Vee

Best Friends (18+) Older!Natasha (36) x G!P Shy!Reader (23)

Summary: A confession between best friends turn heated when they are alone in the tower.

Here!

Smooth Talker (18+) Undercover Cop!Natasha x G!P Bartender!Reader

Summary: A flirty bartender hits on an undercover cop. Disappointment hits when the beautiful redhead leaves, but it disappears once she shows up at the end of your shift…

Here!

Coach's Rules (18+) G!P Top!Natasha x Bottom!Brat!Wanda

Summary: Mrs. Maximoff and Coach Romanoff struggle to keep their hands off each other at work.

Here!

Just wanted a hoodie (18+) G!P Natasha x Reader

Summary: Your goal was to borrow a hoodie, not find something so private. But little do you know, the owner watches you…

Here!

You already know (18+) G!P Alpha!Natasha x Omega!Reader

Summary: Natasha doesn't think twice over it, little does she know that it's so much more than that

Here!

The baby that never cried (newly updated version) Natasha x pregnant!reader

Summary: As you’re getting ready to welcome your first child into the world, something goes wrong...

Here!

Permanent Natasha x Reader

Summary: you get a tattoo when your girlfriend told you not to

Here!

Perfection is with you Natasha x Reader

Summary: you and Natasha start getting settled

Here!

Silence Teacher!Wanda x Childrens Welfare!Natsha x Child!Reader

Summary: Ms. Maximoff, your teacher, notices something is wrong so her wife helps her find out what's going on with you

Here!

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Multi-oneshots:

Front pocket  G!P Alpha!Natasha x Stripper!Omega!Reader

Summary: Natasha finds her true Omega, claming her as her own.

pt. 1 (18+) , pt. 2 (18+)

Watch Bottom!Natasha x G!P Top!Wanda (x Reader)

Summary: After walking in on your best friends, something in all of you change…

pt. 1 (18+) , pt. 2 (18+)

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Mini-series:

. Breathe series* . Phone Girl series* .

Breathe Little Sister!Natasha x Older Sister!Reader

Summary: You surprise your baby sister for her birthday, revealing heartbreaking things about her, and your past.

Pt.1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4

Phone Girl Struggling!Natasha x Crisis Line!Reader

Summary: Natasha is struggling mentally and finds comfort in a calm crisis line worker.

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , Pt. 5

Saint of the Abyss Nun!Natasha x Lilith!Reader

To be continued...

Sex is Art Model!Natasha x Painter!Reader

To be continued...

___________

*1 Breathe series includes fluff and angst.

They had seen her face impossible odds without flinching.

Nobody had ever seen her wake up screaming.

Not even Wanda.

Especially not Wanda.

Which was why, at 3:47 AM, Wanda nearly launched herself off the bed when she heard a sharp, strangled sound come from Natasha.

She had fallen asleep reading.

Natasha had insisted she take the bed.

Wanda had insisted they share it.

Natasha had turned pink, muttered something about “being perfectly capable of sleeping alone,” and somehow ended up sharing the bed anyway.

Now the room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the curtains.

Natasha was thrashing.

Not violently. Desperately.

Like she was trying to run underwater.

“Nat.”

No response.

Her breathing was ragged.

“Baby.”

Wanda sat up immediately.

She could have used her magic.

She could have slipped into Natasha’s mind, untangled whatever terror lived there.

But Natasha’s mind was hers.

Always hers.

So Wanda just reached out and touched her shoulder.

“Natasha.”

The reaction was instant.

Natasha bolted upright with a gasp.

Her eyes were wide.

Wild.

Searching.

For one awful second she looked ready to fight something that wasn’t there.

Then she saw Wanda.

The panic didn’t disappear.

But it cracked.

“Hey,” Wanda said softly.

Natasha stared at her.

Her chest rose and fell too fast.

Wanda had seen her calm down from gunfights quicker than this.

“You’re okay.”

Natasha swallowed.

Her voice came out rough.

‘’Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I woke you up.”

Wanda almost laughed.

Instead she moved closer.

‘’Come here.”

Natasha froze.

Normally she would have deflected.

Made a joke.

Changed the subject.

Pretended everything was fine.

Instead something in her expression crumpled.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Enough for Wanda to see how exhausted she really was.

Natasha leaned forward.

And folded.

There was no elegance to it.

No careful preservation of dignity.

She simply pressed her forehead into Wanda’s shoulder and let herself be held.

Wanda wrapped both arms around her immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Natasha made a small sound.

A sound Wanda had never heard before.

Not crying.

Not quite.

Just tired.

So tired.

“It’s okay,” Wanda murmured.

Natasha’s hands gripped the back of her shirt.

“You don’t have to fix it.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

A weak laugh escaped Natasha.

The tension eased a fraction.

They sat like that for a long time.

The apartment was silent.

The city outside slept.

Wanda felt Natasha’s heartbeat gradually slow beneath her cheek.

Eventually Natasha spoke.

“So that’s embarrassing.”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You had a nightmare.”

“I haven’t had one in forever.”

Wanda rubbed circles against her back.

“Then maybe it was overdue.”

“That’s not how nightmares work.”

“I don’t know. I’m not an expert.”

“You literally alter reality.”

“Different department.”

That got another laugh.

Small.

But real.

When Natasha finally pulled back, her eyes were tired but clearer.

“Are you hungry?” Wanda asked suddenly.

Natasha blinked.

“What?”

“I don’t know. This feels like a cereal situation.”

“A cereal situation?”

“Definitely.”

“You made that up.”

“Yes.”

Natasha considered it.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Five minutes later they were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor.

Because somehow neither of them had bothered with chairs.

A box of cereal sat between them.

Two oversized bowls balanced in their laps.

The microwave clock glowed 4:03 AM.

Wanda was still wearing one of Natasha’s hoodies.

The sleeves covered half her hands.

Natasha kept staring into her cereal.

Like she was deciding whether to speak.

Wanda waited.

Eventually Natasha said quietly,

“I dream about hallways.”

Wanda looked up.

Natasha’s eyes stayed on the bowl.

“The Red Room?”

A nod.

“The hallways are always empty.”

Her spoon traced a circle through the milk.

“And I know something terrible is about to happen.”

She laughed softly.

“Dream logic.”

Wanda stayed silent.

“The weird part is that nobody’s chasing me.”

Natasha’s voice grew distant.

“I’m usually the one looking.”

“For who?”

A long pause.

Natasha swallowed.

“The girls.”

Wanda’s chest tightened.

The girls.

The ones who never got out.

The ones Natasha could never stop thinking about.

“They never appear,” Natasha continued. “I just keep opening doors.”

One after another.

One after another.

One after another.

“And every room is empty.”

The kitchen felt smaller somehow.

More intimate.

Like the darkness outside the windows had wrapped around them.

Natasha stared into space.

“I think that’s the worst part.”

‘’What is?”

“The possibility that I forgot someone.”

Her voice was barely audible.

“Someone I should have saved.”

Wanda reached across the floor and took her hand.

Natasha squeezed it immediately.

Like she hadn’t realized how much she needed the contact.

“I know that’s irrational.”

“It’s understandable.”

“I remember faces.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I remember details nobody else would remember.”

Wanda listened.

“The way they braided their hair. Which ones hummed when they trained. Who hated winter.”

Natasha blinked.

“And still I wake up wondering if somebody disappeared and I never noticed.”

The confession seemed to cost her something.

Like it had been trapped inside her for years.

Wanda brushed her thumb across Natasha’s knuckles.

“You’ve never told anyone that.”

“No.”

“Why?”

A humorless smile appeared.

“Because I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“I know.”

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Natasha surprised herself.

“I used to think if I stopped carrying all of it, I’d lose them.”

Wanda frowned slightly.

“The people you couldn’t save.”

Natasha nodded.

“So I kept everything.”

Every memory.

Every regret.

Every name.

Every possibility.

“As if forgetting for one second would mean they never existed.”

The words hung between them.

Raw.

Honest.

The kind of honesty that only arrived at four in the morning when the world was quiet enough to hear it.

Wanda set her bowl aside.

Then moved closer until their knees touched.

“You know what I think?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I think you’ve been carrying entire cemeteries by yourself.”

Natasha’s expression softened.

“And?”

“And I think that’s too heavy for one person.”

Something flickered in Natasha’s eyes.

Relief.

Not because the burden disappeared.

Because someone had finally seen it.

For years she’d been surrounded by people who respected her strength.

Wanda respected it too.

But Wanda also saw the cost.

The exhaustion.

The loneliness hidden underneath.

Natasha leaned sideways until her head rested against Wanda’s shoulder.

Neither mentioned it.

Neither had to.

The cereal grew soggy.

The clock crept toward 4:30.

Natasha kept talking.

About memories.

About fears.

About things she’d buried so deeply she wasn’t sure she’d ever say them aloud.

Wanda listened to every word.

Never interrupting.

Never trying to solve anything.

Just listening.

When the sky finally began turning pale beyond the windows, Natasha’s voice had gone quiet.

“Thank you.”

Wanda kissed the top of her head.

“For what?”

Natasha thought about it.

For staying.

For listening.

For not looking at her differently.

For not trying to fix her.

For making the nightmare survivable.

“For the cereal,” she said.

Wanda snorted.

‘’You’re impossible.”

A faint smile appeared on Natasha’s face.

The first real smile of the night.

Then she tucked herself closer against Wanda’s side and closed her eyes.

Safe.

Warm.

Held.

And for the first time since the nightmare, Natasha felt something she almost never allowed herself to feel.

Not strong.

Not fearless.

Not untouchable.

The dormitory smelled faintly of candle wax and old linen. Rain tapped softly against the high windows overhead, though the storm had weakened sometime during the night. Around her, the other sisters still slept beneath pale blankets, their breathing uneven and heavy with dreams.

Natasha envied them sometimes.

Not their faith.

Their ease.

The first bell rang.

Several sisters stirred immediately.

A groan sounded somewhere near the far wall.

“Oh, merciful Lord,” Sister Yelena muttered into her pillow, “if devotion requires consciousness before sunrise, I fear I shall never become holy.”

A few sleepy laughs spread through the room.

Natasha lowered her gaze to hide the smile threatening her mouth.

“You say this every morning,” Sister Marta whispered while tying back dark curls beneath her veil.

“And every morning I am correct.”

Yelena finally sat upright, glaring at the bell tower as if personally betrayed by it.

“You’re awake already?” she asked Natasha incredulously. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“A while.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“She doesn’t sleep,” Sister Marta said solemnly. “I’m convinced she simply powers down for an hour and waits for dawn.”

Natasha stood, smoothing her robes calmly. “Maybe God favours discipline.”

“Or maybe,” Yelena leaned in dramatically, “God fears you.”

More laughter.

Warmth flickered briefly through Natasha’s chest.

Small moments like this existed carefully within the monastery—quiet pockets of humanity hidden beneath ritual and restraint. Most outsiders imagined convent life as endless silence and prayer, but silence became unbearable without companionship to soften it.

Even Natasha understood that.

Sometimes.

The sisters dressed together beneath dim lantern light, exchanging murmured complaints about chores, weather, and aching knees from prayer.

Marta nearly walked into a bedpost while half asleep.

Sister Yelena snorted loudly enough to earn a warning glance from Sister Agnes.

Natasha watched all of it quietly while fastening the sleeves at her wrists.

She noticed things.

Always had.

The way Sister Marta rubbed at her shoulder when storms approached because old injuries ached in the cold.

The way Sister Yelena spoke more loudly whenever she felt uncertain.

The exhaustion beneath Sister Agnes’s eyes that prayer no longer seemed to fix.

