Hi, how's it going? 😂 My name is West and I'm 26. I randomly decided to write a fanfic for the first time late in Feb 2026 and posted it on March 1st.
I hadn't done any creative writing since university so you'll be seeing in real time as I try to improve. So, feedback is always welcome!
If you're a fan of sweet stories, sometimes with a dash of spice, then you're in the right place. If you have any ideas/requests let me know 😊 happy to talk about it and if the interest is there, it'll probably get written at some point. Be warned though, apparently I can't write a story under 9k words to save my life so it's gonna be a long one-shot.
AO3 (For the readers whose Tumblr keeps freezing for longer fics)
Masterlist
*= smut included (Minors DNI)
All fem reader
Natasha Romanoff x Reader:
By Chance*(9k words)
G!P Natasha Romanoff x Florist/Streamer Reader
Dealbreaker*(12.1k words)
Undercover Investor Natasha Romanoff x Project Manager Reader
Letter Know (9.4k words)
Natasha Romanoff x Postal Worker Reader
Halfway (9.1k words) Pt. 2 (9.7k words) Pt. 3 (9.1k words) Pt.4 (6k words)
Natasha Romanoff x Deaf Barista Reader
Short Enough? (4.6k words)
Natasha Romanoff x Agent Reader
Ngl the way your writing matt is pretty good cause I'm creeped out irl lol thank you for giving us a another chapter! 💖 dont burn yourself out
Yeah unfortunately Matt is based on a very real person that lived in the same house as me during my time in uni. The interactions with him are just a few snippets of the many conversations we had. So that's probably why it feels realistic 😅
Thank you for reading the chapter and I'll make sure to take care of myself! 💖
hey west I really enjoy your new series so far!! I actually think you wrote Wanda really well. I love when Wanda is written as very motherly in fics (bc she’s my mother) so the fruit snack scene during the interview was my favorite part. I can’t wait to see Wanda and R’s relationship develop!!
(and maybe R calls Wanda ‘mama’ down the line?? 😭🙏)
Thank you so much!! I'm glad Wanda came across well, it was something I was actually pretty worried about. And yes, she's definitely mother 😂
I had a feeling with the fruit snack scene being included that I would get asked this 😂 Right now, I'm not totally sure. I'm kind of just going with however the story is leaning towards. So if that feels right down the line, then of course! Thank you for reading the chapter! 😁
Chapter Summary: It's interview day and nothing is going right. With your final round interviewer being someone you would never have expected, will you be able to hold it together?
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings/Tags for This Chapter: Describes an anxiety attack, unsafe living environment, past psychological abuse, hurt/comfort
Series Masterlist AO3
—
You lean your back against the counter in front of the espresso machine, glancing down, the digital calendar glares back at you.
Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
It was the last company you expected to hear back from—if you even factored them into your reality at all. You vividly remembered the moment you submitted that application. It had been a desperate Hail Mary thrown into a sea of listings, a wild shot at the most prestigious entity in the corporate world. As a leading consulting and venture capital firm, their name was a household fixture, synonymous with an elite, gatekept world of wealth. The firm was notorious for its fiercely guarded internship cohorts and a grueling, multi-stage interview process designed to break lesser candidates.
The very same interview you were just offered.
You tap your finger against the side of your phone, going through all the logistics in your mind before the morning rush begins. The available dates only have morning openings, ninety minutes. Meaning, it’ll be a two-stage interview. You’ll have to cut one of your shifts at the coffee shop short, or call out altogether. It isn’t something you can exactly afford. Getting the internship is the only way it’ll be worth the loss in wages.
You glance up at the sound of the door chime.
A student walks into the shop, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear. “Mom, am I supposed to separate my clothes by color when I do my laundry?” The student looks up, giving your coworker an apologetic smile. “At least darks and lights? Okay, cool. Love you.” She hangs up and begins ordering.
Watching her, you remember having to figure everything out entirely on your own. Three burnt eggs. A load of laundry destroyed. Smacking your printer until it finally worked. Even down to securing your very first part-time job.
A notification flashes across the top of your screen, breaking your train of thought.
Your older sister.
Hey, you haven’t texted me back in a while. Do you not love me anymore? Haha, call me soon.
You open your text history with her. The last time you messaged her was three months ago, a brief note assuring her that everything is going well. You scroll backward, tracing the conversation history to the earliest saved messages. The gaps of time between your responses grow longer and longer the further down you scroll.
Do you not love me anymore?
It isn't her fault she doesn't know. You silently left that day, and the only explanation you gave her was that you were excited to start school. If there’s a feeling greater than love, then that’s what you feel for your sister. It’s a love that makes you willing to sacrifice anything for her—even yourself. It’s the very love that made you accept becoming a marionette for years, until you had no choice but to finally break away.
Now, you are still trying to stand, desperately trying to figure out who you are now that the strings are cut. And it’s because you love her so much that you can’t talk to her. So instead, you don't respond, simply so you won't have to continue to lie to her.
You move your screen back to the digital calendar and choose the earliest date before you can think twice. Two days from now. Friday. Somehow, the message from your sister reminds you of exactly why you’re here.
Your coworker hands you the customer's order, and the morning rush begins.
—
The remainder of Wednesday brings back-to-back classes, paired with heavy assignments due for both the following Monday. Your sister’s message lingers with you throughout your restaurant shift, dragging memories in its wake as you set plates down at customers' tables. The imperceptible shaking of your hands is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. You don’t know if it’s from the interview looming, or from the fact that you’ve fixed your hair for what feels like a hundred times today.
On Thursday, you finally ask one of your coworkers at the coffee shop to cover the latter half of your Friday shift. Guilt creeps in at the inconvenience you’re bestowing upon them, but this is your only chance. If you don’t secure this internship now, you’ll be forced to repeat this entire exhausting cycle next term, only to possibly face the exact same uncertain results.
University is exhausting, work is exhausting, and the panic rising in your chest is debilitating.
You glance at the time—half past eleven. You close your laptop. The amount of studying you’ve done is far from sufficient, especially with final exams around the corner, but you know you’re going to need all the rest you can get.
Possible interview questions replay endlessly in your mind as you check to make sure everything is prepared for tomorrow.
Tell me about yourself. There isn’t much to say.
A black skirt you save for special occasions and one of your clean white collared shirts hang meticulously from the metal candleholder. You don’t have any other clothes that would pass for professional wear.
What are your greatest strengths? I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Your wallet, notebook, and keys are packed securely inside your backpack.
What are your greatest weaknesses? So many.
Your phone sits on its charger, and a single granola bar rests on your desk, waiting to hold you over for the day ahead.
You turn off the light, and the room plunges into sudden darkness. Sitting at the edge of your bed, you feel the hard mattress digging into your thighs. Only the ugly parts of you come to mind. Answers no hiring manager would ever want to hear.
But deep down, you already know the truth. Despite the terror, despite the total lack of preparation, the practiced image of you will save you. It always does. The phantom strings still holding your spine taut will pull, and your confident, charismatic smile will appear on command. Your voice will alter into that perfect, magnetic cadence you were taught makes you more attractive. You’ll say whatever you need to say to get exactly what you want.
It’s the only thing ingrained into you for years.
You hate that you’re this way. You despise how easily the mask slips on.
You lay back, your head finally resting against the pillow, praying that everything goes well tomorrow.
—
You wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, the light of your screen harsh against the darkness of your room. You let out a tired groan. You could sleep for ten more minutes, but waking up a second time will feel even worse.
Ten extra minutes to get ready, I guess. You try to be positive.
And you definitely needed them. The bags under your eyes are prominent, and it takes you far too long to finally make the decision to dab concealer beneath them. One of your shorter front strands has a mind of its own, refusing to stay down even after you use product.
You bite your lip in frustration as you rush back into your room to change into a t-shirt, since you didn’t have the time to do laundry. Your jeans hang too loosely around your waist, forcing you to use the one and only belt you own.
It feels like all your last-minute preparations are going to waste as a sudden realization hits you. You won’t be able to hang your interview clothes in the backroom of the coffee house. The heavy smell of espresso and whatever else lingers in the air will seep right into the fabric.
You take the skirt and shirt off their hangers, folding them meticulously before placing them carefully at the bottom of your backpack. Pulling your keys out, you shrug your jacket over your shoulders and grab your phone off the bed. You rush to close your door and lock it while slinging the heavy backpack over your shoulder.
It feels like your brain is trying to leave your skull with the way it throbs with every breath you take.
The sound of someone entering through the front door makes you pause.
“Oh hey, I’m lucky to catch you. Heading out?” Matt’s voice echoes from the entrance.
He must’ve just finished his shift.
You twist the doorknob twice, making sure it is truly locked, before letting yourself fully come into view.
You greet him with a close-lipped smile. “Hey, good morning. Yeah, I’m in a real rush.” You step toward the front door, but he makes no move to get out of your way.
“I’m sure you can spare a minute," he says, staring down at you with an easy smile. "Do you want to hang out later?”
Nothing is going right this morning.
“I’m sorry, I probably can’t. I have classes and work later.” You try to ease your arm past him, reaching carefully for the front door handle.
His smile drops for a split second before returning. He glances down at your arm, looking almost amused by your effort to bypass him. “No problem. See you later.”
You open the heavy door and push past him into the crisp morning air. Turning back just before the frame clicks shut, you offer a tiny concession. “See you,” you respond, forcing an apologetic look to your face.
The door closes before you can see his reaction. Not that you have the time. You’re already sprinting toward the bus stop.
You manage to catch the bus just in time. Your head aches violently at the sudden rise in your heart rate, your pulse drumming in your ears.
It’s barely five minutes into the bus ride to the coffee shop when you realize you forgot your granola bar.
—
You make an extra effort to greet customers brightly and carry conversations with them as you prepare their drinks. It feels like the only thing that can ease the guilt of leaving your shift early. Hopefully, seeing the extra tips left in the jar will make the impending loss in your paycheck a bit more bearable.
Behind every warm greeting and polite laugh, the interview looms heavily in your mind as the hours tick away. Finally, it’s time to clock out. The extra espresso shot you added to your americano—meant to carry you through the morning—feels like it was tainted by your worst enemies.
Instead of feeling energized, you feel sluggish. Your brain feels like it’s processing everything slower than it usually does on four hours of sleep. The intense caffeine kick that normally eases your headaches only makes your skull pound, to the point that if you pressed a fingertip to your temple, you’re certain you would feel it violently pulsing.
You grab your backpack from the breakroom and carry it into the cramped bathroom. Zipping it open, you find your belongings completely shifted. The cover of your notebook bears fresh indentations from where your keys knocked against it during your walk. Your interview clothes, which you placed so meticulously at the bottom, are slightly unfolded and bunched to one side.
Your back presses against the bathroom door as you hug your backpack tight against your chest. You slide down the frame, the cold wood doing nothing to pull you out of your own mind. It’s only when you’re sitting flat on the floor, your backpack pressed tightly between your torso and your legs, that you feel the first real emotion flicker through the numbness.
“So stupid,” you whisper to yourself, over and over again.
Because what did you honestly think was going to happen by stuffing your clothes down there? Your right leg bounces uncontrollably against your arm. You rest your elbows heavily on your knees to stop the trembling, before burying your face in your hands, running your fingers through your hair and gripping it tightly.
You release your hair before it can no longer be salvaged. Strands hang in every direction in your peripheral vision from where your tight grip pulled them from the elastic.
You dislike yourself even more for worrying about your hair at a time like this.
