The door closes quieter than it should, not because you’re careful, but because your hands are shaking too much to slam it.

For a second, you just stand there, completely still, like if you don’t move, maybe none of it followed you home.

The apartment is dim. Safe. Familiar. It doesn’t feel like yours.

Your keys are still in your hand. You don’t remember unlocking the door, or the walk up, or even leaving in the first place. Everything between then and now feels blurred out, wiped clean except for fragments that won’t go away: a wall too close, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, and his eyes.

That’s the part that won’t leave. Not even what he did, not really:just that shift. That moment where something behind his eyes went empty. Dark. Wrong. Like you stopped being a person to him, like you were something he had already decided about.

Your stomach twists, and you finally force yourself to move, slow and careful, like the floor might give out if you step wrong.

“Hey.”

You freeze.

You hadn’t realized she was home.

Natasha  is sitting on the couch, one arm resting along the back, posture loose. but her eyes are already on you. Sharp. Observant. Always noticing.

“You’re back early.”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just…tired.”

Your voice sounds wrong, too flat, like it doesn’t belong to you. Natasha’s gaze flicks over you once: quick, practiced, cataloguing, and you recognize it immediately. You’ve seen her do that on missions, taking in everything without saying a word.

She doesn’t call you out on it.

“Eat?” she asks instead.

You shake your head. “Already did.”

A lie.

You don’t wait for her to respond, moving past her too fast, too quiet, like if you linger even a second longer, she’ll see something you can’t hide. “Going to shower,” you mutter, already halfway down the hall.

She hums softly behind you, letting you go.for now.

The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, but you don’t turn it down. You don’t turn it off. You just stand there under it, staring at yourself in the mirror like you’re trying to recognize something.anything.

Your reflection looks… normal.

That’s the worst part. Nothing looks different. Nothing shows.

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t say no.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, your hands gripping the edge of the sink as if that’s the only thing keeping you upright. “I said no before,” you whisper. “Over text. I said I didn’t want anything.”

Your reflection doesn’t answer.

“I didn’t say it there.”

Your stomach churns. “I didn’t say anything.”

Because you couldn’t. Because your brain had gone blank.

You close your eyes, and the memory comes back in pieces:a hand too close, the wall behind you, no space, no exit. Move. You didn’t. Say something. Nothing came.

Just that awful, frozen stillness, like your body wasn’t yours anymore. Like reacting might make it worse. Like staying still was the safest option.

Your fingers curl tighter against the sink.

“I should’ve done something,” you breathe, the words sharper now, turning inward. “I’m bigger than him. I’m taller…I could’ve pushed him, I could’ve-”

You cut yourself off, because you didn’t. And that feels louder than anything else.

That thought follows you out of the bathroom, lingering even as you crawl into bed hours later, staring at the ceiling until the dark feels suffocating. Sleep never really comes:just fragments of it, broken by that same image, that same look in his eyes.

By the time you sit up at 3:12 in the morning, your chest is tight, your breathing uneven, your hands trembling again. The room feels smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in, and no matter how many steady breaths you try to take, it doesn’t help.

You end up on the floor with your back pressed against the bed, knees pulled in, waiting for your body to calm down.

It doesn’t.

Morning comes anyway.

The jeans stay in the drawer.

You don’t even hesitate, you reach for the baggiest clothes you own instead. Sweatpants, a hoodie, layers that swallow you whole. Too much fabric, not enough skin. When you glance at yourself before leaving, you look smaller somehow, contained.

Good.

Natasha notices.

Of course she does.

She doesn’t say anything about the clothes, not yet, but later that afternoon her attention shifts to something else. something missing.

“You haven’t been coloring,” she says lightly.

You freeze midstep.

It’s subtle, but she catches it. The corner of the living room is untouched:coloring books stacked neatly, markers organized exactly how she helped you set them up. The 500-count set she bought you after you mentioned wanting more shades of pink sits unopened.

You haven’t touched any of it.

Not once.

“I’ve just been busy,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

Her eyes flicker, unconvinced, but she only hums and lets it drop, or at least, pretends to.

The days after that blur together in a way that makes it hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Some days you feel almost normal, laughing too loud, talking too fast, convincing yourself maybe it wasn’t that bad, maybe you’re overreacting.

And then the crash comes.

You can’t get out of bed. Your chest feels heavy, your thoughts louder, meaner.You went there. You stayed. You didn’t say no. What did you think was going to happen?

You press your hands over your ears like that might stop it, but it doesn’t.

Work becomes unbearable. Every noise is too sharp, every movement too close. When someone brushes past you, you flinch hard enough that they notice, and all you can do is nod when they apologize because your voice won’t come out.

You start hiding in the bathroom during breaks, gripping the sink, trying to breathe. Some days you don’t go in at all. You call out, make excuses, sit on your bed staring at the wall for hours because you just can’t handle it.

At some point, you notice the date. April.

It doesn’t mean anything; until it does.

A post. A sign. A conversation you weren’t meant to overhear. Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Your stomach drops. Of course.

A bitter laugh almost escapes. “Of course I put myself in that position this month.”

The shame hits harder, sharper, and you shut your phone off like that might make it go away.

It doesn’t.

Natasha doesn’t push, but she watches. She pieces things together:the jeans, the baggy clothes, the untouched coloring supplies, the way you flinch, the way you don’t sleep, the way you hover instead of settling anywhere.The way your eyes track exits now. Always exits.

