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The Tape we Erased

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

(The Making of the Tape)

Summary: After a drunken night neither of them remembers, you and Natasha wake up in bed together — naked, marked, and silent. Best friends. Supposedly straight. You agree never to talk about it. But the footage doesn’t lie. What started as a mistake slowly unravels everything you thought you knew about your feelings for her — and hers for you. Avoidance turns to longing, silence turns to ache, until one quiet confession finally breaks the tension. This time, you’re awake for it. And this time, it’s not a mistake.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: brief angst, avoidance/miscommunication, internalised confusion about sexuality, mentions of weight loss, mild deceptions of emotional withdrawal, first time wlw (r)

(WLW content- Men and minors Dni)

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”

The door to the en-suite creaks open and Natasha walks out in a towel, hair wet, face flushed from steam, skin glowing like she’s walked off a runway and not, presumably, done unspeakable things to you while you were blackout drunk. You don’t know what expression you expected her to have—maybe smugness, maybe regret. But the way her eyes widen when she sees you says everything.

She doesn’t remember either.

“Shit,” she mutters.

You echo it, because there’s nothing else to say.

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You end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both in your worst loungewear like you’ve regressed to hungover uni students. You avoid looking at each other. She cooks eggs. You make the toast, which you promptly burn, because your hands are still shaking. Coffee helps. A little. But there’s still this massive, smothering tension in the air.

And you’re still so naked under this hoodie.

“So,” Natasha finally says, chewing like the eggs offend her. “How drunk were we?”

You poke at your plate. “Drunk enough that I remember literally nothing. Like… not even vibes. Just darkness. Brain gone.”

She makes a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite relief. You steal a look at her, try to gauge if she’s freaking out as badly as you are. She’s got that blank expression on, the one she uses in briefings and fights and when people get too close. You’re best friends—you know her tells. You know she’s quietly imploding.

Your mouth moves before you can stop it. “I mean, judging by these—” You pull the collar of your sweatshirt down slightly to show her the edge of a very angry-looking hickey. “—I think at least one of us had a hell of a time.”

Her face goes scarlet. “Please never say that again.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, laughing weakly, because humour is your default defence mechanism when your reality starts cracking like old paint. “Someone was enthusiastic. I have a bite mark on my ass. My ass, Nat.”

She makes a strangled sound like she’s swallowing a laugh and a scream at once.

Then the thought hits you, and it lands like a rock in your chest.

You look up. “Wait… doesn’t the common room have cameras?”

She freezes. Doesn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” you say. “It does. You’ve said it before—Tony has them everywhere. Even here. Are you telling me there’s a recording of us—?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, eyes wide. “We’re not doing this.”

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“No. I want it to stay a mystery. Like a blackout horror movie.”

“Natasha.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to will you out of existence. “Fine. One look. Then it gets deleted. Forever.”

You nod, trying to hide your grin. You’re totally chill. Completely unaffected. Just curious. Because you’re straight. Obviously.

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You sit beside her on the couch, legs pulled under you, blanket around both your laps like that will protect your friendship from the trainwreck about to happen. The screen flickers on.

“JARVIS,” you say, too casually, “can you pull footage from last night’s common room? Starting around… 9 p.m.?”

“Confirmed,” the AI responds. “Shall I begin playback?”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Yes,” you say over her.

She sighs like she’s aged five years.

And then it begins.

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It starts tame. You and Natasha sitting on the couch, drinks in hand. Laughing. Loud. Leaning into each other. You’re close. Too close. You remember this part, maybe. Sort of. The way her hand brushed yours. The way you nudged her shoulder. The way she was already a little too comfortable curling her legs into your lap.

Then you start touching. Hair. Knees. Her hand slides up your thigh and you don’t push it away.

Then your shirt’s gone.

Then hers.

Then she’s on top of you. You’re in her lap. Your mouth is on her neck. She’s laughing, breathless, flushed. Your hands are under the waistband of her sweats. Her hips roll up. You hear a moan and only realise it’s you when Natasha makes a noise next to you on the couch.

You pause the video.

Silence.

You turn to her very slowly. “We made a sex tape.”

“This is not a sex tape,” she says through gritted teeth.

“This is a CCTV sex tape in Tony Stark’s common room,” you whisper. “That is worse. That is so much worse.”

You stare at yourself on the frozen screen. Sweaty. Shirtless. Looking like you want to devour your best friend.