Patterns comforted Natasha.

People became easier to understand when observed carefully enough.

“Sister Natasha.”

She glanced up.

Yelena tossed her an apple stolen from yesterday’s supper.

“You forgot breakfast again yesterday.”

“I was working.”

“You are always working.”

Natasha caught the apple easily. “Thank you.”

“See?” Marta whispered dramatically to Yelena. “Emotion. Gratitude. She does feel things.”

Natasha rolled her eyes faintly, which only encouraged them further.

By the time they entered the chapel together, dawn had barely begun staining the mountains beyond the stained glass windows.

Candles flickered across ancient stone.

The abbey was old enough that no one remembered who had first built it. Some parts dated back centuries further than recorded history, buried beneath newer walls and renovations like bones beneath skin.

Natasha loved those older places most.

The forgotten halls.

The sealed doors.

The silence hidden beneath the monastery’s daily rhythm.

Morning prayer began.

The sisters bowed their heads.

Natasha recited every verse perfectly from memory.

But midway through the litany, she became aware of something strange.

Not a sound.

A feeling.

As though someone stood directly behind her.

Watching.

Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“…deliver us from evil…”

The sensation deepened.

Cold prickled slowly across the back of her neck.

Natasha resisted the urge to turn around immediately. Instead, she listened first.

No footsteps.

No breathing.

Nothing except prayer echoing softly through the chapel.

Still—

Someone was there.

She looked.

The back of the chapel remained empty.

Only darkness gathered between the pillars.

Natasha frowned slightly before forcing herself to face forward again.

Fatigue, perhaps.

The storm had disrupted everyone’s sleep.

Yet even after prayer ended, unease lingered beneath her ribs.

As the sisters rose from the pews, Yelena bumped lightly into Natasha’s shoulder.

“You look haunted.”

“I’m fine.”

“That answer usually means the opposite.”

Natasha almost responded but stopped.

One of the candles near the altar had gone out.

Thin smoke curled upward into still air.

Mother Superior noticed it too.

Her expression tightened briefly before she crossed herself.

“Storm pressure,” Sister Agnes murmured.

No one argued.

But Natasha continued staring at the extinguished candle long after the others had moved on.

The monastery settled into routine as morning passed.

Laundry.

Scripture study.

Kitchen work.

Natasha spent most of the afternoon repairing damaged texts in the library alongside Marta, whose true calling in life seemed to be complaining softly while doing meticulous work anyway.

“This ink is older than civilization,” Marta muttered, squinting at faded lettering. “If I inhale enough dust today, tell them I died beautifully.”

“You say that every week.”

“And one week I shall be right.”

Natasha smiled faintly without looking up from her work.

Rain hammered against the tall windows harder now.

The storm had returned by midday with unnatural force. Wind bent the trees beyond the cliffs violently enough that several younger sisters began whispering about divine warnings again.

The abbey disliked storms.

It became restless during them.

Doors creaked without wind.

Floors groaned at strange hours.

The older sisters crossed themselves more often.

By evening, even Mother Superior seemed unsettled.

“The western halls are to remain locked tonight,” she instructed during supper. “No one is to wander after prayer.”

Yelena leaned toward Natasha immediately.

“The western halls,” she whispered ominously. “Where ghosts and ancient sins reside.”

“Or storage.”

“That is far less interesting.”

“The answer is usually the less interesting option.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “One day your practicality will ruin my appreciation for drama.”

Natasha took another bite of bread.

But quietly she thought about the feeling from the chapel again.

Watching.

Waiting.

When evening prayer ended, Mother Superior stopped Natasha near the chapel doors.

“The keys,” she said softly, holding up the pair between them gracefully.

“You trust me too much.”

Natasha accepted them.

“I trust your discipline.”

Not the same thing.

The western corridor lay beneath the oldest section of the monastery.

Few sisters liked going there after dark.

Natasha had never minded it before.

Lantern in hand, she descended the narrow stone staircase alone while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountains.

The air grew colder underground.

Older.

The corridor stretched ahead beneath low arches blackened by time.

Ancient paintings lined the walls, saints fading slowly into shadow until their faces became impossible to distinguish from the dark surrounding them.

Natasha locked the first door carefully.

Then the second.

Rain battered the monastery above her.

Another step.

Another lock.

Then—

silence.

Complete silence.

Natasha stopped instantly.

The storm had vanished.

No thunder.

No rain.

No lantern crackling in her hand.

Nothing.

A sharp chill slid slowly down her spine.

Her breathing sounded suddenly too loud.

The corridor behind her remained empty.

But every instinct inside her screamed that she was no longer alone.

Natasha’s grip tightened around the lantern.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Then the lantern dimmed.

Not flickered.

Dimmed.

As though darkness itself pressed against the flame.

Fear struck hard and immediately this time.

Real fear.

The kind that hollowed the stomach.

Natasha stepped backward instinctively.

Something moved at the far end of the corridor.

Not fully visible.

A shape.

Too large.

For one impossible second, she thought she saw the outline of horns emerging from the dark.

Then the shadow moved again—

closer.

Natasha’s breath caught sharply.

Every survival instinct she possessed surged violently to life.

Run.

The thought hit with terrifying clarity.

Run now.

And for the first time in years—

Natasha panicked.

She turned immediately, lantern shaking in her grip as she hurried back down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed too loudly against stone, breath quickening despite every attempt to steady it.

Behind her—

nothing.

No footsteps.

No pursuit.

That somehow frightened her more.

The staircase appeared ahead.

Natasha climbed it quickly, nearly missing a step before forcing herself to slow down. By the time she reached the upper halls again, her pulse hammered painfully against her throat.

Warm candlelight greeted her.

Voices.

Safety.

Several sisters still lingered near the kitchens preparing tea before bed.

Sister Yelena looked up first.

“There you are,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

Marta frowned immediately. “Sister.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Too sharp.

The room fell quiet.

Natasha lowered her eyes a moment later, regaining control.

“…I apologize.”

Yelena stood slowly. “Did something happen downstairs?”

Natasha almost answered immediately.

Yes.

Something is down there.

Something was watching me.

But the words stopped before reaching her mouth.

Because even thinking them sounded insane.

Instead, she shook her head once.

“Just tired.”

The sisters exchanged uncertain glances.

Natasha rarely lost composure.

That frightened them more than if she had screamed.

“I’ll bring you tea,” Marta said softly.

Natasha nodded absently.

But even surrounded by candlelight and familiar voices, she could still feel it.

Watching.

Patient.

-///-

Natasha said nothing that night.

And not during breakfast the next day, nor morning prayers.

Not while Sister Marta complained bitterly over burned porridge or while Yelena attempted to steal dried figs from the kitchens and nearly got caught by Sister Agnes in the process.

Natasha moved through the day exactly as she always did.

Measured.

Calm.

Controlled.

Only the slightest shadows beneath her eyes suggested otherwise.

Several times, she caught herself listening too carefully whenever corridors fell quiet.

Once, while shelving texts in the library, she turned abruptly after sensing movement behind her, only to find empty space.

The feeling remained.

Not constant.

Intermittent.

Awareness without presence.

As though something had noticed her specifically.

And was waiting.

By evening, the storm returned again.

Harder this time.

Rain struck the monastery windows violently enough to rattle the glass. Wind moaned through ancient stone like something grieving beneath the mountain.

The sisters crossed themselves more often.

Even supper felt subdued.

“The livestock outside the eastern village were found dead this morning,” Sister Agnes murmured quietly near the end of the meal.

Yelena frowned. “From the storm?”

“No marks on them.”

Marta immediately muttered a prayer beneath her breath.

Mother Superior silenced further discussion with a single glance.

But unease spread anyway.

Natasha kept her eyes lowered toward her untouched bread.

No marks.

The words settled unpleasantly in her chest.

That night, the western halls remained locked.

Mother Superior assigned Sister Beatrice to check the lower storage rooms before compline.

Beatrice was older than most of the sisters, practical and sharp-tongued enough that even Yelena feared her disapproval slightly.

If anyone could walk those corridors without trembling, it would be her.

Natasha watched Beatrice take the lantern and keys without complaint.

Something cold tightened slowly beneath her ribs.

“Mother,” Natasha said carefully, “perhaps I should go instead.”

Mother Superior looked surprised. “Why?”

Natasha hesitated too long.

“Because I know the corridors better.”

Beatrice snorted softly. “And I know how to lock a door without getting lost in thought.”

A few sisters smiled faintly.

Natasha did not.

Mother Superior shook her head once. “It will not take long.”

Beatrice disappeared down the staircase alone.

The monastery settled into evening prayer.

Rain battered the chapel roof overhead.

Minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Natasha became increasingly aware of every sound around her.

Candles flickering.

Pages turning.

Yelena whispering softly beside Marta.

Her pulse began climbing slowly.

Mother Superior noticed first.

“Sister Natasha?”

Before she could answer—

a scream tore violently through the monastery.

Every sister froze.

The sound came from below.

Another scream followed immediately.

Frantic.

Broken.

Several younger sisters gasped in terror.

Mother Superior stood instantly. “Stay here.”

But Natasha was already moving.

She reached the staircase first, lantern clutched tightly in one hand as she descended into darkness two steps at a time.

“Sister Beatrice!”

No answer.

Only ragged sobbing echoed faintly through the corridor below.

Natasha rounded the corner sharply and nearly collided with Sister Beatrice stumbling toward her.

The older woman looked unrecognizable.

Her face had gone completely bloodless. Tears streaked wildly down her cheeks beneath a look of absolute animal terror.

The lantern had vanished.

“Sister—”

“Don’t let it touch me,” Beatice choked out immediately.

Natasha grabbed her shoulders before she collapsed outright.

“What happened?”

Beatrice’s hands shook violently against Natasha’s sleeves.

“There’s something down there.”

The words came out barely coherent.

“In the dark—I saw—I saw—”

Her breathing hitched painfully.

Natasha felt her own pulse spike hard beneath her skin.

“What did you see?” she asked quietly.

Beatrice stared directly into her eyes.

And whispered:

“Horns.”

The corridor suddenly felt much colder.

Behind them, Mother Superior and several sisters reached the staircase landing.

Beatrice broke immediately upon seeing them.

“It looked at me,” she cried. “God forgive me, it looked right at me—”

Mother Superior crossed herself sharply. “Bring her upstairs. Now.”

The sisters hurried Beatrice away carefully while she continued sobbing prayers under her breath.

Natasha remained still in the corridor.

Watching the darkness beyond the lantern light.

Watching it watch her back.

Because now she knew.

She had not imagined it.

-///-

Fear spread quickly through the monastery after that.

No one slept properly.

Natasha noticed something important.

No one asked exactly what Beatrice had seen.

They were afraid to know.

The younger sisters whispered prayers long after. Several demanded the western halls be sealed entirely. Some suggesting they moved further from the halls. Sister Agnes insisted they request a priest from the nearest village by morning.

Mother Superior agreed and gathered the sisters after supper.

“Until Father Victor arrives,” she said calmly, “the lower halls will remain under supervision. No one is to go there alone.”

Silence followed.

Then Natasha spoke.

“I’ll go.”

Several heads turned immediately.

Mother Superior frowned. ‘’Sister—’’

“I know the corridors best.”

“That is not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

The question came too quickly.

Too directly.

Mother Superior studied her carefully.

Natasha kept her expression neutral despite feeling every eye in the room settle onto her.

Finally, Mother Superior sighed quietly.

“You will not go alone.”

“I don’t need—”

“You will go with Sister Agnes.”

Argument rose instinctively inside Natasha before she forced it down.

“…Yes, Mother.”