Reaching back, you pull the tie completely free. Shorter strands fall loosely against your cheeks, blocking your vision from anything that isn't directly in front of you. You pull your interview clothes out of the backpack, unfolding them fully.
Wrinkled.
You suck in a sharp breath, biting your lip harshly as you force yourself to stand up off the floor. You hang your backpack from the coat hook and drape the clothes carefully over the top.
Your hands tremble as you unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans. It feels like all your strength is actively leaving your body as you push them down and fold them. You’re operating entirely on autopilot. Your t-shirt follows. It takes two agonizing tries on every single button before your collared shirt is finally closed and tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt.
You risk a glance at the mirror. Then instantly wish you hadn’t.
Blood seeps from your bottom lip where your teeth must’ve punctured it earlier. The fabric of your shirt is noticeably wrinkled on the left side. Strands of your hair are raised in some areas, while entirely flat in others.
A complete wreck. That’s the only description for the reflection staring back at you.
Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you barely even feel the sting. Your right hand rises subconsciously, beginning to smooth over the creases on your side. Somehow, it feels less like a fix, and more like your body is desperately trying to comfort you because your mind simply won’t.
Combing your fingers through your hair, you let your nails drag against your scalp to remind yourself that you cannot afford to do this right now. The rigid tension in your shoulders drops, but it brings no relief. Instead, it’s replaced by a profound exhaustion, leaving you feeling as though you’ve just survived a violent war with your own mind.
Reaching into your backpack, you pull out your phone, expecting at least half an hour to have passed. You’re already mentally bracing yourself for a mad dash to the bus stop, preparing for the forty-five minute trip into the city.
It’s only been seven minutes.
You zip up your backpack before slinging it over your shoulder. Glancing in the mirror one last time, you can’t help but feel like you look especially hollow today. Fragile.
Suddenly, you can feel a ghost of a tight grip on your shoulder, fingernails digging deep beneath your collarbone.
“Smile. People are watching.”
The corners of your lips curve upward as if being pulled by invisible strings. Turning back toward the exit, you find the metal door handle cold against your palm.
You hope to leave this weak side of you behind in the bathroom before the interview begins.
—
You settle into the bus seat, hugging your backpack against you like a shield. The contrast between your first early morning transit and the subsequent, mid-day rides has never bothered you. This one is louder, more packed, with strangers constantly pressed close on all sides. Sometimes it’s impossible to find a seat, so perhaps you’re lucky today.
Except for the woman to your right, whose shoulder digs directly into yours as she talks loudly on her phone. You can’t help but wince when she raises her voice at whoever is on the other end. Apparently, they forgot to set an appointment for her.
You hug your backpack even closer to your chest when she waves her arm in sheer frustration. It’s a terrifyingly familiar sight. Loud voices. Placing blame. Disappointed expressions.
You were fortunate that you had never been struck.
It would blemish your skin, after all.
Keep it together, you remind yourself the moment you begin to deeply retreat within yourself.
The woman doesn’t get off at the next stop. Instead, more people pack themselves onto the bus, and the ride only grows louder. The hard plastic of the seat digs into your back. The walls of the vehicle feel like they’re closing in on you, trapping you in a symphony of shouting voices and shifting bodies.
Please, keep it together, you plead with yourself as the bus continues its grueling journey into the city.
—
You squeeze past the passengers standing tightly in the aisle and turn toward the bus driver, offering a grateful smile that you know falls flat with how tired your eyes feel. The driver gives you a brief once-over before shooting an encouraging smile back at you. Stepping off the bus, you walk down the plaza stairs with shaky, uneven steps.
It feels like everything has been completely out to get you today. Even yourself.
But you need this. This internship. To graduate. To get a stable job in the future. Because that’s the entire point, right?
You force your chin up, refusing to let yourself waver as you look toward the towering monolith of reflective glass and steel ahead.
The Romanoff-Maximoff Global building is the tallest structure in the city. It’s entirely fitting for the headquarters of a financial giant. Craning your neck upward, you can barely make out the massive corporate sign displayed proudly on the dark glass of the upper levels.
You take one deep, steadying breath before walking up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy glass doors slide open automatically when you step within range, and a rush of cool, synthetic-smelling air immediately wraps around you. Walking inside, it feels far more like stepping into a high-end luxury hotel than an office building.
The polished white marble floors perfectly reflect the warm light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers above, blending with the natural sunlight cutting through the massive windows to make the lobby feel impossibly bright. Resting areas are abundant, filled with long, plush couches and elegant armchairs. Perfectly arranged fresh flowers sit in heavy vases atop a multitude of pristine coffee and accent tables.
It’s a room you have no business being in.
You scan the sprawling lobby ahead, where a row of people in tasteful, high-end professional wear are seated at sleek desks, intensely focused on whatever tasks they are working on. Your eyes jump anxiously from side to side before you quickly pull up the email on your phone to anchor yourself.
Check in at the front desk.
There are seven of them.
You grip the strap of your backpack resting on your shoulder. Your thoughts race at the possibility of walking up to one of the desks and getting the entirely wrong person. That would be your first memory at this company.
Your heart rate jumps at the thought, sending pangs of pain to your head, but you’re saved when one of the women working at one of the desks calls you forward.
The sound of your sneakers against the marble echo throughout the lobby and it feels like everyone is watching you, waiting for you to slip up. But when you look up, everyone still has their heads down, doing their jobs.
“How can I help you?” the woman asks before you’re even fully at the desk.
“Um.” You scramble to open the email again before stepping the rest of the way and turning the screen toward her. “I have an interview today. It’s in twenty minutes.”
She stares at your phone screen with an impassive expression, glancing up for a brief second. Her fingers tap a few keys on the keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor before she looks back at you.
“Take the glass elevators on your left to the fifty-second floor,” she says, sliding a sleek black security card across the desk. “The financial planning and analysis manager is expecting you.”
You take the card, your fingers brushing against the cool plastic. You nod a thank you, but she’s already looking back down at her own screen.
Turning toward the left side of the lobby, you look at the rows of elevators. The black card feels heavy in your palm. You run your finger against the edge of it, letting the dull plastic dig into your fingertip.
The elevator doors open instantly after you tap the card against the scanner. Pressing the metal button for the fifty-second floor, you finally lean against the railing. The doors close, and the numbers on the digital screen rise alongside the elevator. You take a deep breath, holding it tightly, then finally release it.
With every exhale, you try to push out all the things that have gone wrong today. Waking up before your alarm was annoying. Matt being the first person you saw was inconvenient. The coffee shop shift completely burned through your social battery. Your breakdown in the bathroom left you listless. The loud, cramped bus ride overwhelmed you.
At least you have a little under twenty minutes to get your head on straight.
The elevator doors slide open, and you’re greeted by a stoic man dressed in a sharp suit.
“Are you my ten o’clock interview?” he asks bluntly.
“Yes,” you respond, the word coming out almost like a question.
He gestures to his left, beckoning you forward. “Great. We can start now since you’re already here. Follow me.”
You breathe in sharply. You’re not ready. But you can’t find it in yourself to ask for more time.
He begins walking down a long grey hallway without looking back once as you trail behind him. His strides are long, and it takes whatever remaining energy you have just to keep pace.
The fifty-second floor feels like the exact opposite of the lobby. Dark wallpaper, dim lighting, and an eerie silence hangs over the space. Stopping at a white door, he opens it and ushers you inside.
The room fits the grim aesthetic of the rest of the floor, but the complete lack of windows makes it feel more like an interrogation room. He takes a seat at a desk against the far wall before pointing to the single chair in front of him.
“Sit down.”
“I’m Mark. The FP&A manager. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” He glances down at the papers resting on his desk. Before you can introduce yourself, he has already begun.
“Walk me through what a $10 depreciation does to financial statements, assuming a 25% tax rate.”
Your brain doesn't even pause to process the sudden prompt. Instead, the ingrained image within you activates. The strings snap your posture a fraction tighter, and the practiced, effortless warmth floods into your expression on command. You block the exhaustion, the pounding headache, and the hollow ache in your stomach behind a glass wall you know will break eventually.
It just can’t be today.
You need to be perfect.
When you speak, your voice slides perfectly into that clear, confident cadence you were taught to use.
“Assuming a 25% tax rate, a $10 depreciation expense reduces net income by $7.50,” you begin smoothly, your lips holding a charming smile. “This increases ending cash by $2.50 on the cash flow statement, balancing the assets and equity sides of the balance sheet down by $7.50.”
Mark holds your gaze for a moment before continuing. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Let’s continue.”
—
You stare at the white door Mark has just exited through. The prompts and questions had been endless, one popping up right after the other the exact second you finished answering, leaving absolutely no room for rest.
“Walk me through how the Income Statement, Balance Sheet, and Cash Flow Statement are connected.”
“How do interest rates affect a company's borrowing costs?”
“What is EBITDA, and why do we use it?”
You let out a shaky breath. The smile melts from your face, and your eyes drift closed.
The last forty-five minutes saturate into your body. Your shoulders drop completely, as if they can no longer hold themselves up against the weight of the day. The moment your eyes shut, it feels like the windowless room is spinning as a severe wave of lightheadedness sets in.
One more interview, you reason with yourself, the thought a desperate plea to convince your own body not to give up just yet.
But it’s as if your body knows you’re lying. It knows that after this, you will have to take the bus back to your university, walk to class, followed by another lecture, and then face your restaurant shift tonight. It isn't just this interview.
You fight against your own limbs to force your shoulders upright. Your eyes snap open at the sound of voices right outside the room. The words are muffled behind the thick wood, but it sounds like a casual back-and-forth. You easily catch the confused inflection in Mark's tone.
The door opens suddenly. You wipe the tired expression off your face instantly, replacing it with an easy smile. Turning around, you see Mark standing beside a shorter woman.
“Hi,” the woman greets you warmly. “I’m Cindy. I’ll be taking you to the next round of the interview.”
Mark stares down at her with squinted eyes before turning his gaze to you and offering a brief nod.
“Hello,” you respond as you stand up, grabbing your backpack off the floor and sliding the straps over your shoulders. Your legs wobble slightly under the sudden pressure of your weight. Forcing your posture straight, you nod politely at him. “Thank you for the interview today.”
He gives you a small smile before you walk out the door and follow Cindy down the dimly lit hallway. She taps a gold colored card against the scanner and the elevator doors slide open. She gestures for you to enter before she steps besides you and presses the button labeled C.
She turns to you with an encouraging smile. “Don’t be nervous.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen an undergraduate internship interview take place on the C-suite floor.”
Huh?
C-suite… that can’t be right. Anybody studying anything within the business major knows exactly what the C-suite is.
The highest-ranking senior executives in the entire corporation.
You glance up at the screen displaying the floor numbers. They just keep rising. It feels like the elevator is moving significantly faster than it did on your trip to the fifty-second floor.
The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open, revealing an open floor plan flooded with light from towering skylights above. You have to squint, adjusting your eyes from the stark dimness of the previous floor.
Stepping forward behind Cindy, you scan the area. The floor is made of polished dark wood that looks spotless. The center holds multiple plush couches where you assume high-value investors and shareholders sit while waiting for appointments. A long counter rests on the right, the top crafted from white marble with light wood detailing the cabinet space beneath. A high-end coffee machine sits on the surface, surrounded by neatly arranged pods and endless amenities. Chips, cookies, fruit.
Your stomach caves in on itself at the sheer sight of the food.
It’s just as quiet up here as it was on the fifty-second floor, but somehow it doesn’t hold the same eerie atmosphere. Instead, with the sunlight streaming down and the rich aroma of coffee in the air, you feel your shoulders naturally settling.
