Solar

— Dm’s and questions?

1000 times yes. I love to yap or listen! I’m not uncomfortable with much and i’m really easy in general :). So yes, reach out and talk. I beg of you.

— Who do I write for?☻

I write for fem!reader and it’s mostly an original character’s POV since y/n sounds bland. But feel free to interpret yourself as the MC :)

— Does and don’ts in writing:⚑⚑

I mostly write about Angst and heavy plot. Besides that consider smut, sexual tension, gayness, and women and possibly more. I will not write about nasty shit like incest, piss kinks, pedophillia and presumably more.

— Writing style✎✎

My work exists out of Heavy plot as earlier mentioned, here and there. Meaning if there is anything sexual like smut it will be a build-up. I’m not very good at writing it thats why i usually don’t. But some given moments I will include it.

Also reposting my work on other platforms is a big nono :(

— Requests☒

Requests are closed, momentarily.

However, maybe in the future I may be willing to take certain requests, as long as it fits to my writing style and preferences!

— Cliffhanger continuation

Natasha’s movements turned frantic but controlled—one hand pressing hard against your shoulder wound, the other tearing strips of fabric to bind your calf tighter, stopping as much blood as she could. Her fingers shook, not from lack of skill, but from the weight of keeping you tethered here.

She shifted in the narrow vent, bracing herself between the walls so your head rested against her thigh instead of the cold metal. Her free hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your temple, grounding you even as you drifted.

“You’re not leaving me here,” she whispered fiercely, forehead almost against yours. “You hear me? You stay. You fight. You stay with me.”

And she stayed—body curled around yours, hand never lifting from your wounds, her own breathing slowing to match yours as if she could force you to hang on by sheer will.

She hadn’t known you long, but continuing without you seemed impossible. She couldn’t lose you. She couldn’t lose a partner again. She couldn’t save Clint— she had to save you.

A few hours pass and first thing you felt was the ache—deep, burning, radiating from your shoulder and leg. Then the pressure: something warm and steady holding down against the wound.

Your eyes cracked open, lashes heavy, and there she was. Natasha.

Her head had dipped, chin nearly touching her chest, her breathing shallow and even—yet not asleep. The second you let out a low grunt, her eyes snapped wide open, green cutting through the dimness of the vent.

“Opal?” her voice was sharp, too sharp, but you could hear the exhaustion buried under it.

You licked your lips, throat raw. “Relax… I’m good.”

Her gaze narrowed, jaw tight, but you saw the way her shoulders sagged just slightly in relief. She didn’t move her hand from your shoulder, though. Didn’t ease up on the makeshift bandage at your calf. She still hovered close, eyes scanning your face for every twitch, every flicker of pain.

“You lost too much blood,” she muttered, softer now, as though speaking it too loud would make it worse.

“Still breathing, aren’t I?” you rasped, managing half a grin.

That only made her lean closer, eyes flashing, the hard exterior cracking just enough for you to glimpse the storm behind it. “Barely. Don’t joke about this.”

You blinked at her, fighting the heaviness still pulling at your lids. “You didn’t leave me.”

Her lips pressed together, no answer coming right away. Only that look—unwavering, protective, like she was daring you to slip away again. She fought the words: I would never forgive myself if I left you for dead, alone.

Your fingers twitched first, then your arm followed with a weak shift. Pain shot through your shoulder, sharp and white-hot, but you forced it anyway. You wanted to sit up, wanted her closer, wanted her to see—really see.

“Stop,” Natasha’s hand pressed firmly to your good shoulder, holding you down with more strength than her tired frame should’ve had. “You’ll tear it open again.”

“I don’t care,” you rasped, teeth grit. You met her eyes through the cracked visor of your helmet, your breath fogging the glass. “I want you to see me.”

Her brows knit, suspicion lacing her features as if she thought this was blood loss talking. “You’re not in any condition to—”

“Natasha.” You cut her off, voice raw. Your good hand trembled as it lifted, pushing weakly at your helmet. “If I die here… I don’t want to go as a nobody. Not to you.”

The silence hung heavy. Her hand didn’t stop you this time, just hovered uncertainly. Those green eyes lingered on you like she was searching for a reason to deny you, to dismiss it like she did everything else. But her fingers finally moved, hesitantly, to the latch of your helmet.

She hesitated again, lips parting like she might argue. But she didn’t. She unclipped it slowly, carefully, and lifted the helmet free.

Air hit your face, cool and harsh, and for the first time her gaze wasn’t obscured by glass or shadow. She was looking at you. Not Opal. Not a codename. Just you.

“There,” she whispered, her voice breaking softer than you’d ever heard it. “I see you.”

You blinked slowly, trying to focus on her face. The world swayed in and out, but you held onto the sight of her like it was the only thing anchoring you. A weak smile tugged at your lips.

“…Hi,” you breathed out, almost sheepish, like this wasn’t the middle of bleeding out in a vent.

Natasha’s eyes softened, something unguarded flashing through them. “Hi,” she echoed, quiet, like she didn’t want the word to slip too far away.

Your chest hitched, and the soft moment was broken by a sudden cough tearing through your lungs. Pain flared, and you clenched your jaw, grimacing.

“Hey, calm down,” she murmured quickly, one hand steadying your chest, the other pressing firmer against your shoulder wound to stop the fresh bleed. “Stay still, Opal.”

You shook your head faintly, the motion weak but insistent. “No…” you rasped, your voice low and cracking under the strain.

Her eyes snapped to yours, worry flickering. “No?”

“My name,” you forced out, breath trembling. “It’s… y/n.”

Her lips parted, as if she wasn’t ready to hear it—like she knew the gravity of you giving her that piece of yourself. For a long heartbeat, she just stared at you. Then, softer than you thought her capable of, she whispered it back.

“Y/n”

Your name in her voice felt like the only thing keeping you awake.

Your lashes fluttered, exhaustion pulling at you harder than the pain ever could. You let your head fall back against the cold metal of the vent, your eyes slipping shut.

“Now we’re partners,” you whispered, voice so faint it was almost lost in the shallow sound of your breathing.

For the first time, Natasha didn’t sound sharp or clipped—she didn’t sound like the agent who had been telling you to stuff down your instincts for weeks. Her voice broke through, soft, desperate in a way you never thought you’d hear.

“Don’t go.”

The words made your chest tighten more than any bullet wound. You forced your lips into the ghost of a smile, though your eyes stayed closed. “Not going anywhere,” you murmured, barely holding onto wakefulness. “I’m just… tired. Just need to close my eyes for a minute.”

You felt her hand tremble against your skin, pressing harder to keep you tethered. For once, she didn’t argue. She just stayed close, silent but unrelenting, as if her presence alone could hold you here.

Your head lolled against the vent wall, every breath shallow, every blink heavier than the last. The taste of copper lingered in your mouth, and the ache in your leg throbbed with each faint beat of your pulse. You swallowed, lips barely moving.

“…Natasha.”

Her head snapped your way instantly, eyes sharp even through the shadows.

“Leave me here,” you whispered, barely audible. “You’ll move faster. Cleaner. Without me dragging you down.”

Her jaw clenched, and even in the low light you could see the flare in her eyes. “Not happening.”

You tried to smirk, though it came out weak, broken. “We both know I won’t make it like this. Not unless you—” you coughed, the sound raw in your throat, “—not unless you find something.”

Her silence said more than her words ever could. She didn’t believe in quitting, not when someone was counting on her. But she wasn’t blind either—your shoulder was seared clean through, your calf still held metal, and the bleeding hadn’t stopped enough. You weren’t wrong.

“This was a lab,” you rasped, eyes flicking around, unfocused. “There’s gotta be something. Painkillers. Bandages. Hell, a vending machine with sugar. Anything.”

Her gaze cut to the direction of the lower levels, then back to you. She cursed under her breath in Russian, torn.

“Don’t waste your time on me,” you tried again, though your voice was barely more than air.

She leaned closer, her grip steadying your jaw, forcing your fading eyes to meet hers. “You’re not wasted time,” she hissed, fierce but quiet. “Stay awake. I’ll find what we need. You don’t get to quit on me now.”

And for the first time, you believed her more than yourself.

Natasha moved like a shadow through the broken silence of the lab, her breaths steady, sharp, controlled—though her chest still burned with the image of you slumped against the vent wall, skin too pale, lips nearly blue. She shoved that down. She couldn’t afford to feel it now.

First priority: stop the bleeding. She slipped through a half-open door into what looked like a medical storage closet. Empty drawers, overturned carts—someone had cleared most of it out. But not everything. She rifled through the shelves, hands quick, precise. Gauze rolls—half crushed but usable. Alcohol swabs. A strip of surgical tape. No proper antiseptic, but beggars couldn’t choose.

Her ears tracked every creak, every distant step. She stilled once, hand hovering over her Glock, until the sound passed. Then she spotted them—painkillers, small white tablets rattling inside a cracked bottle. She pocketed them instantly, fingers brushing over an empty syringe box. Too late for miracles.

Her stomach growled faintly, but she ignored it—until she spotted the vending machine at the far end of the hall, its glass fractured but intact. She cursed under her breath, pulled her knife, and jammed it into the lock until it gave with a metallic snap. Protein bars, bags of chips, rows of bottled water tumbled down. She stuffed as much as she could into her pack.

Every second gone was a second you were bleeding. She hated herself for leaving you, even just for minutes. But she knew—without this, you wouldn’t last.

Her boots moved silent as she cut back toward the vent, arms heavy with supplies but mind sharper than ever. She whispered your codename in her head, almost like a mantra to keep her focused, then stopped herself. Not codename. Not anymore. You trusted her with your real name. She wasn’t going to let you die after that.

Natasha slipped back toward the vent, blood pounding in her ears. You weren’t just a partner anymore. You were hers to protect. Natasha slid back into the vent with the pack slung tight across her shoulder, every movement careful not to rattle. The moment her eyes landed on you, her stomach dropped—you were drenched in sweat, skin cold and clammy, breaths shallow. The blood had slowed but only because your body was shutting down.

She dropped to her knees beside you, ripping the supplies open with controlled urgency. “Hey,” she whispered, voice low but steady, “I’ve got you. Stay with me.”

You stirred, head rolling against the wall, barely conscious. She pressed the painkillers to your lips, coaxing them down with a small sip of water. Then she got to work.

The shoulder wound was first—threading gauze through the exit hole, pressing hard. Your whole body flinched, a raw groan breaking out before you clamped it down. Natasha pressed harder, jaw tight. “I know. I know it hurts. Just breathe.”

But when she moved to your calf, where the other bullet was still lodged, the pain spiked white-hot. Even numbed with pills, it was fire through your veins. You jerked once, hand latching onto her forearm. She muttered something sharp in Russian, steadying you, then dug her fingers in with surgeon-like precision until the slug clinked free.

Your throat burned with the scream you couldn’t let out—not with the muffled sounds of boots echoing faintly below the vent. Desperate, half-conscious, you turned your head and bit down on her shoulder through the tactical fabric, hard enough to make her breath catch in her chest.

For a split second she froze, body tensing—then she understood. You needed something, anything, to hold the pain. Her free hand pressed against the back of your neck, steady, grounding. “That’s it,” she whispered, voice rough but soft. “Don’t let go. Just hold on.”

Her own skin throbbed where your teeth dug in, but she didn’t flinch. She kept working, hands fast, precise, binding the wound tight with gauze and tape, layering until the blood slowed. Each pull of the bandage drew another muffled groan from you, your teeth biting down harder, her shoulder trembling beneath it.

When she finally tied the last knot and exhaled, she didn’t move away. She let you rest there, half-draped against her, your forehead damp against her collar. “It’s done,” she whispered. “You’re still here. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her shoulder ached, but she didn’t care. She would’ve taken ten more wounds like that if it kept you alive.

Your jaw slackened against her shoulder, the pressure gone as your body finally gave in. Natasha felt the shift immediately—you’d slipped under again. She cursed under her breath but kept one arm braced around you, fingers monitoring the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

For the next hour, she stayed still, alert, listening to every sound from below the vent. Her muscles burned from holding you propped against her, but she refused to move, afraid the smallest shift would undo everything she’d just fought to patch together.

When your eyes finally fluttered open again, it was different. No fevered haze, no shallow panic in your breathing. Just tired—but clearer, steadier.

You groaned softly, shifting against her. Natasha’s eyes darted down instantly, the sharp line of her shoulders easing just a fraction. “Easy,” she murmured, pressing her palm against your chest before you could sit up. “Don’t get any ideas.”

You blinked at her, registering the bandages, the faint metallic tang still in the air, the ache dulled instead of screaming. “…I feel better,” you rasped, surprise in your voice. Almost disbelief.

Her lips pressed into the faintest, wry curve. “Better is relative,” she said, but her tone betrayed a relief she couldn’t mask.

Your gaze lingered on her face, softer than you intended. “But better,” you insisted.

For the first time since dragging you into the vent, she let out a slow, quiet breath that wasn’t clipped or tense. She brushed a bit of sweat-matted hair off your forehead, the touch light, almost hesitant.

“Don’t make me regret keeping you alive,” she muttered, but her eyes said something else entirely.

“You know..”

You shifted slightly against her, careful not to pull at the bandages, and let out a long, shaky breath. “I… don’t remember much, about my past,” you admitted, voice quiet, almost ashamed. “Maybe my head just… didn’t want me to. Blocks it out. Makes it easier to… keep going.”

Natasha’s gaze softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “I get that.” She shifted a little, keeping one hand steady against your shoulder, the other brushing at your hair. “I was raised by the Red Room.”

You froze, curiosity flaring through the haze of pain and exhaustion. “Red Room… corpo?” you asked cautiously.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. They made you into a weapon, trained you, broke you down, then tried to sell you to the highest bidder. They thought they owned me. Thought I couldn’t escape. I did.”

Your eyebrows knitted together, the words settling like lead in your chest. “Escape…?”

She nodded slowly. “I broke out. Killed the guards who wouldn’t let me leave. Burned everything I couldn’t carry. Left that world behind.”

You let out a low whistle, impressed despite yourself. “And here I thought I had problems…”

A faint, humorless smirk crossed her lips. “Problems don’t end, y/n. They just get sharper, get heavier. You learn to carry them—or they’ll crush you.”

You swallowed, letting her words settle in, and finally admitted, “I don’t even know what I’m carrying half the time. Head’s… blank. Nothing’s left, or it won’t let me see it.”

Her gaze softened even further, eyes holding yours as she murmured, “Then I’ll help you figure it out. Or at least, I’ll make sure nothing else takes it from you.”

For the first time, the walls between you felt less like steel and more like something that could crumble. You let yourself relax a little, the trust tentative but growing.

“You ever… think about what life would’ve been if you weren’t raised to kill?” you asked softly, curiosity threading through your tone.

Her jaw tightened, eyes drifting to the shadows beyond the vent. “…Sometimes,” she admitted after a long pause. “Sometimes I imagine it. Peaceful. Normal. But then I remember—there’s no such thing for people like us.”

You let that sink in, half a sigh escaping your lips. “…Then maybe we just make our own kind of normal.”

Her hand stayed on your shoulder, a quiet anchor against the chaos of both your pasts. For the first time, it felt like it could be enough.

The night was quiet, too quiet for a corpo sector. The streetlights buzzed overhead, painting their shadows long across the wet pavement.

Multiple months of this, and the rhythm had become muscle memory—slip through the cracks, dig out the rot, set the place alight, walk away before anyone noticed. Tonight was no different. Corporate office, files to steal, systems to burn, rubble left behind.

Except you couldn’t help yourself.

“Ever wonder why this one?” you asked, hands in your jacket pockets as you followed Natasha along the narrow rooftop ledge. She didn’t look back, only adjusted the strap of her pack, eyes fixed forward.

“Does it matter?” she shot back, clipped and sharp.

You tilted your head. “It might. Maybe this one has ties. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a message. Or maybe we’re just dancing for whoever’s paying the bill.”

She stopped for half a breath, glanced over her shoulder. The look said enough: drop it.

But you didn’t. You never did.

“So why are we burning down this little cubicle farm?” you pressed. “There’s a million others just like it. What makes this one special?”

Her silence was answer enough, but you caught the faint twitch in her jaw. She was getting annoyed, which, if you were honest, only made you push harder.

“Tell me something, Widow. Don’t you ever think this whole thing is… for show?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just the sound of boots on metal, the quiet city hum below, and you dogging her steps like a shadow that wouldn’t shut up.

Finally, she exhaled, not sharp, not annoyed — something closer to resigned.

“You ask too many questions,” she said, her voice low, carrying that hint of wryness she only used with you.

You smirked. “And you give too few answers.”

Natasha slowed her pace just enough to glance at you, the streetlight catching faintly in her eyes. There was no fire in them tonight, just the practiced calm of someone used to shutting doors before anyone could peek through.

