SHHHHHH.....

Y/N inclined their head to King Olek and Queen Natalya. “Thank you for accepting the invitation,” they said evenly, voice calm but sincere. A hand extended first to Olek, then to Natalya—measured, respectful.

Pietro rose halfway from his chair when Y/N offered him a hand. There was a flicker of hesitation—old instinct—but then he took it. The grip was firm, brief. Honest. Y/N turned next to Jarvis, offering the same courtesy.

Jarvis stared at the hand for a fraction too long before clasping it. His jaw tightened as he released it, knuckles whitening as he reclaimed his seat.

None of that mattered to Lina.

She was practically bouncing in her seat, eyes locked on Pietro. “Are you really Wanda’s brother?” she asked, leaning halfway across the table before anyone could stop her.

Wanda laughed softly. “Yes. Pietro and I are twins.”

Lina’s mouth fell open.

“Twins?” she repeated, staring at Pietro like he’d just revealed he could breathe fire. She slid closer to Y/N without realizing it, fingers brushing their sleeve as she whispered, loudly, “That means there are two of her.”

Pietro blinked, then chuckled despite himself. “That is… technically correct.”

Y/N watched it all quietly.

They didn’t tell Lina to sit still.

Didn’t curb her excitement.

Didn’t tense the way they used to when joy at the table was considered dangerous.

Not like when their father had been there.

Wanda noticed.

She glanced at Y/N, catching the way they were very deliberately not smiling too widely, not drawing attention to themselves—like they were still bracing for a reprimand that would never come.

Under the table, she reached for their hand and squeezed it gently.

Y/N finally looked at her, the tension easing just a fraction. Their lips curved into a soft, helpless smile—one meant only for her.

Across the table, Queen Natalya noticed the exchange and smiled knowingly. King Olek’s expression softened as well, a quiet approval in his eyes.

Pietro, still distracted by Lina’s rapid-fire questions, “Were you born at the same time?” “Who’s older?”, didn’t see it.

But Jarvis did.

His grip tightened around the table knife, knuckles whitening, jaw set as he stared at the small, domestic intimacy playing out in front of him—something he had no place in anymore.

Olek set his wine aside and turned toward Y/N, his tone quieter than before, curious rather than challenging.

“So,” he asked. “What will you do now, Prince Y/N”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Their gaze drifted past the long table, past the flicker of candlelight against stone, toward the tall windows where night pressed close.

“There is much to mend,” they said finally. Calm. Honest. Tired in a way only rulers ever were. “The palace must be restored. The court convened. The people spoken to—truthfully.” Their jaw tightened just slightly. “I will have to be crowned. Officially.”

Olek nodded once. “And your people?”

“They deserve answers,” Y/N said. “About what happened. About what was done in my father’s name. And what will never be done again.”

There was no heat in their voice when they spoke of King Alaric. Only distance.

Then Y/N inhaled, slower this time.

“But before any of that,” they continued, “there will be a ceremony.”

Natalya looked up. “A ceremony?”

Y/N inclined their head. “Yes. I plan to have a ceremony for the fallen ones. For all of them.”

The table grew quieter.

“For the knights who fell defending Virelia,” Y/N said. “For the villagers caught between borders. For those who wore my father’s colors because they were ordered to—and paid for it with their lives.” Their fingers curled once against the table, then relaxed. “My knights did everything they could to avoid bloodshed. But war does not listen to intentions.”

Wanda felt their hand tighten briefly in hers.

“And there are those,” Y/N added, voice steady but heavy, “who committed atrocities under Alaric’s command. Their names will be spoken too. Not to honor them—but so they are not erased. So we remember what blind obedience costs.”

Silence followed. Thick. Respectful.

Then Y/N looked back to Olek and Natalya. “I would like to invite you. All of you. To stand with us during the ceremony. Not as allies. Not as victors.” A pause. “But as witnesses.”

Olek studied them for a long moment.

This time, there was no skepticism in his eyes.

“That,” he said slowly.

Natalya placed her hand over his. “We would be honored,” she said gently.

Pietro glanced between them, then at Wanda. She nodded once—small, sure.

Jarvis remained silent, gaze lowered.

Lina leaned closer to Y/N, her voice a whisper meant only for them. “Is it a sad ceremony?”

Y/N softened immediately, bending closer to her. “Yes,” they said honestly. “But it’s also for saying goodbye. And for making promises.”

She thought about that, then nodded solemnly. “Okay. I can be quiet.”

Y/N smiled and kissed the crown of her head.

Across the table, Olek watched the exchange—and for the first time, he did not see King Alaric’s shadow anywhere near Y/N.

---

The next day, Y/N stood with King T’Chaka in a quiet solar overlooking the inner gardens. The air was still, heavy with the scent of stone and rain-soaked leaves. It was a far cry from the tension that had filled the chambers before—no raised voices now, no blades of anger drawn bare.

T’Chaka was the first to speak.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low, worn smooth by exhaustion. “For allowing me the time with my nephew.”

Y/N inclined their head, respectful but reserved. They did not pretend this was easy generosity—but it was necessary.

“The boy,” T’Chaka continued, staring out over the gardens, “he reminds me of my sister. The way he tilts his head when he listens. The way he watches before he speaks.” His throat worked. “For a moment, it was as if she were standing there again.”

Y/N said nothing. They let the silence hold what words could not.

After a long breath, T’Chaka turned back to them. His gaze was steadier now—still proud, still scarred, but no longer blinded.

“There is one thing more,” he said. “You asked to see your father.”

Y/N’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“I will allow it,” T’Chaka said firmly. “One final audience. No guards beyond the necessary. No delays.”

Y/N met his eyes. Whatever they felt did not show, but their voice was clear. “Thank you.”

T’Chaka nodded once. “But don’t you dare release him!”

Y/N inclined their head again, deeper this time. Not in submission—but in acknowledgement.

---

Later that day, the sun was starting to go down when Y/N was guided beyond the palace walls, past the rebuilt gates and into the temporary camp the Eastern Kingdom still maintained on Virelian soil. The air changed the farther they walked—less incense and polished stone, more iron, leather, and damp earth. It smelled like soldiers. Like aftermath.

Ser Barnes walked on their left, silent as a shadow, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. Ser Wilson stayed to their right, posture easy but eyes sharp, scanning every movement in the camp with practiced vigilance. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Ahead of them, Prince T’Challa led the way.

He moved with quiet authority, warriors stepping aside as he passed, offering respectful nods that Y/N returned automatically. The sun hung high but muted, veiled by slow-moving clouds that dulled the light into something gray and unforgiving.

They passed rows of tents—some marked with sigils of the Eastern Kingdom, others bearing the scars of hurried repairs. Low voices murmured. Metal clinked. Somewhere, a forge rang.

Y/N felt it then—that familiar tightening in their chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Memory.

T’Challa slowed as they approached the edge of the camp, where the ground dipped slightly and the tents thinned. A single structure stood apart from the rest—larger, reinforced, bound with iron lattice and guarded on all sides.

A cage disguised as a tent.

T’Challa stopped. “He is inside,” he said evenly. “You may have as much time as you need. We will be close.”

“Thank you.” Y/N nodded before turning to their knights, “You both stay here.”

Both Ser Barnes and Ser Wilson glanced at Y/N, offering a small, wordless nod—support without pressure.

Y/N stepped forward.

The guards pulled the flap fully aside.

The stench hit first.

Old sweat. Rust. Stale blood soaked into fabric that had been meant to look temporary but had long since given up the pretense. The tent sagged inward, its canvas darkened by grime and damp. Chains hung from iron posts driven into the ground, thick and heavy, clinking softly with every restless movement.

King Alaric was not seated with dignity.

He was chained.

Wrists bound high enough to force his shoulders back, ankles shackled to the bench beneath him. His once-fine clothing had been reduced to a torn, gray tunic stained with dirt and dried blood. His hair hung loose and greasy around his face, his beard untrimmed, eyes sunken but burning with the same cruel fire Y/N remembered far too well. He had his face swollen and some cuts along his face, arms, and torso.

The moment he saw Y/N, his mouth twisted—not in surprise, not in relief.

In fury.

“You,” he spat, yanking uselessly against the chains, metal screaming in protest. “You filthy abomination. You dare show your face?”

Y/N did not move.

Alaric surged forward as much as the restraints allowed. “Release me. NOW. I am your king. I am your FATHER. These animals have no right—”

“They have every right,” Y/N said quietly.

That only enraged him further.

“I should have killed you when you were small,” Alaric snarled. “When your body first betrayed you. I saw it then. I knew. A curse. A mockery. You ruined my bloodline.”

Y/N felt it then—not pain, not shock.

A cold, hollow stillness.

“You didn’t,” Y/N replied. “You kept me alive.”

Alaric sneered. “Only because your mother begged. Because she spread her legs and cried and swore you could still be useful. Gods, I should have cut you open and fixed the mistake myself.”

The words were vile. Rotting. Spoken without hesitation.

Y/N took one slow step closer.

“Did you ever love me?” they asked.

The question landed like a blade—clean, quiet, impossible to dodge.

Alaric laughed again, harsher this time. “Love?” He scoffed. “You were an embarrassment. A living insult. Every time I looked at you, I saw weakness.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, but their voice did not break.

“And Mother?” they asked. “Did you ever love her?”

That, at least, made him pause.

Then his face hardened.

“She was a means,” Alaric said flatly. “A womb. Nothing more. And when she failed me—when she gave me you—she sealed her fate.”

Something inside Y/N finally cracked—not loudly, not violently.

Just… cleanly.

They nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“What about Lina?” Y/N asked. The name sounded steadier than they felt. “Did you ever love her?”

Alaric barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Love?” he scoffed. “She was another disappointment. A girl. But at least she was proper—not cursed like you. In a few years, I would’ve sold her well enough. A king always finds a buyer.”

Something snapped.

Y/N moved before the thought fully formed—fingers fisting in Alaric’s collar, hauling him up until his boots scraped uselessly against the ground. The chains rattled, the guards shouted, but Alaric only laughed harder, breath hot and rotten against Y/N’s face.

“Look at you,” he jeered. “Just like your mother—too weak to finish the job. I should have killed you when you were small.”

Y/N lift him higher, their grip tightening, voice low and shaking with a fury they refused to let spill further.

“You can say anything you want about me,” they said, each word carved out of restraint. “But you will not speak of my mother. And you will not speak of my sister.”

Alaric barked a laugh, blood already slicking his lip. “Weak,” he sneered. “Always weak. I should’ve married the girl myself. Wanda would be carrying by now—at least someone would’ve put her to use.”

That did it.

Y/N’s fist snapped forward.

The impact cracked through the tent like a whip. Alaric’s head jerked to the side, blood spraying, chains clanging as he reeled—and then he laughed. Gurgling. Delighted.

“Yes,” he crooned, teeth red. “Punch me. Show them. Show the world you’re the same as me.”

Y/N shoved him back, hard, releasing him so he slammed into the chains and sagged there, still grinning.

“I’m not like you,” Y/N said, voice steady now, colder than steel.

They turned to leave.

Behind them, Alaric shouted, desperate and venomous. “You are! You’ll be the same kind of king I was. I made you this way. I raised you!”

Y/N stopped—but only for a heartbeat.

They didn’t turn fully. Just their head. One last look over their shoulder, eyes burning with something Alaric would never own.

“No,” they said quietly. “I never wanted to be you. And I never will.”

Then they walked out, leaving the laughter to rot in chains behind them.

Outside the tent, the air felt sharper—too clean after the rot inside.

“Your Highness—” Ser Barnes and Ser Wilson said at the same time.

Y/N stopped walking.

Both knights were pale, jaws tight, fists gripped in fury towards their former King. They had heard everything. There was no hiding that.

Y/N’s chest burned, rage still coiled tight beneath their ribs, but they drew it in, forcing it down layer by layer until only a controlled stillness remained. When they turned, their expression was composed—too composed.

Prince T’Challa stepped closer, eyes dark with understanding. “Are you… alright?”

Y/N inclined their head slightly. “I will be. Thank you—for allowing the audience.”

A pause. Then, steadier now, “The Eastern Kingdom is welcome at the ceremony tomorrow. All are.”

T’Challa nodded, respectful. “We will attend.”

Y/N didn’t linger. They offered a brief nod to the prince, another to their knights, and then turned away, strides long and purposeful as they left the camp behind. Barnes and Wilson followed at a distance, silent sentinels, worry etched into every step.

---

The palace gates felt like breath after drowning.

Y/N didn’t stop to speak to anyone. Didn’t slow. They went straight through familiar corridors, boots echoing against stone, heart hammering harder with every step closer to where they knew she would be by this time.

Their shared chambers.

The doors opened—and there she was.

Wanda looked up instantly, her face lighting up for half a heartbeat before the smile fell away. She saw it then: the blood on their hands, the tension carved into their posture, the way their eyes were just a little too bright.

“Y/N—?”

They crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into them, arms wrapping tight around her waist. Bloody hands pressed into the fabric of her dress as they buried their face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in like oxygen—lavender, warmth, home.

Wanda didn’t hesitate. Her arms came up around their neck, holding them just as firmly.

“What happened?” she asked softly, fingers threading into their hair.

Y/N didn’t answer yet. They just stood there, clinging, breath uneven, letting her presence anchor the fury before it could tear them apart.

Wanda’s arms tightened around their shoulders when they didn’t answer right away.

“What did he tell you?” she asked again, quieter this time.

Y/N’s grip on her sharpened for a breath—just a breath—before easing, like they were afraid of hurting her. Their forehead pressed into the hollow beneath her jaw, voice low and rough against her skin.

“He said… he never loved her,” they murmured. “My mother. He said she was just a womb. That I was a mistake.”

A pause. Their jaw flexed. “He said Lina was a disappointment too. That he would’ve sold her one day.”

Wanda felt them tremble then—not shaking apart, but holding everything together with sheer force.

“And he laughed,” Y/N added. “About you. About what he would have done if he’d kept you for himself.”

That did it.

Wanda pulled back just enough to see their face, her hands coming up to cup their cheeks, thumbs brushing away the wetness they hadn’t realized had escaped. Her expression was fierce in a way that made kings falter.

“Look at me,” she said.

They did.

“He lied because that’s the only weapon he has left,” she said steadily. “And you walked away anyway. That’s not weakness. That’s strength he will never understand.”

Y/N swallowed. “I hit him,” they admitted, voice cracking. “For a moment I felt just like him. And I was terrified that maybe—maybe he was right.”

Wanda shook her head, forehead touching theirs. “No,” she said firmly. “You stopped. You let go. He never would have.”

She guided their hands away from her dress and toward the basin, gently, like handling something precious. As she cleaned the blood from their skin, her touch was deliberate, grounding—each wipe an unspoken reassurance. When she finished, she kissed their knuckles, then their wrist, then pressed her lips to their temple.

“You are nothing like him,” she repeated. “And you never will be.”

Y/N closed their eyes, leaning into her, breath hitching.

“What if…” Their voice faltered, the words dragging out like they hurt to touch. “What if I really am like him. What if the rumors are true and I’ve just been pretending they’re not.”

They pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy, raw in a way only Wanda ever saw. One hand drifted down, palm pressing flat—almost reverently—against her still-flat belly.

“What if one day I look at this little one,” they whispered, voice breaking despite their effort to hold it together, “and something inside me is wrong. What if I hurt them. What if I become him.”

Their face crumpled then—not loudly, not dramatically—but like a wall finally giving way after holding too much for too long.

Wanda didn’t hesitate.

She took their hand from her belly and laced it with her own, pressing it back there—firmer this time—before bringing their other hand up and anchoring it against her heart.

“Then listen to me,” she said, voice steady, unshaking. “Because this—this fear—is the proof you’re not him.”

Y/N shook their head weakly. “Fear didn’t stop him.”

“No,” Wanda agreed softly. “But love never even occurred to him.”

She leaned her forehead against theirs, noses brushing, eyes locked on theirs so they couldn’t look away.

“He never questioned himself. He never worried about becoming a monster. He never stopped.” Her thumb brushed a tear from Y/N’s cheek. “You did. You walked away. You’re terrified of causing harm. You already love this child so much it scares you.”

Her hand covered theirs over her belly, warm, grounding.

“That baby will never know cruelty from you,” she said firmly. “They’ll know safety. They’ll know gentleness. They’ll know a parent who checks themselves every day to make sure they’re doing better than the day before.”

Y/N’s shoulders sagged as the words sank in, a quiet, broken sound slipping from their chest as they leaned forward, forehead collapsing against her shoulder.

“What if I fail?” they whispered.

Wanda wrapped her arms fully around them, holding them like something precious, unbreakable.

“Then you won’t fail alone,” she said. “You’ll have me. And we’ll stop. We’ll talk. We’ll choose better—together.”

She kissed the side of their head, slow and certain.

“He made you afraid,” she murmured. “But he did not make you him.”

Y/N clung to her then, breathing her in like a lifeline, one hand still resting over her belly—this time not in fear, but in quiet, aching promise.

“Stay” Y/N whisper.

Wanda didn’t even think about it.

She slid her hand up the back of Y/N’s neck, thumb warm against their skin, and pulled them in until there was no space left between them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

She guided them toward the bed, slow and careful, easing them down with her and settling them against her chest. One arm wrapped around their shoulders, the other resting over their hand where it lay on her belly, keeping it there like it belonged.

“Breathe,” she murmured, pressing a kiss into their hair. “Just stay right here with me.”

Her fingers moved in small, soothing circles along their spine, grounding, steady.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” she whispered. “You don’t have to think or decide or prove anything.”

She tilted her head, resting her cheek against theirs.

“Just stay,” she repeated gently.

---

Next Morning

Wanda stirred slowly, the early morning light spilling through the curtains and warming the sheets. She felt the steady weight of Y/N curled against her side, arms wrapped protectively around her. Their forehead rested against hers, breath slow and even, the kind of deep sleep born from exhaustion and safety.

For a long moment, she just let herself stay there, tracing the line of their jaw with a fingertip, feeling the steady rhythm of their chest against hers. The quiet hum of the palace around them seemed distant, irrelevant—here, in this small cocoon of warmth and closeness, nothing could reach them.

Y/N shifted slightly, nuzzling the curve of her neck, murmuring a soft, almost sleepy, “Good morning… my love.”

Wanda smiled, brushing a hand through their hair. “Good morning,” she whispered back, pressing her lips to their temple. The peace in that touch felt like a promise: no Alaric, no war, just this—just them and the life they were building together.

Y/N nuzzled deeper into her chest, letting out a low, reluctant groan. “I… I need to wake up,” they murmured against the warmth of her skin, “for the ceremony’s preparations… but I don’t want to let go.”

Wanda chuckled softly, tilting her head to look at them. Her fingers tangled in the damp strands of their hair, stroking gently. “Then don’t,” she whispered, teasing but tender. “Five more minutes. Just us. The ceremony will wait a little longer.”

Y/N’s grip tightened slightly, their hands curling around her waist, and a soft, almost desperate sigh escaped their lips. The world beyond their sheets—the palace, the court, the kings—could wait. For now, all that mattered was the warmth of her body against theirs and the quiet heartbeat of their family, growing stronger with every shared breath.

Eventually Y/N shifted down the bed, their face lowering toward her belly, the soft curve of her stomach coming into view. Their hands moved carefully, lifting the hem of Wanda’s nightgown just enough to reveal the smooth, tender skin beneath.

Wanda’s eyes widened, and she quickly grabbed the edge of her gown, trying to cover herself. “I said five minutes!” she scolded, her voice light but tinged with mock reproach, thinking Y/N was being naughty.