Massive executive offices line the far wall, each room looking at least ten times the size of your bedroom. Your view inside is completely blocked by heavy wooden frames and dark, one-way glass.
Cindy leads you to the office furthest to the right. You trail closely behind, still craning your head to absorb the pure opulence of the floor. Opening the door, she gestures for you to go inside.
“Have a seat right in the chair in front of the desk. Your interviewer will be coming in shortly.”
She gives you a warm smile that you mirror instantly out of habit, before she steps back and closes the heavy door with a soft thud.
You can’t help but look around the bright office. The left wall holds two massive bookcases lined with a vast array of books, their spines varying in every color. The right wall features a shelf filled with small decorative pieces and jewelry. The brilliant gold and silver of the rings lined across the wooden shelf reflect the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.
Taking a few paces forward, you reach the single armchair in front of the desk. Slipping your backpack off your shoulders, you place it securely against the base of the chair. As you sit down, the high-end leather feels soft and accommodating against the bare skin beneath your thighs.
You take a deep breath in. Somehow, the room smells exactly how a warm summer night feels. The aroma envelopes you completely—the scent of flowers that bloom in the peak of July and sun-warmed concrete. Even the temperature of the office feels absolutely perfect against your cold, shivering skin.
It’s the first time you’ve felt genuinely comfortable all day.
You finally glance at the desk in front of you. It’s crafted from a dark, rich wood that you can tell is of exceptionally high quality without even touching it. A computer monitor rests to the left, the screen faced entirely away from you. Papers scatter the surface in a way that looks messy, but strictly organized at the same time. A picture frame made of light wood sits at the far right of the desk. The noticeably worn edges of the frame make you believe that the owner must pick it up often.
Your gaze drifts to the elegant nameplate resting right in front of the picture frame.
Wanda D. Maximoff. CFO.
What—
The door opens before you can even fully register the situation you are in. It feels like your body is creaking when you turn almost robotically to look behind you.
You’ve seen her in countless business articles before. She’s one half of the power couple who built one of the most successful companies in the world. Wanda stands in front of you, wearing an elegant navy blazer and a matching long skirt. Crisp black heels make her look even more imposing, if that’s even possible.
She’s even more gorgeous in person.
The heavy door closes slowly behind her. She turns toward you fully, offering a slight tilt of her head and a soft smile. Her sharp green eyes shine against the ambient sunlight, and somehow, the whole room feels instantly brighter.
The distinct shade of her eyes looks almost too familiar. But before you can think further, Wanda starts to speak.
“Well, hello there,” she says lightly, walking directly toward her desk. Her blazer lightly brushes your shoulder as she passes, and the rich scent of summer flowers fills the air.
It feels like you’re in a complete trance as you watch her take a seat in her leather desk chair, which matches the dark shade of the wood. You’re finally snapped out of it when she rests her elbow on the surface, placing her chin in her palm and tilting her head. She offers you an almost teasing smile.
What are you doing? you chastise yourself internally.
You clear your throat, instantly digging for the assured voice programmed deep within you.
“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You stand up, extending your hand to offer a firm handshake, exactly like you were taught to do in school.
She stops you with a slight raise of her hand before you are even halfway out of your seat, her smile remaining entirely unchanged. “No need for that. Please, sit comfortably.”
Biting the inside of your mouth, you sink back down into the soft leather. Your outstretched hand finds its way to your left side, nervously smoothing over the slight wrinkles that still remain on your shirt. This is absolutely nothing like the clinical mock interviews you practiced in class.
Wanda glances down at one of the papers resting on her desk before her sharp green eyes lock onto yours once again.
“So,” she begins, her tone smooth and entirely unbothered. “You’re not qualified for this internship.”
You freeze.
Then why—
“Then why are you here?” she asks, sounding almost amused as she cuts right through your internal panic. “Well,” she muses, looking up toward the skylight in thought. She meets your eyes once again. “I like to look at the whole picture.”
“I…” you start, your voice noticeably wavering.
Stop it, you fight with yourself internally, forcing your posture rigidly upright.
“I know I’m not qualified,” you state clearly, the rehearsed confidence taking over. “But I can adapt quickly. I know how to read financial models. I’m proficient in Excel. I know how to do market research.”
You pause when her expression morphs from an amused smirk into a softer, quieter smile. It’s an expression that completely cuts through your ramble.
“I know. You did extremely well in your interview with Mark,” she says slowly. “Perfect, even.”
You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief at that, but your mind is still swirling.
Then why am I here? you wonder again.
Wanda glances down to where your hand still rests over the wrinkled fabric of your shirt. You widen your palm to cover the creases entirely, hoping she doesn’t see how disheveled you feel.
The corner of her lip pulls upward. Her gaze doesn’t move from your hand.
“Tell me about yourself.” Her tone is completely relaxed, but it doesn’t stop the sudden spike in your pulse.
You take a slow breath in before beginning. “I’m currently a junior in university, majoring in finance. I do well in my classes. I balance going to school and working part-time jobs. I learn quickly, and I know I can adapt to working here,” you finish in a poised tone.
“I see,” she says, sounding almost lost in thought. Her gaze shifts, tracking up to focus directly on your bottom lip. You desperately hope it’s healed by now. “What are your greatest strengths?”
The raw truth from last night echoes bitterly in your head: I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Instead, you let the script speak for you. “I take instruction well and turn that into results.”
“Mhm.” She nods as if she was expecting that exact response. Finally, she looks up to meet your eyes again. “And your greatest weaknesses?”
So many.
“Sometimes I get too focused on what I’m doing and don’t see what’s around me,” you respond, offering an almost self-deprecating smile.
“And do you balance going to school and working well?”
You move your gaze downward, staring at the scattered papers on her desk. “Yes,” you say quietly, the smile on your lips wobbling slightly at the edges.
The silence in the air hangs incredibly heavy. You force your eyes upward at the total lack of a response. It feels like she’s staring right past you. As if she’s reading your mind.
“What are your hobbies?”
Your mind blanks. What does this have to do with anything?
Your mouth opens, but instead of a quick, tailored answer, your breath comes out erratically. You grip your side tightly, the fabric of your shirt wrinkling further beneath your fingers, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe it’s the accumulated stress of the interview. The extra shot of caffeine earlier. Seeing Matt. The lost wages from cutting your shift short. The woman’s loud, angry voice on the bus. The months of surviving on four to five hours of sleep. Your stomach twisting painfully in on itself from the complete emptiness.
It feels like you can no longer quell the overwhelming waves of anxiety that you are usually so good at hiding from others.
Because what are your hobbies? Why can’t you think of a single thing?
Your face twitches in sudden pain. You unclench your jaw, realizing your teeth have bitten right through the muscle of your cheek. Blood spreads over your tongue. You barely register the metallic taste.
This is a question you should be able to answer easily.
It feels like the office walls are closing in, the sunlight that had been so bright dimming slowly.
You barely process the sound of a drawer opening.
The remaining light in your vision dims entirely as a shadow encompasses you. A warm hand envelopes your own, the heat of her palm pressing over the fingers you have clutching so tightly against your shirt. You tilt your head up slightly, your vision clearing just enough to see Wanda standing directly in front of you, her red hair curtained softly around her face. Her eyes look almost apologetic as she gently uncurls your stiff fingers from the wrinkled fabric.
The faint sound of plastic crinkling fills the quiet air as she places something small into your palm that she is holding open. You look down blankly to find a small fruit snack packet resting on your palm.
The exact kind you used to eat when you were a kid. A time before there were expectations.
She wraps your fingers gently around the packet, the pointed corners of the plastic digging slightly into your skin.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs, her tone genuinely apologetic. There’s a faint accent in her voice that you can’t quite put your finger on. “That was a mean question.”
You shake your head slightly. You’re the one who’s overreacting to a simple icebreaker.
She grips your hand lightly, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles with an expression that looks almost disapproving. “Let’s take a break.” She releases your hand, stepping back just a fraction. “Eat the fruit snack. It always makes me feel better.” She gives you a soft, reassuring smile.
Now that her warmth isn’t anchoring you, the tremor in your hands is completely noticeable. You bring your other hand up to the corner of the plastic, trying to tear it, but your fingers refuse to cooperate.
Why are you failing at absolutely everything today?
The packet is gently removed from your hand before you can spiral any further. You glance up to find Wanda opening it for you, widening the plastic seam to make it easier for your fingers to reach inside. She hands it back to you with a reassuring smile.
“There we go,” she says softly. “These are always hard to open.”
You reach inside, pinching a grape-shaped gummy between your thumb and index finger before popping it into your mouth. You chew slowly, letting the soft elasticity ground you against the spinning room, though the candy remains completely flavorless on your tongue.
Wanda crouches down directly in front of you, resting her elbow on her knee and looking up at your face with a gentle smile. You quickly reach back into the plastic packet for another piece to avoid her locked gaze—an orange one this time. With every chew and swallow you manage, Wanda gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
By the time you reach the very last gummy, a strawberry, you can finally taste the sweet, fruity flavor. It’s heavily mixed with a sharp, lingering metallic taste. The throbbing pain in your inner cheek grows with every remaining bite, and the fingers you used to grip your shirt earlier ache intensely from how tightly you held them. The only sound in the office is the steady, quiet rhythm of your own breathing alongside Wanda’s.
You can see the sunlight in the room clearly again. But it also shines a harsh light on how you just behaved.
You quickly place the empty wrapper on your skirt before reaching to smooth down the left side of your shirt. Harsh lines from where it was in your clutches refuse to flatten completely, even as you run your hand down the fabric repeatedly. You let out a breath of frustration.
Giving up, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to find some semblance of the image you are meant to portray. You sit up rigidly once again, squaring your shoulders. Finally, you steal a glance at Wanda, who is still crouched in front of you.
She looks troubled as she watches you. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are set in a faint frown.
It's your fault.
You clear your throat. It feels like you haven't spoken in hours, even though you know it’s only been minutes.
“Let’s continue.” The confident edge in your voice is marred by a weak rasp that you try desperately to ignore.
Wanda gives you a long, unreadable stare before rising. It’s almost impressive that she was able to crouch like that in high heels.
“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Let’s continue.”
She walks around her desk before sitting back down, leaning back in her chair and observing you closely. “Why do you want to work at our company?”
You close your eyes briefly before opening them, keeping the heavy, panicked emotions at bay behind the fractured glass wall that is now messily covered in tape.
“I want to work at this company because…”
—
The remainder of the interview goes exactly as planned. There are no more curveball questions. Every prompt is strictly about the job or the firm. The questions are standard. Easy to answer.
But you know you aren't going to be offered the position. You won't get it because instead of the pristine image you were trained to portray, you had accidentally been yourself.
You’re left with Wanda’s final words before exiting her office.
“We’ll call you if you get the position.”
If you had done well, you feel like they would’ve given it to you right then. Or at least, Wanda wouldn’t have sounded so deeply conflicted.
At least you got to meet her, you think, desperately trying to find a single silver lining. You could only hope to carry yourself with the elegance and poise that she did.
A cold breeze hits the bare skin of your legs, snapping you back to reality. You look up, realizing you are standing on campus, and open the heavy door to the building of your first class.
You let out a slow sigh as you enter the crowded lecture room. You’ll have to repeat this entire exhausting cycle again next term.
—
You feel completely hollow as you step out of the restaurant breakroom, tying your apron tightly around your waist. Today has felt like twenty-five hours. And every single one of those hours was designed solely to drain you of what little energy you had left.
