#SOMEONE PLS DRAW THEM TOGETHER | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bellaveux · 19 days ago

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be my mistake | n. romanoff x reader

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary: three years have passed since the divorce, since natasha hurt you and over time, you found yourself reflecting on the struggles you both went through, both as a couple and apart from each other. revisiting memories with your family draw you and natasha closer than you’ve been in years.

content warnings: lots of angst, hurt/comfort??, cheating, insecure!reader, mentions of alcohol/drinking, implied smut, wanda being a good friend (pls let me know if i’m missing anything else i can’t tell)

word count: 19.8k

It had been three long years since everything fell apart between you and Natasha. Three years since the day you packed your bags, gathered your daughters, and walked away from the life you’d built together. The split wasn’t clean. It wasn’t one of those polite, quiet divorces that people talk about when they’ve simply grown apart. No, yours was loud, raw, and full of hurt. You could still remember the echo of your arguments, the way her voice would crack when she begged for forgiveness, and the silence that always followed afterward—heavy, suffocating. That silence weighed more than the words ever did.

Natasha had tried. She really had. For a while, after the it happened, she did everything to make amends, to erase what she had done. But it wasn’t something you could erase. It wasn’t something you could forgive right then, no matter how hard she tried to make things right. You’d given her so many chances to explain, so many opportunities to show you that the Natasha you fell in love with was still there.

But each time, all you could see was the betrayal, the moment she chose someone else over you.

For her, it was a mistake—something that happened once and never again. But for you, it was a scar, a wound that never healed. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t let her back in. You didn’t know if you ever could again. And she knew it, even though she didn’t want to accept it. There were moments, though, when Natasha still looked at you with that same longing, the same desperation she had the night you left her. She wanted things to go back to the way they were, back to when you were her partner, her wife, her everything.

But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

No matter how much she tried to show you that she had changed, the past still lingered between you, like a shadow that refused to leave. Even now, after all this time, there was still a part of her that couldn’t accept that things would never be the same. You saw it in her eyes every time she picked up the girls, every time she lingered a little too long at the door, as if hoping you might invite her in, ask her to stay. But you never did. You couldn’t allow it, not after everything. It had been hard. Painful, even. Co-parenting with someone who had broken your heart, who had shattered the life you thought you’d have together, was an agony all its own. But you had to do it, for your girls, Nina and Lily. They needed you both, and you would never let your pain come between them and their mothers. Even if it meant seeing Natasha more often than you wanted. Even if it meant reopening old wounds every time her name appeared on your phone, or when your girls came home with stories about the time they’d spent with her.

And the first year after the divorce was hell for Natasha. She tried everything in her power to get you back—flowers, letters, showing up at the house at odd hours, always begging for another chance. She couldn’t accept that it was over. Every time she saw you, even in the briefest of moments, she could see the pain in your eyes, the devastation her betrayal had caused. It tore her apart. She had broken something precious, something she didn’t know how to fix, and yet she kept trying. She was relentless, desperate to rewind the clock, to undo what couldn’t be undone.

But the more she tried, the more tired you looked. The weight of it all was etched into your face, exhaustion hanging over you like a dark cloud. Your bright eyes, full of life and love, had dimmed. The smile that had once been hers was gone, replaced by a coldness that froze her out. And with every desperate plea, every attempt to reach you, she realized she was only making it worse. You weren’t healing. You couldn’t, not with her constantly in your space, constantly pulling at the wounds she’d caused.

By the second year, Natasha finally saw it. You needed space, needed time to mend, and she wasn’t helping at all. So, she stopped. Stopped the flowers, the late-night phone calls, the messages begging for you to forgive her, telling you she loved you. She stopped trying to push her way back into your life because it was only making things harder for you.

She watched from a distance instead, in silence.

But despite the distance she put between you both, she couldn’t stop loving you. She could never. It was something she couldn’t turn off, no matter how hard she tried. Even when she forced herself to stay away, her heart still ached for you in a way that nothing else could heal. You were everywhere—in the way her daughters smiled, in the moments when she was alone with her thoughts. She’d think of you when she’d go to the grocery store, remembering all the food you liked and didn’t like. She’d think of you at night when she’s in bed, always moving closer to your side of the bed, imagining you were still there with her. And even though she knew she had to let you go for your own sake, a part of her would always be tethered to you. It didn’t matter how much time passed. She could never stop loving you, no matter how much it hurt.

It’s been three years now. Three long, heavy years since the divorce. But in the wake of it, as the dust settled and the hurt slowly gave way to something manageable, a routine. One that neither of you ever explicitly discussed, maybe just briefly, but one that simply came to be, like a truce.

And Natasha hadn’t been with anyone since then. She hadn’t even entertained the idea. There were no late-night flings, no fleeting attempts to fill the void. Because how could she? How could anyone compare to the life she had built with you, even though it had crumbled? It had been such a stupid mistake on her part when it happened, and she promised herself she wouldn’t let that happen again, even if you didn’t want her anymore. She couldn’t bring herself to be with anyone else, and deep down, she knew it was because part of her was still yours.

Nina and Lily, your two little girls, were the threads that still tied you and Natasha together. Nina, with her wild curls and mischievous grin, only four but already full of curiosity and energy, was in preschool. Lily, more thoughtful, quieter but with an infectious laugh, had just started first grade. They were young, their lives filled with playdates, scribbled drawings, and the occasional scraped knee. They didn’t fully understand why Mommy and Mama lived in different houses now, why they didn’t all sit together at the table for dinner anymore. But they adjusted in their own way.

Natasha would pick them up from school most afternoons when she can. You’d drop them off in the mornings, coffee in hand, always on the way to work. You were working now. You didn’t really work that much when you were pregnant with the girls and Natasha always insisted on taking care of you. On weekends when Natasha didn’t have a mission or some urgent task pulling her away, she’d have them over at her place. They’d spend Saturday nights watching movies or baking cookies, or playing games until they were all too tired to continue. And then Sunday morning, she would make them pancakes, the same way you used to. It was a rhythm that worked, one that kept things steady for Nina and Lily, even when things between you and Natasha remained unresolved.

Every time Natasha saw them, it tugged at her heart. The way Lily looked at her with those wide, innocent eyes, so full of trust. The way Nina giggled when Natasha spun her around, her tiny hands reaching up to her mother like nothing had ever changed. They were growing so fast, right in front of her, and yet Natasha couldn’t help but feel like time was slipping through her fingers. Three years had gone by in the blink of an eye, and even though things were better—smoother—between the two of you now, that gnawing regret never fully left her.

But for the girls, she stayed strong. She showed up, she stuck to the routine. It was the least she could do, even if, when the weekends were over and she dropped them back at your place, she found herself lingering just a second too long, watching as you took their small hands and guided them back inside. Wondering if, somehow, it could have all been different.

The sun hung low in the sky as Natasha drove through familiar streets, the scent of fast food wafting through the car, mingling with the laughter of her daughters in the backseat. The afternoon light cast a golden glow on the girls’ faces, illuminating Nina’s bright eyes and Lily’s gentle smile as they excitedly talked about their day.

But as the laughter filled the car, Nina’s innocent question pierced through the cheerful atmosphere, shattering the fragile bubble they had created.

“Mama, why don’t you sleep at home with us anymore?”

The question hung in the air and Natasha’s heart dropped, the warmth evaporating in an instant. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing a smile that felt painfully strained. Silence enveloped them, thick with heavy emotions and memories she wished she could shield her daughters from. She glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Nina’s expectant gaze, a small frown tugging at her lips as she awaited an answer.

“Um, well…” Natasha began, her voice faltering. “You know, Mama has… a lot of work to do. Sometimes it’s just easier for me to sleep at my own place.”

Even as she spoke, the lie twisted in her stomach, sharp and uncomfortable. She could see the flicker of disappointment in Nina’s eyes, a reflection of the confusion and sadness that still lingered between the lines of their new normal.

Lily, sensing the shift in the mood, chimed in, “We can share a bed, Mama!”

Natasha smiled softly, fighting back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Thank you, baby, but… this is how things are for now.”

Her heart clenched at Lily’s innocent declaration, each word a dagger piercing deeper into her already heavy heart. The car felt suddenly suffocating, filled with the echoes of memories and unresolved feelings. The gentle hum of the car faded into the background, and all she could hear was the soft thrum of her daughters’ voices and the relentless reminder of the pain they were all carrying.

“My bed is big enough!” Lily insisted again, her eyes wide with hope. “And I think Mommy misses you, too. Sometimes, I see her crying at night.”

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat. The image of you, alone in the dark, tears glistening on your cheeks, tore through her defenses, a reminder of the consequences of her choices. Guilt washed over her, crashing down with a force that made it hard to breathe.

“Sweetheart,” Natasha said softly, her voice trembling slightly as she fought to maintain her composure, “It’s okay for Mommy to be sad sometimes, you know? We all feel sad sometimes.”

“But I don’t want her to be sad,” Lily replied, her voice small and earnest. “We could go to Auntie Wanda’s cabin and have ice cream parties and movie nights like before!”

The wistfulness in Lily’s tone echoed Natasha’s own desires, the aching wish to turn back the clock and reclaim the happiness they had once shared. But Natasha knew that life was never that simple.

“I know, baby,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And I want that too. We just… have to be patient.”

Lily frowned, her small brows knitting together in confusion. “Do you still love mommy?”

The question hung in the air. Her heart raced, and she glanced at her daughters in the rearview mirror, the truth of her feelings spilling over like an unguarded secret.

“Of course I do,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, but she didn’t hesitate.

Nina chimed in, her conviction unwavering. “Maybe if we all hug and give her lots of kisses, she won’t be sad anymore!”

She wanted to laugh at the sheer innocence of their logic, but it only deepened the ache in her chest. “I don’t think it’s that simple, baby.”

Lily tilted her head, her expression earnest and unwavering. “But, we’re a family, and families love each other.”

Natasha only smiled.

As they continued down the road, the fading sunlight cast warm shadows in the car, but the weight of their words settled heavily in Natasha’s chest. Lily fell silent soon after, her small face pensive as she stared out the window, the world outside a blur of colors. Natasha’s heart ached for her, wishing desperately that she could turn back time, wishing that the nights spent apart didn’t feel like an insurmountable distance.

As she pulled up to your house, the familiar flutter of anxiety danced in her stomach. She could hear the muffled giggles of her girls in the backseat, their excitement palpable as they chattered more about their day. But as she stepped out of the car and approached the front door, her heart began to race for a different reason entirely.

When you opened the door, Natasha felt the air shift around her. There you stood, framed in the soft glow of the entryway light, and her breath caught in her throat. You were breathtaking, wearing an elegant black dress that hugged your figure in all the right places. The fabric glimmered subtly as you moved, catching the light with each breath. Your hair was fixed neatly by your shoulders, and your makeup was flawlessly applied.

For a moment, Natasha was transported back to the nights when the two of you would dress up for special occasions, the thrill of anticipation sparking between you. But now, that thrill was laced with an ache that felt as sharp as it was familiar.

“Hi, mommy!” Lily squealed, bursting with energy as she darted past you into the house, closely followed by Nina, who gave you a quick hug before joining her sister.

“Hey, girls,” you greeted them softly, your voice warm but tinged with an undercurrent of something unspoken. You stepped back to allow them inside, your gaze flickering to Natasha, who stood momentarily rooted to the spot, taking in the sight of you.

Without breaking eye contact, you rushed over to the mirror that hung just inside the entryway, your movements quick and graceful as you fumbled with your earrings. Natasha’s heart ached at the sight, realizing how beautifully you carried yourself, even through the chaos of their past. She walked inside hesitantly, closing the front door behind her, swallowing the lump in her throat as she slowly walked further in.

“Wow, Mommy! You look so pretty!” Nina beamed.

“Thank you, honey,” you replied with a soft smile, your voice brightening as you turned your attention to the girls.

Natasha lingered by the wall, unsure of what to do with her hands as the girls raced off into the living room, their laughter filling the house with warmth. She listened when you asked the girls quick questions about their day at school, but all she could focus on was you. She stood there, still as a statue, her fingers brushing nervously over the seam of her jacket, as her eyes found you again.

You moved gracefully through the hallway, your dress shimmering faintly with each step. She felt a pang in her chest, something akin to longing but deeper, more raw. She hadn’t seen you like this in so long—dressed up, glowing, completely at ease in your skin. Her breath hitched slightly, catching on the memories that rose unbidden in her mind, of nights when she’d watch you just like this, mesmerized by the smallest of movements. You never failed to amaze her every time.

But now, it feels different. There was a distance between you that wasn’t just physical, and Natasha could feel it more sharply than ever. Yet, despite the distance, she found herself rooted in place, unable to tear her gaze away. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling awkward and out of place, like a visitor in what was once her home.

You hadn’t said much since opening the door, offering a quiet greeting before slipping back into the rhythm of your routine. But it didn’t matter. Natasha’s thoughts were too loud to be drowned out by small talk anyway. All she could think about was how beautiful you looked, how effortless you made everything seem. The curve of your neck as you bent slightly to adjust your earring, the way your lips pressed together in concentration—it all made her feel like a stranger witnessing something intimate, something she no longer had the right to witness. For a moment, her fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, to touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin under her palm. But she held herself back, knowing that her place in your life now was nothing like it used to be. Instead, she remained where she was, standing awkwardly by the wall, her heart heavy with unspoken words and feelings she didn’t know how to express anymore.

You must have felt her staring, because you glanced up at her briefly from where you stood by the mirror. The moment your eyes met, Natasha felt a surge of emotion that almost knocked the wind out of her—regret, longing, admiration—all tangled together. She swallowed hard, but couldn’t find the words to say anything. What could she say, anyway? Nothing would change the fact that she was the reason things were the way they were.

