yantz

You’re stopped at a red light, engine idling, music low, the city glowing in neon reflections across your windshield. 

That’s when you hear it. 

A low, unmistakable growl of a motorcycle pulling up beside you. 

You glance to your left and freeze. 

Black bike. Matte finish. Rider in a worn leather jacket, broad shoulders relaxed. A helmet hides their face, visor dark, unreadable. 

But then you see it. 

A ginger braid, slipping free from the back of the helmet, catching the streetlight like fire. 

“Oh,” you murmur to yourself.  

Your curiosity gets the better of you. You roll down your window slowly and without thinking too hard about it, pull out your phone and angle it just enough to record. 

The biker turns her head. 

Even without seeing her eyes, you feel them land on you. 

She tilts her head slightly, clearly amused. Then casually, she reaches out and takes your hand with her gloved hand.  

Your heart stutters. 

Her glove is warm. Solid. 

She lifts your hand toward her helmet and through the helmet presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. 

You forget how to breathe. 

When she pulls back, she gives you a small nod, like this is the most normal thing in the world, then twists the throttle. 

The bike revs, deep and powerful, vibrating straight through you. 

The light turns green. 

She launches forward, gone in seconds, leaving nothing but the echo of her engine and the pounding of your pulse. 

You’re still stunned when you catch up at the next red light. 

She stops again, right beside you. 

This time, she lifts the visor just enough to see her sharp, confident and dangerous eyes.  

“You always record strangers,” she asks, voice smooth and amused, “or am I special?” 

You laugh, flustered, “You don’t usually kiss strangers’ hands, do you?” 

She hums, pretending to consider it, “Not usually.” 

She leans closer, resting one boot on the pavement, “What’s your name?” 

You tell her. 

She nods, committing it to memory like it matters. Then she gives you her phone. 

“Give me your number,” she says, not a question, “In case we don’t stop at another red light.” 

You type it in, hands shaking just a little. 

The light changes again. 

She lowers her visor, braid swinging as she settles back onto the bike. 

“Drive safe,” she says, revving the engine once more. 

Then she’s gone. 

And somehow, you know this won’t be the last time you see her. 

~ 

Later 

Natasha:  So, what were you planning to do with that video of me? 

You've been together just under a year. Long enough to know each other’s habits. But not long enough to stop discovering new things. Wanda knew your coffee order, the way you tucked your feet under yourself when you studied, the exact look you got when an exam was coming up and sleep became optional. 

She also knew your birthday was coming. 

You were curled up on the couch with your laptop open, textbooks spread across the coffee table, highlighters scattered like casualties. Wanda sat beside you, pretending to read while watching you chew absently on the end of a pen. 

She spoke gently, like she didn’t want to startle you. 

“What are you doing for your birthday?” 

You didn’t even look up, “Nothing, probably.” 

She frowned, confused, “Nothing?” 

You sighed softly and leaned back, “I mean... people are usually busy around that time. And I have exams. It’s not really worth planning anything.” 

Wanda turned fully toward you now, “You’re not doing anything at all?” 

You shrugged, “I haven’t celebrated in years. After eighteen, it just… stopped happening. Everyone had their own lives. I stopped asking,” you smiled, trying to soften it, “And this year I really need to study.” 

Her chest tightened. 

“Oh,” she said quietly. 

You didn’t notice the way her expression changed. How something sad and tender settled behind her eyes. Wanda reached out and brushed her thumb over your knuckles. 

“You shouldn’t have had to give that up,” she murmured. 

You laughed lightly, “It’s okay. Really. Birthdays aren’t that important.” 

Wanda didn’t argue. She just nodded, but her mind was already elsewhere. 

~ 

Your birthday fell on a Friday. 

You spent it exactly how you expected, hours in the university library, surrounded by half-finished notes and the low hum of other stressed students. You checked your phone a few times, saw a message from Wanda wishing you luck with studying and smiled before diving back in. 

By the time you got home, it was late. Your brain felt fried, your shoulders sore, your patience worn thin. 

You unlocked the door and stepped inside and stopped. 

The lights were dimmed, warm and golden. Soft music played quietly from the living room. The apartment smelled incredible: garlic, herbs, something sweet. 

“Wanda?” you called, confused. 

“In here,” she answered. 

You followed the sound and froze again. 