Sister Agnes looked far from pleased.

The following night, they descended together carrying lanterns and scripture.

Natasha remained acutely aware of Agnes beside her the entire time.

Every footstep.

Every nervous prayer.

Every trembling breath.

Nothing happened.

The corridor remained silent.

Empty.

The doors locked normally. The shadows stayed motionless against stone walls.

No extinguished flames.

No presence.

No horns waiting in darkness.

Sister Agnes nearly laughed in relief by the time they returned upstairs.

“You see?” she said shakily. “Storm nerves. Fear spreads easily.”

Natasha said nothing.

Because the entire time they had walked below, she had felt it.

Watching from somewhere deeper in the dark.

Waiting patiently until she returned alone.

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

You sit at your desk near the window, fingers curled around the edge, eyes fixed on the trees outside.

It’s easier that way.

“Y/N?”

Your shoulders tense.

You know that voice.

Soft.

Careful.

Like it doesn’t want to scare you.

You turn your head just a little. Your teacher, Ms. Maximoff, is kneeling beside your desk now.

Her red hair falls forward slightly as she tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

You nod immediately.

Her expression doesn’t change much, but something in her eyes softens even more, like she doesn’t believe you, but she won’t push. Not yet, at least.

“That’s alright,” she murmurs. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”

You look back at the window, not wanting to continue the conversation.

Wanda notices patterns. It’s something she’s always been good at. Like, small shifts, quiet changes, the things other people overlook.

It’s part of what makes her such a good teacher.

And you… You don’t fit.

Not in the way the other children do. You don’t laugh loudly. You don’t raise your hand. You flinch when someone moves too fast near you. You freeze when voices get too sharp.

And sometimes—this is what unsettles her the most—you look tired.

Not sleepy.

Tired.

That deep, bone-heavy kind of tired no child should carry.

She tries again a few days later.

“Y/N,” she says gently after class, when the other students have left.

You pause at the door, your small backpack hanging off one shoulder.

“Can you stay for a moment?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

You step closer, but you don’t meet her eyes.

Wanda keeps her voice soft. “I just wanted to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been a little… quiet lately.”

Silence.

Your fingers tighten around your sleeve.

“You know,” she continues, “sometimes when something is bothering us, it can help to talk about it. Even a little.”

You shake your head.

Still not looking at her.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

The words sound practiced.

Rehearsed.

Wanda feels her chest tighten.

“Alright,” she says, just as gently. “You can go.”

You leave quickly.

Too quickly.

-///-

That night, Wanda doesn’t stop thinking about you.

Her wife, Natasha, notices.

She always does, too.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Natasha says from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in her hand.

Wanda looks up from the couch. “What thing?”

“The ‘I’m worried but trying not to say it out loud’ thing.”

Wanda exhales softly, rubbing her hands together. “There’s a student in my class.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Only one?”

Wanda almost smiles, patting the seat next to her.

“She’s… different. Quiet. Withdrawn. But it’s more than that.” She hesitates, meeting Natasha’s eyes as she moves towards the couch. “She flinches. A lot. And she looks… exhausted.”

Natasha’s expression shifts instantly. Sharper now. Focused.

She sits down next to Wanda, knees touching her thigh as she tucks her legs underneath herself.

“How old?”

“Six.”

Natasha sets her mug down.

“Has she said anything?”

Wanda shakes her head. “Every time I ask, she shuts down. It’s like she’s… afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

That’s what does it.

Natasha straightens slightly, something cold and precise settling behind her eyes.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “I’m coming with you.”

Wanda blinks. “Nat—”

"Wands, I work in children's welfare. What you said is reason enough for me to look into it,” Natasha says calmly. “And if something’s wrong…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.

Wanda nods.

She trusts her.

Always has.

-///-

The next day, you notice her immediately.

She doesn’t belong in a classroom.

Not like Ms. Maximoff does.

This woman is… different.

She stands near the doorway at first, speaking quietly with your teacher.

She’s dressed simply, but there’s something about the way she holds herself, straight, alert, like she’s always watching.

Her eyes scan the room.

And then they land on you.

You look away quickly.

But it’s too late.

She’s already noticed.

Natasha takes her time.

She doesn’t approach you right away.

Instead, she observes.

The way you sit too stiff in your chair. The way your gaze flickers toward the door every few minutes. The way you hesitate before answering even the simplest question.

And then—

A boy runs past your desk too fast, and a chair scrapes loudly.

You flinch.

Not a small reaction.

Not subtle.

A full-body recoil, like you were expecting something worse.

Natasha’s jaw tightens.

Yeah.

Something’s wrong.

Later, during lunch break, Wanda sits beside you on the bench.

Natasha lingers a few steps away, pretending to check something on her phone.

“You remember my wife, Ms. Romanoff?” Wanda asks gently.

You nod.

“She works with children, too,” Wanda continues. “She just wants to make sure everyone is safe and happy.”

Safe.

The word makes your stomach twist.

Natasha steps closer, crouching down so she’s at your level.

Her voice is calm and steady.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m Natasha.”

You don’t answer.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

You glance at her.

Just for a second.

Her eyes are different from everyone else’s.

They’re not soft like Wanda’s.

But they’re not harsh either.

They’re… certain.

As if she already knows something.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

You hesitate.

Then shrug slightly.

It’s not quite a yes.

But it’s not a no.

Natasha nods once, like that’s enough.

“Do you feel safe at home?”

Your heart stops.

The world goes very, very quiet.

You stare at the ground.

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Because if you say the wrong thing—

If you say anything—

Your fingers curl tightly into your sleeves.

Natasha watches the silence stretch.

The way your shoulders tense.

The way your breathing changes.

And that’s all she needs.

She doesn’t ask again.

Instead, her voice softens—just slightly.

“You’re not in trouble,” she says. “And whatever is going on… it’s not your fault.”

Your throat tightens.

You blink hard.

Still, you say nothing.

But Natasha doesn’t push.

She stands slowly, exchanging a look with Wanda.

A silent understanding passes between them.

This isn’t nothing.

This is something.

And they’re not going to ignore it.

-///-

That afternoon, as you sit by the window again, the classroom feels a little different.

Not louder.

Not quieter.

Just… different.

Because now, someone has seen you.

Even if you didn’t say a word.

And for the first time in a long while, you’re not completely invisible anymore.

The man introduces himself as Steve.

He doesn’t stand over you like most adults do when they want something. Instead, he pulls a chair out slowly and turns it so he’s sitting across from you—not too close, not too far.

Just enough that you know he’s there, but not enough to make you feel trapped.

“Hi,” he says, offering a small, careful smile. “I’m Steve.”

You don’t answer.

You keep your eyes on the desk, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with your fingertip. You’ve already counted it before—three fingers long, slightly curved—but counting it again feels easier than looking up.

“That’s okay,” Steve says gently, like he expected the silence. “You don’t have to say anything right away.”

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

Outside the classroom, you can hear the distant noise of other students—chairs moving, someone laughing, a teacher calling out instructions. It feels far away. Like it belongs to a different world.

“I heard you like sitting by the window,” Steve continues after a moment.

Your finger stills.

He notices things.

You don’t like that.

“It’s a good spot,” he adds. “Lots of light. And you can see outside.”

You don’t respond.

But you don’t move away either.

Steve shifts slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. He doesn’t take out a notebook. Doesn’t write anything down.

He just… sits.

“I work with kids sometimes,” he says. “Mostly I just make sure they’re okay.”

Okay.

You swallow.

“I talk to teachers. Sometimes parents. Sometimes kids, if they want to.” He pauses. “But only if they want to.”

Silence stretches again.

Your shoulders feel tight.

Your chest feels tight.

“Do you feel safe at home?”

There it is.

The question.

It drops into the room like something heavy.

Your heart starts beating faster. You can feel it in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips.

You nod.

Too fast.

Too automatic.

Steve doesn’t react right away.

He just watches you.

Not in a scary way.

Not like he’s angry.

But like he’s… thinking.

Like he’s trying to understand something you didn’t say.

“Okay,” he says finally.

That’s it.

No follow-up.

No pressure.

But somehow that makes it worse.

-///-

He comes to your house two days later.

You know it’s him before anyone says his name.

There’s something about the knock, firm but not aggressive.

Steady.

Your stomach twists so hard it almost hurts.

“Stay in your room,” your parent says sharply, already moving toward the door.

You don’t argue.

You never argue.

You close your door quietly and sit on the floor, your back pressed against the side of your bed. It feels safer down here. Smaller. Like, if you make yourself small enough, you won’t be noticed.

Voices drift through the house.

Muffled at first.

Then clearer.

“…just a routine check…”

“…she’s a quiet child…”

“…always been sensitive…”

You pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, pressing your face down.

You try to make yourself even smaller.

“…we would never…”

“…of course, we understand your concern…”

Their voices sound normal.

You know that tone.

You’ve heard it before.

It’s the voice they use for other people.

Not for you.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

If you don’t move, if you don’t make a sound, maybe he won’t come up here.

Maybe he’ll just leave.

Maybe everything will stay the same.

You don’t know if that’s what you want.

But it’s what you’re used to.

After a while, the voices fade.

The door opens.

Closes.

Footsteps.

Silence.

He’s gone.

Nothing changes.

At first.

Then everything does.

You don’t go to school the next day.

Or the day after that.

At first, you think you’re sick without knowing you were.

Or maybe in trouble.

You don’t ask.

You’ve learned not to ask.

“There’s no need,” your parent says when you linger near the door on the third morning, your backpack hanging loosely from your shoulder. “You’ll stay home for a while.”

“For how long?” you whisper.

They look at you.

Just look.

Your throat closes.

“…okay,” you say quickly.

Your backpack stays by the door.

You go back to your room.

-///-

Days blur together.

You lose track of time.

Morning feels like evening. Evening feels like nothing.

The window doesn’t help anymore.

You stop looking outside.

There’s no point.

No one is coming.

-///-

Wanda notices on the first day.

The empty chair.

Your chair.

She pauses in the middle of attendance, her eyes lingering just a second longer than they should.

“Y/N?” she calls out automatically.

Silence answers.

A student shifts in their seat.

“She’s not here,” someone says.

Wanda nods slowly, marking it down.

Absent.

It happens.

Kids get sick.

But something about it doesn’t sit right.

On the second day, she asks the office.

“No call or note,” they tell her.

Her concern sharpens.

On the third day, she calls.

No answer.

By the fourth day, she’s pacing.

“You’re wearing a path into the floor,” Natasha says from the kitchen, watching her with quiet focus.

Wanda doesn’t stop. “She hasn’t been in school all week.”

Natasha sets her mug down. “Did the office hear anything?”

“No. No call. No email. Nothing.” Wanda runs a hand through her hair, frustration and worry tangled together. “That’s not normal.”

“No,” Natasha agrees. “It’s not.”

Wanda turns to her. “What if something happened?”

Natasha doesn’t answer right away.

Because they’re both thinking the same thing.

“What if we missed something?” Wanda whispers.

Natasha’s gaze softens slightly. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“But she wouldn’t talk to me,” Wanda says, her voice tightening. “She wouldn’t talk to Steve either, and now she’s just—gone.”

Natasha straightens. “Then we go find her.”

Wanda blinks. “Nat—”

“I mean it,” Natasha says. “This doesn’t feel right. Not after what we saw.”

Wanda hesitates.

Then nods.

“I’m going there,” she says.

Natasha doesn’t argue.

“I’m coming with you.”

The house looks normal.

That’s the first thing Wanda notices, and it makes something deep in her chest twist uncomfortably.

The curtains are neat. The garden is trimmed. The front step is clean.