“That’s the job, Opal,” she said, softer now. “In, out, done. We don’t think about the reasons. We don’t get to.”

For a second, it almost sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as you.

You tilted your head, lips quirking. “That’s bleak, even for you.”

She gave a faint, humorless scoff, but didn’t snap back like she would have two months ago. Instead, she shifted her gaze forward again and added, “If you’re going to keep running your mouth, at least do it quietly.”

You both stopped on the rooftops, the city air cold against your skin, neon buzzing faintly from the signs below. Across from you, the corporate tower rose clean and glassy against the night, all sharp edges and secrets.

You crouched on the ledge, elbows resting against your knees as you stared at it. “It’s fishy,” you muttered.

Natasha’s eyes flicked to you, steady and sharp. “How do you know?”

You tilted your head slightly, lips pulling into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. “Gut feeling.”

Her silence lingered for a long second before she straightened, the line of her shoulders tight but calm. “Then stuff it away.”

You huffed a short laugh, leaning back on your hands. “Stuff it away. That’s your big advice?”

“Yes.” Her voice was cool, but not cutting. The kind of tone you’d grown used to in the last two months—measured, firm, with that reluctant patience she only seemed to use with you. “Feelings get you killed. Gut or not. They don’t belong here.”

You turned your head to study her, the faint red glow from a nearby sign catching on her profile. “You really live like that? No instincts, no feelings, no nothing?”

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t look at you. “I live.”

You leaned forward again, elbows to your knees. “Some existence.”

Finally, her eyes snapped to yours, green and flat but hiding something beneath. “Some survival,” she corrected, sharp but quieter than before. “Don’t mistake the two.”

You smirked again, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “You know, Widow, one day your lack of feelings might just bite you in the ass.”

“Better my ass than my life.”

You snorted under your breath, shaking your head as you adjusted your stance. “Better your ass than your life,” you muttered, just low enough that it bled into the night.

Natasha didn’t bite. She didn’t even spare you a glance. She was already moving, sleek and soundless across the rooftop, a shadow sliding from one edge to the next. You followed, the both of you slipping down and in through the building’s higher levels without so much as a whisper.

Inside, the place was hollow. Too hollow.

The kind of silence that pressed in on your ears, heavier than it should’ve been. The hum of electricity was there, the faint buzz of machines on standby, but no footsteps, no chatter, no shuffling of the usual corpo grunts who liked to work late.

You froze for a moment in the hallway, eyes narrowing. “It’s empty.”

From ahead, her voice came in your comm, steady and cold. “Stay focused.”

You scanned the corners, every shadow sharp against your vision. The hair on your arms prickled. “It’s too empty.”

“Stuff it down,” she shot back, clipped. You could almost see the pinch of her brow, that irritation she tried so hard to keep buried. “Pay attention to the job.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh. “Sure. Pretend it doesn’t reek of a setup. Got it.”

“Opal.” Just your name, but wrapped in warning.

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, forcing your body forward, step by step, but your hand never strayed far from your blade. Something was off, and whether or not Widow wanted to admit it, you knew your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

The glow of a screen caught your eye through a crack in the door. You slipped inside, quiet as breath, and there it was—a desk, a stack of files neatly aligned. Too neat. Your fingers brushed the edge of one, the bold typeface glaring up at you.

01 SEPTEMBER – ACTIVE.

Today’s date.

Your pulse sharpened. They knew. They’d been waiting.

The click of a latch broke the silence. A door on the far end of the room swung open.

You were already moving. A shadow cutting across the floor, one hand on his mouth, the other snapping his neck before the guard had a chance to exhale. The body folded in your arms like wet paper, lowered without a sound.

You pressed a finger to your comm, voice low, tight. “Widow. We’re leaving. Screw the evidence—place is rigged.”

A pause. The faint hiss of static.

“Negative,” she said finally, voice even, but you caught the steel threaded through it. “We don’t have the intel, we don’t walk.”

You wiped your bloody hand on your thigh, staring down at the folder with today’s date still glaring up at you. “Then we’re already dead,” you muttered.

“Opal,” she warned again.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching hot in your chest. “Doesn’t matter how we play it. Our employer doesn’t get this intel, we’re corpses anyway.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was filled with the weight of her consideration, the sharpness of her mind cutting through options. But you could tell—she hated how much truth sat in your words.

Boots thundered down the hall. Orders barked in a language you didn’t care to translate.

You slipped out of the office, files shoved against your chest, and the staccato burst of rifles tore the air open. You barely cleared the corner before fire chewed into you—shoulder first, the impact slamming you sideways, then your calf screamed, a grazing shot tearing flesh, and another bite along your thigh.

The sting burned into your bones, and you half–crawled, half–staggered into the first door you could wrench open. You collapsed against the wall inside, breaths ragged, hot blood smearing a crooked path along the tiles behind you. Too much. You could feel it—every drip leaving a trail a blind man could follow.

You jammed your comm on, voice rasping. “Widow—finish it without me. I’m done.” You pressed your palm hard against the wound in your thigh, jaw clenched. “Can’t run, can’t fight twelve. Not tonight.”

Her response was immediate, sharper than the gunfire echoing closer. “Negative. Where are you?”

You almost laughed, a dry, cracked sound. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll slow them down.”

“Opal,” her voice cut, steady as stone but laced with something else you hadn’t heard before. “Where. Are. You?”

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes dragging to the smear you’d left like breadcrumbs. “Blood trail’s already signed my invitation. You don’t want to be here when they open the door.”

“Too late,” she shot back, urgency threaded through the calm. “I’m not leaving you.”

Another barrage rattled the hall, boots slamming closer, and you closed your eyes, whispering into the comm, “Then you’re just as screwed as me.”

The door slammed open a crack, but instead of a barrel aiming in, it was her hand—snatching you up before you could even process. Natasha’s arm looped around your waist, hauling you with a strength you didn’t think she had in that compact frame.

You hissed, teeth gritted, every step painting the floor crimson. “Leave me,” you rasped, body sagging against her.

Her grip only tightened. “Not happening. You stay with me.”

The hall stretched, endless, your legs useless under you. You forced yourself along, stumbling, half–dragged. The walls spun, your vision blurring at the edges. You could feel the blood soaking through her sleeve where she pressed against your shoulder wound.

You choked on a bitter laugh, breath hitching. “Widow… I can’t—”

Her voice cut sharp, but lower this time, carrying weight. “Keep fighting.”

Your knees buckled. “No use…”

She stopped for half a heartbeat, adjusted her hold, her breath hot against your ear. “Natasha,” she said firmly, as though snapping a tether around you. “My name is Natasha. Not Widow. Say it.”

You blinked at her through the haze, the word heavy on your tongue. “…Natasha.”

“Good,” she urged, dragging you onward, as gunfire cracked two halls over. “Now stay alive long enough to curse me for this.”

The metal walls of the vent groaned under your combined weight as Natasha shoved you forward, then crawled in after, sealing the grate with quick, practiced hands. Darkness swallowed you both, save for the faint glow of emergency lights bleeding through the cracks.

Your breathing came ragged, harsh, echoing in the confined space. You slumped against the aluminum, sweat and blood slicking your suit. Natasha’s hand pressed against your shoulder wound, steady and relentless, but it wasn’t enough—warmth kept spilling through her fingers.

“Stay still,” she whispered, her own breath uneven. “I’ve got you.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. “Doesn’t feel like it…”

When the footsteps and shouts outside finally dulled, she shifted you flat onto your side in the vent’s narrow space. Her eyes scanned your body quickly—shoulder, thigh, calf. Her jaw tightened at the last one.

“This one’s messy,” she murmured, tapping your calf. “Bullet’s still in.”

“Great,” you muttered, head tipped back. “Always wanted a souvenir.”

“Don’t get cute now.” She pulled a blade from her belt, wiped it clean against her sleeve. Her voice softened, though her hands were steady. “This is going to hurt like hell. You ready?”

You gave her a crooked grin, pale and shaky. “Since when do I ever get a choice?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she tore your pant leg wider, braced one hand firm on your shin, and pressed the blade in with ruthless precision. You muffled a cry against your fist, teeth sinking into your glove as fire tore through your leg.

“Almost there,” Natasha’s voice cut through the haze, steady, grounding. Her brow was furrowed, lips set tight, but her eyes never left the wound, never faltered.

Another twist of the blade, another sharp pull, and the bullet clinked against the vent’s metal floor. She wasted no time—pressing gauze from her kit against the wound, applying brutal pressure.

You gasped, chest heaving, tears stinging your eyes despite yourself. “You… really know how to treat a girl.”

Her lips almost curved—almost. “Shut up and stay awake.”

Her hand stayed on your calf, firm, as if willing your pulse to keep going under her touch. “There’s another bullet in there, but I can’t remove it now. Blood loss would be too severe.” She more mutters to herself than you.

Your vision blurred, black edges eating into your sight. The vent felt like it was spinning, Natasha’s face only a haze above you. Your chest rose shallowly, every breath harder to pull in than the last.

“I—” your tongue felt heavy, words slurred. “I’m… gonna pass out.”

Her hand gripped your jaw, firm but trembling ever so slightly. “No. Don’t you dare. Stay awake.”

You tried to obey, blinking furiously, fighting the pull. But your eyelids felt like stone. “C-can’t…” Your lips curved faintly, as though you were sharing a secret. “Natasha…”

Her name, soft and broken, slipped from you. A tired smile tugged at your mouth. “Pretty name.”

And then your eyes fluttered shut, breath hitching once before it went shallow and steady.

It’s been two months since that first chaotic encounter. Two months since the red streak in the streets and the gun pressed against your chest.

Since then, you and the Widow have worked together—strictly professional. One mission at a time. One rule above all: get it done, and get it done well. No chatter, no heroics, no mistakes.

You’re aware of her reputation, of course. Everyone is. The whisper in the corridors, the rumors of her kills, the cold efficiency that makes even veterans hesitate—she’s a force. And yet, you’ve survived beside her, and for some reason, that gives you a little freedom.

“Did you check the intel on this one?” you ask lightly, stepping beside her as you scope out the alley leading to your target.

Her eyes flick to you briefly, expression flat. “Yes.”

“Really? You’re sure? Or just confident you’re always right?” You can’t help the edge of a smirk in your voice.

“Confident,” she replies, voice clipped, returning her focus to the street below. Conversation over.

You sigh softly, shaking your head. Typical. She keeps her distance, keeps the answers short, keeps everything—including herself—locked away.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t nag.

“Don’t you ever get bored of being perfect all the time?”

She glances at you for half a second. Nothing else. Then: “No.”

And just like that, the moment ends. The mission waits. The streets below are quiet, waiting to be turned into chaos. And you know, as much as you might want more from her—more words, more smiles, more anything—this is how it works. Professional. Precise. Deadly.

For now.

You sidle up a little closer, eyes flicking to her as she adjusts her gear. “You know,” you mutter, low enough that only she can hear, “you’re a real stuck-up bitch.”

Her head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “Focus,” she snaps, voice tight, like a whip cracking.

You grin, undeterred. “No, seriously. You’re like—what’s the phrase? A dick in your ass type of stuck-up bitch. Always perfect, always serious, never lets anyone have fun…”

She exhales sharply, shoulders stiffening. “Keep talking, and I’ll make sure your ‘fun’ ends before it starts.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Okay, okay, I’m just saying… lighten up a little, maybe laugh once in a while. Or are you always this terrifying?”

She glances at you again, expression flat as steel. “Always.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head, already anticipating the mission ahead. Nagging her is pointless, and yet… impossible to stop. Somehow, that tension—her calm and deadly precision against your cheeky defiance—makes every mission a little more interesting.

You nudge the conversation further, a sharp edge in your voice. “You know… murdering innocent children doesn’t exactly make you lovable.”

Her head snaps toward you, eyes flashing dangerously. “Watch your mouth, Opal. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t get defensive,” you retort smoothly, “I just call it like I see it. At least I didn’t parade it like a trophy.” You turn, starting to walk ahead, letting your boots clack against the cracked pavement.

For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move. Then you hear the faint rustle of leather and the soft echo of her boots behind you. She’s taken aback, clearly processing your words—but slowly, deliberately, she falls into step beside you.

Neither of you speaks again. The air between you is tight, charged, but for the first time, you sense a subtle acknowledgment: she respects that you’re not afraid, even if she’ll never admit it.

And with that unspoken agreement, you both move forward—side by side, ready for the mission, and ready to see if the other can survive the day.

The mission is chaos, shadows and steel. You and Natasha work like a mirrored set of blades—she moves left, you cover right, the rhythm sharp and brutal. No wasted motion. No wasted time.

The last man you corner is different. Lab coat over body armor, panic in his eyes. A fucking scientist.

You swing him into the wall, but he’s faster than he looks—his hand jabs something into your shoulder. A sting of metal biting skin.

You glance down. A syringe, the plunger trembling, an inch from being emptied.

Not today.

Your hand shoots up, locking around his throat. His eyes bulge as you twist, a sharp crack echoing off the concrete. You let his body fall like trash, yanking the syringe out of your shoulder and muttering under your breath, “Fucking scientists…”

A blur of red moves into your periphery—Natasha, guns still smoking, surveying the scene with that razor calm. Her eyes flick to you, then to the broken syringe still in your grip.

“You good?” she asks simply. No wasted sympathy, just calculation.

You roll your shoulder once, sharp pain radiating but nothing you can’t handle. “Fine.” You toss the syringe aside like it’s meaningless, stepping over the corpse to rejoin her stride.

No limp. No hesitation. No weakness.

And just like that, the job is done. You leave just as easy as you got out, venturing over the rooftops.

The city below hums with fractured neon. Sirens fade in the distance, chasing ghosts that will never be caught. You and Natasha keep to the rooftops, footsteps silent, shadows slipping from one ruin to the next. Neither of you speak—work’s done, payment will come, nothing left to say.

But silence wears thin.

You glance at her, that red hair glinting faint under the broken sky. “What life would you have lived,” you ask, voice low, “if it hadn’t all gone to shit?”

No answer. She keeps her eyes ahead, steady and sharp, like the question never landed.

You huff a laugh to yourself and answer it instead. Half joking but serious about one thing. “I’d probably end up an escort. Or a stripper. Enough money to live off. Then maybe vanish somewhere in the countryside.”

Vanishing somewhere civilisation wouldn’t matter. Where it was just you, and no one else.

That makes her falter, just barely. Her eyes finally cut toward you, narrowed, weighing. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

You tilt your head, the faintest smirk curling your lips. “Got the body and the looks for it. Might as well put them to use.”

She studies you for a second longer, like she’s trying to decide if you’re joking, or if it’s just another mask. But then she looks away, silence folding in again as you both keep moving across the rooftops.

Because in truth, there’s nothing for her to hold onto. Nothing memorable. Just another cold, ruthless night killer—like all the rest.

A nobody.

You push ahead, leaping the gap between rooftops first. The landing is clean, practiced. You don’t even look back to see if she follows.

Widow does. She always does.

She hates to admit it, but the words you threw out linger in her head like smoke. Escort. Stripper. Ridiculous. She scoffs under her breath, but her eyes betray her for a heartbeat—tracing the lines of your figure in that suit. Sharp shoulders, the cut of your waist, the quiet strength in your stride.

She tells herself it’s tactical assessment, the way she would with anyone else. But she knows better. She knows it would fit. Organizations like that would’ve snapped you up in a second.

The thought irritates her. She pushes it down, quickening her pace to match yours, expression hardening back into stone.

Ahead of her, you never notice. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t care.

You’re just far enough away, boots hitting concrete when the shockwave rips the air apart.

The building behind you erupts, fire blooming into the night like a second sun. Glass shatters outward in a scream, heat rolls across the rooftops, and two whole streets are swallowed in the blast.

You don’t flinch. You just glance back once, watching the wreckage climb the sky. Beside you, Natasha’s hair whips against her face in the wind. Neither of you speak.

Your earpiece crackles. “Opal. Widow.”

The voice is calm. Too calm.

“It’s on the news already. You’re making a name for yourselves.”

You wipe ash from your cheek, jaw tightening. A name for yourself. That was never the job. The job was clean, unseen, surgical.

Natasha shifts, giving the faintest shake of her head. She doesn’t like it either.

You kill the comm line, muttering under your breath, “Wasn’t supposed to look like this.”

Her reply is clipped, cold. “It never is.”

The city burns behind you. Sirens wail somewhere distant, swallowed up by the roar of fire and collapsing concrete. You don’t stop moving—boots steady on the rooftop edges, shadows swallowing you whole. Beside you, she keeps pace without effort, her silence as sharp as the smell of smoke.

You let it drag for a few minutes, only the sound of both your breaths cutting through the night. Then, when the next leap between buildings comes and you land just ahead of her, you throw it out there.

“You ever think it’s all just for show?”

