summary: it's obvious to everyone at the daily planet that y/n and clark have an unspoken thing going on. one late night at the office might just be what they need to stop dancing around it.
pairings: reader x clark kent (superman2025!)
warnings: honestly no warnings! just some fluff! enjoy!
It’s Monday morning when the elevator dings and Clark Kent steps into the Daily Planet bullpen, coffee in one hand, tie slightly crooked like he was in a rush or maybe just landed from saving someone on the other side of the city.
The second his eyes land on her, his entire face lights up.
“Morning, Y/N,” he says, already heading toward her desk.
Y/N smiles instantly. Soft, warm. The kind of smile she can’t help when it comes to him. “Hi, Clark. Rough morning?”
“Only until now.”
He leans against the front desk, one elbow propped like he always does, casual and relaxed but completely focused on her. It’s early still and the newsroom is only just beginning to wake up behind him, but to Clark, it’s like she’s the only person in the room.
“Did you do anything fun this weekend?”
“Mmm…” Y/N hums thoughtfully. “Laundry. Watched a movie. Made banana bread and then ate almost all of it by myself. So, yeah. Wild times.”
Clark smiles, tilting his head. “That sounds amazing. What movie?”
“27 Dresses. Again. I’m predictable.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He pauses for just a beat— just enough. “Did you hang out with anyone or…?”
The question hangs in the air like a feather, light but intentional. Y/N swears her heartbeat skips.
“Just me and my cat,” she says, praying her voice doesn’t shake. “Who is very judgmental of my taste in men, by the way.”
Clark laughs, head tipping back. That soft, Clark Kent laugh that starts low and easy and always makes her stomach flip.
“Smart cat.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks burning. Her smile wobbles but doesn’t fade. He glances toward his desk but doesn’t walk away— not really. Instead, he starts walking backward, still facing her, his grin easy and boyish.
“Okay, well… I’ll try to be productive, but if you need anything— brownie taste testing, banana bread reviews, moral support—”
“You’ll be the first I call,” she says, grinning.
He salutes her with two fingers and turns around just in time to narrowly avoid colliding with Jimmy, who swerves around him like he’s used to it.
Y/N watches him go, heart fluttering, hands curled against the edge of her desk like she needs something to ground her.
Then—
“You cannot be serious,” a voice says directly in front of her.
Y/N startles and whips around to find Cat standing at the other side of the desk, iced coffee in hand, jaw practically on the floor.
“That kinda felt like an HR violation.”
Y/N’s eyes widen. “What?”
“The tension, Y/N. The giggles. You’re basically the plot of a Hallmark movie. You just need a snowstorm and a dead cell phone.”
Y/N opens her mouth to deny it, to say anything, something, but before she can say a word, Lois strolls by with a stack of folders, completely unbothered.
“Please,” Lois says. “Even I ship it. And I have a heart made of coffee and sarcasm.”
Y/N buries her face in her hands as both women walk off, laughing between themselves.
The phone rings. She reaches for it with shaky fingers, still burning with embarrassment, and answers in a voice much calmer than she feels.
“Daily Planet, this is Y/N… how can I help you?”
She sets the phone back down gently, biting back a smile. Just before she looks away, she sneaks one last glance toward the bullpen.
Clark is already looking at her.
He doesn’t look away.
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It’s just after noon when Y/N walks into the breakroom with her lunch, only to find Clark already there at the table with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, glasses slightly crooked, reading something on his phone.
He looks up and lights up.
“Hey!” he says, scooting over instinctively to make space beside him. “I was hoping I’d see you.”
Y/N’s heart stutters. “This is the only breakroom in the building.”
“Still,” he shrugs, like that doesn’t matter. “Doesn’t hurt to hope.”
She takes the seat beside him and pulls out her tupperware. Before she can even open it, he’s already peeking at it.
“What’d you bring today?”
“Just a salad,” she says. “Trying to be healthy. Which is why I also packed cookies.”
Clark grins. “Balance. I respect it.”
He opens his own container— some kind of sandwich and a bag of fruit. The moment her fork hits her salad, Clark casually reaches over and plucks a baby carrot straight out of her container.
“Clark!” she gasps, half laughing, half scandalized.
“You can’t just open with the good stuff,” he says, chewing innocently. “You’re setting yourself up for a carrot heist.”
“Oh really?” she raises an eyebrow, and then, without warning, snatches a grape from his fruit bag.
He stares at her, mock betrayal all over his face. “You’ve crossed a line.”
“We’re at war now.”
They dissolve into quiet giggles, bumping shoulders, passing food back and forth like kids in a cafeteria. Every time Y/N looks at him, he’s already looking at her. Every time he laughs, it lingers too long.
Across the room, Lois walks in carrying her own lunch bag and stops in her tracks at the sight.
Jimmy enters right behind her, sipping a smoothie, nearly collides into her.
“What’s— oh. Wow.”
They both stand there, watching Clark and Y/N like they’re an interactive romcom being screened live in the breakroom.
“This is getting hard to watch” Jimmy says.
“I know,” Lois says. “they’re still in the ‘accidentally flirting and sharing lunch like an old married couple’ phase.”
Jimmy frowns. “How many phases are there?”
“Too many,” Lois mutters. “I swear to god, if he doesn’t ask her out soon, I’m calling Cat and staging an intervention.”
Back at the table, Y/N leans her cheek into her palm, smiling as Clark tells her a story about how he got caught in the rain on the way back home last Friday.
“I’m serious,” Lois says. “We’re days away from full blown mutual pining collapse.”
Jimmy slurps his smoothie. “Should we make another powerpoint?”
“Oh, we’re way past powerpoint. It’s time for Clark to step up.”
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An hour after lunch, the office is back in its usual controlled chaos— phones ringing, keyboards clacking, reporters speed walking across the bullpen. Perry is out on a client lunch, which means the energy in the building has shifted just enough to feel a little more relaxed.
Y/N’s back at her desk, typing up something on the computer, when she senses movement from her left.
She glances up and sees Clark sneaking behind her desk like he owns the place.
“Clark,” she warns, already grinning, “if Perry sees you, you’re gonna get yelled at again.”
“He’s out at lunch,” Clark says, grinning smugly. “Perfect window of opportunity.”
“Perfect window for what, exactly?”
“Conversation. Bonding. A brief but meaningful escape from my job.”
Y/N shakes her head, biting back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
Clark leans over the back of her chair, peering at her monitor. “What are you working on?”
“A calendar of everyone’s birthdays. We just got those new interns. So I need to keep track of who gets a cookie cake and who gets a fruit tart.”
“You take this job way too seriously.”
“And you are very nosy for someone who doesn’t even sit on this side of the building.”
He starts picking up random things on her desk— tapping her stapler like it’s a piano, spinning her pen cup, rifling through her post it notes.
“Clark!” she swats at his hand, giggling. “Stop touching things!”
“I’m just investigating,” he says innocently. “Very official Daily Planet business.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m curious.”
He picks up a tiny knit frog keychain from beside her monitor and holds it up. “What’s this?”
Y/N snatches it back. “That’s Gerald. Don’t disrespect him.”
Clark laughs, full and bright, and she smiles despite herself, cheeks warm. They’re close enough that their arms keep brushing. He rests his elbows on the back of her chair like he’s settling in.
And then, of course, the elevator dings.
They both freeze.
Out walks Perry, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, lunch to-go bag in one hand, squinting like he already knows he’s about to be disappointed.
Y/N reacts on instinct.
She grabs a stack of random folders from her inbox and thrusts them into Clark’s hands like it was planned all along.
“Here are the folders you asked for, Clark,” she says quickly, voice sweet. “Thank you for reminding me! I completely forgot about it.”
Clark blinks. Looks down at the folders. Realizes what she’s doing a second too late and in his rush to look casual, he trips over the side of her chair.
Y/N slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
Clark catches himself on the desk, somehow still holding the folders.
Perry stops in his tracks, glares at the two of them.
“I can’t leave you two alone for one hour? One?”
Y/N blinks innocently, still seated, hands folded like she hasn’t been conspiring all day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief.”
Clark opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries to give a polite, professional smile while holding a folder upside down.
Perry sighs heavily. “Get back to work.”
He stomps toward his office. The second his door shuts, Y/N leans forward and in a fit of giggles whispers, “You almost took me down with you.”
Clark leans back in, whispering, “Gerald was nearly a casualty.”
Y/N bit back a smile, shaking her head, and Clark just watches her with that soft, helpless smile that says he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world.
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The sky’s already dark when Y/N slides into the booth beside Lois. Cat’s across from them, looking like she stepped out of a Vogue cover shoot— heels off under the table, martini in hand, halfway through her story about a man named Marco who apparently did not know how to properly hold chopsticks.
“So then, he orders the sashimi platter like he knows what he’s doing,” Cat says, gesturing wildly with a fry, “and stabs the tuna with the chopsticks like a weirdo.”
Lois snorts into her glass of red wine. Y/N lets out a soft giggle, leaning her cheek against her hand, fully wrapped up in the story.
“And I said, ‘If I wanted someone to mangle fish in front of me, I’d have gone to an aquarium with a toddler.’” Cat pops the fry into her mouth, smug. “Check, please.”
Y/N smiles, warm and easy. “You’re ruthless.”
“I’m efficient,” Cat corrects, picking up another fry. “Which is more than I can say for certain people’s love lives.”
Lois doesn’t even blink. “Oh, here we go.”
Cat leans forward. “Y/N. Doll. Be honest. What’s going on with you and Clark?”
Y/N groans, sinking lower in her seat. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Y/N—”
“I mean it. We talk. We laugh. We eat lunch together. And then he goes home and I go home and that’s it.”
Cat raises an eyebrow. “He leans on your desk like he’s a model in a perfume ad.”
“He walks backward to keep talking to you,” Lois adds. “That’s insane.”
Y/N shakes her head, half-laughing. “He’s just like that. He’s nice.”
“Sure,” Cat says. “But he’s not like that with anyone else.”
Y/N doesn’t respond.
Lois nudges her shoulder gently. “What’s going on in your head?”
Y/N stares at her water glass. Twists the ring around her thumb.
“I’ve worked here for a year now,” she says quietly. “A whole year. And he’s never once asked me to hang out outside of work. Not on a weekend. Not even after hours.”
Lois frowns.
“If he liked me,” Y/N continues, “he would’ve done something by now. Right? I mean— if he wanted to… he would’ve.”
There’s a pause. Cat puts her drink down.
“Y/N,” Lois says gently, “Clark doesn’t go out with me and Jimmy unless we bribe him with pie and drag him out by the sleeves of his flannel. I’ve known that man for years. You think he’s out at karaoke bars making weekend plans?”
“He’s a literal recluse,” Cat chimes in. “He’s sweet, sure. Friendly. But that whole leaning on your desk, sharing his lunch, almost tripping over himself when he sees you thing? That’s just for you.”
Y/N blinks.
“No really,” Cat says. “He’s not like that with anyone else. Everyone sees it. It’s honestly a miracle Perry hasn’t fully banned him from walking up to reception.”
Lois smirks. “You should see the betting pool Jimmy started.”
Y/N’s quiet. She stirs her water with her straw and keeps her eyes down.
But her voice is small when she says, “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”
And that’s when Cat reaches across the table and taps her hand.
“You’re not imagining it,” she says softly. “I promise.”
Y/N doesn’t answer. But there’s a look in her eyes now. Hope creeping back in, whether she wants it or not.
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The week had gone by with business as usual. Now it’s Friday morning, phones ringing, keyboards tapping, reporters rushing across the bullpen. Y/N’s sorting through interoffice envelopes when Perry strides over with his signature coffee and deadline scowl.
“Y/N,” he says, not even stopping as he passes. “Need you to stay late tonight.”
She blinks. “Tonight?”
“There’s a package coming in late. Important. Needs to go straight into my office and get locked up. I’ll leave you the key.”
She squints at him, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of package are we talking about? Alien egg? Blackmail? More novelty mugs?”
Perry stops. Turns. Gives her the look.
She lifts her hands in surrender. “Okay, yeah. Fine. I’ll stay.”
“You didn’t really have an option,” he says, already walking away.
Y/N watches him go, lips pursed, eyebrows high.
A familiar presence appears beside her— Clark, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loose like always. He leans on her desk, eyes flicking after Perry with an amused smile.
“What was that about?”
Y/N huffs and crosses her arms. “Apparently I’m babysitting a mystery package for Perry tonight. He wants me to stay until it’s delivered and lock it in his office.”
Clark tilts his head. “Weird.”
“Right?” she sighs. “There goes my Friday plans.”
His eyebrows lift, interested. “Oh? What were your plans?”
She doesn’t even try to make it sound impressive. “I was gonna start a new show. Maybe paint my nails. Eat something terrible for me. Classic Friday night self care.”
Clark grins. “Sounds pretty perfect.”
She shrugs, clearly frustrated. “Well, was perfect. Now I get to sit in a half lit office waiting for a secret government briefcase or something.”
He’s quiet for a second. “I can stay with you.”
Y/N blinks. “What? No, Clark, oh my god, no. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But I can. And I want to.”
She softens. “Clark. It’s Friday. You’ve had such a long week. Go do something fun.”
He laughs. “I was just gonna sit on my couch all night, but I guess I’ll reschedule.”
She glares playfully, tilting her head. “Are you sure?”
And it’s that voice— gentle, almost a whisper, paired with those wide eyes and the faintest pout. He’s helpless.
Clark leans in just a little, grinning. “Yes, I’m sure. Plus… I’ve heard weird things happen around here at night. Can’t leave you alone with the ghosts.”
Y/N giggles, shaking her head. “You’re such a dork.”
“And yet, here I am. Your brave, ghost fighting dork.”
She rolls her eyes, cheeks warm. “I’m making you cookies after this.”
“I accept your offering.”
They both smile, soft and lingering. Neither of them says it out loud, but somehow, this little moment feels like the start of something.
Something more.
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The sun’s dipping lower outside the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the bullpen. The office is buzzing with weekend energy— chairs scraping against the floor with urgency, everyone packing up for the weekend.
Y/N’s at her desk, finishing up the last bit of data entry, when her work besties Cat, Lois, and Jimmy stroll up together—coats on, bags slung over their shoulders, mid-conversation and laughing.
“Okay, but tell me why the bartender gave him my number,” Cat says, flabbergasted. “He couldn’t even pronounce ‘prosecco.’”
“You attract chaos,” Lois replies flatly.
“It’s called charm,” Cat shoots back.
Jimmy’s snorting into his scarf. “Wait— is this the one with the bad tattoo?”
“Oh, we’re not even halfway through the story,” Cat says, smug. “But first— I need to know what you two are doing tonight.”
She points between Lois and Jimmy.
“Trivia night,” Jimmy says, holding up a finger. “At that one bar with the disco ball.”
Lois shrugs. “We get free fries if we win. Or lose. I actually forgot which.”
Cat gasps. “Oh, I love that place— Y/N, you should come!”
Y/N straightens up, surprised. “Oh— I can’t. I have to stay late.”
Lois raises an eyebrow. “What, like, work late?”
“Yeah, Perry asked me to wait for some package. I have to lock it in his office or something.”
Cat blinks. “What kind of shady mystery package needs after hours babysitting?”
Y/N just shrugs. “Something deeply confidential, I’m sure. Definitely not a box of new Planet merch.”
Jimmy squints. “He’s really making you cancel your Friday night plans for a package?”
“I was gonna start a show and paint my nails, but, you know…” She trails off, trying to sound casual. “Stuff happens.”
Cat tilts her head. “So you’re just… staying here? Alone?”
Y/N opens her mouth to respond, but then—right on cue— Clark walks past with two sodas in hand. He pauses at the desk and holds one out to her.
“here,” he says with a grin. “Thought it might be a long night.”
“Thank you,” Y/N says softly, taking the can from his hands.
Clark smiles at the group, gives a little nod, and walks off toward the bullpen like nothing is out of the ordinary.
Silence.
Then—
“Ohhhh,” Cat says slowly, eyes narrowing.
“Interesting,” Jimmy murmurs.
Lois doesn’t even blink. “Just go ahead and tell him your ring size already.”
Lois shrugs. “If this were a romcom, we’d be in the third act.”
“I’m just saying,” Cat grins, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I expect a full update by Monday morning. If there’s not at least one romantic rooftop moment, I’m staging a coup.”
Y/N hides her smile behind her coffee. “Goodnight, guys.”
They all leave, still teasing, still laughing and Y/N turns back to her desk with a soft flutter in her chest and a blush she knows they saw.
She looks toward Clark across the bullpen, already setting up his desk and moving files he definitely doesn’t have to go over.
And all she can think about is the fact that he stayed.
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The bullpen is quiet now. Phones silenced. Lights dimmed. The energy of the day long gone, leaving behind the soft hum of a city winding down outside.
Y/N flips the laminated “BE BACK SOON” sign over and sticks it onto the counter. Beside it, she places a tiny silver desk bell with a handwritten note taped underneath:
“Please ring to notify staff (just me).”
She gives the bell a soft tap—just to test it—then smiles to herself and grabs her soda.
Across the room, the glow of Clark’s computer screen lights up the corner by his desk. He’s pulled a second chair beside his just close enough that their knees will probably bump. And he’s scrolling through HBO Max, sleeves rolled up, tie no longer on his neck.
He looks up as she approaches, and his whole face softens.
“Hey,” he says. “Pizza should be here any minute. Just put on whatever show you were planning to watch tonight.”
Y/N melts. Actually melts.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” she says, voice gentle. “Seriously.”
Clark shrugs, still smiling. “Well… I wanted to.”
She stares at him, heart thudding in her chest.
“I know you’d do the same for me,” he adds, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Y/N swallows, throat suddenly tight. She sits down beside him— close, because the chair was definitely placed intentionally— and leans over to reach for the mouse, fingers a little shaky on the keyboard.
Clark leans back, relaxed, content.
And Y/N can’t help but glance sideways at him as she scrolls, her heart full, her mind buzzing.
He stayed. He ordered pizza. He pulled up her show. He noticed.
And now, in the soft hum of the quiet newsroom, as the cursor hovers over the first episode, all she can think is,
If this isn’t something… then what is?
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The screen still glows in front of them, the second episode long over, the third one paused on the title screen. Neither of them has noticed.
Y/N’s laughing, cheeks flushed, as she tosses a grape into the air.
Clark leans back in his chair, eyes focused, mouth open just slightly to catch it.
It lands perfectly. He crunches it triumphantly and throws his hands in the air like he just won Olympic gold.
“That’s four in a row,” he says through a grin. “I’m unstoppable.”
Y/N snorts, tossing another grape into the bowl. “Who would’ve thought you’d have great reflexes?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Offended that you’re surprised.”
“Sorry, farm boy,” she teases, nudging his knee with hers. “You just don’t give off ‘grape catching champion’ energy.”
Clark laughs again, eyes crinkling, and for a moment it’s just that. The warmth, the ease, the closeness between them.
But then the conversation shifts. Naturally. Softly.
Clark’s voice lowers just slightly as he asks, “Do you think you’ll always stay at the front desk?”
Y/N leans her head against the back of the chair, her smile faltering but not fading. “No,” she says honestly. “I don’t think so.”
He watches her carefully, gently. Encouraging without pressure.
“I have a degree in communications,” she continues. “Didn’t really know what I wanted to do with it at first. Still don’t, most days. But…”
She sits up straighter, eyes a little brighter now.
“I want to do something that matters, you know? Something meaningful. I want to help people. Make the world better— even a little.”
Clark’s quiet for a moment, but not because he doesn’t know what to say.
Not because he thinks it’s dumb, but because he’s in awe.
“That’s… amazing,” he says, and he means it.
Y/N shrugs a little, brushing it off. “I mean, I know it sounds kind of idealistic.”
“No,” he says firmly. “It sounds like you.”
She looks at him, soft and a little stunned.
“I want that too,” Clark adds. “To make a difference.”
She tilts her head. “Is that why you got into journalism?”
He hesitates. Just for a beat.
Because the real answer is
Yes. That and flying halfway around the world to pull people from earthquakes and floods.Yes, because he has to, because if he doesn't, then who will?
But he smiles gently and nods. “Yeah. That’s a big part of it.”
She beams. “Well… you’re doing a good job.”
Clark laughs softly, almost shyly. “Thanks.”
“No, I mean it,” Y/N says, turning fully toward him now. “You’re a really great writer. I always look forward to reading your pieces.”
Clark’s smile grows, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Your interviews with Superman,” she adds, “those are my favorite. You do such a good job capturing his… humanity. Like, he’s not just this untouchable hero. You make him feel real.”
That one hits him square in the chest.
He swallows around the lump in his throat. “That means a lot. Really.”
They’re sitting closer now. Their knees brushing. Shoulders turned in. Faces only inches apart.
The overhead lights are dimmed, but the soft glow from the computer screen and the city lights outside wrap around them like a secret.
Clark looks at her like he’s memorizing her.
Y/N looks at him like she’s never felt safer in her life.
And just for a second, neither of them moves.
The office is silent, all that can be heard is the hum of the city beyond the windows. The paused episode still glows faintly on the screen, but neither of them is looking at it.
They’re looking at each other.
Clark, with that soft, unwavering gaze.
Y/N, with a heart that feels too big for her chest.
Her voice is barely above a whisper when she says it.
“Your eyes are so blue.”
Clark blinks, a little startled by the quiet honesty of it, but then he smiles, slow and gentle, like she’s just handed him the sun.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
She nods, cheeks warm. “Like… ridiculously blue. It’s honestly unfair.”
He huffs a soft laugh, and for a second it’s all playful. But then he says—
“Your smile,” he tells her, voice dipping just slightly. “That’s unfair.”
Y/N blushes, ducking her head down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She’s giggling a little, biting the inside of her cheek, clearly flustered.
Clark watches her. Warm, steady, completely gone.
Then, gently, he reaches out and tilts her chin up with two fingers.
She blinks at him, eyes wide, lips parted.
And he leans in. Slow. And kisses her.
It’s soft.
Short and sweet.
A little unsure at the edges.
But when they pull apart, Y/N’s already smiling.
She doesn’t even hesitate— just reaches up, slides her fingers behind his neck, and pulls him back in.
This time, the kiss is fuller. Real. Her other hand slips over his heart. His rests on her waist. They melt into it, breath hitching, giggling quietly between kisses like they can’t believe it’s finally happening.
When they break apart, their foreheads touch.
They’re glowing.
Breathing the same air, grinning like idiots.
“I can’t believe—” Y/N starts, but she’s cut off by Clark’s nose bumping hers, and they both laugh.
And of course–
The bell at the front desk rings sharply across the empty bullpen.
They jump like they’ve been caught.
Clark instinctively straightens up. Y/N covers her mouth, wide eyed.
“Delivery,” a voice calls from the elevator area. “Got a package for a Perry White?”
Clark looks at her. She looks at him.
And they burst out laughing.
The bell echoes once more as Y/N and Clark round the corner from his desk. There’s a shift now. Like something in the air between them has changed. Every glance is softer. Every brush of fingers feels electric.
They’re quiet as they walk side by side toward the front, but Clark’s hand hovers for just a second before settling gently at the small of her back.
Y/N’s heart nearly trips over itself.
The delivery guy is already waiting, clipboard in hand and a large, mysterious box on the counter.
Y/N steps forward to sign, her voice just slightly higher than usual when she says, “Thanks so much. Sorry about the wait.”
“No problem,” the guy shrugs, handing over the pen.
Clark stays close, warm and steady at her side. She signs quickly, hands it back, and the moment the guy walks off, Y/N turns to lift the box just to find Clark’s already got it.
“Clark!” she gasps.
“What?” he says innocently. “You’re off duty now. Consider me your very tall assistant.”
Y/N shakes her head, lips tugging into a smile. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet, you just kissed me,” he teases.
She bites back a laugh, blushing furiously.
They walk together down the hallway toward Perry’s office, Clark carrying the box like it weighs nothing, his free hand brushing hers every few steps.
“So…” Y/N says, glancing at the box. “What do you think it is? Please tell me it’s not another singing wall clock.”
“Oh no,” Clark says seriously. “I’m hoping for a cursed typewriter. Or maybe alien coffee beans. Something to spice things up.”
“Alien beans that give you superpowers,” Y/N nods. “But only for thirty minutes. And only if you drink them iced.”
Clark grins. “Dangerous.”
“Very.”
They reach Perry’s door. Clark sets the box down gently as Y/N fishes out the office key from her cardigan pocket.
He watches her with that same quiet affection.
And when she opens the door, they carry the box in together. Shoulders brushing, laughter still lingering between them.
Everything’s the same.
And nothing is.
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The night is quiet outside the Planet. The streets are calmer now, city lights casting a golden glow over the sidewalk. Down near the employee lot, Clark and Y/N walk out together, side by side, but slower now. Hesitant.
They come to a stop near the entrance.
Neither of them says anything.
Y/N clutches her purse with both hands, fishing blindly for her keys. Clark’s standing a little too still, like he doesn’t want to move yet. The air between them is warm but thick with something new.
She pulls her keys out. Fumbles with them.
“So…” she starts, looking up at him, voice light. “I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
Clark opens his mouth— then shuts it.
Y/N offers a soft, slightly nervous smile. “Unless, you know, Perry needs another after hours package guardian.”
Clark laughs quietly.
Then after a second–
“Y/N,” he says, stepping forward just enough to close the space between them. “Do you… want to go out with me tomorrow?”
Her breath catches.
He’s still smiling, but it’s a little unsure now, like he’s bracing himself for the answer, heart on the line.
And Y/N?
Her whole face lights up.
“Yes,” she says, almost too quickly. Then softer, “I’d really like that.”
Clark’s grin widens, that quiet, beaming kind of happy like the whole world just clicked into place.
They turn toward the lot, starting to walk toward their cars. But after only a few steps,
Y/N pauses.
Turns back.
And before he can even react, she grabs him gently by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into another kiss.
Clark’s hands immediately settle on her waist, grounding him, pulling her just a little closer.
This kiss is full. Sure. No shyness left. Just them, wrapped up in a week’s worth of laughter and months of almosts.
When she finally pulls away, her hands still resting on his chest, she looks up at him with a teasing smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Smallville.”
Clark’s eyes are wide, stunned, lips still parted.
She walks away like it’s nothing. Calm, composed, a complete contrast to the chaos she’s just left behind in his chest.
He watches her go. Watches her unlock her car. Watches her glance back once and wave before getting in.
And all he can do is stand there, dazed, smiling like an idiot under the streetlight.
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summary: you never meant to fall for johnny, but he made it impossible. what started out as persistence and a whirlwind romance turned into heartbreak- until he came back begging for another chance. is it too good to be true or is johnny storm finally ready to give into his feelings?
pairing: johnny storm x reader
warnings: slight swearing, lowkey some love bombing oops, johnny being very dumb, implied sex, lowkey toxic situationship, crying, arguing, angsty, f!reader. i think that's it!!
Y/N adjusted the lens one last time, checking the light meter on her camera as she crouched near the edge of the seamless backdrop. “Okay, blue tones are bouncing a little too hard,” she mumbled to herself, twisting the aperture ring with practiced ease. “Might need to kill the side fill if the glare doesn’t settle.”
She stood, smoothing down her shirt, camera slung around her neck. The studio lights buzzed overhead. A soft breeze from the vent rustled the edge of the backdrop. Everything was perfect.
Almost.
She glanced toward the entrance just as the heavy metal doors groaned open. “Right on cue,” she whispered.
The Fantastic Four stepped into the studio in full uniform. Reed offered a polite nod. Sue smiled warmly. Ben was already mid grumble about how tight the suits felt. And then there was Johnny Storm— smirking like he’d just walked out of a dream and directly into trouble.
Y/N cleared her throat, stepping forward. “Hi! I’m Y/N— I'll be doing your shoot today. Big fan,” she added, mostly to break the ice. “Of, you know… saving the world and not letting New York burn down.”
Reed smiled. “Appreciate that. Thanks for working with us on short notice.”
“No problem,” she said, nodding. “Okay, if we can start with a few group shots— positions are marked on the floor, just stand naturally for now, we’ll finesse later.”
She moved back to her camera.
Johnny didn’t.
He lingered in front of her, eyes scanning her face with open curiosity. “Y/N,” he said, letting the name roll off his tongue like he’d just tasted something sweet. “That Greek or something?”
She arched a brow, lifting the camera to her eye. “Not really. Back row, left side.”
He didn’t move.
“You know,” he said, ignoring Ben’s very loud sigh behind him, “if you wanted to take pictures of me specifically, you could’ve just asked.”
Y/N didn’t even blink. “I didn’t. Back row.”
