fanfics

Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.

You deserve this pain.

Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.

It feels like pity.

An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.

Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?

You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…

“Perfect.”

Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.

Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.

You flinch.

Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.

You just want to sleep.

Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.

You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.

You still need to…

Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.

The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.

Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.

Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.

You just want to sleep.

—

You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.

Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.

Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.

Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.

You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.

Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.

Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.

Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.

You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.

The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.

This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.

Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.

—

The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.

Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.

"Next," you call out.

The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.

A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.

"We’ll make it again with oat milk."

You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.

So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.

You continue anyway.

You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.

At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.

But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.

—

The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.

Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.

You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.

This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.

Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.

Everything after that could be figured out later.

You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.

—

You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.

The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.

When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.

Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.

You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.

You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.

It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.

But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.

—

You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.

The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.

Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.

Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.

You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.

You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.

But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.

Why is it only getting colder?

Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.

The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.

Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.

Like it did during your interview with Wanda.

It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.

But it never fully culminates.

Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.

Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.

You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.

Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.

The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.

You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.

The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.

You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.

Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.

You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.

Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.

The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.

Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.

A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.

She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.

You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.

Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.

Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.

You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.

“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”

Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.

Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.

You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.

1:05 AM.

The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.

First day.

The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.

2:23 AM.

If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.

What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?

You check the time.

2:51 AM.

Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.

You check the time.

3:15 AM.

They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…

—

The alarm blares through the room.

You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.

Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.

Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.

A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.

That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.

You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.

A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.

You take a single step toward your bedroom door.

Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.

The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.

You can do this.

The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.

The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.

Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.

Not today.

The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.

Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.

Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.

The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.

You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.

Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.

You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.

—

You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.

Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.

Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.

Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.

The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.

Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.

Not today.

—

The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.

Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.

The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.

You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.

Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.

You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.

The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.

You’re present.

It feels good.

The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.

Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.

She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.

“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”

You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.

The floor numbers rise on the digital display.

—

Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.

“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”

He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.

He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.

Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.

Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.

“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.

You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.

“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.

Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.

A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.

You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.

Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.

You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.

The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.

Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.

Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.

A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.

Why? Everything was going so well.

Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.

Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.

Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.

Wanda steps into view.

She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.

You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.

Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.

You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.

Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.

Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.

A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.

The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.

“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.

“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”

You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.

She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.

She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.

Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention.  Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.

Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.

“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.

Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.

The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.

A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.

Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.

The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.

A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.

Your head snaps up.

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.

It hasn’t even been a minute.

Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.

Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.

Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.

The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.

A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.

Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”

Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.

“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”

Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”

Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.

Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.

You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.

“Let’s go.”

She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.

The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.

The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.

Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.

She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.

“She can come in.”

Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.

The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.

Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.

“Sit,” she says simply.

She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.

The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.

Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.

Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.

You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.

Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.

The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.

“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.

That’s a lie, you think tiredly.

“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.

Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.

“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”

Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.

“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”

The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.

She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.

Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.

You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.

The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.

Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.

The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.

A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.

A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.

“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.

Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.

Don't fail now.

You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.

You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.

The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.

You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.

“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”

You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.

“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”

Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”

Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.

Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.

“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”

A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.

“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”

She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.

Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.

You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.

She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”

Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.

“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”

You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.

—

Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.

Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.

It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.

You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.

The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.

The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.

His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.

Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar

The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.

Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.

Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.

“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”

Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.

Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”

You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.

Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.

But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.

Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”

—

The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.

You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.

Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.

Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.

A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.

Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.

—

“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.

“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.

“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.

“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.

Silence follows for a moment.  Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.

A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.

“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.

The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.

“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.

—

A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)

It was the last company you expected to hear back from—if you even factored them into your reality at all. You vividly remembered the moment you submitted that application. It had been a desperate Hail Mary thrown into a sea of listings, a wild shot at the most prestigious entity in the corporate world. As a leading consulting and venture capital firm, their name was a household fixture, synonymous with an elite, gatekept world of wealth. The firm was notorious for its fiercely guarded internship cohorts and a grueling, multi-stage interview process designed to break lesser candidates.

The very same interview you were just offered.

You tap your finger against the side of your phone, going through all the logistics in your mind before the morning rush begins. The available dates only have morning openings, ninety minutes. Meaning, it’ll be a two-stage interview. You’ll have to cut one of your shifts at the coffee shop short, or call out altogether. It isn’t something you can exactly afford. Getting the internship is the only way it’ll be worth the loss in wages.

You glance up at the sound of the door chime.

A student walks into the shop, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear. “Mom, am I supposed to separate my clothes by color when I do my laundry?” The student looks up, giving your coworker an apologetic smile. “At least darks and lights? Okay, cool. Love you.” She hangs up and begins ordering.

Watching her, you remember having to figure everything out entirely on your own. Three burnt eggs. A load of laundry destroyed. Smacking your printer until it finally worked. Even down to securing your very first part-time job.

A notification flashes across the top of your screen, breaking your train of thought.

Your older sister.

Hey, you haven’t texted me back in a while. Do you not love me anymore? Haha, call me soon.

You open your text history with her. The last time you messaged her was three months ago, a brief note assuring her that everything is going well. You scroll backward, tracing the conversation history to the earliest saved messages. The gaps of time between your responses grow longer and longer the further down you scroll.

Do you not love me anymore?

It isn't her fault she doesn't know. You silently left that day, and the only explanation you gave her was that you were excited to start school. If there’s a feeling greater than love, then that’s what you feel for your sister. It’s a love that makes you willing to sacrifice anything for her—even yourself. It’s the very love that made you accept becoming a marionette for years, until you had no choice but to finally break away.

Now, you are still trying to stand, desperately trying to figure out who you are now that the strings are cut. And it’s because you love her so much that you can’t talk to her. So instead, you don't respond, simply so you won't have to continue to lie to her.

You move your screen back to the digital calendar and choose the earliest date before you can think twice. Two days from now. Friday. Somehow, the message from your sister reminds you of exactly why you’re here.

Your coworker hands you the customer's order, and the morning rush begins.

—

The remainder of Wednesday brings back-to-back classes, paired with heavy assignments due for both the following Monday. Your sister’s message lingers with you throughout your restaurant shift, dragging memories in its wake as you set plates down at customers' tables. The imperceptible shaking of your hands is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. You don’t know if it’s from the interview looming, or from the fact that you’ve fixed your hair for what feels like a hundred times today.

On Thursday, you finally ask one of your coworkers at the coffee shop to cover the latter half of your Friday shift. Guilt creeps in at the inconvenience you’re bestowing upon them, but this is your only chance. If you don’t secure this internship now, you’ll be forced to repeat this entire exhausting cycle next term, only to possibly face the exact same uncertain results.

University is exhausting, work is exhausting, and the panic rising in your chest is debilitating.

You glance at the time—half past eleven. You close your laptop. The amount of studying you’ve done is far from sufficient, especially with final exams around the corner, but you know you’re going to need all the rest you can get.

Possible interview questions replay endlessly in your mind as you check to make sure everything is prepared for tomorrow.

Tell me about yourself. There isn’t much to say.

A black skirt you save for special occasions and one of your clean white collared shirts hang meticulously from the metal candleholder. You don’t have any other clothes that would pass for professional wear.

What are your greatest strengths? I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.

Your wallet, notebook, and keys are packed securely inside your backpack.

What are your greatest weaknesses? So many.

Your phone sits on its charger, and a single granola bar rests on your desk, waiting to hold you over for the day ahead.

You turn off the light, and the room plunges into sudden darkness. Sitting at the edge of your bed, you feel the hard mattress digging into your thighs. Only the ugly parts of you come to mind. Answers no hiring manager would ever want to hear.

But deep down, you already know the truth. Despite the terror, despite the total lack of preparation, the practiced image of you will save you. It always does. The phantom strings still holding your spine taut will pull, and your confident, charismatic smile will appear on command. Your voice will alter into that perfect, magnetic cadence you were taught makes you more attractive. You’ll say whatever you need to say to get exactly what you want.

It’s the only thing ingrained into you for years.

You hate that you’re this way. You despise how easily the mask slips on.

You lay back, your head finally resting against the pillow, praying that everything goes well tomorrow.

—

You wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, the light of your screen harsh against the darkness of your room. You let out a tired groan. You could sleep for ten more minutes, but waking up a second time will feel even worse.

Ten extra minutes to get ready, I guess. You try to be positive.

And you definitely needed them. The bags under your eyes are prominent, and it takes you far too long to finally make the decision to dab concealer beneath them. One of your shorter front strands has a mind of its own, refusing to stay down even after you use product.

You bite your lip in frustration as you rush back into your room to change into a t-shirt, since you didn’t have the time to do laundry. Your jeans hang too loosely around your waist, forcing you to use the one and only belt you own.

It feels like all your last-minute preparations are going to waste as a sudden realization hits you. You won’t be able to hang your interview clothes in the backroom of the coffee house. The heavy smell of espresso and whatever else lingers in the air will seep right into the fabric.

You take the skirt and shirt off their hangers, folding them meticulously before placing them carefully at the bottom of your backpack. Pulling your keys out, you shrug your jacket over your shoulders and grab your phone off the bed. You rush to close your door and lock it while slinging the heavy backpack over your shoulder.

It feels like your brain is trying to leave your skull with the way it throbs with every breath you take.

The sound of someone entering through the front door makes you pause.

“Oh hey, I’m lucky to catch you. Heading out?” Matt’s voice echoes from the entrance.

He must’ve just finished his shift.

You twist the doorknob twice, making sure it is truly locked, before letting yourself fully come into view.

You greet him with a close-lipped smile. “Hey, good morning. Yeah, I’m in a real rush.” You step toward the front door, but he makes no move to get out of your way.

“I’m sure you can spare a minute," he says, staring down at you with an easy smile. "Do you want to hang out later?”

Nothing is going right this morning.

“I’m sorry, I probably can’t. I have classes and work later.” You try to ease your arm past him, reaching carefully for the front door handle.

His smile drops for a split second before returning. He glances down at your arm, looking almost amused by your effort to bypass him. “No problem. See you later.”

You open the heavy door and push past him into the crisp morning air. Turning back just before the frame clicks shut, you offer a tiny concession. “See you,” you respond, forcing an apologetic look to your face.

The door closes before you can see his reaction. Not that you have the time. You’re already sprinting toward the bus stop.

You manage to catch the bus just in time. Your head aches violently at the sudden rise in your heart rate, your pulse drumming in your ears.

It’s barely five minutes into the bus ride to the coffee shop when you realize you forgot your granola bar.

—

You make an extra effort to greet customers brightly and carry conversations with them as you prepare their drinks. It feels like the only thing that can ease the guilt of leaving your shift early. Hopefully, seeing the extra tips left in the jar will make the impending loss in your paycheck a bit more bearable.

Behind every warm greeting and polite laugh, the interview looms heavily in your mind as the hours tick away. Finally, it’s time to clock out. The extra espresso shot you added to your americano—meant to carry you through the morning—feels like it was tainted by your worst enemies.

Instead of feeling energized, you feel sluggish. Your brain feels like it’s processing everything slower than it usually does on four hours of sleep. The intense caffeine kick that normally eases your headaches only makes your skull pound, to the point that if you pressed a fingertip to your temple, you’re certain you would feel it violently pulsing.

You grab your backpack from the breakroom and carry it into the cramped bathroom. Zipping it open, you find your belongings completely shifted. The cover of your notebook bears fresh indentations from where your keys knocked against it during your walk. Your interview clothes, which you placed so meticulously at the bottom, are slightly unfolded and bunched to one side.

Your back presses against the bathroom door as you hug your backpack tight against your chest. You slide down the frame, the cold wood doing nothing to pull you out of your own mind. It’s only when you’re sitting flat on the floor, your backpack pressed tightly between your torso and your legs, that you feel the first real emotion flicker through the numbness.

“So stupid,” you whisper to yourself, over and over again.

Because what did you honestly think was going to happen by stuffing your clothes down there? Your right leg bounces uncontrollably against your arm. You rest your elbows heavily on your knees to stop the trembling, before burying your face in your hands, running your fingers through your hair and gripping it tightly.

You release your hair before it can no longer be salvaged. Strands hang in every direction in your peripheral vision from where your tight grip pulled them from the elastic.

You dislike yourself even more for worrying about your hair at a time like this.

Reaching back, you pull the tie completely free. Shorter strands fall loosely against your cheeks, blocking your vision from anything that isn't directly in front of you. You pull your interview clothes out of the backpack, unfolding them fully.

Wrinkled.

You suck in a sharp breath, biting your lip harshly as you force yourself to stand up off the floor. You hang your backpack from the coat hook and drape the clothes carefully over the top.

Your hands tremble as you unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans. It feels like all your strength is actively leaving your body as you push them down and fold them. You’re operating entirely on autopilot. Your t-shirt follows. It takes two agonizing tries on every single button before your collared shirt is finally closed and tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt.

You risk a glance at the mirror. Then instantly wish you hadn’t. Blood seeps from your bottom lip where your teeth must’ve punctured it earlier. The fabric of your shirt is noticeably wrinkled on the left side. Strands of your hair are raised in some areas, while entirely flat in others.

A complete wreck. That’s the only description for the reflection staring back at you.

Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you barely even feel the sting. Your right hand rises subconsciously, beginning to smooth over the creases on your side. Somehow, it feels less like a fix, and more like your body is desperately trying to comfort you because your mind simply won’t.

Combing your fingers through your hair, you let your nails drag against your scalp to remind yourself that you cannot afford to do this right now. The rigid tension in your shoulders drops, but it brings no relief. Instead, it’s replaced by a profound exhaustion, leaving you feeling as though you’ve just survived a violent war with your own mind.

