#bi!reader

The conference room was already too warm. Y/N Barton stood at the head of the long table, her jacket draped neatly over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled to her forearms. In the space between them, holographic schematics rotated lazily, casting a pale, shifting light on the faces of the assembled team. A quinjet's flight path glowed in ethereal blue, tracing the eastern coastline of Madripoor before branching into a web of contingencies she had personally redlined twice already.

"Extraction is at zero-four-thirty," she said. Her voice was steady, a carefully calibrated instrument of control. "Primary window is seven minutes. If we miss it, we abort. No heroics."

A few heads nodded in solemn agreement. Maria Hill watched from the corner, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, a shadow behind his dark lenses, his presence a silent weight in the room.

Beside her, Jason shifted. "Seven minutes is conservative," he said, his tone smooth as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished surface of the table. "If the asset's delayed, we can stretch to ten without compromising-"

Y/N didn't look at him. "We're not stretching."

Jason offered the public smile, the one that charmed senators and secured funding. "With respect, Director, I ran simulations last night. The risk curve flattens after minute eight. We'd be leaving value on the table."

A flicker of irritation sparked low in her chest, hot and sharp. She turned to face him then, her expression a mask of calm. "You ran simulations using my parameters."

"And improved them," Jason replied, his voice light. "That's my job."

The room shifted. It was subtle, a change in the air pressure, a collective tightening of shoulders, but it was perceptible. This wasn't disagreement; it was a correction. A public one. And it wasn't his place.

Before Y/N could put him back in his place, another voice cut through the tension.

"No."

The word was quiet, but it landed with the force of a slammed door. Every eye in the room turned to Natasha Romanoff. She sat slightly back from the table, one boot hooked casually around the rung of her chair, her posture relaxed to the point of deception. Her arms were folded loosely, her fingers still. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't even leaned forward. She didn't need to.

Jason blinked, his practiced composure fracturing for a moment. "I… excuse me?"

Natasha tilted her head, her gaze unwavering and sharp. "Your model assumes the asset is mobile within ninety seconds of contact. Our intel doesn't support that."

Jason's mouth opened, but Y/N lifted a hand, not sharply, not angrily. Just enough. The gesture was a full stop. "We're not debating this," she stated, her voice leaving no room for argument. "The window stays at seven."

Jason’s jaw tightened for half a second before the mask slid back into place. "Of course. Just offering perspective."

Across the table, Fury’s mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. Hill made a silent note on her datapad. Natasha didn't look away from Jason until he leaned back in his chair, retreating by a single, telling inch. Only then did she glance at Y/N.

It wasn't a question. It was a check-in.

Y/N met her eyes and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. A silent acknowledgment.

Natasha settled back again, satisfied, her piece played. The meeting moved on, the moment broken, the hierarchy re-established.

___

By the time the meeting adjourned, a dull ache had settled behind Y/N’s eyes. It wasn’t the planning that had worn her down, but the sheer effort of holding her ground without making it look like a battle. She gathered her laptop, her mind already reorganizing the rest of her night, compartmentalizing the work from the friction.

Jason fell into step beside her as they left the room, his presence a familiar weight she was suddenly tired of carrying. “You didn’t have to shut that down so hard,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough to sound intimate rather than critical. “I was backing you up.”

She didn’t slow her pace. “You were contradicting me.”

“I was contributing,” he said, the smooth edge of his tone sharpening just enough to be heard. “There’s a difference.”

She stopped walking. The sudden stillness was its own statement. Jason took one more step before realizing she was no longer beside him. He turned, the practiced smile flickering when he saw her expression, calm, closed, and utterly unmoved. “We can talk about this later,” he said quickly, a note of placation in his voice. “Not here.”

Her jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/N…”

“Jason,” she interrupted, her voice as quiet and final as Natasha’s had been earlier. “You don’t override me in my own meetings.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, taut and uncomfortable. Then Jason sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if she were the one being difficult, the one creating a problem out of nothing. “You’re reading too much into it. You’ve been stressed lately.”

There it was. Soft. Polite. Dismissive. The trifecta of condescension wrapped in the guise of concern.

Y/N exhaled slowly, choosing not to engage. There was no point. “I have work to finish.”

His smile returned instantly, the mask sliding back into place. “So do I. I’ll see you later.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. It was a public display of affection perfectly calibrated for anyone who might be watching, a performance of partnership. She didn’t pull away. She also didn’t lean in, her body a study in neutrality.

Jason walked off, already pulling out his phone, his attention already a million miles away. Y/N stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the air around her slowly clearing, before turning toward Strategic Operations. ___ The office lights dimmed automatically as the hour ticked past twenty-two hundred, bathing the room in a soft, focused glow. Y/N shrugged out of her jacket and hung it carefully over the back of her chair before sinking back into the desk. The city beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass walls glittered cold and distant, a living map of lights and motion that felt a world away from the warmth of the room she had just left. She replayed the meeting in her head despite herself. Jason hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t insulted her. He hadn’t done anything that would look wrong to anyone else. That was the problem. It was a masterclass in plausible deniability.

A soft knock sounded at her door. She didn’t look up from her screen. “Come in.”

The door opened and closed with a quiet click. Natasha stepped inside, moving with a silence that was both a skill and a statement. She didn’t speak right away. She never did when Y/N’s shoulders were this tight. Instead, she crossed the room and leaned back against the edge of the desk, close enough that Y/N could sense her presence without feeling crowded.

“That was your call,” Natasha said finally, her voice low and even. “You made the right one.”

Y/N’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “He wasn’t wrong about the data.”

“He was wrong about the room,” Natasha replied, her gaze unwavering.

Y/N glanced up, meeting her eyes. “You didn’t have to step in.”

A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched Natasha’s lips. “You didn’t ask me to stop.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation, and something in Y/N’s chest loosened just a fraction. “I had it handled,” she said, a little defensively.

“I know,” Natasha said, pushing off the desk. She moved closer, not invading space, just occupying it deliberately. “You also shouldn’t have to fight for authority you’ve already earned.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Natasha hummed softly, a noncommittal sound. “Intent doesn’t erase impact.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, Natasha was still there. Steady. Unmoved. “You stayed late,” Y/N said, changing the subject.

“I wasn’t done,” Natasha replied. A pause. “Neither were you.”

They worked quietly after that, the silence comfortable and companionable. Natasha didn’t hover or take over. She waited when Y/N paused, adjusted a projection when Y/N asked. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, as if she wasn’t trying to prove anything at all because there was nothing to prove.

At some point, Y/N checked her phone. The screen was dark. No messages.

Natasha noticed, of course she noticed. “You’re waiting,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “He said he’d stop by.”

Natasha didn’t comment on the unlikelihood of it. She simply reached for the coffee Y/N had abandoned an hour ago, took a sip, grimaced, and pushed the mug gently out of reach. “That’s cold,” she said. “I’ll get you a fresh one.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” She didn’t wait for permission. She rarely did, but she always waited for consent, a subtle distinction Y/N had come to appreciate.

Natasha returned a few minutes later, setting a new mug down exactly where Y/N’s hand would land when she reached for it. Their fingers brushed. Natasha didn’t pull away immediately. “Drink,” she said softly.

Y/N did. The warmth spread through her, a small anchor in the quiet vastness of the night.

Time passed. The city shifted outside the windows, constellations of light changing as traffic flowed and stalled. Jason didn’t show.

When Natasha finally checked the clock, she straightened. “You’re not going home.”

Y/N huffed a tired, humorless laugh. “Is that an order?”

Natasha’s gaze held hers. Calm. Certain. “It's a concern.”

Something about that, about the lack of pressure, the absence of expectation, made Y/N’s throat tighten. “I’ll finish this and head out,” she said, the promise feeling thin even to her own ears.

Natasha nodded once. “Then I’ll walk you.”

They left together, their footsteps echoing through the quiet, deserted corridors of the Helicarrier. At the elevator bank, Natasha stepped inside first, holding the door open with a hand.

“If he doesn’t come,” Natasha said gently, just as the doors began to slide shut, “that doesn’t mean you weren’t worth the wait.”

Y/N swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat. “He will.” ___ Jason arrived forty minutes later, all practiced charm and easy smiles. He moved through the lobby with a confidence that bordered on performance, his apology a smooth, well-rehearsed aria. Y/N listened, her expression unreadable, and offered a nod that was less forgiveness and more dismissal. She accepted his explanation, the words hanging in the air between them, unexamined. From her vantage point across the polished expanse of the lobby, Natasha watched them depart. Jason’s hand rested at the small of Y/N’s back, a gesture of ownership disguised as affection. Y/N’s posture was ramrod straight, her shoulders a fraction too tight. She was a soldier bracing for a blow she couldn’t yet see. Natasha’s face remained a mask of cool indifference, but the gears had already begun to turn.

It started with a single, almost imperceptible gesture. Y/N Barton, a woman who commanded rooms and navigated global crises with the ease of breathing, took a half-step back. It was a subtle recalibration, a nearly invisible flinch as Jason closed the distance. Her shoulders tensed, her chin lifted a fraction of a degree, a body bracing for an impact that never landed. To anyone else, it was nothing. To Natasha, it was a flashing red light in the dark. Pattern recognition was her native language, the foundation of her entire existence.

Jason’s smile never reached his eyes. It was a brilliant, carefully constructed facade, deployed with the precision of a well-placed explosive. His words flowed like honey, smooth and reassuring. He knew the exact moment to place a hand on Y/N’s back, the precise duration to make it look supportive rather than controlling. In public, he was the perfect partner, deferring to her just enough to earn approving nods from Hill and Fury, a masterclass in appearing to be the wind beneath her wings. But the performance was flawed. He always spoke after she did, his voice a subtle echo that would inevitably reframe her point, adding his own footnote to ensure the room didn’t forget his presence. He wasn’t a partner; he was a parasite, clinging to her light.

Natasha felt no surge of jealousy, no territorial instinct. What she felt was the cold, sharp click of recognition. The low, humming certainty that vibrated in her bones, the same feeling she got when a mission brief had a fatal flaw.

Y/N didn’t feel the shift in the atmosphere, but she felt the cracks in the foundation. She was a master of logistics, of seeing the systems at play. She noticed the mission windows that were suddenly too tight, the intelligence from Madripoor that contradicted itself with frustrating regularity. She saw the silent, weighted exchanges between Fury and Hill, the perpetual exhaustion that clung to Strategic Operations like a second skin. She noticed Jason most acutely in his absence. He’d promised to join her for a late-night briefing, only to text twenty minutes prior with a flimsy excuse about something coming up. He’d meant to call. He was so proud of her. He just didn’t want her to burn herself out.

You’re so intense when you get like this, he’d said once, his smile a disarming weapon.

She had filed it away, labeling it as normal, a necessary compromise in a life that was anything but. She was the one with the impossible schedule, the title that weighed a ton, the responsibility that never slept. Director of Strategic Operations at twenty-nine, a direct subordinate to Nick Fury himself. She was feared, respected, indispensable. Jason would remind her of that sometimes, never overtly, never cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to make her feel like he was the anchor holding her to the shore, when in reality, he was the current pulling her out to sea.

___ The rhythm of the next few weeks was forged in the fires of endless collaboration. Strategic Ops became a second home, a place where the boundaries between personal and professional dissolved into a haze of holographic displays and strategic overlays. They were locked in a cycle of joint briefings and cross-department planning, surviving on late nights, too much black coffee, and a deficit of sleep that felt less like exhaustion and more like a state of being.

Natasha was a constant, a presence that hovered at the periphery of Y/N’s consciousness. She was everywhere Y/N needed her to be without ever crossing the line into intrusion. There was a deliberate, practiced gentleness to her. She didn’t crowd; she waited. When Y/N paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the holo-display as she hunted for the right vector, Natasha didn't jump in. She watched, counted the seconds, and let Y/N find her footing again.

Jason, on the other hand, was immediate and demanding. He didn't wait. “That’s what I was about to say,” he’d cut in once, flashing that easy, practiced grin the moment Y/N finally finished her thought. “We should reroute through the southern corridor.” Y/N would blink, disoriented for a split second, then nod, already moving on before her brain could catch up.

Natasha saw the way Y/N’s jaw tightened in the silence that followed. It was a small detail, easy to miss, but Natasha caught it. The coffee was the first real tell. Y/N didn't remember mentioning her preferences, hadn't said a word about how she took it, black, one sugar, a splash of oat milk when she’d already had too much caffeine but Natasha brought it anyway. She set the mug down without comment, didn't wait for a thanks, and simply stepped back into the shadows of the room.

Jason brought coffee, too, sometimes, but it was always wrong. Too sweet, or with a bitterness that made Y/N’s teeth ache. He’d laugh it off, that easy, dismissive laugh. “You’re impossible to please,” he’d tease, leaning in to kiss her temple. Y/N would laugh with him, a sound that didn't quite reach her eyes, and drink it anyway, watching Natasha watch her from across the table. ___ “Director Barton.”

Y/N looked up from her laptop to find Natasha standing in the doorway of Strategic Ops. She was wearing her jacket slung over one shoulder, the fabric loose and casual, her expression neutral, unreadable.

“Yes?”

“You’re late to your own meeting.”

Y/N glanced at the clock and swore under her breath. “Damn it. Jason said he’d—”

Natasha didn’t comment. She simply stepped aside, a silent invitation to follow. “They’re waiting.”

The briefing room was already full when they arrived. Maria Hill gave Y/N a sharp look as she entered, but the look softened immediately into something familiar. It was a small comfort in the sea of tension that permeated the room.

Jason sat near the middle of the table, his chair angled slightly away from the head. It was a subtle, intentional detail, a way of positioning himself without being overt. He looked up when Y/N entered, smiling like he hadn't been checking his watch, like he hadn't been counting down the seconds.

“There she is,” he said lightly, his voice a practiced charm. “The woman of the hour.”

Y/N ignored the heat creeping up her neck and took her seat, pulling her tablet into position. The meeting progressed smoothly enough, a well-oiled machine of strategic planning. Jason contributed, his voice smooth and authoritative, and Natasha observed, her expression carefully blank.

Clint stood near the back of the room, arms crossed, watching everyone like a hawk. He wasn’t just present; he was evaluating, assessing the threat level of every move, every word.

It wasn’t until the end, when Fury asked for final thoughts, that Jason leaned back in his chair and said casually, “Of course, having the Director’s unique… access helps streamline decision-making.”

Y/N frowned, a knot tightening in her stomach. “My access?”

Jason shrugged, a flicker of arrogance in his eyes. “You know. Fury. Hill. Clint.” He smiled, like he’d just made a harmless joke, a casual observation about the way the world worked. “Not everyone gets that kind of family discount.”

The room went very still. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken implications. Y/N felt it like a physical thing, a sudden, sharp tightening in her chest, a sudden awareness of every eye turning toward her, dissecting her, judging her.

Natasha spoke up. “Careful,” she said quietly.

It wasn't directed at Y/N, but the words hung in the air, heavy and charged.

Jason turned toward her, surprised by the interruption. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, his tone shifting to something more defensive, more earnest. “I was just making a joke.”

“I know,” Natasha replied. Her gaze flicked briefly to Y/N, a sharp, assessing look that seemed to measure the distance between them, before settling back on him. “That’s why you should be careful.”

Fury cleared his throat, the sound loud and final in the silence. “Meeting adjourned.”

People filed out quickly after that, murmuring low and uncomfortable, casting furtive glances at Y/N as they passed. Jason reached for Y/N’s arm as she stood, his touch light, almost tentative, but she stepped away without meaning to, a reflex born of years of self-preservation. His smile faltered for half a second, a crack in the armor, before he covered it with another laugh. ___ They didn't talk about it in the moment, the air in the briefing room too thin to sustain a conversation, but the silence hung between them like a physical weight. It wasn't until they were alone in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, pneumatic hiss that severed them from the rest of the world, that Jason finally broke it.

“You’re mad,” he said, stating it like a simple observation, a fact of the atmosphere rather than an accusation.

“You implied I got my position because of Clint,” Y/N replied evenly, her voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil she felt.

He laughed, a short, dismissive sound. “Come on. Everyone knows you earned it. It was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple as if the conversation were a migraine he could physically massage away. “You’re being sensitive.”

There it was again. That particular brand of softness. Polite, patient, and thoroughly dismissive. It was the tone used when someone was too emotional to understand the joke, too fragile to handle the truth.

“You can’t say things like that in front of Fury,” she said, her voice hardening.

“I can say whatever I want,” Jason replied, his irritation slipping through the veneer of charm. “I’ve got the credentials too.”

She looked at him then, really looked past the easy grin and the confident posture to the man underneath. “And I don’t?” she asked quietly, the question hanging in the confined space of the elevator car.

The elevator chimed, a jarring interruption. The doors slid open, revealing the sterile hallway of the upper floors.

Jason stepped out first, his stride long and purposeful, already turning down the corridor before she could answer. “You’re reading into it.”

She followed, silent, her shoulders tight against the fabric of her blazer, watching his retreating back with a gaze that felt dangerously close to scrutiny.