Natasha doesn’t break stride, doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay on the horizon, calculating the next jump.

“Show?” she echoes, clipped, flat.

“Yeah.” You gesture back at the black column of smoke rising high into the stars. “That.” You wipe the soot from your palm across your thigh. “Could’ve been clean. Quiet. In, out, no mess. But they wanted fireworks.” You laugh under your breath, bitter. “They wanted the newsfeed. They wanted a headline.”

For the first time since you met her, you catch the faintest shift in her expression—a twitch of her jaw, too controlled to be called emotion, but close enough.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “Not our place to ask.”

You tilt your head, smirking despite yourself. “Right. No questions. Get in, get out. Kill what we’re told, burn what’s left. Don’t even think while you’re at it, huh?”

Her pace doesn’t falter, but you can feel the way her silence sharpens. A weight. A warning.

“Focus,” she says finally. “That’s how you stay alive.”

You bark a laugh, shaking your head. “Alive and invisible. A ghost no one remembers. Except now?” You jab a thumb toward the burning horizon. “Now everyone remembers.”

That earns you a look, quick and sharp like the edge of her blade. A warning, but also—just barely—an admission. She doesn’t like this any more than you do.

You let the silence hang. She doesn’t fill it, doesn’t defend the corps. She just vaults ahead of you onto the next rooftop, red hair flashing like a match struck in the dark.

You watch her land ahead of you, fluid and silent, the fire’s glow painting her in orange light. She doesn’t slow, doesn’t give you a chance to catch her eye until you force it.

She finally says, low and even:

“Names are just another way to bury you.”

You can’t help the grin that pulls at your face, sharp as a cut.

“Is that why you don’t know mine?”

Her head turns just enough that you see the cold glint in her eyes. “Employer never told me.”

You shrug, keeping pace, boots whispering over concrete. “Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Her silence lingers, heavier than the smoke behind you. You let it sit there, between the two of you, before vaulting the next rooftop first—your laugh echoing softly through the night.

After a moment of silence, her voice cuts through the air, low and deliberate.

“What… do you look like?”

You glance back at her, catching only a flash of her green eyes against the smoke-lit skyline. She’s curious. Intrigued. Dangerous, yes—but curious.

You smirk. “Up to your imagination.”

She tilts her head slightly, a silent challenge in the angle.

“That’s as good as it gets,” you add, letting the words hang between you.

She doesn’t press further. Doesn’t need to. She studies you in that quiet way, tracing your silhouette as you move ahead, but never getting closer than your shadow.

And you keep walking, boots light, letting the mystery linger. Because that’s the way it has to be. Ghosts don’t have faces.

Gray. That’s all there is left.

Not the soft grey of clouds or dawn skies—those don’t exist anymore. Just the heavy, metallic film that coats everything: buildings, streets, skin, even the air. A kind of gray that doesn’t fade, like the world gave up on color the same time it gave up on people.

It didn’t happen in one day. That’s the cruel part. It was slow, stretched across decades. Corporations bled governments dry, sold them promises of safety and stability until the only thing left standing were the corpos themselves. And while they were busy buying the world, no one cared about what was burning.

Forests went first—cut down for fuel when oil ran out, ground up for profit when food did. Rivers turned black. Oceans climbed higher until coastlines drowned. And when nature finally pushed back, when storms came harder, hotter, stronger than ever, it was too late. Those who could afford safety bought it. The rest of us were left choking on the dust.

Now the world is run by shadows. Not ideals. Not leaders. Just money, and the men and women willing to kill for it.

That’s where I come in.

Not because I wanted to. Not because there was some calling or fate. But because there’s nothing else left. You work the factories until your lungs rot out, or you sell yourself to syndicates until your body breaks. Or, if you’re fast enough, ruthless enough, you do the jobs no one else will. The dirty ones. The bloody ones.

Assassinations pay better than hunger.

So when the city blares its alarms, when drones circle the skies, when the syndicate hands me a gun and a target name, I don’t think twice. I’m already gone, already moving through the smoke-choked streets.

Because this is survival now. And survival doesn’t come cheap.

You don’t forget your targets. It builds up in a spare memory. The variety changes, men, women, corpos, military, civilians, black market, children. You never escape the screams, especially those of the children. Those who are supposed to have a whole life ahead of them. Murdered in cold blood because they were a liability. Or just for karma.

Dreams aren’t peaceful. They’re violent, even there is no escape from the real grey world we live in. In this world you aren’t allowed to dream. Not to hope. Not to pray. There is no living, just surviving. The only people that get to live are those stuck up corpos.

No one is control, may that be of your own mind and body or from your company and assets. The once green world we knew is dead. Ravaged over by lack of attention towards nature, overflowed by manipulation and war.

The war never truly stopped. Not when you’re a fault in the system. They whisper in your ear ‘007’. Licensed to kill.

You can get out of the corpo, but the corpo never gets out of you. Running away is futile. It’ll end in ‘unkown’ written on the grave. That is, even if you get one.

The only way to go out is with glory, fame. Fear by civilians and corpo. But that title is hard to earn. So killing to get by is the only thing that seems to be the normalcy of today and thats where i come in.

They call me Opal.

It isn’t my name. Just the one the syndicate stamped on me when I signed my life away. Names don’t matter much anymore—not the real ones, anyway. Too easy for the corpos to trace, too easy for enemies to carve onto gravestones. Codenames are cleaner. Disposable. And if you die, they don’t bury you as a person. Just another call sign crossed off the ledger.

The earpiece crackles against my ear. Static at first, then the low voice of command:

“Opal, confirm position.”

“Eyes on,” I mutter, sight pressed to the scope.

I’m prone against cold concrete three stories up, rifle nestled against my shoulder. Below, the city simmers with the usual filth—streets packed with scrap traders and scavengers, neon signs buzzing weakly in the smog, drones humming overhead. My target cuts through it all like a shark: corporate convoy, black armored car rolling slow down the avenue, flanked by guards.

The kind of kill that pays for months of food. If you survive it.

My finger brushes the trigger. Steady breath in, steady breath out.

“Wind’s low,” I whisper. “Shot’s clean. Ready on your mark.”

“Copy. Green light.”

I settle the crosshairs on the passenger window. Just one squeeze and this is done. Another job, another credit drop, another night not spent starving.

I exhale—

—and freeze.

A blur of movement cuts across the street below. A figure, quick as smoke, hair catching the dull light in a flash of red. For a split second, she’s framed dead-center in my scope. Then gone.

“What the fuck…” I blink, shifting the rifle, scanning the crowd. Nothing. Just shadows and guards and smog. The red ghost already vanished.

“Opal, status?”

I steady my voice. “Target’s still clean. Adjusting position.”

But my hands don’t feel steady anymore. Because in this city, you don’t see red like that by accident. And if you do—chances are, someone else is hunting the same mark.

The shot goes off before you can pull the trigger.

Glass explodes from the armored car below. The passenger window shatters in a spray of shards, and the convoy jerks sideways as the guards scramble. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. Someone got to the target first.

“Opal, report!” the earpiece barks.

“Target compromised,” you hiss, yanking the rifle up and scanning. “Repeat, target is compromised.”

Chaos spills through the street. Civilians scatter, guards shout into comms, drones whirl overhead. You track the rooftops, the alleys, every shadow—but there’s no second shooter in sight. Just that phantom red streak burned into your mind.

You don’t think. You move.

The rifle slings across your back as you vault off the ledge, boots slamming against the fire escape. Metal groans under your weight as you tear down, three steps at a time, until you hit pavement. The convoy is a wreck ahead, guards already dragging the bleeding corpse of your paycheck out of the car. Whoever pulled the trigger just cost you months of survival.

And you’re not letting them walk away with it.

You cut through the alleys, pulse spiking, eyes raking the rooftops. A flutter of movement snaps your attention right: a shadow darting across the upper floor of an abandoned complex. You follow, climbing rusted scaffolding, slipping inside broken windows.

Dust chokes the air, floorboards groan under your boots. You slow your breathing, ears straining. A shift of fabric. A whisper of leather. Someone’s here.

You round the corner fast, gun up—

—and slam straight into her.

She moves fast, faster than anyone you’ve ever faced. The barrel of her Glock shoves against your throat at the exact moment yours presses between her ribs. Both of you freeze, locked, breath harsh.

And then you see her.

The suit, black as oil but cut for movement. The way she holds herself, balanced on the balls of her feet, steady as if she’s been trained since birth. And the hair—tied back but still unmistakable. A deep, striking red that no amount of smoke or ash could hide.

Recognition hits like a gut punch.

Black Widow.

You don’t know her name, don’t need to. Everyone knows the Widow. A ghost of the Red Room, one of the deadliest things to crawl out of the corporate machine. People whisper her codename like a warning, and here she is, a gun in your face, eyes flat and sharp as glass.

“You just cost me a job,” you growl, finger tightening on the trigger.

Her mouth twitches—not a smile, not even close. “Likewise.”

The target’s guards shout in the distance, sweeping the building. Both of you hear it. Both of you know what comes next.

Her eyes flick toward the sound, then back to yours. Neither of you lower the gun.

You grit your teeth, pressing your gun closer. “Kill them first. Then we talk.”

Her eyes narrow, sharp and unreadable. For a moment, the world stops, and all you hear is the distant chaos of the guards sweeping the building. Then… a subtle shift. A tilt of her head, just enough to register she’s agreeing.

“Fine,” she says, voice low, clipped. “We survive first.”

You don’t wait for more. The two of you move like a single predator, instincts tuned to each other before you’ve even spoken a word. She’s fast, efficient—fluid in ways that make your chest tighten—but for once, she’s caught off guard by your speed, your timing. You cover angles she didn’t expect.

Shots ring out, ricochets hum across the walls. Dust sprays from broken walls. Guards go down one by one, caught in the crossfire you and she coordinate instinctively.

By the time the last man hits the ground, the room falls silent. Smoke curls in the corners. You’re breathing hard, heart pounding.

Then… the gun comes up again. Her Glock presses lightly against your chest.

You smirk, letting the tension linger. “You really love that gun, don’t you?”

Her eyes flash, lips pressing into a thin line. “Shut your mouth.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, lowering your weapon just slightly—but not completely. She doesn’t lower hers either. Not yet. And for some reason, that small, tense moment feels like the first crack in the armor around Black Widow.

For now, survival comes first. Conversation… can wait.

You catch your breath, gun still raised. Her gaze pins you in place, sharp as a blade.

“You work for who?” she demands.

You raise an eyebrow, voice steady despite your pulse. “You first.”

She smirks, almost amused. Then her face hardens. “I asked first.”

You weigh your options—refusing isn’t an option; you’ve seen what happens when people hide things in this city. And neither of you is walking away clean.

“Did you now?” She presses the gun more insistent. Forcing you to answer

“Obsidian,” you say finally.

Her eyes narrow. “Obsidian?” She curses under her breath, muttering so low it’s barely audible. “Goddamn… you’re telling me they still have you running assets?”

You flinch slightly. “And?”

“And,” she snaps, shaking her head, “you know what that means. Any slip-up… you’re dead. Innuring assets from your own corpo could’ve gotten you killed.”

Silence stretches for a moment. She’s studying you, assessing. Then her grip on the gun relaxes just slightly.

“You’re…” she mutters under her breath again, lowering her Glock finally. “…from the same corpo I run for.”

You exhale slowly, lowering your weapon too, though wariness stays. There’s no trust yet, just a recognition of shared danger. Two ghosts of the same machine, forced to collide.

“You’re lucky,” she says quietly, almost bitter. “Most wouldn’t get second chances after today.”

You glance at her, half-expecting her to raise her gun again. But she doesn’t. Not yet. And for the first time, you realize: the Widow isn’t just a legend out there in the gray streets. She’s real. And now… she’s your reluctant partner.

“Move your ass, we need to report back to base.” You chuckle at her authority, but you don’t question it and follow after her, “yes ma’am.”

You move through the smoke-choked streets, boots slapping against cracked concrete, keeping pace with her. Every shadow feels heavier than the last. Your fingers tighten around the rifle you’re still holding, even though neither of you has fired since the fight ended.

“You know,” you finally say, voice low, “Obsidian sent both of us out there.”

She doesn’t look at you, scanning the street ahead. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, glancing at her profile. “Could mean they questioned my skills. Or yours. Or maybe they wanted to see how far we’d go if the other was in the mix. Test loyalty, see who survives.”

A pause. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking to you briefly. “Or… maybe they just like putting people in positions where they can die and call it a job well done.”

You snort softly, but it comes out more like a cough than a laugh. “That’s… Obsidian for you.”

She lets out a short, dry laugh, just enough to break some of the tension. “Don’t get used to it,” she mutters.

For the rest of the walk back, you keep your distance, but the thought lingers. Two agents from the same corpo, surviving a mission that should have killed either of you. Someone above you both is watching. And someone probably wants to see how far the other will go.

You both pass what used to be a lively city, now just a shell of humanity. Houses are unkept, no green, barely any person on the street. It was never safe. The government failed, just like so many others. Now their only job is to patrol certain areas. Useless.

By the time you reach the base, you’re exhausted in a way that isn’t just physical. The city hasn’t changed. Smoke still hangs thick, the sky still presses down gray. But for the first time, you realize that maybe surviving today wasn’t just luck. Maybe having her there… had something to do with it.

You step into the base, the smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaning chemicals hitting your nose. Guards glance your way, faces unreadable. The reception area is dim, screens flickering with surveillance feeds and blinking red alerts.

The handler behind the desk doesn’t even look up when you drop your weapons on the counter. Money slides across the metal surface without a word.

You pick it up, fingers brushing the crisp bills, counting quickly. Enough to last… until the next mission. Not that it matters in the long run.

You glance at her. She’s standing there, silent as ever, letting the cash sit untouched for now.

You clear your throat. “Why… deploy both of us? Why not just one?”

The handler finally looks at you, eyes cold, expression flat. “I deploy you to get the work done,” he says, voice precise, no hint of emotion. “Not to ask questions.”

The words land hard. You bite back a retort. Of course. Of course that’s all it’s ever been. Obsidian doesn’t care who dies, who survives, or how you feel about it. The only metric is results.

You glance at Widow. Her face doesn’t give anything away. You wonder if she ever asks questions. You don’t get an answer.

He slides a file across the desk. “Next assignment will be ready soon. Clean up and rest. You’ll be deployed again before the sun sets.”

You pick up your rifle and holster it, the weight familiar in your hands. Outside, the gray sky presses down, unchanging.

And somewhere deep in your chest, a spark flickers—recognition that surviving today, working with her… might have been the first step toward something different. Or maybe not.

Either way, you pocket the cash and let the city swallow you again, knowing tomorrow, like today, it will be kill or be killed.

You sling your rifle over your shoulder as you head toward the exit, cash in hand, boots clanging against the metal stairs. She follows silently, shadows stretching long behind you.

“So… I guess we’re going to be working together more often,” you say casually, letting the words hang in the air.

Her pace doesn’t falter. Her voice is sharp, clipped, defensive. “Don’t get in my way,” she says. Just like that. No hint of a smile, no acknowledgment of the bond you just formed in the streets.

You smirk despite yourself. “Noted. I’ll try to keep up.”

Her gaze flicks toward you, calculating, and for a heartbeat, you think you see… respect? Maybe. Or just wariness. Either way, it’s enough.

You step outside into the gray city, the wind biting at your face. The streets are empty, the sky heavy with ash. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

And you realize: in this world, surviving today was only the beginning. Tomorrow, you and the Widow might just be unstoppable—if neither of you kills the other first.

After what happened in her classroom, you didn’t go back. Not to tutoring, not to office hours — barely even to class. If you did, you sat far enough away that you didn’t have to look at her. You couldn’t.

Your phone lit up constantly those first few days — Lizzie calling, texting, leaving voice notes that stacked up like bricks in a wall you didn’t want to climb. You ignored every one of them.

The group chat buzzed with plans, jokes, Florence’s endless memes, Anthony’s caps lock rants. You turned your notifications off. You couldn’t handle pretending everything was fine.

So, you drifted. You went to class, you went home. Slept badly, ate worse. Every time you thought about what happened, you felt sick — not because you didn’t want it, but because you did.

By the end of the week, you were a ghost in your own life.

And then Liz showed up.

It was late Monday when she knocked, the kind of knock you knew meant she wasn’t leaving without an answer. You thought about staying silent, but your body moved before your brain decided, dragging you to the door.

She stood there, messy bun, hoodie, looking more concerned than annoyed. For once.

“Jesus, finally,” she muttered, brushing past you into your room without waiting for an invite. “You’ve been MIA for, like, forever. What the hell is going on with you?”

You froze, staring at the floor, words lodged in your throat.

She turned, eyes narrowing when you didn’t answer. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this mute act. Either you tell me what’s wrong, or I’m staging a full-on intervention with Florence and Tom and whoever else I need to drag in.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Just a shallow breath, shaky and loud.