Angie appears right in front of you. You almost want to turn on your heel and walk away, because right now, your raw emotions can’t handle anyone being genuinely nice to you. But you can never ignore Angie—not when she’s been so good to you.
“Sweetie!” she calls out excitedly. “There was a last-minute reservation, and they specifically requested to sit in whatever section you’re assigned to.”
Maybe it’s one of the regular customers I had a longer conversation with, you think, trying to match her energy.
You nod at her, forcing an easy smile onto your face at her excitement.
“Get out there,” she says brightly, grabbing your shoulders and steering you directly toward the dining room doors. “I have you in section five. They’re already here, waiting for you.” She gives you a playful push forward.
You walk to the service bar and wash your hands thoroughly before turning around. Scanning the dimly lit dining room, you notice it’s hardly full yet. Most of the standard reservations won't arrive for another ten minutes. You take measured steps toward your section, mentally preparing to muster up a bright, welcoming smile.
Maybe the fruit snack actually helped. Your head isn’t pounding nearly as violently as it did before the interview.
You reach the corner booth where the ambient lighting is the dimmest. You are just about to greet the couple in front of you when you catch a terrifyingly familiar voice.
“Told you, Nat.” Wanda is leaning exceptionally close to her companion, whispering into her ear as if sharing a private secret.
The image is too familiar. The memory of those vibrant green eyes from a week ago flashes violently through your mind.
Nat? you think, your thoughts instantly racing.
Natasha Romanoff. The other half of the power couple. The CEO of Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
You meet her sharp eyes, which are already watching your approach closely.
“Yes, moya lyubov, you were right,” Natasha says, her gaze never wavering from your face.
You turn your head as Wanda sits upright. You desperately want to find somewhere to hide—anywhere no one will ever find you—after coming face-to-face with the exact person who just witnessed you at your absolute worst.
“Can I get the wine list, darling?” Wanda asks, offering you a bright smile.
The slight wrinkle of her nose as she smiles at you makes you pause, forcing yourself to finally get it together.
“Of course,” you respond politely, already turning on your heel to escape this deeply awkward situation.
“And darling?” Wanda calls out after you.
You turn back around, forcing a grimace that you desperately hope passes for a polite smile.
“We’ll see you at the office on Monday.”
—
A/N: I really wanted the first interaction to be with Natasha because I've never written for Wanda before and wanted to stall it as long as possible 😂 but even though this is fiction, I couldn't rationalize why the CEO would be interviewing a possible intern. The CFO interviewing was already a stretch. Hopefully I wrote Wanda okay! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰
Also, thank you guys again for the feedback and interest on the first chapter 😊 it made writing the second chapter fun and something I looked forward to.
To the person in asks saying i love AO3 more for posting this chapter there hours earlier: NOT TRUE. i forgot i had a prior engagement when i was making this draft 😂
Summary: For two years, you’ve been working two jobs just to afford rent and tuition after leaving home at eighteen. Finally, after surviving community college, you’re a junior in university. But with a mandatory internship required to graduate, you stumble into the corporate world of Romanoff-Maximoff Global, where you’re determined to keep your head down and struggle on your own, just as you have become accustomed to. How will Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff teach you how to choose yourself?
Warnings/Tags: Financial struggles, past emotional/psychological abuse, slow burn, high-functioning anxiety, religious trauma, corporate/university setting, unsafe living environment, hurt/comfort, likely eventual smut, dom/sub? (still debating)
Chapters:
What is Success?
Fruit Snack
AO3 for those who find it easier to read there.
A/N: thank you to the readers who gave feedback on the first chapter. it gave me the push to commit to this series 🥰
on your masterlist, you put 'Choosing You' as 'maybe series'.
i need you to, kindly, put it as 'yes series' cause that first chapter was great.
i am invested already.
thank you.
(kindly cause I don't wanna force you or be pushy ofc.)
Don’t worry, I didn’t take it as pushy 😂 Rather endearing actually ☺️
I did decide to commit to this series! After seeing the feedback I decided to write the beginning of what the 2nd chapter might look like, and I ended up having a lot of fun writing it. So, I think this series will be a long term project for me 😊
I really appreciate the excitement for the series. I’ll make a separate masterlist for it when I have a second.
So, yes. The maybe will go away 😌 Thank you for reading!
Thank you!!! 🥺 I did decide to continue this story. I wasn’t sure at first because updates may be inconsistent due to my job. But I realized I shouldn’t feel guilty since I happily wait for work from writers I love.
In regard to the other ask you sent, I don’t know if Player will have a pt.2. The only fics I have a pt.2 in the books for are Short Enough? and some epilogue chapters for Halfway. Though I don’t know when either of those will come out 😅. Thank you for taking the time to read my fics!
Overall Summary: For two years, you've been working two jobs just to afford rent and tuition after leaving home at eighteen. Finally, after surviving community college, you're a junior in university. But with a mandatory internship required to graduate, you stumble into the corporate world of Romanoff-Maximoff Global, where you’re determined to keep your head down and struggle on your own, just as you have become accustomed to. How will Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff teach you how to choose yourself?
Word Count: 7k
Warnings (For this Chapter): Financial struggles, dash of religious trauma, mentions of a past relationship, dash of an ED, past emotional abuse, unsafe living environment
A/N: as you can probably tell by the warnings, this isn't like the usual fluffy one-shots that I post. Sorry! I don't delve very deep into the warnings mentioned in this chapter, but just so you're aware. You can also read this on AO3 if it's easier. Link in Masterlist.
—
You open your eyes to the muffled sound of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it wakes your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster. It feels like you only slept for a few minutes. It was dark when you fell asleep. It’s still dark now.
Exhaustion weighs you down, pinning you to the mattress. The only sound is your own breath—even, but resigned. Twenty-five minutes to get ready. A fifteen-minute bus ride. A ten-minute walk to the coffee shop. That leaves ten minutes to spare before your shift.
You turn your head and reach out. Cold air hits your forearm, raising goosebumps. You want to pull back into the warm safety of the sheets, but you keep moving.
Life won’t stop for a few more minutes of comfort.
Your fingertips find the notebook on your desk. Feeling the cover, you trace the indents where your pen pressed hard against the paper. The grooves grow shallower until they vanish completely. That must have been around midnight, when you grew too tired to write.
Today feels impossible. But you’ve felt that way for the past two years, and you’re still here.
With a heavy sigh, you push off the desk and the hard mattress to force yourself upright. The chill bites at your bare neck. Someone forgot to turn on the heat. The house is eerily quiet without the familiar rattle of the vents. You swing your legs out of bed, your feet hit the icy floorboards before sliding into your slippers. It feels like your body is creaking with every step. You unlock your door and step into the hall.
The hum of the refrigerator greets you. Across the hallway, a sliver of light glows under your roommate's door. Still awake. You step quietly into the shared bathroom, gingerly closing the door before flicking on the light.
The mirror doesn't lie. You look tired. The bags under your eyes are puffy. Your shoulders droop. Your lips rest in a flat, neutral line, lacking the energy to pull upward or down. You look away, focusing on your designated shelf of toiletries. It’s becoming harder to look at yourself. It’s not just the four hours of sleep. It’s not the coffee shop shift, followed by classes, followed by the restaurant shift. It’s not the homework waiting for you tonight, or the fact that you have to do it all again tomorrow.
It’s a soul-deep tiredness. A day off won’t fix it.
You chose this, you remind yourself, forced to look back at the glass. Choosing to struggle was your decision. The first real decision you ever made for yourself.
You brush your teeth and wash your face, praying the routine wakes you up. While applying moisturizer, you force your lips into a smile. You practice it over and over, tailoring it for a future customer because you can’t bear to actually smile at yourself. You turn to leave, but your reflection catches your hair.
Disarray.
You grab your brush, meticulously forcing every misplaced strand into place. It has to be perfect.
“When you go out looking like that, you’re embarrassing me and yourself.”
Your mother’s voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. It shouldn’t bother you anymore. You left. But the words stayed behind, hiding in your head, waiting to strike whenever your shirt is wrinkled, or a blemish appears on your cheek, or your posture begins to slouch.
You step out into the hall once you’re satisfied—or at least as satisfied as you can be.
Back in your room, you flick on the light. You’re still not used to this space, but you forgive yourself since it’s only been three months. It could be worse. The room holds just enough space for your single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a small cabinet for your clothes. It’s a far cry from your room back home.
Home. You shake your head. This is your home now. Your parents' house belongs to them. It was never truly yours.
You reach for the clothes you set out last night, folded neatly at the edge of the mattress. A simple black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. You slip them on, looking down. The denim hangs looser than before.
Did you forget to eat again yesterday? It would explain why you feel especially hollow today.
You step into your sneakers and lace them up. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. It’s such a common sight by now that you don't even care. You slide the notebook into your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and grab your phone.
Stepping into the hall, you pull the door shut and lock it with your key. Your housemates seem like good people, but good people have disappointed you before. Plus, with ten other people sharing the house, you aren’t taking chances.
The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. You take measured steps, trying not to break the silence. Pulling the heavy front door open, you step outside, and listen for the click of the automatic lock behind you.
You check the time. The bus should arrive the moment you hit the corner. The late autumn chill bites at your skin, shocking some of the exhaustion out of your system. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake.
The bus arrives promptly. Only two other passengers are aboard—faces you’ve started to recognize. Taking your usual seat near the front, you rest your backpack on your lap and lean your head back. You watch the streetlights pass in a blur, bracing yourself for the first challenge of the day.
—
The streets are still quiet as you walk the ten minutes to the coffee shop, where warm lights greet you against the backdrop of darkness. You greet your two coworkers warmly, falling into the familiar chatter and complaints about how tired you all are.
Gathering your hair, you pull it into a ponytail. You check the tie meticulously, ensuring no stray strands hang loose. You comb your fingers through the ends before smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt and grabbing your apron off the coat hooks.
Glancing up, you find your coworkers watching you with mild amusement.
“You’re always so careful about your appearance," one of them says. "Girl, you’re pretty, don’t stress so much.”
It would stress me more if I weren't careful, you think.
“I have to make sure I look good. It’s not for me, I’m doing it for you two,” you say with a practiced laugh. “Gotta maximize the tips.”
They laugh along with you as you head toward the front counters where opening tasks await. Your smile slowly fades the moment they look away. As they talk about recent pop culture events, you just nod whenever they look to you for an opinion.
—
You’re three coffees in by the time the morning rush ends. Your brain is running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the pure need to survive. The three of you lean against the back counters with exaggerated exhaustion.
You only have fifteen minutes left of your shift. The rush to your classes is always tight, but you’ve been making it work.
A phone chimes. One of your coworkers pulls it out, checking the screen. “Ugh,” they groan. “Luke just said he’s going to be an hour late for his shift.”
Cold panic pricks at your chest. Luke is your replacement.
Both of them turn to you, expectation heavy in their eyes. “Can you please stay until he gets here?”
You can’t. The gap between your shift and your first lecture is already cutting it close. Staying forty-five minutes past your time means accepting that you will walk into the lecture room in the middle of the class. It means everyone turning to look at you.
“Yeah, of course,” you respond, the words leaving your mouth before you can even think to stop them.
They cheer beside you, patting your back. You smile along with them as if it’s no sweat.
Internally, you fight to breathe. You ignore the way your heart rate spikes, your breath turning quick and shallow. The sheer physical strength required to keep the fake smile on your face grows heavier by the second.