Reaching into your backpack, you pull out your phone, expecting at least half an hour to have passed. You’re already mentally bracing yourself for a mad dash to the bus stop, preparing for the forty-five minute trip into the city.

It’s only been seven minutes.

You zip up your backpack before slinging it over your shoulder. Glancing in the mirror one last time, you can’t help but feel like you look especially hollow today. Fragile.

Suddenly, you can feel a ghost of a tight grip on your shoulder, fingernails digging deep beneath your collarbone.

“Smile. People are watching.”

The corners of your lips curve upward as if being pulled by invisible strings. Turning back toward the exit, you find the metal door handle cold against your palm.

You hope to leave this weak side of you behind in the bathroom before the interview begins.

—

You settle into the bus seat, hugging your backpack against you like a shield. The contrast between your first early morning transit and the subsequent, mid-day rides has never bothered you. This one is louder, more packed, with strangers constantly pressed close on all sides. Sometimes it’s impossible to find a seat, so perhaps you’re lucky today.

Except for the woman to your right, whose shoulder digs directly into yours as she talks loudly on her phone. You can’t help but wince when she raises her voice at whoever is on the other end. Apparently, they forgot to set an appointment for her.

You hug your backpack even closer to your chest when she waves her arm in sheer frustration. It’s a terrifyingly familiar sight. Loud voices. Placing blame. Disappointed expressions.

You were fortunate that you had never been struck.

It would blemish your skin, after all.

Keep it together, you remind yourself the moment you begin to deeply retreat within yourself.

The woman doesn’t get off at the next stop. Instead, more people pack themselves onto the bus, and the ride only grows louder. The hard plastic of the seat digs into your back. The walls of the vehicle feel like they’re closing in on you, trapping you in a symphony of shouting voices and shifting bodies.

Please, keep it together, you plead with yourself as the bus continues its grueling journey into the city.

—

You squeeze past the passengers standing tightly in the aisle and turn toward the bus driver, offering a grateful smile that you know falls flat with how tired your eyes feel. The driver gives you a brief once-over before shooting an encouraging smile back at you. Stepping off the bus, you walk down the plaza stairs with shaky, uneven steps.

It feels like everything has been completely out to get you today. Even yourself.

But you need this. This internship. To graduate. To get a stable job in the future. Because that’s the entire point, right?

You force your chin up, refusing to let yourself waver as you look toward the towering monolith of reflective glass and steel ahead.

The Romanoff-Maximoff Global building is the tallest structure in the city. It’s entirely fitting for the headquarters of a financial giant. Craning your neck upward, you can barely make out the massive corporate sign displayed proudly on the dark glass of the upper levels.

You take one deep, steadying breath before walking up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy glass doors slide open automatically when you step within range, and a rush of cool, synthetic-smelling air immediately wraps around you. Walking inside, it feels far more like stepping into a high-end luxury hotel than an office building.

The polished white marble floors perfectly reflect the warm light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers above, blending with the natural sunlight cutting through the massive windows to make the lobby feel impossibly bright. Resting areas are abundant, filled with long, plush couches and elegant armchairs. Perfectly arranged fresh flowers sit in heavy vases atop a multitude of pristine coffee and accent tables.

It’s a room you have no business being in.

You scan the sprawling lobby ahead, where a row of people in tasteful, high-end professional wear are seated at sleek desks, intensely focused on whatever tasks they are working on. Your eyes jump anxiously from side to side before you quickly pull up the email on your phone to anchor yourself.

Check in at the front desk.

There are seven of them.

You grip the strap of your backpack resting on your shoulder. Your thoughts race at the possibility of walking up to one of the desks and getting the entirely wrong person. That would be your first memory at this company.

Your heart rate jumps at the thought, sending pangs of pain to your head, but you’re saved when one of the women working at one of the desks calls you forward.

The sound of your sneakers against the marble echo throughout the lobby and it feels like everyone is watching you, waiting for you to slip up. But when you look up, everyone still has their heads down, doing their jobs.

“How can I help you?” the woman asks before you’re even fully at the desk.

“Um.” You scramble to open the email again before stepping the rest of the way and turning the screen toward her. “I have an interview today. It’s in twenty minutes.”

She stares at your phone screen with an impassive expression, glancing up for a brief second. Her fingers tap a few keys on the keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor before she looks back at you.

“Take the glass elevators on your left to the fifty-second floor,” she says, sliding a sleek black security card across the desk. “The financial planning and analysis manager is expecting you.”

You take the card, your fingers brushing against the cool plastic. You nod a thank you, but she’s already looking back down at her own screen.

Turning toward the left side of the lobby, you look at the rows of elevators. The black card feels heavy in your palm. You run your finger against the edge of it, letting the dull plastic dig into your fingertip.

The elevator doors open instantly after you tap the card against the scanner. Pressing the metal button for the fifty-second floor, you finally lean against the railing. The doors close, and the numbers on the digital screen rise alongside the elevator. You take a deep breath, holding it tightly, then finally release it.

With every exhale, you try to push out all the things that have gone wrong today. Waking up before your alarm was annoying. Matt being the first person you saw was inconvenient. The coffee shop shift completely burned through your social battery. Your breakdown in the bathroom left you listless. The loud, cramped bus ride overwhelmed you.

At least you have a little under twenty minutes to get your head on straight.

The elevator doors slide open, and you’re greeted by a stoic man dressed in a sharp suit.

“Are you my ten o’clock interview?” he asks bluntly.

“Yes,” you respond, the word coming out almost like a question.

He gestures to his left, beckoning you forward. “Great. We can start now since you’re already here. Follow me.”

You breathe in sharply. You’re not ready. But you can’t find it in yourself to ask for more time.

He begins walking down a long grey hallway without looking back once as you trail behind him. His strides are long, and it takes whatever remaining energy you have just to keep pace.

The fifty-second floor feels like the exact opposite of the lobby. Dark wallpaper, dim lighting, and an eerie silence hangs over the space. Stopping at a white door, he opens it and ushers you inside.

The room fits the grim aesthetic of the rest of the floor, but the complete lack of windows makes it feel more like an interrogation room. He takes a seat at a desk against the far wall before pointing to the single chair in front of him.

“Sit down.”

“I’m Mark. The FP&A manager. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” He glances down at the papers resting on his desk. Before you can introduce yourself, he has already begun.

“Walk me through what a $10 depreciation does to financial statements, assuming a 25% tax rate.”

Your brain doesn't even pause to process the sudden prompt. Instead, the ingrained image within you activates. The strings snap your posture a fraction tighter, and the practiced, effortless warmth floods into your expression on command. You block the exhaustion, the pounding headache, and the hollow ache in your stomach behind a glass wall you know will break eventually.

It just can’t be today.

You need to be perfect.

When you speak, your voice slides perfectly into that clear, confident cadence you were taught to use.

“Assuming a 25% tax rate, a $10 depreciation expense reduces net income by $7.50,” you begin smoothly, your lips holding a charming smile. “This increases ending cash by $2.50 on the cash flow statement, balancing the assets and equity sides of the balance sheet down by $7.50.”

Mark holds your gaze for a moment before continuing. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Let’s continue.”

—

You stare at the white door Mark has just exited through. The prompts and questions had been endless, one popping up right after the other the exact second you finished answering, leaving absolutely no room for rest.

“Walk me through how the Income Statement, Balance Sheet, and Cash Flow Statement are connected.”

“How do interest rates affect a company's borrowing costs?”

“What is EBITDA, and why do we use it?”

You let out a shaky breath. The smile melts from your face, and your eyes drift closed.

The last forty-five minutes saturate into your body. Your shoulders drop completely, as if they can no longer hold themselves up against the weight of the day. The moment your eyes shut, it feels like the windowless room is spinning as a severe wave of lightheadedness sets in.

One more interview, you reason with yourself, the thought a desperate plea to convince your own body not to give up just yet.

But it’s as if your body knows you’re lying. It knows that after this, you will have to take the bus back to your university, walk to class, followed by another lecture, and then face your restaurant shift tonight. It isn't just this interview.

You fight against your own limbs to force your shoulders upright. Your eyes snap open at the sound of voices right outside the room. The words are muffled behind the thick wood, but it sounds like a casual back-and-forth. You easily catch the confused inflection in Mark's tone.

The door opens suddenly. You wipe the tired expression off your face instantly, replacing it with an easy smile. Turning around, you see Mark standing beside a shorter woman.

“Hi,” the woman greets you warmly. “I’m Cindy. I’ll be taking you to the next round of the interview.”

Mark stares down at her with squinted eyes before turning his gaze to you and offering a brief nod.

“Hello,” you respond as you stand up, grabbing your backpack off the floor and sliding the straps over your shoulders. Your legs wobble slightly under the sudden pressure of your weight. Forcing your posture straight, you nod politely at him. “Thank you for the interview today.”

He gives you a small smile before you walk out the door and follow Cindy down the dimly lit hallway. She taps a gold colored card against the scanner and the elevator doors slide open. She gestures for you to enter before she steps besides you and presses the button labeled C.

She turns to you with an encouraging smile. “Don’t be nervous.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen an undergraduate internship interview take place on the C-suite floor.”

Huh?

C-suite… that can’t be right. Anybody studying anything within the business major knows exactly what the C-suite is.

The highest-ranking senior executives in the entire corporation.

You glance up at the screen displaying the floor numbers. They just keep rising. It feels like the elevator is moving significantly faster than it did on your trip to the fifty-second floor.

The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open, revealing an open floor plan flooded with light from towering skylights above. You have to squint, adjusting your eyes from the stark dimness of the previous floor.

Stepping forward behind Cindy, you scan the area. The floor is made of polished dark wood that looks spotless. The center holds multiple plush couches where you assume high-value investors and shareholders sit while waiting for appointments. A long counter rests on the right, the top crafted from white marble with light wood detailing the cabinet space beneath. A high-end coffee machine sits on the surface, surrounded by neatly arranged pods and endless amenities. Chips, cookies, fruit.

Your stomach caves in on itself at the sheer sight of the food.

It’s just as quiet up here as it was on the fifty-second floor, but somehow it doesn’t hold the same eerie atmosphere. Instead, with the sunlight streaming down and the rich aroma of coffee in the air, you feel your shoulders naturally settling.

Massive executive offices line the far wall, each room looking at least ten times the size of your bedroom. Your view inside is completely blocked by heavy wooden frames and dark, one-way glass.

Cindy leads you to the office furthest to the right. You trail closely behind, still craning your head to absorb the pure opulence of the floor. Opening the door, she gestures for you to go inside.

“Have a seat right in the chair in front of the desk. Your interviewer will be coming in shortly.”

She gives you a warm smile that you mirror instantly out of habit, before she steps back and closes the heavy door with a soft thud.

You can’t help but look around the bright office. The left wall holds two massive bookcases lined with a vast array of books, their spines varying in every color. The right wall features a shelf filled with small decorative pieces and jewelry. The brilliant gold and silver of the rings lined across the wooden shelf reflect the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.

Taking a few paces forward, you reach the single armchair in front of the desk. Slipping your backpack off your shoulders, you place it securely against the base of the chair. As you sit down, the high-end leather feels soft and accommodating against the bare skin beneath your thighs.

You take a deep breath in. Somehow, the room smells exactly how a warm summer night feels. The aroma envelopes you completely—the scent of flowers that bloom in the peak of July and sun-warmed concrete. Even the temperature of the office feels absolutely perfect against your cold, shivering skin.

It’s the first time you’ve felt genuinely comfortable all day.

You finally glance at the desk in front of you. It’s crafted from a dark, rich wood that you can tell is of exceptionally high quality without even touching it. A computer monitor rests to the left, the screen faced entirely away from you. Papers scatter the surface in a way that looks messy, but strictly organized at the same time. A picture frame made of light wood sits at the far right of the desk. The noticeably worn edges of the frame make you believe that the owner must pick it up often.

Your gaze drifts to the elegant nameplate resting right in front of the picture frame.

Wanda D. Maximoff. CFO.

What—

The door opens before you can even fully register the situation you are in. It feels like your body is creaking when you turn almost robotically to look behind you.

You’ve seen her in countless business articles before. She’s one half of the power couple who built one of the most successful companies in the world. Wanda stands in front of you, wearing an elegant navy blazer and a matching long skirt. Crisp black heels make her look even more imposing, if that’s even possible.

She’s even more gorgeous in person.

The heavy door closes slowly behind her. She turns toward you fully, offering a slight tilt of her head and a soft smile. Her sharp green eyes shine against the ambient sunlight, and somehow, the whole room feels instantly brighter.

The distinct shade of her eyes looks almost too familiar. But before you can think further, Wanda starts to speak.

“Well, hello there,” she says lightly, walking directly toward her desk. Her blazer lightly brushes your shoulder as she passes, and the rich scent of summer flowers fills the air.

It feels like you’re in a complete trance as you watch her take a seat in her leather desk chair, which matches the dark shade of the wood. You’re finally snapped out of it when she rests her elbow on the surface, placing her chin in her palm and tilting her head. She offers you an almost teasing smile.

What are you doing? you chastise yourself internally.

You clear your throat, instantly digging for the assured voice programmed deep within you.

“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You stand up, extending your hand to offer a firm handshake, exactly like you were taught to do in school.

She stops you with a slight raise of her hand before you are even halfway out of your seat, her smile remaining entirely unchanged. “No need for that. Please, sit comfortably.”

