cause my head is full of poison

your feet hit the floor at the side of the bed. the clock on the nightstand next to you reads 1:34 am. you sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. you glance over in hopes of seeing a tangle of red hair lying next to you, but her side of the bed is empty.

you stand, bare feet padding against the obnoxiously hollow floors as you walk down the stairs towards the kitchen. your eyes are drawn to the source of low light bathing the downstairs in a soft glow. your feet continue pulling you forward as you hear the gentle clink of metal against glass.

when you peer around the edge of the kitchen archway, you’re met with the reason you began your journey downstairs in the first place.

natasha stands with her back to you near the island. she slides onto a bar stool, pulling a porcelain mug close to her chest with both hands. another mug sits beside her, steam still rising from its surface.

waiting.

“can’t sleep.” her voice is low in the quiet space. of course she knows you’re there. she always does. you shuffle into the room, rounding her chair just as she turns in your direction.

“are you asking or telling me?” you ask, lingering on your feet instead of taking the bar stool next to her. she lifts the mug to her lips, taking a small sip.

“you were tossing and turning.” her emerald green eyes flit to your face. her expression is smooth as she looks over you. you hug your arms around yourself, her oversized shirt you were wearing riding up your thighs just a bit.

“you should be sleeping.” you tell her. you’d been so stressed that you had barely gotten any sleep the last week you two have been in hiding. you didn’t want to ruin natasha’s rest any more than yours.

“i hadn’t fallen asleep yet.” she reaches around you and pulls the bar stool out a couple inches. it squeaks against the floor. “sit.” she tells you. it’s not a request.

you comply, assuming the chair next to her. she pushes the second porcelain mug closer to you. lemon tea—your favorite. you glance around for the jar of honey you normally keep out on the counter.

“it’s already in there—two tablespoons.” natasha says, knowing exactly what your eyes were searching for. normally, your heart would swell at the quiet knowledge of her remembering how you like your tea, but the stress that was currently coursing through your body made it hard to acknowledge.

“thank you.” you offer simply, cradling the mug in your two hands. you don’t drink from it. your stomach still feels sour and unsettled. in your peripheral vision, you can see natasha watching you. the way she observes you has you squirming in your seat, but you still don’t turn to face her.

she doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, as if she’s waiting for you to break the silence first. you know that she knows you’re stressed. you also know that any worries you express regarding her safety will fall deaf on her ears. she’s always so sure of herself—never worrying about what could happen to her. it fills you with anxiety.

“i can practically feel your anxiety, (y/n). talk to me.” her voice is low with an edge of raspiness to it.

you sigh and shake your head, feeling reluctant to share your worries. you’d tried before to communicate how much you fret and stress over her when she was away on missions, but she never seemed to worry so much about herself.

“it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.” you mumble, bringing the mug to your lips to take a small sip. the hot liquid is soothing as it slips down your throat.

“tell me anyways.” she swivels her barstool so she’s now angled more towards you. she doesn’t reach out to touch you—not yet.

you sigh, turning to face her at last. you’re momentarily taken aback by her stoicism. she looks so calm—sure of herself. like she hadn’t almost died two weeks ago, like you weren’t on the run from one of the most dangerous organizations the world has ever seen.

“natasha…” you look back down towards the tea still steaming in your mug. your palms run along the smooth porcelain in attempt to soothe the urge to fidget.

“i can’t stop thinking about what happened. every time i close my eyes, i think about you back there, bleeding, alone and on the verge of taking your last breath. knowing that you aren’t afraid makes it worse for me. what if they know exactly where we are but they’re waiting for a sign of weakness? what if they find you one day when you’re out and about and you never come home to me? what if… what if they find me and take me in attempt to blackmail you into giving them what they want? what if the next time you run into them…” you trail off, unwilling to finish the sentence. natasha knows what you mean anyways.

she’s quiet for several beats. you don’t look at her as the silence stretches on.

your body is slowly turned towards her as she swivels your chair around to face her. she looks like she’s trying to be calm, but there’s a hard edge in her eyes that makes it hard to sit still.