But Y/N ignored the protest, leaning in closer until their lips brushed against her bare skin. Soft, reverent, they pressed a gentle kiss over the gentle swell. “Good morning, my baby,” they whispered, their voice thick with awe and warmth.

Wanda froze. Her chest tightened as a lump formed in her throat. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, glistening before she could blink them away. The tiny words, the tenderness, the care—it hit her harder than anything else could.

Y/N lifted their head slightly, their eyes meeting hers. They frowned, concern knitting their brow. “Did I… do something wrong?” they asked softly, voice trembling with worry.

Wanda shook her head, tears spilling freely now. Without a word, she leaned forward, pressing a long, trembling kiss to their lips. Her hands cupped their face, holding them close, grounding them. No words were needed—her love, her gratitude, and the overwhelming surge of emotion poured through that single kiss.

Y/N’s fingers traced her jaw, thumbs brushing away the tears she couldn’t stop, their own heart swelling. “You… you’re crying,” they murmured, worry giving way to awe.

“I know,” Wanda whispered back, her voice catching. “I just… love you. Both of you. So much.”

Y/N rested their forehead against hers, breathing in her scent, feeling her trembling against them. “I love you too,” they murmured, their lips brushing her temple. “I’ll always protect you… both of you.”

For a long moment, they stayed there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the sunlight of the morning spilling over them, bathing the room in golden quiet—a perfect, fragile peace before the world called them back to duty.

——

Later that morning, after Y/N had gone to prepare for the memorial, Wanda walked the palace corridors alone, her steps echoing softly against the polished stone floors. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long, golden stripes across the hall. She was headed toward the Guest Wing to visit her mother, thinking that a quiet moment with her would help steady her nerves before the day’s ceremony.

But before she could reach the familiar archway, one of the guest room doors suddenly swung open. A strong hand caught her wrist, yanking her inside before she could scream. The door slammed shut behind them with a dull, final thud, leaving only the muffled sounds of the palace beyond.

Wanda spun, heart hammering, trying to push away—but the figure was already looming close, face partially shadowed. Her pulse raced, panic prickling along her spine.

“Who—what—” she stammered, voice tight, eyes searching for any clue of who had dared to grab her.

When her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the guest room, she recognized him—and fury exploded inside her.

“Jarvis!” Wanda shouted, yanking her wrist free. “What are you doing? This—this is completely inappropriate!”

Before she could step back fully, he stepped closer, arms opening as if to hug her again. “Wanda, I—”

“Don’t!” she snapped, slapping his hands away. “That is not acceptable. You can’t just pull me into a room like this!” Her chest heaved, cheeks flushed with anger and disbelief. “Do you have any idea how inappropriate that is?”

Jarvis blinked, taken aback by her intensity. Then, as if forgetting the anger in her voice, he tried to soften the moment. “I just… I missed you,” he said quietly, taking a careful step closer. “It’s been so long.”

Wanda took a defensive step back, jaw tight.

“I don’t care how long it’s been,” she said sharply. “That doesn’t give you the right to corner me or assume you can touch me. I’m married.”

Something ugly flashed across Jarvis’s face.

“Married,” he scoffed, anger bleeding into his voice. “To that monster?” He spat the word like poison. “Is that what makes you happy now—being bound to someone like him?”

Wanda’s temper snapped.

“Stop,” she warned, voice low and dangerous. “Do not call Y/N that.”

Jarvis didn’t listen. He stepped closer instead, eyes burning.

“You always said you’d marry me, Wanda. We talked about it growing up. We planned it. So what changed?” His lip curled. “Or is it because I wasn’t a prince like that thing? Because I didn’t have a throne to offer you?”

“That’s enough,” she said, fists clenched at her sides. “You will not speak about my spouse like that.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them—tight, brittle.

Then Wanda exhaled, long and tired. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, but it cut deeper.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “But when we were engaged, we were young. We were friends. I was doing what was expected of me—as a princess, as a daughter.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “I never loved you the way you wanted. You were my friend, Jarvis. Nothing more.”

His expression hardened.

“But I love Y/N,” she continued, firm now. “Truly. Completely. They are my home.”

Jarvis’s face twisted, fury fully overtaking disbelief.

“What did he do to you?” he snapped. “What did that monster do to make you this delusional?”

He kept talking, words tumbling out sharper and louder, feeding on his own anger. “You don’t have to pretend you’re happy. If you’re scared, you don’t have to worry anymore—I’ll protect you. I always should have. You can come with me, Wanda. I won’t let him touch you—”

His hands closed around her arms.

“Let go of me,” Wanda said, trying to pull free. Her voice was steady, but her pulse thundered. “Jarvis. Let. Go.”

He ignored her, leaning closer, voice dropping into something ugly and conspiratorial.

“And that thing inside you,” he added coldly. “You don’t have to keep it. I can help you get rid of it. We’ll erase them completely.”

The sound of the slap cracked through the room.

Wanda struck him across the face without hesitation, the force snapping his head to the side. Her chest heaved, eyes blazing—not with fear, but fury.

“Do not ever,” she said, shaking now, “speak about my child again.”

Jarvis stared at her, stunned—then enraged.

That was when the knock came.

Sharp. Commanding.

The door opened before either of them could answer.

Nat stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room in one swift, assessing glance. Her gaze landed immediately on Jarvis’s reddening cheek… then on Wanda’s clenched fists.

“Is everything all right, Your Highness?” Nat asked calmly—but there was steel beneath it as she moved closer, placing herself just slightly in front of Wanda.

Wanda didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

Jarvis stepped back at once, face hardening—his pride wounded, not by the slap, but by being seen.

Nat’s glare was lethal.

Wanda straightened, smoothing her gown with deliberate calm. Her voice, when she spoke again, was cool and measured—royal.

“You are staying in the guest wing only because of my spouse’s mercy,” she said. “Y/N believed it best to extend kindness. To offer you dignity.”

Her eyes met his without flinching.

“If it were my decision alone, you would be sleeping outside the palace walls—sharing a tent with the Sokovian knights.”

Jarvis’s jaw tightened. “Wanda—”

She raised a hand, stopping him.

“This conversation is over.”

She inclined her head slightly, the gesture polite, distant, final.

“I bid you farewell.”

She turned to leave.

“Wanda,” Jarvis called after her, sharp and desperate.

She stopped.

Slowly, she looked back—her gaze cold enough to cut.

“It is Your Highness to you,” she said. “And you will address me as such.”

Then, with deliberate precision, she added,

“Good day, Ser Stark.”

She turned away again, and this time she did not stop.

Nat fell into step beside her at once, placing herself protectively between Wanda and the door as they exited.

The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

Inside the chamber, silence stretched—thick, suffocating.

Jarvis stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, chest heaving. Then fury surged up, hot and blinding. He turned and drove his fist into the wooden door, the impact rattling the frame.

“Damn it—!” he hissed, breath ragged.

He pressed his forehead briefly against the wood, knuckles throbbing, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

“That monster,” he spat, the word venomous. “He’ll pay. I swear it.”

Outside, Wanda did not look back.

Her steps were steady, her spine straight, chin lifted high as Nat walked beside her. Whatever storm raged behind that door was no longer hers to face.

She had chosen her life.

And she would not let anyone drag her backward.

---

Later that Day

The memorial was held beneath an open sky—but it did not remain contained within palace walls.

Word spread quickly through Virelia.

Not just nobles. Not just knights. Everyone.

By afternoon, the crowd had flowed beyond the gates, beyond the town square, spilling into the open fields where the land sloped gently toward the river. It was the first time Virelia had ever held a ceremony like this—open, unguarded, shared—and the people came because they wanted to see. To witness. To understand.

Farmers stood beside lords. Seamstresses beside soldiers. Children clutched their parents’ hands. Elders leaned on canes, faces lined with grief and memory. Some wore black. Others came in work clothes, straight from fields and workshops. No one was turned away.

Y/N stepped forward when the murmurs finally quieted.

They wore no crown.

Only simple dark ceremonial robes—unadorned, unarmored.

Their voice carried across the open land without strain.

“Today is not about victory,” Y/N said. “And it is not about blame.”

Faces lifted. People leaned in.

“It is about truth.”

They spoke of King Alaric plainly.

Not as a myth.

Not as a fallen hero.

Not as a ruler softened by time or grief.

Y/N did not raise their voice—but they did not lower it either.

“Virelia was not broken by fate,” they said. “It was broken by choice.”

A ripple moved through the crowd. Some faces hardened. Others bowed their heads.

“My father ruled through fear,” Y/N continued. “He believed strength was proven through domination, and loyalty earned through punishment. He believed that other kingdoms existed only to be bent, bled, or used.”

They named it then—without hesitation.

The forced levies that stripped villages bare.

The conscription of boys too young to hold swords properly.

The secret orders given to knights to burn border towns and blame rivals.

The treaties broken the moment they were no longer convenient.

“He waged war not to protect Virelia,” Y/N said, jaw set. “But to satisfy his pride.”

There was no attempt to distance themselves from the truth. No careful phrasing. No excuses about tradition or pressure or the weight of a crown.

“He brought violence to Sokovia. He provoked the Eastern Kingdom. And when the consequences came—when war reached our gates—he hid behind his people and called it sacrifice.”

A murmur of pain passed through the crowd.

Some had lost sons.

Some had lost homes.

Some had lost faith.

“And he did not stop there,” Y/N went on, voice tightening—not breaking, but sharpening. “He turned that same cruelty inward. On his own court. On his own knights. On Virelia itself.”

They spoke of punishments carried out in secret chambers. Of dissent crushed before it could speak. Of fear that seeped into the palace like rot beneath stone.

“He taught us to look away,” Y/N said. “To survive by silence.”

They paused then—not for effect, but because truth demanded space.

Their hands trembled.

It was subtle at first. Just enough that Wanda noticed—the way Y/N’s fingers curled against their palm, the way their breath hitched once, sharp and contained. Wanda’s smile from moments ago faded, concern tightening her chest.

Y/N swallowed.

“I myself,” they said, voice unsteady for the first time, “was a victim of my father’s doing.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Confusion. Surprise. Disbelief.

Wanda’s eyes widened as Y/N’s hands moved—not to gesture, but to the fastenings of their jacket.

“Y/N—” she whispered without meaning to, instinctively reaching out.

They glanced at her once. Just once.

There was fear there. But relaxing when seeing her.

“I will not ask you to believe me without truth,” Y/N said to the crowd. “And I will not ask you to trust a king who hides.”

Slowly, deliberately, they unbuttoned their tunic.

Gasps broke out as the fabric fell away, revealing the layers beneath.

Bandages wrapped tightly around their torso—one set lower, circling their side where the wounds from the torture was still healing. Another higher, binding their chest flat. Even beneath the cloth, the shape was visible. Undeniable. A body that did not fit the narrow lines their father had demanded.

Y/N stood bare of armor, bare of titles.

Bare of lies.

“I was born a boy,” they said quietly. “Or so my body said.”

The silence deepened, heavy and stunned.

“But even as a child, I knew something was… different,” Y/N continued. “I did not have the words for it. I still do not. I only know that this—” they gestured once to themselves, not in shame but in fact, “—is who I am.”

Their voice wavered, but they did not stop.

“My father hated different,” Y/N said. “He called it weakness. He called it corruption. And when my body began to change—when it no longer fit what he wanted—he called me a curse.”

Their hand shook harder then—just enough to betray how much this was costing them.

Before the silence could swallow them whole, Wanda moved.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t hesitate. She simply reached out and took Y/N’s trembling hand in hers, fingers threading together, grounding, steady. Her thumb brushed once over their knuckles—I’m here. You’re not alone.

A ripple went through the crowd.

Queen Natalya stiffened. King Olek’s eyes widened. Pietro turned fully toward them, breath catching. Somewhere behind Wanda, her family shifted—surprised, uncertain, some clearly alarmed.

Wanda did not look at them.

She kept her eyes on Y/N.

She knew every scar. Every word. Every night it had taken for them to say even half of this out loud. She knew how much courage it took just to stand there, breathing, exposed to the world.

Her grip tightened—silent permission, unwavering support.

Y/N felt it.

Their shoulders eased a fraction. Their breath steadied, just enough.

“He tried to carve that ‘curse’ out of me,” Y/N said, fingers brushing the bandages at their chest. The gesture was small, almost absentminded—and devastating in its honesty. “He believed pain could make me whole. That obedience could make me real.”

A hush fell heavier than before.

Some in the crowd turned their faces away, unable to bear it. Others stared in open horror. A few wept, hands pressed to mouths, tears tracking freely down their cheeks.

“I do not stand before you because I am unbroken,” Y/N continued, voice rough but unwavering. “I stand because I survived.”

They let their hands fall to their sides.

“I do not fully understand why I was born this way,” they admitted. “But I know that I am not his shame. I am not his sin. And I am not his legacy.”

Their shoulders squared—not in defiance, but in resolve.

“I will not rule by fear,” Y/N said, strength returning to every syllable. “I will not punish difference. I will not demand silence.”

They turned slightly then, just enough that Wanda could see their face.

And Wanda—eyes shining, chest aching—looked back at them not with shock, not with doubt, but with fierce, unwavering love.

“I promise you this,” Y/N said to the people of Virelia. “The cruelty that scarred me ends with me.”

The wind stirred the banners overhead.

And for the first time since the crown had ever been whispered alongside their name, the crowd did not see King Alaric’s shadow standing there.

They saw a king.

Then—

A small voice broke the stillness.

“Are you a girl?”

A ripple of shock went through the crowd. The child’s mother gasped, hand flying to her mouth, horror-stricken as she dropped to her knees.

“Your Highness—I’m so sorry—she didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” Y/N said gently, immediately. Their voice softened, warm instead of distant. “She can ask anything she wants.”

They crouched slightly, lowering themselves to the child’s level, a small smile tugging at their lips.

“I was born with both parts a girl and a boy usually have,” Y/N explained patiently. “So sometimes I am both. And sometimes I am neither.”

The little girl frowned, thinking hard. Then her face brightened.

“That’s complicated,” she declared. “But… very cool.”

Laughter escaped Y/N before they could stop it—soft, real, unguarded.

The sound startled the crowd.

It startled even Wanda.

She stared at them in open wonder as that warmth—so rarely seen, so carefully guarded—bloomed across Y/N’s face. For a moment, they weren’t a prince, or a king, or a survivor of cruelty.

They were simply themselves.

And those closest to them—Wanda, their knights, Lina watching from safe arms—knew it.

This was who Virelia was finally being given.

Y/N inclined their head to the little girl in thanks, the smile lingering for just a breath longer before they straightened. They reached for their tunic, hands steady now, and pulled it back into place—layers of cloth settling over scars, over truth freely given. When they turned back to the gathered crowd, their voice carried again, calm and clear.

“Thank you,” they said simply. “For listening.”

A pause.

“I know many of you might be weird out… but I did not want to stand here in front of you all while I hide behind a mask…”

Another silence.

“But today is not about me,” Y/N continued. “And it is not only about truth.”

Their gaze swept over the sea of faces—nobles and commoners alike, soldiers standing beside farmers, children perched on walls or shoulders. Beyond the gates, beyond the town, the road stretched where the memorials had been built: wooden structures placed along the path from the palace all the way to the commoners’ quarter. Many stories, not one grief.

“We are gathered to honor the dead,” Y/N said. “Those taken from us by war. By ambition. By cruelty. By duty. Friends. Family. Loved ones. From Virelia. From Sokovia. From the Eastern Kingdom.”

They lifted their chin. “These fires will burn in memory of them. Not as a celebration of war—but as a farewell.”

At their signal, torches were passed. One by one, the wooden memorials were lit. Flame caught and climbed, smoke rising in long, quiet columns that braided together above the road. The crackle was soft, almost reverent.

As the fires took hold, Y/N bent and lifted Lina into their arms. She wrapped herself around their neck without hesitation, small and trusting. With their free hand, Y/N reached for Wanda’s. Wanda stepped close at once, fingers threading through theirs, steady and warm at their side.

Y/N drew a breath—and began.

“In peace,” they said, voice carrying over the firelight, 

“may you leave this shore.

In love, may you find the next.

Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground.

May we meet again.”

Wanda turned toward them, smiling beautifully at the message Y/N delivered. Her expression showed something luminous, proud, adoring. When Y/N finished, Wanda repeated the words, her voice clear despite the emotion threading through it.

And then the people of Virelia followed.

Voices rose—tentative at first, then stronger—until the farewell echoed along the road, woven with the sound of fire and wind and quiet tears. Nobles bowed their heads. Commoners clasped hands. Soldiers lowered their standards.

Y/N stood there, Lina warm in their arms, Wanda’s hand firm in theirs, watching the flames burn bright—not to erase what had been lost, but to remember it.

Together.

---

Lina shifted in Y/N’s arms, her small fingers tugging gently at their collar.

“Y/N?” she whispered, close enough that only they could hear.

They tilted their head down. “Yes, little dove?”

Lina hesitated, brow furrowing in that serious way she had when she was thinking very hard. “Are you my sister… or my brother?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. They smiled softly instead and asked, “Would it be alright if I was both?”

Lina’s face brightened without a trace of confusion. She nodded immediately. “Yes.”

She went quiet again, then asked in a smaller voice, “Is that why Papa was always angry at you?”

The question landed gently—but it still landed.

Y/N swallowed. “Yes,” they said honestly. “That’s part of it.”

Lina didn’t pull away. She did the opposite—wrapping her arms tighter around Y/N’s neck, cheek pressing against theirs.

“I don’t care,” she declared fiercely. “I love you very much.”

Y/N laughed then—soft and wet, eyes stinging. Lina leaned in even closer and whispered, conspiratorial and proud, “And I think it’s cool too.”

That did it. Y/N laughed again, brushing a kiss into her hair before lowering her to the ground. Lina immediately darted off toward the other little girl from the crowd, already chattering animatedly, as if nothing in the world were strange or wrong.

Y/N straightened—and this time they turned to their wife who had been clinging to their arm the entire time.

Wanda lifted her hand, fingers sliding into Y/N’s hair, caressing gently. Her eyes shone, not with tears now, but with something steadier. Stronger.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said softly.

Y/N let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding, leaning just slightly into her touch.

“…You could’ve warned me,” Wanda added, a small smile tugging at her lips. “About telling everyone.”

Y/N let out a slow breath, shoulders dipping. They hadn’t meant to unload everything at once—hadn’t planned to strip away every last shield in front of the entire kingdom. But secrets and half-truths had built Alaric’s throne. Y/N refused to inherit that.

“I don’t want to rule with lies,” they said quietly. “Or fear. Or manipulation. If they are going to follow me… it has to be because they know who I am.”

Wanda didn’t answer with words.

She leaned up and kissed them—soft at first, then surer, full of pride and love that didn’t waver even a fraction. When she pulled back, her hand stayed warm against their cheek.

“That,” she murmured, “is exactly why they will follow you.”

Y/N exhaled, but the worry still lingered beneath the calm. Their gaze drifted to the ground.

“They might agree with him,” Y/N admitted. “With Alaric. They might think I’m cursed.”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Her thumb continued its slow, steady path along Y/N’s cheek, warm and grounding, until she gently nudged their face—just enough to draw their attention outward.

“Look around,” she said softly.

Y/N did.

Not all at once. Bit by bit.

They saw people lingering instead of leaving. Saw a group of commoners standing shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped in front of them like they were afraid to miss something sacred. Saw nobles who had once averted their eyes now watching openly—heads inclined, expressions solemn, respectful.

A woman bowed to them. A man pressed his fist to his heart. A young soldier—barely more than a boy—dropped to one knee before catching himself, cheeks flushing, unsure but sincere.