Biting the inside of your mouth, you sink back down into the soft leather. Your outstretched hand finds its way to your left side, nervously smoothing over the slight wrinkles that still remain on your shirt. This is absolutely nothing like the clinical mock interviews you practiced in class.

Wanda glances down at one of the papers resting on her desk before her sharp green eyes lock onto yours once again.

“So,” she begins, her tone smooth and entirely unbothered. “You’re not qualified for this internship.”

You freeze.

Then why—

“Then why are you here?” she asks, sounding almost amused as she cuts right through your internal panic. “Well,” she muses, looking up toward the skylight in thought. She meets your eyes once again. “I like to look at the whole picture.”

“I…” you start, your voice noticeably wavering.

Stop it, you fight with yourself internally, forcing your posture rigidly upright.

“I know I’m not qualified,” you state clearly, the rehearsed confidence taking over. “But I can adapt quickly. I know how to read financial models. I’m proficient in Excel. I know how to do market research.”

You pause when her expression morphs from an amused smirk into a softer, quieter smile. It’s an expression that completely cuts through your ramble.

“I know. You did extremely well in your interview with Mark,” she says slowly. “Perfect, even.”

You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief at that, but your mind is still swirling.

Then why am I here? you wonder again.

Wanda glances down to where your hand still rests over the wrinkled fabric of your shirt. You widen your palm to cover the creases entirely, hoping she doesn’t see how disheveled you feel.

The corner of her lip pulls upward. Her gaze doesn’t move from your hand.

“Tell me about yourself.” Her tone is completely relaxed, but it doesn’t stop the sudden spike in your pulse.

You take a slow breath in before beginning. “I’m currently a junior in university, majoring in finance. I do well in my classes. I balance going to school and working part-time jobs. I learn quickly, and I know I can adapt to working here,” you finish in a poised tone.

“I see,” she says, sounding almost lost in thought. Her gaze shifts, tracking up to focus directly on your bottom lip. You desperately hope it’s healed by now. “What are your greatest strengths?”

The raw truth from last night echoes bitterly in your head: I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.

Instead, you let the script speak for you. “I take instruction well and turn that into results.”

“Mhm.” She nods as if she was expecting that exact response. Finally, she looks up to meet your eyes again. “And your greatest weaknesses?”

So many.

“Sometimes I get too focused on what I’m doing and don’t see what’s around me,” you respond, offering an almost self-deprecating smile.

“And do you balance going to school and working well?”

You move your gaze downward, staring at the scattered papers on her desk. “Yes,” you say quietly, the smile on your lips wobbling slightly at the edges.

The silence in the air hangs incredibly heavy. You force your eyes upward at the total lack of a response. It feels like she’s staring right past you. As if she’s reading your mind.

“What are your hobbies?”

Your mind blanks. What does this have to do with anything?

Your mouth opens, but instead of a quick, tailored answer, your breath comes out erratically. You grip your side tightly, the fabric of your shirt wrinkling further beneath your fingers, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe it’s the accumulated stress of the interview. The extra shot of caffeine earlier. Seeing Matt. The lost wages from cutting your shift short. The woman’s loud, angry voice on the bus. The months of surviving on four to five hours of sleep. Your stomach twisting painfully in on itself from the complete emptiness.

It feels like you can no longer quell the overwhelming waves of anxiety that you are usually so good at hiding from others.

Because what are your hobbies? Why can’t you think of a single thing?

Your face twitches in sudden pain. You unclench your jaw, realizing your teeth have bitten right through the muscle of your cheek. Blood spreads over your tongue. You barely register the metallic taste.

This is a question you should be able to answer easily.

It feels like the office walls are closing in, the sunlight that had been so bright dimming slowly.

You barely process the sound of a drawer opening.

The remaining light in your vision dims entirely as a shadow encompasses you. A warm hand envelopes your own, the heat of her palm pressing over the fingers you have clutching so tightly against your shirt. You tilt your head up slightly, your vision clearing just enough to see Wanda standing directly in front of you, her red hair curtained softly around her face. Her eyes look almost apologetic as she gently uncurls your stiff fingers from the wrinkled fabric.

The faint sound of plastic crinkling fills the quiet air as she places something small into your palm that she is holding open. You look down blankly to find a small fruit snack packet resting on your palm.

The exact kind you used to eat when you were a kid. A time before there were expectations.

She wraps your fingers gently around the packet, the pointed corners of the plastic digging slightly into your skin.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs, her tone genuinely apologetic. There’s a faint accent in her voice that you can’t quite put your finger on. “That was a mean question.”

You shake your head slightly. You’re the one who’s overreacting to a simple icebreaker.

She grips your hand lightly, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles with an expression that looks almost disapproving. “Let’s take a break.” She releases your hand, stepping back just a fraction. “Eat the fruit snack. It always makes me feel better.” She gives you a soft, reassuring smile.

Now that her warmth isn’t anchoring you, the tremor in your hands is completely noticeable. You bring your other hand up to the corner of the plastic, trying to tear it, but your fingers refuse to cooperate.

Why are you failing at absolutely everything today?

The packet is gently removed from your hand before you can spiral any further. You glance up to find Wanda opening it for you, widening the plastic seam to make it easier for your fingers to reach inside. She hands it back to you with a reassuring smile.

“There we go,” she says softly. “These are always hard to open.”

You reach inside, pinching a grape-shaped gummy between your thumb and index finger before popping it into your mouth. You chew slowly, letting the soft elasticity ground you against the spinning room, though the candy remains completely flavorless on your tongue.

Wanda crouches down directly in front of you, resting her elbow on her knee and looking up at your face with a gentle smile. You quickly reach back into the plastic packet for another piece to avoid her locked gaze—an orange one this time. With every chew and swallow you manage, Wanda gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

By the time you reach the very last gummy, a strawberry, you can finally taste the sweet, fruity flavor. It’s heavily mixed with a sharp, lingering metallic taste. The throbbing pain in your inner cheek grows with every remaining bite, and the fingers you used to grip your shirt earlier ache intensely from how tightly you held them. The only sound in the office is the steady, quiet rhythm of your own breathing alongside Wanda’s.

You can see the sunlight in the room clearly again. But it also shines a harsh light on how you just behaved.

You quickly place the empty wrapper on your skirt before reaching to smooth down the left side of your shirt. Harsh lines from where it was in your clutches refuse to flatten completely, even as you run your hand down the fabric repeatedly. You let out a breath of frustration.

Giving up, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to find some semblance of the image you are meant to portray. You sit up rigidly once again, squaring your shoulders. Finally, you steal a glance at Wanda, who is still crouched in front of you.

She looks troubled as she watches you. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are set in a faint frown.

It's your fault.

You clear your throat. It feels like you haven't spoken in hours, even though you know it’s only been minutes.

“Let’s continue.” The confident edge in your voice is marred by a weak rasp that you try desperately to ignore.

Wanda gives you a long, unreadable stare before rising. It’s almost impressive that she was able to crouch like that in high heels.

“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Let’s continue.”

She walks around her desk before sitting back down, leaning back in her chair and observing you closely. “Why do you want to work at our company?”

You close your eyes briefly before opening them, keeping the heavy, panicked emotions at bay behind the fractured glass wall that is now messily covered in tape.

“I want to work at this company because…”

—

The remainder of the interview goes exactly as planned. There are no more curveball questions. Every prompt is strictly about the job or the firm. The questions are standard. Easy to answer.

But you know you aren't going to be offered the position. You won't get it because instead of the pristine image you were trained to portray, you had accidentally been yourself.

You’re left with Wanda’s final words before exiting her office.

“We’ll call you if you get the position.”

If you had done well, you feel like they would’ve given it to you right then. Or at least, Wanda wouldn’t have sounded so deeply conflicted.

At least you got to meet her, you think, desperately trying to find a single silver lining. You could only hope to carry yourself with the elegance and poise that she did.

A cold breeze hits the bare skin of your legs, snapping you back to reality. You look up, realizing you are standing on campus, and open the heavy door to the building of your first class.

You let out a slow sigh as you enter the crowded lecture room. You’ll have to repeat this entire exhausting cycle again next term.

—

You feel completely hollow as you step out of the restaurant breakroom, tying your apron tightly around your waist. Today has felt like twenty-five hours. And every single one of those hours was designed solely to drain you of what little energy you had left.

Angie appears right in front of you. You almost want to turn on your heel and walk away, because right now, your raw emotions can’t handle anyone being genuinely nice to you. But you can never ignore Angie—not when she’s been so good to you.

“Sweetie!” she calls out excitedly. “There was a last-minute reservation, and they specifically requested to sit in whatever section you’re assigned to.”

Maybe it’s one of the regular customers I had a longer conversation with, you think, trying to match her energy.

You nod at her, forcing an easy smile onto your face at her excitement.

“Get out there,” she says brightly, grabbing your shoulders and steering you directly toward the dining room doors. “I have you in section five. They’re already here, waiting for you.” She gives you a playful push forward.

You walk to the service bar and wash your hands thoroughly before turning around. Scanning the dimly lit dining room, you notice it’s hardly full yet. Most of the standard reservations won't arrive for another ten minutes. You take measured steps toward your section, mentally preparing to muster up a bright, welcoming smile.

Maybe the fruit snack actually helped. Your head isn’t pounding nearly as violently as it did before the interview.

You reach the corner booth where the ambient lighting is the dimmest. You are just about to greet the couple in front of you when you catch a terrifyingly familiar voice.

“Told you, Nat.” Wanda is leaning exceptionally close to her companion, whispering into her ear as if sharing a private secret.

The image is too familiar. The memory of those vibrant green eyes from a week ago flashes violently through your mind.

Nat? you think, your thoughts instantly racing.

Natasha Romanoff. The other half of the power couple. The CEO of Romanoff-Maximoff Global.

You meet her sharp eyes, which are already watching your approach closely.

“Yes, moya lyubov, you were right,” Natasha says, her gaze never wavering from your face.

You turn your head as Wanda sits upright. You desperately want to find somewhere to hide—anywhere no one will ever find you—after coming face-to-face with the exact person who just witnessed you at your absolute worst.

“Can I get the wine list, darling?” Wanda asks, offering you a bright smile.

The slight wrinkle of her nose as she smiles at you makes you pause, forcing yourself to finally get it together.

“Of course,” you respond politely, already turning on your heel to escape this deeply awkward situation.

“And darling?” Wanda calls out after you.

You turn back around, forcing a grimace that you desperately hope passes for a polite smile.

“We’ll see you at the office on Monday.” —

A/N: I really wanted the first interaction to be with Natasha because I've never written for Wanda before and wanted to stall it as long as possible 😂 but even though this is fiction, I couldn't rationalize why the CEO would be interviewing a possible intern. The CFO interviewing was already a stretch. Hopefully I wrote Wanda okay! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰

Also, thank you guys again for the feedback and interest on the first chapter 😊 it made writing the second chapter fun and something I looked forward to.

You open your eyes to the muffled sound of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it wakes your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster. It feels like you only slept for a few minutes. It was dark when you fell asleep. It’s still dark now.

Exhaustion weighs you down, pinning you to the mattress. The only sound is your own breath—even, but resigned. Twenty-five minutes to get ready. A fifteen-minute bus ride. A ten-minute walk to the coffee shop. That leaves ten minutes to spare before your shift.

You turn your head and reach out. Cold air hits your forearm, raising goosebumps. You want to pull back into the warm safety of the sheets, but you keep moving.

Life won’t stop for a few more minutes of comfort.

Your fingertips find the notebook on your desk. Feeling the cover, you trace the indents where your pen pressed hard against the paper. The grooves grow shallower until they vanish completely. That must have been around midnight, when you grew too tired to write.

Today feels impossible. But you’ve felt that way for the past two years, and you’re still here.

With a heavy sigh, you push off the desk and the hard mattress to force yourself upright. The chill bites at your bare neck. Someone forgot to turn on the heat. The house is eerily quiet without the familiar rattle of the vents. You swing your legs out of bed, your feet hit the icy floorboards before sliding into your slippers. It feels like your body is creaking with every step. You unlock your door and step into the hall.

The hum of the refrigerator greets you. Across the hallway, a sliver of light glows under your roommate's door. Still awake. You step quietly into the shared bathroom, gingerly closing the door before flicking on the light.

The mirror doesn't lie. You look tired. The bags under your eyes are puffy. Your shoulders droop. Your lips rest in a flat, neutral line, lacking the energy to pull upward or down. You look away, focusing on your designated shelf of toiletries. It’s becoming harder to look at yourself. It’s not just the four hours of sleep. It’s not the coffee shop shift, followed by classes, followed by the restaurant shift. It’s not the homework waiting for you tonight, or the fact that you have to do it all again tomorrow.

It’s a soul-deep tiredness. A day off won’t fix it.

You chose this, you remind yourself, forced to look back at the glass. Choosing to struggle was your decision. The first real decision you ever made for yourself.

You brush your teeth and wash your face, praying the routine wakes you up. While applying moisturizer, you force your lips into a smile. You practice it over and over, tailoring it for a future customer because you can’t bear to actually smile at yourself. You turn to leave, but your reflection catches your hair.

Disarray.

You grab your brush, meticulously forcing every misplaced strand into place. It has to be perfect.

“When you go out looking like that, you’re embarrassing me and yourself.”

Your mother’s voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. It shouldn’t bother you anymore. You left. But the words stayed behind, hiding in your head, waiting to strike whenever your shirt is wrinkled, or a blemish appears on your cheek, or your posture begins to slouch.