From the shadows of the corridor, Natasha watched them separate. Jason was striding ahead, confident and oblivious. Y/N trailed by a half-step, her body language defensive, her shoulders tight as if bracing for impact. Natasha stood rooted to the spot, filing the moment away, cataloging the distance between them, the tension in Y/N’s spine. It was a small crack, barely visible, but it was there. ___ Clint cornered Natasha later that night, back in the quiet, dimly lit common area where the hum of the ventilation system was the only other sound.

“I don’t like him,” he said without preamble, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture defensive.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “You’ve mentioned.”

“He makes comments,” Clint continued, his voice low, rough with frustration. “Little ones. About her job. About me.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, mirroring his stance, arms crossed. “She defends him.”

“I know,” Clint said, his jaw clenching. “That’s what scares me.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for the lie she knew wasn't there. “She doesn’t need saving.”

Clint’s jaw tightened further. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t being hurt.”

Natasha didn’t disagree. She knew the language of emotional erosion better than anyone. The cracks didn't always scream for attention; sometimes they widened slowly, imperceptibly, until the structure underneath was compromised. ___ The atmosphere in their shared apartment grew brittle, thin enough to snap. Jason became colder in private, his patience evaporating under the weight of the long hours Y/N was keeping. The criticism grew sharper, more frequent. It was a slow erosion of the easy camaraderie they’d once shared.

“You’re always working,” he snapped one night when she canceled dinner, again, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. “Do you even want a life outside that office?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Y/N replied, her voice raw with exhaustion. She was tired of fighting, tired of explaining.

“You always have a choice,” he countered, his tone sharp, cutting. “You just don’t make me the choice.”

She swallowed the urge to argue, the words dying in her throat. It was a familiar dynamic, one that existed in a fractured reality. At work, Jason was flawless. He was supportive, the proud partner who stood beside her, basking in her successes. But at home, the affection became conditional, a reward for good behavior that was increasingly difficult to earn.

Natasha noticed the subtle shifts first. The way Y/N flinched when her phone buzzed in the middle of the night, as if the vibration were a physical blow. The way she checked her messages before responding to anyone else, a habit of constant vigilance. The way she started explaining her schedule, her reasoning, her justification before a question was even asked, as if she was already preemptively apologizing for her existence.

“You don’t have to justify your schedule to me,” Natasha said once, her voice gentle but firm, cutting through the fog.

Y/N blinked, startled. “I wasn’t-”

“I know,” Natasha replied, her gaze steady. “I’m just saying.”

Something else shifted in Y/N after that, though the change wasn't dramatic. It was a subtle realignment, a recalibration of her boundaries. The late nights continued, the relentless march of strategic planning, but Natasha was there to pick up the slack. She waited when Jason didn’t. She matched Y/N’s pace through the corridors of the complex, through the long conversations, through the comfortable silences. She never rushed her, never pushed, simply existing in the same space as a silent anchor.

One night, as they packed up after another endless session that had bled into the early morning, Y/N paused by the door, her hand lingering on the handle. She looked back at Natasha, her expression hesitant, vulnerable.

“Do you ever think,” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the equipment, “that people only see what they want to see?”

Natasha met her gaze, her expression unreadable but sincere. “All the time.”

Y/N nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders releasing just a fraction. It was a small admission, but it felt like the answer to a question she hadn’t known how to ask. ___ The following week, Jason missed something fundamental, something that should have been a given. It was a date etched into the calendar that he brushed off with a distracted apology and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Natasha didn't miss anything. She was there, silent and steady, bringing coffee when Y/N needed the caffeine hit, offering the kind of presence that required nothing in return.

Somewhere between the quiet and the waiting, the awareness took root. It wasn't a loud, explosive realization, nor was it a sudden, dramatic epiphany. It was something quieter, more insidious, settling deep in the marrow of her bones. It was undeniable. Natasha saw it before Y/N did, and once she saw it, she didn't look away.

By the time the Vienna briefing rolled around, Y/N was running on caffeine, precision, and muscle memory. The mission itself wasn't the problem; extraction from a hostile NGO front operating as an intelligence laundering hub was messy, but manageable. The real complication was visibility. There were too many eyes, too many egos, too many people who wanted credit without accountability. It was a perfect storm of political friction.

She stood at the head of the table again, hands braced lightly against the glass surface, holographic overlays cycling through contingencies with hypnotic smoothness. Her voice didn't waver as she laid out the parameters, tight windows, hard abort lines, layered redundancies designed to keep the team breathing.

Jason sat two seats down from her this time. Close enough to be involved, far enough to make a point. He watched her with that easy, confident smile, the one that usually signaled he was already winning the argument before it started.

“Operational authority remains centralized,” Y/N concluded, her voice firm. “Any deviation requires clearance through Strategic Ops. That’s non-negotiable.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the room, a collective breath of relief at the structure.

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Just to clarify,” he said smoothly, his tone conversational, “field leads will still have discretion if circumstances change in real time, correct?”

Y/N met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “Within the parameters outlined.”

“Right,” he said, nodding as if satisfied. “I just don’t want us handcuffing the team with too much top-down oversight.”

There it was. Not a direct challenge, not outright defiance, but a suggestion wrapped in the language of partnership. It was a subtle shift in the room, a few people glancing at Jason, then back at Y/N, weighing the merit of his words against the safety of hers.

She kept her expression neutral, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the table. “Oversight keeps people alive.”

“Of course,” Jason replied, his smile widening just a fraction. “But flexibility wins wars.”

Natasha, seated along the wall with her chair tipped back on two legs, let it settle for exactly three seconds. She didn't look at Y/N, didn't look at Jason. She just watched the air between them, waiting.

Then she spoke. “Flexibility without accountability gets people killed.”

Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the hum of the room like a knife.

Jason turned toward her, eyebrows lifting in feigned surprise. “I wasn’t aware you were part of Strategic Ops now.”

“I’m not,” Natasha said calmly. She leaned forward just enough to rest her forearms on her thighs, her posture open but challenging. “I’m part of the teams that clean up when strategy gets sloppy.”

The air went thin. Y/N felt her pulse spike, not with fear, but with a sudden, electric awareness. This was different. Natasha wasn't just backing her up; she was drawing a line in the sand, staking a claim.

Jason smiled, tight around the edges. “I think that’s a bit dramatic.”

Natasha’s gaze didn't waver. She held his eyes, unblinking. “I think you’re confusing confidence with competence.”

A few people in the room sucked in quiet breaths, the tension palpable.

Jason laughed once, sharp and short. “Excuse me?”

“You’re advocating for field autonomy without acknowledging the intel gaps,” Natasha continued, unruffled, her voice steady. “That’s not strategy. That’s ego.”

Y/N raised a hand, instinctively, to interject, to smooth things over. “Nat-”

But Natasha didn’t look at her. She was locked onto Jason, her focus absolute.

“And since we’re clarifying things,” Natasha added, her voice dropping an octave, “Director Barton’s framework already accounts for adaptive response. You’d know that if you’d read the full brief instead of skimming for talking points.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Jason’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.

“That’s out of line,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.

“No,” Natasha said, her tone mild, almost conversational. “This is.”

She turned then, finally, to Y/N. Her expression was soft, almost apologetic, but her eyes were fierce.

“Your call is sound,” she said. “And if anyone has an issue with it, they can take it up with Fury.”

She leaned back in her chair again, the conversation over.

Y/N felt something electric hum through her chest, a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee she’d been drinking all morning. It wasn't triumph. It wasn't relief. It was validation. She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“We’re proceeding as outlined.”

No one argued. The meeting ended ten minutes early.

___ Jason didn't speak to her as everyone filed out. He didn't reach out to touch her arm, didn't lean in for one of those familiar, intimate half-whispers, didn't offer that easy, practiced smile. He just waited. The corridor was empty at this late hour, the low hum of the overhead lights the only sound in the vast, sterile space. Jason stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides. He looked controlled, like a man who was holding himself together by a thread, but the thread wasn't snapping. It was coiled.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, the words barely audible over the hum of the lights.

"You reframed my authority in front of a room full of agents," Y/N replied evenly, keeping her hands in her pockets.

He scoffed, a sharp, derisive sound. "I was trying to help."

"You were trying to control the narrative."

Jason’s eyes flashed, a dangerous glint in the dim light. "You let her disrespect me."

"She corrected you," Y/N said. "In front of everyone."

His tone carried a venom that was lower now, edged with something she only ever heard behind closed doors, in the quiet moments when the mask slipped. "You shouldn’t have put me in that position."

He took a step closer. Not abrupt. Deliberate. Calculated.

"You're overreacting," he said. "Natasha crossed a line."

"She corrected bad intel."

His voice dropped, rougher. "You're choosing her over me now?"

The words landed heavier than she expected, like a physical blow to her stomach. "I'm choosing the mission," she said.

Jason laughed, a humorless, bitter sound. "Funny. Because it feels like you're enjoying having a pit bull fight your battles."

Something cold settled in her stomach, cold and sharp. "She didn't fight my battle," Y/N said.

"She told the truth."

Jason stepped closer. Not touching. Looming just enough to remind her of the space he occupied, to make her feel small.

Jason smiled then, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're enjoying this."

Y/N frowned. "Enjoying what?"

Another step closer. The distance between them shrank to something uncomfortable, a barrier she couldn't cross without brushing against him. "Makes you feel protected."

Her pulse ticked up, a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "I don't need protecting."

"I know," he said softly, the tone patronizing, like he was speaking to a child. "You hate when people think you do."

He stopped directly in front of her now. Too close. Not touching, but close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact, a reflex to maintain distance. Close enough that the air felt different, thinner, harder to breathe.

"Don't do that again," he said. "Do what?" She asked calmly. 

"Let her talk over me."

His voice dropped. "Let her disrespect me."

"She wasn't-"

Jason leaned in further, she could smell his expensive cologne, feel the heat radiating off him. It wasn't a kiss. Not intimacy. It was almost aggressive, a territorial display.

"You made me look small," he said quietly. "In front of people who already think I'm not important."

Her stomach dropped, a sickening lurch. His gaze hardened. "I believe you forget how lucky you are sometimes."

Lucky. The word tasted like ash in her mouth. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

"I earned my position," she said.

"At work," Jason replied smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with disdain. "Yes."

The word hung there, ugly and deliberate. He was blocking the corridor without touching her. Not technically trapping her, but the geometry of the space had shifted, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how little space there was to move without brushing past him, of how trapped she felt.

"You don't need her," he continued. "You don't need anyone whispering in your ear, making you question things that work."

"What works?" she asked.

Us, he meant. She saw it now. The expectation. The ownership disguised as concern. The invisible leash.

The door behind them slid open. Soft. Unassuming. Natasha stepped into the corridor, carrying a datapad, her expression neutral, unreadable.

She took in the scene in less than a second. The distance between Jason and Y/N. The angle of Jason's body, aggressive and closed off. The way Y/N's shoulders were tight and squared, her body language braced for impact. Natasha didn't blink. She didn't react.

Jason stepped back immediately. The pressure vanished so fast it almost felt unreal, the air in the corridor suddenly breathable again.

"Everything okay?" Natasha asked.

Jason turned, his expression already rearranging, shifting into the mask of the professional. "Of course. Just a professional disagreement."

Natasha didn't look at him. She looked at Y/N, her gaze searching, assessing.

Y/N didn't speak. Didn't have to.

Natasha's voice was calm when she spoke, devoid of heat. "No one should be overstepping your command."

The words landed like a blade between ribs, sharp and precise.

Jason laughed once, sharp and short. "Excuse me?"

Natasha finally met his gaze. She stepped forward, not aggressively, not defensively. She met him on equal footing, her posture open.

"You don't get to stand over her and call it concern," Natasha said. "And you don't get to weaponize her position against her."

Jason's face flushed, a red tide rising up his neck. "This is none of your business."

"It is now," Natasha responded calmly, her voice unwavering.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Y/N realized something then, something that scared her more than Jason ever had. She wasn't defending him. She wasn't explaining. She wasn't smoothing things over. She just stood there. And Natasha stayed.

Jason stormed off, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, fading into the distance.

Natasha waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps was completely gone before turning back to Y/N. She didn't reach for her. Didn't crowd her. She just stood there, a silent sentinel.

"You okay?" she asked.

Y/N nodded automatically, a reflex. Then she paused, the movement slowing. She shook her head. "I don't know."

Natasha didn't offer platitudes. She just stayed.

"You don't have to decide anything right now," she said. "But you should know..."

She hesitated, just a fraction, her eyes searching Y/N's face. "That wasn't normal."

Y/N swallowed hard, the knot in her throat tightening. "He's under a lot of pressure."

"So are you."

Y/N laughed weakly, a hollow sound. "That's different."

Natasha studied her, her expression unreadable. "Why?"

Y/N didn't have an answer. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

That night, Y/N lay awake replaying the meeting in her head. Jason’s tone. Natasha’s voice. The way the room had gone still, not because of conflict, but because of clarity. She realized, with a start, that Natasha hadn't raised her voice once. She hadn't apologized. She hadn't checked for approval. She hadn't tried to placate. She'd simply… corrected him. And no one had questioned it. ___ The next morning, Clint found her in the gym. She was working the heavy bag like it had personally offended her, precision strikes with no wasted movement, her breath measured even as sweat slicked her temples. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her for a while before speaking.

“You know,” he said mildly, “most people deal with relationship stress by stress-eating.”

She didn’t stop. She just kept driving her fists into the leather, the rhythm steady and punishing.

“Go away.”

“See, that right there?” He nodded toward the bag. “That’s how I know I should stay out of it.”

She finally paused, forehead resting briefly against the leather, her chest heaving. “You don’t get to comment.”

“I get to worry,” Clint said. Then, softer, “I just don’t get to interfere.”

She straightened, rolling her shoulders, the tension in her spine slowly uncoiling. “Good.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I will. Just… be careful.”

She nodded, her throat tight, the words catching in her chest.

As Clint turned to leave, he added over his shoulder, “For the record? You’re terrifying when you stop trying to be nice. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of that.”

A corner of her mouth twitched despite herself, a ghost of a smile.

Natasha watched them through the glass, her expression unreadable. But her decision was already crystallizing. She wasn’t imagining it, she wasn’t overstepping. And she wasn’t wrong. Jason thought power was something you held over people. Natasha knew better. Power was knowing exactly when to step in, and when to take what someone else didn’t know how to keep.

The thing about reputations was that they didn’t need defending, they defended themselves. ___

Jason’s reputation was his greatest weapon, a carefully curated armor of charisma that he wore like a second skin. Y/N watched it happen in real time, the way people leaned toward him in conversation, how his smile softened tension before it could ever crystallize into conflict. He remembered names. He remembered birthdays. He made jokes that landed without ever punching down. He thanked people publicly and corrected them privately, if at all. He was careful. Precise.

Which meant that when Y/N began to feel like she was drowning, suffocating under the weight of her own performance, it was easy to believe the problem was her. That she was the leak in the system, the one person who couldn't quite hold it together.

It started small, insidious. A hand at her lower back that lingered just long enough to steer instead of reassure, a guiding hand that moved her when she was already moving. A glance when she spoke too long in meetings, subtle but pointed, like a reminder that she was taking up space that others might want. Comments framed as concern.

"You've been sharp lately."

"People are starting to notice."

"I just don't want anyone getting the wrong idea."

She adjusted. Of course she did. She always had. Y/N learned early how to calibrate herself to a room, how to project authority without arrogance, decisiveness without cruelty. As Director of Strategic Operations, that balance was survival. Too soft and people ignored you. Too hard and they resented you. Jason knew that. Which meant he knew exactly how to frame his criticism so it sounded like help.

"You don't have to prove anything," he told her one night as she worked through yet another contingency tree at their kitchen table. His voice was warm, casual, the kind of tone that invited relaxation rather than scrutiny. He leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching her with something like fond amusement.

"I'm not," she said without looking up, her eyes glued to the holographic display.

He smiled. "You always say that."

Her jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath her skin. "Because it's true."

"Sure," Jason replied easily, his tone breezy. "I just worry you're pushing too hard. You've already got the job. You don't need to be... on all the time."

On all the time. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

She glanced up then, catching the faint edge beneath the words, the resentment that he hid so well. "Strategic Ops doesn't turn off."

"I know," he said quickly, his smile faltering for a split second before he recovered. "I just mean, sometimes it feels like you forget there's a world outside that office."

Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten, a sudden, sharp pressure behind her ribs. "And what," she asked, carefully, her voice measured, "would that world look like?"

Jason shrugged. "Normal. Dinner plans. Showing up to things without checking your phone every five minutes."

Her fingers stilled over the tablet, the holographic display flickering as she stopped typing. "You mean like the Vienna briefing?" she asked.

He hesitated. Just a fraction too long. A pause that felt like a lie.

"That was different."

"It was an international operation," Y/N said evenly, her voice losing its edge. "You wanted visibility. I needed focus."

"And you got both," he replied, his smile sharpening, the arrogance returning. "Thanks to Natasha."

There it was. Not an accusation. Not jealousy. Just enough emphasis to make her feel like she'd missed something important, like she was the only one who didn't understand the stakes.

"I didn't ask her to step in," Y/N said, her voice low.

"I know," Jason replied. "That's kind of the point."

She closed her tablet with more force than necessary, the plastic casing clicking against the table. "What are you saying?"

