood, barely, lodging itself there instead of splitting anything. You stared at it for a second, then gave the handle an experimental tug.

Nothing.

The mess up sat there. Stuck, and seemingly unfixable in your racing mind, making your stomach drop.

“Oh.” you muttered. “I broke it.”

You tried again, pulling harder. The log wobbled, the whole stump shifting beneath it, and panic flared hot and immediate in your chest.

Natasha was beside you before you could say anything else. “You’re okay. This happens a lot too.” she reassured, already reaching for the handle.

She braced the stump with her boot, one hand steadying the wood while the other closed over the axe handle above yours. Her grip was firm, practiced.

“Pull straight up,” she directed gently. “Don’t try to fight with it.”

You did as she said and together, you worked it free. The axe came loose and the log toppled onto its side.

You exhaled slowly, stress spilling out of you all at once.

You glanced at her, startled by how close she was, then looked away just as quickly. “I just—sorry,” you said, the apology slipping out on instinct. “I know I’m slowing you down.”

“You’re not,” her response was immediate, like she was sure of it before you even spoke. “And I wouldn’t be here with you if I minded.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. You were still getting used to not being corrected for even the most minor mishaps, to being spoken to like you mattered instead of constantly being talked down to.

You reset the log and tried again.

Slower this time. More careful and deliberate. The axe came down, and split the log. Unevenly, sure. But it split nonetheless. You blinked at the wood that now laid on the ground beside the stump, broken into two separate pieces.

“I did it.”

Natasha smiled as she looked at you. Not big or overly exaggerated. But proud and genuine.

“You did.”

Something warm settled in your chest at that. Pride, maybe, from doing it all on your own. Or relief, from not being completely helpless.

You kept going. Missed once. Landed another. Your arms burned, but you didn’t mind. Natasha stayed close, helping you when needed, catching the axe once when it slipped too far sideways.

At one point, Fanny darted in again, snatched a piece of bark, and bolted across the field like she’d stolen something valuable.

“Hey!” you called out, laughing. “That’s not yours!”

Fanny did not care. She skidded to a stop a few yards away, dropped it, then wagged her tail like she expected you to chase after her.

So you did, because who were you to let a dog pick on you like that.

Natasha watched quietly from the stump, arms crossed, axe resting against her leg. Something inside her eased at the sight of you. Laughing, unguarded, distracted, and it did something to her chest she didn’t have the words to describe.

She didn’t realize how much she was hoping to see that until now.

The SHIELD conference room smelled like recycled air and consequence. Natasha sat in the centre chair like she’d been dropped there from a great height and told not to move. Arms crossed, leg bouncing once every few seconds. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack molars.

Across from her, Fury paced.

Not the kind of pacing that meant strategy. This was the kind that meant disappointment. The kind you earned.

“You compromised classified intel.” He said finally, without looking at her.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes followed him but her mouth stayed shut.

“You let Yelena into Tier Three access.”

“She needed it.”

“She didn’t have clearance.”

“She had need. There’s a difference.”

Fury stopped pacing, turned and looked her dead in the eye.

“You don’t get to redefine clearance based on gut feelings.”

“She was running point. I made a call.”

“You made a mess.”

His voice wasn’t raised, it never had to be but the silence that followed was loud enough to press against her ribs.

He dropped a file on the table. Thin. Civilian-grade. Not even stamped.

“You’re benched. Immediate suspension from fieldwork. No missions. No exceptions.”

Natasha didn’t move.

The words didn’t surprise her. But they hit anyway.

“You’re sidelining me for three months?” She asked, voice flat. “You want me filing drone logs with the kids?”

“I want you to feel the weight of crossing a line.”

“I’ve crossed plenty of lines.”

“Not this one.”

Fury leaned on the table now, hands braced. Every inch of him radiating the authority of someone who’d already decided.

“You want to stay useful? There’s one option.”

“I don’t do babysitting.”

“You do now.”

She scoffed but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m not a handler, Fury. I’m not a suit.”

“It’s not a suit gig. It’s a threat detail.”

That stopped her, just a fraction. Just enough for him to open the file and slide it toward her.

She didn’t reach for it but her eyes scanned the front page.

“I said threat detail, not glorified security for someone’s insecure C-list husband.”

“She’s not C-list. And it’s not a husband.”

At that, Natasha leaned forward, more intrigued than she wanted to be and finally looked down at the file properly.

Your photo met her gaze.

Soft lighting. Something formal, a charity event, probably. Your hair done, your smile poised. But there was a hollow edge to it. A stiffness. The smile never made it to your eyes.

Congresswoman Evelyn Prescott’s wife.

Her brow lifted.

“Prescott…” She repeated slowly. “The Evelyn Prescott?”

Fury nodded. “And she’s too busy shaking hands on the Hill to pay attention to her wife getting stalked.”

Natasha’s lip curled. “And Secret Service?”

“Stretched thin. They gave us jurisdictional clearance.”

She flipped the page. There were typed threats, low-level tracking. Nothing solid but it was growing. Something just beneath the surface.

“Why not send a junior agent?” She asked, still reading.

Fury didn’t blink. “Because I need someone who doesn’t blink when things go sideways. And I need someone whose instincts override bureaucracy.”

She looked up at him. “So suddenly I’m your ideal choice?”

“You’re the only one who knows how to deal with a problem before it becomes a headline.”

He left that there, like a slap disguised as praise.

She stared at your face one more second, then shut the file.

“Fine.” She said. Her voice was rougher now, somewhere between bitter and resolved. “Where is she?”

Fury didn’t smile but he stepped back.

“She’s waiting.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was glass and shadows and the kind of money that got things silenced.

Perched on a hill just outside the city, it looked more like a showroom than a home, all clean lines and careful distance. Not a single light on. Not a single plant or bush out of place.

Natasha had barely stepped out of the SUV when a staff member appeared at the door.

“Upstairs. Probably.” The woman mumbled, not quite making eye contact before vanishing back into whatever wing she’d emerged from.

Probably. Looks like everyone took this stalker seriously.

Natasha stepped into the foyer and let the silence breathe.

She didn’t call out nor did she go looking.

Just stood still, counted the seconds and let the house show itself.

It took twelve minutes. Exactly.

Then the soft pad of bare feet on polished wood.

You descended like you were walking into your own stage lighting. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Silk pyjama pants, hanging low on your hips. A barely-there tank top that looked like it belonged to the evening before. One hand resting lazily on the bannister. The other delicately holding a half-empty glass of white wine between your fingers. 

At four in the afternoon.

You looked at her like someone might look at a painting they’d forgotten they owned, curious, detached, not exactly impressed.

“So.” You said, voice warm and wry. “You’re the solution.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “You’re the problem.”

You grinned slowly, not girlish or innocent but dangerous.

“God, they really didn’t send a suit this time.”

“Disappointed?”

“Surprised.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“Shame. You’re doing it anyway.”

Natasha ignored that. Eyes already sweeping the room behind you, every angle, every shadow, cataloging entry points, blind spots, weakness.

You sipped your wine, watching her with open interest.

“Where’s your wife?”

“D.C. Fundraiser. Or an press conference disguised as one. I lose track.”

“You live here alone?”

You twirled your wine glass. “Alone enough.”

Natasha moved once, slow, deliberate. She didn’t like standing still when someone like you was circling.

“Secret Service too busy?” You asked, cocking your head. “Or am I the lucky prize in SHIELD’s punishment rotation?”

Natasha tilted her head just slightly, like you were a problem that she was already solving.

“Are you always like this?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “Like what?”

“Performative. Mouthy. Spoiled. Bored enough to make people regret showing up.”

You smiled, wider this time but it cracked just a little at the edges.

“I’m lonely.” You mock pouted, lips almost to the rim of your glass. “Not spoiled. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No.” You murmured, stepping past her. “But you’re still looking.”

That made her stop, just for a second.

You were close now, too close, standing with your wine like it was a shield, like your bare feet gave you power.

“I read your file, you act like a brat.” Natasha said, voice cold steel. “You act like that with me? And you’re going to get treated like one.”

Something flickered across your face.

You tilted your head, mouth parted. “Promise?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even flirtation. It was a wound, wrapped in silk.

Natasha didn’t respond. 

You turned before she could, walking slowly back up the stairs, back arching just enough in that stupid tank top, wine glass trailing, feet silent.

At the landing, you looked back once, eyes unreadable.

“Let me know if you get bored. Most people do.”

Then you were gone.

And Natasha stood in the entryway, pulse unsteady, jaw tight.

She hated these kinds of jobs. She hated the politics. She hated the silence you carried like perfume.

The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut behind you, soft as a secret.

Natasha stared after you for a beat too long, long enough for her composure to fray at the edges.

She exhaled once, sharp, like it might chase away the air you’d left heavy in the room.

She moved, finally habit taking over. A sweep of the space, a practiced look for exits, surveillance, traps. But this wasn’t that kind of danger. This was personal. And personal was messier.

She turned toward the bar cart in the corner, the one you hadn’t touched, despite the glass you carried like a prop.

Empty.

Of course it was.

The ice in her stomach cracked a little as she leaned against the wall, palms flat against the cool plaster. Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard. A victim stood in someone else’s war.

Yours, maybe.

She closed her eyes. Don’t get involved.

That was the rule. The unspoken one.

But rules were harder to follow when someone looked at you like they were daring you to break them. Or begging you to.

Natasha pushed off the wall and started for the stairs. She wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t ask but she would look.

Because beneath all the bravado and silk-wrapped wounds, there was something else she’d seen. Something real.

And Natasha Romanoff had always been terrible at walking away from that.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was silent when Natasha woke.

Early morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen windows as she moved barefoot across the marble floor. She’d already been up for an hour, her body too trained, too wired, to allow for sleep-ins or comfort.

She’d cleared the perimeter. Twice. Done a full workout in the gym downstairs, mostly cardio and bodyweight drills. Something to shut her brain up. The silence in the house had weight to it, like it had grown used to being empty or ignored.

Natasha threw a towel over her shoulder and wandered into the kitchen.

The housekeeper was already there, folding napkins for a breakfast that wouldn’t be eaten.

“Morning.” She said, offering Natasha a small nod. “You don’t look like a coffee person but I’m guessing you’re going to need it.”

“I look like I need something to punch to which I probably do.” Natasha replied, with a friendly smirk.

That earned a small smile. The housekeeper, mid-fifties, tidy in the way people from the old world always were, gestured toward the absurdly expensive espresso machine on the counter.

“Machine’s Italian. More sensitive than my last husband. Hold this button until it blinks, twist here, pray to God and it should give you something dark enough to stomach.”

Natasha leaned in, eyebrows raised.

“That’s a lot of steps.”

“Nothing in this house is simple. Especially not her.”

Natasha turned slightly. “She’s still asleep?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“Didn’t come down for dinner last night either. Had a party a few days ago. Didn’t attend. She’s supposed to be with her wife today. Fundraiser at The Newbury. 10:30am arrival, press already booked. Evelyn is expecting her.”

“And she won’t go?”

The housekeeper shrugged one shoulder, continued folding cloth napkins with mechanical precision.

“She might. She won’t. Depends how much she wants to be seen pretending she’s happy.”

Natasha didn’t respond. The coffee machine sputtered to life and the smell filled the room, bitter, grounding. 

“She always like this?” Natasha questioned.

The housekeeper didn’t answer right away.

“She used to try.” She said, quietly. “Now she doesn’t.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Ten minutes later, Natasha stood at the foot of the grand staircase, coffee in hand and made the deliberate choice to stomp up each step like it owed her money.

She didn’t bother knocking.

The bedroom door creaked open under her hand, the lock disengaged, of course. No one in this house locked anything surprisingly for a household with death threats and stalkers circling it.

You were a mess of tangled sheets and rumpled silk. One arm thrown across your face, hair spilled over the pillows, the duvet kicked off one leg like you’d been at war with it.

Natasha stepped into the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

You groaned from under your arm.

“Jesus Christ, what time is it?”

“Time to stop hiding.”

You moved just enough to peer at her through one eye, still heavy with sleep and pure venom. “Are you seriously waking me up like this?”

“You’ve got an event in two hours.”

You didn’t move.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Fundraiser. Press will be there. Your wife expects a photo op and a smile.”

You sighed like you’d aged twenty years in ten seconds.

“I’m not going.”

“She thinks you are.”

“She thinks a lot of things.” You muttered, pulling the blanket back over your head.

Natasha was not a patient woman.

She crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the duvet and ripped it back in one motion. You yelped, twisting away from the sudden chill.

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes to shower and look like you haven’t been avoiding your entire life.”

You sat up sharply, sheets pooling in your lap, eyes blazing.

“Let me guess… SHIELD trained you in ‘Emotional Support and Manners,’ too?”

“They trained me to get the job done.” Natasha said. “And right now, you’re the job.”

“So you wanna ‘do’ me? Well, why didn’t you just say?” You smirk, eyes raking up the redhead’s body where you were met with an eye roll. 

“Oh please I’ve looked after kids with a better attitude.” Natasha scoffed but she couldn’t ignore what was in-front of her. You might have been a pain in the ass but you were a hot one.

You stood, barefoot on the hardwood, silk slipping off one shoulder. Everything about you was infuriatingly perfect and profoundly out of place. Like a painting hung in the wrong museum.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice had an edge to it now, like you’d stopped teasing and she’d got you where it hurt.

“Too bad. You’ve got one.”

“And I don’t need to be dragged to a fucking fundraiser to play happy housewife for a woman who hasn’t touched me in a year.”

Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You can hate your wife on your own time. But this is public-facing. You don’t show up, you make headlines.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

There was a pause, a long one. The air between you stretched thin, tight like a wire about to snap.

Then you said, low and vicious. “She didn’t ask you to wake me up like this, did she? You just liked the power play.”

Natasha stared you down, her expression blank but her jaw tight. “I’m not here to play.”

You stepped closer, close enough for the words to sting when you dropped them, honey sweet and full of poison.

“No.” You said. “You’re here to be obeyed, right? Alpha dog on a leash. You want me dressed and smiling by ten? Better tell me nicely.”

Natasha blinked once.

“I don’t do nice.”

Your breath caught just slightly but you didn’t back down.

“I noticed.”

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Not until Natasha leaned forward, just enough.

“You keep bratting out like this, I’ll stop treating you like a job.”

You blinked and your throat bobbed. Then you said, quieter now. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natasha turned away before she could answer that. Before she could say what she wanted. Before she could do something worse.

“Be ready in thirty.” She said, over her shoulder. “Or I’ll pick the damn dress myself.”

You didn’t call her back.

You waited until she was gone before sitting back down on the bed, hands shaking, chest tight.

Because god help you, she’d touched something you’d tried very hard to bury.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The espresso was too hot and the mimosa was too cold, so you alternated between the two like they were medicine.

You stood at the kitchen island in a half-zipped dress and no shoes, hair still pinned up messily from your shower, sipping like it was brunch and not an emotional ambush.

The housekeeper, June, barely looked up from setting out your earrings on a velvet tray.

“Toast?” She asked.

“God, no.” You said. “Just feed me something I can won’t throw up dramatically in front of cameras later. Maybe a strawberry.”

June rolled her eyes and passed you one without comment. You plucked it from the plate with a lazy smile, voice softening as you spoke again.