This feeling has been happening more often lately. It hits whenever you think about pending assignments, your rent, your tuition, or even what you’re going to eat.
But it isn’t anxiety. It can’t be.
Your parents always told you anxiety was impossible—a made-up excuse. They said you just needed to be mentally stronger. Your ex-boyfriend had said the exact same thing. You just need to get over it.
He had told you to ignore most of the problems you confided in him with, and back then, you listened. He was the last real relationship you had been in, and his words still carried a heavy weight you were desperately working to outrun.
He was also the last relationship you had before you finally realized that romance wasn’t strictly exclusive to a man and a woman—no matter how deeply your parents had convinced you of it your entire life.
Yet, somehow, a part of you still believed them despite everything. You still worry your own mental fortitude is the real problem.
So, you ignore it. You ignore it even when your hands shake as you pour a latte. You ignore it when your voice wavers against the violent drumming of your pulse in your throat. You ignore it because you have no other choice. You have to continue.
—
It feels like ages before Luke finally arrives with an apologetic smile. You assure him it’s fine, grab your backpack from the breakroom, and bid your coworkers goodbye.
A frantic sprint pays off. You hit the curb just as the bus pulls up.
Boarding, you tap your foot anxiously against the floor. You pull your hair loose, shaking it out and combing your fingers through the strands to recreate the perfection from hours ago. It’s a clumsy, difficult task. Your hands still refuse to listen to orders. You won't have time to change clothes in the campus bathroom today. The scent of espresso and steamed milk will follow you until your restaurant shift tonight.
For a split second, you consider skipping. No. You shake your head, disgusted by the thought. You haven’t taken shortcuts yet. You didn't work countless grueling hours to pay for tuition for this term just to skip. You have to succeed.
Though lately, the definition of success has begun to waver. What does it even mean anymore? Getting the degree? Landing a job? Getting married?
The bus brakes at the university. Pushing up from your seat, you sling your backpack over one shoulder, thank the driver with a warm smile, and sprint toward your lecture hall.
You ease the heavy door open, praying none of the hundred students notice you. A few heads turn briefly before pivoting back to the board. You slip into a seat in the very back row, closest to the exit. Dropping your bag, you pull out your notebook.
Look up toward the projector screen, your eyes lock with the professor's instead. He glares at you with a heavy, disapproving expression before looking away. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and pick up your pen.
The sound of quiet whispers and light giggles drifts up from the row below. A small group of students are conversing with bowed heads, trying to hide bright, genuine smiles.
It’s been a long time since you actually enjoyed school. A long time since you weren’t just going through the motions.
Watching one of the students clap their friend on the shoulder, a sudden flood of memory hits you. The sterile hallways of your old high school flash in your mind. Two familiar people stand on either side of you.
Yelena and Kate.
Kate has her arm slung over your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper a joke about Yelena, knowing full well she can hear her. Yelena flicks Kate’s forehead in retaliation, and the three of you burst into laughter.
Your second year of high school feels like another lifetime. The memories with the two of them are like a dream. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about them. You miss Kate tripping over her own shoes, and Yelena making sure she never lived it down for the rest of the day. You miss being in the middle of it all, pulling Kate off the floor and telling Yelena to play nice, only to secretly laugh about it with her later.
You smile wryly despite yourself, the professor's voice fading into background static as you drift deeper into your own mind. Every single memory with the two of them was happy.
Except one.
On the day the three of you graduated, the air was full of laughter and flying caps. You hugged them tightly as they chattered endlessly about the future. Kate had paused, turning to look at you, asking why you hadn’t been chiming in.
Behind your practiced smile, you were suffocating.
They didn’t know your parents hadn’t shown up to watch you cross the stage. They didn’t know you had left your house key sitting on the empty kitchen table that morning. They didn't know every single thing you owned was packed into the trunk of your car—the same car you were scheduled to sell tomorrow just to afford the deposit and first month's rent on a cramped apartment.
They didn't know you weren’t going to university with them.
It was always assumed the three of you would go to the same university. You were supposed to survive the crowded dorms for the first two years, then find an apartment together for the remaining two. That was the original plan.
But things changed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was always going to end up exactly like this.
Instead of telling them the truth, you told Kate you were just tired from staying up late from excitement. You hid your hands inside the long sleeves of your graduation gown—concealing the white bandages where rough cardboard boxes had dried and cracked your skin during the midnight move.
How could you tell them it felt like you were falling apart? Not when they were smiling so happily. Not when you knew exactly what they would do if they found out. They would offer to help financially.
But you were the one who made the decision to leave home. You chose to forfeit your parents' financial support. You made the decision to go to community college because it was more affordable. You made the choice to struggle, and you had to live with it.
Accepting their help would make the sacrifice meaningless. Letting them worry, letting them give you an easy way out, would only make you waver. And you couldn't afford to waver.
The sound of students rising from their chairs breaks you out of your memories. A few give you small smiles as they pass.
Other students had tried to talk to you over the past few weeks, tried to build a friendship, but it always felt impossible. You were good at the polite smiles, the fake laughter, blending into conversations with effortless ease. But you never felt that same deep familiarity and comfort you had shared with Yelena and Kate. Friendships after them had only disappointed you, leaving quiet scars that still stung to this day.
Instead of lingering for small talk, you gather your things and walk toward the crowded food hall. You scan the racks of snacks, eventually picking up two granola bars that happen to be on a promotional deal.
A burst of bright laughter and a fiercely familiar accent make you freeze mid-breath.
In your peripheral vision, you catch a flash of brown hair and blonde hair walking shoulder-to-shoulder. You whip your head around, your eyes desperately scanning the space, but the image vanishes. There are only a dozen unfamiliar strangers moving past in a dense crowd.
—
You are finally called into your advisor appointment after sitting in the waiting area far past the scheduled time. The finance department feels almost sterile, defined by grey, windowless walls and a total lack of decor.
You walk through the door of the office, where you’re greeted with a professional smile.
“Good afternoon, take a seat,” Mrs. Stewart says warmly. “How was class today?”
I barely heard a single word, you think, already dreading the hours you’ll have to spend reviewing the lecture slides later tonight.
“It was good,” you respond, offering a perfectly tailored, polite smile.
“Wonderful,” she says, pulling up your academic record on her monitor. “You did exceptionally well during your time in community college, so I knew you wouldn’t have too much trouble adjusting here.”
You nod along as she squints at the glowing screen.
“Since you’re officially a junior, I think you should start considering your capstone internship," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling up your academic record.
"As a finance major, it's a mandatory graduation requirement," she explains, leaning back in her chair. "You'll need to secure a position within the financial sector and complete a full term of field experience and complete assignments pertaining to it before you can receive your degree. It basically bridges your university classes with the professional world."
A mandatory internship.
To Mrs. Stewart, it's a standard academic milestone. To you, it sounds like an execution sentence. That means a massive chunk of your week will be consumed by a rigid schedule—time you desperately need for the jobs that actually pay your rent.
Her tone shifts, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Honestly, the job market isn’t at its best right now, so it might be a bit of a challenge. But keep your chin up. Knowing you and your work ethic, you’ll find something.”
Somehow, that blind faith makes you feel infinitely worse.
“Thank you, I’ll look into the listings tonight,” you say, forcing another flawless smile to your lips while your stomach bottoms out.
—
What are you going to do?
You sit with your head buried in your hands, your elbows resting heavily on the desk in front of you as the professor drones on in the background. You’ve already accepted that you'll have to double the work tonight just to review what you missed during your first class and now this one.
But the lectures aren't the real problem. This mandatory internship is going to be the end of you.
You had hoped to push it off until your final year, but realistically, Mrs. Stewart was right. It’s better to complete it now, before the advanced courses demand your absolute, undivided attention. The real crisis is the math. While a quick search shows plenty of available internships, the vast majority are unpaid. At least, the ones open to students without prior relevant experience are.
You can't use your family’s connections. That was never an option. But how are you supposed to find a paying role when every listing requires a relevant background? You’ve spent the last two years grinding in customer service just to stay afloat. You can't exactly drop everything and take on a full-term, unpaid role just to check a box for the university.
But then, you can’t graduate.
You groan internally, tilting your head back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. Frustration tightens like a vice in your chest. You drop your head back down, focusing on the scuffed wooden desk, and force a slow breath out through your nose. The panic dissipates slightly with every exhale.
It’s okay. You’ve made it work so far, and this will be no different. At least, that’s the lie you use to convince yourself.
There is a lingering, heavy static in your chest that refuses to leave, no matter how steadily you breathe.
Peeling back the plastic wrapper of a granola bar, you take a small bite. You chew slowly, trying to savor it, even though your tongue can barely register the taste. Pulling out your phone, you check your shift schedule for the restaurant.
The moment this lecture ends, you will have to sprint back to the house, change out of your coffee-stained clothes, and step into your second uniform. A crisp white collared shirt and clean black slacks.
You’ll have to go through the exhausting task of looking perfect. Even though internally, you know it’s an impossible task that you’ll always continue to deplete yourself doing.
—
You step onto the sidewalk right in front of the house. In the daylight, the full reality of the place is clear. Maybe it would be better if it stayed in the dark.
The wood exterior looks completely worn down, splintered and rotting in some areas. The front porch features two raggedy couches on either side of the entrance, where your roommates typically congregate to smoke cigarettes and weed. Your very first thought upon seeing the house months ago was, “This is definitely a crackhouse.”
To the right, you can see your bedroom window. You had gotten somewhat lucky—living on the middle floor with one of the larger spaces. Though, that isn’t saying much.
You keep your curtains tightly drawn most of the time. You had learned your lesson early on while studying one afternoon. You had left the blinds open to let in the natural light, only to look up and find a homeless man staring straight at you from the sidewalk. The curtains hadn't been opened since.
You punch the code into the keypad, listening for the lock to release before pushing the heavy frame forward. The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. Glancing to your left into the common room, you're relieved to find it completely empty. From the central staircase, the muffled echo of an upstairs roommate showering rains down through the ceiling.
The kitchen door leading to the basement is slightly ajar. You know this without even looking, signaled by the violent shouting echoing up from the couple living downstairs. It had terrified you during your first week, but now, their screaming matches are almost expected.
Pulling your bedroom key out of your pocket, you unlock the door and push it open. Your unmade bed awaits you. You drop your backpack next to your desk chair and quickly peel off your clothes. Even though you are just heading to another shift, getting the coffee-scented fabric off your skin is an instant relief.
You mist a light body spray over your torso before pulling on your restaurant attire. You carefully smooth down the crisp white shirt. Lacking a proper closet, you had hung it meticulously over what you believe used to be an old metal candle holder on the wall.
Gathering your hair, you tie it into a high ponytail with the elastic on your wrist. It feels like an exhausting echo of this morning, save for the change in uniform.
After sliding your wallet into your pocket, you pat the fabric of your black slacks to ensure you have everything, then exit your room and lock the door behind you. You reach for the front door handle but freeze. Turning on your heel, you step into the middle-floor bathroom instead.
You smooth your hair down in the glass, sweeping the front strands to the side so they won’t obscure your vision. You secure them tightly with a bobby pin, ensuring nothing can move.
Perfect.
Satisfied, you slip out the front door and walk quickly toward the bus stop.
—
The ambience of the restaurant is always a bit romantic. The lights are dimmed low, classical music plays quietly in the background, and fresh flowers center every table. It’s a higher-end establishment located just off campus—a favorite spot for local couples celebrating date nights and special occasions.
You’re greeted by your manager, Angie, the moment you step out of the breakroom.