Jason held up his hands, a gesture of surrender that looked rehearsed. "I'm not saying anything. I just... people talk."

Her stomach dropped, a cold pit opening in her gut. "Who?"

"No one important," he said quickly, his eyes darting away. "It's just... optics matter. Especially for you."

For you. Not us.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted, the weight of the conversation pressing down on her shoulders. "Natasha is a colleague."

"Natasha is a wildcard," Jason corrected gently, his tone shifting to something more conspiratorial. "You know her reputation."

Y/N did. Natasha Romanoff was brilliant, lethal, loyal to those she chose. Her history was a tangle of redacted files and whispered stories, a woman who had walked through fire and come out the other side. She was trusted with missions no one else could touch, the one person who could be counted on when everyone else had failed.

Jason's voice softened further, the concern turning into something that felt like a warning. "I just don't want you getting caught in the fallout if she decides to... complicate things, or change sides... again."

Y/N studied his face. Open. Concerned. Perfect.

"You're worried about me," she said slowly, the words heavy in her mouth.

"Of course I am," Jason replied, stepping closer. He brushed a kiss against her temple, a gesture of intimacy that felt performative, a way of sealing a deal. "That's my job."

She let herself lean into it, closing her eyes for a moment, the warmth of his breath against her skin. Because it was easier than asking why his concern felt so much like a warning. ___ At work, Natasha noticed the shift before Y/N did. She always did. It was in the way Y/N began arriving earlier and staying later, not out of urgency or ambition, but out of avoidance. She was retreating into the fortress of Strategic Ops, building walls that weren't necessary, trying to make herself scarce. It was in the way Y/N paused before speaking in meetings, as if running her words through an internal filter that hadn't been there before, testing them for bite, for sharpness, for anything that might provoke a reaction.

She stopped correcting people. Not because she didn't see the mistakes, but because she’d started picking her battles, conserving her energy for the things that actually mattered. Jason filled the silence. He stepped into the gaps with practiced ease, a man who knew the architecture of power better than he knew his own name. He reframed Y/N’s directives as collaborative suggestions, positioning himself as the intermediary when there hadn't been a need for one, smoothing over the rough edges of her authority until it was unrecognizable. He praised her decisions while subtly distancing himself from their consequences, acting as the buffer between her genius and the fallout of reality.

“She prefers a conservative approach,” he’d say with a fond, almost patronizing smile, the kind of smile that said he was indulging a child. “Keeps us all alive.”

It sounded supportive. It felt diminishing. Natasha watched Y/N accept it, and that was the part that bothered her most. She was letting him rewrite the narrative without a fight.

In one briefing, Fury questioned a delayed deployment, nothing sharp, just a raised eyebrow and a simple, “Walk me through your thinking.” Y/N opened her mouth to respond, to explain the calculus, the risk assessment, the hard choices. Jason beat her to it.

“She didn’t want to risk civilian exposure,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with feigned concern. “Which I understand, even if I might’ve pushed harder.”

Y/N froze. She was a woman of action, a woman who made decisions and stood by them, but for a split second, she looked like a child caught in a lie. She recovered quickly, she always did, masking the flicker with a nod, but Natasha saw the way Y/N’s fingers tightened against the table edge, white-knuckled and desperate. She nodded instead of correcting him, swallowing her own voice.

Natasha said nothing. Not yet. She watched the dynamic play out, the way Jason was slowly eroding her confidence, bit by bit.

Afterward, Clint found her leaning against the corridor wall, arms crossed, her gaze distant, fixed on nothing but the hum of the lights. “You’re going to burn a hole through the building if you keep glaring like that,” he muttered.

Natasha didn’t look at him. “He’s isolating her.”

Clint exhaled slowly, a long, ragged sound. “I know.”

“You’re not stopping him.”

“I can’t,” Clint replied, his voice quiet. “She hasn’t asked.”

Natasha turned then, her eyes sharp, cutting through the dim light. “You think she will?”

Clint didn’t answer. That was answer enough. ___ Y/N didn’t tell Clint about the argument. Or the next one. Or the one after that. They followed a pattern, quiet at first, then sharper, always ending with Jason pulling back just enough to make her doubt herself, to make her wonder if she was the one who was broken.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“You’re imagining intent where there isn’t any.”

“You know how this sounds, right?”

Each time, Y/N found herself explaining. Clarifying. Apologizing for reactions she couldn’t quite justify, for emotions she couldn’t control. She stopped mentioning Natasha unless necessary. Stopped staying late when Jason said he’d be waiting. Stopped correcting him in public altogether.

Natasha noticed.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said one night as they walked through the compound parking structure, footsteps echoing between concrete pillars, the air cool and stale.

“Do what?” Y/N asked.

“Make yourself smaller,” Natasha replied.

Y/N let out a tired, humorless laugh. “I’m not.”

Natasha didn’t argue. She rarely did. But she adjusted her pace, slowed just enough that Y/N didn’t have to rush. Matched her stride instead of leading. It was a subtle shift in the geometry of their walk, a silent concession to the weight on Y/N’s shoulders. Jason didn’t match. He set the pace and expected her to keep up, regardless of the cost. ___ The fundraiser was Fury’s idea. Good optics. Donors. Diplomats. A reminder that the Avengers were still symbols, not just weapons. Jason thrived. He wore a tailored suit that fit like armor, his charm polished to a blinding sheen. His hand was warm and steady at Y/N’s back as he guided her through conversations she’d rather avoid, steering her through the social minefield with practiced ease.

He introduced her as Director Barton, brilliant and tireless, the backbone of Strategic Operations. People smiled. Complimented. Praised. Y/N smiled back, her expression a mask of gratitude, her eyes scanning the room for an exit.

From across the room, Natasha watched. She didn’t approach. Didn’t interrupt. She saw the way Jason angled Y/N slightly away from anyone who asked too many questions, how he answered for her when conversations veered toward strategy, how he laughed lightly when she tried to redirect.

“She’s always working,” he’d say fondly, his voice warm and intimate. “Even now.”

It sounded affectionate. It felt like a cage.

At one point, Y/N excused herself to the bar under the pretense of grabbing drinks. Jason let her go with a kiss, with a smile, with eyes that tracked her movement until she disappeared into the crowd, a possessive gaze that made her skin crawl.

Natasha met her there.

“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Natasha said quietly.

Y/N accepted the glass Natasha slid toward her without comment, the ice clinking against the crystal.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me,” Natasha replied.

Y/N took a sip. “He’s just… very good at this.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, her voice devoid of judgment. “He is.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the room swelling around them, a cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses. “You know,” Y/N said finally, her voice barely audible over the din. “Everyone loves him.”

Natasha’s gaze didn’t waver. “Everyone loves the version he shows them.”

Y/N’s grip tightened on the glass, her knuckles turning white. “That’s not fair.”

“Is it inaccurate?” Natasha asked gently.

Y/N didn’t answer.

Jason appeared moments later, his arm sliding around Y/N’s waist, his touch possessive and warm. “There you are,” he said warmly, his eyes never leaving her face. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”

She stiffened just slightly, a reflex she couldn't quite suppress. Natasha clocked it.

“Director Barton was just catching her breath,” Natasha said evenly, her tone polite but firm. “These things can be… a lot.”

Jason smiled at her, a tight, practiced expression. “She handles pressure better than anyone.”

Y/N forced a smile and Natasha stepped back. Because this wasn’t her move to make. Not yet.

The control tightened after that. Jason began framing his expectations as sacrifices. “I stayed late for you.” “I turned down that assignment because I knew you’d worry.” “I don’t say anything when people assume things, I protect you.”

Protect. The word sat heavy in Y/N’s chest, a leaden weight that made it hard to breathe. She found herself editing conversations before they happened, preemptively smoothing edges so Jason wouldn’t bristle. She stopped venting. Stopped sharing doubts.

Natasha noticed when Y/N started checking her phone before responding to questions, the habit of waiting for permission to speak.

“You don’t owe me or anyone an explanation,” Natasha said quietly one night as they wrapped up a briefing, the holographic displays fading into darkness.

Y/N blinked, startled. “I wasn’t-”

“I know,” Natasha replied, her gaze softening. “I’m just saying.”

The silence that followed was thick with things unsaid, a heavy, suffocating blanket that Clint watched with a helpless kind of fury. He saw the way Y/N’s laughter dulled, the way she scanned rooms instinctively before speaking, the way Jason’s presence filled space even when he wasn’t talking, a physical weight that seemed to push everyone else away.

He said nothing. Because Y/N hadn’t asked, and because Natasha was already standing closer than he ever could. ___ The night Jason accused her of being “too close” to Natasha, it was almost casual. They were brushing their teeth, the mirror fogged with steam, the air in the small bathroom heavy with unspoken things.

“People notice things,” Jason said, mouth full of toothpaste, his voice muffled.

Y/N froze, the toothbrush hovering halfway to her mouth.

“What things?”

“You and her,” he replied, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “Late nights. Private conversations.”

“We work together,” Y/N said, her voice tight.

“So do I,” Jason replied, spitting into the sink and wiping his mouth with a towel. “But I don’t hover.”

She turned to face him, wiping the foam from her lips. “Is this about jealousy?”

Jason laughed, a short, dismissive sound. “No. It’s about professionalism.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp, physical reaction to the dismissal. “You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you,” he said quickly, his eyes flickering with something like genuine panic. “I just don’t trust her.”

The words echoed in the small space, sharp and final. That night, Y/N lay awake long after Jason fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the ventilation the only sound. She thought about Natasha’s steady presence, the way she had walked into that corridor and stood her ground. She thought about Clint’s quiet concern. The way she’d started holding her breath without even realizing it, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the first time, she wondered, what if this wasn’t normal? What if she was just imagining things?

At the compound, Natasha Romanoff stood alone on the balcony, staring out at the sprawling city lights below, her jaw set. She didn’t want to interfere. She didn’t want to push. But watching Y/N disappear piece by piece, becoming smaller and smaller in the mirror, felt like complicity. Jason thought he was perfect. Everyone else thought so too. Natasha knew better, and she was running out of patience. ___ The crisis hit at 02:17. It wasn’t the kind that made headlines. No explosions. No alarms blaring through the compound. Just a red notification blinking to life on Y/N’s tablet as she sat alone in Strategic Ops, shoes kicked off beneath her desk, jacket draped over the back of her chair.

Vienna had gone sideways. Not catastrophic, yet, but one of the extraction teams had lost comms for ninety seconds longer than projected, and ninety seconds was an eternity when the margin for error was already razor-thin.

Y/N was on her feet instantly. She snapped orders into the comm channel, fingers flying over the console as she rerouted satellite bandwidth and pulled up contingency feeds. Her mind narrowed, sharpened, this was the part of the job she trusted herself in completely. This was where she never hesitated. This was the only time she felt truly alive.

“Ops, this is Director Barton,” she said calmly, her voice cutting through the static. “Switch to secondary relay. Vienna Team Three, report status.”

Static crackled. Then, “Copy, Director. We’re pinned but mobile. No casualties.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “Hold position. Don’t push. We’re adjusting extraction.”

She pivoted toward the main display, already recalculating windows. Jason was supposed to be here. He’d said he’d come by after his briefing, said he wanted to be present, wanted to support her during the Vienna operation because he knew how much scrutiny it was under. She didn't think about that now. She didn't have time. She was too busy keeping the world from falling apart.

“Natasha Romanoff,” she said into the open channel. “Status.”

“South bay, cleared.”

Natasha replied immediately. “Where do you need me?”

No delay. No clarification needed. Y/N gave coordinates and parameters, voice steady even as the pressure mounted, the numbers flashing red on the screens around her. Natasha acknowledged and moved, efficient, precise, exactly as she always was, a ghost in the machine, a force of nature that simply was.

The operation stabilized over the next forty minutes. Not cleanly. Not easily. But no one died. By the time Y/N leaned back against her desk, adrenaline bleeding off in slow waves, her hands were shaking, the tremors a physical reminder of the toll.

She checked her phone then. No messages. She stared at the screen longer than she meant to, the silence of the empty room pressing in on her.

At 03:11, the door to Strategic Ops opened. Y/N looked up automatically, relief spiking before she could stop herself, a reflex of hope she couldn't quite suppress.

It wasn’t Jason.

Natasha stepped inside, hair still damp from rain or sweat, jacket half-zipped, eyes already scanning Y/N’s posture, her face, looking for the cracks.

“You good?” Natasha asked.

Y/N swallowed, the knot in her throat tight. “Extraction’s secure.”

“I know,” Natasha replied, her voice low and steady. “I meant you.”

Y/N hesitated, the words caught in her throat. Then nodded. “I’m fine.”

Natasha studied her for a long moment, her gaze searching, looking for the lie she knew was there. She didn’t call her out. She didn’t push. She crossed the room instead and leaned back against the desk, close enough to be grounding without crowding, a silent anchor in the chaos.

“You ran it clean,” Natasha said. “Vienna could’ve been ugly.”

Y/N let out a tired breath, the sound of a woman finally letting herself exhale. “It almost was.”

“But it wasn’t,” Natasha replied, her voice gentle but firm. “Because you planned for that.”

The words landed gently, but they landed, a truth she hadn't allowed herself to feel. Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of the room lifting just a fraction.

Jason still hadn’t shown. ___ The chime of the incoming text was a sliver of light in the oppressive dark of 03:38. It illuminated Y/N’s face, stark and pale, as she read the message once.

Sorry, got pulled into something last-minute. You okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.

She read it again. The words didn’t change, but their weight seemed to double, pressing down on her chest. A third time, as if repetition might unlock some hidden meaning, some reassurance that wasn’t there. Her thumb hovered over the glowing keyboard, typing and deleting a response that felt hollow before it was even sent. It didn’t matter what she said. The finality of that thought settled in her bones. With a soft click, she set the phone face down, extinguishing the last bit of light in the room and surrendering to the heavy quiet.

Across the desk, Natasha watched the entire performance without a word. She didn’t offer any comments or ask who it was. Instead, she unfolded herself from her chair with a fluid grace that seemed out of place in the stillness of the room. The soft tread of her boots was the only sound as she moved toward the small kitchenette. When she returned, it was with the crisp crinkle of a plastic bottle. She pressed the cold water into Y/N’s unresisting hand.

“Drink,” she said, her voice a low murmur that was both command and comfort.

Y/N obeyed, the cool liquid a welcome shock against her dry throat. The silence that followed was not empty or awkward; it was a dense, protective blanket, woven from shared understanding and unspoken history.

“I didn’t think it would hit like this,” Y/N confessed, the words barely disturbing the air.

Natasha leaned a hip against the edge of the desk, her posture deceptively casual. “What?”

“The waiting.” Y/N’s gaze was fixed on the bottle in her hands, tracing the condensation with a fingertip. “I keep telling myself it’s part of the job. That things come up. That I shouldn’t expect…” Her jaw tightened, cutting off the word before it could fully form. “Anything.”

Natasha didn’t rush to fill the pause. She let the silence stretch, giving Y/N the space to voice the ache that had clearly been festering.

“You don’t ask for much,” Natasha said, her tone even, certain.

A weak, humorless laugh escaped Y/N’s lips. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Natasha countered, her voice leaving no room for argument. “You just don’t see it.”

Y/N finally looked up, meeting Natasha’s gaze. Her friend’s expression was carefully composed, a mask of professional calm, but beneath it, something had shifted. A resolve had hardened in her eyes, a sharpness that was both reassuring and slightly dangerous.

“You stayed,” Y/N whispered, the realization landing with the force of a revelation.

Natasha gave a single, decisive nod. “I said I would.”

“You always do.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible promise. “I do.” ___ The anniversary came three days later, and Jason missed it. Y/N understood the nature of the oversight the moment she stood alone in their apartment, a phantom in the dress she’d bought weeks ago for a dinner that existed only in her mind. The reservation time bled into the past, each minute a small, sharp betrayal. At twenty past, she called his phone, only to be met with the cool, impersonal void of his voicemail. At thirty-five past, a text lit up her screen.

Running late. Don’t wait up. Rain check?

Rain check. The words were a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there, and the feeling that flooded her chest wasn’t anger, but something colder, something hollow. She stared at her reflection in the darkened window, at a woman who looked exactly as she always did: composed, capable, alone. She shed the dress without ceremony, a ritual devoid of passion. There were no tears, no shattered glass, only the quiet methodical act of returning to work.

Strategic Ops was a sanctuary of dimmed lights and hushed efficiency when she arrived. She let herself into her office, the door clicking shut behind her, and sank into her chair, her gaze lost in the sprawling galaxy of the city beyond the glass. She didn’t know how long she sat adrift in that quiet sea before the knock came, a soft, precise rap on the door.

“Come in,” she said, her voice on autopilot.

Natasha stepped inside, her presence an immediate anchor. Y/N didn’t ask how she knew to find her; she never did.

“You should be home,” Y/N said, the words sounding thin even to her own ears.

Natasha closed the door, sealing them in. “So should you.”

A brittle laugh escaped Y/N. “Guess we both missed the memo.”

Natasha crossed the room, stopping a careful few feet away, a space that was neither intrusive nor distant. “You don’t have to justify why you’re here,” she said, her voice level.

