❛❛ 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 & 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 ❛❛
꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: natasha romanoff’s two-year-old daughter, nova, is just like her—guarded and slow to trust— but when nova's longtime pediatrician is replaced by the younger, warm-hearted dr. Y/N L/N, gaining nova's trust quicker than any other stranger did, something shifts.
꩜ ۫ . GENRE :: single mom!natasha, pediatrician!reader, non-red room past au. (age is non specified but reader is not past twenty-five)
꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: fluff, slow burn(?), strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy & warmth, hurt/comfort, death mention (no need to freak out here, just read), fussy mini-widow.
word count :: 3.2k // masterlist
an ; pleeeaaaseee tell me i haven't been the only one craving for full fluff lately so im serving y'all some. also stan mama nat 100% !
Natasha stood in the middle of her living room, holding one tiny crumpled pair of pastel pink socks. Across from her was her two-year-old daughter sat on the floor in her diaper and nothing else, arms crossed, bottom lip out, expression fierce.
“Don’t want pink,” Nova declared, enunciating each word like a threat.
Natasha exhaled through her nose with all her will patience. “We’ve been through this, milyy. All the purple ones are in the laundry. The pink ones are clean, soft, and objectively non-threatening.” (sweetie)¹
“No!” Nova shouted. “Pink is ugly!” Though, the word sounded more like 'ugwy'.
“You said pink was beautiful yesterday.” Natasha squatted down beside her, her voice still calm — or, well, calm-ish. “You told Steve it was your ‘princess color.’”
Nova looked her straight in the eye. “I changed my mind.”
Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something in Russian.
“We’re already fifteen minutes late, malen'kiy, and I will not let a pair of $3 Target socks be the reason we miss your check-up.”
The mini redhead, clearly unfazed by her mother’s internal spiral, picked up a stuffed giraffe and began chewing on one of its ears.
Natasha knew this battle. She knew it oh so well.
She’d fought aliens with less resistance than her daughter gave her over anything remotely involving clothes. But she also knew that at the end of the day, she was a puddle for this kid.
A helpless, hopeless puddle.
“Okay,” The elder sighed, standing up. “No socks. Go rogue. But you have to wear something, baby. Can we at least agree on pants?”
Nova considered this. “Dinosaurs.”
Recently, most things she liked where boy-ish due to constantly being around Nathaniel at the Barton's. He and Nova were bestfriends in the whole universe at this point and wherever Nate went or whatever he did, Nova followed.
Not even half an hour in the car :
“I swear on all that is sacred, Nova Rose Romanoff—if you throw that juice pouch one more time, I am turning this car around.”
A dramatic little sigh came from the backseat.
“No!” Nova shrieked.
“That's your third one,” Natasha muttered through clenched teeth, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Third. And it’s not even 9 AM. What happened to the child who loved apple juice yesterday?”
“Changed my mind,” Nova declared, legs kicking against her car seat like a storm.
Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose at the red light. “You're two. You don’t have a mind to change.”
But Nova only huffed, her lips put in that usual exaggerated pout with crossed arms that amused the Russian. Nova was a sweetheart but could also be stubborn at times. And she didn't hesitate to be hard headed with her mama just to get the last word.
Oh Natasha cursed at herself from how excited and eager she was about getting a mini version of herself two years ago.
She regretted that now because it just seemed like fighting herself but a younger version.
This was her morning. A typical Wednesday. Natasha Romanoff, former top SHIELD agent and current certified toddler negotiator, on her way to what should’ve been a quick pediatric check-up—Nova had other plans.
“No juice, no socks, no talking,” Nova added firmly from the back. “Only Mama.”
Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. “I am Mama.”
Mini Widow blinked, “Then just you. No Doctor Lady.”
Natasha frowned. “Since when do you not like Helen?”
“Don’t want.”
“Too bad. You’ve got a check-up.”
Nova crossed her arms. “Nova will bite her.”
“You will not bite your pediatrician. Biting doesn’t earn you candy, volchitsa.”
But Nova wasn't taking the interdiction. They arrived at the clinic a few minutes later — Nova attached at her mom's hip, hands gripping Natasha's shirt sleeve because her tantrums switched to her being clingy now.
The receptionist at the front desk greeted the Russians with a cheerful smile.