And yet, she couldn’t help but think of how beautiful you were. How beautiful you’d always been. How you’d managed to slip right out of her fingers.

Natasha’s hands twitched at her sides, the yearning almost unbearable as she watched you. The way your dress hugged your frame, the soft curve of your neck as you finished adjusting your earrings—it stirred something deep inside her, a longing so fierce it nearly took her breath away. She wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you and wrap you in her arms. She wanted to hold you like she used to, when everything was easier, when you were hers and there was no wall of hurt between you.

But now, it feels impossible. Every time she considered moving closer, something stopped her—the guilt, the regret, the knowledge that she no longer had the right to that kind of intimacy with you. Not after everything. Not after the way things had ended, fractured by her own mistakes.

Still, the desire was overwhelming, almost painful. She couldn’t help it—her eyes followed the way your fingers brushed against your collarbone as you fixed a stray hair, and her heart ached with the thought of reaching out, of pulling you against her, of whispering that she was sorry, that she had never stopped loving you. God, she wanted to hold you so badly. Just for a moment. Just to feel that connection again, to remind herself that once, not too long ago, you had been hers.

But instead, then she saw you struggling with the clasp of your necklace.

Her hesitation was palpable as she took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. Her heart pounded in her chest, every movement deliberate and slow, like she was afraid that even the air between you was fragile. She saw you fumble with the clasp of your necklace, your fingers shaking ever so slightly in your rush. Her own hands twitched, the need to help overwhelming her, but she hesitated for a beat longer. She wasn’t sure she had the right to step into your space, to touch you again, even for something as simple as this.

But when you let out a frustrated huff, she took a breath and moved closer, her presence soft but undeniable as she stood just behind you. Gently, her fingers brushed against your skin, so light you might not have even felt it at first. Carefully, she took the delicate chain from your hands and closed the clasp at the back of your neck.

Her touch lingered just a second too long. She couldn’t help it. The warmth of your skin under her fingers, the proximity, the way your scent filled her senses—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. The faint scent of your perfume washed over her, and it hit her all at once. You smelled exactly the way she remembered, like something warm and comforting, but with an edge that made her dizzy. It was intoxicating. She glanced up for just a moment, catching your reflection in the mirror, but her eyes dropped quickly, too scared to meet yours. She didn’t trust herself to look into your eyes and not say everything she was feeling. It felt like a betrayal of her own heart to be this close to you, yet still so far away. Her hands fell back to her sides, clenched into soft fists, fighting the urge to keep touching you. She stepped back, quietly swallowing the ache that seemed to settle in her chest.

“You look beautiful,” Natasha breathes, almost afraid to say the words, but it came out before she could even think about it.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, your voice barely more than a whisper, the quiet words hanging in the air.

She froze for a split second, the simple phrase sending an unexpected ripple through her. It was such a small thing—a polite acknowledgement, nothing more—but to her, it felt loaded with everything that had been left unsaid for years. Then, she forced a small smile, though you couldn’t see it, her eyes still fixed downward as she stepped back from you.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, her voice just as soft, though it felt like a lie. She wasn’t welcome. Not anymore.

She watched as you turned back to the mirror, adjusting your hair slightly and smoothing the fabric of your dress. You looked beautiful—breathtaking, really—but all she could focus on was the sadness in your quiet thank you. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but no words came. Instead, Natasha let the silence speak for her, the tension between you heavy and unresolved, much like everything that had been left behind.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Natasha asked, trying to keep her voice light, though it came out more strained than she intended.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue the moment she saw you in that dress, but she hated herself for asking, for making it sound so casual when the question felt like it was burning her from the inside.

You released a small huff, something resembling a smile flickering at the corners of your mouth, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You could see the way her jaw clenched in the mirror.

“It’s just a work thing,” you muttered, turning slightly in the mirror as if to busy yourself with something else, but Natasha could tell it was an attempt to deflect the conversation. You had always done that—shrugged things off when they felt too heavy, too personal.

But Natasha wasn’t stupid. She knew it wasn’t just a work thing. She could feel it in her gut, the way you said it so softly, so dismissively. And yet, she didn’t push. Couldn’t. Instead, she let out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“Well, you look really nice,” she added, her voice a bit more gentle now, her eyes softening as they roamed over you once more. She hated how small her words felt, like she was grasping for something, anything, to make sense of the distance between you.

You didn’t say anything at first, just nodded, almost absentmindedly, still adjusting the clasp of your earrings. Natasha stood there, helpless, her hands twitching at her sides as she watched you prepare to leave for an evening that didn’t involve her anymore. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—this ache of wanting you, this regret that sat like a stone in her chest.

You glanced at her, your eyes flickering with indecision before they darted to the clock on the wall.

“Shit, I forgot to text the babysitter,” you muttered, already pulling out your phone. You were halfway through typing the message when Natasha’s voice cut through the quiet tension of the room.

“I can watch them,” she offered quickly, almost too quickly, like she had been waiting for the opportunity. There was a soft urgency in her tone, something that made your fingers pause over the screen.

You hesitated, looking at her fully now, your gaze searching her face. She stood there, trying to appear nonchalant, but you could see the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered between you and the door, as if bracing herself for your response. It wasn’t the first time she had offered, but something about tonight—about her standing there, in your home, so close yet feeling so far away—made you hesitate.

“Natasha, it’s so last minute, and you’re probably busy—“

“I’m not busy.”

There was silence.

“Are you sure?” you said, your voice trailing off. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust her with the kids, in fact, you trusted her with the girls more than anyone.

“Of course. I promise, I’ll make sure they’re asleep by the time you get back,” Natasha said softly, taking a small step closer, as if to bridge the gap between you.

You lingered for a moment longer, the phone still in your hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Natasha stood there, waiting, her gaze steady but gentle, almost like she was afraid to breathe too loudly in case you changed your mind. There was a hesitation in the air, thick with all the memories and tension that seemed to live between the two of you now.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. “Okay,” you murmured, the word coming out soft but resigned. “But only if you’re sure.”

Natasha nodded immediately, as if there had never been a question. “I’m sure.”

You watched her for a moment, still not quite as sure as she was, but there was something about the way she looked at you that made you relent. Maybe it was the familiarity of her presence, or the way she always seemed so certain when it came to the girls. You wanted to believe it would be fine, that it wouldn’t hurt to let her help, just this once.

“Alright,” you said again, this time a little firmer. You tucked your phone away, glancing toward the living room where the girls’ voices echoed softly in the distance. “I might be back late, though.”

“I can handle it,” Natasha reassured you with a small smile, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Relief, maybe. “You go have fun.”

You nodded, still hesitant but knowing that you had little choice now. With one last glance at her, you grabbed your purse from the table and walked toward the door, feeling Natasha’s eyes on you the whole way. Just before you left, you stopped, hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at her one more time.

“Okay,” you said quietly. Natasha didn’t respond right away, just gave you a small nod, her eyes soft, watching you like she was still trying to figure out if this was real.

Your phone buzzed with a sudden chime, the noise breaking through the quiet air between you and Natasha. You flinched just slightly, caught off guard, but Natasha’s eyes never left you. That unwavering stare, intense and full of something you couldn’t quite place—regret, longing, maybe both—lingered as you glanced down at your phone.

“Oh, that’s… my coworker. She’s here to pick me up…” you said softly, reading the message on the screen.

You didn’t look up immediately, feeling the weight of Natasha’s gaze settle over you like a thick blanket, almost suffocating. There was another beat of silence, her expression barely changing, though something flickered in her eyes at the word “she.” It was so subtle, you almost missed it. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just nodded once, stiffly, her face carefully neutral, though you could feel the tension in the air shift.

You turned toward the door again, suddenly aware of how small the space between the two of you felt. The air was heavy, like it held all the words neither of you had said over the years. You hesitated, hand on the knob, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

Natasha’s voice, soft but strained, reached you before you could turn the handle. “Be safe tonight.”

You froze, the words hitting you in a way you hadn’t expected. They were simple, but coming from her, you knew they meant so much more.

As you stepped out of the house and closed the door behind you, the cool evening air hit your skin, and for a moment, you paused on the front steps. You could hear the muffled sounds of the girls laughing inside, and the thought of leaving them for some work party made your heart twist.

Truth be told, you didn’t even want to go. The idea of mingling, making small talk, pretending everything was fine—it felt exhausting before it even started. But your coworkers had been persistent, insisting you needed to get out more, that it would be good for you. They meant well, of course. They saw the toll the divorce had taken on you, how the weight of it had settled into your bones, leaving you quieter, more withdrawn. And though you tried to hide it, the loneliness was written all over your face. They probably thought this was what you needed—a night of distraction, a chance to be someone other than the person who had been left shattered after everything fell apart. But standing there, under the dim glow of the porch light, you felt a tug in your chest, a sense of dread thinking about the night ahead.

Natasha lingered in your thoughts as always, the way she had silently helped you with your necklace, the soft brush of her fingers against your skin sending shivers down your spine. You hated to admit it, but you missed her soft touches, her gentle smile, the way she would look at you like you held her world in your hands. The more you thought about it, you realized that it never really went away. And that look in her eyes, the one she always tried to hide but never quite could—it haunted you now as you made your way toward the car waiting at the curb.

With a sigh, you slipped into the passenger seat, greeting your friend with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. As the car pulled away, you found yourself staring out the window, thinking not about the party or the people waiting for you there, but about the house you had just left—the home you used to share with Natasha, the life you once had before everything fell apart. Maybe tonight would be a distraction, or maybe it would just be another reminder of everything you’d lost. Either way, it felt like one more step away from her, and that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You were grateful for your friends—those who always wanted to help you after what happened.

Wanda was the one who helped you through most of it.

In the beginning, when everything felt like it was crumbling beneath you, Wanda had been there. She’d been the first to know what had happened with Natasha—the first to see the hurt blooming in your eyes, the way your voice cracked when you spoke, even when you tried so hard to sound strong. When she’d found out, Wanda was so angry, her fury simmering just beneath her skin. Word traveled quickly at the compound; someone must’ve overheard. But you’d heard, too, about how she’d cornered Natasha, her voice cold and sharp, her words unforgiving.

“Why did you do it?” Wanda had demanded of Natasha, her tone somewhere between outrage and heartbreak, and the confrontation left Natasha speechless, stripped of the practiced poise that she carried like armor. You never wanted to know all of what was said, but the rumors filled in the gaps; Wanda’s words were scathing, a fierce defense of the person Natasha had hurt most. She was protective, fiercely loyal, and in that moment, you felt the strength of a bond you hadn’t fully appreciated until you needed it most.

And it wasn’t just the initial shock, either—Wanda stayed. She kept you afloat on the days when the hurt felt too deep, kept you from slipping further into the void of your own heartbreak. She had this way of knowing when the silence was too heavy, when you needed to be pulled from the edge of your own emotions. She never let you wallow, and yet she didn’t rush you to move on either; she’d bring you back, her voice gentle, but firm, reminding you that you were stronger than this pain, that you’d heal, that you still had so much left to give to the world.

When the decision for a divorce finally weighed heavy on you, Wanda was the first person you told. The words had come out choked, but clear, and though she didn’t say much at first, her hand had reached for yours, holding it tightly as you tried to steady yourself. She kept asking if you were sure, her eyes steady, searching yours for any trace of doubt or hesitation. She knew you loved Natasha. And she knew Natasha was madly in love with you. But she wanted you to be certain, not out of judgment, but out of a desire to protect you, to make sure you weren’t making a decision you’d regret. She knew the depths of your love for Natasha and how much this was costing you; she wanted you to find peace in your choice, even if that peace felt miles away.

She had always been quietly supportive, even when things between you and Natasha fell apart. She never pried, never asked too many questions, but she had a way of knowing when you needed someone. You knew it was hard being your friend and Natasha’s friend.

But a few weeks ago, when she helped you pick out the dress you were wearing tonight, you could tell she was trying to lift your spirits, offering a distraction with her usual good-natured humor. She had pulled you into a few boutiques, tossing dresses over the fitting room door while she waited for your approval. When you finally stepped out in the sleek black dress you were wearing now, Wanda gave you that look—her eyes bright with approval, a grin spreading across her face.

“You’re going to knock them dead,” she had said with a playful wink, her tone light, but there was something else in her voice too, something softer.

You hadn’t said much in response then, brushing off the compliment with a smile. You hadn’t really felt like going to the party, but Wanda was insistent that it would be good for you, to dress up, to get out.

And despite your silence on the matter, you knew she supported you and Natasha—always had. She never quite explained why, but you could sense it. Maybe she believed in second chances, or maybe she saw something in the two of you that you couldn’t see anymore. Even though she hadn’t talked about it much, you could feel her quiet faith in your relationship, like she was holding onto a hope you’d long since let go of. It was comforting, in a way, knowing that someone still believed in you and Natasha, even when you weren’t sure if you believed in it yourself anymore.

And from time to time, Wanda had a gentle way of bringing up her old cabin in the countryside, each suggestion delivered so casually that you might’ve let it slip past if it hadn’t been for the significance lingering just underneath her words.

She didn’t live there anymore, now that her and Vision moved to New Jersey a lot recently with the twins. But every Thanksgiving, with her permission, the cabin had been your haven—a place where the world’s noise faded, replaced by the simple sounds of fire crackling, the murmur of conversations that stretched late into the night, and the delighted laughter of the girls as they played under the trees. It was as if the cabin held its own magic, a place suspended in time, where warmth radiated from more than just the fireplace, and you could almost believe in the simplicity of those happy moments lasting forever.