“(y/n). i have you. i have us. i promise you that we’re safe and i would never let anything happen to you. i know you worry about me, but you don’t need to. i need you to trust me.” one of her hands is still gripping onto the chair, the other braced against your thigh. her closeness begins to cloud your thought process, like every imagined catastrophe slips quietly out of reach.

“but what if—“ she silences you with a single finger pressed against your lips.

“no more what ifs.” when she’s sure you won’t speak again, she moves her finger away from your lips and curls some hair behind your ear.

“but—“ you start again. this time it’s simply an arch of her brow that silences you.

“what did i just say?” she says firmly. your shoulders slump in defeat, a small frown etching in between your eyebrows.

“moya trevozhka (my little worrier)… looks like i need to reroute that anxious brain of yours.”

you glance at her face, gauging her expression. she holds your gaze with an intensity that seems to shift the feeling in the air. her eyes rake over your form, dressed only in her old, worn t-shirt and panties.

“reroute?” you ask quietly, your voice sounding small, even with so little space between the two of you. she offers a simple hum of acknowledgment, her eyes lingering on your bare legs dangling from the chair.

“stand up.” she commands gently. you hesitate. she lets you, patiently waiting for you to comply.

you slide from your chair, scooting it back and standing before her. she stands with you. you can feel the warmth of her body.

“you’re cute when you’re worried.” her hands find your hips, squeezing gently as she runs them up your sides.

“quit that.” you groan, just a little peeved at her making light of your worries. she grins, her grip tightening as she lifts you effortlessly onto the counter behind you. you make a small noise of surprise, your hands steadying yourself by her shoulders.

“it’s true.” her touch travels along your thighs until her fingertips dip under the bottom of the shirt barely concealing anything.

“i like seeing you in my clothes.” her eyes rake over you again, her gaze hungrier than before.

“natasha, this isn’t going to change how i feel.” you cross your arms stubbornly across your chest. she’s unfazed by your declaration. her palms press against your knees, spreading your legs so she can step closer to you. you try to appear like your heart isn’t beginning to race in your chest.

she exhales slowly through her nose. her hands tease your skin, gripping onto the fleshy part of where your hips meet your thighs.

“what’re you worried about again?” she asks, as if she could have forgotten the last five minutes.

you swallow, your thought process already becoming hazy with her proximity and close attention. “you getting hurt. something happening to you or to both of us.” you try to sound firm, but your tone is a little wobbly.

a small smile turns up the corner of her mouth, but she hides it as she leans closer, pressing her lips against your neck. your breath hitches as you hear her inhale deeply, humming to herself as she takes in your scent.

“would i ever let anything happen to you?” her voice so close to your ear causes goosebumps to prick at the back of your neck. it’s becoming increasingly difficult to recall your worries.

“well.. something could happen to you.” you offer, your voice sounding weaker than before, even to your ears.

her nose traces along your jaw, and then she kisses lower, at the base of your neck.

“don’t you know i’m good at what i do?” you don’t miss the twinge of arrogance in that statement. it doesn’t bother you as much as it should.

“you are good, but.. mistakes can happen.” you don’t even realize your arms have uncrossed and unconsciously wrapped around her neck, your body melting into her knowing hands.

she hums again, this time the sound unapproving. she peppers kisses along your jawline, then your chin and then your nose, moving in a manner that was completely unrushed.

“you’re underestimating how difficult i am to kill.” she states matter-o-factly, her touch gliding up to your ribs, caressing the soft skin.

you exhale in defeat, your eyes closing as you half reluctantly surrender to the sensation of being held.

“maybe.” you whisper, your whole argument and line of worries squashed with one word.

“maybe.” she echoes. you can feel her smiling into your neck before she nips there gently.

she pulls back, hands retracting from under your shirt and caging you in as she places her palms flat against the counter at either side of your legs.