You step out into the hall once you’re satisfied—or at least as satisfied as you can be.

Back in your room, you flick on the light. You’re still not used to this space, but you forgive yourself since it’s only been three months. It could be worse. The room holds just enough space for your single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a small cabinet for your clothes. It’s a far cry from your room back home.

Home. You shake your head. This is your home now. Your parents' house belongs to them. It was never truly yours.

You reach for the clothes you set out last night, folded neatly at the edge of the mattress. A simple black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. You slip them on, looking down. The denim hangs looser than before.

Did you forget to eat again yesterday? It would explain why you feel especially hollow today.

You step into your sneakers and lace them up. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. It’s such a common sight by now that you don't even care. You slide the notebook into your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and grab your phone.

Stepping into the hall, you pull the door shut and lock it with your key. Your housemates seem like good people, but good people have disappointed you before. Plus, with ten other people sharing the house, you aren’t taking chances.

The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. You take measured steps, trying not to break the silence. Pulling the heavy front door open, you step outside, and listen for the click of the automatic lock behind you.

You check the time. The bus should arrive the moment you hit the corner. The late autumn chill bites at your skin, shocking some of the exhaustion out of your system. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake.

The bus arrives promptly. Only two other passengers are aboard—faces you’ve started to recognize. Taking your usual seat near the front, you rest your backpack on your lap and lean your head back. You watch the streetlights pass in a blur, bracing yourself for the first challenge of the day.

—

The streets are still quiet as you walk the ten minutes to the coffee shop, where warm lights greet you against the backdrop of darkness. You greet your two coworkers warmly, falling into the familiar chatter and complaints about how tired you all are.

Gathering your hair, you pull it into a ponytail. You check the tie meticulously, ensuring no stray strands hang loose. You comb your fingers through the ends before smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt and grabbing your apron off the coat hooks.

Glancing up, you find your coworkers watching you with mild amusement.

“You’re always so careful about your appearance," one of them says. "Girl, you’re pretty, don’t stress so much.”

It would stress me more if I weren't careful, you think.

“I have to make sure I look good. It’s not for me, I’m doing it for you two,” you say with a practiced laugh. “Gotta maximize the tips.”

They laugh along with you as you head toward the front counters where opening tasks await. Your smile slowly fades the moment they look away. As they talk about recent pop culture events, you just nod whenever they look to you for an opinion.

—

You’re three coffees in by the time the morning rush ends. Your brain is running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the pure need to survive. The three of you lean against the back counters with exaggerated exhaustion.

You only have fifteen minutes left of your shift. The rush to your classes is always tight, but you’ve been making it work.

A phone chimes. One of your coworkers pulls it out, checking the screen. “Ugh,” they groan. “Luke just said he’s going to be an hour late for his shift.”

Cold panic pricks at your chest. Luke is your replacement.

Both of them turn to you, expectation heavy in their eyes. “Can you please stay until he gets here?”

You can’t. The gap between your shift and your first lecture is already cutting it close. Staying forty-five minutes past your time means accepting that you will walk into the lecture room in the middle of the class. It means everyone turning to look at you.

“Yeah, of course,” you respond, the words leaving your mouth before you can even think to stop them.

They cheer beside you, patting your back. You smile along with them as if it’s no sweat.

Internally, you fight to breathe. You ignore the way your heart rate spikes, your breath turning quick and shallow. The sheer physical strength required to keep the fake smile on your face grows heavier by the second.

This feeling has been happening more often lately. It hits whenever you think about pending assignments, your rent, your tuition, or even what you’re going to eat.

But it isn’t anxiety. It can’t be.

Your parents always told you anxiety was impossible—a made-up excuse. They said you just needed to be mentally stronger. Your ex-boyfriend had said the exact same thing. You just need to get over it.

He had told you to ignore most of the problems you confided in him with, and back then, you listened. He was the last real relationship you had been in, and his words still carried a heavy weight you were desperately working to outrun.

He was also the last relationship you had before you finally realized that romance wasn’t strictly exclusive to a man and a woman—no matter how deeply your parents had convinced you of it your entire life.

Yet, somehow, a part of you still believed them despite everything. You still worry your own mental fortitude is the real problem.

So, you ignore it. You ignore it even when your hands shake as you pour a latte. You ignore it when your voice wavers against the violent drumming of your pulse in your throat. You ignore it because you have no other choice. You have to continue.

—

It feels like ages before Luke finally arrives with an apologetic smile. You assure him it’s fine, grab your backpack from the breakroom, and bid your coworkers goodbye.

A frantic sprint pays off. You hit the curb just as the bus pulls up.

Boarding, you tap your foot anxiously against the floor. You pull your hair loose, shaking it out and combing your fingers through the strands to recreate the perfection from hours ago. It’s a clumsy, difficult task. Your hands still refuse to listen to orders. You won't have time to change clothes in the campus bathroom today. The scent of espresso and steamed milk will follow you until your restaurant shift tonight.

For a split second, you consider skipping. No. You shake your head, disgusted by the thought. You haven’t taken shortcuts yet. You didn't work countless grueling hours to pay for tuition for this term just to skip. You have to succeed.

Though lately, the definition of success has begun to waver. What does it even mean anymore? Getting the degree? Landing a job? Getting married?

The bus brakes at the university. Pushing up from your seat, you sling your backpack over one shoulder, thank the driver with a warm smile, and sprint toward your lecture hall.

You ease the heavy door open, praying none of the hundred students notice you. A few heads turn briefly before pivoting back to the board. You slip into a seat in the very back row, closest to the exit. Dropping your bag, you pull out your notebook.

Look up toward the projector screen, your eyes lock with the professor's instead. He glares at you with a heavy, disapproving expression before looking away. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and pick up your pen.

The sound of quiet whispers and light giggles drifts up from the row below. A small group of students are conversing with bowed heads, trying to hide bright, genuine smiles.

It’s been a long time since you actually enjoyed school. A long time since you weren’t just going through the motions.

Watching one of the students clap their friend on the shoulder, a sudden flood of memory hits you. The sterile hallways of your old high school flash in your mind. Two familiar people stand on either side of you.

Yelena and Kate.

Kate has her arm slung over your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper a joke about Yelena, knowing full well she can hear her. Yelena flicks Kate’s forehead in retaliation, and the three of you burst into laughter.

Your second year of high school feels like another lifetime. The memories with the two of them are like a dream. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about them. You miss Kate tripping over her own shoes, and Yelena making sure she never lived it down for the rest of the day. You miss being in the middle of it all, pulling Kate off the floor and telling Yelena to play nice, only to secretly laugh about it with her later.

You smile wryly despite yourself, the professor's voice fading into background static as you drift deeper into your own mind. Every single memory with the two of them was happy.

Except one.

On the day the three of you graduated, the air was full of laughter and flying caps. You hugged them tightly as they chattered endlessly about the future. Kate had paused, turning to look at you, asking why you hadn’t been chiming in.

Behind your practiced smile, you were suffocating.

They didn’t know your parents hadn’t shown up to watch you cross the stage. They didn’t know you had left your house key sitting on the empty kitchen table that morning. They didn't know every single thing you owned was packed into the trunk of your car—the same car you were scheduled to sell tomorrow just to afford the deposit and first month's rent on a cramped apartment.

They didn't know you weren’t going to university with them.

It was always assumed the three of you would go to the same university. You were supposed to survive the crowded dorms for the first two years, then find an apartment together for the remaining two. That was the original plan.

But things changed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was always going to end up exactly like this.

Instead of telling them the truth, you told Kate you were just tired from staying up late from excitement. You hid your hands inside the long sleeves of your graduation gown—concealing the white bandages where rough cardboard boxes had dried and cracked your skin during the midnight move.

How could you tell them it felt like you were falling apart? Not when they were smiling so happily. Not when you knew exactly what they would do if they found out. They would offer to help financially.

But you were the one who made the decision to leave home. You chose to forfeit your parents' financial support. You made the decision to go to community college because it was more affordable. You made the choice to struggle, and you had to live with it.

Accepting their help would make the sacrifice meaningless. Letting them worry, letting them give you an easy way out, would only make you waver. And you couldn't afford to waver.

The sound of students rising from their chairs breaks you out of your memories. A few give you small smiles as they pass.

Other students had tried to talk to you over the past few weeks, tried to build a friendship, but it always felt impossible. You were good at the polite smiles, the fake laughter, blending into conversations with effortless ease. But you never felt that same deep familiarity and comfort you had shared with Yelena and Kate. Friendships after them had only disappointed you, leaving quiet scars that still stung to this day.

Instead of lingering for small talk, you gather your things and walk toward the crowded food hall. You scan the racks of snacks, eventually picking up two granola bars that happen to be on a promotional deal.

A burst of bright laughter and a fiercely familiar accent make you freeze mid-breath.

In your peripheral vision, you catch a flash of brown hair and blonde hair walking shoulder-to-shoulder. You whip your head around, your eyes desperately scanning the space, but the image vanishes. There are only a dozen unfamiliar strangers moving past in a dense crowd.

—

You are finally called into your advisor appointment after sitting in the waiting area far past the scheduled time. The finance department feels almost sterile, defined by grey, windowless walls and a total lack of decor.

You walk through the door of the office, where you’re greeted with a professional smile.

“Good afternoon, take a seat,” Mrs. Stewart says warmly. “How was class today?”

I barely heard a single word, you think, already dreading the hours you’ll have to spend reviewing the lecture slides later tonight.

“It was good,” you respond, offering a perfectly tailored, polite smile.

“Wonderful,” she says, pulling up your academic record on her monitor. “You did exceptionally well during your time in community college, so I knew you wouldn’t have too much trouble adjusting here.”

You nod along as she squints at the glowing screen.

“Since you’re officially a junior, I think you should start considering your capstone internship," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling up your academic record.

"As a finance major, it's a mandatory graduation requirement," she explains, leaning back in her chair. "You'll need to secure a position within the financial sector and complete a full term of field experience and complete assignments pertaining to it before you can receive your degree. It basically bridges your university classes with the professional world."

A mandatory internship.

To Mrs. Stewart, it's a standard academic milestone. To you, it sounds like an execution sentence. That means a massive chunk of your week will be consumed by a rigid schedule—time you desperately need for the jobs that actually pay your rent.

Her tone shifts, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Honestly, the job market isn’t at its best right now, so it might be a bit of a challenge. But keep your chin up. Knowing you and your work ethic, you’ll find something.”

Somehow, that blind faith makes you feel infinitely worse.

“Thank you, I’ll look into the listings tonight,” you say, forcing another flawless smile to your lips while your stomach bottoms out.

—

What are you going to do?

You sit with your head buried in your hands, your elbows resting heavily on the desk in front of you as the professor drones on in the background. You’ve already accepted that you'll have to double the work tonight just to review what you missed during your first class and now this one.

But the lectures aren't the real problem. This mandatory internship is going to be the end of you.

You had hoped to push it off until your final year, but realistically, Mrs. Stewart was right. It’s better to complete it now, before the advanced courses demand your absolute, undivided attention. The real crisis is the math. While a quick search shows plenty of available internships, the vast majority are unpaid. At least, the ones open to students without prior relevant experience are.

You can't use your family’s connections. That was never an option. But how are you supposed to find a paying role when every listing requires a relevant background? You’ve spent the last two years grinding in customer service just to stay afloat. You can't exactly drop everything and take on a full-term, unpaid role just to check a box for the university.

But then, you can’t graduate.

You groan internally, tilting your head back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. Frustration tightens like a vice in your chest. You drop your head back down, focusing on the scuffed wooden desk, and force a slow breath out through your nose. The panic dissipates slightly with every exhale.

It’s okay. You’ve made it work so far, and this will be no different. At least, that’s the lie you use to convince yourself.

There is a lingering, heavy static in your chest that refuses to leave, no matter how steadily you breathe.

Peeling back the plastic wrapper of a granola bar, you take a small bite. You chew slowly, trying to savor it, even though your tongue can barely register the taste. Pulling out your phone, you check your shift schedule for the restaurant.

The moment this lecture ends, you will have to sprint back to the house, change out of your coffee-stained clothes, and step into your second uniform. A crisp white collared shirt and clean black slacks.

You’ll have to go through the exhausting task of looking perfect. Even though internally, you know it’s an impossible task that you’ll always continue to deplete yourself doing.

—

You step onto the sidewalk right in front of the house. In the daylight, the full reality of the place is clear. Maybe it would be better if it stayed in the dark.

The wood exterior looks completely worn down, splintered and rotting in some areas. The front porch features two raggedy couches on either side of the entrance, where your roommates typically congregate to smoke cigarettes and weed. Your very first thought upon seeing the house months ago was, “This is definitely a crackhouse.”

To the right, you can see your bedroom window. You had gotten somewhat lucky—living on the middle floor with one of the larger spaces. Though, that isn’t saying much.

You keep your curtains tightly drawn most of the time. You had learned your lesson early on while studying one afternoon. You had left the blinds open to let in the natural light, only to look up and find a homeless man staring straight at you from the sidewalk. The curtains hadn't been opened since.

You punch the code into the keypad, listening for the lock to release before pushing the heavy frame forward. The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. Glancing to your left into the common room, you're relieved to find it completely empty. From the central staircase, the muffled echo of an upstairs roommate showering rains down through the ceiling.

