eden

Natasha scrambles to put herself together, quickly tugging on her shirt and hastily buttoning her pants. Despite her efforts, her desperation to hide, evidence of what occurred last night follows her like a shadow—she’s in the same outfit she wore to the party with the fabric now rumpled, her hair is mussed up with haphazard strands escaping from the once pristine ponytail, and worst of all, reds and purples are darkening the skin under her jaw. There’s proof that just can’t be refuted.

“Listen,” she practically hisses, voice quiet as if someone can overhear despite the two of you being in your dorm room with the door closed, “Literally no one can know about this.”

“Natasha,” you try to talk to her.

“No. No one can know.”

“But-”

She shoots you a serious look.

You know she isn’t doing this to be cruel; there’s no true maliciousness there on her part. She’s just scared. And you can’t blame her. Coming out to oneself can be rough as is, so coming out to everyone else is whole different ball game.

Not to mention that she’s her, and you’re you. You two may walk the same corridors and sit in the same lecture halls, but you’re nowhere near on the same level as Natasha Romanoff. She’s the undisputed ‘it’ girl, the campus princess, the top of the social ladder—known by everyone, wanted by everyone, and completely out of reach.

And you’re the social outcast. You keep to yourself most of the time, your head remaining down as you make your way from class to class, focusing on your schoolwork and intending on getting in and out of university with both honors and as little drama as possible.

“Okay, okay,” you reassure gently, trying to calm her, “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

She eyes you up and down. You’re still naked, sitting up in bed, your own neck blossoming with bruises that she put there.

“This was just some drunken thing,” she says firmly.

“Okay.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Okay.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Okay.”

This isn’t how you thought the morning was going to go. You weren’t entirely sure how Natasha—perfect, popular, untouchable Natasha—was going to react to waking up in your bed, but she kissed you, so you weren’t necessarily expecting her to act this appalled.

It started as a simple drunken kiss in the middle of the end-of-year party, full of red solo cups, loud music, colorful lights, and the sweaty bodies of college students crammed into the small space, making it even easier to grind on the dance floor.

She found you alone, standing on the outskirts like usual, unsure who to talk to, uncertain where to put your feet, and all of the repressed feelings, the glances she would steal of you from across the lecture hall when no one else was looking, the way her heart would flutter when you spoke up in class, it spilt over.

She managed to evade her friends’ notice, escape her boyfriend’s grasp, and instead of continuing to try and smother down everything she feels for you, the alcohol dulled her inhibitions, and her fingers found a home on the skin of your waist in an empty hallway in the back of the frat house.

Her lips met your own. It was the softest of touches at first, but then need won out, and her tongue slid hotly behind your teeth as she pulled you closer. The two of you drunkenly snuck out the back door and stumbled all the way to your dorm, your roommate conveniently having already left for the summer.

Clothes were shed, hands were everywhere, skin was on skin, and the night was spent together.

“You don’t have to hide who you are, you know,” you tell her softly as she hurriedly makes her way to door.

Natasha pauses at that, hand on the doorknob, but then she’s pulling open your door and leaving you there, alone and cold, the taste of her lip gloss still lingering on your tongue.

You sigh as she exits, the door shutting with a bit more force than you think is necessary, before you’re getting up to put on your own clothes and figure out how to come to terms with the fact that the Natasha Romanoff just had sex with you, stayed the night in your arms, and then promptly told you to forget that any of it ever happened.

Summer comes and goes, and while you managed to push Natasha and the night you two had together to the back of your mind for the majority of your much-needed time off, Natasha spent her entire break spiraling.

She doesn’t like you. She’s straight. She has a boyfriend. It was just the alcohol.

The first day of classes passes slowly as it always does. Multiple syllabi to cover, peer introductions to make, professor backgrounds to listen to… boring stuff.

You’re in your third and final class of the day, and the afternoon sun is beating through the lecture hall window while the professor drones on and on.

You only perk up when she finally gets to the grading breakdown section of the syllabus.