Ben groaned. “For the love of— would you move, Matchstick?”
Johnny held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, sheesh. Just trying to make the shoot more fun.”
Y/N focused through the viewfinder. “Trust me. The fewer interruptions, the more fun this is for everyone.”
That earned a laugh from Sue.
She snapped a few test shots. Directed them to shift. Adjusted lighting. Things moved quickly after that. Reed standing tall in the middle, Sue slightly angled beside him, Ben grounding the edge of the frame like a brick wall, and Johnny... smiling a little too hard when she asked him to “try not to smirk like a 1950s heartthrob.”
Finally, they broke for individual portraits.
Johnny was last.
He strolled toward the mark with all the casual confidence of someone who had never once worried about making a good impression.
Y/N didn’t say anything at first, just adjusted her lighting, checked the monitor. She was all business.
“Alright, Johnny,” she said, raising her camera. “Neutral face first.”
He grinned wider. “This is my neutral face.”
“Then you should get that checked out.”
Ben laughed somewhere off to the side. “Oh, I like her.”
Y/N stepped in, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face as she gestured toward Johnny’s posture. “Relax your shoulders. And try not to look directly into the camera like you're about to hit on it.”
Johnny chuckled. “Not my fault the camera loves me.”
“You're unbelievable.”
“You noticed,” he said, and winked.
Y/N definitely didn’t blush. “Just stay still.”
The shutter clicked three times.
And in that split second, captured on digital film, was the start of something neither of them knew how to name yet— her with her steady hands and restless heart, him with his showboating grin and sharp gaze.
“You’re really good at this,” he said after a moment, quieter now.
She looked up from the screen. “At photography? I’d hope so.”
He tilted his head. “At pretending I don’t phase you.”
And even though her face stayed perfectly composed, even though she rolled her eyes and waved him off and said, “Last frame, Storm,” her hand trembled just slightly when she lifted the camera again.
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The rest of the team had already filed out, Reed muttering something about a debrief while Sue waved a grateful goodbye and Ben made some sarcastic comment about needing an ice bath for his knees. Y/N had just started packing her gear, carefully coiling cords, breaking down the second light stand when she noticed a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye.
“You’re still here?” she asked, not bothering to look up.
Johnny leaned against the table like he had all the time in the world. “What, no post shoot drinks? Isn’t that, like, a photography tradition or something?”
“Nope,” she replied, popping the lens off her camera. “Unless you count a Sprite and a nap on my floor.”
Johnny watched her snap the body cap on and start loading lenses into a case. “Need help?”
“Absolutely not.”
Naturally, he ignored that and wandered closer, eyes scanning the buttons and dials of her DSLR like he’d just discovered alien tech. “This thing’s heavy. You know, I bet I could carry your whole setup in one trip. Perks of dating a human flamethrower.”
Y/N froze, turning slowly to face him. “Did you just say dating?”
He grinned. “Too soon?”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her case, but not before he gently plucked the camera from her hands. “Hey—Johnny—be careful with that.”
“I am being careful,” he said, already lifting it to his eye. “Smile.”
“What? No—”
Click.
Johnny glanced at the screen and smirked, clearly proud of himself. “Wow. You’re even photogenic when you’re mad.”
Y/N grabbed the camera back, trying not to laugh as she flicked through the settings to see what he’d done. “You overexposed it and didn’t adjust the ISO.”
He blinked. “...I don’t know what any of that means.”
She smirked. “Exactly.”
There was a brief moment of quiet as she slid the camera back into her bag, her hair falling in front of her face.
“So,” Johnny said, leaning just a little too close, “if I asked you out right now, what are the odds you’d say yes?”
Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Storm, but it takes more than a pretty face and a few compliments to win me over.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Wow. Fatal blow.”
“You’ll live.”
He stepped back with a low whistle, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Playing the long game. I respect that.”
“Who said there’s a game?”
“You did,” he said, flashing that million-dollar smile as he backed toward the exit. “When you didn’t say no.”
Y/N stared after him for a moment, lips twitching, then went back to packing her bag.
She didn’t say no.
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It was late by the time Y/N got home. Her boots landed with a heavy thud by the door, camera bag slung over her shoulder, keys tossed somewhere in the vague direction of the counter. The loft was quiet except for the soft hum of the city beyond her windows and the low of her ancient ceiling fan overhead.
She changed into a hoodie and sweatpants, tied her hair up, and settled on the couch with her laptop. The memory card clicked into place with a soft snap. She exhaled, already bracing herself for hours of sorting through unflattering mid blinks and awkward angles.
The first batch loaded. The Fantastic Four in full costume, slightly stiff at first but easing into it. Reed had the most trouble loosening up. Sue was effortlessly photogenic. Ben…well, he hated the camera, but she managed a few good shots where he wasn’t scowling. Mostly.
And then there was Johnny.
She clicked through the frames— grinning, posing, winking at the lens like it was second nature. Like he knew exactly how to make the camera love him. And damn it, the camera really did love him.
“Of course you’re the most photogenic,” she muttered, adjusting the contrast on one of his solos.
As she scrolled, she found herself lingering a little too long on the shots of him smiling off to the side, the unposed ones, the ones where his eyes crinkled a little at the corners. She frowned and shook herself out of it, ready to move on—
Then froze.
There it was.
At the very end of the roll, tucked between test shots and throwaways, was the photo Johnny took at the end of the shoot.
It was her.
Caught mid sentence, mouth parted, eyes squinting slightly. It wasn’t perfectly framed—just slightly off center but the light hit her skin, and her hair was glowing, and—
She bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile.
“You little sneak,” she whispered, clicking to zoom in.
The worst part?
It was a good picture.
Annoyingly good.
She leaned back on the couch, laptop balanced on her thighs, and let out a tiny, involuntary laugh. One of those rare, breathy ones she barely ever let herself have when she was alone.
She clicked a few buttons and saved it into a folder. Personal. No edits, no filters.
Just a stolen moment.
Just a boy and his dumb smile, living rent free in her mind.
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Y/N was mid shoot in a cramped Brooklyn loft, all exposed brick and moody backlight. Her client was a rising indie musician with a mop of purple curls. He was sitting on a stool while Y/N adjusted her reflector, giving instructions to her assistant with practiced ease.
“Bring the diffuser up two inches— no, no, two, not ten. There you go.” She lifted her camera and took a few rapid shots, checking the screen. “Perfect. Let’s reset.”
Just as she stepped back to review the shots, she heard it. The unmistakable sound of a door creaking open followed by a very familiar voice.
“Wow. This lighting makes everyone look good.”
Y/N groaned internally.
Johnny Storm stood just inside the doorway, holding two coffees like a golden retriever. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying not to sound flustered.
He held up one of the cups. “You said no to drinks, but you didn’t say anything about caffeine. I brought backup.”
Y/N blinked. “How did you know I was here?”
He smirked. “You have a public website. With a calendar. Not exactly hacking into NASA.”
Behind her, the musician on the stool was watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement.
Y/N crossed her arms. “You drove all the way to Brooklyn to bring me coffee?”
Johnny took a step closer and handed her the cup. “No. I came to see if you’d reconsider saying yes.”
She stared at him, then down at the coffee. It had her name on the side. Spelled right.
“Okay,” she said, cautiously accepting it. “Bold move.”
“I’m a bold guy.”
“And a little insane.”
He grinned. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
She took a slow sip. Caramel macchiato. Her favorite.
Damn it.
“Still not saying yes,” she warned.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll take a ‘not yet.’”
Her assistant called her back over, and she turned to go, but Johnny leaned in at the last second and whispered just behind her ear,
“You looked at the photo, didn’t you?”
Y/N paused mid step. Didn’t turn. Didn’t say a word.
But her slight smile said enough.
Johnny chuckled to himself and turned to leave, victorious.
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Y/N had just adjusted her tripod when she caught movement in the corner of her eye. She didn’t even need to look. She already knew who it was.
Johnny Storm. Again.
“Morning, hotshot,” she said dryly, not bothering to glance up as she flipped through her checklist.
“Morning, sunshine,” he replied smoothly, placing a large iced coffee and a croissant beside her camera bag. “Thought you might need fuel.”
She raised a brow. “Bribery won’t work.”
“I prefer to think of it as charm,” he grinned.
“You’re delusional.”
“And yet, here you are, smiling.”
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It had rained all morning. Y/N was halfway through positioning her subject when someone cleared their throat behind her.
A bouquet of carnations and roses entered her frame. Then Johnny’s face peeked from behind them, grin wide and way too pleased with himself.
“Too cliché?” he asked.
“Try embarrassing,” she muttered, snatching the flowers and glancing around to make sure no one was watching.
He just beamed. “You’re keeping them, though.”
She rolled her eyes. “Only because I like the colors.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
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She was already shooting when the bell above the studio door chimed.
“No,” she said instinctively, not even turning around.
“Yes,” Johnny called cheerfully from across the room.
He approached slowly, holding two perfectly balanced coffee cups in a cardboard tray, his other hand tucked behind his back.
“I swear to God, if you have more flowers—”
“Tulips this time,” he interrupted, revealing a neat little bouquet and placing it on a nearby crate. “They mean declaration of love, or whatever. Not that I’m declaring anything. Yet.”
She stared at him. He stared right back.
“…You’re insane,” she said.
He gave a casual shrug. “Insanely persistent.”
She stared at the flowers. Then the coffee. Then his stupid, hopeful face.
“Oh my god,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. You win. One date.”
His eyes lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “Yeah?”
“One. Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late,” he said, already typing something into his phone. “Friday at seven. I’ll pick you up.”
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He was on time. Dressed in a navy button up with the sleeves rolled just enough, leaning against the passenger door of a sleek black car like he hadn’t been nervously rehearsing his opener the entire drive over.
When Y/N opened the front door, Johnny’s jaw actually dropped.
“You—” he started, blinking at her. “You look…”
She tilted her head. “If you say ‘hot,’ I’m going back inside.”
“I was gonna say gorgeous,” he grinned, holding out his hand. “But I can go with stunning, radiant, the most beautiful woman on the planet…”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was real. “Come on, Casanova.”
He opened the car door for her, then jogged around to his side.
“Chivalry’s not dead, by the way,” he said as he slid in.
“Just deeply suspicious coming from you.”
“Ouch.”
The restaurant wasn’t flashy— warm lighting, exposed brick, the smell of garlic and olive oil in the air. Johnny had clearly picked it for the vibe, not the publicity.
They sat across from each other in a cozy corner booth. Her arms rested on the table. His did too. And somewhere between the first glass of wine and the second, something clicked.
She told him about the time she accidentally booked two shoots on the same day and had to sprint six blocks in heels, dripping sweat and still managing to get the perfect shots. He told her about getting caught mid change on the roof of the Baxter Building by a school tour group. (“They were ten, Y/N. Ten.”)
They laughed. Like, really laughed.
She hadn’t expected that.
He wasn’t just charming, he was funny. Smart. A little dorky, actually, when he got going. He kept leaning in, grinning when she rolled her eyes, and his knee bumped hers under the table more than once.
“You know,” she said, swirling the last of her wine, “you’re not what I expected.”
Johnny raised a brow. “Oh yeah? What’d you expect?”
“Less… real.”
His smile softened. “You bring it out of me.”
She blinked.
And for the first time that night, she didn’t have a comeback.
The drive back was filled with more laughter, more easy silence, her legs curled up slightly on the seat as she told him about the time she met a real housewife at a gala and didn’t recognize her. Johnny just listened, one hand on the wheel, sneaking glances at her whenever the streetlights made her smile glow.
When they pulled up in front of her building, he unbuckled his seatbelt immediately.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“I want to,” he said, already out of the car.
She stepped out too, holding her jacket closed against the breeze. He fell into step beside her, not brushing too close, but not far either.
The walk to her door was short. It felt longer.
She stopped in front of her building’s steps, one hand on the railing. He stood in front of her, hands in his jacket pockets now, the cool night air settling between them.
“So,” she said, tilting her head. “That was… really nice.”
“Yeah?” he smiled, ducking his head for a second. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She looked at him— really looked. He was nervous. Fidgety. And maybe just barely holding himself back.
But he didn’t lean in.
Didn’t ask to come up.
Didn’t even so much as touch her.
“I had a really good time, Y/N,” he said, voice quiet and sincere. “And I’d like to see you again, if you’re up for it. But if not, no pressure. Seriously.”
The way he said it, like he meant it, made something flutter in her chest.
“You’re not gonna try and kiss me goodnight?” she teased.
He laughed, but it was soft. “I want to. Trust me, I really want to. But… I don’t want to mess this up.”
That stunned her into silence. Not because she didn’t believe it— because she did. Completely.
She smiled.
“Okay,” she said. “Then I guess I’ll call you.”
He took a step backward, walking toward the car. “You better.”
And when he looked back at her— smiling like she was something rare and golden in the moonlight— she realized her cheeks were warm.
He really wasn’t what she expected.
And that scared her in the best way.
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Since their first date, it was like they couldn’t stop finding excuses to see each other.Dinner dates turned into lingering walks home, coffee meetups into afternoons spent wandering bookstores, evenings cooking together into falling asleep on the couch mid movie. Every time they were apart, one of them was texting or calling, just to hear the other’s voice.
The sun filters through the leaves as Johnny dramatically lays out a blanket, nearly tripping over himself in the process. Y/N bursts out laughing, her camera already in hand to document the disaster.
He's brought way too much food— sandwiches, pastries, sparkling lemonade— and insists on feeding her grapes like they’re in some kind of cheesy romcom. She pretends to hate it. She does not hate it.
Later, they're lying side by side, watching clouds and making ridiculous shapes out of them. Her head rests on his chest. He’s playing with her fingers absentmindedly. It’s quiet. It’s easy.
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The city sky threatened rain, the clouds heavy and low, but they didn’t care. They walked side by side, hands brushing without quite touching, caught up in some silly conversation that had them both laughing. The first drops had barely started when Johnny whipped off his jacket and held it over both their heads.
“Johnny!” Y/N squealed through her laughter, clutching his arm as they tried to jump over puddles. “You’re not even covering me right!”
He barked out a laugh, his hair already dripping. “Hey, it’s not my fault you’ve got such a big head!”
She gasped and swatted at him as they bolted down the block, nearly colliding with strangers, both soaked to the bone by the time they stumbled into the shelter of a little corner bookstore. They stood there in the doorway, breathless, rainwater dripping off them onto the welcome mat.
Johnny leaned down, still laughing, and draped his jacket over her shoulders. Y/N tugged it tighter around herself and pouted, brushing her wet hair back. “Great. I look like a wet poodle, don’t I?”
He stilled for just a second, eyes lingering on her— hair sticking to her cheeks, lashes clumped with rain, lips pink from the cold. His smile softened into something quieter, something that made her pulse stumble.
“I think,” he said, voice low enough she almost missed it over the sound of rain, “you look like the prettiest girl in the world.”
Her cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming in her chest despite how cold and damp she was. She ducked her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips, but he caught it anyway, his grin spreading wider like her reaction was the only thing that mattered in the room.
By the time they left the store, the rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it was coming down harder. Johnny tried to stretch his jacket over both their heads again, but it was useless. They were soaked in seconds, sprinting down the sidewalk hand in hand, laughter echoing into the night.
Halfway down the block, she slowed, gasping for breath, water streaming down her face. Johnny stopped too, turning toward her beneath the golden glow of a streetlight. She was laughing so hard she had to clutch his arm, and something about the sight—her flushed cheeks, her shining eyes, her smile—knocked the air right out of his chest.
Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he kissed her.
It wasn’t perfect but it was everything. She stiffened for a fraction of a second, then melted, her fingers curling into his shirt as she kissed him back. The rain poured around them and for a moment it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.
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It’s late morning in her apartment. Y/N pads into the kitchen wearing one of Johnny’s shirts that hangs just enough to drive him insane. He’s shirtless, flipping pancakes and looking at her like she hung the goddamn stars.
She steals his coffee. He lets her.
Another time, she’s curled up in his bed, editing photos on her laptop. He lies beside her, face buried in her side, mumbling nonsense about her smelling good and the world not mattering right now.
They fall asleep tangled in each other’s limbs more often than not. Clothes are swapped. Toothbrushes are bought. It’s unspoken, but they’ve built a rhythm.
They’re not saying “I love you.” Not yet.
But it’s there.
It’s all there.
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The windows glow orange with the setting sun, casting warm light across the stainless steel counters. Johnny is elbow deep in pasta sauce, trying not to splatter, while Y/N rinses a handful of basil in the sink, humming along to the soft music playing from the record player.
She’s wearing one of his old Fantastic Four shirts again. Johnny’s pretty sure he’s never going to see it again. He’s not complaining.
She moves beside him, leaning just close enough to brush their arms as she sprinkles salt into the pot. “Don’t forget the garlic bread,” she says.
“I would never disrespect you like that,” he deadpans, grabbing the tray from the oven.
He catches her smiling as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel and grabs her camera, always within reach. She lifts it, quick and easy.
Click.
“Seriously?” Johnny turns his head, mock offended. “Mid bite?”
“I like this one,” she says, already peeking at the screen. “You look… soft.”
“I am soft. You just keep pretending I’m not.”
He leans in, brushing his nose against her cheek in that boyish, infuriatingly charming way that always makes her feel like gravity doesn’t work right anymore. She tries to play it cool. She fails.
“I’ll be right back,” he says suddenly, slipping out of the kitchen.
She’s half stirring the pasta when he returns, something small and shiny clasped in his fingers. He crosses the floor without a word, holds it out to her.
“What’s this?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“A key.”
She deadpans, lips twitching. “No shit, Johnny.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, shoving a hand through his hair. “To the Baxter. So you don’t have to keep buzzing Ben when you wanna see me.”
Her brows knit. She doesn’t take it right away. Instead, she stares at the little silver thing in his palm like it’s made of something far heavier.
“This isn’t just for convenience, is it?” she asks quietly.
He hesitates. Shrugs, just a little, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
“I just… like you around.”
Simple. Honest. And it knocks the air right out of her.
She blinks.
Her hand closes around the key.
“Okay,” she says softly, voice warm at the edges. “Cool.”
And then, just before turning back to the stove, she leans up and kisses his cheek. Light. Thoughtless. Intimate.
Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he touches his cheek afterward like it might still be there.
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There’s a romcom playing low on the TV, wine glasses scattered across the coffee table, and the smell of popcorn and face masks thick in the air. Y/N is curled up on the couch with her three best friends—Jules, Lilia, and Taylor—her hair twisted up, skin glowing, legs tangled under a cozy blanket.
She’s mid sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.
Jules lifts her brow. “You expecting someone?”
Y/N squints toward the hallway. “No— well, maybe—”
Another knock. A little louder this time.
She pads over, opens the door and there he is.
Johnny Storm, casually holding two bottles of red wine in one hand and a takeout bag in the other, smiling like she’s the only thing that exists in the world.
“Hi,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing. Like he didn’t just show up looking stupidly handsome in jeans and a hoodie that still somehow looks tailored to him.
“Johnny.” Her tone is half laughter, half disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“You said you were doing a girls’ night,” he says, walking past her into the apartment like he’s already been given honorary membership. “So I thought, hey, let me at least drop off reinforcements.”
He waves the wine bottles, then lifts the bag. “Also, I know you said Jules always complains this place doesn’t deliver.”
Jules gasps from the couch. “I do complain about that!”
“Of course you do,” Johnny grins. “I listen.”
Lilia leans forward. “Wait, is he staying? Because I suddenly care a lot more about this night.”
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, that stupid soft smile she always gets when he’s around. “Fine. You can stay if you behave.”
“No promises,” Johnny says, kicking off his shoes. “But I’ll try for you, sweetheart.”
He’s on the floor between Lilia and Taylor, telling a ridiculous story about a mission gone wrong. They’re all in hysterics, doubled over laughing, even Jules, who notoriously doesn’t like anyone at first, is hiding her grin behind her wine glass.
Johnny leans back against the couch, looking up at Y/N like she’s his entire universe. “She’s the coolest person I’ve ever met,” he tells them without shame, interrupting himself mid story. “Like, did you know she shot an underwater campaign and an album cover in the same week? She barely slept and still looked like a goddess.”
Y/N hides her face in her hands. “Johnny, stop.”
He grins. “No. I will not. I’m in awe of you. Every day.”
Jules gives Y/N a look. He’s a walking green flag.
Lilia mouths keep him.
Taylor just clinks her glass with Johnny’s.
And Y/N?
She’s already halfway in love with him.
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The wine has long worn off, but the emotional hangover is still going strong.
Y/N stands at the stove, making pancakes in one of Johnny’s sweatshirts— big, navy blue, and just a little too long on her. Her hair’s in a loose bun, her face bare. She flips a pancake, then glances over her shoulder at the couch where her three best friends are slowly reanimating after crashing the night before.
Lilia stretches first, then squints at Y/N. “Morning, loverboy’s muse.”
Y/N laughs quietly. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” Jules croaks, voice hoarse from sleep. “We need to talk about that man.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“You’re delusional,” Taylor says, sitting up with a pillow hugged to her chest. “Y/N. He worships you.”
Y/N snorts and focuses hard on pouring the next pancake. “He does not.”
“Oh my god.” Jules throws her head back. “He showed up to girls’ night with wine and our favorite dumplings. That man is gone.”
“It’s too soon,” Y/N says quietly. “We’ve only been seeing each other for five months.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Lilia sits up straighter. “Y/N. Five months. You see each other every other night. You’ve met his family. We’ve met him. You’ve both spent the night at each other’s places. He gave you a key to the freaking Baxter Building three months in. And you still don’t have a label?”
Y/N says nothing. She just slowly flips the pancake, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“I like what we have,” she mumbles.
Jules softens. “We know, babe. But… you’re the girlfriend type. Not the casual hookup girl. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And as much as we all like Johnny—seriously, we do,” Lilia adds, “it might be time to have that conversation. Just so you know where you stand.”
Y/N is quiet for a long time. The kitchen feels still except for the low sizzle of the pan.
“I don’t want to lose him,” she admits, finally. Quiet. Honest.
Taylor walks over, wraps her arms around her from behind. “Then talk to him. If he’s really that into you? He’ll want to be yours.”
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The room is quiet, except for the hum of the city through the window and the faint buzz of the AC kicking in. The sheets are a mess. Her leg is draped over his hip, her cheek pressed against his chest, his fingers lazily tracing down her spine.
She feels good. Warm, loose, that kind of floaty peace that only comes after something honest and physical and real.
He shifts a little, looks down at her with a lopsided smile.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” Johnny says, voice still rough.
She huffs out a tired laugh. “Already? That was fast.”
“Nah,” he murmurs, brushing a piece of hair off her face. “Been happening. Just… slow burn, y’know?”
She looks up at him then, just a quick glance, but his eyes are already closed again. That same grin still on his lips. Like he didn’t really mean it. Or maybe he did, but now it’s just a joke between them. Nothing to be taken too seriously.
Still, her chest tightens just a little.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly, almost tentative.
He peeks an eye open, gives her a lazy grin. “Round two already?”
She laughs, because it’s easy to, but the question stays caught in her throat. His hands are already sliding over her waist again, mouth finding the corner of her jaw.
She lets herself melt into it. Into him. Into the distraction of it all.
But somewhere in the back of her mind, as he kisses her like he always does— like it’s nothing, like it’s everything— she wonders,
Is that all I am to him?
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The café is cute. Sunny, colorful tiles and hanging plants, the clink of forks on ceramic plates and indie music playing low from the speakers. The girls are halfway through their mimosas.
“So,” Lilia says, chewing on a piece of waffle. “Did you ever talk to Johnny?”
The question floats in the air.
Across the table, Jules pauses mid sip. Taylor raises a brow.
Y/N stares down at her plate. “...About what?”
Lilia scoffs. “Don’t play dumb.”
Taylor leans forward, elbows on the table. “You know what. The ‘what are we’ conversation.”
“I—” Y/N hesitates. “I was going to. I swear.”
“Y/N,” Jules groans, exasperated. “Girl.”
“I got scared, okay?” she says quickly, cheeks heating. “I was gonna bring it up and then I just... didn’t. I don’t know. I like what we have.”
The table goes quiet for a beat too long.
Lilia gives her a look. “You mean the thing where you’re unofficially dating, sleeping together, in each other’s lives constantly, and yet somehow still acting like strangers when it comes to actual feelings?”
Y/N frowns. “It’s not like that.”
“It is like that,” Taylor says gently, but firm. “And it’s been five months, babe.”
“I mean, come on,” Jules says. “You’ve met his whole family. He has your friends on speed dial. You wear his clothes more than your own. He gave you a key.”
“And you still don’t know if he sees you as his girlfriend?” Lilia says, incredulous.
“I don’t mind what we have,” Y/N mutters, quieter now. “It’s nice. It’s... easy.”
“Easy for who?” Taylor asks, soft but pointed.
Y/N goes silent again.
The food on her plate is untouched now, and she’s just pushing her fork around in slow, aimless circles. She doesn’t meet anyone’s eye.
The thing is— her friends love her. They think Johnny’s great. But they also know her. And this version of her, shrinking a little every time someone says his name, trying to act fine when she’s clearly not?
That’s not the Y/N they know.
So they let her sit in the quiet for a moment, let it sink in. No “I told you so”. Just the stillness of truth settling into her chest.
Finally, Lilia slides the syrup closer. “Eat, babe. You’re hangry and emotionally repressed. Bad combo.”
Y/N snorts despite herself. But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
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Dinner’s loud.
Not in a chaotic way— just in the kind of way where the dining room is filled with overlapping conversations and the sounds of clinking forks and someone telling a bad joke. Y/N’s laughing, her hand curled around a wine glass, and Sue’s got a hand on her arm as she tells her some story about Johnny’s truly tragic middle school haircut.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Johnny mutters, pouting as he passes her the salad bowl. “I was experimenting.”
“With a mushroom cut?” Ben rumbles from the end of the table, snorting.
Reed, across the table, barely hides a smirk behind his glass.
Y/N giggles, bumping her shoulder lightly into Johnny’s. “There are photos, right? Please tell me there are photos.”
Sue beams. “Oh, I’ve got a whole album.”
“Don't show her,” Johnny groans.
Reed leans toward Y/N, voice calm and measured, but warm. “It’s been good having you around.”
Y/N blinks, a little startled. “Oh. Thank you. I mean, it’s been good being around. Everyone’s been so nice.”
Sue smiles knowingly. “Well, anyone who makes him less annoying is a gift.”
Johnny puts a dramatic hand to his chest. “I’m literally right here.”
“You're very loud. We never forget,” Ben says with a wink at Y/N.
The conversation keeps going, weaving between teasing and real interest— Ben asking her about the shoot she assisted last week, Sue praising one of Y/N’s recent portraits that Johnny sent to the family group chat. Reed even asks a few thoughtful questions about her artistic process, which is, apparently, very high praise.
it’s not performative. None of it is forced.
They really, truly like her.
Johnny watches her quietly for a moment, chin propped in his hand. He hasn’t touched his wine in a while. Just sitting back, grinning like an idiot while she laughs at something Ben says.
This. This right here? This is his dream scenario and he doesn’t even realize it’s the kind of thing most people hope for their whole lives.
At one point, Sue leans over to whisper something in Y/N’s ear. Something about family dinners and how she better be ready for the holidays. Y/N blushes and smiles down at her plate, heart skipping a little faster.
She doesn’t even realize Johnny’s watching her when she glances up.
But he’s already looking.
Eyes soft. Smile lazy. Like she’s the best thing in the room.
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Johnny’s leaning against the railing with Sue, bottle dangling from his fingers, still talking about Y/N.
“She’s got this freckle right under her jaw,” he says, a dopey smile tugging at his mouth. “You wouldn’t even see it unless she tilted her head all the way back. First time I kissed her there, she laughed. Not, like, a giggle either. A real one. Loud, from her stomach. I think about that laugh all the time.”
Sue watches him, quiet. Observant in the way only big sisters can be. She takes a sip of her drink.
“You’re in love with her.”
The words land like a brick.
Johnny blinks. His smile falters.
“No, I’m not.”
Sue just arches a brow. “Johnny.”
“I’m not.” He laughs. Sharp, deflecting, too quick. “We’re not even dating. It’s casual. It’s not— she’s not my girlfriend.”
“But she could be,” Sue says gently.
He looks away.
The string lights blur a little.
Not from the alcohol— he’s not even tipsy anymore. Just awake. Wide awake in a way that has his heart pounding too hard.
“Sue,” he says, voice low, “you know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the city skyline. “Because it’s not just me anymore. I can’t just fall for someone and pretend like I don’t come with a million risks and a target on my back. You think Reed could stomach it if someone hurt her because of me? Or if Ben had to clean up after another one of my mistakes?” His fingers tighten around the bottle. “She’s not like us,” he mutters. “She’s not… built for this.”