“Hey, honey. Raring to go?” she asks, offering a warm smile.
Angie is always bright and charming. Save for the first time you met her.
It‘s a total 180 from the initial encounter with the middle-aged woman. Months ago, when you had first visited the university town to secure housing, you had stumbled upon this very dining room after a Help Wanted sign caught your eye. She had interviewed you on the spot, watching you closely with a sharp, skeptical eye.
When you honestly admitted you had absolutely no fine-dining experience, she had leaned in close, giving you a long, hard stare. The silence between you felt thick enough to choke on. You were already mentally planning which streets you’d walk down next to find a different job when she suddenly leaned back, a smirk pulling at her lips. She told you to meet her here the following week for onboarding.
When you confessed you hadn't even found a place to live yet, Angie was the one who told you about a vacancy at a shared house nearby. Because of her, you were moved in within five days.
You would never tell her outright, but she had saved you that day. You had been feeling entirely helpless, staring down listings for housing that were far past anything you could afford. She’d tease you endlessly if you ever confessed all this to her. But you have a feeling she already knows, especially when she gives you her signature side-glance and a half-smirk.
“Always,” you respond, mirroring her smile.
She clasps her hand over your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze as you tie your apron around your waist. She pauses for a beat, pressing the pads of her fingers carefully against your shoulder and the prominent ridge of your collarbone.
Sensing the unspoken observation, you quickly fall back into your routine, smoothing your hands over your clothes and combing your fingers through the ends of your ponytail. Angie sighs quietly, releasing your shoulder only to reach up and gently brush a stray hair out of your eyes.
“Knock 'em dead, sweetie,” she says, her voice playful but filled with an overwhelming warmth.
You give her your first real smile of the day, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “They’d call the cops on us if I did that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartie. Knock ‘em alive.”
“Yeah, because that sounds normal.”
She playfully pushes you toward the swinging kitchen doors. “I can’t deal with you,” she says, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You’re in section three. Shoo.”
You quickly wash your hands at the service bar, greeting the bartender and the floor staff. Turning around, you survey the dining room as it slowly begins to fill.
The host catches your eye, nodding to let you know the first reservation for your section has arrived. You step forward, ready to greet them, when the wooden panels of the dining room wall suddenly warp and lean sideways.
Your step falters. You blink rapidly, forcing the violent wave of lightheadedness back down.
Maybe I should’ve eaten the second granola bar instead of rationing it, you think, steadying yourself. But you dismiss the thought just as quickly. You’ve gone through much worse periods of food scarcity than this. You'll get through tonight just fine.
Thankfully, the universe is kind to your section. Your first reservation is a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Despite the static in your head, you go all out for them—bringing special decorative accents to their table and arranging a complimentary dessert with a message wishing them a happy anniversary meticulously piped in chocolate.
Most of your guests tonight are here for date nights. Watching their warm smiles across the crisp white linen and their clasped hands over the candlelight always brings your mood up, casting a faint glow over your own exhaustion.
Soft chatter fills the dining room. Scanning the floor, you check for any tables needing water refills or another round of drinks. You spot a booth to your far left with empty wine glasses and step forward to refill them with the open bottle resting between them. You’re almost halfway there when your vision suddenly blurs, the edges darkening as the room begins to fade. The ambient classical music cuts out, replaced by a sharp, piercing shrill frequency ringing in your ears.
Your feet tangle beneath you. Stumbling hard, you manage to steady yourself without too much commotion. You pause, blinking rapidly until your vision clears, desperately praying no one noticed. Gratefully, the surrounding tables continue to chat, completely lost in their own private worlds. You scan the room one more time just to be absolutely sure you're safe.
That’s when you catch two pairs of sharp green eyes watching you intently from the shadows. They are seated far in the back corner of the dining room. The low, romantic lighting makes it impossible to make out any of their other features, but their locked gaze stays fixed on you as you force your legs to move forward. You swallow past the lump in your throat, tear your eyes away, and focus on refilling the wine glasses at your designated table. You can still feel the weight of their stare burning into your back, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a job to finish.
The table converses with you about their day. While you genuinely try to absorb every single detail, it is a losing battle when it takes your entire universe of effort just to stay upright. Still, you finish the interaction with a reliable go-to joke that always makes couples laugh, departing the booth with warm chuckles trailing behind you.
You risk a glance back at the table in the far corner.
They are still watching you. Through the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of one woman leaning toward the other, whispering something directly into her ear.
Cold dread twists in your stomach. Maybe they're making fun of you for almost eating it.
You quickly walk back toward the service bar, your cheeks burning hot at the humiliating possibility.
—
The remaining hours pass by in a blur. You don’t let your eyes drift back toward that far corner table for the rest of the night, keeping your focus solely on your section.
Before you know it, the dinner rush is over. You're wiping down tables and folding linens alongside the rest of the floor staff, trading stories about high-maintenance customers. One of the hosts chimes in about a table that sent their cocktails back twice, only to declare the third round absolutely perfect—even though the bartender had made it the exact same way every time.
It’s in quiet moments like this, sharing tired laughs in the dim dining room, when you actually feel like a normal university student.
You are grabbing your phone and wallet from the breakroom lockers when Angie's head peeks past the doorframe. She gives you a sly grin, sliding fully into view with a plastic takeout bag in hand.
She pushes the handles toward you. “One of the kitchen guys made a mistake on an order earlier. It’s fettuccine alfredo. It’d make me feel a lot better if you took it, since it’ll just be thrown away otherwise.”
You smooth a hand down the front of your crisp white shirt, biting the inside of your lip. Your stomach is hollow. You’re definitely hungry. But eating it would mean you'd have to go for a long walk afterward to burn it off.
Angie’s pleading eyes make the decision for you.
“Okay,” you respond softly, securing the loops of the bag in your hand.
Angie smiles gently, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. She looks at you for a quiet beat with an expression you can’t quite decipher, before her face shifts back to her familiar, playful smirk. “Thanks for doing me that favor. See you tomorrow night, sweetie.”
She walks away before you even get the chance to respond. Pocketing your belongings, you push through the back exit. The night air hits your cheeks, cool and crisp, and the full weight of the day finally begins to settle into your bones.
The lingering lightheadedness has remained for your entire shift—it's there even now. But somehow, looking down at the heavy container of pasta, you feel a tiny bit better. You walk toward the bus stop, only noticing halfway there that the box is piping hot against your palm.
—
It’s late by the time you arrive back in your room. The house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, with most of your roommates out—some drinking with friends, others grinding through late night part-time jobs.
You unpack the takeout container, placing it on the wooden desk and quietly thanking Angie for remembering to slip a plastic fork into the bag. You pause. Peeling off your pristine white uniform shirt, you hang it carefully back over the candleholder. You pull the long-sleeve black shirt back on. You already know you’ll be forced to go for a long walk the moment you finish this meal, so it doesn't matter if the fabric gets even dirtier.
You pry open the lid of the takeout box. The smell is heavenly—a perfect mix of rich, savory cream that makes you feel lightheaded all over again, this time from pure anticipation. You dig your fork in, taking slow, measured bites despite the overwhelming hollow hunger in your stomach.
“Are you an animal? Eat slowly. Properly.”
You instantly yank your elbows off the desk at the memory of the voice, sitting up rigidly straight in your chair.
The rich taste of the pasta slowly fades into background static, until you are simply eating for sustenance again. You reach down and pull your laptop out from one of the desk drawers. You’re wasting too much time.
Booting up the screen, you open a browser window to search for internship opportunities in finance, ensuring the filters are strictly locked so that only paid positions appear. In a separate tab, you pull up your resume. You scan the lines meticulously, confirming that every detail is updated, every heading aligned, and the format completely flawless.
You scroll through the listings between slow bites of pasta. Every single role requires some sort of prior finance experience, exactly as you expected. Refusing to let the dread stop you, you open each listing in a separate tab, pulling up the application portals one by one. It’s going to take an immense amount of luck, but expanding your net increases your odds.
You meticulously apply for every single open position, uploading your resume and drafting tailored cover letters on the side.
The pasta is long gone, the container cold on your desk, by the time you finally finish the task. Closing the last tab, you lean back heavily in your wooden chair with a long, slow sigh.
It’s already close to midnight, but you force yourself back onto your feet. Pulling your heavy jacket sleeves over your arms, you turn your back on the room and head toward the front door.
Realistically, you shouldn’t be walking outside this late. But the nagging thought of letting the heavy food sit in your stomach compels your legs to move.
You walk to the end of the block, following a line of flickering streetlights that are permanently dimmed by years of grime and residue coating the glass covers. You turn the corner at the end of the pavement, knowing the familiar glow of the corner store awaits you just ahead. It has quickly become a landmark in your new life—a place you routinely visit whenever you need a quick, cheap bite to eat to survive the week.
There is just one massive caveat. One of your roommates who lives downstairs, Matt, often works the night shift there.
He calls out a greeting before you can even think about spinning on your heel and walking straight back out. Matt isn't a bad guy by any means, but he has twelve years on you, and his friendliness always feels heavy. Call it a woman's intuition, but the way he routinely knocks on your bedroom door to ask to hang out, or texts you outside the house group chat, points to one undeniable reality.
He likes you. And right now, you don't have the energy to manage his expectations.
You try to duck into one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of granola bars to hold you over for the next few days, but your escape is cut short when Matt calls out to you.
“Hey! You’re out late,” Matt says, leaning heavily over the checkout counter.
Your lips force themselves into a smile that feels more like a pained grimace, though he doesn't seem to notice the strain.
“Yeah, late night. Just grabbing some snacks real quick,” you respond, keeping your voice tight and fast.
He leans even closer, bridging the distance across the counter. “I knocked on your door earlier. You didn’t answer.” A sharp flicker of annoyance passes over his easy smile before he smooths it back down.
“I was out. Had work tonight,” you reply lightly, desperately trying to keep the conversation casual.
“I didn’t say when I knocked,” he says smoothly. He offers a lazy grin, but his cold eyes tell you something else entirely.
You freeze, locking eyes with his cold stare for a heavy, suffocating second before forcing a breathless chuckle.
“You’re right, my bad," you say, smoothing the tension over. "I was just out pretty much all day.”
Taking a deliberate step back toward the exit, you tighten your jacket around your chest. “I think I’m just going to head back. I’m way more tired than I thought.”
You pivot toward the glass door, but his voice hooks you before you can push it open.
“Hey, I’m sorry," Matt calls out, his tone suddenly softening into something defensive. "Okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Turning back, you slap your flawlessly practiced smile onto your face one last time today.
“No worries, I’m not uncomfortable. Just tired. I’ll see you later.”
You shove the heavy door open and slip out into the midnight air before he can get another syllable out.
You take quick, urgent strides back to the house, cutting your walk short. Ducking inside, you slip into your bedroom and click the lock securely into place. You check the handle twice, tugging against the frame to make sure it’s truly locked.
Patting your pocket, you pull out your phone to check the time. You have just enough time to shower before Matt's shift at the corner store typically ends. Quickly gathering a fresh change of clothes, you slip into the hall and step into the bathroom, desperate to let the steam wash away the crushing pressures of the day and the lingering chill of his stare.
—
You sit on your wooden desk chair, your hair still slightly damp from the shower. The laptop screen glows in front of you, the lecture slides from your first class open and waiting to be reviewed.
Tilting your head back, you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like if you close your eyes for even a single second, you will instantly crash into sleep. Your eyes frantically trace the textures of the plaster as if the physical focus can force you to stay awake just a little longer.