“Thank you, by the way. You always know what I don’t want, which is honestly more useful than anything.”

That got a real smile out of her, small but real. She reached out and lightly adjusted the strap of your dress.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Natasha stood in the doorway watching all of it, the way your voice changed, the way you thanked the woman like it meant something, like she wasn’t just staff. The way June looked at you with something like pity, or maybe protectiveness.

It made Natasha pause.

Maybe you weren’t just a brat. Maybe you were also lonely in a thousand different directions.

But she still had a job to do.

“You ready?” She asked.

You didn’t answer. Just took another sip, this time from the mimosa.

“Dress is half done. Hair’s a disaster. Emotionally I’m a seven out of ten.”

“That’s generous.” Natasha muttered.

You turned to her with a sharp smile. “Don’t get testy. You’ll wrinkle your jacket and that would let terrible in the background of my pictures.”

“You said you weren’t going.”

“Changed my mind.” You replied. “Gotta give them the illusion that I’m still trying.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just motioned to the door with a clipped gesture.

“Car’s waiting.” 

You downed the rest of the mimosa like it was a shot and followed her out barefoot.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was silent until your phone buzzed on the seat beside you.

You stared at the screen. Natasha did too.

Evelyn🤍

You let it ring out.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No.”

“She’s your wife.”

“And that means she’s entitled to my time but not my patience.”

Natasha didn’t let up. “If you don’t take the call, it’ll be worse later.”

“I’m used to worse.”

The phone buzzed again. This time, Natasha picked it up and held it toward you.

You glared at her.

“Answer it.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t feel like spending the next two hours babysitting a pouting debutante in the middle of a charity circus.”

You grabbed the phone and answered it, speaker on before she could object.

“Hello?”

“Finally!” Evelyn’s voice came through, crisp, cool, direct. No affection or warmth. “Are you en-route? I have a schedule to keep.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was now watching you, arms folded tightly, jaw clenched.

“Yes.” You said. “I’m on my way.”

“Your dress is steamed?”

“It’s fine.”

“Hair?”

“I’ll fix it in the car.”

“You need to be more camera ready than you were last week. You looked tired.”

You blinked, slow and sharp.

“Thanks for the feedback.”

“I’m just saying-“

“I heard you.”

Silence stretched for a moment then Evelyn cleared her throat.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the entrance. Try not to be late.”

The line went dead before you could even pretend to answer back.

You put the phone down gently.

Natasha didn’t say anything.

But you saw it, the subtle shift. The way her expression changed. She wasn’t smug. Not even vindicated.

She was quiet and curious.

“She always like that?” She asked after a beat.

You shrugged, eyes on the road.

“She used to be less… clinical.”

Natasha waited. You knew she would.

“She hasn’t been home in a week.” You added, voice quieter now. “Hasn’t said she loves me in longer.”

Then, after a pause. “And sex is… off the table. She stays out her townhouse in the city most of the time.”

“You don’t stay with her?”

“She said I would distract her from work...”

The car filled with silence again, thicker this time. Natasha didn’t offer comfort. That wasn’t her style but you saw her fists unclench.

You laughed once, not bitter, just tired.

“Guess now I’m just the perfectly dressed political accessory who sleeps on the right side of an empty bed.”

“You don’t have to be.” Natasha said.

You looked at her. “And what-“ You asked. “-would I be instead?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t.

But she turned to face forward again, her voice low.

“Fix your hair.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The green room smelled like hairspray and citrus scented hand sanitizer. Light jazz murmured from speakers overhead, a polite buffer for egos and nerves. You were ushered in ahead of Natasha, still adjusting an earring, dress fully zipped now, posture immaculate.

She trailed you like a shadow, always six feet behind, always watching.

Evelyn Prescott entered five minutes later, like she’d been waiting for a cue. Press-perfect. Blue suit dress. American flag pin glinting under the soft lighting. A smile built for cameras already in place.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evelyn said lightly, crossing the room with open arms. “You look beautiful.”

You lit up. Natasha saw it, the small inhale, the straighten of your spine, the desperate flash of hope.

She also saw what happened next.

Evelyn kissed the air beside your cheek, not even pretending to touch your skin. Then she turned to shake the event coordinator’s hand without missing a beat.

Natasha watched your shoulders drop by a millimeter. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Except her.

Politeness flowed like wine. Evelyn was warm to everyone. Her laugh was practiced, low and pleasant. She thanked every volunteer, complimented floral arrangements, mentioned donor names with impressive recall.

But when she looked at you, she didn’t touch, didn’t soften, didn’t call you anything but your first name.

It was like watching a politician thank their intern, a pat on the head dressed in pearls.

You didn’t seem surprised. You just drifted back into position beside her, folding your arms behind you like someone used to standing quietly.

Natasha looked away for a second, just one second.

And when she looked back, the transformation had happened.

You and Evelyn were standing under camera lights in the ballroom foyer, picture-perfect. Your face was made for this, Natasha realised. You knew exactly how to tilt your chin, when to laugh softly, when to squeeze Evelyn’s arm in a way that made it seem like you belonged there.

You looked happy.

No one would guess that you’d begged to stay in bed this morning.

Natasha kept near through dinner. Not too close. Not too far. A private table had been arranged, Evelyn flanked by donors and other congressional heavyweights. You sat to her right, silent unless spoken to, nodding along, sipping champagne like it was water.

Except… Natasha noticed you didn’t sip. You drank. Gulped. Fast.

You kept your fingers curled around your wife’s arm when she stood to toast. Held her hand under the table, even when she didn’t hold yours back. You laughed a second too loud at an anecdote, eyes glassy with exhaustion or champagne, probably both.

Natasha folded her arms and leaned back against a pillar, scanning the room like she wasn’t quietly dying inside.

When Evelyn finally stood and spoke. “Excuse us for a moment.” She took you by the wrist, not the hand. Her smile never faded and neither did yours.

Natasha didn’t follow.

But she didn’t stay behind either.

She stopped just short of the hallway. One door slightly ajar. No one looking.

Inside, your voice broke the silence first.

“Can we just… can we go home together? Just tonight?”

A pause.

“I’m exhausted and you haven’t been home and- god, Evie, I miss you.”

Nothing for a moment. 

Then Evelyn’s voice, calm, practiced. “I told you this week was full.”

“I’m not asking for everything.” You said. “I’m just asking for something. Stay. Just stay. You don’t even have to-“ Your voice cracked. “-you don’t even have to pretend. Just be there.”

There was a long silence.

Then the thump of heels on tile. Most likely you advancing on your older wife, who you begged to just see you once.

“I’m not doing this here.” Evelyn said, this time quieter and more controlled. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” You snapped. “I’m desperate.”

Natasha held her breath. Then came the sound. A shove. Not loud but unmistakable. Fabric brushing against the wall. A gasp.

“You’re needy.” Evelyn hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I have a job. I have responsibilities. I don’t have time to coddle your every insecurity just because you don’t know how to be alone.”

Silence again.

Evelyn exhaled, sharp and rehearsed.

“I’m sending your babysitter in. She can take you home.”

Footsteps. 

A door creaked.

Natasha moved fast, ducking back into position before Evelyn appeared. The congresswoman swept past her like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just bruised a woman’s heart in a soundproof hallway.

“She’s ready to go…” was all she said.

Natasha didn’t respond to the woman, watching her waltz back into the room like she was running the show. And if Natasha knew anything about politics the she probably was. She waited five beats then went in.

You were still standing by the wall. Makeup pristine. Eyes red. Holding the pieces together with the same strength you used to carry the whole damn marriage on your back.

You didn’t look up.

Natasha walked over slowly. She didn’t say anything but she just slipped her coat off and held it out.

You took it without a word.

Only when she opened the side door and led you out toward the car did you finally speak.

“She used to love me, you know.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since she arrived, she saw you, not the brat, not the wife, not the public figure.

Just a woman breaking quietly in the backseat of a black car, clutching someone else’s coat like it could keep her warm.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet for a whole two blocks.

Then your voice floated from the back seat, a slur of silk and spite.

“Hey, Benji?” You called up to the driver.

Benji, a greying man with a kind voice and the patience of a saint, glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take us to that place on Charles. The one with the blinking ‘OPEN’ sign that’s been out since 2009.”

“The… liquor store?”

“God, yes. The trashiest one. The one with the lollipops next to the condoms at checkout.”

Benji didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

Natasha, seated beside you, gave a slow exhale through her nose.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” You said. “Unless you have a minibar hidden in that jacket, Soldier.”

Benji gave a dry chuckle. Natasha did not.

Ten minutes later, you came stumbling back to the car with a brown paper bag and zero shame. You didn’t wait. Just twisted the cap off the tequila, threw it back like it was water.

Natasha flinched.

“That’s not how you sip tequila.”

“I’m not sipping.” You grinned. “I’m coping.”

She reached for the bottle fast but you pulled it back faster.

“Don’t, Natasha. Please. Not tonight.”

There was no fire in it or flirtation. Just exhaustion in silk and eyeliner.

She let her hand fall back to her lap.

You drank again. Harder.

When the car pulled up to the house, Natasha got out first. Opened your door. You stared at the steps like they were Everest.

“Come on.” She said gently, eyeing the half drink bottle of tequila in your hand that had clearly done its number on the drive over.

“I can do it.” You mumbled.

“You can’t even stand.”

You tried. You failed.

She caught you before you hit the doorframe.

Somehow, she got you inside, one arm around your waist, one hand gripping your wrist to keep you steady. You smelled like vanilla and heartbreak and cheap liquor.

Your head lolled against her shoulder as she guided you up the stairs.

“I don’t do this.” You murmured.

“Get drunk?”

“Fall apart.”

“You were already falling.” You didn’t reply.

By the time she got you to your bedroom, you were quiet. Not passed out or asleep, just quiet in a way that honestly scared her a little.

She sat you down on the edge of the bed and started to pull your heels off.

“You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.” She shut you down.

You blinked at her. Then smiled, weakly. “There’s that bedside manner again.”

When she looked up, you were staring at her. Like you were trying to memorise something you didn’t think you’d get to see again.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

“Depends.”

“Am I ugly?”

Natasha froze.

“Because she doesn’t look at me.” You continued. “Not anymore. Not when I’m dressed up. Not when I’m naked. I don’t even think she notices when I leave the room.”

Your voice cracked.

“I used to be worth looking at.”

Natasha knelt in front of you, slowly.

You were flushed, eyes glassy, hands twisting in your lap.

“You’re not ugly.” She said, quietly.

You scoffed. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

She wanted to lie, to distract you, to offer some clean, packaged comfort but you looked too honest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” She said instead. “But if I had you-“

You blinked. She kept going.

“-I wouldn’t stop touching you. Looking at you. I wouldn’t let you fall asleep without knowing you were wanted.”

Your mouth trembled.

Something in your face cracked wide open.

You looked so young like this. Not in age but in pain. Like someone who still believed love was supposed to be safe.

“Don’t lie to me.” You whispered.

“I’m not.”

You stared at her for a moment longer, then nodded. Slowly. Like you were accepting a kindness you didn’t believe you deserved.

She eased you into the pillows. You clutched the blanket like it might disappear.

“Stay?” You murmured.

Natasha brushed hair from your forehead.

“I’ll be right outside.”

You were asleep before she made it to the door. She stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

She swirled the amber liquid in her heavy crystal glass, the expensive scotch doing little to soothe the gnawing tension that had taken root in her shoulders and refused to release its grip. The Sons of Ruva, a particularly vicious local mafia, were escalating their attacks with alarming speed and ferocity, their grubby tendrils reaching insidiously into her intricate supply chains, disrupting meticulously planned operations, and bleeding her company dry, drop by agonizing drop. And it wasn't just them, the blatant thugs. Other corporations, sleek and predatory, sensing a perceived weakness in the wake of Tony Stark's devastating death, were circling like vultures, their avaricious eyes fixed on her dwindling resources, their whispers of acquisition and hostile takeovers echoing in the sterile halls of industry. Stark Industries, once her seemingly impenetrable shield, a fortress built on innovation and influence, was now a gaping wound, a raw vulnerability she couldn't afford to acknowledge, let alone address, without showing further cracks in her armor.

Tony’s death had been a seismic blow, not just the profound personal loss that still echoed in the quiet moments of her day, but a strategic catastrophe. He'd been her staunchest ally, his formidable influence a seemingly unbreakable bulwark against the sharks that perpetually swam in the treacherous corporate depths. His sudden passing had left a gaping power vacuum, a void that opportunistic predators were eager to fill, and Natasha was struggling, with every fiber of her being, to fill it herself, her iron grip on her hard-won empire slipping infinitesimally with each passing day, each new attack. The weight of responsibility, the constant, suffocating threat, it was a crushing burden, one she bore entirely alone in the echoing silence of her power. The sharp tang of her own alpha pheromones, usually a subtle undercurrent of command, a silent declaration of her dominance, was now edged with the acrid scent of stress, a silent signal of the immense pressure she was under, a vulnerability she desperately tried to mask.

But she wasn't truly alone, not entirely. Yelena, her fiercely independent sister, was a constant, a sharp and loyal presence in the swirling storm of her life. Yelena, another alpha, understood the brutal, unspoken realities of their world, the constant, exhausting struggle for dominance that permeated every interaction, every negotiation. They had seen the harsh realities of survival etched onto the cold, cramped walls of their childhood apartments in Russia, a stark and brutal contrast to Natasha's current opulent surroundings, a reminder of where they had come from and the tenacity it had taken to get here. And then there was Kate, Yelena’s beloved wife, an omega with a sharp wit that could cut through the thickest tension and a surprising, unwavering resilience that often belied her gentler presentation, a calming, steadying presence in their often-chaotic lives. Kate’s gentle omega pheromones often diffused the sharper edges of the alphas around her, a subtle balm in their tense dynamic.

Yelena’s voice, sharp and laced with her characteristic dry humor, sliced through Natasha's dark brooding like a well-aimed arrow. “Ty vyglyadish' tak, slovno sobiraesh'sya nachat' voynu s butylkoy viski, Nat.” (You look like you’re about to wage war on a bottle of whiskey, Nat.)

Natasha didn’t bother to lift her gaze from the swirling liquid in her glass. “It’s been a long week.” The familiar and grounding scent of Yelena's alpha pheromones, usually a source of comfort and reassurance, did little to ease the tight knot of anxiety in her stomach.

“Dolgyy mesyats, ty imeesh' v виду,” (A long month, you mean,) Yelena corrected, the corner of her lips twitching upwards as she dropped with a sigh into the deep leather armchair opposite her imposing desk. “The Ruva are getting bolder, Nat. Their audacity is becoming… tiresome. And those corporate jackals aren’t exactly sending over baskets of condolences.”

“They smell blood,” Natasha said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. “They always do. It’s the nature of the beast.” The air in the room thickened almost imperceptibly as her own frustrated alpha scent intensified, a low growl in the silent language of pheromones.

Kate, her pregnant belly a gentle, rounded curve beneath the soft knit of her sweater, entered the office, carrying a carefully balanced tray laden with a steaming teapot, delicate china cups, and a plate of golden-brown cookies. The subtle, comforting sweetness of her omega pheromones offered a momentary, almost imperceptible balm to the tense atmosphere that hung heavy in the air. “You two are going to give yourselves ulcers the size of Rhode Island. Here, drink this. It’s chamomile.”