Y/N swallowed against the knot in her throat. “I didn’t want to be alone.” The admission felt like a fissure cracking open her carefully constructed facade.

Natasha didn’t flinch from the rawness of it. “Okay,” she said simply. She moved to the chair opposite Y/N’s desk and sat, her forearms resting loosely on her thighs, a portrait of unwavering calm. “I’m not going anywhere,” she added.

Something in Y/N’s chest, a dam she hadn’t known she was holding back, finally gave way. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, regulating her breath with a precision born of long practice. “This isn’t fair,” she whispered. “To you.”

Natasha tilted her head, a gesture of quiet consideration. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You don’t owe me this,” Y/N pressed, the guilt a sour taste.

“I know,” Natasha replied, her gaze unwavering. “I’m choosing it.”

That word again. Choosing. Y/N looked at her then, truly looked, past the mask of the spy and the friend, to the woman underneath. She saw the calm certainty in her posture, the way she didn’t demand or expect, the way her presence felt like space to breathe, not a weight to bear. Jason made her feel like a problem to be managed. Natasha made her feel like a person who could simply exist.

They stayed like that for a long time, two figures in a silent room, sharing nothing but the air.

The final blow was struck not in the quiet of their home, but in the sterile light of a briefing room. It was a critical debrief Y/N had scheduled for weeks, with oversight and external observers watching their every move. It went live without Jason. He was late. Again. Y/N adjusted on the fly, her voice a steady current as she took questions and fielded concerns, holding the room with the same unshakeable competence that was her signature.

When Jason finally slipped in fifteen minutes late, rain-spattered and flashing an apologetic grin, the atmosphere in the room shifted palpably.

“Oh, good,” one of the observers muttered, a note of relief in his voice. “He’s here.”

Jason offered that easy, disarming smile. “Sorry, traffic.”

Y/N didn’t spare him a glance. She didn’t have the time.

When the meeting adjourned, Jason caught up to her in the hallway, his fingers closing around her elbow. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft, placating. “You could’ve texted.”

Her patience didn’t shatter. It snapped, cleanly and without warning. “I did,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection.

Jason blinked. “What?”

“Last night,” Y/N replied, still walking. “And the night before that. And Vienna.”

His smile finally faltered. “Y/N…”

“No,” she said, stopping and turning to face him. Her voice was as steady as her hands. “I don’t need excuses.”

His jaw tightened, a familiar prelude to a defense. “I had things going on.”

“So did I,” she replied, her gaze level.

He scoffed, a light, dismissive sound. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

And in that moment, something inside her went very still. It wasn’t a realization; it was a fact, settling into its final, undeniable shape. He would never be there. Not in the way she needed. And he would always, always, make that her fault.

Jason reached for her again, his expression shifting to one of placating command. “Let’s not do this here.”

“We’re not doing anything,” Y/N said. She took a deliberate step back, breaking the circuit between them.

From down the corridor, Natasha stood in the shadow of an alcove, watching. Not intervening. Just witnessing.

That was the moment Natasha decided. Not because Y/N was breaking, but because she was finally, clearly, seeing. ___ Natasha did not move with haste. She moved with intent, a quiet, steady recalibration. She made sure she was present, not as a shadow, but as a fixture. She waited outside debriefings, walked Y/N to her car, stayed when Jason didn’t. There was no campaign of disparagement, no pressure for a confession. She simply allowed the void of Jason’s absence to fill itself with the solid fact of her own presence.

One night, after a shift that had stretched into eternity, Y/N slumped into the chair beside Natasha in the empty briefing room, exhaustion carved into the very lines of her posture.

“I keep expecting him to show up,” she admitted, her voice thin. “And then he doesn’t. And I don’t know why that still surprises me.”

Natasha’s voice was a low hum in the quiet room. “Because you care.”

Y/N gave a slow, weary nod. “I think I always will. A little.”

“That’s allowed,” Natasha said.

Y/N turned to look at her. “And you?”

Natasha didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was a steady, unwavering line. “I’m not waiting for him to be better.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Natasha met her gaze, her own clear and direct. “I’m not asking you to choose me,” she continued. “I’m choosing you.”

The words settled between them, dangerous in their honesty, irrevocable in their finality. There were no promises, no pressure. Only truth. Y/N didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. For the first time in a long time, someone had said exactly what they meant and stayed. And Natasha Romanoff, having made her decision, did not intend to lose. Not this time.

The fight didn’t begin with a shout, but with a silence. Jason didn’t come home that night. Y/N didn’t text him. That was new. She sat alone at the kitchen table long after midnight, Strategic Ops files abandoned in favor of the steady, grounding weight of stillness. Her phone lay face up beside her, unlit, unmoving. For the first time, the quiet didn’t feel like waiting. It felt like space.

He arrived just after one. There was no apology, no disarming smile. The door shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the apartment like a full stop.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said.

Y/N looked up slowly. “You didn’t ask anything.”

Jason tossed his jacket onto the counter, his movements sharp, agitated. “I texted you.”

“You told me you’d be late,” she replied evenly. “Again.”

His jaw flexed. “That’s not the point.”

She stood, pushing her chair back with deliberate calm. “Then what is?”

Jason laughed once, a short, incredulous sound. “You’ve been different.”

Y/N folded her arms. “I’ve been paying attention.”

His eyes narrowed. “To her.”

There it was. The accusation, finally unmasked.

“This isn’t about Natasha,” Y/N said.

Jason took a step closer. “Everything is about her lately.”

She didn’t retreat. “That’s not true.”

“You’re lying,” he snapped. “To me. To yourself.”

The volume rose then, not quite a yell, but sharper, edged with frustration. “Lower your voice,” Y/N said.

Jason scoffed. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She felt something inside her settle, not fear, not anger, but a cold, hard finality.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she said.

Jason’s laugh was hollow. “There it is. Director Barton.”

She flinched despite herself. He noticed, his mouth curving in a satisfied smirk. “You think you’re untouchable now.”

“I think you’re crossing a line,” she replied.

He stepped closer. Too close. “Funny,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what people say about her.”

Y/N’s pulse ticked up. “Step back.”

Jason didn’t. “You like that she defends you,” he continued. “Makes you feel special. Chosen.”

“I didn’t ask her to-”

“Don’t lie to me!” His voice cracked, sharp and sudden. The sound ricocheted off the walls.

Y/N held her ground. “I’m not.”

Jason’s breathing was heavier now, his chest rising and falling. “You think you get to embarrass me. Undermine me. And I’m just supposed to, what? Take it?”

“I never embarrassed you,” Y/N said. “You did that yourself.”

The backhand came fast. Not a push, not a shove, but a full, brutal swing. The contact was sudden, his hand striking her cheek with enough force to snap her head to the side. She could feel the imprint of his ring, hot against her skin. The sound was loud; the silence that followed was deafening. Y/N staggered back a step, her hand flying to her face as her ears rang. Jason froze for half a second, his expression shifting not to remorse, but to calculation.

“I didn’t mean-” he started.

“Get away from me,” Y/N said. Her voice didn’t shake. That seemed to unnerve him more than anything. “I said get away from me,” she repeated.

Jason reached for her wrist. She twisted instinctively, but he was stronger, his grip tightening, fingers digging into her skin. “You’re not walking away from this,” he said. “Not after what you’ve done.”

She yanked back hard. “Let go.”

He didn’t. He shoved her, not across the room, but with enough force to send her stumbling into the counter. Her hip struck first, a sharp, bright flare of pain. Jason loomed over her, his breath hot, his eyes wild. “You don’t get to make me look small.”

Something inside her snapped clean in two. “You did that,” Y/N said, her voice ringing with a terrible clarity. “All by yourself.”

His hand came up again. This time, she was ready. She shoved him back with both palms, not elegant, not controlled, but pure, raw survival. He stumbled, surprised more than hurt. That was enough. She bolted.

Jason grabbed for her again, his fingers catching the fabric of her shirt, yanking her back just long enough for her to twist free and run for the door.

“Y/N!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare!”

The door slammed behind her. She didn’t wait for the elevator. She took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, heart pounding a frantic rhythm that drowned out everything else. Her cheek throbbed. Her wrist ached. But what hurt the most was the clarity. ___ She didn’t remember making the call, only the sound of Natasha’s voice answering on the first ring, a lifeline thrown into the abyss.

“Hello?”

“I need you,” Y/N said. Three words. They were enough.

“I’m on my way,” Natasha replied, her voice a steady, unbreakable promise. “Stay where you are.”

The command anchored her. Y/N collapsed onto the concrete landing of the stairwell, the adrenaline finally bleeding out of her, leaving a tremor in its wake. She pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing through the sharp, blooming ache in her cheek. She felt stupid. She felt furious. And she felt free in a way that terrified her.

Footsteps echoed below moments later, fast and purposeful. Natasha appeared at the turn of the stairs, her eyes sweeping over Y/N in a single, devastating glance that took in everything. Y/N didn’t wonder how she’d known where to find her; she simply accepted it as fact. Natasha knelt in front of her, her hands hovering just short of contact, a question in the space between them.

“Can I touch you?”

Y/N nodded.

Natasha’s fingers were impossibly gentle as they made contact, one hand cupping the uninjured side of Y/N’s jaw, the other brushing back her hair to examine the skin already swelling and darkening. Natasha’s own jaw tightened, a subtle, dangerous shift.

“Did he do this?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Yes.”

No excuses. No minimization. Just the truth.

Natasha exhaled slowly through her nose, a controlled release of a fury that must have been immense. “Okay.” She helped Y/N to her feet, one arm a steady, unyielding band around her waist, guiding her toward the exit.

“Where are we going?” Y/N asked, her voice thin and reedy.

“Somewhere safe,” Natasha replied.

They did not go back to the apartment. They did not go back to the Tower. They went to Natasha’s.

Natasha’s apartment was an exercise in control, every surface spare and clean, every object exactly where it was meant to be. Y/N sat on the edge of the leather couch while Natasha moved with practiced efficiency, returning with ice, a first-aid kit, and a glass of water. But beneath the calm precision was something coiled and violent, a predator banked and waiting.

“Sit still,” Natasha said, her tone softening as she pressed the ice pack to Y/N’s cheek with exquisite care.

Y/N hissed at the contact. “It’s not that bad.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked up to hers, silencing her. “Don’t.”

Y/N fell silent. They stayed like that for a long while, the shock giving way to a sharper, more insistent pain as the reality of the night settled in.

“I should have seen it,” Y/N whispered.

Natasha shook her head once, a firm, decisive motion. “No.”

“I’m not stupid,” Y/N said, a thread of anger weaving through her voice now. “I knew he was controlling. I knew he…”

“You knew what you could handle,” Natasha interrupted, her voice calm and absolute. “And you survived the rest.”

Y/N swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “He said I made him feel small.”

Natasha’s mouth curved, not in humor, but in something colder and sharper. “Good.”

A broken laugh escaped Y/N, dissolving into hot, silent tears that tracked down her cheeks. Natasha didn’t rush her. She simply stayed, a solid, grounding presence in the storm. When Y/N finally looked up, her eyes red and fierce, Natasha was right there.

“I don’t think he loves me,” Y/N said, the words a fragile admission.

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “I know he doesn’t,” she said.

Y/N flinched. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Natasha replied quietly. “Because love doesn’t bruise. And it doesn’t trap.”

A heavy silence fell between them, thick with unspoken history. Natasha inhaled slowly, as if bracing herself.

“I’m going to say something,” she said. “You can tell me to stop.”

Y/N nodded.

“I don’t think he loves you the way you deserve,” Natasha said. “And I know I do.”

No flourish. No plea. Just a statement of fact, delivered with the quiet force of a conviction long held.

Y/N stared at her, breathless. “That’s dangerous,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, her gaze unwavering. “For both of us.”

“You’re not trying to save me,” Y/N said, it wasn't a question.

“No,” Natasha replied. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Y/N’s chest felt impossibly tight. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Natasha leaned back slightly, a deliberate gesture to give her space. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight.”

“But?” Y/N pressed.

“But you don’t go back,” Natasha said. The certainty in her voice was unyielding, a bedrock of fact.

As if on cue, Jason’s name lit up Y/N’s phone where it sat on the coffee table. It rang once. Then again. Natasha didn’t look at it. Y/N did, her body tensing with the familiar, instinctual pull to explain, to soften, to fix the unfixable.

Natasha saw it. She reached out, not to touch Y/N’s hand, but to rest her own beside it on the cushion, a silent offer of solidarity.

“You don’t owe him closure,” Natasha said softly. “You owe yourself safety.”

The phone went silent. Y/N reached out and turned it face down.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, the words barely a breath.

“I know,” Natasha replied. “I’m here.”

Y/N nodded, a shuddering breath escaping her. For the first time, she let herself believe it.

Outside, the city went on, unaware and indifferent. Inside, something irrevocable had broken. And something else, quiet, fierce, and real, had finally begun to build. ___ Y/N did not go back to the apartment. That decision settled into her bones sometime before dawn, when the city outside Natasha’s windows shifted from neon to gray and the quiet stopped feeling temporary. Her cheek still ached, a dull, honest echo of the night before. She welcomed the pain. Pain was a language that didn’t lie.

Natasha was already awake, seated at the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee untouched before her. Her posture was alert without being tense, a predator at rest. She looked up as Y/N entered the room, her gaze flicking automatically to the bruise marring her face.

“You slept,” Natasha said.

“Yes,” Y/N replied. “Deep.”

Natasha nodded once, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. “Good.”

There was no discussion of Jason. No rehearsal of what came next. That chapter had closed the moment Y/N had walked out and not looked back. She showered, dressed with deliberate care, the act not one of armor or defiance, but of ownership. When she emerged, Natasha handed her an ice pack and her coat.

“I’m walking you in,” Natasha said.

“I know.”

The compound hummed with its usual precision, the machinery of power grinding forward without pause. It felt surreal, how the world continued unchanged when hers had split cleanly down the middle. Y/N moved through it anyway. Agents greeted her with nods. Analysts requested clarification on deployment timelines. She answered calmly, efficiently, as if nothing had happened.

Clint found out before Y/N had even put her things down. He didn’t hear it gently. No careful phrasing, no soft lead-in. He saw it. He saw the mark when Y/N turned her head too quickly as the elevator opened and he stepped into the corridor, the light catching the faint bloom of color along her jaw. The space went very still.

“What,” Clint said quietly, “is that.”

Y/N froze.

Natasha didn’t. “Jason,” she said.

The word detonated.

Clint moved. Not toward Y/N, but past her, a body in motion toward a singular, violent purpose. “Is he here?” he bit out, already turning for the elevator.

Natasha was already there. She intercepted him mid-stride, her hand snapping out to catch his forearm, her grip iron-hard. “No.”

“Get out of my way,” Clint growled, his voice low and shaking as he tried to wrench free.

“Not like this,” Natasha said, her own voice a steel cable. “You go now, you lose everything.”

“I don’t care,” Clint snapped, his strength surging. “He put his hands on her.”

“I know,” Natasha said, unyielding against his struggles. “And if you walk out that door, you make it about you.”

That stopped him for half a heartbeat. Not enough. He tried again, his rage a barely contained inferno. “He’s dead.”

“And he’ll still own the narrative,” Natasha shot back. “And she’ll pay for it.”

Clint’s breath came fast, his chest heaving. “I won’t let him get away with it.”

Y/N stepped forward. “Clint.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. It cut through his fury anyway.

He turned, and really looked at her then. He saw the bruise, but he also saw the steadiness beneath it, the way she was standing upright instead of curled inward.

“Don’t,” she said.

Clint’s face twisted in anguish. “He hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re asking me to do nothing?”

“I’m asking you to let me do this,” Y/N said. She stepped closer, close enough to take his trembling hands, grounding him by force of familiarity. “If you go after him, he becomes the victim. He wants that.”

Clint swallowed hard, his knuckles white. “I can’t stand this,” he said hoarsely. “Standing here while-”

“I know,” Y/N said. “But I need you here. With me. Not in a cell. Not suspended. Not proving him right.”

Natasha loosened her grip but didn’t release him. “She’s right.”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. For a moment, it seemed he might still bolt. Then, slowly, he exhaled. Once. Twice. His shoulders sagged a fraction.

“Okay,” he said, the word tasting like ash. “Okay.”

Y/N didn’t let go of his hands until the tremor eased, until he finally wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a fierce, protective hug. That was the moment she understood something vital: If she didn’t end this herself, Jason would keep pulling other people into the blast radius.

Y/N walked calmly into Strategic Ops. Maria Hill spotted her immediately. One look at Y/N’s face and Hill’s professional composure hardened into something lethal.

“Do you need anything?” Hill asked quietly, her voice low enough to carry only between them.

Y/N shook her head. “I need a meeting.”

Hill didn’t ask why. “I’ll call Legal. HR. Security Oversight,” she continued, her mind already working, already building the framework. “You won’t be alone in this.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, the weight of the night lifting just enough to let her breathe. “Thank you.” ___ Jason arrived thinking he still had leverage. That was his second mistake. He came early, confidence wrapped in a thin shell of tension, a smile ready to deploy the moment he saw Y/N through the glass walls of Strategic Ops. For a flicker of a second, relief washed over his face, followed by confusion when she didn’t return the gesture.

