#verainviolet

A little too soft when you spoke, your voice dipping just enough to make people lean in without realizing it.

It wasn’t new.

You did it to everyone.

That’s what she told herself.

The Avengers compound was quieter than usual. It was evening and most of the team had either gone out or buried themselves in their own corners of the building.

It left the common room open, dimly lit, the soft hum of distant machinery filling the space.

Natasha sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting in her hand.

She looked focused. Calm. Controlled.

Or at least she had been, until you walked in. Your presence hit her before she even looked up.

Omega.

Soft and warm.

Familiar in a way that settled somewhere under her skin than around it, something instinctive and quiet that made her jaw tighten ever so slightly.

She didn’t react, didn’t look.

And certainly didn’t give herself away.

You padded into the room like you belonged there. Your eyes found her immediately, they always did.

Your gaze lingered. Not just passed over her, not casual, not thoughtless, but intentional. Like you were looking at her, not just in her direction.

Her fingers stilled slightly against the page.

She didn’t look up right away.

Didn’t give you that satisfaction.

‘’Still hiding in here?’’

Your voice was light, teasing–but softer than usual, like it was meant just for her.

Natasha exhaled quietly through her nose before finally lifting her gaze.

‘’You say that like I’m avoiding something.’’

Your lips curved.

‘’Someone,’’ you correct gently.

That shouldn’t have affected her.

But it did.

You moved around the couch, your fingers dragging lightly along the back before you stopped behind her, close enough that your presence pressed into her space.

Natasha’s shoulders tightened slightly.

She didn’t move away.

“Careful,” she said, her voice dropping just a fraction. “People might start thinking you’re looking for something.”

You leaned in just enough for your hand to settle against her shoulder, warm and grounding, your thumb brushing once—slow, deliberate.

“Maybe I already found it.”

The contact was light.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Natasha felt it travel further than it should have, settling somewhere low and unwelcome. Her grip tightened faintly around the book as your touch lingered, then shifted—your fingers sliding from her shoulder down along her arm, slow enough that it couldn’t be accidental.

Her breath changed.

Just slightly.

“You do this to everyone?” she asked, quieter now, though the tension in her voice betrayed her.

Your hand paused near her wrist, your thumb brushing lightly over the inside of it, right where her pulse sat steady beneath your touch.

“Do what?” you murmured.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Her body had already gone still under your hand, controlled but far too aware of where you were touching her.

So you leaned closer.

Close enough that your chest almost brushed her back, your breath warm against her ear.

“You get like this every time I’m near you,” you said softly. “All quiet… like you’re trying not to react.”

Natasha’s eyes slipped closed for half a second.

Just a second.

But it was enough.

Her jaw tightened as she exhaled slowly, like she was forcing herself back into control.

“You’re imagining things,” she said.

You hummed softly, your fingers tightening just slightly around her wrist—not restraining, just holding, keeping her there with you.

‘’I am,’’ a playful smirk fell onto your lips, ‘’I’m imagining you and me on this couch. Alone.’’

Natasha stiffened.

‘’You’ve got a body I’ve heard a lot about...’’

She shifted, and your hands drifted towards her shoulder, caressing the round edges of them.

You let out a hum in delight.

‘’You don’t let anyone touch you like this,’’ you say, your voice dipping lower, quieter. ‘’But you haven’t told me to stop.’’

You felt it in the way her breathing shifted again, deeper this time.

Slower.

Controlled but thinner.

‘’You’re pushing,’’ Natasha said under her breath.

‘’Say the word and tell me to behave,’’ you whisper softly, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. ‘’...but I don’t think you want me to.’’

This went on for far too long than either of you wanted to admit.

Long enough that it stopped feeling like a game.

Long enough that the air between you changed.

Natasha should’ve stopped you.

That was the problem.

She knew it.

Felt it in the way your fingers still rested against her wrist, in the way your breath kept brushing too close, in the way her body had gone completely still—not relaxed, not comfortable, but aware.

Too aware.

“You’re not subtle,” she said finally, her voice quieter now.

Rougher.

You smiled slightly against her ear.

“I’m not trying to be.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

‘’You’d take me so well, hm?’’

Natasha reached out for your cheek but you pulled away just in time.

She turned suddenly, fully, pulling you with her just enough that your balance shifted and you ended up standing between her knees. Her other hand came to your waist without hesitation, steadying you, holding you there.

Closer than before.

Closer than either of you had allowed.

Your breath caught, just slightly.

Your gaze flickered down for a second, taking in the way she was holding you—the firmness of her grip, the way her thumb pressed lightly into your side like she didn’t even realize she was doing it—before lifting back to her eyes.

“I think you’re not as in control as you want to be,” you said quietly.

Her fingers pressed in a little more, a subtle warning that didn’t actually push you away.

“You should stop,” she said.

But it didn’t sound like an order.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t step back.

Didn’t give her that out.

Instead, you leaned in just a fraction more, closing the already minimal distance between you.

“Make me,” you whispered.

Something in her expression shifted then, something sharp and instinctive breaking through the control she’d been holding onto all evening. Her grip tightened, not to restrain you—but to pull you closer.

That small movement was enough to send something warm and heavy settling low in your stomach.

Your hand moved without thinking, sliding from her shoulder up to the back of her neck, your fingers threading lightly into her hair. The contact was different now. Not teasing. Not playful.

Intentional.

Natasha let out a breath and moved away.

You bit your lip, your head lowered as you watched her walk away.

-///-

The next time it happened, it wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

And it definitely wasn’t just the two of you.

The common area was louder now, the rest of the team scattered around—voices overlapping, something playing faintly on the TV, the usual rhythm of people who had stopped being careful around each other a long time ago.

You were stretched out across the couch like you belonged there, one leg thrown over the armrest, absently listening to something Clint was saying.

Or pretending to.

Your attention drifted the second she walked in.

It always did.

Natasha didn’t look at you right away.

But you felt it—that subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders squared just slightly, like she’d already registered you without needing to see you.

You smiled faintly.

“Hey, Nat,” you called, voice light, easy.

Too easy.

Her gaze flickered to you briefly. Controlled. Neutral.

“Y/n.”

That was it.

That was all you got.

It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

You sat up slowly, your movements unhurried, deliberate in a way that didn’t draw attention unless someone was already watching.

She was.

Of course she was.

You crossed the space between you without hesitation, stopping just close enough to step into her space—but not enough for anyone else to notice.

Casual. Familiar. Dangerous.

“You ignored me earlier,” you said, softer now.

Natasha didn’t react immediately. Didn’t step back either.

“I had things to do,” she replied.

You tilted your head slightly, studying her.

“Mm. Didn’t seem that urgent.”

Her jaw tightened faintly.

“You’re making assumptions again.”

“Am I?” you murmured.

Your hand lifted, brushing lightly against her arm like it was nothing—like it wasn’t deliberate, like it didn’t linger just a second too long.

She went still.

Again.

Always like that.

And you leaned in just slightly, your voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you.

“You left pretty quickly,” you added. “Almost like you needed space.”

Her gaze snapped to yours.

Sharp.

Your eyes trailing slowly down her body, landing on her lap, then up to her eyes again.

“That’s not what that was.”

You smiled softly, knowing and with a tilt to your head.

“You sure?”

A beat.

The noise around you faded—not actually, but enough that it didn’t matter.

Natasha’s hand moved before she seemed to think about it, fingers closing briefly around your wrist.

Not pulling you away, not drawing you closer.

Just there.

A warning.

“You don’t stop,” she said quietly.

Your pulse jumped under her touch, yet you didn’t pull away.

“Do you want me to?” you asked.

And that—

That was the problem.

Because for a second—

A very brief, dangerous second—

She hesitated.

Her grip tightened just slightly before she let go, like she’d caught herself doing something she shouldn’t.

You pressed closer, ‘’I bet you’d ruin me for everyone else… I’d feel you a week later, still craving you and your…’’ you glanced down, then up, smiling with mischief. ‘’You know.’’

She blinked.

‘’You wouldn’t let me forget who I belong to.’’

“Go bother someone else,” she said.

Dismissive.

Too quick.

You leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers as you passed, your voice soft against her ear.

“I don’t want someone else.”

That slipped out.

Too real.

Too quiet.

Too easy to ignore.

Natasha didn’t turn around to stop you, didn’t acknowledge it.

And that was worse than anything else.

Because she still didn’t see it.

Still thought it was just you being you.

Still thought none of it meant anything.

-///-

Natasha moving swiftly around the kitchen, breakfast almost ready.

Then she felt your presence.

Fuzzy socks, an oversized t-shirt you stole from her and lace panties.

She didn’t look at you, she didn’t dare.

You moved up behind her, your head falling onto her shoulder.

‘’Good morning, pretty,’’ you muttered, your hands coming around her waist.

Natasha smirked, “careful. You’re starting to sound like you need it.”

You smirk lazily, your hot breath falling against her neck.

She closed her eyes briefly, taking in a breath she couldn’t control.

‘’What’s the matter?’’ you say, pressing yourself further into her. ‘’Getting distracted?’’

She doesn’t say anything, only continuing to place cheese on her pieces of bread.

In just a few movements, you were in front of her, blocking her from her food.

‘’Hey–’’

You couldn’t help but laugh, wiggling your ass against her crotch as you took a bite of her bread slice.

Natasha’s hands found your hips faster than she could think, grip tightening just enough to ground herself—just enough to feel you.

‘’Don’t do that.’’

‘’Do what?’’ you asked innocently, turning around.

You looked down, a faint blush covering your cheeks.

‘’You respond well,’’ you mumble, more to yourself than to her. ‘’...very well.’’

Natasha rolled her eyes, pushing you gently aside so she could resume her breakfast.

You moved behind her again, hands low over her hips.

‘’Y/n…’’ “I think about your desk constantly. Me on top of it, you between my legs…” you murmured, your voice soft, but heavier—less teasing, more certain. ‘’Or better, me on top of you like I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.’’

Natasha’s jaw tightening hard enough to ache, a quiet, almost inaudible growl catching in her throat before she swallowed it back down.

Not subtly this time.

Completely.

Her hand tightened around the knife before she even seemed aware of it.

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

You pressed further, ‘’fuck, I’d moan your name loudly. All I’d remember would be you, Alpha.’’

Natasha didn’t answer, only moved.

Fast.

Her position changed, pushing you back in one clean motion until your spine met the counter behind you. The movement was controlled, precise—but there was nothing casual about it.

Your breath caught.

Hard.

She followed immediately, closing the distance before you could even think about stepping away, her hand locked at your waist, the other against the overhead kitchen cabinets beside your head.

Trapping you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a sharp inhale, your hands instinctively catching onto her arms, steadying yourself—or holding on.

Natasha’s gaze dropped for just a second, like she was taking in the way you’d gone still under her, the way your breath had changed.

Then back to your eyes.

Dark and focused.

“You’d like that?” she asked, her voice low, edged with something that wasn’t quite control anymore.

It wasn’t a tease.

It wasn’t soft.

It was a challenge.

Your throat tightened and for the first time since you’d started this you didn’t answer immediately.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.

And she noticed, of course she did.

Her head tilted just slightly, her expression shifting into something sharper, something almost amused—but not soft.

“Speechless now?” she murmured.

Her hand tightened at your waist again, pulling you just a fraction closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt it everywhere.

Your breath stuttered. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be in control of this.

Not her.

Not like this.

“I—” you started, but your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, your grip tightening slightly on her arms.

Natasha’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Not understanding. Not realization.

Just reaction. Pure instinct.

“You talk a lot,” she said quietly. “Thought you’d have more to say.”

Your jaw tightened slightly, something stubborn flaring up even as your body stayed exactly where it was—pinned, held, not moving away.

“I do,” you managed, your voice softer now, less steady than before. “Just… depends what you do with it.”

That made her pause.

Just for a second.

Her gaze dropped again—brief, controlled—but you caught it this time.

The way her attention flickered.

The way her grip didn’t loosen.

“You push everyone like this?” she asked.

Your expression shifted just slightly, but enough.

“No,” you said.

Simpler this time.

No teasing.

No edge.

Just truth.

Her brows pulled together faintly, like she didn’t quite believe it—or didn’t want to.

You lean in like always—but this time your voice isn’t playful.

It’s quieter. Needier.

Less performance.

‘’Ruin me in your office, Natasha… I wouldn’t care if anyone heard me, just knowing I’d be claimed by you is all I need.’’

Something in her expression changed—but this time it didn’t pass.

It stayed.

Her grip loosened just slightly, not letting you go, just… recalibrating.

Her eyes searched your face—not your body, not your mouth, not the way you pressed into her—your face.

Your eyes.

Like she was looking for the joke and not finding it.

“You’re serious.”

Not a question. 

Something quieter. Rougher.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away this time.

“I’ve only ever been serious about you.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Just grabbed your wrist—firm, unyielding—and pulled.

You stumbled after her, breath uneven, pulse racing for a completely different reason now.

The hallway felt too long. Too quiet.

Every step sharpened something in the air between you.

You could feel it in the way her grip didn’t loosen.

In the way she didn’t look back.

Like if she did—

she wouldn’t stop.

“Natasha—”

“Don’t,” she cut in, voice low. Controlled—but barely. 

“Not unless you’re going to say it again.”

Your throat went dry.

“…I meant it.”

That was all it took.

Her grip tightened.

-///-

‘’Your scent is strong, Omega,’’ Natasha mumbles, fingers tracing the line of your panties.

You’re sprawled across her dark wooden desk, your bare back arching against unfinished reports.

Natasha stood between your legs, topless, her crotch pressing into yours.