You’ve never slept with a woman in your life. Never wanted to. You’ve said that. Repeatedly. With confidence. With certainty.

So why does your stomach flip like that?

Why are you still kind of dizzy from the sight of her mouth against your throat, her hands on your hips, the sounds you were making—

“JARVIS,” Natasha croaks, “delete all footage from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m., yesterday. Immediately.”

“Footage deleted,” JARVIS confirms.

You exhale. Collapse into the cushions like your bones have turned to liquid. You feel nauseous. You feel high. You feel like you’re falling backwards into something very large and very dangerous.

“We can’t ever talk about this,” you say.

“Agreed.”

“Like, ever. Not even in passing. Not even jokingly.”

“Especially not jokingly,” she says.

There’s a pause.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s too much. It’s hysterical. The kind of laughter that comes right before a full-blown panic attack. You double over, face in your hands, wheezing. Natasha’s shaking beside you, shoulders hunched, hands over her eyes.

“I bit you,” she gasps. “Why would I do that?”

“I moaned,” you groan. “Like, actual softcore levels of moaning.”

“You straddled me in pyjamas.”

“You pulled my hair!”

“You liked it!”

“Stop!”

More laughter. Collapsing into each other, gripping your sides.

And then, slowly, breath returning, the laughter fades.

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You stare at the blank TV screen. Something silent settles in the room. Not awkward. Just… delicate.

You break it first. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re gonna keep being best friends?”

“Of course.”

“So that was… an accident.”

“Drunk mistake.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You nod. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. Like it’s not still sitting under your skin, all heat and confusion and maybe a little bit of longing.

“Pinky swear,” you say, offering your finger.

Natasha stares at it like it’s a grenade.

Then, with a sigh, she loops her pinky through yours.

“Deadly secrecy,” she says.

“Bury-it-under-a-shallow-grave secrecy.”

You both nod.

It’s a pact.

It has to be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Later, Bucky sees you limping slightly down the hall and raises an eyebrow.

“Yoga injury,” Natasha says smoothly, passing him.

You nod too hard. “Yep. Definitely yoga. Bad downward dog.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking.

Natasha smirks.

You glare at her.

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You never talk about it again.

Not once.

But sometimes, she’ll glance at you in the middle of a movie night, and you’ll see her eyes flicker down to your neck. Like she’s remembering. Like she’s not supposed to.

And sometimes you still hear the echo of her voice in your ear, that slurred Russian endearment you didn’t even realise you knew.

You’re still straight. Obviously. Totally. Mostly. Probably.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t even think about it.

Except when you do.

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Natasha’s good at burying things. Lives, missions, guilt. Feelings.

She tells herself she’s buried this, too.

Except she hasn’t.

Because it keeps coming back in flashes. Not even the good parts. Not the sex. Just the look on your face when you paused the footage—laughing, half-horrified, half-gleeful. You looked at her like you’d won something. Like you’d stolen a secret. And maybe you had.

Maybe you’d stolen her.

She can’t stop thinking about the way you touched her. Not even the memory of the touches—just the look in your eyes on the screen. Like you were starving. Like you meant it.

That’s what haunts her.

Because Natasha has always been attracted to women. She’s known it since she was twelve. She’s dated them. Slept with them. Loved one or two, even if she never said the words. But she never let herself think of you that way—not seriously—because you were you.

Straight. Untouchable. A little reckless, a little clueless, always warm, always there.

You flirted with everyone, but it was always harmless. Always safe.

She thought.

And now she can’t stop thinking about the way you said ours. “Our sex tape.” Like it was a thing you’d made together. Like it mattered.

You said you were straight. Again and again. Drunk, sober, laughing over dinner. “Not my thing,” you’d say when she teased you about some actress, brushing it off like it wasn’t even a question.

And yet.

Natasha wakes up three nights in a row thinking she feels your mouth on her throat. Her hips jerking against phantom fingers. Your voice in her ear, slurred and aching: God, you feel so good, Nat.

She’s not imagining that.

She knows she’s not.

But she can’t say anything. Because you’re still doing the thing—playing it off, being casual, being you. Still laughing about it when it comes up in the smallest ways. You elbow her at breakfast when someone on the news says the word “tape” and go, “Not ours, though.”

And she laughs. She does. She laughs because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But she thinks about the way your hips rolled down onto hers like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

And then she starts wondering—was it? Was it your first time?