Sue’s voice softens. “She’s stronger than you think.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “that doesn’t mean I’m allowed to keep her.”
There’s silence for a beat. A stillness.
Then Sue says, “You already have.”
Johnny doesn’t respond. Just stares down at the bottle in his hand. Like if he keeps looking long enough, it’ll distract him from the fact that she’s right. So, so right. And now he doesn’t know what to do.
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One week after dinner with his family—
Johnny had said all the right things that night— he always did. Laughed when her fingers brushed his under the table. Rested his hand on her thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d smiled at his sister, laughed at his Ben’s jokes, pretended not to notice the way Johnny kept squeezing her knee under the table like a warning: Don’t get used to this.
She didn’t think much of it at first.
After all, they weren’t really together.
And yet, he kept bringing her around his family and including her in plans.
So when he started pulling back, it was subtle at first. The kind of distance that could be chalked up to busy schedules and long shifts and bad timing.
A late night here. A missed call there.
She didn’t panic. Not at first.
He still kissed her. Still reached for her in bed. Still made her laugh so hard she forgot about the way he sometimes got quiet when she talked about things that mattered.
Like the gallery.
They’d been on her couch one night, her legs stretched across his lap, her tablet balanced on her knees. She was talking about the gallery submission she’d been working on, the way her mentor had lit up when she saw her recent shoots.
“This show could actually mean something for me,” Y/N said, a little breathless. “Like, people are gonna see my work. Not just the local paper— like, real people. Buyers. Critics. And it’s my first solo show, so I—”
“That’s great, Y/N/N,” he said, smiling but his voice was soft, almost distant. His hand rested on her ankle. “You deserve that.”
She leaned over, kissed his cheek. “Will you come?”
His thumb brushed her skin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
And he meant it. He really did.
But something in his eyes said otherwise.
Still, she let herself believe him.
Because he still kissed her forehead when he left. Still left her coffee on her windowsill in the mornings. Still told her she looked beautiful, even when her hair was a mess and her eyes were puffy from pulling an all nighter.
So she tried not to spiral.
Until it got worse.
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The next Friday night
Y/N sets the table in her apartment, two plates of pasta already cooling. She checks her phone. A few seconds later, it lights up.
1 unread message:
Sorry. Something came up. Can’t make it tonight.
No emoji. Not even a heart.
She stares at the screen for a moment, then deletes the message without replying. The food goes cold. She eats alone.
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The next weekend
She’s in front of the mirror, adjusting one of her earrings. Her short blue dress hugs her waist perfectly, hair curled, eyes rimmed in soft bronze. She’s halfway through her lipstick when her phone rings.
Johnny.
She smiles, answers on the second ring. “Hey, are you close? I was thinking we could try that—”
“Y/N/N,” he says, and her stomach drops.
His voice is flat. That voice. The one that always means bad news.
“I can’t make it tonight.”
She freezes, the lipstick still in her hand. “Wait—what?”
“Something came up.”
She lets out a breath, tries to keep her voice steady. “Johnny, you canceled on me last week too. You promised—”
“I know.” Silence. “Can I call you later?”
She blinks, stunned. Her throat feels tight. “Oh. Okay. Sure.”
He hangs up.
She doesn’t bother taking off the dress.
She climbs into bed, still in full makeup, the shimmer on her cheeks now catching the light coming from the bathroom. Her curls flatten against the pillow. Her phone stays in her hand.
Just in case.
She refreshes his texts. Opens Instagram. Closes it. Opens it again.
Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s on his way. Maybe he—
But he doesn’t call.
And he doesn’t come.
And somewhere around midnight, with her dress wrinkled and mascara smudged, she finally lets herself cry.
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The night of the gallery show—
She wears a long, flowing black dress. Her hair is pinned up, her eyes lined in soft gold. She looks like someone who has her life together. Like someone who knows she belongs in a room full of critics and buyers and champagne.
She looks perfect.
Even if she doesn’t feel it.
The gallery is already packed by the time she arrives. Warm lighting glows against white walls. Her photos hang proud, commanding attention. Her name is printed on a sleek plaque near the entrance.
People come.
Lots of them.
Her friends, her professors, old classmates who hug her like it’s been years. Strangers with sharp glasses and expensive scarves ask about her technique, her vision. Some of them even want to buy her pieces.
Everyone comes.
Everyone but him.
At first, she tells herself not to care. He’s probably stuck in traffic. That’s all it was.
But still.
She checks her phone. Again and again. Just in case. No missed calls. No texts. No "sorry, running late." No "I’m outside." No “the city is in shambles and I need to take care of it.”
Nothing.
She tells herself maybe something happened, something real, something that would make this okay.
But the longer the night stretches, the quieter that voice becomes. And the louder the other one gets.
The one that knows.
The one that’s always known.
People float in and out. Champagne flutes clink. The soft murmur of compliments fills the space. She thanks them all, smiles for pictures, keeps her tone light when people ask, “Is there someone special in your life?”
She laughs and shrugs and says, “Not really,” like it doesn’t gut her.
Somewhere near the back of the gallery, Lilia pulls her aside and leans in, speaking just above the hum of voices.
"Hey. Has Johnny—?"
Y/N cuts her off with a shake of her head. “Don’t,” she says quietly, her smile tight. “Please don’t.”
Lilia backs off. She gets it.
So Y/N slips away before the tears can rise, into the bathroom, into a corner, into whatever quiet she can find for thirty seconds of stillness.
Then she comes back.
Smiling.
Pretending.
Because she always does.
Eventually the crowd thins. The lights dim. The gallery owner hugs her, tells her how proud she should be.
She thanks him, gathers her things.
And walks home alone, heels blistering her feet with every step.
No jacket. No one waiting at her door. Just the hum of the street and the sharp sting of tears she won’t let fall until she’s inside.
And for the first time— really, truly— she starts to believe,
Maybe he was never going to choose her.
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She swipes in with the key he gave her. The place is quiet. Too quiet.
She finds him in his room, in bed, headphones on, one arm behind his head, the other flopped over his chest. The room is lit only by the city outside.
He doesn’t notice her until she says his name.
“Johnny.”
He flinched when he saw her.
Pulled off his headphones slowly, like he couldn’t believe she was really there. “…Hey.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in the doorway. In her heels. Her dress still clinging to her in soft black waves. Her lip gloss faded. Her mascara smudged from the tears she’d already cried on the way over.
“You didn’t come.”
Johnny sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. “Y/N/N, I—”
“I waited.”
His face folded, like he wanted to apologize, like he wanted to pull her in— but he didn’t. He stayed right where he was.
“There wasn’t even a mission,” she whispered, like that was the part that really broke her. “I checked the news. You just… didn’t come.”
Silence.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Couldn’t meet her eyes.
She nodded slowly, swallowing down whatever was trying to claw its way up her throat. “Okay,” she said, voice too quiet.
But she didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t let him off the hook.
“I need you to say it.”
Johnny looked up, confused, brows drawing in. “Say what?”
She stepped further into the room, her arms folded like she was holding herself together. “Say whatever is going on with you. Just… talk to me. Please.”
He sighed. Dragged a hand down his face like this whole conversation was exhausting. Like she was exhausting. He glanced down at the half empty water bottle on the nightstand like maybe it had the answer he didn’t.
And then finally he met her eyes.
“I think we moved too fast.”
She blinked. The air left her lungs. “What?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug that didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s been six months, Johnny.”
“But… it feels like we’ve done a lot in six months. Maybe too much.”
“It’s been six months,” she echoed, disbelief sharpening every syllable. “Not six days. Not six weeks. And what? You’re realizing now that it’s too fast?”
Johnny didn’t answer. Didn’t look away either.
“No,” she said, stepping closer, voice tighter, cutting through the fog of heartbreak. “No, you do know. Just talk to me, Johnny. What’s going on?”
He flinched, barely, at the way she said his name. But again, he gave her nothing.
Her chest tightened. Still, she kept going. Because she had to.
“I would've said yes, you know. If you’d asked me to be your girlfriend— I would've said yes.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed it back. “Still would.”
Johnny’s jaw clenched. He closed his eyes like that would make any of this easier.
“I think we might be better off as friends, Y/N/N.”
She froze.
It hit her like a punch to the ribs.
“…Where is this coming from?”
Silence. Again.
No explanation. No excuse. Just this emptiness between them.
Y/N let out a stunned, bitter little laugh. There was nothing funny about it. “Okay. So that’s it? You chase me for months. You show up for everything—my life, my art, my friends. You kiss me like it means something, like I mean something to you, and then just… nothing?”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
“You’re scared,” she said, quiet now. Not cruel. Just sad. “That’s what this is. You’re scared of loving me. Of being loved.”
His lips parted. Like he wanted to say something. Like the words were right there. But then he closed his mouth. Stayed quiet.
So she nodded. Like she understood. Like she was done begging.
Y/N turned to leave. Her hand was on the doorknob when she said it, voice soft and tired and so final-
"You don’t get to ask for my heart if you’re just going to drop it when it's convenient for you."
The door clicked shut behind her.
And Johnny stayed exactly where he was.
Silent.
Still.
Alone.
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It started with a knock.
Soft. Barely there.
Y/N paused in the kitchen, still in the oversized shirt she’d stolen from him months ago. Her hands were damp from doing the dishes, her eyes tired. She almost didn’t open the door.
But when she did, he was there.
Johnny stood in the hallway like a ghost of himself. Hoodie slung over his head. Hands in his pockets. Eyes a little red, like he hadn’t slept, or maybe like he had cried and would never admit it.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
She didn’t say anything.
“I, um…” He trailed off, looking somewhere over her shoulder like he’d rehearsed the speech but forgot it the second he saw her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. That night. And I— I keep thinking if I just had a little more time to figure things out—”
“Johnny.”
Her voice cut through him.
He looked at her again, and for a second, it was just them. Just her in that stupid shirt and him standing there like he might fall apart if she didn’t say something.
“You left me at my gallery show,” she said. “You didn’t even call. Then you said we’re better off as friends.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know, Y/N/N. I messed up.”
Silence.
“I miss you.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, stepped back to let him in.
He kissed her before the door even fully shut behind him.
Like an apology. Like a goodbye. Like he didn’t know how to be near her without touching her, didn’t know how to want her without hurting her.
She let him.
She kissed him back, her fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, yanking it over his head like muscle memory. His mouth moved to her jaw, her neck, and she let herself fall into him—like they hadn’t been anything more than bodies for months, like pretending it didn’t matter would make it easier.
His hands were shaking.
Hers were too.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.
And later, tangled in her sheets with her head on his chest, Y/N whispered, “What are we doing?”
Johnny was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “I don’t know.”
Her throat tightened.
“I don’t think this really changes anything.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything at all.
He just kissed her again.
And she let him.
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The restaurant was cute. Quiet. A little candlelit Italian spot Y/N had always passed but never been to.
Her date was sweet. Funny, even. Tall, clean cut, probably emotionally stable. He worked in biotech or maybe app development, she’d tuned that part out. The point was, he was trying. Really trying.
And so was she.
She even wore that dress. The one Johnny had picked out for her months ago, the one he said made her look like a goddamn movie star. She didn’t think about that when she put it on. Or maybe she did.
Her phone buzzed under the table.
storm: you on a date?
She stared at it.
storm: this guy looks lame
i’m coming over
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.
She barely had time to look toward the front door before he walked in— wearing that maroon jacket she loves, grin way too confident for someone with zero reservations. Like he owned the place. Like he owned her.
“Hey, Y/N/N,” he said casually, sliding into the booth beside her.
Her date blinked. “Uh— Johnny Storm?”
Johnny threw an arm over the back of the booth behind her, smiled like he wasn’t setting fire to her whole night. “I’m just a friend.”
“Johnny,” she hissed under her breath. “What are you doing?”
He leaned in, close enough for only her to hear. “Making sure you don’t forget what this is.”
And just like that— she crumbled. Her brain short circuited.
Her date was talking. She wasn’t listening. All she could feel was the heat of Johnny’s breath against her neck and the way his fingers grazed the bare skin of her thigh beneath the table.
She didn’t stop him.
She never stopped him.
“I should go,” the guy said eventually, clearing his throat. “You two clearly have something to work out.”
Y/N barely noticed when he left. She didn’t even look up.
Johnny leaned closer. “You really wore this dress for him?”
She bit back a smile. “No,” she whispered. “I wore it for me.”
But he was already kissing her.
They didn’t even make it to the apartment.
Johnny’s car had barely screeched to a stop in front of her building before he was on her, leaning across the console, hands tangled in her hair, mouth on hers like he hadn’t been pulling away for weeks.
Like he hadn’t told her they should just be friends.
Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed her thigh, sliding beneath the hem of her dress. “You always this reckless?” she whispered against his lips, dizzy from the weight of him, the taste of him, the goddamn ache she could never shake.
He pulled back just enough to look at her— just enough for her to see it in his eyes. That same look from months ago. The one that said don’t ask me to say it.
She didn’t.
She kissed him harder.
The gearshift dug into her hip as they scrambled in the cramped space, her back arching against the passenger seat. The horn blared when she shifted into him, both of them breaking into breathless laughter before his mouth found hers again, hungrier than before.
The windows fogged fast, rain streaking down the glass, shadows flashing across their tangled bodies. She swore her heart might split right open.
It was a mess. A beautiful, pathetic mess.
And when he finally leaned her back against the leather seat, when he kissed every inch of her skin like it was all he knew how to do, she pretended this was enough.
She always pretended.
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The next morning
Y/N tiptoed into the café, hair still half curled from the night before, sunglasses on, hoodie zipped to her neck. She slid into the booth where her friends were already halfway through their lattes.
“Don’t say anything,” she mumbled.
Taylor didn’t even look up. “We weren’t gonna.”
Jules raised a brow. “But now that you’ve mentioned it—”
“I know, okay?” Y/N groaned, dropping her head against the table.
“Do you?” Lilia asked. “Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like you’re still letting him treat you like you only matter when it’s convenient to him.”
Y/N winced.
“He crashed your date, Y/N/N,” Jules said, biting into her croissant. “And you let him. Again.”
She stabbed at her muffin. “It wasn’t like that.”
They stared at her.
“It wasn’t,” she repeated, a little softer. “I don’t know. He… showed up. And then we kissed. And then… whatever.”
“Yeah. That sounds healthy.”
“Shut up.”
A beat of silence passed before Lilia sighed. “You deserve better. You know that, right?”
But she was still thinking about last night.
About the way he touched her like she was the only thing that ever made sense.
And the way he left without a word before sunrise.
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Friday night.
Y/N had just gotten out of the shower, hair still damp, when she heard the knock. She didn’t need to check the peephole.
Only one idiot knocked like that— two short taps, then three quick ones like it was some kind of secret code.
She opened the door and there he was. Johnny Storm, in all his insufferable glory, standing there with takeout bags in hand and a stupid grin on his face.
“Your favorite almost ex boyfriend turned favorite hook up is here,” he announced proudly, stepping inside like he owned the place.
Y/N blinked. The words hit her like a slap.
The humor vanished from her face.
Johnny didn’t notice. He was already heading toward the kitchen, unpacking the food. “Got that fried rice thing you like and the dumplings, too. Thought we could watch that murder show you—”
“Seriously?” she said flatly.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “What?”
She crossed her arms. “That’s what we are now? Favorite hook ups?”
He tilted his head, confused. “Y/N/N, it was a joke.”
“Yeah, can you not?” Her voice was sharp now, more brittle than she'd intended.
He blinked. “It was funny though.”
“No, Johnny,” she snapped. “It wasn’t.”
Silence fell.
He stood there with a takeout box half opened, eyebrows furrowed. “Okay, jeez,” he muttered. “Didn’t know you were in a mood.”
“No, I’m not in a mood. I’m just done.”
He stilled.
“I’m done letting you pretend like this doesn’t mean anything. Done pretending like I’m okay with this—us—being just a joke to you.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.
“This isn’t fucking funny to me, okay?” she continued, breath catching. “It’s not a joke. I don’t feel good about this. I’m tired of pretending like I don’t care and it doesn’t hurt me.”
Her voice broke, just slightly.
She stared at him, heart pounding in her chest. “If you really don’t want me, then why do you crash every single one of my dates?”
Johnny looked away.
“Why can’t you let me move on?” she asked, quieter now. “Why are you here, Johnny?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stood there, guilt crawling up his spine, eyes burning like he might actually admit it this time but his mouth stayed shut.
Johnny still hadn’t said a word.
Just stood there with his hands at his sides, mouth half open like he wanted to argue but didn’t even know where to start.
Y/N waited.
Waited for him to say something real for once.
But nothing came.
Just that same stupid silence, and a look in his eyes that made her heart hurt worse than if he’d actually said the words I don’t want you.
She swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “Can you fucking say something?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. “Y/N/N, I just… I think maybe we’re not good for each other.”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Wow.”
“I’m just trying to be honest—”
“No, you’re not,” she cut in, eyes sharp now. “If you were being honest, you'd say whatever the hell it is you're actually feeling instead of hiding behind these bullshit excuses.”
Johnny flinched, but didn’t argue.
“You show up here like nothing’s wrong, like this isn’t a mess you made, and I let you in because I…” Her voice cracked. “Because I wanted to believe you’d finally say something real. But you're still just doing what you always do—dodging it, making jokes, pretending you don’t care when you do.”
He looked at her then. Finally.
And the way he looked at her—like he knew she was right and couldn’t admit it—was worse than any insult.
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Y/N…”
“No,” she said quietly, stepping back. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not tonight.”
His face fell. “Come on, Y/N/N. Don’t—”
“Go.”
He froze.
“What?”
She pointed toward the door, jaw clenched. “Go. Now.”
He stared at her like she’d knocked the air out of him. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” Her voice shook, but her eyes didn’t. “You don’t want to tell me the truth? Fine. But I’m not doing this with you tonight.”
Johnny didn’t move.
Just stood there, caught between guilt and pride and panic, holding a takeout box and saying nothing.
So she said it again. Firmer this time. “Go.”
And slowly, hesitantly, Johnny stepped back. Eyes still on her.
Then, finally, he turned and walked out the door.
She didn’t cry until she heard it click shut behind him.
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He didn’t go home right away.
He got in his car and sat there like an idiot. Hands on the steering wheel. Eyes unfocused.
He wasn’t even sure what had just happened. One second he was at her door with dumplings and a stupid joke, and the next—
She was looking at him like he’d shattered her.
He dragged a hand over his face, leaned back against the seat.
She’d asked him why he kept showing up. Why he couldn’t let her move on.
And the worst part?
He didn’t know how to answer her without sounding like a coward.
Because the truth was ugly and pathetic.
He couldn’t let her move on because he didn’t want her to.
Because he liked knowing she was still his, in some half assed, not quite real way.
Because the thought of her with someone else made his chest feel like it was caving in.
Because even though he wasn’t ready, even though he’d fucked it all up, he still wanted her.
And now? She was done waiting.
He glanced at the rearview mirror. At himself.
His hair was a mess. There were faint shadows under his eyes.
He looked like someone who knew he’d screwed up something permanent.
He looked like someone who deserved it.
For a second, he thought about turning back. Knocking on her door again. Saying something—anything—just to stop that look from being the last thing he ever saw on her face.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there, in the dark with a sick, hollow ache in his chest.
Because for the first time…
Johnny Storm was starting to realize he might’ve really lost her.
And maybe this time, she wasn’t coming back.
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Johnny was unbearable.
Doors slammed. Music blared. The elevator nearly short circuited from how many times he’d stormed in and out of it that week alone.
Even H.E.R.B.I.E. steered clear— literally hovering behind walls and peeking around corners like a traumatized robot.
“Johnny,” Reed started gently one morning, “I don’t mean to—”
“Don’t.”
“…Okay.”
He was impossible. Moody. Snappy. He’d scorched three lab coats and two coffee mugs in the last forty eight hours. He snapped at Ben, ignored Sue, and for the first time in recorded history, he canceled a rooftop party because he “wasn’t in the mood.”
That’s when everyone knew something was really wrong.
He kept saying he was fine. That it was nothing. That maybe they should all mind their own business.
But then he’d go quiet. Broody.
Or worse– fake smiley.
“Totally fine,” he’d chirp, eyebrows permanently in disbelief. “Living the dream, guys.”
No one believed him.
Because the truth was— he missed her.
More than he thought possible.
More than he wanted to admit.
He missed the way she’d roll her eyes when he tried to flex. The way she’d shove his shoulder and smile like it was second nature. The way she never asked for more—but still gave everything. She let him set the rules, and he was stupid enough to think she’d always play by them.
He hadn’t felt her absence because she never made him feel it. She made it easy. And he repaid her by thinking casual meant disposable. Now she was gone. And suddenly everything was loud. The lab. The kitchen. His room.
Especially his room.
Too quiet. Too clean.
No more polaroids on his nightstand.
No half empty iced coffees on his desk.
No lipstick on his water bottles, or post it doodles stuck to his mirror.
Just silence. And space. And guilt.
Because somewhere deep down, Johnny knew he didn’t just lose a girl.
He lost the only person who ever looked at the real him and didn’t flinch.
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There’s a knock at the door.
Y/N hears it, but she doesn’t move. She’s frozen on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, fingers clenched around a mug of tea. Her heart starts racing before her brain even catches up.
She already knows who it is.
The knock comes again— softer this time, almost hesitant.
You shouldn’t, she tells herself.
But she does.
She opens the door and there he is. Johnny. His hair is a mess and he’s holding grocery store flowers and takeout and the saddest stuffed bear she’s ever seen.
His eyes widen when he sees her, like just the sight of her hurts.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Can I come in?”
She stares at him. Then she walks away, leaving the door open.
Johnny steps inside carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook her. He sets everything down on the kitchen counter. When he turns back, she’s still standing in the living room, arms crossed.
He opens his mouth, but she beats him to it.
“Are you here to actually say something, or just stare at me while I pour my heart out like always?”
Johnny flinches. “Y/N—”
“Oh, let me guess,” she cuts in, voice sharp and shaking. “You’re here after a whole week to make sure I haven’t been going on any dates? Because God forbid I find someone who’s actually worth my time. Someone who doesn’t run the second things get too real. Unlike you.”
His jaw tightens. She sees it, and it only fuels her.
“You chased me, Johnny. You wore me down with your flowers and your coffee and your stupid persistence until I thought—” her voice breaks and she shakes her head hard. “Until I thought you meant it. And I knew this would happen, but I let myself believe anyway, and now here we are again. You disappear, and I’m the idiot waiting for you to remember I exist.”
“Stop,” he blurts. His voice cracks on it, desperate. “Just—stop.”
She does, but only because she’s out of breath.
Johnny takes a step closer. His eyes shine, frantic. “I’m sorry. I swear to God, I’m sorry. I don’t have a good excuse. I don’t. But I want you. I’ve never stopped wanting you. And I know I’ve ruined this a hundred different ways but—” His voice chokes. “But I’ll do whatever it takes if you let me try again.”
“I messed up,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” she says. “You broke my heart.”
Johnny’s mouth opens. But nothing comes out.
Tears spill over before she can stop them. She brushes them away, frustrated.
“I’ve been trying so hard to pretend I’m fine,” she says, breathing shakily. “Trying not to feel stupid. Trying to forget the way you looked at me that night we fought, like you didn’t even care. Like it wasn’t hard for you to let me walk away.”
Johnny’s eyes are glassy now too. He looks wrecked. Like her words are slicing through him, one by one.
“I cared,” he says hoarsely. “I still do. I—God, Y/N, I never stopped. I was scared and I thought if I distanced myself, it’d keep you from getting hurt, but all I did was—”
“Hurt me anyway,” she finishes, raw.
He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Then, like something breaks inside him, he drops to his knees. Hands flat on his thighs, shoulders hunched forward, eyes wide and desperate.
“I know this is pathetic,” he says. “I mean—look at me. I’m literally begging.”
Y/N stares down at him, tears clinging to her lashes.
“I deserve it,” he adds quietly. “I deserve worse.”
She doesn’t speak.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “All the time. Even when I tried not to. Even when I thought staying away was the right thing. I’d go to sleep thinking about what you’d say if you were there. I’d pick up my phone to text you and then talk myself out of it. And then I’d spend the rest of the night hating myself for not saying something.”
He swallows hard. “I didn’t show up for you. And I didn’t fight for you when it mattered. Twice. And I don’t know how to fix that.”
“You can’t,” she says, quietly. “You can’t undo it.”
He flinches.
“But,” she continues, voice trembling, “you can stop pretending like this is about protecting me. It’s not. It never was. You hurt me because you were scared. Because you thought I was temporary.”
“I didn’t,” Johnny says, panicked. “I don’t.”
“Then why’d you act like I was?” she asks, softly.
He has no answer. Just the weight of his guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Then finally, Y/N takes a breath.
“You broke my heart, Johnny. And I don’t trust you. Not right now. Not after everything.”
“I’ll earn it back,” he says immediately. “I don’t care how long it takes.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. But something in her posture shifts. Not forgiveness. But something like…openness. Like she’s not kicking him out just yet.
“You can stay,” she says quietly. “We’ll eat. We’ll talk.”
He nods, slowly rising from the floor. “Okay.”
“But if you lie to me again, if you disappear on me—I won’t let you back in. Not even to say goodbye.”
“I won’t,” he says. “I swear. No more running.”
Y/N wipes her face with her sleeve and turns toward the counter.
“…The bear’s ugly, by the way,” she mutters.
Johnny lets out a breathy, shaky laugh. “I know. It was that or the one that said ‘You’re Beary Special,’ and even I have limits.”
She rolls her eyes.
But when he catches the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips— he finally lets himself breathe.
They sit across from each other at the kitchen island, takeout containers between them.
Johnny doesn’t touch the food at first. He’s too focused on watching her, careful not to stare, but too afraid to look away.
Y/N pokes at her ramen, not meeting his eyes.
“You don’t have to pretend like it’s fine,” he says quietly.
She glances up. “I’m not pretending.”
“You keep trying to stab the noodles.”
The slightest laugh slips out. She looks away quickly, but it’s there.
Johnny lets himself smile, just for a second. Then he sobers again.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I didn’t stay away because I didn’t care. I stayed away because I cared so much it scared the hell out of me.”
She looks up slowly. “That’s not comforting, Johnny.”
“I know.” He exhales. “But it’s the truth.”
Johnny pushes his plate away, suddenly restless. “You know I joke around a lot,” he starts.
She hums, waiting.
He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to his lap. “The truth is… I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”
Her brows knit, but she doesn’t interrupt, just reaches across the table, lacing her fingers through his. His thumb brushes over hers absentmindedly, like he needs the anchor.
“There are people out there who’d use you to get to me,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on their joined hands. “And the idea of that—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “I couldn’t live with it. Reed and Sue already spend half their lives fixing my screw ups, and if I ever dragged you into that… if I wasn’t there to protect you…” His voice wavers. “I don’t think I’d make it through that.”
He breathes in slow, shaky. “You know when everything changed? That dinner at the Baxter Building. When Sue looked me dead in the eye and said I was in love with you.” His laugh is humorless, quiet. “I freaked out. That’s when I started pulling away. Canceling plans. Pretending I didn’t care so it wouldn’t be so obvious.”
His throat works, and he finally risks a glance at her. “I need to apologize. For ruining your dates. For being such a selfish idiot that I couldn’t stand the thought of some other guy having your heart—when I wasn’t even giving you what you needed. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I did it anyway.” He shakes his head, voice low. “I’ve never been good at sharing. And the thought of sharing you—” His voice catches, and he presses his lips together before finishing. “I couldn’t do it.”
“And yeah, maybe I’ve gotten used to people only sticking around until they realize I’m not what they thought.” He lets out a shaky laugh, soft and self deprecating. “So I… I left before you could. Before I let myself get so attached I couldn’t walk away.” His throat tightens, and finally he looks up at her. “But I already am. Attached, I mean.”
Her hand tightens around his, grounding him.
“I’ve been selfish, and I know that. But I don’t want to be the guy who runs anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending. I’m ready now. If you’ll still have me.”
The room falls quiet again. Y/N studies him for a long time.
She sees the regret in his eyes. The fear that it’s too late.
“Do you know how embarrassing it was?” she says softly. “Acting like I was your girlfriend when I wasn’t? Letting everyone assume, when I didn’t even know what to call us? My friends kept asking questions I couldn’t answer because— what relationship? I was just the girl you were sleeping with, hoping you’d eventually want me for real.”