The girls loved it there especially—they loved the air, the trees, the comfort of a cozy cabin, playing music on Wanda’s old record player, or drinking hot chocolate Natasha loved to make for them. One winter, you spent the weekend there with them and Lily had just learned how to build a snowman with Natasha. Nina was still a little too young, but she found joy in trying to run around, catching the falling snowflakes with her tongue. You got nothing but good memories from going there.

The first time Wanda mentioned going back, it felt impossible to picture without Natasha. Even imagining it brought a sense of loss so heavy it threatened to shatter the memory entirely. The cabin without her was like watching the film reel of your life with half the scenes missing—disjointed, fractured, unable to find the comfort it once held. When you’d tried to explain, Wanda had only nodded, a knowing look softening her face as if she understood the unspoken things that weighed down your words. But over the months, she kept mentioning it, in small ways, like a quiet refrain.

“Then bring Natasha,” she’d said last, her voice so gentle it almost blended with the room. Her gaze, steady and unwavering, had landed on you with a quiet faith that made you feel exposed.

You’d wanted to respond, to give voice to the reasons why it felt impossible, to explain the ache that lingered too deeply to ignore. But the words had caught in your throat, your thoughts tangled in memories that had once been warm but now held the sting of something fractured. So you’d only managed a soft smile, allowing the silence to stretch between you as you turned the conversation away, knowing Wanda would understand.

And yet, her words stayed with you, lingering long after, wrapped in a fragile hope that you hadn’t dared to touch. Wanda believed in something you weren’t sure you could reach for, a belief that the cabin could be a bridge, a place where memories could be revisited, reconnected—maybe even healed.

The idea stayed with you, filling your mind, daring you to wonder if, perhaps, she was right.

It was late by the time you finally unlocked the front door, the echo of the party still buzzing faintly in your head, softened by a light haze from the few drinks you’d had. The house was dark and still as you slipped inside.

As you moved further in, adjusting your eyes to the dim light, you saw them.

Natasha was stretched out on the couch, her body softened in the shadows, and there, tangled in her arms, lay your two little girls. Nina and Lily were nestled close, their small bodies curled and sprawled across her, their hands loosely gripping her shirt, their faces pressed into her chest as if she were their entire world. Natasha’s head was tilted back, her breathing deep and steady, the sort of calm that only came when everything around her was right, if only for that fleeting moment.

You paused there in the doorway, just watching them, a warmth settling in your chest, bittersweet and familiar. This was the woman you’d once called home. And maybe she’d made mistakes—mistakes that fractured everything between you, mistakes that left bruises you weren’t sure would ever fade. But seeing her now, surrounded by the soft rise and fall of the girls’ breathing, you were reminded that she’d never once faltered as their mother.

For a long moment, you just stood there, absorbing the scene, the beauty of it, the softness that was so rare in Natasha, brought out only by the girls resting so peacefully against her. A part of you ached, the part that remembered when that was your world, too—the intimacy, the trust, the feeling that this was where you belonged. But now, standing alone in front of her, you knew it was different.

“Natasha…”

The name leaves your lips in a choked whisper, so quiet you barely hear it yourself. It’s both a word and a breath, carrying years of ache, of longing, of memories buried beneath the hurt. She stirs softly at the sound, her eyes blinking open, unfocused in the dimness, but immediately careful, instinctively cradling Nina and Lily closer to her, her instincts as a mother overriding everything else. She lifts her head, and in the low light, her eyes meet yours—surprised, still a bit hazy with sleep, yet touched by something tender, something deeply aware.

A faint smile tugs at your lips, almost without your permission. You nod toward the girls, your voice so soft it hardly disturbs the quiet of the room.

“We should get them to bed,” you murmur, the words gentle, careful, as though you’re trying not to disrupt a delicate peace.

Natasha gives a barely perceptible nod, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, as though she’s searching for something. Then, she looks down at the girls, her features softening into something achingly vulnerable. She shifts, moving slowly so as not to disturb Lily, her hands moving with the practiced care of someone who’s done this a hundred times over but who never takes it for granted.

You step forward, slipping your arms beneath Nina, feeling the gentle weight of her small body settle against you as you carefully lift her, your heart swelling with that instinctive protectiveness you’d felt since the day she was born. Natasha mirrors you, tenderly sliding her arms under Lily, her movements so gentle it’s as though she’s afraid to wake her from whatever dream she’s lost in. Together, you make your way down the hallway, your footsteps muffled on floor.

Natasha trails a few steps behind you, her gaze lingering on the small bundle in your arms. There’s something undeniably tender in the way she holds Lily close, quiet in every step as if even her footfalls could shatter the peace that’s settled over the house. She watches as you cradle Nina with the same delicate care, and she can’t help but feel a pang of something—nostalgia, perhaps, or maybe it’s something deeper, something achingly familiar and distant at the same time.

You reach the doorway to their shared bedroom, and you both instinctively pause, a silent agreement hanging between you as you ease open the door just enough to slip inside. The room is softly lit by a nightlight in the corner casting a warm, gentle glow. You move first, bending to lay Nina down into her bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead as she settles into her pillow, the smallest smile flickering across her sleeping face.

Natasha steps forward, carrying Lily with the same care, lowering her slowly, as if she was releasing something precious. She smooths the blankets over Lily’s small form, her hand lingering on her daughter’s shoulder for a brief moment, her thumb brushing in a gentle, protective arc.

You both stand back, side by side, your eyes on the two little figures in the bed, their steady breaths filling the silence between you.

You turn first, giving the room one last look before stepping into the hallway, leaving the door just a crack open. Natasha lingers, her gaze falling on the spot where you had stood only moments before. She doesn’t follow immediately, instead letting herself absorb of the room, the weight of it pressing on her chest.

Then, Natasha’s feet shuffle lightly on the carpet, her shoulders tight, her movements more careful than usual. She takes a breath, then steps into the hallway, spotting you just ahead, walking back down the dimly lit corridor, your shoulders softly sloped in a way she recognizes well. Her pulse stutters, a swell of unvoiced words caught in her throat as she trails behind, her eyes fixed on your silhouette.

You pause, turning slowly, the faintest glint of something heavy in your eyes. Natasha freezes, almost holding her breath as you look up at her, gaze wavering, like you’re fighting with words you’re not sure you should say. She knows this look well enough to brace herself, the feeling of dread curling in her stomach. Her shoulders stiffen, instinctively preparing for the worst as the silence stretches, each second laced with something unspeakable.

“I… wanted to talk to you about something,” you say gently, almost catching her by surprise.

Natasha’s shoulders drop a fraction, her breath catching at your words. She hadn’t expected that, not tonight. Her gaze flickers, uncertain but hopeful, as she steps closer, nodding her head eagerly.

“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. She’s trying to appear calm, but there’s a tension in her eyes, a cautious vulnerability that betrays her. She searches your face for any hint, any sign of what you’re about to say.

“Lily’s birthday is coming up,” you say softly, your gaze finally lifting to meet Natasha’s, even if just for a moment.

Natasha nods slowly, trying to read between the lines, unsure of what you’re really thinking. She remembers every birthday, every milestone, how you used to plan together, side by side, laughing over cake designs and decorations.

“Lily keeps asking…” you start, your voice so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear. She watches you, noting the way you hesitate, choosing your words with care. “If we could go back to Wanda’s cabin. You know the girls like it there…”

The suggestion hangs heavy between you. Her mind floods with memories of those trips—Wanda’s warm cabin, the girls’ laughter, the four of you bundled in sweaters, sharing cozy meals and evening walks in the crisp, autumn air. Those times felt like forever in the best way possible, like nothing could disturb the harmony you’d built together.

“Yeah… yeah, they love it,” Natasha murmurs, her voice catching. Her eyes are distant, clouded with thoughts she isn’t sure she’s allowed to express. The idea of returning feels almost like opening a door she thought you’d closed for good. Still, the prospect brings a bittersweet hope, like maybe a piece of the life she lost could be revived, if only for several days.

You shift uncomfortably, glancing away as though admitting this feels too vulnerable, as if voicing it aloud might betray too much of what you’re holding back.

Your words come out soft, almost as if they’d slipped through a crack in your resolve. “It’d be weird to go without you… For them, I mean.”

The admission lingers, tentative, like an echo that neither of you expected. Natasha stands there, motionless, her gaze locked on you, and you can feel the weight of her eyes on you. She doesn’t respond, perhaps because she doesn’t know how to, or maybe because there’s nothing she could say that would sound right after everything that happened.

You keep your eyes on the floor—this reluctant honesty shared after years of trying to keep a cautious distance. There’s a tenderness in the air, one that feels unfamiliar now, something you haven’t allowed yourself to acknowledge since the divorce. Natasha doesn’t move, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll reach for you, break the wall of silence. But she just stays there, rooted, like she’s afraid that any movement might shatter the understanding you’ve found yourselves in.

“Maybe, we could… all go,” Natasha offers finally, her voice hushed. “If that’s what you want.”

You glance up, catching her eyes for the first time in what feels like ages. There’s a weight there, a heaviness she carries, lingering regret woven into her eyes. You break the gaze quickly, focusing on a spot on the wall behind her, holding onto the barrier you’ve had to build to keep yourself steady.

“It’s what Lily wants.”

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, nodding slowly, her fingers fidgeting by her sides. The truth is plain between you: this isn’t really about what either of you want. It’s about the tiny person who’s still dreaming down the hall, in her own perfect, unbroken world where her family feels whole. And somehow, even after everything, you both want to keep it that way for her. The idea of doing this trip together feels as precarious as it does bittersweet. But the image of Lily’s face when she sees you all together, the way she lights up at the mention of Wanda’s cabin, that’s enough to ease the ache.

Natasha leaves late that night, a soft click of the door echoing in the house after she’s gone. You’re left in the quiet, the weight of the decision settling slowly over you. You’d both agreed—two nights, maybe three—just enough time for the girls to enjoy their favorite place, to breathe in the crisp air and marvel at the autumn leaves.

You exhale, leaning against the counter, the thought of those days stirring up a mix of emotions you’ve worked so hard to bury. There’s excitement for the girls, the way their faces will light up at seeing Wanda’s cabin again. You can almost picture Nina and Lily scrambling around the place, giggling and squealing, thrilled at the rare chance to have both their parents there together, even if things have changed.

As you glance down the hall where they’re still sleeping, you wonder what it will feel like to play at something close to normal, if only for a few days. For Lily, for Nina—you would try to make it work.

A few weeks later, Natasha arrives in her old grey Lada Niva. You could hear the familiar rumble of the engine before you even see the car pull up. You’d almost forgotten the way it sounds—the low, steady hum that used to fill the spaces between you two, back when things were simpler. The car, a relic from another time, was a piece of Natasha that never changed, a constant that the girls had grown to love just as much as she did. It had been years since you’d last ridden in it, since those family road trips that now felt like distant memories you barely dared to touch.

Nina and Lily don’t hold back, rushing to the door as Natasha parks, their excited squeals echoing as they shout, “Mama!” and clamber down the front steps.

You watch as she steps out, smiling with that familiar, easy warmth that once felt like home. She crouches to their level, her arms opening as they run to her, and you can’t help but feel the smallest tug at your heart as she lifts them both in a swift, effortless motion, twirling them around like old times. Her laughter, soft and genuine, floats over to you as you linger in the doorway, a faint, bittersweet ache stirring within you.

She looks up from the girls, her gaze meeting yours, and you catch the flicker of something in her eyes—maybe nostalgia, maybe uncertainty, or maybe something else entirely. You clear your throat, trying to shake off the unease, then grab the bags by the door. You brace yourself for the weight of them, but as you take a step forward, Natasha’s shadow moves alongside you, close enough that you feel her presence before you hear her voice.

“Hey, let me,” she murmurs, her voice soft and warm.

Before you can protest, her hands reach for the bags, fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. It’s a touch so light that it leaves a ghostly warmth lingering on your skin, but it’s enough to catch you off guard, your breath hitching as she gently eases the bags out of your hands.

You watch as she walks over to the car, her movements steady and familiar, the ease with which she lifts the weight somehow comforting and unsettling all at once. Her shoulders are relaxed, yet there’s a focus in the way she sets the bags in the trunk. She turns back to you, a faint smile pulling at her lips, and for a fleeting second, the past seems to slip into the present.

You tear your gaze away to walk over and open the passenger door and slide in, the scent of old leather and faint traces of Natasha’s cologne unmistakable. It’s strange, slipping back into this space, sitting beside her again like this, feeling the past brushing close but staying just out of reach.

The drive was quiet for the most part, other than the sound of the girls’ favorite songs playing on the car radio. Natasha’s hands grip the steering wheel with ease, and her driving is as steady as it always was. Outside the window, the trees blur by, softened by late autumn light, and you lose yourself in the landscape.

Every now and then, Natasha’s gaze strays from the road to linger on you. She catches herself, tries to refocus, but her eyes drift back almost instinctively, drawn to the way you sit, wrapped in your own thoughts. Her hand hovers just slightly above her thigh, muscles tensing with the urge to reach out and place it on yours, an instinct that feels so ingrained it’s almost muscle memory. But she pulls back, fingers flexing as they return to the wheel. She remembers all the times she’d reach over without thinking, her palm resting against your thigh.

And as she glances at you once more, her chest tightens, that feeling of missing you growing stronger each and every day.

“There’s more trees now,” Natasha mutters, driving along the dirt path, getting closer towards the destination.