“arms up.” you willingly obey her this time, reaching your hands towards the ceiling. you wiggle your hips to assist her as she lifts her borrowed shirt over your head and discards it carelessly onto the floor. your nipples harden in the cool air. you watch her eyes darken as she takes in your newly exposed skin with an intensity that has your cheeks glowing pink. you know by now not to cover up, despite the urge to.

she takes in the valley of your breasts, the soft perkiness to them; your nipples that go from a soft pink to a more dusty rose as they harden; the expanse of your stomach, paler than the rest of your body since it gets the least sunlight; the way it pudges and rolls slightly whenever you sit down. she loves that.

she watches you become more squirmy the longer she stares. it makes her belly curl with desire.

your pink panties are suddenly offensive as they cover the place she wants to give attention. she gives you one last look before spreading your legs with her strong hands, leaning down so her face is level with your increasingly aching core.

she notices the small wet patch, causing the spot to become translucent. she moves closer, her nose pressing against your panties as she inhales deeply. you whimper, hips rolling against her face. she holds your hips still with firm hands. her eyes flit up to yours, her tongue peaking out to taste your arousal coated panties. you exhale breathlessly, trying to keep your hips still.

she teases slow circles through the fabric. her tongue is warm, her breath hot as you can feel the heat even through the cotton barrier.

you’re about to plead for more when she pulls back just an inch, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties to take them off.

you spread your legs wide for her, heels planted firmly on the edge of the countertop. you look at her through your lashes, lip caught between your teeth. it’s an innocent expression, one she goes feral for since she knows you look that way unknowingly.

with your core now exposed to the open air, she leans down again. slow hands come between your thighs. she uses her thumbs to spread your labia, her mouth pooling with saliva as she watches arousal drip down your slit. she applies light pressure, smoothing her thumbs upwards until she spreads your lips wide enough to expose your clit. your hole clenches around nothing, an impatient whine bubbling up your throat.

she doesn’t acknowledge the sound, nor does she pick up the pace. you need this. you need to remember the careful hands that know exactly what you need. instead, she glides her thumb gently down your slit, the pressure so light that it’s barely even there.

you shift impatiently, your restlessness evident in your squirming body and desperate expression.

wordlessly, she leans closer. she flattens her tongue, exhaling so you can feel her breath against your pussy. she moves her tongue, acting like she’s going to taste you, but she never actually makes contact. she’s teasing you.

your whine of protest is louder this time. it makes her lips curl in amusement.

“are you still worried?” she asks, not moving from her place, which is so close to where you need her.

you huff, shifting your hips just an inch closer to the edge of the countertop.

“no.” you cry out, voice cracking with your breathless response.

“that’s what i thought.” she murmurs. her response sobers you up for half a second and you mean to retort back, but forget when you feel her tongue dip into your hole.

she hums at the flavor of you, gliding in and out of you with precise motions. you moan, hands coming to the back of her head like you’re worried she’ll stop unless you keep her there.

she slips her tongue back up towards your clit, swirling it around in tight circles. your head falls back, sounds freely flowing past your parted lips. you didn’t realize how much you needed this—needed to let go.

“fuck—nat. that feels so good!” your hands twitch against her head as her now flattened tongue moves perfectly in time with your rolling hips. she moans into your pussy, hands grabbing fistfuls of your thighs as she devours you.

she slips her tongue back inside of you, stretching it as far as it will go. her nose bumps against your clit. your hands tighten in her hair as you feel the pressure building in your stomach.

the noises she makes against you make you whine. there was no doubt in your mind she loved the taste of you.

she sucks your clit into her mouth, two fingers easily sliding into your dripping cunt as she pistons them in and out of you.