The kitchen door leading to the basement is slightly ajar. You know this without even looking, signaled by the violent shouting echoing up from the couple living downstairs. It had terrified you during your first week, but now, their screaming matches are almost expected.

Pulling your bedroom key out of your pocket, you unlock the door and push it open. Your unmade bed awaits you. You drop your backpack next to your desk chair and quickly peel off your clothes. Even though you are just heading to another shift, getting the coffee-scented fabric off your skin is an instant relief.

You mist a light body spray over your torso before pulling on your restaurant attire. You carefully smooth down the crisp white shirt. Lacking a proper closet, you had hung it meticulously over what you believe used to be an old metal candle holder on the wall.

Gathering your hair, you tie it into a high ponytail with the elastic on your wrist. It feels like an exhausting echo of this morning, save for the change in uniform.

After sliding your wallet into your pocket, you pat the fabric of your black slacks to ensure you have everything, then exit your room and lock the door behind you. You reach for the front door handle but freeze. Turning on your heel, you step into the middle-floor bathroom instead.

You smooth your hair down in the glass, sweeping the front strands to the side so they won’t obscure your vision. You secure them tightly with a bobby pin, ensuring nothing can move.

Perfect.

Satisfied, you slip out the front door and walk quickly toward the bus stop.

—

The ambience of the restaurant is always a bit romantic. The lights are dimmed low, classical music plays quietly in the background, and fresh flowers center every table. It’s a higher-end establishment located just off campus—a favorite spot for local couples celebrating date nights and special occasions.

You’re greeted by your manager, Angie, the moment you step out of the breakroom.

“Hey, honey. Raring to go?” she asks, offering a warm smile.

Angie is always bright and charming. Save for the first time you met her.

It‘s a total 180 from the initial encounter with the middle-aged woman. Months ago, when you had first visited the university town to secure housing, you had stumbled upon this very dining room after a Help Wanted sign caught your eye. She had interviewed you on the spot, watching you closely with a sharp, skeptical eye.

When you honestly admitted you had absolutely no fine-dining experience, she had leaned in close, giving you a long, hard stare. The silence between you felt thick enough to choke on. You were already mentally planning which streets you’d walk down next to find a different job when she suddenly leaned back, a smirk pulling at her lips. She told you to meet her here the following week for onboarding.

When you confessed you hadn't even found a place to live yet, Angie was the one who told you about a vacancy at a shared house nearby. Because of her, you were moved in within five days.

You would never tell her outright, but she had saved you that day. You had been feeling entirely helpless, staring down listings for housing that were far past anything you could afford. She’d tease you endlessly if you ever confessed all this to her. But you have a feeling she already knows, especially when she gives you her signature side-glance and a half-smirk.

“Always,” you respond, mirroring her smile.

She clasps her hand over your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze as you tie your apron around your waist. She pauses for a beat, pressing the pads of her fingers carefully against your shoulder and the prominent ridge of your collarbone.

Sensing the unspoken observation, you quickly fall back into your routine, smoothing your hands over your clothes and combing your fingers through the ends of your ponytail. Angie sighs quietly, releasing your shoulder only to reach up and gently brush a stray hair out of your eyes.

“Knock 'em dead, sweetie,” she says, her voice playful but filled with an overwhelming warmth.

You give her your first real smile of the day, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “They’d call the cops on us if I did that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartie. Knock ‘em alive.”

“Yeah, because that sounds normal.”

She playfully pushes you toward the swinging kitchen doors. “I can’t deal with you,” she says, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You’re in section three. Shoo.”

You quickly wash your hands at the service bar, greeting the bartender and the floor staff. Turning around, you survey the dining room as it slowly begins to fill.

The host catches your eye, nodding to let you know the first reservation for your section has arrived. You step forward, ready to greet them, when the wooden panels of the dining room wall suddenly warp and lean sideways.

Your step falters. You blink rapidly, forcing the violent wave of lightheadedness back down.

Maybe I should’ve eaten the second granola bar instead of rationing it, you think, steadying yourself. But you dismiss the thought just as quickly. You’ve gone through much worse periods of food scarcity than this. You'll get through tonight just fine.

Thankfully, the universe is kind to your section. Your first reservation is a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Despite the static in your head, you go all out for them—bringing special decorative accents to their table and arranging a complimentary dessert with a message wishing them a happy anniversary meticulously piped in chocolate.

Most of your guests tonight are here for date nights. Watching their warm smiles across the crisp white linen and their clasped hands over the candlelight always brings your mood up, casting a faint glow over your own exhaustion.

Soft chatter fills the dining room. Scanning the floor, you check for any tables needing water refills or another round of drinks. You spot a booth to your far left with empty wine glasses and step forward to refill them with the open bottle resting between them. You’re almost halfway there when your vision suddenly blurs, the edges darkening as the room begins to fade. The ambient classical music cuts out, replaced by a sharp, piercing shrill frequency ringing in your ears.

Your feet tangle beneath you. Stumbling hard, you manage to steady yourself without too much commotion. You pause, blinking rapidly until your vision clears, desperately praying no one noticed. Gratefully, the surrounding tables continue to chat, completely lost in their own private worlds. You scan the room one more time just to be absolutely sure you're safe.

That’s when you catch two pairs of sharp green eyes watching you intently from the shadows. They are seated far in the back corner of the dining room. The low, romantic lighting makes it impossible to make out any of their other features, but their locked gaze stays fixed on you as you force your legs to move forward. You swallow past the lump in your throat, tear your eyes away, and focus on refilling the wine glasses at your designated table. You can still feel the weight of their stare burning into your back, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a job to finish.

The table converses with you about their day. While you genuinely try to absorb every single detail, it is a losing battle when it takes your entire universe of effort just to stay upright. Still, you finish the interaction with a reliable go-to joke that always makes couples laugh, departing the booth with warm chuckles trailing behind you.

You risk a glance back at the table in the far corner.

They are still watching you. Through the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of one woman leaning toward the other, whispering something directly into her ear.

Cold dread twists in your stomach. Maybe they're making fun of you for almost eating it.

You quickly walk back toward the service bar, your cheeks burning hot at the humiliating possibility.

—

The remaining hours pass by in a blur. You don’t let your eyes drift back toward that far corner table for the rest of the night, keeping your focus solely on your section.

Before you know it, the dinner rush is over. You're wiping down tables and folding linens alongside the rest of the floor staff, trading stories about high-maintenance customers. One of the hosts chimes in about a table that sent their cocktails back twice, only to declare the third round absolutely perfect—even though the bartender had made it the exact same way every time.

It’s in quiet moments like this, sharing tired laughs in the dim dining room, when you actually feel like a normal university student.

You are grabbing your phone and wallet from the breakroom lockers when Angie's head peeks past the doorframe. She gives you a sly grin, sliding fully into view with a plastic takeout bag in hand.

She pushes the handles toward you. “One of the kitchen guys made a mistake on an order earlier. It’s fettuccine alfredo. It’d make me feel a lot better if you took it, since it’ll just be thrown away otherwise.”

You smooth a hand down the front of your crisp white shirt, biting the inside of your lip. Your stomach is hollow. You’re definitely hungry. But eating it would mean you'd have to go for a long walk afterward to burn it off.

Angie’s pleading eyes make the decision for you.

“Okay,” you respond softly, securing the loops of the bag in your hand.

Angie smiles gently, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. She looks at you for a quiet beat with an expression you can’t quite decipher, before her face shifts back to her familiar, playful smirk. “Thanks for doing me that favor. See you tomorrow night, sweetie.”

She walks away before you even get the chance to respond. Pocketing your belongings, you push through the back exit. The night air hits your cheeks, cool and crisp, and the full weight of the day finally begins to settle into your bones.

The lingering lightheadedness has remained for your entire shift—it's there even now. But somehow, looking down at the heavy container of pasta, you feel a tiny bit better. You walk toward the bus stop, only noticing halfway there that the box is piping hot against your palm.

—

It’s late by the time you arrive back in your room. The house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, with most of your roommates out—some drinking with friends, others grinding through late night part-time jobs.

You unpack the takeout container, placing it on the wooden desk and quietly thanking Angie for remembering to slip a plastic fork into the bag. You pause. Peeling off your pristine white uniform shirt, you hang it carefully back over the candleholder. You pull the long-sleeve black shirt back on. You already know you’ll be forced to go for a long walk the moment you finish this meal, so it doesn't matter if the fabric gets even dirtier.

You pry open the lid of the takeout box. The smell is heavenly—a perfect mix of rich, savory cream that makes you feel lightheaded all over again, this time from pure anticipation. You dig your fork in, taking slow, measured bites despite the overwhelming hollow hunger in your stomach.

“Are you an animal? Eat slowly. Properly.”

You instantly yank your elbows off the desk at the memory of the voice, sitting up rigidly straight in your chair.

The rich taste of the pasta slowly fades into background static, until you are simply eating for sustenance again. You reach down and pull your laptop out from one of the desk drawers. You’re wasting too much time.

Booting up the screen, you open a browser window to search for internship opportunities in finance, ensuring the filters are strictly locked so that only paid positions appear. In a separate tab, you pull up your resume. You scan the lines meticulously, confirming that every detail is updated, every heading aligned, and the format completely flawless.

You scroll through the listings between slow bites of pasta. Every single role requires some sort of prior finance experience, exactly as you expected. Refusing to let the dread stop you, you open each listing in a separate tab, pulling up the application portals one by one. It’s going to take an immense amount of luck, but expanding your net increases your odds.

You meticulously apply for every single open position, uploading your resume and drafting tailored cover letters on the side.

The pasta is long gone, the container cold on your desk, by the time you finally finish the task. Closing the last tab, you lean back heavily in your wooden chair with a long, slow sigh.

It’s already close to midnight, but you force yourself back onto your feet. Pulling your heavy jacket sleeves over your arms, you turn your back on the room and head toward the front door.

Realistically, you shouldn’t be walking outside this late. But the nagging thought of letting the heavy food sit in your stomach compels your legs to move.

You walk to the end of the block, following a line of flickering streetlights that are permanently dimmed by years of grime and residue coating the glass covers. You turn the corner at the end of the pavement, knowing the familiar glow of the corner store awaits you just ahead. It has quickly become a landmark in your new life—a place you routinely visit whenever you need a quick, cheap bite to eat to survive the week.

There is just one massive caveat. One of your roommates who lives downstairs, Matt, often works the night shift there.

He calls out a greeting before you can even think about spinning on your heel and walking straight back out. Matt isn't a bad guy by any means, but he has twelve years on you, and his friendliness always feels heavy. Call it a woman's intuition, but the way he routinely knocks on your bedroom door to ask to hang out, or texts you outside the house group chat, points to one undeniable reality.

He likes you. And right now, you don't have the energy to manage his expectations.

You try to duck into one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of granola bars to hold you over for the next few days, but your escape is cut short when Matt calls out to you.

“Hey! You’re out late,” Matt says, leaning heavily over the checkout counter.

Your lips force themselves into a smile that feels more like a pained grimace, though he doesn't seem to notice the strain.

“Yeah, late night. Just grabbing some snacks real quick,” you respond, keeping your voice tight and fast.

He leans even closer, bridging the distance across the counter. “I knocked on your door earlier. You didn’t answer.” A sharp flicker of annoyance passes over his easy smile before he smooths it back down.

“I was out. Had work tonight,” you reply lightly, desperately trying to keep the conversation casual.

“I didn’t say when I knocked,” he says smoothly. He offers a lazy grin, but his cold eyes tell you something else entirely.

You freeze, locking eyes with his cold stare for a heavy, suffocating second before forcing a breathless chuckle.

“You’re right, my bad," you say, smoothing the tension over. "I was just out pretty much all day.”

Taking a deliberate step back toward the exit, you tighten your jacket around your chest. “I think I’m just going to head back. I’m way more tired than I thought.”

You pivot toward the glass door, but his voice hooks you before you can push it open.

“Hey, I’m sorry," Matt calls out, his tone suddenly softening into something defensive. "Okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Turning back, you slap your flawlessly practiced smile onto your face one last time today.

“No worries, I’m not uncomfortable. Just tired. I’ll see you later.”

You shove the heavy door open and slip out into the midnight air before he can get another syllable out.

You take quick, urgent strides back to the house, cutting your walk short. Ducking inside, you slip into your bedroom and click the lock securely into place. You check the handle twice, tugging against the frame to make sure it’s truly locked.

Patting your pocket, you pull out your phone to check the time. You have just enough time to shower before Matt's shift at the corner store typically ends. Quickly gathering a fresh change of clothes, you slip into the hall and step into the bathroom, desperate to let the steam wash away the crushing pressures of the day and the lingering chill of his stare.

—

You sit on your wooden desk chair, your hair still slightly damp from the shower. The laptop screen glows in front of you, the lecture slides from your first class open and waiting to be reviewed.

Tilting your head back, you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like if you close your eyes for even a single second, you will instantly crash into sleep. Your eyes frantically trace the textures of the plaster as if the physical focus can force you to stay awake just a little longer.

You press your pen into the notebook adjacent to your laptop. You wonder how many minutes of sleep you’ll actually get tonight. Forcing your focus forward, your eyes scan the first slide on the screen.

You fix your posture, sitting up rigidly straight, without a second thought.

—

The days pass by quickly—but not quickly enough at the same time. You wish the exhaustion would fade with the calendar pages, but it only seems to accrue. It’s a currency you have no desire to hold.

Coffee shop. Class. Eat a snack if you have the time. Another class. The dinner shift at the restaurant.