You said you were straight. But you didn’t act like it. Not that night. Not with her.

Maybe that’s what’s ruining her.

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She tries.

She really tries to forget.

She throws herself into sparring. Takes extra missions. Works through lunch. Avoids the common room unless it’s empty. Watches you from corners and shadows like you’re a threat she hasn’t decided how to neutralise.

You’re not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.

You’re just… being you.

Messy hair, too-loud laugh, feet on the furniture, casual as ever. You joke. You poke. You steal fries from her plate. You fall asleep with your head on her shoulder during movie nights like nothing happened.

Like your teeth were never in her shoulder.

Like you didn’t whimper her name against her throat.

Like you didn’t grab her face with both hands and kiss her like she was air.

She’s drowning in it.

And you don’t even seem to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It finally cracks on a night when the compound is quiet and the hallway smells like rain.

You find her in the gym, well past midnight, hitting the bag like it owes her something.

You watch her for a while before saying anything.

“You’re mad at me.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. “No, I’m not.”

You walk in anyway. Drop your bag by the wall. “You’ve been weird.”

She keeps punching. Keeps not looking at you.

You fold your arms. “Is this about that night?”

Nothing.

“Because you’re acting like I killed your dog.”

That gets her. She snorts, stops, breathes heavy. Lets the bag sway.

You step closer. “I get it. It was a mistake. You don’t have to keep punishing me like I ruined your life.”

She turns slowly. Wipes sweat from her brow. Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t ruin my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s silence. Long. Tight.

Then she says, low and rough, “You kissed me first.”

You blink. “What?”

“That night. You kissed me first. I watched the tape.”

“I—” you falter, “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you did.”

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“You kissed me first. And then you said my name like it was the only word you knew. And then you looked at me like you wanted me.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were you,” she says sharply. “You were you, and you knew what you were doing.”

You back up a step. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?”

You bite your lip. “I’m not… I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” she demands. “Not gay? Not into girls? Not into me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

She softens then. Just slightly.

“It’s not about labels,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what box you think you fit in. I just know how you made me feel. And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen anymore.”

You swallow. “Why now?”

She looks away. Her voice goes smaller. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean something.”

You stare at her.

And it hits you all at once—how close she is. How wrecked she looks. How scared.

Not of you. Of what she’s saying. Of being wrong.

You could lie.

You could say it didn’t mean anything. That you were drunk and stupid and it was a blip, a hiccup in time.

You could say you’re straight and you always will be.

But the lie sticks in your throat.

Because your body remembers.

You remember the feel of her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth dragging open-mouthed kisses across your chest, the low growl she made when you pulled her hair.

You remember thinking, mid-kiss, God, this is Nat. This is my Nat.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like falling.

So you don’t lie. But you don’t confess, either.

You just say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And Natasha exhales. Not relief. Just… release.

“Me neither,” she murmurs. “But I’m still here.”

She steps back. Gives you space. Doesn’t push.

“I won’t bring it up again,” she says. “But I had to say it. Just once.”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

And she leaves the gym, sweat-soaked and silent, like she just handed you her heart in a body bag.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Two weeks.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a pity-like on your stupid sarcastic meme in the group chat.

Natasha Romanoff, former best friend and maker of your “not-a-sex-tape,” has gone dark on you. You know she’s still in the compound—JARVIS told you when you asked if she was on mission. But it’s like she’s erased herself from your orbit.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be mad. Hurt. Guilty. Relieved.

You just feel hollow.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You weren’t together. You never were. You were friends, drunk, confused—nothing more. You’ve had meaningless flings. You’ve had blurred lines before. But this is Natasha.

You’ve never had silence with Natasha.

You think maybe that’s what’s killing you.

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The final straw comes on a Sunday.

You pass her in the corridor.

Or rather—you don’t.

You hear her voice at the end of the hall, laughter in it, soft and easy. You freeze. You wait. You hope she’ll see you. Say your name. Even scowl. Something.

But she doesn’t.

She turns the corner, laughing with Sam, eyes shining, and never even looks your way.

And something in you shatters so quietly it doesn’t even echo.

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You don’t go to Wanda right away.

You sit on it. Let it curdle. Try to swallow it down like spoiled milk and pretend it’s still edible.

It takes you three days.

And then you knock on her door like a ghost.

She opens it barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy, no makeup—so soft and real it makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as wind. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step in and sit on the edge of her bed like your body is moving without permission.