“Chamomile?” Natasha finally raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement momentarily softening the sharp lines of her face. “Since when did you become a purveyor of herbal remedies, Kate?”

“Since I realized you two are utterly incapable of taking care of yourselves,” Kate retorted with a gentle smile, carefully placing the tray on the edge of the cluttered desk. “Besides,” she added, her gaze softening as she looked at Natasha, “Yelena’s been…filling me in on your ‘situation’.”

“My ‘situation’?” Natasha echoed, taking a tentative sip of the fragrant tea. It was surprisingly soothing, the warmth spreading through her constricted chest.

“The whole ‘lone alpha, besieged by rivals, desperately needs an heir’ situation,” Yelena clarified, leaning back in her chair and stretching her long legs out in front of her. “I prezhde chem ty nachnesh' s rech'yu 'mne ne nuzhen naslednik', vspomni Toni.” (And before you start with the ‘I don’t need an heir’ speech, remember Tony.)

Natasha’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Tony had always stressed the crucial importance of succession, of meticulously ensuring his legacy would endure beyond his own mortal lifespan. He’d seen firsthand the inherent fragility of power, the almost casual ease with which it could be snatched away by the ambitious and the ruthless. And now, with the weight of her own precarious position pressing down on her, Natasha reluctantly understood the wisdom in his words. She wasn’t getting any younger. She was a powerful alpha, undeniably, but she was still mortal, vulnerable to the same cruelties of fate as anyone else. And the chilling thought of her hard-won empire crumbling into dust, of all her relentless work being undone by opportunistic vultures, was an unbearable prospect.

“He was right,” Natasha admitted, her voice low and surprisingly devoid of its usual sharp edge. “He always was, damn it.”

“Which brings us, rather neatly, to the solution,” Yelena said, a mischievous glint suddenly sparkling in her usually sardonic eyes. “A wife.”

Natasha choked on her chamomile tea, sputtering and coughing as the unexpectedness of the blunt suggestion momentarily overpowered the ever-present tension that coiled within her. “A wife?” The very idea felt absurd, a cold, strategic necessity masquerading as something deeply personal and inherently complicated.

“An omega,” Yelena elaborated, completely ignoring Natasha’s sputtering and the incredulous look on her face. “Someone strong, someone capable – you need someone who can handle your particular brand of… intensity, Nat. Someone who can give you an heir, a legitimate successor, and hold their own in this goddamn viper pit of a world.”

“And where, pray tell,” Natasha asked, her voice laced with heavy sarcasm as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, “am I supposed to find this paragon of virtue? This mythical creature who is both a suitable mate and a corporate titan in waiting?” The entire idea felt ludicrous, a desperate strategic maneuver dressed up in the archaic trappings of marriage.

“Kate has a suggestion,” Yelena said, nodding towards her wife with a knowing smile.

Kate cleared her throat, a delicate blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks a soft pink. “There’s someone in my omega support group. She’s… different, Natasha. Not like other omegas I’ve met. Not inherently submissive, not demure. Strong, intelligent, and fiercely independent. She’s had a hard life, a truly difficult one, but she’s not just survived it; she’s come out on top, stronger for it. She’s an omega, yes, biologically, but she is anything but weak.” Kate’s own gentle omega scent seemed to carry a subtle, almost imperceptible note of genuine admiration as she spoke of this enigmatic other omega.

“What’s her name?” Natasha asked, a flicker of something akin to intrigued curiosity finally piercing through her skepticism. The thought of an omega who defied the ingrained stereotypes was undeniably… compelling.

“Y/N,” Kate said, a soft, almost wistful smile gracing her lips. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” Natasha repeated, the name rolling off her tongue with a surprising softness. It had a certain… resonance, a quiet strength that echoed the description Kate had given.

“She’s… complicated,” Kate warned, her brow furrowing slightly. “She’s not going to fall at your feet just because you’re a powerful alpha, Natasha. She’s seen too much, been through too much for that kind of superficiality. But… she’s worth it. Trust me on this.”

Natasha stared at her sister and sister-in-law, a fragile flicker of something akin to hope, a feeling she hadn't entertained in a long time, igniting in the cold recesses of her chest. The idea of a wife, of a legitimate heir, had always seemed like a distant, almost impossible dream, a strategic necessity she’d relegated to the back burner of her relentlessly demanding life. But now, with the crushing weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her with increasing force, it felt less like a distant fantasy and more like a vital necessity. And if Y/N was even half as remarkable, as resilient, as Kate made them out to be… perhaps, just perhaps, there was a sliver of a chance.

——timeskip——

The sleek black SUV glided silently through the rain-slicked streets of Lynchburg, a silent predator navigating the urban jungle. Natasha, shrouded in an oversized black hoodie that did little to conceal her powerful build and dark jeans that emphasized her lean muscles, sat stiffly in the back, her intense gaze fixed on the blurred streaks of city lights that smeared across the wet glass. The heavy scent of rain and wet asphalt permeated the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, controlled environment she usually inhabited, the antiseptic tang of power and authority that clung to her like a second skin. Yelena, ever the picture of casual nonchalance despite the high stakes of their clandestine outing, leaned back in her seat, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she watched Natasha’s barely concealed unease.

“Ty vyglyadish' tak, slovno sobiraesh'sya na pokhorony,” (You look like you’re going to a funeral,) Yelena commented, her voice laced with teasing amusement that did little to soothe Natasha’s frayed nerves.

“I’m going to a support group,” Natasha retorted, her voice flat and devoid of any discernible emotion. “It feels remarkably like a prelude to one.” The subtle tension emanating from her alpha pheromones, a barely perceptible tightening in the air, betrayed her deep-seated unease at the prospect of exposing any vulnerability, even in this supposedly safe space.

“O, broste,” (Oh, come on,) Yelena chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in the quiet car. “It’s not that bad, Nat. Think of it as… market research. You’re just scouting the local talent pool.”

Natasha shot her sister a sharp, silencing glare that could have withered lesser men. “Market research for what, Yelena? A mail-order bride?” The very idea felt clinical and detached, stripping away any semblance of human connection from a decision that should, in theory, be deeply personal.

“An heir,” Yelena corrected smoothly, her smile widening into a full-blown grin. “And a wife, incidentally. You need someone who can handle you, Nat. Someone who won't wilt under your… particular brand of charm.”

The SUV pulled to a smooth, silent stop in front of a nondescript building, its gray brick facade as unyielding and anonymous as the storm raging outside. Kate, ever the unwavering optimist, turned to Natasha in the back seat, her eyes bright with a gentle encouragement that Natasha found surprisingly grounding. The soft, reassuring waves of her omega scent filled the car, a subtle anchor in Natasha’s turbulent inner sea.

“Ready?” she asked softly, her voice filled with a genuine warmth that belied the dreary weather and the potentially awkward situation awaiting them.

Natasha sighed, a heavy sound that spoke volumes of her apprehension and reluctant curiosity. “As I’ll ever be.”

The interior of the support center was warm and surprisingly welcoming, softly lit by strategically placed lamps that cast a gentle glow on the mismatched furniture. It was a stark contrast to the harsh, unforgiving weather outside. The air hummed with a quiet, almost palpable energy, a complex mixture of vulnerability, shared experience, and quiet resilience. Alphas, betas, and omegas sat scattered around the room in small clusters, their expressions ranging from weary resignation to quiet determination. Natasha, her senses always acutely heightened, subtly scanned the room, her trained eyes searching for the omega Kate had described with such intriguing enthusiasm. The various pheromonal scents in the room were a complex, layered tapestry, mostly muted and carefully controlled, but carrying subtle undertones of anxiety and fragile hope.

Her gaze snagged on a large, burly man sitting alone in a quiet corner of the room. He was a veritable mountain of muscle, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his hands clasped together in front of him. His face was etched with a gruffness that could easily intimidate even the most seasoned killer, a permanent scowl seemingly etched into his features. Yet, something in the depths of his eyes, a fleeting glimpse of a gentle sadness that flickered beneath the surface, hinted at a deeper, more complex nature hidden beneath the intimidating exterior. He was an alpha, his sheer physical presence radiating a quiet, almost reluctant power, though it seemed tinged with a profound loneliness that Natasha recognized with a strange pang of something akin to empathy.

“That’s Kylan,” Yelena whispered, gently nudging Natasha’s arm with her elbow. “He’s… a friend of Y/N’s. Apparently, she practically dragged him here. U nego problemy s poiskom druzey.” (He has trouble making friends.)

Natasha watched as Kylan shifted uncomfortably in his small folding chair, his intense gaze fixed resolutely on the worn linoleum floor, as if the secrets of the universe were hidden within its scuffed surface. He seemed profoundly out of place in the intimate circle, a gentle giant lost in a world that didn't quite know how to accommodate his strength.

As the meeting officially began, a facilitator, a calm and composed beta with a soothing voice, began leading the small group through a series of gentle exercises designed to foster connection, encourage vulnerability, and build a sense of shared understanding. Kylan, despite his intimidating physical presence, participated with a surprising gentleness, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that filled the quiet room with an unexpected sense of quiet strength and sincerity.

Natasha, observing from a discreet spot near the back of the room, found herself unexpectedly intrigued by the gentle giant in the corner. There was a palpable depth to him, a raw vulnerability that starkly belied his imposing physique. He was a walking contradiction, a quiet puzzle, and she found herself inexplicably drawn to his understated intensity.

After the meeting concluded and the participants began to slowly disperse, engaging in hushed conversations and offering tentative smiles, Kate suddenly and rather conspicuously disappeared, leaving Natasha and Yelena standing somewhat awkwardly near the refreshments table. Yelena, ever the opportunist and never one to let a potentially amusing situation pass by, seized the moment with her usual lack of subtlety.

“So,” she said, her voice laced with teasing amusement as she watched Natasha’s increasingly impatient demeanor. “What do you think of your potential… pool of candidates, Nat? Any promising contenders for the coveted role of ‘alpha’s omega’?”

Natasha rolled her eyes heavenward, a silent plea for patience. “Don’t be ridiculous, Yelena. I am not here to… audition omegas.”

“I’m just saying,” Yelena continued, her smile widening into a mischievous grin. “Kylan seems nice even if he’s an alpha himself. And he’s… substantial. Tebe nravyatsya bol'shiye.” (You like big.)

“Yelena,” Natasha warned, her voice low and dangerous, the subtle rise in her alpha pheromones a clear and unmistakable indication of her growing displeasure.

Before Yelena could launch into a witty retort, Kate reappeared as if summoned by Natasha’s silent frustration, her face slightly flushed, a wide and genuine smile radiating warmth. And standing just behind her, partially obscured by Kate’s smaller frame, a figure emerged, a woman who, for a fleeting, disorienting moment, stole Natasha’s breath. The very air in the room seemed to subtly shift, a new and intriguing scent weaving its way through the familiar pheromonal tapestry – a complex blend of quiet strength, unexpected sweetness, and an underlying hint of something wild and untamed, unlike any omega pheromones Natasha had encountered before.

Y/N was shorter than Natasha, her frame softer, more rounded in a way that spoke a slight dominance rather than delicate fragility, a gentle curve to her that was undeniably present without being overtly emphasized. Her features were delicate, almost elfin, but her eyes… her eyes were a deep, intelligent gaze that held a quiet, unwavering strength, a silent testament to resilience. Her composure was remarkably calm and collected, a stark and intriguing contrast to the internal storm still raging within Natasha.

“Natasha,” Kate said, her voice filled with genuine warmth and a hint of excitement. “This is Y/N.”

Y/N offered a small, polite smile, her intelligent eyes flicking briefly to meet Natasha’s intense gaze before returning to Kate with a familiar warmth. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Natasha. Kate has told me a little about you.” Her voice was soft, almost a gentle murmur, yet it held a certain clarity and quiet confidence that seemed to cut through the lingering buzz of the support group chatter. The subtle scent emanating from her was both disarming and undeniably intriguing, sparking a flicker of unexpected curiosity within Natasha.

Natasha, for once in her carefully controlled life, felt a flicker of something unfamiliar stir within her. It wasn't the cold, calculating assessment she usually employed when meeting someone new, a detached evaluation of potential threats and alliances. Instead, it was a strange, almost magnetic pull, a quiet curiosity that resonated deep within her, stirring something she hadn't realized was dormant. “You too,” she managed, her voice a touch rougher than she intended, the unfamiliarity of the feeling causing a slight tremor in her usually steady tone. The intensity of her own alpha pheromones seemed to spike momentarily in involuntary response to Y/N’s presence, a primal reaction she hadn’t anticipated and found slightly disconcerting.

Yelena, ever the keen observer of subtle dynamics and never one to miss an opportunity for amusement, leaned forward, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. “Natasha here is on a profound journey of self-discovery,” she announced dramatically, gesturing towards her stoic sister with a flourish. “Trying to embrace her softer, more approachable side. Starting with making friends.” She punctuated the last two words with a pointed, knowing look directed squarely at Natasha.

Y/N’s delicately arched brow rose slightly, a hint of genuine amusement playing on her lips as she turned her intelligent gaze back to Natasha, a touch more assessing this time. “Is that so?” she said, her soft voice laced with a playful skepticism. “Well, Natasha, welcome to the wonderful world of… not being alone all the time.” There was a subtle, almost imperceptible jab in her tone, a playful challenge that Natasha found surprisingly intriguing rather than offensive. Y/N’s own unique scent remained remarkably steady, a testament to her inner composure despite the unexpected scrutiny.

Kate chuckled softly, placing a reassuring hand on Y/N's arm, her gentle omega scent a calming presence in the subtle undercurrent of alpha energy. “Don't scare her off, Y/N. She's still a bit prickly around the edges.”

“Hey!” Natasha protested, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite her initial discomfort. The unexpected lightness of the moment, the casual banter, was a welcome and surprising reprieve from the heavy weight of her responsibilities.

“Oh, you know it’s true, Nat,” Yelena chimed in, her smirk widening. “Remember that time you-”

“Yelena,” Natasha cut her off with a sharp, warning glare, her eyes narrowing. The playful moment threatened to veer dangerously into embarrassing territory, and Natasha was in no mood for public humiliation, even at the hands of her sister.

Y/N watched the brief exchange with an observant eye, a small, knowing smile dancing on her lips. “It sounds like you have interesting relations, Natasha.”

“They have their moments,” Natasha conceded, her gaze softening slightly as she looked back at Y/N. There was an undeniable ease about the omega, a quiet confidence that drew her in despite her ingrained resistance to connection. The subtle sweetness of Y/N’s pheromones was a pleasant and unexpected contrast to the usual sharp, commanding alpha scents that dominated her life.

“So, Y/N,” Yelena interjected, ever the conversational driver, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Kate tells us you’re a bit of a whiz with… well, everything, really. Baking, gardening, apparently even wrangling grumpy alphas.” She shot another pointed, teasing look at Natasha.

Y/N laughed, a light, melodic sound that seemed to fill the somewhat sterile space with a sudden warmth. “Kate exaggerates, as she often does. I just enjoy creating things. And sometimes,” she added, her eyes flicking back to Natasha with a playful glint, “that inevitably involves dealing with stubbornly independent individuals.”