“fuck! i’m close!” you whine, hips moving on their own accord now. natasha doesn’t acknowledge your words beyond humming against you. the sounds you’re both making spur each other on. it’s almost enough to cover up the sticky noises from natasha fucking you with her fingers.

your back arches, the pressure in your stomach tightening until it feels like a rubber band that’s been pulled taut. it snaps, waves of pleasure wracking through your body with each flick of her tongue and curl of her fingers. she rides your high with you, slowing her pace as your walls flutter gently around her. her lips don’t release your clit until your hands push her away subconsciously.

she retracts her fingers carefully, kissing your thighs with arousal coated lips as you try to catch your breath. you run your fingers lazily through her hair, watching with hooded eyes as she helps to soothe your trembling form.

she straightens her posture, gathering your face in her hands before she leans in to kiss you. you moan at the flavor of yourself on her lips.

“i will never get over the taste of you.” she mumbles against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, your cheeks glowing under her praise.

“i hope not. you’re really good at that.” you tell her. she pulls back, an amused smile on her face.

“i’m really good at a lot of things.” she chuckles once. you roll your eyes affectionately.

there’s a lull of silence. not awkward, just quiet as you take each other in. your eyes glance from her right eye to her left.

“nat,” you start, your arms coming up to wrap loosely around her neck.

“hmm?” she hums when you don’t continue.

“i do trust you. just… please be careful.” your eyes are soft and sincere, conveying the weight of your genuity.

Before you, Natasha Romanoff’s mornings were usually going on by routine. The Russian was already up before dawn, swallowing down a glass of water then going for a ten miles run. At her return, she'd shred a heavy bag in the compound gym, shower, and drink her black coffee in silence. She was a creature of early dawn and quiet efficiency.

Then, she fell in love with you.

And suddenly, the fearsome Black Widow discovered a brand-new, highly formidable weakness: the warmth of your arms.

. . . . . .

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft seven forty-two am. The sun was already filtering through the gaps in the blinds — casting lazy, golden stripes across the duvet.

You shifted, gently trying to untangle your legs from the heavy warmth of the sheets, intending to slip out of bed and put the kettle on. But the moment your hips moved more than two inches away, the iron-clad grip around your waist tightened.

A protesting, sleep-heavy groan rumbled against the bare skin of your shoulder blade.

“Where are you going?” Natasha’s voice was a low, raspy purr thick with sleep and heavily laced with her slight Russian accent that only came out in moments like these—a side of her she only let guard down for you.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered, turning your head to smile at her. “I was going to make coffee. And maybe get a head start on the day.”

Instead of letting you go, she buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The redhead's nose was cold against your skin, making you shiver, but her body was like a furnace pressed against your back. She threw a shapely leg over yours, completely pinning you to the mattress.

“No,” she mumbled, her lips brushing your collarbone as she spoke. “Five more minutes.”

You let out a soft laugh, reaching up to run your fingers through her tangled red hair. “Nat, It’s almost eight.”

“Then I need ten more minutes.”

“That's not how bargaining works, Romanoff.”

“I am a master negotiator, I dictate the terms,” she murmured, tightening her arms around you until there was absolutely no space left between you. She was incredibly clingy in the mornings, a sweet, needy contrast to her sharp daytime persona.

She liked to be wrapped around you like ivy, anchoring herself to your warmth.

“What happened to the woman who used to be up and about by dawn?” you teased gently, tracing the line of her jaw. “The one who told me sleeping past six was a waste of valuable training hours?”

Natasha opened one eye, looking up at you through a fan of thick eyelashes. A lazy, incredibly fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“She realized that training doesn't hug back,” she replied softly.

“And your morning run?”

“I rescheduled,” she shrugged, kissing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “I do night runs now. The pavement is cooler, the compound is empty, and...” She paused, trailing her fingers lightly down your arm, interlocking her fingers with yours. “..it means I don't have to miss a single second of this.”

Your heart melted a little.

It was still hard to grasp sometimes—how a woman who had spent her entire life running, fighting, and surviving now fought so hard just to stay still with you. The fact that she had completely restructured her rigid, lifelong routine just to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning was a testament to how deeply she loved you.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your skin. “I am a hostage to this bed. You'll have to stay and keep me company.”

“Well, if it's a hostage situation, I suppose I have no choice,” you smiled, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling her close.