The table was set for two. Nothing fancy, just candles, mismatched plates, your favourite flowers in a jar. Wanda stood near the stove, wearing one of your oversized sweaters, hair loosely pulled back. 

She smiled when she saw you. Nervous. Hopeful. 

“Happy birthday,” she said. 

You blinked, “Wanda… what is all this?” 

She stepped closer, “I know you said you didn’t want to do anything. And I know you’re tired. So I didn’t invite anyone. I didn’t make a big plan,” she hesitated, “I just… wanted you to come home to something warm.” 

Your throat tightened. 

“You cooked?” you asked quietly. 

“Yes,” she said, almost shy, “I looked up recipes. I hope it’s okay.” 

You set your bag down slowly, emotions catching up to you all at once, “You didn’t have to do this.” 

“I wanted to,” Wanda replied gently, “You’ve been studying all day. And even if everyone else is busy… I’m not.” 

Dinner was simple and perfect. Food made with care. Conversation that didn’t demand anything from you. Wanda asked about your classes, your exams, listened like every word mattered. 

When you finished eating, she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small cake. Your favourite. 

“There’s no singing,” she said quickly, “Unless you want it.” 

You shook your head, smiling through the ache in your chest, “This is already more than enough.” 

She lit a single candle and set the cake down in front of you. 

“Make a wish,” she said softly. 

You hesitated, then closed your eyes and did. 

Later, you curled up together on the couch, your head resting against her shoulder. Wanda played with your fingers absentmindedly. 

“I didn’t realize,” she admitted quietly, “that you hadn’t celebrated in so long.” 

You shrugged, “I got used to it.” 

She turned slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I don’t want you to have to get used to that anymore.” 

You smiled, eyes stinging, “You’re really bad for my concentration, you know.” 

She laughed softly, “Then I’ll make you tea tomorrow. And quiz you.” 

You sighed contentedly, letting yourself relax for the first time all day. 

For the first time in years, your birthday didn’t feel like an inconvenience. 

It felt like coming home. 

Natasha and you were on a trip together. Tony had given the Avengers a week off, so you took the opportunity. Wanting to escape the city for a few days, you rented a small cabin in the forest. The air smelled like pine, it was quiet, the only sounds were the birds and distant rustling leaves. 

You had arrived later than you thought you would, without even unpacking you went to bed, too tired to do anything but sleep. 

It was the morning. You woke up and tried to snuggle to Natasha, but the place beside you was empty. You stood up and went to the bathroom for your morning routine, before heading downstairs.  

You saw Natasha on the porch through the window. Making coffee for her and yourself you approached her.  

Walking through the door you went to her and give her the coffee, sitting down on the bench next to her. 

“Thank you, baby” she said smiling. 

“Good morning” you said, placing a kiss on her lips. 

“Good morning.” 

The morning sunlight filters through the trees. Both sitting and just enjoying the view, with steaming mugs of coffee. Eventually, Natasha rests her hand on yours.  

The conversation was minimal. The moment was about warmth and comfort.  

After some time, you got an idea and stood up, telling Natasha you will be back in a minute. Entering the cabin, you went to your room to take your guitar.  

When you get back to her, she looked at you confused. 

“I’m going to sing for you” you told her, and the smile found its place on her lips again. You sat down and started singing: 

“Imagine me and you, I do” 

“I think about you day and night” 

“It's only right” 

“To think about the girl you love” 

“And hold her tight” 

“So happy together” 

She leaned her head on your shoulder and listened to you. 

“If I should call you up, invest a dime” 

“And you say you belong to me” 

“And ease my mind” 

“Imagine how the world could be” 

“So very fine” 

“So happy together” 

And after that she started singing with you. 

“I can't see me lovin' nobody but you for all my life” 

“When you're with me, baby, the skies will be blue for all my life” 

“Me and you, and you and me” 

“No matter how they tossed the dice” 

“It had to be” 

“The only one for me is you” 

“And you for me” 

“So happy together” 

“I love you, baby” she said looking you into the eyes. 

“I love you, too” you replied and kissed her on the forehead. 

It’s late enough that it feels like you are the only people. 

You’re both in the common area, not really doing anything. Natasha’s perched sideways on the couch, scrolling on her phone, bare feet tucked under her. She looks relaxed.  

You pass behind her to grab a glass of water and catch it. 

Her scent. 

It stops you mid-step. 

Before you can think better of it, you mumble, almost to yourself, “You smell really good.” 