Heated. Needy.

‘’Natasha, I–’’

‘’Shh,’’ her voice dipped lower, her thumb rubbing lightly over your clothed clit.

Her hand didn’t just touch you—it settled, like it belonged there.

You gasped, ‘’fuck, Natasha… again, please.’’

The movement of her thumb continued, eyes watching your face the whole time.

Your head landed on the edge of her desk with a soft thud, your mouth opening slightly at her gentle touch.

‘’Claim me, Alpha, please,’’ you begged, the words slurring into a moan.

Natasha removed her thumb, pressing herself closer, leaning over you.

Her touch was dominant yet gentle.

Exactly what your body needed.

Your scent hit her harder this time—thicker, harder to ignore.

Natasha couldn’t wait any longer.

She needed you.

Now.

She unbuttoned her pants, not bothering to pull it off herself completely.

Her boxer came down next, her dick bouncing up to her stomach.

‘’You’re–fuck–’’ you bit your lip at the sight of her.

Natasha smirked, stroking herself as she looked at your soaking panties.

She pushed it aside with a finger, almost moaning at the sight.

‘’You’ve been dreaming of this, haven’t you?’’

You blush, bucking your hips involuntarily.

Her tip presses against you, making you whimper.

It doesn’t take long until you’re filled to the brim by her unexpected size.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin became obscenely loud in the quiet room.

Her green eyes found yours.

Glazed and desperate.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips.

‘’fuck, fuck, faster,’’ you slurred, hands finding hers.

A wicked, knowing grin spread across Natasha’s face.

She slowed her thrusts to a brutal, teasing grind, drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Say it again… what you wanted me to do to you.”

‘’Don’t hold back, Natasha… I can’t– I–’’

‘’Don’t fall apart on me now.’’

You let out a soft whimper, moaning as she hits deep inside you.

She grunted, the sound rumbling low in her chest, ‘’keep making those sounds and I won’t stop.’’

The sound that escapes you is raw, guttural, and completely unrestrained, bouncing off the walls as your body convulses against the desk.

‘’Yes! Please, Alpha!’’

Natasha’s control snapped, her own composure shattering as she began to fuck you in earnest, sharp, deep pistons of her hips that made the desk screech against the floor.

‘’Yes! God, yes, right there!’’

Your cries climbed higher, a frantic chant of ‘yes, yes, yes’ until it all melted into a wordless, shuddering wail as you came.

Natasha continued, not slowing down.

‘’Fuck– it’s too much!’’ you gasp, eyes going wide as you try to sit up.

Natasha pins you down with a firm hand on your shoulder.

‘’You asked for this,’’ she pants.

Your back arches, ‘’Nat–’’

You choke on her name, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. ‘’Oh, God!’’

Natasha arches her back, a harsh groan ripping from her chest as she presses her forehead to your shoulder.

Her release rolled through her in visible waves.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing.

Neither of you moved.

Not right away.

Natasha stayed where she was, forehead still resting against your shoulder, like pulling away would break something she hadn’t fully understood yet.

“…you’re my soulmate,” she said, quieter this time.

You smile, sitting up, ‘’took you long enough.’’

That finally gets a reaction out of her. A faint exhale, almost a laugh.

She kisses you again—quick, firm, like she can’t help herself this time.

When she breaks it, she steadies you with a hand before slowly shifting back, regaining her posture with deliberate control.

Like she’s forcing herself not to lose it completely.

‘’Done already?’’ you tease, legs spread.

She raises a brow, fixing your panties.

The room immediately quieted.

Natasha had a way of doing that.

She walked slowly between the pairs of recruits.

"An attacker doesn't need to be stronger than you. They just need you to panic. Your job is to stay calm and create an opening."

You swallowed.

Stay calm.

Easy for everyone else.

"Partner up."

You were paired with Ethan, another recruit who had joined a few months before you.

He was nice enough.

Never pushed people.

Never made fun of mistakes.

Natasha demonstrated the technique on one of the senior agents.

Hands on the throat.

Break the grip.

Step off-line.

Counter.

Simple.

At least on paper.

"Practice."

Around the room, everyone began working.

Ethan lifted his hands toward your neck.

Immediately, your stomach twisted.

"No—"

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He blinked. "What?"

You forced a smile.

"Could you put your hands on my shoulders instead?"

"Oh."

He shrugged.

"Yeah, that's fine."

"Thanks."

You gave him a grateful half-smile, though your hands were already trembling.

For the next several minutes, you tried to follow the technique.

You weren't getting it.

Your timing was wrong, and so was your footwork.

Everything felt wrong.

"Again," Ethan said patiently.

You tried.

Failed.

Again.

Failed.

Then a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"You're dropping your centre of gravity too late."

Your stomach sank.

Natasha.

She stepped beside Ethan.

"Move."

Ethan immediately backed away, and Natasha took his place.

Your heartbeat accelerated.

"It's easier to understand when you can feel the correct pressure," she explained.

Before you could answer—

Her hands wrapped around your throat.

Firm.

Controlled.

Professional.

Not painful.

Not dangerous.

But—

Your lungs forgot how to work.

The room disappeared.

Suddenly you weren't in a S.H.I.E.L.D. training room anymore.

You were smaller.

You were trapped.

You were scared.

Your vision blurred.

"No."

Natasha opened her mouth to explain the technique.

"No."

The word came out broken.

Your eyes flooded instantly.

"No no no no—"

You shook your head violently.

Trying to back away.

Trying to escape.

Trying to get away from the hands around your throat.

Natasha's eyes widened.

The concern was immediate.

She released you so quickly it was as if she'd been burned.

"Hey."

"No no no—"

Your breathing shattered.

Every breath came too fast.

Too shallow.

The room spun.

"Hey."

Natasha's voice was softer now.

"What happened?"

A sob tore from your chest.

You couldn't answer.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

The other recruits had stopped training.

Everyone was staring.

The attention only made it worse.

Your knees nearly gave out.

Natasha reacted immediately.

One arm wrapped carefully around your waist.

Not restrictive.

Not trapping.

Just steady.

"Let's go."

You barely heard her.

She guided you toward the door.

Nobody said a word as she led you out.

-///-

The hallway was quieter.

Cooler.

But the panic followed you.

By the time Natasha got you to a bench against the wall, your entire body was shaking.

You sat down hard.

Your hands immediately flew to your throat, rubbing at the skin, and trying to erase the sensation.

Trying to remove hands that weren't there.

Natasha crouched in front of you, far enough away to avoid crowding you.

Yet close enough that you knew she wasn't leaving.

"Look at me."

You couldn't.

Another sob escaped.

"Hey."

Her voice remained steady.

"It’s okay."

Your chest heaved.

Nothing felt okay.

Nothing.

"I need you to breathe with me."

You shook your head.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

The certainty in her voice cut through the panic.

"In."

She demonstrated.

Slowly.

You tried and failed.

Tried again.

A little better.

"Good."

Another breath.

And another.

And another.

Minutes passed before the worst of it finally loosened its grip.

Your hands still trembled, but at least you could breathe again.

Natasha remained crouched beside you.

Waiting patiently.

When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle.

"What happened in there?"

You stared at the floor.

Silence stretched between you.

You knew she wasn't going to force an answer, which somehow made it harder.

A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.

"My dad—"

The words broke apart.

You couldn't continue, and you didn't need to, because Natasha understood immediately.

You saw it happen.

The realization.

The horror.

Then something else.

Anger.

Sharp and cold.

Not directed at you.

At him.

Whoever he was.

Whatever he'd done.

Her jaw tightened.

But when she spoke, her voice remained calm.

"I see."

A sob escaped you.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward.

Natasha opened her arms with a slight hesitation, not really used to comforting young recruits.

You buried your face against her shoulder anyway.

For a moment, she simply held you.

One hand resting gently on the back of your head.

No questions.

No pressure.

Just safety.

After several long breaths, your shaking finally began to ease.

"You know," Natasha tried quietly, "you didn't do anything wrong."

You swallowed hard.

"It was embarrassing."

"It wasn't."

You looked down.

"The whole class saw."

"Then they saw someone have a trauma response."

Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"Nothing to be ashamed of."

You wiped your eyes.

Natasha studied you for a moment.

"If you decide to continue today—"

She gave a small smile.

"—that's incredibly brave."

Your throat tightened.

Not from fear this time.

You nodded.

"I want to."

"Good."

Natasha stood and offered her hand.

You took it.

The shaking hadn't completely stopped, your legs still felt weak, but you followed her back toward the training room.

When the class resumed, Natasha quietly excused you from the chokehold exercises.

Instead, you sat against the wall with a bottle of water while the others practiced.

Every so often, she glanced your way.

Making sure you were okay.

Making sure you were still breathing.

Still grounded.

Still here.

And for the first time since walking into training that morning, you felt like maybe you were.

When the lesson finally ended, Natasha approached you again.

The room was emptying around you.

"You stayed."

You looked down at your hands.

"Yeah."

A small smile appeared on her face.

Not the intimidating smile the infamous Black Widow gave enemies.

A real one.

Warm.

Proud.

"Good work, recruit."

You gave her a short smile, not meeting her eyes.

"You still want to learn the escape?" she asked.

You hesitated, because a part of you wanted to say no, part of you wanted to avoid it completely.

But another part—the stubborn part that had gotten you through S.H.I.E.L.D. training in the first place—wanted to prove you could do it.

You nodded. "I do."

Natasha gave a small approving nod.

"Good."

She led you out on the now empty mat.

"No neck contact."

The relief that flooded through you was immediate.

"We'll adapt it. Every technique can be modified while you're learning, y/n."

You hadn't expected that answer.

For some reason, it made your chest feel warm.

Natasha stepped in front of you.

"I'm going to place my hands on your shoulders instead."

You nodded.

Slowly, giving you plenty of warning, she rested her hands there.

Not grabbing.

Just enough pressure to simulate the positioning.

Your muscles tensed automatically.

Natasha noticed.

"Look at me."

You did.

"You okay?"

After a moment, you nodded.

"Yeah."

"Good."

She waited another second before continuing.

"Now."

She shifted slightly.

"Break the line of force."

You attempted the movement.

It was so clumsy you nearly stepped on your own foot.

Natasha caught your arm before you lost balance.

"Not bad."

You blinked.

"Really?"

"No."

The deadpan answer made you stare.

Then she smirked.

"That one was terrible."

You groaned.

Natasha actually laughed, a real laugh for once.

Not the one she put on when a recruit tried to tell her a joke to impress her.

The sound surprised you so much that you forgot to be nervous for a second.

"But," she continued, "you moved."

You straightened.

"Again."

This time you focused.

Hands on shoulders.

Pivot.

Break contact.

Step out.

You almost got it.

"Closer."

Again.

And again.

And again.

Every repetition felt a little easier.

The panic wasn't gone.

But it wasn't controlling you anymore.

Natasha adjusted your stance.

Moved your foot a few inches.

Shifted your shoulder.

"There."

You repeated the motion.

Everything clicked.

The angle.

The balance.

The timing.

You slipped out of the hold smoothly.

Natasha's eyebrows lifted.

"Well done."

Heat immediately rushed to your face.

You looked away.

"Oh."

The praise felt strangely overwhelming.

Natasha noticed the blush instantly.

"You embarrassed by compliments?"

"No."

The answer came much too fast.

Her expression turned suspicious.

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

You groaned again.

Natasha crossed her arms, a small smile lingering on her face.

"Interesting."

"Please stop talking."

"No."

You covered your face with your hands.

That only made her smile widen.

The terrifying Black Widow was apparently finding this funny.

Unfair.

Very unfair.

"Again," she said.

You dropped your hands.

Tried the technique once more.

Perfect.

Natasha nodded immediately.

"There it is."

You couldn't stop the smile that appeared.

For the first time all day, you felt proud instead of scared.

Natasha noticed that too.

"You know what I'm impressed by?"

You looked up.

"What?"

"Most recruits would have quit after what happened earlier."

The room seemed quieter suddenly.

"You didn't."

You swallowed.

Natasha's expression softened.

"You came back."

Something in her voice made your eyes sting.

Not with panic.

Just emotion.

"You kept trying." She folded her arms. "And now you're getting it."

Your face heated all over again.

"Stop."

"No."

The answer was immediate.

A faint smile appeared on her face.

"You should be more proud of yourself."

Nobody had ever said things like that to you before.

Not without expecting something in return.

Not without mocking you afterward.

So you didn't know what to do with the words.

You just stood there awkwardly, staring at the floor while your cheeks burned.

Natasha seemed to understand.

She didn't push.

She simply nodded toward the mat.

"One more time."

You took your position.

This time, when you escaped the hold, it was smooth and fast.

Confident even.

Natasha's smile was small but unmistakably proud.

"There you go."

And somehow, that simple sentence made you stand a little taller than before.

You kept practicing for what felt like both 5 minutes and an hour.

"I think it’s enough for now."

You nodded, your breathing uneven.

She handed you your water and walked out, you followed her.

You followed her down the hallway toward the locker rooms.

Your muscles ached.

Your head felt heavy.

But compared to earlier, you felt steadier.

"Good work today," Natasha said as the two of you walked.

You glanced at her.

"Even with... everything?"

"Especially with everything."

Heat crept into your cheeks again.

A faint smile touched her lips.

"So," she said casually, "someone picking you up?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

A few more steps.

"My dad."

Natasha stopped walking.

Immediately.

You took another step before realizing she wasn't beside you anymore.

Turning, you found her staring at you.

Her expression had gone completely still.

Not cold.

Just focused.

You knew that look by now.

The one she got when something suddenly became important.