The Russian let out a contented sigh, burying her face back into your chest, her hand gently tracing soothing circles on your lower back. Within seconds, her breathing evened out into a calm, steady rhythm.

The coffee could wait. The world could wait.

"What about Bruce?" you ask, a bit of disdain in your tone

"He uh, he left" Clint tells you, "They talked, it didn't go well."

"How bad?"

"She opened up about the Red Room and he left." he explains

"What a bastard"

"Yeah, but lets be honest here Y/n, whatever she had with him, it wasn't real. Not like you and her. It was just a distraction, a way to shove the pain she felt about leaving you into the back of her mind and heart"

"You don't know that" you tell him, trying hard not to think about what once was

"I'm her best friend, you really think she didn't confide in me? You think I haven't heard her pain and regret for what she did? You think I haven't held her as she cried about her mistake, you think I haven't urged her to fix it?" he asks, not really wanting you to answer, "But you know her, she's stubborn and she doesn't think she deserves anything good. So she settled for Bruce"

"She still chose him instead of me" you mumble, "So there must've been something there, some feelings"

"Yeah, self hatred and pity. There's no love between them. Bruce is infatuated and Nat is just there to not think about what she did to you" he explains, "Now, she's upstairs. Third door on the right"

You take a deep breath and head inside. As you walk up the stairs you try to calm your racing thoughts and racing pulse. Finally you come to the door and give a gentle knock

"I'm not up for company" she mumbles through the door

You swallow thickly before managing a reply, "That's not what I heard"

The door opens so fast its a miracle it wasn't ripped off it's hinges, and Natasha stands there looking like she's seen a ghost. She just stands there, chest heaving as she looks at you. It's almost like she's afraid you'll disappear if she stops looking at you

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she speaks, "Y/n?"

"Hi Tasha" you greet with a soft smile

She practically launches herself at you and wraps her arms around you so tightly that you feel the air get squeezed out of your lungs. She nuzzles her face against your neck and you can feel her warm tears against your skin. You don't hesitate to wrap your arms around her and keep her close

"Tell me you're really here, tell me this is real." she whispers so softly that you hardly catch it

"It's real Tasha. I'm here" you assure her, "I've got you"

She lets out a small choked sob and her fingers clutch at your shirt. You can tell she's in need of actually feeling her emotions for once so you gently lead her back into the room and over to the bed. You sit her on the edge and tuck some hair behind her ear. She looks up at you with tear filled eyes and you feel your heart tug at the sight

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" You ask, thinking the answer would be what it always was. But to your surprise it wasn't

"We ran into an individual with powers. She can get into people's minds, make them see things. She got all of us. I don't know what the others saw but I know it was nothing good"

"What did you see?" You gently ask

She's quiet for long enough that you think she won't answer but finally she speaks, "The Red Room. My training, the graduation ceremony….it's like I was there all over again"

"Oh Tasha" you coo sympathetically. You reach up and cup her face, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. And I'm sorry Bruce left you to deal with it alone"

Her breath catches in her throat and she lets out a small whimper, "I don't care about him. He was just a distraction, a way to forget how I hurt you. I never loved him"

You can't believe she's actually admitting that to you, "What?"

"I'm so sorry Y/n. I'm so damn sorry" she sobs as tears stream down her face, "Breaking us up was the worst fucking mistake of my life, I regret it everyday. I'm so sorry"

You pull her into your embrace and let her fall apart in your arms. One of your hands rubs her back while the other cards through her hair. She shakes in your hold and cries, actually cries, and you just keep holding her

Eventually she calms down, though her breathing is still ragged and tears are still rolling down her cheeks, she's at least not hyperventilating or sobbing uncontrollably anymore. You continue to hold her and rub her, trying to soothe her in whatever way you could

"I never stopped loving you" she whimpers against your skin, "Never stopped wanting you"

Your heart thumps against your chest and you take in a deep breath, "Tasha…."