Practiced smiles, laughs with no heart, blurring vision, and sudden missteps.

Avoiding conversations. Avoiding Matt. Avoiding the absolute fact that this lifestyle was killing you.

Over and over again.

It has been five days since you sent out that mass wave of applications to countless companies and organizations. You had gotten a few emails back with initial sparks of interest—only to receive a follow-up a few hours later stating they had misread your file, and that your experience level was ultimately unsatisfactory.

It is one of those rare days where everything actually goes smoothly. People show up for their shifts on time, allowing you to walk into class right as the lecture begins. Frozen pre-made meals happen to be on sale at the store. Your notes are clear and concise for all your courses. The dinner shift passes without a single hitch—except for the few times your vision blurs. But it always clears up.

Now, you lie in bed, genuinely happy that you’ll be getting at least five hours of sleep tonight. It’s a quiet luxury you rarely get to experience. The covers are pulled tight around your chin as the headlights of passing cars flash rhythmically against your bedroom walls.

The vent rattles softly, distributing warm air throughout the small room. You close your eyes, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that tonight, you won’t be cold.

—

You open your eyes to the muffled buzz of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it can wake your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster.

It feels like any other day.

You tap on your phone screen to cast a faint light across the dark room. Your email app displays a singular, glowing red notification.

Tapping the icon, you find a new response waiting in your inbox from one of the final companies on your list.

Please choose an available date for an in-person interview. — Romanoff-Maximoff Global

— Series Masterlist —

A/N: Hi readers 👋 I hope the change in genres landed well, though I'm sorry the story is kind of sad so far 😅 Feedback is always appreciated!

Your shirt is open. Your bra is pulled down. Your skirt is shoved up to your waist and your thong is pulled aside and Alexia Putellas is eating you out in the back seat of a car parked in a side street off Carrer de Londres and this is what your life is now.

You’d stayed at hers last night—the second time this week, the ninth time this month—under the pretext of not wanting to get the metro back to Eixample after dinner ran late. You’d eaten at a place near hers, somewhere with low lighting and the kind of wine that comes without you asking, and Kika and Mapi and some other friends of friends had been there until they weren’t, until it was just you and Alexia across a table that suddenly felt smaller. You’d gone back with her because she’d asked, very simply, if you wanted to, and you’d said yes, very simply, as if it were simple.

This has been, for lack of a better word, a whole thing. A several-months thing. A thing that sits in your chest when you’re in the same room as Alba, warm and slightly nauseating, like cheap wine the morning after.

Alba. Your best friend. Alexia’s little sister. The person you are currently supposed to be meeting for lunch, seventeen minutes ago, three streets from here.

Alexia hums against you and you stop thinking about Alba.

She’s unhurried. That’s the thing about her that you were not prepared for and still aren’t—she approaches this the way she approaches most things, which is with a quiet certainty that is very close to arrogance except it’s earned, which makes it worse. She’s not performing anything. She’s not trying to impress you. She just knows what she’s doing and she does it and the result is that you’ve cancelled three social obligations in the past six weeks and developed a mild but noticeable sensitivity to the smell of cedar.

You have your hand in her hair. She’d tied it back this morning and you’ve mostly undone it, and it’s spread across the inside of your thigh, dark against the light of your skin. You look down at her and she looks up at you at the same moment and you look away because that’s too much, the eye contact is always too much, it tips something in you that you don’t have the vocabulary for.

Your phone buzzes again in the footwell below you. You don’t look at it.

Outside, Barcelona does what it does at almost two on a Thursday. People go to lunch, a moped accelerates through an amber, two women argue gently about something outside a pharmacy. None of it touches you in here. You feel sealed off from it, from all of it, which is maybe the point.

Alexia shifts. Her hands move. You make another noise, this one entirely about what she’s doing, and your head falls back against the seat.

This started—this specifically started—because of a night in April when you’d had too much at a thing Alba's colleague threw and Alexia had driven you both home and walked you both up and you’d kissed her in the hallway while Alba slept five metres away behind a closed door, and you’d both stopped and looked at each other and not said anything, and then you’d kissed her again. That was the beginning of it. The rest followed with a momentum that felt pre-existing, like it had been building long enough that neither of you could credibly claim surprise.

You haven’t talked about it. You’ve talked around it—logistics, mostly, whose car, whether you need to set alarms for the morning after. You’ve talked about everything else the way you always have, which is easily, which is the thing that makes this complicated. It was easy before, just Alba’s older sister who you’d known since you were eight, always so cool and removed in the way of people who don’t need to try, and it’s easy now, which means the shift was seismic but left no visible damage. This is either fine or a disaster and you genuinely cannot tell.

Alexia’s tongue does something remarkable and your thighs close involuntarily around her head and she makes a small impatient sound and you loosen them and she goes back to what she was doing.

You are going to be so late.

The thought moves through you briefly and then dissolves. You pick your phone up, see Alba’s messages—*where are you* and then a string of question marks, which is very Alba—and put it back down face-down. You’ll explain something. You always explain something. You’re good at that, the seamless cover story, the plausible version of events, which is a skill that has become load-bearing in recent months and which you find faintly depressing when you think about it directly, so you don’t.

What you are doing to Alba, what you are doing to their family, what this means if it ends badly—you rotate through these thoughts at intervals, particularly at three in the morning when Alexia is asleep beside you and the penthouse—yes penthouse—is very quiet and Barcelona hums outside the window. You’ve developed no conclusions. You keep returning to the starting position, which is that you’re here and you want to be here and you’re not ready for the version of events where that stops being true.

Alexia presses two fingers into you and you stop thinking entirely.

There’s a distinct quality to how she focuses. It’s the same whether she’s watching footage back on her iPad or reading something or doing this—she goes very still except for where she’s needed, and everything else drops away, and the effect on the receiving end is that you feel like the only thing in the room. The only thing in any room. It’s intoxicating in a way that you think might be dangerous long-term, the way some things are only dangerous in the accumulation. Fine the first time, fine the tenth time, and then one day it’s just a burden.

Your hand tightens in her hair. She lets you. She makes a sound that you feel more than hear and your hips move and she meets them and this goes on, this goes on for a while, and then it goes on in a different way, and then your whole body does the thing it does, and you are briefly not in any car, on any street, in any city, and then you are, and it’s warm and close and Alexia is pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh and wiping her hand on the leg of her joggers.

She sits up. She looks at you. She’s not smug, exactly. She never is. There’s just this quiet satisfaction, like someone who’s done something they knew they’d do well.

“Hi,” you say, which is stupid.

She almost smiles. “Hi.”

You pull your skirt down. The car smells densely of the two of you and the leather and the cedar and you are absolutely going to be late. You already are late. You reach for your bra strap.

“You’re very late,” she says.

“I know.”

“Alba’s going to ask where you were.”

“I know.”

She passes your phone to you without looking at it. You fix your underwear and button your shirt and check your reflection in the black of your phone screen, which is a bad mirror but sufficient. You look like someone who has been fucked in the back of a car. You look exactly like what you are, you think, and then you think: stop it.

Alexia is watching you get yourself together with the same stillness she does everything. She’s more composed than you—she always is, which is either because she’s better at this or because she cares less, and you’ve decided not to investigate which.

“Do I look okay,” you say, which is not really a question.

She tilts her head, evaluating, and says, “You look fine.”

You look fine. Sure.

You open the car door. The air outside is immediately different—hotter and louder, full of exhaust and restaurant smell and the strange urban afternoon that Barcelona produces, relentless and beautiful and completely indifferent to the state you’re in. You stand on the pavement and lean back in through the door to look at her.

She’s watching you. Something passes across her face that doesn’t have a clean name.

“Text me later,” she says.

“Yeah,” you say.

You kiss her. It starts as a goodbye-type kiss and becomes something else, which is a pattern, and she cups the back of your head with one hand and you have to physically convince yourself to stop because if you don’t stop you will not go, you will simply get back in the car, and Alba will think you’ve been kidnapped, and things will unravel in a way you’re not ready for.

You pull back. She lets you.

“Go,” she says.

You go.

-

The restaurant is three streets away, which takes you five minutes because you take a moment on the corner to breathe and to check your reflection in a darkened shop window and to send your face into something neutral. Normal. You look normal. You look like someone who is a little warm from the walk, nothing more. You look like someone who has not just been taken apart very methodically in the back of a car. You are a convincing person. You have always been a convincing person.

Alba is at a table by the window. She sees you before you see her, which means she has already logged your late arrival and your general state and has assembled opinions about both, which she delivers the moment you sit down.

“Where have you been?”

“Sorry, the—”

“You weren’t home last night. I noticed, by the way. I’m not oblivious.”

“I was at—” You pick up the menu. “I stayed at a friend’s.”

“Which friend.”

“Just a friend.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“It’s thirty degrees, Alba.”

She looks at you. She has Alexia’s eyes, though she’d hate you saying that—a different energy entirely behind them, brasher and more straightforwardly readable, but the same dark colour, the same shape. You look at the menu.

“Youre being weird,” she says.

“Thank you.”

“Why are you being weird?”

“Because I’m hungry.” You flag down a waiter with the conviction of someone who has done nothing wrong. “What are we getting?”

Alba watches you for another moment with the focused suspicion of someone who knows she’s missing something and can’t locate what. You feel it sitting in your sternum, warm and solid, the specific weight of a secret that is not quite guilt and not quite glee and has no real name.

She drops it. She picks up her own menu. She starts talking about something else at last—a plan for the weekend, something she saw online this morning—and you listen and you respond and you are completely present, or present enough, present in the way that you’ve learned to be when what you’re actually doing is keeping something very still in the centre of your chest.

You order. Alba talks some more. The restaurant makes its restaurant noise around you.

You think about the cedar smell. About the way she’d looked at you through the window of the car when you were walking away—something you’d caught in your peripheral vision and made yourself not examine too closely.

You are so, genuinely, completely fucked.

“So,” Alba says, “are you coming on Saturday? Alexia has finally decided to host.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Who are you looking for?” a voice drawls behind her.

Natasha jumps before she can stop herself and turns to look over her shoulder.

Maria Hill stands there, arms folded and expression carved with amused curiosity.

Natasha straightens at once, face smoothing into a practiced calm. 

“Just assessing the agents you brought with you,” she says coolly, crossing her arms.

Maria’s brow arches. 

“Mm. And your assessment requires hiding behind a wall?”

Natasha goes to defend herself when the sound of approaching footsteps makes her glance over Maria’s shoulder. She then turns to the wall and lifts a hand to shield her face, staring at the metal plating as if suddenly deeply fascinated by the wall’s infrastructure.

The footsteps pass by without stopping. 

Natasha slowly lowers her hand and sighs softly in relief when she sees that it wasn’t anyone familiar.

Maria watches this entire display with open delight.

“Ah,” Maria hums. “So. Who are we avoiding?”

“No one,” Natasha snaps defensively.

Maria raises a brow, giving her a pointed look at her response. 

Not wanting to explain herself, Natasha turns to leave, eager to put this whole situation behind her—only to collide with a figure rounding the same corner at the same time.

Her hands act on reflex, steadying you with a firm, sure grip. Only to jolt back the second her brain catches up with her body. She drops her hold on you like she’s been burned, fingers hovering inches from your sleeves. 

Your eyes, also wide and startled, lock with hers, recognition flashing across your face before anything else. Then, just as quickly, something colder settles in.

You step back, composing yourself.

“Hey,” Natasha breathes softly, almost tentative in her tone, like a request for a peace offering disguised as a greeting.

You look at her for a lingering second before dismissing her just as quickly. You turn to Maria instead, voice steady and professional.

“I have the reports you asked for, Commander.”

Maria’s lips curl into a grin she doesn’t bother to hide. She takes the tablet from you, glancing pointedly between the two of you.

“Well, hello, ‘no one,’” she says under her breath to Natasha in a singsong tone.

Natasha stiffens before throwing a warning glare at the other woman, but Maria just chuckles in response before gesturing for you to follow her to the conference room.

You walk away without another glance at her.

The rejection lands sharply in Natasha’s chest, but she doesn’t chase it. She watches instead as the door closes behind you, cutting her out.

Natasha shifts her weight, gaze drawn to the narrow pane of glass alongside the door. Inside, you stand across from Maria, already focused on the briefing. As if sensing her, your eyes lift and meet hers through the glass.

No surprise this time.

Only cold acknowledgment.

Then in one smooth motion, you reach up and slide the privacy screen down, shutting her out completely.

A quiet exhale slips past Natasha’s lips. She looks away, jaw flexing once.

You deserve that, she tells herself. You’re the one who disappeared.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hum of quiet conversation dwindles as Steve steps forward, tapping the screen behind him to display the layout of a distant Hydra compound. Lights dim. The atmosphere shifts into focus. Everyone directs their attention toward the front.

Everyone but Natasha.

Despite her best efforts, her gaze keeps drifting to the other side of the long conference table to where you are. 

You sit upright, attention locked on Steve, eyes deliberately avoiding the left side of the room where she is. 

Even from here, Natasha can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw tightens every time Steve mentions the two teams working together.

A low, quiet sigh escapes her before she can stop it. Then a nudge at her elbow draws her attention.

Maria leans slightly toward her, voice pitched just low enough to blend into the shuffling of papers and muted voices around them.

“So,” Maria says, sounding almost casual, but Natasha catches the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Want to tell me what all that was earlier?”

Natasha’s brows pull together. She crosses her arms, posture defensive. 

“Not particularly, no.”