There are a couple of quizzes, a weekly discussion post, a midterm, a final, and a partnered presentation toward the end of the semester.

That shouldn’t be too difficult.

But your brows furrow when the professor continues, beginning to detail how everyone in the class is going to be assigned a random study partner—someone you’re supposed to meet with on a weekly basis with to touch base on the material, someone to jointly write the discussion posts, someone who will be giving the final presentation with you.

You can’t stop your eyes from flicking to the singular person in the room you absolutely do not want to be paired with. She’s not looking your way. You can’t say for certain, but it feels as though she’s been pointedly ignoring your presence all day; the way she hasn’t once looked in your general direction feels purposeful. She hasn’t spoken to you since the rejection all those months ago.

You feel slightly hurt by it, but you guess she technically doesn’t owe you anything. You spent singular drunken night together where she cheated on her boyfriend and you made her come multiple times in a row. That’s not exactly the stuff of romance. But it sure felt like more.

Natasha’s own heart has picked up speed at the mention of a study partner. It may be unlikely, but there’s still the chance that you two will be coupled together for the entire semester. She won’t be able to survive that.

Maybe she’ll get lucky and get paired up with Steve instead.

The professor starts to call out names, checking people off her roster as they’re selected.

“Wanda Maximoff and Sam Wilson.”

“Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.”

There goes getting partnered with her boyfriend.

“Bruce Banner and Tony Stark.”

“Maria Hill and Sharon Carter.”

Natasha only just manages to not roll her eyes. Of course her friends would somehow get lucky enough to be paired together.

As more and more names are ticked off the list but both Natasha and you have yet to called, you feel your anxiety skyrocketing.

You try to reassure yourself. There’s no fucking way—literally no fucking way. The odds are so slim.

But then, shortly after, your name is picked… along with Natasha Romanoff’s.

The universe fucking hates you.

Your gaze shoots to her, and you find her looking back at you. You can visibly see the alarm on her face, but she’s quick to glance away when your eyes meet for the first time since the end of the last school year.

Well, at least she’s finally acknowledging you.

The class passes in a blur after that, your mind—and although you’re unaware, Natasha’s as well—stuck on the fact that you and her are going to be forced into close proximity for a whole semester.

The professor wraps up the introductory lecture and reminds everyone to exchange contact information with their assigned study partner.

You pack up your things and stand from your seat when allowed, slinging your backpack over your shoulders before turning to locate Natasha again. She’s still organizing her supplies, fumbling with her pens and pencils, flipping through her notebooks aimlessly. It looks like she’s stalling.

Your shoulders slump. She clearly doesn’t want to be paired with you either.

You sigh, suck up your nerves, and head her way, stopping at her desk.

She doesn’t glance up at you.

You clear your throat.

Still nothing.

You say her name, and only then does she reluctantly meet your gaze.

“What?”

“We should exchange numbers.”

She looks like she’d rather do anything else.

You pull your phone out anyway, opening the Contacts app and handing it to her. “Here.”

Natasha seems to take extra care to ensure that your fingers don’t brush as she grabs your phone to input her number. She gives it back quickly, passing it back as if it burns her to hold. She doesn’t say anything further.

“Our first discussion post is due next Monday.”

“I know.”

“So…” you try.

She doesn’t answer.

“…when do you want to meet?” you continue lamely at her silence.

“Can’t we do it over Zoom or something?”

You roll your eyes at her want to avoid you that badly, and you’re about to retort with a “No, we can’t just ‘do it over Zoom or something’” when your professor butts in, having overheard.

“No video calls. This is an in-person class, and virtual participation won’t be accepted.”

Natasha clenches her jaw.

“How’s Thursday?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“3 p.m.?”

“Fine.”

“Library?”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

Natasha all but bolts from the room when you finish establishing the day and time, joining her friends who are waiting for her in the hallway. You can’t help but catch some of their words as you slowly follow behind, exiting the lecture hall as well.

“It fucking sucks that you got partnered with her. I don’t know how you’re going to do it.”