"It's okay" she sniffles, "Its okay if you moved on, if I'm too late in telling you all this. I just….I needed you to know that despite my actions my love never faded"

You shake your head and are silent for a moment before you admit to her, "I never moved on. I could never move on, you were it for me Tasha"

"I still could be" she whispers, "I know I hurt you, but god Y/n, I miss you so much and I regret hurting you and breaking us up every damn day. I miss you so much it hurts and I'm so tired of pretending otherwise."

You simply stare at her, both due to the surprise of her statement and the fact that you currently have no idea what to choose, what to say. And though it makes sense that you'd take your time to answer her, it still makes her nervous

"Please Detka(baby), please give me another chance. Please let me make this, make us right" she pleads as she grasps onto one of your hands, "Please"

You don't answer her with words. Instead you cup her face, letting your thumbs brush over the apples of her cheeks. She lets out a shaky breath as you lean in, and then you press your lips against hers. She melts into the kiss and her fingers thread through the hair at the nape of your neck to pull you impossibly closer. She opens her mouth, letting you deepen the kiss and her free hand moves to untie her robe

"Whoa, slow down Tasha" you mumble against her lips, "You've just been through something traumatic"

"Which is exactly why I need this, need you." she explains, "I need to feel you, need to be with you. Please"

The look in her eyes, one of a desperate and pure need has you giving in immediately, "Okay baby, okay"

She lets the front of her robe slide open, revealing her creamy skin and breasts to your hungry gaze. You eagerly let your hands trail over her skin, re-familiarizing yourself with her body then you let them grope the swell of her breasts. She lets out a soft moan and pushes her chest further into your touch

"I've missed you Detka(baby), I've missed you so much" she softly admits

"I've missed you too Tasha" you tell her as you let your thumbs brush over her nipples.

She shudders at the contact, "Don't tease. Not today, I need you so bad"

Instead of continuing to tease her you position yourself behind her on the bed, pressing your front against her back and trail a few kisses against the side of her neck, "Spread your legs for me"

She listens without hesitation and opens her thighs wider, "Please Y/n"

You reach around her and trail your fingers against her core, "You're so wet already"

"Can't help it" she whimpers, "I need you"

"I know, and I need you too Tasha" you tell her as you push two of your fingers inside her already dripping heat

She lets out another small moan as her walls clench down around your digits and she clutches onto your arm to anchor herself. You start thrusting your fingers in slow deep strokes and curl them just right against her most sensitive spot

"Oh god, yes" she moans, letting her head lean back against your shoulder, "Just like that, please don't stop"

"I won't stop baby" you assure her, continuing at the same pace

It isn't long before her legs start to tremble and her chest starts to heave. It's clear she's close, and you fully intend to push her over the edge. You continue thrusting your fingers and bring your thumb to rub tight circles against her clit. Her body seizes up and she cums hard, muffling her moan by pressing her face against your neck

"That's it, that's my girl" you coo as you gentle your movements to help her come down

"Yes, yours" she whimpers, "I'm yours Detka(baby)"

After helping her clean up you cuddle with her in bed, holding her close as she drifts off to sleep. You gently rub her back and watch with a fond smile as her eyelids struggle to stay open

"Rest baby, I'm here"

"You'll stay, right?" she mumbles sleepily

You lean in and press a kiss against her forehead, "Of course I will"

She relaxes further into the mattress and snuggles closer, "I love you Y/n, thank you for coming, thank you for taking care of me"

"I love you too" you tell her honestly, "But we have a lot of work to do before forgiveness is earned"

"I know, and I'm willing to put in the work"

You nod, "Rest now, we can talk about it later"

She drifts off to sleep, a soft smile on her face as she finally feels like shes started to right one of the worst mistakes of her life. And shes beyond grateful you're giving her that chance

That's a lie. You've just gotten better at saying it.

Loneliness doesn't arrive all at once. It moves in quietly, takes up space, rearranges things while you're sleeping. By the time you notice, it's already everywhere—in the way you answer I'm fine before anyone finishes asking, in the way you've stopped expecting the phone to ring for you.

