Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time (your eyecolor) crosses with forest green, it is a sunny day mid-June.

__________________

"Wanda!" I yell dramatically, eyes wide, gesturing at the fragile box my friend just dropped. Her shocked impression — she gets all cute and nose scrunch-y — makes me laugh, either way. "It says careful on the box for a reason."

She just rolls her eyes. "You're such a dramaqueen," she says as she playfully pushes me against my shoulder as she passes me. "I'll get the last one."

Had it been a better idea to hire a moving van to bring all of my stuff in one go instead of driving from my old apartment to here around ten times in only two days? Yes.

Had I been stubborn? Absolutely.

Why? Because I want to handle everything by myself even though I can't.

Thank God for a week off at work and the bestest of friends I could wish for (with a lot of patience). Not to forget about wine. It's no solution, but it also is.

"It feels like college all over again, with the boxes and stuff," Wanda says when she's back. She sighs and drops the last box on top of the other, carefully this time. "Only this time we're actually having full-time jobs. And an actual life. Time flies. We're getting old, Y/n!"

I laugh while she goes on.

"You have a new apartment and are working your ass off — I'm engaged. Gosh."

I do work my ass off. It isn't an understatement. My hours as a medical assistent aren't the usual 8 'till 5; I start at 12 pm and hope I'll be done at 1 am. Sometimes I have to stay there and sleep for a bit when it gets extremely bad, because my next shift starts only a few hours later.

But I love it. I'm good at it, I feel like I'm doing this thing that actually means something and it's at least one step to the having-my-adult-life-together.

Work is my only stability.

My free time is mostly filled with sleeping (I try to get seven hours a day), drinking, meeting up with friends and the occassional onenightstand.

Oh, and I run. And I have a pretty healthy eating schedule. At least that's something.

Time for a healthy relationship or my hobbies?

Not so much.

"I know, Wan," I reply a few seconds later, a soft smile on my face. "Thanks so much for your help by the way. I know you're busy too."

"Of course, babe."

And with that we wordlessly decide to finish up. It takes us another hour or so to put every box in the right room. Content with everything done, I eye up the kitchen I stand in and sigh, happily this time.

All that is left is unpacking everything — a job I'll have to do on my own, but isn't meant to be done in a single day. The worst is over.

"I need a drink," Wanda says, finding her way next to me. She copies my position and leans against the counter of the kitchen, her lower arms resting on the cold material.

While they were working in the house (painting the walls, putting the new floor in, ...) I put some things in the fridge since the kitchen was finished up first. A couple of cupboards are filled with essentials already, too.

I get a bottle of wine and fill two glasses. Normal glasses, because the fancy ones are still somewhere at the bottom of a box. "Here," I say, handing her one. "To growing up."

I look my friend in the eye and smile as I touch the rim of my glass against hers.

"To growing up."

We go way back, the two of us. She's doing so well, and I'm happy for her. Three years ago, fresh out of college, she started working for Vision Co. and now she has one hell of a job as a lawyer and is engaged to the company's owner. She's practically glowing.

It took me quite some time, but I got over her.

She was the first female crush I had and it had hit me hard. I never told her and I found a way to live with it.

Okay, yes, that means I slept with a lot of other girls. I had to distract myself. The longer this went on the lesser I imagined it was her between my legs instead of the stranger working me up to an orgasm.

I moved on. Slowly, but I did.

And it was fine, really. Our friendship meant everything to me and I wasn't ready to throw that away, because we could never be more than this. And this was good.

Maybe she knew, deep down. I don't know.

Either way, there was never anyone more supportive when I came out of the closet than her.

"Let's drink outside. It's way too hot in here," Wanda breaks the silence and I nod before following her out of the front door which is still open. It still smells like paint and concrete inside. Opening all doors might help getting rid of the smell.

To give you an idea: my apartment is on the fourth floor, the last in a row of ten others. I have a balcony in the back, but there's also a railing in front of the front door.

The view is stunning from up there.

It is an upgrade from my old home, as this one has three rooms instead of two, and it's closer to work. I could walk there now, if I want.

"I'm glad I still have the weekend off." I'm leaning against the railing now, door still open, music coming from the inside, glass in hand.

The sun is going down, coloring the sky all orange and red and blue.

"I get that. Don't forget to not push yourself so hard and actually get some rest too, okay?" she responds.

"I'll try." I smirk as I say those words, knowing damn well I probably won't. She knows, too.

"You're the worst."

"I know."

"Remember when we had so much free time in college while we didn't realize and were just complaining that it was an actual hell?"

And then we talk about our school and trips and memories and we drink another, then three, then four, and before we know it it's eleven in the evening.

We're laughing for more than an hour and I feel myself finally starting to relax fully. A combination of alcohol and easy chit-chatting. I only now realize I didn't eat much today. Oh well.

Maybe that's why the alcohol kicks in so easily and we start talking louder as the time ticks by.

It's then the elevator at the end of the hall slides open and closes with a a loud, creaking noise.

I don't notice at first, too caught up in the view in front of me, Wanda and our hysterical laughter.

Wanda looks up first and my eyes follow hers, noting her subtle movement from the corner of my eye.

A woman around ten — maybe a litte more than that? — years older makes her way past the doors.

I can't quite grasp it, but everything about the stranger screams control. Well, everything she radiates. Control, perfectionism, authority.

Everything I am not, basically.

It's in the way she walks, in the way she's dressed and in the way she looks straight forward with a neutral yet sharp gaze.

And my God, she is gorgeous. Not a simple 'she's worth a glance but that's about it' type of beautiful, but she has an appearance that just sticks. Unfair. She isn't even trying, probably.