Natasha doesn’t look up right away. 

There’s a beat. 

Then she smiles. 

Slow. Knowing. Like she’s just been handed a loaded weapon. 

“Mm,” she hums, finally lifting her eyes to you, “Do I?” 

You nod, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing, “Yeah. Just... yeah.” 

She tilts her head, studying you with open amusement, lips twitching like she’s holding back a laugh, “That’s cute.” 

You frown, “Cute?” 

She slips her phone away and leans back into the couch, relaxed, playful, “You said it like you didn’t mean to. I like that.” 

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but she beats you to it. 

“I taste even better,” she adds lightly, like she’s commenting on the weather. 

Your brain short-circuits. 

Natasha laughs, soft, pleased, clearly enjoying herself now, “Wow,” she says, “That reaction alone was worth it.” 

She stands, brushing past you on purpose, shoulder bumping yours, “Relax. I’m teasing.” 

Then, just before she walks away, she glances back at you with a grin. 

“…mostly.” 

And you’re left there, glass of water forgotten, wondering how she does that so effortlessly. 

The rain had been falling for days. 

It blurred the world outside your window into soft shapes. The dull gray sky mixed with the trembling light of morning. You watched from your spot on the floor, knees pulled close, palms pressed together. You told yourself to breathe, to stay calm, to not think about the voices echoing in the corners of your mind. 

Sometimes, you could still feel them, the people you’d touched. Their thoughts, their fear, their anger. 

It was always the same. They looked at you, and when your power flared, they stopped seeing a person. 

They saw what the doctor created. 

You had stopped going outside after that last accident. The market man had only brushed against your hand, a small thing, until you felt his body freeze and his breath stutter. Your voice echoed in his head like a whisper that wasn’t yours. You’d seen yourself through his eyes, something bright and unnatural. You ran before you could hurt him. 

Now, you lived in an abandoned farmhouse outside the city. The walls creaked at night. The world pretended you didn’t exist, and that felt safer for everyone. 

But that morning felt different. 

There was a sound outside. Not the storm or the restless wind, but footsteps. Careful, deliberate. A quiet scrape of boots on wet earth. You froze, breath catching in your throat. For a moment, the hum inside you rose in warning. 

Then the door opened. 

You moved before you thought, every muscle tensing. The woman who stepped in didn’t raise a weapon. Her red hair was damp, plastered against her temple, her dark jacket slick with rain. She looked around, scanning, and when her eyes found you, she stopped. 

Her voice was calm when she spoke, “You don’t have to hide.” 

You didn’t answer. You could feel her, the way her heartbeat didn’t quicken, the steadiness of her breath. Most people pulsed with fear when they saw you, but she didn’t. That was almost worse. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. 

Your voice was rough from disuse, “Who sent you?” 

“Does it matter?” 

It did, but you didn’t say so. You took a slow step back, trying to create distance between you and her. You could control her if you wanted. With one look, one thought, you could make her leave, forget, disappear. You’d done it before. 

But something about her stopped you. There was a quiet sadness in her eyes. 

“I know what they did to you,” she said, “The files don’t say everything, but… I’ve read enough.” 

Her words sliced through you, “Then you should know what I am.” 

“I know what they tried to make you,” she replied softly, “Not what you are.” 

You turned away. The rain outside had grown heavier, thrumming against the roof like a heartbeat. 

“I can’t control it,” you whispered, “When people are near me, when they’re scared, it feels like I can sense them inside my head. I make them do things.” 

She stepped closer, slow enough that you could hear each shift of her boots on the floor, “That’s not control. That’s survival. They taught you to fear yourself.” 

You flinched, “You don’t understand.” 

“I do.” 

Her voice didn’t rise. You glanced over your shoulder and saw something achingly familiar in her expression. 

“They made me into a weapon too,” she said, “Different methods, same goal.” 

You studied her face then. The faint scars, the calm set of her jaw, and a steadiness that felt earned, not born. She wasn’t afraid of you. 

“Why are you here?” you asked. 

“Because no one should be alone with what was done to them.” 

The words settled in the air like something sacred. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The storm moved on, and you realized how long it had been since someone looked at you without seeing danger first. 

When you finally spoke again, your voice was small, “You should leave.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

The question stopped you. No one had ever asked before. Everyone else decided for you what you were, where you belonged, what you deserved. But she asked. 

You shook your head once, “No.” 