“Creating things?” Natasha echoed, a genuine spark of curiosity igniting within her. “Like what, exactly?” The unexpected range of Y/N’s talents, as hinted at by Yelena and Kate, piqued her interest in a way few things had in recent memory.

“Oh, you know,” Y/N said casually, a self-deprecating shrug accompanying her words. “The usual. Turning dirt into something edible, flour into something comforting, and occasionally, attempting to decipher the complex inner workings of certain… intensely focused people.”

Natasha felt a subtle warmth spread through her chest, an unfamiliar sensation she couldn't quite place or readily categorize. Y/N’s subtle jabs weren’t delivered with malice or judgment; instead, they were infused with a lightheartedness that was both disarming and, surprisingly, appealing. The gentle scent emanating from Y/N seemed to carry a hint of something grounding, like the fresh, clean scent of earth after a cleansing rain.

“Well, I can certainly be intensely focused,” Natasha admitted, a hint of a genuine smile finally playing on her lips, a rare and precious sight.

“Understatement of the century,” Yelena muttered under her breath, earning a sharp elbow jab from Kate.

Y/N chuckled again, the sound genuinely delightful. “I’m sure you are. It probably comes in handy… sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Natasha agreed, her gaze softening as she held Y/N’s. “Other times it makes it hard to see anything else.” The admission was more vulnerable than she usually allowed herself to be, a brief crack in her carefully constructed armor.

There was a brief moment of shared understanding that hung in the air between them, a fleeting, almost imperceptible connection that felt unexpectedly significant to Natasha, though she couldn't quite articulate the reason why. The subtle shift in Y/N’s scent, a faint hint of something empathetic and understanding, didn’t go unnoticed by the acutely perceptive alpha.

Kate, sensing the burgeoning, albeit fragile, connection between the two women, clapped her hands together gently. “Well, this has been lovely, but Y/N and I were just about to grab some tea at that little café down the street. Natasha, Yelena, would you care to join us? My treat.”

Yelena’s eyes lit up with immediate enthusiasm. “Tea with the enigmatic Y/N? Poshli!” (Let’s go!) She was already halfway towards the door, her natural curiosity fully engaged.

Natasha hesitated for a fraction of a second, a familiar wave of self-doubt and ingrained caution washing over her. The thought of spending more time with Y/N was surprisingly appealing, a novel and intriguing prospect, yet a deeply ingrained part of her, the instinct to remain guarded and detached, held her back, whispering warnings of potential vulnerability. “Actually,” she began, her voice laced with a polite but firm refusal, “I should probably-”

“Nonsense!” Yelena interjected, striding back and firmly but gently grasping Natasha’s arm, pulling her forward with surprising strength. “You’re on a mission to broaden your social horizons with the locals, Nat. And Y/N is definitely a local. Besides,” she added with a wink, “Kate’s buying.”

Y/N watched the playful exchange with a bemused expression, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. “It’s no trouble at all, Natasha. The more the merrier, as they say.”

As they walked together down the rain-slicked street towards a small, warmly lit café, Yelena continued her playful interrogation of Y/N, peppering her with a barrage of questions about her seemingly diverse hobbies and interests. Y/N answered with a gentle humor and an unexpected sharpness of wit, her quick and insightful responses often catching Yelena slightly off guard, much to Natasha’s silent amusement. Natasha found herself observing Y/N more than actively participating in the conversation, drawn to the subtle nuances of her expressions, the intelligent sparkle in her eyes, and the quiet strength that seemed to emanate from her. The air around Y/N carried that unique blend of curiosity and vulnerability that Natasha had initially sensed, a captivating and undeniably intriguing combination.

At the cozy café, they settled into a comfortable corner booth bathed in the warm glow of a nearby lamp. As they sipped their steaming tea and coffee, the conversation flowed surprisingly easily, jumping from lighthearted anecdotes and shared observations about the quirks of the support group to more thoughtful reflections on life and resilience. Y/N possessed a remarkable ability to make everyone around her feel comfortable and seen, her presence a calming and grounding influence in the often-chaotic energy that seemed to perpetually surround Natasha and Yelena. Her gentle omega pheromones seemed to subtly soothe the lingering tension in Natasha’s own scent, creating an unexpected sense of peace.

However, as the conversation gradually drifted towards more personal experiences and vulnerabilities, Natasha found her carefully constructed walls instinctively rising. She offered vague, noncommittal answers and skillfully deflected any direct questions about her own life, her ingrained habit of secrecy kicking in without conscious thought. The subtle shift in her alpha pheromones, a hardening around the edges, was almost imperceptible to anyone less attuned than Yelena and perhaps Y/N.

Y/N, perceptive and observant as she was, subtly noticed the change in Natasha’s demeanor, the almost imperceptible withdrawal. Her warm smile didn't entirely fade, but a thoughtful, almost assessing look entered her intelligent eyes. “You’re a very private person, aren’t you, Natasha?” she observed gently, her tone devoid of judgment.

Natasha tensed almost imperceptibly, her hand tightening slightly around her teacup. “I prefer to keep certain aspects of my life to myself.” The subtle scent of her defensiveness tightened the air around her, a silent barrier erected between them.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that,” Y/N replied softly, her gaze steady and understanding. “But sometimes sharing a burden, even a small one, can be a surprising relief.” Her own pheromones remained remarkably calm, a steady and unwavering presence in the subtly shifting dynamics.

“Maybe for some,” Natasha said, her voice flat and dismissive, effectively shutting down that particular line of inquiry.

“And maybe, just maybe, for you too,” Y/N countered gently, her direct gaze unwavering but not accusatory. “You seem burdened by something more than just the weather.”

Natasha’s defenses flared, a protective instinct kicking in. “You don’t know anything about me.” The sharp edge of her alpha scent intensified, a silent warning to back off.

Y/N’s expression remained calm and composed, but a subtle hint of something akin to disappointment flickered in her eyes before being quickly masked. “You’re right, Natasha. I don’t. But you also don’t seem particularly interested in allowing me to.” The almost imperceptible withdrawal in her own scent, a subtle cooling of the initial warmth, was a quiet acknowledgment of the growing distance between them.

Yelena, ever the astute observer of interpersonal dynamics and sensing the sudden shift in tone, tried to interject with a lighthearted comment about the questionable quality of the café’s refreshments, but the air had thickened with a sudden, palpable tension that even her usual levity couldn’t quite penetrate. “Nu, devochki, ne nado takogo napryazheniya,” (Well, girls, no need for such tension,) she said, her attempt at humor falling a little flat in the charged atmosphere.

“Look,” Natasha said, her voice sharper and more defensive than she intended, the underlying stress of her life bleeding into her tone. “I came here because I was told it might be a good idea to connect with people outside of my usual associates. But frankly,” she gestured vaguely between Y/N and herself, the residual tension in her shoulders evident, “this feels less like connection and more like an unwelcome interrogation.” The scent of her frustration was now more pronounced, a subtle undercurrent of irritation mixing with her alpha dominance.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, her previous warmth receding like the tide going out. “I was simply attempting to engage in polite conversation, Natasha. If that feels like an interrogation to you, perhaps you are not as open to this ‘connection’ as you initially implied.” Her own scent now carried a subtle but distinct hint of coolness, the earlier sweetness replaced by a more neutral, almost distant aura.

Natasha bristled at the implication. “And perhaps you are a little too quick to psychoanalyze people you have only just met.” The protective alpha instinct within her rose to the surface, a subtle challenge in her stance and the barely contained energy radiating from her.

The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint clinking of teacups and the muffled sounds of conversation from other patrons. Kate shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her worried eyes darting between Natasha and Y/N, the usually calming scent of her omega pheromones now carrying a faint but noticeable note of anxiety.

Finally, Y/N stood up, her movements fluid and graceful despite the underlying tension that permeated the small booth. “It seems I have inadvertently overstayed my welcome. Kate, thank you for the tea.” She offered a polite, almost formal nod to Yelena. Then, her cool gaze settled on Natasha, a hint of hurt mixed with a newfound reserve in her intelligent eyes. “Natasha. It was… an experience.” The subtle sweetness of her unique scent was almost entirely gone, replaced by a neutral, almost distant aura that left Natasha feeling strangely empty.

Without another word, Y/N turned and walked away, her departure leaving a palpable void in the previously cozy atmosphere of the café. The lingering trace of her unique scent, now tinged with a subtle coolness, served as a silent reminder of the interaction that had just transpired.

Yelena watched Y/N’s retreating figure with a thoughtful expression, then turned her gaze back to Natasha, her usual amusement replaced by a pointed, almost disappointed look. “Well,” she said, her voice dry and devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “You certainly have a remarkable way with people, don’t you, Nat?”

Natasha avoided her sister’s gaze, staring instead at the empty space where Y/N had been sitting just moments before. The lingering ghost of Y/N’s intriguing scent, now tinged with a hint of something unreadable, was a faint but persistent reminder of the connection she had so abruptly, and perhaps unnecessarily, severed.

“Seriously, Nat,” Yelena continued, shaking her head slowly. “She was nice. Interesting. And you managed to snap at her within ten minutes of actual conversation. That’s impressively efficient, even for you.”

“I didn’t snap,” Natasha mumbled defensively, though even to her own ears, the denial sounded weak and unconvincing. The lingering tension in her own restless alpha pheromones betrayed her inner turmoil and a flicker of something she couldn't quite identify.

“Oh no, you just politely suggested she was being overly intrusive and then proceeded to shut down any further attempts at connection,” Yelena said sarcastically, her tone dripping with playful exasperation. “Smooth move, Romanoff. Real smooth.”

Kate sighed softly, her gentle omega scent carrying a distinct note of disappointment. “Natasha, she was just trying to be friendly. She’s genuinely kind.”

A strange feeling settled in Natasha’s chest, a hollow ache that surprised her with its unexpected intensity. It wasn't guilt, exactly, a feeling she rarely allowed herself to experience, but something akin to… regret? She hadn't consciously intended to be so abrasive, so immediately defensive. Y/N’s gentle curiosity hadn't felt threatening, yet her ingrained instinct to protect herself, to maintain control, had kicked in without conscious thought. The sudden absence of Y/N’s unique and intriguing scent left a subtle but noticeable emptiness in the air.

“I didn’t mean to,” Natasha said quietly, the words feeling foreign and awkward on her tongue, a rare admission of something less than perfect control.

Yelena raised a skeptical eyebrow, her expression clearly conveying her disbelief. “Could have fooled me.”

“Quiet,” Natasha retorted defensively, the familiar prickle of irritation returning, a more comfortable emotion to navigate. But underneath the familiar defensiveness, the unfamiliar ache in her chest persisted. She thought back to Y/N’s calm demeanor, the gentle curve of her smile, the spark in her deep eyes. For reasons she couldn't quite articulate, she felt a distinct pang of disappointment at how their brief and potentially promising interaction had ended.

“You know,” Yelena said, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, a thoughtful expression now replacing her earlier amusement. “For someone who supposedly doesn't care about making friends, or… potential wives, you seem remarkably bothered by that little exchange.”

Natasha scowled, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond Yelena’s head. “I’m not bothered.” But the faint undercurrent of her own restless alpha pheromones, a subtle agitation that betrayed her carefully constructed facade of indifference, suggested otherwise.

“Sure you’re not,” Yelena said, a knowing smirk slowly returning to her lips. “You just single-handedly scared away the most genuinely intriguing person we’ve met all day. Congratulations, Nat. You truly are a master of self-sabotage.”

The line seemed endless. Bodies upon, bodies of caffeine addicts waiting to be serviced.

The energy of a busy New York coffee shop at 8am was truly a sight to see for any newbie to the city—thank god, you were accustomed to the rude grogginess of the baristas and the lines to wait for your wanted—no, needed, yet still overpriced coffee.

You hear the door open again as a small bell atop of the frame is triggered by the entering customer. The chill breeze of the city winter rips through the space, making you shiver and wrap your coat around yourself a bit tighter. Cool air creeping through the fibers of the winter coat you were sporting made you need that coffee a bit more urgently.

“Next in line!” the line moved as you pulled out your phone and took a step forward. You scroll through your notifications, looking for anything you had missed in your previous peak, before feeling a tap on your shoulder. Your first reaction is to look up with a rather hostile look in your eyes at whoever intruded your non-social, pre-caffeine headspace.

“Natasha?” your eyebrows crinkle at the sight of the woman in front of you. Her smile genuine as she looks down at you.

“Hi, stranger” she says, the raspy voice bringing back memories of a not-so-forgotten time in your past. She moves her arm around you to pull you into a side hug, you accept it—a bit stiffly and pull away, taking in her appearance.

She looked professional yet still casual and comfortable, a combination that always suited her quite well—at least the version you had gotten to know in your past. Her red locks in a neat braid that swept across her head and onto her shoulder, a few framing strands left out on the sides. Her eyes were more worn on the sides—the start of crows feet present besides her lashes.

Her eyes were the same, still the same shade of captivating green.

“How are you? How have you been?” she asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice coming out a bit rougher than how you remembered. Maybe it was caused by the cold air or, maybe it was just the other way the few years had affected her.

You look down and pocket your phone, “I’ve been okay, just y’know…holding up,” you watch as the person ahead of you steps forward, prompting the both of you to move up and fill the gap. You shift to the side, and make room for the redhead to stand beside you. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, stirring up memories of the past.

“How about you? What have you been up to, besides finding ways to cut-in-line at random coffee shops?” she lets out a huff of air as she turns to look at you “I was leaving when saw you…so I decided I should come and say hi," she looks at you with an amused expression.

you smile and hum in acceptance, letting her continue. She takes a breath before starting, "I've been okay—for the most part. Just trying to keep up with what life throws at me." She smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. You wonder if they were just as rough as how you remembered, or if they’d grown more calloused with time.

"Are you cold?" you ask, still looking at her now-concealed hands. She turns to look at you, you meet her eyes, and she lifts a brow "I've told you before how we Russians don't get cold," she says before continuing "that’s something you should've remembered." her voice carries as the last words enter your ears and without thinking you respond.

"I remember lots of things."

You feel the energy around you both change as the words leave your lips and you cringe as you watch her body visibly stiffen. Your brutally honest word choice must’ve reminded her of the reason why it had been so long since the two of you spoke.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Sometime in the past 2 years

“Natasha… I just can’t do this anymore.” The words choke in your throat as you pace in front of her in the living room of your shared apartment. Every step you take feels like it’s pulling you further from everything you once wanted, but you can't stop yourself. You can barely breathe, the emotion inside you holding your lungs down. Your eyes move to look at Natasha, and everything inside you screams to hold on.

“I’ve always been here for you,” you continue, voice cracking. “Always. I kept waiting, hoping you’d open up to me, just like I did for you, bare an-and vulnerable.” Your voice cracks making you take a steadying breath before continuing, pointing a shaking finger toward her. “I put my heart on the line, expecting the same... but I never got it. And when you finally did open up... I was there. I loved you through the dark days, the lonely nights. I stayed, Natasha. I stayed through everything, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” Your words spill out like a dam breaking, but the anger, the frustration, the heartbreak—none of it makes the pain go away.