“Miss Romanoff, Nova, it's good to see you two again.” Natasha gave a small polite smile in return, only so because she was familiar to that receptionist. “Just a heads-up, Dr. Helen’s on leave for a few months. You’ll be seeing Dr. Y/N L/N today.”
Natasha blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”
“Dr. Y/N. Helen’s niece.”
Natasha’s mind stuttered. Helen had always been steady. Older, gentle, just clinical enough to keep Natasha comfortable. Nova had barely warmed up to her. The idea of a new doctor, without warning, had Natasha’s protective instincts spiking like wildfire.
“Right,” She muttered. “Fine.”
“Romanoff?”
And here appeared someone who was definitely not Dr. Helen L/N like she, nor Nova, expected.
Natasha turned toward the soft voice — and her defenses faltered.
You, younger, fresher-faced, stood in the doorway wearing light blue scrubs covered in little whales, a clipboard in hand and an apologetic smile on your lips.
Despite so, she followed you after you nodded toward the consultation room and made your way back inside, the door left open for them to come in.
The consultation room looked the same as always — seafoam green walls, a faded Captain America poster on one side, a low exam table with crinkly paper.
“Sorry to surprise you,” You said. “Helen let me take over while she’s recovering. You must be Natasha — and this is Nova?”
“She’s...not great with change,” Natasha said, her voice dry.
“She doesn’t have to be,” You replied gently. Then you crouched down. “Hi, Nova. I know I’m not Dr. Helen, but I’m gonna take care of you today. Would it help if I let you pick the color of the stethoscope?”
Nova didn’t speak. She narrowed her eyes and Natasha held her breath.
You pulled a drawer open just enough for a rainbow of stethoscopes to peek out — bright red, yellow, purple, even a glittery one.
“This is a trap,” Nova whispered.
You grinned. “It’s not. But it is sparkly.”
And instead of doing so much as hiding behind her mother's leg or start to pick a tantrum over not wanting to be approached by a stranger, Nova crept forward slowly, like a suspicious cat, catching Natasha off guard. She pointed. “That one.”
“The purple one?” You asked.
Nova nodded.
“Solid choice,” You smiled. “I think purple’s the color of royalty.”
“She is that,” Natasha muttered under her breath.
From that moment on, Nova was suspiciously cooperative — by her standards. She tolerated the stethoscope, allowed you to check her ears (with some bribes). She even answered your questions, one-word at a time and even insisted on holding your hand instead of her mother’s.
However, threw a tantrum when you checked her heartbeat too long.
But you never flinched. You just worked around it, speaking softly, giving her control in little ways.
It worked.
She made you sit against the wall, clumsily dragging the tape along your arm.
Natasha watched it all from the corner. Her expression unreadable — but her eyes didn’t miss a thing.
“She’s spirited,” You said once Nova finally sat still, cheeks flushed from all her fuss and fun.
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Natasha replied. “Most people call her a gremlin.”
“She’s two,” You stated. “Being a gremlin is part of the job.”
Natasha raised a brow. “You have kids?”
“No. But I’ve been around enough toddlers to know they run the world.”
The Russian’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. It wasn’t a smile — not quite — but it was something close. “Not many people handle her like that.”
“She’s not difficult,” You added honestly. “She just needs to know I'm not faking it.”
That got Natasha’s attention.
Your eyes met hers, and for a second, the air shifted. So you kept going,
“Kids like her? They read people. If I'm not real, they won’t trust me. She trusted me today. Not fully — not yet, at least. But she didn’t bite me.”
“She did threaten to,” Natasha deadpanned.
You chuckled. “Progress.”
Nova suddenly climbed into Natasha’s lap, curling up against her shoulder with an exaggerated yawn. Natasha automatically wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her unruly curls.
“Tired already?” she murmured.
“I bite you later,” Nova whispered.
Natasha smirked. “Looking forward to it.”
You turned back to them with the updated chart. “She’s doing great. Still on the taller end of the spectrum, but healthy. Oh, and the sparkly band-aids? She can take two.”
Nova perked up immediately.
“Three,” She countered.
You leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Only if you promise not to bite your mom.”
Nova considered. Then nodded once.
Natasha watched the exchange, something warm blooming behind her ribs. And when you handed Nova the band-aids — purple, sparkly, with tiny bears — she watched her daughter’s face light up, and for the first time all morning, she felt her tension ease.
Natasha looked down at the toddler in her lap. Nova was peeling a band-aid and trying to stick it on Natasha’s cheek.