You’ve been dreading Thursday, and the day comes too soon. Unfortunately for you, Natasha’s attitude toward you hasn’t changed.

She’s acting beyond cold and closed off, forcing detachment into her demeanor as if it will protect her from the feelings that—she’ll deny it until her dying breath—only festered over summer.

And you’re not sure how to conduct yourself around her given your history. Everything about the tentative and mandatory relationship you two have been forced into feels uncertain. It’s as though you’re walking on eggshells, as though at any moment, Natasha is going to snap. You’re just clumsily stumbling through the interactions.

The discussion post planning is going abysmally, with her completely disinterested in any suggestions you’re offering.

“We have to write something,” you finally say, exasperated, “Like, literally anything at this point.”

“Just give it to me,” Natasha then demands, practically grabbing your laptop from you and beginning to quickly type at the discussion post.

One of your eyebrows raises as you watch her fingers furiously tap against the keyboard. She’s radiating tension, practically taking her strained emotions out on the keys.

Eventually, she pushes your laptop back toward you. The motion isn’t gentle. “There.”

You turn the screen so that you can read what she’s written, and both eyebrows raise now. “That’s… actually not bad.”

Natasha scoffs at how you sound surprised. “Of course it’s not bad. I’m not a shit student.”

“I never said you were,” you shoot back.

“You implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t think you cared about this assignment considering how you’ve been acting.”

“Obviously I care. It’s my grade too.”

“You’ve been giving me nothing for the past 45 minutes.”

Natasha scoffs again.

You roll your eyes at her animosity. “Look, we don’t have to be friends, but we can at least be amicable, can’t we?”

She gives you a blank look, clearly unwilling to agree with that.

You’re not sure what you need to do to get through to her. You don’t need conversation; you don’t need friendliness. You just need cooperation. Fuck, you just want to pass this class.

You sigh, deflating, and glance around the library to make sure no one is near enough to hear or see you.

“Natasha,” you say, voice softening into a low murmur, “It’s okay. It’s just us right now.”

There’s a shift after that.

It starts small—nothing major at first—just Natasha’s tone gentling when she speaks to you during your study sessions, just the crease that had always initially frowned her brow smoothening out when she looks at you.

You move from working in the library to working in your dorm. You don’t have a roommate this year, and the added privacy feels intimate. It’s almost worse. You never know what to do with your hands.

You’re both sitting in your room on the floor, textbooks and notes scattered in front of you as you prepare for the upcoming project. Your hands are close; you don’t know if the closeness is intentional on either of your parts.

And then your hand moves before your mind can catch up, before you can think it through, and you’re taking a risk you’re not sure you should take, and you’re allowing your pinky to brush against hers for the briefest of moments, and the contact causes your heart rate to spike. That’s definitely not what you’re supposed to be doing with your hands.

It’s enough to get Natasha to suck in a sharp breath in response.

You move away immediately, giving her space to reconcile with the touch, giving her space to ignore it if she so chooses to, but to your surprise, she shifts her hand toward where yours had just retreated, and she hooks your pinkies lightly together. You bite your lip, your eyes still firmly fixated at your notes, pretending that nothing’s changed, not wanting to break the delicate moment that’s settled around the room, and Natasha does the same.

In private, things escalate further.

“It’s just hard,” Natasha says one day, flopped back onto your bed, hair splayed out underneath her head, the two of you taking a break from studying. You’re sitting at your desk, and you look up from your phone at her interrupting the peaceful silence.

“What’s hard?”

“I don’t know. It. Everything.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” you prompt teasingly.

Natasha lets out a long exhale, taking a few moments before she responds. “Just… all the pressure. From my friends, from my parents, from myself to be someone I’m not. Everything feels like habit now. Not happiness. I don’t know how to break out of that.”

You frown at her words, at her openness, her vulnerability. She’s stripped clean in this moment, wiped bare for you to see, and it’s something you’re not going to take for granted. She hasn’t offered you this before. “That… seems like a hard way to live.”