The cabin sits quietly in the woods, nestled under a canopy of tall pines. It’s quiet and private—the next house probably miles away. The air is cool and crisp, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, and when you text Wanda to let her know you’ve arrived, her reply is short, almost comforting in a way, telling you to enjoy yourselves with a tiny smiley face at the end. She doesn’t need to say much; she knows what this place means. She knows it has its own kind of healing, as subtle as the wind rustling through the trees.

When you get out of the car, you unload your things, the girls’ things, and settle in to the cabin.

The girls are thrilled to be here. They take to the cabin with the kind of joy only children can muster, filling the space with giggles that spill out through open windows. They chase each other around the clearing, calling for Natasha to play along, and she does, jumping into their games with an ease that’s somehow both comforting and bittersweet. She’s gentle with them, her patience surprising in moments when the girls demand more and more of her. She spins them in her arms, laughs with them, gets them to try new tricks—whatever they ask, she does. She’s always been a good mother. You’ve never doubted that.

You find yourself watching from the porch, hands wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold, rooted in place by the weight of memories. Sometimes you slip inside, needing the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring, needing to focus on something simple, something that grounds you. The scents of rosemary and garlic fill the kitchen, and it’s strange, but this simple act of cooking feels like a kind of armor. It’s something you can control, even if you feel like everything else is slipping from your grasp.

Natasha catches your eye sometimes, her glance lingering in a way that almost feels hesitant, as if she’s waiting for you to join them. But you stay back, listening to the sounds of their laughter from a distance. You’ve built walls around yourself, fragile as they are, and the thought of letting them down, even for a moment, feels terrifying. You want to be a part of this, to let yourself fall into the warmth of your family again, but something holds you back. So you stay where you are, like an outsider in your own life.

The first night the girls are already settled into their beds, sleeping peacefully and Natasha is in the living room, moving quietly, tugging a thin sheet over the lumpy couch cushions and fluffing a pillow that barely holds its shape. Her movements are careful, almost too careful. From the shadowed hallway, you watch her in silence. You know how stiff her back gets, how this couch does her no favors, and how, come morning, the sun will stream straight through the window to warm her face uncomfortably awake. You sigh, a little louder than you mean to, and Natasha glances up but doesn’t see you there, just lingering in the shadows, uncertain.

Finally, you take a breath and step into the dim light of the living room, your voice quiet as you say, “The bed is big enough for both of us, you know. You could sleep there. If you want.” You try to keep your tone casual, as if you haven’t thought this over a hundred times, and shrug lightly. “But you don’t have to. It’s just… an option.”

She stands still, her hand pausing over the pillow, eyes glancing to the floor. Of course she wanted to. But she looks at you, hesitant, as if searching for any hint that this offer is anything more than what you said it was. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze, something softened by a yearning she’s trying too hard to hide from you.

Without waiting for her response, you turn and walk away, not looking back, not wanting to see the indecision flickering across her face.

For a moment, the silence stretches and fills the empty room behind you. You hear the softest rustle as she stands there, still unsure, before her footsteps follow yours into the bedroom, cautious and quiet. The bed creaks as she settles on her side, keeping a respectful distance, her breaths slow and steady. She doesn’t say a word, but you feel her presence, steady and comforting, like a familiar warmth close enough to touch yet lingering just out of reach.

Natasha lies stiffly on the edge of the bed, her back turned but senses tuned to every breath you take beside her. The proximity—it feels like an exquisite kind of torture, and she’s aware that it’s probably worse than any discomfort the couch could have offered. But somehow, she welcomes it, aches for it, even as she tells herself to keep her distance, to keep her composure.

She can feel the warmth radiating from you, close enough that the tiniest shift would bring her shoulder against yours, but she keeps herself still, staring into the dark, wide awake. Her mind refuses to settle; memories tumble through her thoughts, fragments of laughter, the easy warmth you used to share. She finds herself painfully aware of the rise and fall of your breathing, the gentle way your face looks when you’re asleep, and she almost can’t contain herself.

She knows she won’t sleep tonight. How could she, lying here in the same bed, close enough to touch you, yet worlds apart?

But eventually, as the night wears on, she does.

It’s your breathing that does it, she realizes, grounding her, washing over her like a lullaby. The sound is soft but constant, and she closes her eyes, letting it surround her, allowing herself, just this once, to be comforted by it. Her hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to rest beside yours on the sheets, but she holds backinstead.

And, in time, Natasha drifts off, lulled by the gentle rhythm of you beside her, more at ease than she’s been in years.

The next night, you help Lily and Nina bake a cake.

The kitchen is a mess. Flour dusts the countertops, the floor, even speckles across your cheeks and Lily’s small hands. Nina stands on her tiptoes on a kitchen stool, eyeing the mixing bowl with such intense concentration that you can’t help but smile. It’s chaotic and loud, with squeals of laughter whenever a dollop of batter splatters onto someone’s arm. Lily is at the helm, her little hands wielding a wooden spoon as if it’s a magic wand.

“Mommy, I want the sprinkles!” she exclaims, reaching for a bright container of them before you even have a chance to measure them out.

But you don’t stop her; it’s her night, and this mess is hers to make. Every year she insists on making her own birthday cake, decorating it however she pleases, and every year it’s as beautifully haphazard as she is. You watch her, feeling the warmth of her enthusiasm, her innocence.

Natasha watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame, a soft smile on her lips. She takes in the scene quietly, hoping that it’d never go away—the joy, the laughter, the way Nina’s eyes light up as she carefully mixes ingredients, the concentration on Lily’s face as she decorates her cake, and then, you… God, you looked so beautiful. The mother of her children. The person she once called her wife. When you glance over, you catch Natasha’s gaze, and there’s a tenderness there as she smiles lightly at you, knowing exactly where her place is. So, she doesn’t move. She watches.

Eventually, the cake is baked, golden and imperfect, with sprinkles scattered unevenly over thick layers of frosting. It’s more of an abstract work of art than anything, but Lily beams with pride, her little hands sticky with icing as she admires her creation.

When it’s finally time to sing, she stands on a chair, practically glowing as everyone joins in, voices soft and full of love. Everybody sings. The light of the candle flickers across the girls’ faces as Natasha’s voice blends in with yours, and for a moment, everything feels… whole. You catch her eye again, and she looks at you with something unreadable—hope, maybe.

But you look away and her smile falls.

Then, Wanda visits on the last day.

Her visit catches you off guard, appearing just as you’re gathering up the last odds and ends in the cabin. She breezes in with that familiar smile, warmth radiating from her as if she’d been here all along, making herself at home in the easy way she always does. It’s been a couple weeks since you last saw her, yet here she is, greeting the girls with the kind of affection that only Wanda has, her laugh bright and contagious as she swoops them up one by one. You can’t help but smile as they cling to her, their giggles filling the cabin as they chatter on about every little detail of the weekend, as if they hadn’t seen her in ages.

Then, somewhere between the hugs and the laughter, Wanda’s eyes meet yours, a glimmer of something mischievous sparking in them.

Before you know it, she’s suggested ice cream, casually slipping the offer into the air, barely giving you a moment to consider before Nina and Lily’s eyes light up with excitement, their voices blending into one constant, pleading hum of “Please, Mommy, please!”

You hesitate, glancing around at the half-packed bags and open suitcases scattered on the floor. There’s still so much to do, and the sky outside has that heavy look to it, the kind that promises to come down hard if given the chance. You shoot Wanda a skeptical look, but she just waves it off, her voice light and certain.

“Oh, I’ll just take them real quick,” she says, already holding out her hands as Nina grabs one, Lily the other.

You glance once more at the ominous clouds hanging low in the sky. They should wait, you think, but you’ve already seen the way their faces light up at the mention of ice cream, and you can’t bring yourself to say no, not when they’re this happy.

So you sigh, pulling each of them close for a quick hug, whispering your usual cautions, “Be careful, okay? And Wanda, please… it looks like it’s about to rain.”

With a final nod, you watch as they pile out the door, their voices fading into the thick silence left in their wake. And suddenly, it’s just you and Natasha, an entire cabin somehow feeling smaller without the girls. She clears her throat softly, moving to help with a stray pile of blankets, and you follow.

The silence between you stretches on and you find yourself too aware of every sound she makes, the soft rustling of fabric, the soft padding of her steps across the creaky wooden floor. You don’t dare look at her, not directly, focusing instead on the small tasks in front of you: folding the blankets with slow, methodical care, stacking up dishes in silence, packing up the girls’ scattered toys one by one. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see Natasha’s glances, her fingers moving with a touch too gentle, as if each item in her hands were something precious, something irreplaceable.

When she reaches over, her hand brushing yours as she passes a blanket, you freeze for the briefest second, your heart pounding in a way you wish you could ignore. It’s strange, this small gesture—nothing more than a graze of skin, but it feels heavy.

After a moment, Natasha clears her throat, shifting her gaze to the window where the sky darkens further.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, but her voice is close, familiar in a way that aches, that reminds you of nights spent together, whispering in the dark.

And you want to say something, to fill the silence with something else, but the words won’t come out.

Instead, you both go back to packing in silence, And as you reach for another item, you catch her eyes on you again, lingering a second longer than necessary, something soft and unreadable passing through them before she looks away.

When the last bag is zipped and the blankets are folded neatly on the couch, the sky finally breaks open with a relentless downpour. Raindrops hammer against the cabin roof. You glance out the window, watching as the world outside the cabin turns hazy and blurred, colors melting together in streaks. It’s coming down harder than you expected, the kind of rain that turns roads to rivers, and any hope of a quick drive to meet Wanda and the girls seems to vanish.

Natasha stands beside you, her gaze following yours out the window. There’s something calming in the way she stands there, shoulders relaxed, as if she were rooted to the spot, waiting without a rush. She doesn’t offer any suggestion about the rain or attempt to fill the silence, and somehow, that makes it harder to ignore her presence.

Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, low and resonant, like a warning. You watch as Natasha crosses her arms, her fingers tapping lightly against her sleeve as if in thought, and you can tell she’s trying to gauge the storm, trying to calculate how long you’ll be stuck here together.

Natasha looks over at you, an almost apologetic look flickering across her face. “I’ll go check on the car real quick,” she murmurs, her voice low enough to blend with the rain. “I know we probably shouldn’t go anywhere right now, but it’s old, and it never does well sitting in rain like this.”

You only nod, saying nothing, watching her pull on a jacket and tug the hood over her head before slipping out the front door. The rain swallows her figure instantly, and you see her trudge through the mud, her boots sinking slightly with every step.

Through the window, you can just barely make out the shape of Natasha as she reaches the car, her hand brushing over its rain-streaked surface with a soft touch, like she’s apologizing to it for what she’s about to ask of it. The headlights flicker as she tries to turn it over, but the engine groans before settling into silence again. Another turn of the key yields the same result, the rumble followed by a spluttering cough as the car refuses to cooperate, sinking ever deeper into the mud.

You watch as Natasha leans back in the driver’s seat, her shoulders slumping in quiet resignation. She presses her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, as if gathering herself, then takes a deep breath and steps out. She gives the car a gentle, almost defeated pat on the hood, the look of someone who knows they’ve tried all they can. When she glances back toward the cabin, her gaze lifts to find you through the window.

She walks back, her steps slow, head slightly bowed against the storm. When she reaches the porch, Natasha shakes out her hood, droplets splashing across the wooden boards, and stands for a moment, hesitating as if she doesn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news. But there’s a strange, almost gentle softness in her gaze as she finally meets your eyes.

“It’s stuck,” she says quietly, tugging the hood down. “The mud’s got it pretty good, and… I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight.”

You nod, trying to ignore the small part of you that almost feels relief at her words. You watch the rainwater drip down from her jacket, forming a small puddle at her feet, and the cabin’s warmth surrounds you both, soft and heavy. Natasha only watches you as you pull your phone out to text Wanda. You fumble with your phone, tapping the screen to try and coax a single bar of signal to life. Nothing. The little icon taunts you with its emptiness, a dead end in the storm.

“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath, low enough that it almost feels like an afterthought, something you wish would disappear into the sounds of the rain.

Natasha’s voice, gentle and steady, breaks through. “I’m sure the girls are fine with Wanda…”

You look at her. Her gaze is fixed on you, softened by a faint worry lingering at the corners of her eyes. There’s a sincerity you see in her irises. You look away, down to your phone as though it might somehow find a way to work.

The silence settles in again, heavier this time. Natasha shifts on her feet, uncertain, as if waiting for something from you—a response, an assurance, anything to break the tension she can feel thickening in the air. But instead, you simply pocket your phone, shoulders tense as you press your lips together in thought, a part of you unwilling to trust that everything is okay. You don’t respond, your mind too wrapped up in worry, feeling that gnawing pit in your stomach that refuses to ease, the sense that something is just… out of reach, outside of your control.

The rain comes down in sheets, a constant drumming against the windows and the roof, filling the air with a steady hum. But inside, the silence between you and Natasha is deafening, thicker than the rain, pressing down on you in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Each passing second feels heavier, and you can feel yourself starting to unravel under the weight of it. It’s suffocating, somehow.

You glance down, trying to keep your breathing steady, but there’s something clawing at you from the inside, a mix of panic and… something else. The feeling of being here alone with her, the person you loved so much and lost so painfully, is almost too much to bear. You press your lips together, trying to ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your hands start to tremble just a little. It’s as if everything’s closing in on you, the walls, the quiet, the memories. You sense Natasha watching you, catching the small signs you’re trying to hide. Her gaze is warm, careful, as if she’s afraid that one wrong move could make everything fall apart. She shifts, almost reaching out, her hand hesitating in the space between you, as if she’s weighing whether she has the right to offer any comfort.