Maria huffs in amusement. 

“I don’t think you have a choice here,” she says.

Natasha scoffs and shakes her head lightly in disbelief.

“And why’s that?” 

Maria holds up a finger. 

“One: she’s one of my agents. And I need to know if there’s going to be any problem here.” A second finger. “Two: she had you—Natasha Romanoff—hiding behind walls.” A third finger. “And three: I promised Fury I’d mess with you at least once while we’re here since he can’t anymore. Something about tradition.”

Natasha slowly turns her head to stare at Maria with an unimpressed look.

Maria only smiles.

Natasha exhales sharply through her nose and glances back toward you, only to find your eyes already on her. The contact is brief and immediately electric. 

However, your expression hardens on instinct, gaze sharpening into a glare before you turn away, chin lifting slightly in silent dismissal.

The reaction is expected. But that doesn’t make it sting any less.

You used to smile when you looked at me.

That thought makes Natasha lower her eyes to the table, fingers worrying the corner of the mission dossier. She can’t seem to keep them still.

“We…uh…” she murmurs under her breath.

Maria tilts her head, listening patiently.

Natasha’s lips press together. There isn’t a word that feels right. Dating was too small a label. Together too uncertain. Neither of you ever defined what it was.

But the outcome is the same, regardless of the label you two refused to give.

“I don’t know,” she finishes quietly, almost to herself.

Before Maria can respond, Steve’s voice cuts back through the room.

“Alright,” he says firmly, clicking the remote to shift the slide. “We’ll be working in joint units with SHIELD on this one.” He nods toward Maria. “Commander Hill will give assignments.”

Maria stands and moves to the front, clipboard in hand. 

Natasha forces herself to sit up straighter, though she can feel dread coiling low in her stomach, a premonition she can’t quite shake.

Names are read. Agents are paired.

She barely registers them until she hears yours.

“Agent Y/l/n,” Maria announces, “you’ll be with Romanoff.”

Stunned silence hits Natasha like a physical force.

Across the table, you stiffen. Your chair scrapes softly as you sit up, eyes snapping toward Maria in immediate protest. Your hand starts to rise, ready to argue, refuse, do anything to prevent this.

But Maria has already moved on.

You slowly lower your hand, fingers curling into a fist on your lap. Then your head turns, not toward Maria, but snapping directly toward Natasha.

The glare you level at her is sharp enough to make her wince.

Behind the raised clipboard, Maria flashes Natasha a discreet thumbs-up.

Natasha groans internally.

It’s not fair. This isn’t even her fault.

But as she risks one more glance at you and sees the fury, the betrayal, and the pain you don’t bother hiding, Natasha knows that whether it’s her fault or not doesn’t matter.

Because she’s the one who ran away first.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Snow crunches beneath Natasha’s boots with each step, the air growing colder with the silence stretching between you. Frost clings to the dark branches above, and the pale moonlight breaks in fractured beams across your shoulders as you lead the way. The only sound is your steady breathing—measured, controlled,…and entirely devoid of any acknowledgment of her presence.

Your avoidance becomes obviously deliberate to her. 

Every time Natasha speeds up, you quicken your pace. Every time she slows, you pull further ahead. It’s not just silence. It’s punishment.

And she deserves it.

But you’re also the only other member of this infiltration team. If you don’t work together, the rest of the Avengers won’t even make it past the perimeter of the Hydra base.

Natasha takes a slow breath, watching it cloud the air before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“We need to work together on this,” she says quietly, matching your pace again. “You can’t avoid talking to me forever.”

You stop so suddenly that she almost walks right into you. Muscle memory kicks in as her hands lift instinctively, hovering inches from your back, her body swaying as she catches herself before making contact. Natasha steps back quickly like she’s burned.

You pivot slowly, eyes sharp at her. Your gaze flicks to her raised hands, then back to her face, disbelief curling your lip.

“You’re one to talk, Natasha.” You jab a finger into her shoulder. “You ghosted me first.”

Natasha freezes, breath catching. She opens her mouth, a response forming, then failing. The truth stands between you like a wall she built with her own hands.

You huff a quiet, bitter laugh. 

“And of all the underhanded tactics…” You gesture vaguely, as if the entire mission briefing is still hovering over your head. “Now you’re forcing me to be with you on this mission.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. Hands slowly lower to her sides, fingers flexing once before curling into loose fists.

“Hey, this was not my fault,” she says, frowning. “I had nothing to do with this. If it were my choice, I wouldn’t have chosen you—”

You scoff in disbelief, cutting her off and turning your back to her.

“Right. Great talk.”

Realizing how her words landed, Natasha reacts on instinct. She steps forward quickly, boots crunching through the snow as she moves to intercept your path.

The cold air stings her lungs, but not nearly as much as the panic rising in her chest. She lifts her hands to stop you—not yet touching—her fingers splayed in midair as though even the ghost of contact might shatter whatever fragile boundary still exists between you.

“Wait,” she says, voice softer now, no longer the practiced calm of the legendary Black Widow. There’s something raw in it. Something unarmored. “I didn’t mean—”

Her throat works as she swallows, eyes tracing over your features like she’s memorizing them all over again. A flicker of vulnerability slips through her usually unreadable gaze.

“I just meant I wouldn’t have made you put up with me. Again. Given our…history.”

The word falls hesitantly into the space between you. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of everything you two used to be. Everything she walked away from.

You stare at her in silence, expression unreadable. Then your gaze lowers to her hands. Suspended between you. A breath away from your jacket sleeve. So close. Trembling.

Natasha tries to hide it, curling her fingers back into her palms, but you already saw. 

When you finally speak, your voice is gentle. Soft and devastating.

“What history?”

Natasha’s breath hitches. No enemy’s ever thrown her off the way you do with just two words.

“Last I remember,” you continue, taking a step toward her as if challenging her to deny your words, “You said it was nothing.”

Natasha flinches, not outwardly, but she still feels it like ice through her bloodstream. A familiar shame crawls up her spine, the same shame she felt the moment she said those words to you. Words she didn’t mean. Words she used as armor. Words that did exactly what they were designed to do—create distance.

Except now she has to live in that distance.

Natasha’s gaze falls to the ground as you walk past her, your shoulder brushing so close she can feel the warmth radiating from you in the freezing air. Your footsteps pause beside her. 

And when you speak again, your voice is quiet. Barely more than a whisper. But it carries more impact than a shouted accusation.

“Stop acting like it ever meant anything to you, Natasha.”

You continue walking without looking back.

You don’t see the way Natasha stops moving entirely, her lungs forgetting how to draw breath. Her eyes fall closed, lashes trembling. A faint gasp escapes her, not from physical exertion but from the emotional blow she didn’t even try to dodge.

Because the truth is—

It was something to her.

It still is.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

sooo the intention this whole time was alternating perspectives chapter to chapter but i'm not sure if i made that overly obvious so i've revised and added indicators. enjoy! content warnings: none

O.B

Ona feels Lucy's eyes on her as she pulls her jeans up, returning it with a cheeky smile. "You see something you like?" She cliches, trying to be softer after the bout of tension that arose between them. To call it tension felt rich; really it was one of the many small fractures that seem to arise when willing or not, your body and mind are far too complacent around someone.

Lucy seems to have moved on, but her words inescapably play on Ona's mind. She had tried to not take Lucy's peculiarities to heart, it was Lucy, not her, but nonetheless, she couldn't help but wonder if she is too controlling. Or worse, absent in a place where Lucy isn't. That hurt. She'd spent years trying to be better, asking just about everyone (because everyone seems to be more capable of this than her) how to not shrink away when a feeling frightens her. She wanted to give, so very badly, she just chokes on it. So easily.

"Of course gorge- Fuck." Lucy huffs when she turns around to look at Ona, a deer caught in headlights.

"What?"

"Hickies." Lucy bolts up, her fingers brushing across Ona's neck. "I fucked up."

Ona darts to her mirror, and clasps her hands over her mouth. "Lucy! " She exclaims in panic at how incredibly littered her neck and chest is with red and purple splotches, teeth marks blooming within a few of them.

"I didn't mean to..." Lucy reasons when Ona shoots her a sharp, disparaging scowl.

"I look like I've been mauled." Ona turns back to examine them further. But her finger stills, and instead she is hit with a nauseating flip of her stomach.

Like she'd just been told horrendous news; some discontent from the idea of Lucy so carelessly marking her skin, like she owned her, but then...fine, it was a bit erotic. Really erotic. She just wasn't used to the sight. Typically she isn't the one who walks away with marks of any kind, let alone ones she hadn't prepared for. "What were you thinking?"

"You didn't exactly stop me."

"You're old enough to know how to kiss someone's neck without doing...this."

Ona gives a petulant shove, but is unable to hide her bashful smile as a flush of warmth creeps over her. Time always seemed to lose them, and if she really considers it, it had felt like days that Lucy was busying herself with kissing every inch of her skin.

"Sorry." Lucy lowers her head after laughing a bit, though Ona catches the twitch of her mouth, perhaps a bit too apt at reading the small truth to Ona's banter.

"Your friend won't care."

"Still embarrassing."

Lucy grabs her by the waist and pulls her backwards into her arms, prompting a small giggle, before tilting her head down to kiss Ona's cheek apologetically, following with a poor job of convincing her, "Sorry. Really, it won't happen again."

"Promise me." Ona glances up with faux threat, and despite everything, she has the overwhelming urge to press her face against Lucy's. Her hands curve around the strong forearm that encircles her chest, and for a moment, she forgets about Lucy's woes and her own alike.

"Yes ma'am."

Lucy lets go without a word, the lingering weight of the embrace making them both realise just how much it was needed. Ona saunters over to her vanity and pulls out some concealer, dabbing it on her neck hastily.

"Who is this friend anyway?" Lucy asks, watching her from afar.

"Someone I met here."

"Okay...tells me nothing."

Ona keeps quiet, and it's not long before there's a knock at the door, making her flinch.

"Shall I stay here?" Lucy quickly offers.

"Why?"

"So you can be with your friend."

"Oh...Yeah. Please do."

"Are you sure you're not busy?"

In the doorway, Ella blinks at Ona, only mildly terrified.

"I'm not. Really, I have time for you." Ona steps back to let Ella in, who gingerly brushes off her wet coat and slips her trainers off. "I was out for five minutes, it's torrential..."

"So what's going on?" Ona interrupts her with a half-smile, curious but cautious. Ella goes quiet, looking across the hallway. "God, Ona, it's bad."

"Tell me." Ona leads her into the kitchen.

Ella stops and pivots, searching her face. Ona had noticed that—people looked to her expression for answers. Perhaps she was too honest in her reactions, or there was comfort to be found in the genuine attention she held for others' problems.

"It's Less."

"Hm?"

"I think she fancies me. Like, proper fancies me."

Ona's face twists in crass disbelief. "What? Say it again?"

She often wished she was more oblivious to the atomic-level shifts in mood or expression, it would be far nicer to not feel like such a voyeur to other people's emotions. To stop figuring it out even before they have. So when Ella's words catch in her throat, she isn't surprised.

"I'm sorry..." Ona says sympathetically, pulling her in for a careful hug. In the peripheral, her bedroom door clicks. Open or shut? She isn't sure.

Ella doesn't sob. Only a sniffle or two before she's pulling back and sighing, carefully wiping beneath her eyes with her hoodie sleeve.

"I don't even know where to start, Ona. I can just...tell it's over." She croaks.

"What's over?" Ona sits on a barstool, and Ella mirrors her.

"Our friendship. Everything."

"Why? It's not over. You and Lessi are-"

"Best friends, I know, but we haven't been for months and I totally missed it. I thought we were fine, but we weren't. We so weren't- and, I really think she likes me. And I've been a proper shit friend about it."

Ona braces her elbow on the counter and sinks her chin into her hand, narrowing her eyes softly. Even she'd speculated it as a joke; the kind of joke you make about the only straight people in your life. Well, Ella was certainly straight, while Alessia...had a certain way about her that had always piqued Ona's curiosity.

"How do you know she likes you? What happened today?" Ona tries a calm face, though she remains relentlessly bewildered.

Ella stops meeting her eyes, looking down at the counter. "It was yesterday that she came up to see me. But today– she sent me a message. Confirming everything I knew. Look."

Hey love I know this is sudden but just giving you a heads up that I might go a bit MIA x It was lovely to see you yesterday but I'm going through some things and need time alone to sort them out. Nothing personal at all, and I'll still definitely be around for your b-day xx

Ona reads the text over once more, trying to discern the character or intent behind it. "That is–I don't know, I don't know enough context." She concludes, still thinking about it, frustrated that she has no real answer, even after Ella pockets her phone.

"She just started getting distant. Maybe a month or two ago. She stopped asking me questions about my life, stopped telling me about hers. Especially when I spoke about my relationship, oh my god, you wouldn't even think she cared if he lived or died. And it's so weird, because she didn't used to be like that, it's like something changed. And...I told my other friends, and they really do think it's because she fancies me. Or that- there's something more to her feelings towards us."

Ona's mouth stays parted as Ella finishes her monologue. "But what has she done to make you think she fancies you?"

Ella continues regardless. "I was shocked, because I thought Lessi is—"

Ona arches a brow making Ella's speech hang in the air.

"—Straight." She finishes.

"Straight."

"I think."

"You think?"

"Ona, come on, we've never spoken about it. Isn't it, like, really rude to assume someone's gay?"

Ona snorts. "No. She's your best friend and you haven't even spoken about that?"