Johnny’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And then you started pulling away. Canceling plans. Ignoring my calls. My texts. And still, I waited. I let you back in. I let you ruin dates with other people. I kept holding onto this stupid hope that maybe one day you’d finally pick me.” Her voice falters.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Y/N swallows hard, voice low and breaking. “I don’t know if I can trust you again.”
He nods slowly, eyes glassy. “Then let me earn it. Every day. Let me be better than I was. Let me show up. For everything. Always.”
She says nothing.
So he adds, quieter, “You don’t have to say anything tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week. I just want to be here. However you’ll let me.”
She looks at him, long and hard. He’s trying, not just with flowers and food, but with honesty. With vulnerability. He’s not hiding anymore.
And that scares her more than anything.
Because she still loves him. So much.
She pushes the noodles toward him. “Eat something. You’re literally shaking.”
Johnny exhales a relieved breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he digs into the food, Y/N leans back in her chair, watching him.
It’s not fixed. Not yet.
But maybe it could be.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Johnny helps clean up after dinner without being asked. He doesn’t make jokes. Doesn’t flirt. He just… helps. Quietly. Like he knows he doesn’t deserve to take up space right now but he’s trying anyway.
When the dishes are done, they end up back in the living room. Y/N sits on the armchair, curled up, legs tucked beneath her. Johnny’s on the edge of the couch like he’s afraid to lean back and get too comfortable.
She watches him for a while before finally speaking.
“I need to set some ground rules.”
His head snaps up. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I’m serious, Johnny.”
“I know.”
She takes a breath. “If we’re going to even try… this—whatever this is—you don’t get to lead the way like last time. You don’t get to decide when we talk, or how close we get, or what label we do or don’t use. You don’t get to pull away when things get real and then show up with takeout and expect me to pretend like nothing happened.”
He nods, throat tight. “Okay.”
“I need consistency. I need honesty. If something scares you, say it. If something changes, say it. I’m not going to read your mind. I’m not going to guess how you feel.”
Johnny doesn’t flinch. He just listens. Takes it all in. Lets it cut.
Because she’s right.
She continues, softer now, “And if I need space… you give it to me. No questions. No guilt.”
“I will.”
Her eyes don’t leave his. “And you have to earn back my friends.”
Johnny winces. “Right.”
“They don’t like you anymore.”
“I figured.”
“Some of them really don’t like you.”
“Yeah,” he says, almost a whisper. “They shouldn’t.”
She watches him closely. “You’re not gonna defend yourself?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t really like me either. Not for what I did to you.”
Something about the way he says it— soft and honest, no self pity—makes her stomach twist.
“You left me in the dark,” she says. “You knew I wanted more, and you acted like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “And you did. You do. More than anything.”
She looks away, blinking fast.
The silence stretches.
He stands slowly, like he’s about to say goodnight.
But then—
“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice breaking around her name.
She looks up.
He’s standing there, heartbreak in every line of his face.
“I love you.”
Her heart stutters. Her breath catches. She hates how much she feels it.
But she doesn’t move.
Johnny steps closer, slowly, like he’s afraid she’ll bolt.
“I love you,” he says again, like it’s a truth he can’t stop repeating. “I don’t know how else to say it. It’s you. It’s always been you. Even when I didn’t know how to handle it. Even when I ran.”
She shakes her head, eyes glassy. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“You broke my heart.”
“I know.”
He steps closer again, eyes shining. “I’m not asking for everything. I’m not asking you to forget what I did. Just… let me show you I mean it. Let me fight for you now. Please.”
She’s trembling now. From the emotion or the ache or the absolute weight of everything he’s saying—she doesn’t know.
“Johnny,” she whispers. “Please don’t do this if you’re not sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
There’s silence.
His thumb brushes her cheekbone, tentative, like he’s scared she’ll disappear if he touches her too roughly. God, it would be so easy to just lean in, to let her lips find his and forget the wreckage he left behind. She feels her body swaying toward him before her mind catches up.
Johnny leans closer, their noses almost touching. His eyes flick down to her mouth. It’s instinct, muscle memory— the thing that’s always pulled them back to each other.
She squeezes her eyes shut, then jerks back just enough to stop it. Her voice cracks, but her words are sharp:
“I hate that I still want you,” she whispers. “I hate knowing that one kiss would make me forget everything you put me through.”
The air between them goes still, heavy. Johnny freezes, lips parting like he’s been punched in the gut. His hand drops, useless at his side.
Her chest rises and falls too fast, but she steels herself, straightening her shoulders.
“Not yet.”
Johnny doesn’t argue. He just nods, slowly, even though it nearly kills him.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Not yet.”
But there’s a ghost of hope in his eyes now.
Because not yet isn’t never.
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It had been two weeks since Y/N let him back in.
Not all the way.
Just enough to test if he really meant it.
And Johnny had shown up like his whole world depended on proving her right for trying again.
Coffee every morning, even when his own schedule was brutal. Her favorite pastries in a little pink box with her name written on the top. Fresh flowers— always the weird colorful bunches she liked, with sunflowers and tulips and those little green pompom things he didn’t know the name of.
He carried her purse without being asked.
He cleaned her entire apartment on a random Wednesday while she was out running errands. She came home to candles lit, her laundry folded, and Johnny sitting on the floor building IKEA furniture she swore she didn’t know how to build.
He sent her a love song every day. No captions. Just the link and a heart.
And through it all, he never pushed. Never asked for more. Never once acted like he was owed anything just because he was being good now.
Y/N couldn’t lie. Part of her was scared.
Scared this was another high before the crash. Scared this was just Johnny love bombing her into forgetting all the pain he caused and do it all over again.
But he never asked her to forget. Only to trust him to be better.
And tonight, sitting beside him on a bench outside their favorite ice cream spot— he hadn’t stopped smiling since they walked in.
It was late, the neon lights from the storefront painting him blue and pink.
“Johnny?”
Y/N blinked out of her thoughts to see a woman— tall, pretty, definitely someone from Johnny’s orbit— waving as she approached.
“Oh my God, hey,” the girl said, hugging Johnny quickly. “It’s been forever.”
“Right?” Johnny grinned. “Y/N/N, this is Bree— Bree, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”
Y/N blinked.
Girlfriend.
He’d called her that two weeks ago, sure, when they were sitting on her fire escape and he was still wiping tears from his cheeks. But this was the first time he’d said it to someone else. Out loud. Proud. Confident.
“Ohhh,” Bree said with a knowing grin. “This is the girl. Johnny wouldn’t shut up about you during that interview last month.”
Johnny laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What can I say? I’ve got it bad.”
Y/N just blinked. Like her brain couldn’t process the sudden influx of serotonin.
They only chatted for a minute, then Bree left with a wave and Johnny turned back to her, licking chocolate from his spoon like nothing had happened.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he teased.
“You… introduced me.”
“…yeah?”
“As your girlfriend.”
He paused, smile twitching. “I mean… you are.”
She stared at him, something warm blooming in her chest. “You’ve never done that before.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “Felt good to say it.”
Her heart clenched. In the soft, warm, hopeful kind of way.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Later that night, back at her apartment, the moment she closes the door behind them, she says it.
“Johnny.”
He turns, keys still in his hand. “Yeah?”
“Tonight… that meant a lot to me.”
He swallows. “Good. It meant a lot to me, too.”
“No—I mean… hearing you say it. That I’m your girlfriend.”
He steps toward her slowly, expression softening. “You are. You always were, even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”
Her chest tightens.
“You made me feel like I didn’t matter,” she whispers. “But tonight you made me feel like… like I was yours. In front of someone else. Without hesitation.”
Johnny's eyes drop, almost shy. “You are mine. If you'll still have me.”
And that’s all it takes.
She kisses him.
Desperate. Gentle. Like she’s been holding it in for hours, days, weeks.
He melts into it instantly, hands cradling her waist, lips moving with so much love it almost breaks her.
When they finally pull apart, his forehead rests against hers, breath short.
“God,” he says softly, “I really fucking missed you.”
She exhales, shaky, her hands curling into the fabric of his jacket.
“Stay,” she whispers.
His arms tighten around her.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
And that night, for the first time since they got back together, he sleeps in her bed again.
Wrapped around her like he finally gets it. Like he knows what it means to stay.
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Three months later
Movie night at the Baxter Building had officially become impossible.
Y/N tried—she really did—to pay attention to the screen, but Johnny had other plans. He kept tapping her shoulder, whispering some dumb commentary in her ear, brushing his hand against hers just to see her roll her eyes. Every time she leaned forward, he leaned with her. Every time she shushed him, he grinned and did it again.
On her other side, Ben finally groaned, throwing the blanket off his lap as he got up.
“Where are you going?” Johnny asked, already laughing.
“My room,” Ben muttered. “Where I’ll start the movie over and actually be able to watch it without you two constantly yappin.”
Y/N winced. “Sorry, Ben!”
Johnny waved a hand. “No, don’t apologize to him. He’s just being dramatic.”
From the kitchen, Reed’s voice drifted in, dry as ever. “He’s not being dramatic. I’ve been in here for twenty minutes and I’ve only heard your voice the whole time.”
Y/N suppressed a laugh behind her hand. Johnny gasped, mock offended. “Wow. My own brother in law, betraying me like this. You’re supposed to support me.”
Ben shot him a glare on his way out. “Didn’t know getting a girlfriend would make you ten times more annoying.”
Johnny just leaned back against the couch, smug, arm sliding around Y/N’s shoulders. “Jealous,” he said, loud enough for Ben to hear down the hall.
Y/N shook her head, hiding her smile as she curled closer into his side. It was ridiculous, messy, exactly them— and she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
author's note: guys... this is so cray cray im so sorry it took me so long to get this one out LMAO. i've been super busy lately. like i said before, i accidentally became important at work so i've had a lot of projects and havent been able to write on the clock😭😭😭 and this is like my main time to write cause it's a 9-5 so by the time i get home, my brain is not braining anymore😭 but i've been slowly getting more free time so hopefully i'll be able to get more stuff out!
anyways! i hope you guys enjoyed!! i have like 2 more johnny drafts LOL. but feel free to send requests and i'll get to them i promise besties 😭😭 and thanks again for being so patient with me these past few weeks ily MWAH
summary: when y/n gets invited to the new avengers gala, sam wilson sees it as the perfect opportunity to gather intel on valentina’s new team. except, she doesn’t bring back intel. she brings back a hot russian avenger instead.
pairing: yelena belova x stark!reader
warnings: some swearing, lots of flirting, implied sexual relations, f!reader. i think thats it oops sorry if i missed any!
Gold streamers shimmered where there used to be Stark tech. Laughter echoed through the walls like it belonged there. And Y/N Stark— red dress, high heels, an unimpressed swirl of bourbon in her glass— stood near the edge of it all, pretending she wasn’t mourning.
Her father used to throw real parties here. Not PR stunts dressed up in legacy and blood money.
Valentina had really outdone herself.
“Smile for the cameras, sweetheart,” one of the aides murmured as they passed her. Y/N didn’t. She just arched a brow and sipped her drink.
She wasn’t here for them. She was here to look pretty and pretend she wasn’t slipping intel to Sam Wilson through an encrypted burner. Even if she didn’t really know what she was looking for— she just knew that something felt wrong, off. The way the new Avengers smiled too clean. The way Valentina said “family” like it was a currency.
And then she saw her.
Across the room. Black suit. Dark eyes. Blonde hair slicked back. Leaning against the far wall like she owned it, like she’d kill anyone who said otherwise. There was a glass of wine in her hand and a scent of vanilla in the air when she passed by and Y/N thought, she doesn’t belong here either.
She watched as the woman moved through the crowd with quiet confidence, eyes like blades, smile like bait. She didn’t shake hands. She didn’t make small talk.
And then their eyes met.
The moment held— just a second too long.
And the woman smiled, slow and deliberate.
Y/N Stark had met gods. She’d stared down reporters, CEOs, senators, and had encountered aliens. But nothing rattled her quite like the way that woman looked at her— as if she already knew the ending.
She turned back to her drink, hiding the tremble in her fingers with practiced ease.
What she didn’t know was that Yelena Belova had been sent to figure out what Y/N Stark wanted.
The string quartet was playing something delicate and classic. Y/N was pretending to care about it while nursing her second drink.
And then—.footsteps. A shadow that stopped just beside her.
She didn’t turn. Not yet. She waited.
“Do you always look this bored at parties?” a voice asked. Thick accent, smooth and sharp like vodka over ice. Russian. Confident. Teasing.
Y/N smiled into her glass. “Only when they're not mine.”
She turned slowly, eyes dragging up the black suit to meet the woman’s face— and yeah, up close she was even more annoying. Gorgeous, unreadable, and way too calm. She smelled like wine and something floral with a bite.
The woman offered a smirk. “Your name is on the honorary guest list.”
“And yours?” Y/N tilted her head. “I don’t remember seeing ‘brooding assassin chic’ on the RSVP.”
“Yelena,” she said simply. “I’m new.”
“Mm. That’s cute. Most people introduce themselves with a handshake.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No, clearly. Most people wouldn’t try this hard not to stare.”
Yelena smirked. “Who says I’m trying?”
Y/N let out a low breath. “Wow. Do you rehearse this, or are you just naturally this arrogant?”
“I’m just naturally this good,” Yelena said, casually sipping her drink.
Y/N blinked. Then laughed, soft and surprised, her first real one all night.
“You’re charming. In a murder-y sort of way.”
“And you,” Yelena said, taking a slow sip of her wine, “are very shiny for someone who doesn’t want to be noticed.”
Y/N swirled her drink. “Funny. Most people say I’m trying too hard to stay relevant.”
Yelena tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Are you?”
“Being seen and being known are different things.”
Yelena nodded, eyes still locked on hers. “You’re not just here for the champagne.”
Y/N smiled. “Neither are you.”
Another beat.
Yelena cocked her head. “What are you here for then?”
Y/N’s voice dropped an octave. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” Yelena said honestly. “But I don’t expect an honest answer.”
Y/N grinned. “That’s smart of you.”
“I’ve been told I’m a quick study.”
“Mm. That’s hot.”
Yelena blinked— caught off guard, just slightly— and Y/N could’ve sworn the corner of her mouth twitched.
“You always flirt like it’s a game of chess?” Yelena asked.
“Only when I think my opponent’s worth the effort.”
“And you think I’m worth it?”
“You’re wearing a knife in your boot and pretending it’s just fashion. Of course I think you’re worth it.”
Yelena sipped her wine slowly. “You shouldn’t flirt with people like me, Y/N Stark.”
“Why not?”
“Because sometimes people like me flirt back.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
The kind of silence where if one of them moved even an inch closer, they wouldn’t stop.
Yelena smiled, slow and sharp. “We’re going to be a problem, aren’t we?”
Y/N’s grin was sweeter. More dangerous. “Only if you try to play me.”
“And what if I already am?”
Y/N clinked her glass against Yelena’s. “Then may the best liar win.”
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The wind was colder up here.
Y/N pushed open the old stairwell door and stepped out onto the rooftop she used to sneak onto as a kid, back when the real avengers still lived here. Now it smelled like bleach and rebranding. Like Valentina had scrubbed it clean of the legacy built here.
Yelena was standing at the edge with her back turned, the city stretched out in front of her like a secret she’d already solved. Black suit, arms folded, blonde hair glowing slightly under the rooftop lights. Dangerous even when still.
Y/N raised a brow. “You again? Can’t get enough of me, huh?”
Yelena didn’t turn. “You’re the one who followed me up here.”
Y/N smirked. “Did I?”
A pause. Then, Yelena spoke again, low and sharp.
“You know, it’s rude to walk around like this is your home. Like you own the place.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Y/N’s smile dimmed just a fraction.
“It used to be,” she said quietly.
That made Yelena turn. Just her head. Enough to see Y/N standing there with her arms crossed, like armor.
“Well,” Yelena muttered, looking back out over the skyline, “not anymore.”
Silence fell between them. Not tense. Not easy. Just full of the things neither of them had said yet.
Y/N shifted on her heels.
“She used to talk about you, you know.”
Yelena stilled.
Y/N’s voice softened, her words careful but not performative. No act. Just memory.
“She tried to train me once. I was awful at it— like, impressively bad.” A tiny laugh slipped out. “She kept saying I needed better instincts. That I thought too much. But then she mentioned her little sister. Said you were probably around my age now. Said how strong you were. How easy it all came to you.”
Yelena didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“She never really went into detail,” Y/N went on, “but I remembered everything she said.”
A long beat passed.
Then, Yelena exhaled like someone had let the air out of her all at once.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” she asked, quiet. Not harsh. Just… unsure.
Y/N stepped closer, slow.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just figured… it might be nice to know that she never forgot about you. Even if it might’ve felt that way to you.”
Yelena blinked, eyes locked on the skyline now like it might give her something to hold onto. But her jaw had gone tight.
Y/N didn’t push. She didn’t need to. The silence was doing enough damage.
Eventually, Yelena said, almost inaudible: “You talk too much.”
Y/N smiled again. Smaller this time. Real.
“You think that’s bad? Wait until I get real comfortable with you.”
Yelena finally looked at her. Really looked. And for once, there wasn’t a smirk or a mask between them.
Just the two of them.
Different worlds. Same ache.
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The sun was already rising when Yelena opened her eyes.
Her room was cold. Messy. One bag by the door. Weapons tucked into every corner. A half empty bottle of red wine on the desk. Everything was exactly where she left it.
Except her.
Y/N was gone.
Not that she’d ever been here, technically. But her laugh was still in the air. Her perfume clung to Yelena’s collar. And her absence burned hotter than her presence ever had a right to.
Yelena stretched her neck and reached for her phone.
She’d already checked.
Twice.
She told herself it was protocol. Curiosity, at best. Some part of her just wanted to know if Y/N made it back to D.C. safely. Not in a protective way. Not in a weird way. Just… professionally.
Right?
She opened the encrypted feed again. The little tracker she’d slipped into the lining of Y/N’s clutch. Lightweight, undetectable, absolutely against every new rule she was supposed to be following— still pinged steady.
Private jet. Midair. Destination: Washington D.C.
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “Good.”
Her voice sounded rough. She ignored it.
She didn’t know why she cared.
Except— she did know. She just refused to name it.
The worst part was that Y/N hadn’t even told her goodbye. No note. Not even a wave. Just… gone. Like she knew it was safer that way.
Smart girl.
Annoyingly smart.
Yelena rubbed at her temple and sat down on the edge of the bed. The air still smelled like her— some stupid mix of expensive perfume and bourbon.
She hated how easy it was to miss her.
She also hated how none of it made sense. Y/N Stark was a spoiled, untrained civilian wrapped in red carpets and designer armor. A girl who could have anyone. Who should want someone easier, softer, less dangerous.
But then there was that moment on the rooftop.
The memory sliced through her again— Y/N’s voice soft, talking about Natasha. The way she’d looked at her. Not scared. Not skeptical. Just… sure.
Yelena hadn’t felt seen like that in years.
She clenched her jaw and looked out the window.
Somewhere over Virginia, Y/N Stark was probably asleep in a cream leather seat with an eye mask on and a mimosa waiting.
Yelena told herself that was the last time she’d track her.
She told herself she didn’t care if they ever saw each other again.
And then she added another layer of encryption to the tracker’s signal— just in case.
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The debrief room was too bright. Too official. Too not New York.
Y/N sat at the edge of the table, half listening to the static filled playback from her mic, sipping on an aggressively mediocre iced coffee and already regretting everything.
The only voices coming through clearly?
Hers and Yelena’s.
Again.
Sam clicked something on the console. “So just to confirm, Stark— this is all we got from the night?”
Y/N lifted a brow. “Unless you wanted an audio tour of canapés and surface level small talk, then yes. This is it.”
“You talked about her suit for like three minutes,” Joaquin added, scrolling through the transcript on his tablet. “And the way she smells?”
Y/N crossed her arms. “It was… noticeable.”
“You mean seductive.” He smirked. “You called her scent ‘surprisingly complex.’”
Y/N gasped. “Did I?”
“Oh, you did,” Sam deadpanned. “Multiple times.”
Y/N flopped dramatically in her seat. “Okay, well maybe if someone had told me what I was supposed to be looking for, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s not my fault no one was talking about anything suspicious.”
“I told you to keep your ears open for mentions of new recruits or foreign donors,” Sam said, rubbing his temples. “Did you forget that part between outfit changes?”
“No, I just didn’t hear anything. Walker looked like he’d rather throw himself off the roof than be near me. Alexei straight up turned and walked the other way. I didn’t even see Ava or Bucky. And Valentina didn’t say a single word to me.”
“She invited you to the party and didn’t speak to you?” Joaquin asked.
“Not even a fake smile.” Y/N huffed. “Yelena was the only one who even looked me in the eye.”
“Ah, yes,” Sam muttered, leaning back. “Yelena.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Joaquin grinned. “She did have great posture.”
“And hair,” Y/N added before she could stop herself.
A pause.
She blinked.
Joaquin blinked.
Sam stared.
“And, um, a good sense of humor,” she said quickly. “Sharp wit. Surprisingly… eloquent?”
“You like her,” Joaquin said, eyes going wide with delight.
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re doing the thing,” he said, pointing at her. “You’re doing the voice. The Y/N voice. The one you use when you’re pretending you’re not into someone but your body is fully betraying you.”
“I am not—”
“She just called a deadly assassin with known war crimes ‘surprisingly eloquent,’” Sam deadpanned.
“I— okay!” Y/N threw her hands up. “Maybe I liked talking to her, okay? She actually challenged me. That never happens. She didn’t care who I was, or what my name was, or what designer made my dress— she met me at my level and pushed back.”
Another pause.
Y/N looked up slowly.
“...Did I just say that out loud?”
Joaquin was already halfway out of his seat, wheezing with laughter.
Sam just blinked. “So what you’re telling me is… the only intel you brought back from New York is a crush.”
“It’s not a crush.”
“Oh, my bad.” Sam stood, grabbing his coffee. “It’s an emotional entanglement with a hot murderer. Very different.”
Joaquin wiped tears from his eyes. “Stage fright. You choked, Stark.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You know what, Torres? You’re banned from my birthday party.”
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“You’re seriously asking me to break protocol to get the number of a girl who literally broke into a NATO site two months ago?” Joaquin leaned on the desk, eyebrow raised.
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, are you going to help me or not?”
“Depends,” he said, grinning. “Am I back on the guest list for your birthday party?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Ugh. Fine.”
“Honorary guest?”
“Whatever! Just find it!”
Joaquin opened his mouth to reply—when the door buzzer chimed. Y/N frowned, stepping out into the hallway where a uniformed courier waited.
“Package for Stark?”
She blinked. “That’s… me, yeah.”
She scribbled a signature, took the slim black box, and returned to the room, brow furrowed.
“More PR junk?” Joaquin called. “Tell me it’s not another custom fragrance. There’s no more room on the shelf.”
“No,” Y/N said slowly. “This is… weird.”
She set the box down, opened it—
—and froze.
Inside was a plain black burner phone. Old model. Clean. Untraceable.
Something small slipped out with it—a note.
Joaquin caught it before it hit the floor.
“‘You’ve made an impression, Stark. If you want to talk, you know what to do. — Y.B.’”
They both stared at the phone.
Then at each other.
“Holy shit,” Y/N whispered. “Joaquin. What the fuck do I do?!”
He was already jumping. “SHE WANTS YOU TOO!! She sent a burner phone, Y/N/N! That’s, like, secret assassin love language! You have to call her!”
“Well yes, obviously I will!”
She snatched the phone from the box, clutching it to her chest like she was trying to hide it.
Then she paused.
Her eyes widened.
“Sam can’t know about this.”
Joaquin blinked. “Why not?”
Y/N hesitated.
“I don’t want him to think this changes anything for me. I’m not switching sides. And honestly, Quino…” She looked down at the phone. “I don’t even want to use her for intel.”
Joaquin’s smile faded a little. “You’re serious.”
“I just want to talk to her. Like... really talk to her.” She looked up. “And if she’s playing me? I’ll know. I always know.”
“Yeah?” he asked, quiet. “And what if this is the one time you’re wrong?”
Y/N sighed. “Then I guess I’ll learn.”
A beat passed.
Then Joaquin nodded. “God, Y/N/N. If Sam finds out you didn’t tell him— he’s gonna be upset.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m gonna tell him. Just… not yet.”
Another pause.
“Neither will you.”
Joaquin looked at her, torn. But then— he reached over and closed the box, sealing it again.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” he said.
Y/N let out a slow breath. “Thanks, Quino.”
He grinned again. “Still want that number?”
She lifted the phone. “I think I’ve already got it, genius.”
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Y/N sat cross legged on her bed, the burner phone resting in the middle of her comforter.
For someone who could sweet talk CEOs and charm a room of Congressmen, she was weirdly nervous.
She took a deep breath, thumb hovered over the call button.
Then— click.
One ring.
Two.
“Stark,” a familiar voice answered, cool and amused.
Y/N blinked. “You sound surprised.”
“I figured you’d wait at least another day,” Yelena replied. “Let me stew a little.”
“Stewing’s not my thing,” Y/N said, letting her voice drip with practiced ease. “Wrinkles the skin.”
There was a pause, the sound of Yelena settling into something. A chair? A rooftop?
“You’re alone,” Yelena said.
“Good guess.”
“I’m not guessing.”
Y/N smirked, even though no one could see it. “Do you always psychoanalyze people at bedtime, or am I just lucky?”
“No,” Yelena said. “You’re just very easy to read.”
Y/N laughed. “You really think that?”
“I think you want me to think that.”
Another beat. It was more of a dance than a conversation. Every sentence a test. A check. A pull.
Then, Yelena’s voice softened. Just a little.
“I’m sorry about what I said last night. About the tower not being yours anymore.”
Y/N stilled.
Yelena continued, careful but honest. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt. I was just stating facts. I know what it’s like to want to call something your home… after floating for so long.”
There was a flicker of something in Y/N’s chest. Not anger. Not pain. Just— recognition.
Her fingers curled around the sheets.
“Why would you say I’ve been floating?”
“Sorry,” Yelena said. “I thought we were trying to be honest with each other.”
It wasn’t an accusation. Not even a challenge.
Just… curiosity.
Like she genuinely couldn’t understand how someone like Y/N Stark—rich girl, headline darling, America’s favorite heiress—could know anything about not belonging.
Y/N leaned back against her pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
“You think I belong here?” she asked, voice softer now. “You think I fit in at a military base playing junior spy with the Falcon and the new guy?”
“Torres is cute.”
“He eats flan for breakfast and calls me ‘dude.’ I’m not built for this.”
There was a small breath of laughter on the other end of the line.
“You’re better at it than you think,” Yelena said.
“I brought back zero intel.”
“You brought back me.”
That shut Y/N up for a second.
Then—
“Wow. Look at you. Flirting with me from three hundred miles away.”
“You called me,” Yelena pointed out.
“You sent a burner phone.” Y/N laughed again, tired but real. “You know that’s actually kind of romantic in a weird, morally grey way?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Another pause. This one was warm. Not heavy.
Then Yelena’s voice dropped, quieter now.
“You really didn’t know what you were looking for, did you?”
“Nope.”
“And you went anyway?”
“Of course I did,” Y/N said. “There was free champagne.”
Yelena hummed, amused. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“But not floating anymore,” she added.
That caught Y/N off guard.
And she didn’t respond right away.
But she didn’t deny it, either.
“…Are you going to call me again?” Yelena asked, and it almost didn’t sound like a question.
Y/N closed her eyes, heart weirdly steady now.
“I think you already know the answer.”
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Three weeks.
Twenty one nights.
That’s how long it had been since the gala. Since Yelena in the black suit. Since a flirtation, a mission that should’ve fizzled out by midnight turned into... this.
A nightly ritual.
It always started the same: one of them would text first. Something sarcastic, maybe a cheeky photo (usually Y/N). Then the call. Never scheduled, never planned. But it always happened.
Now, Y/N lay sprawled across her bed, feet kicking the air absently as she stared at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed quietly beside her. She didn’t check it. She already knew who it was.
They hadn’t gone a single night without talking. Not one.
She wasn’t sure what that said about her.
Or Yelena.
All she knew was that this felt easy in a way nothing else had for a long time. The sarcasm, the back and forth, the way Yelena laughed when she wasn’t expecting to. The way she remembered the smallest details Y/N dropped without realizing like what her favorite perfume was, the song stuck in her head that morning, that she drank iced coffee even in the dead of winter.
Y/N liked the rhythm they’d found. Liked the safety of distance and phones and the simplicity of not defining what they are.
But she also hated it.
Because it wasn’t enough.
She wanted to see her again. In person. And that thought— wanting to go back— had been pacing in her chest for days now.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, she reached for it.