You want to somehow make it work, to find the missing piece that would make her open up fully. You wanted this to work more than anything. But the hard truth is, you don’t know just how much more you can keep giving without receiving the same in return. You’ve poured so much of yourself into this relationship—your love, your patience, your vulnerability—but now it feels like you’re just…empty. Every night you lie awake, hoping that tomorrow will be the day she finally opens up to you the way you’ve been opening up to her, and every day feels like another unanswered question, an in-life purgatory you can’t escape.

Your fingernails find their way into the flesh of your palms, the sharpness grounding you, but it doesn’t help.

Her heart tears in two as she watches you like this, feeling like a failure. She feels it deep inside—your hurt, your exhaustion, the years of unspoken emotions—and she knows, with crushing certainty, that no matter how much she loves you, she can’t undo the damage. You’re the one person who has always been there, who’s loved her unconditionally, who’s been so patient, so willing to fight for the relationship. She’s failed you. It wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough. She loved you—God, she loved you so much—but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to give you the one thing you needed most: her whole heart. Every single time you reached out, she recoiled, afraid that if she gave you more of herself, she’d lose herself in the process. She knew loving you would mean taking the risk of loosing herself within the beauty that was to love just as hard as you did. 

She doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.

She lifts her head, eyes red, blurry with unshed tears, and glances at your hands, fingers still digging into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself together, as the nails cut through the layers of flesh on your palms. The pieces of yourself feeling like they're falling through your fingers like water. She hurts seeing you like this, she knew you did it to feel control in moments where you felt that control slip away—she’d had been trying to help you stop it, to show you that hurting yourself wouldn't heal anything, but now, she feels just as lost. She feels herself drowning in guilt. 

She’s the one who’s made you feel like this, hasn’t she? 

A warm, trembling hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out of the darkness of your thoughts along with herself–trying to claw her way out of her guilt. Her touch is gentle, almost too gentle, as if she’s afraid you’ll break if she holds on too tight. She guides your fingers away from your skin, but the ache in your chest only deepens. She’s trying to fix you–to help you, not acknowledging that she needed it as well. And neither of you knew how to do it.

What’s the hell is wrong with me? 

The question cuts deeper than anything she’s ever felt. 

Why can’t I just give her what she needs? 

I love her. 

I love her so much. 

Why isn’t that enough?

“I feel horrible,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. When you meet her eyes, they’re filled with more pain than you’ve ever seen in them. It tears through you. You wanted to help her, to make her feel loved and safe, but all you've done is hurt her. You've made her feel like she's failing, like she’s not enough, and the guilt is suffocating. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, wants to apologize, to make it better, but she knows deep down that no amount of apologies can fix the damage done. 

You swallow, but your throat is tight, your chest heavier than it’s ever been. "You’re right. You always did the right things. You said the right words. You showed me you loved me, but… I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel it the way I needed to, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I couldn't be enough for you, Natasha." Your voice breaks at the end, a sound that rips through you, as if you're breaking apart inside. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

The weight of your own apology hangs in the air, suffocating, because you don't know how to fix this anymore. You don’t know how to make her stop feeling like she’s a failure when all she’s ever done is try. 

Her heart shatters as you speak. She sees the pure hurt in your eyes, feels the way you’re pulling away from her. it crushes her to know she's the one that hurt you, the one that made you feel as if you weren't enough. Every word you say is a reminder that she’s failed. She’s tried so hard to be the person you need, to show you how much she loves you, but every time she’s gotten close to letting herself go the crippling fear of falling too deep holding her back. 

“I wish I could change,” she says, voice barely audible, but you hear the depth of her regret in every word. She places her hand over her heart, almost as if trying to stop the pulsating ache there. “I don’t want you to suffer with my shit anymore. I don’t want to drag you through this anymore… but I don’t know how to fix me.” She looks at you, her tears falling freely now. “I hate that I can't give you everything you need. I hate that I couldn't be the person you deserved."

You feel every ounce of her guilt like a physical blow, and it’s suffocating. You wish there was something you could say to make her feel better, but the truth is, you're not sure if you even deserve to make her feel better right now. You've failed her too, in so many ways.

Maybe I’m not enough for her. Maybe I never was. 

The thought stings, like a shock against your skin. You can’t help but feel that maybe you’ve failed, that you’re the real reason things fell apart, not Natasha. But as you look at the redhead, her guilt hanging heavy in the air, you realize there’s not just one person to blame, there’s not only one person responsible for this. You’ve both been afraid. Afraid of fully trusting, of letting the walls down completely, of letting each other in.

And now? Now, it feels like it’s too late.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says, her voice cracking. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who can love you with everything they have, without holding back... and I’m not her. I can't be that person." Her eyes search yours, desperate for some sign, some glimmer of hope, but all she finds is a reflection of her own pain.

Staring at her tear-streaked face, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: it’s not going to happen. It’s not because you haven’t tried, and it’s not because she doesn’t love you—she does, so much, and you can see it in her eyes. But love isn’t enough. 

I can’t keep waiting for something that’s never going to come. 

I can’t keep hurting like this. 

You’re shaking now, but it’s not from anger. It’s from the unbearable truth that lingers in the space between you. The love you had, the connection you both tried so hard  to hold onto, is slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

“I think…” you can barely get the words out, but they’re there, hanging in the air like the inevitable. "I think you’re right." Your voice cracks, your heart shattering with the weight of those words. You’ve known for so long, deep down, that this was coming. The back and forth, the exhaustion, the constant battle to make her open up, to make her let you in—it was destroying both of you, and it would never change. The months of fighting—wanting her to open up, to show you the real her, nothing was working as it should be. You had been fighting against something inevitable.

You run your thumb over her knuckles, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but it feels hollow now. “We’ve tried, Natalia,” you whisper, your heart breaking with every syllable. “We’ve tried to make this work, but I can’t keep pretending it’s going to be okay. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want you to hurt for me anymore.”

Her tears fall harder now, as if the weight of your decision has broken something inside of her. You both sit there, silently, broken and exhausted from a love that was never enough. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s been destroyed. As she looks at you, so broken, so utterly lost, she feels like she’s watching her own heart crack in two.

You both sit in silence as the sounds of the city bleed into the apartment and circle the two of you.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

“Next!” the barista’s tired voice carries through the space of the café, and makes you both turn to reach the counter. Your cheeks warm and tinged a shade of red at your earlier admission.

“Uh, can I get an iced blond vanilla late, with an extra pump of vanilla, and sweet foam with Carmel drizzle on top?” you order and look over at the redhead who was diligently staring at the side of your face.

She wondered how you hadn’t changed. Time seemed to have left you untouched. While she felt it’s weight etched into her face and mind—you were still the same. With the same coffee order, at the same coffee shop, the same you.

“W-would you like anything?” you ask, stuttering at the gaze she held.

“I’m okay,” she turns to the barista, “That’ll be all.” she completes your order out of habit as you pull out your card to pay.

the barista asks for your name and you both utter a thanks to the young woman, who doesn’t return the pleasantry as you both walk off to the side. The silence, between you both not unwanted, but definitely heightening your anxiety at the unexpected meeting.

You were not dressed to be seeing your ex at a coffee shop.

“Would you like to sit?” you clear your throat and ask, finding a table with two chairs. She smiles and looks at her watch. “Yeah—yeah, I got enough time” she says, sitting down beside you and looking out at the busy streets of the city that never sleeps.

She loved it here, her time in other continents and cities made her realize just how at home the city lights and sirens made her feel, just how at home the people in her life made her feel.

The light of the rising sun reflects off of the glass windows of tall buildings and illuminate her face. Her nose had stayed the same, the feature being something you loved about her even if she said she hated it from time to time. She turns and catches you staring. You to look away and clear your throat as she smiles warmly. She always liked that about you, so attentive to everyone around you.

Stop staring. You mentally kicked yourself for being caught.

“Y’know…you still order your coffee as if you hate the taste of it.” she teases, her hands motioning to the receipt that outlined the specific order you gave. A smile grows as you turn to look at her and laugh softly at her face of accusation. “I swear, you get the sugariest thing on the menu.” she continues, making you laugh a little louder.

Your laugh was the same–she noticed, your smile the same, but your eyes now held a few winkles at the sides as the joy spread over your face. She smiles at you then and leans back in the uncushioned, tall stool.

You roll your eyes and remove your gloves, “hey, before you tease just know you traumatized me with your coffee order,” she looks at you questioningly, making you lean in “Nat, you order a black coffee with like two sugars and call that a coffee order.” she laughs, her cheeks tinting a wonderful shade of red as she answers “It’s a legitimate coffee order y/n, that’s why they make me pay and why I made you try it.” her voice raspy as ever as it leaves her lips. “Oh yeah, trust me I know. I can still feel it on my taste buds and recoil every time I think about it.” she looks at your now very serious expression with a raised brow, and you both break into a shared cackle.

As the laughter settles, you both look at each other. Familiarity and warmth returning to your veins, you missed her. Sure, it had been more than enough time for you to get over her, but you never truly did. Everyone told you it was time to move on, but you never did, hoping, praying, manifesting that maybe one day you could fix things and reunite with the love of your life.

You went out with people, met other singles, dated—but no one made you feel what she did.

"So, how’s work?" you ask, your fingers nervously fiddling with the paper wrapping of a straw that was left on the table by some other customer. She glances down at your hands, noticing how your nails are no longer bitten or ragged, your palms free of the crescent-shaped marks that used to linger there. She smiles softly, noticing how you'd managed to break those anxious habits.

"It’s been good," she replies, her voice warm. "We got some new teammates in—I'm sure you saw it on the news." She looks into your eyes, smiling as she sees the familiar focus in your gaze. That hadn't changed either.

You nod and smile back, leaning in as she continues. "One of them is named Wanda. She's brilliant—you'd love her. Amazing sense of humor, and the best style. I know you’ve always been into fashion."

You chuckle softly, the memory of how you used to carefully pick out your outfits coming back. "That’s nice. So, you and her are close?" you ask, your voice lighter than you feel. It's easy to fall back into the rhythm with her. Conversations with her never felt draining, never like you were just filling silence. At least, it didn’t, not before everything went wrong.

"Yeah," she says, smiling shyly, but her eyes drop to her hands. And that's when you see it. The ring.

The world seems to blur for a moment as your eyes lock onto the silver band adorning her finger. Simple, yet undeniably there. Your mind races, struggling to catch up, focusing on the details—an engraving, some flowers, maybe lilies? You remember how she always loved those.

The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts. "Y/N?"

You snap back to reality, but it feels like your heart is still racing. You blink, meeting her gaze. The concern in her eyes is unmistakable, but it's not for you. She's moved on.

“Order for y/n!” the barista yells, and you turn, smiling tightly at Nat before getting up to retrieve your coffee.

God, how had you not seen it before? Was it always there? How long ago did she become so open? So willing to let someone in, that she’d actually gotten married?

The questions hit you like a wave, crashing over your mind with unbeatable force.

You make yourself look away, desperate to regain control of your thoughts. You tuck some hair behind your ear, trying to ground yourself, and take a long sip of your cold drink, the ice crunching between your teeth. It does nothing to ease the nausea building in your stomach.

“I—uh, I was looking at your wedding band,” you mutter, feeling the words slip out awkwardly. Your gaze drifts back to her fingers, the ring glinting in the sunlight. She follows your stare, quietly adjusting her hand, almost as if she’s waiting for this moment to land.

“Oh, um… yeah," she clears her throat, her voice sounding a little tighter than before. "Me and Wanda... we, uh... I proposed a few months ago,” she adds, looking down at the ring, tracing the engravings with her fingers. Finally, she meets your eyes, and for a brief second, it feels like everything you thought you knew about her is slipping away. This wasn’t the Natasha who used to laugh at your bad jokes, or the one who whispered your name in the quiet of your shared apartment, the one who whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you laid naked in bed after you’d had sex. No, this was a version of her you did not know.

“Oh.” The word barely leaves your mouth as you nod slowly, but it’s enough to echo in the silence between you two. It’s all you can manage, the word feeling too small, insignificant.

What else could you say?

You want to bury your face in your hands.

God, Y/N, think of something better. Say something better.

The words feel hollow, useless, as they form in your mind. The words don’t feel like your own. They feel forced, clumsy, like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers. You hate how it feels. You hate how she feels like a stranger to you now, someone you don’t know anymore, someone who has moved on without you.

"Congratulations," you finally say, the words coming out flat, lifeless. Your smile feels too tight, too forced. You can feel it pulling at the corners of your lips as your body instinctively turns inward, the discomfort sharp and heavy.

Congratulations? Are you fucking serious?

She notices, of course—how could she not? Her eyes flicker with concern, watching as your posture shifts, your guard rising. But it’s too late. You’re already pulling away.

What the hell did I just say?

The self-criticism is almost suffocating.

Congratulations?

You want to slap your forehead, but you settle for simply glancing up at her. Her gaze is locked onto you now, intense and unwavering. It’s like she’s trying to reach you through the growing distance between you two, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve lost her... that you never really had her.

The sound of the coffee shop fade as your own internal dialogue takes over, mocking you.

You’re pathetic, it whispers.

You haven’t moved on.

You never really let go.

You glance around the coffee shop. There’s a woman in the corner smiling at her boyfriend—no husband, the wedding ring sparkling as she holds his cheek, a group of tourists chatting loudly about going to watch some play on Broadway, someone in the backline swiping through their phone, you can see the TikTok home screen from your place in the corner of the café.

But you can’t hear them. All you hear is the hollow beat of your own heart, pounding painfully in your chest, as if it knows that this moment is the end of something—something you still thought was possible.

It feels like you’re drowning, surrounded by noise, by life moving forward, while you’re stuck here in this tiny moment, unable to breathe.

Her eyes flicker with concern, noticing how your posture shifts, how you stiffen at the words that should have felt normal, casual. But they don’t. They can’t.

There’s nothing casual about this.

Nothing normal.

Not when your heart is bleeding under the weight of a past you can’t shake, a future you never thought you’d face.

You try to steady yourself, but you can feel the walls you’ve built around your emotions crumbling.

She’s married, Y/N. She’s married. Get over it.

But you can’t.

You feel a pang of guilt. Natasha’s gaze is warm, but there’s an ache in her eyes too—something that makes your heart hurt in a different way. She’s trying. She’s not the woman you left behind. But then again, neither are you. Neither is she.

Her hand rests, trembling, on the table now. She wants to reach out to you, but she’s scared of pushing too hard. You can see it in her eyes—she’s uncertain. She’s terrified of what you might say. Terrified of making it worse. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the table, hesitant, before pulling away. She’s probably wondering if she’s done the right thing. Wondering if she was wrong to move on, to make this decision without you, without this—whatever you two were. She watches you, her gaze softening as if she wants to comfort you, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t even know where to begin. She could try to reach for you, but she knows it might make things worse.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, her voice trembling slightly. She’s staring at you now, as if trying to understand what’s happening inside your head, but you don’t have an answer for her. You don’t even have an answer for yourself.

The silence stretches between you two, heavy with unspoken words, as the noise of the coffee shop crashes around you both, a stark reminder that the world keeps moving. And in it, Natasha is moving forward, and you... you’re left behind.

She regrets it. She regrets this—this distance. This moment. She wants to take it all back. To fix this. To fix you. But she can’t.

