As a social worker at the pitt, you were desperately in demand and chronically underpaid and undersupported. Even with all the years of experience now under your belt, the praise from your coworkers and hospital administration alike, and your hard won comfort in your position, you still had lingering school debt. You still lived in a crappy small apartment. Still found yourself the only social worker on shift more often than not, being stretched thin fit to snap, constantly being pulled in a million different directions.

But you loved what you did. You loved working with people, and problem solving. Looking at the system, acknowledging its overwhelming faults, but not succumbing to the weight. You were good at finding loopholes and work-arounds to get your patients out of tight spots. Every time you succeeded in getting a child out of a bad home, a woman out of trafficking, or a family’s hospital bill covered, all your problems seemed so insignificant, worth it.

Your friends and coworkers made it more bearable, too. Kiara was your rock, Lupe was always a kind, understanding presence. It was easier to connect with your fellow non-medical workers, because they too felt the pressure of the job without adequate compensation. The nurses, too. You could bond together in the face of day to day mistreatment. You were sneered at, looked down upon, underestimated, all while keeping the whole system running and getting paid jack.

You weren’t there so you could have your names published or buy a boat, or a vacation home, or be publicly praised. You put up with being ignored and shoved aside and overworked because you were dedicated to your jobs.

Doctors were another story. And surgeons? They were the worst.

It took you a bit longer to accept the doctors into your good graces, but you learned how to weed out the respectful ones as opposed to the ones who would look down their noses at you.

Dr. Robby, however snappy and short-tempered, always made sure to thank you for your work, and treat you the same as his fellows. Sometimes that meant yelling, but hey, at least it was equal treatment across the board.

Dr. Abbot, of course, one of your favorites. He won your trust right off the bat with his slow smiles and ability to stay calm in tense situations. He praised the social workers beyond a doubt, and you could always count on him for a ride home, or a shoulder to cry on, even.

Samira? No competition. You often told her she’d have excelled as a social worker, with her once in a lifetime empathy, her heightened sense for the socioemotional aspects of her job. You’d reprimanded Robby more than once for being harsh with her.

So, you weren’t too picky. After all, you were a people person. If you were to be seeing the same people almost every day, you’d make an effort to try and get on with them. That, and, despite all the ugliness you had seen in your job and out of it, you were still a firm believer that everyone has good qualities, even if it takes a little longer to see them in some than in others.

It took you quite awhile to see the good in Emery Walsh.

You had been working on the day shift almost exclusively for your entire multi year long career at PTMC, maybe picking up someone’s shift here and there, when you got the news that one of your coworkers was leaving and needed a replacement. It was only for a few months, you were assured, but still relatively long term. Social workers, to no one’s surprise, were in short supply, and Trish had had a family emergency and an abrupt departure.

You weren’t thrilled to be leaving your usual team, who at that point viewed you like family, and you right back, but you liked Jack, and you liked Lena, and you were nothing if not open to new experiences. So, you said your goodbyes, purchased some blackout blinds, and started the aggravating process of shifting your circadian rhythm.

It wasn’t easy, and you spent the first several weeks pounding espresso and running on thin patience. So it was no mystery why the generally sharp, sassy surgeon did not make a great first impression on you.

You found her acerbic, and cocky, much too sure of herself. This assessment was of course not helped by your sleep deprivation, nor her stubborn nature. Upon walking into the room, she didn’t even glance in your direction, speaking only to Dr. Abbot. You bristled, and pushed, and she pushed back. It was the beginning of a turbulent relationship.

You’d snipe at each other like school children whenever in contact. You’d go out of your way to request any surgery consultant but her, and she’d act awful lofty when you were around, using advanced language she knew you wouldn’t understand.

But as time went on, tensions were heightened by one inescapable fact; she was one of the hottest people you’d ever laid eyes on.

It took months, and several strong drinks, for you to admit that. Turned out, she felt quite the same. And so began a secret love affair.

By the time you were meant to return to the day shift, one of your biggest annoyances had become one of your greatest sources of joy.

You were proven right in your convictions that everybody had good. It was a long and slow process to break down those walls, to reach the person behind them.

Some days, you would cry and fight, and your mission to reach her felt less steady, and more like trying to find the end of a rainbow. Was it there? Were you wasting your time?

No, decidedly, you weren’t. You came to know Emery Walsh like no one had before, in the sheets, at home, even at work. You could look at her, and where before you only saw an arrogant surgeon, annoying but typical, now you could see the dedication, and curiosity, the desire to learn, and the desire to help.

It was beautiful to see in action, and you were reluctant to leave. You remembered confessing your hesitation to Emery, a week before the new hire started. You sat on her counter in your underwear, sipping the tea she had made you.

“The night shift is horrible,” Emery insisted. “We get all the weirdos. Our sleep’s fucked up. It has no sunlight, no steadiness, no anything. It has sleep deprivation and bad coffee.”

You set down your mug and grabbed her face, pulling her in between your dangling legs.

“Yeah, it does,” you said, twirling the baby hairs at the base of her neck. “But it also has you. When am I supposed to see you if I go back to the day shift?”

She looked at you then, really looked at you, deep into your eyes, and smiled. She placed her skilled hands against your waist.

“Well, if you moved in with me,” she said, “we can see a whole lot of each other.”

It took three iterations of the same proposal for you to believe she wasn’t joking. Once you did, you jumped off the counter, clinging to her like a koala as you squealed. After six long months together, a blip, really, but a lifetime to you, you moved in together.

It was no question whose apartment it would be. Emery was a surgeon, with a surgeon’s salary, and she lived like one. Her apartment had huge windows, good plumbing, and no mold. It had plenty of space for your things. You didn’t have too many, a fact Emery was only too quick to fix.