No one spat the word curse.

No one turned away.

“They aren’t looking at you like they looked at him,” Wanda murmured, close now, her forehead brushing Y/N’s temple. “They’re looking at someone who stood in front of them bleeding and told the truth anyway.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“They’re looking at their king,” she continued. “One who survived. One who chose them over their own safety.”

Her hand slid into theirs, fingers lacing tight.

“Alaric ruled by fear,” Wanda said quietly. “You just taught them they don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Y/N swallowed, eyes burning as the weight of it finally shifted—just a little.

Not gone.

But lighter.

They stayed there.

The flames crackled along the line of wooden memorials, rising and falling like slow breaths. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying names that would never be spoken aloud again, carrying grief and memory together. Around them, the people of Virelia stood in quiet reverence—nobles and commoners alike, united by loss, by firelight, by something fragile and new.

Wanda slipped closer.

She wrapped her arms around Y/N’s neck, fitting herself into them as naturally as breath, her cheek resting against their shoulder. Her warmth grounded them instantly. Y/N responded without thinking, arms coming around her protectively, one hand settling firm at her lower back, the other pressing gently between her shoulders as if to shield her from a world that had taken too much already.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Wanda watched the flames through half-lidded eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest beneath her, listening to their heartbeat—strong, real, here. Y/N stared ahead, jaw set but no longer tight, letting the fire burn away what it could, letting the rest remain as memory instead of wound.

Somewhere nearby, Lina laughed softly with the other little girl, a sound that rang out like a promise. A promise that there would still be joy. Still innocence. Still futures untouched by Alaric’s shadow.

Wanda tightened her hold just slightly, a silent I’m here.

Y/N leaned their cheek against her hair, breathing her in—home, safety, love.

And there, wrapped in flame-light and the quiet strength of their people, they stood not as something broken trying to survive—

—but as something whole, choosing to remain.

---

I didn’t plan to reveal like this. It was a last minute decision.

Leave your comments!

Her breath left in a single, strangled sound. “No!”

You were already dropping to the floor when she reached you, the heels of her boots cracking against the broken glass scattered about the office. She heard the DEO agents storming the floor seconds too late but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was you, crumpled on the floor. Her hands—those hands that had built satellites and rewritten codes and crafted something from nothing—were suddenly crude, useless things as they pressed hard to where crimson was blooming fast and hot beneath her fingers.

“Stay with me,” she breathed, and it wasn’t a plea so much as a command, brittle and fierce. The copper tang of blood is in the air, searing her throat. “Baby, look at me. You keep your eyes open, do you hear me?”

Around you, the world collapsed into white noise. The DEO team was shouting orders, Kara’s voice breaking with a desperate edge Lena hadn’t heard in years, but none of it mattered. All Lena could feel was your pulse against her palm—fluttering and erratic and terrifyingly weak.

Her hair slipped from its perfect frame around her face, black silk streaked with dust and blood. “You stupid, brave woman,” she whispered, and her voice caught on the word brave like it was a shard cutting her from the inside. She pressed harder, ignoring the tremor in her arms. “Why would you—God, why would you put yourself between—”

“Because I love you,” you rasped, voice hoarse and strained with pain as she pressed down harder.

“Ambulance is here!” a voice shouted from somewhere in the chaos.

“No.” Lena’s tone sliced through the mess of orders and panicked words. “We’re not waiting for them to come to us, she’s losing too much—Kara, help me!”

There was movement and a blur of hands as Kara and Lena carefully lifted you, your body cradled between them as they dragged you to the elevator and rode it down to the first floor. “Do you remember that night by the river?” she murmured, lips breaking into a rough, trembling smile you couldn’t see, her eyes watching the number slowly drop impatiently as it descended. “The one where you made me dance with you, even though there was no music? That’s where we’re going when you get out of this. Back there. You promised me two dances. I’m not letting you out of it.”

“That lake… smelled like weird algae,” you mumbled tiredly.

A ragged laugh broke from her, equal parts disbelief and desperation, the sound trembling against your hair. “God, only you…” Her thumb dragged along your cheek, smearing blood and sweat in the same tender stroke. “You pick now to complain about the smell?”

“It smelled weird,” you insisted, the words almost a strange slur as your eyes tried to close.

Her grip tightened when your weight sagged heavier against them.

“No. No, you stay awake.”

Her lips pressed to your temple, lingering like she could anchor you there with nothing but the heat of her mouth. “It was perfect,” she insisted softly, almost to herself. “You—bare feet in the grass, that ridiculous grin… you were perfect.”

Your head lolled to the side lazily, eyes fixated on the blood blooming across the front of your shirt in a daze, even as they tried to keep you awake. Alive. Breathing.

“Do you remember our first date?” you asked, voice drenched in pain and exhaustion as Kara pressed her trembling hand to your stomach.

Her breath caught in her chest because… of course she remembered. The memory was sharp and sweet all at once, an ache tucked right behind her ribs. “I remember everything,” she promised, and it wasn’t just an answer—it’s a tether, pulling both of you somewhere safer in her mind as the numbers changed too slowly.

-X-

The fairground was chaos—bright, loud and entirely unsophisticated—and Lena Luthor had looked like she’d stepped out of a different world entirely. Her tailored black coat was too elegant and high-priced, standing out among the cotton-candy stalls and overpriced funnel cake makers, her high heels clicking over asphalt littered with popcorn and candy wrappers.

She’d told herself she was humoring you, that she could endure a few hours for the sake of fun, though the word had felt almost foreign on her tongue these days. And yet there had been something in your eyes when you suggested it. Something warm and mischievous. Something she wanted to chase.

“Tell me again why we aren’t having dinner at a five-star restaurant?” she asked as you steered her through the throng, her arm tucked into yours. But there had been no bite to the question, just the faintest curl of a smile she couldn’t quite suppress.

The lights from the carousel spun over your cheekbones, painting you in neon colors, and she thought—for the first time in far too long—that maybe it didn’t matter where she was, so long as it was with you.

Somewhere, a game operator shouted for people to win their sweethearts a prize. A child screamed with delight as a stuffed bear twice their size was handed over. And Lena?

Lena found herself watching you with the unshakable sense that she was about to win something far better.

She adjusted her grip on your arm, leaning in just a fraction closer than necessary, her voice low and smooth as it curled around your ear. “All right,” she murmured. “Show me what makes this night worth ruining my shoes for.”

“You can buy yourself a five star dinner anytime of the week, Lee. This? This is something you can’t buy. Only experience.” You beamed, dragging her towards the Gravitron.

Her brow arched, the corner of her mouth tugging upward despite herself. “The Gravitron?” The word came out like she was tasting something questionable, though her fingers tightened just slightly around yours as you pulled her along.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of caramel corn and machine oil, the whirring of rides and the shrieks of pre-teens trying to pretend they didn’t love it but were failing spectacularly ringing in her ears. She’d expected to hate it—was prepared to hate it—but there was a glint in your eyes, a rush in your step that made her heels click faster to keep up.

When the massive silver saucer loomed ahead, lit in gaudy pulses of green and purple, Lena gave a small, theatrical sigh. “You do realize I’m wearing a Louboutin dress, yes? And that centrifugal force is… hardly kind to silk?”

“Well, why the hell did you wear a dress to the fair, Lee?” you teased. “Sounds like bad planning.” But then you glanced back at her, your grin bright and unapologetic, and she felt her retort falter before it could properly form.

“Fine,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear like she was steeling her spine for war. “But if I come out of this with my hair ruined and my dress hiked up so high that I get a ticket for public indecency, I’m making you buy me that five-star dinner and dessert.”

You led her through the line with a grin, handing the teenager in charge your tickets. “I’ll make you a deal—you don’t enjoy yourself? Next time we’ll try your fancy five star place, alright?”

As the attendant took your tickets, Lena stepped into the dim interior without hesitation, her heels clicking on the metal floor. The faint hum of machinery vibrated underfoot, neon lights washing over her features in hypnotic flashes. She positioned herself beside you against the padded wall, one brow lifting.

You leaned your arm on the mat so you were staring directly at her, even as others filled into the ride. “You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, because even if the green and purple lights were gaudy as hell, you’d never seen her look prettier.

For the barest heartbeat, the fairground noise outside seemed to fade, the neon wash turning her eyes into shifting constellations.

“Careful, darling,” she murmured, her voice dipping low so it would stay between the two of you. “You start saying things like that, and I might start to believe you.”

The Gravitron’s doors clanged shut, the muffled thump of music starting somewhere overhead. She didn’t look away from you. One corner of her mouth curved; not her public, camera-ready smile, but the quiet, private one she seemed to save just for you.

And then, almost as an afterthought, her fingers brushed over the back of your hand where it rested on the mat between your heads. Just once. Just enough for you to feel the deliberate weight of it before the ride kicked into motion.

-X-

“I think about that night a lot… that was the night I knew I was in love with you…” you exhaled slowly, blurry eyes watching the floor numbers change from 9… to 8… to 7…

“That night,” she said, voice raw but steady, “I didn’t know I could fall for someone like that. Not so quickly. Not so… completely.” Her gaze flicked down to you, searching for your eyes through the haze of pain. “You had no idea, did you? How much you were changing everything for me.”

6… 5… 4…

“Stay with me,” she murmured fiercely, though it felt more like a plea than a command.

3… 2… 1…

The moment the doors opened, two EMTs froze at the sight of you dripping blood before hurriedly helped Lena and Kara drag you onto the cot. Your hand stayed wrapped around Lena’s tightly, even as they carted you towards the ambulance.

“Remember the first night I said I love you?” you asked quietly.

-X-

The penthouse smelled faintly of lilies and old, stale coffee from the morning, the evening sunset spilling through the tall glass windows in pale winter sheets. Lena was still in her office clothes, jacket off, silk blouse immaculate despite the long day. She stood at the kitchen counter, menu in hand, reading off items like she was dictating an executive report.

“Kung Pao chicken? Or perhaps the sesame noodles? We could—”

You cut in with an exasperated spark in your voice, hands shoved into the pockets of your jeans. “Look, I love you, but if I eat wontons one more time this week, I’m gonna become one! We’ve had it three times this week.”

The words hung there for a moment—your tone light and teasing—but Lena had gone very still, the menu halfway lowered. It wasn’t that she didn’t know. She’d felt it in the way you looked at her, the way you touched her hand absentmindedly when passing by. But hearing it, unplanned and bare, had stolen the air from her lungs.

Her lips parted slightly, a breath caught between surprise and something deeper, before a slow, disbelieving smile curved across her face. “You…” she murmured, taking a step toward you. “You just said—”

The menu fluttered to the counter as she closed the distance, the faintest laugh escaping her, warm and unguarded. “You asshole… you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

And though you’d been talking about dumplings, Lena looked at you like you’d just handed her the one thing in the world she’d never dared ask for… but wanted all the same.

You laughed breathlessly, gripping her waist. “I mean, I thought it was obvious that I love you.”

“Obvious?” she echoed, tilting her head slightly, raven hair falling in a dark sweep over one shoulder. “Darling, I’ve built alien-invasion-banishing devices that were easier to read than you.”

There was no bite to it. If anything, her voice was warmer, more open than you’d ever heard it.

Then she leaned in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest heartbeat, her breath mingling with yours. “But you should still say it,” she whispered, the faintest tremor running under the words. “Even if I already know. Say it as often as you can.”

Her mouth found yours, not in a searing, desperate way, but in a way that somehow hurt more. A kiss that tasted of love and relief and the first foundations of something permanent.

“I love you,” you whispered against her lips, before moving to her jaw, “I love you,” then her cheek, “I love you,” before sealing it with a gentle kiss that felt like it was trying to imprint itself into her very being.

Her eyes had closed on the second whisper, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks as though the sound alone was something she wanted to memorize. By the third, her hands were already sliding up to cup your face, thumbs sweeping over your skin with a tenderness that left your chest aching.

When your mouth found hers again, Lena let out a faint, unguarded sound—half a sigh, half a laugh—that warmed against your lips. She kissed you back slowly, savoring every second of your mouth against hers, each one lingering as if she could stretch that moment into forever.

“You’re going to ruin me,” she murmured when you finally broke apart, though her smile said she didn’t mind in the slightest. She leaned in, brushing her nose against yours. “And I think I’m going to let you.”

-X-

Your hand was starting to go slack in hers as the ambulance doors slammed closed, a steady stream of crimson dripping down your shirt and onto the cot. Lena felt it immediately, the subtle loosening of your grip, the way your fingers no longer pressed back against hers with the same stubborn strength. Her chest constricted, sharp and cold, and she shifted on the cramped bench of the ambulance, bending over you until her hair fell like a dark curtain around both your faces.

“Baby, no.” Her voice was low and urgent. She threaded her fingers tighter through yours, as if she could bind you there by sheer will. “Don’t you dare fade on me. Not after everything.”

The medic to her right was speaking quickly—BP dropping, heart rate irregular—but she didn’t take her eyes off you. She leaned closer, so her breath brushed your ear. “You told me you loved me once over wontons, remember? You said it three times, like you were trying to make it stick.” Her tone wavered, but she forced it steady, her thumb stroking along your knuckles in time with the quick, trembling beat of her own heart.

Her gaze flickered to the monitor, then back to your face, searching for the smallest twitch of awareness. “You made me believe in something I thought I’d lost years ago,” she whispered, voice cracking now, unguarded. “And I’m not letting you take it away from me. Not like this. Please…”

Your chest rose and fell, but the stuttering of each shallow breath left Lena staring at you with something broken and pleading in her expression.

“Stay with me,” she said again, fierce and breaking all at once, her forehead pressing to yours. “We’re not done. We haven’t even had dance number two by the river yet.”

-X-

The cabin had looked like something from a travel brochure when you booked it—secluded, framed by pines, with the promise of quiet mornings and sunlit afternoons by the water.

Reality had been… less cinematic.

The first night, rain hammered the roof so hard you could barely hear each other. By day two, the river had swallowed its own banks, swelling into a roiling, muddy torrent. The air carried the faint tang of algae and runoff. By day three, cabin fever had begun to set in, the damp settling into your bones.

Lena had taken it in stride, though you’d caught the way her mouth would tighten when the smell drifted too strongly through the open window, or the way her gaze lingered just a fraction too long on the suitcase in the corner, ready to cut her losses and head back to the city.

But on the last night, the rain eased, the swollen river grudgingly pulling back to reveal a slick, pebbled shoreline. The scent was still there—earthy and sharp—but the sound of the water had softened, trading its angry roar for a tired rush.

You’d coaxed her outside with that determined light in your eyes, the one she’d already learned meant resistance was futile. Barefoot, you led her down to the damp riverbed, the sky colored like a bruise overhead.

“There’s no music,” she pointed out, her feet sinking slightly into the softened ground, her tone unimpressed but lips curving just enough to betray herself.

You took her hand anyway, guiding her close, your other palm settling warm at the small of her back. And as you began to sway—slow and completely unhurried—she let herself lean in, the faintest breath of a laugh escaping her despite the cold air and the lingering algae smell.

In the hush between you, with nothing but the water’s quiet rush and the brush of your fingers against hers and the faint hum in your throat, Lena found herself thinking: This. This is worth every wrong turn.

“It was a total bust, but… every moment I get to spend with you? That makes it all better,” you whispered against her temple. “Next time we come here, I’ll bring a boombox so you can have another dance with music. Scout’s honor.”

Her eyes closed as she breathed you in, the faint scent of the cabin’s awful diffuser still clinging to your clothes. “You always do that,” she murmured, her voice achingly gentle, threaded through with something softer than she knew what to do with. “Taking something broken and making it feel… like it was meant to be that way. But we both know you weren’t a scout, darling.”

Her arms slid more firmly around you, fingers curling into the fabric at your back. The cold, the smell, the flooded days spent playing Scrabble on the floor of the cabin… it all bled away under the warmth pooling quietly in her chest.

When she tilted her head just enough to meet your eyes, there was the smallest, most private smile you’d ever seen. “Next time, I get to plan the vacation. Preferably when it’s not in the middle of rainy season. Because if I trust you to do it again, we might end up in the mountains during an avalanche or in Hawaii during a volcano eruption,” she teased, though the fondness in her tone took away the mock-bite in her words.

And then, without any rush, Lena leaned in and kissed you, slow and deliberate, as if sealing this very moment into her skin. The river gushed around you, and for once, she didn’t think about where else she could be.

You grinned against her lips, laughing quietly. “Hey, at least we didn’t see any angry bea—” your foot slipped along the drenched stones and you let out a yelp as you tumbled backwards into the river. Not enough to be swept away, but definitely enough to be thoroughly soaked.

The sound of the splash was loud enough to send a startled flock of birds bursting from the trees.

For half a second, Lena just stared at your frame disappearing into the muddy water before a sharp, startled laugh broke from her. It wasn’t the laugh you often heard at her galas, but something brighter.

“Oh, for—!” she exclaimed, but she was already stepping forward, her nice, comfortable sweater be damned, her feet sinking deeper into the riverbed mud as she reached for you. The hem of her leggings caught the water, darkening instantly, but she didn’t care, her hands gripping your forearms firmly, pulling you toward her with more strength than her frame suggested.

When you were upright again, dripping and bedraggled, she was smiling—really smiling—her green eyes alight with genuine amusement. “You were saying? Something about not running into a bear?”

Her fingers lingered against your soaked sleeves, not letting go just yet, as if making sure you weren’t about to take another unexpected swim.

“Yeah, that,” you coughed, sputtering out the water that had gotten trapped in your nose and mouth. “God, that tastes awful.”

She laughed again, softer this time, the sound barely carrying over the rush of the river. “Well, that’s what you get for trying to turn our romantic evening into an episode of Survivor.”

Her thumbs swept over your forearms, brushing away stray droplets, though her touch lingered far longer than necessary. There was still a faint crease between her brows as she subtly checked you for damage, even when you were clearly fine.

“You’re going to catch your death out here,” she said with a fond, exasperated laugh. Then she leaned in just enough that her lips were nearly at your ear. “And if you think I’m sleeping beside someone who smells like that river, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Her hands slid down to capture yours again, and she gave them a small squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you warm and in a shower before you find another creative way to test my patience.”

“I mean…” you drawled out playfully, wrapping your arms around her and pretending like you were about to tip back into the river—

Only to almost actually fall in as your wet feet slid against the stones. Again. Because you still hadn’t learned your lesson.

Her sharp gasp cut through the cool night air as her feet skidded on the slick stones, her balance tipping dangerously toward you and the churning water as her arms flailed slightly.

“(Y/N)!” The name came out half a scold, half a laugh, her hands clutching instinctively at your shoulders. For one heart-stopping second, you both teetered there, your combined weight threatening to pitch you backward into the river’s murky embrace.

When she managed to right herself—barely, she might add—Lena’s laughter spilled out, breathless and incredulous, her forehead coming to rest briefly against your damp hair. “You are impossible,” she panted, slapping your shoulder.

She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a grin tugging at her lips despite her best attempt at maintaining her dignity. “One day, I am going to take you somewhere you physically cannot fall into, and on that day, I will know peace.”

Still, her fingers tightened around yours as she guided you back toward the cabin, her leggings clinging damply to her legs, proof that she’d been far closer to joining you in the river than she’d ever admit out loud.

Maybe even willingly.

-X-

Your vision was hazy as you stared at Lena, blinking slowly as the world grayed around the edges. “I’ve never loved someone… the way I love you…”

The words hit her harder than the jolt of the ambulance skirting over uneven asphalt. For a moment, Lena forgot to breathe. She stared down at you—at the way your gaze was trying, failing, to stay sharp—and it felt like her ribcage was too tight to hold what was rising inside it.