Natasha exhaled, almost smiling, “Then I’ll stay. Just for a while.” 

She moved to sit against the opposite wall, giving you space. The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable. You closed your eyes, listening to the rhythm of the rain and the soft sound of her jacket as she shifted. 

You didn’t know when your guard started to lower. Maybe it was when she offered half of her protein bar without a word or when she asked about the books scattered around the floor. You answered cautiously, but her voice stayed steady, never prying too far. 

Later, when the sky darkened again, you told her about the lab. Not all of it. The cold lights. The sound of glass breaking. The moment your power first tore through the air and everyone stared as if they’d seen a ghost. You told her you never meant to hurt anyone, that you tried hard to be good. 

Natasha didn’t interrupt. She listened, hands resting on her knees, eyes fixed on you with a fierce attention that felt like safety. 

When you finished, she said quietly, “You’re still good.” 

You almost laughed, but it came out like a sob. 

“I’ve done things,” you said, “Things I can’t take back.” 

“So have I.” 

She looked away then, her expression distant for the first time. You realized she meant it; this wasn’t pity. It was understanding. 

The wind howled through the cracks in the walls. You watched the way the shadows bent around her. 

“Why aren’t you scared of me?” you asked. 

Her gaze met yours, “Because you remind me that we can be more than what they made us.” 

There was a long pause after that. For the first time in years, you didn’t feel the instinct to hide. 

You sat beside her then, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers. She didn’t move away. 

Outside, the storm faded into soft drizzle. The smell of wet earth filled the air. 

You watched raindrops slide down the window, each one catching a flicker of light. You thought of the doctor’s words, ‘You are not human, you are what I made you,’ and for the first time, the echo didn’t hurt as much. 

You were not what he made. You were what survived. 

And when Natasha’s hand rested briefly on your arm, you realized something else. Maybe you were never meant to be alone in the first place. 

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t do crowds.

She tolerated them. Manages them. Knows how to disappear inside them if she has to. But a Renaissance Faire is not exactly her idea of relaxing Saturday. There are wooden booths packet together, music spilling from every direction, people laughing too loudly, bells chiming, skirts swishing, children running past with sticky hands.

And yet.

Here she is.

For you.

You’re practically vibrating beside her, fingers laced with hers, tugging her forward through the entrance like a kid being let loose in a candy store. You look, there’s really no other word for it, radiant. Dressed in flowing fabric and soft leather, colours that look like they were stolen from a painting, hair styled in a way that feels both medieval and completely you. You fit here like you were meant to exist in this world, like you’d stepped sideways out of time.

Natasha watches you more than anything else.

Her own outfit is simpler, still a costume, but practical. A fitted bodice, dark trousers, boots made for movement. You’d helped her choose it, hands careful, eyes bright as you explained what everything was. She hadn’t complained. Not once. That alone should tell her something.

“What’s that?” she asks, nodding toward a group of musicians tuning their instruments near a small wooden stage.

You grin, “Folk band. They’re about to start.”

She hums, but she lets you pull her closer anyway.

The music starts slow at first, strings and drums, a rhythm that feels ancient and alive, like it’s echoing up from the ground itself. People begin to gather, some clapping along, others swaying without really thinking about it. A couple in full period dress spins past you, laughing, skirts flaring.

You turn to Natasha, eyes sparkling, “Dance with me.”

She arches an eyebrow, “I don’t dance.”

“That’s a lie,” you say easily, “You just don’t dance like this.”

There’s a difference.

She knows it. You know it. But before she can argue, you’re already pulling her into the circle forming near the musicians. The ground beneath your boots is uneven, packed dirt and grass and the air smells like rain even though the sky hasn’t decided what it’s doing yet.

At first, Natasha is stiff. Aware. Calculating distances, exits, people. Her hand rests at your waist out of habit, protective even here.

But you laugh softly and spin away from her grip, only to come back again, fingers brushing hers. The music picks up, faster now, joyful and something loosens in her chest.

She follows your lead.

It’s not choreographed. No rules. Just movement and rhythm and the way you look at her like there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. She lets herself smile, small at first, then real. You notice immediately.

“There you are,” you say, breathless.

She doesn’t know what that means, exactly, but she knows she likes the way it feels.

The first raindrop hits her cheek, cool and unexpected.

Then another. And another.

Someone nearby whoops as the sky finally opens up, rain spilling down in earnest. A few people scatter for cover, but most stay. Laughing. Spinning harder. Letting the music and the weather do whatever they want.