By the time you celebrated your first anniversary, you had a small collection of designer bags in your closet, fresh nails every fortnight, and luxury perfumes lining your vanity. Your student debt dried up, your car stopped making that noise, and your fridge was stocked with the bougie yogurt you never allowed yourself.

All those years you spent worrying about money, and it turned out all you needed to do was fall in love with a surgeon.

You loved your girl, and she loved you, and you weren’t ashamed. When you first got together, it was too new to tell anyone. Then, it was fun keeping it a secret. Then you went back on opposite shifts, and there were hardly any clues to pick up on. Hardly anyone knew that you went home after a long day to a cushy apartment shared with an attending at their very hospital, played with a cat she got you, and slept in a bed that smelled like her. They never asked, and you never told.

Emery liked staying private, and you didn’t mind. With as little contact as the two of you had, during the day, it was easy.

You had to tell Kiara, of course, and Dana would have figured it out anyways. Abbot and Robby knew because they were higher ups, and it was hard to file with HR without them knowing. You went to work, you went home. Emery did the same. You didn’t talk about your out of work ventures, referred in passing to “my partner” but gave no further details. Your phone background was of Mitzy, your cat, innocuous enough. Nothing, at first glance, really tied you and Emery to each other.

At least, not for years. But now, you were looking down at your gorgeous, very large, very noticeable stone resting in place on the fourth finger of your left hand, and you realized the jig was up.

It was a pretty impulsive idea. You woke up the morning before, after a wonderful night spent celebrating your third anniversary, and the question just slipped out of your girlfriend’s mouth.

“Will you marry me?”

This time she proposed something hasty and wild, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t backtrack and take convincing. You smiled wide, and said, “yes.”

You’d never wanted a big wedding and neither did she. So, you went to the thrift store for a nice white gown with your mother that very afternoon, bought a grocery store cake with a congrats piped across the top that was surely meant for a graduate, and went to the courthouse. Your flowers came from the few vases you kept around the house. The photographer was Emery’s sister. It was chaotic, and sudden, and a little panicked, but it was perfect.

You’d said your I Dos in front of your parents, siblings, Dana, and Kiara, and had cheap cake out on the cement steps. You went to the bar you had your first date at, danced, drank, and celebrated. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.

A few days later, you took a trip to a jeweller. You picked out her ring, and she picked out yours. You’d laughed and cried, felt all the emotions, dreamed of what the future looked like for the two of you. Then reality hit.

“I don’t want to hide this,” you said, tangled up with Emery in bed, turning your hand from side to side. 

“Me neither,” she said.

“So… what’s our gameplan?” you asked. “I mean, they’re gonna freak out. They don’t even know we’re dating.”

She fingered her own band, thinking. Then she grinned.

“Let them freak out,” she said. “Mine’ll be hidden, I can’t exactly have it on when I’m sticking my hands into people’s body cavities.”

“Right,” you said grumpily. “So I’m gonna get all the questions, and the badgering, and the attention, and no one’s gonna bug you at all. I have to take all of the heat?”

“I’m pretty sure it was in our vows,” she chuckled.

“Our vows said in sickness and in health,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re not sick. Unless you’ve been diagnosed with chicken-itis.”

“Ha, ha,” she drawled as you started making chicken noises in her face.

Really, it wasn’t a big deal, you tried to tell yourself as you got ready the next morning. They’d find out, they’d freak, and then they’d get over it. The question was whether or not to tell your friends exactly who your counterpart was in all this mess.

You’d only made the mistake of introducing a partner to them once. It wasn’t even serious, just a guy you’d met at the gym and brought along to drinks. After that night, they’d been insufferable. They made up nicknames, teased you about his clothes, his hair, his job. Even now, eons after your breakup, you’d still hear a jab about “how’s Walmart Bieber?" or “Is he still living with his mommy?”

So okay, yeah, he wasn’t the best choice of boyfriend, but he had helped you learn a very valuable lesson. Never introduce anyone you care about to the Pitt crew. They’d be able to drive off anyone. And sure, Emery wasn’t exactly a stranger to them, but that wouldn’t excuse her from receiving a barrage of insulting monikers and teasing about your relationship.

It wasn’t an experience you were eager to relieve.

As you walked into the ED, you got all your usual greetings. Lupe buzzed you in with a smile, Dana nodded. The only slightly unusual thing was the wink Kiara sent you as you set up in your office.

It wasn’t until you were filling out some paperwork for your first patient of the day, a single mother whose insurance wouldn’t cover a procedure for her son, that someone said something.

“I like your ring,” said Samira, handing you the pen you’d asked for. “Is it new, or…”

You saw the gears turning in her brain, trying to pull itself from work mode to friend mode. Then she gasped loudly and pointed, drawing several people’s attention. You grimaced.

“Is that an engagement ring?”

“Um…” was all you could force out. Your mind was suddenly blank.

“It is!” said Javadi, eyes wide as usual. “You’re engaged? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone!”

“Engaged?” said Whitaker, pulling up to the hub with Mel in tow. “Who’s engaged?”

Samira pointed to your ring again, and both dark blondes lit up.

“Congratulations!” said Mel, hurriedly freeing herself from her gown and gloves, and giving you a friendly hug.

“Damn, that’s a rock,” said Perlah, coming over and grabbing your hand.

“A rock?” snorted Princess. “That’s a fucking glacier.”

The two played tug of war with your hand, each trying to pull it closer for inspection, while Javadi was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Do you know when you’re gonna have the ceremony?” she asked. “I’ve always thought I’d like a spring wedding, but the rain is temperamental. I think you’d look amazing in fall colors, though, surrounded by the leaves, and everything! Of course, the color scheme has to be well thought out, too —”

“You know what you should do?” said Samira, snapping her fingers. “Get married in a library! Ugh, that’s my dream!”