Nova Romanoff was a different child now. Well—not different. She was still dramatic, stubborn, and suspicious of anyone who came too close to her cereal bowl. But ever since she met you, she had decided that pediatric visits weren’t all that terrible.
Which both impressed and annoyed Natasha.
Impressed, because Nova wasn’t exactly the trusting type.
Annoyed, because—well. Because Natasha wasn’t sure why it annoyed her.
Two weeks after that first visit, Nova skipped into the clinic wearing matching socks (a rare feat) and handed you a crumpled sticker she’d saved from home.
“It’s a giraffe,” She declared. “Because your neck is long.”
Natasha almost choked on her coffee. You just laughed like it was the best compliment you’d gotten all day.
A month later, Nova insisted on drawing you a picture. It featured a vaguely human blob and Natasha didn’t ask questions.
By the third visit, Nova was sitting calmly on the exam table, letting you check her ears while humming some nonsense song she’d made up.
“Do you bribe her?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes as Nova happily let you touch her hair (which she never let anyone except her mama do).
You gave her a look. “Just magic,” You replied with a small smile. “The good kind.”
Natasha hated how easily you smiled.
No—she didn’t hate it. She just… noticed it too much for her liking.
She noticed the way you talked to Nova like she was a person, not a checklist, not an obligation.
The way you remembered little things—like that Nova hated cold stethoscopes and loved green lollipops. The way you never looked at Natasha like she was some intimidating figure with a history, but just a mom trying to juggle a complicated toddler and too much coffee.
The crush snuck up on her. Quiet. Persistent. Inconvenient.
She told herself it was just admiration or professional respect.
Hormones, maybe.
But it was a week later when the random run-in happened.
Natasha wasn’t planning on going into the bookstore while it was raining, but Nova had seen a plush unicorn in the window and launched into a full dramatic plea to “rescue it from the loneliness.”
So there they were—Natasha in jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap pulled low. Nova bouncing beside her with the unicorn clutched tight to her chest.
They were turning down an aisle when the elder redhead heard your voice.
“I know I said one book, but it’s three for two. That’s like financial responsibility, if you think about it.”
You were talking to yourself. Or to your basket. Either way, it made Natasha pause.
You hadn’t seen her yet.
She watched you for a moment longer than she meant to—sleeves pushed to your elbows, your face lit up softly by the overhead light, hair always pulled up in that lazy but somehow flawless ponytail. There was a little crease between your brows as you tried to decide between two picture books.
Nova didn’t hesitate. “DOCTOR GIRAFFE!”
You got startled, almost dropping the books. Then you turned—and grinned.
“Well if it isn’t the Romanoffs,” You spoke up. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Unicorn emergency,” Natasha deadpanned.
You nodded solemnly. “Those are the most serious kinds.”
Nova marched forward. “Look! Her name is Rainbow Power. She needs to read books or she’ll be lonely.”
“Sounds like she’s going to need at least two stories a night,” you said, crouching to eye-level.
Nova lit up like a lantern. “Three.”
“Now you’re just negotiating like your mother.”
Natasha, from behind, cleared her throat. “She gets that from someone else.”
You stood and gave her a knowing look. “Right.”
There was a pause. A quiet, soft moment that neither of you filled immediately.
“I didn’t know you liked this place,” You said after a beat.
Natasha shrugged. “It’s close. And Nova likes the kids’ section.”
You glanced at the overflowing display of picture books and then back at her. “Well, next time you come, let me know. I’m here more often than I’d like to admit.”
Nova tugged on your sleeve. “Can Rainbow Power and I read with you?”
You looked at Natasha.
She blinked. “Oh. I—”
“I mean, only if you don’t mind,” You stated, voice easy. “We could grab the little beanbags in the corner. No pressure.”
Natasha looked at Nova. Then at you.
Then at Nova again, whose face had the kind of hopeful look that could shatter steel.
“…Sure,” Natasha said slowly. “Why not.”
It wasn’t a big deal. Just a few pages read in quiet voices, with Nova nestled between you on one side and Natasha on the other. The sound of the rain outside softened everything.
You let Nova “help” you turn the pages and didn’t correct her when she misspelled an unknown word you read because, yes, the little one picked-up on words and expressions very fast for her age. Natasha noticed the way you smiled, the way you listened. Really listened.