They stood across from each other in the conference room, the transparent walls exposing them to the corridor, a silent warning of the stage they now occupied. Jason spoke first.

“Thank God,” he said, pitching his voice for an audience of one. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Y/N offered no answer.

“You vanished,” he said, irritation threading through his tone. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do,” Y/N finally replied, her voice flat. “And I did.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” Y/N said, her tone dangerously even. “I’m responding.”

Jason took a step closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial rasp. “You want to talk about last night? Fine. Things got heated. I lost my temper. It happens.”

“You hit me,” Y/N said.

The words landed like a controlled detonation. Jason froze. “You don’t say that,” he hissed. “You don’t get to-”

“You. Hit. Me.” Y/N continued, each word a deliberate, hammering blow. “And then you tried to stop me from leaving.”

Jason’s eyes darted to the glass walls, to the movement beyond them. Panic flared, quickly smothered by a fresh wave of anger. “You think this won’t ruin you?” he snapped. “You think people won’t ask questions?”

“They already are,” Y/N replied calmly.

The door opened behind them. Maria Hill entered, followed by two people Jason recognized immediately: Legal Oversight and Internal Affairs. Jason’s confidence fractured.

“This is ridiculous,” he scoffed, forcing a brittle laugh. “You’re staging an ambush now?”

Hill didn’t sit. “This is an investigation.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to Y/N, betrayal warring with fury in his eyes. “You did this.”

Y/N met his stare without flinching. “You did.”

What followed was procedural and devastating. Statements. Documentation. Security footage from the stairwell. Text records. Medical verification. Natasha’s testimony. Clint’s corroboration of prior behavior patterns. Jason tried denial. Then minimization. Then anger. It didn’t matter. The room was an indifferent machine, and it didn’t care how loud he got.

Hill folded her arms. “Jason Ore, effective immediately, your employment with this organization is terminated.”

The words rang in the sterile air. Jason stared at her, his face slack with disbelief. “You can’t-”

“You violated conduct policy,” Hill continued, her voice cutting through his. “You assaulted a colleague. You abused your position. Security will escort you out.”

Jason looked around the room, desperate now. “This is because of her,” he snarled, pointing a trembling finger at Natasha, visible through the glass. “She turned you against me.”

Hill’s expression went glacial. “You did that yourself.”

Security stepped forward. Jason’s voice rose, cracking with a final, desperate plea. “You’re destroying me!”

Y/N spoke for the last time. “If you were a better man,” she said quietly, “this wouldn’t have happened.”

Jason was escorted out in full view of the corridor. People watched. No one intervened. His badge was confiscated. His access cut. His authority, gone. There was no reassignment, no soft landing. There was no coming back.

Natasha was waiting outside Strategic Ops. Not hovering. Not guarding. Just there.

Y/N stopped in front of her. “It’s over.”

Natasha searched her face, checking for doubt, for grief, for regret. Finding none, she nodded. “Good.”

Jason’s firing rippled outward. Quietly. Efficiently. Meetings canceled. His name scrubbed from projects. His influence evaporated. No one defended him. Y/N didn’t track it. She didn’t need to. She reclaimed herself instead.

Natasha stayed, not hovering, not claiming. Just present.

“I don’t feel broken,” Y/N said one evening.

Natasha watched her closely. “Good.”

“I feel awake.”

Natasha stepped closer. “That can be dangerous.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “So are you.”

The air between them shifted. Natasha lifted a hand, stopping just short of Y/N’s face. “You’re in control,” she said. “Always.”

Y/N closed the distance herself. “I’m choosing this,” she whispered.

Natasha’s hand cupped her jaw, gentle, reverent. “So am I.” ___ Nine months changed the shape of things. Not loudly. Not all at once. It changed them the way water changes stone: by persistence, by pressure, by never quite letting go.

Natasha woke first. She always did.

The room was dark but not empty, citylight filtering in through the sheer curtains, painting soft lines across the bed. The air was warm, heavy with summer and sleep and the quiet intimacy of a place that had learned two bodies well. Y/N was curled into her without thinking about it. That was the change. An arm slung across Natasha’s waist, hand resting open against her stomach like it belonged there. A knee hooked over Natasha’s thigh, anchoring her in place. Y/N’s face was pressed into the hollow beneath her shoulder, breath slow and even, lips parted slightly as she slept. No armor.

Natasha stayed still, careful not to wake her. She let herself feel it, the weight, the heat, the trust implicit in being held like this. In being needed not as a shield, not as a blade, but as something solid and wanted. Three months ago, Y/N hadn’t slept like this. Three months ago, she’d lain rigid on her side, polite even in rest, leaving space where fear still lived. She’d woken at the smallest sound, flinched at sudden movement, apologized for taking up room. Now she sprawled. Now she breathed. Now she dreamed with her whole body.

Natasha brushed her thumb, barely there, along the inside of Y/N’s wrist, over the steady pulse she’d memorized in moments far less calm than this.

Y/N shifted, her nose nudging into Natasha’s skin, her fingers tightening reflexively at her waist. “Don’t go,” Y/N murmured, her voice rough with sleep.

Natasha smiled to herself in the darkness. “I’m not,” she said quietly. “I have other plans.” Natasha’s voice was a low, dangerous purr against Y/N’s hair. “Plans that involve you staying right where you are.”

The smile in Natasha’s voice was a promise of things to come. She shifted slowly, a deliberate, unhurried movement that was all muscle and grace, turning in Y/N’s loose embrace until they were face to face. The citylight was a soft gray wash, illuminating the curve of Y/N’s cheek, the fullness of her lips parted in sleep. The sheets were a tangled mess around their ankles, a testament to the night before, leaving them skin to skin in the warm air.

Natasha leaned in, her own lips ghosting over Y/N’s, a breath of a kiss. A soft sigh escaping Y/N as her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and trust. “Natasha,” she breathed, the name a welcome home.

“I’m right here,” Natasha murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through Y/N’s chest. Her hand, which had been resting on Y/N’s hip, slid up the smooth plane of her side, tracing the curve of her ribs before moving higher to cup the weight of her breast. Her touch was a question, a gentle exploration that asked for nothing but offered everything. Y/N arched into it, a silent, eager yes.

Natasha’s thumb brushed against the already pebbled nipple, and Y/N’s breath hitched. “I told you I had plans,” Natasha whispered, her lips finding the sensitive spot just below Y/N’s ear. She nipped gently, then soothed the small sting with her tongue. “But I need you awake, lyubimaya”

Y/N’s hands came up to tangle in Natasha’s hair, holding her close. “I am” she gasped as Natasha’s mouth traveled down her neck, leaving a trail of fire. Natasha took her time, mapping Y/N’s body with her hands and mouth. She was a conductor, and Y/N was her instrument, and she was playing a masterpiece of slow, deliberate pleasure.

Her mouth closed over Y/N’s breast, her tongue swirling around the nipple before she sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed, pressing herself deeper into Natasha’s mouth. Natasha’s other hand slid down Y/N’s stomach, her fingers reaching the apex of her thighs, a silent, teasing promise.

“Tell me what you want,” Natasha commanded, her voice soft but firm. It wasn’t an order; it was an invitation.

“You,” Y/N moaned. “Everything. Please, Nat.”

Natasha smiled against her skin. “My pleasure” She shifted, moving down the bed until she was settled between Y/N’s thighs, pushing them gently open. Y/N was already wet, glistening in the dim light, and the sight made Natasha’s own breath catch. She lowered her head, her breath warm against Y/N’s core.

“Look at me,” Natasha said, her eyes locking with Y/N’s as she leaned in and took the first, slow lick. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed. Natasha’s tongue was skilled and knowing, finding every sensitive spot with an artist’s precision. She licked and sucked, her movements measured and controlled, building the pleasure layer by exquisite layer. One hand came up to rest on Y/N’s lower stomach, holding her down, grounding her as the pleasure began to crest.

“Natasha, I… I can’t…” Y/N panted, her hands fisting in the sheets.

“Yes, you can,” Natasha murmured, her voice a dark promise. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” She increased the pressure, her tongue circling Y/N’s clit with relentless, perfect rhythm. She slid one finger inside, then another, curling them just so to find that hidden bundle of nerves.

The combination was devastating. Y/N shattered, a cry tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her, waves of pleasure so intense. Natasha didn’t stop, drawing it out, milking every last drop of sensation until Y/N was a trembling, boneless mess beneath her.

Natasha kissed her way back up Y/N’s body, her lips gentle against her sweat slicked skin. She settled beside her, pulling her into her arms as Y/N’s breathing slowly returned to normal.

“You’re incredible,” Y/N whispered, her voice hoarse.

Natasha just hummed, a low, satisfied sound. “We’re not done yet.” She captured Y/N’s lips in a deep, possessive kiss, letting her taste herself on Natasha’s tongue. Her hand drifted down Y/N’s body again, her fingers finding her still-sensitive clit. Y/N jolted, oversensitive, but the touch was gentle, a slow, circular motion that quickly reignited the embers of her desire.

This time, Natasha’s pace was different. Faster, more demanding. She kissed Y/N with a fierce hunger, her fingers working her clit with expert precision. Y/N met her passion for passion, her hands roaming over Natasha’s body, pulling her closer, needing more.

“Again,” Natasha growled against her lips. “Give me another one.”

Y/N was lost in a haze of sensation, the world narrowing to the point where Natasha’s fingers touched her, the pressure building again, higher and higher than before. Natasha’s other hand slid down to join the first, two fingers sliding easily into Y/N’s wet heat, pumping in and out in a steady, driving rhythm that pushed her closer and closer to the edge.

“Come for me,” Natasha demanded, her voice a raw, primal command that sent Y/N flying over the edge. Her second orgasm was even more intense than the first, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that left her gasping and sobbing Natasha’s name.

Natasha held her through it, her movements slowing, gentling, until Y/N was limp, her body humming with a deep, satisfied languor. She pressed soft kisses to Y/N’s forehead, her eyelids, her nose.

Y/N blinked her eyes open, a slow, sated smile spreading across her face. “Wow,” she breathed.

Natasha smiled back, her expression soft, her eyes filled with a love so deep it took Y/N’s breath away. She brushed a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s face, her touch infinitely tender.

“Marry me,” Natasha said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, a vow spoken in the quiet aftermath, as natural and undeniable as the love that filled the room. “We’re doing this. You and me. Forever.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, but they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. She didn’t need to think about it, didn’t need to hesitate. The answer had been written on her soul for months.

Santos and you met back in her first year of med school, you were looking for a roommate and she needed an apartment not so far, and she ended up meeting you. Everything was working well, your dynamic was perfect, the rhythm was perfect.

You wake up earlier than her? You made her coffee.

She studies late? You make dinner and give it to her in her room.

Monday, was the day she ate dinner with you, complaining how much she hates Monday.

Tuesday was the day she went to classes and went back home to study. You bring her dinner in her room.

Wednesday was the day she went to classes and went back home to study but in the living room, because she needed more space, she always ended up asleep on the couch.

Thursday, the day she goes to classes and goes back home to study but on the kitchen table, she spent most of the time talking about gossip to you, and then got all grumpy about it.

Friday, was the day where she go out to get drunk with some friends 

Saturday was the day she just slept and you helped her with her hangover.

Sunday, was your marathon day, watch as much as movie as you can

Everything was in order like you like, a routine that you both respect.

Nothing changed much when she started her internship at the hospital, her coffee always ready when she left ,and dinner always ready when she came back.

But one thing changed, that boy, young, innocent, he looked like a puppy that just got saved from the street.

The routine changed drastically, Whitaker was quite different from Santos, cheerful, pleasant, always helpful.

You both always wake up at the same time, at first you were walking on each other in the kitchen, but with time the dance came, you prepared Santos and his coffee, while he was preparing something to eat, it's was pleasant to have him, even though Santos and him sometimes argue like sibling, it's make the little routine more a life.

Tonight was one of the exceptional nights where you came back home later than both of them, you closed the door behind you, pushing your shoes away.

"Hello" You sigh and enter the leaving room to meet only Santos "Trin? You're alone?"

She look up from her phone and hum positively "Yeah, Huckleberry is you know, at Amy"

"Oh- again" your smile slightly drop but quickly mask it 

"Yeah, again" she groaned, as you sat next to her on the couch.

"Have you eaten?" You turn to Santos

She nodded quietly and turned off her phone "Have you?"

"Yeah, eat some stuff and drink with some colleagues" you murmured and melted more on the couch.

The silence was pleasant, the walk back home was so loud and noisy, but the silence of the apartment was pleasant.

"Sooo wanna watch something?" Santos scratched the back of her head, "I'm not working tomorrow so we could have a movie night." 

"Movie night…we are- Friday we never do movie night Friday" You looked at her a second.

"Yeah, and?" She asked confused "We-We can, yes" You quickly nodded and sat correctly on the couch.

"Great, I chose!" She grabs the remote and sits back correctly on the couch to, you hand brushing each other.

Something was different,you watch a movie together, but she was close, and touchy, a lot , you're a touchy person but being the person to be touched was weird and different, it was probably because of that beer you shared with you colleague earlier, yeah, definitely the beer fault.

"Are you listening to me? I asked if it was okay?" She touch you arm making you snap back to reality.

"Oh- yes- yes" you quickly nod , you turn to face the TV, eyes lock on it, probably to scare to see if she was looking at you.

You don't really follow the movie, even if you try as hard as you can, the only thing on your mind is how fucking close she was to you, like, her hand was gripping your arms everytime she got scare, why would she want to watch something that scare her? But you can't really complain, the feelings of the soft skin of her long finger around your arms, the grip of it, the little gasp coming out of her mouth every second, the way she speak to the character like they could hear her, the feeling of her hair brushing your shoulder, she was overwhelming, you can't even focus on this damn movie.

She was practically glued to you at the end of the movie.

"It was actually a good movie" she says as she pauses the movie. You just managed positively to her, your eyes still fixing this spot on the TV, as she let go of your arms with a sigh.

"OK girl, what's wrong with you?" She forced you to turn your face with her finger on your chin.

"Wha-What?" You managed to shutter hoping that your cheeks weren't too hot.

"You acting weird, all zone out and all, what wrong!?" She passed a hand in her hair, dropping her finger off you and sighing, "Is it… about Huckleberry? Are you like- jalouse of Amy?" 

"What?!" You open your eyes big

"It's just that I thought- you know- you and Huckleberry, I thought you got a thing for him"

"WHat!?" You voice cracked "No- I- nO-"

"You do!" She straightened herself.

"I- no-" you slowly start to blush, the heat rising on your face. "I'm just- confused, you're so- touchy right now and I don't know it's making me panic inside of me okay" you quickly speak your voice a bit more acute than usual.

She blinks multiple times before a smirk appears in her face. "Are you… having a bi panic?" She asks with her usual teasing voice.

"I- I don't know maybe!" 

"I'm giving you a bi panic" she corrects you as she slowly moves closer to you.

"No- yes, yes I'm definitely having a bi panic because of you, I mean Trin you like so pretty and nice, and I don't know why am I saying that out loud, it's definitely that beer, I'm shouldn't have drink that beer, that was dumb and-" She quickly shut you.

"Shut up" she pushes you on the couch as she presses her lips against yours.

You don't really know when but you definitely melt agin her lips, you kiss her back clumsily but she quickly guides you , the kiss becoming more hungryly, her finger moving back on your chin to open your mouth enough to push her tongue into you mouth.

She was making you lose your mind, your hand slowly moving on her arms but she quickly pushed them away, she moved up to break the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"Nop, don't move a finger" she smirk, "Trin-?" She just hum positively her finger sliding under you shirt making you shiver "What-what are-"

She quickly interrupted, "You don't want to?" You stay silent for a moment and silently nod "that's what I thought" she smirks and slides your shirt up, revealing your bra and skin. "Be a good girl okay and don't move your hand?" You nod again.

She moved closer to her lips, meeting the soft skin of your stomach, moving lower and lower with each kiss, finger curling at your belt, quickly taking off your pants and panties, she was fast like she has done that her whole life, making you gasp as she smirked.

She lower her lips to kiss your lower stomach, her finger tracing your tight, already feeling the wetness "Wet already? Just with the kiss? You little prev" she murmured against your skin.

Her fingers move up meeting your aunt, a moan escaping you as you thigh trying to close around her but she pushes them away "Stay open" she murmured as her tongue moves to meet your clit, your hand grasping the cough tight.

"Trin- we- not on the couch-" you managed to say breathless "Don't care" 

she murmure again to your clit as she starts playing with it, her tongue circling around your click, one of your fingers slowly getting inside you, making your hand fall back on her hair.

"Naughty-" she murmured with a smirk.

 her tongue moving a bit faster, a second finger going inside you, her movement was faster and in syncro, it's like she has done that her whole life.

Your fingers curling in her hair, the moan and the obscene wet sound of her finger and mouth was the only sound in the room, as you slowly started to lose your mind. You don't know exactly when she put a third finger inside, but what you do know is that it made you lose it more, you moan getting lower, you tight shaking like a leaf,  your face falling backwards.