She reached out and gently caught your wrist.

Not tightly.

Just enough to stop you from continuing down the hall.

You froze.

Your breathing started speeding up before you even understood why.

Natasha noticed instantly.

"Hey."

Her thumb moved slowly against your wrist.

Back and forth.

Grounding.

Steady.

Your eyes dropped to the motion.

It helped.

A little.

Enough to keep the panic from spiralling.

When she spoke again, her voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Do you feel safe with him?"

The question hit harder than you expected.

You looked up.

Met her eyes.

Searching for something.

Permission, maybe.

Or reassurance.

Or a reason not to answer.

Natasha didn't pressure you.

She simply waited.

You swallowed.

"I..."

The words stuck.

Her thumb continued its slow movement against your wrist.

You took a shaky breath.

"I don't know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Natasha nodded once.

Like she'd expected that answer.

Like she understood how difficult it had been to say.

"Okay."

The simple acceptance loosened something in your chest.

The two of you resumed walking.

More slowly this time.

By the time you reached the locker room, the conversation hadn't ended.

It had only become quieter.

More careful.

You changed into lighter clothes while Natasha sat on a nearby bench, giving you space.

"Your dad used to grab your throat?" She asked directly, no hesitation.

You stared at the floor.

"...Sometimes."

Silence.

"Only when he was angry?"

You hesitated.

"Mostly."

Natasha's jaw tightened.

You noticed.

"So not always."

"No."

You pulled your hoodie over your head.

"He never..." You swallowed. "He never left marks or anything."

Natasha didn't react the way you expected.

She didn't seem relieved.

She just listened.

"Do you feel nervous when he's around?"

You laughed softly.

A sad sound.

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

You sat down beside your locker.

"Most of the time."

Your eyes met hers as another silence came over you.

"What happens when he's angry?"

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"He yells."

Natasha nodded.

"And?"

Your shoulders drew inward.

"He gets really close."

The thread snapped.

You stared at it.

"...I never know what's going to happen."

The room became very quiet.

Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.

"That sounds exhausting."

Nobody had ever described it that way before.

But she was right.

It was exhausting.

Always watching.

Always guessing.

Always trying not to make a mistake.

You looked away quickly.

For some reason, your eyes burned.

"It's fine."

"No."

Her answer was immediate.

You glanced at her.

"It isn't."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

"Does your mom know?"

You bit the inside of your cheek as you pushed your workout clothes into your bag.

"Don’t have one."

Natasha took a deep breath, cursing under her breath as you zipped your bag up and slung it over your shoulder.

Then Natasha stood.

"Come on."

The two of you headed outside.

The evening air was cool.

Cars occasionally passed the facility entrance.

You sat together on a wooden bench near the pickup area.

Waiting.

The conversation drifted to easier topics after that.

Training.

Classes.

A story about one of Natasha's former recruits accidentally handcuffing himself to a chair.

You actually laughed.

The sound surprised both of you.

Then familiar headlights appeared at the end of the drive.

Your stomach immediately dropped.

Natasha noticed.

Of course she did.

The car rolled closer.

Stopped.

The passenger door unlocked.

For several seconds, Natasha said nothing.

She simply watched your dad through the windshield.

Her expression was unreadable.

Her eyes following every movement.

The way he sat.

The way he looked toward you.

The way your shoulders instinctively tensed.

Her jaw tightened.

Just slightly.

Then she forced a polite smile.

The kind adults wore when they were trying very hard not to show what they were thinking.

She turned toward you.

"Hey."

You looked at her.

Her expression softened immediately.

"If you need anything—"

She reached into her pocket and handed you a small card.

"Here is my number."

You nodded quickly.

"Anything at all."

Her gaze held yours.

Making sure you understood.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Before you could think about it too much, you stepped forward and hugged her.

Natasha froze, and for half a second she seemed completely caught off guard.

Then one arm came around your shoulders.

Awkward at first, like she wasn't used to it.

But warm.

Steady.

Safe.

You closed your eyes briefly.

"Thank you."

Her grip tightened slightly.

"Take care of yourself, y/n."

You pulled away.

Nodded.

Then headed toward the car.

As you opened the passenger door, you glanced back once.

Natasha was still standing exactly where you'd left her.

Arms crossed.

Watching.

Not in the way instructors watched recruits.

Not in the way strangers watched strangers.

In the way someone watched when they were making a silent promise.

The kind that said:

I'm paying attention.

And you're not alone.

You climbed into the car.

The door shut.

Your day has wrung you dry—every meeting dragging, every small thing going wrong in that slow, relentless way that makes it worse than a single disaster.

By the time you step through the door, your shoulders ache, your eyes burn, and there’s a tightness in your chest you’ve been ignoring for hours.

You barely register the way a few heads snap toward you. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence.

“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.

You frown, confused, but your brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.

You don’t ask. You just keep walking.

The smell hits you first.

Warm. Comforting. Familiar.

Food.

You follow it like a lifeline, down the hall and into the kitchen—and there she is.

Natasha stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of her face.

She’s stirring something in a pan, her movements precise but… off.

A little too careful.

A little too tense.

You don’t notice that part right away.

All you see is her.

Something in you finally gives.

You cross the room without a word. She starts to turn, probably to greet you, but you don’t let her get that far.

Your hands find her arms, gently but insistently, and you turn her fully toward you.

“Hey—”

You pull her into you before she can finish.

Your arms wrap around her, tight, almost desperate, your face pressing into the crook of her neck.

She stiffens in surprise for half a second—and then immediately melts, hands coming up to hold you just as firmly.

“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, softer now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “What happened?”

You shake your head against her shoulder. You don’t trust your voice. If you try to explain, you’re pretty sure it’ll all spill out in a way you can’t control.

So you don’t.

You just hold on.

And then, quietly, without warning, your body betrays you.

Your breathing stutters.

Your grip tightens.

And the tears you’ve been holding back all day finally slip free. Silent at first, just a tremble against her.

Natasha notices immediately.

She always does.

“Oh,” she breathes, and something in her voice shifts, something fiercely protective and achingly gentle all at once.

She turns slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortable against her, one arm firm around your back while the other strokes slow, steady lines through your hair.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Her jaw tightens.

Because she knows.

She knows exactly what’s sitting in her pocket right now. Knows what she had planned. Knows that, hours ago, everything was supposed to go differently.

Candles.

A calmer atmosphere.

You smiling, not…this.

And earlier—

“—Oh my god, you’re proposing to y/n?!” Wanda’s voice had rung through the common room, loud and unmistakable.

Natasha had frozen.

Clint had choked on his drink. Steve had blinked like he’d just been hit with a flashbang. Tony had immediately started asking questions at maximum volume.

“You’re proposing? Romanoff? With feelings? This I have to see—”

Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.

Instead, she’d just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “You were not supposed to say that out loud.”

Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.

“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”

So now everyone knows.

Everyone is waiting.

And Natasha—

Natasha is standing in the kitchen, holding you while you quietly fall apart after a terrible day, with a ring in her pocket and a plan that no longer fits.

Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.

Then she exhales, slow and steady.

Plans can change.

You come first.

Always.

“Hey,” she says softly after a while, just loud enough for you to hear. “Look at me for a second?”

You hesitate, then pull back just enough.

Your eyes are a little red, your expression worn and fragile in a way that makes something twist painfully in her chest.

Her thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the last trace of a tear.

“Rough day?” she asks.

You let out a weak huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You nod, glancing down. “I’m okay. I just… needed a minute.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” she says quietly.

You look back up at her.

There’s something different in her expression.

Still soft. Still steady.

But beneath?

Nervousness.

Real, unguarded nervousness.

You blink, confused. “Nat?”

She inhales.

And for someone who has faced down gods, assassins, and the end of the world more than once…this might be the most uncertain you’ve ever seen her.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice low. “Hi.”

You almost smile. “Hi.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying to mirror it, but there’s too much else going on.

Behind you, there’s another barely-contained whisper.

“…is she doing it now?!”

“Shut up—”

Natasha ignores them.

Her focus is entirely on you.

“I had a plan,” she admits, almost under her breath. “It was…better than this. Less—” she gestures vaguely “—you crying in the kitchen.”

You let out a soft, embarrassed groan. “I can stop crying—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “That’s not the point.”

Her hand finds yours.

You feel it then, something shifting.

Your exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something else.

Curiosity.

A flicker of anticipation.

“Natasha…?”

She swallows.

And then, because she’s never done anything halfway in her life, she lets herself be completely honest.

“You had a terrible day,” she says. “And you came home, and the first thing you did was find me.”

Your fingers tighten around hers.

“You didn’t say anything,” she continues softly. “You just…trusted me to be there.”

“I always do,” you whisper.

That almost undoes her.

You see it—just for a second.

Then she steadies herself.

“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to trust me for one more thing.”

Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.

She lets go of one of your hands.

For a split second, you think maybe she’s pulling away.

Instead, she reaches into her pocket.

And then, before your brain fully catches up, she’s stepping back and lowering herself onto one knee.

Your breath catches.

Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a very audible thud followed by a muffled, “oh my god—”

Neither of you looks.

Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.

She opens the small box in her hand, revealing the ring—simple, beautiful, unmistakably you.

“I had a whole speech,” she says, a little breathless now. “It was structured. Thought out. Probably less…rambling.”

You stare at her, heart pounding.

“But this is what I’ve got,” she continues, a faint, nervous smile breaking through. “You. Right here. Exactly as you are.”

Your eyes sting again—but for a very different reason.

“I don’t need perfect timing,” she says. “I just need you.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself, like this is somehow harder than anything she’s ever faced.

“So, will you—”

“Yes.”

It slips out of you, immediate and certain.

Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.

“…I’m going to ask the full question,” she says.

“I know, I just—yes.”

“You’re going to let me finish.”

“I am, I promise.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

Natasha exhales, fighting a smile. Then she looks back at you, really focusing.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.’’

She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.

“Will you—”

You inhale sharply.

She gives you a look.

You clamp your mouth shut so fast it’s almost impressive.

Her lips twitch.

“Good,” she says softly.

And then, slower this time—

“Will you marry me?”

There it is.

Clear. Simple. Real.

You don’t interrupt.

You just stare at her, eyes already stinging again, your grip tightening around her hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper, then add to really confirm it: "Yeah, I will. Of course I will.”

Relief floods her face, immediate and overwhelming, like she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it said all the way through.

“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.

“I said yes three times, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

“I was very enthusiastic.”

“You were very interruptive.”

“Same thing.”

That finally breaks her—she lets out a soft laugh as she slides the ring onto your finger, her hands just a little unsteady now for an entirely different reason.

“Still counts,” she murmurs.

“Every single one counted,” you say.

You don’t wait; you pull her up into yourself, arms wrapping tight around her, your face pressing into her shoulder again, but this time you’re laughing.

Behind you, the hallway erupts.

“FINALLY!”

“Took long enough!”

“I had money on four interruptions!”

Natasha just holds you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head again, grounding, warm, yours.

“You didn’t let me finish the first time,” she murmurs into your hair.

You tilt your head up, smiling. “You got there eventually.”

She brushes her thumb under your eye, soft and steady.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”

You lean in and kiss her gently.

Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.

-///-

You’re half sprawled across the bed, tucked into Natasha’s side, a laptop resting against your legs as the night crawls closer.

The glow from the screen paints both of you in soft light as you scroll through listings, one after another.

Most of them blur together.

Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.

Natasha’s arm is draped loosely around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns along your stomach—barely there, but constant.

Grounding.

You hum quietly, squinting at another house.

“Mm…how many bedrooms do you think we should look for?” you murmur, your voice already a little sleepy.

There’s a pause.

Then, without hesitation, the words leave her as if she had thought about it for more than a minute.

“At least five.”

You blink.

Turn your head to look up at her.

“…Five?” you repeat.

She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Minimum.”

You prop yourself up slightly on your elbow, narrowing your eyes at her. “How many times are you expecting me to get pregnant, exactly?”

That gets her attention.

Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.

There’s a smirk there. Subtle, but definitely there.

You stare at her.

“Natasha.”

She leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your neck.

It’s soft and teasing, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Relax,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice warm and amused. “I’m planning ahead.”

You huff, but it dissolves into a quiet laugh, your hand coming up to rest lightly against her arm.

“Natasha and babies, who would have thought?" You smile at her, pecking her lips, then, quieter, ‘’You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” she says, pressing one last soft kiss there before pulling back, “you said yes.”

“Multiple times.”

“Very enthusiastically.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you settle back down against her.

“Five bedrooms,” you mutter. “You’re so ambitious.”

“I’m just practical.”

“You’re quite optimistic.”

“That too.”

You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.

And then you pause.

“…Wait.”

Natasha’s hand stills for just a second at your stomach.

“What?”

You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.

A white house. 

Simple, but warm. Big windows. A wraparound porch that looks like it was made for slow mornings and late evenings.

And just beyond it…

Water.

A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.

“It’s not exactly close to the tower,” you say softly, almost like you’re thinking out loud. “But it’s not that far either…”

“Far enough,” she murmurs.

“Close enough,” you add.

She studies it for a moment, her thumb resuming its slow, absent patterns against you.

Then she nods once.

“It’s pretty.”

That’s all it takes.

You light up a little, shifting so you’re more comfortable as you start clicking through the photos.

“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, suddenly more awake. “This one—this kitchen, we need a kitchen island.”

“Obviously.”

“And that—” you swipe. “—that could be a second living room. Or like…a playroom?”

“A playroom?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not,” she says, though there’s amusement in her voice.

You keep going, pointing at different parts of the layout, dreaming about a future with her.