A shaky breath escapes you, breaking the silence, and you almost regret it instantly. It’s like you’ve let down a barrier, and Natasha’s expression softens, her eyes filled with something that’s so familiar it hurts. The ache inside you grows stronger, and you find yourself wanting to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. You can feel the weight of all that’s unsaid between you—the hurt, the love, the quiet grief of two people who once had everything and lost it.

For a second, you catch her eye, and you’re pulled right back to those moments when it was just the two of you, when you didn’t need words to understand each other. You have to look away, not ready to face the full force of it.

You take a shaky step backward, feeling your chest tighten as you distance yourself from Natasha, as though putting even a few inches between you could somehow ease the ache clawing inside you.

“I… I can’t be here,” you murmur, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice, raw and low.

You glance toward the rain-soaked windows, almost desperate for escape, the downpour outside strangely inviting, anything to cut through the weight of this moment. You’re one step from turning toward the door when you feel Natasha’s fingers close gently around your wrist, her hold soft but unyielding.

“I won’t let you go out in this rain,” she says, her voice steady, a quiet determination threading through her tone. She’s close now, closer than she’s been in so long, and the warmth of her hand against your skin, even through the fabric of your sleeve, sends a shiver down your spine.

You look down at her hand, your eyes tracing the lines of her fingers where they touch you, and for a moment, you feel yourself waver, caught between the urge to pull away and the desire to stay. It’s almost as if her touch could melt away everything you’re carrying, all the years, the heartbreak, the carefully rebuilt walls. But you don’t move, and she doesn’t let go.

“Please,” she whispers, her thumb brushing gently along your wrist. It’s the barest touch, but it’s enough to keep you grounded, to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to face this alone.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Natasha’s hand falls away from your wrist, fingers slipping into emptiness as if she’s retreating into herself. Her gaze drops, the slightest flinch crossing her face, a flash of something broken that she quickly tries to bury.

“I can go make you some tea,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, gentler than you’ve heard in a long time. It’s a soft offering that she knows has always brought you comfort.

But you turn away, steeling yourself. “I don’t need it,” you reply, sharper than you mean to, the words laced with bitterness you can’t hide.

Natasha hesitates, her hand hovering in the air like she wants to reach for you, to do something, anything, to take the pain from your eyes. “It’ll help—” she begins softly.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you cut her off, voice splintering, more forceful this time, a fierce edge to the words that lands heavy in the space between you.

Natasha stares, caught off guard, and her expression shifts, something fragile crossing her face that she can’t quite hide. She opens her mouth, but no words come, her voice lodged somewhere too deep to reach. She doesn’t fight back, doesn’t press you. Instead, she just watches, taking in every tremor, every piece of you she’s shattered.

And that’s when you feel it—everything inside you begins to unravel, as if a dam has broken. Your voice drops to a whisper, your gaze falling to the floor, and your hands start to shake as you choke out, “I don’t… I don’t need you.”

The words come softer, barely audible, and you realize it’s as much for yourself as it is for her.

But then your voice cracks, your resolve slipping, and the truth of it cuts into you like glass. The tears come, quiet at first, slipping down your cheeks as you try to hold it together, but the pain is too much. You can’t stop the sobs that rise, each one sharper than the last, as the weight of it all threatens to swallow you whole.

Natasha’s heart twists painfully as she watches you, each quiet sob striking her deeper than any wound she’s ever endured. She hates seeing you like this, hates that she’s the reason for it. Every tear, every tremor, is a reminder of the ways she’s failed you. There’s a pain that fills her, clawing at her chest as she stands there, watching you break in front of her, knowing there’s nothing she can do to piece you back together.

Her hands itch to reach out, to pull you close, to soothe you the way she used to. But the distance between you feels unbridgeable. She can only stand there, fists clenching at her sides as she tries to steady herself, feeling utterly powerless. Regret presses down on her, heavy and unrelenting, mingling with a love she never stopped feeling and a longing that never seems to fade.

Every part of her wants to close the gap, to say something that might ease the pain she’s caused, but all she can manage is a quiet, broken whisper.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, her voice cracking, barely audible over the sound of your quiet sobs.

It’s the same apology she’s given a hundred times, one that feels worn out, hoping it will somehow be enough to mend what’s been broken. But even as the words leave her lips, she knows they don’t carry the weight they used to.

Your hands reach up to push her weakly. It only takes three pushes until Natasha feels the cool wall of the cabin press against her back as your hands meet her chest, each shove more desperate than the last. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t move to stop you, just lets you push her—lets you release everything that’s been simmering inside. The look in her eyes is pained but unwavering, as if she knows she deserves every bit of anger, every ounce of resentment, that you hurl at her.

When your voice breaks on those words, “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” it feels like something inside her is splintering.

She’s faced countless enemies, stared down dangers most people couldn’t imagine, but nothing has ever gutted her like hearing you say those words. Her chest aches in a way she can’t describe; it’s a hollow, consuming pain that only comes from hurting someone you love.

“I hate you,” you say again.

Natasha swallows, her own eyes shining with unshed tears as she reaches out instinctively, hesitantly, as if she might still be able to comfort you, though she knows it’s selfish. Her fingers brush your arms, just barely, but she stops, feeling unworthy to touch you, even if every fiber of her being wants to hold you.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice low, raw. “I know. I hate myself too.” Her words come out fractured, like she’s fighting to keep them steady.

You press against Natasha with the last bit of strength you have left, hands shoving her even as your body begins to crumble under the weight of all you’ve been holding back. Your knees weaken, unsteady as a wave of exhaustion overtakes you, and you feel yourself start to slip. And Natasha, still pressed against the wall, doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for you, arms encircling you in one swift, instinctive movement, pulling you close against her as though she’s been waiting for this—for any chance to hold you again.

You struggle at first, fists pressing weakly against her chest as you try to push her away, to break free from the comfort that only stings in its familiarity. But Natasha’s grip is firm, and steady, that doesn’t falter as you fight against her. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t loosen her hold; she just holds you close, pressing you to her, heart hammering beneath your cheek.

Eventually, the exhaustion wins. All of your fight slips away. A ragged sob escapes your lips, and then another, and before you know it, you’re crying fully, the sound muffled against the warmth of Natasha’s neck. She lets her cheek rest against the top of your head, her hand moving to stroke your back in small, soothing circles, each touch tender and careful, as if she’s afraid of breaking what little is left of you.

“I’m here,” she whispers into your hair, her voice barely a breath, soft and unwavering. “I’m right here.”

She repeats it, holding you even closer, feeling each of your sobs shake through her. For the first time in a long time, Natasha feels you, feels you surrender in her arms, and it breaks her as much as it mends her.

Eventually, your sobs subside, fading into shallow, uneven breaths. You can feel Natasha’s steady heartbeat beneath your palm, and the room settles into a stillness as heavy as the rain outside. Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your head, pulling back just enough to see her face. And in that close space between you, you realize she’s been crying too. Silent tears slip down her cheeks, glistening under the dim light, eyes raw and vulnerable in a way that you’ve almost forgotten.

You take her in, every detail of her face, so familiar yet somehow achingly new. Her lips part, a trembling breath barely filling the space between you, and there’s something almost fragile in her gaze, like she’s as uncertain of this as you are.

Neither of you speaks.

And before you can second-guess it, before you can pull yourself back, your lips meet hers. The touch is gentle, neither of you moving too quickly, afraid to shatter whatever understanding has settled between you. Natasha’s hand moves slowly, coming up to cradle the side of your face, her thumb grazing your cheek so that nearly undoes you.

The kiss deepens, the two of you leaning into each other, guiding each other towards the couch just behind you. You straddle her, settling yourself on her lap, feeling the heat radiating from her body, and it’s intoxicating. Your hands tangle in her hair, drawing her closer, as your lips press against each other. You feel her tongue in your mouth, moaning against your lips and for the first time in years, she remembers the taste of you. She wanted more. More. More. More—

And Natasha snaps back to reality.

“I can’t do this,” she gasps, pulling away, her breath uneven, a pained look etched across her face.

You freeze, disbelief washing over you like a cold tide. “What?” you whisper, the weight of her words crashing into you.

It’s as if the ground has fallen out beneath your feet. The warmth you felt disappeared, replaced by an uncomfortable chill that seeps into your bones. You feel it all over again. You feel unwanted. And you wanted to get away from her, as fast as you could.

But Natasha’s grip tightens around your hips, anchoring you in place. “No, no, please,” she pleads. “Please don’t go.”

Her voice breaks and stops your movements. Instead of pushing away, you find yourself drawn back into her orbit. Natasha pulls you closer, resting her forehead against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of her tears soak into the fabric of your shirt. You sit there in silence, letting Natasha cry against you.

You remember the warmth of her laughter, the way her eyes would light up when she saw you, how her touch used to feel like home. You sigh, feeling the ache in your chest as Natasha clings to you. It feels strange, foreign even, to see her like this, to feel her emotions pouring out when she’s usually so guarded, so composed. You gently run your fingers through her red hair, each stroke an attempt to calm her down just as it always did. It’s rare to see Natasha like this, and the sight of her tears pulls at something deep within you, something that refuses to let go of the memories you once shared.

Her breath is warm against your neck as she whispers, “It’s not that I don’t want you…” Her voice trembles, soft and almost hesitant. “I always want you… but I want you to be sure. I want you to want me too… not now… not when we’re still fighting like this.”

The words settle heavily between you. Her confession is raw and earnest, a glimpse into the heart she so rarely lets anyone see. The warmth of her touch and the depth of her gaze make you feel as though you’re standing on the edge of something vast and uncertain. You could so easily fall back into her arms but the walls that the two of you have built—brick by painful brick—are still there.

“I know,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath, trying to find the right words to bridge the space between you.

You want to tell her that you’re here, that part of you has always been here, waiting. But you’re afraid too, afraid of what wanting her again could mean, afraid of the heartbreak that might be waiting if things were to fall apart once more. You pause, resting your cheek against her head, feeling the soft tickle of her hair against your skin.

“I know,” you say again, softer this time, as if to convince yourself as much as her.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut, and she lets out a long, unsteady sigh as she pulls you closer, absorbing the feeling of your warmth, the familiar weight of you against her. It’s been years since she’s held you like this, years since she’s felt your skin. Every inch of her aches with the realization of how much she’s missed this—missed you.

She lets her fingers trace gentle circles on your back, each touch cautious, as if she’s afraid you’ll slip away the second she lets go. Memories flood her mind of the times when the two of you were unbreakable, your worlds wrapped around each other. All of it feels so close, so painfully real, like she could reach out and grasp it, yet impossibly far away. She’s overwhelmed, but she doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to let go.

She listens to the rain, feels you underneath her fingertips, the scent of your skin filling her nose. She dreamed of holding you like this everyday for the past three years. And now that she had it, she wanted it forever.

“Where did we go wrong?” you whispered, almost too quiet for her to hear.

The question catches Natasha off-guard, lingers in the air between you, and she can barely bring herself to breathe, almost afraid that any movement might shatter this moment. She holds you a little tighter, as if she could somehow shield you from the pain in your voice.

She feels the weight of all the memories, the years you’ve shared, pressing down on her. She nuzzles closer, her face tucked into the curve of your neck, feeling the warmth of your skin against hers, a feeling she’d almost forgotten. She’s surprised you haven’t pulled away yet, as if the tenderness still feels too familiar, too natural.

“It’s my fault,” Natasha whispers, barely louder than the rain outside, her voice breaking around the edges. Her heart races, and she doesn’t dare to look at you, afraid of the hurt she knows she’ll see in your eyes.

You let out a heavy sigh, your gaze drifting somewhere past her, lost in thought. “You don’t think… I gave you a reason to… to find someone else?”

She’s stunned into silence, the realization settling over her that maybe, somehow, you’ve been carrying this blame, wondering if you were part of the reason she’d broken the life you built together. She blinks, swallowing hard as she tries to find the words, a flicker of panic rising in her chest.

“No,” she says firmly, her voice steady yet soft, almost pleading. She shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, her hand gently brushing your cheek. “No, it was never because of you.”

But you’re still looking at her, and your voice trembles, barely holding back the pain.

“Don’t lie to me, Natasha.”

“I can’t,” she says.

Your eyes harden and you pull back slightly to look at her face, “The truth. You owe me that.”

She didn’t want to say it. Her heart twists, and she hesitates, closing her eyes as she forces herself to say the words she’s been too afraid to admit—even to herself.

“I thought… I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” Her voice wavers, her fingers tightening their hold on you as if afraid that letting go would mean losing you all over again.

The silence between you is thick and heavy, your breaths filling the quiet space as you absorb her words. She feels the guilt clawing at her, as if she’s baring every part of herself, hoping that you can see the truth buried within her confession. She never wanted to hurt you. She never wanted to push you away. But somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of what mattered most, and she’d convinced herself it was too late, that the love you’d once shared had slipped through her fingers.

The word slips out, barely audible, cracked and raw. “Why?”

The question hangs in the air. Natasha feels it wrap around her heart. She forces herself to look at you, even though the sight of that single tear tracing its way down your cheek makes her want to look away. She knows this answer; she’s carried it silently, wordlessly, and now it seems so inevitable that you’d finally ask her.

She tries to swallow, her voice almost too thick to form the words. “You… you stopped touching me.”

It’s such a small statement, so simple, yet it feels too big, too complicated, as if it holds every untold truth between you.

She falters, looking down at her hands, gathering herself before she tries to explain.

“I don’t mean… just sex,” she says softly, her head shaking almost in shame, as if she doesn’t trust you to believe her. “It was all the little things. We used to be close, you know? I liked touching you, even if it was just brushing my hand against yours… feeling you next to me in bed. I liked—”

She pauses, her voice catching as she tries to summon the tenderness that’s still tucked away somewhere in the past.