You know what you are to people. The one who holds things. The one who doesn't spill.

What they don't see: the nights you sat on the bathroom floor and wanted, with your whole body, to just stop. Not dramatically. Just—stop. The wanting so sharp it had a taste.

You got up. You always get up.

You're still not sure if that's strength or just another thing you do to survive.

---

Three years ago, someone left.

You deleted her contact instead of blocking her. That was your first mistake—or maybe your oldest one, the habit of leaving doors open that should stay closed.

When the message came in, your fingers hovered. A string of digits where a name used to be. You put the phone down. Picked it up again. You already knew.

Hey, how are you?

Four words. And still, everything you'd spent three years building—the distance, the quiet, the being okay—went thin as paper.

You stared at it for twelve minutes. You know because you watched the clock, waiting to feel nothing. It didn't work.

I'm fine. Is something wrong?

Safe. Neutral. A door left open just wide enough.

Her reply came fast—too fast, like she'd been holding it.

Can we talk?

You knew what that meant. You'd always known what that meant. It meant: I need something. It meant: you'll give it to me. It meant: I already know you'll say yes.

You took a breath. Two. Three.

Yeah.

One word. And with it, three years of distance folded up like it had never existed.

The phone rang before you'd put it down. She called. You answered on the second ring. That distinction matters, somehow.

Her voice was the same. That was the first thing. Three years, and it was exactly the same—a little unsteady at the edges, the way it got when she was trying not to cry.

She told you everything. He left. It didn't work out. She was lonely.

You lay back on the bed and closed your eyes and listened. You asked the right questions. You said that sounds really hard and you didn't deserve that and you're going to be okay. All of it true. All of it costing you something you couldn't name.

At some point she exhaled—long, slow, the sound of someone setting down something heavy.

"I feel better," she said. "I always forget how easy it is to talk to you."

Easy.

You held the word in your mouth for a moment. Turned it over.

Easy. Not: you matter to me. Not: I missed you. Easy—like a chair that's always in the same place. Like a door that never locks.

You wanted, just once, to be difficult. To cost something. To be the kind of person someone has to work to keep.

"I'm glad," you said.

Your voice came out steady. It always does.

That's the thing about swallowing things whole: after a while, you stop tasting them. You just feel the weight, sitting somewhere below your ribs, and you learn to breathe around it.

---

The call ended at 11:47 p.m.

You know because you looked. Some part of you needed to account for it—the time spent, the exact cost.

And now it was in you. And there was nowhere to put it.

You got up. Found the cigarette you'd told yourself was your last one. Lit it by the window, not quite outside, not quite in.

The first time had been curiosity, mostly. Someone had left a pack on the table and you picked it up the way you pick up anything that might explain something about the people who need it. It tasted like burning. Obviously. But behind that, something else—a kind of weight in the chest that was almost, almost like having something to hold onto.

Afterward your throat felt raw for two days. You coughed into a tissue and there was blood in it. Not much. Enough. You told yourself it was a one-time thing. It wasn't.

Tonight, years later, was one of those nights. You coughed until your eyes watered. Held the cigarette anyway.

The smoke drifted out past the sill. You stayed there longer than you meant to. Outside, the city kept going.

---

Ten names in your contacts. A routine that held. Mornings that were just mornings.

You almost believed it was enough.

You'd kept going to the knitting circle. It gave you somewhere to be on the third Thursday of the month, and you'd stopped needing more reason than that.

Wanda Maximoff hadn't been. A few months, then more—her chair stayed empty. You didn't ask where she'd gone. You knew—and had decided, somewhere along the way, that knowing was enough. That you didn't need to think about it more than that.

You were used to that.

Then one Thursday, the door opened late—it was always late—and there she was.

She looked different. The clothes were quieter, more settled, like she'd stopped trying to dress for an evening that hadn't happened yet. But everything else was exactly the same. She was already mid-sentence before she'd fully walked in. She laughed at something before she'd finished saying it. The room tilted toward her without meaning to.