You press your pen into the notebook adjacent to your laptop. You wonder how many minutes of sleep you’ll actually get tonight. Forcing your focus forward, your eyes scan the first slide on the screen.
You fix your posture, sitting up rigidly straight, without a second thought.
—
The days pass by quickly—but not quickly enough at the same time. You wish the exhaustion would fade with the calendar pages, but it only seems to accrue. It’s a currency you have no desire to hold.
Coffee shop. Class. Eat a snack if you have the time. Another class. The dinner shift at the restaurant.
Practiced smiles, laughs with no heart, blurring vision, and sudden missteps.
Avoiding conversations. Avoiding Matt. Avoiding the absolute fact that this lifestyle was killing you.
Over and over again.
It has been five days since you sent out that mass wave of applications to countless companies and organizations. You had gotten a few emails back with initial sparks of interest—only to receive a follow-up a few hours later stating they had misread your file, and that your experience level was ultimately unsatisfactory.
It is one of those rare days where everything actually goes smoothly. People show up for their shifts on time, allowing you to walk into class right as the lecture begins. Frozen pre-made meals happen to be on sale at the store. Your notes are clear and concise for all your courses. The dinner shift passes without a single hitch—except for the few times your vision blurs. But it always clears up.
Now, you lie in bed, genuinely happy that you’ll be getting at least five hours of sleep tonight. It’s a quiet luxury you rarely get to experience. The covers are pulled tight around your chin as the headlights of passing cars flash rhythmically against your bedroom walls.
The vent rattles softly, distributing warm air throughout the small room. You close your eyes, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that tonight, you won’t be cold.
—
You open your eyes to the muffled buzz of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it can wake your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster.
It feels like any other day.
You tap on your phone screen to cast a faint light across the dark room. Your email app displays a singular, glowing red notification.
Tapping the icon, you find a new response waiting in your inbox from one of the final companies on your list.
Please choose an available date for an in-person interview.
— Romanoff-Maximoff Global
—
Series Masterlist
—
A/N: Hi readers 👋 I hope the change in genres landed well, though I'm sorry the story is kind of sad so far 😅 Feedback is always appreciated!
wait. Did I read your authors note right? WANDANAT SERIES?
PLEASE even if you aren’t sure please post the draft 🥺
You read right. Honestly I’m almost done with a rough draft of the first chapter but I can already tell that if I do decide to commit to this series, it would be a very long journey 😅 which is why I’m wavering a bit.
Also, most of my readers are used to fluffy/sweet fics and this one is definitely not sunshine and rainbows.
I think I still will end up posting it and seeing the feedback and go from there. Probably this coming Saturday 😊
Summary: For four weeks straight, the same redhead has rolled into your ceramic studio with a new date on her arm. Between sharp banter and messy paint, you can’t help but wonder why this textbook player has the nerve to keep flirting with you right in front of her dates.
Word Count: 4k
Tags: Fluff, banter, misunderstandings
—
The weekend rush is always loud, but brings life and energy to the studio. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off the rows of finished glazed pieces lining the shelves, while the low hum of the pottery wheels blends with customer chatter and easy laughter.
Wiping a fresh streak of gray clay onto your navy apron, you rise from your chair, stretching your shoulders after a long lesson.
A student complains about how unlucky they were to have gotten clay stuck on their shirt.
“Unlucky?” you call out to a group of amateur potters, your voice easily carrying across the busy floor. “If your refusal to wear an apron and leaning directly into a spinning lump of mud counts as unlucky, then sure. Let's go with that.”
They let out a dramatic groan, followed by a chorus of laughter from the back. Your knuckles are dry from use, and there is a tired weight in your shoulders, but you feel bright with the space you created.
Walking around the corner to the paint-your-own-pottery section, you pause by a low table to check on a little girl. You crouch down, giving her your full, undivided attention as she passionately explains her chaotic color choices for her mug. You give her an honest nod, enthralled by her next choice of electric pink.
As you stand up, your eyes track across the room and catch vibrant green eyes staring straight at you.
A striking woman with red hair is resting her chin on her hand. Against the backdrop of messy water cups, splattered paint, and children covered in clay, she looks jarringly out of place—wearing a sleek black leather jacket that seems built for a completely different world. She’s trapped on what looks like a devastatingly boring date. Across from her, a blonde woman is gesturing toward her own eye, completely running the conversation in a continuous, relentless monologue.
The red-haired woman doesn't look away when you catch her staring. There is a steady, unhurried intensity to her gaze that pulls you in before you can even process it.
Your eyes drop slightly, noting the completely untouched bisque whale sitting directly in front of her. She hasn't even picked up a brush. A chime rings above the front entrance, breaking your focus, but the combination of her lingering stare and the blank piece of clay prompts you to talk to her.
You stop right beside her chair, evaluating the chalky white whale. When she looks up, you’re met with a cool, guarded expression that you feel compelled to break. Your eyes narrow with a small grin, a playful challenge pulling at the corner of your lips as you tilt your head.
“Would you like some suggestions?” you ask, gesturing softly toward the bottles of acrylic paint resting on the table. “Or are you planning on staring it into submission?”
The woman doesn't look away. She lets an amused smile pull at her lips, her voice dropping into a quiet register as if to match your challenge.
“I might,” she says, her green eyes holding yours steady. “Depends on how good your advice is.”
You scan her face, your grin widening slightly. “Well, it may be a whale, but that doesn’t mean it has to be blue.”
“No?” She tilts her head, leaning in just a fraction of an inch. “What are my options?”
You gaze into her eyes as if magnetized, the intensity of them drawing you.
“It could be green, like your eyes. Though,” you pause, looking deeper into them, “I don’t know if we have a shade back there that can replicate the exact vibrancy of them.”
Her green eyes widen for a split second, her smooth expression fracturing just enough for you to catch the sudden break in her composure. Then, as if it never happened, her lips curve seamlessly into a little smirk, her chin tilting up.
“Is that an admission that your inventory is lacking,” she murmurs, her tone smooth and deliberate, “or are you just trying to flatter me?”
You rest your chin in your hand, completely unfazed by her counter. “I don’t give empty compliments,” you say with a half-grin. “Maybe you can make it red like your hair. Or both. It’ll be a Christmas whale.”
A short huff of laughter escapes her, her shoulders instantly dropping their rigid posture. “A Christmas whale,” she repeats softly, looking down at the piece before meeting your eyes. “Do you give these kinds of suggestions to everyone?”
“Only with students who look like they can handle it,” you say with a warm laugh, your eyes dancing with amusement.
Instead of deploying another quick comeback, she just holds your gaze. You track the way her cool demeanor seems to melt, a small smile pushing past her guarded expression as she listens to your laughter.
Her date suddenly clears her throat, cutting right through the space between you. “I think we’ll be fine,” the blonde says with forced pleasantry. “We’re on a date, so we’ll just talk about it on our own.”
The sharp edge is incredibly clear, but you’ve worked in customer service long enough not to let it faze you. Your eyes drop down to the bisque unicorn she has chosen, which is currently covered in a messy, highly questionable mixture of green and brown paint.
“I like the swamp theme,” you remark with honesty. Who were you to judge? Art is art.
The blonde's jaw drops. “It’s not a—”
Before she can finish, the chime above the front entrance rings again. You glance toward the door at the sound of a new group arriving, quickly assessing the crowd before turning back to the table. “Sorry, duty calls. If you need any help, just call me over. I'm the owner of this place.” You turn your full attention back to the red-haired woman, giving her one last playful wink. “Whale, good luck on the Christmas whale.”
You leave the table with a bright grin, the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders suddenly feeling a bit lighter. Glancing back momentarily as you head toward the front, you catch her dropping right back into her bored expression while her date gestures angrily across the table. But right before you turn away, you notice her finally pick up a thin brush from the plastic cup, her green eyes dropping to the blank clay whale as she opens a red acrylic paint bottle.
A small, quiet spark of curiosity lingers in your chest as you speak to the new customers.
—
The following Sunday brings quiet rain that keeps the studio warm and packed with people looking to escape the weather. The scent of wet earth from outside blends with the familiar, comforting smell of damp clay and fresh wood varnish. You find your mind drifting to the bored red-head from last week between processing transactions and pottery lessons, a small trace of curiosity refusing to completely leave your mind.
When the red-haired woman walks through the door, you feel pleasantly surprised.
She actually came back.
But the feeling instantly pauses the moment she moves toward an open table. She isn't alone. Walking right beside her is a man with short brown hair, carrying himself with an easy, unbothered confidence. A flash of disappointment lingers in your chest as you watch them converse casually while he paints. Looking around at the tables, you notice the need for more water cups and take a lap around the floor before finally landing at hers.
“Back so soon?” you ask, keeping your tone light as you stop beside their table. You nod toward her companion, giving him a quick, polite evaluation. “And with a new face.”
“Yeah, her last date didn’t exactly work out. So here I am,” the man responds smoothly, extending his hand across the wooden table. “I’m Clint. Nice to meet you.”
At the word date, you feel a quiet shift in your chest. A different person in seven days, you note silently, though you keep your expression unchanged. You shake his hand with a seamless smile, catching the comfortable way his chair is pulled tightly alongside hers.
“If you ever need any help, let me know,” you tell him, keeping your voice smooth as you look down at the bisque owl he chose, which is being painted with surprising, hyper-realistic detail. “But I see you’re doing well already.”
“Actually, I think Nat here might need a little more help than me,” Clint says, a teasing grin pulling at his lips.
So her name is Nat, you note.
Clint suddenly flinches as if he just got struck. He reaches out and claps his hand over hers, his fingers lingering there for a moment before he lets go. Your eyes drop to the casual proximity of their hands, tracking the easy familiarity of the touch. So she’s already dating him, you accept without judgment. You aren't about to step over a boundary, but the charming smile she’s giving you and the lingering challenge from last week make you want to prod at her composure just a little bit.
“Hmm,” you drawl, your smile shifting into a slightly more analytical look as you shift your focus entirely to the bare plant pot in front of her. “Well, we already did a Christmas theme last week. I would’ve saved that brilliant idea if I'd known you were coming back so soon.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” she responds softly.
You look up, catching her eye, the words come out much quieter than you expect, completely lacking that slick, polished confidence you saw on day one. At the sudden shift in her tone you find the corner of your lips tug upwards into a small, familiar smile, the quiet warmth filtering back into your eyes. You quickly look down at the array of colors beside her before she notices.
“Maybe a bright yellow,” you murmur, your finger tracing a slow line over the plastic caps.
In the corner of your eye, you notice her gaze move. Her eyes stay locked on you instead of the colors you’re suggesting, watching the slight movement of your throat as you speak. When you lean in a fraction closer to point out the tray, she matches your movement.
“Or maybe pitch black?” you ask, turning your head slightly to look at the pot.
The sudden rotation brings your faces close enough that you can see the slight, golden flecks from the studio lights in her eyes. She doesn’t blink, as if in a trance.
“Whatever you think looks best,” she responds, her voice dropping into a quiet register.
“Dirt brown sounds good then?” you offer dryly.
“Perfect,” she agrees instantly, as if you’ve said the most brilliant idea.
You let out a soft, amused hum at how easily she folded, pointing down at the table. “And are you planning on painting your jacket, too?”
Nat follows your gaze downward. Her left elbow is resting squarely on the edge of the plastic palette, the dark fabric of her jacket cuff heavily smeared with a thick streak of bright orange acrylic. Beside her, Clint’s paintbrush freezes mid-air, his eyebrows raised.