Her expression softened instantly. “Hey… what happened?”

You hated that your chest tightened at that. That a single question nearly broke you more than the whole last week had.

Liz’s eyes softened when she saw your face. You weren’t just quiet — you were crumbling.

“You look like you’re about to…” she stopped herself, then shook her head. “You’re not okay. Are you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not yes, not no. Your chest ached like something heavy sat on it, pressing the air out of you.

She sighed, but it wasn’t annoyance. It was recognition. “Don’t do this again,” she said, quietly. “Don’t disappear into yourself. Not after last time.”

That broke something inside you.

The memory of it clawed up your throat — the endless nights you didn’t get out of bed, the days when even breathing felt like too much, when you had fallen so far into the dark that you didn’t care if you ever came back. And Liz, stubborn and relentless Liz, had refused to let you stay there. She dove in after you, when nobody else even noticed you were gone. She had dragged you back to the surface when you had nothing left.

And now… you were sinking again.

“Liz…” your voice cracked, barely a whisper.

She stepped forward immediately, wrapping her arms around you like she could physically hold you together. “Shh. Don’t,” she murmured. “You don’t have to explain. Just—don’t shut me out this time.”

You pressed your face into her shoulder, shaking. The words you should say were there, clawing at your tongue: I crossed a line with her. My teacher. I let her touch me. I let her kiss me. I let her ruin me.

But you didn’t say them. You couldn’t. If you did, Liz would look at you differently. She’d stop being your anchor, and right now she was the only thing keeping you from drowning completely.

So you just held on tighter, whispering the only truth you could manage: “I’m not okay.”

Liz’s hand threaded into your hair, grounding you. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”

You should’ve swallowed it down, buried it deep like you always did. But Liz was standing there, holding you together like she always had, and you couldn’t shut her out. Not this time.

So you let the words fall.

“It’s her,” you whispered, and your throat closed up instantly. Tears blurred your vision until Liz’s face was just shapes and shadows. “Ms. Johansson. It’s—” you broke off, choking on the syllables. “She… she touched me.”

The disgust hit you in a violent wave. It crawled over your skin, made your stomach twist until you thought you might vomit right there in her arms. Saying it out loud made it real in a way you weren’t ready for.

Liz froze. Her arms stayed around you, but her whole body went rigid like she’d been slapped.

You pressed your hand over your mouth, but the words kept tumbling out, jagged and messy. “She kissed me. She put her hands on me. And I—” your voice cracked, breaking into a sob. “I didn’t stop her. God, Liz, I didn’t stop her.”

Your knees gave, and if she hadn’t been holding you, you would’ve collapsed to the floor.

Liz’s hands tightened on your shoulders, anchoring you, even though her face had gone pale. Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Not yet. She just looked at you, really looked at you — the tears, the shaking, the way shame coated every word.

“I feel sick,” you whispered, clutching your stomach. “I feel so disgusting.”

Liz shook her head sharply, finally finding her voice. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare put that on yourself.”

You wanted to believe her, but the truth was clawing too deep inside of you. Saying it had broken you open, and you weren’t sure if you’d ever be able to stitch yourself back together again.

Liz didn’t hesitate. The second the words were out, she held you tighter — not too tight, but just enough to stop you from unraveling completely.

You dragged in a shaky breath, your voice breaking as you muttered, “I need a shower. I can’t—” you shook your head violently, nails digging into your own arms. “I need to get it off. I need—”

“You don’t,” Liz cut in firmly, tilting your face so you’d look at her. Her eyes were glassy, but her voice didn’t waver. “You don’t smell like her. You don’t look like her. You’re you.”

“I feel filthy,” you choked out, shoving at the sleeves of your shirt like they were suffocating you. “Liz, I feel so—”

She didn’t let you finish. She took your wrists gently, steadying your hands, then leaned her forehead against yours. “Listen to me,” she said, soft but strong. “You are not dirty. She doesn’t get to make you feel like that. Not her. Not ever.”

You wanted to believe her. God, you wanted to. But all you could think of was the way Ms. Johansson’s hands had felt on your waist, the way her mouth had stolen yours, how you hadn’t walked away when you should have.

Liz saw it in your face, in the way you flinched at your own thoughts. So she didn’t let you go.

“Come on,” she said finally, sliding her arm around your shoulders. “If you want a shower, I’ll sit outside the door. I’m not leaving you alone with this. Not now.”

That broke something in you — not the disgust, not the shame, but the fragile relief of not having to drown by yourself. For the first time since that day in her classroom, you let yourself lean against someone who wasn’t going to hurt you.

The tiles were cold against your back, the spray of the shower hammering down, soaking your clothes until the weight of them felt like it was dragging you under all over again. But Liz was there. She slid down beside you without a word, knees pulled up, her arm wrapping around your shoulders like she was bracing you against the world.

And you told her everything. Your voice broke again and again, but you forced it out. How at first you thought Ms. Johansson understood you, saw you in a way no one else did. How you mistook that for something safe, something real. How quickly she twisted it. How you played into it, believing it mattered. How disgusted you were with yourself for letting it go that far.

Liz didn’t interrupt. She didn’t try to explain it away or offer hollow comfort. She just let you speak, her hand occasionally smoothing down your wet hair when your voice cracked too sharp.

“I thought…” your throat burned, words dissolving into a ragged whisper. “I thought I was something she wanted, but I was just something she owned.”

Liz’s grip on you tightened. Her jaw clenched, her eyes fierce even as water ran down her face. “No,” she said finally, steady and firm. “You’re not hers. You were never hers.”

The fight left you after that. You leaned into her, exhaustion finally dragging you down. She felt the weight of your head against her shoulder, your breathing slow and uneven, your body finally giving in after days of misery and no sleep.

When she was sure you were out, Liz pressed her lips together, guilt flickering over her features. She couldn’t just leave this. She couldn’t carry it on her own.

Carefully, she reached into her pocket, pulling out her soaked phone. Shielding it from the spray as best she could, she scrolled with trembling fingers until she found Florence’s contact.

She hesitated only once, glancing at your sleeping face, before hitting call.

“Flo?” she whispered when the line picked up. Her voice cracked, all the anger and fear she’d been holding spilling out at once. “It’s bad. It’s really bad. She needs you.”

And with that, the secret was out.

Liz kept one arm around you, steadying your sleeping weight against her shoulder while her other hand fumbled with her phone. For a moment, she just stared at the screen, thumb hovering, guilt heavy in her chest. She hadn’t wanted to betray your trust like this. But looking at you—so small, so worn down—you gave her no choice.

She scrolled to the group chat, heart pounding, before instead tapping individual contacts.

First: Tom. Then Anthony. Then Sebastian. And finally, Florence.

Anthony answered first, his voice already bright with laughter like he thought it was one of those late-night prank calls. “Lizzie? What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re all—”

“Anthony,” Liz cut him off sharply, her voice a low command. “Shut up. Something’s wrong. Really wrong.”

The shift in his tone was immediate. “What happened? Where are you?”

Tom’s voice filtered in next, quick and worried. “Liz? Are you safe?”

She glanced down at you, water still dripping from your hair, your lips parted in uneven sleep. She felt her throat tighten. “It’s not me. It’s her.”

There was silence on the line, like they all instantly understood who she meant.

Then Sebastian’s voice cut through, clipped and resolute. “Where are you?”

“Dorms. Her room,” Liz whispered.

“I’ll be there in five.” He didn’t wait for her to say more—just hung up.

The others erupted at once, voices overlapping—Tom promising to head over, Anthony swearing under his breath as he fumbled to get his keys, Florence demanding more detail.

Liz shook her head, pressing the phone harder to her ear as though that would steady her. “Just… hurry. Please.”

And then she dropped her forehead against the tile wall, holding you tighter as the water kept pouring down, counting the seconds until help arrived.

The knock came first—sharp, rushed. Then another, heavier.

“Lizzie?” Sebastian’s voice.

Before she could even scramble, the lock clicked. Florence pushed the door open with trembling hands, breathless from running. The moment the door cracked, the others spilled in behind her—Sebastian at the front, Tom and Anthony right on his heels.

The smell of damp air hit them first. Then the sight.

Liz sat cross-legged on the floor by the bed, your small frame curled into her chest, your damp hair sticking to your forehead. A towel was draped clumsily around you, but your clothes were still clinging wet, your face pale and slack with exhaustion.

Anthony froze mid-step, the color draining from his face. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered, voice breaking.

Tom’s eyes darted everywhere—your face, the towel, the water stains on the floor—like his brain couldn’t land on one thing without shattering. “Is she—?”

“She’s asleep,” Liz cut him off quickly, her voice firm but trembling. “She finally passed out.”

Florence shut the door softly, her chest heaving as she came forward. “Liz… what the hell happened?”

Liz’s arms tightened around you, as if the words themselves might hurt you. Her eyes burned, throat locked. “I can’t—I can’t explain it all right now. But she’s not okay.”

Sebastian crouched down in front of you both, his jaw tight, eyes scanning every detail. He reached out like he wanted to touch your shoulder but pulled back, his voice low and steady. “You did the right thing calling us.”

For a moment, silence. Just the sound of the dripping towel and your faint breathing against Liz’s chest.

Anthony ran a hand over his face, whispering, “Fuck,” under his breath, pacing like he didn’t know where to put himself.

Tom sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the floor.

Florence finally knelt beside Sebastian, her voice shaking but resolute. “Okay. We’ll figure this out. She’s not going through this alone.”

Liz swallowed hard, nodding, even as her arms curled tighter around you.

And for the first time that night, she let herself breathe—because they were here now.

Your eyes fluttered open, blurry from sleep and the haze of yesterday, just enough to catch the murmurs of voices.

Liz noticed immediately. She tightened her hold slightly, guiding you back to a more comfortable position against her chest. “Hey,” she whispered softly. “You’re okay.”

But the others were talking, just behind her, and you could hear every sharp intake of breath, every pause heavy with disbelief and anger.

Liz cleared her throat and told them what she knew, the words careful but honest: what had happened in Ms. Johansson’s office, the way you’d been caught between fear and the twisted pull of validation, the way you hadn’t walked away even though you should have.

The room went silent. Then the anger hit—not at you, but at what had been done to you, and what you’d had to endure alone until now.

Anthony’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. “Who does that to someone?” he hissed, pacing. “That’s—fucking—what?”

Sebastian leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scowling. “You didn’t deserve any of it. Not her. Not anyone.”

Tom’s voice was quieter, but no less sharp. “You could’ve been hurt… God, you could’ve—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking onto yours. “You didn’t deserve this. None of it.”

Even Florence, usually the calm one, looked like she might cry. “Liz… how long has she been like this?”

You pressed yourself closer to Liz, shame crawling over you like icy fingers. “I… I should’ve walked away,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “It’s my fault. I didn’t—”

“No,” Liz snapped, cutting you off immediately. Her hands gripped your shoulders, strong and insistent. “No. You didn’t make her do it. You didn’t deserve it. You played no part in this, except surviving it. And you did, Y/N. You did.”

The room was heavy with tension, fury, and relief all at once. You let the tears finally come, sliding down your cheeks as Liz held you, her own chin resting atop your head.

For a long while, no one said anything. They just stayed there, close, protective. Angry at the world for what happened to you, but united in making sure you didn’t have to face it alone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe them.

The next week, you went back to school, dragging yourself through the motions of routine. But the weight on your shoulders felt lighter—not because it was gone, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore.

Russian class? You and the group quietly, almost conspiratorially, decided to quit. To Ms. Johansson, it wasn’t a surprise. Her eyes lingered briefly on you the first day back, sharp and unreadable, but she didn’t press. You ignored her like the plague, and in return, she gave no attention.

Instead, you all enrolled in something safer, something lighter: Art.

The first day, your hands smelled of paint, canvas stretched beneath your fingers. The teacher—an enthusiastic, scatterbrained man who frequently mislaid his brush—was a complete doofus. He prattled on about brush strokes and light sources, but you didn’t care.

For the first time in months, you laughed without hesitation. Liz was there, teasing you about your choice of color palettes. Anthony kept making ridiculous poses in your sketches, and Sebastian and Tom argued over who could do the most exaggerated still-life sculpture. Florence rolled her eyes, but even she couldn’t hide her amusement.

The hours flew by, filled with paint, laughter, and music spilling from the classroom speakers. The air smelled of turpentine and possibility.

And as for Ms. Johansson? She existed only as a ghost of memory at the back of your mind—ignored, powerless, irrelevant.

For the first time in a long while, you felt like yourself again.

By the end of the year, you all passed Art and the other classes with flying colors. The laughter, the camaraderie, and the freedom had carried you through.

When the next academic year rolled around, whispers reached you: Ms. Johansson had quit. The reason given was simple—she needed a change in her life, something different, something away from the routines and constraints that had defined her.

You smiled faintly to yourself, the memory of last year’s chaos lingering only as a shadow in the back of your mind. Next year would be different, you promised—just like you’d said last year. But this time, there was a weight lifted, a certainty you hadn’t felt before.

You had people who supported you. People who cared, who had stood by you, who had helped you find yourself again. And for once, that was more than enough.

The page had turned. The next chapter awaited, and this time, you weren’t alone.

By the time the new year began, the memories of last year’s chaos had faded from their sharp edges into softer, more manageable shapes. You walked through campus with a sense of ease you hadn’t felt in months, laughter bubbling freely as you joked with Liz, Sebastian, Tom, Anthony, and Florence.

Art class had become your sanctuary, and your friends your anchor. You’d grown comfortable again—comfortable with yourself, with boundaries, with trust.

And then there was Liz.

It had started small: casual touches, lingering glances, late-night talks that stretched into the early hours. But over time, it became impossible to ignore the pull between you. You both had your moments of drunken impulsiveness, of playful teasing, but now it carried weight—a quiet, steady understanding.

One evening, sitting on the edge of the quad as the sun dipped low, Liz nudged you gently. “So… are we gonna keep pretending this isn’t happening?” she asked, voice teasing but soft.

You laughed, heart thumping in your chest. “Pretending? Never really my style.”

She smiled, eyes glinting with warmth. “Then… want to actually try this?”

You nodded, a grin tugging at your lips. “Yeah. I think I do.”

And just like that, the world seemed lighter. Not perfect, never perfect—but yours. You and Liz, together, built on trust, laughter, and shared history. The chaos of the past remained, but it no longer controlled you.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall—safely, willingly, and with someone who truly had your back.

And that was enough.

It started quietly.

One canceled session. Then another. Then the excuse that she’d been called into a faculty meeting. Then, suddenly, nothing. No messages. No makeup lessons. Just silence and avoidance.

At first, you thought it was coincidence—professors had lives, after all. But when you realized it had been nearly two weeks without so much as a word, the knot in your stomach turned sharp.

Your Russian assignments were coming back marked in red more than black, and the sinking feeling of a C-minus staring back at you made you feel desperate. You needed her help. You wanted her help.

By Friday, desperation won.

You waited until her last class ended, hovering outside the lecture hall with your books clutched to your chest. Students filed past, chattering, tossing you curious glances. You didn’t care.

When the door finally opened, there she was—calm, collected, the image of authority. She barely looked at you before her eyes flicked away, like she hadn’t seen you at all. Like you weren’t standing right there waiting.

That did it.

“Why are you avoiding me?” The words came sharper than you intended, but you didn’t back down.

Her steps faltered just slightly, enough for you to notice. She turned, that professor-mask slipping over her face, cool and professional.

“I’m not avoiding you,” she said, too fast, too smooth. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” You almost laughed. “For two weeks? Really? You canceled everything. My Russian’s tanking because of it.”

Her eyes met yours then, steady, unreadable. A storm of something you couldn’t name lingered there, though—guilt, restraint, maybe even anger.

“You’ll manage,” she said flatly, shifting her papers against her chest like a shield.

And in that moment, you wished you hadn’t cornered her at all—because you saw it. The wall she was putting up. The quiet, aching truth in her denial. That this wasn’t about Russian. It was about you.

And she wasn’t ready to admit it.

You stood your ground.

“No, I won’t manage,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest. “Not without you. You think I can just figure Russian out by myself? I’ve been failing since the semester started. You know that.”

Ms. Johansson’s jaw tightened, her knuckles white where she gripped her papers. For a second, it looked like she’d just walk away. But instead, she faced you fully, her voice sharper than you’d ever heard it.

“Maybe if you weren’t wasting your time at parties and letting your friends drag you around, you wouldn’t need me to hold your hand.”

The words cut. You felt them lodge deep, because they weren’t entirely wrong—but they weren’t fair, either.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cracked. “I’ve been trying, I am trying. And I came to you because you’re the only one who can actually help me. But you’d rather avoid me, pretend like I don’t exist—”

“You think this is about you?” she interrupted, too fast, too defensive.