“Yes, yes, the Boston Public Library is gorgeous!” piped in the new nurse, Emma. “Not insanely expensive if you keep it small, and not too far away from Pittsburgh, so like destination, but not inaccessible, you know?”

“Yeah, but why keep it small?” said Javadi. “Miss Popular over here, she’s gonna want to invite everyone and their neighbor.”

“Um —” you said again.

“Well you could still get married at the library then,” said Emma. “If you save. Or if your fiance is rich.”

“Yeah, is he?” said Princess. “What does he do?”

Quiet suddenly fell as the jabbering ceased and all eyes fell on you. You stammered a bit.

“My fiance?” you said. “My fiance… is a doctor.”

Why, why did you say that? Of all moments to tell the truth! If you thought they were all over you like before, it was nothing compared to now. Now that they knew there was a possibility they knew the person, seen them, even worked with them. It was like bees on honey, buzzing nonstop.

“Oh my god!”

“Does he work here?”

“Is it Park?”

“Ew, don’t say that!”

“What, he’s jacked!”

“It is not Park the shark!” you said, yanking your hand back.

“But it is someone at PTMC?” said Perlah.

You hesitated, just for a second, but it was a second too long. 

“It is!” said Javadi with a gasp.

“This changes everything,” said Perlah, looking devilish.

Luckily, you were saved from another wave of questions by Robby.

“What the hell is going on here?” he said sharply. “I have a feeling it’s not related to your work. And unless it’s about labs, or x-rays, or differential diagnoses, gossip doesn’t save anyone’s life!”

“Fascist,” Princess muttered under her breath as she turned back to her tablet.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, chief!” she said, overly cheery, before turning and whispering something else to Perlah in Tagalog.

“This isn’t over!” said Javadi, as she skittered away.

As they all cleared out, Robby stepped up to you, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Thank you,” you said, picking up your pen and getting back to work.

“Sure,” he said. “And by the way, congratulations.”

You smiled back at him. He knew, of course, had been invited to the wedding, both he and Jack. When you called their apartment, however, it was to learn that Robby was working and Jack was attempting to sleep off a nasty cold.

“Thanks,” you said. “Sorry you couldn’t be there. But, you know, it took less than a day to put together. It was cheap, simple, easy, memorable.” You smirked at him. “Maybe one of these days you take that silver fox of yours and make it official, huh?”

He immediately turned tomato red, as he always did at any mention of feelings. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, it’s really not appropriate to discuss these things at work,” he said, skirting away from your knowing eyes. “Don’t make me call HR!”

You just chuckled.

Later that night, you came home to a delicious smell and an open bottle of wine. Emery was swaying in the kitchen, humming along to your cooking playlist and stirring pasta on the stove. You dropped your things, kicked off your shoes, and joined her.

“How was work?” she asked as you wrapped your arms around her middle.

“Fine,” you said. “Vodka sauce?”

“The best in Pittsburgh,” she said, lifting the spoon and blowing on it. “Taste.”

You carefully grabbed the hot pasta with your teeth and hummed.

“Good.”

You wandered over to the wine. There were two glasses out but empty. You took the liberty of filling both and handing one to your wife. Your wife.

“Thanks, baby,” she said, taking a sip.

“Isn’t this kind of the equivalent of drinking at eight AM for you?” you said, nodding to the clock. “I mean, you just woke up.”

“Maybe, but I’m off today,” she said, grabbing bowls. “And I figured you could use it.”

“You would be right,” you sighed, bringing your legs up to your chest.

“They were bad, huh?”

“They were as you’d expect,” you waved away. “Actually, it made me kind of sad, more than anything.”

“How’s that?” said Emery, spooning pasta into the dishes and finishing with some basil leaves.

“Well, you should have seen how excited they got when they thought I was engaged,” you said. “They started picking out venues, and color schemes, and stuff. They really wanted to be involved.”

“What did they say when you told them you were already married?” she said, placing the hot plate in front of you.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell them,” you said. “I was thinking that maybe we could have a party? Like a big one, with outfits and dinner and a big cake, and everything.”

“Isn’t that the whole reason we got married at the court house?” said Emery. “Not dealing with all that?”

“Yeah, I guess,” you said, stabbing some rigatoni onto your fork. “It’s just — I really care about those people, you know? And I know they care about me, and I think they deserve the chance to celebrate with us. I know I’d want one if one of my friends had a secret wedding.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, rubbing your arm with her free hand. “Really. And it’s also sweet that this has nothing to do with the idea of a registry. Really selfless, babe.”

You shot her a look while she laughed.

“Why pass up the opportunity?”

It seemed your mom had been holding back her disappointment at your small, makeshift wedding to spare your feelings, because the second you mentioned the party idea to her, she was over the moon. You had to convince her not to go ahead and start booking without you and Emery.

It was certainly a lot. Even keeping it simple, in your brother’s backyard, with homemade decorations, it was complicated. You needed to decide on music, live or DJ? Food, catered or homemade? Cake flavors, dresses, itineraries, everything. 

Finally, you had to put your foot down with your parents and inlaws. No caterers, no ceremony, no live band. A simple night with drinks and food, and maybe you’d allow some slideshows of embarrassing childhood photos. 

You were more comfortable sharing the blow then, with a plan, the next time you walked into work. Immediately, though, you knew the news of your “engagement” had spread like wildfire. Most obviously by the hubbub around the betting board in the security office.

Spotting Robby in the mix with his wallet out, you made for him, less than thrilled. He tried to hide his cash behind his back when he saw you coming.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly. “I hope it’s not cheating.”

He glanced from the board, to Ahmad, to you. You turned to Ahmad.