Yelena: ready to lose another argument?
Y/N smirked, heart already beating too fast.
She tapped the call button.
Y/N lay on her bed, one leg hanging off the side, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear as she lazily flipped through a fashion site she had no intention of buying anything from.
“Hi lovely.”
Yelena’s voice hummed on the other end, low and warm. “You sound tired.”
Y/N grinned at the ceiling. “You sound smug.”
A soft scoff. “Am I wrong?”
“You’re always a little wrong.”
Yelena chuckled under her breath. “It’s been a long week.”
“You say that every week.”
“That’s because it’s true every week.”
Y/N paused, let the quiet stretch. It was never awkward. Not with her. Not anymore.
“I was thinking,” Y/N said casually, like she hadn’t been planning the sentence for hours, “maybe I can come to New York again.”
The line went quiet.
Y/N stopped scrolling.
She waited.
“…You don’t have to,” Yelena finally said, soft and unreadable. “I mean— what are you going to tell Wilson?”
“I’ll figure something out,” Y/N said.
“And what if he finds out?”
Y/N smiled. “He already suspects. I can see it in his face.”
That pulled a quiet laugh from Yelena. But then—
“You do know we can’t… go anywhere, right?” Yelena said carefully. “No public dinners. No hand holding outside. No getting papped outside a bakery or whatever it is you rich girls do.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to convince me not to come?”
“No. I’m just making sure you understand what it means.”
There was something defensive in her tone— something scared, maybe. Like she couldn’t believe Y/N wanted this for real.
“…I don’t have to come,” Y/N offered gently. “If you don’t want me to.”
Silence.
“I just thought it’d be nice.”
Yelena exhaled. “Of course I want you to.”
Y/N’s heart tripped. “Then why are you giving me a whole disclaimer?”
“I’m making sure you have the logistics worked out,” Yelena said, voice almost teasing again. “That you know what coming here would mean.”
Y/N closed her laptop. Sat up.
“I know perfectly,” she said. “Do you?”
A beat.
“I do.”
“Good,” Y/N said, biting down her smile.
Yelena hummed. “Your attitude is getting worse with every phone call.”
“I think you like it.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
Y/N rolled onto her stomach, toes kicking at the edge of the bed. “So… we’re doing this?”
Yelena’s voice dropped low. “Pack a bag, Stark.”
A beat.
Then Y/N whispered, “Already did.”
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Y/N tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out of the car, heels clicking against the pavement. The building in front of her looked like any other boutique hotel— chic, understated, the kind of place rich people used when they didn’t want to be seen.
But of course, Y/N Stark didn’t do subtle.
She handed her bag to the concierge with a smile and made her way up, heart thudding louder with every floor.
By the time she knocked on the door, her stomach was fluttering— a feeling she hadn’t had since she was sixteen and some Stark intern– whose name she can’t even remember now– had kissed her on the tower balcony after sneaking out of a mission briefing.
Yelena tilted her head. “You’re dressed like we’re going to dinner with the Queen.”
“Well, I thought we were doing the whole dramatic reunion thing. Maybe champagne. A slow fade to black. Is that not the vibe?”
“You lied to your team to see me?”
“I prefer ‘creative scheduling,’” Y/N said, brushing past her and into the room.
Yelena closed the door. “Does Wilson know?”
“God, no. He thinks I’m with Pepper and Morgan.” Y/N paused. “Joaquin knows, though. But only because he caught me trying to book my own jet and made fun of me until I caved.”
“Smart boy.”
Y/N turned. “Yelena…”
Their eyes met.
There was something electric in the air— unspoken, but thick and heavy.
“I’ve been thinking about this for the past few weeks,” Y/N said, stepping closer. “This moment. You. Us.”
Yelena didn’t move.
“And?” she asked quietly.
“And I want you to know,” Y/N said, “that I’m not confused. I’m not scared. I like you.”
Yelena exhaled. Slow. Controlled.
“Y/N…”
“I know you’re not ready. You don’t have to say it. You don’t even have to feel it yet.” Y/N’s voice cracked just slightly, but she kept going. “But I do. I’m in it. I don’t do things halfway. Especially not this.”
Yelena looked away.
Y/N reached for her hand—gently. Barely a touch.
“I don’t need you to like me back right now. I just need to know you’re not going to run.”
A long pause.
Yelena’s voice was low when she finally spoke.
“I’ve spent my whole life running from things that feel like this.”
“And?”
“I didn’t think this was something I’d get to have.”
Y/N smiled— small and sure. “Then take it.”
Yelena looked at her, jaw tight, eyes soft. Torn.
And then— she kissed her.
No hesitation.
Just years of silence and survival crashing into three weeks of want.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t messy. It was real.
When they broke apart, Yelena leaned her forehead against Y/N’s.
“I’m still learning,” she whispered.
Y/N nodded. “Good thing I’m an excellent teacher.”
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The sheets were soft. Gold threaded. Egyptian cotton. Something outrageously overpriced that Y/N had offhandedly called “acceptable.”
The air smelled like vanilla, wine, and whatever expensive perfume Y/N had worn to the room and now left behind on Yelena’s skin. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the Brooklyn night air. It should’ve been cold, but the room was warm. Or maybe that was just her.
Yelena lay still, half curled on her side, fingers grazing the small of Y/N’s back. Y/N was lying next to her, hair fanned out against the pillow, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. She looked... peaceful.
And she was talking.
Not nervously. Not even trying to fill the silence. Just… talking.
“I don’t let myself feel like this. Not since— well. God, I really can’t even remember.”
Yelena didn’t respond. Just listened. Took her in like a photo she didn’t want to fade.
“But when I do feel things,” Y/N went on, voice quiet, “I usually convince myself they’re fleeting. Temporary. Just a passing obsession.”
She shifted, brushing Yelena’s wrist with the tip of her finger.
“But you don’t feel temporary.”
That made Yelena’s stomach twist.
“I think if I was going to hand my heart to someone,” Y/N continued, “if I was really going to let myself go there again… I’m glad it’s you.”
Yelena blinked slowly.
She wasn’t used to this.
To someone saying things like that out loud. To love not being a hidden thing, locked behind layers of deflection and contingency.
Y/N was doing everything right. Saying the words. Making the space. Choosing her. Unapologetically.
And it was terrifying.
Because Yelena could kill a man in sixteen ways with a pen cap, but she didn’t know how to hold something this delicate without breaking it. She didn’t trust her hands. Not with this.
She tightened her hold on Y/N’s hip instead, pressing a kiss to her shoulder to keep from saying something wrong.
Y/N sighed. Content.
Yelena stared up at the ceiling. Heart thudding. Mind spinning.
She wanted to believe it. She wanted to say me too. That she wanted this. That she’d already started imagining what it would feel like to be hers.
But all she could hear in the back of her mind was—
Don’t let anyone that close. Don’t trust it. Don’t get soft.
So instead, she stayed quiet.
She kissed the back of Y/N’s neck.
And Y/N smiled, assuming that meant everything was fine.
Yelena closed her eyes.
She hoped it would be.
She just didn’t know how to believe it yet.
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Y/N was humming.
Not any particular tune. Just a soft, aimless melody as she padded barefoot across the carpet in an oversized robe and nothing else, swiping through the room service menu like she was solving a national crisis.
“I’m thinking french toast,” she said, glancing up at Yelena, who was still tangled in the sheets. “Or croissants. Do you like croissants? Wait, what am I saying— you’re Russian. You love dramatic European breakfasts.”
Yelena blinked slowly. “That’s… not a real thing.”
Y/N grinned. “If it’s in the movies then it’s real.”
She turned back to the phone, dialing room service like it was second nature. “Hi, yes— suite 1703. Can we do one bacon and egg croissant and an order of french toast? Extra espresso. And whatever your chef’s favorite pastry is. Surprise me.”
Yelena watched her, wordless.
Her golden girl.
Y/N Stark. Messy hair, soft skin, eyes still heavy with sleep and a sweet smile on her face. Rattling off her breakfast order, waving her hand while she complained about the quality of in room body wash, talking about her theory that Morgan was secretly running Stark Industries via email. All while moving around like she’d always belonged here. Like they belonged here.
It was dangerous, how much Yelena liked it.
Loved it.
The ease. The talking. The way Y/N said “we” without hesitation.
Like this wasn’t temporary. Like Yelena wasn’t temporary.
She glanced down at her hands.
Calloused. Scarred. Hands that had ended lives. Hands that had never learned how to hold anything gently.
Y/N tossed her phone on the bed and climbed in beside her, reaching over to brush a piece of hair off Yelena’s face.
“You’re staring.”
“You talk a lot in the morning.”
“Comes with the Stark brand,” Y/N said, snuggling into her side. “Also, I’m trying to make this normal. Like, domestic normal. Like coffee and breakfast and lipgloss on the sheets normal.”
Yelena didn’t move.
Y/N pulled back just slightly to look at her. “Too much?”
Yelena shook her head.
No. Not too much.
Too good.
Because in this room, she could almost forget who she was. What she’d done. The people she’d lost. The life she’d built from bone and blood and compromise. She could almost believe this was her future.
But the pit in her stomach said otherwise.
Because what could she give Y/N Stark?
Yelena Belova, the killer. The puppet. The weapon in Valentina’s pocket. The girl who’d only ever known survival.
This wasn’t survival.
This was wanting.
And that… was harder.
She reached for Y/N’s hand, lacing their fingers together under the covers. She didn’t say anything.
But Y/N felt it.
Felt the tension beneath her skin. The quiet retreat happening behind Yelena’s eyes.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she whispered.
Yelena forced a tiny smile. “Old habit.”
“You don’t have to run, you know,” Y/N added gently. “Not from me.”
Yelena looked at her.
And didn’t answer.
Because deep down, she still believed she didn’t deserve this. Even if she wanted it more than anything.
Room service had arrived in silver trays. The smell of buttery croissants and dark espresso filled the suite.
Y/N looked too pleased with herself as she arranged their plates on the bed like it was a five star Michelin picnic.
“Okay,” she declared, tucking a cloth napkin into her lap like royalty. “I ordered three different jams, a suspiciously expensive cappuccino, and enough carbs to kill a small god.”
Yelena, sitting back against the pillows, shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m committed to a vibe,” Y/N countered, reaching for a small bowl of berries. “Here.”
She held out a strawberry between her fingers, eyes glinting with mischief.
Yelena blinked at it.
Y/N wiggled it. “What? You’re not gonna let me feed you like some decadent, morally ambiguous Roman empress?”
“That’s a lot of adjectives,” Yelena muttered.
“And they’re accurate.”
Yelena rolled her eyes— but leaned forward, parting her lips slightly.
Y/N beamed, leaning in with the berry— and missed, accidentally brushing it against Yelena’s cheek.
Yelena froze.
Y/N gasped.
“Oh my God. I strawberried you.”
Yelena blinked, slowly reaching up to wipe the smear from her cheek.
Y/N looked devastated.
And then Yelena started laughing.
Not a scoff. Not a sarcastic exhale.
A real, bubbling laugh from deep in her chest. Warm and surprised and alive.
Y/N stared at her, stunned.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Are you— are you laughing right now? Is this a glitch in the matrix?”
Yelena tried to respond, but the sound only made her laugh harder, shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her hands.
Y/N lit up like a sunrise.
“I’m keeping that sound,” she said, reaching for another berry. “I’m recording it and making it my ringtone.”
“You’re so annoying,” Yelena mumbled, voice still caught between laughter and breathlessness.
“You love it.”
Yelena looked up, eyes soft. Smile still hovering around her lips.
“…Maybe I do.”
Y/N held up the berry again, this time more carefully.
Yelena leaned forward. Took it between her teeth.
No smudges this time.
No hesitation either.
Just soft hands. A small smile. The world outside forgotten for one golden, impossible morning.
And Yelena?
Yelena let herself have it.
Even if just for now.
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Yelena stood at the window, one arm wrapped loosely around herself, the other nursing a cup of bitter hotel coffee. Her hair was still messy from sleep.
Behind her, Y/N was zipping up her overnight bag, already dressed in wide sunglasses and a coat that looked custom made to scream “no pictures, please.”
“I’ll text you when I’m done at Pepper’s,” she said, brushing past to grab her phone. “We’ll meet up before I leave.”
Yelena didn’t turn around.
“If you can’t… that’s okay,” she said softly.
Y/N stopped mid step.
She looked up, brows furrowed. “Why would I not?”
Yelena shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Things happen.”
Y/N squinted at her. “That’s not really my style. If I say I’m gonna do something, I’m doing it.”
“I’m just saying— don’t feel like you have to.”
“I don’t,” Y/N said simply. “I want to.”
Yelena finally looked at her.
And Y/N stepped in close, wrapping her arms around Yelena’s waist. She leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her lips. Not rushed, not casual. Intentional.
When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against Yelena’s.
“I’ll see you before I go.”
Yelena gave her a faint, guarded smile. “Okay.”
Y/N kissed her once more, quick and sweet, then pulled away.
“Don’t miss me too much,” she teased as she walked out the door.
But Yelena just stood there long after it shut behind her.
Because she already did.
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The sun filtered through the windshield as the car drove down the long familiar driveway. The gates had already opened, recognizing her plates. Home. Or something like it.
Y/N leaned back in the driver’s seat, lip gloss smudged, heart still pleasantly tangled with the last few hours. She could still smell Yelena on her skin.
Her phone buzzed.
Sam.
Y/N stared at the screen for half a second too long.
“…Shit.”
She tapped accept, swiped to speaker.
“Hey!” she said quickly, too quickly. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Sam’s voice, even.
“You at Pepper’s now?”
“Yep! Got here yesterday morning.”
Y/N’s voice was a little too bright as she slowed the car up the driveway. She winced, switching the call to speaker as she fumbled to put the car in park.
“Morgan’s really tall now, like weirdly tall. I asked her if she’s been sneaking gamma juice when no one’s looking.”
“Uh huh,” Sam said, voice flat. “You didn’t text when you got there yesterday.”
“Oh, I know. Sorry— my phone died. We were just hanging out, catching up. No screens. Total girl time.”
“You, no screens?” Sam asked, suspicious.
Y/N let out a fake laugh. “Okay, yeah, it was horrifying at first. But it’s been nice. Y’know. Nostalgic.”
She was out of the car now, walking up the path, heels clicking against stone. She tried not to let her nerves slip into her voice.
“I’ll probably stay one more night. Just to get more time with them.”
“You sound good.”
“I am good,” she said quickly. “Really good.”
She reached the door. Took a breath.
And opened it.
The living room was warm, familiar, sunlit.
And sitting on the couch—
Was Pepper.
And Sam.
Side by side.
Waiting.
Y/N froze.
The silence stretched like glass.
“…Hey, Y/N/N,” Sam said quietly, from the couch as he hung up the call.
Y/N’s hand dropped from the doorknob.
Pepper didn’t look mad. She looked worried.
Which was worse.
“Sam just got here,” she said gently. “About twenty minutes ago.”
Y/N blinked.
Her mouth opened. Then closed.
Sam set his phone down on the coffee table.
“I tried really hard to believe you,” he said. “I wanted to. I was hoping you’d be a better liar than that.”
Y/N's throat burned.
“I was going to come,” she said, voice small. “I was.”
Pepper rose, crossing the room.
But Y/N stepped back.
“I was just— I needed a day.”
Pepper stopped.
Sam said nothing.
The silence was worse than any yelling.
Because it wasn’t about the lie.
It was about why she lied.
It was about who she’d been with.
Y/N’s bag slid off her shoulder with a soft thud as it hit the floor.
Her eyes bounced between them— Pepper’s concern, Sam’s unreadable expression. She suddenly felt very small. Very exposed.
“I wasn’t in danger,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t have to look at me like I’m some— some asset gone off script.”
“That’s not what this is,” Sam said.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Y/N,” Pepper started, gentle, “you’re not in trouble.”
“Then why do I feel like I am?” she snapped, too fast, too defensive. Her hands shook a little as she crossed her arms. “Why are you both sitting here like I committed treason?”
“You didn’t commit treason,” Sam said carefully. “You just… disappeared. Lied. Spun a story. And you did it right before a possible intel drop— after a classified mission you were looped in on.”
“I wasn’t looped in. I was sent to a party in a pretty dress with zero direction.”
“You were our eyes inside.”
“I was a pawn,” Y/N bit out. “You didn’t want intel. You wanted Stark optics. You used my name to get a foot in Valentina’s door.”
Sam’s jaw tensed.
She wasn’t wrong.
Pepper finally moved closer again, slow and soft, like Y/N was a spooked animal.
“I get it,” she said. “You needed space. You wanted something for yourself. But Y/N/N… you can’t disappear. Not like that. Not without saying anything. Especially when things are so tense.”
“I was going to see you,” Y/N repeated, voice cracking now. “I just— there was someone I had to see first.”
Sam didn’t say her name.
But he didn’t have to.
“You came to see her.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Pepper looked down.
And that silence settled in again.
Heavy. Unspoken. Loaded.
“She was the only one who talked to me at that damn gala,” Y/N said, trying to hold her ground, even as her voice trembled. “Everyone else avoided me.”
“You weren’t sent there to make friends.”
“I wasn’t trying to make friends. I wasn’t trying to fall for her either, if that’s what you’re both wondering.” Her arms tightened around herself. “It just happened.”
Sam stood now. Still calm. Still unreadable. But his voice held something harder beneath it.
“She works for Valentina.”
“I know.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“I know, Sam.”
“Then why are you acting like she’s not?”
That hit harder than she expected.
Y/N’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Because when I’m with her, I feel—”
She stopped.
Sam waited.
Pepper watched her carefully.
Y/N blinked against the heat rising in her eyes.
“…I feel safe.”
Sam exhaled through his nose. “And what happens when she’s ordered to hurt you? What happens when you’re the mission?”
“I’ll handle it.”
He shook his head. “You’re not trained for that.”
“Well, I guess that makes two of us who fell into something without training, huh?”
Sam didn’t rise to it. He just looked at her like he was tired. And hurt.
Not angry. Not betrayed.
Worried.
The kind of worry that meant he cared.
Which, somehow, made her feel worse.
“I’ll pack my things,” Y/N muttered, finally breaking eye contact. “I’m assuming I’m grounded or… revoked or whatever the hell it is you do.”
“You’re not a prisoner, Y/N/N,” Sam said quietly. “But actions have consequences. For you. For her. For everyone.”
“I know that.”
“Then start acting like it.”
Y/N didn’t answer.
She just turned away, slowly walking down the hall.
And when she got to the guest room, she shut the door, leaned back against it and finally let the first tear fall.
author's note: guys this is gonna be like 5 parts max!!! my first yelena fic im so freaking excited i love her sm. did you guys peep that peter mention? LOL
this is vaguely inspired by i love you by fontaines d.c. and jocelyn by the beaches! great songs go listen pls omg
omg have you guys noticed that i title eveything after a song? like i literally anything else feels wrong. except for clueless that's like its own thing.
LET ME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK PLS IT'S MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OUR GIRL
The afternoon sun bled through the tall windows of the base , painting lazy gold streaks across the hallway outside the briefing room. Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with a mounting sense of dread as Y/N clacked away at her laptop. She was sitting cross legged in a rolling chair, chewing bubblegum, wearing a cropped Princess Mononoke tee and baggy black jeans so shredded they looked like they'd survived a battle.
Sam sighed. Loudly.
“Alright. Listen,” he started, tone already warning. “Joaquin’s back today. Should be here any minute.”
Y/N hummed without looking up.
“So maybe just… be normal for five minutes?”
That got her attention. She spun her chair slowly toward him, resting her chin in her palm, the picture of mischief barely contained.
“Define normal,” she said.
“Like… not saying anything that could get me sued. Or arrested. Or both.”
She grinned like that was the most boring request anyone had ever made.
“Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll make a great impression.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t sound reassuring when you say it.”
Y/N stood, stretching with a little yawn, her shirt riding up enough to make Sam avert his eyes. She adjusted her pants casually and reached for her ID badge like she was prepping for a runway and not a classified military briefing.
Sam blinked. “Is that really what you’re wearing?”
“Yeah.” She glanced down at herself. “What about it?”
“It’s not exactly professional, Y/N.”
“Oh, totally. So you’re gonna give me money to go to Ann Taylor and buy some lame-ass blazer, right?”
“…No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
She gave him a winning smile.
“Relax,” she said, swiping on a fresh coat of lip gloss. “Birdboy’s gonna love me. Everyone does.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face. “Just don’t freak him out.”
“No promises.”
The elevator dinged.
Both of them turned as the doors slid open. Joaquin walked in like a walking recruitment poster. Windblown hair, wings collapsed neatly behind him, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, fitted tactical shirt clinging to him. He was flushed from the mission, smiling like he wasn’t about to get annihilated by a girl in a crop top.
Y/N blinked.
“Oh no,” she muttered, voice low. “He’s hot.”
Then, without missing a beat, louder: “Captain, I can’t be held liable for my actions if this man breathes in my direction.”
“Oh, totally.” Her voice dropped into a teasing purr. “If you wanna see how efficient I am, just give me a call.” She laughed to herself, rolling her eyes. “Sorry. That was a joke.”
A beat. Then she added with a crooked little smile, “Kind of.”
Joaquin’s ears turned pink.
Y/N shook his hand firmly, eyes raking over him as she tilted her head.
“Wow. Big hands.” She turned back to Sam with a mock scolding tone. “You really should’ve warned me.”
Sam didn’t respond. He just turned and walked away.
Y/N watched him go, then leaned in close to Joaquin, lowering her voice like they were already in on a secret.
“So… wanna see how good I am at filing reports or do you wanna see what else I’m good at?”
Joaquin’s brain officially left the building. “...Sure.”
Y/N beamed. “Perfect answer, Birdboy.”
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The hallway outside the gym smelled faintly of floor cleaner and sweat.
Y/N walked briskly, a tablet tucked under one arm and a stack of folders nearly slipping out of her grip. She’d just finished organizing mission reports for Sam and was muttering under her breath about font sizes and outdated filing systems when the doors to the training wing swung open.
Out walked Joaquin.
His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends and sticking to his forehead. His shirt was off, slung casually over one shoulder. He was still flushed from training, chest rising and falling, skin glistening under the overhead lights like someone had lightly misted him in holy water.
Y/N stopped walking. Dead in her tracks.
“Oh,” she whispered.
The folders dipped in her arms.
She blinked at him—sweaty, gorgeous, and completely oblivious to the devastation he was causing—and then muttered to herself, just loud enough:
“I must be God’s favorite.”
Joaquin slowed, towel in one hand, his expression shifting from tired to confused.
“Huh?”
Y/N tilted her head, eyes dragging down his chest and back up again. She exhaled through her nose like she was genuinely trying to keep her composure.
“You need to get away from me before I bite your biceps.”
There was a beat of silence.
Joaquin’s brain crashed.
“I—uh—what?”
She walked past him, biting back a grin, then turned over her shoulder.
“I said have a nice day, Mr. Falcon. You look very hydrated.”
Joaquin opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came out. He looked down at his own arm like he’d never seen it before like it had betrayed him somehow by existing in her line of sight.
Behind him, Y/N disappeared around the corner, tablet balanced effortlessly, still grinning.
He stood there in the hallway for a solid thirty seconds.
Then finally, to no one in particular–
“Did she just—? She did. She said—”
He exhaled.
“I’m gonna die here.”
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The office printer was testing her patience.
Y/N stood in front of it, sleeves rolled up, one hand on her hip and the other smacking the top of the machine like it owed her money. It had jammed on the final page of Sam’s mission brief, and now it was making a sad whirring noise that sounded almost like it was ready to give out on her.
“Don’t play with me,” she muttered, hitting the side again. “I will rip out your motherboard and smash it into pieces.”
She whacked it again, harder this time.
Joaquin walked by at that exact moment, towel slung around his neck from his afternoon run, and paused just in time to watch her body check the poor printer.
His laughter echoed down the hallway.
“Wow,” he called, grinning. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Y/N turned, frustration melting off her face, quickly replaced by charm. “That would only turn me on, babe.”
Joaquin blinked.
Hard.
His mouth opened like he had a comeback ready, some charming one liner about danger or her being a distraction but Y/N was already walking toward him, flipping through the half printed report like nothing had happened, her ponytail swinging.
“You were saying?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Joaquin opened his mouth again. Then immediately closed it when she glanced down at his lips.
“I—uh—” he stammered, taking a step back as his brain tried to locate basic vocabulary.
Y/N smirked.
He turned away a little too quickly, brushing a hand through his hair like that might fix whatever the hell just happened to him.
And then he tripped.
Over absolutely nothing.
Y/N didn’t even try to hide her laugh as he caught himself against the wall, red blooming across his cheeks.
“You good there, Torres?” she asked sweetly.
He didn’t look back. Just kept walking, muttering something under his breath.
Y/N grinned and turned back to the printer, which had finally, wisely, resumed printing.
“See?” she told it. “Threats and violence works.”
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The celebration dinner was being held at one of those absurdly fancy restaurants Sam liked to pretend he didn’t enjoy. Everyone was dressed up—dress code enforced, security detail present, real silverware on the table. Y/N hated it already.
But she played along. Mostly.
For once, she wasn’t in her usual crop top and baggy lowrise jeans. She was in white. A silky, soft white slip dress that clung in all the right places and flowed like water when she walked. Her hair was pulled back with little pearl pins, her makeup glowy and minimal—highlight on her cheekbones, lashes curled, lips shiny. She looked like a dream. Like someone you only see once in passing and are never able to forget about.
And then she opened her mouth.
Joaquin was at the bottom of the stairs, standing next to Sam, fully mid sentence when he looked up and saw her.
And immediately forgot how to speak.
She stepped down one stair, then another, moving slow and deliberate, like she was aware of what she was doing to him.
Joaquin’s jaw dropped. Actually dropped. Sam saw it happen and muttered under his breath, “Oh, he’s gone.”
She was glowing. Like an angel. Like someone who’d never sworn in her life, someone who smelled like vanilla and sunshine and didn’t know what a war crime was.
Then she caught Joaquin’s eye, smiled sweetly and said, loud enough for only him and Sam to hear:
“Damn, you look good. If you bend me over in the bathroom later I won’t tell anyone.”
Sam choked on his champagne.
Joaquin’s soul left his body.
His jaw was still hanging open. He blinked like she’d hit him with a tranquilizer dart.
Y/N reached the last stair, grinning as she approached. “What?” she asked innocently. “Too much?”
Joaquin couldn’t find words. Couldn’t find oxygen. He looked her up and down—this glowing, radiant, ethereal menace—and his brain gave up.
“I—” he started, but that’s all he managed before she kissed him on the cheek and walked past him into the room like she hadn’t just made him forget his own name.
Sam put a hand on Joaquin’s shoulder, shaking his head slowly.
“You’re gonna die, man.”
“I already did,” Joaquin murmured, still staring at her. “I died and she’s the angel that dragged me to hell.”
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Dinner was winding down. Plates cleared, wine poured, and now a low, sultry beat played from the restaurant’s private sound system, coaxing people onto the small dance floor near the patio.
Y/N leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine, smug as ever. She was still glowing, the white silk of her dress catching every candle flicker like it had a spotlight of its own. She’d been floating around all night like she hadn’t completely fried Joaquin’s brain with only one sentence.
She hadn’t so much as looked his way since.
Which was why she jumped a little when Joaquin appeared beside her chair and offered his hand, calm and smooth and casual.
“Dance with me?” he asked.
Y/N raised a brow, lips curling. “Oh? You speak again?”
He didn’t rise to the bait.
Just leaned a little closer and said, low enough for only her to hear, “You’re gonna regret what you said if you say no.”
That—that—made her pause.
Because he wasn’t joking.
His voice was steady, his expression unreadable, and his fingers were still outstretched, waiting. His jaw looked a little too tight. His sleeves were rolled up just right. And that one stupid curl had fallen over his forehead again, like God was personally playing favorites.
Y/N set down her wine. Slid her hand into his.
“Try me.”
The moment they hit the dance floor, she knew she’d messed up.
Joaquin’s hand landed on her waist—not tentative or polite. Firm. Possessive. He pulled her in close, flush against him, and began to move with the music like he’d done this before. Like he’d been waiting.
Y/N blinked up at him, trying to play it cool. “You’re not usually this quiet, Birdboy.”
He didn’t respond.
He just spun her.
Caught her.
Dipped her, slow and smooth and close enough that her thigh brushed his.
And when he pulled her back upright, mouth just barely brushing her ear, he murmured:
“Still thinking about me bending you over in the bathroom?”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
He felt it.