“I liked holding you at night. I liked standing close to you when you cook. I liked that you liked holding my hands no matter how rough they were. And I loved how you’d kiss me before I left the house, or the way you’d kiss me again as soon as I came back…”

She trails off, the words fading into the silence. The silence presses down between you. It’s all so achingly clear at this moment. You sit there, absorbing her words, the hurt spreading through you in waves as she continues.

“And then… somewhere along the line, we just stopped,” she breathes into your neck. “We barely talked anymore. And when I tried to initiate anything… you’d pull away from me.”

Natasha’s voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. But the way she says it hits you with a kind of clarity that feels like a wound reopening. She’s talking about something ordinary, something so small and routine that you can hardly believe it could be the reason for so much hurt. Yet now, hearing her say it, you realize how much those tiny moments meant. The gentle touches, the kisses, the reassurances you’d once given each other like breathing… how you pulled away from her… it was all fading even before you saw it happening.

She sits there, barely daring to breathe, looking at you with eyes that hold more regret than she’s ever known how to express. There’s a subtle twitch in her fingers, as if she wants to pull you even closer, to bridge that space between you that now feels so painfully wide.

The words spill out hesitantly, each one trembling with the weight of something you’ve kept hidden, maybe even from yourself. “I think… things changed for us after Nina was born.”

The realization feels sharp, pressing against you. You’re not blaming Nina—she’s so innocent, so undeserving of even a hint of this pain—but it’s like tracing back a long path through a dark wood, seeing the moments where you veered off course, where insecurities took root without you realizing it.

Natasha’s gaze is soft as she looks at you, her thumb grazing over your waist in small, comforting circles, coaxing you to keep talking.

“Why?” she asks gently, like she’s holding space for you.

You hesitate, feeling the words catch in your throat, but you force yourself to continue. “I don’t know… I… I’m the one who pulled away first.”

Natasha’s fingers pause on your waist, her focus fully on you, willing you to keep going. Her voice is a low murmur, soft but insistent, “Why did you pull away?”

The question cracks something open inside you, and you feel your lips start to quiver, your chest tightening with the ache of it all. You’re on the edge of sobbing again, but you push forward, knowing you can’t stop now. “Because I changed after Nina was born.”

Natasha’s brows knit together as she searches your face. “What do you mean?”

You take a shaky breath, looking down for a moment, as if saying it out loud will finally make it real, and will confirm what you’ve been so afraid to confront.

“My… my body changed.” Your voice is barely a whisper, fragile and almost embarrassed, but it’s there, raw and painfully honest.

A light bulb flickers on in Natasha’s mind as she processes your words.

“Did you think I had an issue with your body after Nina was born?” she asks quietly, her voice laced with both offense and confusion. She wants to understand, to dig deeper into your emotions. “Did you think I wouldn’t want you if your body changed?”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks like the rain outside, each drop echoing the chaos inside.

“No, I…” You struggle for the right words, each syllable weighed down with shame. “I don’t know. It was so stupid… Y-You’re always in shape, Natasha. Everyone you know and work with… they’re all perfect and strong and beautiful. And you’d come home and I’d be struggling to lose the weight I gained when I was pregnant. I’d have baby food in my hair. The times I didn’t get to shower early enough because taking care of the girls could get so hectic sometimes… and you would come home to that… and I thought…”

Your voice trails off, the weight of your thoughts pressing heavily on your chest. Natasha’s expression shifts as she absorbs your words, her brows furrowing in a way that reveals how deeply your pain affects her. She shakes her head, protesting against the image you’ve painted of yourself.

“You’ve always been beautiful to me, (Y/n). Always,” she says softly, wiping away your tears with her thumbs, her touch gentle yet firm, as if she could erase the hurt with the warmth of her hands. “I don’t look at you and think anything else other than how breathtaking you are. You carried and gave birth to both of our beautiful girls. That alone means everything to me. You didn’t have to pull away from me.”

“I… I pulled away… because I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore…” you confess, each word punctuated by the quiet sobs that escape you, an avalanche of emotions finally breaking free.

“I always want you,” Natasha sighs, a tear slipping down her cheek, mirroring your own pain. She murmurs, her voice thick with regret. “I wish I knew… I should’ve asked. I should’ve…”

Her words tumbled out in a rush. You see the depth of her sorrow, the realization that she could have made a difference if only she had reached out, if only she had known. As you cry silently, Natasha takes your hands in hers, cradling them like fragile treasures.

“I should’ve told you,” you say, watching as she soothed her fingers gently over your hands.

“No,” she interjects, her tone firm but gentle. “I should’ve known. I should’ve clued in on what was going on a long time ago.”

Natasha looks at you softly, memories flood her mind—images of that one night, a night she’d tried to forget but couldn’t escape. The feeling of abandonment gnawed at her as she replayed the moments leading up to her decision to leave. She remembers the heavy weight of despair that had settled in her chest, suffocating and relentless, making it impossible to breathe. She had convinced herself that if she went out, if she got drunk enough, maybe the pain of feeling unwanted would fade away.

But it only deepened.

In her haze, she had followed a woman into bed, desperately trying to imagine the warmth of your body in place of hers, the softness of your laughter, your gentle voice reassuring her that everything was okay, that you loved her. Natasha had thought that perhaps, just for a moment, she could replace the feeling of loneliness with something that resembled closeness. But the alcohol only made her feel more lost, more empty. And when the fog of the night began to lift, reality crashed down on her like a tidal wave.

Then, the devastation that followed was unbearable, the realization that she was lying next to someone who wasn’t you was a betrayal of its own. She had stumbled back to her car, tears streaming down her face as she cried against the steering wheel, the home you shared just miles away, reminding her of everything she had thrown away in that one moment of weakness.

“I wish I didn’t leave that night. I should’ve stayed with you,” Natasha murmurs, the regret thick in her voice.

She looks down, fingers fidgeting restlessly against your waist. The memory of that night, the night she let her pain turn her into someone she didn’t recognize, stings like an open wound.

In her mind, it replays over and over with cruel clarity: the empty bed she left behind, the bitter taste of jealousy and self-doubt that drove her out the door, and the alcohol she turned to, hoping it would numb the ache. But it only made things worse.

She remembers how her vision blurred, and in the hazy, dimly lit room, she’d let herself believe she was somewhere else—back home, with you, as if she could trick herself into feeling loved. She imagined your skin. She imagined your lips. She imagined your hands. She imagined your voice. She imagined it all to be you. She wanted it so badly to be you. That the woman she was with became an illusion that she’d desperately wanted to be real.

But it wasn’t. It was a lie she told herself, a lie that shattered the instant she sobered up. And when she told you the truth, when she saw the pain in your eyes, she knew the weight of what she’d done.

Her voice breaks as she continues, “I thought… that if I could just close my eyes and pretend, I’d feel close to you again.”

She risks a glance up, searching your face for something—understanding, forgiveness, anything to soften the truth of what she’s saying.

“All I could think about was you,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to where your hands rest between you. “Even when I was trying so hard to forget. It was only you. It’s always only been you.”

There’s a silence, a moment where her words settle, and she braces herself, unsure if her honesty will bring you closer or push you further away.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/n),” Natasha’s voice is barely above a whisper as she leans forward, resting her forehead against your shoulder, her hands slipping down to your hips, holding you gently but firmly against her lap. “I hate myself for hurting you as much as I did. And if I could go back and undo everything, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

There’s a tremor in her voice, a rawness in her apology that cuts through the walls you’d built, walls that once felt impenetrable, necessary. Now, they softened, melting under her words, her touches.

You sit there, not moving, not quite sure where to go with the ache that’s lodged itself in your chest. Natasha’s breath is warm against your neck, steady yet trembling with the emotion she can no longer contain. Her arms wrap tighter, as if she’s afraid you’ll slip away if she lets go. She presses her lips to your shoulder, a hesitant kiss, soft and laden with the weight of every unsaid apology, every moment she should’ve been there instead of elsewhere.

You feel your own heart twisting, caught between confusion and forgiveness, between the impulse to push her away and the urge to hold her closer, to let yourself be vulnerable just one more time. Natasha’s fingers flex against your hips, grounding herself in the reality of you here, with her, despite everything.

“I think… we were both lost, Natasha,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers threading gently through her red hair. Her hair is soft between your fingers, and somehow that simple act—the feel of her—grounds you both in the present.

Natasha tilts her head slightly, resting into your touch, as though she was seeking forgiveness in every gentle movement of your hand. Her eyes are closed, and you watch as her face softens, a flicker of relief and remorse still etched deep in her features.

“I was just… struggling… trying to hold everything together and forgetting… forgetting we were supposed to hold each other up.” Your voice cracks, but you push on, feeling Natasha’s grip on your waist tighten. “And you were hurting too. I didn’t even see it.”

Her eyes open then, green and full of something you can’t quite name. “I wish I had been stronger for the both of us… for you,” she murmurs, her hand lifting to brush a stray tear from your cheek. Her touch is warm, delicate, as if she’s afraid to break you any more than she already has.

You shake your head, your hand still buried in her hair. Your thumb strokes softly against her scalp, and her hand comes to cover yours, pressing it gently against her. Natasha opens her eyes to meet yours, and in that gaze, a flicker of hope ignites, mingled with uncertainty.

“What do you want us to do?” she asks softly and you hesitate, the words catching in your throat.

“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” you admit, and the honesty feels fragile. The confession hangs in the air, but it’s not a rejection. It’s an acknowledgment of the hurt that has settled deep in both of you.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for it,” Natasha replies, nodding her head in agreement, her voice thick with regret.

“But I… maybe we could try. It won’t be easy,” you say, a spark of resolve rising within you. “But I want us to try. Not just for you and me… but for the girls too.”

The thought of Lily and Nina grounds you, their innocent laughter echoing in your mind, reminding you of the love between you and Natasha not only affects the two of you, but the lives of your beautiful little girls as well. And they motivate you to be better, to be stronger in a lot of ways, no matter how scary something could be.

Natasha blinks, taken aback by your words. She searches your eyes, searching for some sign of betrayal, some hint that this is just another cruel twist of fate, but all she finds is sincerity—a desperate wish for something more. To move forward. A possibility.

You take a shaky breath. The anger and bitterness that had clouded your heart for so long begin to dissipate, and you realize that the facade you had built to protect yourself was crumbling. You had pretended to hate her kb because it felt easier than confronting the truth—that all you wanted was her love, her touch, her presence beside you.

“You said you hate me,” Natasha murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, as her gaze drifts to your lips.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. “I always told myself that I did. I thought I did.”

A silence stretches between you, thick with unsaid feelings and the echoes of past grievances. Natasha watches you intently, her emerald eyes searching for understanding, desperate to catch every part of your emotions.

“And even though I felt like I wanted to,” you continue, your voice trembling as the truth rises to the surface, “I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Natasha.”

Her breath catches in her throat. She tilts her head slightly, allowing a small smile to break through the sorrow etched on her features.

“You love me,” she repeats, her voice barely more than a murmur, eyes searching yours.

You take a steadying breath, feeling the weight of her gaze, the way it’s unraveling parts of you that you thought you’d locked away.

“Don’t act surprised,” you reply, sighing softly, almost chastising her for even doubting it. But there’s a hint of resignation in your voice, as if loving her has become an undeniable part of you, something you’ve both fought against and clung to.

Natasha’s expression shifts, and you see something like both relief and remorse in her eyes. She reaches up, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, lingering there as if grounding herself in this moment, in the truth of it.

“I didn’t know if you still did… if you still could.” Her voice is low, raw, carrying the weight of all her insecurities, the missteps and miscommunications that led you both here.

You hold her gaze, letting her see the depth of what you feel, all the love and pain tangled together, and you shake your head slightly.

“Loving you was never the problem, Natasha. I just… I didn’t know if I could keep doing it when I was… so angry with you.”

The admission aches as it leaves your lips, but it’s the truth. For all the love you feel, there’s been just as much pain, and it’s taken its toll on both of you.

Natasha nods, her thumb brushing against your cheek as if she’s memorizing every detail of it.

“Are you sure you still want to try with me?” she asks quietly. She’s looking at you with those green eyes that have seen so much, eyes that hold both love and a flicker of fear, as if she’s afraid of the answer.

You take a moment, feeling the gravity of her question settle in your chest. You nod slowly, your heart pounding against the silence that envelops you.

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for us to be together soon…” The words feel thick on your tongue, but they’re the truth. You can’t rush this—too much has happened for that. “But, I still want to try.”

Natasha’s expression shifts slightly, the blink of pain that crosses her face making your heart ache in response. She nods, processing your words with the understanding that comes from a deep love.

“I just need time,” you add, hoping to offer her some reassurance amidst the uncertainty. “Maybe, we can take it slow?”

A small smile breaks through the tension, and in that moment, it feels like the world around you lights up just a bit. It’s not much, but it’s everything Natasha needs right now.

“However slow you want to go,” she replies, her voice softer and her hands gentle against your waist. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

The sincerity in her voice wraps around you like a warm blanket, easing some of the tightness in your chest. You can see the depth of her commitment in her eyes, a willingness to do whatever it takes to bridge the distance that formed between the two of you.

You lean into her slightly and whisper, “Thank you.”

Natasha looks at you, her gaze filled with a depth of emotion that makes your heart flutter. It’s as if she’s seeing you for the first time, not just as the woman she loves but as the most beautiful woman she has ever laid eyes on. The way her eyes soften, the way her lips curl into a smile—it’s overwhelming. There’s a longing there, an undeniable desire that urges her to close the distance, to lean in and kiss you. She wanted to kiss you so badly.