“Don’t take any money from him, he already knows the answer,” you said, and Robby groaned. “Actually, don’t go anywhere near Abbot, Dana, or Kiara, either. They all know.”

While the other betters reprimanded Robby as though they wouldn’t have done the same thing, you examined the board.

There were a good few names up there, some eyebrow raisers. Devin from radiology, as if. Dr. Cruz from the nightshift; he was nice, but you thought his girlfriend might have a thing or two to say about it. Matteo, who was practically a child to you, in his early twenties. Ellis, the only woman, with just one vote from Santos. Then there was Abbot, which as you watched, gained five more bets from Ahmad’s hand.

Shocked though you were, you supposed his and Robby’s relationship wasn’t completely common knowledge.

“You said he knows,” said Princess. “Obviously he would know if he was the fiance.”

You shook your head with a smile, turning back to work.

“You people are incorrigible.”

Okay, maybe you’d wait a little longer, let them sit in it before you spread the word. Emery’s name wasn’t even mentioned. If you played your cards right, maybe you could convince Mel to cheat with you, and get a cut of the winnings. Your phone buzzed.

Tell them yet?

You smirked.

No. Let’s let them tear each other apart for a while first. We can laugh about it at the party.

---

requests open!

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.

nervous, jumpy thing that was transferred from another unit; you might have shared the same rank as some of them and worked hard for your place, but you were still their ‘rookie’. she pointed out how you’d have this glint in your eye when you’d show off to the missus, yearning and craving for the praise that would follow from your captain. god, did she love seeing your face brighten up when she’d pat your sweaty head, telling you what good of a job you did.

want was such a vague word, especially when mrs. price was seemingly playing with her food in front of him. and it wasn’t long before john shared the same affections as his wife; he was the husband that didn’t originally want the cat, but grew more and more attached to taking care of it. you.

she calls you bunny when you’re not around. asking price how her bunny’s doing. after some time, the ‘her’ seemed to drop off and john started calling you bunny to her as well.

on heli rides home, he’d welcome you to lean on his shoulder for naps, mumbling something about, “the missus will ‘ave my head if m’not takin care of her pet.” while running his fingers through your hair, practically purring as the deep rumble of his voice coaxed you into a slumber. — soap would make comments about how he never receives that sort of treatment and gaz would kick his boot for him to shut up.

members outside of the 141 either hated you or wanted to be you. you weren’t even from here, yet you’d taken a spot in the prestigious taskforce, a spot that some thought had belonged to them. sometimes rumors would make their way back to you. most times it was easy for you to ignore but on days you couldn’t, you found yourself in price’s office. his hand would cup your cheek, wiping a stray tear that had fallen and he’d hug you so tight, reminding you that you worked your ass off to get here and that if you had any doubts in his decision to recruit you into the 141, you were more than welcome to file a formal complaint.

mrs. price had brought in iced lemon cake. she remembered it was your favorite, only she’d brought in an extra loaf, just for you — maybe price wasn’t allowed to play favorites, but she could — while ghost, soap, and gaz were still on their way to price’s office from the mess hall, she shoved a fork into your hand, beckoning for you to take a bite. she threaded her fingers through your hair as you ate, noticing how her eyes twinkle with adoration. you couldn’t help but preen into her touch and she coo’d at how adorable you were.

a small bit of icing was left at the corner of your lip and she took it upon herself to lean down to lick it off your face. the feeling has the air in your lungs hitch and you freeze, eyes wide as you stare at your captain who’s unfazed and watching with darkened eyes.

“mmm, i reckon maybe the icing’s much too sweet? what do you think honey? come, have a taste.” mrs. price hums at her husband as she smacks her lips. and john doesn’t waste any time making his way towards his wife, who’s just put her lips and tongue on you. there’s even a lipgloss stain where her lips met your skin! what was going on?

john cups the side of your neck, reeling you for a kiss. mrs. price lets out of a hum of delight as her fingers cup the other side of your neck, her fingertips only reaching john’s with her full set of acrylics; her thumb brushes across your jaw as if she’s petting you. you can smell his body wash and her floral perfume invading your senses. john’s tongue push past the barrier of your lips and into your mouth and you can feel mrs. price wipe away the drool (and lipgloss stain) that spill from the side of your mouth. the groan that leaves your captain’s chest has you whimpering and mrs. price purses her lips tuts, almost in a humiliating way.

when john pulls away, you lean forward, chasing his mouth but mrs. price’s thumb drags across your swollen lips to stop you.

“yeah, too sweet lovie.”

There were lots of rumors flying around about Stratt sleeping with those who she kept closest to her. First Ryland Grace, now you.

With Ryland, you pretty quite sure it wasn’t true. They certainly lacked certain boundaries, but there was no reason the think he was having sex with her. And technically you weren’t either… yet.

You wouldn’t deny that you had thought about in on multiple occasions. If you were both lesbians, you’d certainly consider it. In all honesty, you hadn’t really thought about your sexuality since you hooked up with some girls in freshman year of college and landed on “labels are stupid.”

You weren’t really interested in romantic relationships with women. They were pretty and sweet but you were never good at the emotional aspects and most women wanted that even more than a lot of the men you tried dating.

In the end, the people your age were always just too emotional, too insecure, and too immature. They never seemed to have their own lives, and half of them were dumb as bricks. The opposite of your type, basically. You liked older guys, most of the time, and you liked them so smart it made your brain hurt just listening to them.

Sapiosexual was a term often used by your friends, but, again, labels were stupid. You didn’t need a name for every aspect of a person you were attracted to, because at the end of the day someone was either sexy or they weren’t.

Regardless, you were now in the very best place to find smart, sexy people. Working for the government with a bunch of scientists, trying to save the world. Or whatever.