“Yes!” you shot back before she could stop herself. “Because it is about me. Otherwise, why else would you be avoiding me? Why else would you call everything off?”

She stared at you, chest rising and falling in tight, controlled breaths. The professor-mask was gone now. She looked almost cornered, furious and fragile all at once.

“You don’t understand,” she said finally, low, almost like she was warning you.

“Then make me understand.”

Her eyes flickered—something unguarded, something she’d been holding back all this time. But just as quick, she buried it again, her voice colder than ever.

“You don’t need me. You need discipline. You need to stop chasing after attention and learn to stand on your own. I’m not going to babysit you while you play dress-up with your friends.”

You froze, that last part hitting too close, too specific. She knew exactly what she was saying.

Your throat tightened. “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like she wished she hadn’t said anything at all. Then she shifted her papers, stepped past you, and left.

And you were left standing there, wishing you’d never asked—but knowing now that this was no longer about Russian at all.

You swallowed hard, her words still echoing in your head, sharp and deliberate. But there was something off. Something that stuck.

“How would you even know?” you demanded, your voice trembling now with anger more than nerves. “How would you know I was with my friends, or Lizzie, or at that party? We haven’t even talked in weeks.”

Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t move. Didn’t deny it.

The realization hit you like ice water. Your chest hollowed. “You’ve been watching me.”

The silence between you went razor-thin.

“Jesus,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “You’ve been stalking me?”

Still nothing. No denial. Not even a flicker of guilt. Just that same steady look, like she’d already weighed whether or not to lie and decided against it.

Your heart hammered so loud it filled the room. “Do you even hear yourself? That’s— That’s insane. You ignore me in class, you call off tutoring, but the whole time you’re still—”

Her voice cracked through the tension, quiet but cutting. “Because I couldn’t look at you without remembering what I saw.”

That stopped you.

She stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough to close the air between you. The professional veneer was gone now, replaced by something raw, something she clearly hated herself for.

“You post everything,” she said, low, tight. “Every picture, every laugh, every moment with them. Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit here and watch you give yourself away piece by piece?”

Her eyes burned into yours, and for the first time you couldn’t tell if she was furious with you or herself. Maybe both.

You shook your head, breath catching. “You had no right.”

“And yet I knew,” she snapped back, like the truth was too heavy for her to hold quietly anymore. “Everywhere you went. Everything you did. With her.”

You blinked at her, the words rattling around in your head. What I saw. With her. What the hell did that mean?

Oh. Lizzie.

You didn’t even notice until then how close she’d gotten, her shadow grazing over yours, the classroom suddenly feeling too small for both of you.

“Wait—” you started, voice caught between disbelief and something else. “That’s what this is about?”

She didn’t answer. Her silence was worse than any denial could’ve been.

“You’re jealous.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too sharp, too raw. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re my teacher, I’m your student, and you’re—” you laughed breathlessly, though it came out more broken than amused, “you’re actually jealous.”

Her eyes flared, just for a second. Enough to tell you that you’d hit the mark.

And suddenly, the anger in your chest twisted into something far more dangerous. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

“You ignore me in class, you cancel tutoring, you watch me online like some—some shadow, and for what? Because you can’t stand that I’m not orbiting around you all the time?”

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t move. Didn’t deny it.

The silence pressed down on you both until you could barely breathe.

“I just wanted your help,” you whispered, the last of your defenses cracking. “Your attention. Your… validation.” The word burned coming out, like you were confessing something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

And you swore, just for a heartbeat, you saw her falter.

Her voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.

“You think you know what you want, don’t you?”

You stiffened when she moved closer, forcing you back step by step until the edge of the desk pressed into the backs of your thighs. You hadn’t even realized she was herding you until there was nowhere else to go.

Her mouth curved, not quite a smile—something darker. “Pathetic. Chasing after scraps of validation.” She tilted her head, eyes dragging over you with unnerving precision. “But that’s all you’ve ever wanted from me, isn’t it?”

Your throat worked, but no words came.

“Good girl,” she said suddenly, mockingly, like the words were a blade meant to cut as much as they soothed. The sound of it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t understand. And before you could recover, she leaned in closer, her breath ghosting your ear. “Desperate little thing. Thinking grades are the reason you’re here.”

You should’ve said something. You should’ve pushed her back, stormed out, done anything. But when her hands slid down and landed on your waist—firm, claiming—you didn’t move. You didn’t stop her.

And maybe that was the moment everything snapped. Maybe that’s where you should’ve walked away.

But you didn’t.

If you hadn’t been like this—heat coiled in your stomach, pulse racing in a way you didn’t want to name—you probably would’ve run. You probably would’ve shoved her away, stormed out, saved yourself.

But you didn’t. And that was all the permission she needed.

Her mouth was on yours before you could catch your breath, forceful, hungry. You froze for half a second before your body betrayed you, kissing her back, nails digging into the desk at your sides. Her grip on your waist tightened until it was bruising, and when you tried to push back, tried to match her, you lost. She swallowed your defiance like it was nothing, controlling every breath, every angle.

By the time you registered it, you were on her desk, her standing between your thighs as though you belonged there.

This wasn’t right, this had to stop. Your thoughts turn into a blur as her hand traces over the curve over your hips, ending up at your knee. But what if? You dared to question yourself, what if this was what she needed to tutor you again?

Even though you were twenty-two and should’ve known better. You did the opposite. You dived headfirst into the endless sea without a buoy or diving suit to pull you back out.

“What..was that..” you asked, your voice raw, breaking on the edges of panic and something else you didn’t want to admit.

She didn’t step away. Didn’t even flinch.

One of her hands lingered heavy on your knee, thumb dragging in idle circles that made your breath hitch despite yourself. The other braced the desk beside your hip, caging you in.

Her laugh was low, cruel, mocking. “What does it look like?”

Before you could stammer anything back, her hand slipped higher, forcing your knees open wider with a firm press. Your heart lurched into your throat, a shiver tearing down your spine. She tilted her head, eyes glittering, like she was dissecting every twitch of your face, every unspoken thought.

“You think you want answers,” she murmured, fingers tightening on your thigh, “but all you’ve been doing is begging for this. Acting out, wasting your time, throwing yourself at anyone who’d look at you.”

It was humiliating, and yet it unlocked something deep, something you hadn’t realized was buried under your skin until her words dug it up. You hated the way your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

And she saw it. Of course she saw it.

You forced yourself to laugh, bitter and shaky. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Her hand on your thigh flexed, nails grazing into your skin just enough to make you jolt. She leaned in, her lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. “Don’t I?”

Your breath stuttered. You hated that she could feel it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you bit out, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Pathetic, even, if this is how you—”

The sharp squeeze at your thigh cut your words short, pulling a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to let slip — high, needy, embarrassing.

Her laugh was low, triumphant, vibrating against your skin. She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes burning with something you couldn’t decipher but felt everywhere.

“There it is,” she murmured, tilting her head like she’d just uncovered a secret she’d been searching for. “That little whine.”

Your face burned. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” she interrupted smoothly, her thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles higher up your thigh, dragging another involuntary twitch from you. “And you will again. No matter how hard you pretend you’re above it.”

She said it with such certainty it left you reeling.

Trying to keep up with her level you defiantly mutter “Go fuck yourself.” Only for your words to come out more breathless than intended.

Her thumb trails further up your thigh, disappearing under your skirt. Before you could make another reprimand, her lips are on yours again. Your teeth clash, she presses herself closer and you wrap her closer with your legs.

If anyone walked in right now you’d be screwed. No matter if anyone walked in, you were already screwed. Too drowned into your own thoughts you hadn’t felt her hand hook around your panties which were already a mess by now.

At the little tug, you gasp. Eyelids flutter as your body literally begged to be touched. You’d hate to admit it, but she made this mess of you.

“All for me?” Her tone hushed and laced with wanton as she trailed away from your lips. Her fingers tease your entrance. The barrier between you, and her fingers being the mere useless fabric of your panties that she could’ve yanked off without a second thought.

“Oh screw you—“ you bit back, but your words were but a breathless thought to her mind. She lifted her gaze to you and instantly you shut your mouth.

Afraid was an understatement. You were terrified, terrified of what she could do to you and terrified of how much you’d enjoy it.

“Say please..” she mocks as she pulls the fabric further down, her fingers circling around your folds as you panted, chest heaving at just barely a bit of her touch.

Your mouth fell open, you were ready to retort but instead a beg that your brain hadn’t allowed you to let out, got out anyway. “Please…”

She smirks and she enters one digit, you bite your lip trying to resist the addictive sensation. But your body betrays you, your hips buck, begging for more friction.

“Are you always this wet for your teachers, Y/N?”

You wanted to fall apart at that exact moment. The words only stirred on your actions. You were still trying to hold back, she wouldn’t have that. She entered a second digit.

“Fuck!” You cried out at the sudden intrusion without warning. “Just like that, be a good girl for me and take what I give you.” Your head nodded, your moans filling her empty classroom.

Her lips find yours again. Her other hand moves to undo the buttons of your blouse. She managed to do so with precision. How the fuck can this woman undress me with one hand? You managed to wonder before gasping against her lips.

Her lips tingle down your neck to the base of your chest. Sucking enough to draw out more of your whines and moans, but not enough to leave a hickey.

By the time she had unbuttoned your blouse she tugged it away, getting rid of your bra just as quickly. Her fingers upped the speed, your hips rocked against her hand. “Wow… look at you.” She whispered. “Such a clever girl..”

Under her lustful gaze you felt exposed. Your back on the cold wood caused you to shiver all over. You wouldn’t last long anymore, that you knew by the way you were breathing.

She kissed you again. Harder her spare hand came to your breast. It fitted right into her palm, as if they were forged for her. You couldn’t decide where to focus. You couldn’t. When you gasp against her lips she takes the opening for her to slip her tongue inside your mouth.

You looked like a desperate whore begging to be set straight by their professor and maybe that was exactly what was happening. Her thumb pressed on your bud, making you arch your back nearly off her desk.

She broke away from your mouth only to focus on your breast. “So desperate for more..” she teased before sucking at your breast to the point you debated if she was trying to suck your heart out of your chest.

You tried to form words, but she was literally fucking the words right out of your mouth. You couldn’t catch up to what was happening. Only things leaving your mouth were mewling noises. Until you managed to find some control again. “Ms. Johansson… please..”

She broke away from your breast, her hand moving to the back of your neck while she leaned in close. “You can do it..” she whispered, breathless. Your head thrown back as the knot in your stomach tightens.

She adds a third finger and you cry out. “Please.. please.. it’s… oh… it’s too much.. i-i can’t..” You whimpered, overstimulated by everything that happened.

"It's okay detka, just let go.”

She goes faster, you can’t keep up. Her perfume infiltrates your nose, making you feel like you’re on cloud nine. Then your release washes over you, a noise slipping from your mouth you didn't know you could make before.

Her fingers were coated in your cum as she slowly withdrew them from you. When the moment had stopped both breathless and panting. The moment seemed to crash down at the realization of what just happened.

“Fuck..”

“Jesus..”

Both of you were stunned. Ms. Johansson was the first to step away. Suddenly not able to look at you anymore. You sat up on her desk, thighs all sticky and air suffocating. You all too quickly hurriedly dressed and left her classroom the fastest you knew how. She didn’t stop you.

By the time you were out of the classroom you nearly ran down the hall with tears in your eyes. You just fucked your professor. No. She fucked you.

The perfect bubble you had been living in a week or so had bursted. You had needed guidance to pass Russian, not to be..

You couldn’t even think about it.

You didn’t want to think about it.

But you knew you wouldn’t be returning to that class.

You didn’t care about your grade anymore.

You felt used, and maybe she had been using you all along but you never recognised. You thought she understood you.

You were sprawled across your bed, the soft buzz of your phone against the blanket, while Lizzie darted around your dorm like she owned the place. A glittery top was already thrown over your desk chair, a mini skirt laid out beside it. Normally, you would’ve protested—rolled your eyes, said something about how ridiculous it was to let her dress you like a doll. But tonight, you just… didn’t.

Instead, you let her.

Lizzie paused, one brow cocked as she noticed you not fighting back. “Okay, wait. What’s this?” She leaned closer, her grin teasing. “Since when do you let me pick your outfit without a twenty-minute argument?”

You shrugged, tugging lightly at a strand of your hair. “Maybe I’m just trying something new.”

Lizzie tilted her head, studying you with suspicion—but also approval. “I like this new you. Looser. Less of the uptight, study-robot version.” She smirked, clearly pleased. “Sebastian’s birthday is the perfect place to debut her.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a tug of a smile. Maybe she was right. Maybe you wanted to see what happened when you stopped playing the part of the perfect student.

And if you were honest with yourself, part of you already knew who’d notice.

Because when you caught Ms. Johansson’s eyes earlier in class, when she called you out on a wrong answer you weren’t really paying attention to, there had been something in the way she lingered. Something that made you want to push harder, step further over that invisible line.

Lizzie, completely oblivious, hummed as she fussed over your hair. “You’re actually gonna have fun tonight,” she said, almost in disbelief.

You weren’t sure if she was right. Because while Lizzie was focused on the party, your mind was tangled somewhere else entirely.

The hallway outside Sebastian’s frat house pulsed with bass, bodies spilling out onto the lawn, red cups scattered like confetti. You tugged at the hem of the skirt Lizzie had insisted on, telling yourself this was exactly what you needed. A party. Loud music, cheap drinks, people you barely knew. The kind of night where nothing mattered and everything could be forgotten.

Maybe that was the whole point.

To forget the way your stomach had twisted when Ms. Johansson’s hand brushed the small of your back yesterday. To forget how her voice had dipped low at the door, how you’d said yes, professor like you were daring her to catch you in something.

You weren’t supposed to replay that moment on loop.

Lizzie grabbed your hand, pulling you deeper into the house. “Come on, birthday boy’s in the kitchen, and there’s jungle juice with our names on it.”

You let her drag you, forcing yourself into the rhythm of the party. Laughter, sweat, music thudding in your chest. A guy from your psych class waved, offering a shot, and Lizzie happily grabbed two, shoving one into your hand.

“To bad decisions,” she grinned.

“To forgetting,” you muttered, clinking cups.

The liquid burned down your throat, but the ache in your chest didn’t budge.

Not when Lizzie leaned into your ear, shouting over the music about some guy who’d been eyeing you all night. Not when she giggled, asking if you were finally going to loosen up and have fun.

Because underneath it all, no matter how loud the room got, you still felt the weight of her.

By the time you made it through Sebastian’s front party, the crowd had thinned, the music quieter but still buzzing. The real fun, Lizzie had said, was always in the after-party.

The backyard was strung with cheap fairy lights, a glowing blue pool reflecting against the dark. Someone had tossed in inflatable rings that bobbed with the music’s bass. Half-empty bottles of vodka and tequila crowded the patio table, alongside mixers no one was bothering to use anymore.

You kicked off your shoes and dropped into one of the lawn chairs, head spinning, laughter spilling easier than usual. Lizzie dropped beside you, already nursing another drink, while Anthony and Tom wrestled shirtless at the pool’s edge. Florence cheered them on, tossing gummy bears into her mouth like popcorn.

“See?” Lizzie leaned close, her perfume sharp-sweet under the alcohol haze. “This is what you needed. No studying. No stress. Just…” she motioned at the chaos, “college.”

You clinked her cup lazily, pretending to agree, though part of you wondered if you were convincing yourself harder than her.

Anthony cannonballed into the pool, soaking half the patio, and everyone shrieked. Florence stripped off her jeans and dove in right after. Tom followed, dragging a floaty with him.

Lizzie glanced at you with that mischievous look. “We’re not leaving here dry, you know that, right?”

The music swelled, the drinks burned hotter, and for once — maybe — you didn’t stop her from tugging you toward the water.

The shirt was off before you even second-guessed it, tossed somewhere on the wet patio tiles. Red lace flashed against your skin, your abs faintly defined from endless volleyball drills and late nights in the gym.

Lizzie’s jaw literally slackened before she caught herself, snapping her mouth shut like she hadn’t just been gawking. But the flush on her cheeks wasn’t from the alcohol alone.

“Okay, show-off,” she teased, though her eyes lingered longer than the joke should’ve allowed.

You grinned, shameless. “You said we’re not leaving dry, right? I’m just… preparing.”

She swatted your arm but couldn’t stop laughing, tugging you toward the pool. By now Florence was floating on a unicorn inflatable with a drink balanced dangerously on her chest, Anthony and Tom were splashing like kids, and Sebastian leaned back on the edge, smug and king of his own little chaos.

Lizzie jumped first, squealing as the cold hit her skin, then popped back up to the surface, slick hair and wide grin. “Your turn!”