Everything looks… fine.

Too fine.

“She lives here,” Wanda says quietly.

Natasha stands beside her, eyes already scanning windows, corners, and small details most people would miss.

“Okay,” she replies.

Wanda steps forward and knocks.

The sound echoes too loudly in the still air.

They wait.

Nothing.

Wanda knocks again, harder this time. “Y/N? It’s Ms. Maximoff.”

Silence.

It presses in from all sides, heavy and wrong.

Natasha’s gaze flicks upward. “Second floor. Curtain moved.”

Wanda’s heart stutters. “She’s here.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says, already moving. “She is.”

The door is locked.

Of course it is.

Wanda’s hands are shaking now, panic rising fast and sharp. “Nat—”

“We saw movement,” Natasha says, calm but firm. “We’re not leaving.”

That’s all it takes.

Upstairs, you freeze.

You didn’t mean to make a sound.

You were trying to be quiet.

You’re always quiet.

But when you heard her voice—

When you heard your name—

Something slipped.

Now your heart is pounding so loud it feels like it might give you away.

They’re here.

They came.

You press your hand over your mouth, trying to silence your breathing.

Maybe if you stay still—

Maybe if you don’t move—

They’ll leave.

Like everyone always does.

The door downstairs opens.

Footsteps.

Voices.

Your stomach drops.

They didn’t leave.

Wanda barely registers how they get inside. The house feels too still, too empty in a way that doesn’t make sense.

“Y/N?” she calls, stepping forward.

No answer.

Natasha moves ahead of her slightly. “Upstairs.”

They climb quickly.

Each step creaks.

Wanda winces at the sound, like she’s afraid it might scare you.

At the top of the stairs—three doors.

Two open quickly.

Empty.

The third stays closed.

Wanda’s chest tightens. “This one.”

Her hand trembles on the handle.

“Wanda,” Natasha says quietly behind her.

Wanda pauses.

“Whatever’s on the other side,” Natasha adds, “we handle it together.”

Wanda nods.

Then she opens the door; the room is dim.

Curtains drawn tight.

Air stale.

And there in the corner.

You.

Small.

Curled in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear.

Wanda’s breath catches.

“Y/N…”

You don’t move at first.

Then slowly, your head lifts.

Your eyes find hers.

And something in her chest breaks instantly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says softly, stepping closer. “It’s okay. It’s me.”

You flinch.

Even at her voice.

Natasha steps in behind her, taking in everything in one sharp glance—the room, the stillness, you.

Her jaw tightens.

But when she speaks, her voice is gentle.

“Hi, Y/N.”

Your lips part.

“I didn’t say anything,” you blurt out suddenly, panic cracking through your voice. “I didn’t tell him anything, I promise, I didn’t—”

Wanda drops to her knees in front of you. “Oh, honey—”

“I didn’t—” Your voice shakes harder. “I didn’t say anything—”

“Hey,” Natasha says, crouching down in front of you. “You’re okay.”

“I didn’t tell—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, firm and steady.

You freeze.

Your breathing stutters.

“I promise,” she adds, softer now.

Wanda’s hand settles carefully against your arm.

“You haven’t been at school,” she says gently. “We were worried.”

“I’m not supposed to go,” you whisper.

The words are small.

Fragile.

But they hit like something heavy.

Natasha’s expression sharpens slightly. “Who told you that?”

You shake your head quickly. “I just—I’m not—I don’t—”

The words won’t come.

Your chest feels too tight.

Everything feels too big.

And then—

The front door downstairs opens.

The sound is loud.

Final.

Your entire body goes rigid.

You try to pull away instantly, panic flooding through you.

“They’re back,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “They’re back—”

Footsteps.

Voices.

Getting closer.

“No, no—” you start, trying to move, trying to make yourself small again, trying to get away—

Natasha doesn’t let you.

Her hand steadies you immediately.

“Hey,” she says, low and firm. “Stay with me.”

You shake your head frantically. “I can’t—”

“You can,” she says.

And then she shifts.

Just slightly.

But enough.

Enough that she’s between you and the door.

Solid.

Unmovable.

Wanda moves closer to your other side, one hand on your back, grounding.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs. “We’re right here.”

The footsteps reach the stairs.

Each step is louder than the last.

Your hands are tight in Natasha’s shirt.

You can’t breathe.

The hallway creaks.

Then—

The doorway fills.

“What is going on?”

The voice is sharp.

Demanding.

Wrong.

You flinch hard.

Instinct.

Natasha notices.

Of course she does.

She rises slowly to her full height, placing herself fully between you and them.

Her posture is calm.

Controlled.

But there’s something underneath it.

Something dangerous.

“We came to check on Y/N,” she says evenly.

“You can’t just break into our house,” your parent snaps, stepping forward.

Natasha doesn’t move.

Doesn’t give an inch.

“You left a minor alone,” she replies, voice still calm—but colder now. “No school. No contact. No supervision.”

“That’s none of your business—”

“It is now.”

The words land hard.

Final.

Wanda feels you shaking beside her. She pulls you gently closer, one arm wrapping around you protectively.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re okay.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you whisper again, clinging tighter. “I didn’t tell—”

Wanda’s heart cracks all over again. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“Don’t talk to her,” your parent says sharply.

You flinch.

Natasha sees it.

And that’s it.

Something in her expression settles completely.

Decision made.

“She’s coming with us,” Natasha says.

“No, she’s not.”

Natasha steps slightly forward.

Just enough.

“You can argue that with child services,” she says, voice low and controlled. “But right now? She’s not staying here.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Tense.

Heavy.

Your parent hesitates.

And that hesitation is everything.

Natasha turns slightly, her voice softening instantly when she looks back at you.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Come on.”

You don’t hesitate.

You move straight into her, clinging tightly, your fingers gripping her shirt like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

Wanda stays close, her hand never leaving your back.

“You’re safe,” she whispers again.

And this time—

You believe her.

-///-

The car ride is quiet.

You sit in the back at first.

For all of thirty seconds.

Then—

“No.”

Your voice is small.

Panicked.

“I don’t—I don’t want to sit back here—”

Wanda turns immediately. “Okay. That’s okay.”

Natasha has already pulled the car over.

“Come here,” Wanda says softly, opening the door.

You move quickly, climbing out and into the front, into her side, before you even realize what you’re doing.

You cling to her.

Hard.

Your face pressed into her shoulder.

Your hands gripping her sleeve.

She wraps both arms around you instantly.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, pressing her cheek gently against your hair.

Natasha glances over.

Something in her gaze softens.

Then she starts driving again.

Slow.

Careful.

Like she’s carrying something fragile.

Like she knows she is.

-///-

Their home is warm.

That’s the first thing you notice.

Not just the temperature.

The feeling.

It’s quiet—but not empty. Soft—but not suffocating.

Wanda guides you inside, her hand never leaving you.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs again.

Natasha locks the door behind you, quick and automatic. Then she looks at you.

Really looks.

Her gaze lingers, taking in your face, your hands, and the way you’re standing.

“Hey,” she says gently, crouching slightly so she’s closer to your level. “When was the last time you ate?”

You blink at her.

You don’t know.

Or maybe you do.

But it feels too far away to explain.

Your shoulders lift in a small shrug.

That’s enough.

Natasha glances at Wanda.

Wanda’s expression softens immediately. “Okay. Food first.”

You sit at the kitchen table, feet dangling slightly above the floor.

The chair feels too big.

Everything does.

But the kitchen smells warm.

Safe.

Natasha sets a plate down in front of you.

Dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

You stare at them.

Really stare.

“Don’t worry, it’s chicken, not dinosaur,” Wanda says softly, a small smile tugging at her lips as she folds laundry at the end of the table.

Your eyes flick up to her.

Then back to the plate.

“Mm,” Natasha hums, settling into the chair beside you. “You say that, but you also insisted heart-shaped pasta tastes better.”

Wanda glances at her. “It does taste better.”

“It’s the same pasta.”

“It’s not the same experience.”

Natasha huffs quietly, something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Right. Of course.”

You let out a small sound before you can stop it.

A soft, surprised giggle.

Your hand flies to your mouth immediately, like you need to hide it.

But it’s already there.

They both look at you.

Not sharply.

Not suddenly.

Just… gently.

Wanda’s smile softens.

Natasha’s expression shifts—something warmer, quieter.

Neither of them makes a big deal out of it.

They just… let it exist.

And then Wanda goes back to folding.

Natasha stays beside you.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has.

Your hand moves slowly toward the plate.

Careful.

Uncertain.

You pick one up.

Take a bite.

You try to go slow at first.

You really do.

But your hands move faster than you mean them to.

Bite after bite.

Like if you don’t eat it now, it might disappear.

Natasha doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t reach in.

Doesn’t tell you to slow down.

She just shifts slightly closer.

Grounding.

Present.

Wanda notices next.

Her hands still for just a second before she quietly reaches for a napkin, placing it within your reach without a word.

No pressure.

No attention drawn.

Just… there.

“Hey,” Natasha murmurs after a moment, her voice low and steady. “It’s okay.”

You freeze for a second.

Still chewing.

“There’s more,” she adds gently. “You don’t have to rush.”

You nod quickly.

A little too quickly.

She doesn’t comment.

Just stands, moving back to the counter.

There’s a quiet clink of a plate.

The soft sound of more food being set down.

No hesitation.

No questions.

When she sets it beside you, her hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder.

Not touching.

Just close.

“I’ve got you,” she says quietly.

Something in your chest tightens.

But it’s not sharp.

Not like before.

Wanda glances up at Natasha, then at you.

And there’s something unspoken in the look she gives her.

Something soft.

Something certain.

Wanda steps closer, brushing lightly past Natasha as she moves.

Her hand rests briefly against Natasha’s side—familiar, absent-minded.

“You’re hovering,” she murmurs.

Natasha exhales softly. “I’m not hovering.”

“You are a little,” Wanda says, but not unkindly.

A pause.

“…it’s okay, though,” she adds quietly.

Natasha doesn’t answer.

But she stays right where she is.

Close.

And you keep eating.

Slower now.

Because for the first time—

You believe it won’t be taken away.

It’s only after you’ve finished eating that Natasha notices.

The smudge of something on your cheek.

The dirt still caught under your nails.

The way your sleeves hang stiff.

Natasha moves to look at Wanda, only to find Wanda already watching her.

“Okay,” Wanda says gently, stepping closer. “How about we get you cleaned up a little?”

You hesitate.

Just a second.

Then nod.

-///-

The bathroom fills with steam.

Warm.

Soft.

You sit in the tub, water wrapping around you, and for a moment you just… stay still.

Let it happen.

Wanda kneels nearby, her voice soft and steady as she talks about nothing—about school, about flowers, about things that don’t hurt.

Natasha moves quietly in and out, grabbing what she needs.

Towel.

Cream.

At one point, she pauses, watching you for a second.

Making sure you’re okay.

You glance at her.

She gives you a small smile.

It stays.

After, everything feels… lighter.

Not fixed.

But softer.

You stand in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, while Wanda gently helps you into one of Natasha’s shirts.

It’s huge.

It swallows your form.

You glance down at yourself, unsure.

Wanda smiles. “Looks perfect.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, leaning lightly against the counter. “Come here a second.”

You step closer.

She holds up a toothbrush.

You hesitate.

Then step closer anyway.

“Open,” she says gently.

You do.

And then—

She starts brushing your teeth.

Carefully.

Slowly.

And—unexpectedly—

She starts humming.

Then quietly singing.

“Brush, brush, make them shine, Top and bottom, take your time…”

Your eyes widen slightly.

You weren’t expecting that.