It wasn’t dramatic or heart-pounding. It wasn’t some movie-worthy lightning strike.
But by the time Rainbow Power had been tucked into Nova’s arms and three books had been read twice, Natasha realized something kind of terrifying:
She wanted to see you outside that clinic again. For no medical reason whatsoever.
And for Natasha Romanoff, that was a problem.
Natasha had faced aliens, robots, espionage, and near-death missions.
But nothing —nothing— was as nerve-wracking as standing outside a pediatric clinic with slightly sweaty palms, wondering if she should pretend she just forgot to reschedule a check-up for Nova. Again.
“She’s not even going to be in today,” She muttered to herself, leaning against the wall with her phone out, pretending to scroll. “This is dumb.”
Because ever since the bookstore run-in, Natasha hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.
It wasn’t just the way you made Nova feel seen and safe. It was the way you talked to her, too. Like she wasn’t broken or sharp-edged. Like you liked her just the way she was, awkward silences and all.
So yeah. Maybe she wanted to see you again. Not as Dr. Y/N. Not as Nova’s pediatrician.
Just you. Y/N.
She exhaled slowly and walked toward the clinic doors before she could talk herself out of it. Again.
You were at the front desk, head tilted toward the receptionist as you scribbled something down. You looked up when you heard the soft chime of the door.
Your smile appeared instantly. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mother.”
Natasha blinked. “You... say that to all the moms?”
You grinned. “Only the ones who have daughters with opinions about giraffes.”
She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded like that meant something.
There was a beat of silence. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaned slightly on the counter.
“Everything okay with Nova?” You questioned gently.
“Yeah,” Natasha said quickly. “No check-up today.”
You arched a brow. “Then what brings you in?”
Here it was. The moment.
Natasha had practiced this. Sort of. She’d stood in front of the mirror and said ‘Hey, do you wanna grab coffee sometime?’ about six different ways, all of which made her sound like she’d been hit on the head recently.
But now?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing came out.
“Uh...” She started, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to your face.
You waited, patiently soft.
“I was just—nearby. And I remembered that Nova left one of her, um… plushies. Here. Maybe.”
You blinked. “Oh? Which one?”
“Uh. The… purple one?”
You turned to look behind the desk. “Do you mean the sparkly goat that she tried to trade me for three dinosaur stickers?”
“…Possibly.”
You retrieved the plush and set it gently on the counter. “She’s been safe and sound. We gave her honorary staff status.”
Natasha huffed a laugh. “Good. She’s a tough negotiator.”
Another pause.
You tilted your head. “Was that all?”
She had to ask. Now or never.
Natasha cleared her throat. “Actually—there was something else.”
You straightened slightly.
“I was wondering,” She said slowly, cautiously, like the words might turn and bite her, “if… sometime soon… if you wanted to get a coffee.”
You blinked again.
Then smiled.
Natasha panicked. “For Nova. I mean. Obviously.”
Natasha pushed on. “Like—for Nova to be around other adults. Or whatever. She needs social enrichment, and you’re good with her, and you like books, and—coffee—do you like coffee?”
You nodded slowly, huffing a chuckle. “Yeah. I do.”
“Great,” Natasha said, as if she’d just run a marathon. “That’s good.”
There was a moment of silence. Then your lips quirked.
“Natasha,” you said gently. “Are you asking me out?”
Natasha froze.
You watched her, head tilted, kindness glowing in your expression. “Because if you are, you don’t have to make it about Nova. I’d say yes.”
Natasha stared.
“You would?”
You laughed. “Is that surprising?”
“I don’t—usually do this.”
Your voice dropped an octave. “Ask people out?”
“Yeah. Especially not doctors.”
You leaned closer, resting your elbows on the counter. “Especially not ones your daughter wants to share juice boxes with?”
“She never offers juice to no one,” Natasha said solemnly. “Not even her aunt.”
“Wow,” you teased. “I’m honored, then.”
Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “So... uh. Saturday? Coffee?”
“Saturday,” you confirmed. “Text me?”
She nodded. You handed her the sparkly goat plush and slid a small card with your number across the counter.
“I’ll see you then,” you said, smiling like you already knew it would go well.
Natasha turned to leave, goat in hand, face slightly flushed.
From the car, Nova clapped her hands as soon as Natasha opened the door.
“Did you ask?”
Natasha sighed. “Yes.”