“You know,” he murmured, still moving with the beat, “you talk a lot of game.”
He leaned in, voice low, lips just barely brushing her ear.
“But I’d love to see you put your money where your mouth is.”
Y/N made a sound that was definitely not a word.
Joaquin pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, smug, steady, and lethal.
“What do you say, angel?”
Y/N pulled back slightly to look at him, jaw slack, eyes wide, completely, actually speechless for the second time in her life.
Joaquin smirked.
“Too much?” he echoed her from earlier.
Y/N swallowed hard. “I—I need to sit down.”
Joaquin chuckled low in his throat. “Nah. Dance isn’t over yet.”
And with that, he spun her again—cool, collected, deadly. While Y/N tried to remember how to breathe in silk and heels and shameless attraction.
Somewhere from across the room, Sam muttered into his drink, “If they hook up on government property, I’m filing for early retirement.”
Bucky raised his glass. “Cheers to that.”
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bonus!
Joaquin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, gaze fixed.
“You ever stop working?”
Y/N didn’t look up from the tablet in her hand. “You ever stop staring?”
He laughed, stepping into the room.
She hopped down from the counter as he approached, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. He followed her gaze, then stepped closer—too close.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes before Sam finds out we stole his access card and breaks the door down.”
Y/N raised a brow, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Fifteen whole minutes?”
“Give or take.”
She sighed—exaggerated and dramatic—then reached for the scrunchie on her wrist and pulled it free. With practiced ease, she swept her hair up, tying it into a messy bun.
“That’s all I need.”
She walked past him toward the empty conference room, hips swaying, fingers brushing his arm as she went.
Just before she disappeared inside, she paused in the doorway and threw him a look over her shoulder.
“You coming, Falcon?”
Joaquin followed, heart pounding, grin blooming.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Sam and Bucky stood exactly where they promised themselves they wouldn’t be. Waiting.
Sam had his arms crossed, already preparing his full force dad voice. Bucky was sipping coffee like this was peak entertainment, grinning way too much for someone witnessing what might legally count as a workplace incident.
“You owe me twenty,” Bucky said. “I told you they wouldn’t make it past fifteen minutes.”
“You bet on them?” Sam asked, horrified.
“No, I bet on him. She’s terrifying. I’d have folded in ten.”
And right on cue, the door creaked open.
Out strolled Y/N.
Not just happy, not just smug. No—glowing. Like she had just ascended a level in life. Her bun was halfway undone, mascara smudged at the corners, and her sweatshirt was somehow inside out. She was chewing gum and grinning like she’d won gold in olympic level chaos.
Behind her?
Joaquin.
Hair completely wrecked. Shirt on backwards. Lipstick prints absolutely everywhere—his jaw, his neck, one hauntingly close to his ear. He looked dazed. Blissed out. Possibly reborn.
Sam blinked. Once. Twice.
“Your shirt’s on backwards,” he said flatly.
“Huh?” Joaquin glanced down, still a little out of it. “Oh.”
Y/N tossed Sam his access card like it was no big deal. “Thanks, boss. Appreciate the loaner.”
She patted his shoulder as she passed and added over her shoulder, “Y’all need better soundproofing, by the way.”
Sam stared into the void.
“I’m gonna need bleach,” he muttered. “For my brain.”
Bucky didn’t even pretend not to enjoy himself. “You think they’ll do this again or was that a one time blackout moment?”
Y/N and Joaquin were already halfway down the hall. She reached up and dragged her thumb along his jaw, smudging the lipstick even worse. He flinched.
“You are actually going to kill me,” Joaquin said weakly.
“Probably,” Y/N replied, all sugar. “But you’ll die smiling.”
author's note: i need him real bad yall. i came up with this while listening to bed chem by our queen sabrina so i chose the title to honor her. i keep titling oneshots after songs i love it!
guys imagine dancing with joaquin though... i'm unwell.
pairings: Stark!reader x MCU!peter parker, slight Stark!reader x harry osborn, slight MCU!peter parker x gwen stacy
peter parker and his best friend y/n stark have never been the best at talking about their feelings- especially the ones they shouldn't have. things seem to get a little more complicated when gwen stacy transfers to midtown and new york's most charming bachelor, harry osborn, takes an interest in y/n.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary: After the pictures leak online, Yelena has one mission— make sure Y/N is safe. Their true feelings and fears come to light but they are not letting anything get in between this time. Not even Valentina and her plans.
pairing: Stark!reader x yelena belova
warnings: some swearing, some crying, lowkey yelena and y/n both being anxious, very slight angst, f!reader, i think that's it!! but lmk if i missed any!😣
Y/N freezes. Joaquin immediately stops mid sentence, both of them turning slowly to see Sam standing at her doorway, phone in hand, face unreadable. The silence is deafening.
She swallows hard.
Sam gestures with his head. “Common area. Now.”
They follow without a word. Joaquin’s hand stays on the small of her back the whole time, grounding her. Y/N’s heart is hammering, dread coiling tighter and tighter in her chest.
Sam sits down at the table, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, and levels a look at her.
“I’m guessing you already know what I’m gonna say to you?”
She doesn’t even let him finish.
“I—I thought we were being cautious!” Her voice cracks, and the words tumble out like a dam has broken. “I used my fake name, I swear! We weren’t even out in the open! I thought I was being careful, I swear!”
“I’m not used to this whole spy thing. I suck at it. I don’t know why you thought I’d be any good at it! I leave traces, I mess things up, and now— now she probably hates me and it’s all my fault—"
Sam stands up. “Whoa, hey, hey—Y/N—breathe.”
She stops, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes shiny and wide. Joaquin grabs her hand, tugging her gently back to sit beside him on the couch. His thumb rubs slow circles into her knuckles.
Sam softens. He crouches down in front of them, voice low and steady.
“I can’t help you if you’re spiraling like this, alright? Deep breaths. One at a time.”
Y/N sucks in air like it’s the first time she’s remembered to breathe. It comes out shaky. Joaquin doesn’t let go.
Sam gives her a moment. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Y/N blinks at him. “What?”
Sam sighs. “You’re not a spy. That’s not what I brought you here to be. You’re not trained for surveillance or black ops. You’re here because you’re smart, and resourceful, and because people listen to you, even when you don’t realize it.”
“But—”
“No. The people who did this? They invaded your privacy. Both of your privacies. That’s not on you. The only thing I’m mad about,” he holds up his phone, “is that I had to find out about all this on Twitter.”
Y/N groans, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”
Sam gives her a look. “Next time you’re dating someone who’s a public figure with a known assassin history and a connection to half the original Avengers, maybe loop me in before it hits trending number three worldwide, yeah?”
Joaquin stifles a laugh. Y/N whines.
Sam stands again, serious now. “We’ll handle the fallout. We’ll get ahead of it. But I need you two focused. Valentina is already going to use this. You know that.”
Y/N lifts her head, jaw set. “I do.”
“Good.” Sam nods. “Now go wash your face, Stark. You look like you’ve been crying for a week.”
“I have,” she mutters. “You came in before the end of my breakdown.”
Joaquin grins. “That was like, the second act.”
Sam groans. “I’m too old for this.”
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Yelena’s boots slam against the Watchtower’s cold concrete floors as she barrels down the hall. She barely pauses long enough to grab her go bag from the gear room— her Widow suit, weapons, burner phones. Her hands are shaking as she zips it closed.
By the time she gets back to the common area, the others are already there— Bob, Ava, Bucky, Walker— their team bonding time interrupted by the headlines lighting up every feed on the planet.
She doesn’t even look at them until Bob steps forward, worry etched into his face.
“Are you okay?”
Yelena whirls around, wide eyed. “No. I’m not okay, Bob. The entire world knows about my love life now.” Her voice cracks near the end, all sharp edges and fury barely holding back panic.
Bucky steps forward slowly, arms folded, keeping his tone steady. “Where are you going?”
“To D.C.,” she says, shouldering her bag. “I have to see her. I have to get to her before Valentina does.”
The team goes still.
Ava raises an eyebrow, her arms crossed. “And then what? What even is the plan here, Yelena?”
Yelena stops short. Her jaw tightens. Her breath catches for a beat too long.
Then she snaps.
“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know!” Her voice echoes in the concrete room. “I just— I need to get to her now.”
She looks like she’s about to combust, barely held together by sheer adrenaline and the hollow thud of her heart in her chest. “Valentina will twist this. She’ll use it. And Y/N’s not trained for this— she’s not prepared to be in the middle of all this, not like I am. She thinks she can play spy and it’s all just tech and charm but this— this is the part that breaks people.”
No one says anything for a long moment.
Yelena swallows hard and adds, quieter this time, “She’s gonna be scared. And she’s gonna think I’m not coming back.”
Bob steps aside first, silently clearing her path.
Bucky gives a slow nod. “Then go. Get to her first.”
Yelena doesn’t say thank you— she doesn’t have it in her. She just turns and bolts.
By the time she makes it to the underground parking lot, she’s panting, swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. She doesn’t even think— just rips open the door of the first car she sees, throws her bag in the passenger seat, and peels out of the lot.
DC isn’t close. But it’s not far enough to stop her.
Not now.
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The pint of ice cream sat untouched on the bed between them, already starting to melt.
Y/N had only taken one bite before she started rambling and now she was curled up in Joaquin’s hoodie, her eyeliner smudged from crying earlier.
“She’s gonna hate me, Quino,” she says, spoon clenched tight in her hand. “She probably doesn’t even want to see me again. And I don’t blame her.”
Joaquin shifts closer, still cross legged on her bed, watching her carefully.
“Y/N/N…”
But she barrels on, breath catching between the words. “I’m just— God, I’m a ridiculously smart yet so dumb spoiled rich girl trying to prove herself to the world, and I’m failing so hard. Like, spectacularly failing.”
“You’re not failing,” Joaquin says it gently but firmly. “You heard Sam. This wasn’t your fault. You’ve been careful. This was just… one of those things. It’s messy, but it’s not on you.”
She sniffs, pulling the sleeves over her hands. “It doesn’t matter. She’s not calling. Not even a single text. It’s been twelve days.”
Joaquin doesn’t say anything at first, just offers her the ice cream. She takes it without really noticing.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Y/N shrugs, and then, to her own surprise, she nods.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says, voice low. “She reached out to me first, but I let it mean something. That’s my fault. I let it get serious.”
Joaquin stays quiet, letting her keep going.
“I just… I haven’t felt anything like this in so long, Quino. Like, really felt. There was this boy once—” She stops short. Frowns. “I think I loved him. I can’t even remember his name. Just brown, messy curls. That’s all I have.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
“But with Yelena?” she whispers. “It was different. Or— maybe it was the same, and I just forgot what it’s supposed to feel like. But I saw a future with her. Like I could actually be happy. Not a Stark. Not a genius. Not some soldier or symbol. Just… me. With her.”
Joaquin reaches over and takes her hand.
“You’re allowed to want that.”
She swallows hard. “And I thought maybe she wanted it too. But then she pulled away. And now this whole disaster happens and she still hasn’t reached out.” Her grip tightens. “I feel pathetic. Like I got played. We slept together, and then she just… disappeared. I’m not gonna be the one to reach out. I can’t. I already feel like I gave her everything.”
Y/N goes quiet. The spoon scrapes the bottom of the container.
“I’m so tired of getting hurt,” she murmurs.
Joaquin squeezes her hand. “Then let’s not pretend you’re in this alone, okay?”
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It was well past midnight, and Y/N was finally alone.
Joaquin had left hours ago after making sure she ate some real food and promising not to check Twitter anymore for the rest of the night. The lights in her room were off now, the only glow coming from the holographic interface still humming over her desk. She couldn’t sleep. She’d stopped trying.
She lay curled under the blanket, scrolling through a photo album she should’ve deleted already— live photos from facetimes, blurry selfies with Yelena making dumb faces, one she’d taken of Yelena watching the sunrise back at the hotel like she wasn’t even aware Y/N was looking.
And then,
Knock.
She froze.
Another knock. But not from the door.
She sat up slowly, heart rate already spiking. Her body moved before her brain caught up, and as she padded barefoot across the room, some primal memory flashed through her— a boy once knocking at her window in the middle of the night, curls damp with rain, eyes desperate and wide and sweet—
But that memory was fog. This was now.
And when she yanked open the curtains, breath tight in her lungs—
There she was.
Yelena stood outside her window, looking windblown and breathless, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Her jacket was wrinkled, her hair messy. And still, she smiled when she saw Y/N. Just the tiniest, tired smile of relief.
Y/N stared at her like she was a ghost. Then she yanked the window open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
Yelena's voice was hoarse. “I— I didn’t know if you’d still be awake.”
Y/N blinked. “It’s one in the morning.”
Yelena looked sheepish. “That’s a yes, then.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. Her voice was tight, brittle. “Why didn’t you use the door like a normal person?”
Yelena shrugged. “Didn’t want anyone else to see me. Just you.”
Y/N’s chest squeezed, anger and relief and something else rising in her throat. She wanted to slam the window shut. She wanted to pull Yelena inside and hold her so tight she’d never leave again.
“You broke things off. Then you disappeared.”
Yelena nodded slowly. “I know.”
“Twelve days.”
“I know.” This time, softer. Wrecked.
Y/N's hands curled tight on the windowsill.
“You can’t just show up in the middle of the night and act like that didn’t happen.”
Yelena stepped closer to the window, voice barely a whisper. “I’m not. I came to explain. If you’ll let me.”
Y/N's jaw clenched, heart still hammering. And then she slammed the window shut.
Or tried to.
Because Yelena caught it with both hands, stopping it with a grunt and forcing it open again.
“Seriously? You’re gonna break your own window because you’re mad at me?”
“I don’t care if it shatters,” Y/N snapped, “but you’re not coming in here like nothing happened.”
She crossed her arms, backlit by the soft glow of her room, and stared Yelena down.
“You have one minute to explain why you’re here. Why you suddenly care. And how the hell you even know where I live because I know I never gave you my address. And you’re not coming in until you do.”
Yelena leaned against the windowsill, chest still rising fast from the rush of adrenaline and the five hour drive she just made straight through.
“I saw the pictures,” she said quietly. “The articles. Your name trending with mine. I got worried.”
Y/N didn’t flinch, but her expression turned stonier.
“You’ve had twelve days to be worried.”
“And I was,” Yelena said quickly. “I just… I didn’t know how to talk to you.”
Y/N raised a brow. “And stalking me felt easier?”
Yelena hesitated. Then,
“I slipped a tracker into your purse the night of the gala.”
Y/N blinked. “You what?”
Yelena offered a crooked half smile. “It’s not creepy, it’s tactical. Also— your situational awareness? Terrible. You really didn’t notice?”
“Yelena.”
“Okay, okay— maybe a little creepy.”
Y/N was fuming. “You tracked me down like I’m a mission. You’re making jokes. And you still haven’t said sorry for anything that actually mattered.”
Yelena’s smile faltered.
That one landed.
“You left,” Y/N went on, voice quieter now but cutting deeper. “You slept with me, and then you left me. Not even a text. And now you show up and think some clever little comment about my awareness is enough to fix it?”
Yelena didn’t answer right away.
“Say sorry,” Y/N demanded. “If you’re really here for me— not just because you’re guilty or scared or whatever the hell this is— then say it.”
Yelena’s voice was hoarse again. “I am sorry, Y/N.”
Still, Y/N didn’t move.
Yelena stepped forward just slightly, hands still on the windowsill.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “I’ve never… I’ve never let myself care like that before. Not like this. I panicked. But watching everything happen online, seeing people twist it, seeing you stuck in it— I had to come. I had to see you for myself. Even if you hate me now.”
Y/N’s eyes burned, jaw locked tight.
“I don’t hate you.” Her voice broke. “I wish I did.”
Yelena opened her mouth like she might say something else— something softer, maybe, something final— but Y/N held up a hand.
“Save it,” she said, turning away from the window and heading back toward her bed. “You can stay out there.”
Yelena blinked. “Wait— what?”
“You heard me.” Y/N grabbed a blanket from her chair and tossed it toward the window frame. “There’s a perfectly good ledge. Enjoy it.”
“Y/N.”
“You don’t get to ghost me for twelve days and then sneak across state lines and waltz into my room.”
“It was more of a power walk than a waltz—”
“Whatever!”
Yelena sighed and leaned her forehead against the frame, looking thoroughly exhausted but not moving.
“So what, you’re punishing me now?”
“No. I’m reminding you that showing up doesn’t mean everything magically resets.” Y/N’s voice cracked again, but she didn’t let it stop her. “You left me. And it sucked. And I am still mad at you. And if you really mean what you said, then you can wait until I’m ready to let you in.”
Yelena stared at her.
Then, slowly, she lowered herself to sit on the windowsill.
“Fine,” she murmured. “I’ll wait.”
Y/N didn’t say anything.
She just crawled back under her blanket, curled in on herself, and watched the silhouette of Yelena in the window.
Part of her wanted to cave. To rush over and pull her in. To kiss her until they both forgot what day it was.
But the other part— her Stark part— knew she was worth being fought for.
So she turned onto her side, wiped her face, and whispered toward the window,
“You better not fall off.”
Yelena smirked faintly, her voice just loud enough to carry.
“Don’t worry. I’ve hung off worse things for girls I like less.”
The window stayed open.
The night air drifted in.
And Yelena stayed exactly where Y/N left her— sitting on the narrow ledge with her back pressed to the brick, hands clasped, legs tucked in, like she was settling in for a stakeout.
Inside, Y/N was lying in bed, completely still, arms wrapped around her pillow and face half buried in the blanket. But she wasn’t asleep. Not even close.
She could feel her there.
Yelena. Just outside her window. Breathing the same air. Close enough to touch if she leaned forward.
The ache in her chest burned like static.
Four minutes.
Y/N peeked at the clock again. Still not moving. Still waiting.
Her fingers tightened in the blanket.
She could hear her. Shifting slightly on the ledge. Whispering something in Russian under her breath. Probably cursing the wind. Probably cursing herself.
Four minutes and thirty seven seconds.
Yelena sniffled once.
That was it.
Y/N threw off her blanket with a groan.
"God, you're so dramatic."
She stomped over to the window, flung it open wider, and glared down at her.
Yelena blinked up at her, startled. “…You came back.”
"You’ve been here five minutes.” Y/N crossed her arms. “You passed."
Yelena tilted her head, confused. “Passed what?”
“The test."
A beat.
Then Yelena smirked. “This was a test?”
"Obviously." Y/N stepped back and nodded inside. "You get five minutes to convince me to let you stay warm and dry in here with me. Use them wisely.”
Yelena didn’t hesitate.
She climbed inside fast and quiet, like she’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was natural. Like she belonged there.
She stopped just short of reaching for Y/N.
Y/N noticed.
And after a second… she sighed and tugged her in by the front of her hoodie, burying her face into her shoulder with a quiet, furious little sound.
Yelena wrapped her arms around her so carefully it made Y/N want to scream.
“I hate that I missed you,” Y/N mumbled into her neck. “I hate it.”
“I know,” Yelena whispered back. “Me too.”
They sat on the edge of Y/N’s bed in silence. The hum of the city outside, the soft whir of the ceiling fan above. Yelena’s hoodie was still damp from the ledge. Y/N handed her a blanket, but didn’t move away.
Finally, Y/N spoke.
“So… are you gonna tell me?”
Yelena stared down at her hands. “Tell you what?”
“Why you disappeared.”
Her voice didn’t waver.
“Why you pulled away like I meant nothing to you.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose, slow and tired. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
Silence.
Yelena nodded. “I know.”
It took a long time for her to say anything else. And Y/N didn’t push. She just sat there, knees pulled up, watching her.
Then finally, in a voice so small it made Y/N’s chest ache,
“I got scared.”
Y/N blinked. “Of what?”
Yelena’s eyes were glassy now, but her voice stayed steady.
“Of how much I felt for you. Of how easy it was.”
She looked up at Y/N.
“It’s never been easy for me.”
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.
“I spent most of my life doing horrible things,” Yelena continued. “Following orders. Being used. Killing people I didn’t even know. Sometimes people who didn’t deserve it.”
Her voice broke a little, then hardened again. Like she’d patched over the crack as quickly as it came.
“You don’t know half the shit I’ve done just to survive. And you… you’re the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. You're kind. And warm. You love so big, even when people don’t deserve it.” She looked down again. “I didn’t want to be the reason you dimmed.”
Y/N felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“You think I haven’t lost things?” she said quietly.
Yelena looked up.
“I lost my dad. I lost the only team I ever saw as family. Half of them are gone. Dead, missing, or just… not around anymore.”
Her voice trembled. “I was sixteen when the world ended and seventeen when I realized no one cared about the damage left behind.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not super. I don’t have training. I don’t have some fancy tragic backstory like the rest of you. I’m just a stupidly smart, spoiled Stark kid who’s been trying to prove to herself that she’s more than her last name.”
A breath.
“And then Sam reached out. And he didn’t care about my last name. He saw something in me.”
She looked at Yelena now— really looked at her.
“And you did too. Don’t pretend like you didn’t.”
Yelena clenched her jaw. “Y/N—”
“You think I care about your file?” Y/N snapped. “You think I give a shit about what the Red Room made you do?”
Yelena’s throat bobbed.
“I care about you. I care that you know the difference between who you were and who you are now. I care that you love hard and fight harder and look at me like I’m not broken.”
Yelena’s eyes were wet again.
“I don’t want perfect. I just want you.”
And that broke Yelena.
She didn’t sob. Didn’t cry out.
She just folded forward until her forehead met Y/N’s shoulder, and let herself fall apart as Y/N wrapped both arms around her and held her like she wasn’t the most dangerous woman in the world.
She was just a girl who’d never been loved like this before.
Yelena didn’t know how long Y/N held her.
Long enough for her breathing to steady. Long enough for the shaking in her hands to stop. Long enough for her to start believing that maybe this girl meant what she said.
Eventually, she pulled back just slightly. Just enough to see Y/N’s face.
“You shouldn’t forgive me this easily.”
Y/N tilted her head.
“I’m not. But I’m choosing you anyway.”
That made something shift in Yelena’s expression. Something vulnerable. Something hopeful.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Yelena admitted.
“I don’t know how to love someone without ruining it. Without letting my job get in the way of everything.”
Y/N smiled gently. Her thumb brushed a tear from under Yelena’s eye.
“Good thing I’m a good teacher.”
That earned the tiniest exhale of a laugh from Yelena.
“You’re insane.”
“You’re the one who drove five hours to see me.”
Silence again, but this time, it felt different. Warmer. Closer.
Yelena’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Do you still want me?”
And Y/N didn’t even hesitate.
She nodded. Once. Slowly.
“Always.”
That was it.
Yelena surged forward like she couldn’t stop herself if she tried. Their lips met— soft at first, almost unsure, like both of them were still afraid the other might pull away.
But neither did.
Y/N’s hands slipped into Yelena’s hoodie, fingers curling into the hem of her shirt like she needed to hold onto her, like she was real. And Yelena kissed her like she’d been starving for it. Like she’d spent every night trying to forget the feel of Y/N’s mouth and failed every single time.
It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and tear stained and tangled in emotion they hadn’t dared name until now.
But it was them.
When they finally pulled apart, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, Y/N whispered, “You’re not sleeping on that ledge, by the way.”
Yelena smiled, eyes still closed.
“Damn. And here I was trying to prove a point.”
Y/N smirked.
“You proved it. Now get under the blanket before I change my mind.”
Yelena kicked off her boots and took off her hoodie without a word and crawled into bed beside her, the two of them curling into each other like a habit they’d never broken.
And for the first time in days, Y/N didn’t feel like she had to fight the ache in her chest.
Because Yelena was here.
And she wasn’t letting go.
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Y/N woke to the sensation of soft lips brushing her cheek. Then her jaw. Then the tip of her nose. By the time Yelena pressed one to her forehead, Y/N groaned and shoved the blanket over her head.
“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Clingy already?”
“Not clingy,” Yelena said, lifting the blanket just enough to poke her head under. “I’m… making up for lost time.”
Y/N squinted at her. “By smothering me in my sleep?”
“Yes.” Yelena kissed her again, this time right on the lips, before sprawling on top of her, cheek resting on Y/N’s shoulder like she had no intention of moving for the rest of the day.
Y/N’s sigh was fond, fingers automatically tracing lazy circles on Yelena’s back. “You’re heavy.”
“Good,” Yelena said. “You can’t run away.”
Y/N laughed softly but didn’t push her off. “So, what’s with all this extra affection? You planning on buttering me up before you tell me you’re leaving for another six months?”
“No,” Yelena said quickly, sitting up just enough to look her in the eyes. “I’ve… been catching up on you. This past week and a half. Seeing your pictures. Reading the posts. The good ones.” Her voice softened, almost shy. “I read your Forbes interview.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Stalker behavior.”
Yelena smirked. “Yes. And apparently, you are ‘the people’s princess.’” She rolled the words around like she was tasting them. “I think it suits you. Beautiful, untouchable, beloved—”
“Untouchable?” Y/N snorted, poking her in the side. “You’re literally in my bed right now.”
“Fine,” Yelena amended with a little grin. “Beloved… and very much mine.”
Y/N’s chest warmed, but she still rolled her eyes. “You’re annoying.”
Yelena tilted her head, feigning thought. “Do you think I should buy you a crown? You could wear it around everywhere you go. It would make it official.”
Y/N laughed, shoving her shoulder. “If you buy me a crown, I’m making you bow every time you see me.”
“Deal,” Yelena said instantly, kissing her again. “I’ll even kneel.”
Y/N’s breath caught for a second, but she covered it with a smirk. “You’re buying the coffee, too.”
“Of course, princess.”
The kiss starts lazy—just a sleepy brush of lips in the morning light—but Yelena deepens it, curling a hand around Y/N’s neck like she’s been starving for her. Y/N hums against her mouth, thinking about nothing but pulling her closer—
Knock knock knock.
Y/N practically leapt off Yelena, scrambling upright like she’d just been caught committing a crime. Yelena sat up too, brows furrowed, instantly on alert.
“Shh!” Y/N hissed, finger pressed to her lips.
“I am being quiet,” Yelena whispered back flatly. “You’re the one yelling ‘shh’ like an alarm.”
Y/N glared and rolled her eyes, dragging a pillow over her lap as if it could hide her guilt. “What do you want?” she called toward the door.
From the other side, Joaquin’s voice: “It’s time for our team meeting. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Y/N muttered, “Fuck,” under her breath, then raised her voice: “I just need fifteen minutes, okay? I’ll be right there!”
“You need to hurry up,” Joaquin warned. “Sam’s gonna get mad if you’re late again… which, by the way, you already are.” His footsteps retreated down the hall.
Silence lingered for a beat. Yelena tilted her head. “Team meeting?”
“Yeah,” Y/N sighed, climbing out of bed and padding into the bathroom. “I totally forgot. Not like I even need to be there— it’s not like I’m gonna do anything.”
Yelena didn’t answer. Y/N glanced at her reflection as she brushed her teeth, noticing the Russian’s silence through the half open bathroom door. When she came back out, toothbrush still in hand, she leaned against the doorframe.
“I’m not gonna tell anyone you’re here. Not unless you want me to.” She pointed her toothbrush toward Yelena. “But if you just talked to Sam… he’d be willing to help you out. I promise.”
Yelena sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight. “I don’t know about that. He’s not even on speaking terms with Barnes anymore.”
“That’s different,” Y/N shot back, ducking into her closet.
“Is it, though?” Yelena countered, softer now.
Y/N pulled a pair of jeans off a hanger, not looking at her. “Yeah. It kinda is.”
She disappeared into the bathroom again, calling over her shoulder, “Give me ten minutes.”
Yelena blew out a long sigh and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. For someone who didn’t think she had a place on this team, Y/N Stark sure had a way of making Yelena believe she did.
Ten minutes later, Y/N emerged from the bathroom fully put together— showered, makeup flawless, hair perfectly styled.
Yelena blinked at her from the bed. “How did you get ready so fast?”
Y/N smirked, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It’s one of my many talents, actually.”
Yelena let out a small laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.
Y/N crossed to her desk, snagged her laptop, then turned back toward Yelena. “I’ll be back soon. Will you still be here when I get back?”
Yelena straightened a little at the question, like it surprised her. “Yes. Of course.”
That earned her a real smile, soft and genuine, from Y/N. “Good. Well… feel free to do whatever you want in here. Shower, watch TV, go back to sleep. My room is your room.”
Something in Yelena softened at that— at the simple, unguarded generosity of it. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Y/N’s smile lingered as she adjusted her bag. “I’ll bring back food and coffee.”
She opened the door, glanced up and down the hallway, then pulled it shut behind her— making sure to lock it from the inside.