You tilt your head back, rain darkening your hair, fabric clinging to your arms, “Nat,” you say, voice raised over the sound, “it’s raining!”

She looks at you, soaked already, eyes bright, cheeks flushed and something settles deep and warm in her chest.

“So it is,” she says.

She doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t suggest shelter. Instead, she pulls you closer.

The rain soaks through her clothes, runs down her neck, but she barely notices. All she feels is you, your hands in hers, your laughter pressed against her shoulder, the music pounding through her bones. The world narrows down to this moment: mud on her boots, rain on her skin, you smiling at her like she’s the best decision you ever made.

For once, there’s no mission. No threat. No past clawing at her heels.

Just joy.

Just you.

When the song finally slows, dissolving into applause and cheers, you’re both breathless and laughing, foreheads pressed together. The rain has softened to a drizzle, the sky lighter now, as if it’s pleased with itself.

“Worth it?” she asks quietly.

You nod without hesitation, “Best time.”

She presses a kiss to your temple, right there in the open, rain and music and people all around you. For once, she doesn’t care who sees.

She went because you enjoy it.

She stayed because she loved it.

And later, years later, when the world gets loud and heavy again, she’ll remember this. The dancing. The rain. The way peace found her in the most unexpected place, simply because she chose to follow you into something new.

The compound gym was usually quiet on Sunday mornings. Except for today, when a group of young trainees from junior program had been invited to tour the Avengers facility. Wide-eyes kids, all of them staring at everything like it was magic.

You were supposed to demonstrate a simple disarm. Simple.

But the trainee you partnered with moved faster than expected, swinging the practice staff at your head with way too much enthusiasm.

You didn’t even think. Your body reacted on instinct.

You ducked low, swept his legs in one clean motion, caught the falling staff mid-air, spun it around your wrist and tapped it gently against his shoulder in the universal “you’re out” signal.

The entire room gasped.

One of the kids whispered, star-struck, “She’s so cool…”

And before you could say anything, you heard Natasha’s voice ring out from across the room, loud, proud and absolutely smug:

“That’s my girlfriend, you suckers!”

Nat was standing there arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut glass, absolutely preening.

You helped the trainee to stand and then turned to Natasha with a smirk.

“Your wife, Nat.”

The kids gasped. Natasha froze for a second, then her smirk deepened into something warmer, brighter.

She closed the distance in two slow steps, eyes gleaming.

“My wife,” she echoed, voice dropping like she liked the taste of the word, “Even better.”

A couple of the trainees whispered excitedly, one of them whisper-shouting, “She’s married to Black Widow!”

Natasha ignored them completely, her attention fixed entirely on you as she took your hand and tugged you closer.

“You know,” she murmured, low enough only you could hear, “you showing off like that is extremely attractive.”

You raised a brow, “Didn’t mean to show off.”

“Liar,” she said with a soft laugh, “Good thing you’re my wife or I’d have to fight half these kids for your attention.”

You squeezed her hand, still smirking, “Relax, Nat. They’re all terrified of you.”

Her smirk returned full force, “Even better.”

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, boots kicked off. The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp and the quiet hum of the city outside. He looks relaxed in that way that only comes from being home with you, shoulders loose, hair falling into his eyes, sweater sleeves pushed up his forearms. 

You hover in front of him, trying not to smile too much. 

“What?” he asks, already suspicious. 

“Nothing,” you say, “I just wanna try something.” 

His brows knit together, “That’s never a good sentence.” 

You take his hands gently, lacing your fingers with his. His grip tightens. You lift his arms up slowly, guiding them over his head. 

“Hey,” he laughs softly, “What are you doing?” 

“Trust me.” 

He does. He always does. 

His arms stay raised, elbows bent awkwardly, and he looks at you like this is mildly ridiculous but harmless enough to allow, “You good?” he asks. 

“Mhm.” 

You step closer, close enough that your knees brush his. You tilt your head, just for a second, watching his expression, those blue eyes, calm and curious. 

Then you kiss him. 

It starts soft. Slow. Just your lips against his, warm and unhurried. A familiar pressure that you’ve shared a thousand times over the last few years. You expect him to stay still at first. 

He doesn’t. 

His breath hitches almost immediately. You feel it, the subtle shift, the way his shoulders soften, how his head tilts instinctively to meet you better. His hands twitch above his head like his body forgot the rules. 