Fresh out of college, you knew you wanted to be surrounded by literally anyone but the people you went to school with, so you did the most reasonable thing you could think of.

You reached out to NASA.

Was it a little impulsive and highly presumptuous? Absolutely. However, it just so happened that they were just learning how utterly fucked the entire planet was if we didn’t do something.

They had decided that instead of sending their own interns, they’d just get a new one and give them to Eva Stratt, instead.

The first day you showed up, you had introduced yourself to Stratt as an equal, offering assistance with anything she needed, telling her about your degree and your ambitions. You knew you likely seemed pretentious and overly eager, but she took one long look at you and made you her personal assistant.

It was different than what you had originally signed up for, but you certainly weren’t about to start complaining. You brought her coffee, took calls for her, made notes on her schedule, and practically followed her around like a lost kitten.

She must have had pity on you, because she bright you along to everything and made sure you never had to pay for anything.

You’d find gifts and notes on your desk from her, groceries would appear in your apartment, and she’d often say things about how surprised she is that more of her scientists aren’t trying to ask you out. It was all quite flattering, though you couldn’t figure out what the point of it all was.

And then Ryland came along. Dr. Ryland Grace was a lot of things. He was awkward and clumsy, unorganized, nervous, oblivious, and told awful jokes. He was the biggest nerd you had ever met, and you needed to fuck him.

It didn’t matter that he was your co-worker, or that you hadn’t been interested in hook ups since college, or even that he was almost decade older than you. He was a complete fucking dork in the most masculine, not-a-loser way ever.

You stalked him on the internet the day Stratt mentioned him joining the team. You saw the videos of him speaking quite… passionately about some of his theories. It was nothing like the man you met a few days later.

He didn’t seem particularly interested in you, despite how friendly he was. He was polite and kind, but he certainly hasn’t made any invitations for the two of you to get dinner, or even coffee.

You did start bringing him coffee, though. He was grateful for that, and it gave you some hope that once things settled down a bit, he might look up and notice you.

Stratt noticed. Of course she fucking did. It was embarrassing to see the way she smirked when he made a stupid space pun and you laughed harder than what was reasonable. It was embarrassing to see the way she raised an eyebrow and gave you a knowing look every time Dr. Grace smiled at you from across the room and you blushed.

You had accepted a while ago that working for Stratt wasn’t going to be “professional” in the way most people would use the word. She’d adjust pieces of clothing for you, smooth down your hair when necessary, and let you sit on her desk while she finished up getting papers together. None of it was normal, but it was normal for the two of you.

You knew she was the same with Dr. Grace in many ways, and while you were only slightly jealous, the real issue was that you weren’t exactly sure who you were jealous of.

Today was like any other day, you had thought. Your mind hadn’t changed when Stratt called you into her office and told you to shut and lock the door. It hadn’t changed when she patted the desk for you to sit, or when she closed her folder of papers and set it aside.

The look in her eyes when they met yours was what changed your mind.

“You have an interest in Dr. Ryland Grace, am I correct in saying this?”

Your ears turn red and you avert your gaze quite quickly. You knew she knew, but you hadn’t thought she’d ever say it out loud.

“Ma’am, is this—”

“You’re not in trouble, I just thought you should know my… policies on workplace affairs.”

Your eyes widen, and you try to blabber out excuses, trying to tell her w it was nothing more than a crush. That there was no way he had looked at you in the way, and there was no reason to be concerned about it interfering with the mission.

“It is allowed,” she started casually. “Though, I would prefer if the pda was kept to the minimum, and if you’re ever caught hooking up during work hours, the three of us will have to have an uncomfortable conversation.”

“Ma’am,” you tried again.

“I would prefer you not get caught.”

You let out a small sigh, embarrassed but at least relieved she isn’t going to reprimand you over a crush.

“There’s nothing happening between Dr. Grace and I. While I admire his work and do find him… attractive, our dynamic has remained strictly professional. I’m… not even sure my affections are mutual. We haven’t discussed it.”

She seems mildly surprised by this, but just gives a small shrug.

“In that case, perhaps you might consider other members of the team. I could find you someone. Are you interested only in men or would you be open to other options?”

“Is Dr. Grace the only person on the team who’s caught your eye?”

You went silent for a moment before gentle shaking your head. You could feel your ears turn red as she tilted her head.

“I see. In that case, darling, would you join me here for a moment? Come sit.” She patted her lap.

You thought she was joking. She must be, right? But when has Stratt ever joked about that kind of thing? Or… joked in general, for that matter?

You moved carefully to sit on her lap, and she has you straddle her thigh. You know it’s extremely unprofessional, but it sends a thrill through you. She leans back casually in her chair, looking up at you with a bored expression.

“I want you to know that whatever happens in my office will remain private and will have no effect on your career. Whether you leave now or choose to continue this interaction is entirely up to you and neither will have negative consequences.”

She sounded so sure, like she the statement was rehearsed. Her hand carefully found the outside of your thigh, resting there.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you managed, your voice quiet.

She patted your thigh. “Good girl.”

Fuck. You felt the quiet ache starting between your legs. Was this actually happening?

It wasn’t even the fact that she was your boss that three you off the most. It was that somehow she was in charge of the situation.

She was… dominant. It made sense, looking at her, but when you had hooked up with girls in college it had always been you that was the more assertive one. It was you who prided yourself on getting the other girls off, making them beg, cooing softly into their ears as they came down, telling them everything they needed to hear.

So why the fuck were you doing everything in your power to keep your hips still against her thigh.

“Such a pretty thing,” she tutted, breaking your train of thought. “A shame you’re so stuck in your head all the time.”

You blushed slightly, feeling her hand slide higher.