“It feels like the only way to live.”

“Well, have you ever tried? Living outside the lines you’ve trapped yourself in?”

“No,” Natasha murmurs quietly, weakly, “But it’s not that easy.”

“You shouldn’t have to pretend for anyone else.”

She doesn’t reply, and you push yourself up from your chair, walking toward the bed and taking a seat on the edge, your hand grabbing hers.

“Just know I’m here… if you ever want to stop pretending.”

Natasha sits up and kisses you.

But despite the stolen touches, the soft words, the even softer kisses, you’re still ignored by Natasha on campus, ignored anywhere outside of the small bubble you’ve created together.

You think that maybe, just maybe, her looks your way linger longer.

But when you offer her polite hellos, small smiles in passing in the hallways, always hoping that the day will come where she’ll smile back, she never does. You only ever receive a cold shoulder from her and a sneer from her friends, a snide comment, a ‘why is someone like you trying to talk to someone like her?’.

It hurts in the moment, but the way Natasha’s hand traces up and down the skin of your stomach in secret, the way her lips nuzzle against the underside of your jaw, it always soothes the sting.

The party coming up this weekend has been the talk of the campus for the past couple of weeks. You absolutely aren’t planning on attending, but your resolve is tested when Natasha personally asks you to go.

“Come to the party,” she requests randomly one day while you two are ‘studying’ together.

“It’s really not my scene,” you reply, “Plus, you and I both know that I wasn’t invited.”

“I’m inviting you now. I want you there.”

“And you’re the only one who does.”

“Come on,” Natasha pushes.

“I’m not going to a party to stand awkwardly by a wall by myself.”

“You won’t be standing awkwardly by a wall by yourself. I’ll be there with you.”

“You’ll be there with your friends and Steve,” you correct.

“Yeah, but once they’re drunk enough, I’ll ditch them, and then I’ll be there with you.”

You look up at her, trying to gauge her seriousness, her sincerity, and Natasha offers you a soft, reassuring smile, her hand reaching out to gently interlock fingers with yours.

You can’t refuse her.

Natasha’s already at the party, and she can’t stop her gaze from constantly drifting to the front entrance as she waits impatiently for you to arrive, wondering just when you’re going to walk through the door and she’ll get to see you again.

“What do you keep looking at?” Maria asks.

“Nothing,” Natasha says, promptly dismissing the question.

“Waiting for Steve?” Sharon chimes in.

Natasha instantly takes the offered out. “Yeah, he said he would be here 10 minutes ago.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Maria replies, chuckling, “You know him; he’s always late.”

Natasha nods in agreement, ignoring the way guilt churns in her stomach at the lie. She couldn’t care less when Steve is getting here. If anything, she doesn’t want him here. She wants you.

She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and eagerly pulls it out to check who’s texting her. When she sees the screen light up with your name, her heart jumps and she suppresses a smile.

‘I’m walking in. Are you inside?’ you ask.

She immediately goes to text back, doing her best to tilt her phone so that her friends can’t see just who she’s talking to, once again fraught with guilt at keeping you a secret.

It doesn’t work.

“Is that…?” Sharon trails off disbelievingly at the fact that she is seeing your name on Natasha’s phone, just staring at the screen. “Is she really texting you?”

“What?” Natasha panics, trying to figure out an explanation, a believable reason. She goes with a simple protest. “No, no, she’s not-”

But then your name pops up on her screen again in big letters, the words “Incoming call” appearing along with them.

“She’s fucking calling you now?” Maria practically scoffs.

“What the fuck?” Sharon tacks on.

“Yeah, Natasha, what the fuck? Are you friends with her?”

“That’s not-”

Both Maria and Sharon are looking at her skeptically.

Natasha is scrambling, and she says the first thing that comes to mind. “She just won’t leave me alone. I’ve told her to fuck off, but she won’t take the hint. God, she’s basically obsessed with me.”

She immediately regrets her words.

Maria fakes a gag, and Sharon looks equally revolted on Natasha’s behalf.