The weight of the regret hits her, and she breathes out a slow, steadying breath, her hand trembling on the table. She can feel it too, the unbearable tension between you both, the space that feels like a chasm even though you’re only inches apart.

But you—you’re the one who’s drowning, trying to keep your head above the weight of the memory and the feeling that you were never enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quietly to hear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like this.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away for a second, almost as if she can’t stand seeing you like this, can’t bear the thought of how much she’s hurt you.

But the truth is, she’s already lost you.

And she’s the one who will never be able to move on.

Her words cut deeper than she knows, because you can’t help but wonder—does she really not know? Has she been so caught up in her own life that she hasn’t seen how much this is tearing you apart? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and this is all just… a part of the past to her?

The thought makes your chest tighten. Your breath feels shallow, and you find yourself squeezing your cold drink harder, trying to steady the storm inside. You swallow, but it feels like there’s a lump lodged in your throat, blocking any response. You want to scream, to tell her everything, to make her understand how much it hurts to see her here, happy, with someone else. But the words are gone—lost in the space between your need to cry and the reality of the life she’s chosen without you.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and desperate and hurt. You didn’t mean to ask it—didn’t want to ask it—but you can’t help it. You need to know.

Natasha’s heart aches at the sound of your voice, the fragility in it. For a moment, she feels as though the floor beneath her might give way. She had hoped—hoped—that you would be okay. That this wouldn’t hurt so much. But the pain is evident, like a raw wound, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Her face crumbles for a moment, and she looks away, as if she’s searching for the right words, for something that might make this hurt less. But there are no words that can make this better. No words that can undo the last few years.

she feels a lump in her throat, the wounds she'd covered, gashes shed mended, all coming undone in this moment.

“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers. “I really don’t know. I thought I could give you what you needed, but… I couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be.”

Her voice cracks as she says it, and she feels herself breaking inside. She knows you’re hurting, but she’s not sure what she can do to make this right. She had tried—tried so hard—to be what you needed, but she failed. And it kills her that she couldn’t give you the love and stability you deserved. The love she thought she could offer, the love that now feels so distant and ungraspable.

Your heart aches. It’s a contradiction, isn’t it? The way she sounds so guilty, and yet you know deep down that she’s not really sorry for her life—she’s sorry for the fact that she hurt you in the process of living it.

Her words feel hollow to her, and as they leave her lips, she wonders if she’s just prolonging the pain for both of you. She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her ring again. It’s such a small, insignificant gesture, but in this moment, it feels like the biggest thing in the world. It feels like a symbol of everything she’s lost. A symbol of a promise she made to someone else, a promise she can’t go back on.

She wants to reach for you again, but she knows better now. She knows that you’ve already made up your mind—that you’ve already closed the door on what could have been. The door that used to swing open so easily for her, but now only feels heavy and locked.

You look at her, your gaze raw, and for a second, you think you might say something else. You might beg her to take it all back. To come back. But you know you can’t. You know you have to let this go. You feel a deep ache in your chest as you realize that this is the end. The finality of it settles in, and you can’t hold on any longer.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and pull back from the table, your hands folding into your lap as you gather yourself. It’s almost like you’re physically trying to close yourself off, to shield the part of you that still hopes and longs for something that no longer exists.

“Maybe... maybe you were never what I needed either,” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than to her. The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you wish you could take them back as soon as they leave. But it’s true. Somewhere along the way, you lost her. And maybe, just maybe, you lost yourself in the process.

The words hit Natasha like a slap, but it’s the truth. She’s never been able to give you what you needed, and that realization settles like stone in her stomach. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something—something to fix it, to undo the damage—but the words die in her throat. They would only make things worse, only deepen the wound between you both.

She doesn’t speak. She can’t. She just watches you, helpless, as you turn away from her, the finality of your departure cutting into her chest like a knife.

You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. The tears you’ve been holding back for so long feel close now, threatening to spill over. You can’t let them. You won’t. Not here, not in front of her, not when everything feels like it’s already slipping through your fingers.

“I should go,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. It’s not a demand, it’s not even a decision—it’s just the only thing you can bring yourself to say. You push your chair back, standing up slowly, feeling like your legs might give out beneath you. You feel empty, but in a way, that emptiness is almost worse than the pain.

Her eyes follow you, and Natasha doesn’t try to stop you. She doesn’t ask you to stay. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she’s left with the sense that, somehow, she’s failed you, failed the both of you. She doesn’t think she could stand to watch you walk away again. The understanding in her eyes is quiet, gentle. She knows this is the end.

As you turn to walk away, you hear her raspy voice one last time. “Y/N… I still care about you.”

You stop for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You want to say something back—anything—but you know it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t fix anything.

You don’t respond. Instead, you walk. One foot in front of the other as you push open the door of the coffee shop, the cold New York air hitting your face like a slap. It’s sharp, biting, but somehow, it’s exactly what you need. You step into the busy street, the noise and the rush of people washing over you, but all you can hear is the silence of her absence. Is this it? You think. It has to be.

You keep walking, trying to put one foot in front of the other, but every step feels heavier than the last. You don’t know how you’re supposed to move forward—to move past her. You don’t know if you ever will.

After all, it’s never over.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

a/n: YAYY!! i was so excited to start writing this fic, it’s my drafts since October so i’m happy it’s finally out. i hope you all liked it! it was my first time writing angst and i’m very proud of it, if you guys have any constructive criticism pls give it politely:)

It was no secret to anyone how little regard Natasha had for her own life. Even since her very first Shield mission, she’d been a force to be reckoned with, partly down to her pure destructive nature. She didn’t care if taking down Hydra agents meant coming away with a bullet wound or two. Or if destroying an enemy testing laboratory meant four broken ribs and a cracked collar bone. As long as the job was done, that was all she cared about.

Nick Fury was getting tired of how many lectures he had given a young, 25 year old Natasha in his office when he’d read her completed mission report. He knew why she had such a blatant disregard for her life but it didn’t make it any easier seeing one of his best agents beaten and bruised each week. The redhead barely flinched when her wounds were inspected, but to be honest she didn’t really react to anything.

She was more of a ghost really, a pale figure soundlessly walking the halls at night. If her injuries didn’t let keep her awake at night, then the nightmares gladly took their turn, drenching her entire body in a cold sweat and leaving her shivering in her tangled sheets. But if the dark circles under her eyes looked worse, her friend and mentor Clint didn’t utter a word.

The structure and routine that manifested week by week kept her grounded and focused. Wake up, train, eat, surveillance, sleep. Missions were a welcome break from the otherwise monotonous rhythm Natasha had found herself in. She much preferred working solo as opposed to in a team, but Shield was all about team work so she had to suck it up.

A lot of the time she found herself alongside Clint Barton who weirdly offered her a feeling of comfort. She liked how he never pried too much into how she was feeling, or her past, but kept a look out for her whenever they were together. Her icy demeanour slowly melted away thanks to his warmth that he never failed to show her.

He showed her how to let people in, how to not keep her heart so tightly guarded in fear of actually feeling something about someone. And as much as she would hate to admit it, he was right. It did feel better knowing people cared about her. But it also terrified her at the same time. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.

Yet somehow she had managed to let her tough exterior be pushed aside just long enough for a certain someone to wiggle her way in and take up permanent residence inside the redhead’s mind.

Y/n Y/l/n wasn’t really anyone compared to Natasha. Sure, she was a shield agent, and a high ranking one at that, but that was nothing compared to an Avenger. She’d spend years in their shadow, always looking up to Natasha Romanoff. I mean, who wouldn’t? She’s pretty badass.

But the young agent thought her relationship with said Avenger would end at idolisation and daydreaming. She never expected to suddenly be living amongst them in the compound. But when an empty training room was suddenly disrupted at three in the morning, it was a sign things were to change forever.

Y/n relished the silence that the training room at night brought. Most of her colleagues preferred to train in a group at 7am, but insomnia often brought her into the gym a lot earlier. She loved it though; a way to clear her head and exhaust her body whilst maintaining peak physical fitness required in case of a last second mission.

Lost in a world of music playing through her headphones, Y/n failed to notice the door slowly open, caught up in her boxing routine on the punch bag. She should have been more aware of her surroundings, like she’d been trained, so that she didn’t nearly jump out of her skin as a voice cut through her music.

“You’re gonna get a sore back if you keep using the wrong form.”

Without having ever met in person, Y/n would recognise that voice anywhere. She whipped around and quickly pulled her headphones off around her neck, cheeks flushing as she took in the woman in front of her.

A black sports bra and navy sweatpants was all that adorned Natasha’s toned body. She stood there with a hand on her hip, the other holding a small towel, a water bottle and her own pair of headphones. Y/n desperately tore her eyes away from the widow’s toned abs, feeling her own insecurities creep upwards. She itched for her sweatshirt that lay discarded on the bench just out of reach. That was the last time she ever trained in a sports bra.

“You keep twisting your back as you punch. You need to move from your hips.” Y/n just looked at her with surprise, not fully processing that they were having a conversation at all. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Yeah, sure.” That snapped her out of her trance. Y/n took a step back and allowed Nat to place her things down before she packed a swift punch to the bag, sending it swinging slightly on its stand. Y/n couldn’t lie, she looked really good, arm muscles tensed as she threw a few more punches. Her form was impeccable, but of course it was.

“When you swing round you have to rotate your hips for momentum. Just turning from your back will cause injury.” Y/n nodded, mirroring her stance on the punching bag beside Natasha. “Unless you’re doing lots of smaller ones, then you need to keep your hips still. That just comes from your shoulders.”

Nat threw a few more punches before Y/n copied, missing the small smile that broke out on the Russian’s lips as she observed. Fast learner, she noted, nodding in approval as Y/n turned back to her.

“Very good.” She bent down to grab her things, back muscles on full show to Y/n who just could not stop staring. You’d think she was used to the sight of toned bodies after working out everyday, but there was something different about Natasha and she couldn’t quite work it out.

“Thank you. I’m Y/n, by the way. I work in-“

“I know who you are,” Natasha said casually, looking the woman up and down. “You work with Hill. She talks about you.”

Y/n’s eyes went wide. “She does?”

Nat smirked. “Yeah, why? Does she not talk about me?”

“No, she does- we do-“ what happened to calm and collected shield agent she once was? Reduced to a stuttering mess of words in front of a pretty redhead. God, Y/n cursed herself for not being able to talk to women.

“I’m joking, don’t worry.” Natasha gave her a soft smile before walking off to the weights section, her headphones shutting out the world so she could focus.

Y/n however, could not focus on anything except that brief interaction. It was probably so small in Natasha’s life, yet it would consume Y/n for at least a week, if not more. Maria was going to have a field day with this.

Except it wasn’t small in Natasha’s life. The flustered agent had left quite a mark and Natasha found herself creeping down to the gym at 3am most mornings, hoping to see the woman she’d grown to love so much. And, more often than not, Y/n was there, punching away at the bag and pausing when Nat came in.

Over a course of many weeks, both had changed their training plans to match each other. It felt nice working out with another, Natasha had to admit, and Y/n was so easy to talk to she set the redhead right at ease. They talked and laughed and Y/n noticed how the usually uptight Russian had come out of her shell a lot more since that very first night.

However, one night didn’t go so smoothly. Y/n was in the training room first, of course. She sat on the bench and adjusted her socks, keeping herself busy until Natasha arrived. The past couple of nights had been just her as the redhead had been on a mission, but Maria informed her that she would return tonight, so Y/n anxiously awaited her return. She was more worried about Natasha than she let on, but they had no relationship outside of those four walls so she bounced her knee, willing her new friend to walk through the doors.

And she did. Except this wasn’t the confident Natasha she usually knew. No, this Natasha was walking stiffly, almost as if she was in pain.

“Nat?” Y/n asked, standing hesitantly at the sight of her. Small cuts and bruises littered her face and what skin was exposed under the neck of her tactical suit. Agents always had to report to medical following their return from a mission, but by the looks of Natasha, she hadn’t done that. “Why- what are you doing here?”

“Can’t miss training with my favourite girl, now can I?” She tried to sound upbeat but it fell flat, her pain evident even in her voice.

Y/n pushed aside the butterflies that erupted in her chest at those words and sprung up to help her, guiding Natasha to the nearest bench and forcing her to sit. She took note of how Natasha’s hand tightly clutched her side and she feared the worst.

She thought for a second, feeling Natasha’s eyes all over her face. “May I…?” She gestured to the zip on Natasha’s suit and the redhead nodded, stiffly manoeuvring her arms out of her sleeves as Y/n tugged it down to her waist. The agent had switched to processional mode and ignored how close Natasha’s bra clad chest was to her face as she inspected her side.

“What happened?” She asked, crouching down with a hand gently resting on the redhead’s knee as she gently felt the skin around the wound.

“Some stupid agent snuck up on me and threw his knife. Shit aim though.” Of course she tried to make a joke, but Y/n wasn’t laughing as she looked into her eyes. The redhead almost wanted to roll her eyes, and she would have done if anyone else looked at her with pity like that, but Y/n was different. Safer.

“Why didn’t you go to medical?”

Nat looked down, averting her eyes. “I didn’t want to. I hate it there.”

Y/n knew not to push. She didn’t know much about Natasha’s past but knew enough to know that it must have been horrific to endure. She sat back on her heels and bit her lip in thought.

“Will you let me sort it? I keep a suture kit and supplies in my bathroom.” She caught Natasha’s eye and gently squeezed her knee, trying to establish enough trust between them to let her accept the help. But Natasha was stubborn, so there was truly no way of knowing which way she’d swing.

“Ok.” That was not the expected answer but Y/n was happy to hear it. She knew not to help Natasha up, the redhead probably would have punched her, so she collected her things and led them both back to her apartment, walking a bit slower than normal to help Natasha keep up.

Her room was nothing special and probably looked identical to Natasha’s as they both had Shield issued rooms. Although Natasha’s would be fancier thanks to Tony Stark and his upgrades.

There were no personal items on any of the surfaces, not even in the bedroom. Natasha looked around with a frown, not liking how bare everything seemed. Not homely, that’s for sure. Even the bedside cabinets were empty, not even a picture frame for decoration.

“Take a seat anywhere, I’ll be right out.” Natasha chose the couch by the small coffee table and sank down onto it. The couch wasn’t anything special and neither was the table, ring marks displaying its age and use on the surface. The overhead light was dim but brightened up as Y/n stepped back into the room, a medical kit tucked under her arm.

She worked in silence, only broken by a hiss of pain from Natasha as the alcohol stung her wound. Y/n muttered an apology under her breath but kept working, fingers brushing gently over the soft skin as she made light work of stitching it closed. They weren’t the neatest but they’d do the job just fine.

“Thank you for this,” Natasha spoke into the silence, her eyes fixed on her fingers that rested on her lap. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not, but I wanted to. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Natasha stayed silent for a moment, trying to organise her thoughts. She had people who cared about her, the Avengers, but not quite like Y/n had. She didn’t care who Natasha was, or how well she could take down enemies. She just enjoyed her presence and cared for her as a human being, something she rarely felt like she was.

“Can I make this up to you?” She tentatively asked, the strong Black Widow now a weird mess of nerves. What even was this?

“No, you don’t have to-“

“Come out with me on Saturday, into the city. Can I buy you lunch?”