She was the nurse who had pulled his wife back from the brink of death after one of the Joker’s sadistic attacks. In the sterile chaos of the hospital, something unspoken had passed between them. Months later, she captured the heart of the richest man in Gotham. It was wrong—twisted and rotten in its own way. How could a man fall for the woman who had saved his wife’s life while his wife lay broken in a hospital bed?

Their first kiss happened in her small, dimly lit apartment. He had come to “thank her,” rain dripping from his coat, eyes dark with something neither of them dared name. The kiss was desperate, guilty, and addictive.

From then on, she lived for the stolen moments. She made sure her hair fell just right, her nails were painted the deep red he liked, and she spent the money he forced on her—buying silk robes and expensive perfume she only wore for him. Every time she saw the news—his arm wrapped possessively around his wife’s waist, their practiced kisses for the cameras—something inside her fractured a little more.

“We’re married out of convenience. There’s no love,” he would whisper against her skin in the dark.

But she knew the truth. He was in love with his wife. He was simply torn between the woman he loved and the woman he wanted. She was the secret, the escape, the body he craved when the weight of being Bruce Wayne became too much. She would never be more than that. Never a person. Never enough.

In the quiet hours after he left, she envied his wife with a bone-deep ache. Not the money. Not the name. But the way his wife got to have Bruce—the real man beneath the mask—while she was left with nothing but Mr. Wayne and the scent of him fading from her sheets.

A few months later, tangled together under her blankets, skin still flushed and hearts racing, she whispered the words that would destroy them:

“I love you, Bruce.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He stiffened against her, and she felt the exact moment everything shattered.

Bruce stopped coming after that night. The silence was worse than any rejection. Every unanswered text, every empty evening, carved deeper into her chest.

Then one shift, while the hospital buzzed around her, she saw the news on the break room TV:

The Waynes had divorced.

“BRUCE WAYNE TRULY IS THE MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR—FOR HIS INABILITY TO KEEP A WOMAN! GUESS MONEY CAN’T BUY LOVE…”

She felt sick. She knew she was the reason. The guilt wrapped around her throat like barbed wire.

Across town, the confrontation between Bruce and his wife had been pure devastation.

“BRUCE, GET AWAY FROM ME!” she screamed, voice cracking as she hurled vases, picture frames, and anything she could reach. Shards of glass scattered like their broken marriage.

Bruce dodged with practiced precision, eyes pained. “Sweetheart, please—”

She punched him hard across the cheek. The crack echoed. For once, the Batman hadn’t seen it coming.

“No loyalty! NONE!” she yelled, tears streaming down her face. “Not even from you! Who is she?!”

Bruce had never seen her like this—raw, unraveling, furious.

“You say you love me, then you run off for some easy fuck?” Her voice dropped to a broken monotone. “You wouldn’t even look at me during sex. If you wanted to cheat, you should’ve divorced me first.”

“I love you. She meant nothing…” he said, but the guilt in his eyes was shallow.

“She meant enough to ruin us.” Her voice trembled. “There will always be another woman for Bruce Wayne, won’t there? One pussy wasn’t enough? How many are there, Bruce?”

“Just one…” he admitted, barely above a whisper.

“Tell me who she is. Don’t make me feel like the other woman.”

His next words destroyed what little was left:

“Don’t you get it? You’re the other woman. Your father gave me your hand in marriage.”

The pain in her eyes was bottomless. “No… You’re married to me! She’s the other woman! I never wanted any of this!”

She slid down the wall, knees weak, sobbing quietly. “A man in love would never do this to me… Just leave, Bruce. I don’t care who you fuck anymore.”

Days later, Bruce appeared at the nurse’s door, looking hollow and desperate.

“I want to fix this,” he said, voice rough.

But she stood firm in the doorway, tears burning her eyes. “We’re done, Bruce. I can’t keep being your secret. I won’t destroy myself—or her—any longer.”

She closed the door on his pleading face and cried until she had nothing left.

The next morning, she went to see his ex-wife. Hands shaking, she told her everything. The affair. The guilt that ate her alive. How she had ended it.

When she finished, she looked the other woman in the eyes.

“Yell at me. Hit me. Do whatever you need. Just don’t stay quiet. I know it won’t change anything… but I left him. For whatever that’s worth.”

The ex-wife stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Then she let out a quiet, broken laugh that held years of pain.

“You’re both so fucking stupid.”

The nurse gave a watery smile. “Yeah… we really are.”

Over the following years, the two women slowly became each other’s unexpected lifeline. They shared bitter wine and darker jokes about Bruce Wayne’s inability to love anyone properly. The angst never fully left, but it became something they could carry together—two women who had both been shattered by the same man.

Then came one reckless, drunken night after years of friendship. Laughter turned into lingering touches, tears turned into desperate kisses, and pain turned into something raw and consuming.

They woke up naked beside each other the next morning, sunlight cutting across tangled sheets.

The ex-wife panicked. She dressed quickly, avoided eye contact, and left with a mumbled excuse. For weeks afterward, she withdrew, drowning in denial and fresh guilt.

The nurse felt the rejection like a fresh wound. Heart aching, she eventually forced herself to move on and agreed to a date with someone else.

The date barely began before the ex-wife stormed into the restaurant, eyes blazing with jealousy and unresolved feelings.

They ended up back at the nurse’s apartment, shouting at each other.

“You can’t just pretend nothing happened between us!” the nurse cried, voice breaking.

“I was drunk! It was a mistake—”

“A mistake? Then why the hell did you chase me down and ruin my date?!”

The argument grew ugly, years of buried pain and longing spilling out. Tears streamed down both their faces.

Until the ex-wife suddenly grabbed her, slamming their lips together in a fierce, angry, desperate kiss—full of everything they had both tried so hard to deny.