She knows that one too well.

So when she finds you in the kitchen one evening, standing at the counter doing nothing, just trying to keep yourself grounded, she doesn’t ignore it this time.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says gently.

Your shoulders tense. “I haven’t.”

“You have.”

You turn too fast, already defensive. “I’ve just been busy.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Try again.”

Your chest tightens, and you look away. and that’s when she knows.

Not suspects. Knows.

She steps closer, slow and careful. “What happened?”

The question hits like a slap. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I said nothing happened.”

Her voice stays calm, but it sharpens. “Something did.”

Silence stretches tight between you, and your hands start shaking again. “I just-” Your voice cracks. “I made a bad choice.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” you snap, louder now. “I went there. I stayed. I-”

You stop, breathing uneven, and she doesn’t look away.

“Tell me.”

Something in you gives.

“I didn’t say no.”

The words land heavy, ugly, final. She doesn’t react the way you expect. No shock, no judgment, just quiet attention.

“I said no before,” you rush out. “Over text. I told him I didn’t want anything, but when I got there I just- I didn’t know what to do.”

The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too close. You take a step back, then another, until your back hits the counter and your breath stutters.

“I should’ve left,” you say, panic rising. “I should’ve known. I barely knew him, Nat, I had so many chances to cancel and I didn’t because I wanted to go and now-”

“Hey-”

“I was bigger than him!” you snap, the words exploding out of you. “I’m taller, I’m stronger, I could’ve done something!”

Your hands shake as you gesture wildly. “Do you know what they’d say if I reported it? They’d look at me and laugh. They’d say, ‘You expect us to believe you couldn’t get away?’”

Her jaw tightens.

“I froze!” you shout. “I just stood there and I didn’t do anything and I hate that because I could have-”

“You don’t know that-”

“I do!” you cut her off. “And it’s not even the first time!”

That hangs there, heavy and raw.

“They didn’t believe me then,” you whisper. “Why would they believe me now?”

Silence follows.

You shake your head, stepping away. “I’m not reporting it. I’m not doing this again.”

She doesn’t argue. That somehow makes it worse.

“I’m not telling anyone,” you add quickly. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I don’t want people looking at me like that. I don’t want-”

Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to think about it.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, holding tight like you might fall apart otherwise.

“I appreciate you listening,” you say, already retreating. “But I’m done. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

You turn to leave.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn around.

“I’m not going to force you to report,” Natasha says quietly. “And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Your shoulders drop:just a little.

“But I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen either.”

That hits harder.

“You don’t get to go through this alone.”

You swallow. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I don’t,” she says, calm and steady. “But I do get to stay.”

Silence settles around you, thick and heavy. Your hands are still shaking, your heart still racing, the room still too small, but she doesn’t move closer. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t corner you.

It had been a week since Natasha showed up at your room to pry. Like always, you gave nothing. Giving something would mean being a burden. Or worse, having something to be held above you.

You went on with life like she had never asked a damn thing. You hadn't changed your routine to avoid her or walk out of a room if she entered. Why would you? Her curiosity and prying nature do call for your life to change.

The next time Natasha saw you was in the gym. She was with Yelena when she noticed you walk in. You walked in as if nothing had happened. How? This has weighed on Natasha, and you act like it's nothing.

You just walked to a punching bag, gaze focused ahead, slipping on some gloves. Natasha couldn't stop her eyes from flickering to you now and again. Yelena noticed this.

“You're staring, sestra.”

Natasha snapped her eyes back to Yelena without a word. They kept sparring. Yelena throws a mean left hook, Natasha dodges. Yelena went harder, sweeping Natasha's legs out from under her. Yelena stepped back, breathing heavily, staring at her sister lying on the floor.

“What's going on, Natasha?”

Natahsa huffed, sitting up. She looked at you for a moment, then back to Yelena.

“You asked about her family yesterday.”

Yelena furrowed her eyebrows, tilting her head a bit.

“Yes?”

​Natasha pinched her nose, letting out a deep breath. ​“‘It got me curious and slightly worried.” Yelena nodded her head for Natasha to continue.  ​“So I went to check in.”

​Yelena softened a bit. “And what did she say?” She looked back at you. “She got defensive and just shut it down.”

Yelena flickered her eyes to you for a moment. You were still going at the punching bag. Hard. Yelena understood. She just started packing up.

“I could see that from her.”

Natasha started to get up. “Me too, but I'm worried. What horrid things happened to her to keep her from sharing anything at all?”

It was more of a rhetorical question.

Yelena snorted. Not because it was funny, but because Natasha had been exactly like you when she joined.

“Natasha, not everyone opens up to strangers. I asked the questions because they were relevant and I was curious. If she shuts it down, it's a sign to back off.”

“Were not strangers to her, Yelena.”

Yelena stopped in her tracks. “But we are. What do you really know about her?”

Natasha tried to speak, but Yelena stopped her. “Nothing. She keeps it that way for a reason. Just because we all live in this big ass stark compound doesn't mean she doesn't see us as anything more than strangers nat.” Natasha looked at you again. Yelena continued.

“She even has her file blacked out and mostly redacted. She is the type of person to open up when-” yelena stuttered a bit, flickering her eyes to you for a moment. “-if she's ever ready.”

Natasha knew that, but didn't want to take it as an answer.

“I know Lena. I just wanna know what's going on in her head.”

Yelena just hummed in response.