“…little circles, nice and neat— Gotta take good care of teeth.”

A small sound escapes you before you can stop it.

A giggle.

It surprises you.

It surprises her too because she pauses for half a second, then—she smiles.

Really smiles.

Soft. Warm. A little amused.

“There it is,” she murmurs. “Knew you had more of those.”

Your face feels warm.

But not in a bad way.

-///-

Afterwards, stand awkwardly in the hallway.

“There’s a room you can use,” Wanda says gently, opening a door.

You look inside.

The bed.

The space.

The quiet.

Your chest tightens.

Too quiet.

Too alone.

You take a small step back.

“I—”

Your voice shakes.

“I don’t want to be by myself.”

The words come out barely above a whisper.

But they’re clear.

Wanda doesn’t hesitate.

“Okay,” she says immediately.

Natasha nods once. “That’s okay.”

They don’t question it.

Don’t push.

Just… accept it.

-///-

You find yourself in their bed, full and clean.

Your legs are tucked under you while you absently play with the wedding ring on Natasha’s finger as she sits beside you.

You twist it gently, careful, like you’re not sure you’re allowed but hoping you are.

She doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even comment.

Just lets you.

Wanda stands behind you, gently brushing your hair.

Slow strokes.

Working through tangles without pulling.

“You’re being very patient,” she says softly.

You nod a little.

Your focus is on the ring.

The way it catches the light.

The way it spins.

Natasha and Wanda talk quietly above you.

Low voices.

Calm.

You don’t understand all of it.

Something about calls. Paperwork. Tomorrow.

But their voices are steady.

Not sharp.

Not scary.

Just… there.

Wanda’s fingers begin to braid your hair, movements careful and rhythmic.

You lean slightly into the feeling without realizing it.

Into the warmth.

Into them.

And for the first time, everything feels slow.

Safe.

Yours.

Even if just for tonight.

-///-

The cake is a little uneven.

You notice that first.

The frosting swirls aren’t perfect, and one side dips slightly like it leaned too long, but it’s still the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

Because it’s yours.

“Okay,” Wanda says softly, setting it down in front of you, a small smile on her face. “Ready?”

You nod, even though your chest feels full in a way you don’t completely understand.

Natasha stands just behind you, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Make a wish, baby,” she murmurs.

You close your eyes.

You don’t even have to think about it.

Then you blow out the candles.

Wanda claps softly, laughing a little. Natasha’s hand squeezes your shoulder once, and when you look up at her, she’s smiling—small, but real.

“Presents?” Wanda asks.

You nod again, a little more excited this time.

There aren’t many.

But that doesn’t matter.

Wanda hands you a small box first. Inside is something soft, a sweater in your favourite colour.

You smile, hugging it close.

“Thank you, Mom,” you say quietly.

Her eyes soften instantly.

Natasha hands you the last one.

It’s not wrapped like the others.

Just a folder.

You tilt your head slightly. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” she says gently.

You do.

At first, the words don’t make sense.

They’re too big. Too official.

Then you see it.

Your name.

Their names.

Together.

Something shifts.

Something settles.

You look up, your hands tightening slightly on the paper.

“…Mama?” you whisper.

Natasha’s expression softens completely. “Yeah.”

You turn to Wanda, your voice smaller now but steady.

“…Mom?”

She nods, her eyes shining. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

Your grip on the paper loosens as you move forward without thinking, wrapping your arms around both of them.

And this time—

You know you’re not going anywhere.

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

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

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

“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.

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

You don’t ask. You just keep walking.

The smell hits you first.

Warm. Comforting. Familiar.

Food.

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

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

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

A little too careful.

A little too tense.

You don’t notice that part right away.

All you see is her.

Something in you finally gives.

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

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

“Hey—”

You pull her into you before she can finish.

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

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

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

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

So you don’t.

You just hold on.

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

Your breathing stutters.

Your grip tightens.

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

Natasha notices immediately.

She always does.

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

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

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

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

Her jaw tightens.

Because she knows.

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

Candles.

A calmer atmosphere.

You smiling, not…this.

And earlier—

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

Natasha had frozen.

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

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

Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.

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

Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.

“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”

So now everyone knows.

Everyone is waiting.

And Natasha—

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

Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.

Then she exhales, slow and steady.

Plans can change.

You come first.

Always.

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

You hesitate, then pull back just enough.

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

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

“Rough day?” she asks.

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

“A little.”

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

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

You look back up at her.

There’s something different in her expression.

Still soft. Still steady.

But beneath?

Nervousness.

Real, unguarded nervousness.

You blink, confused. “Nat?”

She inhales.

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

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

You almost smile. “Hi.”

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

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

“…is she doing it now?!”

“Shut up—”

Natasha ignores them.

Her focus is entirely on you.

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

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

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

Her hand finds yours.

You feel it then, something shifting.

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

Curiosity.

A flicker of anticipation.

“Natasha…?”

She swallows.

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

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

Your fingers tighten around hers.

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

“I always do,” you whisper.

That almost undoes her.

You see it—just for a second.

Then she steadies herself.

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

Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.

She lets go of one of your hands.

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

Instead, she reaches into her pocket.

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

Your breath catches.

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

Neither of you looks.

Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.

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

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

You stare at her, heart pounding.

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

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

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

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

“So, will you—”

“Yes.”

It slips out of you, immediate and certain.

Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.

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

“I know, I just—yes.”

“You’re going to let me finish.”

“I am, I promise.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

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

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.’’

She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.

“Will you—”

You inhale sharply.

She gives you a look.

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

Her lips twitch.

“Good,” she says softly.

And then, slower this time—

“Will you marry me?”

There it is.

Clear. Simple. Real.

You don’t interrupt.

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

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

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

“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.

“I said yes three times, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

“I was very enthusiastic.”

“You were very interruptive.”

“Same thing.”

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

“Still counts,” she murmurs.

“Every single one counted,” you say.

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

Behind you, the hallway erupts.

“FINALLY!”

“Took long enough!”

“I had money on four interruptions!”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”

You lean in and kiss her gently.

Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.

-///-

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

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

Most of them blur together.

Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.

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

Grounding.

You hum quietly, squinting at another house.

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

There’s a pause.

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

“At least five.”

You blink.

Turn your head to look up at her.

“…Five?” you repeat.

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

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

That gets her attention.

Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.

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

You stare at her.

“Natasha.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Multiple times.”

“Very enthusiastically.”

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

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

“I’m just practical.”

“You’re quite optimistic.”

“That too.”

You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.

And then you pause.

“…Wait.”

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

“What?”

You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.

A white house. 

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

And just beyond it…

Water.

A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.

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

“Far enough,” she murmurs.

“Close enough,” you add.

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

Then she nods once.

“It’s pretty.”

That’s all it takes.

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

“A playroom?”

“Don’t judge me.”

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

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

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

“Agreed.”

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

Natasha’s hand pauses again.

Not tense.

Just…noticing.

You don’t.

You’re already moving on.

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

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

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

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

“I learned from the best.”

“And the fifth?”

You hesitate for a second.

Then shrug, softer now.

“…Something the future will bring.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

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

Grounding.

Thinking.

You glance up at her. “Too much?”

Her gaze meets yours.

There’s something warm there. Something steady.

“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”

Your expression softens immediately.

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

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

She laces your fingers together without even looking.

The house stays on the screen.

The porch.

The lake.

The space.

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

-///-

The day came before you knew it.

There’s movement everywhere.

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

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

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

Your dress hangs nearby.

Everything is ready.

Everything is happening.

And your brain will not slow down.

You swallow, staring at the floor.

You’re getting married today.

To Natasha.

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

But layered underneath that certainty—

Something else.

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

Because, of course, your brain picked today.

Of all days.

To replay that email.

The donor profile.

The one you weren’t even expecting to find.

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

It had felt…right.

Too right.

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

A future.

A real one.

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

You exhale shakily.

You haven’t told her.

You want to.

You’ve wanted to all week.

Every time she talks about the house.

The bedrooms.

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

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

Because what if it’s too much?

What if it’s too soon?

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

Your chest tightens.

“Hey.”

You flinch slightly at the voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re nervous.”

“Very.”

“Cold feet?”

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

“I know,” Wanda says.

You hesitate.

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

Wanda studies you for a second.

“You want to?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

You look down at your hands again.

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

Wanda’s expression softens.

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

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

“It sounds like you.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.

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

“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.

You look up.

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

You let that sit for a second.

It helps.

A little.

“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.

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

You nod slowly.

That feels reasonable.

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

You take a breath.

Then another.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” you murmur.

“Okay.”

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

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

You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”

Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”

That actually makes you laugh.

“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”

“It should be.”

She disappears down the hall.

You sit there for a moment longer.

Then you look at your dress.

At your hands.

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

The nerves are still there.

The question still lingers.

But beneath all of it—

There’s something steady.

You’re not doing this alone.

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

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

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

-///-

You’re running on fumes.

Not the romantic kind.

The dangerous kind.

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

And every single time you sat down—

“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”

You did. Of course you did.

And every time you came back?

Your plate was gone.

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

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

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

Natasha is…worse.

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

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

Now she’s back.

Finally.

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

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

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

Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”

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

“I’m aware.”

There’s an edge to her voice.

You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re mad.”

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

“That’s a scary version of mad.”

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

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

That word.

Even now, it hits.

“My wife,” you echo softly.

Her eyes flick to yours.

“Yeah,” she says.

And then—

The music changes.

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

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

And for the first time all day—

No one interrupts.

Natasha looks at you.

“Come on,” she murmurs.

You nod.

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

And then—

It’s quiet.

Not completely.

But enough.

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

Her hand settles at your waist.

Yours finds her shoulder.

And you start to move.

Slow.

Easy.

Close.

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

“Finally,” she agrees.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

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

Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.

Familiar.

Steady.

Yours.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

“I was right there.”

“Not like this.”

Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”

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

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

“Good.”

You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”

“Accurate.”

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

This.

This is what you needed.

Just her.

Just a moment.

Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.

“…Hey,” you murmur.

“Mm?”

You hesitate.

The thought from earlier creeps back in.

The one you pushed aside.

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

Just…important.

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

She doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t tense.

Just listens.

“Okay.”

You swallow.

“I found…a donor.”

Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.

Not pulling away.

Just…listening harder.

You rush a little now, words soft but quick.

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

“Hey,” she murmurs gently.

You stop.

Look up at her.

Her expression isn’t tense.

Or upset.

Just…focused.

Warm.

“You found someone you like?” she asks.

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

A beat.

Then—

“Okay.”

You blink.

“…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

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

“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”

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

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

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

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

“…That’s fair.”

Her thumb brushes your side again.

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

Together.

That word settles everything.

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

“Okay.”

There’s a small pause.

Then—

A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.

“YOU TWO!”

You both flinch slightly.

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

Shots.

Multiple.

“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”

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

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

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

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

You take it.

Of course you do.

Natasha eyes it.

Then you.

Then the glass.

“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.

“Details,” you whisper.

She exhales.

Then takes it anyway.

“Fine.”

Thor grins like he’s just won something.

“TO LOVE!” he booms.

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

“To love,” you echo.

And then you drink.

Immediately—

Regret.

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

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

Thor just laughs, delighted.

“ANOTHER?”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.

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

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

She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.

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

“Please do.”

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

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

You nod, smiling softly.

“Together,” you say.

“Together.”

-///-

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

Not elegantly overwhelmed.

Not softly emotional.

No—fully, completely, dramatically done.

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

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

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

“I noticed.”

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

Empty.

Completely, offensively empty.

No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.

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

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

“It seems that way.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

You grab a glass off the counter.

Natasha turns just in time to see—

“Hey—”

SMASH.