You watched the room do what it always did.

Some things don't change. You'd forgotten that could feel like relief.

She spotted you across the room and smiled—the kind that lands before you're ready for it.

"You're still here," she said.

"I'm always here," you said.

Neither of you said anything else. But she sat down in the chair closest to yours.

Eleven names in your contacts again. You noticed the number and didn't know what to do with it—whether to feel relieved, or careful, or something you couldn't name yet.

---

It wasn't a decision, exactly. More like something that happened while you weren't paying close attention.

Someone from outside the circle. You'd met at a mutual friend's thing—the kind of gathering you usually leave early. This time you didn't. They laughed at something you said, the real kind of laugh, and you thought: maybe.

So you tried.

It was fine, for a while. Good, even, in the way new things can be good before they become real. They texted first. They made plans. You let yourself get used to it—carefully, the way you do anything that might not last.

Six months. Give or take.

You found out the way you find out about these things—not directly, never directly. A name that appeared too often. An explanation that arrived a little too prepared. You didn't ask. You already knew, before the words came, before the conversation happened.

When it ended, you said I understand. You said it's okay. Steady, the way you always are.

---

You didn't tell anyone. Not because there was no one—but because saying it out loud would make it a thing that happened to you, and you weren't ready for that. So you filed it away, next to everything else, and kept going.

The third Thursday came around. You showed up the way you always did—a few minutes early, coat already off by the time others arrived. Wanda was late—she always was. She dropped into the chair beside yours and picked up where she'd left off the week before, mid-sentence, like no time had passed.

You listened. You said the right things. The evening moved as it always did.

It was almost over when someone across the circle looked up and said it casually, the way people say things they don't know are loaded:

"Hey, I heard you guys broke up. Are you doing okay?"

The room didn't stop. But something in it shifted.

You felt Wanda go still beside you.

"Yeah," you said. "I'm fine."

Steady. Easy. The voice of someone who is always okay.

The conversation moved on. Someone said something about a pattern. Someone laughed. The evening kept going.

You didn't look at Wanda.

But you felt it—the weight of her attention, different from usual. Somewhere between warm and cold, with no name for it.

Later, at the door, she touched your arm.

"You didn't tell me," she said.

"There wasn't much to tell."

She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. That unreadable expression—the one you'd never quite learned to translate.

Then she nodded. Let it go.

You walked home alone. The city was the same city it always was.

---

Another Thursday.

You noticed it the way you always noticed things—quietly, from a slight distance, like watching weather change through a window. A different quality to her texts. A distraction behind her eyes when she talked. The way she'd pause mid-sentence, catch herself, and smile at nothing in particular.

You knew that look. She hadn't said anything yet. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Maybe she didn't think it needed saying.

It didn't, really. You already knew.

Wanda showed up late—she always did—and sat beside you and talked about a project she hadn't finished, and laughed at her own joke before the punchline, and the room tilted toward her the way it always did.

You watched this happen.

And there it was. That feeling you didn't have a name for anymore—not quite grief, not quite anger. Something older than both. The specific exhaustion of a person who has been here before and knows, with their whole body, exactly how it ends.

You tried. Carefully, imperfectly, but genuinely. You texted back. You showed up. Things were allowed to matter. And every time, it ended the same way—quietly, without explanation, without anything useful to take with you. Just the same door closing softly, and you on the same side of it, with nothing to correct and no idea where to start.

Maybe some people are just built for this, and you are not. That might just be a fact. One you're still working on accepting.

Some things don't change.

You used to find that comforting.

Didn't you stay exactly where you were, the whole time, acting like that treatment was just normal? Didn't you keep showing up, keep holding things, keep saying I'm fine before anyone finished asking—practically steering things toward this outcome yourself?

Maybe.

But knowing that doesn't move you. It just sits there, below the ribs, with everything else.

And maybe that's just what this is. Not a problem to fix. Not a phase to get through. Just—the shape of your life, for now. Maybe for longer than that.

You're tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.