“Darling…” Her voice fractured, a fissure in the steel she’d been holding in her spine since the moment you fell. She cupped your cheek, her palm warm despite the cold sweat clinging to your skin. “You don’t get to say things like that as if they’re…” her throat worked around the word, “…final.”

The medic was calling out numbers she didn’t want to hear but Lena tuned it all out. Her entire world was your pulse fluttering under her fingertips, your blood on her hands, your words echoing in her head.

She leaned down, her lips brushing just shy of yours, her words a trembling whisper. “There is no one before you. There will be no one after you. You are it for me.” Her hand slid into your hair, cradling your head as though the touch alone could keep you tethered.

“Which is why,” she said sharply, “you are going to stay with me. Do you hear? You’re going to stay. Because I haven’t even begun to give you everything I’ve been holding back.”

Her forehead rested against yours as the ambulance slowed, the rising wail of the siren giving way to shouted instructions outside. And still, Lena kept her eyes on you, as though looking away for even a heartbeat might mean losing you.

“Do you… remember Christmas Eve? When Kara… set the tree on fire? I almost… proposed that night…”

-X-

The penthouse was aglow in warm light and the faint scents of cinnamon and pine and the weird, mildly burnt sugar cookies Alex had tried to bake.

You’d insisted on a tree big enough to almost brush the ceiling, and Lena—despite muttering about logistics—had agreed, mostly because of the way your eyes lit up when you’d picked it out. The whole place had felt… different that night.

Lived-in. You still weren’t living together yet but it was beginning to feel like yours and it… scared Lena a little.

Kara had been in rare form all night, buzzing between conversations, sampling cookies straight from the cooling rack, and gesturing far too animatedly near the enormous fir in the corner. The rest of the Superfriends lounged around the living area, voices overlapping.

It happened quickly—Kara spinning to answer something Alex said, her elbow clipping the upper branches with just enough force to send the tree toppling foward. The golden star on top wobbled once, twice, and then—

The whole damn thing fell over, the dried branches catching the edge of the fireplace’s open grate and in the blink of an eye, pine needles and tinsel were alight, flames licking down the tree with alarming enthusiasm.

There had been a collective gasp—Nia halfway out of her seat, Brainy muttering about oxygen displacement—while Lena stood utterly still, one hand curling around the stem of her wine glass. She blinked once, twice, then fixed Kara with a flat, incredulous look as the superhero just… stared at it with wide eyes.

“Kara,” she said evenly, “do tell me you have a plan beyond setting my penthouse on fire.”

Kara’s sheepish grin was immediate, her cheeks flushed as she zipped into action, snuffing the flames in less than two seconds. But the smell of scorched pine lingered, smoke curling toward the high ceiling.

Lena exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose… until she caught your expression—trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh. That was when her lips twitched, just barely, betraying her amusement despite herself.

And maybe it had been the way she was watching you or maybe it was just from the absolute insanity of the moment, but the words had gotten caught on your tongue before you wedged them back down your throat. You’d so badly wanted to just blurt it out…

But instead, you forced an easy grin, teasing Kara about needing marshmallows the next time she started an impromptu bonfire in Lena’s living room.

-X-

Lena’s head snapped towards you, her expression a series of emotions in rapid success—shock, grief, and something dangerously close to hope all surging at once. “What?” The word was a whisper, but it might as well have been a bullhorn in a cathedral.

Her grip on your hand tightened, the pads of her fingers pressing into your skin as though she could physically hold your spirit in your body. “You can’t—” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed hard, trying to force it back into something steady. “You can’t tell me something like that now, darling.”

Her free hand hovered for a moment over your chest, then pressed there lightly, feeling the rise and fall that was far too shallow, ignoring the way the EMTs fluttered about as the ambulance parked. “If you ever… if you ever dare to think about proposing, it had better be when you’re standing on your own two feet. And preferably not covered in blood.”

The medic called out another drop in your BP, and Lena’s pulse spiked. She leaned over, her forehead nearly brushing yours, her breath coming fast. “Do you hear me? You’re not stealing that moment from us. I want to remember it when I’m old and grey and you’re still… still giving me hell over takeout.”

She watched in horror as your eyes began to roll back in your head, hand going slack in hers…

The memory of your last evening alone together playing through her head like a goddamn recording she’d do anything to get rid of.

-X-

The rain had been tapping steady against the penthouse windows, the city below washed in silver streaks. Lena was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, sorting through a stack of contracts she hadn’t really been reading for the last ten minutes.

When you’d suggested—casually, but not without weight—that maybe it was time the two of you moved in together, her first reaction had been silence. Not the thoughtful, considering kind, but the sort that came drenched in tension.

She’d set the papers down deliberately, aligning the corners like her composure depended on it. “Darling…” she began, the way she said the pet name already heavy with that careful distance she fell back on when she was unsure. “We’ve been together a long time, yes, but…” Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she forced herself to meet your eyes.

The words came sharper than she intended. “Are we even… serious enough for that?”

Even as they left her mouth, she hated them. Hated the flicker she saw in your expression, the way the question seemed to slice clean through the love between you. But fear had already dug in deep; fear of letting you too close, of the fragile, dangerous thing the two of you had built being shattered from the inside.

She turned away under the pretense of pouring herself more wine, as if distance could undo the damage. “It’s a big step,” she added, quieter now, but the sting of her words still hung in the air between you like a live wire.

The truth—buried somewhere beneath her caution—was that she’d wanted to say yes before you’d even finished asking. But wanting and daring had never been the same thing for her.

“…serious enough? W-what does that even mean?” you breathed, stunned and devastated. “I… I’m sorry, did I miss the part where we weren’t serious?”

Lena’s fingers tightened involuntarily around the stem of her glass, the motion sharp enough to betray the sudden dip of her heart into the pit of her stomach. She kept her gaze fixed on the deep red swirl of wine, because looking at you meant facing the raw hurt in your eyes… and she wasn’t ready for that.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, her words clipped, almost defensive, like she could still control the narrative if she just kept her tone even. But the truth was already slipping, fraying at the edges. “I only meant…” She trailed off, jaw tightening. What had she meant? That she was terrified? That letting you in completely meant there’d be no surviving if you left?

She turned then, meeting your gaze at last, and the flash of pain there hit her like a body blow. “Darling—” her voice softened, unsteady now, “you know how much you mean to me.”

It wasn’t the reassurance you needed, and she knew it. The space between you felt suddenly colder, your question still hanging there unanswered, echoing in a way she couldn’t quite silence. And even as she set her glass down, hands bracing on the counter, Lena could feel the conversation slipping further from her control, into a place where she wasn’t sure she’d be able to drag it back from.

You stood abruptly from your seat on her couch, yanking your jacket over your shoulders. “I think I’m gonna go. God forbid I stay the night… it might make things too serious.”

The bitter, broken laugh that escaped your throat made Lena flinch, her eyes locked on your back as you stalked towards the door.

“Darling, wait.”

The words came sharper than intended, almost an order, but they cracked halfway through. She moved from behind the counter, heels clicking on the hardwood, though not fast enough to reach you before your hand hit the door.

But as you wrenched it open and stepped into the hallway, she didn’t chase you. Not when the door snicked quietly behind you as it closed. Not when the ding of the elevator was heard even from her penthouse. Not even when she knew—really knew—you weren’t coming back.

Instead, Lena stood there long after you were gone, staring at the empty doorway, replaying every word and hating the way her own voice had sounded: cold where it should’ve been sure, cautious where it should’ve been full.

And in that silence, she’d known—God, she’d known—that if she lost you over this, it would be her own fault.

-X-

The shrill, unbroken wail of the monitor sliced through Lena’s skull, sharper than any gunshot, any scream.

“No—no, no, no!” Her voice was raw and stripped of all the composure she’d spent a lifetime building. She’d faced her brother and aliens and monsters her family had created, but nothing—nothing—had ever terrified her as much the sight of you not moving. Not breathing.

The EMT was moving fast as the ambulance doors flew open but Lena’s world narrowed to your face, to the terrifying stillness settling in where there should be resistance, defiance, life.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs, each beat screaming.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she breathed, almost snarling the words, as if sheer force could drag you back. “Not after everything. Not after that fight—God, I didn’t mean it. I’ve been so scared, but I was never scared of you.”

Her thumb swept hard over your cheek, smearing blood without caring. She didn’t care that the EMTs were charging their damn paddles and barking orders at the doctors climbing into the ambulance to pull you out. She bent closer, her forehead pressing to your temple, her voice a trembling whisper against your skin. “Please. Come back to me. I’ll say yes. I’ll say it a hundred times. Just… stay.”

As the doctors pulled the gurney out, Lena watched you be wheeled away and finally—finally—tears filled her eyes.

“Please… just stay,” she whispered into the silence, hoping maybe, just maybe… the afternoon sun and the gods above might just…

Author's Notes: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve been giving this story—it honestly means so much to me. I’m sorry it took a little longer to post this one, but I promise it was worth the wait (yes, it got long, I know, but I couldn’t help myself). As always, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message—I absolutely love talking with you all about the story!Hope you enjoy the chapter… especially now that they’re finally, finally official!

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Natasha had always believed that solitude was safety. That the quiet after a mission, the dim silence of her apartment, the untouched corner of a bed meant she was doing it right. Keeping the world at bay. But lately—no, ever since you—solitude didn’t taste like peace anymore. It tasted like absence. It tasted like something she wasn’t supposed to swallow down anymore. Because now she knew what it felt like to be held. And God, she craved it. Every cell in her body missed you when you weren’t there. It was like her skin had developed a memory, a longing—your fingers stroking through her hair, the solid weight of your arms around her, the way your voice softened when you said her name. She wasn’t built for needing people, but somehow, she needed you.

It was worse on nights like this, when the plan had been simple. Just bed. Just cuddles. You, her, and Ana—wrapped up like a secret in soft sheets and warm limbs, safe from the world. That was all she wanted. No espionage, no world-threatening disasters, no coded briefings. Just domestic silence broken by the gentle hiccup of Ana’s giggle or your breath whispering across her neck. And when it didn’t happen, when the world pried you away again with one more emergency or one more delay, something inside her clenched with a quiet, aching frustration.

She never expected this. She never expected to become this… touch-starved. Not her. Not the Black Widow, trained to endure, to resist, to suppress. But every time you left, she felt like her skin was betraying her, screaming for your touch. Her body missed you like a second heartbeat gone quiet. She found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the weight of time unbearable until she could feel your warmth pressed against her again. You didn’t just touch her skin—you calmed the war beneath it. The war that had never really stopped since she was a child.

She sleeps better now. That’s something she can’t even say aloud without her voice cracking. Before you, sleep was something she survived. A minefield of memories, of missions, of screams that were never hers but still lived in her head. The Red Room was always there—just under her eyelids. But with you… it’s different. When she lies beside you, her body folds into yours with such aching relief it almost breaks her. And on the nights when the dreams still come—because they do, not as often, but still—you never even hesitate. You just reach for her. Sometimes you wake up to the sound of her breath hitching, and you’re already there, pulling her into your arms before she can even open her eyes. Her face tucked against your chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume like it’s a tether. It makes her feel safe. Not just safe from danger—but safe from herself.

You never ask her to explain. You never demand the shape of her fear or the color of her scars. You just hold her. Stroke her hair. Whisper to her. And it’s not even always words—sometimes it’s the quiet rhythm of a song you love, hummed against her temple, the vibrations sinking into her bones. Sometimes it’s a story, one of your myths or legends you adore, soft and slow like a lullaby. You talk about Persephone’s garden, or Selene’s moonlight, or the stars that guide lost souls home. And slowly, slowly, the war in her chest dies down. She breathes. She lets go.

And sometimes—her favorite times—you say nothing at all. You just stay. Stay with her. Stay present. Stay real. Your fingers weaving through her hair, your heart steady against her back. That’s how she heals. Not in grand gestures or loud declarations—but in these quiet nights where you remind her, without ever needing to say it, that the Red Room can’t reach her anymore. That Ana is safe. That she is loved. Fully. Completely. Unconditionally.

She never thought she’d have this. Never thought she’d be someone’s comfort, someone’s world. Never thought anyone would be hers. But you are. And she’s yours. And tonight, even if you’re not here, she holds onto that. Holds onto you. Because she knows that when the door finally opens, when your shoes are kicked off at the entrance, when you finally come to her again, you’ll climb into bed and fold yourself around her like you always do. And she’ll sleep. Truly sleep. Because you exist. Because you love her. And because somehow, impossibly, she’s allowed to love you back.

The text had barely finished delivering when Natasha’s heart leapt. “Coming home soon, love. Ana picked out a little bunny she refused to let go of. We miss you.” It was nothing extraordinary, just a simple message. But for Natasha, it lit her from within. She stared at the words until the letters blurred slightly, her chest warming with something fierce and tender and almost too much to hold. She could already picture it—the jingle of keys at the door, the sound of Ana’s babbling, your voice calling softly through the apartment, and then, finally, your arms around her. Your warmth at her back, your scent in her lungs, your presence like a balm to the always-too-tight coil in her chest. And Ana, her sweet little girl, pressed between you both like a heartbeat.

That had been the plan. The only plan Natasha cared about today.

She had tidied the room three times, not because it needed it, but because she needed to stay busy. She had fluffed the pillows, pulled out the softest blankets, even changed into your favorite hoodie—the one that still faintly smelled like you. The one she never admitted she slept in whenever you were gone too long. Her whole body was ready to melt into yours. Her mind was already there, halfway between your laugh and Ana’s cheek squished against her chest. That was her safe place now. That was everything.

But then her phone rang.

And everything—everything—shifted.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her. Clint. The only person she might’ve answered for tonight. The only one who knew her long enough to still pull her back into the life she thought she was beginning to leave behind. She pressed answer, already sighing.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” she muttered before he could even speak.

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice,” Clint’s voice replied, casual but carrying that slight edge she recognized instantly—he was serious. “I need backup at the compound. New recruits are crashing hard. They’re not listening, not responding. They need someone who scares them straight.”

“They’re not my problem,” she said flatly, her jaw already tightening. “Not tonight.”

There was a pause.

“You said you were easing back in. This is easing. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”

And there it was—that tug, that guilt-laced thread woven into years of loyalty and battles and blood. He knew it. He used it. And she hated that it still worked. But even as the pressure behind her eyes built, her voice snapped back, sharper this time. “Clint, I haven’t seen them all day. She’s been gone since morning. I just—” her voice cracked, barely, “—I just want to hold my family. I was going to hold them and breathe, and not think about combat posture or tactical breakdowns or angry kids trying to prove they’re bulletproof.”

“I get it,” he said gently. “But this is one of those nights I can’t handle it alone.”

She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Anything. But instead, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Her free hand twisted into the hem of your hoodie, holding on like she was bracing for impact. Her silence dragged long enough that Clint said her name.

“I’ll go,” she said, bitterly. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“I know.”

And with that, she ended the call and stood there, motionless, the echo of her own frustration boiling beneath her skin. Her body physically hurt from how much it had wanted to be touched. Held. She could almost feel the phantom of your arms around her already, like her body had preemptively exhaled—and now that touch wouldn’t come. Not yet.

She peeled the hoodie off like it burned her, tossing it onto the bed with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a growl. She hadn’t felt this moody in years. This let down. It wasn’t just the cuddle. It was the hope she’d let herself build. The sacredness of such a quiet plan. The simplicity of love, denied.

She didn’t bother looking in the mirror as she tied her boots and clipped her hair back. The woman staring back would be one she barely recognized tonight. All sharp edges again. All steel and cold breath and detachment. She hated it. Hated how easily the armor still fit.

Before she left, she glanced at the phone again, almost against her will. No new texts yet. You were probably driving, Ana babbling in the backseat. The image made her eyes sting.

She typed quickly, furiously, deleting twice before finally sending:

|Me: Clint called. Going to the compound. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight so badly.

She didn’t wait for the reply. She couldn’t. If you told her it was okay, she’d hate herself more. If you told her you missed her too, she’d fall apart.

She stepped out into the night with her fists clenched in her coat pockets and a weight in her chest that made her feel like she’d left her soul back in that bed, still waiting for your aren't .

The elevator hummed with sterile efficiency, bright lights buzzing above her head as Natasha stood with her arms crossed, back pressed into the cool metal wall. Her jaw was tight, ticking faintly as she stared blankly at the floor numbers ticking upward. The ride felt slower than usual, and she hated how her foot kept bouncing with impatience. She was still thinking about the bed, about you. About Ana’s little hand probably gripping that bunny you mentioned. About the warmth she was supposed to be folded into by now. Instead, she was in a steel box, dressed for war, on her way to babysit rookies who probably couldn’t tell the difference between real fear and adrenaline.

Damn Clint.

The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, releasing her into the training sector’s lower level—a new wing Stark had greenlit, full of sleek equipment, minimalist black panels, and eerily quiet lighting. The second she stepped out, the air changed. It was cooler here, laced with the faint scent of sterilized tech and recently dried sweat. Ahead of her, through the glass wall, she could see them—six newbies strapped into individual chairs, motionless, eyes twitching beneath closed lids. Each one connected to the simulation grid via a thin neural band wrapped at the base of the skull. A glowing interface pulsed beside each chair, tracking vital signs and neurological responses.

Great. They’re using the Divergent crap tonight.

.Natasha muttered it under her breath as she stepped into the observation deck, her tone soaked in irritation, though the flicker of reluctant admiration lingered beneath. Her eyes swept over the simulation chairs lined in two perfect rows, each rookie hooked up to the neural bands you had personally helped design. A sleek web of bio-responsive tech wound from scalp to spine, and beneath the blinking lights and soft whirring of the monitors, she could practically hear your voice in her head explaining it all—every circuit, every serum compound, every neural feedback loop.

She hated how good the tech was. Hated how brilliant you were. Because tonight, that brilliance had stolen you from her arms.

This wasn’t some off-the-shelf copy of what the Divergent factions once used. No, this was yours—your creation. A modified, perfected version of the concept. Inspired by the movie, sure, but completely reimagined under your touch. Instead of fearscapes, you built a neural simulation that generated complex, high-risk, hyperrealistic fake missions. Rescue ops. Espionage trials. Ambush recoveries. Each one designed to push recruits to their limits—not by terrifying them, but by testing them. Every scenario was tailored based on psychological profiling, combat scores, and instinctive behaviors. And unlike the fear tests, the recruits were fully aware they were inside a sim.

That was the genius of it—it wasn’t about whether they could survive. It was whether they would choose to keep going even when it felt hopeless. They knew it was fake. Their minds still reacted like it was real.

Natasha folded her arms and exhaled sharply as one of the screens flickered to show a recruit crawling through smoke and glass, her simulated arm “injured,” her path blocked by simulated debris. Natasha recognized the scenario. A building collapse, with two civilian hostages on opposite ends of the structure. One had to be sacrificed. Classic moral tension. A test of choice, not strength.

She clenched her jaw.

It was brilliant. Brutal. Effective.

And right now?

It was a colossal pain in the ass.

She should be home. Curled into your chest with Ana asleep between you, your heartbeat beneath her ear and your perfume weaving through her senses like safety incarnate. She should be buried in warmth and peace and the sacred comfort she only ever found in your touch. But instead, she was standing here, cold and tense, watching over recruits struggle inside a world you built, your fingerprints in every line of code.

A quiet pang stirred in her chest. Not jealousy. Just longing. The ache of missing you while being surrounded by pieces of you.