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

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

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

Natasha exhales slowly.

Then, very calmly—

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

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

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

“I might actually die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

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

“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”

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

“…all viable options.”

You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

Then Natasha’s attention shifts.

To the side.

To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.

Inside—melting ice.

And strawberries.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“…hold on.”

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

You blink.

“…Natasha.”

She chews.

Swallows.

Then immediately grabs another.

“Are you—are you eating garnish?”

“It’s fruit.”

“It’s drunk fruit.”

She pauses mid-reach.

“…that explains a lot.”

You stare at her.

She eats another anyway.

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

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

“That was emotional.”

“This is survival.”

You open your mouth to argue—

Then close it.

“…okay, fair.”

She eats another.

And another.

By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.

“You’re getting more drunk.”

“I’m already drunk.”

“You’re getting more drunk.”

She smiles—just a little too confidently.

“I’m fine.”

You sigh.

“…we need real food.”

She nods immediately. “Agreed.”

A beat.

Then—

“Let’s leave.”

You blink. “Leave leave?”

“Yes.”

“In our wedding dresses?”

“Yes.”

“…okay.”

-///-

The taxi driver does not ask questions.

Which is probably for the best.

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

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

“I’m still upset about it.”

“I smashed a glass.”

“I know.”

‘’You didn’t stop me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You snort.

The line is painfully slow.

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

Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.

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

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

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

The cashier blinks. “…okay.”

You shuffle off to the side to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

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

“…this is cruel,” you mutter.

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

“I’m so thirsty.”

“We ordered drinks.”

“I need them now.”

“You can survive two minutes.”

“I cannot.”

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

You squint at her.

Then—

You slip away.

Not dramatically.

Not announced.

Just…gone.

Natasha doesn’t notice at first.

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

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

Time stretches.

“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”

Natasha blinks.

Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”

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

Natasha follows the gesture.

And then she sees you.

At the drink dispenser.

Not with a cup.

No.

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

Completely unbothered.

Completely committed.

There’s a beat.

Natasha just… looks at you.

All the irritation.

All the tension from the night.

It dissolves instantly.

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

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

You were only half-watching.

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

“…Hey, Nat?”

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

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

That got her attention.

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

“No.”

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

“You didn’t have to.”

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

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

“Okay, but hypothetically—” you started.

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

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

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

Her expression didn’t soften.

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

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

“No.”

There was no hesitation in it. No wiggle room.

“Why?” you asked, quieter now.

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

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

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

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

Her fingers stilled against your arm.

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

That landed heavier than you expected.

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

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

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

There it was again—clear, unwavering.

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

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

You were.

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

“You’re thinking about getting one.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated just long enough to confirm it.

“…Maybe.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

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

“That’s different.”

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

She didn’t answer right away.

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

Her hand squeezed yours gently.

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

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

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

Natasha stayed quiet for a while after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her fingers tightened around yours once, a quiet squeeze.

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

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

That earned you the smallest huff of a laugh.

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

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

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

That made you go still.

You tilted your head up slightly to look at her.

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

Her eyes flicked to yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That got her attention again.

She looked back down at you.

“You don’t?”

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

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I like ‘you.’”

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

Her thumb brushed over your hand again, slower now.

“…Even when I’m being difficult?”

You smiled. “Especially then.”

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

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

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

You laughed under your breath. “Noted.”

-///-

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

At least, not at first.

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

Like saying it out loud would change it.

Or change her.

So you didn’t.

And instead, you started avoiding her.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But Natasha noticed.

Of course she did.

Natasha Romanoff picked up on the shift within a day.

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

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

The way you stopped lingering.

Then it became more obvious.

You stopped initiating closeness altogether.

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

Natasha didn’t push at first.

She just watched.

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

“You’re avoiding me.”

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

A pause.

Then, quieter—but sharper:

“Yes, you are.”

Silence stretched.

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

That alone made your chest tighten.

“Did I do something?” she asked.

That hit harder than you expected.

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

“Then what is it?”

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

“I got the tattoo.”

The words landed between you.

Natasha didn’t respond right away.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just stillness.

“…When?” she asked finally.

“A few days ago.”

Another pause.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

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

“Show me.”

The interruption was calm.

Not demanding.

Just certain.

You looked up at her, searching her face.

She wasn’t upset.

Just… focused.

So slowly, you stood.

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

She raised her eyebrow, crossing her arms.

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

A single initial.

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

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

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

Her initial.

Natasha didn’t speak.

For a long moment, she just looked.

Completely still.

Like her brain had gone quiet.

Then she stepped closer.

Careful.

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

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

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

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

“...A little,” you murmur.

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

“Wait.”

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

Her eyes flicked up to yours, checking.

You nodded.

So she touched it again.

More carefully this time.

Her expression changed.

Not sudden.

Not loud.

Just… softer.

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

You swallowed. “Because it’s yours.”

That made her freeze again.

“You did this… for me?”

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

For a second, she didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made you laugh weakly. “That bad?”

Natasha finally looked at you properly again.

And there it was—that shift.

The seriousness is melting just slightly at the edges.

“…No,” she said softly. “Not bad.”

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

“You just don’t think things through.”

“I thought this through,” you argued quietly.

Her mouth twitched.

“That makes it worse.”

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

“Are you mad?”

Natasha paused.

Then shook her head once.

“No.”

A beat.

“…Surprised.”

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

“And?” you prompted softly.

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

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

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

Only warmth.

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

“It’s… very you.”

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

Natasha looked up at you.

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

“No,” she said simply. “I don’t.”

A pause.

“I think it’s… kind of hot.”

Your eyes widened instantly. “Nat—”

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

You laughed, completely relieved now, leaning into her.

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

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

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

You smiled into her shoulder.

“Deal.”

Her hands are under your shirt, palms scraping over your ribs, cold and then impossibly hot.

You get her jacket off. It hits the floor with a wet slap.

Your fingers reach down to the button of her jeans.

“Fucking hurry up,” she grits out, her voice raw. Like she doesn’t trust this moment to last.

She’s already working on your belt, the buckle clinking loudly in the quiet room.

You get her jeans open and shove them down over her hips.

She wiggles out of them along with her boots.

Your hands are everywhere at once—her back, her ass, her hair, like you’re trying to memorize her faster than you can lose her.

Something shifts.

She suddenly spins you.

Reversing your positions.

Her strength effortlessly manhandles you until your back is to the wall.

For a second, she stills—like she might say something.

She doesn’t.

Her mouth leaves yours, trails down your jaw, your neck.

She bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you curse and arch into her.

“You smell like cigarettes,” she mutters against your skin, her nose wrinkling. There’s a flare of genuine distaste in her voice–

a crack in the fury.

‘’Fuck you,’’ you breathe.

Your hand is in her hair before you think about it, dragging her onto your mouth like you’re trying to shut the words off at the source.

You don’t want to talk.

You can’t talk.

Talking is where this falls apart.

And you already broke enough tonight.

She meets you.

Hard.

No hesitation.

No softness.

Then she breaks apart from you, her breath uneven.

There’s a pause.

Too long to be accidental.

Natasha pushes you towards your bedroom.

You fall back onto the messy sheets, the scent of your own perfume rising around you.

Her shirt is transparent from the rain. It’s plastered to her chest, to the tight peaks of her nipples.

Her eyes catch yours for half a second—too aware, like she knows exactly what this is costing both of you.

Her shirt is gone in a blink.

It hits the floor before you even register the motion.

Then she’s on top of you, knees on either side of your waist.

You buck your hips upwards, your hands falling down on her thighs, gripping hard enough to anchor yourself in her.

She tugs your sweats and your underwear down in one swift, efficient motion.

You flip her onto her back.

Your grip loosens for half a beat.

Long enough to stop.

You don’t.

Neither does she.

Natasha gasps when your hand pushes past her panties.

‘’Fuck.’’

Her inner muscles clamp around the sudden, delicious invasion.

Your fingers curve slightly, hitting a spot that made white flash behind her eyes.

You started to move, a relentless, driving rhythm.

Like, if you slow down, you’ll think too much.

Your palm is grinding against her clit with each thrust, making her cry out.

Your other hand moves to her throat—not squeezing, just there.

Like you need to feel her breathing, or like you don’t know how to ask her to stay any other way.

“Look at me,” you ordered, not trusting her to do so unless you forced it.

She hesitates for only a second.

Then she meets your eyes.

Your face inches from hers, flushed, lips swollen, and her eyes wild with a feral intensity.

You tighten your hold on her neck, making her let out a choked moan.

“Yeah—just like that,” you bite back, your fingers fucking her harder.

Faster.

Deeper.

“There—” she panted, her voice strangled. “Right there, god, don’t stop—”

You watched her come undone, studying every moan, every gasp, committing it to memory.

She doesn’t stop.

She can’t stop.

Anything slower would make her think.

Natasha moved her hand between your bodies and found your soaked, swollen center.

She slid a finger into you, then two, mirroring your rhythm.

You gasped, your forehead dropping to her shoulder, your movements stuttering for a second.

She curled her fingers inside you, and you bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder—hard.

The bright pain mixed with the deepening pleasure was a perfect and painful sensation.

You were both moving now, a frantic, messy syncopation on your bed.

The springs squeaked in protest.

Your breath was hot and ragged in her ear, your moans low, guttural, utterly unfiltered.

She could feel the tension coiling in you, the trembling in your thighs.

Her fingers disappearing from your aching core.

‘’Nat–’’ you breathe out, voice breaking on the edge of frustration. Her name feels like the only thing keeping you steady.

Natasha pushed you onto your back.

Then she moved down, dragging you closer by your thighs, like distance is something she can actually control.

You looked down at her. Focused. Unreadable.

She doesn’t look up.

Not once.

She leaned in between your thighs.

Her tongue moves.

One slow, flat stroke from bottom to top.

You jerked, a gasp punched out of you. Your head fell back against your mattress.

Her mouth was hot and demanding, her tongue circling your clit with a focused, relentless pressure that made your hips buck off the soon-to-be-ruined sheets.

She hummed, the vibration shooting straight through your core, making you grip your hair.

“Shit—fuck,” you choked out, arching off the bed.

She pinned your hips down with one strong arm across your abdomen, holding you still so she could devour you. 

Her other hand slid up your torso, under your shirt and sports bra, thumb scraping over your nipple.

You were babbling, a stream of curses and pleas, your thighs trembling against the sides of her head.

She moaned, the sound muffled against you, and the feeling of it, the raw feedback, pushed you higher.

You were hurtling toward the edge.

Too fast.

Too soon.

You didn’t want it to be over.

You reached down, your fingers tangling in her damp hair. Not to guide her, but to feel the reality of her there.

She arched into your touch, a hungry sound leaving her throat.

She sucked your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking rapidly.

You came apart with a shattered cry, your back bowing, your vision blurring at the edges as the orgasm ripped through you.

She surged up, climbing onto your lap, her knees on either side of your hips.

Her mouth found yours.

You could taste yourself on her lips, her tongue—salty, intimate, obscene.

When you pulled apart, you met her wide pupils, your breath ragged.

‘’Nat–’’

‘’Shut up,’’ she mutters, like she doesn’t want to hear her words either.

When her lips touch yours, they’re soft.

Only for a second.

Like she forgot to fight.

It almost ruins you.

Natasha’s hands tug at your shirt impatiently.

You lifted your arms as she pulled the damp shirt off you, your sports bra following.

Her hands immediately came up to cup your breast.

Squeezing.

Pinching.

You moaned, pushing into her, kissing her again. Rougher now.

Your arms dropped from her arms to her hips.

You hooked your finger in her lace panties, pulling at them.