Standing there alone in the hallway, Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She whispered, barely audible even to herself, “I really hope you’re still here when I get back.”
And then she squared her shoulders and walked away.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Y/N pushed the door open as quietly as she could, clutching her laptop against her chest like it might shield her from the inevitable scolding. Of course, her heels betrayed her— each click against the tile echoing through the room like gunfire.
She winced.
Sam didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. One slow lift of his head, one long shake of disapproval, and Y/N felt about two inches tall.
Sliding into the empty chair beside Joaquin, she set down her laptop and started unpacking as quickly as possible, whispering, “I hate that look.”
“I tried to stall him,” Joaquin murmured back, not even trying to hide his grin.
Y/N groaned. “He’s so mad at me right now. Look.”
They both glanced up. Sure enough, Sam was staring directly at them, his expression pure shut up and pay attention.
Joaquin cracked first. His laugh slipped out, sharp and short, and Y/N immediately pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking as she tried to hold hers in.
Sam’s voice cut through the room like a whip. “What’s so funny over there that we feel like it’s okay to be disrespectful to our colleagues?”
The whole table went silent.
“I—I’m so sorry,” Y/N blurted, cheeks heating as she straightened in her chair. “It won’t happen again.”
Joaquin nodded furiously, trying to look serious. For a moment, it almost worked— until Y/N caught his reflection in her laptop screen, his mouth twitching, fighting a smile. Their eyes met in the glass, and suddenly she was coughing into her hand to cover her laugh while Joaquin was doing the same.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”
Sam exhales sharply, the weight in his voice settling heavy over the room. “You all remember what happened with the Accords. Some of us signed, some of us didn’t. But the reason Steve, me, and the others said no wasn’t because we thought we were above the law.” He pauses, eyes scanning the table, his voice low but firm. “It was because we knew what would happen if we let the wrong people hold the leash. Governments pick and choose which crises matter. They deploy you when it’s convenient. They bury you when it’s not.”
The room goes still. Y/N feels the old ghost of a shiver down her spine— she’s had to sit through this exact conversation many times before. Back when the accords had initially been presented. Back when the team was still… well, a team. Despite not being asked to sign, not being asked to choose sides, Y/N always knew Steve was right. She never dared to voice that opinion around Tony. Not after what the accords did to the team.
Sam leans forward, hands pressed flat against the table. “And now we’ve got Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—Director of the CIA—doing exactly that. Hand picking a team behind closed doors, branding them our name, and calling it protection.” His tone sharpens. “That’s not protection. That’s control. And I didn’t take the shield to watch history repeat itself.”
For a moment, the room is silent. Joaquin shifts in his chair, trying to mask the discomfort under a calm expression, but even he looks rattled.
Sam sits back, jaw tight. “I want to build something better. A team that answers to the people, not politics. But Valentina’s already poisoning the well before I can even plant the damn seed.” He shakes his head, frustrated. “That’s why I need Congress to reopen her investigation. If she’s pulling strings, the world deserves to know who’s holding them.”
His words hang heavy in the air.
Y/N swallows hard, exchanging a glance with Joaquin. The earlier laughter feels like a lifetime ago.
There’s a long pause after Sam’s words, the weight of them settling into every corner of the room. Y/N glances at her laptop screen, then up at him, hesitant before she speaks.
“Have you considered reaching out to Bucky?” she asks carefully. “Don’t you think he’d have valuable information? About Valentina, her contacts… the way these kinds of operations move?”
Sam’s jaw flexes. “…No. Not as of right now.”
Her brows knit together. “But—”
“I think we can get information elsewhere,” Sam cuts in, firm but not unkind. “There are channels we can use that won’t drag him into this.”
The silence that follows is tense. Joaquin clears his throat, trying to ease it. “So… is there anything else we should be doing?”
Sam leans back, eyes narrowing with thought. “Stay vigilant. If you hear anything, even if it’s small, you write it down. Document it. And you relay it back to me. No assumptions, no rumors— facts only. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Joaquin says quickly.
Y/N nods, but her chest feels heavy. Something in Sam’s voice tells her this fight is going to be harder than any of them want to admit.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Yelena stretched out on Y/N’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, but her eyes kept drifting back to the walls. The room wasn’t what she’d expected. It didn’t scream Stark or rich girl excess— it was… personal.
Curiosity got the better of her. She padded across the room barefoot, eyes scanning the frames perched on shelves and stacked carefully on the dresser.
One of Y/N as a little girl, messy haired and grinning as Tony Stark crouched beside her, holding up some ridiculous contraption. Another—Y/N squeezed in the middle of the original Avengers, squished by Steve and Thor, but smiling like she belonged there.
Yelena’s chest tightened.
Her gaze snagged on a photo in a silver frame. Y/N in a blue hoodie, arms crossed, her stance awkward, like she was leaning into a space that wasn’t filled anymore. There was just enough gap on one side to suggest someone had once been there. Yelena frowned, head tilting, the feeling of absence almost radiating from the picture.
She put it down quickly, moving on.
Then she saw it— Y/N and Natasha.
Her breath hitched. It wasn’t staged, wasn’t posed. Y/N was laughing at something, head thrown back, and Natasha was mid smile, her arm slung protectively around the younger girl’s shoulders.
Yelena froze. She reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the frame. Before she could stop herself, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. Just for her. Just so she could hold onto proof of her sister’s happiness.
Her throat tightened.
Yelena set the frame back carefully, like it was something fragile, sacred. Then she stepped back, taking in the whole room again.
Y/N’s life stared back at her in snapshots— Pepper, Morgan, Sam, Joaquin. Memories of people who had surrounded her, raised her, shaped her. A family. A real one.
It was everything Yelena never had.
The sting was sharp, familiar. That old whisper in the back of her head: you’re a weapon, not a person. You don’t deserve her. Not this life, not her love. You’ll never be free.
Yelena let out a shaky sigh and sat back on the bed, burying her face in her hands.
Yelena finally gave in to the long morning and climbed into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the tension and the chaos of the morning. Steam fogged the mirror and filled the small space, and for once, she didn’t have to be on guard.
When she was done, wrapped in a towel, she wandered over to Y/N’s closet, curious and a little hesitant. The clothes were… everything Y/N. Bold, stylish, loud— definitely not what Yelena would have picked for herself. She ran her fingers over the neatly folded stacks, jeans, skirts, jackets, all screaming “Stark,” and felt a little out of place.
Finally, buried in the very back, she spotted a small pile of hoodies. Something soft. Something normal. She pulled one out without thinking, and her heart gave a tiny, unexpected leap. Blue. That same blue from the photo she had snapped earlier. The one with the awkward lean, like someone had once been next to her. Across the chest it read: Midtown School of Science and Technology. Weird— she could’ve sworn Y/N was homeschooled. Maybe it belonged to one of her friends. Whatever the story, it didn’t matter.
Yelena shrugged the hoodie over her shoulders. Soft. Comfortable. Real.
She rifled through the drawers and found a pair of pajama pants, plain and loose, nothing fancy. Pulled them on, tugged the hoodie down, and finally exhaled. For the first time in days, she felt… normal.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The meeting breaks apart in the usual shuffle of laptops and chairs. Joaquin nudges Y/N as they head for the door.
“Dude, what happened to you this morning?” he whispers.
Y/N hesitates. Her first instinct is to tell him the truth— that Yelena had shown up out of nowhere last night, that she was still upstairs right now— but the words snag in her throat. “I totally forgot. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
Before Joaquin can reply, Sam calls out, “Stark. Torres. Over here.”
They both tense. Joaquin mutters, “He’s gonna yell at us. Just watch.”
They walk over, and Sam fixes them with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Do I need to start separating you two at meetings now?”
“No,” Y/N blurts. “We’re so sorry, it was just… it was so quiet, and you looked so mad—”
Joaquin snorts before he can stop himself. Sam’s gaze snaps to him. “I really don’t know what you’re laughing at, Torres.”
“It was just the way she said it,” Joaquin stammers. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me today.”
“Yeah, you know how he gets,” Y/N says quickly, elbowing Joaquin. “But it won’t happen again. No need to separate us.”
“Yeah, we work better together,” Joaquin adds.
Sam studies them for a beat, then sighs. “Good. Well, I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone else, but I have some evidence that Valentina’s assistant—Mel—was the one who leaked those pictures of you and that Belova girl.”
Y/N freezes. “Oh my god. How do you know?”
“Let’s just say Mel’s not that great at covering her tracks,” Sam says. “Which leads me to believe Valentina already knew about you and Yelena. I’m not sure what her angle is, but everything that woman does is for a reason. Do you think your girl knew about it?”
“No,” Y/N says immediately. “I don’t.”
“She is a spy, after all…” Joaquin says carefully.
Y/N turns to him, disbelief flashing across her face. “That’s not all she is. And she wouldn’t use me like this. At least— I don’t think she would.”
“Just be careful,” Sam says, his voice gentler now. “I don’t expect you to pull information, especially since you’re not on speaking terms with Yelena. But if there’s anything she might’ve said—anything—you let me know.” He gives her a final look before walking away.
The silence between her and Joaquin stretches.
“I’m sorry, Y/N/N,” Joaquin says softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But— it’s true. She came out of the Red Room. She was one of the stellar Widows.”
Y/N’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t answer.
Joaquin takes a breath. “You know her better than we do, and I trust your judgment. I just… don’t know her. I care about you, is all.”
“I know,” Y/N says finally, but her voice is quiet, fragile. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She turns back to the conference table, gathers her laptop and notes, and walks out of the room without looking back.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of Y/N’s TV washing over the walls. Yelena was sprawled across the bed, legs crossed, remote in hand as some mindless sitcom played in the background. She tugged the sleeves of the hoodie over her hands, absently fiddling with the cuffs as she scrolled for something else to watch.
The door clicked open. Y/N stepped in, weighed down by a huge takeout bag, two coffees,using her laptop as a tray, and her bag falling off her shoulder. She kicked the door shut and managed to lock it behind her with a huff.
Yelena sat up immediately, automatically reaching out like a reflex. “Give me that before you drop it.” She relieved Y/N of the coffees and the bag, setting them carefully on the desk.
“I’m already mentally exhausted,” she muttered, practically collapsing onto the mattress beside Yelena.
“I thought you had forgotten about me, Stark,” Yelena teased lightly, though there was a flicker of something shy under the words.
Y/N cracked an eye open and grinned. “Could never. You’re too pretty to forget.”
Yelena blinked. And then, to Y/N’s absolute delight, she blushed— an actual, visible flush creeping up her neck.
“Oh my god—” Y/N sat up, wide eyed. “You’re blushing! Lena, you’re so cuteee.” She reached out, hands aiming for Yelena’s cheeks, but the assassin dodged, hiding her face with her sleeve, muttering something under her breath in Russian.
Y/N laughed until her eyes landed on the hoodie Yelena was wearing. She froze. “Out of all the hoodies, you had to pick that one?”
Yelena glanced down at herself, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I’m wearing one of your ex’s hoodies right now, Y/N.”
Y/N barked out a laugh. “That hoodie is haunted, Lena! I don’t even know where it came from or when I got it.”
She stood, crossing over to her desk and picking up a framed photo. “Look— this was me at, like, sixteen. I’m wearing that exact hoodie. I’m pretty sure my dad took this picture.” She squinted at it, almost unsettled. “I swear I don’t remember buying it. I really don’t know where I got it.”
Yelena tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes as she watched Y/N ramble.
“This is my glitch in the matrix,” Y/N went on, setting the photo back down. “Also, I don’t even know why this picture’s framed. The whole thing is weird.”
She turned back, crossing the room to sink onto the bed beside Yelena again. “Sorry the meeting ran long,” she murmured, sliding into Yelena’s space and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. “But I’m all yours now.”
Yelena’s arms instinctively circled Y/N’s hips, tugging her closer. “Good,” she said softly, her voice low and warm against Y/N’s skin. “I was getting bored.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The floor of her room had turned into a mess. Breakfast containers, coffee cups, and crumpled napkins all scattered around the floor. Y/N sat cross legged in her sweats, picking at what was left of her croissant while the TV played in front of her.
Yelena was laughing too, that unguarded laugh that crinkled her nose and made her shoulders shake. She looked calm— hair still damp from the shower, holding a fork and stealing bites off Y/N’s plate.
And Y/N should’ve been laughing with her. She wanted to. But her mind kept drifting.
Sam’s voice was still in her head, telling her about Mel, about Valentina, about the game being played in shadows. Joaquin’s words, too— reminders of who Yelena used to be, what she was capable of. One of the best widows, if not the best.
It all lined up too neatly, didn’t it? Yelena had been trained to blend in, to seduce trust out of people who should’ve known better. The perfect spy. And Y/N Stark was nothing if not valuable intel.
Her chest tightened at the thought, tears building behind her eyes. What if they were right? What if she’d let herself fall for someone who’d only ever been using her?
She shifted, ready to pull away— to armor up before the doubt could swallow her whole.
But then Yelena turned, laughing at something stupid on the screen, cheeks flushed. She looked so soft like this, so entirely human. And Y/N’s doubt cracked apart like glass.
Because this was her Yelena. The one who stole her hoodies, who steals her food despite her not finishing her own, who slipped out the window whenever things got too real but always came back anyway.
Her Yelena would never use her. Couldn’t.
And Y/N realized that maybe she didn’t need proof to know that— didn’t need Sam’s approval, or Joaquin’s reminders, or a neat explanation to silence the doubts. All she needed was to look at Yelena and remember who she was when no one else was watching.
Y/N nudged the volume down until the sitcom laugh track turned into a faint buzz. “Sam pulled me aside after the meeting today.”
Yelena’s fork stilled. She turned fully to look at Y/N, one eyebrow arched. “Does he know I’m here?”
Y/N shook her head immediately, reaching across the space between them to grab Yelena’s hand. “No. He doesn’t. No one does. I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
Yelena’s shoulders eased a fraction, though her gaze stayed sharp. “Then what did he say?”
Y/N exhaled, her thumb tracing small circles against Yelena’s knuckles. “You know those pictures of us that got leaked?”
“Kinda hard to forget about that,” Yelena muttered.
“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s throat tightened. “He has evidence that Valentina’s assistant was the one who leaked them.”
For the first time since Y/N had known her, Yelena didn’t manage to mask her reaction fast enough. The panic flickered across her face before she could hide it. “W—what? How does he know?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t exactly show me anything, but he’s looking more into it. He said Mel isn’t the best at covering her tracks—”
“That means Valentina knows.” Yelena was on her feet before Y/N could finish, pacing the small room like a caged thing. “Fuck! I knew it. I knew this was too good to be true. Of course she fucking knew about us from the start.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped. Yelena hadn’t known. And if she hadn’t known, then… what was Valentina doing? What was Y/N already a part of without realizing it?
She stood and reached for her before the spiral could swallow them both. “Hey— hey, it’s gonna be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, we’ll be okay. I promise.”
Yelena’s head snapped up, eyes wild. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Y/N.”
“Lena…” Y/N softened her grip, pressing their foreheads together. “I know you’re scared. So am I. I don’t know what’s going on and that freaks me out, but I’ll protect you as much as I can. I’ll make sure we’re okay if it’s the last thing I do.”
Yelena shook her head, her hands trembling where they gripped Y/N’s arms. “No— don’t. Don’t talk like that.”
“Listen,” Y/N said quickly, words spilling out now. “Sam is trying to figure out what Valentina is playing at with this. He’ll get to the bottom of it. Me and Joaquin are good at hacking, I’m sure we can figure something out, find more stuff—”
Yelena’s voice broke. “I just wanted to have one thing of my own. I just wanted you. But not like this— I didn’t want her involved in this.”
Y/N’s heart twisted. She lifted a hand to Yelena’s cheek, brushing her thumb across her skin. “There’s one more thing…”
Yelena took a deep breath, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
“Sam is trying to convince Congress to reopen her investigation,” Y/N said. And before Yelena could speak, she continued, gently but firmly, “I know we haven’t really talked about it. I still don’t fully know how you got involved with her, but you did tell me that you’ve been trying to figure out a way to leave… this could be it, Lena.”
For a second, Yelena’s face softened. Y/N swore she saw the flicker of hope in her eyes— real, fragile hope— but then Yelena pulled back just slightly, like she’d touched something too hot.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “It’s not just about me. There are other people involved. A lot of stuff nobody knows about. Not Congress. Not Sam Wilson. Not even you. I can’t just tell you everything without talking to my team first. It’s not just about me.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. She curled her fingers into Yelena’s sleeve, holding on. “We would help you. All of you.”
Yelena looked at her, torn. “I don’t know if I trust Wilson…”
“But I do,” Y/N cut in, her voice steady. “And if you really trust me, then you know you can trust him too. I promise you, Lena. He would help you. All of you.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unspoken. Yelena’s eyes searched hers, as if she wanted to believe, as if she almost did. Finally, she exhaled and shook her head again.
“I need to think about it.”
“Okay,” Y/N said softly, swallowing down the urge to push harder. “Yeah. I understand. But… I don’t know how much time we have to dwell on this.”
“I just need to talk to my team. That’s it,” Yelena said, softer this time, but still firm.
Y/N nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her hand stayed on Yelena’s sleeve, thumb rubbing a slow, steady circle against the fabric. “Just…” she hesitated, voice quieter now, “don’t shut me out, okay? I’m here for you. Always.”
That hit Yelena right in the chest. She blinked, a sharp pang of guilt flashing across her face. Because Y/N wasn’t just saying words— she meant it. And Yelena knew she’d already shut her out once. She’d walked away, left Y/N confused and hurt because she was scared. But she wasn’t going to do that again. Not this time.
Yelena’s fingers found Y/N’s hand, threading through hers. “I know,” she said finally, her voice steadier than she expected. “I know you are.” She gave her hand a squeeze, then lifted her other one to gently tuck a loose strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear. The touch lingered, knuckles brushing against her cheek like Yelena couldn’t quite pull away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she added, quieter now. “Not this time.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, her lips parting just slightly at the tenderness of it.
“I’m scared too,” Yelena admitted, her voice rough around the edges, “but I trust you. I… I trust us.”
Y/N smiled, soft and a little watery, and leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’ve got you. We’ll figure this out.”
And for the first time in days, Yelena believed her.
They stayed there for a few quiet seconds, foreheads pressed together, the room warm with everything they didn’t have to say out loud. But eventually, Yelena sighed and pulled back just a little, her hand still cupping Y/N’s cheek.
“I should probably go…” she murmured.
Y/N frowned, the sound barely more than a breath. “So soon?”
“I know,” Yelena said softly, already sounding regretful. “But I don’t want to deal with Valentina right now.” She huffed a humorless laugh and added, “Not that it matters. She probably already knows I’m here.”
Y/N’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. I really thought I was being careful.”
“It’s not your fault,” Yelena said quickly, shaking her head. “Valentina just has this need to control everything. But I don’t know what she’s playing at here.”
They went quiet again— the air heavy with uncertainty neither of them could fix tonight.
Y/N finally asked, her voice small, “Will you come back soon?”
“…I don’t know,” Yelena admitted. “But I’ll text you. I’ll update you when I get back. And I’ll let you know when I talk to my team.”
“Alright.”
Yelena gathered her jacket and her bag, and together they walked toward the window. Y/N hovered nearby, chewing on her lip.
“Please be safe,” she said quietly.
Yelena softened at that— the words hitting somewhere deep. No one ever told her that. Not as an order. Not as a plea. Not with care.
She tried to hide it with humor. “Well, I can’t really help it—”
“Lena,” Y/N interrupted gently. “I mean it.”
Yelena’s smirk faltered, replaced by something more vulnerable. “…Of course,” she said. “I’ll be safe, Y/N/N.”
Y/N smiled sadly, then pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered against her shoulder. “Please don’t disappear again.”
“I won’t,” Yelena promised, her voice rough with emotion. She pulled back just enough to cup Y/N’s face again, her thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ll miss you too.”
And before Y/N could say anything else, Yelena leaned in and kissed her— soft, lingering, a little desperate. Then she climbed out the window, glancing back one last time before disappearing into the afternoon sun.
author's note: oh em geee! im so sorry for leaving you all hanging for a while😭😭 life got super busy but i've slowly getting back into writing so hopefully we'll start getting more frequent updates!
anyways! yelena my fav emotionally repressed girl😍 she's trying her best yall😭
joaquin is so real for laughing in serious moments like me too twin😭 i lovee him and y/n!! they're the cutest duo.
am i evil for those peter mentions? maybe. LOL. it's very much official that y/n and peter dated but then nwh happened and now she doesn't know who he is😭💔
i hope you all enjoyed!! let me know your thoughts! and pls lmk if you want to be added to the taglist😛 LOVE YOU BYE
ok ok but established relationship joaquin x stark!reader who’s got a sassy little attitude and whenever she’s in a mood (which is often) joaquin always messes with her in a cute and flirty way and sam is always scared like “she’s gonna kill you man”
imagine the little “stooopppp quino”
grumpy x sunshine core i love them
Birds Of A Feather
summary: just a glimpse into the very lovey and chaotic relationship of y/n and joaquin!
pairings: Stark!reader x joaquin torres
warnings: mentions of death sprinkled here and there but nothing serious! y/n constantly threatening joaquin LOL, f!reader, i think that's it!
Joaquin Torres loves his girlfriend. He’d do anything for her—no hesitation, no questions asked, no matter how dramatic or unreasonable. He’s obsessed. Helpless. Completely whipped.
But with that love comes the deep, primal urge to annoy her to the ends of the world and back.
And lucky for him?
Y/N Stark makes it so, so easy.
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Y/N slid into the passenger seat of Joaquin’s truck with a huff, slamming the door shut and buckling her seatbelt without so much as a glance in his direction.
Joaquin paused, glancing over at her with an amused lift of his brow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”
He reached over and poked her arm gently, trying to coax even the tiniest smile out of her.
Y/N didn’t move. Just side eyed him and mumbled, “Whatever. Hi.”
Joaquin bit back a grin. Yep. She was in a mood. He’d seen that look before—usually when someone at work had pissed her off, or her tech wasn’t cooperating, or someone had the audacity to ask her a stupid question in the elevator.
Tonight, apparently, he was the one in the line of fire. Unlucky him. Or lucky, depending on how much he wanted to test her.
“You had one of those days, huh?” he asked lightly, starting the engine.
She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms and turned to face the window with a sigh.
Joaquin glanced over, still smiling. “Aww, come on. Give me some sugar, sugar.”
He leaned over to kiss her, one arm snaking toward her shoulder to pull her in.
Y/N jerked away instantly, twisting her body toward the door like she was about to open it and jump out mid drive. “I’m so overstimulated right now, get away from me, Joaquin Torres.”
He blinked, hand still suspended mid air. “Damn. Full name and everything.”
“Do not touch me. I mean it. If one more person tries to breathe in my direction, I’m gonna explode.”
He bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Okay, okay. Hands to myself. Got it.” He settled back into his seat, throwing her a sideways glance. “But just for the record, you’re still really hot when you’re grumpy.”
She sighed again, dramatic and sharp. “I know. It’s exhausting.”
Joaquin chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “Want me to cancel the dinner res and just drive around until you’re slightly less homicidal?”
Y/N tilted her head, considering it. “Maybe. Only if you promise to shut up for five minutes.”
“Deal. But I reserve the right to poke you again when I feel like it.”
“Try it and I’ll bite your finger off.”
He grinned wide. “You flirt so weird.”
Y/N turned slowly to look at him, unimpressed. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Quino.”
He beamed. “You say that like it’s not my entire strategy.”
They’d been driving for ten minutes now, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the evening breeze in. Y/N hadn’t said much, but the tension in her shoulders was slowly easing. Her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, fingers tapping gently against her thigh to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist Joaquin had put on as a peace offering.
Joaquin glanced over at her at the next red light, content to let her decompress.
Which is exactly when she spoke.
“Wow,” she muttered, voice thick with fake betrayal. “You’re not even gonna hold my hand?”
He blinked. “What?”
She turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Did you stop loving me or something?”
Joaquin snorted. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you, you cannibalist.”
“That was ten minutes ago,” she said, wiggling her fingers toward him like bait. “Things have changed. Keep up, Torres.”
“You’re actually insane.”
“And yet, you’re obsessed with me.”
He rolled his eyes but reached across the console anyway, threading their fingers together. She immediately curled into it, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.
He gave her a sideways glance. “So dramatic.”
“Mm. You like it.”
He kissed the back of her hand at the next red light, then refused to let go for the rest of the drive.
They got back to Joaquin’s place a little later, and by then Y/N’s bad mood had mostly fizzled out, leaving her comfortably tired and… just a little clingy. She kicked off her shoes by the front door and flopped face down onto the couch like she was done existing.
Joaquin laughed as he locked the door behind them. “You okay?”
“No,” came the muffled reply from the cushions. “I want chocolate and a heating pad and maybe to be held like a small, misunderstood Victorian orphan.”
He grinned. “So… a regular night in.”
She lifted one hand and flipped him off without lifting her head.
He crouched down and gently brushed her hair from her face. “You’re gonna knock out here like this?”
“Maybe,” she mumbled. “Couch has less betrayal than the world.”
He smiled, leaned in, and without another word, slid one arm under her legs and the other around her back — lifting her in one smooth, practiced motion.
Y/N blinked, startled. “What are you—?”
“Carrying you to bed, princess-style,” he said matter of factly, already heading down the hall. “Can’t let my misunderstood Victorian orphan sleep in the drawing room.”
She buried her face in his neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “here you are. In my arms. As foretold.”
“You’re lucky I’m weak.”
“You’re lucky I’m strong.”
She smiled against his skin. “Shut up and tuck me in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He returned a few minutes later with a heating pad, and a bar of chocolate he had absolutely bought just in case. He laid everything out beside her, then sat next to her and gently coaxed her to roll onto him.
She crawled into his lap like a sleepy cat, settling against his chest with a little sigh as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All bark, no bite.”
“I bit you last week,” she mumbled.
“And it was hot.”
She snorted against his chest, letting him stroke her hair as she started to melt into the warmth and quiet.
“…Thanks, Quino,” she said softly after a beat.
He smiled against her forehead. “Always, mi amor.”
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It started innocently. It always started innocently.
They were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. Keyword: supposed to. Y/N was wiping down the counter. Joaquin was in charge of dishes. Everything was fine. Peaceful, even.
Until he started singing.
Off-key.
Loudly.
And with zero knowledge of the actual lyrics.
“You. Belong. With me—YEAH! You BELONG with meeeeeee,” he howled, doing a little spin with a dirty plate in hand like it was a Grammy.
Y/N froze, rag in hand. “Quino.”
“What?” he asked innocently.
“That’s not even the right melody.”
He grinned. “I’m doing the remix.”
“Please don’t.”
But it was already too late. He launched into the next line, doubling the volume and somehow managing to harmonize with nothing.
“She wears short skirts I WEAR T-SHIRTS—”
“STOPPP,” Y/N shrieked, ducking her head into her hoodie, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Quinooo, I swear to god—”
He was cackling, absolutely thriving off her chaos, flicking soap bubbles at her now for extra effect.
“Say you like it,” he teased, chasing her around the island with a sponge. “Say I’m talented. Say I’m the people’s pop star.”
“YOU’RE A MENACE.”
She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, voice cracking as she tried to fight him off with a kitchen towel.
“Stop it,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying now, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna pee my pants. I mean it.”
“Better now than in the truck,” Joaquin said cheerfully, dancing around her like he was in a concert crowd. “This is the exclusive living room performance, babe. Be grateful.”
She collapsed onto the floor, breathless and curled in on herself, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m going to call Sam and tell him what you’re doing to me.”
“Go ahead. He’ll side with me. He likes my performances.”
“HE DOESN’T.”
He knelt down beside her, smug and glowing with victory. “Admit it. You love me more when I’m annoying.”
“I don’t even like you right now.”
“You’re literally crying from laughter.”
“I’m crying because you’re deranged.”
He beamed. “Same thing.”
She flopped dramatically into his lap. “You’re exhausting. My brain is soup. I am soup now.”
He kissed her forehead like he hadn’t just caused a small emotional breakdown.
“I love you, my little soup.”
“Shut up.”
“Say it back.”
“Not until you promise to never sing Taylor Swift again.”
“...what if I said I have a whole playlist queued?”
“I will commit a crime.”
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Sam stepped into the apartment cautiously, already suspicious.
The music was loud. Like, walls shaking, windows rattling loud. And it wasn’t Joaquin’s usual feel good playlist—it was full on metal. The kind of music that made Sam instinctively squint.