"She's never brought it up. Why, has she said something to you?"

Ona almost chokes on her reply. "No." She says finally. "But I...thought maybe otherwise."

Ella hesitates, before shifting her tone. "Sexuality stuff is whatever, I'm just upset because she means so much to me. And she knows that. And I keep thinking about a world where I don't have her support, or she keeps pulling away, and it..." Ella bites into her cheek, vision blurring again but pulling it back. "I don't want that."

Ona can understand. She is reminded of the time Laia wouldn't speak to her over a short period due to some bad life decisions on Ona's part, and it had ruined her.

"I know," Ona empathises. "You need to talk to her."

"I will. I just...I keep thinking about it. It's really getting to me. This idea of her liking me as more than a friend and being too scared to say it-"

"Of course she wouldn't say it."

Ella glances up.

"You're straight. You would never give her any answer but no." Ona says.

Ella smiles uncertainly. "Yeah. Nine-"

"Ninety-five percent. I know. Five percent for Jodie Comer and...who was the other one?"

Ella is looking ahead, and Ona soon follows by swivelling on the chair.

"Lucy?!" Ella deadpans in shock, and Ona's throat going bone-dry.

Ella's jaw practically hangs open as Lucy stands frozen across the hallway. "What the fuck is Lucy doing in your house?"

Ona immediately stammers out a persuasive apology. "Please don't think-"

To her shock, Ella laughs. "Nah, this is unreal."

Lucy, caught and extremely embarrassed about it, makes an awkward attempt at laughing it off. "I thought I recognised your voice."

"It's been so long," Ella says in awe.

"It has." Lucy replies, her expression ironing out.

Ella snaps towards Ona with a smile caught between amusement and incredulity. "Didn't bother telling me your girl was around?"

Ona feels her skin burning. "I- well you were kind of already here."

"It's fine," Ella reconciles softly, and a brief glance at Lucy tells Ona that she's contemplating running out of the front door just as severely.

Then it clicks. "You told me she wasn't the Lucy you knew! I showed you a picture!" Ona says between almost gritted teeth.

"I didn't recognise her obviously! She looks...nothing like she used to." Ella turns to Lucy again, before presumably realising she's being rather crass in her tone and words, sheepishly averting her eyes.

"I can leave you to it. I just needed my bag." Lucy pivots, until Ella speaks again.

"You can stay. I'll head off in a minute anyway,"

Then Ella sees the rain still pattering hard against the window. "Maybe five. My car's round the corner." 

Somehow Ella and Ona end up on opposite ends of the couch, with Lucy on the floor, leaning with subtlety into Ona's leg. It makes Ona swoon just the smallest bit, and out of Ella's field of vision, her hand gently brushes against Lucy's shoulder. Judging from her quiet temperament, she's still coming down from earlier in the afternoon—it had been intense, after all.

"D'you still play, Luce?" Ella asks.

"Nah. I do coaching with the girls at Blackburn."

"That's nice." Ella replies.

"How did you two meet?" Lucy asks, breaking the silence that follows.

Ona smiles at that, trying desperately to ignore the festering awkwardness. "Ella was my first friend here. She didn't care how bad my English was. Or that I couldn't understand her."

"What can I say. You're hard not to love."

"Don't say that." Ona blushes with affection, and Lucy chuckles softly, squeezing Ona's ankle.

"I heard a bit of your conversation." Lucy admits to the surprise of both girls. Ona's hand stills.

"Oh." Ella says.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," Lucy quickly returns.

"No, it's fine," Ella adds, to the relief of Ona. "What did you think?"

"I didn't hear it all."

"—You knew Alessia too?" Ona interjects, a little uncomfortable at how interconnected her circle of people seem to be. Next thing she knows, Lucy will reveal her lasting friendships with people she knows in Spain.

"Yeah, course, but not personally. Didn't have much in common. I didn't even know you, Ella, that well." Lucy says, before following quietly with, "No offence."

"None taken. We were different." Ella mutters.

"But...I think friendships and all sorts of connections are complicated." Lucy continues, and Ona gets rather concerned all of a sudden that this will become personal. "She might not even know how she feels about you. Maybe she needs to know for sure that you're okay with her talking to you about this."

"But surely it's not hard to know if you like someone or not?" Ella says.

Ona and Lucy both consider it, and it's Ona who speaks for both of them. "It's a personal thing, no? Like, feelings can be confusing if you're...say...best friends, and you never thought about liking that person until something happens that changes your perspective."

"It's way more complicated with girls, in't it. With guys you just know."

"Mhm, we're much more...complicated creatures." Ona replies.

"Most of 'em are shallow, emotionless dickheads anyway. You're lucky." Ella says.

Lucy snorts. "I concur. I think we're lucky."

"How'd you even figure out you were into girls?" Ella asks out of genuine curiosity. Lucy and Ona once more wait for the other to speak first.

"Always knew." Lucy says simply, and Ona nods.

"Maybe it's a stupid question–"

"It's not," Ona replies. "I didn't quite know until I was a teenager."

"Hm."

Ona feels Lucy's fingers brushing along her calve as she speaks."I doubted it for a time. But that's only cause I dated...the wrong people."

"Like who?" Lucy glances up.

Both Ella and Ona stiffen, and Ella gives Ona a charitable look.

"People too old for me." Ona says, half-smiling for a half-truth, seeing Lucy slowly putting pieces of her puzzle together.

"It's easy to make mistakes at that age," Ella says. "But you're better now, look at you. Lucy's a good one, i'nt she?"

Lucy looks up at Ona, smiling proudly. "I try to be."

"She is. Very good to me." Ona says smittenly, giving Lucy's cheek a tactful caress, and it dawns on her how she's never quite been proud of someone she's dated. Less out of her own shame, but because she can admit, there was naturally going to be something that made them unstable enough for her to want. She never actively searched for it, it just seemed to be the way her life went. At some point she'd enjoyed the chaotic push-and-pull of toxic love, even given that back to them through her own troubles and flaws. What she sought after was passion, and for a time, she'd believed passion only came from danger and a fight that never seemed to end.

Here was Lucy, gentle, no angst in her. Sat at her feet, willing and patient. And yet, their passion could fill oceans. Water, not the fire she was used to. She remembers Lucy's promise: I'll never hurt you Ona, I swear it. Lucy hadn't known it, but those words alone had patched a wound in Ona that had bled dry many years ago, and still stung to this day.

She's not dating Lucy. But for lack of better words to describe their catastrophically deep intimacy, she doesn't correct Ella. 

Long after Ella leaves, Lucy and Ona remain entangled in one another on the couch. Lucy presses soft kisses to Ona's temple, while her leg holds her in tight. Surrounded by a protective silence that's only broken by the sound of Lucy's gently scratching fingers in her hair, or slow kisses to soft skin and lazy lips.

"Obsessed with you, baby girl." She whispers, giving Ona the ache of butterflies, her kisses drawing nearer and nearer to Ona's waiting lips.

"Obsessed with you too." Ona replies, craning her neck into a soft kiss. "Even if I feel like I can't sit right." She admits, upon realising at some point during the cuddle that she had to be careful of what position she moved in.

"Oh, sorry about that, hope I didn't hurt you." Lucy squeezes her shoulder for good measure, though she has a prideful glint in her eyes.

"No. Well, it hurts a little, but I like it to hurt."

"Cheeky girl," Lucy mumbles, slipping her hand beneath Ona's shirt to caress her back in a way that predictably makes Ona's eyes shut like a purring cat. "Were you going to watch the game tonight?" Lucy asks hopefully.

"Hm?"

"Champions League semis. PSG versus Chelsea."

Ona shrugs at first, uninspired by the idea of men's football but definitely inspired by the idea of Lucy talking nonsense to her about it for an hour. "Sí, lets. I'll make us some food first?" She offers.

"I'll help."

"Okay." Ona agrees, just to see Lucy preen and cuddle her closer. She keeps a tight hold on Ona as they move, until she's stood up with her carried in her arms, Ona's swung around her neck.

She repeatedly pecks across Lucy's lips and face as she brings her to the kitchen, making Lucy laugh and turn her face away. "Do you want me to trip?"

"No," Ona pouts, resolving by burying her face in Lucy's neck until she's all she can breathe.

When Lucy places her on the counter, they share a soft look, absolute adoration that can't be contained. "Luce?" She says, ankles pulling Lucy to stand between her legs.

"Yeah love?" Lucy cups her face.

"You were surprised when I said I had...bad past relationships?"

Lucy looks at her wide-eyed, careful of what she says next. "Not really, you'd kinda mentioned it before, but what about it?"

"I did..." Ona finds herself a bit lost for words suddenly, but she forces herself to say it, lest Lucy go home and she spend the whole time regretting keeping it in. "I'm not even used to saying they were bad, but they were...I don't know if it was bad luck or I just attracted-"

"You didn't attract them." Lucy says firmly, though Ona can't help but want to retaliate with the fact Lucy didn't know her when she was eighteen and horribly messy.

"No one has ever treated me like you do. Ella is right. You are so good, and I find it hard, because no part of me...or my thoughts or my heart...think I deserve you. Not deep down." Ona admits, her voice trembling like it takes all of her strength to overcome the fear of admitting this.

Something breaks in Lucy's eyes. "Oh Ona." She hugs her tightly, cupping the back of her head as it seeks solace in her shoulder. Ona hated the sympathy, but she knows it's coming from the dearest place in Lucy's heart. "I'm nothing special, I just do what I can. You do deserve me. No doubt about it."

"I know." Ona agrees in a quiet breath, and for the first time, she comes to see just how consumed by Lucy she has become. Tendrils wrapping around themselves in the untouched parts of her soul. "I know...it's like..."

"It's hard, I get it. I used to be like that." Lucy rubs her back slowly. "Did you wanna talk about those past times and what happened?"

Ona's breath gets caught in her throat. "Not today. Long story. Anyway, it's not about anything that's done. You are... you make me feel safe. So- thank you." She says, pulling away to look Lucy in the eyes. The words are much clearer in her mind: You are the first to make me feel this way, to not make me want chaos, but to want love nonetheless. I- love-

She gasps quietly as the words play out in her head, a vision in her mind's eye of a forever with this woman who was consuming her every thought.

"What is it?" Lucy asks quickly.

"I just don't like thinking about it. The bad stuff." Ona says, enough for Lucy to embrace her once again. It's true in the vein of...she doesn't like thinking about love, but Lucy thinks her mind is still stuck on the past partners. She doesn't think about them at all, admittedly, only the scars they left behind.

And she's never hated those ugly little things so much, because if not for them, these words wouldn't get stuck on her tongue every-time, showing on her face, that the sweetest of words feel more like blood pouring from her lips. Lucy makes her feel safe, and she is deathly afraid of it.

"Don't then. I'm sorry anyone ever did you wrong, I don't know how they could do it. You're so good to me as well Ona, to everyone. The fact Ella came to you shows that you're a true friend."

Ona nods once. Sex had become the way she proved to herself that she was capable of being gentle, loving, trustworthy, beyond. But the sex she and Lucy had was the smallest part of the equation, and god. Oh my god. How did they even get here? From a new person in her bed every week, to…that idea now being unfathomable. She's ghosted people for this, broken so many self-made promises to let it get to this point. Without wanting to, she's letting it in. 

"Thank you. I try to be. And I...also never want to hurt you." Her legs cling onto the back of Lucy's thighs.

"You couldn't. I trust you, okay? Is that enough for you to trust yourself?"

"Yes." Ona regretfully lies. "It is."

Bored of the game, Ona has turned into Lucy's arms again, closing her eyes as her temples are massaged delicately by Lucy's thumbs.

"Baby can I tell you something?" She murmurs tiredly before she can regret it.

"What?" Lucy answers back softly, but like she won't be breathing until Ona replies.

"I'm going to Barcelona." She blurts. "For two weeks." She looks up earnestly.

Lucy blinks, searching for the catch. "That's...fine, darling, why're you telling me?"

Ona swallows, and she lies again. A bigger lie, and immediately, the regret fills her. "Just realised I hadn't told you."

"What're you going for?"

Ona pauses. "Family stuff." She sighs against Lucy's hoodie, before deciding to give her some of the truth, moving onto her back. "I...help them with money. And they have problems with taxes and our old house. So I have to sort that."

"Oh. That's no fun."

"No. No fun at all."

"Has it been bothering you?" Lucy asks, resting on her elbow to give Ona some breathing room.

"A bit." She admits. "I stress a lot about them."

Lucy plants a kiss on her forehead. "Give me a call if you need any help. I do this everyday after all."

"Thanks. You're a saint."

"Does this mean I won't see you until after you're back?"

"Unless you can come Sunday?" Ona looks up expectantly.

"I've got training. Big tournament coming up, it's gonna be occupying me for the next month or so. Sorry baby."

"That's fine then. We will figure it out." Ona admits, shielding her disappointment. She swallows her words, her feelings, and buries them in the suffocating safety of Lucy's hoodie.

She is flushed and sleepy when Lucy is out in the bathroom before heading home. Ella is texting her.

—You love her Ona —I can see this

I don't know how to

—Don't know how to?

I don't know how to love her When I love people it's just a bomb Lucy wants safety, I will fail her and never forgive myself

—Lucy looks at you like you're the last treasure left on earth

But I'm not the last.

—But you're the one she wants —I have a poem on love you should read. Let me send it

thoughts and comments appreciated as ever, i always like to know what parts or elements people enjoy best :)