She helped you slide them down, the heat from her center radiating towards yours.

Your lips found each other again, all teeth and tongue and conquest, a battle for dominance neither could win.

Your hips rolled up against hers, a wet, hot grind that made her gasp into your mouth. You bit her lower lip, sucked it, soothed it with your tongue.

She let out a sound that was close to a whimper. Then she moved her left leg under yours.

The contact of your wet centers made you both moan and arch into each other.

“Stay right there,” you breathe, rough and unsteady, holding onto her shoulders as you rock your cunt against hers.

She moaned your name, head tipped back, as she continued her movement.

There’s no teasing in it anymore.

Just breath.

Just need.

The sound of your name from her mouth almost stops you.

Almost.

You move again anyway, faster this time, dragging her closer by the back of her knee.

You lock into a rhythm, but it feels wrong in a way neither of you says out loud.

Like you’re touching someone you don’t know if you fully know.

‘’I-I’m close,’’ you breathe out, an admission instead of a warning.

Her hand moves directly to your clit.

Her motion is fast. Rough. It brings you over the edge faster than you’d like to admit.

You come with a broken sound you don’t mean to make.

She follows right after you.

You ride her through her orgasm.

And then everything stops.

Not slowly.

All at once.

Your hands stay where they are, like neither of you remembers how to let go first.

You’re both breathing too hard.

Too loud.

Too real.

For a few seconds, neither of you moves.

Not away.

Not closer.

Just… there.

Your eyes meet hers.

And whatever that was sharp between you before has dulled into something heavier. Less violent. More uncertain.

Like the aftermath of something neither of you planned to survive properly.

Then–

a laugh breaks out of you.

Small.

Disbelieving.

Like your body doesn’t know what else to do with the fact that you’re still here, still looking at each other, still not gone.

And it’s not funny.

Not really.

But it happens anyway.

The laugh fades quicker than it came.

It doesn’t echo. It just… disappears between you.

You swallow, your breath still uneven, and suddenly you’re aware of everything again.

The room.

The mess of sheets.

The quiet settled back in like it was waiting for this moment to return.

Your hands are still on each other.

Neither of you moves it.

Then slowly–carefully–you shift her weight off you just enough to make it less like a collision and more like a choice.

She doesn’t stop you.

But she doesn’t follow you either.

That alone says enough.

You sit there for a moment.

Again.

Staring at nothing in particular, just trying to figure out what your body is supposed to do now that it’s done needing her like that.

It doesn’t have an answer.

When you finally look back at her, she’s already watching you.

Not intensely.

Not guarded.

Just present in a way that feels unfamiliar after everything that just happened between you.

Natasha’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it should.

Not on your face exactly.

But on the way you’re still slightly out of breath. The way your hands don’t quite know where to rest now that they’re not holding onto her anymore.

Like she’s trying to understand what part of you is real after everything that just happened.

You break the moment first.

The bed dips as you swing your legs off the edge.

The floor is cold under your feet.

For a second, you just sit there, catching your breath, hands still slightly trembling like they don’t know the moment is over yet.

Natasha watches you.

Doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t stop you.

You walk to your drawer.

Pull it open.

A pause.

Then you glance back over your shoulder.

“Do you want boxers or a thong?”

It comes out flat. Practical. Like you’re asking about the weather.

That earns you a look.

Not offended.

Just—

“…Boxers,” she says after a beat.

You nod like that’s the most reasonable answer in the world.

You toss her a dry shirt first.

It lands in her lap.

She looks down at it, then up at you again, like she’s checking if this is real or if she missed the moment it turned strange.

It didn’t.

Or maybe it did, and neither of you is acknowledging it.

You pull out another drawer, grab a pair of boxers, and hand them over, too.

Your fingers brush hers for half a second when she takes them.

Neither of you reacts.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Because it does, but you’re both pretending it doesn’t need commentary.

She watches you as you get dressed in a shirt and a thong. Your movements are still a little unsteady, and your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that everything slowed down now.

You disappear into the kitchen.

Natasha shifts slightly, pulling the shirt on.

It’s too big on her.

It falls off one shoulder before she adjusts it properly.

She looks down at it, then grasps it gently in her hands, and then lifts it to her nose.

It smells like you.

She closes her eyes for a moment.

She hears the water running in the kitchen.

Natasha turns to your nightstand.

The picture of you and the little girl is still there.

Natasha doesn’t touch the frame.

Just stares.

Like she’s trying to understand how something like that existed so close to where she is right now.

You come back in with two glasses of water.

Bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Sorry, I only have tap,” you say lightly, as if it matters in a normal way.

You hand her one.

She takes it.

Fingers brushing yours again.

Still careful.

Still not breaking anything.

You sit on the edge of the bed this time, but angled toward her—not fully in it, not fully out of it.

She hasn’t moved much.

Just sitting there in your shirt.

Looking smaller than she has any right to.

Her gaze drifts again.

To the nightstand.

To the photo.

You notice it too late.

Her eyes don’t leave it.

And something in your chest tightens.

You can’t tell her to leave.

Not this time.

Your throat dries up right before you speak.

‘’...She died of leukemia.’’

Your voice doesn’t land steady.

Of course it didn’t.

Natasha doesn’t respond.

She swallows, listening.

‘’...About two years ago,’’ your voice trembles as you look down at the half-empty glass in your hands.

Or half-full.

You’re not quite sure.

Your fingers tap against the side of it.

‘’I-I-I don’t–’’ your grip tightens around the glass, your body not really knowing what to do at that moment. ‘’I don’t really know how– how to… be around this part yet.’’

Silence.

Real.

When you finally glance up, she’s still there.

She looks like she understands something without needing details.

Not pity.

Not shock.

Just recognition of a place you never learned how to stand in.

You exhale, small and uneven.

‘’I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now,’’ you admit. ‘’...What we’re supposed to do.’’

The honesty hangs in the air.

Unprotected.

Natasha shifts.

Not away.

Toward you.

She takes the glass gently from your hands and places both of them on the floor like they don’t matter anymore.

Then she reaches for you.

Not fast.

Not forceful.

Just certain in a way neither of you has been all night.

She pulls you into her arms.

You go easily, like your body was waiting for permission you didn’t know you needed.

Her hand presses into the back of your head.

Your face turns into her shoulder.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly–

‘’...I don’t really know how to do… this,’’ she says.

It isn’t just about you.

It’s about everything.

You breathe out against her.

‘’Me either.’’

That’s it.

No fixing.

No explanation.

Just truth landing in the same place.

Her grip tightens slightly.

Not possessive, but just steadying.

Your fingers move slowly.

Touching her hair, that's drying, curls starting to form

‘’...I didn’t know you had curls.’’

Natasha goes still for half a second.

As if she’s processing whether that’s about hair.

Or something else entirely.

‘’I don’t usually keep it that way.’’

You hum, twirling a strand around your finger.

Then, softer—almost like she’s not fully sure why she’s admitting it, “It gets in the way.”

Your thumb gently follows the shape of a curl, slow and absentminded.

“…You don’t seem like someone who lets things get in the way,” you murmur.

That makes her exhale through her nose.

Not a laugh.

Just something quieter.

“…Most things don’t survive long enough to get in the way,” she says.

It’s simple.

But it lands heavily.

You don’t rush to fill it.

Instead, your hand lingers in her hair like you’ve been given permission without asking for it.

“…I like it,” you say after a moment.

Honest.

Not loud.

Just there.

Natasha shifts slightly under you—not pulling away, not leaning in more either.

Just… present.

“…Of course you do,” she says softly.

Not teasing.

Not sharp.

Just an observation, like she’s trying to understand you the same way you’re trying to understand her.

A beat passes.

“It’s softer like this,’’ she murmurs.

That lands differently.

Because it doesn’t sound like she’s talking about hair anymore.

Your fingers slow.

“You are too...”

That makes her turn her head towards you.

Slowly.

There’s something in it now.

Awareness.

Of you.

Of this.

Of everything that’s still sitting between you, even now.

Your hand stills slightly in her hair.

“…I didn’t mean—” you start.

Then stop.

Because you don’t even know what you’re trying to take back.

Her eyes flicker. She caught it.

“…I know,” she says quietly.

A pause.

Your chest tightens just a little.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you try again, softer this time.

Less defensive.

More… honest.

Natasha exhales slowly.

Her hand shifts against you, fingers brushing along your side, not stopping you, not pulling you closer.

Just there.

“I know,” she repeats.

This time it lands differently.

Not dismissal.

Understanding.

That almost makes it worse.

Because now there’s nothing to hide behind.

You swallow.

“…I shouldn’t have—” you start again.

She cuts you off.

“Don’t.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“…You meant it,” she says.

There’s no accusation in it.

Just fact.

A beat.

“…So did you,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

Silence.

Something shifts in her expression.

Small.

Almost imperceptible.

Then she nods once.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

That’s the closest either of you gets to an apology.

Not forgiveness.

Not resolution.

Just another acknowledgement.

And a choice not to leave anyway.

Your hand moves again, slower now.

Less uncertain.

Her fingers slide up your arm, settling there—light, but deliberate.

Like she’s staying.

Like you are too.

Neither of you says anything else.

Because there isn’t anything clean enough to say.

So instead—

you just keep touching each other like you’re figuring out a language that didn’t exist before tonight.

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours.

Your hand moves again, slower now, fingers slipping from her hair and down to her waist, under her shirt, to her back.

She lets you.

Leans into it, just slightly.

Not asking.

Not resisting.

Just… there.

Her forehead dips, resting briefly against yours, both of you breathing the same air for a second.

Not kissing.

Not pulling away.

Just staying.

After a long moment, she exhales.

“…Phone Girl,” she says suddenly.

You blink.

Then you laugh—quiet, surprised.

“That’s still the worst name I’ve ever heard for me.”

A pause.

Then she hums faintly.

“It’s better than nothing.”

That lands differently than it should.

Because it reminds both of you that there was a time when it was nothing.

Just a voice in the dark.

Just a line between staying and not.

You shift slightly closer without thinking.

Her bare knees touch yours.

Neither of you corrects it.

The silence after is softer now.

Not empty.

Just full of something that doesn’t hurt anymore.

Natasha looks down at your free hand.

The way your fingers stay open instead of holding too tightly.

She places hers in it, the soft skin feeling slightly unreal.

And quietly, almost like she’s admitting it to herself more than you, “...I wasn’t sure I was going to step back from that edge.”

A beat.

“…But I heard your voice.”

That’s it.

No dramatic confession.

Just truth.

Your thumb brushes lightly over her knuckles.

“You did step back,” you say gently.

Natasha exhales through her nose—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Annoyingly so.”

That makes you smile.

Small.

Real.

A pause stretches between you again.

But this one doesn’t feel like distance.

It feels like a pause.

Like breathing room.

Like, after something survives impact.

Natasha shifts slightly towards you.

Her voice drops a little, “…say it again.”

You frown slightly.

“Say what?”

Her fingers tighten just a little in yours.

“My name.”

Oh.

So you do.

“Natasha.”

Not loud.

Not careful.

Just steady.

She closes her eyes for a second.

Like it lands somewhere deeper than language.

Then she exhales.

“…I like it when you say it like that.”

You swallow lightly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m still here,” she says.

That hits.

You both stay quiet after that.

The need to speak wasn’t necessary.

It’s become a language between you two now.

Just presence that stays both ways.

Natasha leans her head against your shoulder.

Not dramatic.

Not fragile.

Just tired enough to stop pretending she isn’t human.

You lift your hand moves further around her, under her shirt.

Your shirt.

You pull her closer.

She doesn’t flinch.