You didn’t hesitate—ran, jumped, and cannonballed right next to her. Water exploded around you both, soaking everyone else. When you resurfaced, Lizzie shoved your face back under with a laugh, and you dragged her down with you, both of you kicking and splashing until Florence yelled at you for ruining her balance.

By the time you stopped, breathless and laughing, Lizzie had swum up to you, still flushed, close enough you could feel the heat of her skin under the cool water. Close enough that if you leaned in…

But that wasn’t what this was. Not really. With Lizzie, you could shamelessly toe the line, play too close to the edge, and neither of you would walk away bruised.

So you only smirked and flicked water into her face. “Still think I can’t handle a party?”

“Barely,” she shot back, though her grin betrayed her.

The pool had cooled you off, but the fire brought everyone back together. You ended up half-wrapped in a towel, hair still damp, shoulder pressed lazily against Lizzie’s as you both leaned into the warmth. Pizza boxes were cracked open on the patio table, bottles scattered, half-empty red cups perched on every available surface.

The drinking games started out harmless enough—Never Have I Ever, Truth or Dare, the kind of reckless fun that always spiraled once everyone had too much in their system. Florence was cackling, Tom was too loud, Anthony kept egging people on with a camera in hand, and Sebastian… well, he looked far too pleased with the chaos unfolding at his house.

It was a blur of dares and too much booze when someone (probably Anthony, because of course) leaned in with a grin:

“Alright, you two—kiss.”

The crowd roared, stomping their feet, clapping like you were at some kind of frat-run circus. You should’ve rolled your eyes and laughed it off, should’ve brushed it away like you always did. But maybe it was the alcohol numbing your hesitation, or the way Lizzie’s eyes flicked to your lips before she bit hers, waiting.

So you leaned in.

It was supposed to be quick. Just a stupid dare. But your lips lingered against hers longer than a few seconds, her hand brushing your jaw to steady herself, your own pulse hammering far too loud in your ears. Too drunk. Too reckless. Maybe too into it.

Someone whistled, someone else hollered, and Anthony’s laugh cut through the noise with the click of his phone camera.

When you finally pulled back, Lizzie’s smile was wide, cheeks flushed, and everyone else was already onto the next round of chaos. But you stayed close, shoulder against hers, as if the kiss hadn’t happened—or maybe as if it had meant just a little too much.

The night blurred into a montage of reckless, ridiculous snapshots. You’d sprawled out across one of the lawn chairs with your towel draped over you like a makeshift robe, striking a pose with your arm behind your head and your leg kicked just so.

“Draw me like one of your French girls!” you slurred dramatically, earning a chorus of laughter. Tom nearly choked on his drink, and Lizzie doubled over beside you, wheezing with amusement.

You didn’t have long to bask in your “model moment,” though. Sebastian snorted, yelled “Say less!” and shoved you—towel and all—straight into the pool. The splash sent Lizzie scrambling back with a squeal before you popped up, hair plastered to your face, flipping him off with both hands while everyone lost it.

Anthony had completely given up on pacing himself, taking shots like water until Florence swatted at him and tried stealing his cup. They ended up laughing so hard they almost toppled into the fire pit before Sebastian dragged them both upright, red-faced and shouting something unintelligible.

By then, the playlist had gotten sloppy, someone blasting a mix of throwbacks and awful remixes through a Bluetooth speaker. People danced around the pool, others cannonballed into it, and you found yourself laughing so hard your stomach hurt, letting the chaos take over.

It was dumb, loud, messy—and for a while, that was the point.

To forget.

The bass from outside thudded faintly through the walls as you slipped into Sebastian’s kitchen, water bottle in hand. Your head was buzzing, cheeks warm, the laughter outside feeling just a little too much. You twisted the cap, taking long gulps, when Lizzie padded in behind you.

“Needed a break?” she asked, hopping up onto the counter like she owned the place, her damp hair sticking to her shoulders.

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging. “Got bored of everyone yelling over each other. Thought I’d sober up before I end up face-first in the pool again.”

Lizzie tilted her head, smirking. “Bored, huh? That can be fixed.”

Before you could tease her about what that meant, she leaned in, hands braced against the counter, and kissed you. It wasn’t one of those silly drunken dares by the fire. This time, no one laughed, no one shouted, no one pulled you apart. Just her lips on yours, tasting faintly of tequila and smoke, lingering longer than you would’ve guessed.

And you didn’t pull away.

The house was quiet except for the muffled chaos outside. Time stretched out as the kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, like both of you were testing just how far you’d let it go.

When she finally drew back, her eyes flicked over your face, searching for your reaction.

Lizzie’s lips pulled back only long enough for a breath before she leaned in again, firmer this time. Her hands moved from the counter to your waist, gripping lightly but insistently, fingers brushing along your sides. You froze for just a fraction, heart hammering, caught between the thrill and the absolute awareness that this could spiral.

You responded without thinking, letting your own hands slide along her arms, pulling her closer. The heat of the kiss deepened, tongues brushing briefly, the taste of alcohol and adrenaline mixing in a dizzying rush.

A muffled shout from outside—the faintest reminder of reality—made you pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, yet you didn’t fully let go. Lizzie’s hair clung damply to your cheeks, and the fire in her eyes mirrored your own unsteady pulse.

“God, we’re reckless,” you muttered, voice low, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Yeah, but that’s the fun part,” she whispered back, brushing her nose against yours, teasing yet daring.

You leaned forward again, close enough to feel her breath on your lips, hands lingering, caught between desire and the unmistakable knowledge that the rest of the world—and maybe more importantly, Ms. Johansson—would be furious if she knew.

That’s what you thought. Maybe that thought excited you more. But then again, you didn’t want to think about her. If only, you wanted to get her out of your head. So that’s what you tried to do.

You and Lizzie were barely thinking anymore, only reacting—pulling each other close, lips crashing together again and again, tangled in each other’s arms. Clothes were damp, hair plastered to faces, hands roaming, fumbling as if neither of you wanted to stop.

The room blurred around you: the faint thump of the distant party, the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of alcohol and warm skin. Every touch felt too electric, every brush of her lips against yours sending a shiver down your spine.

You caught yourself thinking, if this keeps going, there’s no stopping this. Not here, not now… we’d end up in Sebastian’s bed, or worse, somewhere worse, and it would be irreversible.

But that thought didn’t make you stop. Neither did it stop her.

The kiss deepened, messy and unrestrained. Lizzie’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, giving you no room to breathe. You mirrored her, pressing into her, letting the alcohol and the adrenaline cloud every sensible boundary you might have had.

Your laugh slipped out mid-kiss—half-shocked, half-pleasure—and she answered with a breathless laugh of her own. The two of you were caught in a whirl of heat and chaos, a dangerous momentum building.

Every instinct screamed to pull away, to stop before you went too far. But every pulse, every heartbeat, every drunken, reckless part of you demanded the opposite.

You couldn’t. You didn’t.

And in that small kitchen, with fairy lights from the backyard faintly spilling in, the world outside could wait.

You finally leaned back first, gasping for air, hands still lightly gripping hers, as if neither of you wanted to let go entirely. The flush in your cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol—it was the adrenaline, the heat, the awareness of how far you’d already gone.

“We… shouldn’t,” you muttered, voice low, half-laughing, half-breathless.

Lizzie smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Shouldn’t? Who says we can’t?”

You shook your head, trying to find some control, some sense of reason. “I mean… maybe we should stop.”

Her grin widened, emboldened by the drinks still coursing through her. “Or maybe we don’t?” she teased, leaning closer again. Her voice dropped, soft but deliberate. “Do you… want to have sex?”

You froze. Not because you didn’t want it—but because no one had asked you like that before, so bluntly, with that kind of confidence. Surprise washed over you, muting your usual quick-witted responses.

“I… uh…” you started, blinking rapidly, your brain scrambling for the right response. You didn’t shut down, didn’t laugh it off. You just sat there, cheeks burning, heart hammering, trying to process that she’d just asked—and that part of you, somewhere, wasn’t saying no.

Lizzie tilted her head, watching you carefully, reading every hesitation, every flicker of heat in your eyes. “Well?” she pressed, a teasing edge lingering.

You swallowed hard, realizing that in the haze of alcohol, reckless impulses, and too-close warmth, you weren’t entirely sure how you were going to answer.

Then again. It wouldn’t be the first time. Back then— first year. Both of you were just curious with a few shots down the drain. You wouldn’t call it friends with benefits. Because the benefits were rarely there.

It just happened sometimes.

You blinked at her, heart still racing, mind half clouded by the alcohol and adrenaline. But it wasn’t a friends-with-benefits thing either—there were no rules, no guarantees, no consistent benefits. It just… happened.

You weren’t opposed to it. Not at all. Part of you even wanted it, craved it in a way that made your pulse quicken and your hands twitch with the memory of past brushes, past kisses.

But you needed certainty. Clarity. You had to know that Lizzie was fully aware of what she was asking, of the consequences if you went further tonight.

“Liz,” you breathed, lowering your gaze for just a moment, “I… I need to be sure. You really mean it. You really want this.”

Her grin softened slightly, the mischievous edge giving way to something steadier, almost tender. She reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “I know what I’m asking,” she said. “And yes… I want it.”

That little admission, simple as it was, sent a shiver through you. And even in the haze of reckless college partying, you could feel the weight of what was about to happen.

Yet, despite the pull, part of you still hesitated—not because you didn’t want her, but because moments like this weren’t just fun. They carried consequences, messy and unpredictable.

And that made it all the more… intoxicating.

She took your hand. Dragged it over her body and she watched your reaction. Your heart stuttered in your chest, breathless.

“You’re such a freak when you’re drunk.” You whisper as your eyes meet hers again. She grins— that stupid addicting drunken grin.

It made you crash your lips against her all over again. Tonight was about letting go, forgetting.

Forgetting how Ms. Johansson had touched you on your lower back. Forgetting how she praised you. Forgetting how much influence she had on you.

Forgetting her.

————

Saturday morning crept in with the worst hangover pounding behind your eyes. You groaned, rolling onto your back only to realize Lizzie was still tucked into your side, her head on your shoulder, hair a mess from the night before. You didn’t need to look too hard to piece together what had gone down—your sore muscles and the warmth of her arm draped over your waist told you enough.

Reaching blindly for your phone on the nightstand, you squinted against the screen light. Instagram was the first thing you opened.

You’d actually posted something last night—God help you. A little carousel of pictures from Sebastian’s after-party. The caption, short and almost too casual:

“Sweet birthday, Sebastian. You’re finally 21 🥂”

The photos told a different story: everyone gathered by the fire with greasy pizza boxes and bottles, Anthony half-falling into Florence’s lap, Tom passed out against the pool fence, Sebastian cheering mid-shot, and, of course, the kiss. That blurry but unmistakable picture of you and Lizzie at the edge of the pool, locked in something that went way past a “truth or dare” kiss.

Instead of regret, a giggle bubbled out of you. You covered your mouth, shaking your head. Chaos. Utter chaos.

The comments did not disappoint:

“LMAO this party looks like a crime scene.”

“Not Anthony trying to drown himself in tequila.”

“SOMEONE EXPLAIN THE POOL KISS 👀👀👀”

“@Lizzie pls confirm relationship status immediately.”

“This whole thing feels illegal but I can’t stop watching.”

“Sebastian looks like he just survived war.”

You snorted, scrolling further, heat creeping up your face at how many people had zoomed straight in on that kiss. Lizzie stirred against your side, mumbling something incoherent, and you just shook your head.

Nothing about this could ever be taken back.

Your thumb scrolled lazily, eyes scanning comment after comment. At first, it was all about the kiss—screenshots, tagged usernames, theories that you and Lizzie had been hiding something. But somewhere around the halfway point, the focus drifted, and suddenly the comments weren’t just about that.

They were about you.

“Wait hold up WHO is she??”

“The girl in the red lace?? Baddie. Absolute baddie.”

“Forget the kiss I just found my new crush 😍”

“How is it fair she looks like THAT and still plays volleyball??”

“The French-girl pose pic??? Hello?? I’m deceased.”

“Y’all can talk about Liz all you want but I’m focused on HER.”

You groaned into the pillow but couldn’t stop laughing. Drunk-you had thought it was a good idea to pose on the deck chair, shirt half-off, playing up the draw me like one of your French girls line. And now? The internet was eating it up.

Lizzie shifted, one arm tightening around your waist as she peeked at your screen through messy hair. “What’re you laughing at?” she asked, voice still raspy from sleep.

You angled the phone so she could see, trying not to laugh harder when her face twisted between horror and amusement.

“God, they’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though you could see the grin tugging at her lips.

Silly, thirsty, dramatic—the comments blurred together in that way only college parties could inspire. And though you knew you should probably feel at least a little mortified… instead, you just giggled again, locking your phone and dropping it onto the nightstand.

There was no undoing last night, and honestly? You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Lizzie groaned into your shoulder, voice muffled. “So… about last night.”

You stilled, waiting for her to either freak out or laugh it off. Instead, she lifted her head, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes still sleepy but mischievous. “That was… not our worst idea.”

You raised a brow. “Not our best either.”

“Speak for yourself,” she teased, poking your side. “I thought it was pretty great.”

Her smirk made it impossible not to laugh, though you tried to act unimpressed. “Yeah, sure. Until we wake up to people asking when the wedding is.”

Lizzie gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “You’d marry me?”

That set both of you off, laughter spilling into the quiet room until she tried to roll closer and promptly rolled off the bed with a loud thump.

“Lizzie!” You leaned over the edge, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard. She was sprawled on the floor, half under the blanket she’d dragged with her, groaning but grinning.

“You’re supposed to catch me,” she complained, flopping an arm up toward you.

You were still laughing when your phone buzzed again on the nightstand. You grabbed it and unlocked the screen, only to be greeted by a flood of new notifications in the groupchat.

[Chaotic Professionals]

Anthony, of course, had taken control:

Ant—“Beach tomorrow. No excuses. Sunday Funday, bitches.”

Ant—“I’ll bring drinks, Tom’s got snacks.”

Ant—“Florence already said yes so the rest of you are coming.”

Lizzie peeked from the floor, squinting at your screen. “Oh no… he’s on his Sunday agenda again.”

You scrolled, watching everyone else cave in real-time:

Tom—“Fine.”

Flossie—: “I already said yes, don’t drag me into this.”

Sebstar—: “If I get sunburned, I’m suing.”

Then Anthony again, relentless:

Ant—“Y/N, Lizzie—don’t even try to skip. I will come drag you out myself.”

You sighed, dropping the phone onto Lizzie’s stomach where she still lay on the floor. “Looks like we’re getting sand in places sand should never be.”

Lizzie groaned again but gave you a crooked smile. “As long as it’s not like last night, we’ll survive.”

————

Sunday was an actual Funday. Somehow Anthony had sweet-talked or bribed someone into reserving a volleyball court right on the beach, and the second you saw the net stretching between the posts, your jaw dropped.

“Are you drooling?” Florence teased, shoving her shades up her nose.

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes locked on the setup like it was the eighth wonder of the world.

It didn’t take long before teams were sorted out—Liz immediately claiming a spot on the sidelines with your phone in hand, clearly thrilled at the idea of filming everyone’s humiliation.

“Go, superstar,” she called as you adjusted your ponytail, Florence standing beside you like the world’s sassiest wingwoman. Across the net, Sebastian spun the ball in his hand like he was auditioning for an Olympic team, while Anthony was already trash-talking before the first serve.

“Y/N, Flo—you’re going down. Prepare to weep.”

Liz angled your phone just right, whispering, “Okay, we’re making this cinematic.”

The play started—Florence with a quick set, you leaping high against the sun, and then smash—the ball rocketed down past Anthony’s reach. The sand sprayed, the net wobbled, and Anthony clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Did you see that?!” Florence hollered, pumping her fists.

From behind the camera, Liz cackled. “Slow motion replay, baby.” She zoomed in just enough to get the perfect shot of you mid-air, hair flying, form sharp and clean like you’d trained for this your whole life.

The clip cut abruptly when Sebastian and Anthony decided teamwork meant something entirely different—Sebastian lifting Anthony onto his shoulders, both of them wobbling in the sand as they attempted some absurd new tactic. Anthony shouted, “We’re evolving! You can’t stop this!”

They collapsed almost instantly, Sebastian landing face-first into the sand while Anthony rolled dramatically like he’d been shot.

The sideline erupted—Florence doubled over laughing, Tom with his phone out capturing the disaster from another angle, and Liz steadying your phone but wheezing too hard to hold it straight.

“Truly, history in the making,” she gasped.

Post-game left everyone sprawled in the sand, sweaty, sunburnt, and groaning dramatically. Someone (probably Sebastian) declared they were never moving again. That was when Florence perked up, sunglasses sliding down her nose, grinning like she’d just discovered fire.

“Photoshoot.”

The collective groan that followed could’ve toppled kingdoms.

“Nope.”