She doesn’t push. Just closes the door and sits cross-legged across from you, waiting.

And you break.

“I think I fucked everything up.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Tell me.”

So you do.

You tell her about the night. The drunkenness. The tape. The moaning, the biting, the laughing, the pretending.

You tell her about the fight. The hallway. The way Natasha said “You kissed me first” like it meant something.

You don’t cry. But your voice wobbles.

“I told her I didn’t know what I was doing. And I meant it. I still mean it. But she’s been avoiding me ever since, and I feel like—like I’ve lost her. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more upset because I lost my best friend… or because I think I wanted more.”

Wanda doesn’t speak. She lets you fill the silence.

And you do.

“I always said I was straight. I believed it. Still kind of do. Or did, I guess. But that night…” You laugh—shaky and bitter. “That night didn’t feel like a mistake. And not just because the sex was good, which it was, obviously, I mean it’s Natasha—but because it was her. And it felt like—”

You pause.

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “Like something that was waiting to happen.”

Your eyes snap up. “Yes.”

She nods. “And now she’s gone.”

You nod back, helpless. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling. I keep thinking maybe I made it up. Maybe I wanted something she didn’t. Or maybe she wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“She wanted you,” Wanda says gently. “I saw it. I’ve felt it. For a long time.”

Your stomach twists. “Then why is she avoiding me?”

Wanda’s eyes are sympathetic. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were doing. Because you never told her if you regretted it. Because she’s scared she misread you.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It’s not like I woke up the next day suddenly into women. It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Wanda says. “But hearts aren’t logical. And Natasha… she doesn’t risk them often. You’re not just someone to her.”

You flinch. “Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Wanda gives a small, sad smile. “Because she thinks talking to you might hurt more than silence.”

You let that sit. Heavy. Dense.

“She looked at me like I mattered,” you whisper. “Like I was hers.”

“You are,” Wanda says.

You shake your head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But you do need to tell her you’re still there. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s nothing more than that.”

You nod slowly.

Feeling unprepared and even more confused than before.

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It’s been a week since you told Wanda.

You haven’t really left your room since.

Not in any meaningful way, anyway. You go out once a day, at most, grab something from the kitchen that barely qualifies as a meal, then disappear before anyone can talk to you. Sometimes you reheat leftovers and let them go cold in your hands. Other times you just stand at the counter until your chest starts to ache, then walk away. The others have stopped trying to stop you. You suppose they think you’re busy. Or brooding. Or just being you.

You’re not.

You’re… stuck.

Wrapped in a knot of thoughts you can’t undo, spiralling slowly inward.

You’ve never been good at sitting still with feelings, and now they’re the only thing left in the room.

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You keep trying to rationalise it, make it make sense.

You and Natasha were always close. You’ve shared beds after missions. You’ve fallen asleep with your head in her lap more than once. She used to let you paint her nails while she complained about Clint. You used to steal her hoodies, and she used to steal your fries.

It was always touchy. Soft. Familiar.

Comfortable.

It was never supposed to hurt.

But now it does. It hurts every time she walks into a room and doesn’t look at you. Hurts every time you hear her voice down the hall and your chest clenches like it’s trying to keep itself from saying her name.

Hurts to realise you can’t un-know what she tastes like. Or what she sounds like with your name in her mouth like a secret.

You thought it was platonic.

You wanted to think it was platonic.

But you keep dreaming about her.

Keep waking up flushed and guilty and alone.

And that doesn’t feel very friendly.

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You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

She hasn’t been in the same room as you since that morning in the kitchen—since you both laughed awkwardly about your accidental sex tape and agreed, without saying it directly, to pretend it never happened.

You don’t think she meant to cut you out of her life.

But she has.

She’s been avoiding you so obviously it’s almost funny.

You catch glimpses of her sometimes, in passing—leaving the gym as you walk toward it, stepping into the elevator just before you round the corner. A shadow of her in every doorway you’re too slow to reach.

But she’s not ignoring you.

Not really.

Because she’s still looking.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You notice it in the little things. You left a mug in the kitchen—one you always use, the chipped ceramic one with the whale tail handle—and the next day it was washed and back in your cupboard. You’re the only one who ever bothers to clean up after you. No one else would’ve cared.

A few days ago, you passed Steve in the hall. He gave you that tight-lipped smile of his and said, “Natasha mentioned you’ve been keeping to yourself. You alright?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t press.