“Okay, so this would be our room,” you decide, clicking on one of the larger bedrooms. “Because it has the windows facing the lake.”

“Agreed.”

“And then—” you swipe again, already thinking ahead. “—this one would be for our first kid.”

Natasha’s hand pauses again.

Not tense.

Just…noticing.

You don’t.

You’re already moving on.

“And then this one could be the second kid's room.”

She hums, watching your face now instead of the screen.

"And this one could be like a quest room… or a possible third kid. Depending.’’

“Efficient,” she murmurs, nuzzling her nose to your cheek.

“I learned from the best.”

“And the fifth?”

You hesitate for a second.

Then shrug, softer now.

“…Something the future will bring.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her hand shifts, flattening more fully against your stomach, her thumb tracing slower now, more deliberate.

Grounding.

Thinking.

You glance up at her. “Too much?”

Her gaze meets yours.

There’s something warm there. Something steady.

“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”

Your expression softens immediately.

“Five bedrooms,” you murmur again with a smile, turning back to the screen.

This time, you lean into her a little more, your hand finding hers where it rests against you.

She laces your fingers together without even looking.

The house stays on the screen.

The porch.

The lake.

The space.

And for a while, neither of you scrolls to look at a different house.

-///-

The day came before you knew it.

There’s movement everywhere.

Voices in the hallway, footsteps, doors opening and closing, and someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.

It all sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through water.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache.

Your dress hangs nearby.

Everything is ready.

Everything is happening.

And your brain will not slow down.

You swallow, staring at the floor.

You’re getting married today.

To Natasha.

That part feels right. Steady. Certain in a way nothing else has ever been.

But layered underneath that certainty—

Something else.

Your heart starts to race again, and you press your palms harder together, as you can physically hold yourself in place.

Because, of course, your brain picked today.

Of all days.

To replay that email.

The donor profile.

The one you weren’t even expecting to find.

Anonymous, yes—but detailed enough. Similar features. Similar background. Even little things that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.

It had felt…right.

Too right.

Like a possibility you hadn’t let yourself fully imagine until it was suddenly right there in front of you.

A future.

A real one.

Kids that might look like her too and not only you.

You exhale shakily.

You haven’t told her.

You want to.

You’ve wanted to all week.

Every time she talks about the house.

The bedrooms.

The way her hand keeps finding your stomach like she’s already picturing something there.

Every time, the words sit right at the back of your throat and then disappear.

Because what if it’s too much?

What if it’s too soon?

What if you bring it up today and it shifts something? Adds pressure? Changes the moment?

Your chest tightens.

“Hey.”

You flinch slightly at the voice.

When you turn, you see Wanda leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, expression softer than usual.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says gently.

You let out a weak breath. “Can you not—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts, holding up her hands. “You’re just…broadcasting a little.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

She steps into the room, quieter now, her tone shifting.

“You’re nervous.”

“Very.”

“Cold feet?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. God, no. Not about her.”

“I know,” Wanda says.

You hesitate.

“There’s just…something I haven’t told her yet.”

Wanda studies you for a second.

“You want to?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

You look down at your hands again.

“Because it feels big,” you admit. “And today is already big. And I don’t want to…overwhelm her. Or mess anything up.”

Wanda’s expression softens.

“You think telling her you’re thinking about a future with her is going to mess something up?” she asks quietly.

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounds like you.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.

“I just—I found a donor,” you say, the words finally leaving your mouth. “Like…a really good one. It just—it made it feel real, you know? And I want that with her, I just don’t know if today is—”

“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.

You look up.

“You don’t have to decide your entire future before you walk down that aisle,” she says. “You just have to show up. The rest? You figure out together.”

You let that sit for a second.

It helps.

A little.

“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.

“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replies. “I said you don’t have to do it right now if it’s making you spiral.”

You nod slowly.

That feels reasonable.

“You know her,” Wanda adds softly. “Better than anyone. When it feels right, you’ll know.”

You take a breath.

Then another.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” you murmur.

“Okay.”

Wanda gives you a small, reassuring smile before heading back toward the door.

“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back, “she’s just as nervous as you are.”

You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”

Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”

That actually makes you laugh.

“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”

“It should be.”

She disappears down the hall.

You sit there for a moment longer.

Then you look at your dress.

At your hands.

At the life waiting just on the other side of today.

The nerves are still there.

The question still lingers.

But beneath all of it—

There’s something steady.

You’re not doing this alone.

And you don’t have to have every answer yet.

You stand slowly, exhaling as you smooth your hands down your legs.

“One step at a time,” you murmur to yourself.

-///-

You’re running on fumes.

Not the romantic kind.

The dangerous kind.

You haven’t eaten. Not really. Every time you tried, someone pulled you away—photos, speeches, hugs, “just one quick thing” that turned into ten.

And every single time you sat down—

“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”

You did. Of course you did.

And every time you came back?

Your plate was gone.

At this point, you’re pretty sure you’ve had three bites of something, maybe a piece of bread, and about…far too much champagne.

The room is loud. Bright. Spinning just a little at the edges.

You’re smiling—but it’s getting harder to keep it steady.

Natasha is…worse.

Not drunk, exactly—but irritated in that very specific, very controlled way that means she’s about three interruptions away from snapping.

Someone had just pulled her away again, and you’d watched her jaw tighten as she nodded politely and followed.

Now she’s back.

Finally.

And when she finds you, her hand immediately goes to your waist, pulling you close like she’s making up for lost time.

“You okay?” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

You shake your head a little, pressing into her. “I’m starving.”

Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”

“I tried to eat,” you mumble. “But every time I sit down, I get kidnapped.”

“I’m aware.”

There’s an edge to her voice.

You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m—” she exhales slowly “—a little frustrated.”

“That’s a scary version of mad.”

She huffs, but her hand softens against your side, her thumb brushing gently like she’s grounding herself through you.

“I just want five minutes with my wife,” she mutters.

That word.

Even now, it hits.

“My wife,” you echo softly.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Yeah,” she says.

And then—

The music changes.

The crowd shifts, noise dimming as someone announces the dance.

There’s a ripple through the room—people moving back, forming space.

And for the first time all day—

No one interrupts.

Natasha looks at you.

“Come on,” she murmurs.

You nod.

She leads you to the centre of the floor, her hand never leaving yours.

And then—

It’s quiet.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough that it feels like the world just… fades out around you.

Her hand settles at your waist.

Yours finds her shoulder.

And you start to move.

Slow.

Easy.

Close.

You exhale, your forehead drifting toward hers almost immediately. “Finally.”

“Finally,” she agrees.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just sway together, your body relaxing into hers, the tension of the day slowly unravelling.

Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.

Familiar.

Steady.

Yours.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

“I was right there.”

“Not like this.”

Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t like people taking you away,” she admits.

You huff softly. “I didn’t like it either.”

“Good.”

You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”

“Accurate.”

You laugh quietly, but it fades into something softer as you settle more fully into her.

This.

This is what you needed.

Just her.

Just a moment.

Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.

“…Hey,” you murmur.

“Mm?”

You hesitate.

The thought from earlier creeps back in.

The one you pushed aside.

But now—here, like this—it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.

Just…important.

“I wanted to tell you something,” you say quietly.

She doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t tense.

Just listens.

“Okay.”

You swallow.

“I found…a donor.”

Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.

Not pulling away.

Just…listening harder.

You rush a little now, words soft but quick.

“I wasn’t planning to. It just kind of happened, and I saw the profile and—it just—it felt right. Like, really right. And I didn’t want to bring it up before today because I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make it—like—a big thing, but I just—”

“Hey,” she murmurs gently.

You stop.

Look up at her.

Her expression isn’t tense.

Or upset.

Just…focused.

Warm.

“You found someone you like?” she asks.

You nod, a little nervous now. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then—

“Okay.”

You blink.

“…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”

“You’re talking about a future with me,” she says simply. “That’s not a problem.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time.

“I just—I thought maybe it was too soon.”

“We’ve been planning bedrooms,” she points out.

“…That’s fair.”

Her thumb brushes your side again.

“You don’t have to figure all of it out today,” she adds. “We’ll look at it together.”

Together.

That word settles everything.

You nod, your forehead resting against hers again. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

There’s a small pause.

Then—

A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.

“YOU TWO!”

You both flinch slightly.

Thor appears at the edge of the dance floor like an event all by himself, holding—

Shots.

Multiple.

“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”

Natasha closes her eyes briefly. “…Of course he has.”

You let out a soft laugh. “We’re doomed.”

Thor strides over, beaming, completely ignoring the fact that this is supposed to be a quiet, romantic moment.

“FOR THE NEWLYWEDS!” he declares, handing each of you a glass.

You take it.

Of course you do.

Natasha eyes it.

Then you.

Then the glass.

“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.

“Details,” you whisper.

She exhales.

Then takes it anyway.

“Fine.”

Thor grins like he’s just won something.

“TO LOVE!” he booms.

You clink your glasses together—yours with Natasha’s, then both with his.

“To love,” you echo.

And then you drink.

Immediately—

Regret.

You cough slightly, eyes widening. “Oh my god—”

Natasha winces, shaking her head. “That was a mistake.”

Thor just laughs, delighted.

“ANOTHER?”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.

You, however, are already laughing, leaning into her again, a little dizzier now but smiling.

“Okay,” you murmur, breathless. “Maybe now we really need food.”

She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m stealing you for that.”

“Please do.”

Her forehead rests against yours again, just for a second, grounding the moment before everything inevitably gets loud again.

“We’ll figure everything else out,” she murmurs.

You nod, smiling softly.

“Together,” you say.

“Together.”

-///-

By the time you make it to the kitchen of the venue, you are done.

Not elegantly overwhelmed.

Not softly emotional.

No—fully, completely, dramatically done.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, pushing the door open harder than necessary.

Natasha is right behind you, equally tense, equally fed up. “I told them we needed food.”

“I tried to eat." You spin around, hands flying. “I sat down three times—three—and every time someone dragged me away!”

“I noticed.”

“And now—now—” you gesture wildly at the counters.

Empty.

Completely, offensively empty.

No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.

“…they took everything,” you say, your voice going dangerously quiet.

Natasha steps further into the room, scanning it like maybe food will magically appear if she looks hard enough.

“It seems that way.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

You grab a glass off the counter.

Natasha turns just in time to see—

“Hey—”

SMASH.

The sound is sharp, echoing through the kitchen as the glass hits the floor and shatters.

You stand there, breathing a little too fast, staring down at the pieces.

“…okay,” you say after a second. “That helped. A little.”

Natasha exhales slowly.

Then, very calmly—

“I’m not even going to pretend to be mad about that.”

You look up at her, a little wild-eyed.

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

“I might actually die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

She reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, grounding you just enough to pull you back from full meltdown territory.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”

“How?” you demand. “Conjure food? Steal it? Fight someone?”

“…all viable options.”

You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

Then Natasha’s attention shifts.

To the side.

To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.

Inside—melting ice.

And strawberries.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“…hold on.”

Before you can question it, she leans over, plucks one out, and pops it into her mouth.

You blink.

“…Natasha.”

She chews.

Swallows.

Then immediately grabs another.

“Are you—are you eating garnish?”

“It’s fruit.”

“It’s drunk fruit.”

She pauses mid-reach.

“…that explains a lot.”

You stare at her.

She eats another anyway.

“Okay, no, stop—stop eating the champagne strawberries,” you say, trying and failing to sound authoritative.

She points at you with the next one. “You smashed a glass.”

“That was emotional.”

“This is survival.”

You open your mouth to argue—

Then close it.

“…okay, fair.”

She eats another.

And another.

By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.

“You’re getting more drunk.”

“I’m already drunk.”

“You’re getting more drunk.”

She smiles—just a little too confidently.

“I’m fine.”

You sigh.

“…we need real food.”

She nods immediately. “Agreed.”

A beat.

Then—

“Let’s leave.”

You blink. “Leave leave?”

“Yes.”

“In our wedding dresses?”

“Yes.”

“…okay.”

-///-

The taxi driver does not ask questions.

Which is probably for the best.

You’re half-laughing, half-complaining in the backseat, still riding the wave of hunger and alcohol, while Natasha has one arm firmly around you like she’s not letting you disappear again.

“I can’t believe they took all the food,” you mumble.

“I’m still upset about it.”

“I smashed a glass.”

“I know.”

‘’You didn’t stop me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You snort.

The line is painfully slow.

You and Natasha stand at the counter of Burger King, still in your wedding clothes, still slightly swaying from too much champagne and not nearly enough food.

Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.

You can tell by the way her jaw keeps tightening every time someone ahead of you asks another question.

“…and fries,” she says flatly, finishing the order. “A lot of fries.”

You lean into her side, nodding like this is a very serious, collaborative decision. “Emotionally important fries.”

The cashier blinks. “…okay.”

You shuffle off to the side to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You stare at the counter like it’s personally responsible for your suffering.

“…this is cruel,” you mutter.

Natasha crosses her arms. “It’s inefficient.”

“I’m so thirsty.”

“We ordered drinks.”

“I need them now.”

“You can survive two minutes.”

“I cannot.”

She glances over at you. “You absolutely can.”

You squint at her.

Then—

You slip away.

Not dramatically.

Not announced.

Just…gone.

Natasha doesn’t notice at first.

She’s too busy watching the kitchen like she might will the food into existence through sheer irritation.

Behind the counter, things are moving slowly. Someone fumbles an order. Another employee calls for help.

Time stretches.

“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”

Natasha blinks.

Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”

The employee gestures vaguely past her. “Your wife—she’s—uh—”

Natasha follows the gesture.

And then she sees you.

At the drink dispenser.