The movement of her finger that making fall of the edge was when she touched that weak point of you, at that point you didn't control anything, not the load moan, not the way your body arch, not how your face fall backwards, not how you glasses was completely a mess, not how you just scream her name as you came on her face.

She slowed her movement before completely putting her finger out, as she sat up looking at the mess you were, she approached her wet finger off her lips as she cleaned you came off her finger that damn smirk on her lips "That was interesting."

She pushed your glasses up "Did you enjoy yourself?" She asks with confidence.

"Ye-yes-" you quickly nod your gaze up on her.

"Good girl" she smirk and stand up, "Go watch yourself, I'm cleaning the mess"

You nod and stand up with some difficulty "Go to sleep right after you shower, you look tired" she says as she grabs some paper.

You walk to the bathroom as fast as you can, still confused and messy.

The next day was like nothing happened, Trin was just being herself, not talking about it, not flirting, just being her like nothing had happened, clearly making you crazy.

It's made you crazy.

Santos and you met back in her first year of med school, you were looking for a roommate and she needed an apartment not so far, and she ended up meeting you. Everything was working well, your dynamic was perfect, the rhythm was perfect.

You wake up earlier than her? You made her coffee.

She studies late? You make dinner and give it to her in her room.

Monday, was the day she ate dinner with you, complaining how much she hates Monday.

Santos and you met back in her first year of med school, you were looking for a roommate and she needed an apartment not so far, and she ended up meeting you. Everything was working well, your dynamic was perfect, the rhythm was perfect.

You wake up earlier than her? You made her coffee.

She studies late? You make dinner and give it to her in her room.

Monday, was the day she ate dinner with you, complaining how much she hates Monday.

Tuesday was the day she went to classes and went back home to study. You bring her dinner in her room.

Wednesday was the day she went to classes and went back home to study but in the living room, because she needed more space, she always ended up asleep on the couch.

Thursday, the day she goes to classes and goes back home to study but on the kitchen table, she spent most of the time talking about gossip to you, and then got all grumpy about it.

Friday, was the day where she go out to get drunk with some friends 

Saturday was the day she just slept and you helped her with her hangover.

Sunday, was your marathon day, watch as much as movie as you can

Everything was in order like you like, a routine that you both respect.

Nothing changed much when she started her internship at the hospital, her coffee always ready when she left ,and dinner always ready when she came back.

But one thing changed, that boy, young, innocent, he looked like a puppy that just got saved from the street.

The routine changed drastically, Whitaker was quite different from Santos, cheerful, pleasant, always helpful.

You both always wake up at the same time, at first you were walking on each other in the kitchen, but with time the dance came, you prepared Santos and his coffee, while he was preparing something to eat, it's was pleasant to have him, even though Santos and him sometimes argue like sibling, it's make the little routine more a life.

Tonight was one of the exceptional nights where you came back home later than both of them, you closed the door behind you, pushing your shoes away.

"Hello" You sigh and enter the leaving room to meet only Santos "Trin? You're alone?"

She look up from her phone and hum positively "Yeah, Huckleberry is you know, at Amy"

"Oh- again" your smile slightly drop but quickly mask it 

"Yeah, again" she groaned, as you sat next to her on the couch.

"Have you eaten?" You turn to Santos

She nodded quietly and turned off her phone "Have you?"

"Yeah, eat some stuff and drink with some colleagues" you murmured and melted more on the couch.

The silence was pleasant, the walk back home was so loud and noisy, but the silence of the apartment was pleasant.

"Sooo wanna watch something?" Santos scratched the back of her head, "I'm not working tomorrow so we could have a movie night." 

"Movie night…we are- Friday we never do movie night Friday" You looked at her a second.

"Yeah, and?" She asked confused "We-We can, yes" You quickly nodded and sat correctly on the couch.

"Great, I chose!" She grabs the remote and sits back correctly on the couch to, you hand brushing each other.

Something was different,you watch a movie together, but she was close, and touchy, a lot , you're a touchy person but being the person to be touched was weird and different, it was probably because of that beer you shared with you colleague earlier, yeah, definitely the beer fault.

"Are you listening to me? I asked if it was okay?" She touch you arm making you snap back to reality.

"Oh- yes- yes" you quickly nod , you turn to face the TV, eyes lock on it, probably to scare to see if she was looking at you.

You don't really follow the movie, even if you try as hard as you can, the only thing on your mind is how fucking close she was to you, like, her hand was gripping your arms everytime she got scare, why would she want to watch something that scare her? But you can't really complain, the feelings of the soft skin of her long finger around your arms, the grip of it, the little gasp coming out of her mouth every second, the way she speak to the character like they could hear her, the feeling of her hair brushing your shoulder, she was overwhelming, you can't even focus on this damn movie.

She was practically glued to you at the end of the movie.

"It was actually a good movie" she says as she pauses the movie. You just managed positively to her, your eyes still fixing this spot on the TV, as she let go of your arms with a sigh.

"OK girl, what's wrong with you?" She forced you to turn your face with her finger on your chin.

"Wha-What?" You managed to shutter hoping that your cheeks weren't too hot.

"You acting weird, all zone out and all, what wrong!?" She passed a hand in her hair, dropping her finger off you and sighing, "Is it… about Huckleberry? Are you like- jalouse of Amy?" 

"What?!" You open your eyes big

"It's just that I thought- you know- you and Huckleberry, I thought you got a thing for him"

"WHat!?" You voice cracked "No- I- nO-"

"You do!" She straightened herself.

"I- no-" you slowly start to blush, the heat rising on your face. "I'm just- confused, you're so- touchy right now and I don't know it's making me panic inside of me okay" you quickly speak your voice a bit more acute than usual.

She blinks multiple times before a smirk appears in her face. "Are you… having a bi panic?" She asks with her usual teasing voice.

"I- I don't know maybe!" 

"I'm giving you a bi panic" she corrects you as she slowly moves closer to you.

"No- yes, yes I'm definitely having a bi panic because of you, I mean Trin you like so pretty and nice, and I don't know why am I saying that out loud, it's definitely that beer, I'm shouldn't have drink that beer, that was dumb and-" She quickly shut you.

"Shut up" she pushes you on the couch as she presses her lips against yours.

You don't really know when but you definitely melt agin her lips, you kiss her back clumsily but she quickly guides you , the kiss becoming more hungryly, her finger moving back on your chin to open your mouth enough to push her tongue into you mouth.

She was making you lose your mind, your hand slowly moving on her arms but she quickly pushed them away, she moved up to break the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"Nop, don't move a finger" she smirk, "Trin-?" She just hum positively her finger sliding under you shirt making you shiver "What-what are-"

She quickly interrupted, "You don't want to?" You stay silent for a moment and silently nod "that's what I thought" she smirks and slides your shirt up, revealing your bra and skin. "Be a good girl okay and don't move your hand?" You nod again.

She moved closer to her lips, meeting the soft skin of your stomach, moving lower and lower with each kiss, finger curling at your belt, quickly taking off your pants and panties, she was fast like she has done that her whole life, making you gasp as she smirked.

She lower her lips to kiss your lower stomach, her finger tracing your tight, already feeling the wetness "Wet already? Just with the kiss? You little prev" she murmured against your skin.

Her fingers move up meeting your aunt, a moan escaping you as you thigh trying to close around her but she pushes them away "Stay open" she murmured as her tongue moves to meet your clit, your hand grasping the cough tight.

"Trin- we- not on the couch-" you managed to say breathless "Don't care" 

she murmure again to your clit as she starts playing with it, her tongue circling around your click, one of your fingers slowly getting inside you, making your hand fall back on her hair.

"Naughty-" she murmured with a smirk.

 her tongue moving a bit faster, a second finger going inside you, her movement was faster and in syncro, it's like she has done that her whole life.

Your fingers curling in her hair, the moan and the obscene wet sound of her finger and mouth was the only sound in the room, as you slowly started to lose your mind. You don't know exactly when she put a third finger inside, but what you do know is that it made you lose it more, you moan getting lower, you tight shaking like a leaf,  your face falling backwards.

The movement of her finger that making fall of the edge was when she touched that weak point of you, at that point you didn't control anything, not the load moan, not the way your body arch, not how your face fall backwards, not how you glasses was completely a mess, not how you just scream her name as you came on her face.

She slowed her movement before completely putting her finger out, as she sat up looking at the mess you were, she approached her wet finger off her lips as she cleaned you came off her finger that damn smirk on her lips "That was interesting."

She pushed your glasses up "Did you enjoy yourself?" She asks with confidence.

"Ye-yes-" you quickly nod your gaze up on her.

"Good girl" she smirk and stand up, "Go watch yourself, I'm cleaning the mess"

You nod and stand up with some difficulty "Go to sleep right after you shower, you look tired" she says as she grabs some paper.

You walk to the bathroom as fast as you can, still confused and messy.

The next day was like nothing happened, Trin was just being herself, not talking about it, not flirting, just being her like nothing had happened, clearly making you crazy.

It's made you crazy.

The blonde blinked up at him, confused and kind of starstruck. “Wait—are you—?”

Ben gave her a warm, condescending smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Appreciate the hospitality, darlin’. But I think I’ll be takin’ her now.”

You leaned down and kissed her cheek quickly, “you’re really sweet. Thanks for the drink.”

And just like that, his hand was on your waist, tugging you gently up and around the booth. There was no rushing, no push or pull, just the gentle guiding hand on your waist. Like he had all the time in the world to reclaim what was his.

You let him, of course. Smoothing your dress as you moved, more than a little amused. “Was the attitude necessary?”

“Probably not,” he said, unrepentant. “But I missed you. That a crime now?”

You leaned into him, voice quiet and silky, “Depends, you arresting me?”

He huffed a laugh, slinging an arm around you, his hand already sliding beneath the hem of your dress with zero subtlety. “Couldn’t stop watching you all night. You looked so pretty, baby. Had half the room ready to beg.”

You preened under the compliment, eyes glinting as you bit down on your lower lip — not shy, but playful, almost daring. You tilted your head, letting the light catch the shine on your cheekbone, the faint flush on your chest.

“Only half?” you teased, voice all sugar and smoke.

Ben’s eyes flicked over you like a slow drag. “Maybe more,” he said, mock-casual — but his hand twitched slightly where it rested, like he was fighting the urge to grab.

You didn’t press, didn’t tease again—just smiled to yourself, basking in the heat of his attention. It clung to you like summer, heavy and unshakable.

Outside, the night was warm and a little sticky, the air humming with leftover bass from the club. You leaned back against Ben while he stood behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder, arms snug around your waist like he was physically incapable of letting you go now that he had you back in his orbit.

“God,” he muttered, kissing the side of your neck, “you were killing me in there.”

You grinned, letting your head fall back against him as his hands moved up over your hips, toying with the lacy edge of your panties with absolutely zero shame. “That why you came and stole me outta that poor girl’s lap? She was scared half to death.”

“Mmhm.” He kissed behind your ear. “Watched you bat your lashes at her for a solid twenty minutes. Thought I was gonna bust through the table.”

“Jealous?” You teased—as if. You knew better than that by now.

“Turned on,” he corrected. “It’s like personal porn with my all time favorite actress.”

You laughed, breathy. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”

He smirked, not even pretending to be humble — like he hadn’t just watched you melt into another girl’s mouth in a velvet booth while some “rising star” tried to cozy up to him.

You’d both had your fun—that wasn’t anything new.

You liked being looked at. Touched. You liked the way people melted for you, begged, came apart like wet tissue in your hands. And Ben liked watching you work. Liked the show. Liked the way your eyes never left his, even when someone else had their mouth between your thighs.

“I ever tell you how fuckin’ hot you are when you make ‘em cry?” he’d said once, voice low and wrecked while you rode a pretty brunette’s face, your fingers tangled in her hair, back arched like something out of a dream.

“You say it every time,” you’d panted, and he’d just grinned, hand lazy around his cock, eyes molten.

Sometimes it was together. A girl between you—tongue on your clit while Ben fucked her from behind, praising her like she was doing God’s work. “That’s it, sweetheart, you take care of my girl and I’ll take care of you.” She’d sobbed through her orgasm, trembling between you, and you’d kissed her in thanks before turning to sink your teeth into Ben’s shoulder.

Other times you wandered off alone.

You’d let a man fuck you once—tall, dark, handsome, and so fucking eager he could barely get his pants off before he was on his knees, tongue flicking across your cunt like it was salvation. Ben had leisurely made his way over to find you, leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking like he owned the room. You moaned for the guy but looked at Ben when you came, back bowed and thighs shaking.

He’d watched the whole thing, cock hard, arms crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world. Even when the guy—who either hadn’t noticed Ben or was unbothered by the extra set of eyes—slid inside you.

But the second the guy grabbed your waist, pulling you down towards him, like he thought he might finish inside you, Ben’s voice cut in—sharp and dangerous.

“She’s booked, pal. Better finish on your own hand.”

You smiled. Dripping and wrecked, still grinding your hips, you looked over your shoulder and purred, “Only he gets to do that.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, and took you the second the guy stumbled out. Bent you over the edge of the bed and shoved his cock inside you like he’d been waiting hours. “He get you close, baby?”

You nodded, whimpering as he filled you.

“Good. I’ll finish the job.”

And he did—filthy and possessive, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, fucking you full while he groaned, “Gonna come so deep inside your little pussy you forget what anyone else even feels like.”

You never let anyone else finish inside. And he would never do that for anyone but you. It was one of the very few rules you had and one neither of you ever broke, never even wanted to.

Even when he wandered—like one year at Herogasm, when he disappeared into the haze of bodies and bass and came back slick with sweat and someone else’s lipstick covering his skin. You’d been sprawled across a plush chair when he found you, some girl sat high on your lap, kissing you open mouthed and sloppy, her tits soft and sweet in your hands. You looked up and smiled at him.

“She tastes like strawberries,” you’d told him.

He grinned, licking your neck before sinking to his knees. “So do you.”

You’d made her ask him if she could cum, wouldn’t let her until he said yes. And of course, Ben wasn’t letting that happen until you had. Multiple times. Loud and desperate and messy.

Sometimes you went off without each other. He’d whispered about it before, filthy and low while he fucked you from behind. “That night in Vegas? Girl had the worst boob job I’ve ever seen but a mouth like a vacuum. Almost made me forget where I was.”

And you’d moaned, voice soft and wrecked from overuse.

He laughed, biting your shoulder. “Still didn’t finish in her.”

“Would’ve killed you if you had.”

He’d huffed, almost like it offended him you’d even think so lowly of him. “Why would I ever want to when I get to cum inside my favorite pussy ever, whenever I wanted. As many times as I want.”

It always came back to this. To you. To him. To the mess and the pleasure and the promise stitched into every filthy thing you did with other people—that no one else got the real thing.

Because you could fuck others. Touch others. Tease and taste and take your fill, let them have theirs.

But when you came? When he came?

It was always with each other’s name on your lips.

And tonight, when he leaned down and ran the tip of his along the length of yours, his hands all over you like your weren’t standing out in the open on a busy sidewalk?

That made your heart skip in that stupid, teenage way it still did after all these years. You turned your head, nuzzling your nose against his jaw.

“I have to ask,” you teased. “What happened to your blonde? She looked like she was about to suck your dick right there at the bar.”

Ben huffed a little laugh, then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like a good time. No one else looked like you tonight.”

You smiled, slow and warm. “Lucky me.”

“No, lucky me,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple just as the car pulled up.

He opened your door like he always did—casual, practiced, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like muscle memory from years of making sure you never touched a damn handle in your life. His hand settled on the small of your back, fingers slipping just under the hem of your dress, lingering longer than necessary. Not rushing you. Just there.

He climbed in after you, pulled the door shut, and just like that, the world outside didn’t matter anymore.

The car was warm, humming low beneath you as the city streaked by in a blur of red lights and velvet shadows. Your heels were kicked off. Your legs were sprawled across his lap, bare thigh under his hand. Head against his chest, makeup a little smudged, hair mussed against the open collar of his shirt. He smelled like expensive cologne and smoke and whiskey.

He let you settle for a bit, curled into his chest like something expensive he’d stolen on purpose. His hand moved lazily over your bare thigh, the press of his thumb just shy of teasing. Eventually, he tipped his head toward yours.

“You good, baby?” Voice low, more smoke than concern.

You gave a little hum, cheek brushing the lapel of his jacket. “Mmhm. Just feelin’ it. All of it.”

He smirked, all sin and stubble. “You get real clingy when you’re high.”

“And you get real handsy,” you shot back, glancing at the fingers inching higher up your leg.

He didn’t even blink. “Tell me you don’t love it.”

You grinned slow and shameless. “I do love it.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know.” His fingers flexed, hand settling warm and heavy between your thighs. “You love when I take you outta your head. Love bein’ mine.”

You exhaled like it was a confession. “Even when we play with other people… you’re the only one I feel like this for.”

He hummed, low and rough. “That’s why I pulled you out tonight. Could’ve stayed, kept the party going. Maybe brought that sweet little thing you were all over home.”

You smiled, teeth against his throat. “She was sweet, and cute.”

“You were cuter,” he muttered. “Watching you smile like that, all glitter and thighs… I was two seconds from dragging you into the goddamn bathroom.”

“So you stole me away into the night instead?”