Months later, the two women walked hand-in-hand through one of Gotham’s quieter parks, the city lights twinkling in the distance. They had come a long way. The sharp edges of their shared pain had softened into something warmer, deeper, and real. Bruce Wayne was no longer a wound—he was simply a cautionary tale they occasionally laughed about.

As they turned a corner, they ran straight into him.

Bruce stopped dead. His eyes flicked between them, widening in disbelief as he noticed their joined hands and the easy intimacy between them.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice strained. He looked at his ex-wife first, pain and longing flickering across his face. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I made mistakes—terrible ones. But I still love you. We could try again. I’ve changed.”

The ex-wife simply raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed.

Before she could respond, the nurse stepped forward, calm and steady. She squeezed her girlfriend’s hand gently.

“Actually, Bruce,” the nurse said, her voice clear and free of the old trembling, “we’re in a relationship. We’re happy. And we’ve both moved on.”

Bruce looked stunned, almost desperate. “You can’t be serious. After everything—”

“We are,” the ex-wife cut in, her tone final but without anger. “Take care of yourself, Bruce.”

The nurse offered a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.”

You’ve been staring at your phone for a while.

She told literally everyone :/

The notification of the message from your friend sits at the top of the display, persistent, mocking. You’ve made a terrible mistake and you want to undo it with every fiber of your being. Your free hand claws at your chest, wrinkling the hoodie into a fist like the material will absorb all the negative emotions overtaking your heart.

Shame, mostly shame.

You’re not even angry at the girl but rather at yourself. Every time you show vulnerability, you are punished. You should’ve known better. You only have yourself to thank for this.

A teardrop falls to the glass, distorting the letters under it. With shaking hands, you unlock the phone and immediately lock it again, bravery leaving you as soon as you see the messaging app’s icon.

Coming out to her was stupid. You should’ve never opened up.

She seemed so understanding in the moment and even told you she’d keep the secret. “I’m so happy to see you finally loosen up, darling,” she had told you, with a sweet, syrupy voice. “You’re so quiet, I’m glad I can get to know you.”

And you were glad to finally tell someone about this part of you. Now, everyone knows. You’re too busy hating yourself to see it as betrayal, or just a generally shitty thing to do.

Finally, you will yourself to open the app but instead of facing that conversation, you enter a different chat.

Hi! Can you tell Yaga I’m sitting this one out? I don’t feel so good. Must be the food from lunch.

Suguru responds, after about a minute.

Sure thing. Feel better soon :)

You assume that’s all it takes to have the situation handled. Suguru will tell Yaga you’re sick and you’ll be left alone for the afternoon. The best place to freak out in a familiar one, after all.

Shame returns in heavy waves that make you want to sink into the puffy pillows and soft sheets of your bed. Now everyone knows. You’ve heard how some people talk about girls like you.

In a way, you feel like a predator. You were having sleepovers with them and maybe you owed them a coming out, to be upfront, to be sent to change somewhere out of their sight. They’ll think of you as the female creep for always just quietly being there, getting to see their bodies. Not that you’re actually attracted to any of them. Based on their past comments, they’ll assume attraction.

In the end, you are the villain.

U ok?, comes the message but you don’t have it in yourself to reply. You need to process this horrible mistake first, spiral down into every possible outcome, make up worst-case scenarios, imagine all the things people are saying about you.

Suits you for coming out of your shell. Maybe it’s what you deserve for all your crimes. All those times you let the overly friendly girls hug you, all those times they touched your hair or complimented you. They must feel disgusted.

Dude wtf ure gay? The first reaction comes in.

Your chest heaves as a louder sob breaks free from your throat. The phone in your hand slips away as you curl up further into yourself. You want to reject this whole thing with every cell and shake your head, like that will undo it.

What you don’t see from your position is how your door creaks open and a tall man, roughly the size of a proper bookshelf, squeezes himself through the entrance. Only when the mattress dips under his weight as he lowers himself onto your bed do you gain awareness of your surroundings.

“Hey kid. Tell me about that—“

Yaga doesn’t get to finish. You launch yourself towards him like a clumsy frog, clinging to his arm for dear life. There is no time to question why he’s even bothering to check up on you, you’re too desperate for comfort at this point.

“I h-hate myself!” The words don’t ring as loudly and punishingly as you’d like them to, the stuttering and obvious crying weakens the effect.

Yaga freezes. For a moment, his hand hovers awkwardly in the air. The teacher is someone who can snap concrete in half with his bare hands but a crying teenager attached to him like a barnacle is what throws him off a bit.

“I hate myself.” The first time you said it, it sounded like an insult, this time, it’s just a statement. Your face presses hard into Yaga’s shoulder until the stars start appearing behind your eyelids.

His big hand lands between your shoulder blades, stiffly, firmly.

“What happened, kiddo?”

You shake your head again. Explaining it, saying the words out loud just makes it all the more real.

“I’m so— I’m so stupid! And disgusting! And…and now everyone knows,” you cry between sniffles and hiccups, your nails dig into the blanket bunching up between your knees. Poor Yaga, he has no idea what he walked into.

Your shoulders shake. Your eyes hurt. But nothing makes you disappear. The only thing that seems to keep you from being sucked into a panic attack is the mountain that is Yaga. You hide behind him. The hand on your back begins rubbing loose circles, hesitantly.

“You’re not stupid. You’re not disgusting.”

“Yes, I am,” you whimper. A damp patch grows against Yaga’s white sleeve as the tears keep coming. “Yes I am.”

Yaga sighs. It’s the long, deep kind, the same when Kusakabe tells him Satoru broke equipment again or when the higher-ups call in a meeting that definitely could’ve been an email. This is just another Tuesday for Masamichi Yaga. Meanwhile, your world seems to be falling apart.