Nova leaned forward with wide, expectant eyes. “Are you gonna kiss her face?”
“Not yet.”
Nova slumped dramatically. “Then what was the point?”
Natasha had changed her shirt three times.
And by changed, she meant stood in front of her mirror and stared at herself in increasingly uncharacteristic sweaters before giving up and putting her black leather jacket over a soft green tee that Nova called “the nice one.”
“You look like a sandwich,” Nova had declared, munching toast in her pajamas. “That’s good.”
“Thanks?” Natasha muttered.
Now she was sitting across from you in a cozy, not-too-loud, not-too-crowded coffee shop tucked beside a bookstore. You were already there when she arrived — somehow both casual and radiant in a dark wool coat and soft scarf. You’d greeted her with that easy smile that made her forget basic words.
She’d brought Nova’s sparkly goat plush in her bag, just in case she needed a conversation starter.
So far, she hadn’t needed it.
“I’m glad you called,” you said, sipping your drink, warm mug between your hands.
Natasha glanced at you. “Yeah. I, uh… I’m glad you said yes.”
You gave her a look that was kind and teasing at once. “I don’t make a habit of saying no to smart women with adorable daughters and terrible flirting skills.”
Natasha huffed. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You tried to blame your attraction on a plushie.”
“I panicked!”
You grinned, and Natasha couldn’t help but return it. This was easier than she thought it would be. Less terrifying.
You talked. About Nova, about books, about how you once tried to volunteer at a wildlife rescue and got bitten by a duck.
Natasha laughed out loud — not just the quiet breathy laugh she gave people who expected her to be human. A real one.
You looked at her like the sound made your chest warm. And maybe it did.
“I think she likes you,” Natasha said quietly, eventually, her coffee going lukewarm in her hand.
“Nova?”
She nodded.
“She doesn’t like many people.”
Your smile softened. “I noticed. She reminds me of you. The way she watches first, then chooses. The way she doesn’t pretend to like people she doesn’t trust. But once she’s in… she’s in. Loyal. All heart.”
That made something tight and tender twist in Natasha’s chest. She looked down, unsure what to say.
“I like her,” You added gently. “A lot.”
Natasha looked up.
Your expression was soft. Honest.
“I like you, too,” You continued, voice quieter but honest.
And just like that, she wasn’t nervous anymore. She was just—warm. Surprised by how easy it felt to be seen like this. Genuinely.
She opened her mouth to say something — she didn’t know what yet — when your phone buzzed on the table.
You glanced at the screen, the easy light in your face faltering.
Natasha caught it instantly.
“Everything okay?”
You didn’t answer right away.
The phone buzzed again. Same name. You swallowed hard.
“Sorry,” you said under your breath, already reaching for it. “It’s the hospital. Where my aunt—where Helen is.”
Natasha sat straighter. Her voice was steady, low. “You should answer.”
You did.
“Y/N L/N speaking,” you said gently. Then a pause. A longer one.
Natasha couldn’t hear what was said, but she didn’t need to. She saw it in your face — the slow, unraveling expression. The way your hand clutched the phone just a little tighter.
Natasha sat up slightly, noticing the change in your posture — the way your shoulders drew inward, bracing.
Your face froze.
The warmth of the café blurred into the background. Natasha could hear the blood rush behind her own ears as she watched your expression fall.
Your voice cracked, so quiet. “What?”
Another pause.
Then, shakier, “When?”
Your hand, gripping the phone, trembled slightly. Natasha reached out on instinct, her fingers brushing yours across the table — steady, grounding.
You finally nodded, though your eyes were wet. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll… I’ll be there.”
You hung up slowly.
Natasha didn’t pull away. “Y/N?”
Your mouth opened, but no words came. Just a few seconds of shallow breathing. And then, quietly, as if afraid saying it out loud would make it more real:
“It was the doctor...”
Natasha’s chest tightened.
“Helen, She—” You blinked quickly, trying to hold it together. “She passed. A few minutes ago. Complications from the surgery last week. It wasn’t supposed to be—she was recovering—she was—”
“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said softly, voice low, warm.
There was a beat of silence. Then you stood abruptly, grabbing your coat, your phone. “I have to go. I need to—tell my mom. I need to be with her. I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t apologize,” Natasha said, rising with you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”
You shook your head, head spinning. “No—no, it’s fine, I can—”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
That silenced you.