Y/n stifled her smile and hid her face whilst packing up her equipment. She knew Natasha was asking her out on a date, albeit in a very roundabout way. It warmed her heart though, seeing her so soft. It was a side very few people ever got to see.

“Ok, sure. I’d really like that.”

Natasha smiled. “Now I know where you sleep, I’ll come pick you up.”

Y/n scrunched her nose at the odd phrasing. “You had to make it weird.”

“You know me,” she replied with a wink.

~~~

That date was a catalyst for many more to follow, and many midnight training sessions too. It took six more months of flirting and secret meet ups before Natasha pulled her heart out and wore it on her sleeve, asking Y/n to be her girlfriend.

The agent wasn’t stupid, of course she said yes. And at first their relationship was purely in the honeymoon stages; sneaking kisses in the hallway, comforting touches underneath the table, more midnight training and also moving in together. Natasha’s apartment was bigger than Y/n could ever have imagined and she adored the bed, starfishing face down on the mattress the first time she saw it.

But that was two years ago. Sure, they were still very much in love but something had shifted between them, creating a rift that Y/n had started to notice more and more. She knew what was causing it too.

Natasha was going on missions every other week, for days at a time. And she’d fallen back into her old habits, putting the job and the result over the safety of herself. More times than not did she come battered and bruised, open wounds bleeding as she walked into the bedroom. Y/n begged her to stop, to stay home more, to reduce the amount she went on even just to one a month, but her desperate attempts were met with a slammed door and a wall in Natasha’s mind. But she still persisted, trying again the next time Natasha came home. But it was useless.

Y/n always waited up for her though, the nerves of what state Natasha would be in when she returned making sleep pretty much impossible. Whatever she imagined, somehow it was always worse. She used to quiz Natasha as she led her into the bathroom and patched her up, placing kisses on each bruise that she found.

But now they barely said a word, Y/n almost running on autopilot as she cleaned cuts on Natasha’s back for what felt like the millionth time. It was draining her, anyone could see that, and being on edge all the time had made Maria notice.

“Take a week off to clear your head,” her supervisor had ordered, not taking any protests into consideration. “I don’t want to see you in this office before next Thursday, Y/l/n.”

A week off would have been great for anyone else but her. Natasha was away, again, which left Y/n with no ways to fully distract herself like she usually did to cope. She spent the first day in bed, holding onto Natasha’s pillow as her tears soaked the pillowcase. She hated how out of control she felt when Natasha was gone. It was her job, yet Y/n often wished Nat would retire, or at least pull back from constantly being in the field. But that’s what her girlfriend loved, so she had no choice but to respect it.

But on the third day of very little sleep and increasing stress levels, Y/n hit breaking point. She stared at her ghostly reflection as she splashed her face with some water, trying desperately to snap herself out of the lie she was feeling. But under the glaring lights all she could focus on were the heavy bags under her eyes and her discoloured skin, pink blotches littering her cheeks and forehead. She’d been picking at her skin to cope, but it did nothing but make her look worse.

She remained a zombie all day, curling back under the covers at 7pm to shut out the world. There was no telling when Natasha would return but part of her didn’t want it to be yet. She didn’t want to see the state she was in, the mess that she’d have to clean up. She loved Natasha, she really did, but with no contact allowed on her missions and no updates from the team, Y/n was starting to question if their relationship was even working.

She flicked off the light and turned to face the wall, images flashing in front of her as she worried herself stupid about her girlfriend. What if she wasn’t coming home? What if she’d been kidnapped? What if-

The apartment door opened.

Y/n held her breath, pulling the covers tightly under her chin as she waited. She knew the sound of Natasha’s footsteps based on her different moods, but the assassin stepped so lightly it was hard to tell. She felt footsteps getting closer and closer and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to face the horrors to come. She wanted one more blissful moment, but her heart was racing in her chest and her throat was getting tight.

The bedroom door opened.

Light from the living room flooded in through the small gap as Natasha stepped through, brows furrowed at the darkness. It wasn’t that late, but maybe she’d missed something. Wasn’t like she was around much.

“Y/n?” She whispered, not wanting to turn the light on. But she didn’t need to worry about that when suddenly the room was bathed in light. Her girlfriend was sat up in bed, eyes blotchy as she stared at her with a hand on the light switch. “What happened?”

“What hurts?” Y/n asked, sliding off her side of the bed and padding over to the bathroom. “Stitches? Probably bruising too.” She was talking to herself more than Natasha, hands working to gather her supplies. But she was stopped when a pair of rough hands gathered hers inside them, tugging her away from the sink. “What are you doing?”

“I’m ok,” Natasha said, removing one of her hands to gently cup Y/n’s chin, tilting her eyes to meet her own. “Just a couple of bruised ribs, but that’s nothing.”

“At least let me look at them.” Natasha knew she wasn’t going to take no for an answer so she unzipped her suit and pulled it to her waist, revealing the nasty colourful sight. It was swollen and tender and Y/n cursed under her breath. She grabbed the tiger balm and gently applied it, trying to steady her shaking fingers as they touched Natasha’s skin.

“How have you been? How’s work?”

“Its fine, thanks.” Y/n wasn’t going to admit that Maria made her take a week off. She avoided Natasha’s gaze as she worked, even though there wasn’t much she could do for bruised ribs. “I’ll get you an ice pack when you’re dressed.” That was Natasha’s dismissal cue and she took it, but not without lingering in the doorway to watch Y/n for a moment.

By the time Natasha was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, Y/n had wrapped the ice pack in a towel and handed it to her. There was an uneasy tension between them and Natasha could see something was on Y/n’s mind, just waiting to be said.

“Y/n-“

“This is your last one, right?” She couldn’t help herself but blurt out. Somehow she found the confidence with her back to Nat, sitting on her side of the bed. “Please tell me it’s your last one.”

“Of what?”

“Your missions, Natasha.” She bent one knee and tucked it beside her as she turned her body to face Natasha who was still standing in the middle of the room, ice pack pressed to her ribs. “How many times are you going to keep doing this? Coming home in a state! I never know if one day you’re just not going to come home at all.”

Natasha bit her bottom lip. She knew this was going to happen, it always did. And shutting Y/n down didn’t exactly get easier with practice. “Don’t do this again Y/n, please. You know what my answer is.”

“No, Natasha. I’m not gonna accept that anymore. I’m not asking you to quit all together. I just mean reduce the number you go on, take up desk work or surveillance, just something, anything, to get you out of the firing line.” Y/n ran her hands over her face, trying to keep herself together. But the more she spoke, the stronger her emotions got. “I can’t live like this anymore!”

Natasha had placed her ice pack on the bed, not feeling the need to hold it up right now. She couldn’t move, even though she wanted to run to Y/n. “I know you don’t like it-“

“I hate it.”

“Ok fine, you hate it,” she held her hands up in defense. “But that doesn’t mean I suddenly have to stop.”

Y/n stood up from her position, not wanting an ache in her back from turning so much. She and Natasha were now at eye level although the redhead’s stoic face was a lot more composed than her own.

“You’re not listening to anything I say. I never said you had to stop. Ever. Because that would be hypocritical coming from me.” Natasha pulled a ‘sounds about right’ face which Y/n just ignored. “I’m just asking you to reduce the amount you go on. Once a month, maybe? You can still be in the action, still do everything you love, but that way you’re safer and you’re here more. I hardly see you.”

Natasha shook her head. “Our line of work isn’t safe Y/n, even you know that surely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was getting defensive, having reached her limit of Natasha trying to shut her down.

Natasha was too stubborn to give up, even when she knew she fucked up. She just couldn’t let it go. “You rarely leave this place! Always stuck in the same office, the same four walls going insane every day! I don’t know how you do it! I’d rather quit than do that.”

“I do that because I can still contribute to the missions without the risk of getting blown to hell,” Y/n spat, taking full offense to Natasha talking down about her job. Sure, she didn’t go into the field as much as the other agents but she preferred to be in the chair, handling everything from above. “And you know damn well those missions you love don’t work without someone like me.”

“And that’s great, for someone like you. But I can’t do that, you have to understand me. I can’t be behind the fight, I have to be in it.”

“No one else goes on as many as you do, Natasha. Don’t you think that just once, someone else can take a mission-“

“I don’t care Y/n!” Natasha may be a passionate person but she never raised her voice. So her elevated tone made Y/n’s jaw clench, her innate response whenever someone shouted at her. “You don’t get to dictate my life! That wasn’t our agreement-“

“Agreement? What, so this is, are we some kind of, I don’t know, contract that you’re obliged to?”

Natasha scoffed, her eyes rolling back at the pure ridiculousness of her statement. This whole argument was pointless really but she entertained it, too stubborn to give in or let Y/n win. “Oh come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m just sick of lying here in fear every week wondering if you’re actually going to come home or not! I can’t keep doing this Nat.” Y/n was having a hard time keeping Natasha in her vision as tears blurred in her eyes. But she wouldn’t let them spill. Crying meant Natasha won and she was done with backing down.

“We can’t keep having this conversation, Y/n,” Natasha grunted, running her fingers through her hair and tugging out the messy braid. “You know I can’t stop. This is my life, it’s what I was made to do. I can’t live without this job!”

“And I can’t live without you!” Her voice cracked and a tear slipped down but she fought the urge to wipe it, praying Natasha didn’t see. But she did see. Of course she did. The Russian noticed everything.

Natasha went silent. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. In this line of work, relying so heavily on someone wasn’t a good idea. She knew that, it had been drilled into her since she was a child. But Y/n didn’t, and that’s where she slipped up.

“Don’t say that.” Heavy emotions and Natasha Romanoff didn’t really mix well. “You have to, one way or another. You can’t just rely on me Y/n.”

“Nat, I am in love with you but lately it feels like all you care about is your job. When is it going to feel like you actually want to be here? With me?”

“I do Y/n, I do-“

Y/n dropped her head. “I know there’s a but coming.”

Natasha looked at the defeated form of her girlfriend and winced. She never thought she’d ever be in the position where she had to choose between family and her job. But she knew what her choice would be, what it always had been. Long before she even had a family.

“This job means everything to me. I didn’t choose this life, like you did, I was forced into it. It’s part of who I am, and I can’t just stop doing that to be with you.” The second those words fell from her lips Natasha knew that was the wrong thing to say.

Y/n adjusted the collar of her shirt and started to pace. If she was sitting down her leg would have been bouncing all over the place.

“What, that’s it? You’re just gonna call this whole thing off because you can’t take a break from your job?”

“What ‘whole thing’?”

“Us, Natasha! Us!” Y/n stopped in her tracks, gesturing between them both. They were on opposite sides of the room, a clear divide in space and opinion. “Unless there isn’t an ‘us’ anymore. Maybe I’m just the girl who keeps your bed warm and stitches you up in the middle of the night, no questions asked. Occasionally gives you head if you are really in the mood-“

“Stop it Y/n.”

“Stop what? It’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s all I am to you.”

“‘No, you’re so much more.” Natasha’s fingers were fidgeting with each other and they’d stumbled across a small cut on her palm that they were now playing with, the pain trying to keep her grounded. “But you have to understand that I can’t just take a step back. I love this job more than anything because I actually get to do something good with my skills that have been used for the opposite my whole life. I just need you to understand that, please!”

“You’re not gonna stop, are you?” Natasha just stared at her, chewing on her bottom lip. “No matter what, you will keep coming back here in a mess and I will keep fixing you up and we will keep having this conversation. Is there an end to this?”

“I won’t come here then.” Natasha stated simply, eyes darting momentarily to the bathroom door. “I’ll go to medical, where I should be.”

“You hate it there.”

“You hate me here.”

Y/n sighed, her breath shaky. This was the longest they’d ever fought for, and fighting Natasha was mentally exhausting. She had an answer to everything.

“I don’t hate you here, I just wish you’d fucking listen to me for one goddamn second!” Natasha nodded, almost challenging her to speak.

“I am.”

“I didn’t want to say this, but you haven’t exactly given me much of a choice. It’s me or the job, Nat. You choose. And you know what? If you choose me, you still keep half your job! But if you choose the job, you don’t get to keep half of me.” The last part sounded stupid but Natasha knew what she meant. She only had half of Y/n right now. The half that slept in her bed and fixed her wounds. If she chose her, she’d get the other half she fell in love with back.

But she couldn’t, could she? Natasha looked down, not wanting to watch Y/n’s face respond. “I’m sorry…”

“Get out.” It was barely a whisper but Natasha heard it. “Get. Out.” Y/n didn’t want Natasha to see her cry but when their eyes met again, Y/n’s were flooded with tears. She didn’t care, how could she when the green ones staring back at her were so cold. Natasha didn’t say a word, only grabbing her sweatshirt and slipping out of the room. The faint jangle of her keys sounded as the door slammed shut and only then did Y/n allow her walls to come crumbling down.

She collapsed onto the bed, only this time hugging her own pillow close as she choked out her sobs. They echoed around the room and her gag reflex kicked in from how hard she was crying. But all she could see was Natasha’s emotionless face staring back at her, not a hint of remorse visible in her eyes.

——

If you were anyone else she'd have kept on driving, but you weren't. You were Y/N, the beautiful person who turned her world upside down just by existing. Gravity was lost on her planet though, so the vibe was wavy. All Natasha wanted was to make you happy so she stood beneath the dim light of the moon observing you. Not caring if it was cold and wet, because you were smiling.

After she helped you climb over a white fence and into a field you released her hand and began to twirl around  the wet, open grassy area in a fit of infectious giggles.

You were perfect. This entire moment was, honestly.

Natasha wanted to dance with you, but she was lost in her depraved thoughts, of your lips pressing into hers.

It was too soon, right? Two months and four dates, alongside many a lazy night in at the compound, and she had yet to make the daring move. Was she scared?

No, she told herself she was just being cautious. If you move too fast then things are more likely to crumble to the ground and that was the last thing she wanted. In this moment though, where you are genuinely joyful she questions what even constitutes the perfect timing.

Natasha dreamed it could've been today, you'd have just finished eating: a pb and j for herself and a bit of snacking for yourself, a strawberry here, some cheese and cracker there, a brownie made by Wanda, always.

The thought made Natasha smile, she could only imagine the mess you'd leave behind on your face in your rush to gobble the treat down. Her heart would skip and she'd scoot closer to you with the excuse of needing to wipe your face clean. She'd tease the idea of trying a brownie herself, then she'd lean even closer.

You'd look at her lips, a jolt of electrified energy would surround you as your eyes met again. The desperation muddled into your sweet y/e/c eyes would compliment her desire. Natasha would gulp down her fear, masking it with a channeled confidence and kiss you firmly.

Soft and slow as her tongue swiped your lips, in a perfect world she would have you in her lap. It would be a gradual shift, and just as your thighs touched hers she'd squeeze your hips and slide her tongue into you.

Tasting the brownie, catching hints of a dark caramel, not caring for the way that it covers your natural taste. Yet she would be compelled to stay where she was, unable to separate herself from your affection until she felt your body tremble from the oxygen deprivation. As she'd pull away she'd hotly whisper, delicious—the brownies review; commentary laced with innuendo.

Natasha would observe you fondly, the moment you stop feeling a need to gulp down air you'll meet her gaze and your lips will tiredly upturn. The redhead would grin just the same as she lifted water to your lips. The both of you'd sip some down, silently regarding one another before the inevitable embrace.

You'd likely still have been there now, laid out on the blanket beneath her with your tongues entwined. A beautiful encapsulation of your heart's connection.

It would've been perfect...

Natasha caught you staring up at her, heart racing in her chest and she smiled, realizing it still could be.

"Fuck it," the redhead whispered under her breath. In two long strides she was stood right before you, leaving enough space for you to move away, but you moved right into her open arms with a radiant smile. The rain had soaked through the both of your clothes but you were warm and so content in her offered embrace.