“Look at me.” His hand trails to the nape of your neck, pulling the hoodie down and tilting your head gently with your hair tangling around his fingers. Your body doesn’t resist the movement and your red-rimmed eyes meet his. Your skin is red in uneven patches from all the crying, eyelids puffy.

“There you are.”

You don’t like how the man’s voice softens. He’s usually hard on everyone because he has high hopes for everyone. So what does it say about you that Yaga is now all understanding and gentle. He’s even about to call you— “Sweetheart.”

Your eyes well up again and a fresh wave of tears rolls down your cheeks.

“You’re a bright kid. You’re a good kid.” His thumb wipes your tears, one by one. “What happened, mh?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because saying it out loud means it exists. It means it isn't some awful nightmare you'll wake up from. It means Yaga will know too.

Many moments of silence pass. During that time, your brain goes down another spiral. Is it okay to tell Yaga? Is he safe? In that second, you really just want comfort from someone.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, all the memories of when Yaga was safe come to the surface of your consciousness, like a little collage of postcards you can look at fondly.

When he made a cursed corpse for you to hang out with during your first week at Jujutsu High. When he decided to let Shoko just stick to healing. When you got your period during a mission and he bought you pads without making it weird.

“I…”

When he caught you putting makeup on Suguru and he didn’t even bat an eye.

“I like girls.”

Silence settles, Yaga’s expression doesn’t change. There is no hitch in his breath or a dilation in his pupils. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking and the uncertainty unnerves you.

“I also like boys but that’s not… not the issue,” you try to fill the uncomfortable silence and the way your muscles tense up, it’s evident there’s a ramble incoming. Before that can happen though, Yaga smiles, pulling the brakes on your messy swirl of thoughts.

“That’s okay.” He speaks so calmly. Less like a teacher, more like a… you don’t dare finish that. Masamichi Yaga thinks it’s okay? You’re bisexual and it’s okay?

“It is?”

“Mhm.” Both hands cradle your face now, so gently that the rough hands—more acquainted with punching faces—feel foreign on your skin. “You’re okay. Smart and mellow under that composure. Not stupid and definitely not disgusting.”

Your throat tightens and the sob that was about to claw its way up turns into an ugly, choking sound, making you want to curl into yourself again.

“…I…I told someone else and— and now all the girls know and—“ A wet hiccup makes you cut yourself off. In that moment, your phone buzzes again and you can assume it’s another appalled message.

“Are they mean to you?”

“…a little.”

Yaga nods to himself, as if filing away each detail.

“Listen, kid. You’re at Jujutsu High. You’re safe here. Focus on that for now, yeah?”

When you don’t respond, just stare at him, still sniffling, Yaga tucks a stray lock behind your ear. “Kid?”

“B-but…” Your lip wobbles. “But everyone knows.”

“Everyone?”

“A lot of people.”

“That’s not everyone. And I’m willing to bet that those who really matter, they would still love you.”

“But I’m… I’m gross, sensei.”

“You’re not. You feel a lot of guilt and shame. Right? Those can be icky feelings.” Yaga sighs again and slowly pulls you into a hug. His chin rests on the top of your head, arms curling around your shoulders. You give yourself over to the movement. “Oh, sweetheart, what am I going to do with you?”

Your blubbering quiets down into little whimpers. Your phone is still unattended but you try to do what Yaga told you. Focus on what you have at Jujutsu High. Suguru is nice. Shoko is chill. It’s all okay at Jujutsu High, the people in your phone can’t get to you.

Your breathing is still uneven, hiccuping in little broken waves that make your whole body jolt. Yaga’s hand stays at your back, slow circles continuing like he’s trying to teach your lungs a rhythm again.

“Alright,” he says after a while, voice lower now. “We’re going to do something simple.”

You blink against his sleeve. “W-what…?”

“Sit up a little.”

You hesitate, then reluctantly shift back. The loss of full contact makes panic flare for a second—until his hand moves to your shoulder and anchors you there instead.

“Good. Now breathe in.”

You try. It comes out shaky. “Again.”

After a few cycles, your chest stops feeling like it’s collapsing in on itself quite so violently. The wet trails on your cheeks start drying up.

“There,” he says quietly. “You’re still here.”

Your fingers are still clenched in his sleeve.

“I messed everything up.”

Yaga exhales through his nose, like he’s thinking carefully about every word before it exists.

“You didn’t mess everything up,” he corrects. “You told someone something about yourself. That’s not a crime. But you do need to learn to read people’s intentions better. You’ve always had trouble with that.”

His index finger boops your nose, though his voice grows rougher around the edges.

“I remember how easily non-sorcerer lies slipped away from you when you first started going on missions. You want to see the best in people don’t you? That’s not fair. You always want to see the worst in yourself.”

The storm in your head calms. It’s so peaceful when Yaga-sensei explains something.

“You’re a brave girl for telling me. Good job.”

You don’t quite know what to do with praise when you’re still half-drowning in your own head. The messages are still waiting.

“I should… I should apologize to them.”

“I don’t think you owe them an apology.”

“But—“

“No. Something was taken from you today. You deserve to rest.” When you don’t respond, Yaga continues. “Say it, sweetheart.”

“I… I deserve to rest.”

“Good job.” A soundless kiss is planted on the top of your head and you feel yourself crumbling into a million pieces. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m taking Satoru on the mission and Suguru’s going to stay here with you.”

“What?”

“He won’t ask you about anything. You know how he is. I just don’t want to leave you alone right now. He’ll stay here and you’ll spar a bit or do homework, nothing too much. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Suguru is nice. You respect his opinion. You respect Yaga’s opinion. Knowing that he cares is the lifeline for you. Their words matter more. Yaga-sensei is probably the best teacher ever.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”