Not with a cup.

No.

You’ve leaned down, pressing the lever with your hand, drinking straight from the stream of soda as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Completely unbothered.

Completely committed.

There’s a beat.

Natasha just… looks at you.

All the irritation.

All the tension from the night.

It dissolves instantly.

Replaced by something softer. Warmer. A little incredulous, a lot fond.

Her arm rested around your shoulders, fingers idly tracing slow, absent-minded patterns against your arm. It was the kind of touch she only allowed when it was just the two of you—soft, unguarded, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You were only half-watching.

The thought had been sitting in your head all day, turning over and over until it felt impossible to ignore.

“…Hey, Nat?”

She didn’t look away from the screen, but her fingers paused slightly against your skin. “Mm?”

You shifted a little closer into her, your head brushing her shoulder. “What do you think about tattoos?”

That got her attention.

Her eyes flicked to you instantly, sharp and assessing in that way that always made it feel like she already knew where this was going.

“No.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t even say I wanted one.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, nudging her lightly with your shoulder. “Wow. Harsh.”

She didn’t smile—at least not fully—but her arm tightened around you just a little, pulling you closer without thinking.

“Okay, but hypothetically—” you started.

“I don’t deal in hypotheticals,” she cut in, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. Now she was fully focused on you, her thumb brushing absent circles against your arm again. “Why are you asking?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual even as your fingers played with the edge of the blanket. “I just think they’re… kind of nice. Some of them. Small ones, I mean.”

After a moment, you added, “I guess I like the idea of marking something that matters. Just for me.”

Her expression didn’t soften.

“If you want my opinion,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “I don’t like them.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at her. “At all?”

“No.”

There was no hesitation in it. No wiggle room.

“Why?” you asked, quieter now.

Natasha leaned back into the couch, but she didn’t let go of you. If anything, she pulled you a fraction closer, her chin briefly resting against the top of your head before she spoke.

“Because I’ve had enough done to my body without my permission,” she said.

For a moment, her expression flickered—distant, like she was somewhere else entirely.

“There was a time when scars and marks just showed up, and I couldn’t stop them. It never mattered what I wanted.” Her voice stayed steady but softer now. “So now, even if it’s a choice… adding something else just feels like letting them win all over again.”

Her fingers stilled against your arm.

“I don’t see the appeal in choosing more of it.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

You shifted slightly, your hand finding hers where it rested against you, lacing your fingers together.

“I wouldn’t be forced,” you said gently. “It’d be my choice.”

“I know,” she replied quietly. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

There it was again—clear, unwavering.

You nodded a little against her shoulder. “Right.”

The TV kept playing in the background, filling the silence she didn’t seem bothered by.

You were.

After a moment, Natasha glanced down at you, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You’re thinking about getting one.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated just long enough to confirm it.

“…Maybe.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

You let out a small breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “You don’t recommend a lot of things I do.”

“That’s different.”

You tilted your head, looking up at her again. “Is it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she shifted just enough to press a quiet kiss to your hair, like it was instinct more than intention.

Her hand squeezed yours gently.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” she said finally. “But you asked what I think.”

You squeezed her hand back, settling closer into her side, your cheek resting against her shoulder again.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly. “I know.”

Natasha stayed quiet for a while after that.

Not the uncomfortable kind of silence — just the kind that happened when she was thinking too hard to speak immediately.

Her hand was still holding yours. Still warm. Still there.

The TV droned on in the background, completely forgotten now.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose, like she was letting something go rather than holding it in.

“You don’t listen very well,” she said, but there was no bite to it.

You smiled faintly against her shoulder. “I’ve been told.”

Her fingers tightened around yours once, a quiet squeeze.

“I know you’re going to do what you want,” she added after a moment.

“That’s kind of the point of ‘want,’” you murmured.

That earned you the smallest huff of a laugh.

Natasha shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around both of you like it had suddenly become very important to get it right.

Her arm stayed around you, but now she pulled you in a little closer—until there was no space left between you except warmth.

“I don’t like the idea,” she said again, softer this time. “But I don’t like the idea of you hiding things from me more.”

That made you go still.

You tilted your head up slightly to look at her.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” you said honestly. “I just… didn’t want to turn it into a fight.”

Her eyes flicked to yours.

“You think everything with me turns into a fight?”

“No,” you said quickly, then softened. “I think you care a lot.”

That made something in her expression shift—something subtle, but real.

Natasha leaned her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a second like she was choosing her words carefully.

“I do care,” she admitted. “Probably too much, according to most people.”

You nudged her knee lightly with yours under the blanket. “I don’t think it’s ‘too much.’”

That got her attention again.

She looked back down at you.

“You don’t?”

You shook your head. “I think it’s just… you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I like ‘you.’”

That earned you a look that softened in a way she didn’t try to hide this time.

Her thumb brushed over your hand again, slower now.

“…Even when I’m being difficult?”

You smiled. “Especially then.”

Natasha stared at you for a long moment like she was memorizing the answer.

Then she sighed—lightly, almost fondly—and tugged you even closer until your head was fully resting against her again.

“You’re still not getting a tattoo,” she muttered.

You laughed under your breath. “Noted.”

-///-

You didn’t mean for it to become a secret.

At least, not at first.

But once you’d done it—once the small, permanent mark had been placed on your skin—it suddenly felt too fragile to talk about.

Like saying it out loud would change it.

Or change her.

So you didn’t.

And instead, you started avoiding her.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But Natasha noticed.

Of course she did.

Natasha Romanoff picked up on the shift within a day.

It started small—your hesitation when she reached for you.

The way you always seemed to turn slightly away before she could fully pull you in.

The way you stopped lingering.

Then it became more obvious.

You stopped initiating closeness altogether.

And you definitely avoided anything that might lead further than that.

Natasha didn’t push at first.

She just watched.

Until one night, as she sat beside you on the couch, she finally spoke.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You didn’t look up from your hands. “I’m not.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—but sharper:

“Yes, you are.”

Silence stretched.

Her arm, usually around you, stayed resting on the back of the couch instead of pulling you in.

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Did I do something?” she asked.

That hit harder than you expected.

You shook your head immediately. “No—Nat, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?”

You hesitated.

Because there was no good answer that didn’t make you feel like you were about to disappoint her.

“I just…” Your voice dropped. “I need to tell you something.”

Her gaze softened slightly but stayed steady. “Okay.”

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest.

“I got the tattoo.”

The words landed between you.

Natasha didn’t respond right away.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just stillness.

“…When?” she asked finally.

“A few days ago.”

Another pause.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t mean to hide it,” you said quickly. “I just—every time I thought about telling you, I got nervous, and then it just got worse and I—”

“Show me.”

The interruption was calm.

Not demanding.

Just certain.

You looked up at her, searching her face.

She wasn’t upset.

Just… focused.

So slowly, you stood.

Your hands trembled a little as you pulled your pants down to your hips.

She raised her eyebrow, crossing her arms.

You gave her a shy smile before pulling down the side of your panties to reveal the small tattoo—subtle, clean, and carefully placed.

A single initial.

You had chosen Natasha's because it meant more than any symbol or date could.

To you, her initial was a promise: a quiet way of carrying her presence with you, a mark for the moments she'd held you together after everything else felt uncertain.

It was hope, memory, and belonging all at once—something indelible meant just for you.

Her initial.

Natasha didn’t speak.

For a long moment, she just looked.

Completely still.

Like her brain had gone quiet.

Then she stepped closer.

Careful.

Almost like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch it.

Her fingers hovered first—barely there—before finally brushing over it.

You flinched slightly, a small hiss escaping before you could stop it.

“Does it hurt?” she asked immediately, pulling back a fraction.

“...A little,” you murmur.

But instead of moving away, you caught her hand gently.

“Wait.”

You guided her closer again, slower this time. “It’s fine.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours, checking.

You nodded.

So she touched it again.

More carefully this time.

Her expression changed.

Not sudden.

Not loud.

Just… softer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked quietly.

You swallowed. “Because it’s yours.”

That made her freeze again.

“You did this… for me?”

You gave a small, nervous shrug. “It felt right.”

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she exhaled slowly, her shoulders rising and falling as if releasing a burden she had carried for longer than she cared to admit.

For a moment, Natasha felt caught between instinct and something softer. Her mind ran through all the old warnings, the walls she built to keep pain at bay, the history written into every scar and choice she was never allowed.

The idea of someone willingly marking themselves, especially for her, pulled up memories she usually kept locked down.

Disbelief flickered in her eyes, quickly chased by something gentle, almost vulnerable: a private relief that softened the set of her mouth and eased the tension she held.

The intimacy of what you'd done for her overwhelmed her in a way that was as comforting as it was frightening.

It was a quiet, complicated feeling—something like disbelief and something like warmth mingling, as if acceptance could be as healing as scars could be defining.

“You are going to be the death of me,” she muttered.

That made you laugh weakly. “That bad?”

Natasha finally looked at you properly again.

And there it was—that shift.

The seriousness is melting just slightly at the edges.

“…No,” she said softly. “Not bad.”

Her hand slid from the tattoo to your waist, pulling you gently closer until there wasn’t any space left between you.

“You just don’t think things through.”

“I thought this through,” you argued quietly.

Her mouth twitched.

“That makes it worse.”

You smiled, tension easing out of your shoulders completely now.

“Are you mad?”

Natasha paused.

Then shook her head once.

“No.”

A beat.

“…Surprised.”

Her eyes dropped back to the tattoo again, and this time there was something unmistakably fond in her expression.

“And?” you prompted softly.

“And I think,” she said slowly, “that you are very lucky I like you.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s dangerous,” she corrected—but there was no real edge to it.

Only warmth.

She traced the tattoo again, gentler now, like she’d memorized its meaning.

“It’s… very you.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t hate it?”

Natasha looked up at you.

And this time, she didn’t hesitate at all.

“No,” she said simply. “I don’t.”

A pause.

“I think it’s… kind of hot.”

Your eyes widened instantly. “Nat—”

“I’m not elaborating,” she cut in immediately, but there was the faintest smirk forming.

You laughed, completely relieved now, leaning into her.

Natasha pulled you in properly this time, wrapping her arms around you like she’d decided the conversation was over, and you belonged there.

And when she kissed your temple, it lingered just a second longer than usual.

“Next time,” she murmured against your hair, “you tell me first.”

You smiled into her shoulder.

“Deal.”

Natasha lingers in the doorway of your bedroom, one hand resting lightly against the frame. She doesn’t step in. Not yet.

Her gaze lingers on your face.

Your breathing is slow, even. For once, there’s no tension in your face, no tightness in your shoulders. Whatever you’ve been carrying for so long is quieter. At least for now.

Your guard is down.

Completely.

It does something to her. Something unexpected.

She exhales slowly, almost soundless, and steps back. She doesn’t close the door.

The hallway is dimly lit, illuminated only by a faint spill of light from the living room and a soft lamp on a hallway table. She glances around without really meaning to.

Her eyes catch on the small, human things. Your jacket tossed over a chair. A mug left on the counter.

It’s simple.

But it’s yours.

And it doesn’t feel empty.

She moves further down the hall. Her steps are careful. Almost hesitant.

Then she notices it—

a door, slightly ajar.

She pauses.

There’s something different about it—untouched.

Like the rest of the apartment kept moving forward, and this room didn’t.

She looks at it for a second longer.

Her hand lifts.

Then stops.

She almost turns away.

But doesn’t.

Then pushes the door open just a little more, careful not to make a sound.

It creaks softly anyway.

Inside, everything is softer. Lighter. A bed too small for you sits neatly against the wall, a blanket folded with too much care. Drawings. Taped. Pinned. Kept.

They haven’t been taken down.

They haven’t been packed away.

They’ve just been left.

Like someone might come back for them.

Natasha doesn’t step further into the room. She stays at the threshold, her hand resting against the door, like crossing it would mean something she’s not quite ready to face.

But she sees enough.

More than enough.

Something shifts in her chest. Low and heavy. Not sharp, not sudden. Just… there.

She steps back after a moment, slowly and deliberately, as if even leaving requires thought. The door stays slightly open behind her, exactly the way she found it.

She stands in the hallway for a second longer, quiet, still.

Then she turns and walks back.

Back to you.

You haven’t moved.

Still asleep. Still unguarded.

She leans lightly against the frame again, her gaze setting on you as it did before.

She reminds me of someone I knew very well.

Your voice echoes in her head, quieter now, but it lands harder this time.

It settles somewhere under her ribs. Tugging.

Her jaw tightens faintly. She looks away, just for a second, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again.

Then she pushes herself off the doorframe and moves into the living room.

The couch creaks softly as she sits, elbows resting on her knees, hands loosely clasped. Her gaze drops to the floor, unfocused.

She stays like that for a while.

Silent and still.

And for once–

she doesn’t leave.

Her head tilts back slightly, eyes closing but only for a second.

Then they open again.

Decision made.

She stands, slower this time, more certain in her steps as she heads back down the hall.

When she reaches your room, she doesn’t hesitate.

She steps inside.

The space already feels different now. Warmer somehow.

She moves to the other side of the bed, careful with every step, aware of the slightest shift of the wooden floorboards, the smallest creaks.

The mattress dips slightly as she sits.

You don’t wake.

Of course you don’t.

You’re exhausted.

She watches you for a moment, taking you in one last time.

Then she lies down on top of the covers, not too close, not far enough to feel like distance.

Just… there.

Without touching.

Her gaze stays on you longer than it should. Her fingers flex once against the mattress, like she almost reaches for you—then stills.

Eventually, her eyes drift shut.

And this time–

she doesn’t leave.