You deepen the kiss just a little. 

Bucky exhales into you, a quiet sound that melts straight through your chest. His posture collapses into the moment, spine curving forward as if gravity itself is pulling him toward you. His lips move more eagerly now, careful but hungry in that restrained, reverent way that’s always been his. 

His arms finally give up. 

They drop around you, strong and sure, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against his chest. The kiss breaks only because you laugh softly against his mouth. 

“You tricked me,” he murmurs. 

You grin, “You melted.” 

He shakes his head, smiling like he’s embarrassed and proud all at once, “I always melt with you.” 

You brush your thumb along his jaw, feeling the warmth there, “Good. I just wanted to make sure.” 

He leans in again, slower this time, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, then another to your cheek, your temple. 

“As if a few years would change that,” he says quietly, “You’re still it. Always.” 

You curl into him, heart full, knowing that some things never fade. 

Natasha is still learning you. 

Not in the careful, distant way she usually learns people, but the quiet, stolen moments like this, where she watches how you react before you even realize you’re reacting at all. It's only been a few days since you stopped pretending there was nothing between you. Only a few days since her hand started finding your waist without hesitation, since her gaze lingered a second longer that necessary. 

You still haven’t caught up to it. 

You are standing close to her in the dim light of her room, your back against the door, heartbeat already too loud for how little she’s done. Natasha steps into your place with unhurried confidence, close enough that you can feel her warmth, her presence grounding and unsettling all at once. 

One hand up beside your shoulder, palm against the door. The other sets at your hip light, but deliberate. 

“You’re holding your breath,” she murmurs. 

You inhale quickly, almost defensively, “I’m not.” 

Her lips twitch. She doesn’t argue. 

She leans in and kisses you. 

It’s slow. Measured. Like she’s reminding you that she has time. Her mouth moves against yours with practiced ease, just enough pressure to make your thoughts scatter. The kiss deepens gradually, not because she pushes, but because you forget how to pull away. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt for balance. 

That’s when it hits you. 

The warmth spreads too fast, pooling low in your stomach, your knees suddenly unreliable beneath you. It’s not dramatic, not sharp wave, not warning, just a quiet, terrifying realization that your legs are no longer doing what you ask of them. 

Your breath stutters. 

“Natasha...” you whisper, pulling back half an inch. 

She feels it immediately. Her hand tightens at your hip, steadying you just as your strength gives out completely. 

Your knees meet the floor. 

It’s not a fall. It’s a surrender. 

The sudden change in height pulls you out of the kiss and Natasha freezes for half a second before looking down at you. Her expression flickers, alert, assessing, then softens into something unmistakably intrigued. 

“Well,” she says slowly, tilting her head as she takes you in, “that’s… an interesting reaction.” 

Heat floods your face, “I... I swear I didn’t mean to... this is just...” 

“Hey,” she’s already crouching in front of you, one knee on the floor, bringing herself to your level. Her hand comes under your chin, steady and warm, lifting your face gently, “I didn’t say it was a bad one.” 

You swallow hard. Your legs still feel weak, trembling faintly beneath you and you’re suddenly very aware of how close she is. How calm she looks compared to how undone you feel. 

“It’s just new,” you admit quietly, “You’re… still new.” 

Something soft passes through her eyes at that. 

“Ah,” she murmurs, understanding settling in. Her thumb brushes lightly along your jaw, grounding, “That explains it.” 

She leans in, not to kiss you this time, but close enough that her voice drops. 

“So,” she says, almost amused, “I kiss you and you forget how to stand.” 

You nod, embarrassed but honest. 

A low, surprised laugh escapes her. She looks pleased, but there’s no mockery in it. Just fascination. 

“Good to know,” she says, “I’ll be careful. Or…” her gaze flicks briefly to your knees, then back to your eyes, “…maybe not.” 

Before you can overthink that, her hand moves to your shoulder, steady and reassuring. 

“You okay?” she asks. 

“Yes,” you breathe, “Just… need a second.” 

“Take all the time you need,” her voice is gentle now, “I’ve got you.” 

She presses a soft kiss to your forehead and stays there with you, close and patient, until the trembling in your legs eases. 

Even kneeling in front of her, heart racing, you feel safe. 

And very, very aware that this is only the beginning. 

The problem wasn’t Christmas.