She glanced at the chair nearest her. The young man strapped in was shaking, sweat beading along his temple. His simulation feed showed him breaching a hostile compound, wounded and alone, with a timer ticking down until the bomb exploded. Natasha watched his eyes twitch beneath their lids, watched his hands grip the armrests like they were the last lifeline he had.

It was working. Too well.

Clint appeared beside her, arms crossed like he’d been watching her rather than the recruits.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the screen, on the chaos within the simulation.

“She built this,” she said finally. “Twisted it from some dystopian crap into a full-on psychological battlefield. It’s smarter than most field ops I’ve seen.”

Clint nodded. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

“She’s brilliant when she wants to be.”

And then softer, bitter under her breath: “And I was supposed to be holding her right now.”

Clint winced.

“And then you called.” she added, sharp.

He raised his hands defensively. “And I said I was sorry.”

She turned away from the screens, tired of watching ghosts. “Let’s just finish this. I want to go home.”

Back to you. To warmth. To your arms and the scent of that bunny Ana refused to let go of. Back to what was real. Because no matter how convincing these simulations were—no matter how much of your brilliance hummed inside every byte—nothing in this cold, tech-lit room could compare to the life you’d built with her. Nothing could replace the soft gravity of your touch.

And when this was over, she’d crawl into bed no matter the hour, pull you against her, and breathe you in like a woman resurfacing from the deep.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

Natasha leaned against the edge of the control console, arms folded, posture tense but practiced. Beside her, Clint clicked between feeds on the main monitor, pulling up different simulation views. The room was quiet aside from the soft hum of processors and the occasional groan or muttered curse from one of the strapped-in recruits. The feeds flickered and changed—different scenarios, different reactions—and most of them, Natasha had to admit, were either absurd or just plain painful to watch.

“Did he seriously just run at the sniper with a knife?” she muttered, eyes narrowing at one of the panels.

“Yup,” Clint said with a grin, leaning in. “Didn’t even try cover. Full-blown hero charge.”

“He has a grenade on his belt.”

“I think he forgot.”

Natasha dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not forgetting. That’s suicidal optimism.”

Another screen showed a recruit trying to sneak through a corridor with absolutely no spatial awareness. He knocked over a chair, then tripped on it, then somehow managed to drop his weapon in the most exaggerated, dramatic tumble Clint had ever seen. Natasha didn’t say anything—just blinked slowly, her expression blank.

Clint laughed, loud and unfiltered. “That kid’s not even fighting the mission. He’s fighting gravity.”

On the far right panel, another recruit surprised them both. She rewired a security terminal in under thirty seconds using a snapped wire and part of her earpiece mic. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“That one’s sharp,” she admitted.

Clint whistled. “That’s your girl’s tech, too. Interface adapted mid-sim. Pretty sure the sim actually improved her hacking instincts.”

“Good. Maybe someone here will make it past next month without getting themself killed.”

The next screen showed a recruit tossing his weapon to a simulated hostage and yelling, “Cover me!”

Natasha stared.

Clint choked on his laughter. “Oh my God.”

“He armed the hostage.”

“Strategic empowerment?”

Natasha shot him a dry look. “Strategic idiocy.”

They both laughed—hers short and bitter, his open and entertained. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased.

But only for a moment.

Clint glanced sideways at her when her smile faded. Her shoulders sank back into that familiar coil of silence, her expression hardening again as the recruits continued their digital trials. He studied her for a beat, then turned slightly toward her with that familiar smirk—the one he always wore when he was about to start poking the bear.

“You’re unusually grumpy tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Am I.”

He leaned on the console next to her, nudging her with an elbow. “C’mon. Even you usually enjoy mocking the next generation of idiots. What gives?”

Natasha sighed through her nose, eyes glued to the screen. “I had plans.”

“Oh no.” Clint gasped with mock horror. “Plans. Were they dangerous? Illegal? Food-related?”

“They were quiet,” she snapped. “They were warm. And soft. And involved zero morons giving weapons to fake hostages.”

Clint grinned. “So, cuddles?”

Her glare was pure ice. “Yes. Cuddles. That’s the mission you dragged me away from. The real one.”

Clint pressed a hand to his heart. “Heartbreaking.”

She didn’t respond, just clenched her jaw tighter.

Clint waited a second, then added with a mischievous glint, “You’re mad because you didn’t get to spoon your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

Natasha shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the sim.”

Clint chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’d need a whole custom scenario. ‘The Training of Barton: How to Shut Up and Let Natasha Cuddle in Peace.’”

She turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The irritation was real, yes, but even now, she could feel the edges of it softening around Clint’s usual nonsense. Still, it didn’t fix the ache—didn’t dull the image of what she could be doing. The gentle weight of Ana in her arms. Your body wrapped around her back. Your voice, soft and teasing against her neck. Her bed. Her home. You.

And here she was instead. Watching twenty-year-olds try not to shoot themselves in the foot.

Clint nudged her again. “Seriously though. You okay?”

For a while, she didn’t say anything. The screen in front of them flickered, throwing a cold blue glow across her face. A recruit stumbled through a simulated blizzard, searching for a beacon he’d never find, and Natasha’s expression was unreadable, carved from quiet tension. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, then stilled.

“I’m trying to enjoy it,” she finally said, voice low. “Her. Us. Every second we get.”

Clint’s brow furrowed. He didn’t interrupt.

Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction, but her shoulders stayed drawn tight. “It’s been… good. Too good. So good it makes my skin crawl some nights. Not because I don’t want it—because I do. God, I do. But something in me keeps whispering that it’s not going to last.”

Her throat worked, like the words were digging themselves out against her will. “I keep getting this… this feeling. Like I’m losing her. Like she’s slipping through my fingers and I don’t even know why. Like this—whatever this is—has an expiration date and I just haven’t been told when yet.”

Clint’s voice came quieter. “She give you any reason to think that?”

Natasha shook her head. “No. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t lie to me. She holds me like she means it. Like she’s never letting go. But I can’t shake it. I wake up sometimes and I look at her and I think, this can’t be real. Life doesn’t give me this. Not for long. Not without taking it back.”

Clint exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through hell, Nat. Of course your brain doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

She looked away. Her jaw clenched hard. “It’s not just that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She hasn’t asked,” Natasha said finally, quieter this time. “We’re not… anything. Not officially. Not girlfriends. Not friends-with-benefits. We’re just… something.”

She let the word hang, fragile and heavy.

“I think about it more than I want to admit,” she continued. “I keep wondering why she hasn’t asked. If it’s because she’s not sure. Or if it’s because she’s already decided and just doesn’t want to say it. What if she didn’t ask because she’s planning to leave? What if she’s just waiting for the right moment to end it clean?”

Clint frowned. “Do you really think she’d do that to you?”

“No.” Natasha’s answer was instant. She blinked hard, jaw still tight. “No. She wouldn’t. That’s the part that messes with my head. I know she wouldn’t. But it’s like my body doesn’t believe it. Like every scar in me is screaming that love is a trick, and safety’s just a lie waiting to collapse.”

Her voice cracked, barely.

“I hold her and I’m happy. She kisses my forehead and I want to cry because it feels so damn real. And then the voice comes in. The one that says, you don’t get forever. You don’t even get ‘official.’ You just get this borrowed time until she figures out she deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Clint was quiet for a long moment. The sim monitors flickered in silence behind them, each recruit caught in their own temporary hell.

He shifted beside her, then leaned forward on the console with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”

Natasha didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to shut up either. So he took that as permission.

“I think you’re scared out of your mind,” Clint said, not unkindly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve never had anything like this before. Not really. Not where you could breathe in it. Where you could stay. Where no one was going to be dragged away or shot in the dark or pulled out of your arms while you watched helpless.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a second. That soft tremble in her lashes said enough.

“But Nat,” he continued, gently now, “you’re not in the Red Room anymore. You’re not in a cage. You’re not some shadow they trained to be disposable. You’re home. You built something. With her. With your kid. You think that’s an accident? You think someone like you—someone who’s lived through fire and came out human—doesn’t deserve this?”

She clenched her jaw again. “It’s not about what I deserve.”

“No. It’s about what you’re terrified to hope for.”

Natasha looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, there was nothing but years between them—wars survived, trust earned, quiet confessions passed like thread between wounds.

“I’m not good at soft,” she said finally. “I never was.”

“No one’s asking you to be good at it,” he replied. “Just don’t run from it.”

She went quiet again, but the air between them had shifted—thick with the weight of things unspoken and the quiet, aching truth she’d been too afraid to say out loud.

“I just…” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, low and raw. “I want her to want me forever. Not just now. Not just while it’s new, or easy, or exciting. I want her to choose me. Name me. Claim me. Because this… something… it feels like everything, but I keep waiting for her to say it out loud.”

“And until she does, you’re stuck in limbo.”

She nodded, once. Slow. Painfully slow.

Clint tilted his head. “Then ask her.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Ask her. Be brave, Romanoff. You’ve taken down gods and dictators. You think you can’t survive asking the girl you love where you stand?”

“It’s not about surviving,” she said quietly. “It’s about what it’ll feel like if I’m right.”

Clint studied her for a beat, his expression softening. “And what if you’re wrong? What if she’s just scared, too? Or waiting for you to ask because she doesn’t want to pressure you? What if she’s lying awake at night, wondering why you haven’t said anything?”

Natasha looked down at her hands. The scar across her knuckles. The place where you kissed when you thought she was asleep.

“She holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish,” Natasha whispered. “But I hold her like I’m already losing her.”

Clint didn’t have an answer for that. Not one he could speak, anyway.

So he reached out and gently bumped her shoulder. A wordless reassurance. A tether.

“You’re not losing her, Nat. You’re just scared.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A spy afraid of love. That’s original.”

“Hey,” he smirked. “Even assassins get hearts. Yours just took a while to remember how to beat.”

She didn’t reply, but her eyes flicked to one of the monitors without really seeing it. And Clint watched her, watched the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her fingers dug slightly into her arms like she was holding herself together by will alone. He knew that posture. Knew it from rooftops and bunkers and long silences between missions. It was the way Natasha braced when something inside her was louder than anything outside.

“Nat,” he said, voice quieter now, less teasing, more solid, “she’s not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you do. You do, and that’s what’s killing you. You know she loves you. You know she’s not lying, not playing, not keeping you around out of convenience. And that scares the hell out of you because the only thing more terrifying than losing her… is believing she might stay.”

She exhaled, sharp and shaky, and suddenly the room felt too small. Like the walls were pressing in with all the things she never let herself feel. All the quiet dreams she’d folded into the corners of her mind. All the hope she never gave herself permission to want.

“I’ve lost so much,” she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the monitors. “More than I ever let myself count. And now I have her. And Ana. And I keep thinking… what if this is just the calm before the storm? What if the universe is just fattening me up before it rips it all away again?”

Clint didn’t scoff. Didn’t try to joke it off. He just let her say it, let the words crack open between them like raw nerve.

“I think,” he said softly, “that maybe this time… the storm already passed. And this isn’t the before. Maybe it’s the after. Maybe you’re already standing in what’s left, and instead of ash, it gave you something to live for.”

That made her look at him. Her throat bobbed, her eyes glassy but refusing to spill. She wasn’t a crier. Not even when she wanted to be.

“I’m scared,” she said again, like it was a confession.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Just… tell her. Tell her you want more. Tell her this in-between isn’t enough. That you want to be hers. For real. She’ll listen. She’s not like the others.”

Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if the weight on her ribs had grown too heavy to carry in silence. Her voice came softer this time, stripped down, the edge dulled by something more fragile. “I never really noticed how hard it is… being a single mom. Not until I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Clint turned toward her, careful not to speak, just letting her unravel.

“I mean, I knew it’d be hard. Of course I did. Late nights, the crying, the routines, the guilt. But I thought I had it under control. I thought I was doing okay.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere vague, like she was watching a reel of half-remembered mornings and chaotic afternoons. “And then she came in.”

Her voice thickened—not with regret, but awe.

“She didn’t just help me. She showed up. She saw me. She saw Ana. And it was like…” Her lips curved, barely, aching. “Like she’d always been meant to be there. Like Ana was waiting for her too.”

Natasha swallowed hard. “Damn it, Clint. It’s like she was made for us. Like some piece I didn’t know I was missing finally clicked into place. She’s a breeze of fresh air in a house that forgot how to breathe.”

She looked down at her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold on to something intangible. “Ana adores her. She laughs differently when she’s around. Softer. Freer. Like she feels we are safe, it's like she can see that I am better. like she already knows who her home is.”

Clint watched her, eyes warm, but said nothing. Letting her get to it.

Natasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dipping low again. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because she’s ten years younger than me. Ten years of freedom. Ten years of unburned skin. She could have anything. Anyone. And I’m just… me.”

Her jaw clenched. The words tasted bitter coming out. “What if one day she realizes she wants someone her own age? Someone without baggage? Without trauma layered under every smile?”

Clint’s lips pressed together, but he still said nothing. He knew too much now. Knew more than he was allowed to say. And even if the box was burning a hole in his pocket, even if he could already hear your nervous voice rehearsing the proposal over and over again… this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.

Natasha sat there, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want Ana to lose her. I don’t want to lose her either. But I can’t stop thinking… why would she stay with me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn’t come with a whole damn history of blood and ghosts?”

Her hands moved to cover her face for a second, as if she could scrub the vulnerability out of her pores.

Clint finally leaned back with a small sigh. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”

Natasha peeked at him through her fingers.

“You’re thinking about why she shouldn’t love you. But have you looked at how she does? She’s not with you because of what you’re not, Nat. She’s with you because of everything you are. The fact you care this much? That’s not weakness. That’s proof.”

Natasha blinked, slowly.

“You and Ana aren’t just a chapter in her life,” Clint added, softer now. “You are her life. She made you part of her story. And she’s not walking away.”

He paused, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just trust me on that, okay?”

And Natasha… didn’t argue. She didn’t fight it. Not this time.

Instead, she looked down at her hands again, and let herself feel the full weight of what she’d built. What she stood to lose. And maybe—what she’d never have to.

They kept watching the simulations as the room buzzed with artificial chaos—guns fired, teammates failed, a building in one of the fake missions collapsed because someone forgot to check structural integrity. Idiots. Clint muttered something under his breath, scribbled a note about better obstacle training, and sighed heavily as a recruit ran into his own reflection thinking it was a teammate.

Natasha didn’t even blink.

Her eyes were on the screens, but she wasn’t watching. Not really. She was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, warm, and filled with the faint scent of your perfume. Somewhere Ana was babbling in the background, dragging books across the living room carpet, while your fingers brushed Natasha’s hair back from her temple and your lips pressed to her shoulder without needing a reason. She could almost feel the weight of you behind her, arm snug around her waist, breathing synced with hers.

Her brow was furrowed, though her body was still. She was thinking too much again. Drowning in it. All those sharp edges of self-doubt scraping against everything she wanted. Everything she had no idea how to ask for.

Clint watched her out of the corner of his eye, occasionally glancing between her and the recruits as another poor kid accidentally set off a chain reaction that ended with simulated civilian casualties. They’d laugh about it later, probably. But he couldn’t even get a smile out of her now.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it, and when he read the message, his face changed. Something settled behind his eyes—a flicker of amused satisfaction—and he slowly tucked the phone away like it wasn’t burning in his hand.

He leaned in, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, I’ve seen enough bad decisions to last me the rest of the week. And you—” he pointed at Natasha without looking at her. “You’re done here.”

She didn’t look away from the monitors. “What?”

“I’m kicking you out.”

She raised a brow, just a little. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yep. You’re useless like this,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re not paying attention, you’ve been staring through the screen for the last fifteen minutes, and if I have to watch you sit there and stew in existential dread one second longer, I’m gonna throw myself into the next sim.”

She gave him a look—flat, unamused.

Clint grinned. “Go home, Nat.”

“Clint—”

He put a hand up. “Nope. No arguments. I’m the boss tonight. Go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even like being in charge.”

“Well, tonight I do. Because it means I get to tell you to get out of here, go home, and stop being a haunted, brooding mess.”

She stared at him. He stared right back.

Then, slowly, her body shifted. Like a tired weight was finally giving up resistance.

“…Fine,” she muttered, dragging herself up from the chair.

Clint tossed her a mock salute. “Tell her hi for me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but he caught the way her fingers twitched slightly at the mention of you. The way her spine straightened Natasha stepped into the elevator, her body moving on autopilot, but her senses already alert—trained, sharp, impossible to fool. Something was in the air. Not the kind of tension that came before a fight, not the weight of danger—this was quieter. Warmer. Thicker, almost. Like anticipation had taken shape in the oxygen itself.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

She passed her keycard across the scanner. Beep. The familiar green light lit up, and the doors slid closed behind her. As the elevator began its descent, her fingers flexed against her thigh. Something was going on. Not a threat. No—she would’ve smelled that. But something… intentional. Delicate. And no one had said a word.

When the doors opened, her brows furrowed instinctively.

Her living room.

Soft amber light bathed the space in a gentle hush, like the entire apartment was holding its breath. No mission debris. No toys scattered from a wild Ana afternoon. Just… peace. Her eyes scanned quickly—then landed on the dining table.

Two plates. Steam rising. The scent of tomato and garlic filled the air like a memory.

Italian takeout.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor without thought. She took a slow step in, like she was afraid the quiet might shatter if she moved too fast.

And then she felt it—before you touched her.

Your warmth behind her. That familiar hum that her body recognized before her mind could catch up. It wasn’t noise. It was presence. You.

Your arms slipped around her waist like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there—and pulled her against you with a gentleness that made her breath catch. Her back met your chest, her hands instinctively finding yours. Her eyes closed.

You rocked her softly, slowly, swaying the way she might soothe Ana when she couldn’t sleep. “Good night,” you whispered, your lips brushing her hairline. “I missed you.”

The sound of your voice in that low, loving hush hit something deep. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself in the reality of it—of you. Your arms. Your smell. Your heartbeat against her spine.

She wanted to ask what all this was for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She just stood there in the quiet, still as a statue, letting herself be held.

Letting herself believe—for this moment—that maybe this wasn’t too good to last.

Your arms tightened around her just a little, pulling her closer, your presence now not just behind her—but wrapped into her. Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply let herself be held, her body still tense with that faint echo of disbelief, like she didn’t quite trust that something this warm could be hers.

You leaned in, soft and slow, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. It was small, nothing grand, but it made her shiver—made her heart stutter in her chest. You stayed there for a moment, your lips resting against her like they belonged there, then moved higher, burying your nose gently against the crook of her neck.

You nuzzled her, slow and affectionate, like you were breathing her in—like the scent of her skin, her warmth, the quiet strength she carried, was enough to steady your soul. Natasha let out the softest exhale, something closer to a sigh, her hand instinctively rising to rest over yours where it lay across her stomach.

Her walls didn’t fall all at once.

But they shifted.

Bit by bit, you were undoing her—not with force, but with love. Quiet, patient, steady love

.As you nuzzled into the soft curve of her neck, Natasha let out a slow breath, one hand rising to lightly curl around your wrist. Her voice came quiet—barely more than a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

“Where’s Ana…?”

You smiled against her skin, lips brushing her gently before you answered, your voice warm and full of affection.

“She was out like a light,” you murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the car ride. I tucked her into the crib—she’s sleeping like a little log, all bundled up in her blanket.”

Natasha exhaled a soft chuckle, the sound barely there but rich with relief.

You pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “So tonight?” you added with a teasing smile, “You have my full, undivided attention. Every second of it.”

That earned you a look. Soft. Unreadable. But the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, the tiredness in her eyes replaced with something gentler.

You slid your hand into hers and guided her toward the couch. The moment she sat, you were already pouring her a glass of wine—her favorite kind, the one you always remembered.