Wonder; the look in your eyes, bright and refreshing as you stared up at your lover. Natasha's eyes were a bit murky, a silly fight going on in her stubborn mind.

"You're so pretty Natty," you giggled, a finger raised up to boop her flushed nose, "my beautiful Natasha."

The storm in her mind faded instantaneously.

Natasha was uncharacteristically nervous, even though it was near pitch black you could still see her face flushing under the bright stars. The redness on her nose from the cold trailed a bright stripe across her cheeks and you'd never seen her look more beautiful.

You sighed gently, "What's on your mind honey?" Natasha leaned more into your touch as your thumbs mindlessly stroked over her cheeks, comforting her. A stuttered breath left her lips, "C-can I kiss you detka?"

You grinned, heart racing incredibly fast as you pulled her face close enough that she could feel as you nod. A nudge to your nose and then her lips were on yours. It was like the atmosphere had thinned around you but it didn't matter, your urge to breathe was nonexistent.

If Natasha was a succubus you'd willingly submit, it was never a question you had but now it was answered. The taste of her blood should've alarmed you, but all it did was make you press your soft lips further into hers.

It was like you were trying to love her back together, kiss her until all her broken pieces fit as one again. A warmth spread through her chest and radiated off the brief smile you felt against your lips. Strong arms then wrapped around your waist until her hands could grip your hips and lift you off the ground. A continuation of the expression of her unbridled joy as she spun you.

Your legs dangled and clacked together momentarily until you followed your reflex to wrap them around her, pulling her front flush to yours; it felt natural, to finally be this close to your true love, bodies entwined.

There was no place else either of you'd like to be, even if the field was another's territory it felt like you two belonged here. At least for the time being as your relationship reached new heights; a melodic moan left you as her tongue sensually swirled around yours, her grip on your hips tightened and you both realized just how heated the moment was with your back to a tree.

Natasha's arms loosened, resting on the sides of your body now as she lowered your feet to the ground. Your head tipped back, hanging off to the side of the tree trunk, your eyes full of happiness gazed up at her.

A playful sigh left you when you saw her eyes dart to your glimmering lips. "Took you long enough, Natty."

Natasha gasped in offense, "What ever do you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong," you coo'd, hands going back up to cup her cold, wet cheeks, "This was perfect, but I just had anticipated it would happen far sooner."

"Oh," she squeaked, almost embarrassed but she steeled herself. "Mind telling me when sweetheart?"

Natasha chuckled when you shivered, a mental note made to remember how easily you react to her teasing.

"I was ready after our first date," you admitted with a dreamy sigh to follow, "It was a perfect night to me."

The redhead nods, remembering the moment too.

It was the most awkward night of her life but you only seemed to find her timid exploration of the situation endearing. When she grabbed onto your hand while in line for the massive rollercoaster you gently smiled, refusing to acknowledge the sweat coating her palms.

You wished she'd kissed you then. When she tried the cotton candy for the first time you wanted to kiss her. Seeing the glint of childish amusement in her eyes as the sugar melted on her tongue made you sentimental.

At the top of the ferris wheel, when she risked putting her arm around your shoulders you'd expected it then. Yet still, she missed the opportunity to lean in, just like she did that night when she left you at your own room.

"I thought you maybe weren't feeling me," you admitted with a regretful tone, "but then you asked me for a second date; I realized you were taking it slow."

"Wow," Natasha acknowledged, "I am an idiot."

You giggled, "It's okay Natty, truly, I appreciate the consideration you gave to our relationship so much."

"I just want this to work Y/N," she pleaded, "I need us to be endgame. Nobody else could make me happy."

"You wanna be my endgame?" Natasha nodded, and held your tilted face in her hand, then she instinctively leaned in for a kiss, stopping only briefly to whisper, "More than anything," against your parted lips.

"I want that too, Natasha." The moment was perfect.

Ever since the blip, the end of many lives, the cruel act of a man with no heart, everything had changed. It was quiet in the compound, you could practically hear a pin drop. There was no life there, every living human was dead on the inside. You had lost and you had grieved, you all did. But no one took it as far as Nat had.

You’d wake up to silent sobs from another nightmare or a bright light on the desk as Nat hunched over her work. She tried to find a solution on her own, taking the nearly impossible task on her own when no one else would. To her, it seemed like everyone had moved on so easily. It was almost as if they didn’t even love them, like the family she thought she had was secretly filled with hatred and lies.

Vision was dead, Wanda blipped along with many other Avengers and Shield agents she held dearly to her heart. But worst of all, she lost her sister.

After their childhood, being split up, and finally rejoicing together for a short amount of time, all of it went to waste. She felt so guilty, not only had she canceled the plans she had with Yelena due to her job and what she thought would be a simple mission, but she had let her sister vanish once again because she wasn’t good enough to save her. She wasn’t a kid anymore, she wasn’t weak, so why couldn’t she save her? She may not have had powers like Wanda and Thor, or Super-Soldier Serum like Steve or Bucky, hell, she didn’t even have a special suit like Tony. But the difference between her and the rest is that she never gave up.

When she was set on something, she was determined. No matter what struggles were sent her way, she’d tough it out and learn how to deal with it one way or another. Everything she did was for the people she loved, never for herself. In her mind, as long as everyone else was happy, she could be happy. But she never learned how to do so.

Many times she’d have to hear stories or read articles on how she was a useless Avenger, and every time she tried to act like it didn’t get to her, but you knew exactly what was going on through her mind. She already thought she was a monster due to the Red Room, but hearing it said to her face was different, it made her realize how unloveable she really was.

You tried and tried to get her to open up at some point, even dragging her along to couples counseling where she refused to speak a word and then missed every other session. You would always end up being the one comforted but never the one comforting, and it pained you to know she thought she had to go through this alone.

But it had finally gotten to be too much. You couldn’t handle the one-sided relationship, you knew she loved you more than anything, but she didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

So, you looked for her around the compound one day, not being surprised to find her in the gym. She was beating the bag harshly, and your mind instantly went to the remembrance of what she had told you before; when she was in pain mentally, she’d like to inflict pain physically.

You waited for her to notice you, but she had the second you stepped foot in the doorway.

“What’s up?” She asked, her voice wavering from being out of breath for so long. She tossed a small hand towel that she used to wipe the sweat off of her face on her shoulder and chugged down excessive amounts of water from her bottle.

You looked down, the floor suddenly keeping your mind busy.

“Babe,” She called out again. “What do you need?” She undid the wrapping on her hands that had turned red from the bleeding of her knuckles. You rushed over, grabbing her bottle and squeezing some water onto her towel to wipe her hands. She hissed when you did, trying to draw her knuckles back but you held them in order to help it heal.

“Y/N,”

“I know it hurts-“

“Y/N, just-“

“You need to be more careful next time-“

“Y/N! Just fucking stop!” You were stopped in your tracks, your eyes trailing to look at her face with hurt. You furrowed your eyebrows, standing up and tossing the towel back onto the bench she sat on.

“God, you never fucking listen to me, why can’t you just shut up for one second? That’s all I ask, for some peace and fucking quiet around here.” She stood up abruptly, speed-walking past you and bumping her shoulder with yours. You were too stunned to speak, and when you regained composure, she was gone. You were tired of bowing down to her, giving in and letting her have her way so she could be satisfied, when would she ever listen to you?

You chased after her, calling her name repeatedly until she finally stopped, sighing heavily and turning around to face you.

“What did you just say to me?” You crossed your arms over your chest, giving her a stern look like a mother yelling at her child.

“I didn’t mean it, alright? Just- I need some space-“

“No, Nat, I’m not going to just keep letting you do this to me, it’s not fair! Look, I love you, I do. But there comes a point where my patience finally gives out and that is now. I’m sick of this, okay? Your problems may be my problems but that does not mean they’re my fault and you get to take it out on me when you feel like it! Do you think this is fair to me? Do you think I deserve this?” She opened her mouth to respond but you quickly shut her up with one look.

“The answer is no, no I don’t deserve this. So you either need to get your act together or I’ll have no choice but to let you go.” Her eyes widened just barely as she tried coming up with an excuse in her mind, but the only thing there were apologies.

“I-I’m sorry.” That was it? Just a sorry?

“No, sorry isn’t going to get you out of this one, Nat. You’ve done this over and over, I voice my opinion and you shut me out and say it will never happen again but it always fucking does! When is it ever going to end, Nat? Because I’m getting really, really sick of this.” You waited for something from her, anything, any bit of remorse or more than a half-ass apology. She didn’t give you one, only standing there with her arms hanging lowly at her sides and her chest heaving up and down from her prior workout.

“Alright then.” You walked past her, your shoulder bumping hers and she instantly got brought back to minutes prior when she did the same to you, but this time it wasn’t her hurting you, it was you hurting her. She tried calling your name, once, twice, and a third time. But you ignored her each time, wiping away the tears on your cheeks and silencing the sniffles escaping you.

Her head hung low in shame for most of the day. When you were in the same room, you didn’t even spare her a glance, acting as if she wasn’t there. When you went to bed, she tried holding you but got shoved off. She slept terribly that night, her night terrors returning worse than before.

When she woke up she headed straight for the office, contacting Rhoedy for the fifth time this week. She had been begging him for Clint’s location, and while each time he came up empty-handed, she didn’t give up.

This time though, he did have an answer. Her head shot up immediately and, without even thinking about you or your argument, she left. However, she sent you a quick text stating she’d be back soon and she had some business to handle, not realizing that that simple action was what ended the debate in your mind. It was clear you didn’t matter as much as her work, you weren’t a priority anymore. So, you made sure she wouldn’t have to worry about you anymore.

You grabbed your suitcase from under the bed and packed all of your belongings, hesitating over the framed photos of you and Nat together before deciding on leaving them. It was best to remove all of her from your life if you were going to be without her.

You left a note and that was her only warning when she returned home. She broke down in Clint’s arms as he held her tightly, nearly crying himself at his best friend's actions.

“They’re gone, Clint. They were all I had left and I fucked it up.” She muttered, choking on each word as more sobs left her.

“No, no, you didn’t mess anything, okay? Once we fix this, you can go after them. But right now it’s too dangerous, you have to let them go for now.” She didn’t want to agree but she found herself nodding along with his statement. Once she saved the world, she’d fix her relationship, she’d fix herself. She’d get help, she’d listen, and she’d do anything to save this.

“I won’t lose them?”

“No, of course not! They’ll understand, they always do.”

—-

Living on your own had been tough, but you managed. It was especially hard without the love of your life, but you had to accept that it was over and possibly for good. The silence was still louder than ever, although it somehow felt different than with Nat. It wasn’t a fearful quiet, it was more peaceful, if anything. But still, it felt empty without your other half there with you. You tried to convince yourself that you were okay, but you weren’t. You needed Nat, now more than ever. You may have been the one who ended things but that didn’t mean you couldn’t work this out, all you knew was that you’d at least try to do so.

There you stood in front of the doorway to your old room, the door somehow looking duller than before. You looked everywhere for Nat, but you came up empty-handed. You then saw multiple men standing outside and rushed over to them, not taking notice of the way they could barely look at you.

“Hey, do any of you know where Nat is by any chance? I really need to talk to her.” You heard sniffles amongst the lack of responses. It had already made sense in your mind, but another part of you almost didn’t want to believe it. You turned to Clint.

“Clint? C’mon, man, where is she?” Still no response. He only looked out to the water, his eyes gazing upon the sky as he hoped to see his friend. But there was nothing but clouds and a blue sky. It was crazy to realize that the world would still go on without her, that he’d have to find a way to live without her being a key point in his life. The little smiley faces she’d put on the end of texts would now just be a memory, and the care she held for others could never compete against another.

“Clint? Please..please answer me.” He walked over to you slowly, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. He held you tightly as he tried to force the tears to stay still, the bile in his throat nearly breaking.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“No, no, no, no, this- this can’t be happening, I..I was just with her weeks ago!” He listened as you ranted on, knowing deep down that you had grown similar to Nat, you couldn’t handle the truth. She was gone, and you had nothing but the memories and guilt left with you.

“But, how?” Questions ran through your mind, racing with every possibility and every fear. Clint didn’t want to tell you the truth, that the reason she was dead was because he didn’t fight hard enough. He knew Nat would probably slap him if she heard him say that, but he also knew that it was true. If he had just been faster, stronger, tougher, he would’ve been at the bottom of that cliff, not her. He wouldn’t have had to witness your reaction, everything would’ve been easier if she just let him die. But you both knew her, and she never gave up, and she’d never let someone she loved die in her arms, not again.

“We, uhm, we had to get the stones back and travel through time to do so. Well, me and...Nat were paired together, we were sent off to a place called Vomir, apparently almost ten years back in time. The man, Red Skull was his name, he told us, and I remember his voice so vividly, ‘a soul for a soul’. We both knew what he meant and- and we fought, we fought hard. But..but she, she just doesn’t quit, she doesn’t go down. I tried, Y/N, I really did.” You could hear the sincerity in his voice and the way he could barely let a word out without another sob following. You two were alone outside now, the guys having gone inside to leave you both be. While they all loved Nat, you two were the only ones she’d ever count as true family.

“S-she told me when you two first got together, that if this ever happened, that if she ever died, she wanted you to have this.” He grabbed a piece of jewelry from his pocket and placed it in your open hands. You looked at him, receiving a nod, a silent approval to open it.

“Oh, baby.” Your thumb traced along the photo placed in the locket, it was one of you two on your first-ever date. The restaurant you were planning on going to had closed early that day and you two were left stranded. So, Nat brought you to the compound and into her room before turning on a movie. You two had set up a pillow fort with so many blankets that you could keep warm for years on end. She had taken the photo when you two kissed, showing your smiling faces pressed against one another. Your hand was grasping her cheek while hers was holding the camera. And, while it wasn’t visible in the photo, you could still remember her free hand on your shoulder, you could practically still feel it.

“But, what about you?”

“She had three things placed in a box under her bed. One was that locket for you, one was a letter for me and my family, and the other was this small paper with four pictures of her and Yelena. You know, the ones you take in those little booths.” He paused for a moment. “She really did love you, Y/N, and I hope you know that. She wasn’t easy to talk to, she was just raised that way, but trust me when I say that she loved you with all of her heart. I mean, her heart would practically beat for you, and I had never seen her so happy in the entire time I knew her. She didn’t love a lot of people, but she loved you.” He stood up and joined the men in the compound and that’s when it all came crashing down, what have you done? If you had known months before that the argument you shared would’ve been your last, you would’ve cherished the moment instead.

Nat had saved the world. But little did she know, she was your world, and now she was gone. She had always been a fighter and continued to do so in her last moments, fighting for what was right, fighting to keep her family alive. Fighting with the thought of you in mind.

She was scared of losing you, not even considering that you ended up losing her instead.