He followed the sound into the living room and found Y/N sitting cross legged on the floor, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized AC/DC shirt, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d either had a long night or a very powerful catnap. She was tinkering with some little device in her lap that looked like an arc reactor, because of course.
Joaquin was in the kitchen, squinting dramatically at the Bluetooth speaker like it had personally offended him.
“She’s been playing this for an hour,” he called out when he noticed Sam.
Y/N didn’t look up. “You can leave. Door’s right there.”
Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here to borrow the air fryer. Don’t involve me in whatever this is.”
“It’s Iron Maiden,” Y/N said proudly. “It’s culture.”
“It’s a cry for help,” Joaquin muttered, scrolling through his phone. “We could be listening to Bad Bunny right now. We could be thriving.”
Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder. “Touch that speaker and I’ll throw this at you.”
Joaquin grinned. Touched the speaker anyway.
Instantly, the music cut off. Replaced by reggaetón.
Y/N froze. Slowly turned around like a horror movie villain.
“Joaquin.”
“Yes, mi amor?”
“What did I just say?”
“That threats of violence are foreplay?”
Before Sam could even process that, Joaquin darted out of the kitchen, sprinting across the room as Y/N launched a pillow at his head. She stood up in one fluid motion, chasing after him.
“I told you not to!”
He laughed, circling the couch. “I’m enhancing the vibe!”
She chased him halfway around the living room before he doubled back, caught her mid-lunge, and threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
“Joaquin!” she screeched, fists pounding against his back. “PUT ME DOWN.”
“I will,” he said cheerfully, “once you admit my music taste is superior.”
“Never! I don’t even understand what they’re saying!”
Sam stood there frozen, holding the air fryer under one arm like a shield. “She’s gonna kill you, man. Actually kill you. Like, she’s got the Stark sass in her bloodline. You are so dead.”
Joaquin just danced around with her still on his shoulder, shaking his hips to the beat, grinning big.
“This is a normal Tuesday, relax,” he said, spinning with her as she screamed bloody murder and maybe—just maybe—was starting to laugh a little.
“I hate you,” Y/N gasped between giggles.
He smacked a kiss to her thigh. “You’re obsessed with me.”
Sam backed slowly toward the door, still holding the air fryer like it might explode. “I’m leaving. Y’all are unwell.”
Joaquin winked at him. “Tell the world our love is powerful.”
Y/N elbowed him in the back. “Tell the world he’s getting buried in the backyard if he plays 'Moscow Mule' again.”
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Y/N got in a mood when Joaquin didn’t answer her text right away.
So when he finally walked through the door with groceries like a normal person, Y/N was already curled up on the couch in his hoodie looking emotionally unstable.
“You forgot about me,” she said flatly, not even looking up from the blanket she was swaddled in.
Joaquin blinked. “What?”
“You didn’t respond for forty-three minutes,” she said, holding up her phone like it was evidence in a trial. “I timed it.”
“I was driving. For you. To get your snacks.”
She sniffed. “I thought you were dead. Or worse. Ignoring me.”
He set the bags down and walked toward her slowly. “You good?”
“No. I’m feeling very unloved and neglected and fragile.”
“You FaceTimed me from the bathroom while I was still at the store.”
“I was vulnerable.”
He grinned. Oh. Oh. So that’s the game they were playing.
“Mi vida,” he said, kneeling in front of her like she was on her deathbed. “Are you saying I emotionally wounded you by leaving you here for an hour?”
“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You’re right. I’ve been so cruel.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But if I leave you again… take me out. I won’t survive the guilt.”
Y/N stared at him. “Don’t. Don’t do the soft voice thing. I’m being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”
“You want me to be distant to fuel the bit? Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “You’re right. Maybe I have been pulling away.”
Her eyes widened. “What.”
“I just think we’ve gotten too close, you know? Too fast. Maybe we need space.”
“JOAQUIN.”
“I’m worried we’re codependent.”
“STOP. TAKE IT BACK.”
He smirked, circling the couch now, fully committing. “Do you think we lost ourselves in each other?”
She launched a throw pillow at his head. “I will cry on purpose.”
“Good. I like it when you cry. Makes me feel needed.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m yours.”
She screamed into the pillow. “This is NOT how ragebait is supposed to go!”
“You tried to ragebait the ragebait champion. Know your place, princess.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
He flopped down beside her and tugged her into his lap, arms looping around her.
“You’re obsessed with me,” he whispered.
“I am,” she hissed back. “And I hate that for me.”
“Bet you still want forehead kisses.”
“…Shut up and do it already.”
He kissed her forehead three times in a row, obnoxiously loud.
She groaned. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“And I’m only getting hotter.”
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Y/N had exactly one thing planned for the evening: an uninterrupted candlelit bath. She’d earned it—long day, annoying people. The lights were low, her bath bomb had fizzed and the water was just hot enough to sting a little.
She’d sunk in with a dramatic sigh, bubbles up to her collarbones, a glass of wine perched dangerously close to her phone.
Then, like clockwork, the bathroom door creaked open.
“I swear to god,” she muttered, not even opening her eyes. “Joaquin—”
“Heyyy,” he said cheerfully, already strolling in. “Just checking on my girl. You know. Make sure you’re alive and not drowning in your own princess foam.”
She cracked one eye open to glare at him. “I locked that door.”
He sat down fully on the closed toilet seat, grinning. “I picked it. Don’t be mad. I missed you.”
“You saw me ten minutes ago.”
“And yet—here I am. Suffering without you.”
Y/N groaned and sank lower into the water. “You’re such a pest.”
He leaned forward dramatically, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Tell me about your day, babe.”
“No.”
“I’m your boyfriend.”
“I didn’t ask for therapy. I asked for silence.”
He dipped a hand into the water and flicked it gently at her arm.
She didn’t even flinch. “Do it again and I’ll drown you.”
He flicked again. “I like my odds.”
She turned her head, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you seriously just gonna sit there the whole time?”
“I can sit in there, if you want,” he offered innocently.
“You are the worst.”
Another splash.
“I swear—Joaquin, I am so close to—”
She paused mid threat and sighed.
“…Are you gonna get in or what?”
Joaquin lit up. “God, I love you.”
He stood and peeled off his clothes in record time, stepping into the tub behind her like he’d been waiting for that moment all day. He slid into place, wrapping his arms around her waist as she shifted forward to make room.
Now she was sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his stupid heartbeat steady and warm against her spine.
For a long moment, they were both quiet. Then:
“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” she muttered. “Annoy me until I invited you in just to shut you up?”
He beamed against the side of her face. “You're so easy to break, princess. I was barely getting started.”
She snorted. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace.”
She turned just enough to flick a bubble at his face.
He gasped. “Betrayal. In my bathtub?”
She grabbed the shampoo bottle and shoved it into his hands. “If you’re gonna invade, you’re doing labor. Wash my hair.”
He took it like it was a sacred task. “Gladly. You have the best hair in the world, by the way. It’s so soft and smells so good.”
“Stop talking.”
“But it’s true.”
“Quino.”
“Yes, mi amor?”
“…Scrub.”
He lathered up her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle. Y/N sighed, melting back into him despite herself. He hummed a dumb little tune while massaging her scalp.
Eventually, she opened one eye. “You do know I’m gonna finish this bath alone after this, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Just wanted to be annoying enough to get a cuddle in. Mission accomplished.”
She smiled, tiny and smug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I know.”
There was a pause. A long, quiet one.
Then, softly: “You’re so annoying.”
He grinned against her shoulder. “I’m aware.”
“No, like, you drive me insane.”
“Only the best for my princess.”
She groaned, but it was hopeless. Her head tilted slightly, letting it rest against his. “…And I love you so much all the same.”
His arms tightened just a little, his smile stretching even wider. “I know you do.”
“Quino.”
He laughed, kissed the side of her head, then whispered against her temple, voice lower now. “I love you too, cariño. So much.”
She closed her eyes again, finally at peace—surrounded by bubbles, steam, and the most annoyingly perfect human she’d ever known.
And for once, she let him stay in the bath the whole time.
summary: you knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with joaquin. even after he became the falcon, you stayed. the late nights, the injuries, the missions halfway across the world— you stayed for all of it. that is until he lies to you about the stakes of his mission.
pairing: joaquin torres x reader
warnings: mentions of anxiety, mentions of death, mentions of an explosion, lying, crying, our man being a dumdum, slight descriptions of injuries, f!reader. i believe that's it
Y/N was curled up on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, coffee mug tucked between her palms. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting golden beams across the living room floor. She watched as Joaquin knelt by the door, tugging his boots on, his duffel already slung over one shoulder.
"Ughhh, don’t gooo," she groaned, dragging the last syllable out in a playful whine.
Joaquin chuckled under his breath, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You know I have to.”
“I know,” she sighed, setting the mug down. “I just wish you’d stay a little longer.”
He stood up and crossed the room, all soft footsteps and warm eyes. His bag and boots made him look too official. Too far away already. She reached for him without thinking, and he met her halfway, leaning down to press a slow, gentle kiss to her lips.
“It’s just recon,” he murmured against her mouth. “Quick and easy. I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”
She nuzzled against him, her voice muffled in his jacket. “Only two days, right?”
He paused. It was the smallest thing— half a breath of hesitation.
But then he smiled.
“Yeah… two days.”
Her smile lit up instantly. “Okay. Then when you get back, I’m making you dinner and you’re not allowed to lift a finger. And we’re watching that dumb movie you like—”
“Grown Ups is a classic,” he cut in, mock offended.
“—again,” she teased, poking his chest.
He grinned and kissed her again, longer this time, like maybe if he kissed her hard enough he could carry the feeling with him. Like maybe it could shield him from whatever was waiting.
She waved as he backed toward the door. “Be safe, Torres.”
He winked. “Always.”
But his smile faltered the moment the door shut behind him.
His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little tighter.
Because this wasn’t recon.
Not even close.
This was classified international threat level, Sam’s voice tense over the phone when he called last night, “Suit up. It’s bad.”
Joaquin had no business pretending this was easy. But he also had no business scaring the woman he loved half to death. So he lied.
He lied because the image of her on that couch, coffee in hand, planning their movie night—
That was the thing he wanted to come home to.
The thing he had to come home to.
Even if it meant lying through his teeth.
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Y/N wasn’t thrilled about the silence in the apartment, but at least her phone buzzed every now and then.
Joaquin💚 [11:04 AM]Made it. Everything’s chill so far. Miss you already 😘
She smiled, replying instantly.
Y/N [11:05 AM] miss you more!! I’m so bored without you.
come back soon, I’m begging 🧎♀️
A couple hours passed. Another ping.
Joaquin💚 [2:37 PM] paperwork + recon = actual hell. I’ll text when I can, mi amor.
gonna be tied up tomorrow, so don’t worry if I go quiet, okay?
She rolled her eyes, but her heart stayed soft.
Y/N [2:39 PM] okayyy but you owe me cuddles when you get back
I’m talking all day in bed, birdboy
Joaquin💚 [2:40 PM] Whatever you want hermosa 😌
The rest of the day passed as usual. She made dinner for one. Watched an episode of her comfort show. Fell asleep with her phone under her pillow.
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Y/N woke up to her alarm going off. She opened up her phone and sent a quick good morning, knowing he was probably busy and wouldn’t get the chance until later.
Y/N [8:02 AM] hope today’s not too rough. can’t wait to see you tomorrow😽
Hours passed. No answer.
Then, around 5 PM—
Joaquin💚 [4:57 PM] I’ll see you soon, mi amor ❤️
Her whole chest warmed at the sight of it.
She didn’t even question it. It was just enough.
She started setting things aside for dinner tomorrow. Picked out a movie already. Even brought out one of the “fancy” candles she always saved for special nights.
He was coming home. Everything was fine.
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Y/N woke up early, nerves fizzing in her stomach, but she chalked it up to excitement.
She vacuumed. She changed the sheets. She double checked the fridge. She even set out one of his old hoodies for him because she knew he’d come home cold like always.
She texted him mid morning:
Y/N [10:12 AM] can’t wait to see your face again. I miss you. call me when you’re on the way
No answer.
Y/N [1:47 PM] all good?
Nothing.
Y/N [5:26 PM] quino?
Still nothing.
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By 9 PM, she was pacing. The candle lit earlier in the day had burned out. The food was untouched.
Her stomach twisted as she dialed.
Voicemail.
Again.
Again.
Again.
She tried Sam.
No answer.
Y/N [9:57 PM] hey! sorry to bother. just wondering if you’ve seen joaquin?
he was supposed to be back today. I haven’t heard from him.
just let me know he’s okay, please.
She tried to rationalize.
Maybe he got stuck in a debrief. Maybe he was too tired and crashed at the base. Maybe he dropped his phone in a sewer. Maybe.
But by 1:30 AM, she was curled up on the couch with her arms wrapped around herself, heart pounding like a war drum, staring at the door like she could will it open.
Still nothing.
Still alone.
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Y/N’s eyes blinked open before her alarm.
The first thing she did— before stretching, before getting up, before even breathing properly— was reach for her phone.
No new texts.
No missed calls.
No voicemail.
No Joaquin.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. She restarted her phone like it would magically receive texts from him when she turned it back on.
Still nothing.
Her chest tightened, that creeping sort of ache that made her stomach twist. She sat up slowly, dragging the blanket off her legs like it weighed fifty pounds.
She opened Sam’s contact.
Still just the “Delivered” timestamp under her message from last night.
She tried again anyway:
Y/N [6:21 AM]just let me know if he’s okay please. I’m really worried. I won’t ask for details.
Still nothing.
She made coffee, not because she wanted it— her appetite was gone— but because her hands needed something to do. The mug sat untouched as she curled up on the kitchen stool, thumb flicking through Twitter rappidly.
“Explosion in Eastern Europe.” “Rogue enhanced individual stopped in unmarked desert region.” “UN in emergency talks after intel breach.”
Obscure, glitchy livestreams. Reddit threads with two upvotes.
Anything.
Anything at all.
But it was all too vague. No names. No cities. No confirmation. No Joaquin.
Then it hit her—
He hadn’t told her where he was going.
Not the region.
Not the climate.
Not even a timezone.
And Joaquin always told her.
Even when it was top secret. Even when he prefaced it with “you didn’t hear this from me” and made her pinky promise to forget.
But this time?
Nothing.
No clue.
No heads up.
He didn’t talk about it. Just told her that Sam had called and he needed to leave in the morning.
And she hadn't even noticed.
Because she trusted him. More than anyone.
Because he never lies.
Her phone slipped from her hand and hit the countertop with a dull thunk.
She didn’t move.
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By now, Y/N had the news playing in every room.
Her laptop screen flickered between cable broadcasts.
The living room TV was on low volume, looping CNN.
Joaquin’s desktop buzzed with tabs full of military leaks and conspiracy forums.
The bedroom TV played foreign news she didn’t even understand, but watched anyway, desperate for a face, a name, a shadow, a voice.
Still nothing.
No knock at the door.
No key in the lock.
No Sam.
No Joaquin.
Her body felt like it was humming with anxiety, but also numb. Her hands were shaking and her jaw ached from clenching so hard, but somehow she hadn’t cried. Not yet.
She was terrified.But she kept telling herself: “He’s okay. He has to be okay. He promised me.”
Then the worst thought of all crept in, slow and poisonous:
“What if he lied because he didn’t think he’d come back?”
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Y/N jolted awake on the couch, heart thudding against her ribs. She blinked into the glow of the still running TV screens, the dull sound of news anchors murmuring across the apartment like ghosts.
Then—
BOOM.A sharp sound from the bedroom TV, followed by shaky handheld footage of a massive explosion lighting up the night sky.
She scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping on the blanket tangled around her legs. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the screen.
A foreign broadcast. Sirens wailing. Smoke thick in the air. Fires roaring behind a blurred reporter’s face.
But that wasn’t what made her knees buckle.
It was the words she barely caught in the flurry of English dubbed over the panic:
“Captain America and The Falcon were seen at the scene—”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. A quiet, broken sound escaped her lips— a sob or a gasp, she didn’t know.
“No… no, no, no…”
She grabbed her phone with trembling fingers, redialed Joaquin again.
Voicemail. Again.
Sam.
Voicemail.
“Please pick up,” she whispered, her voice cracking, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Nothing.
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She launched herself toward the kitchen, snatching up her laptop. Fingers moving too fast to type correctly, she started searching. Anything. Everything.
The articles were vague. Conflicting. Translations were barely coherent. One site said “terrorist interception.” Another said “rogue meta-human engagement.” One mentioned four casualties—“identities unknown.”
Y/N couldn’t breathe.
She physically couldn’t breathe.
She was kneeling on the floor now, laptop open in front of her, chest heaving with uneven sobs as she tried to piece the puzzle together.
He didn’t tell her where he was going.
He didn’t tell her anything.
He lied.
He always told her. Even the top secret stuff. Even just a code word or a timezone.
But this time? Nothing.
And now it had been almost three days.
Three days of silence.
Three days of hoping.
Three days of pretending this was normal when it absolutely wasn’t.
Her voice cracked as she whispered to herself:
“Am I being dramatic? Am I—Is this crazy? This is his job, this is—he’s done this before. He always comes back.”
But it had never been like this before.
Not this long.
Not this silent.
Not after lying to her.
Her hands went to her head as she let out a shaky sob, rocking back slightly on her heels.
She stared blankly at her phone.
Debating.
Whether she should call his mom.
Whether she should call his aunt.
What would she even say?
“Hi… I think your son might be dead, but I’m not sure yet because no one will call me back and my boyfriend lied to me about where he was going and what he was doing and now I haven’t heard from him in three days.”
She almost threw the phone across the room.
The ache in her chest was so deep, it felt permanent now.
She didn’t know what she hated more—
The silence.
The not knowing.
Or the fact that he left her in the dark on purpose.
Because the truth wasn’t just that he might not come home.
It was that, for the first time, she wasn’t sure he wanted her to be waiting.
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The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of a news anchor still murmuring from the living room TV. Y/N lay on the floor, one arm tucked beneath her, cheek pressed to the hardwood. Her laptop screen had gone black, her phone still clutched in her hand, dead from overuse.
The doorknob jiggled.
Then— click.
Keys clinked softly against the kitchen counter. The door eased shut.
Y/N’s eyes flew open.
She shot up, breath caught, heart immediately racing, every nerve in her body screaming. For a second, she thought she was dreaming. Or hallucinating.
But then—
“Hey,” came a soft voice. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Her head whipped toward the sound.
Joaquin.
His silhouette was barely visible in the dark, but she could make out the outline of his duffel bag hitting the floor. He was trying to tiptoe. His boots thudded softly against the wood.
“Longer trip than planned,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Y/N stumbled to her feet, adrenaline crashing through her in waves. She crossed the room in seconds, throwing herself at him before she could even think.
Her arms wrapped around him tight, her face burying into his neck. She felt him flinch— not from her— but from everything else. His ribs. His arm. His busted body. He still hugged her back, good arm curling around her waist.
“You’re okay,” she whispered, like a prayer. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” he murmured back. “I’m here.”
She started to cry softly. Quiet tears against his shirt.
She reached behind him and flicked on the kitchen light.
The relief shattered.
The first thing she saw was the sling.
Then the busted lip. The bruised jaw. The bloody scab on his brow. One eye darkening into hues of purple and black. His knuckles looked like they’d been dragged through concrete. His shirt was half untucked, torso taped up beneath it, bandages peeking out near his waist.
Even clean, he still smelled like smoke. Like fire. Like something had blown up way too close.
Her breath hitched. She stepped back, looking him over, really seeing him now.
He caught her gaze— and had the audacity to smile.
“Hey… it’s not as bad as it looks,” he offered, shrugging slightly, like maybe if he said it casually enough it would land.
Y/N just stared.
And then she snapped.
“You think this is a fucking joke?!”
Her voice cracked the silence, raw and choked.
Joaquin blinked, caught off guard. “Y/N—”
“No!” she snapped, stepping back and fumbling for her phone. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
She shoved the screen at him even though it was dead, her fingers shaking.
“Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past three days? Huh? Reading reports of explosions in Morocco and half translating articles about military operations and body counts! Four bodies, Joaquin! Four bodies they can’t identify and your name is nowhere and I thought you were one of them!”
His smile disappeared. His entire expression shifted— defensive guilt melting into realization.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he said quietly, voice breaking around the edges.
“I’m your girlfriend, Joaquin!” she screamed, chest heaving, tears rolling down her cheeks. “It’s literally my job to worry! You think lying makes it better?! You told me it was recon! That you’d be gone two days! And I trusted you—I didn’t even think it was weird you didn’t tell me where you were going because I TRUSTED YOU!”
He stepped forward like he wanted to hold her again, but she stepped back.
“I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I thought maybe you were hurt. Maybe you were dead. I didn’t know if I should call your mom. I didn’t even know where to look. And you come in here— smiling? Like this is just some stupid debrief?”
Her voice cracked then, shattering mid sentence.
“I’ve never felt so alone, Joaquin. Not even once. And that wasn’t a mission, was it?”
A beat.
“You lied to me.”
Joaquin didn’t speak right away. He couldn’t. His throat felt like it was full of broken glass. His good hand hung limp at his side, and the guilt that washed over his face was devastating.
“Y/N…” he whispered. “I didn’t know if I was coming back.”
Y/N’s breath left her like she’d been punched in the stomach.
She stared at him— this man she loved, this man who looked like he’d walked through hell and crawled his way home— and something inside her cracked.
“You didn’t… You didn’t know?”
Her voice was so quiet, it sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Joaquin’s eyes dropped. “It went sideways before we even landed. Intel was wrong. We were already in deep by the time Sam realized what we were walking into. We– we knew it was bad but it wasn’t nearly what we thought it’d be.”
Y/N’s hand went to her mouth. She was shaking again.
“So you knew. You knew it was dangerous. And you still lied to me. You still left me here with nothing.”
“I didn’t want you to live through that fear,” he said. “I didn’t want you waiting by the phone for a call that might not come.”
“I did that anyway!” she shouted, the scream ripping from her throat. “I did that for three days! Do you know what that felt like? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be left in the dark like that?!”
He flinched like her words hit harder than any of the bruises on his body.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he whispered, helpless. “I—I thought if I could just come back, everything would be okay.”
“Okay?!” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “I didn’t need you to make things okay, Joaquin. I needed you to tell me the truth.”
He looked at her like he’d give anything to rewind time. “I thought I was protecting you.”
Her eyes narrowed, heart splintering. “You weren’t protecting me. You were protecting yourself.”
That landed. He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.
“Because if you told me the truth,” she continued, voice trembling, “you’d have to accept what it meant. That you might not come back. That you’d leave me behind. And you couldn’t face me knowing that.”
Tears burned at his eyes now.
Y/N stepped closer, voice lower, sharper.
“And the worst part? You made that decision for me. You didn’t even give me the chance to worry, or to help, or to say goodbye if it came to that.”
Her hand hit her chest.
“You left me here with nothing. No location. No team contact. Just silence. And you’ve never done that to me before.”
He looked shattered.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely audible. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought if I told you, it would just make it worse. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She exhaled shakily. “I’m not asking you to stop doing your job, Joaquin. I know what this life is. I knew it when I fell for you. But if we’re doing this— really doing this— you don’t get to shut me out when it gets hard. You don’t get to protect me by disappearing.”
She paused. Her voice cracked.
“Because I don’t want the version of you that only loves me when it’s easy.”
Joaquin didn’t say anything right away.
He just stood there, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, like he was trying to swallow back everything that wanted to pour out of him.
Y/N watched him, arms crossed, tears still clinging to her lashes. She was furious. Heartbroken. Done, if he didn’t give her something real.
His good hand went to his mouth, thumb grazing his busted lip. Then it dropped again, and his whole body seemed to sag beneath the weight of what he’d done.
“Y/N…” His voice cracked on her name.
She didn’t move.
He took a step closer, shoulders trembling.
“I thought I could do it,” he said. “Go out there, get it done, come home to you and pretend like it was just another mission. Just like always.”
His voice broke again. He laughed, miserably.
“But it wasn’t. It wasn’t like always. I saw shit out there that I’m never gonna be able to unsee. People screaming. People—” He stopped, jaw locking, tears welling behind his eyes.
“I thought I was gonna die. Like— I really, truly believed I wasn’t coming back. And all I could think about was you. About what I’d leave behind. About how I never told you— never gave you a chance to decide if you wanted to stay with someone who could be gone in a blink.”
Tears started spilling now, slow and hot. He didn’t wipe them away.
“I was so fucking scared, Y/N,” he whispered. “Not of the mission. Not of dying. I was scared that if I told you the truth, you’d realize this wasn’t the life you wanted. That you’d wake up one day and decide it wasn’t worth it.”
She shook her head, but he kept going.
“And that’s not fair. I know it’s not fair. I made that call on my own. I didn’t trust you to love me through the scary parts and you always have. That’s on me.”
He stepped forward again, close now, looking at her through wet lashes, shoulders shaking.
“I messed up. I messed up so bad and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But please, baby— don’t walk away. Don’t give up on me.”
His voice cracked as he choked out:
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
Y/N stood there, arms still crossed tight over her chest, tears flowing freely now. Her lower lip trembled as she stared at him– bruised, crying, desperate.
She’d wanted him to break. She just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.
“Don’t you ever shut me out like that again,” she whispered.
Joaquin nodded so fast it almost looked like a sob. “I won’t. I swear to you, I won’t. I’ll tell you everything— I’ll never lie to you again, I promise, just— just don’t leave.”
She reached for him.
Finally.
And the second her arms wrapped around his neck, he collapsed into her like his whole body had been holding itself up on guilt and adrenaline and her forgiveness was the only thing keeping him standing now.
He cried into her shoulder. Full on cried. The kind of cry he hadn’t let himself feel in years. His knees buckled, and they sank to the floor together.
And Y/N just held him.
Because even though she was still hurt, still raw—
She loved him.
Even through the scary parts.
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The bathroom filled with steam, the tub half full and still running, the scent of lavender drifting into the air. Y/N sat on the edge of the tub, carefully checking the water temperature. Joaquin stood just inside the doorway, his body bruised, his arm still in a sling, looking at her like she was the softest, strongest thing he'd ever seen.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he murmured.
She looked over her shoulder. “Yes, I do.”
And something in her voice— soft but sure— shut down any further argument.
He let her help him undress. He let her steady him as he stepped into the warm water. Let her kneel beside the tub and wash the dried sweat and battlefield off his skin with slow, soft movements.
He melted into her touch.
Let his eyes flutter shut as she ran the cloth gently across his shoulder, his ribs, behind his neck.
No talking. Just breathing. Just existing in the same space again.
He leaned back in the tub, good arm reaching for her hand.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
Y/N squeezed his fingers. “You’re lucky I’m not holding that against you right now.”
That earned the smallest smile. Still bruised. Still tired. But real.
By the time they made it to the bedroom, the sun was starting to peak at the horizon behind the curtains.
Y/N helped him into one of his softest shirts, then into bed. They collapsed onto the mattress together, limbs tangling naturally like they always did. The room was dark, the A/C humming, blankets soft. It was the first time either of them had truly relaxed in days.
They were bone deep tired, but wrapped in each other, hearts still beating loud and close.
Joaquin lay on his back, Y/N tucked in close, her hand flat over his chest. His fingers lazily traced shapes on her spine.
It was quiet, and then Y/N whispered, “I’d never leave you.”
His hand paused.
“Not even when you took the wings. Not when I started seeing your face on the news. Not now. Not ever.”
He turned his head toward her. “You scared the hell outta me, you know that?”
She looked up. “You scared me first.”
He leaned down, kissed her— slow and tender, his lips ghosting over hers like a vow.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed against her mouth. “For lying. For putting you through that. I just… didn’t realize what I had until I thought I’d lose it.”
She kissed him again, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “Well. Now you know.”
He nodded slowly, voice quieter, heavier. “This is all I want. You. Us. Our life. Even the quiet stuff. Especially the quiet stuff.”
Y/N pressed a kiss to his chest. “We’re not on a timer, Quino. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you have to fly halfway across the world… I’ll be right here when you get back.”
He swallowed thickly, his arms tightening around her.
And then, just as his breathing started to slow, his voice cracked through the dark one more time—
“I can’t wait for you to be mine… really mine.”
Y/N blinked, propping herself up slightly. “Wait—what?”
Joaquin, eyes already closed, mumbled: “not telling where I hid the ring.”
author's note: i need to give him a hug. this is inspired by that remix going around on tiktok of all night x tyrant by beyonce LOL i heard it and i was like "...wait"
also i feel like this man would def lie to you about something like this at least once in his life cause he wouldn't want you to worry about him🙄 he means well but he's kinda dumb. i still need him tho