You realized that early, standing in the compound kitchen at an hour that technically still counts as night, the lights dimmed, decorations half-hearted and crooked like no one really wanted to commit. The problem was Natasha Romanoff leaning against the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, eyes tired and warm in a way she never lets anyone see.

The problem was that she’s yours.

And no one is supposed to know.

“Stop staring,” she murmured without looking up from the mug in her hands.

You didn’t stop. You stepped closer instead, careful with your footsteps like the walls might gossip, “You’re the one who followed me in here.”

“I needed water.”

“You drank coffee.”

She finally looked at you then, mouth twitching, “I needed you not to be alone.”

That’s how it always went. Practical excuses. Tactical reasoning. Natasha didn’t say things she can show instead.

You’re close enough now that your knees almost touch. Close enough that you could see the faint scar near her collarbone she forgets exists. Close enough that your fingers ached not to reach for her.

You didn’t. Not yet.

Because the compound was full.

Because the Avengers were everywhere.

Because whatever this was, existed in glances, timing and the unspoken agreement that neither of you were ready to explain it out loud.

Natasha sensed the hesitation. She always did.

Her pinkie hooked around yours, subtle enough that anyone walking in would miss it. The contact was brief, grounding. A reminder.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, neutral voice back in place.

You nodded. You let go.

That’s how you survived the mornings.

~

By noon, it was chaos.

Kate had decided that Christmas decorations are “a morale issue” and had taken it upon herself to rearrange the common room. There’s tinsel where there shouldn’t be tinsel. There’s a tree that looks like it was put together under duress.

Natasha positioned herself across the room from you like it was instinct.

You tried not to notice how she tracked you anyway.

Every time you laughed, her shoulders loosened. Every time someone stood too close, her jaw tightened.

You pretended not to see it. She pretended she wasn’t obvious.

She was failing.

“You two fighting?” Clint asked casually, eyes flicking between you and Natasha.

You choked on air. Natasha didn’t even blink.

“No,” she said.

“She has been glaring at you for twenty minutes,” Clint added.

Natasha took a step forward, smile thin, “I glare at everyone.”

Wanda, sitting on the arm of the couch, looked between you. Her lips curved into something knowing. You pointedly looked at the floor.

Kate squinted, “Wait. Are you…”

“No,” you and Natasha said at the exact same time.

Silence.

Kate grinned, “Okay. Definitely something.”

Natasha turned on her heel and walked away before anyone can say more. You didn’t follow. You gave it a minute. Two.

Then you slipped down the hall, heart racing like you’ve done something wrong even though you haven’t.

You found her in the gym, hands wrapped tight around a heavy bag, hitting it harder than necessary.

“You’re going to break that,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

She didn’t stop.

You stepped closer anyway. You always did.

“You’re terrible at this,” you told her softly.

She exhaled sharply, forehead dropping to the bag, “I don’t want them in it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want opinions.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want it… touched.” her voice dropped on the last word, almost gone.

You reached out then, palm pressing between her shoulder blades. She froze for half a second before melting into the contact, breath shuddering.

“You don’t have to hide it like it’s a crime,” you murmured.

Natasha turned slowly, eyes dark, intense, searching your face like she’s checking for danger.

“I’ve spent my whole life hiding,” she said, “This just happens to be something I want to keep.”

You smiled, small and soft, “You’re allowed to want things.”

She scoffed, “Dangerous mindset.”

She cupped your jaw suddenly, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into it before thinking better of it.

For a moment, the world narrowed.

Then footsteps echoed down the hall.

Natasha dropped her hand instantly, stepped back like you’ve been burned. You didn’t move fast enough. Steve appeared in the doorway, eyes flicking between you.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“No,” Natasha said. Too fast.

You cleared your throat, “Training.”

Steve nodded, polite, but his gaze lingered. He’s always noticed things. He always will.

When he left, Natasha exhaled slowly.

“That was close,” you said.

She looked at you, something like fear crossing her face, not of being found out, but of being seen.

“I don’t want to lose this,” she admitted quietly.

You stepped into her space, hands resting at her waist, unapologetic now, “Then stop acting like it’s already slipping.”

Her hands came up, gripping your jacket like she needed the anchor.

“Stay,” she whispered.

You did.

~

That night, the compound quieted.

Lights dimmed. Laughter faded. The decorations glowed softly, imperfect and warm.

You knocked once on her door.

She opened it immediately.