You think she’s been asking around.

You think she’s been trying to spot you without seeing you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

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You spend hours sitting on the floor of your room with your back to the bed, your knees pulled up and a hoodie wrapped around you like armour. It’s hers—dark grey, oversized, still faintly scented like something warm. She gave it to you two years ago after a mission in the Alps, when you’d taken a fall through thin ice and come out shaking and soaked to the bone. She tossed it over your head like it meant nothing, said, “Don’t freeze to death before debrief, dumbass.”

You never gave it back.

You told yourself you liked the way it fit. That was all.

Now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You’re not sleeping much. Or at all.

The thoughts won’t shut up long enough to let you rest. You cycle through the same ones on repeat, trying to make them mean something. Trying to figure out when exactly things changed.

Was it in Prague, when she kissed your forehead after a night op?

Was it in that bar in Berlin, when she danced with you like you were the only one in the room?

Was it on movie nights, when she always pulled you into her side before the opening credits even rolled?

Or had it always been like this?

Had you just been too afraid to look at it straight on?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The worst thing is you still want her here.

Even now, even after everything, you miss her.

You miss her laugh. You miss the way she teases you, always two steps ahead. You miss the way she used to throw popcorn at you during bad horror movies and tell you to shut up when you overanalysed the plot.

You miss your best friend.

But now you’re not sure if that’s all she was.

You don’t know what she is to you anymore.

You don’t know what you are to her.

And that unknowing—that—is what’s undoing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The knock comes just after eight.

You’re sitting in the dark again, curled up on your bed with your back to the door, wearing her hoodie like a second skin and cradling a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea. You haven’t spoken to anyone in days.

The knock is soft.

Hesitant.

You freeze.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a voice, low and uncertain: “It’s me.”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

You think maybe if you’re quiet enough, she’ll go away. You’re not sure you can handle this. You’re not sure you can breathe with her in the room.

But the knock comes again.

“Please.”

When you open the door, the light from the hallway stings your eyes.

Natasha stands there in a faded tank top and joggers, barefoot, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she regrets this already. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, her jaw tight. But her eyes—they soften the second they land on you.

You know what she sees.

The tear-burns drying at the corners of your eyes. The sleeves of her jumper pulled down over your fists like you’re hiding in it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just stares for a moment, taking you in, like she wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like it hurts her to see it.

Then, quietly: “Can I come in?”

You nod without meaning to.

She follows you inside like she’s holding her breath.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, legs folding under you automatically, and she hesitates before lowering herself beside you—close, but not close enough to touch. She doesn’t look at you. Her hands rest between her knees. Her body is angled slightly away, like she doesn’t know if she’s welcome here.

You want to touch her so badly it aches.

You want to pull her close and feel her settle into your side like she used to. You want to bury your face in her neck and inhale the comfort you’ve been missing for weeks.

But you don’t move.

And neither does she.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

You nod again, eyes fixed on your knees. “I’ve been fine.”

You haven’t.

She doesn’t push. Just hums, soft and non-judgmental.

“I was going to check on you sooner,” she says, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “I kept meaning to.”

You wait for her to say but I didn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. The low light of your bedroom makes her look smaller than usual. Her posture’s curled in on itself, defensive. Or maybe nervous.

Natasha Romanoff. Nervous.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fragile.

“What changed?” you ask quietly. “Why now?”

She shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “I didn’t see you all week.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. Just that. I know.

She doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t explain. Just owns it.

You almost wish she’d lie about it.

You don’t want to believe she had to choose to look for you.

You want her to have missed you.

You want her to—

“I missed you.”

You blink.

She’s looking at you now. She says it like it’s nothing.

Like it’s just a fact.

“I missed you,” she repeats. “Every day.”

You say nothing.

Your chest is filling with something you can’t name, something trembling and sharp at the edges. Something that wants to burst free.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

“I kept thinking about that night,” she says, voice softer now. “Trying to make sense of it. Wondering if I should’ve stopped us.”

You glance at her. Her brows are drawn in like she’s been stuck in this thought for days.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” she murmurs. “And neither were you.”

You feel your throat close a little.

“I think—” She breaks off. Sighs. “I think I wanted to believe we were more gone than we were. So I could tell myself it didn’t mean anything.”

The ache in your chest flares.

“And it did,” you whisper.

She nods.

You stare at her, stunned at the honesty in her face. No mask. No joke. Just… her.