She took it with a small nod of approval, swirling the liquid lazily in the glass before taking a sip. Her head leaned back with a quiet sound of satisfaction, the day melting off her shoulders.

Then she tugged at your wrist again, wordless and sure. You didn’t need an invitation—you curled into her side easily, letting her arm drape around you as you snuggled against her, your cheek pressing to her shoulder.

“This,” she murmured, almost like she was admitting a secret to herself. “This is what I was waiting for.”

You nestled deeper into her side, the wine glass balanced in her hand while her other arm stayed wrapped around you. The low light flickered across her face, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones, but her expression had softened into something that felt… private. Vulnerable. At ease.

Your hand slipped under her shirt—slowly, reverently—finding the warm skin just above her hip. You didn’t rush, didn’t push. You just stroked her in slow, affectionate circles with your fingertips, letting her body adjust to the intimacy not of passion, but of peace. Of being wanted like this. Of being held.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She simply breathed out, deeper this time, the kind of breath that meant home.

You shifted slightly, brushing your lips along her jawline, feather-light kisses tracing their way upward until you found the hollow just beneath her ear. You kissed her there too, the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent.

Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, giving you access without a word. That small surrender said more than she ever could out loud.

She took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening slightly in your hair as she leaned her temple against yours.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered finally, voice husky and low, not from seduction but from truth. “You make this feel so easy.”

You smiled into her skin, your hand continuing its slow, grounding motion against her waist. “It is easy,” you murmured, lips brushing her jaw again. “With you, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but her thumb began tracing small circles on your shoulder, mirroring the way you touched her—as if learning your rhythm in return. And in that quiet, in that warmth, the silence said everything.

You pulled back just a fraction, your fingers still lingering on her skin, and raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So, we’re not eating yet?” you asked, your voice laced with playful curiosity. “I mean, the Italian’s just sitting there, getting cold… but I guess I can let it slide if you’re not in the mood.”

She shifted just slightly, turning her head to catch your eyes, her gaze soft yet filled with a playful challenge. “Right now, I’m more in the mood for cuddles than anything else,” she said, her voice low and tired in the way that only came when she’d been running on fumes all day, but somehow it sounded like the most honest confession. “We can eat later.”

You couldn’t help but smile, that familiar warmth curling in your chest as you leaned in a little closer. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, your lips brushing the edge of her ear as you whispered. “And here I thought I was going to have to convince you to eat. But… if it’s cuddles you want…” You let the sentence trail off, your fingers making their slow journey back up her side, brushing the fabric of her shirt.

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips, but her face was still soft, relaxed. “Yeah, that’s right,” she murmured. “Cuddles. No distractions. Just us.”

You pretended to consider it for a second before leaning in just a little more, your lips now a breath away from her ear. “Hmm… So, you’re telling me you want me to just sit here, and you don’t want me to make sure you’re properly taken care of?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful fire lighting in her gaze. “What are you implying?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

A smirk spread across your lips as you held her gaze, knowing full well where you were going with this. “Oh, I don’t know,” you began slowly, your hand now slipping just a bit lower, tracing the curve of her waist. “You’ve seen how I feed Ana. I could be your personal chef too, you know. Maybe you’d like that? I could feed you, just like I do with her. Spoon you some pasta, maybe?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head at you as she tried to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but her eyes softened, clearly entertained by the thought.

“Oh, I could make it happen,” you said, completely unphased by her teasing. “I’d even cut your food into little pieces and feed it to you bite by bite. Keep your hands free for… cuddling,” you added with a wink, your finger tapping her chin gently.

She rolled her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t able to keep the grin from breaking through. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You grinned back, leaning in to brush your lips over hers, just a light kiss, but one that lingered for a moment longer than usual. “I’m just saying, if you want me to treat you like I treat Ana, I’m happy to spoil you, too.”

Natasha let out a long, drawn-out sigh of mock exasperation, but her arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she rested her head against your chest. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice softened by the exhaustion that had been following her all day. “But, fine. Maybe you can feed me later. For now… just stay here with me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against her hair. “Anything you want, babe,” you said softly, letting your hands find their place on her body again, just holding her as the moment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket.

The two of you stayed nestled together, your fingers tracing slow, invisible patterns over her skin—soft lines, gentle spirals that spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each touch was an unspoken expression of care, of reassurance, as if you were reminding her that, even in the stillness, you were there. The warmth between you both created a safe little world that wrapped itself around your hearts like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt as though nothing else existed.

Natasha finished her glass of wine, placing it on the coffee table with a soft clink that broke the silence, but only slightly. She sighed softly, her head still resting against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath her. Her body relaxed into yours, the tension of the day dissipating slowly, but there was something new in the air now—a shift that neither of you could quite pinpoint.

You paused your gentle movements, fingers hovering above her skin for a heartbeat longer than usual. The atmosphere in the room felt thicker now, a quiet anticipation hanging between you, pulling your thoughts into focus. It was time.

“Natasha…” Your voice was soft, hesitant, and she could feel the change, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

She tilted her head just slightly, her hand curling against yours as she looked up at you, eyes warm but attentive. “What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.

You took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than you thought they would. “I… I need to say something important. Something that will change everything for us.”

Her heartbeat shifted slightly beneath her ribs, her hand instinctively squeezing yours as she waited, her attention sharp, her usual warrior’s demeanor softened in the quiet of the moment.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show. “I’m afraid of doing this… afraid of what it might do to us.” You paused, looking down into her eyes as if searching for some sign, any sign, that she was ready for this, that she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m scared because I don’t know what I’ll do if you… if you run away. I don’t know how to handle it if you decide I’m pushing you too hard, or if I make you feel trapped in some way.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she said nothing, simply letting you continue.

“I never want to pressure you, Natasha. I never want you to feel like you’re being forced into something you’re not ready for. But this… what we have—it’s more than just something to me. It’s everything.” Your voice broke for a moment, that rawness creeping through, the emotion you’d tried to keep at bay spilling over in the quietest of ways. “I just… I’m afraid. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. But I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need to know that you want this, that you’re not just here because it’s easy or because I’ve been too blind to see your hesitation.”

You paused, biting your lip slightly as your hand found her cheek, cupping it gently. “Please, just… don’t walk away from me, not when I’m starting to believe this could be everything I’ve always wanted.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with those unyielding eyes, but the weight of her gaze seemed to wrap itself around your heart in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

Then, with a deep exhale, she spoke, her voice gentle but filled with that quiet understanding. “You think I’m going to run?” she asked, her tone soft but sharp with sincerity.

You nodded slowly, unable to mask the nervousness that lingered in your chest. “I don’t know what else to think. I… I don’t know how to balance this, the fear of losing you, with the need to tell you how I feel.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips, and she leaned forward just enough to press her forehead against yours, soft and slow, as if grounding you both in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me,” she said simply, her voice a steady anchor. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you. Her hands reached up to touch your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, and it was like the whole world stopped in that one soft connection.

“But I can’t promise things won’t change,” Natasha continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, honest gaze. “I can’t tell you I won’t be scared too. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”

You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. “I just needed to hear that.”

She smiled again, a little brighter now, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You have me. Just don’t worry so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words were quiet, but they held an unspoken promise. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your own fears begin to lift, even if just a little

The quiet that followed was heavy, but not in a burdensome way—it was the kind of silence that wrapped around the room like velvet, soft and full of meaning. You could hear the hum of the city outside, but it felt a thousand miles away. Natasha was still curled against you, her fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm, but your thoughts were no longer calm. They were storming in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You sat up slowly, careful not to startle her, and then stood. Natasha blinked, looking up in confusion as her body instinctively followed your movement. But then you moved—slow, intentional—and lowered yourself to one knee in front of her. Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And she froze, just like that, staring down at you as if the world had slipped off its axis.

You held the ring box in your hand, but it stayed closed for now. Your eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Natasha,” you began, your voice trembling with everything you’d been holding in for too long, “I love you.”

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came. Her eyes were locked onto yours, wide, stunned, as you continued.

“I love all of you. The parts the world has seen. The ones they’ve judged. The ones they’ll never understand.” You took a breath, slow and shaking. “I love the fire in you, the way you stand unshaken when everything’s falling apart. I love the way you fight, not just in battle, but for people—for Ana, for me, for everyone who’s ever had the chance to be loved by you.”

Her chest rose slowly, her lips tightening as emotion began to blur her vision, but you weren’t done. Not yet.

“You’re brilliant. The smartest woman I’ve ever known. Strategic, sharp, deadly. You walk into a room and shift the balance of it without even trying. But when Ana cries, you drop everything, and you hold her like she’s your whole world. And she is, isn’t she?”

A tear slipped down Natasha’s cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it.

“I see the way she looks at you, Tasha. Like you hung the stars. But you know something else?” You swallowed, emotion clawing up your throat. “She looks at me that way too. Because you let me be part of her world. Because you let me in. And God, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”

Her hand came up to her mouth now, covering her lips as the weight of your words hit her. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” you whispered. “Not just because of what you do. But who you are. When you stroke Ana’s hair while she’s falling asleep. When you cry in your sleep and bury your face in my chest and let yourself be small with me. When you don’t speak, but hum those lullabies under your breath just so your brain stays quiet. I see you, Natasha. All of you. And I still fall.”

Your hands opened the ring box slowly, revealing the simple, elegant band inside. Her eyes flicked down to it—and she audibly gasped.

“I don’t want you to be just my girlfriend,” you said, your voice now thick and raw. “That word—it doesn’t come close to what you mean to me. I want you to be my fiancée. I want to skip that middle step because it feels too small for us. I want to wake up every day knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how deeply I love you.”

The silence that followed was devastating and breathtaking all at once. Natasha’s face had completely crumbled, her lips trembling, her breath shallow, her eyes spilling quiet tears. She looked at you like you were breaking her open—in the most healing, impossible way.

You held the ring toward her with a trembling hand. “Will you marry me, Natasha Romanoff?”

She didn’t speak. She just stared at you for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. And then she nodded. Slowly at first. Then fiercely, with a choked laugh through her tears.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word so soft you could’ve missed it.

But you didn’t.

You rose slowly, carefully, your fingers still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. She looked down at it in disbelief, her hands shaking, then reached for you with sudden urgency, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you down into her, kissing you through laughter, through tears, through every wall that had ever tried to stand between you.

The kiss lingered—not rushed, not fiery, but slow and trembling, the kind that reached down into bone and stayed there. Natasha clung to you like her life depended on it, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed against your lower back as if anchoring herself in the moment. You could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, her breath stuttering between kisses, her body shaking not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered emotion. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, unraveling, but safe.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes still damp, and she gave a tiny, broken laugh that made your heart clench.

“I was not ready for that,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You ambushed me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “You’re a master spy, Romanoff. If I can ambush you, then I’ve earned the right to keep you.”

She let out a shaky breath, that little upward pull of her lips returning—but softer, quieter, the kind of smile she gave only when she felt completely, painfully vulnerable. “God,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I never thought someone would want this… not for a lifetime.”

“I want you,” you said, firm and low, your hand coming to rest over her heart. “Not the legend. Not the assassin. Not the perfect mom. Just you. The woman who watches documentaries about space at three in the morning. The woman who cries when she thinks no one can hear. The one who hums lullabies she doesn’t remember learning. That’s who I want to grow old with.”

Her eyes opened again, blinking through tears. “I’m so scared,” she admitted, barely above a breath. “You’re so young. You could have anyone. You could still change your mind.”

You cupped her face with both hands now, firm and warm. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine waking up next to anyone else. I choose you. Every single day. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you push me away. Even when the world tries to pull you back into old ghosts. I will choose you.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she closed her eyes again, the weight of your words washing over her like a wave she didn’t even try to fight. She leaned into your hands, into your love, as if some part of her still couldn’t believe it was real.

You kissed her again—soft, reverent—then guided her gently to sit with you on the couch. She nestled into your side, her legs tangled with yours, her hand clutching yours tightly as if afraid you might vanish if she let go.

“I don’t know how to be a fiancée,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more contemplative than unsure.

“That’s okay,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t know either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against your shoulder. “I’m going to mess up.”

“So will I.”

“You’ll get tired of me.”

“I won’t.”

She looked up at you, her expression so open it nearly broke you. “Promise?”

You kissed her gently, pressing your lips to the corner of her mouth like a vow. “I promise. Every day. Every night. Every breath. You and Ana… you’re my home, Natasha. There’s no version of my future without you in it.”

Her chest rose and fell in a deep, shaking breath, and finally… finally… she relaxed. Completely. The last pieces of armor she had left seemed to fall quietly to the floor, leaving behind only Natasha—raw, trembling, loved.

She leaned her head back against your shoulder, lifting her hand to admire the ring through glistening eyes. A soft, wistful smile tugged at her lips.

“Damn it,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get this.”

You held her tighter. “You deserve more than this. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Outside, the city went on—unaware, uncaring—but inside this tiny apartment, two broken souls had found each other in the rubble, and built something beautiful from it.

The silence between you stretched again, not heavy this time, but shimmering—thick with meaning, with emotion neither of you had words for yet. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her hand still delicately gripping yours, her thumb tracing lazy lines over your knuckles. The ring on her finger caught the light—a soft gleam of diamond and sapphire—and her breath hitched when she looked at it again, as if it reminded her that this was real. That she hadn’t just dreamed it.

She pulled away just enough to look at you fully.

And then, with her voice trembling, she whispered, “I love you.”

You blinked, stunned for a second—not because you didn’t know, not because you hadn’t felt it in every gesture, every stolen glance, every sigh against your chest at night—but because hearing it out loud from her, this woman carved from shadow and survival, was something else entirely.

“I love you,” she said again, firmer now, like she needed you to believe it. Her eyes shimmered, green glass pooling over with tears. “Not in some fragile, half-hearted way. I love you with every part of me I never thought could still feel. With every part that forgot how to be soft.”

Your lips parted, the lump rising in your throat cutting off your breath, your thoughts, everything.

She reached for your face, her palm brushing against your cheek, her thumb catching the tear that had just started to fall. “You broke through walls I forgot I even had up,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You made me feel safe without asking me to be small. You loved Ana without asking anything in return. You let me be me—not Black Widow, not some haunted mess of a woman… just Natasha. And I never thought anyone would love her.”

Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, your vision blurring, your body shaking. She kept wiping them away with trembling fingers, but it didn’t matter—you were crying, both of you were, in this fragile, raw, unguarded moment that neither of you could’ve prepared for, but both of you desperately needed.

“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Terrified. That this wouldn’t last. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m too heavy, too broken. That someone younger, softer, less… haunted would come along and you’d go.”

“I would never,” you managed to say, voice cracking.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours, noses brushing. “I know. But it still scares me. Because you matter that much.”

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, tears mingling quietly between kisses that weren’t about passion, but presence. Kisses that said I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.

You reached for the small velvet box that had been resting on the couch and opened it again, your own ring sitting there—simple, elegant, with delicate green peridots set into the band like stardust. Natasha gently took it from the box with shaking hands and slid it onto your finger, her own breath faltering as she did.

You smiled through tears, and then it was your turn. You picked up hers—the one you’d chosen so carefully—the central diamond catching the warm glow of the apartment lights, flanked by the two deep sapphires. A past. A future. And a present that gleamed like a promise.

Your fingers trembled as you slid it onto hers, and she watched every motion with eyes full of awe, reverence, disbelief.

“It’s really happening,” she murmured, as if saying it would anchor it into reality.

You looked at her through watery eyes, heart bursting at the seams. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and kissed you—deep and slow and forever. The world had fallen away. The only thing that existed now was the soft hush of your apartment, the glow of warm lamplight casting gentle shadows on the walls, and the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breath against your chest. Her weight on you was grounding, like gravity had chosen to settle in the shape of her body. Her legs tangled lazily with yours, her cheek resting just above your heart, and her fingers—those calloused, deadly, impossibly gentle fingers—were laced with yours.

She lifted your joined hands slowly, letting them hover just above her face as she looked at them. The rings caught the low light and shimmered, side by side, like matching vows made metal. Her eyes softened as she stared at them—your delicate band of peridots nestled in gold, and her ring, bold and graceful with its diamond and twin sapphires.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick with wonder. “They look… real. Like this actually happened.”

You smiled and kissed the top of her head, your fingers squeezing hers. “It did.”

She studied your ring a moment longer, brows drawing together in curiosity. “Why peridots?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to look up at you. “I mean… it’s beautiful. But I wanna know what you were thinking.”

You hesitated, just a second, brushing your thumb across her knuckles before answering. “Because they remind me of your eyes. Not just the color… the way they glow when you’re calm. When you’re watching Ana sleep. When you’re at peace. There’s this light in you, Nat… something soft and green and alive, even after everything. I wanted it close to me.”

She went quiet, lips parting just slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when they opened again they were glistening.

“And Ana’s eyes too,” you added gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “When I see the ring, I see both of you.”

Natasha didn’t speak for a moment, and you felt her body press closer, her hand gripping yours like it hurt to let go. Her throat bobbed with emotion as she stared at your ring again. “You’re a sap,” she murmured, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Yeah. But only for you.”

She laughed softly, and then turned her gaze toward her own ring, letting her thumb trace the edge of the diamond, then the sapphires flanking it. “Okay, in mine. Why sapphires?”

You shifted just enough to look down at her, your voice quieter now. “Because sapphires are about truth. Loyalty. Protection. They’re ancient—some of the oldest stones on Earth. They’re strong. Fierce. Just like you.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. “So I’m carrying a gemstone legacy on my hand now?”

You leaned in, your nose brushing her hair as you chuckled. “Exactly.”

She looked back at the ring, still stunned, still somehow disbelieving. Then, with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, she muttered, “Why am I so sure I’m carrying a fortune on my finger?”

“Because you are,” you said without hesitation, your voice suddenly quieter, more reverent. “But not just in gems.”

Her smile faltered, lips trembling, and she buried her face against your chest again.

And in that moment—wrapped up together, rings gleaming, bodies intertwined and hearts unguarded—there was no past. No mission. No Red Room. No fear.

Eventually, the pull to move became too gentle to ignore. Not rushed, not urgent—just the quiet desire to be even closer. You both rose from the couch hand in hand, still wrapped in the softest silence, and made your way to the bedroom, the food already forgotten on the table. There were no words exchanged, no need. Just the unspoken rhythm between two hearts that had finally said what they’d been holding in for so long.

The shower was slow and warm, steam curling around your bodies like a cocoon. Fingers traced over skin not with hunger, but with reverence—soapy touches turning to quiet caresses, washing away the weight of everything that had come before. Water dripped from her hair as she leaned her forehead to yours, smiling in that quiet, content way she only ever did with you. You ran your hands down her back, held her close, and she just let herself be held.

When you emerged, you were both damp and glowing, wrapped in soft towels and softer smiles. Natasha pulled you into bed without hesitation, her arms instinctively curling around your waist, your legs tangled up beneath the sheets as if they’d always belonged that way.

She rested her head on your shoulder, one hand on your stomach, and you traced slow, loving circles on her spine. The only sound was the soft whirr of the fan above, and your breaths syncing into a shared lullaby. Her fingers found yours again under the blanket, twisting together, rings catching the moonlight that spilled faintly through the window.

There were no more confessions needed. No more questions. Just the weight of her against you, the smell of her damp hair, the solid truth of the rings on your fingers and the unspoken vow between your hearts.

And in that quiet, sacred stillness—wrapped in warmth, love, and the life you were building together—you both finally rested.

Not as a spy and her secret.

Not as a single mother and a girl who wandered in.