Inside, the world shrank to dim lamps, discarded boots and the space between you that vanished the second she pulls you in. The door closed behind you. Her forehead pressed to yours, breath warm, steadying.

“You okay?” you asked.

She nodded. Then shook her head, “Better now.”

You smiled. You always did.

When you curled up together on the couch later, her arm around you, thumb tracing absent patterns, you realize this is the part she didn’t hide well at all, the way she relaxed with you. The way she let herself be human.

Tomorrow, you’ll pretend again.

Tonight, you didn’t have to.

And for Natasha Romanoff, that might be the most dangerous and precious thing of all.

~

You should’ve known it wouldn’t stay quiet.

The compound never let things stay quiet for long.

It started the next morning with coffee and bad timing.

You were half-awake, leaning against the kitchen counter while the machine sputtered and complained, when Natasha stepped in behind you without a sound. She always moved like that. Her hand brushed your lower back, brief and familiar, meant to steady, meant to be gone before anyone noticed.

Except you relaxed into it.

Just slightly.

Enough.

“Morning,” Sam said, strolling in like he owns the place.

Natasha’s hand vanished. You straightened too fast, nearly spilling coffee everywhere.

Sam froze mid-step.

He looked at you. Then at Natasha. Then back at you.

“…Okay,” he said slowly, “That was something.”

“It was nothing,” Natasha replied, already too composed, too blank.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, “Wow. You didn’t even insult me first. That’s new.”

You kept your eyes on your mug like it might save you.

Steve entered next, holding a tablet, stopping when he clocks the tension. Wanda followed, gaze flicking between the three of you, her head tilting just a fraction.

Her lips curved.

Oh no.

Kate barrelled in right after, ponytail bouncing, “Why does it feel like I walked in on a secret?”

Natasha exhaled through her nose.

“It’s too early for this,” she muttered.

Kate’s eyes light up, “Oh my god. There is a secret.”

“No,” Natasha said.

“Yes,” Wanda said gently, at the exact same time.

You choke on your coffee this time.

Natasha’s head snaped toward Wanda, “You said you wouldn’t…”

“I didn’t say anything,” Wanda replied innocently, “I just… noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Steve asked.

The room felt very small all of a sudden.

Natasha looked at you.

Not to check if you’re okay, but to ask permission.

You swallowed, heart pounding. You gave a tiny nod.

She turned back to the group, shoulders squaring like she’s about to step into a fight.

“We’re together,” she said flatly, “It’s not a problem.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Kate’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, “I KNEW IT.”

Sam let out a low whistle, “I was betting on stress-induced crime vibes, but this is way better.”

Steve smiled. Soft. Proud. “I’m happy for you.”

Natasha blinked, clearly thrown.

“You are?”

“Yes,” he said, “And I’ve known for a while.”

You stared at him, “You knew?”

He shrugged, “You stop pretending when you think no one’s looking.”

Natasha groaned, “Great.”

Kate was vibrating, “How long? Who made the first move? Was it dramatic? Was there a mission?”

“No,” you said at the same time Natasha says, “None of your business.”

Kate grinned wider, “Confirmed.”

Wanda stepped closer, voice gentle, “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened, “I wasn’t hiding.”

Sam snorted, “You almost stabbed me with a fork last week because I sat too close to her.”

“That was unrelated.”

“It absolutely was not.”

Clint appeared in the doorway, coffee in hand, taking in the scene in half a second, “Oh. You finally told them.”

Natasha glared, “You knew too?”

He grinned, “Please. You go soft. It’s weird.”

You laughed before you can stop yourself.

Natasha turned to you, mock offended, “You promised not to laugh at that.”

“I lied.”

She sighed, then surprisingly relaxes. Her hand found yours openly this time. No sneaking. No pulling away.

The world didn’t end.

Kate clapped once, “Okay but just to be clear, this means I get to tease you forever.”

“Touch her and I’ll end you,” Natasha said calmly.

Kate beamed, “She’s protective. I love it.”

Later, when the room emptied and the noise faded, Natasha leaned her forehead against yours.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, “Are you?”

She considered it. Then nodded too.

“I don’t hate it,” she admitted, “Being seen.”

You smiled, “Good. Because I don’t plan on disappearing.”

Her lips curved, just a little.

“Good,” she said, “Neither do I.”

And for once, she didn’t look like she’s waiting for the floor to fall out from under her.