You nodded, eyes glossy.
“I didn’t—” Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t ready.”
Natasha reached across the table without thinking, hand finding yours.
You didn’t pull away.
“She was stubborn,” you said quietly, blinking fast. “She’d been sick a while. But she kept joking about living to a hundred. I really thought we had more time.”
“I’m sorry,” Natasha said again, and she meant it with everything she had. “I can drop you wherever you need.”
You smiled, shakily. “Thank you.”
She drove you in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty — just soft, full of understanding. When you reached your apartment, she put the car in park and turned toward you.
“I’m here,” she said. “Okay? If you need anything.”
You nodded. “I know.”
A beat of quiet passed.
Then you leaned in and hugged her — not long, not lingering. Just real.
You stared at her, eyes glossy and wide, and then nodded. You exhaled, shaky and heavy.
“Thank you for the coffee.”
“It was a good coffee,” she said, softly.
You gave a tiny nod. “I’m sorry the date ended like this.”
“It didn’t end,” Natasha said gently, watching you. “It just paused.”
You looked at her, startled.
“I’ll wait,” she added. “As long as you need.”
For the first time since the call, something warm flickered in your eyes. You reached out, pressed your hand lightly to her arm.
“Thank you, Nat”
Natasha sat in the car long after you left, staring out the windshield, her heart caught somewhere between grief and something softer.
The funeral was small.
Helen had never wanted something grand. She hated pomp, avoided big parties, and always joked that if more than twenty people cried at her funeral, she’d come back and haunt them out of embarrassment.
Still, when you saw the turnout—old colleagues, a few former patients, your mother with red-rimmed eyes clutching tissues in one hand—you wished she could see it. The quiet reverence. The soft way people spoke her name.
The flowers were lavender, her favorite. The casket simple. She would’ve liked that. No drama. Just love.
You stood at the front with your family, hand squeezing your mother’s as the minister spoke.
But your eyes kept drifting back.
To Natasha.
And Nova.
The redhead sat near the back, dressed in quiet black. Her expression was unreadable to most, but you could tell—there was softness in the way she held Nova close on her lap, fingers gently stroking the girl’s back as she clutched a small bouquet of lavender sprigs in her chubby hands.
Nova had insisted on bringing them. Said they were “for the nice lady who always smelled like books.”
Natasha had tried to explain death to her. The finality of it. But Nova, being Nova, had decided she didn’t like final things.
“She’s just sleeping in the stars now,” she told Natasha with a frown. “We should still bring flowers.”
So they did.
After the service, you moved outside with the others. The overcast sky had held off for most of the morning, but a light mist had begun to fall. It wasn’t cold—just gently mournful, like the weather knew not to shout on a day like this.
Natasha approached as the crowd started to thin.
“Hey,” she said softly.
You turned. The moment your eyes met hers, the grief cracked your composure. You didn’t sob, but you blinked too fast and clutched your arms like they were the only thing keeping you upright.
Natasha didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.
You sank into her without thinking. She was solid. Quiet. Steady.
Nova reached up with her little bouquet and pressed it gently to your arm.
Your throat burned as you knelt to her level, taking the lavender with trembling fingers.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, voice breaking.
Nova hugged you, small arms warm around your neck. Natasha watched her daughter with something soft in her eyes, like she couldn’t believe how easily she’d chosen you.
“I don’t want you to be sad,” Nova whispered. “You’re my doctor friend.”
You smiled through the ache. “I’m really lucky to be your doctor friend.”
Natasha gave you time, didn’t push, just stayed by your side as people offered their condolences. She was your anchor without trying to be.
Eventually, when only a few people remained, she touched your shoulder gently.
“Want me to walk you to your car?”
You nodded.
The walk was quiet. She carried Nova, who had started yawning, cheek pressed to her mother’s collarbone.
“I wasn’t sure I should come,” Natasha admitted, keeping her voice low.
You glanced at her.
“I’m glad you did,” you said honestly.
“She meant something to you.”
You nodded. “She raised me. My parents were around but… Helen was constant. She’s why I went into medicine. Why I even thought I could do it.”
Natasha didn’t say anything at first, just listened.
“She must’ve been proud.”
You looked at her.
“She was,” you said. “She told me that. But I don’t think I ever told her how much she meant to me. Not really.”