But she holds herself back, restraint crossing her features as she fights against it. Instead, she smiles gently, looking up at you. It’s a smile that says she’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes. The warmth of her touch spreads. You feel a surge of gratitude. Her fingers press softly into your sides, holding you there without demanding anything more than what you’re ready to give.

Her gaze softens as she watches you, studying your face like it’s something she’s memorizing all over again, tracing every detail with her eyes. A small, almost hesitant smile plays at her lips, just the faintest upward curve, afraid to let the moment slip away.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You watch as Natasha turns her head towards the window, her eyes shifting away from you.

“Where did the rain go?” she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice low.

You follow her gaze to the window, watching as raindrops cling to the glass in silent, scattered trails.

“The sun’s out,” you murmur, shifting off Natasha’s lap. Her hands linger for a second longer than they should, fingers brushing against you as you slip away and rise to your feet.

Natasha watches you cross the room, her gaze following each step, each small movement. You move towards the window, your hand brushing against the glass as you peer outside. The world looks untouched, as if the storm never even happened, with the sun spilling over the trees and grass, drying the last remnants of raindrops clinging to the leaves. In the distance, you catch sight of Wanda’s car pulling into the drive, her headlights cutting through the last threads of mist hanging low over the ground.

“It’s like it didn’t even rain,” you say softly, almost to yourself, the words carrying an odd, quiet wonder.

Natasha moves closely behind you. She’s close enough that you feel her there but she doesn’t reach out.

The car door clicks open, and you watch as your daughters jump out, their laughter filling the morning air as they spot you and Natasha in the window. They wave eagerly, little hands in the air, faces bright with excitement. You walk over to the front door and push the screen door open, stepping out onto the porch and watching Wanda step out of the car with a knowing look. Her expression is unreadable, that sly, familiar grin playing at her lips as she lingers by the driver’s side, watching the scene with a certain satisfaction.

Natasha’s smile widens as she looks at the girls, softening into something that feels almost like relief, her eyes lighting up as Nina comes running, arms wide, straight toward her.

“How’d you guys survive the rain?” you call out, a trace of teasing in your voice as the girls run up to you and Natasha, their laughter still bubbling over.

Nina giggles, wrapping herself around Natasha’s leg, as though she’s missed her all these hours.

“It didn’t rain, Mommy!” she laughs, her head tilting back, eyes sparkling with innocence.

The words take a moment to sink in. It didn’t rain. You exchange a look with Natasha, and suddenly it all starts to fall into place. Wanda’s magic. The quiet, unexpected downpour. The way the time seemed to disappear for hours, leaving you and Natasha stranded in the cabin with nothing but your hurt and your words to fill the silence. You feel the realization settle in, glancing between Natasha and Wanda.

You step closer, crossing your arms with a faint smirk and meeting Wanda’s eyes directly.

“Really?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Wanda only shrugs, her mouth quirking in that mischievous, all-too-familiar smile. “Seemed like you two could use a little time to talk.”

She says it lightly, like a friend with good intentions, and yet there’s something so deliberate in her tone that you know she planned this from the start.

You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head as you turn away, slipping back through the doorway to collect the bags still waiting by the cabin’s door. You can feel Natasha’s gaze on you as you move inside, her eyes following you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she looks away. But there’s a softness in her eyes now, a sort of peace that hadn’t been there before, like the air between you both is just a little lighter after the night you shared.

Behind you, Natasha stands on the porch, her hands resting loosely by her sides. She watches as the girls eagerly chatter, running toward her before she crouches down with a smile.

“Hey, girls,” she says gently, smoothing back a stray curl from Lily’s forehead. “Why don’t you go help Mommy with your things?”

Nina and Lily grin, nodding excitedly before they dart inside, their footsteps echoing across the cabin floor as they rush to your side, each one eagerly grabbing a piece of luggage and heading toward the car.

Wanda steps up to Natasha’s side, her heels crunching softly on the gravel as she gives a knowing smile. She glances at Natasha, eyes curious, then leans in close enough that her voice falls to a gentle whisper. “So… how did it go?”

Natasha takes a slow, steady breath, her eyes lingering on the doorway where you disappeared moments ago.

“We talked…” she says softly, the words holding a weight Wanda understands without needing more.

“That’s something,” she murmurs, glancing back toward the cabin as though she can see the space between you both healing, bit by bit.

Natasha looks down, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but the weight of those words lingers in the air between them.

“She said she wants to try,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as a heavy, relieved sigh slips past her lips. Her shoulders relax, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a spark of hope flickering inside her—a chance to start over, a chance to make things right.

Wanda watches her closely, her expression warm and understanding as she nods. She knows the journey won’t be easy, that there are pieces to pick up and trust to rebuild, but seeing Natasha standing here, her face softened with hope, Wanda knows it’s a start.

Natasha opens her eyes slowly, her gaze distant as if she’s looking past the porch, past the quiet woods stretching around them. Her mind is with you, picturing the way you held let her hold you, the way you’d let her in, even if only a little. It had been so long since she felt that closeness, and the thought alone fills her with a warmth she hadn’t dared let herself feel.

“She wants to try…” Natasha repeats softly, as though saying it aloud might make it more real, solid, something she can hold onto. A soft smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, and she looks over at Wanda, her green eyes shining.

Wanda gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“It’s a start,” she says gently, her voice steady but tinged with that familiar note of caution. She meets her gaze, her eyes filled with both support and a warning Natasha knows is true. “You know it won’t be easy.”

Natasha nods, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She knows. Every cell in her body knows. Her mistakes, the distance she let grow between you, the ache that took root in the spaces where love and trust used to be—but knowing it won’t be easy hasn’t made her want it any less.

She stares out toward the driveway, where you’re helping the girls settle in, the sunlight glinting in your hair as you laugh at something Nina says. It’s a sound she’s missed so deeply, it aches, and yet here it is, real and alive, a reminder of what’s still here, what’s still possible.

“I know,” Natasha murmurs, her gaze locked on you, as if watching you can give her strength. “I know it’ll take time, and… there’s a lot to make up for. But, I want it more than anything.”

“That’s all that matters, Natasha,” Wanda says. “But if you break her heart again, I don’t think I’ll be willing to help with that next time around.”

She smiles and nods in response, the determination in her eyes stronger now. She glances back toward the car just as you emerge, the girls trotting behind you, chattering happily as they throw their bags in, their laughter floating across the grass.

Natasha’s heart swells as she watches you, watches her family together, a sense of purpose settling over her as she realizes just how much she wants to make this right. She knows it won’t be easy, knows that there will be days filled with doubt and pain, but for now, for this moment, she has a sliver of hope.

And for Natasha, that’s more than enough.

note: would you forgive her ?

navigation | n.r masterlist

#bellaveux writes!#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #avengers x reader #black widow x reader #fanfiction

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indecisivemuch · 2 months ago

Note

hii first of all luv the username cause as a libra rising, samedt ;-; i'd like to make a request for a luke x f!reader fic pls!! um, so they're best friends, and luke decides to confess to r by giving her gifts, letters, trinkets, etc. with hints about his identity, but she doesn't know who they're from. so she asks for luke's help to find out about the identity of her secret admirer. but what if there's like a mistaken identity and she thinks it's someone from the hermes cabin (maybe chris? or one of the stoll brothers idk) and luke's just all pouty but nonchalant or something, but deep down he's like 'how do i even make her see' or something (while also second guessing that maybe he shouldn't confess it's him) like fluff with tiny angst :>

Message in a Bottle

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Summary: You got a secret admirer and recruited Luke to help you find out who they are...ignoring the most obvious option (Fluff, angst, best friends to lovers, happy ending)

Note: I'm so sorry for the six month hiatus. It wasn't by choice, I swear 😭. So many bad things kept happening that prevented me from writing (is this the writers curse people kept talking about?). Also, the request wanted only a sprinkle of angst, but I kinda got out of hand with it I think 😭 (sorry).

Word count: 4.4k (whoops)

You’ve always thought that too much of something is bad. Yet, ever since the day your life intertwined with Luke Castellan’s, you weren’t very sure about that anymore.

The two of you arrived at camp around the same time, entering a friendship that felt like hitting the jackpot. Your early days together were something that you both treasured dearly. Every time you thought a certain time period would someday be reminisced as the golden days of your friendships, new things would come, and top it off.

However, golden skies were soon evaded by clouds of pink hues. You found yourself noticing and appreciating small details you haven’t noticed before about your best friend. Initially, you acknowledged the growing feeling but decided that they better remain as footnotes in chapters of your life. However, fate’s design was different to your plans, because two years later, here you were: you looked at him almost in the same way a fool would look at the world with rose-colored glasses (but then again, maybe it was because you have learned to embrace and adore his flaws).

“Luke!”

The Hermes cabin counselor snapped his head towards the sound of your voice, eyes straying from his duty of the hour. A smile began forming on his face as you came to view, almost like he has always been programmed to do so. There was a certain spring in your steps. Moments like these made Luke feel like he was a minimalist because your happiness was somehow enough to guarantee his own.

You situated yourself next to Luke on the ground, not minding the dirt.

“Hey now, I’m meant to be watching these kids train, don’t come over and distract me,” the Hermes cabin counselor warned, though he didn’t move his eyes away from you. He simply couldn’t.

Everything about you served as a distraction to him. From the soft smirk gracing your lips to the innocent tilting of your head. Every little detail about you was captivating and was equally capable of drawing his attention away from wherever it was meant to be.

In fact, his attention issue around you was getting rather shameless because his friends have begun picking up on it and started teasing him for it. Personally, Luke doesn’t think it was his fault. His eyes just happen to draw to you in every room like second nature, while his mind short-circuited every time you were near.

Maybe, and just maybe being rational and able to function properly has stopped being his forte…at least whenever you were around.

Your eyes moved to the group of kids that were only going to be at camp for the summer. From the looks of it, Luke has just assigned them to practice sword fighting in pairs. You then glanced back at your best friend, discreetly drinking in the sight of him.

No doubt he did his fair share of demonstration before letting these kids go off on their own, because right now, his face was slightly flushed, veins evident on his forearm while the familiar orange shirt clung onto his body with glistening sweat.

You shook away the non-platonic thoughts and teased him, “Oh, come on, you wouldn’t pass up on talking to me. You adore me too much.”

Damn right, he does. Luke could feel his cheeks heat up again.

“Fine. What are you here for, firecracker?”

“I got another gift,” you informed, presenting the bracelet in your hand.

For the past month, you have been receiving small letters and gifts. This time it was a handmade bracelet with beads of your favorite colors, as well as charms that represented some of your hobbies and favorite things. It was clear that your anonymous admirer had put a lot of thought into such a small item. However, as always, there were no identities attached to it, leaving you clueless about the person behind these gestures.

Luke took your hand in his, eying the accessory that perfectly fitted your wrist. He started toying with the beads around your wrist that were shining in your favorite color.

The boy’s gaze flicked from the object to you, catching your soft and warm look. Gods, if you kept looking at him like that, he might just actually stop thinking logically. He could practically feel a confession lingering behind his lips, threatening to spew the second his ropes of restraint died.

“Anyway, I came here with an idea,” you broke the silence. “What if I try to find out who this person is? I mean, some of these gifts are quite specific. They seem to know my favorite color, flowers, and things I like. Surely, it wouldn’t be that hard to narrow it down and figure it out?”

Something shifted in your best friend’s behavior and you could feel it. There was a slight flustering look on Luke’s face as he avoided eye contact with you. It was rather strange to see the Hermes cabin counselor so fidgety. Luke has always been confident and composed, and you’d often be the one to humble down his playful cocky remarks. Half-way through looking at his behavior, you began speaking:

“You…”

Luke could feel the blood draining from his face at your facial expression, his face paling despite how flushed he was seconds ago from demonstrating sword fighting. The boy tried to regain his composure, though his attempt at seeming nonchalant failed as you touched his arm. Did you—

“You can be my inside man, talk to these guys to see if they’d slip up or something like that.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Luke hastily replied, clearing his throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that come across as a suggestion? I hate to break it to you but being best friends means you sorta have to participate in my schemes,” your lips curled as Luke grunted at your words.

“Yeah, but—”

“Luke, please…it’ll be fun,” he almost scoffed at your words and unconvincing argument. Clearly, the two of you had different definitions of fun. Just as he opened his mouth to reject your idea again, his eyes caught yours. You were looking at him in such an eager and heart-warming gaze that it made him forget what he was intending to say.

Ah, there was no denying anymore. Being rational and able to function properly has truly stopped being his forte.

“Fine,” Luke uttered, the word pricking his tongue as regret started kicking in as he accepted being your accomplice. This decision could only come back to bite him in the ass. He watched as you quickly celebrated his lack of restraint.

“Ah, you gave in quite quickly,” you jabbed.

“Shut up.”

Oh, you were going to be the death of him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Two days have passed since you got Luke to agree to help you find your secret admirer. Though, the boy must say, the last forty eight hours have been slightly comedic for him, watching you trying to track down your secret admirer…

While the real sender of those gifts was right beside you, nodding along to your every word.

Luke’s mind trailed to the origin of this “secret admirer” idea. He started it as a way to abate the urge of straight-up blurting out how love-struck he was with his own best friend, while also testing out the waters before finally confessing his feelings for you.

Though it was slightly amusing how the idea led him to where he was right at that moment. The Hermes cabin counselor zoned out as he pretended to speak to another boy you thought was behind those sweet gifts and letters.

Luke used to have those feelings under rein, but self-repression only caused it to grow exponentially. Initially, the Hermes cabin counselor dismissed those beyond friendly thoughts, thinking they would eventually fizzle away. However, against his predictions, this fondness towards you became a sort of companion to him for three long years.