When Natasha doesn’t respond to your text or answer your call, when you are greeted with her voicemail, you frown at your phone in confusion. She planned on getting here before you. She must just be distracted inside. You nervously make your way into the house, feeling like an intruder as you open the door and look around uncertainly.

The party is well underway, and your discomfort swells instantly as you take in the scene that now surrounds you.

It’s dim inside, the lack of lighting shadowing the multitude of bodies swarming within. There’s music blaring from the living room where the makeshift dance floor has been arranged, with furniture shoved to the edges of the room. You hear beer cans getting crumpled, and the smell the weed permeates the house and crinkles your nose as people drunkenly push past you without watching where they’re going.

You continue your search for Natasha, and you perk up ever so slightly when you eventually find her standing in a quieter corner with her friends, looking stressed over whatever it is they're talking about. You try to catch her eye.

She’s completely focused on the conversation she’s having with her friends, shaking her head vehemently every so often, seemingly trying to protest something that’s being said, but you can’t discern what they’re discussing.

After another minute or so, Natasha glances away from Maria and Sharon. Her gaze makes a sweep across the room as she tries to get a slight reprieve from their pressuring, but when she sees you there, watching her, her anxiety surges.

You don’t understand what’s going on, and you tilt your head at her in a silent question.

Natasha completely freezes at the sight of you. You couldn’t have come at a worse moment.

Her friends turn to look at what she’s staring at, and Maria rolls her eyes when she finds that it’s you. Sharon snickers.

“Who invited her?” Maria says.

“I don’t know,” Natasha lies, voice weak.

“Wait… do you think she literally followed you to this party?” Sharon asks.

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to handle this situation that seems to be rapidly slipping out of control around her, so she remains silent, unable to answer the question.

And aren’t sure what to do with yourself, where to put yourself, as you watch as Natasha’s friends shoot condescending glances your way, making no move to conceal them, clearly talking about you now.

You knew that Natasha wasn’t going to be able to immediately excuse herself from her friends to come and greet you—you’re well aware of how, underneath it all, you’re still a secret despite all of the affectionate words and now oh so familiar touches—but you weren’t expecting to be such a topic of conversation, so you timidly leave to the kitchen to pour yourself a drink, hoping the alcohol will soothe your nerves and that your absence will perhaps put an end to her and her friends so openly talking about you.

Your unease is obvious, the way you’re clearly uncomfortable being at a party without her by your side, and Natasha wants so badly to go to you. But she can’t yet. She decides to wait a little bit, to stagger your entrance into the kitchen with hers before she excuses herself to get another drink. The conversation about you thankfully dwindles when you disappear from view.

A few minutes later, just as she’s about to speak up, intending on going to discreetly find you, Steve appears by her side.

“Hey, babe,” he says, pressing a quick and sloppy kiss to her cheek, “Sorry I’m late.”

Natasha has to physically force herself to not recoil, but she can’t prevent herself from stiffening in response. His lips aren’t the ones she wants anymore, the feel of them on her skin now unwelcome.

She can’t say that.

“It’s okay,” she tells him instead, giving Steve a disingenuous smile, “Just glad you’re here now.”

One of Steve’s arms wraps around her waist, pulling her close, his hand moving to the small of her back to keep her flush against him, the firm pressure discomforting. While they begin to talk, Maria and Sharon slip off toward the kitchen.

You’re taking small sips of your drink, grimacing at the strong taste of alcohol—you really aren’t a party person—when you find yourself being approached by Maria and Sharon. Confusion fills you as you notice them walking your way; there’s no reason for the two of them to be coming to talk to you, and with the way they’re looking at you—disdainful, scornful—you know whatever they want can’t be good.

“Hi?” you say politely when they arrive, the word tilting up at the end in an obvious question. The two of them are standing a little too close for comfort, and your grip on your cup tightens reflexively.

There’s no greeting, no prelude to or forewarning of what’s to come. Maria just jumps right into it. “You need to stay the fuck away from Natasha,” she states firmly.