“Fucking right I did. Got tired of pretending I was fine with sharing you tonight. You looked too good. You were buzzed and sweet and mine.”

You laughed, soft and pleased, letting your fingers slip under his collar. “And what about your girl?”

“The actress?” He scoffed. “Nice tits, I guess. Didn’t even learn her name. Not even worth bending over the bar.”

You purred. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

“Not jealous,” he said, mouth close to your ear. “Possessive.”

“You always are.”

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Then tell me what I wanna hear.”

You tipped your head back, smiled up at him with syrup in your voice. “I’m yours.”

He grinned, dark and greedy. “Nah, not like that.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and leaned in, dragging your mouth over his jaw. “I’m yours, Ben. No one else gets me like this. Not even close.”

He exhaled sharp, grabbing a fistful of your ass like he needed the anchor. “That’s right, baby. I’ll let ‘em taste you sometimes, watch you fuck a girl til she cries — but you come home to me. You always come home.”

You bit your lip, flushed now, aching in the best way. “I do.”

“You don’t even let them finish in you,” he growled, hand sliding higher, mouth at your ear. “You save that for me.”

“Only you, baby.” You knew that, knew that he knew it better than anyone. You’d had talked about it at length, more than once. But you also knew he really liked hearing you say it. “Even when it’s on someone else’s hand or mouth or while they’re fucking me. It’s for you.”

His eyes darkened. “Fuck, baby. Say it again.”

You smiled, lascivious and drunk on him. “I only come for you. M’ always thinking about you, always for you, Ben.”

He groaned, hard now against your hip, voice practically a growl. “Couldn’t let you out of my sight tonight. You’re the crown jewel, and every single motherfucker in that room knew it.”

He kissed you—really kissed you. Deep and slow and claiming, with just enough teeth to make you shiver. His hand slid up, fingers pressing into your waist as your body arched against his like you couldn’t help it.

When you broke for air, you were breathless and glowing. “You always get me like this,” you whispered. “A little drunk, a little spun out, and stupidly in love.”

He grinned against your mouth. “That’s how I like you. All soft and wrecked, just for me.”

Your hand moved lower, brushing over his chest, his stomach. “I’d let you do anything to me right now.”

“Don’t tempt me, baby,” he said, eyes darkening. “Unless you mean it.”

You licked your lips, gaze soft but sultry. “I always mean it.”

He groaned, deep and low, then dragged you into his lap completely, like he didn’t care if the driver knew. He never did. His mouth moved to your throat, hot and open, his hand already inching your dress higher.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin. “Always have been. Always will be.”

You let your head fall back, breath catching. “Forever.”

He smiled, slow and amused. “That what the vows said? Thought it was just ‘til one of us dies.’”

You batted at his chest. “That’s just the paperwork. I’m talking about us.”

“Well,” he murmured, voice low and uncharacteristically steady, “I hope I go first.”

You stilled. The air seemed to thin between you, your fingers curling reflexively in the collar of his shirt. “Ben…”

“I mean it,” he said, not backing off—just softening it, grazing his teeth against your jaw with a teasing nip, the kind that should’ve made you laugh. “I don’t wanna figure out what life looks like without you in it.”

Your hand flew up and smacked his chest again, harder this time, palm stinging from the hit. “Don’t say that shit,” you muttered, heat rising behind your eyes. “That’s not funny.”

He just laughed, tucking you tighter under his arm like you were something small and precious. “After thirty-eight fuckin’ years, baby? I don’t remember how to live without you.”

You rolled your eyes, sniffling again, but your smile was back. Bright and wet and helplessly in love.

The car pulled up to your building. Ben didn’t move yet. Just looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“C’mon, Mr. Hargrove,” you whispered, breath catching—you didn’t want to focus on the sickening effect that his words had on you. Not tonight. “Take me up to bed.”

The second you stepped outside the car, his hands were on your hips.

“Upstairs, baby,” he said softly, mouth at your ear, hand slipping under your dress to palm your ass. “Now. Before I take you right here against the goddamn wall.”

You giggled, high and warm and his, and he swatted you once—just a little smack that made you gasp and clench. “Don’t laugh, sweetheart. You know I’ll do it.”

You did know. But you liked the way he said it. Like a promise.

You barely made it into the apartment before he had your dress shoved up around your waist, panties tugged down your thighs, and his mouth between your legs. He didn’t even bother getting you on the bed—just backed you up against the wall and dropped to his knees like a worshiper.

“God, look at this pussy,” he groaned, spreading you open. “So fucking wet for me already. You been like this all night?”

You whimpered, nodding, fingers in his hair.

“Of course you have,” he muttered, tongue flicking slow, steady, fucking filthy. “My perfect little thing. All soft and sweet and ready to be wrecked. You love it when I talk to you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, hips rocking against his face. “Yes.”

That made him groan—loud. He pressed two fingers inside, curling just right, sucking your clit like he was starving.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes, Ben,” you sobbed, already close, already shaking.

“That’s my girl,” he growled. “So good for me. So fucking perfect.”

You came with your back against the wall and your thighs trembling around his head—but he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, up until you were gasping, begging, hips jerking away—

“Nope,” he murmured, rising up, catching your chin in his hand. “We’re not done, baby. Get on the bed.”

You stumbled back on shaking legs toward the bedroom, stripping off the rest of your clothes as you went, crawling up the mattress—and Ben was already stripping, his body golden and thick and feral with want.

He climbed on top of you slow, settled between your legs, and dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Tell me who this is for,” he whispered, just barely pressing in.

“You,” you gasped, head thrown back, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. Your body was already trembling—slick, stretched, and trembling around him as he sank deeper, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

His hand was at your throat—not choking, just holding, a grounding weight while his other gripped your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you. He pushed in just a little deeper, enough to make you keen.

“Louder.”

The command was rough, low, threaded with heat and control. You could feel it in your spine, in the molten coil low in your belly. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he groaned, something ragged and pleased in the back of his throat.

“You. All for you,” you breathed, voice cracking on the end of it, wrecked and eager.

“Say it pretty,” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. His thrusts were slower now, more deliberate—designed to make you beg, to make you feel every inch of him. He liked pulling it out of you, dragging the words from your lips like prayers, filthy and reverent.

You tilted your head, lips brushing his jaw as you whimpered, “All yours, baby. No one else. No one fucks me like you. No one gets me like you. You fucking own me.”

His hand slid down, fingers pressing tight circles over your clit while he slid in all the way, hips flush against yours, jaw tight with restraint.

“Christ, baby,” he grunted, every thrust punching a whimper out of you, his hand groping one of your tits like he needed it to stay alive. “These fuckin’ tits—soft as sin, always bouncing for me.”

His other hand wasn’t any gentler—pinned your thigh back so far it almost burned, his thumb slick and mean against your clit, fingers slapping it just to hear the way you cried out.

“Yeah,” he groaned, breath hot against your neck, “you like that, don’t you? My dirty fuckin’ girl—so goddamn wet you’re leaking down my balls. So sweet and pretty for me, sweetheart.”

You moaned, thighs trembling around his waist, body already giving out, but he didn’t let up. He licked a stripe up your throat, then bit down just enough to make you jolt.

“All mine,” he panted, fucking you deep, cock dragging heavy and thick through soaked, fluttering walls. “Every inch. Every hole. Every filthy, fuckin’ moan.”

You gasped as he rolled your nipple between his fingers, twisted just enough to make your back arch off the bed.

“Let me hear it,” he growled. “Tell me who makes you come. Who gets to fuck this tight little cunt raw.”

“You,” you gasped. “Always you—Ben, fuck—”

He slapped your clit again, sharp and messy, groaning when your whole body spasmed.

“That’s right,” he hissed. “Say it again. Say it sweet.”

“You! All for you, only ever you—fuck, Ben, you’re so deep—”

“You take it so good,” he cooed, voice dropping into something dark and reverent. “Let me use your pussy like it’s fuckin’ made for me. So soft, baby—your little cunt’s in love with my cock.”

He shoved in hard and held, grinding deep, eyes locked on yours.

“You love me like this, don’t you?” he whispered, forehead to yours, hands still greedy on your tits. “Love when I treat you like my own personal fucktoy.”

“I do,” you moaned. “I love it—I love you—”

He kissed you hard, wet and messy and open-mouthed, and kept fucking you through it, never breaking pace. “Good girl. My girl. My perfect, greedy little slut. Taking all this cock like it’s your job. Gonna keep you full all night, baby. Gonna fill you so deep it leaks out when you walk.”

You whined, shaking beneath him, whole body cock-drunk and pliant.

“You feel that?” he hissed, hips grinding in circles now, thumb back on your clit. “That’s your man’s cock wrecking your insides. That’s love, baby. That’s how much I fuckin’ love you.”

You came with a ragged sob, clenching so hard around him he snarled—his thrusts sloppy now, animal, like he couldn’t stop himself.

“Goddamn,” he panted. “You make me so fuckin’ stupid. I’d kill for this pussy—I’d die in it.”

And when he finally came, it was with a moan like a prayer, face buried in your neck, hand still locked tight on your tit, grinding every drop into you like he needed to stay inside as your walls fluttered around him.

“You’re heaven, baby,” he breathed, kissing your throat with reverence. “You’re mine.”

He stayed inside you after. Kissed your jaw, your shoulder, your mouth. You were wrecked. Slick and messy and blissed out.

Your hips had stilled, but you were still fluttering around him—still twitching from the aftershocks, tight and soaked and gasping against his chest like the orgasm hadn’t fully let you go.

Ben was still inside you. Hard. Pulsing.

His hands moved gently over your body, big and steady, like you were something delicate—something precious and breakable. He held your thighs, your hips, the curve of your ass, and rocked you in the faintest rhythm, helping you grind down on him in soft, mindless motions.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, low and hot into your ear. “Still with me? You feel so good. Still milkin’ me, like you wanna keep every fuckin’ drop.”

You whimpered something—couldn’t even find the words—but your body answered for you, clenching tight around him, leaking and sticky and so fucking sensitive that every little movement made you gasp.

Ben groaned, deep and breathless, one hand stroking down your back while the other guided your hips.

“Fuck, that’s my girl. Can’t stop, can you? Can’t help it.” He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your hair. “Still so full of me. Still makin’ me feel like heaven.”

Your head lolled on his shoulder, limp and dazed, lips parting in a wet, broken moan when he rolled his hips just right—so slow and deep it felt like your whole body flushed with heat again.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ perfect like this. Sweet and pretty and fucked dumb on my cock.”

You whimpered again, a high, needy sound, and Ben smiled—tender, crooked, a little ruined and something in his chest pulled tight.

Because suddenly… he didn’t just see you like this. All confident and filthy and his. He saw her again. The girl he met in ‘46.

Not the bombshell who walked into bars in heels and eyeliner and ruined every man who dared glance at her.

Not the mouthy little minx who rode him like she wanted to break him in half.

No, right now—you looked like his girl.

That girl.

The one in saddle shoes and a swing skirt.

The one who kissed him behind a milkshake shop like it was a sin.

The one who made him wait weeks before letting him touch up your thigh.

The one who used to giggle when he groaned, all breathless and boyish in the front seat of his Plymouth.

God, he hadn’t thought about that version of you in years. He didn’t have to. Because you never really left. She was still in there. Under all the silk and sin and lipstick that made the boys go quiet when you walked in a room—she was still there.

And he loved the woman you’d become. He loved your bite, your confidence, the way you fucked like a goddess and smiled like a girl who knew it. But seeing you like this—wrecked and whimpering in his arms, clutching his shoulders like they were home—he saw her again. And it gutted him.

“Still my best girl,” he whispered, almost reverently, brushing a sticky strand of hair from your cheek. “Been mine since the damn war.”

You nuzzled into him, soft and pliant, and he felt it again—your cunt fluttering gently, greedily, still wrapped around him like it never wanted to let go. He cradled your hips and rocked up into you, just once, just enough to make you gasp.

“Need me to stop?” he asked, voice gentler now, all tenderness and control. “You done, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, barely able to speak. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Oh, baby…” he groaned, forehead tipping to yours, “you’ll fuckin’ kill me with that beggin’ one day.”

But he moved anyway—slow, shallow thrusts that rubbed just enough, hit just right, grinding you down on him with each lazy roll of his hips.

“Still takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ wet for me,” he whispered, cupping your breast in one hand, thumb brushing over your nipple like you weren’t already overstimulated enough.

You whimpered, clutching at his wrist. He kissed you—softer this time. Slower. Like he wanted to memorize your mouth again after all these years.

“You know I’ve never stopped being crazy about you, right?” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Not once. Not even for a second.”

“I know,” you whispered, tears slipping hot down your cheek.

He caught them with his thumb. Smiled against your skin.

“I loved you when you were sweet. I love you now that you’re filthy. I’ll love you when we’re both old and mean”

“We are old, we just don’t look it,” you murmured, voice thick with emotion. “You’re perfect.”

“So are you, baby,” he said. “So are you.”

He was still inside you, still hard, still moving—slower now, like it was about love instead of lust, like it was sacred. You were full, sore, soaking wet, and somehow, still hungry for him. You always were.

Ben held your hips still and thrust up one more time, deep and solid, his breath catching when your body responded with one last flutter around him.

“That’s it,” he sighed, pulling you flush to his chest. “That’s my girl. My whole fuckin’ world.”

Your whole body shuddered as he rocked into you again—deeper now, more deliberate. He moved like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like this wasn’t just about getting off, but about finishing something the two of you started decades ago.

His hands smoothed down your back, anchoring you there, keeping you close, like if he held you tight enough he could make time stop. Your chest slid against his with every slow grind, every lazy thrust, slick with sweat, your nipples catching against his chest as you gasped into his neck.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice like gravel and honey. “Fuckin’ always got you, baby.”

You nodded, limp in his hands but still chasing the rhythm, your body aching and raw but eager, greedy. His cock twitched inside you again, and your cunt squeezed down in a slow, needy pulse, the drag of him just enough to make your eyes roll back.

“Ben—” you whispered, not sure if it was a warning or a prayer.

He kissed your jaw, your cheek, your eyelids. Whispered your name like it was the only thing he’d ever believed in.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he groaned, fucking up into you again, wet and deep and aching. “Come with me. Just one more. Give it to me.”

His thumb found your clit again, gentle now, barely-there circles, and your body lit up like a fuse. It wasn’t violent this time. Wasn’t fast. Just a slow, full-bellied burn that overtook you in waves—like drowning in warmth, sinking into something made just for you.

You came with a soft sob, collapsing against him as your body locked down around his cock, spasming tight and wet and perfect. You shook in his arms, whispering his name, babbling something like “I love you” over and over while he held you steady, kissing your face like he was worshipping at an altar.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Fuck, baby, that’s it. That’s my good girl.”

And then he was coming too—deep inside you, thick and hot, pulsing through every inch of him. His hips jerked helplessly beneath you, cock buried so deep it felt like he was part of you, and his voice broke on your name.

His fingers dug into your hips, his mouth open against your throat, teeth grazing your skin like he didn’t know whether to bite or cry. And even when the last tremor passed, when you were both shaking and soaked and breathless, he didn’t let go.

You stayed like that—cock still deep, cum spilling out of you slow and warm, your bodies stuck together in sweat and love and something older than either of you had words for.

He stroked your back, your hair, your hip. Whispered nonsense against your temple, little praises and pet names, like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop loving you, even if he tried.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him—flushed and wrecked and soft-eyed in the moonlight, the man who’d always, always been yours.

And he looked at you like he was seeing that same girl all over again.

Not just the one from 1946. Not just the confident, sinful woman you’d become.

But you. The sum of all those selves. The beginning and the now.

“Still my best girl,” he whispered again, voice cracking like he’d been waiting years to say it right.

“Forever,” you whispered back, brushing your lips against his.

And you meant it. Every filthy, sacred, goddamn inch.

“I’d marry you again tomorrow if you asked,” you whispered. “And the next day. And the next.”

“We could,” he said simply. “Again and again. No one else gets you like this. I don’t care who you wander off to play with, baby. But this—this is all mine.”

You smiled against his skin, wobbly but sweet. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t want ‘em.”

He grinned. “Good. ‘Cause you’re mine.”

Your body was boneless over him, your cheek resting against his shoulder. Sweat cooled on your skin in the dim, hazy light, and Ben’s hand traced lazy, possessive circles at the base of your spine.

And you stayed like that for what could have been minutes, maybe hours. Just curled up, basking in everything that was Ben. You were a little sad, sure. But sad wasn’t even the right word for it. You just felt… soft.

You’d been quiet for a while, a minute too long.

Ben noticed the shift before you even did—the way your lashes fluttered like they were too heavy, the soft sniff you gave as your breathing changed. Still perched in his lap, your skin warm and damp against his, but the glow was fading. The buzz softening into something else.

Ben knew it. Knew this version of you like his own heartbeat.

He felt your little sigh coming before he heard it.

“Alright, c’mere,” he murmured, voice low and sure, one hand sliding up your spine to guide your forehead against his. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head?”

“Just…” You sniffled. “I dunno. My chest feels funny.”

Ben nodded like he’d expected it. “What’d you take, baby?”

You were quite a beat too long, eyes flicking toward the dark. “… molly. But not a lot. Just a little. And maybe some coke, earlier.”