But as fiancées.

You tore your mask and gown off with a smirk after another successful transplant surgery. You glanced up to the gallery and your smirk instantly dropped, your eyebrows scrunched as you headed to the sinks to scrub out. Your eyes locked on an anxious looking Millin who looked a moment from hurling herself off a building.

It had been a while since you last spent time with her. She had found what was apparently the girl of her dreams and had had tunnel vision ever since. Something you respected. You fell back and focused on your work. But when you looked at her now you knew something was terribly wrong.

You exited the scrub room and made your way to the Attendings’ Lounge. Your shift ending soon. You decided to take the moment to undress and wind down. You were in the middle of changing. Your scrub top was in your work bag waiting to be taken to your apartment to wash and you were buttoning up your jeans – only wearing your black bra – when Jules slipped quietly inside the room, eyes red and puffy. She paced back and forth for a moment.

“Hey, what’s going on?” You asked your voice soft with concern in that way that made the mahogany-haired woman’s stomach churn and heart warm.

She stopped pacing, her eyes trailed from your socks to your abs and further up to your face. She seemed stuck in time, a tear slipping down her cheek that made you drop the black long-sleeve you were about to don and pull her towards you by her arms. Your thumbs swiping the tears from her cheeks, a pit sinking into your gut. You questioned more insistently, “What’s wrong Jules?”

She attempted to pull away from your touch but you refused to let her.You cupped her cheeks attempting to draw her stormy brown eyes to your own – she refused to yield. “Hey, don’t do that. You came to me for a reason. Talk to me. I want to help,” You whispered patiently, tenderly.

Jules didn’t want that right now. She shoved your chest harshly making you stumble backwards nearly falling over an end table. Your lips parted in shock.

“Jules.” You mumble and she wiped her tears with her palms. A deep breath and more silence…Your jeans sagged on your hips as you waited.

“Just… don’t.”

You nodded slowly. She still couldn’t meet your gaze.

“She left.” Jules spat through gritted teeth like she was in physical pain and your expression instantly slacked from confusion as the realization dawned on you.

“Wait… Yasuda sh–”

Jules runs her fingers through her hair as more tears breach her stormy irises that still refused to meet yours.

“Fuck.” You mumbled knowing the brunette well enough to know if you dared showed an ounce of pity she would run and never look back.

“Yeah.”

The door to the attendings’ lounge swung open in that moment and you grunted as Millin shrunk in on herself. You brushed past her and glared at Dr. Ndugu, pushed a hand against his chest, and forced him out of the room as he protested.

You walked back to your locker and pulled your long-sleeve over your head before wrapping your jacket around Jules’ shoulders. You snatched your bag up and pulled your shoes onto your feet, then you wrapped a strong arm around her waist and guided her out of the lounge. Her head hung, her footsteps unsteady.

You bypassed families and coworkers alike not even chancing a greeting as you guided her out of the hospital and into your old F-150. You opened the passenger door and practically lifted her into the truck, tugged the seatbelt over her trembling frame and shut the door. You climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the parking lot carefully.

Five minutes into the drive she began sniffling. Five minutes after that the silence of the road was replaced by the sound of her heavy sobs. Your jaw has set by the time you pull up to your apartment. You shut off the engine and slouched into your seat. Gazing at her as she sobbed and after a while you opened your arms offering a shoulder.

She glanced at you teary-eyed and sniffling to keep her nose from running. The sleeve of your jacket over her mouth to muffle the sobs that tore through her and you draped your arm over her shoulders. She scoots into you leaning towards you sliding across the bench seat until her head is resting on top of your thigh her tears seeped through the denim as you rubbed her shoulder and back soothingly.

“Let it out.” You whispered.

She sobbed harder burying her face into the denim of your jeans as you moved to pull the elastic from her hair and stroke your fingers through it. “I’ve got you.”

“She left me!” She cried out.

“I know. I know.”

An hour later the sobbing seemed to recede and Jule’s phone was blowing up with texts from her friends wondering where she was. You watched as she held down the power button and turned her phone off.

“Let’s go inside. I’ll heat you up some leftovers and we’ll watch a horror movie.”

Jules rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I don’t need coddling, I need something hard.”

You smirked at the unintentional innuendo.

Her face scrunched in disgust and she smacked your chest. “Not! Like that!”

She groaned. You laughed warmly. “Ouch.”

“Don’t be a baby. I just meant Tequila.”

You nodded as you climbed out of the truck and she followed, wiping her face with the sleeve of your jacket. Her nose, eyes, and cheeks rosy. “I don’t keep that shit in my house, it tastes like cayenne pepper and bad decisions.” You shiver at the memories as Jules groans loudly and drags her feet.

“I have whiskey though.” You informed as you walk up the steps and open the door to your apartment building.

“That’ll do, I guess.”

You nodded as you walked up the flight of stairs with the brunette in tow. You finally reached your apartment and unlocked the door. You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes, setting them on the rack. Calmly, you made your way to the cupboard reaching up to the top shelf. You pulled down the large three-quarters full bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Jules sighed and leaned against your kitchen island shoes having tracked in mud but you’re too focused to care. You opened the bottle and poured two glasses to which Millin snatched them both and downed the sickly sweet liquid inside. You gaped in shock and chuckled as she grimaced and wiped her lips. You poured more into the glasses and snatched the second one before she could get her hands on it. You took a breath in and clinked your glass against hers. You tapped the glass on the counter and breathed out, tossed it back with her and inhaled slowly– shivering in disgust.

Jules smirked. “Pussy.”

You rolled your eyes and moved to the fridge to pull out the leftover fried chicken and homemade mac and cheese.

“How do you find time to cook?” The brunette asked as she poured herself another glass.

“Day off.” You mumbled with a smirk as you pressed the buttons on the microwave to heat the food and moved to the fridge to grab a Powerade.

You slid the bottle of blue electrolytes to her. “Electrolytes with your liquor?”

Jules rolled her eyes and twisted the cap open begrudgingly taking a sip. You nodded approvingly and headed to your bedroom to get undressed. You sighed as you tugged your shirt over your head and unbuttoned your jeans letting them fall, still stained with the brunette’s tears.

You stood confidently in your boxer-briefs and bra taking a breath and a moment to yourself. You were shedding your boxers and pulling up a pair of thin pajama pants when Jules walked in with her thumb pointing to the kitchen her eyes instantly falling on your limp dick.

You cursed and turned your back on instinct.

Her spluttering halted as she tilted her head and smirked at the ink scribbled across the lower part of your spine, “Is that a tattoo?”

You hurriedly pulled the pajama pants up and tied them securely. “What did you need?”

You asked ignoring the heat in your cheeks and ears.

“What does it say?” She asks referring to the tattoo on the back of your thigh just below the curve of your glute.

You groaned and brushed past her hearing the microwave beep. “Your dinner is done.”

You tried to brush her off but she didn’t let you. She followed you into the kitchen and poured herself another glass as you grabbed her a fork and slid the tupperware to her.

“I won’t eat until you tell me what it says. I will starve myself, I swear.”

You roll her eyes at her tipsy dramatics. “Fine. It says ‘Pleasure Over Matter.’”

Jules snorts before keeling over laughing and you smirk embarrassed but glad to see her smiling. You just watch her with a soft look in your eyes. “Now eat your food. You know you want it.”

“You are so… full of yourself, my god!” She cackled.

You rolled your eyes and picked up the fork, stabbing some elbow noodles and held it to her lips. “Eat.”

She takes a bite and moans softly before taking the fork and digging in. “Am i drunk already or are you a good cook?”

You smirk. “Both.”

You watched her eat and poured yourself another glass of whiskey and downed it in one go. You stuck your tongue out and made a noise of distaste. Jules eats slowly but surely and taps her glass for you to top her off. You do. She downed it, took a pointed sip of Powerade and went back to eating as you screwed the cap on the bottle and placed it in your freezer to the brunette’s disappointment.

“Come on.” You mutter and guide her to your living room as she eats. You turn on the tv and let her pick a horror movie as you sink into the cushion of your couch beside her. She settles on Scream, one of her favorites.

You sit through most of the movie together. She finishes eating and sips at the Powerade you gave her and she turns to look at you. “How are things with you and Dr. Shepherd?”

You press your lips together and turn away from the gorey movie to hold her gaze. “Uh… nonexistent. I don’t accept that type of betrayal as something to move past.”

Jules nodded slowly. “So you two are over? Like for good? How can you walk away that easily?”

You snorted. “You just walk away and don’t look back.”

Jules nodded slowly again. The alcohol made her slow to process. “Is it that easy?”

You scan her face and realize hastily she’s conflating her situation with Yasuda to your’s. “Hey, she’s a fool for leaving you. Don’t get me wrong, grief makes people do stupid things they wouldn’t necessarily do… but.. You didn’t betray her. You did nothing wrong. She simply walked away. And that might be what she needed… that doesn’t reflect on you, Jules. That reflects on her. You deserve all the love in the world. Someone who will see it through with you. Not that half-in half-out bullshit you usually settle for. She’s going through a lot and she made the choice to deal with that on her own and abandoned you in the process. That’s the facts of the situation. Focus on the facts, don't draw conclusions, especially ones that mess up your own self worth.”

Jules nodded her eyes tearing up again. “I just.. I feel so..”

You nod slowly. “Hurt?”

She nods and wipes at her eyes. “I thought… we could get through it together. I thought we had something. I just don’t want to think anymore. I shouldn't have ever gotten involved, I should have kept my head down.”

You sigh and pull her towards you by her ankle until her legs are across your lap and you hug her. “Don’t shame yourself. There’s no shame in… falling in love. You’re human.”

“I-I know, but…”

You shush her as she sniffles against your neck. “There is no but. You lead with your heart that was brave. Not stupid.”

Jules fell silent sniffling over the screams that echoed from your flatscreen. You held her together and kissed the top of her head and she leaned into you. She looked teary-eyed and dejected and you pouted, bringing a hand to her cheek. She leans into your touch and you clench your jaw as she gives you a certain look, her gaze darkening as she leans upwards her lips parting slightly. You rest your forehead against hers.

“Are you sure?”

She responds silently by bringing a soft hand to the back of your neck, her nails gently biting into the flesh there. You nod slowly and lean in to capture her lips. You stop just before they meet. “You won’t hate me for this?”

Jules pulls back to catch your eye. “Shut up.” She mumbled and captured your lips roughly with her own and you melted– kissing her back with a certain reservation. While she… she was rough with you because she knew you could handle it. Handle her. That’s what she wanted…to be handled. And handled well.

She bites down on your lip and straddles your lap as she forces her tongue into your mouth and you suck on it causing her to groan and pull away only to dive back in– her hands trailed over the lace of your bra and down your clenched abdomen.

You dragged your lips away from hers and along the edge of her jaw to catch your breath. You smirked and licked her pulse point sucking lightly before moving on. The brunette shrugged your jacket off her lithe frame and pulled her scrub top over her head.

You licked your lips as she cupped your cheeks before dragging your head forward so that your swollen lips grazed against the tops of her breast. You kissed the skin languidly feeling her heart pound under your lips as you reached behind her and unclasped her bra with one hand.

She chuckled as you smirked devilishly and pulled the straps down her arms until you were able to toss the constrictive garment aside. “You’re so smooth with that.”

“Practice makes perfect.” You mumbled before sucking one of her rosy pink nipples into your mouth laving your tongue over the peak as you massaged the other. She grinded down on your abs as your mouth world her eyes on your face as she pushed your hair out of your way.

You switched to her other breast as she grabbed your free hand and untied her scrub bottoms before shoving it inside. YOu moaned against her breast as you cupped her wet cunt over her panties before pushing them aside. She gasped as your fingers gently traced her clit.

You rubbed the bundle of nerves languidly trailing your fingers further until you could swipe some of the slick from her entrance up against her button. Jules' hips jerked and her head fell backwards. “Fuck. Please.”

You released her nipple–a string of your spit connecting you to her breast still. You cupped her jaw and dragged her lips back down to yours as you plunged a single finger into her entrance swirling it around. She moaned into your mouth her arms wrapped around your neck as you swirled your tongue over hers.

You nibbled her lower lip as you curled your finger. She pulled away with a whine– her clit dragging over the heel of your palm. You knew what she wanted before she even asked plunging a second finger inside her tight, wet heat. She groaned and let her forehead rest against your’s.

“Feel good?” You smirked as you dragged your fingers through her pussy rubbing against the textured patch just inside her entrance.

Her back arched as she whimpered and grinded her clit harder against your palm. She rolled her hips perfectly to ride your long fingers that reached deeper than anyone else ever could including herself. Her breath fanned against your face and smelled of pure whiskey–how intoxicating. She nodded mindlessly and you chuckled hotly.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck. Yes!” She cried as you scissored your fingers inside her.

You groaned as she tightened around your fingers, more wetness gushing into your palm. You fucked your fingers into her faster in response. You made sure to hook your fingers on every pull to drag against that spot that made her walls clench tighter every time. That spot that made her hold on your wrist tighten and that airy moan spew from her lips. Her face scrunched in pleasure.

“Right there?” You inquired though you knew the answer before she frantically nodded her head in desperation.

You smirked and scissored your fingers inside her. Feeling her walls tighten and her cunt gush in response. The brunette ground her clit against your palm letting out a growled mewl.

“There you go, take what you need.” You whispered and sucked her pink nipple back into your mouth as she rode your fingers frantically.

Jules whined and bounced on your fingers insistently canting her hips forward to rub her clit against your palm over and over. That's when you brought your other hand down and swiped at the bundle of nerves hastily, your fingers slipping on the sheer amount of slick.

You arched your hips up unconsciously seeking attention but remained focused as Jules' breath stuttered. The smell of whiskey filling your senses as she cupped your cheeks and brought your lips to hers her eyes rolling back as her back arched–-with a gush and a breathless whine she came hard all over your hands. Her eyes rolled back and her breath caught as you rubbed her clit and g-spot simultaneously as her walls seized.

The sounds spilling from her lips tasted of pure heaven on your tongue as you pulled away to gaze at her pleasure-overcome features. Her eyebrows drawn together her lips open her jaw tight. Her hips canted wildly chasing the euphoria you helped her achieve until it all came crashing down.

The brunette slackened in your arms. Her breath fanning against your neck, her mahogany tresses tickling your jaw and shoulder as you wiped her slick on her thigh before pulling your hand out of her pants and wrapping her in your arms holding her close. Silence befell the room, the credits of the movie playing in the background as she caught her breath.

Jules shuddered as she was hit with aftershock after aftershock. Her eyes welled up again as the euphoria faded and her reality came crashing back down on her. You heard her sniffle and instantly tightened your arms around her.

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　 　˳ 　 　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　 　 ˚₊

Natasha had never been the type to hope for softness.

Not for herself, at least.

She’d made her peace with that years ago—on the rooftops of Budapest, in the sterile hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D., in the long silences between missions where guilt and memory left no room for sentiment. And then came Ana. Not by accident. Not by surprise. By choice. Hers. A deliberate, defiant, I want this, spoken with all the clarity of a life finally claimed.

She never regretted a moment of it. Not the injections. Not the procedures. Not the days spent alone, watching her body change, knowing no one was coming but not needing anyone to. Ana was the best thing she’d ever done. Her softness, her quiet, her stubborn spark—that was Natasha’s legacy now. Not blood. Not missions. Her. Anasthasia Irina Romanoff. She’d chosen Irina long before Ana was even born. It wasn’t a family name, or a tribute to anyone in her past—it was a hope. Irina meant peace, and that’s what Ana was. Her stillness after decades of running. Her soft beginning after a life of sharp edges. Natasha had spent so many years living on instinct, choosing danger over safety, solitude over softness. But Ana was different. Ana meant slow mornings. Shared breakfasts. Laughter in the middle of the day for no reason at all. She gave her the name Irina because, for the first time, Natasha wasn’t surviving anymore. She was living. And Ana was the reason why.And maybe that’s why she was so protective of it—why she kept the world at arm’s length and Ana even closer. This calm, this rhythm she’d built, it was fragile in the way that mattered most. So when new variables appeared—new people, new energies—Natasha never let them close enough to shift the balance.

So she didn’t expect anything to come from your arrival.

Not in the way that mattered.

You were Tony’s daughter, and Natasha had always paid attention to the way people spoke about you—with a mixture of respect and restraint, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who carried the Stark name but none of his chaos. She knew you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were barely old enough to be called an adult, that you’d carved your space without leaning on legacy, and that you’d been stationed in England for the last few years—low profile, high results.

She also knew something more personal. Something quieter.

You didn’t like children.

Not in a cold, heartless way. You weren’t cruel. You were respectful—always. Natasha remembered the way you helped Lila Barton when she scraped her knee during a holiday visit, how you’d stayed still and calm while the girl sobbed against your shoulder. But the moment she calmed, you’d set her down gently and disappeared from the room like your presence had been an accident. You didn’t mock them, or treat them like they were less-than. You just… didn’t want them near. Didn’t invite them close. Natasha understood that. Some people didn’t crave the chaos, the unpredictability, the weight of something small depending on you.

That was fine.

That was expected.

Which is why she didn’t even flinch when she brought Ana to the morning briefing.

The meeting was scheduled in one of the larger lounge rooms—bright windows, low coffee tables, plenty of space for Ana to exist without needing constant wrangling. Natasha had done this dozens of times. Her daughter came with her everywhere now. She didn’t leave Ana behind unless she absolutely had to. The team had long since adapted.

You, however, were new.

She entered the room with Ana tucked against her side, one arm looped around the child’s waist with practiced ease. You were already seated—coffee in hand, face unreadable, posture casual but distant. Natasha didn’t expect more than a polite nod, maybe a glance. And that’s what she got. You didn’t tense. You didn’t retreat. You simply acknowledged her presence and turned your eyes back to the screen.

But Ana didn’t.

Ana saw you. And for the first time since Natasha could remember, her daughter paused.

Not in fear. Not in confusion. In recognition.

It started as a slow shift—her little body repositioning against Natasha’s ribs, eyes locked in your direction, curious and alert. Then the squirming began. Not impatient, not fussy—focused. Ana leaned out of her arms, little hand pointing downward.

Natasha frowned. “What’s going on, kotyonok?” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly across Ana’s hair.

“Down,” Ana whispered.

Natasha blinked.

Ana rarely asked to leave her arms during meetings. And never in unfamiliar rooms. She’d been clingy the last few days—teething, off her sleep schedule, adjusting to so many new faces around the compound again. But now, her little legs were kicking softly, hands gripping at Natasha’s shirt in earnest.

“Down,” she repeated.

Natasha hesitated—glanced at you.

You weren’t watching Ana anymore. You were watching her. Confused. Curious. But not annoyed. Not disapproving.

Natasha could read people down to the smallest twitch of a muscle, and in that moment, she read one thing clearly: you didn’t know what was happening either.

So she shifted forward and lowered Ana gently to the carpeted floor.

Ana’s sneakers touched down. She took one look back—brief, instinctive—then turned toward you like she already knew the path.

Natasha’s chest tightened.

One step. Then another.

You looked up.

There was a breath, the room shrinking around it.

Ana stopped at your knees. Her curls were mussed from her mother’s shoulder, her little fox plush dangling from one hand. She tilted her head to look at you properly. She didn’t blink.

And then she lifted both arms toward you.

“Lap.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not rejection. Natasha saw it—something break quietly across your expression, the way your eyebrows lifted just slightly, like your own body didn’t understand how it was reacting before your brain caught up. There was no mask now. No calm Stark logic, no precise detachment. Just you—and the shock of being chosen by someone so small, so unrelenting, and so certain.