-///-

Light filters through the curtains, soft and pale, as you wake.

It’s slow at first. Awareness comes back in pieces—the warmth, the weight of the duvet, the quiet rhythm of breathing.

Not yours.

Your brows knit slightly before you turn your head.

Natasha.

She’s asleep beside you.

Not touching. Not quite close enough for that. But close enough that it means something—like she let herself stay, just not all the way.

Your breath stills.

For a moment, you just look at her.

Really look.

Her hair is slightly out of place, strands falling across her face. There’s no tension in her expression, none of that constant edge she carries. She looks… softer. Unarmed.

It does something to your chest. Something quiet. Something you don’t try to name.

Your gaze lingers a second too long.

Her eyes open.

Slow. Heavy. And then—focused.

On you.

No confusion. No startle. Just recognition.

A beat passes.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“You stayed,” you reply softly.

She shifts slightly, one arm tucked under her head.

“Yeah.”

Simple. Like it didn’t cost her anything to say it—even though you know it did.

Silence settles again.

Not awkward. Not empty.

Just… full.

You shift a little closer. Barely anything. Just enough that you can feel the warmth between you.

Her eyes drop to your lips, then back up.

Your breath catches.

Neither of you moves.

But something’s already happening.

Her hand lifts slowly, like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to, and rests lightly against your cheek.

Warm. Careful.

You don’t pull away.

Your own hand starts to rise, stopping just short of her wrist, like you’re waiting—for permission, for certainty, for something.

Her thumb shifts slightly against your skin.

Closer.

Your breathing isn’t steady anymore.

Neither is hers.

You can feel it in the space between you—the hesitation, the pull, the quiet question neither of you says out loud.

You lean in first.

Just a fraction.

She meets you there.

Your lips hover—

so close you can feel her breath, warm against your mouth.

A second passes.

Another.

And then—

Her phone vibrates.

Sharp. Loud. Wrong.

It cuts straight through the moment.

Neither of you moves at first.

You’re still there. Still close. Still almost.

Like if you ignore it, it might go away.

It doesn’t.

The vibration comes again.

Her jaw tightens slightly.

Yours does too.

“…you should get that,” you murmur, voice low, barely there.

She doesn’t pull away immediately.

Her eyes stay on yours.

For a second, it looks like she might ignore it.

Like she might choose this instead.

Then she exhales.

Pulls back just enough to reach for her phone.

Answers without breaking eye contact.

“…what.”

A pause.

“Yeah. I know.”

Another.

“I’m busy.”

Your eyes flick to her mouth again despite yourself.

“Handle it yourself, Fury.”

She hangs up.

Just like that.

Silence rushes back in.

But it’s not the same anymore.

Heavier now.

Charged.

Unfinished.

“…Work?” you ask.

She nods once.

“Mm.”

“They need you?”

Another nod.

“Yeah.”

You hesitate.

“…You should probably go.”

It’s gentle. Careful. An out.

Her eyes flicker—but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

“Someone told me not to mess this up,” she says quietly.

Her gaze drops again, just for a second, to your lips—then back up.

Her hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, until her fingers rest against your cheek.

Warm. Slightly unsteady.

You inhale.

Your own hand rises without thinking, stopping just short of her.

“…I—”

“Shh,” she whispers.

Soft. Careful.

She leans in.

Closer than feels safe.

Your lips hover, barely a breath apart. You can feel it—the hesitation, the pull, the question of it.

You close your eyes just enough.

Her lips hover, then brush yours–soft, almost questioning.

Your chest lifts. You press back slowly, tentatively, just enough to let her know you’re there.

Yet it’s everything.

She pulls back a fraction. Your eyes meet.

Something unspoken passes between you.

Then your hand finds her shoulder, pulling her closer—firm, but careful. There’s a hint of urgency now, but it doesn’t rush the moment.

This time, when your lips meet, it lingers.

Still soft.

But certain.

Your hand moves.

Slow. Absentmindedly.

To her wrist.

Gently.

Like you mean to pull her closer. Like you don’t even think about it.

Her breath catches—a sharp inhale.

You feel it before you understand it—the tension, the way her body goes still under your hand.

She pulls back slightly.

‘’Wait–’’

It’s quiet, but it stops you instantly.

“Sorry,” you murmur, already pulling back. “Did I—”

Your eyes flick down. The bandages.

Right.

It lands properly this time. Not like last night. Not distant. Not abstract. Here. Now.

Your chest tightens.

“…does it hurt?” you ask, softer now.

She avoids your eyes for a second. ‘It’s fine.’’

It’s not. You can hear it.

You don’t argue—you just nod once.

“Let me fix it,” you say. “If it’s not cleaned properly—”

You stop yourself. Too clinical.

A breath.

“I can change it.”

Now it’s not doctor. No duty. It’s just… you.

She studies you for a moment. Like she’s trying to figure out what this means.

What you mean.

Then she nods.

“…okay.”

You’re quick when you leave the room.

She watches the door. Listening to the quiet sounds, drawers opening, something shifting.

Her gaze drift.

Taking in the space. Not in detail. Just enough to feel it.

You return quickly, not wantingt to leave her alone too long.

‘’Sit,’’ you murmur softly, gesturing to the edge of your bed.

She hesitates—only a second—then moves.

When she sits it’s careful, like if she’s not used to being handled like this.

Her legs hang slightly off the side.

You sit down beside her. Close. Knees touching. Neither of you move away.

You reach out for her hands. Slow. Giving her time if she might want to change her mind.

She doesn’t.

Your fingers are warm around her wrist. Steady.

You start peeling the bandages back. Gently.

Yet, precise.

She watches you the whole time. Not the bandage—you.

Your brows pull together as you focus. Your touch never wavers.

‘’...this might sting,’’ you murmur.

Natasha huffs quietly. Like she doesn’t care. Like she does. Then—a sharp inhale. Her fingers twitch in your grip.

You pause instantly. Eyes flicking up.

‘’...sorry,’’ you speak, softly.

Sha shakes her head once. ‘’Don’t be.’’

A beat.

You silently continue. Gentler, somehow, if that’s even possible.

Silence settles. Far from empty.

Your thumb brushes lightly against her skin as you work. 

You don’t think twice about it.

But it’s grounding.

Her gaze doesn’t leave your face.

‘’...You’re careful,’’ she comments quietly after a moment.

You glance up. ‘’I have to be.’’ Automatic.

A beat.

‘’...I want to be.’’

That lands. She feels it.

You don’t look at her again. Not right away.

You finish cleaning the wound. Wrap fresh bandages around her wrist. Neat. Secure.

Your fingers linger for a second longer than needed.

Then—without really thinking—you bring her wrist closer.

Your lips brush softly against the edge of the bandage. Barely there.

A pause.

Again. Softer. Slower. Not clinical. Not routine. Something else.

Your eyes close just for a second.

When you pull back, the room feels different.

You clear your throat quietly.

‘’...there,’’ you murmur. ‘’That should be better.’’

But your hand doesn’t leave hers. Neither of you moves. Not really.

Just—sitting there. Close. Quiet. Too close for this to be nothing.

Her eyes land on something small on your nightstand.

She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move closer. Just looks. Keeps looking.

A photo. Framed in white.

Her expression doesn’t change much, but something softens in her gaze.

You follow her gaze. Your stomach drops. Not because she saw it…

…but because she wasn’t supposed to.

You swallow. “…she was a patient,” you say too quickly.

The words hang in the air, thin, flat. Wrong.

Natasha looks at you now. No accusation. No edge. Just knowing.

There is a small shift to her head. ‘’No...’’ Soft. Not pushing, but not accepting it either.

You stiffen. Jaw tightening. ‘’...you kept it the same,’’ she says quietly. ‘’Like you’re waiting.’’

Everything in you locks up. Fast. Clean. Just like that.

Shoulders pull back slightly. Spine straightens. Bracing for something that has already hit.

Silence crashes down. Heavy. Thick. Your gaze drops from hers, then returns.

Different.

Closed off.

“…you went through my apartment?” Your chest tightens.

Your voice isn’t soft, it’s sharp. Controlled. Too controlled.

Natasha blinks. Caught off guard by the shift. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” Too fast. Defensive. Immediate. You need to get there before she does.

“You just—what—wander around people’s homes now? Open doors?”

She stills. You can see the moment it hits her.

‘’I didn’t mean to–’’ she starts. ‘’It was open–’’

‘’And that means you can just walk in?’’ Your voice rises. Not loud, but enough. Enough to make it real.

The softness from before—gone. Completely.

Natasha’s chest tightens. Hurt flickers across her face, quick, gone just as fast.

‘’You should–’’

You stop. Swallow. ‘’...just go.’’ Cold now

‘’What?’’

You don’t hesitate. You point to the door. ‘’Leave.’’

She stares at you. Searching. Trying to find the version of you from five minutes ago.

The one who—held her. Kissed her. Looked at her like this mattered.

‘’Y/n…’’ Softer. Careful. ‘’Go.’’

Your voice breaks slightly on it. You hate that.‘’Just—go.’’

Natasha stops. Completely still. Waiting. Giving you space to take it back. To fix it. To stay.

You don’t. You can’t. Your hand is still lifted. Pointing. Your whole body locked tight. Closed off.

Untouchable.

Something in her expression shifts. Small, but final.

She swallows. Her gaze flicks once—past you. Toward the hallway. Then back.

‘’…now you’re the one messing things up,’’ she says. Quiet. Honest..

A beat.

She doesn’t move. Not yet. Giving you one last chance.

You don’t take it.

And that’s what does it.

Her jaw tightens. She nods once.

More to herself than to you.

Then she turns. And this time—

she leaves.

-///-

Natasha doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t let herself.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the for a small while—she just stands there. In the sadly lit hallway. Still.

Your voice is still in her head. Sharp. Louder than anything you’ve said before.

Go.

Her jaw tightens.

She moves before she can think too much about it, down the stairs. Out into the morning sun. It’s shining too bright at someone who just got their heart broken.

The drive is quiet. No radio. No distractions. Just—you.

And the way you looked at her. The way it changed. The way you shut down.

Her grip on the wheel tightens.

‘’…you were right there,’’ she murmurs under her breath.

A beat.

‘’…and I still—‘' She cuts herself off. Shakes her head once. Frustrated.

Because that’s the problem.

She doesn’t run. Not really.

But she doesn’t stay, either.

Not like you do.

Not like that.

Not when it matters.

She doesn’t remember deciding where to go, but the car takes a right anyway.

-///-

The hospital smells clean in the early morning. People are moving like they always do, like nothing has changed.

And Natasha walks in like she belongs there. Because at this point—she kind of does.

Sofia is awake when she steps in. Barely. But enough.

‘’…morning,’’ Sofia mutters.

Natasha pulls a chair closer. Sits.

Same place as before.

Like it’s familiar now.

Sofia studies her, eyes narrowing slightly.

‘’…you look worse.’'

Natasha huffs.

‘’Good to know.’'

A pause.

‘’…you messed it up, didn’t you?’'

Natasha lets out a breath, and drops her head back slightly.

‘’…yeah,’’ she admits.

Her nails pick at her skin around it.

Sofia watches closely.

‘’What happened?’'

Natasha exhales through her nose. ‘’…she told me to leave.’'

Sofia frowns. ‘’And you did?’'

A beat.

‘’…yeah.’'

Sofia lets out a quiet, pained groan.

‘’Natasha.’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Why?’’

Natasha shrugs, but there’s tension in it.

‘’She told me to.’'

‘’And you just left?’' Sofia says without thinking twice.

‘’…she yelled.’'

Sofia looks at Natasha, expression changing.

‘’She does that when she’s scared,’’ she adds.

‘’…you don’t know that.’'

Sofia shrugs weakly, ‘’I know enough.’’

The silence between them thickens with each second that passes.

‘’…I told her she was messing it up.’' Natasha swallows.

The words come quieter. Heavier.

Sofia blinks.

‘’You said that to her?’'

Natasha nods slowly.

‘’…yeah.’'

A pause.

Then—

‘’…good.’'

Natasha frowns. ‘’…what?’'

‘’She probably needed to hear it.’'

That was not the answer she expected. Natasha leans forward slightly.

‘’…she kicked me out.’'

‘’Yeah,’’ Sofia says. ‘’Sounds about right.’'

Sofia changes her position slightly.

‘’You still left.’'

Natasha exhales.

She glances down at her hands.

‘’...I kissed her.’’

She closes her eyes.

‘’...and I still left.’’

Sofia shifts again, wincing, but keeps going.

‘’You’re both kind of stupid.’'

That almost pulls a laugh out of her. Almost.

‘’…I don’t know how to fix it,’’ Natasha admits.

It’s rough.

Honest.

Unfiltered.

Sofia studies her, then shrugs faintly. ‘’You don’t need to.’’

Natasha blinks.

‘’Just don’t leave,’’ Sofia says. ‘’That’s it.’'

Simple. Again like it’s obvious. Like it’s easy.

Natasha leans back slightly and runs a hand over her face.

A part of her knows she can do that.

Pt. 5

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The faint hum of machines grows louder the closer you get.

You step inside.

And there she is.

In the low lighting.

Sofia looks... smaller somehow.

She's always been small.

But this is different.

Curled slightly into herself, her little hand barely visible above the blanket.

Still.

Too still.

And then she sees you.

Her face lights up.

Just a little.

Enough.

''You came,'' she whispers.

You soften instantly.

Pulling a chair closer, sitting down on it, reaching for her hand.

''Always,'' you murmur.

Her fingers curl weakly around yours.

Still warm.

Still there.

You brush your thumb over her knuckles, slow and grounding.