“Yeah,” Sharon agrees, nodding, “We don’t know what your problem is, but she’s not interested—she’d never be interested in someone like you—so just fuck off already.”

You don’t know what to say to that, not having expected them to confront you like this. You can’t exactly tell them what you and Natasha are behind closed doors, can’t disclose the secret that you’re desperate to broadcast, desperate for Natasha to want to broadcast, so you use the previously decided on excuse.

“We’re just study partners for-” you start to try.

“‘Just partners’,” Sharon quotes you mockingly, cutting you off and scoffing, “‘Just partners’ aren’t unhealthily obsessed with her.”

“I’m not obsessed with-” you try another time, but once again, you’re not allowed to speak.

“That’s not what she said,” Maria says, “Natasha says you won’t stop texting her, basically won’t stop harassing her.”

You pause at that, your defenses faltering.

“Natasha said that about me?” you ask, and your words come out small.

They don’t understand why they've struck a nerve, but they immediately zero in it. Their expressions turn devious, malicious.

Maria smirks; Sharon sneers.

“Oh, she said lots of things,” Sharon taunts, “Like how you won’t leave her alone outside of classes, how you won’t stop blowing up her phone, how you even followed her to this party.”

“Fucking stalker,” Maria mutters.

That hurts.

You don’t know what to do as Maria and Sharon stare down at you with contempt, their words sharp and cutting and deliberate.

Tears are forming in your eyes. You unconsciously begin to look around for Natasha, foolishly hoping that you’ll find her already striding toward you, foolishly hoping that she’ll be there to rescue you, but your eyes eventually land on her with her boyfriend, sitting comfortably in his lap on one of the sofas, his hand squeezing her thigh.

You run.

Steve’s still talking, something about the upcoming football game, something about going out again next weekend, but his words are barely registering to Natasha; she’s not listening. Her eyes are on you, and they widen in alarm when she sees you quickly bolt from the kitchen, your cheeks wet. When she looks back toward where you just fled from, she sees Maria and Sharon smiling victoriously as if your tears are something to enjoy.

“Wait, Steve, I have to-” she breaks off, not completing her sentence, her body moving to follow you before her mouth can finish.

“Natasha?” Steve asks as she swiftly removes herself from his grip, “Where are you going?”

You throw open the front door and rush out into the night, beginning the trek back to your dorm, the biting cold of the air not feeling like much in comparison to the conversation you just had, in comparison to the reveal of what Natasha has been saying about you when you’re not there.

Natasha ignores him, completely focused on you, calling out your name as she starts after you.

When Steve sees who she’s chasing, he shouts for her again before she’s out the door, his confusion apparent. “Wait, Natasha! Who cares where she’s going? Just leave her!”

The door closes behind Natasha, and she instantly picks up a jog down the sidewalk to catch up. She calls for you another time. “Wait, just wait, will you? Please, wait!”

You make no move to slow down, and she grabs at your wrist to pull you to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asks frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs swiping at the tears still falling, “Did Maria and Sharon say something to you?”

You just shake her off, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Talk to me. What happened? What’s wrong?” she repeats her earlier question, her desperation mounting.

“Just let go of me, Natasha,” you say harshly, but your tone is shaky, your voice wavering.

“What? Why? What-”

You finally look at her, and it feels like her heart stops at the coldness she sees in your eyes. “Because I wouldn’t want to act any more obsessed with you than I already do, right?” you answer her.

The realization of what this is about makes her knees feel weak, but her hands don’t fall away. If anything, they tighten their gentle grip to hold you a little firmer as if she knows that this is it, that this is the moment that you’re going to pull away from her, to leave her feeling alone again.

“That’s not-”

“Not… what?” you throw back her way before she can fully deny it, “Not what you meant to say? Because I’m pretty sure Maria and Sharon were using direct quotes.”

“Please. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You huff out a humorless laugh.

“You know it’s not true.”

“I don’t know anything apparently,” you mutter.