Natasha didn’t move.

She stood where she was, heart pounding quietly behind her ribs, not from fear or worry—but something more intimate. Something that reached the parts of her still holding every shattered version of family she’d ever known. She watched as you stared down at the child who had never, not once, walked into a stranger’s arms. And she waited. Because whatever happened next… would matter.

You didn’t reach for Ana immediately.

Natasha noticed the exact moment your eyes lifted—not to the child now reaching for you with unwavering certainty, but to her. And it wasn’t a question. Not quite. There was no panic in your expression, no discomfort. Just a pause. A stillness that asked without words: Is this alright?

And Natasha, who rarely let anyone past the perimeter of her trust, gave you the smallest, most intentional nod.

You moved like someone reaching into deep water—carefully, gently, aware of the weight of what you were about to hold. Your hands met Ana’s sides, small and secure, and you lifted her with practiced ease, as though this wasn’t the first time, as though her body already knew how to fold against yours. She settled into your lap like it belonged to her.

Like she had always meant to end up there.

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat.

Ana laid her head lightly against your chest, little cheek pressing into the dark fabric of your jacket. One of her hands tucked the fox between your arm and her belly; the other—small, dimpled fingers—reached up to your collarbone and found your hand.

And then she started to play.

Not with toys, not with distractions. Just your hand. Your fingers. One by one she explored them, pressing her thumb into your palm, curling your pinky against her own, dragging the tips along her forehead in idle motion. Her eyes drifted half-closed, calm and curious, while you stayed perfectly still—watching her with that same look Natasha couldn’t read.

It was almost unbearable, the quiet of the moment.

The meeting had technically begun, but Natasha hadn’t registered a single word Steve said. She hadn’t even sat down. She just stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes on the impossible softness blooming in front of her.

Because that’s what it was. Impossible.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t done what most people did—smile politely, hand Ana back, or distract her with something shiny so they could pass her off. You were just… there. Entirely present. Letting her settle. Letting her explore. Letting her choose.

And she had chosen you.

The worst part—if she could call it that—was that Natasha wasn’t angry. She wasn’t suspicious. She wasn’t even surprised anymore.

Because looking at you now—back straight, eyes lowered, completely surrendered to the tiny storm nestled in your lap—something made sense in her chest that hadn’t before.

Ana had found something.

Or maybe, someone.

And Natasha wasn’t sure what that meant yet, or how far she would allow it to grow—but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to pull away. She walked slowly to her seat across from you, quiet as a shadow, never breaking the spell. And when she sat down, she didn’t take her eyes off you. The briefing wrapped without fanfare.

Steve’s voice faded into background noise, Bruce gathered his notes, and the others filtered out one by one with practiced efficiency. No one commented on Ana—no one dared. Maybe because they saw the weight of the moment. Maybe because it wasn’t theirs to touch.

The room was almost too quiet now.

Ana had slipped fully into sleep, her tiny hand still curled lazily around your finger, her head rising and falling against your chest like she’d found the safest place in the universe. You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just shifted to make her more comfortable—let her sink deeper into you without hesitation, like her weight belonged there.

Natasha couldn’t look away.

You hadn’t noticed—at least, she thought you hadn’t. You never were one to fidget under attention. But there was something different about you now. Something unguarded beneath all that calm.

“I have to admit,” she said, voice low, “this wasn’t how I pictured our first real conversation going.”

You glanced at her, brow arching just a little. “And how did you picture it?”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “Not with my daughter wrapped around you like a vine.”

You leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb Ana, and gave her that expression—dry, sharp, quietly amused. “You sound jealous.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “Should I be?”

You made a show of glancing down at Ana, then shrugged one shoulder—so subtle it barely moved her. “She’s got good taste.”

The laugh caught in Natasha’s throat before she could stop it. Soft, surprised. God, you were so damn composed, and yet there was something underneath that surface—a spark of something warmer, something playful. She hadn’t expected that. And she was rarely caught off guard.

“I should warn you,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “If you let her get used to that lap, you’re going to regret it.”

“I don’t regret much.”

“She’s one and a half. You’ll regret it the next time you try to drink a coffee without someone demanding half of it.”

You smiled—not a smirk, not your usual reserved grin. An actual smile. And Natasha had to look away, just for a moment, because something in her chest pulled taut at the sight.

“And here I thought you brought her to meetings as a distraction tactic,” you said.

She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, playful. “You think I’d use my daughter to throw someone off their game?”

“I think,” you said, gaze darkening just a little, “that if anyone could weaponize a toddler, it’d be you.”

Natasha laughed, this time all the way—low and warm in her chest, real in a way she didn’t usually allow to slip out. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair.

“You’re dangerous,” she muttered.

You tilted your head. “Me? You’re the trained assassin.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes dropped to the sleeping girl between you. “And you’re the one she asked for.”

The silence curled again. Not cold. Not awkward. Just thick with something unnamed.

You looked down at Ana once more, brushing a thumb lightly over her curls where they stuck up against your collar. “Don’t get used to this,” you said, not looking at Natasha. “I’m still not a fan of kids.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” she replied, watching the way you softened around the edges without realizing it.Natasha didn’t argue—she didn’t have to. The proof was already wrapped around your side in cookie-stained pajamas. She just watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth, the kind that stayed long after you’d left the room.

She knew this wouldn't be a one- time thing. 

A few days later, the morning unfolded differently, slower. Late morning sunlight filtered lazily into the kitchen, warm and indifferent. It fell across the countertops, gleamed off metal handles, and lit the soft chaos that was breakfast—or rather, the battle of breakfast.

Ana was seated in her high chair like a tiny queen in revolt, arms crossed firmly, lips pursed in open rebellion. The oatmeal had gone cold fifteen minutes ago. Natasha had tried coaxing, bribing, even threatening to call Bruce if she didn’t eat. Nothing worked. The spoon sat abandoned in the bowl like a white flag.

“You are so lucky you’re cute,” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Other people’s kids don’t get away with this.”

Ana remained unimpressed. She glared past Natasha’s shoulder as if expecting reinforcements.

The door creaked open behind them.

Natasha didn’t turn around right away—she was too focused on pretending she wasn’t about to lose a diplomatic war with a toddler. But she didn’t need to look. She could hear it: the shuffle of slow, dragging footsteps, the soft grunt of someone whose soul was not yet awake. Then came the familiar hiss of the espresso machine, followed by the rustling of a bakery bag.

You’d arrived.

She turned.

You looked… awful.

Delightfully awful.

Hair wild from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, mismatched socks peeking out under flannel pants. You were cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth in a petulant line that said you’d only been conscious for five minutes and deeply regretted that fact.

In your other hand: a cheese croissant, still warm, still flaking. You tore off a corner and bit into it like someone performing life-saving triage.

Ana stared, Hard. So damn hard.

Not at Natasha. Not at the bowl of oatmeal she’d rejected like poison. But at you.

You took another bite, chewed, then finally glanced up—and blinked, slow and heavy.

Your gaze drifted to the high chair. To Ana’s unrelenting eyes. Then to Natasha.

“I take it we’re in the starvation phase of child rearing?”

“She’s being dramatic,” Natasha said.

Ana made a noise like a whimper and kicked her feet, You squinted at her. Then reached forward, broke off a soft piece of croissant, and held it out between your fingers.

Ana took it like it was sacred.

“Traitor,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

You made a sound between a hum and a sigh and dropped into a chair with all the weight of someone being punished by existence itself. “I’ve been up for six minutes,” you mumbled. “I haven’t even looked at another human being yet.”

Ana reached again, You fed her another bite.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “You know that’s not helping, right?”

“She was clearly starving.”

“I told you—she’s not.”

“She’s got the same face I do when I haven’t eaten,” you said, deadpan. “We understand each other.”

Natasha studied you, the way you slouched, bleary-eyed and nonverbal, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other. She looked at Ana—mirroring your expression almost perfectly, down to the pout and the silent demand for carbs.

She huffed a laugh.

“My God. You’re the same person.”

You gave her a tired glare. “Keep talking. See if I share.”

“You’re both insufferable when hungry.”

“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”

Natasha crossed her arms. “Of what? Your shared standoffish breakfast cult?”

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes flicking to Ana and back.

“She chose me,” you said, tone flat but triumphant. “I don’t make the rules.”

Ana squeaked with joy, flailing her hands toward the croissant again.

“She betrayed me,” Natasha replied, pointing to the untouched oatmeal. “I gave her life. You gave her cheese.”

You shrugged, already handing Ana another piece. “She’s got good taste.”

Natasha shook her head, lips twitching as she turned away to clean up the bowl of oatmeal. “You’re both ridiculous.”

You yawned, eyes half-lidded as Ana leaned her head dramatically on the edge of the tray, already chewing the last bite like it was a reward for surviving the morning. You were still half-asleep, leaning into your chair like gravity was trying to reclaim you, clinging to that coffee as if it were the only thing standing between you and the grave. You were cranky, antisocial before noon, and notoriously stubborn about food—especially when it was yours.

Which is why Natasha watched with mild astonishment as you rolled your eyes in a perfectly theatrical arc, sighed like a martyr, and wordlessly handed the rest of your croissant to Ana.

She squeaked with joy and took it like treasure, immediately stuffing the larger half into her mouth with both hands.

“Unbelievable,” Natasha muttered, not even bothering to hide her smile.

You ignored her, sipping your coffee in silence like you regretted every decision that had led to this exact moment. Your eyes were dark and tired, but there was no real irritation behind them. Just that quiet resignation you always wore when you knew you were losing a battle you never meant to fight in the first place.

You took another sip, then looked at her across the kitchen—eyes still half-lidded, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Give me the oatmeal.”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

You gestured vaguely toward the abandoned bowl. “She doesn’t want it. And I’m starving.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Then, without a word, Natasha reached for the bowl and walked it over, setting it in front of you with a raised eyebrow. You didn’t meet her gaze. You just set your coffee aside and picked up the spoon like someone about to make peace with their fate.

Ana was already chewing noisily beside you, bits of pastry stuck to her cheek.

Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the counter again. “So let me get this straight,” she said, lips twitching. “You won’t share food with me, but she gets the last of your croissant and your breakfast?”

“She didn’t ask for it,” you said without looking up. “She demanded it with her eyes.”

“Right. So toddler mind control. That’s the explanation we’re going with.”

“She’s persuasive.”

“She’s one and a half.”

You glanced up then, finally, spoon midair. Your expression was blank, deadpan, and yet something in your eyes sparked with mischief.

“So am I,” you said.

And Natasha felt it—that little flicker again. The warmth that was growing far too easily in the quiet spaces between these moments. It settled somewhere under her ribs, soft and persistent.

You looked back down and took a bite of the oatmeal without flinching.

Ana, satisfied and full of croissant, leaned against the side of your arm and let out a sigh so deep it could only have come from the depths of her soul.

Natasha didn’t say anything else.

She just stood there, watching the two of you—both stubborn, both sleepy, both impossible—and thought, this isn’t going to stay simple, is it?

But she didn’t say that either.

She just smiled.And watched you keep pretending like you weren’t already halfway hers.Days passed like that—quiet, unspoken things folding themselves into the rhythm of the compound. You didn’t come looking for Ana, but she kept finding you anyway. And Natasha… well, she kept watching. Kept noticing the way your edges softened more each time.

Then came the briefing.

It had started as a simple mission briefing. Nothing classified, nothing urgent—just a routine strategy session with the new intel team that Natasha absolutely couldn’t reschedule. One hour, tops. Ana would barely notice she was gone.

She was so wrong.

Clint had been her first call. Obvious choice. He knew how to juggle five kids and a mission report without blinking. But the moment Natasha handed Ana over, the girl went stiff in his arms like a statue, then started wailing as if he’d personally betrayed her.

Wanda tried next. Ana let her hold her for a full five seconds before twisting away like a feral cat and screeching “NO!” in a tone that made two agents duck for cover.

Steve, bless him, had approached with his most diplomatic smile and a stuffed bear in hand, only to be met with the full force of toddler disdain. Ana didn’t scream that time—just buried her face in Natasha’s neck and growled.

And Natasha… Natasha was five minutes late to her briefing and dangerously close to losing her mind.

Which is why, when you happened to pass by—coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, clearly heading for the lab and not remotely interested in babysitting—Natasha didn’t think.

She acted.

“Ana, sweetheart?” she whispered, shifting the toddler to her hip. “Do you want to go see her?”

Ana lifted her head.

Wide green eyes blinked once. Then a slow, devilish smile curled across her face.

That was all Natasha needed.

“Catch,” she said dryly.

You turned just in time to fumble and catch the small human now squirming gleefully into your arms like she belonged there.

“Wait—what the—”

“Thanks!” Natasha called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor before you could protest.

Ana squealed in delight.

Natasha didn’t look back.

She made it to the meeting just in time. And to her own surprise, she didn’t spend the whole thing worried. Something about knowing Ana was with you—despite the fact you hated children (or said you did)—had her oddly at ease.

By the time she wrapped up and returned to the common floor, it had been almost ninety minutes. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. Bruce’s voice echoed from the open lab door, calm and methodical, talking through some kind of energy recalibration.

And there you were.

One hip leaned against the table, the other supporting Ana, who looked perfectly at home in the crook of your arm.

Your hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, your shirt was half-untucked and absolutely covered in cookie crumbs. Ana’s fingers were dusted with sugar. You were talking to Bruce about vibrational decay patterns in multi-core reactors, as if the weight of a toddler on your hip was completely natural. Your other hand gestured midair, precise, animated, still clutching a small whiteboard marker.

Ana watched your mouth move as if following every word.

Then she gagged—loudly and dramatically.

Not because of anything serious. Just… toddler flair.

You paused mid-sentence, looked down, and sighed. “Rude.”

Bruce snorted. “She takes after you.”

“She has better fashion sense.”

Ana giggled, then burrowed her face into your shoulder.

Natasha stood in the doorway, unnoticed for a second longer, just… watching. The way your body shifted automatically to balance Ana’s weight. The way you wiped her mouth with the edge of your sleeve without looking. The way you didn’t rush to give her back, or seem particularly bothered by the crumbs now stuck to your pants.

She cleared her throat.

You looked up, brows raised. “Hey.”

Natasha raised one eyebrow. “So… is this your new lab assistant?”

You looked at Ana, who blinked at her mother and clung just a little tighter.

“She works for cookies,” you said. “And occasionally heckles my equations.”

Natasha bit back a smile, folding her arms. “Well, she’s my daughter.”

“She’s very opinionated,” you said dryly, adjusting her on your hip. “She gagged at my thesis. I’m considering it a peer review.”

Ana giggled again, tucking her head against your collarbone.

Natasha stared at the two of you for another second, then finally stepped forward, brushing a few crumbs off your shoulder. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they needed to.

“You’re a mess,” she murmured.

You smirked. “I could be Your mess.”

She looked at you. And the words stuck somewhere behind her teeth, She didn’t say them.

Not yet.

Instead, she stepped forward, reaching her arms out gently. “Alright, peanut,” she said softly. “Come here.”

Ana blinked up at her mother, expression unreadable for a split second… then, without protest, reached out. You transferred her easily, and the little girl immediately curled into Natasha’s hold like she’d been waiting for it all along—her thumb going straight to her mouth, her head resting against the curve of her mother’s neck.

Warm.

Quiet.

Home.

Natasha’s hand rubbed small circles against her daughter’s back, and for a second, she just breathed her in. The scent of cookies, and your cologne, and a hint of vanilla shampoo clinging to soft hair.

“She’s full of sugar and attitude,” you said, brushing a crumb off your shirt.

Natasha glanced at you over Ana’s curls. “She’s exactly where she gets it from.”

You tilted your head, already sipping the coffee you’d left to cool. “You sure about that?”

Her smile curved lazily. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then she walked away—Ana heavy and content in her arms, safe, sleepy, and smiling like someone who had everything she wanted in one place. Natasha had gone to her apartment at the Tower —just late enough for the city to fall into a quieter rhythm, just early enough that Natasha hadn’t had time to put up her usual walls.

Ana was half-asleep on her shoulder, cheek pressed against her collarbone, and Natasha held her like she was made of something finer than glass. There was oatmeal in her hair. Cookie crumbs on her onesie. A smudge of ink on her tiny palm, and no one knew how it got there.

But Natasha had seen it.

She had seen it.

She’d walked into that lab expecting chaos—Bruce hunched over a console, a loose wire sparking somewhere, maybe you arguing with JARVIS about protocols. But instead she found you standing still in the middle of it all, with Ana on your hip and your shirt covered in evidence of breakfast bribery.

You didn’t even pause the conversation with Bruce. You just kept talking about cellular decay patterns, as if you hadn’t realized Ana was happily gnawing on a pencil and gagging every time you used the word “neurotransmitter.”

And that sound you made—that little laugh when she fake-gagged for the third time?

It rewired something in Natasha.

Now she sat at the edge of Ana’s bed, staring down at the little culprit like she’d committed an unforgivable act of treason.

“You traitor,” she whispered.

Ana, half-asleep and blissfully unaware of her crimes, blinked lazily at her mother, thumb already in her mouth.

Natasha sighed, brushing a loose curl from her daughter’s cheek.

“You did this on purpose.”

Ana made a content hum and reached for her blanket.

“Don’t play innocent now,” Natasha murmured, tucking the soft fabric under her chin. “I was fine. You hear me? I had balance. I had boundaries. I had one thing—one tiny, simple rule that I lived by.”

Ana blinked again. Unbothered.

“Don’t fall for anyone.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, quiet and helpless.

“You were supposed to be the only love of my life, peanut. You. I planned for you. I fought for you. You were the only thing I ever let myself want.”

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ana’s hair.

“I walked into that room today and you were hers. Just—completely and shamelessly hers. You were giving her orders like a little general and she was just taking it. And smiling. She never smiles like that.”

Ana giggled softly, maybe in her sleep. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“Is this part of your long con? Huh? Were you trying to get yourself a stepmama? Because listen—if that’s your endgame, we need to have a serious strategy talk.”

Ana rolled a little, settling deeper into the mattress. Her small hand rested against her chest, and Natasha just… stared.

“She doesn’t even like kids, you know,” she continued, as if trying to justify this to someone who hadn’t been there. “She’s the one who leaves birthday parties early. She practically hisses when Clint brings his brood around. You sneeze near her with a juice box and she’s gone.”

She paused.

“But not with you.”

A slow breath pushed from Natasha’s lungs.

“She picks you up like you weigh nothing. She lets you shove half your breakfast into her mouth and doesn’t even blink. And I saw her yesterday—reading with one hand while you chewed on the other. I don’t even think she noticed.”

Ana’s breathing started to slow again, thumb slipping lazily from her mouth.

“And the worst part?” Natasha whispered. “She makes it look easy. Like maybe… maybe this whole thing isn’t a fluke. Like maybe she could actually stay.”

The confession hung in the dark like a sigh caught midair.

Natasha leaned down, resting her forehead against Ana’s tiny one.

“I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t want to see it coming. But you… You threw her right into the center of our orbit like it was nothing.”

She kissed her daughter again, voice teasing even as her chest ached.

“You couldn’t have picked someone older? Someone predictable? Someone who’s not Tony Stark’s daughter, for god’s sake?”

Ana didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Natasha ran a slow hand down her back, feeling the weight of love settle over her like a soft storm.

“You’re trouble,” she murmured. “But the best kind.”

Then she stood, brushing her fingers one last time across Ana’s cheek.

“You really couldn’t wait for me to fall first, huh?”

She flicked off the light.

Behind her, Ana slept soundly.

And Natasha stayed frozen in the doorway for just a moment longer… shaking her head to herself.