“Flo, I can’t feel my legs.”

“Who even looks good like this?”

Florence ignored every complaint, already dragging Lizzie and Anthony upright. “Shut up, it’ll be iconic. The sun, the sand, the sea—do you want to waste this? No. Posing time.”

And somehow, against everyone’s willpower, it happened.

First was Tom, who got dared to climb a random beach pole like a koala. He wrapped himself around it, shouting, “Get my angles!” while Florence snapped fifty shots like a proud mom.

Anthony ended up sprawled in the sand like he was on the cover of a romance novel—shirt unbuttoned halfway, hand reaching for the horizon—before Sebastian ruined it by burying his legs under a pile of sand and turning it into a mermaid tail.

Lizzie dragged you into frame, both of you laughing too hard to pose seriously. At some point she leaned in, cheek smeared with a drip of ice cream, and without even thinking you licked it off. Everyone screamed like it was the most scandalous thing in the world, half of them demanding it be captioned, the other half pretending to gag.

Florence directed you next—hands on hips, hair tossed back, a “you’re in Vogue, own it” vibe—while Tom photobombed in the background still dangling off the pole.

By the end, everyone had sand in places sand shouldn’t be, ice cream sticky on their fingers, and a camera roll full of pictures that were equal parts embarrassing and brilliant.

When Florence finally called cut, the group collapsed into the sand again, groaning but laughing too hard to be mad about it.

“See?” she said smugly, scrolling through the shots. “Told you. Legendary.”

By the time you were packing up, skin salty and hair still damp from the sea, your camera roll looked like the beach had swallowed your whole weekend. Before heading home you posted a handful—group shot, the video of you spiking the ball (with Anthony and Sebastian immediately devolving into chaos right after), the accidental “photoshoot,” and of course the ice cream moment with Liz.

Caption: Anthony’s supposed Funday Sunday vibes.

You didn’t think much of it until you finally got back to your dorm, collapsed onto the bed, and opened Instagram again. It hadn’t even been an hour, and the post had already blown up.

You started scrolling through the comments, and they did not disappoint—half chaos, half thirst, all ridiculous.

anthony.mack: don’t lie, i made sunday fun.

florencepug: anthony drowned in 3 feet of water twice and we had to save him.

tom.ho: the way y/n’s vertical jump humbled me 😭

sebastianstan: fun fact, the ball hit me in the face 4 times. thanks.

lizzieo: excuse me why am i not tagged as “ice cream girl”

randomuser292: WHO IS SHE. WHY HAS NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT HER BEFORE.

volleybae99: forget “funday” this is olympic content, sign her up.

chaoticfangirlx: the kiss pic >>>>>> this entire friend group is my roman empire.

drinkwaterpls: i’m just here wondering how y/n manages to look that good AND play sports. unfair.

pizzaenthusiast12: not anthony calling this fun when he lost every game 💀

simplyscreaming: no bc the way lizzie looks at y/n in that ice cream pic 👀

randomuser5590: I don't even know what this post is about but I'm obsessed with her.

beachbabeofficial: y/n, drop the workout routine. for science.

florencepug: pls post the video of anthony falling into the cooler.

y/nfanacc: THE KISS PICTURE STILL HAS ME IN A CHOKEHOLD.

The groupchat erupted instantly. Anthony was screaming in all-caps about how he’d “suffered enough” while Sebastian demanded to know why his “evolution moment” was in the post. Tom kept posting blurry selfies of himself hanging from random poles, claiming they were “iconic,” while Florence was relentless, sending screenshot after screenshot of everyone looking ridiculous. Lizzie, of course, was egging you on the entire time, occasionally tagging you with “LOOK AT YOURSELF 😏”.

By the time the chaos in the chat died down, you leaned back against your pillow and reopened your Instagram. You scrolled slowly, savoring it.

The comments on your post were… entirely different. Less chaos, more obsession. Half the people were simping, half were outright fawning, but all of them were fixated on you.

Slide seven caught most of the attention—a picture of you, hair wet from the salty sea, posing innocently enough that it looked like nothing. But you knew exactly what you were doing. The crop cut off just below your hip, teasing, subtle, and irresistible.

The final slide, Lizzie’s ice cream smudge on her cheek and your bold lunge to lick it off, had people losing their minds.

—“WHO EVEN IS SHE???”

—“Slide 7 is literally unfair. Not allowed.”

—“I need that ice cream moment as a screensaver.”

—“Can someone explain how she looks angelic in saltwater??”

—“Y/N, we need a masterclass on how to exist like this.”

—“This entire post = peak chaos but also, her. 👀”

—“7TH SLIDE HAS ME IN TEARS. AND NOT THE FUNNY KIND.”

You leaned back, fingers lightly tracing the phone’s edges, grinning. This was… satisfying. The weekend chaos, the beach, the drunken mess—it all boiled down to this: you had turned it into your own little stage, and everyone else was just along for the ride.

The weekend had exactly served on how you intended to. To forget her. Letting loose has easily given you an opportunity to actually live a little. To actually get out of those books and have fun.

No you weren't slipping, of course not. You had things handled. School was going great, Russian was improving. Life was great.

Until she found out.

Monday was your day off, thank God. No lectures, no tutoring, no lingering tension in hallways—just a quiet dorm and the luxury of sleeping in.

That calm didn’t extend to Ms. Johansson.

By mid-morning, she was passing the lounge, stopping as a group of students huddled together, giggling and whispering. She caught fragments—words like beach, photos, slide seven—and immediately zeroed in. Her brow furrowed.

Curiosity piqued, she lingered just long enough to hear one of them mutter your name, the same name she’d spent the semester meticulously teaching and guiding. Something in her tightened—an unfamiliar mix of intrigue and… irritation.

“Y/N?” she muttered under her breath, tilting her head. She didn’t normally care what students did outside class. But why did this feel like it belonged in her orbit?

By the time the students dispersed, still whispering and laughing, she was already considering checking… casually, of course… what exactly you had been up to over the weekend.

Her curiosity wasn’t idle. It was the first spark of something that could get messy, and she knew it.

By late morning, Ms. Johansson had decided she needed answers. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, there was something about the way students had whispered your name that hadn’t left her alone.

She wasn’t usually one for social media, but today, she made herself an account—or maybe dusted off one she hadn’t touched in years. Either way, within the hour, she was scrolling, clicking, searching… until she found him: Anthony’s profile.

One casual click later, and there it was. Your feed. A snapshot of the weekend chaos, the group photos, the volleyball smash, and of course, that fateful seventh slide. The ice cream moment with Lizzie followed right after.

She lingered over the images longer than necessary, scrolling up and down, taking in how you moved, laughed, and posed. Not in an overtly possessive way—at least, not yet—but in that quiet, focused curiosity that made her pause and study every detail. Every little movement, every smile, the way the light hit your hair…

She quickly looked away, telling herself it was purely professional, that she was just… making mental notes on her student’s engagement, confidence, and presence. Still, she caught herself scrolling back. And back again.

A small tightening in her chest whispered that this wasn’t just about Instagram, not entirely. But she ignored it. Of course it wasn’t.

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she scrolled past the volleyball fiasco and the ice cream shot. Then she stumbled across another post—Sebastian’s birthday party. The one you’d hesitated to attend when you’d mentioned it in her office.

The photos were chaotic, everyone drunk, laughing, half-dressed, pizza boxes scattered like confetti. And there you were. Smiling, laughing, clearly enjoying yourself. Not just enjoying yourself—stealing the spotlight, even in the mess.

She froze for a moment, chest tightening just slightly. It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Just… a low, simmering awareness that you had gone, had lived it fully, and she hadn’t been there.

Careful not to show it, she leaned back in her chair, pretending to grade papers. But her eyes kept drifting toward her phone, lingering on your profile. She didn’t comment. She didn’t like anything. Not yet.

Curiosity mixed with something else—something she hadn’t fully admitted to herself. And she knew she needed to see this… to understand it… before your next tutoring session.

By the time the hour passed, she’d memorized the sequence of the posts, the expressions on your face, the way you interacted with your friends. And yet, outwardly, she remained the same: professional, composed, untouchable.

But inside, everything was a mess. Your best friend, Lizzie, the one you had kissed with on your post. She was stuck on that image. You weren’t allowed to have fun. It’s not like she controlled that.

But if you were really struggling with Russian, you could’ve used the weekend to study, and you hadn’t. Instead you’d acted like some…cheap whore.

She caught onto herself when things like that started blooming into her head. She wasn’t supposed to care about what you did. Who you saw. But denying it didn’t bother her wasn’t it either.

The way you looked at Lizzie, the way you had kissed her. She wanted to know how it felt to be Lizzie at that moment. Would you still have been cocky and disobedient?

Or would you have crumpled under her gaze and begged her to see how good you had been for her?

A good girl?

Would you have fallen apart at her touch?

Would you have made desperate moans for her to keep going?

She scoffs and closes her phone. Finally starting on grading papers after having wasted an hour on your insta page.

Time had gone by quickly. It felt like the day had just started, yet somehow it was already nearing four. You and Lizzie slipped out of your last class together, weaving through the thinning crowd of students until you reached your lockers.

If it hadn’t been for a student passing by, casually chatting about Russian in a conversation you weren’t even supposed to overhear, you probably would have gone straight back to your dorm—forgetting entirely that Ms. Johansson was expecting you in her office.

Lizzie snapped her locker shut and glanced at you, a grin tugging at her lips. “So…are you going to Sebastian’s party on Friday? He’s turning twenty-one, it’s supposed to be huge.”

The mention of his name pulled you back into reality. Right. Sebastian’s birthday. You had almost forgotten.

You hesitated, fiddling with the lock on your own door. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Depends how tutoring goes with Professor Johansson.”

Lizzie groaned dramatically, bumping her shoulder into yours. “You can’t use Russian as an excuse forever. It’s one night—one party. You need to have some fun before you drown in verb conjugations.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the start of a smile. “We’ll see,” you said, but even you didn’t sound convinced.

“Speaking of Russian,” you said while tugging your bag higher onto your shoulder, “I’m not going back to the dorms with you today. I’ve got tutoring.”

Lizzie’s grin widened instantly. You braced yourself for one of her usual remarks, but she only clasped her hands together in mock solemnity. “Fine. I’ll resist teasing you—this time. Good luck, roomie.”

You snorted, already turning down the hall, when it happened—

Some kid, rushing past without looking, slammed right into you. The collision jolted your bag off your shoulder, and before you could even curse, you felt the sudden cold spill soaking down the front of your uniform shirt.

“Are you kidding me?” you snapped, staring down at the spreading blotch. Coffee. Of course it was coffee. Rich, dark, and very much not coming out anytime soon.

The student mumbled an apology and disappeared before you could chew them out.

Lizzie tried to smother a laugh. “That’s…unfortunate.”

You glared at her, tugging uselessly at the fabric. You didn’t have time to go change, not if you wanted to be on time. “It’s one of the layers,” you muttered to yourself more than her. “Blouse’s still clean. It’s fine. I’ll just…take this off in her office.”

Lizzie gave you a sly look. “Professional, huh?”

“Don’t start,” you warned, adjusting your bag again. You could already feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck. The last thing you wanted was to show up to Johansson’s office looking like you’d lost a fight with the campus café.

Still—you squared your shoulders, determined to walk in like nothing had happened.

You stopped outside her office, raised your hand, and knocked twice.

“Come in,” came her voice, smooth, clipped.

The door swung open and there she was, framed by the tidy order of her office—papers neatly stacked, books lined just so. You swallowed, gave her a polite, “Good afternoon, Professor,” before stepping inside.

Her eyes flicked immediately to your uniform. “What happened?”

You looked down at the coffee-stained shirt and sighed, already unbuttoning the blazer. “Some idiot wasn’t watching where they were going. Coffee everywhere. I didn’t want to be late, so…” You tugged it off, folding it over your arm, revealing the crisp blouse you had underneath.

Her response was quiet. “I see.”

You didn’t notice, because your back was turned while you straightened the ruined garment, but her gaze lingered. Not just on the shirt—but on you. Watching the way you moved, the way the light caught the sharp lines of your shoulders under the thin blouse, the faint trace of composure clinging to you despite the mess.

A silence stretched—one you felt but couldn’t name.

She was watching every little detail, as if it mattered how the blouse clinged to your sides. The way you rolled up your sleeves just slightly. By the time she realised how long she’d been looking, she breathed in slowly. Trying to compose herself.

By the time you turned back around, she was seated, pen in hand, her face the picture of cool professionalism. Thank god you’d missed whatever flicker of expression had crossed her features, because if you had seen it, your knees probably wouldn’t have carried you any further into the room.

“Shall we begin?” she asked.

You nodded, dropping into the chair opposite her desk, heart still racing—not from nerves about Russian, but something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You settled into the chair, pulling out your notebook and pen. She leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk.

“We’ll start simple today,” she said. “Basic phrases. Repeat after me. Здравствуйте.”

“Zdra…zdvoo…” You frowned. “This feels like a tongue twister.”

Her mouth tugged at the corner, though not quite a smile. “Slowly. Zdrávstvuyte.”

You tried again, breaking it down. “Zdráv…stvuyte.”

Her head tilted. “Better. Once more.”

“Zdrávstvuyte,” you repeated, a little smoother.

She nodded. “Good. That means ‘Hello’—formal greeting. Now—Как дела?”

“…Kak de…la?” you echoed cautiously.

Her eyes sharpened with approval. “Yes. That means ‘How are you?’. Now answer with: Хорошо.”

You attempted it. “Khora…sho?”

“Almost. Roll the ‘r.’” She leaned forward, enunciating slowly, her tongue curling against her teeth. “Kho-rrro-shó. Hear it?”

You tried again, stumbling but closer. “Kho-rrosho.”

Her gaze fixed on you, patient but intense. “Again. Roll it—let the sound carry, don’t cut it short.”

You drew in a breath and pushed it out, letting the ‘r’ vibrate. “Kho-rrroshó.”

This time, her pen stilled in her hand. The silence stretched a beat before she said, low, “Perfect.”

Your chest warmed in a way you didn’t expect. Praise—rare from her, sharp and fleeting—but it landed like a weightless crown on your head. For a moment, you felt like you’d unlocked something few others ever got.

You looked down quickly at your notebook, biting back the small, stupid smile tugging at your mouth.

“What does it mean again?” you asked, pretending to scribble.

Her gaze lingered on you, steady. “‘Good.’”

Somehow, hearing it from her felt like something else entirely.

She slid a fresh sheet of paper across the desk toward you, her nails tapping it once before withdrawing.

“Translate these into English. Don’t overthink—just trust what we practiced.”

You lowered your eyes. The page was neatly typed, four sentences in bold.

1: Меня зовут Анна.

2: Я живу в Нью-Йорке.

3: Я люблю читать книги.

4: Сколько тебе лет?

You chewed on your pen before starting. The first was easy.

“Меня зовут Анна… My name is Anna.”

She didn’t look up, but you caught the small shift in her posture—she’d heard you.

“Я живу в Нью-Йорке…” You scribbled it down. “I live in New York.”

Her pen scratched across her own stack of papers, grading in crisp, sure motions. She hadn’t said a word, but the weight of her presence pressed against your shoulders all the same.

“Я люблю читать книги… I like to read books.”

You hesitated on the last one, lips moving silently before sound followed. “Сколько тебе лет? That’s… how old are you?”

Finally, her gaze lifted, the faintest glint of something like pride in her eyes. “Correct. All of them.”

It startled you. You hadn’t expected to get them all. You shifted in your chair, warmth crawling at your neck.

Silence stretched again—only the rhythm of her pen as she worked. But your eyes kept flicking back to her, tracing the slope of her jaw, the faint crease in her brow when she concentrated. She was… different. Untouchable, but fascinating.

You found yourself speaking before you could stop. “Do you… actually like teaching?”

Her pen froze for a beat, then resumed. “Depends on the student.”

You swallowed, unsure what to make of that answer. “So… did you always want to teach Russian?”

Her eyes flicked up—sharp, calculating. “No.”

That was all. One syllable, clipped. But it pulled at your curiosity like a thread you couldn’t leave alone.

You leaned forward slightly, your voice quieter now. “Then what did you want?”

Her gaze lingered on you, unblinking, until you had to look down at your own hands.

“That,” she said at last, her voice low and deliberate, “is not an answer I give lightly.”

The question hung between you. She didn’t move, didn’t so much as tilt her head, but her eyes sharpened.

“You’re curious,” she said finally. Her voice was smooth, low, almost too calm. “But curiosity can be… misplaced.”

You let out a short huff, nerves twisting into boldness. “Better misplaced than wasted.”

For a split second, her pen stilled. The silence that followed was heavy enough to make you regret every syllable. Your own words replayed in your head, and heat rushed to your face.