''Rough night, sweetie?'' you ask gently.

She nods.

''Figured as much. The nurse has notified your parents.''

Sofia lets out a quiet groan, more annoyed than anything.

You can't help it, but a small smile tugs at your lips.

''They worry too much,'' she mutters, her voice thin but stubborn.

You smile softly, checking her updated stats. ''They should,'' you reply softly.

No hesitation.

No teasing in it...

...just truth.

That makes her huff faintly.

''They act like I'm dying or something.''

You glance down at her, eyes softening.

You brush away some thin hairs on her face.

''It's exhausting to feel like the world's holding its breath every time you cough,'' you give her a reassuring smile, ''You matter to them. They care about you.''

She lets out a breath, something like a sigh, only smaller.

''Let them,'' you murmur.

You pause, letting your words sink in.

Then you ask gently.

''Where does it hurt?''

''...my bones, and my stomach,'' her voice is weak, but there.

You nod, taking in her words.

Your fingers adjust the blanket near her shoulder, careful, precise.

''On a scale from one to ten?''

She sighs.

''Seven... maybe eight.''

You nod again, calm, steady.

''Alright. We'll fix that.''

Not try.

Not hopefully.

We'll fix it.

''Let me take a look at your stomach, alright?''

Sofia nods without hesitation.

''...I just want to make sure the nurses didn't miss anything.''

''You always say that,'' she mumbles.

There's no complaint in it.

Just fact.

You almost smile.

''Yeah,'' you murmur. ''I do.''

You give her hand one last squeeze before standing, moving into something more clinical—just as soft, just as careful.

Your fingers press gently along her abdomen, watching her face closely.

''Here?''

She flinches.

You nod once.

''And here?''

Another reaction.

You check her chart, your eyes scanning quickly, efficiently.

Then the monitor.

Numbers.

Patterns.

You file it all away.

''Nausea?'' you ask.

''Yes.''

''Okay.''

You fix the blanket around her again, smoothing it down with quiet care before sitting back beside her.

The second you're close, she reaches for your hand again.

Like it's expected.

Like it's hers.

''You look like shit,'' she says bluntly.

You blink, letting out a small laugh.

''I'm okay.''

''You say that a lot,'' she replies.

You let out a quiet breath.

''...Did something happen?''

There it is.

Straight to it.

You glance at her.

She's watching you closely.

You hesitate, but then—

''...Remember that girl I told you about?'' you ask instead.

Sofia nods immediately.

''Natasha. The one you like.''

You choke on air.

''I never said that.''

''You didn't have to.''

You stare at her for a second.

''...You're a menace.''

''I know,'' she says, completely unbothered.

There's a pause.

''I met her today...''

Sofia's eyes sharpen—interested now.

''She's... a lot.''

''That's not an answer.''

You huff a quiet laugh.

''She's strong,'' you say. ''And really bad at letting people help her.''

Sofia doesn't hesitate.

''So are you.''

You blink.

''That's not—''

''It is,'' she cuts in, voice still weak but certain. ''You don't like it either.''

You exhale slowly.

''...Maybe.''

Sofia nods like she's just confirmed something.

''Did she leave?''

''...Yeah.''

''Did you make her leave?''

''No.''

''Did you try to stop her?''

You hesitate.

''...Not enough.''

Sofia frowns.

''That's on you then.''

You stare at her.

''Excuse me?''

''You're an adult,'' she says simply. ''You're supposed to be better at this.''

Despite everything, a quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of you.

''Wow.''

''I'm serious.''

''I can tell.''

She shift slightly, wincing, but keeps going anyway.

''Did it hurt?''

Your smile fades a little.

''...yeah.''

Sofia nods once, as if she expected that.

''Good.''

''Good?''

''Yes.''

You watch her, caught somewhere between amusement and confusion.

''Why is that good?''

''Because it means you care,'' she says, like it's obvious. ''And you're not lying about it.''

You go quiet for a second.

Your thumb resumes its slow movement over her hand.

''...You're brutal, you know that?''

''I'm right.''

You can't even argue.

After a moment, you sigh softly.

''...Yeah,'' you admit. ''You are.''

Sofita shifts her head slightly on the pillow, her face scrunching.

''She made you sad.''

It's not a question.

''...A little.''

''She's scared,'' Sofia says.

''What?''

''She's scared,'' she repeats. ''That's why she left.''

Your brows pull together.

''You don't know that.''

Sofia gives you a look.

''You didn't leave,'' she says. ''She did.''

You sigh, nibbling at your lip.

You've been doing that a lot lately.

''...You might be onto something.''

''I know.''

You check her vitals again.

Distracting the ache in your heart.

''Don't give up on her.''

Your chest tightens further.

''Sofia—''

''No,'' she cuts in, quieter now but still firm. ''People always leave when things get hard.''

A pause.

Her voice softens, just a little.

''You're not like that. Don't start now.''

It hits you somewhere deep.

You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

''I'm not going anywhere,'' you murmur.

She relaxes slightly under your touch.

''Good,'' she whispers.

A beat.

''Don't let her go either.''

Your throat tightens.

''...I'll try.''

Sofia studies you one last time.

You give her a warm smile.

''Let me talk to the nurses, okay? I'll get them to adjust your dosage a little.''

She nods, eyes heavy.

''Thanks.''

''Of course, honey.''

Once you step out, the soft click of the door echoes behind you.

The nurses are still at their stations, finishing charts, adjusting whatever needed to be adjusted.

''Let's up her intake by fifteen percent,'' you speak, voice professional.

The male nurse nods, already measuring.

''Any word on when the parents will be here?''

''Thirty, maybe forty?''

You nod, tapping your fingers once against the desk.

''Notify me when they arrive, I'll be in my office,'' you murmur, rubbing your eyes.

''You've had a long day, doctor. You should get some rest.''

Exhaustion presses against you, shoulders heavy. ''I'm fine... it's fine,'' you reply, giving a half smile.

You exhale slowly, pressing a hand to your forehead, the faint tension of twenty hours awake threatening to show.

''Doctor—''

''It's fine,'' your voice is firmer, ''She needs me.''

They nod, silent.

Professionals, like you.

You check your watch.

One a.m.

The quiet hum of machines from down the hall punctuates the stillness.

You rub a thumb over your temple.

You start to move.

Steps heavy.

You look up towards the entrance.

A sillhouette.

A faintly familiar one.

''...Natasha?''

You breathe out.

For a moment your brain doesn't catch up.

It just... stops.

Your heart doesn't.

It lurches.

Hard.

Because she's here.

Actually here.

She doesn't answer right away.

She steps closer to you.

Her eyes flick over you.

The hallway.

The soft light.

''This is where you disappear to,'' she says quietly.

You blink, still caught off guard.

''...How did you—''

''I'm good at finding people.''

Of course she is.

A small, disbelieving breath leaves you.

''Yeah,'' you murmur. ''I guess you are.''

There's a pause.

Thick. Quiet.

You take her in, aware of the subtle shift in the hallway's quiet.

''I—'' Natasha starts, then falters as your gaze sharpens, professional.

''Not here,'' you murmur, lowering your voice, but firm.

Your eyes flick toward the nurses at their station.

They tear there eyes away from the situation.

''Let's go to my office. We can talk there.''

Her lips part, something unsaid hanging in the space between you, but she nods.

You lead her down a side corridor, your steps steady.

The hospital feels impossibly empty at this hour, each echo of your shoes magnified in the dim light.

Once inside your office, you close the door softly, leaning back against it.

''Alright,'' you murmur, voice gentle, though there's still that measured edge.

''Why are you here?''

She hesitates, breath uneven.

''...I shouldn't have said it,'' she admits.

It's quiet.

Honest.

A little rough around the edges.

You glance at her.

She's still composed.

Still standing straight.

But there's something different now.

Something... less guarded.

''No,'' you say softly. ''You meant it.'''

That makes her flinch.

Barely.

But it's there.

''I meant it because it was easier,'' she says.

A beat.

Then, quietly—

''...Not because it was true.''

You swallow.

It kicks your heart in a way.

But it doesn't erase the earlier pain.

It just... sits next to it.

''You don't get to decide what this is for me,'' you say.

Still gentle.

But firmer than before.

Natasha stills.

It's not something she can control.

She doesn't have an answer.

And that's rare.

''I-''

Her shoulders falter.

''I don't...'' she exhales, frustrated, like the words aren't lining up the way she wants them to. ''I don't do this.''

''Do what?''

Her eyes flick up to yours.

Steady.

''Come back.''

Honest.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

Something in your chest shifts.

Softens.

But you don't let her off easy.

''Then why did you?'' you ask.

Gently.

Not pushing—

but not letting her hide either.

Natasha holds your gaze.

And for a second, it looks like she might shut down.

Default.

Deflect.

But she doesn't.

Her voice drops slightly.

Quieter.

''Because I didn't like how it felt when I left.''

It almost knock the air out of you.

You swallow.

''Yeah?'' you murmur.

A pause.

''It was loud,'' she says.

You frown slightly.

''In my head,'' she clarifies. ''Wouldn't stop replaying it.''

A beat.

''Wouldn't stop replaying...''

Her eyes flick away, just a second.

''...You,'' she adds, quieter.

That's it.

That's the thing that pulls you a step closer without realizing.

Just one.

Small.

But enough.

Her eyes catches something bright on your wall.

Specifically—

one drawing.

You follow her gaze.

And the second you see which one—

you freeze.

Of course.

Of course it's that one.

Crayon. Bright colors. Questionable proportions.

Two very recognizable figures.

One labeled (in shaky handwriting): Y/n

The other:

Natasha

And between them—

a very enthusiastic attempt at a kiss.

There's even little hearts above your heads.

You had told Sofia not to hang that one up.

She had already did it anyway.

You can still hear her giggling and her kissy noises.

You had tried to scold her.

You really had.

But that tiny mischievous, evil little laugh.

It was enough to not take it down.

You'd studied it more than you'd like to confess.

''...Wow,'' she murmurs.

There's something in her voice—low, almost amused.

''Is that—'' she gestures loosely, lips twitching, ''—accurate?''

You let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down your face.

''...My patient is nine,'' you say, like that explains everything.

''It explains the artistic choices,'' Natasha replies, deadpan. ''Not the content.''

You shoot her a look.

She doesn't look away.

If anything, she steps closer.

That... wasn't part of the plan.

“She’s got a very active imagination,” you mutter, reaching up like you might take the drawing down—

—but you don’t.

Natasha notices that too.

“Mm,” she hums softly. “Seems pretty specific for imagination.”

You huff a quiet breath, something between embarrassment and exhaustion.

“You should see the one where I’m fighting a dragon.”

“…Do you win?”

You glance at her.

“…Every time.”

That earns you the faintest smile.

It lingers.

Then fades into something softer.

Quieter.

Her gaze shifts back to you—not the drawing this time.

You feel it.

God, you feel it.

The room suddenly feels smaller.

Too quiet.

Too late.

Too just the two of you.

“She drew me in there,” Natasha says after a second, voice quieter now. “Means you talk about me.”

It’s not a question.

You don’t lie.

“…Sometimes.”

Her eyes flicker.

Something shifts in them—something less guarded.

“Good things?” she asks.

Soft.

Careful.

You hesitate.

“…You’re brave,” you say.

It’s simple.

You pause before continuing.

“...You’re… frustrating,” you murmur, a tired huff following it. “And terrible at letting people in.”

Her lips twitch faintly.

“Sounds about right.”

A beat.

You don’t look away.

“…And I think you deserve someone who stays,” you finish, quieter.

That does it.

You see it happen.

The way her breath catches—just slightly.

The way her shoulders drop, like something inside her just… gave.

The silence stretches.

Heavy.

Charged.

She steps closer.

Not fast.

Not hesitant either.

Just… certain.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she murmurs.

Your brows knit slightly.

“What thing?”

“Caring like that.”

Your breath hitches.

You don’t step back.

“You showed up,” you say quietly.

Her gaze flicks to your lips.

Then back up.

“So did you.”

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

You don’t even realize you’ve leaned in until you’re already there—

close enough to feel her breath.

Close enough that it would take nothing—

nothing—

to close the distance.

Her hand lifts slightly.

Stops just short of your arm.

Your heart is pounding now.

Not steady.

Not controlled.

Nothing like how you are with patients.

This is different.

This is—

“Doctor!”

The shout cuts through everything.

Sharp.

Urgent.

You freeze.

Your head snaps toward the door.

“Doctor, we need you—Sofia’s reacting!”

And just like that—

you’re gone.

Not physically.

But the shift is instant.

Complete.

Professional.

Focused.

You step back immediately, all softness snapping into something precise.

“What happened?” you ask, already moving.

“Her heart rate spiked right after the adjustment—”

You’re out the door before they finish.

Natasha is right behind you—

like she was always going to be.

You don’t notice.

Too caught up in the sheer panic of the nurse.

“Okay, talk to me,” you say as you step back to Sofia’s side. “What happened?”

“The new dosage—ten minutes ago.”

Too quick.

You clock it immediately.

“Alright,” you murmur, already checking her monitor. “We’re rolling that back.”

Your hands move with practiced ease—checking her pulse, her pupils, the tension in her abdomen.

“Get me her previous rate, now.”

“On it.”

“Sofia,” your voice shifts instantly—softer, grounding. “Hey, stay with me, sweetheart. Look at me.”

Her face twists, small and pained.

“It hurts—”

“I know,” you murmur, brushing her the think hair back quickly but gently. “I’ve got you. Just breathe with me, okay?”

Then, sharper again—

“Anti-nausea, IV. Slow push.”

“Done.”