She slowly lifts her arm, examining the ruined fabric as if she fully meant to do that. “It’s a bold choice,” she says smoothly. “I’m testing out a new canvas.”
You let out a low laugh, shaking your head as you pull a damp white cloth from your apron pocket. You reach out, your fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist to pull her arm closer. Her skin feels warm against your palm, and her entire frame goes completely still under your touch. You can feel her pulse racing frantically beneath your fingertips.
Keeping your eyes locked on the dark fabric, you carefully swipe the wet paint off the sleeve before stepping back to re-establish your distance.
“I’ll let you two get back to your masterpieces,” you say, giving her a quiet, knowing nod that lingers just a moment too long on her face before you turn away. “Try to keep the paint on the pottery, Nat.”
—
The next Sunday is a chaotic, busy afternoon. A local birthday party reservation has half the studio covered in colorful tissue paper, and the air smells strongly of paint, wet clay, and fresh glaze. You are in your element, floating between tables to rescue a collapsing clay vase here and mixing custom underglazes there, completely dialed into the rhythm of your space. But despite the noise, you still catch yourself checking the afternoon reservation slots on the clipboard near the register.
When she finally walks through the door, the small, quiet spark of anticipation you’d been carrying all week instantly drops.
Number three, you observe.
Last week it was the owl guy. This week, she’s brought a man who carries himself with a relaxed confidence. He’s wearing a sharp jacket and has a kind of easy, commanding stature.
You watch from the safety of the drying racks as he smirks, pulling his chair so close to hers that their shoulders brush. He slings a casual arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to whisper something against her ear. Nat drives a sharp elbow directly into his ribs, her jaw tightening into a rigid line.
“Sam, knock it off,” she mutters, her voice sharp enough to carry straight across the narrow aisle to where you are standing.
The man—Sam—lets out a low, smooth laugh, entirely unfazed as he rubs his ribs and leans back in his chair. He looks around as if searching for something. Or someone.
You let out a slow breath, wiping your dry, chalky hands on your apron. So that's his name, you note, nodding to yourself.
You’d spent the last week wondering if you’d over-analyzed the lingering looks or imagined her racing pulse. But seeing her roll in with a brand-new partner for the third week in a row clarifies everything. It was routine for her. You were just the entertaining backdrop for her weekly dating rotation.
You pull your shoulders back, engaging your absolute best, most flawless customer-service demeanor. If she wants to play games under your roof, she can do it—but you aren't going to play along.
You grab a fresh mixing palette from the counter, stepping up to her table with a smooth, pleasant smile. You set the paint tray down with a crisp plastic click.
“Good afternoon,” you greet them, your voice welcoming but stripped of the casual, warm wit you’d given her on day one.
Your eyes sweep over her new companion, giving him a nod. “Welcome back,” you say, looking directly at her. Her green eyes are already locked onto you, wide and intensely focused, but you refuse to let her drop that soft, quiet tone from last week into your space. Amusement pulls at your lips at her audacity to pull this in your studio.
You casually gesture to the acrylic caps between them. “Let me know if you two need any extra water cups or brushes today.”
She leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours as if she’s trying to hunt for the easy, playful cadence from a week ago. “I’ll try to keep the paint off my jacket this time,” she says, her voice dropping into a charming register.
You let out a polite chuckle that doesn't reach your eyes—the same empty laugh you give to difficult customers or distant acquaintances whose conversations you are quietly praying will end. You don't lean in, and you don't break your posture. You step back, re-establishing the boundary of the table.
“That’s always preferred,” you respond, already looking around the room. You turn and give Sam a friendly nod. “Make sure she keeps it on the clay. Enjoy your afternoon together, guys.”
Before she can respond, you turn on your heel and head straight toward a nearby family table. The immediate shift is a relief, and you feel yourself warming up again at the family's genuine excitement. Your laugh is bright as you help a little boy pick out a vibrant blue for his clay turtle.
You deliberately keep your back to her sector of the room, entirely starving her of your energy. This is the place that makes you happy, and you won’t let someone else, especially not a player, ruin that.
A few minutes later, as you walk back to the sink to rinse the blue glaze off your fingers, you catch a final glimpse of her table through the crowded room.
She is sitting completely still. She isn't talking to Sam, and she hasn't even uncapped a single bottle of paint. Instead, her green eyes are locked entirely on the sink station, tracking you with a puzzled expression. When one of your employees approaches her table to offer a clean water cup, she just shakes her head without looking, her shoulders dropping defeatedly.
She picks up a single brush and stares blankly at the plain white bisque, seemingly lost on what to choose.
You pull your gaze away, dry your hands on a towel, and focus entirely on the people who are actually here to paint.
—
The following Sunday brings relentless rain that beats against the glass, keeping the studio dim and quiet compared to the usual weekend rush. You are at the counter sorting clean paintbrushes into plastic cups, when the door chimes.
You look up, and familiar red hair catches your attention instantly. But your gaze drops almost immediately to the person walking in beside her—a quiet, sweet-looking brunette who immediately bypasses the display of mugs and plucks a plain bisque heart from the top shelf.
Oh my God, your eyes drift upwards into the hardest eye roll ever.
You watch from the counter as they sit down at a corner table, their heads huddled close together as the brunette dips a brush into a jar of bright red paint. Nat is leaning back, her green eyes sweeping across the room until they land right on you. You let out a heavy sigh of annoyance. Watching her treat your creative studio like her personal, weekly Sunday dating lounge was starting to become offensive.
When you notice the brunette starting to carefully script a bold red "+" sign right next to the letter N, you decide you've officially hit your limit. You grab a fresh water cup from the back counter, your stance rigid, and walk straight toward their table. You set the water cup down on the wooden table with a heavy snap, crossing your arms tight against your navy apron.
“It really makes you sound like a—”
You cut the brunette off mid-sentence. “Player!” you say, your voice sharp, clear, and cutting straight through the quiet hum of the studio.
The brunette's brush freezes mid-air. Nat’s gaze snaps up, her entire body locking up instantly as she looks up at you.
“A textbook, smooth-talking, revolving-door player,” you clarify, gesturing sharply between her face and the freshly painted red letters on the ceramic heart. “Four weeks. Four different people under my roof. First the girl with the swamp unicorn. Next you’re holding hands across the table with the owl guy. Last week you drag a new guy in here to drape his arm over your seat and whisper in your ear, and today? Today you bring her in here for your weekly rotation while she’s clearly in love with you.” You point down to the heart resting in between you three.
Nat sits with her mouth open slightly as if her mind has just been blown. Beside her, the brunette quietly lowers her paintbrush, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Told you,” she whispers to Nat.
“I am not a player,” Nat manages to say. The words come out flat, completely stripped of her usual cool confidence.
“Oh, really?” You tilt your head, refusing to back down. “Because from where I’m standing, you roll in here every Sunday with someone new on your arm, and you still have the nerve to try and charm me across the table. I’m not letting you use my shop to lead people on, and I’m definitely not feeding into your routine.”
Nat lets out a soft, almost frustrated breath, her eyes locking onto yours with honesty.
“They’re my coworkers,” she says quietly, her gaze unwavering. “The first girl with the unicorn was a blind date I was forced into. Clint, the owl guy? He’s married. The only reason he grabbed my hand was to steady himself because I kicked him under the table.”
The memory of Clint’s sudden, pained flinch flashes in your mind. Huh, you muse. Maybe that’s why he grimaced.
“And the guy from last week—Sam?” Nat continues, leaning forward just an inch as she keeps her green eyes locked on yours. “He was leaning in to ask which one you were.”
The memories since you met her replay in your mind, every scattered, confusing moment from the past four weeks rapidly reordering itself in your head. You remember the way the guy in the sharp jacket had been scouting the room, his eyes scanning the tables as if he were trying to pick out a target.
The memory of her frantic pulse against your fingertips replays in your mind.
Beside her, the brunette lowers her paintbrush completely, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she watches you connect the dots in real time.
Nat nudges the brunette. “Tell her, Wanda.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Wanda tells you, pushing her chair back and standing up from the table. “We’re just coworkers. I was making the heart for you two to tease her,” Wanda recounts with a smile. “Sounds like you two should talk now that the fun part is over.”
She offers you a cheerful, parting wave and casually strolls toward the front door, leaving the heart resting on the table.
Silence blankets the space between you and Nat, standing out against the casual chatter of the surrounding studio. She looks up at you, her voice dropping into an honest plea.
“I only kept dragging them here because I needed the support and I wanted to see you again.”
A breathless laugh escapes your lips as the ridiculousness of the situation settles in.
“And here I thought I was dealing with a high-profile heartbreaker,” you murmur, meeting her gaze. The warmth from your very first meeting slowly floods back into your eyes. “I almost banned you from the studio.”
“That would’ve been a shame,” Nat responds smoothly, her confidence returning to her voice at the sight of you softening. Her lips curve into a small, genuine smile. “I was actually hoping for a private lesson sometime.”
“Hmm…” you drawl, leaning in closer across the wooden table, fully matching her rhythm again. “Private lessons with the owner aren’t cheap, you know.”
“Name your price,” she says, completely drawn back into your orbit.
You contemplate the question for a brief moment, your fingers tapping a light rhythm against the edge of the table before you meet her gaze with a wicked grin.
“Come by yourself next week. No coworkers,” you tilt your head, your eyes dancing with a playful challenge. “Though, that might be difficult for you.”
Nat lets out a soft laugh, eyes locking onto yours with a profound look of victory. “Deal.”
“Great.” You lean in close to her, the familiar scent of paint and wet clay lingering faintly off your clothes. “See you next Sunday. I’ll pencil you in for one o’clock.”
She moves to lean in closer, but you pull back with a playful wink, turning on your heel and walking back toward the pottery classroom. You can hear her breathless laugh, and when you look back, she’s still staring at the empty space where you last stood.
“See you next Sunday,” you hear her whisper.
You turn back around with a satisfied smile, already thinking of exactly how you’re going to tease her about this next week.
—
Sorry for the two short fics in a row 😅 I had a few DMs asking if I'd be willing to do a WandaNat/Reader series so I've been working on a rough draft for that and seeing if I like my idea enough to go through with it. Thank you for the love on the last fic! It'll have a part 2 eventually. Have a good week guys!
I’m open to it! Though if you do send a prompt/idea in asks, if I think I might write it then I probably won’t respond to it until it’s written. If I feel like I won’t do the idea justice, then I’ll probably recommend a different writer 😊
I think I want to start writing fanfics but it feels scary to start. Is there any advice you would give now that you've written a few fics?
I loved reading Short Enough btw! it's such a great mix of sweet but hot
I don’t know if I’m the best for advice since I only started writing recently 😅 Though, I think that finding your own writing process is helpful. For the first fic I posted I had a full outline written before starting, since this is what we’re taught in school. I ended up tossing out 95% of the outline and just wrote whatever I was thinking as I went.
So now, I write the first paragraph of whatever fic I’m thinking of, then I don’t touch it or think about it for 2-3 days and subconsciously I have the entire plot by the time I have a moment to write lol. One of my friends who also writes said that this is a really weird process to have but I think you should do whatever work for you and don’t worry about what’s “correct”.
I hope if you do end up writing, that you have fun with it 😊 Also, I think you should write what you want to read and don’t worry about the rest. That’s the way I approach it and it’s a lot of fun reading the finished project that way.
I don’t know if this was helpful at all 😅 but I hope I was able to answer your question thoroughly. Thank you for reading the recent fic and I wish you the best of luck!