“Sorry,” you blurted, straightening in your chair. “That was… rude. I didn’t mean—”

Her lips curved. Not quite a smile, but close enough to catch you off guard. “Unexpected,” she murmured. “Most students don’t… talk back.”

Your brows rose. “Most students don’t spend two hours being told they can’t roll their R’s.”

That earned you a quiet laugh—so rare and soft it sent your stomach flipping. She shook her head slightly, setting her pen down at last.

“You,” she said, eyes glinting, “are dangerously close to thinking you’re clever.”

“Dangerously close?” you echoed, leaning back with a mock-serious look. “So what happens if I cross the line?”

Her gaze lingered, cool and unreadable, though the faintest flicker of amusement betrayed her.

“That,” she said, voice dipping into something that made your skin prickle, “depends on how brave you are.”

Her eyes lingered on you, sharp and deliberate, as if weighing exactly how far to push.

“Tell me,” she said, voice soft but carrying that unmistakable edge of authority, “why are you so… eager to be seen? To stand out?”

Your stomach sank. The question felt like it had a weight you weren’t prepared for, and your brain froze. You fumbled for an answer, but nothing came.

“I—I…” you stammered, words catching in your throat. “I don’t… I mean…”

She tilted her head, watching your hesitation like a cat studying a trapped bird. “You don’t have to lie,” she said calmly. “I can tell when someone is hiding behind a polite answer.”

You swallowed hard, cheeks warming. You wanted to speak, to explain, but your voice refused. The question wasn’t just about Russian, or school, or even her—it was about you, and that was terrifying in a way you hadn’t expected.

Finally, you gave a shaky shrug. “I… don’t know,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Her gaze didn’t waver. If anything, the corner of her mouth quirked, as though your inability to respond intrigued her rather than frustrated her.

“Hmm,” she said, leaning back slightly. “Curiosity and hesitation. Interesting combination.”

You felt your knees weaken just a little under that stare, grateful the desk shielded the rest of you.

You went quiet.

Because you knew the answer all too well. But that didn’t mean you liked talking about it.

It was simple, really—simple and messy all at once. You tried so hard to stand out, to put in effort, because at home, no one ever recognized it. No one appreciated the late nights, the hours of study, the little things you did to make yourself better. It had always felt like your work vanished into the air, unnoticed and unremarkable.

Saying it out loud made it…real. Vulnerable. Too real. And so, you didn’t speak of it. Not to anyone. Not even to yourself, most of the time.

Your silence stretched across the desk, heavy but deliberate. You focused instead on your pen, tracing imaginary lines along the page, hoping she wouldn’t press further.

Her eyes stayed on you, studying, but she didn’t push. Not yet.

And for a fleeting moment, the quiet between you felt almost…safe.

Her lips quirked ever so slightly, that sharp glint of amusement in her eyes. “Silent, are we? Afraid your answer might give too much away?”

You frowned, the faintest pout tugging at your lips. “I’m not afraid,” you muttered, though your voice betrayed a little sting. “I just…don’t feel like sharing everything.”

She leaned just a fraction closer, her gaze locking with yours in that way that made your stomach flutter. “Oh?” she murmured, voice low, teasing. “Not everything?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between irritation and nerves. “I said, it’s none of your business.” Your words were firmer than you felt.

Her expression softened for a beat—but just enough to make your pulse skip—before she extended her hand across the desk. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers brushing yours in the faintest touch.

“Maybe some things aren’t for words,” she said, voice almost a whisper, eyes holding yours like a secret. Reminding you of the sketch you made of Mr. Evans that had explained more than words ever could.

The touch lingered, just long enough for your knees to weaken, for your heart to hammer, for every lesson about keeping things professional to crumble in an instant.

You drew in a shaky breath, hand still lightly pressed against hers, unsure whether to pull away or surrender to the tension rippling through the room.

Her gaze didn’t falter. “We’ll see if your curiosity can handle silence,” she added, teasing yet deliberate, and your thoughts scattered in a way that had nothing to do with Russian.

You swallowed, unsure if the words would even come out. “I… I guess I can tell you a little,” you offered quietly, “why I… try so hard to stand out.”

Her gaze softened slightly, encouraging but still sharp, so you went on, careful with every syllable. “The straight-A student, the good behavior… it’s a facade. It doesn’t falter easily.” You hesitated, the memory of all those times it did falter crawling to the surface. “But when it does…” You shook your head faintly, voice dropping. “It’s messy. And I don’t… I don’t want to go through it again.”

You left it there. More than that, you didn’t dare say. The rest—the weight, the fear, the loneliness—you kept buried.

Your fingers moved almost absentmindedly, brushing against hers on the desk. The faint touch was accidental, but electric, sending a jolt through your chest you couldn’t quite name. She didn’t pull away.

Instead, her gaze traced yours, unwavering. “I see,” she murmured softly, voice low enough to feel like it was just for you. The tension between you thickened, subtle but undeniable.

You looked down, heart hammering, and let your fingers linger against hers just a fraction too long, each second making it harder to focus on the Russian exercise in front of you.

Her voice came again, teasing but measured: “Perhaps your effort… isn’t just for grades.”

You froze, unsure how to answer, cheeks burning.

You hesitated, heart hammering against your ribs. “What… do you mean by that?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking away as if looking anywhere else might betray your nerves.

Her gaze softened for just a fraction, sharpness easing but not disappearing entirely. She leaned a little closer, and before you could fidget or speak, her hand covered yours—steady, deliberate.

It wasn’t a gesture of comfort exactly. Not quite. But it was enough. Enough to ground you, enough to make the fluttering in your chest impossible to ignore.

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand, “effort isn’t just about what everyone else sees. Do you understand?”

You swallowed, heat flooding your face, trying to nod, but the simple act of her touch—so close, so deliberate—made it hard to focus on anything else.

She held your hand just long enough for you to absorb it, then slowly withdrew, letting your fingers brush together as the faintest reminder of the connection lingered.

“Now,” she added, picking up her pen, “back to Russian. Concentrate.”

And just like that, the lesson resumed—but the air between you felt charged in a way that words and grammar couldn’t touch.

The clock on her desk ticked softly, reminding you there was still nearly an hour left. But when you looked up from your paper, Ms. Johansson capped her pen and leaned back in her chair.

“That’s enough for today,” she said. “You can go.”

You blinked, surprised. “But—there’s still time.”

Her lips curved, just barely, into something that could almost be called a smirk. “Unless you’re so eager to sit here with me?”

You opened your mouth, searching for the line between bravery and foolishness. “Maybe I am,” you shot back lightly.

That earned you a raised brow, and her gaze sharpened in the way that always made your pulse quicken. “Careful,” she warned, voice low but with a hint of amusement. “You might make me believe it.”

You tilted your head, refusing to flinch. “Maybe you should.”

Silence fell, stretching just long enough to make you second-guess your own words. But instead of scolding, instead of brushing it aside, she gave the smallest laugh—quiet, almost hidden.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” she murmured.

“Guess you’ll just have to teach me that too,” you replied, lips quirking despite yourself.

Her expression softened, if only for a second, and you swore you saw something flash in her eyes—something that made your suspicion stronger. She did have a soft spot for you. Otherwise, why keep you here? Why tolerate your boldness?

“You should go,” she said at last, though her tone wasn’t nearly as stern as before.

And for once, you weren’t sure if she meant from her office… or from the dangerous path you’d both started down.

You rose from the chair at her desk, gathering your things as if you were heading for the door. She watched you, satisfied, probably already preparing to get back to her papers.

But instead of leaving, you crossed the room and slid into the seat tucked into the corner, dropping your bag down beside it with deliberate nonchalance.

Her pen stilled mid-mark. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

You didn’t even look up, flipping your notebook open again. “Finishing the rest of my work.”

Her brow arched. “From the corner?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, pretending to focus on your notes. “Less distracting over here. Easier to get things done.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not with disapproval. You could feel her eyes on you, lingering longer than they should. Then, faintly—too faintly if you weren’t straining to catch it—came a laugh, soft and low.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, half to herself.

“Thank you,” you said without missing a beat, lips twitching.

That earned you a shake of her head and the faintest curve of her mouth—one of those rare little tells that made you certain: she wasn’t nearly as unmoved as she wanted you to believe.

It took you all of fifteen minutes to finish the translation sheet she’d given you. Too easy, maybe because you actually liked learning from her. By the end, you sat back, tapping the eraser of your pencil against the corner of the page.

No excuse to stay. No professional reason.

But you didn’t get up.

Instead, you slid your notebook open to a fresh page, pencil hovering for a moment before it started moving on its own. Quick lines, subtle shading. You didn’t even think about it, just… drew.

Her.

Not in any polished, “look at me” way—more like catching her between breaths. The set of her mouth when she was reading over papers. The way her hair fell when she leaned forward. The sternness that was always softened just enough to make you wonder.

You were so caught up in it, you didn’t realize the room had gone quiet. Not quiet in the normal sense—quiet because she had stopped writing.

“…What are you working on now?” her voice finally cut through, calm but threaded with curiosity.

Your heart kicked up, though you kept your head bent. “Just—sketching. Helps me focus.”

“You’re finished,” she pointed out, suspicion slipping into her tone.

“Exactly,” you said, pencil still moving, “so I need a new way to focus.”

When you glanced up for half a second, her eyes were on you, sharp but unreadable, like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to press the question further—or pretend she hadn’t noticed at all.

The sharp buzz of your phone against the desk nearly made you jump. You flipped it over quick—Lizzie.

You declined with a sigh, thumb swiping over the screen, and shook your head to yourself. Not now.

From across her desk, Ms. Johansson looked up, brow slightly arched. “Boyfriend calling?”

The question hit like it was meant to be casual, but you swore there was something else tucked inside it.

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

“That so?” she murmured, already glancing back at the paper in front of her. Her tone was clipped, almost disinterested, and for some reason that disappointed you more than you wanted to admit.

So you added, lightly, “It was Lizzie. She’s just asking about Friday.”

That got the tiniest shift—you caught it before she could smooth it over. Her pen slowed, her eyes flicking up briefly. “Friday,” she repeated, almost like she was testing the word. “And what is it you’re doing Friday?”

The fact that she asked at all made a small spark light in your chest.

You leaned back in your chair, tugging at the cuff of your blouse. “It’s Sebastian’s birthday party,” you said finally, like it explained everything.

Her brows lifted ever so slightly.

“Lizzie wants me to go. Probably gonna be some frat mess—” you exhaled through your nose, rolling your eyes. “You know, get drunk, forget everything, wake up with headaches and regret.”

You left out the obvious next part, but the silence after made you wonder if she caught it anyway.

Her pen stilled against the paper, and she looked at you in that deliberate way that made your pulse quicken. “Mm,” she hummed. “Sounds… educational.”

The corners of her lips curved, almost imperceptibly, like she was enjoying this more than she let on.

“Are you going?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, eyes sharp on you.

You shrugged, fiddling with your pen. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“That wasn’t the question.” Her tone dipped, soft but cutting.

You raised a brow, lips twitching into a smirk. “Didn’t know my social life was part of your curriculum.”

Her pen tapped once against her papers, the sound deliberate. “It isn’t. But you sitting in my office means you answer when I ask.”

You gave a half laugh, shaking your head. “That sounds less like a teacher and more like a warden.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly—though not without amusement. “Careful. I may still be grading your work.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What, gonna mark me down for bad attitude?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said smoothly, but there was the faintest curl of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m still in charge here, whether you forget it or not.”

And just like that, the air tightened between you—banter threaded with something else you couldn’t quite name.

The clock ticked quietly in the background. Tutoring was officially over, but you didn’t move to leave. Instead, you picked up the paper you’d been working on earlier, rolling it gently between your fingers as if weighing the moment.

You rose from the corner seat, letting your movements slow and deliberate, letting her watch as you approached her desk. The hum of the office felt loud, each step carrying a heartbeat in your chest.

Sliding the paper across to her, your fingers barely brushing hers in the process, you met her gaze directly. The tension was sharp, electric, as if the space between you were a tightrope and any misstep could send both of you tumbling.

“You finished it?” she asked, tone neutral—but there was something in the tilt of her head, a curiosity that made you smirk just slightly.

“Mmhm,” you murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, letting your posture speak more than words. “Thought you might like to see it now.”

She lifted the paper, eyes scanning quickly, but her gaze kept flicking back to you. You felt that pull—the unspoken dare—stretching between you. You weren’t nervous anymore. Not like before. You were testing, probing, betting on how far you could go before she reacted.

The straight-A student façade, polished and precise for so long, had softened. Now it was sharp edges, calculated risks, and curiosity draped across your face. And as she looked up from the paper, one corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly—half amusement, half warning—letting you know she’d noticed.

You didn’t flinch. You were ready to see just how far this game could go.

Her eyes skimmed over the paper, brow furrowing ever so slightly as she read. You watched her, feeling the weight of her attention in a way that made your chest tighten—not from nerves this time, but from anticipation.

“Hmm,” she murmured, setting the paper down with a faint tap. Her gaze lifted, meeting yours. “Better.”

Your chest lifted slightly at the rare praise, the warmth spreading through your ribs.

“Better,” she repeated, slower this time, as if testing the word. “But not perfect. There are moments here where you simply… report the facts. You don’t convey the feeling behind them.”

You leaned back, pretending to consider her critique, though a small thrill ran under your skin. “So I should be more… dramatic?”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Not dramatic. Authentic. You need to let the thought reach the reader, not just transcribe it.”

You smirked, emboldened. “Guess that means I need a good teacher, huh?”

Her lips twitched, a faint, dangerous curve. “Careful. You’re pushing the line between bold and insolent.”

“And what happens if I cross it?” you asked softly, letting the words hang in the air.

Her gaze sharpened, holding yours, and she leaned just a fraction closer over her desk. “Then,” she said, voice low, deliberate, “I decide how far you get to go.”

The paper sat between you like a fragile shield, but all you felt was the heat of her presence, the unspoken tension, and the dangerous pull of this game you were both now quietly playing.

Impulsively, you leaned just slightly closer over her desk, enough to shorten the space between you, daring her to react.

She glanced up at you, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, lips tugging into a scoff that carried equal parts amusement and reprimand. “Careful, Y/N,” she said, sliding back just enough to reclaim her personal space. “It’s late. Time to gather your things.”

You sat back reluctantly, your pulse quickening despite the slight retreat. She started gathering her papers, pen tucked neatly in her notebook, and you mimicked her, collecting your bag and scattered notes.

Then you both stopped at the doorway. Just standing there, shoulder to shoulder—or almost. Close enough that the faint scent of her perfume brushed your senses. Close enough that your pulse was loud in your ears.

She didn’t speak at first, merely letting the moment linger, her posture relaxed yet commanding. You shifted slightly, pretending to adjust your bag, but really to inch a fraction closer, testing the boundary.

Finally, she tilted her head, voice quiet but cutting through the charged air. “Be careful with that attitude of yours,” she murmured, eyes locking onto yours. “It’ll get you noticed… in ways you might not want.”

You swallowed, letting the words settle. The tension hummed between you like a wire stretched too tight, neither of you moving, neither of you breaking the fragile spell.

It was in that silence, in the doorway, that the lines between teacher and student felt thinnest—almost invisible.

You let a slow, deliberate smile creep across your lips as you gathered your things. Leaning slightly, voice low—almost conspiratorial—you murmured, “Yes, Professor.”

It wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear. The words lingered between you like a spark, charged, private. It felt…oddly intimate, the way saying it in that tone made your pulse hammer in your chest.

Her eyes flicked up briefly, catching yours, and you swore you saw the faintest hint of amusement. Then she masked it perfectly, sternness sliding back into place.

“Careful,” she said softly, sliding her hand against your lower back in a controlled, guiding touch. The warmth of her fingers lingered just long enough to make you acutely aware of every step, every movement.

You followed her out of the office, each step a quiet dance along the edge of tension neither of you acknowledged aloud. When she reached the door, her hand retreated smoothly, her fingers brushing the lock as she secured it behind you.

You exhaled softly, letting your gaze flit away as if to process the moment. The office was quiet again, but the air between you felt thick, charged with something unspoken—something neither of you could quite name, but both undeniably felt.

You stepped out into the hallway, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above you. She mirrored your movement, bag in hand, walking a few paces beside you.

“Have a nice evening,” she said, voice calm, professional—carefully measured.

“Thanks, Professor. You too,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual, though your chest still thudded from the lingering touch at the office door.

And then, almost without realizing it, the distance between you grew. She turned down her corridor, you down yours. The separation felt heavier than it should have, as if the space wasn’t just physical but something deeper.

It was clear, even in that small, fleeting goodbye, that things had shifted. The dynamic you once knew—the strictly professional, untouchable barrier—was no longer intact.

You exhaled slowly, mind racing with thoughts you weren’t ready to admit aloud. Whatever this was between the two of you, it would never be the same again.