He rubbed his thumb behind your ear, light and slow. “And the champagne.”

You nodded. “And the champagne.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said gently, like he was amused more than anything. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts.”

“Mm. Yeah. I figured,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You get weepy when it starts to spin on you.”

“I do not,” you mumbled, sulking into his neck.

“You do,” he teased. “You cry every time, baby. You get quiet and sniffly and then you do that little scrunchy face—yeah, that one.”

You let out a shaky little sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. “I feel gross.”

“You’re not gross,” he said easily, like he didn’t even have to think about it. “You’re just fucked out and floaty.”

His hand slipped down your back, warm and wide and steady. “You want a Valium?”

“…Kinda.”

“Yeah?” he asked, like it was a secret between you. “That what my girl needs?”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

Ben shifted just enough to reach the drawer, pulled the bottle without ever letting go of you, like he’d done this a thousand times before—and he had. Popped the cap one-handed, shook out a pill, and closed your fingers around it.

You took it without question, barely looking, letting your head drop back against him as he grabbed the water you always made sure was on the nightstand and held it to your lips.

“Small sips,” he said, watching you drink. “Good girl.”

The pill went down easy, and he put the bottle back, settling you again against his chest.

You were warm and soft, every inch of you relaxed but strung out, the comedown already starting to pull at the edges of your nerves. He could feel it—how jittery you were beneath the surface. How much you dreaded this, when the fun started slipping and all that was left was the ache behind your eyes.

Ben knew better than to tell you to sleep it off. That never worked.

So he stroked his fingers through your hair instead, slow and firm, murmuring, “S’alright, baby. You’re okay. Just gotta wait it out. You’re comin’ down hard, I know. Happens to the best of us.”

You sniffled again, your lips brushing his neck. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do,” he whispered. “But I got you. You’re safe. You’re home.”

You nodded into his chest, voice going small. “I didn’t mean to overdo it. I just wanted to feel good.”

“And you did,” he said. “You did, baby. You were flyin’. I was right there with you. We just need a soft landing, is all.”

His hand slipped up under the blanket to rub your lower back in lazy circles. You melted into it.

“…You love me?” you asked, voice hoarse.

He huffed, grinning. “Of course I fuckin’ love you. What kind’a question is that?”

“Even when I’m like this?”

He tipped your chin up, just enough to kiss your nose. “Especially when you’re like this.”

You blinked at him, watery and raw.

“C’mere,” he said again, tugging the blanket up over your back. “Let me baby you, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

You let out the tiniest laugh and curled tighter into his lap, arms tucked under your chest like a child being rocked to sleep.

“‘M sorry I’m being a baby.”

“You’re my baby,” he said, petting your hair. “Wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

A silence fell over the room, soft and safe. Your breathing started to slow.

When he felt your body finally go still, the tension bleeding out one vertebra at a time, he whispered, “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

And you let him hold you like that. Just you, and Ben, and the slow wash of something warm and steady settling in your bones.

He didn’t let go. Didn’t even think about it.

You were half-asleep, boneless and warm against him, your breath slow where your cheek rested on his chest. The worst of the comedown had passed, your nerves dulled to a hum, your body loose and worn out and finally, finally still.

Ben kept his hand on your back, fingers idly tracing along your spine beneath the sheet. The TV flickered in the dark, sound barely audible.

Your voice came out soft, muffled, barely more than a breath. “Ben?”

He tilted his head down a little, lips brushing your hair. “Yeah, baby?”

“Can you—” You paused, trying to gather the rest of the thought. “Will you put my rings back on?”

He smiled, that quiet, private one he only ever gave you in moments like this. “Of course.”

You lifted your hand just enough, fingers wiggling loosely in his direction. He reached for the nightstand with the other, careful not to jostle you too much. The little glass dish you always kept there clinked faintly as he pulled them out—your wedding band first, then the diamond, shiny and lovely and worn with time.

“I like having ’em back on after,” you whispered, sleepy and slow. “Always have.”

“I know,” he said gently, sliding the rings onto your finger one at a time. They fit like they belonged there. “Feels more real, huh?”

You nodded against his chest. “Mmhm.”

He kissed your knuckles once they were on, thumb brushing over the band like he was grounding himself with it, too.

“There,” he murmured. “All mine again.”

“I’m always yours,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I know, sweetheart.” He settled deeper into the pillows, arm wrapped around you tight.

And you drifted off like that—worn out and wrapped up, your rings back on your finger and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

The morning was slow and honeyed like it always was after nights like that. You were perched on the kitchen counter in nothing but his shirt, your legs lazily swinging while you nibbled on a croissant you’d absolutely stolen from his plate. The windows were open, the breeze light, the city humming softly below them.

Ben stood at the stove, shirtless, dog tags resting on his chest as he flipped something in a skillet with far more confidence than he had any right to.

“You gonna steal my coffee too?” he asked without turning, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Maybe,” you said through a mouthful of pastry. “You made it too good.”

“Because I love you,” he said easily. “And I like the way you make those little happy sounds when you drink it.”

She laughed softly and took another sip. “You’re getting soft in your old age, soldier.”

“I’m not that old,” he muttered.

“You’re pushing sixty-five.”

“I look thirty-five.”

“You act fifteen.”

He turned around, two plates in hand, raising an eyebrow. “And you married me anyway.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and sleepy.

You ate like that—side by side, knees brushing, sharing bites of food and light teasing. Your fingers traced the edge of his plate. His palm was warm against your thigh. The kind of easy that only came with decades.

He was clearing dishes when he said it. Like it was nothing.

“So—Nicaragua’s officially on. We leave tonight.”

And there it was. That tightening in your chest. That cold knot, right beneath the soft afterglow of love and laughter.

You set your fork down. Quietly.

Ben looked up, already catching it in your face. “What?”

“I was hoping it’d fall through,” you said, not looking at him.

“You said it was probably nothing.”

“I thought maybe it was,” you slid down off the counter, wrapping your arms loosely around yourself. “It felt…small, at first. Like background noise. Just nerves.”

He was watching your now. Still, alert. He didn’t say anything.

“But it hasn’t gone away,” you continued. “It’s not panic. It’s not just dread. It’s physical. My skin hurts. My heart’s been racing every time it gets brought up.”

He stepped toward your, slow. “You’ve had these feelings before. You always wind yourself up before missions—”

“I know I have misread the vibes before,” you said, softer now. For as amazing of a communicator as Ben could be with you—somehow he always had trouble accepting when you caught a vibe. It wasn’t a dismissal of your power exactly, but he had a knack for ignoring when it impeded on something like this. “But this isn’t misfiring. I don’t think this is about stress or fear. I think something bad is going to happen.”

Ben was quiet.

“You think I’m nuts,” you said, trying to smile. It didn’t work. “I know. I know how it sounds.”

He pulled your into his arms, gently this time, his hand resting at the base of your spine. “I don’t think you’re nuts. I think you’ve got one hell of a gut. But sweetheart—”

“You think you’re invincible.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

His jaw ticked.

She reached up and cupped his face. “I know how strong you are. How fast, how smart. I’ve seen you rip through people like tissue paper. I know what you can do. But I also know the world’s getting nastier. And there are people out there who’d kill you just to prove they can.”

He didn’t argue that. He didn’t have to.

“I love you,” you said. “I have loved you since I was nineteen. I don’t want to feel this and do nothing.”

He kissed your forehead, then the space between your brows. Placating. “So what do we do? Pull out of the op? Tell Vought my wife has a bad feeling?”

“If you did that, they’d put a leash on me and start drug-testing you,” you muttered, followed by a heavy sigh. “Just…be careful. Please. Be paranoid. Be mean. Be selfish. Just come back to me.”

Ben kissed your again, longer this time. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other pressed against your spine like he could anchor your there, heart to heart.

“I always come back to you,” he murmured. “Always.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, mouth trembling like you might believe it.

And then, after a long beat, you whispered, “Yeah. Until the day you don’t.”

MASTERLIST

END NOTES: so :)))) i hope yall enjoyed. I think soldier boy being who he is very much is because of the drugs and the sex and all that so this was my way to incorporate that <3 personally, I love. But I know that might not be everyone’s cup of tea. But, I hope it was yours 🫶🏻

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester

YOU HONESTLY DON’T know how you got here. Well, you do, but you’re slowly regretting your decision to ever befriend the Winchesters, wanting the ground to swallow you whole as they stared at you incredulously. But it wasn’t your fault that their dad would use your Mom’s house as a dumping ground for the two of them when he was on a hunt in your state. While your Mom graciously took them in every time, you knew, even from a young age, that she had her gripes with the elder Winchester, who dragged his kids across the country hunting monsters. 

Growing up with the Winchesters was certainly interesting. You liked hearing the stories that Dean would tell you and Sam about hunting since your Mom retired as soon as she had you. You remember any time that they came over, the three of you were like peas in a pod (your Mom’s words, not yours) and would play and mess with each other each chance you got (typically, it was Sam and you versus Dean most of the time).

As the three of you got older, you saw each other less. Still, you tried to keep in contact—but eventually, Sam went to college, and you guys stopped talking to each other altogether. Until they ran into you on a hunt while trying to find their dad. After the hunt, you guys reconnected at the bar in town and traded numbers. 

Throughout the years, you would run into them on hunts and help them out if they needed it as their lives increasingly became crazier and crazier. 

Currently, you were sat at the map table next to Sam and across from Dean in the bunker that they had found due to their grandfather coming from the past looking for John (which was the weirdest thing that they told you when they invited you for the tour of their home base, but then again, weird is normal for those two). The three of you were having a lazy day due to there being nothing in the news that seemed to be your brand of weird and would warrant the three of you to have left the bunker.

You spent most of the day lounging in the clothes you slept in. After dinner, Dean pulled out his good scotch and three glasses, poured each of you a healthy amount, and started to talk about old hunts and reminiscing on the past. You were about a glass in, now on your second one, when Dean suggested that the three of you play Never Have I Ever, which Sam protested against. When Dean looked at you for the tiebreaker, you shrugged, saying why not since you had nothing better to do. 

Dean grinned at you and sent a smug look to his brother while Sam rolled his eyes at him. 

The questions were pretty tame until they started to venture into the types of conquests that either of you three had throughout the years, which made you learn a little too much about their sex lives (you already knew enough about Dean’s, but now you had to hear Sam’s which was very interesting, to say the least). 

Dean had just finished taking a sip of his dwindling glass. “Okay, my turn.” He had a mischievous glint in his eye as he shot a look at his brother.

“Never have I ever slept with a demon.” Dean had an arrogant smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair. 

The question was clearly a dig at his brother, to which Sam had scoffed and shook his head. Sam lifted his glass off the table and took a healthy sip of it before putting it back down. His brows furrowed when he saw Dean’s mouth agape in shock. He glanced at you, setting your drink down on the table as well. 

Sam looked at you, confused as to why you took a drink before it hit him, his confused expression morphing into one that mirrored his brother’s. 

You felt warm, slightly embarrassed by their gazes on you. You knew that this was the reaction they would have toward you, but it still didn’t feel the best. 

“Wh-what? When? How?” Dean sputtered out as he looked at you like you were crazy. 

Sam stayed silent, the questions flooding his brain, but Dean had vocalized most of them for him. 

You cleared your throat. “Well, I think it’s my turn anyway. So never-” 

“Nope, we’re not playing until you answer the question.” Dean cut you off and stared at you intently. 

“It’s not any of your business, Dean.” You said through gritted teeth, wanting to move on from the conversation. 

“If you don’t tell us, I’m just going to assume the worst and think you slept with Crowley.” Dean pointed at you before taking a sip of his drink. 

Your face screwed up in disgust. “EW! No, I didn’t sleep with Crowley. I’d rather be chewed up by a wendigo than even kiss him.” 

“Did you know they were a demon before sleeping with them?” Sam questioned. 

You whipped your head to stare at Sam in disbelief. “Really Sam?” 

He shrugged. “Sorry, but can’t blame me for being curious. You’re the last person I’d expect to sleep with a demon.” 

“Has anyone told you curiosity killed the cat?” You snarked as you narrowed your eyes at the shaggy-haired man.

“Yeah, well, satisfaction brought it back.” Sam quipped back as he shot you a smug smile, and you were debating on escaping to your room, but you knew that they would not give up the interrogation until you told them. 

You let out a defeated sigh, leaning back in your seat. “Yes, I knew they were a demon before I slept with them.” 

“Okay, who was it? Was it anyone we knew?” Dean asked. 

You sighed before nodding. You took a sip of your drink before glancing at Sam. “Uh, it was Ruby.” You mumbled into the rim of your glass. 

Neither man heard you. “Sorry, we didn’t exactly hear that.” Sam said. 

Dean nodded. "Wanna say it louder for the the two of us?"

You scrunched your nose, placing your glass on the table. “I slept with Ruby.” You said louder than before, avoiding their gazes. 

Both men were rendered speechless. You and Ruby infamously didn’t get along. There was an animosity between the two of you from the moment you spotted the brunette in Sam’s room when Dean came back from Hell.

Yeah, Sam tolerated her most of the time, and Dean didn’t trust her at all and kept her as far away from him as he could, but the two of you butted heads like no other. There were a couple of times when they thought you were going to kill her, but apparently, that wasn’t the case. 

Dean opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to find any words to say before shutting it. 

“Oh." Sam cleared his throat. "But I thought the two of you hated each other?" 

“We definitely did.” You nodded. “But, it was only once. Well, maybe it was like a couple of times actually now that I’m thinking about it.” 

Dean looked at you wide-eyed. “I have so many questions.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Just ask them.” You wanted this conversation to be over and done with. 

“How did it even happen the first time?” 

“Do you remember that haunting a couple of hours away from Bobby’s place? In Topeka?” You asked them, trying to jog their memory. 

“Not really.” 

“Well, the two of you were a little busy with the seals so I went and checked it out and I wrapped it up pretty fast. But when I went back to my motel room after burning the bones, she was there.” 

You remember it like it was yesterday. You were exhausted from digging up the grave, used to having one of the boys helping you, or even better, they were doing it while you held the flashlight. But they stayed behind at Bobby's. So you were left to do it yourself. You were tired and covered in dirt, and all you wanted to do was shower and fall face-first into the rickety motel bed and sleep for twenty hours. 

But when you opened the door, you saw the irritating smirk stretched on Ruby’s lips as she sat at the table near the kitchenette in the room you were staying in. 

“She was being annoying as per usual and I was trying to get her out of my room, but then of course she had to provoke me and we started to argue, then the next thing I knew, I had her pinned against the wall and kissing her. And you can probably guess the rest.” You scratched the back of your neck sheepishly as you looked down at your almost empty glass, avoiding the burning stares of the Winchesters. 

You decided to down the rest of the liquid in your cup before placing it on the table. You looked at Dean to see a faraway look in his eyes, and you squinted at him before realizing what he was doing. 

“Hey!” You clapped your hands to try and snap him out of his daydream. “Stop imagining it dude, that’s gross, not to mention really weird.” 

You shook your head and glanced at Sam to see the same look on his face. Then, you scowled at him, snapping your fingers in front of his face as well. 

“Are you kidding me Sam?” 

Sam blinked and shook his head, having the decency to look apologetic. “Sorry, it’s just…” He trailed off. 

“It’s hot. You know, that you and Ruby fu-” 

“Finish that sentence Dean and I swear that I’ll make sure that you’ll have a black eye in the morning.” You cut him off as you glared at the man sitting across from you. 

Dean raised his hands in defense. “I was just saying. Besides Sammy here was thinking about the same thing, probably even more considering he slept with her too.” 

“Shut up Dean.” Sam shot a scowl at his brother. 

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me you actually were though.” 

Sam’s silence spoke volumes, and you just shook your head at him. 

“So, are we done with this interrogation or can we continue on with this stupid game.” 

“One more question.” 

You groaned at Dean’s words. “What is it?”

“Did she ever tell you who was better in bed, You or Sam?”

“Really Dean?” Sam sighed tiredly (but secretly, he wanted to know).

You couldn’t help the smirk on your face at the question before you shook your head and got rid of it. “Not gonna answer that one.” 

Dean grumbled before finally moving on from the subject. The three of you stayed up pretty late before you retired for the night. You were about to get into bed after getting ready to sleep, but there was a soft knock on your door. You padded over to it and opened it to see Sam in the entryway. 

“What’s up Sam?” You asked softly, wondering why he was at your door this late. 

He looked a little nervous as he ran a hand through his hair. “Did she actually tell you?” 

You furrowed your brows. “Who?” 

“Ruby.” He murmured. 

Oh. Oh. You sent him a playful smile. “Why? Did you want to compare notes?” You teased, and you could see the slight blush grow on Sam’s face. 

Sam started to stammer, and you couldn’t help but laugh gently at him. You reached out and rested a hand on his arm to stop him from stuttering out a useless excuse. 

“She never told me who was 'better'. Ruby never stayed long after we would sleep together.” You told him with a slight smile on your face. 

He nodded in understanding, his shoulders relaxing at your answer. You squeezed his arm before telling him ‘goodnight,’ and he did the same before walking down the hall towards his room. You closed your door and smiled to yourself. 

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

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