She’s laying the pieces out for you.

All you have to do is say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out raw. Desperate. You didn’t mean to say it like that, like your ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

But maybe that’s the only way it could’ve come out.

Natasha freezes.

You stare down at your hands in your lap, blinking back heat in your eyes. You wish you’d eased into it. Said it pretty. Said it soft. You wish—

Her hand brushes yours. Then finds it. Her fingers curl around yours like they belong there. Your heart stutters. You look up. And she’s already leaning in.

The kiss is gentle. Quiet. Full of hesitation and history.

Her lips find yours like they’ve done it before—like they remember you.

There’s no firestorm this time. No drunken frenzy. No bite, no grab, no frantic unzipping of clothes. Just lips and hands and a slow ache in your chest that says home.

Her hand cups your jaw and your eyes flutter shut. You melt into her without a second thought, without even a choice. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around hers.

And it feels… right. Uncomplicated. Like this has always been waiting.

When you part, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath warms your cheek.

“I knew,” she murmurs.

You frown faintly. “What?”

“I knew. Not that night. Before.” She breathes out a little laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I think I always knew.”

You want to ask why she never said anything. But you already know. The same reason you didn’t. You thought it was platonic. You wanted it to be platonic. Because that would’ve been easier. Because this? This changes everything. And somehow, it feels like you’ve never been more okay with that.

She kisses you again.

But it’s not gentle, not this time.

There’s something desperate in it, something deeper — not rough, but urgent. Like she’s only just allowed herself to want this, and now she’s starved.

You respond without thinking.

Her mouth moves against yours with more meaning, more ache, and when her hands find your waist, your ribs, the side of your neck — you let her. You open to her like it’s instinct, like your body remembers her even if your memory pretended to forget.

Clothes come off slowly.

Not in a frantic way, not like last time. You take your time now. Eyes on each other. Lingering touches. Bare skin unveiled like something sacred. Her fingers trail your spine. Your breath catches. She whispers your name like it’s a confession, and when you tilt your head back and exhale, her mouth finds the hollow of your throat like it belongs there.

You melt for her. You burn.

Your bedsheets get ruffled. Pillows shoved out of the way. Her hands never leave your skin, not for a second. You’re not drunk this time — you feel every press, every kiss, every moment with aching clarity.

You give yourself to her like it’s the first time.

Because it is.

This time, you’re awake for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sleep tangled up in each other. Her arms around your waist. Your head buried in her collarbone. Her heartbeat against your ear, steady and human and soft.

There’s no shame. No dread in your gut. No fear of what tomorrow will mean.

You don’t stay up all night replaying the footage in your head.

Because this time, there is no footage.

No witness.

Just her. Just you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The morning sunlight is softer than it was three weeks ago.

It bleeds across your floor in gold, catching on the outline of her shoulder where the covers have slipped low. Her skin is marked — lightly scratched and bitten in places where you’d been too caught up to think. And you know you match her now.

You wake in a bed full of heat, skin to skin, and you don’t flinch.

You don’t panic.

You just… lie there. Still. Warm. Whole.

Your cheek is pressed against her bare shoulder. Your legs tangled under the duvet. Her breath stirs your hair every so often. She hasn’t woken yet — or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

It’s peaceful.

It’s right.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You lie like that for a while, unmoving.

Your muscles are sore. Your throat’s dry. Your heart feels raw, but not in a bad way. More like you cracked open last night, and now everything else feels sharper. Realer.

Natasha shifts a little behind you and her arm curls around your waist without needing to be asked.

You close your eyes.

You wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are — that this is where you were always supposed to end up. That maybe, despite everything, despite the silence and the fear and the three weeks of pretending… this was inevitable.

Maybe you both just needed to get out of your own way.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t speak yet.

There’s no need.

Not now.

Last time, you woke in this bed naked and marked and full of questions. You spent the whole day terrified that it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

This time, you don’t even need to look for answers.

She gave them to you last night.

In the way she touched you.

In the way she looked at you like you weren’t a secret.

In the way she kissed you like you belonged to her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You shift a little, slow and careful, to face her. The duvet slips off your bare shoulder. She blinks awake at the movement — or maybe she was already awake, just like you.

Her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You just smile, small and honest. She mirrors it.

Then her hand reaches to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a full-body warmth curling through your chest.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

And she meets you halfway. The kiss is soft this time. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

[Masterlist]

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