She settles instead.

Like she’s allowed to.

“I’m still here,’’ you murmur, almost absentmindedly.

She doesn’t answer right away.

She’s just feeling the way your fingers trace her spine.

Then—

“…Yeah,” she murmurs.

A pause.

“…Me too.”

Silence again.

And just before everything fades into quiet, Natasha whispers. 

“…Don’t disappear on me, Phone Girl.”

And you let out a soft breath of a laugh.

“I won’t...”

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

@the-lesbians-made-me-do-it @toe19 @imaginemeandwho @the-lesbians-made-me-do-it @athenaeloise @ivyromanoff @katesbaby @maya444ever @bs-myers @lowkeyerror @taliiiaasteria @littlelonelylesbian @softlymaximoff

She’s curled slightly into the pillow, too small for the bed to feel full. The monitors hum softly beside her. Steady. Consistent.

You pause at the door.

She notices immediately.

‘’...thought about showering?’’ she says.

You exhale quietly through your nose and step inside.

‘’...good morning to you too.’’

She shrugs a little. It’s weak. Everything about her is, but her eyes are sharp. Watching you too closely.

You reach for her chart. Something to do. Something to avoid that look.

‘’...how are you feeling?’’

‘’Tired.’’

A beat.

‘’...you?’’

You don’t answer. You flip a page that doesn’t need to be flipped.

Silence stretches.

‘’...she came back.’’

Your hand stills just for a second.

‘’Who?’’ you ask quickly.

Sofia doesn’t even blink.

‘’You’re terrible at lying.’’

You close the chart, then set it down.

‘’...what did she want?'’

Sofia shifts, watching you for a second longer. ‘’...advice,’’ she says simply.

Your jaw tightens. ‘’...she shouldn't have been here.’’

A pause.

‘’...you told her to leave,’’ Sofia continues.

You glance at her, then at the monitor.

You nod once. It’s small. Controlled.

‘’I did,’’ you say in an exhale.

Sofia watches you quietly.

‘’...that was stupid,’’ she says.

You don’t react properly. Just a small shift of your jaw. ‘’...I know.’’

The words come out flat, as you’ve already said them to yourself at least a hundred times.

She frowns, ‘’...then why did you do it?’’

You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t have one. At least not one that sounds right out loud.

‘’...she looked like she needed you, she looked worse than you do now,’’ Sofia adds.

Her words make something in your chest twist, sharp and uncomfortable.

You close your eyes slowly, ‘’I have rounds,’’ you say.

She doesn’t stop you; she watches you until you reach the door.

Then–

‘’...You’re going to lose her.’’

You freeze, your hand on the handle.

‘’...I think I already did,’’ you mutter.

-///-

The day drags, and everything feels off. It’s either too slow, too loud or too much. But you go through the motions. Patients. Notes. Conversations you won’t remember having.

But she’s there.

At the back of your head, gnawing like something feeding off your regret.

You freeze every time the phone rings, imagining it’s her on the other line.

It’s not.

The way silence stretches just a second too long.

Now you’re the one messing things up.

Your heart stung.

Go.

Another sting. It made you drag your hand across your face.

On the way home that evening, you were utterly exhausted. Your brain was working overtime about patients, your schedule that day and her.

Your apartment is quiet when you enter.

Exactly the same as you left.

And somehow–

worse.

You drop your keys onto the counter. They clatter too loudly.

You don’t turn on the lights.

You don’t need to.

You know this place well enough to move through it in the dark.

You stand by the counter for a second.

Then two.

And then you move down the hallway, past your bedroom.

The door is as she left it, slightly ajar, enough for your chest to tighten.

You don’t remember the last time you fully closed the door, though.

Your hand presses against it, pushing it open just enough.

It creaks. Soft and familiar. And everything inside is still untouched. Her bed is made neatly and with quiet care. Like it’s waiting for someone.

You step inside slowly, as if the room might break if you move too fast.

Your fingers brush against the edge of the dresser as you pass. The dust hasn’t settled. You don’t let it.

You never let it.

Your gaze drifts to the drawings still taped to the wall.

Crooked, but bright and alive.

You stop at the bed.

Just stand there.

Looking.

A beat.

You sit down.

Once all your weight is supported, the mattress dips slightly as it always has.

It’s too small for you, but you’ve spent countless hours at this bed.

Your hand moves without thinking.

A small teddy bear, tucked near the pillow.

It’s worn and loved. Yours, now.

You pick it up slowly.

Holding it in your hands for a second.

Then closer.

Against your chest.

Your breath stutters.

“…hey, baby,” you murmur.

Your voice is quiet. Careful.

Like you don’t want to wake her.

Like she’s still here.

Your thumb brushes over the worn fabric of the teddy.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“I—” you stop.

Swallow and try again.

“…I had a bad day.”

A weak huff leaves you.

It doesn’t sound right.

Nothing does at this moment.

“There’s this girl,” you continue softly.

Your gaze drops to the bear.

Like it might answer.

“…you would’ve liked her, I think.”

Your voice cracks.

You clear your throat.

“She’s… stubborn,” you murmur. “Doesn’t listen. Shows up when she shouldn’t.”

A pause.

Your grip tightens slightly.

“…she reminds me of you.”

You still then inhale sharply through your nose. 

Your fingers stills on the teddy bear, near its cheek.

“I told her to leave,” you whisper.

The words feel worse out loud.

“Heh… you would’ve hated that.”

A tear slips before you can stop it, but don’t wipe it away.

“…I think I messed it up.”

Your voice is smaller now.

Quieter.

Like something in you is folding in on itself.

“I didn’t mean to,” you add. “I just—”

You stop because you don’t know how to explain it. Not even to her, not even like this.

Your head dips slightly, resting against the wall.

The teddy bear was still clutched to your chest.

“…I miss you,” you whisper.

That part comes easy, too easy. A shaky breath follows.

“I don’t know what I’m doing without you, sweet cheeks.”

Then, silence fills the room. It’s heavy, but never empty, like a lot of moments in your life.

Your thumb starts moving over the fabric once again.

Slower this time.

“…should I call her?” you murmur.

A beat.

Like you’re waiting.

Like you always used to.

For an answer.

For anything.

Your lips press together, then you exhale shakily.

“…yeah,” you whisper to yourself.

Like she said it.

Like she always used to.

You nod once.

Then you stand.

Carefully placing the teddy bear back where it was, where it belongs.

Your hand lingers for a second, but then you pull away.

You step back out of the room.

The door stays open.

Like it always used to do.

-///-

The phone in your hand feels heavier than normal. It’s telling you to think twice before making this choice.

You press call on the one person you’ve been calling more than anyone these past months.

It rings.

And rings.

Your jaw tightens with every second that passes. You almost hang up.

Then—

“…Y/N.”

Your breath catches. Just for a second.

“…hey.”

Silence.

Not empty. Not neutral.

Tense.

“You shouldn’t be calling,” she says.

It’s not angry.

That would be easier.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “I know.”

“So why are you?”

You swallow. Your throat feels dry.

“I just—”

You stop.

Because nothing sounds right once it gets close to leaving your mouth.

A quiet exhale comes from her end. Impatient.

“…did something happen?” she asks.

It’s automatic.

Like she’s expecting you to be calling for a reason that makes sense.

That almost makes you laugh.

“Yeah,” you say.

A beat.

“I told someone to leave.”

Silence.

Then—

“…and you’re calling me about that?” she asks.

Flat.

You close your eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Because it sounds like you handled it,” she cuts in.

Your chest tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You don’t answer right away.

Your fingers press harder into the phone.

“…she didn’t deserve it.”

The line goes quiet.

Not the same quiet.

Heavier now.

“…no,” Natasha says after a second. “She probably didn’t.”

Something about the way she says it, too calm.

Too distant. It makes something twist in your chest.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly.

“Then how did you mean it?”

Your jaw clenches.

“I was trying to—”

You stop again.

Because even now, you don’t know.

“Push her away?” Natasha offers.

Your eyes open.

“…yeah.”

It comes out quieter than you expected.

Another pause.

“And did it work?” she asks.

There’s something off in her tone now.

You frown slightly. “…what?”

“Did she leave?”

Your stomach drops.

“…yeah.”

A soft hum on the other end.

“Then I guess you got what you wanted.”

That lands wrong.

“I didn’t want that.”

“But you did it anyway.”

Your grip tightens.

“…you’re not making this better.”

“I’m not trying to,” she says simply.

That hits.

Harder than it should.

You drag a hand over your face.

“…you always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t care.”

A beat.

“I don’t,” she says.

Too quick.

Too clean.

Your chest tightens.

“…that’s not true.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” she replies.

Colder now.

Your jaw clenches.

“I’m not deciding anything. I just—”

“Then stop talking like you know me,” she cuts in.

Silence snaps between you.

Sharp.

Your heart is beating too fast now.

“…I do know you.”

You shouldn’t have said that.

You know it the second it leaves your mouth.

Because she laughs.

It’s quiet.

But there’s nothing warm about it.

“No,” she says. “You don’t.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m the one you call.”

“And you answer,” she shoots back immediately.

“Yeah,” you snap. “Because someone has to.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it.

The shift.

It’s heavy and wrong.

“…right,” she says.

Soft.

Too soft.

You swallow.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then stop saying things you don’t mean,” she replies.

There’s no anger now.

That’s worse.

“I’m tired of guessing which version of you I’m getting.”

Your chest tightens.

“…you’re doing the same thing.”

“No,” she says. “I’m not pretending.”

A pause.

Then—

“I don’t call people back, Y/N.”

That lands.

Deep.

“I don’t stay on the phone. I don’t—” she exhales sharply. “I don’t keep coming back.”

Your fingers go still.

“But I did,” she adds.

Quieter now.

“And you’re acting like that doesn’t mean anything.”

Your throat feels tight.

“It does.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” she asks.

You don’t have an answer.

You hate that.

“I just—” you start.

Stop.

Then start over.

“I thought you’d understand.”

There’s a long pause.

“…that’s your problem,” she says finally.

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“You only want people around when they understand you.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s not—”

“And the second they don’t,” she continues, voice sharper now, “you push them away and act like it’s their fault for trying to stay.”

“That’s not fair,” you snap.

“It’s not supposed to be,” she shoots back.

Silence cracks again.

Your breathing is uneven now.

So is hers.

“…I shouldn’t have called,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” she says.

A beat.

“You shouldn’t have.”

That stings more than it should.

You nod to yourself.

Even though she can’t see it.

“…okay.”

Silence.

Neither of you hangs up.

Neither of you fixes it.

“…take care of your patients,” she says after a second.

It’s distant again.

Professional, almost.

Like she’s already pulling away.

Your chest tightens.

“…Natasha—”

But the line clicks.

Dead.

The conversation didn’t fix anything.

It was never going to.

It just peels things back.

Strips them raw.

Every word feels heavier than it should.

Natasha is still holding the phone when the line goes dead.

The silence doesn’t arrive cleanly.

It arrives like pressure.

Like something filling her lungs instead of air.

For a moment, she just stands there, staring out over the edge like it might answer for her.

The city doesn’t move for her grief.

It never does.

Her grip loosens slightly.

Then tightens again, like her body can’t decide whether to let go of the world or hold onto it harder.

Her breathing feels wrong—too loud in her own ears, too close, like it doesn’t belong to her.

“…I don’t understand you,” she whispers, but there’s no one left to hear it.

The words don’t land anywhere.

They just fall.

Below her, everything is distant.

She takes a step forward without meaning to.

Then stops.

The wind shifts hard against her face, and it feels almost grounding for half a second—sharp, real, physical.

But it doesn’t last.