“No, no,” Natasha starts, grasping at straws to remedy the situation, “Listen, I care about you more than I-” She can’t finish at first, shaking her head in frustration. Her own tears are starting to gather in the corners of her eyes as everything begins to feel as though it’s becoming more and more impossible to fix.

You don’t respond, and your expression is hard, distrustful, betrayed.

So, she pushes herself to continue even though words keep getting stuck in her throat. “I care about you more than I should. I- I lo-”

“Don’t say it,” you cut her off, “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Why not? Please. I love yo-”

“You don’t,” you hiss.

“No, I do, I do,” Natasha argues desperately, “You have to believe me. I’ve never felt like this before.”

When you stay quiet again, she tries a third time and finally succeeds at getting out what she’s been wanting to say to you but has been too scared to speak into the air. “I love you.”

A voice from behind the two of you interrupts, and when you both turn, there stands Steve, looking between you and Natasha with derision and disbelief.

“You ‘love’ her?” he asks, incredulously.

“Steve,” Natasha breathes out, and the fear she feels over losing you transitions into fear that now everyone is going to know. She glances your way as if asking for reassurance, for comfort, for help, but when she sees you just begin to walk away again, intending on leaving her to handle the mess she’s made, her panic flares.

“What the fuck is going on here, Natasha?” Steve demands, “Do you love her?”

She can’t find the words to explain. “It just… happened, okay? I never meant for any of this to-”

“So, you cheated on me?” Steve changes his question, practically spitting it out at her.

There’s no denial, just apologies. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. It just-”

“With her?” His tone is filled with even more venom, aimed at you this time.

“Don’t say it like that,” Natasha defends, voice firming despite the tears steadily streaming down her face.

“Were you ever planning on telling me? Or were you going to just keep screwing around behind my back?”

“I was going to tell you. I swear, I was going to tell you. I’ve been trying to find the right time.”

“There is no right time to tell someone you cheated on them,” Steve says flatly.

Natasha’s eyes flick to your receding form as you carry on walking away from her down the street, the distance between you two increasing in a way feels permanent.

And Steve scoffs as he sees her attention drift.

“Of fucking course you’re focused on her right now,” he mutters, “Well, I hope it was all worth it.” He walks away from her then too, heading back to rejoin the party.

With his last words, Natasha briefly wonders if he’s going to tell everybody, but the fear of the school finding out is no longer scarier than the fear of losing you.

Natasha tries to contact you all night.

Natasha tries to contact you all weekend.

You ignore her texts.

You delete her voicemails.

And you even consider blocking her number.

But you can’t bring yourself to go that far. Natasha may have made a mistake, may have hurt you, but you know that at the end of the day, she was just scared—terrified, really—and now, she’s also alone.

Steve doesn’t seem like the reasonable type, and you’re almost positive that the whole school is going to be alight with rumors once the weekend comes to an end.

Your presentation is tomorrow anyway; you can’t avoid her forever.

When Natasha arrives at the lecture hall with a small stack of notecards in hand, as prepared as she can be for the presentation after the weekend she’s had, she falters after her first step into the room.

Everyone goes silent; everyone is looking at her. She instantly knows that what happened at the party has spread around campus.

Already, tears start to well. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry anymore, having shed more tears in total these past two nights than ever before.

She moves to take her seat next to you, the scraping of the chair against the floor sounding too loud in the unnervingly quiet room. You don’t look at her; you don’t greet her. She’s trembling, her eyes flicking around anxiously as she hears the whispers start up.

It’s all about her.

“That’s enough,” your professor’s voice cuts in, quickly demanding order, “Bucky, Steve, you’re up first.”

Natasha flinches at the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s name, and it doesn’t help that he shoots the both of you a scathing look as he passes your seats as he walks to the front of the classroom.

She’s still trembling.

You purse your lips, and then, without looking her way, without saying anything, you scribble something onto a piece of paper, tearing the small section off and passing it to Natasha.

Your hands barely graze, but you don’t pull away.

‘I’m still here… if you want to stop pretending.’