“She knew,” Natasha said quietly. “Because I see the way Nova looks at you. And the way you look back.” Natasha offered a small smile. “It’s the same way you probably looked at Helen.”
Your eyes filled again. But this time, they didn’t spill. You breathed through it.
“Do you want to come in for a bit?” you asked softly. “Just for tea or something. Nova can nap if she wants.”
Natasha hesitated. “Are you sure?”
You nodded. “I’d like the company. And I think Nova wants more cookies.”
Nova stirred on her shoulder at the word cookies but didn’t protest. She just murmured, “Only if she makes the round ones.”
You smiled. “I always make the round ones.
And just like that, you left the funeral behind — not the grief, not the loss, but the moment — stepping slowly toward something that felt a little like healing.
A few weeks after Helen’s funeral.
Grief wasn’t loud. It came in stillness. In the half-sipped tea you forgot on the windowsill. In the voicemail you kept replaying just to hear the voice again. But it didn’t stop life.
You had gone back to work. Your patients needed you. Nova needed you. And — though you never said it aloud — you needed them too.
Especially Nova. And her mother.
It had started with Natasha picking Nova up after a check-up and asking if you wanted to grab lunch — “for Nova,” she’d said, like it wasn’t obvious she needed the pause too.
Then a few shared weekends — trips to the park, early brunches where Nova smeared syrup on both your sleeves. Movie nights with blankets and popcorn and a fussy two-year-old who always ended up asleep in one of your laps.
And slowly, quietly, without much fanfare, you and Natasha just fit.
Not in a whirlwind. Not in a fairytale.
But in the way you leaned toward each other when you laughed.
In how Natasha always texted you when Nova said something funny — she just told a pigeon to “get therapy” because it kept pacing.
In how she learned how you took your latte and always handed it to you without asking.
And in the way your apartment now had Nova’s favorite cup and spoon in the cabinet.
On a quiet Sunday evening, the three of you sat on your couch. Nova was curled between you, cradling a stuffed dinosaur you’d won her at a spring fair. She was almost asleep — half-lidded, thumb in her mouth, one hand tangled in your sweater.
Natasha’s voice was quiet.
“She didn’t used to be like this.”
You looked over.
“She hated new people. Didn’t even let Clint hold her until she was almost two.”
You smiled, brushing a lock of hair from Nova’s cheek. “She’s still selective.”
“Exactly. That’s what gets me.” Natasha tilted her head slightly toward you. “She trusts you. Just clicked with you. It scared me at first.”
You blinked. “Scared you?”
“I’m not used to… things happening easily. Or quickly. Or softly.” Natasha looked down at Nova, then back at you. “You were soft with her. Patient. The kind of love that doesn't ask anything in return.”
Your heart ached in a good way.
“I liked you too before I even realized I did,” she said, almost like a confession. “And then you lost Helen, and you let me be there — even when you didn’t want to talk. That meant something.”
You watched her. “You mean something to me, too.”
Silence settled again, but it was warm.
Nova shifted in her sleep, turning into Natasha’s side with a little sigh. Natasha reached over and gently covered her with a throw blanket.
“She asked me last night if you were family,” Natasha murmured.
Your breath caught.
“And I told her… ‘not yet.’”
You smiled. “What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Then you better ask her fast.’” Natasha looked over at you, the corners of her mouth lifted. “So… I’m asking.”
You tilted your head, heart thudding softly. “Asking what?”
“To be part of your life. For real. Not just parks and tea and polite texts. I don’t want to just orbit around you anymore.”
You studied her — the nervous flicker in her gaze, rare and raw. The honesty. The slight tremble of her fingers as they brushed against yours.
“I don’t want that either,” you whispered.
And then, quietly, with Nova fast asleep between you, Natasha leaned in.
It wasn’t a movie kiss — no swelling music, no dramatic lighting. Just lips that found yours like they’d always known the way. Slow. Sure. Finally.
When you pulled back, Natasha rested her forehead against yours, exhaling something like relief.
Nova stirred.
Natasha blinked down at her, and you both waited — but all she did was mumble, “Can I have pancakes for dinner?”
You both laughed.
“You spoil her,” Natasha said with affection.
“She spoils me,” you replied.
And with Nova snuggled safely between you, the three of you sat in the dim, quiet room.
Not quite perfect. Not quite healed.
But together.
And that was enough.
an : oh, i love nova soo much already :((