Not only that, years of excessively burying these feelings six feet underground also came back to bite him in the ass because instead of having his feelings under control, they now have the upper hand.

Sometimes he felt like a puppet, while his feelings plucked the strings. His facial expressions were forever cursed to be sculpted in raw yearning whenever around you, having no choice over how he reacts to everything related to you.

But it didn’t matter, because he was going to finally confess soon.

Luke almost burst out laughing at the way you were standing in anticipation, waiting for his intel on the most recent candidate. It was entertaining, to say the least, pretending to engage in investigative conversation before heading back to you, shaking his head in feigned disappointment.

However, it didn’t take long before the Hermes cabin counselor started feeling sour.

Just as he made it back to your side, he watched as you started talking again, already discussing the next guy you thought might have done these things that Luke himself came up with. He eyed your in sync footsteps with a heavy heart. Despite the matching movement, he somehow still felt eternally behind. Luke was so close, yet so far away, and never quite able to grasp onto your ever moving attention.

Did you not consider him as an option at all? Did you truly not see him as anything other than a good friend? It started stinging him knowing you were considering all these other guys as potential candidates — the faces that now haunt him in his sleep, poisoning his mind with an acidic jealousy that was eating away his common senses and fueling immoral thoughts.

Soon enough, that same jealousy seared his mind with this overwhelming self-doubt. Luke’s foot started feeling cold at the thought of confessing. Gods, he never thought the same security behind anonymity would now make him feel desperate to be seen by you.

“Maybe I should give up,” you concluded, mindlessly staring ahead. Your attention elsewhere gave Clarisse and Chris an opportunity to send each other knowing looks. The two have been watching you run around in circles on a goose hunt, not knowing to look right behind at the sulking figure that was trailing after you.

Your distracted state also meant you didn’t notice the moping human situated beside you. However, hearing your declaration of ending your chase, Luke saw a window of opportunity. Maybe now was finally the time to be truthful. After all, if he doesn’t tell you, then how will you know and see him? Luke’s momentary motivation carried him through waves of dejection.

“Y/N, I need to tell you something,” Luke blurted out without much more thought or preparation, and his tone made you fully turn to him. Just as words finally formed and the boy opened his mouth to tell you—

“Hey Y/N, can I talk to you privately?” Somebody interrupted. Your eyes didn’t leave Luke immediately, but when you saw your best friend’s momentum had faltered, you turned to the stranger. It was another Hermes boy, somebody who you’ve seen around. You politely agreed and left with him.

“So, I heard you’ve been looking for the person who’s been giving you anonymous gifts. And well, it’s your lucky day, 'cause…” the boy stared you up and down while you subconsciously took a small step back when he leaned forward. “...I’ve decided to come forward and reveal myself.”

“Okay…well, prove it” you squinted. Though your skepticism didn’t make the Hermes boy in front of you falter. Clearly, he expected this.

“The first thing you were given was a note, and…the two most recent gifts were a cassette tape and a bracelet — which was made from beads of your favorite color and charms like…” you zoned out as the boy started listing out some of your favorite activities that were indeed the charms on your bracelet. You fiddled with the bracelet that you had purposefully hidden out of his view right behind your back.

There was a pinch in your heart that signaled the last bit of hope dying.

Oh…so Luke really wasn’t your secret admirer.

You internally scoffed at yourself. You should have known right after he said yes to helping you out with finding your secret admirer — which was originally an idea used as bait to determine if Luke was the sender or not, because if it was really him then he wouldn’t have agreed to help you out with this. However, not only did your best friend agree without much convincing from you, but he had seemed so nonchalant and unaffected as you named all these boys you wanted him to talk to.

Perhaps this secret admirer thing was something good. Somebody has shown interest and their actions have been nothing but sweet. Those letters contained words that were eternally bound to your memories, even altering the way you view yourself for the better. Maybe you could get to know this person and move on from hopelessly crushing on your best friend.

Halfway through, you realize you were so engulfed in your thoughts that you have zoned out to half of the things the Hermes boy was saying, and merely caught onto the last bit of his speech:

“...thinking maybe we could go on a date and get to know each other more tonight?”

Your stomach churned again, yet you nodded your head.

Move on. Move on. Move on. Move on.

Your friends gave you questioning looks when you got back to where they were, clearly curious about what you were pulled away for.

“So…that was my secret admirer, and I’m going on a date with him tonight,” you hoped you sounded more enthusiastic than you were feeling. You tried convincing yourself at least it was good knowing definitely how your best friend actually felt about you. Quickly sitting down, you kept your eyes on Clarisse, knowing if you even looked over at Luke, he’d be able to tell straight away that something was wrong.

Your lack of focus also meant you didn’t think much of the quiet murmur from your best friend: “Sorry, I just remember I need to do something.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You looked at yourself in the mirror one last time. It was now the afternoon and you just finished getting ready for your date. As you were leaving, you spotted a note at the foot of your cabin. Seeing your name written on the paper, you picked it up while eying it peculiarly.

“You could be the one that I love,

I could be the one that you dream of,

Message in a bottle is all I can do,

Standing here hoping it gets to you.”

Your gut feeling stirred, hitting you with waves of higher certainty over suspicions you have previously had and denied.

Those lyrics were directly associated with a memory from summer two years ago.

Luke and you were sitting by the campfire when he asked what your favorite song was. You told him the name and mentioned you hadn’t listened to it in a while because using technology devices with signals were dangerous for Demigods. The conversation slipped your mind but clearly loitered in your best friend’s mind, because two months later while on your way back to camp from your quest together, he gifted you a tape player along with a cassette of said song along with others that you liked.

You blinked away the image of you leaning on Luke’s shoulder while the two of you listened to the song together on the train back to camp.

You re-read the note again while shaking your head. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps, that Hermes boy knew the song and it was also one of his favorites. Perhaps—

Your hand started trembling around the paper. Your eyes landed on one small detail in the note: a particular handwriting choice. The rest of it matched with previous notes, but there was one singular scribbling feature you’ve never seen used before.

Everything came crashing down and your internal eternal cycle of excuses and denial shattered.

You ran. It didn’t matter that it was raining and your attire was getting soaked. It didn’t matter at all because you were frustrated and confused. In other instances, you would have been elated at the possibility of mutual affection, but in that moment, exasperation blinded you from sensibility.

If what you have concluded was true, then why on Earth would he allow you to go on a date with a person who stole credit for things they didn’t do? This whole time, he made you feel like a fool — for waiting that long and having hope after all that time; for asking the person you were looking for to hunt them down with you; for sulking despite having what you thought was a good opportunity to come along; for borderline going on a date with an imposter; and for not seeing it all along that it was him.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” you called out.

Despite the rain, you could see your best friend’s figure stiffened before turning around to face you. The boy stood with his hands behind his back, not yet daring to look at you.

“The “th”. You connected the cross in the ‘t’ directly to the ‘h’,” you presented the note in your hand, pointing specifically at the slip up that Luke had made in the latest note, not caring of the raindrops that were hitting the paper. “It’s how I write it, and you started writing it the same way a year after we got to know each other because you liked the way it looked,” you pressed further.

The expression on Luke’s face painted your theory into the truth of the situation. You felt your hand slightly shaking at the revelation.

“Why? You left anonymous gifts and notes and watched me put on this hunt — which by the way, was for you. And didn’t even say anything when a guy lied and said he was my secret admirer? Is this one big cruel prank?”

“No—”

“Oh! Well then, surely at one point in this whole thing, you felt like you should just tell me?”

“I was going to.”

“Then where were you when I was just about to head out with that fraud? Maybe if you really liked me and really cared for me, like all those damn notes say, you would have fought for m—”

“I did,” Luke finally raised his voice, his face briefly hardened in an attempt to convey his desperation. His chest heaved, and the way it did almost made you think the anger radiating off every inch of his skin right then was directed towards you. But it wasn’t, and he knew you knew.

“I confronted him right after he claimed that he was the one who gave you all those things.”

Invisible ivies rooted your foot to the ground. You gulped, trying to digest the information you were given. However, it finally sunk in when Luke’s hands appeared from behind his back. It was then that you could see the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. Your breath hiccuped in both flattery and worry at the implication of what he had done. The darkness behind those deep hazel-brown orbs reflected a certain side of your best friend that you hadn’t seen before. Although, part of you felt like you wouldn’t mind it.

It made Luke’s blood boil knowing what he dedicated to you from the bottom of his heart was spoiled by ill intentions. Luke should have known better than to carelessly write all the letters and craft those gifts right on his bunk bed, rather than discreetly.

Once again, the Hermes cabin counselor was pulled back to memories from an hour ago. The way the other boy shot remarks at Luke’s lack of precautions, boasting his wrong-doings like someone incapable of having a guilty conscience. Luke's jaw tightened as the image of the sly smirk on the other Hermes boy's face flashed in his mind, but a wave of satisfaction ran through him as he recalled how quickly that smirk was wiped away by his own fist.

They might be brothers by a fraction, but blood or not, that boy was dead to Luke the second he tried tricking you.

“And no, I wouldn’t have let you go out with a fraudster. Never,” Luke’s eyes softened. “And in case it’s not implied enough: I like you…a lot. I was going to confess but then this guy came along lying,” Luke could feel that tremor returning once more to his fist. He hated that something he built, from scratch, on the foundation of sincerity was momentarily tainted by the hands of a spineless liar. Not only that, he hated witnessing somebody so dear to him getting deceived in such a tasteless manner.

“I also…didn’t want to get hurt. It was starting to seem like you would ever consider me as more than just a friend with the way you were listing out all these other guys. So for a bit there I was considering just keeping quiet…forever” he confessed, eyes now straying away from you and down to his shoes.

You observed your best friend through a new perspective. So your initial suspicions were true. You had thought it was him because all the things you have received hinted to somebody who knew you so well, and who else at camp but Luke knew this many things about you. But ultimately, another part of you — the proclaimed “logical” side — has hyper-analyzed every split second you two have shared and deemed that Luke has not given any true signs of interest in you beyond as a friend. Thus, you dismissed the thought of Luke being your secret admirer.

You know now to trust your gut feelings more.

“Oh, Luke Castellan, you dumb ass…” you spoke softly underneath your breath, but you knew he heard you perfectly clearly from the way he slightly peered up. Your heart almost shattered at the dejected look on your best friend’s face and the thought of him burying his feelings eternally. You sure as hell would not allow that to be this timeline.

“I’ve liked you ever since the day you went out of your way and gave me that first cassette tape,” the marveled look on Luke’s face over your confession made you continue, “I guess I should have known it was you…cause gift giving has always been your love language.” It seemed like the boy was too stunned and struck frozen. However, his shell-shock state didn’t last long, because soon, your best friend’s gaze reverted back to the way he has always looked at you, only slightly more intense.

Your eyes fluttered at the sight of Luke Castellan in front of you at that moment. You were finally able to see the effect you’ve always had on him. The way his lips hung slightly agape, eyes dilated in such a way you were no longer able to see their usual color anymore, chest slightly heaving despite lack of physical reasons for such a reaction. You almost wanted to hit yourself for being such a fool and not spotting these details sooner.

“Now, Castellan…you have two options,” you stepped closer to him, leaving an appropriate amount of personal space in between. “You either kiss me or—”

Luke grabbed your wrist with his uninjured hand and pulled you in. The same hand-guided your arms around his neck while also effectively eliminating the remaining distance between you two.

Without hesitation, he kissed you.

Likewise, you returned the action without a second thought. You frankly didn’t care about the rain that was soaking the both of you. Kissing Luke felt like such a natural act that it felt simply like diving home. The way he held you made you feel like you were a national treasure he was so afraid of losing. Gods, you don’t think you mind doing this ever so often.

Though, there was a certain urgency in the way Luke kissed you, as if afraid you’d either vanish or you’d change your mind. You pressed your lips harder against his, hoping he’d understand you didn’t intend on leaving or having a change of heart.

A grunt escaped his throat as you kissed him harder. Oh, Luke Castellan already knew he was in immense trouble. He knew almost immediately that the concerning number of thoughts he had about you each day would only increase tenfold from this day on. He wondered if you could taste all of his unspoken words. If kissing you felt like this, he might as well sign away his heart, body, and mind to you. In fact, he’d sign anything you put in front of him without even considering the fine prints.

Luke slowly backed you against a tree, giving you a bit of support to lean against whilst shielding the both of you from the heavy rain. He smiled into the kiss as you hummed at his action, feeling it echo against his lips. His heart tugged, almost leaping out of his chest when your hands made their way to both sides of his face, cupping it intently like holding something yours. Yours. Fuck, he loved the sound of that.

You were the first to break the kiss. The both of you gasped for air while maintaining eye contact. The close-up view of his intense gaze drove your cheeks rosy. You could not help but admire the way his locks of wet curly hair clung onto his forehead, while raindrops fell from his face, some following the length of his eyelashes before falling — Oh, the way he glanced down at your lips at that second made you feel almost like you had the power to convince him into anything at the moment.

“You’re my best friend…” he broke the silence.

“Mhm.”

“...but what if I want you to be more than that?”

“I can be both,” Luke’s lips broke out into a smile, and you mirrored his facial expression. He leaned his forehead against yours whilst softly rubbing his thumb soothingly against your waist.

“I’m not against that.”

As a larger grin broke out on your lips, Luke’s eyes further softened. He realized right there and then that anything you wanted, he would not be against it. A breath of relief quietly escaped beneath Luke’s breath. He could not wait for whatever was in store for the both of you in the future.

Good thing his messages in a bottle did get to you.

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