“Good. Monitor her BP every two minutes. I want trends, not guesses people.”

Your tone never rises.

But it cuts.

Clear.

Controlled.

Unshakable.

And Natasha—

Natasha just stands there for a second.

Watching you.

Really watching you.

The way you move.

The way you switch between clinical precision and soft reassurance without missing a beat.

The way your hand never leaves Sofia for too long.

The way your voice—no matter how firm—never loses warmth when you speak to her.

...This is what staying looks like.

...And she's never done it before.

Something shifts.

Deep.

Unfamiliar.

Because this?

This isn't what she expected.

It's not easy.

It's not distant.

It's not something she can walk away from without feeling it.

Her chest tightens.

Not sharp.

Not painful.

Just... There

And for the first time...

...She doesn't look for a way out.

Sofia’s breathing steadies.

The sharp edge of panic fades from the room, replaced by something quieter.

Monitors hum instead of scream.

You don’t move right away.

Your hand stays in hers, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over her knuckles.

“…That’s it,” you murmur softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Her fingers twitch weakly in yours.

Tired.

But there.

Her eyes shift—slow, heavy.

Not to you.

Past you.

Toward the door.

You follow her gaze for just a second—

—and then you see it.

Natasha.

Still standing there.

Still watching.

Sofia’s grip tightens—just barely—and she tugs your hand.

It’s small.

But intentional.

You lean down immediately.

“Hey,” you murmur, softer now. “What is it, princess?”

Her voice is barely there.

A whisper against the noise of machines.

“…Is that her?”

You don’t ask what she means.

You don’t pretend.

You just glance back once—

then return your attention to Sofia.

And nod.

Slow.

Honest.

Her lips twitch faintly.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

You press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Warm.

Lingering just a second longer than necessary.

When you pull back—

“SOFIA!”

The voice cuts through the room.

Sharp.

Breaking.

Her mother.

She rushes in first—eyes wide, already crying—straight to the bedside.

Her father follows, a step behind, tense, confused, trying to understand everything at once.

“What happened—what’s going on? She was fine earlier—” her mother’s voice cracks as she reaches for Sofia, brushing trembling hands over her face.

You stand immediately.

Calm.

Present.

Your hand slips from Sofias as her mother reaches for her.

“Hey—hey,” you say gently, stepping in just enough to ground the moment. “She’s stable.”

“Stable?” her father repeats, sharper. “What does that mean? What happened?”

You keep your voice even.

Measured.

“We adjusted her dosage about ten minutes prior. She had a reaction; increased abdominal pain, nausea. We’ve already reversed the change and stabilized her vitals.”

They both stare at you.

Processing.

Not quite there yet.

So you soften it—just a fraction.

“She’s okay,” you say again, quieter. “But I’d like to go over everything with you properly.”

You offer a small smile.

“Can we step outside for a moment?”

Her mother hesitates.

Her father doesn’t.

He nods once.

“Yeah. Yes, okay.”

You gesture gently toward the door.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur to Sofia.

Just watches you go.

With her mother and father.

Your voice shifts again—more clinical now, but still steady.

“The reaction was likely due to how quickly her system processed the increased dosage,” you explain, hands loosely folded.

“Given her current condition, her tolerance is fluctuating more than we’d like.”

Her mother presses a hand to her mouth.

Her father runs a hand through his hair, pacing once.

“Is it dangerous?” he asks.

“It can be,” you answer honestly. “But we caught it early. That’s what matters.”

You don’t sugarcoat.

But you don’t let them spiral either.

Inside the room, Sofia shifts.

Just a little.

Her eyes flick to the glass window where you’re talking with her parents.

She can’t hear it, but she knows it isn’t good.

Then she glances at the door, seeing the redhead.

And she lifts one finger.

Crooked.

Weak.

Beckoning.

Natasha hesitates.

Just for a second.

Her gaze flicks to you, then back to Sofia.

She steps in.

Quiet.

Careful.

Like she doesn’t belong here.

Like she’s not sure she’s allowed to.

She stops beside the bed.

Sofia looks up at her.

Studying.

Assessing.

“…You’re her,” she says.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Natasha blinks.

“…I—” she starts, then stops.

Because how do you even respond to that?

Sofia doesn’t wait.

“She talks about you,” she continues, voice thin but certain.

Natasha stills.

“Not a lot,” Sofia adds. “But enough.”

There’s a pause.

Natasha glances toward the glass window.

Then back down.

Her lips part, then close.

A beat.

''...What does she say?” she asks quietly.

Sofia hums faintly, like she’s thinking.

“She thinks you’re strong,” she says. “And annoying.”

A beat.

“Mostly annoying.”

That earns the faintest huff of breath from Natasha.

Almost a laugh.

“She’s not wrong.”

Sofia ignores that.

“She worries about you,” she continues. “Like… a lot.”

Natasha’s expression shifts—subtle, but real.

Natasha’s throat tightens.

“She doesn’t sleep enough,” Sofia mutters. “And she says she’s fine when she’s not.”

A pause.

Then, blunt as ever—

“You make it worse.”

Natasha blinks.

“…I do?”

Sofia nods weakly.

“Yeah. Because she cares about you and you make everything complicated.”

There it is.

No filter.

No softness.

Just truth.

Natasha exhales slowly.

Sofia studies her for a second longer.

Like she’s deciding something.

“...She was sad when you left.”

Quiet.

Simple.

Final.

Natasha’s gaze drops.

Just for a moment.

And when she looks back up—

something in her has shifted.

Again.

Outside the window—

you’re still talking.

Still explaining.

Still holding everything together.

And inside—

Natasha finally understands something she didn’t before.

Not just that you care.

But how much.

And how deeply.

And how you never stop.

Even when you’re exhausted.

Even when it hurts.

Sofia sinks a little deeper into the pillow.

Energy fading fast.

“…Don’t mess it up,” she mumbles.

Natasha’s lips part slightly.

Caught off guard.

“Excuse me?”

Sofia’s eyes are already closing.

“…You heard me…”

And just like that—

she’s drifting again.

Leaving Natasha standing there.

Silent.

A little stunned.

And very, very aware—

that she’s just been read by a nine-year-old.

Natasha doesn’t move, she just stands there.

She just stands there.

Looking at her.

At how small she is.

At how much she just said.

A breath leaves her slowly.

Her gaze shifts—

to the window.

Where you are.

Still talking.

Still explaining.

Still carrying everything.

She could leave.

It would be easy.

Slip out.

Disappear before you come back.

Before this becomes something she has to deal with.

Her hand flexes slightly at her side.

Then stills.

“…Yeah,” she murmurs to herself.

Like she’s answering a question no one asked.

She pulls a chair closer.

It scrapes softly against the floor.

And she sits.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Just… there.

Her elbows rest on her knees.

Only for a second.

She leans back.

Arms crossing loosely.

Guarded, but staying.

Her eyes flick back to Sofia.

“…You’re terrifying,” she mutters quietly.

A beat.

Then, softer—

“…but you’re not wrong.”

The door opens.

Natasha’s head lifts instantly.

Your voice reaches the room first—low, steady, still mid-explanation—

“—we’ll be monitoring her closely through the—”

Then you step in.

Sofia’s mother moves straight to the bed again, relief and panic tangled together.

Her father—

stops.

A stranger.

Sitting in a chair.

Next to his daughter.

Alone.

His expression hardens immediately.

“Who is that?” he snaps, stepping forward.

The room tightens.

You move before it escalates.

“Hey—” your voice cuts through, firm but controlled. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” the father shoots back, gesturing sharply toward Natasha. “I walk in and there’s someone sitting with my kid? Who is she?”

You step slightly in front of him.

Not blocking.

Just… redirecting.

Grounding.

“She’s with me,” you say.

Clear.

Certain.

No hesitation.

That lands.

Not fully calming him—but enough to pause him.

“With you how?” he presses, eyes narrowing.

You hold his gaze.

Steady.

Professional.

“She works with trauma cases,” you explain, tone even. “She was assisting earlier.”

A beat.

Silence stretches.

The father looks at Natasha again.

Assessing.

Suspicious.

“She doesn’t look like staff.”

“She’s not,” you reply smoothly. “She consults.”

Short.

Clean.

You don’t over-explain.

That would make it worse.

Behind him, Sofia’s mother barely registers the conversation—

—her focus locked entirely on Sofia.

Whispering something soft.

Stroking her cheek lovingly.

The father exhales sharply through his nose.

Still tense.

Still not loving it.

“She wasn’t doing anything,” you add, quieter now.

“She just stayed with her while I spoke to you.”

That shifts it.

Just slightly.

Because that matters.

Because someone stayed.

His jaw tightens.

Then loosens.

A fraction.

“…Right,” he mutters.

Not convinced.

But not escalating either.

You nod once.

Control re-established.

Your attention shifts immediately—back to Sofia.

Always back to Sofia.

You step past them, moving to the bedside.

Your hand finds hers again without thinking.

Checking.

Grounding.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you murmur softly, even though she’s asleep. “Still with me, yeah?”

Your eyes flick to the monitor.

Heart rate steady.

Breathing even.

Good.

Natasha is standing now.

Not drawing attention.

Giving space.

But she doesn’t leave.

Your awareness of her is constant, even without looking.

You adjust Sofia’s blanket slightly. 

You turn.

Just enough to look at Natasha.

Your eyes meet hers.

There’s something there.

Unfinished.

Interrupted.

Your voice softens just a fraction.

“You can wait in my office,” you say quietly.

Not a dismissal.

Not cold.

Just… practical.

Safe.

A way out of the tension.

Natasha studies you for a second.

Then nods once.

She moves toward the door without another word.

But not before her gaze flicks once more to Sofia—

and then back to you.

-///-

You push the door to your office open slowly.

The dim light hums softly overhead.

And she’s there.

Leaning back against your desk, arms loosely crossed.

Like she hasn’t moved much since you left her.

Her eyes lift the second you step in.

They flick over you—quick, assessing.

Tired.

You close the door behind you, your hand resting against it for just a second longer than necessary.

The quiet in here is different.

Heavier.

More contained.

You exhale softly, then push yourself off the door, moving further into the room.

Slower now.

The adrenaline’s gone.

What’s left is just…

exhaustion.

You rub a hand over your face.

For a second, you don’t even try to hide it.

Natasha watches you.

“You’ve been up a while,” she says.

Not a question.

You huff out a quiet breath.

“Since five.”

Her brows pull together slightly.

“…Yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

You let your head fall back for a second, eyes closing.

“I had a full shift, then crisis line, then you... then this.”

You gesture vaguely toward the hospital around you.

“And you’re still here,” she says.

There’s something in her voice now.

Something quieter.

You open your eyes again, glancing at her.

“Yeah,” you murmur.

A pause.

Then—

“She needed me.”

Simple.

Obvious.

But the way you say it—

it lands.

Natasha shifts slightly, pushing herself off the desk.

She doesn’t come too close.

But closer than before.

“You care about her a lot,” she says.

It’s not teasing.

Not observational.

It’s… softer than that.

You look at her for a second.

Then your gaze drifts—briefly—to the wall.

To the drawings.

A small breath leaves you.

“…She reminds me of someone I knew very well.”

The words come out quieter than you expected.

Like they weren’t meant to be said out loud.

Natasha stills.

Doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t push.

She just… listens.

Your eyes don’t meet hers right away.

“They used to talk like that too,” you add after a moment. “Blunt. No filter. Thought they had everything figured out.”

A faint, almost-there smile tugs at your lips.

It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Silence settles.

Natasha’s gaze softens—barely, but enough.

She glances at your hands, then up at you.

‘’Do you stay for the same reason with me? Do I remind you of someone you’ve lost?’’

You look back up at her.

‘’You’re… different.’’

A beat passes.

Then another.

Your gaze shifts—

not to her, but past her.

To the window.

The sky.

The moon.

Something in your expression tightens—only for a quiet moment.

“You should probably head home,” you murmur. “It’s late.”

Natasha doesn’t move.

Of course she doesn’t.

“And you?” she asks.

You huff a quiet breath.

“I’ll stay a bit longer. Make sure Sofia’s stable. Then I’ll go.”

A pause.

Your eyes flick briefly to the clock.

Almost two.

You’re running on nothing.

Natasha notices.

“No, you won’t,” she says.

You blink.

“…What?”

“You’re going to fall asleep in that chair,” she tells you.

There’s the edge again.

Familiar.

You almost smile.

“I’ve done it before.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

A beat.

Then—

“I’ll drive you.”

That catches you off guard.

You straighten slightly.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

She steps a little closer now.

Not much.

But enough.

“I want to.”

-///-

The engine hums.

Your head lulls to the side, eyelids heavy.

“…You’re really out,” she murmurs, glancing at you.

She stills for just a second.

Then looks back at the road.

You hum faintly in response.

The city rolls past in quiet streaks of yellow light.

Your body sags against the seat.

Weight forgotten.

Tension gone.

It's been a while since you let yourself relax like this.

She doesn’t speak after that.

You breathe slowly.

Shallowly.

Letting the exhaustion pull you under completely.

Some time passes.

A tap on your shoulder.

“…Hey,” she says, softer now, closer to your ear. “…We’re here.”

You murmur something incoherent.

Eyes still closed.

“…Five more minutes…”

She lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

“…Yeah, that's not happening.”

You groan, half-awake, letting your head fall fully against the seat. “…Don’t want to walk…”

A pause.

“…I know,” she says simply. “…I’ve got you.”

When the door opens, the cool night air hits your face.

She slides an arm under yours.

Careful.

Steady.

You lean into it without thinking.

Letting her take your weight.