Her face is framed with long, auburn-ish red locks, softly curling onto just beneath her shoulders. She's wearing a leather jacket, a white t-shirt and dark skinny's. So simple, yet she owns it. There's no other way to describe it.

Put together.

I don't like that.

She stops at the door next to mine.

She eyes the both of us up suddenly, frowns, raises her eyebrow in aversion and then she opens her mouth.

"You're fucking loud."

Before I can even blink, the door falls close behind the redheads' body. My theory is confirmed — even the way her hand turned the key inside the lock looked like she owns the world.

The fuck?

"Rude," Wanda breaks the silence.

I frown. "Oh, ...okay."

"She either has a stick up her ass or she's just not having a good day. Let's hope it's the last," my friend mutters and I hum in agreement. I take the last sip of my drink. Bitch.

"I have to finish up anyway, I'll have to be at work at seven tomorrow," she continues with a pout.

"Ah, yes, go home, you! It's been a long day anyway."

I turn the music off and make sure Paul (Paul Vision, Wanda's fiancée) picks her up since neither of us can drive now. As he gets here we walk downstairs and after five more 'thank you's', a kiss on her cheek and an enthusiastic wave at Paul in the car, the two leave with the promise to come over for dinner soon.

I make my way back up again.

I can't wait to change into nightgear, wash my makeup off and fall onto my freshly made bed.

As I step out of the elevator after it 'dings' I slowly come to the realization I may have left my keys inside the house. I'm not sure, though.

Please let it not be true.

But as I check the pockets in my jeans, the only pockets I have, and I find them empty of my keys and my phone, I know I'm fucked.

Oh my God.

Chapter Text

Well, fuck.

The only thing I can do is call Wanda because she has a spare key, but I can't, because I don't have my phone.

I stand there for a moment, helplessly, going through my options (and through my pockets for one more time, just in case they magically appear).

There's only one, and that's asking someone in the building if I can use their phone to make a call. It is — I check my watch — past twelve by now. My friend isn't going to be happy. Neither is one of my neighbors.

Such a way to introduce myself. It's not like it's the end of the world of course, but still.

It's tempting to go up to my direct neighbor. I kind of want to see more of her so I can gauge whether she indeed has a stick up her ass or she's just having an off-day. Not like I want to admit it to myself, but she's kind of intriguing.

For a moment I stand still, doubting. At least I'm pretty sure she's awake, given the fact she only arrived home like thirty minutes ago. I run my hand through my hair as I bridge the distance between the elevator and the second to last apartment in the gallery.

Whatever. It's not like I'm asking her to help me murder someone.

I breathe in and ring the bell.

It takes a few seconds and then there she is, in all her glory.

She got rid of the leather jacket and is just in her white t-shirt now. Her hand is holding onto the doorknob; hip leaning against the door frame; toned arms on display. She isn't particularly muscular, but she's built in a way you just know that she's strong.

Un-fucking-fair.

It's not that I don't look great, because I do, if I may say so. It's just the fact that on her it all looks so effortless. No doubt she works for it, too, but even after she got rid of her red lipstick and mascara she looks like some sort of Goddess.

I immediately avert my gaze and look into her eyes instead, not wanting her to think I'm checking her out or anything.

I don't. I already know I don't like her.

"You've got to be kidding me."

She doesn't look amused. And I get that, I really do, but is it that hard to be decent to a new neighbor? I'm not one to throw myself onto other, new people, either, but yet I do find it normal to at least introduce myself and make some small talk.

She's not the type, it seems.

I cough.

"Can I please use your phone to make a call? I, uh, forgot mine and my key inside. I'm locked out," I say. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I'm a child confessing a sin. As if this only confirms her 'loud and annoying new neighbor' theory.

I force myself to get it together. Who does she even think she is? I straighten my back.

"It's past twelve," is all she says, as if I don't know.

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"Are you always so clumsy?"

You'd think she'd smile while saying that, making it — even though still judgy — somewhat funny. But no, here she is, all icy and harsh.

It makes me annoyed, too. I huff. "I'm just asking to make a call, not if you could recite the Bible back and forth. It'll take ten seconds."

I try to not be aware of her burning gaze, but it's practically impossible. Jesus. She stays silent, eyebrow raised, so I continue.

"I'm Y/n by the way, and I'm not loud, I just finished bringing all my stuff over and—" I don't get to finish my somewhat attempt to an introduction, because Miss(es) Perfect beats me to it.

"Well, Y/n, you can use my phone." She emphasizes my name, letting it roll of her tongue in a certain way that makes me shiver.

"Thank you," I breathe. When she walks away to get her phone, I make myself look into her hallway instead of at her jeans-clad legs and ass.

For what I can see her house looks neat. I catch the tiniest glimpse of her living room: her walls a soft green and her couch a pretty off-white.

The hallway has a similar white and green look. It looks lovely. And grown-up-ish. Which makes sense, because she's well in her thirties, I guess. Not that she really lives up to it, look-wise. It's more in the way she carries herself.

Does she live alone?

I don't have the time to think about it, because there she is. She hands me her phone without a word.

"Thanks," the words leave my mouth in a mumble. It's a good thing I have Wanda's number memorized in my head after so many years of calling her as a young teen, talking for hours over the phone. Nowadays none of those numbers stick to me.

I feel her eyes on me as I wait for Wanda to pick up. She does, Thank God.

Long story short: she's slightly annoyed, but her and Paul are on their way. Thank the Lord for Paul. He's a sweetheart.

A sweetheart and a dangerously good businessman. A terrifying, yet good combination. He knows what he's doing. It's a blast watching him work and wind people around his fingers, really. Wanda's one of the same.

They're just a different breed. They understand eachother so well and have the same way in handling things. Cool, collected, with a heart.

I give the redhead her phone back and cross my arms. "What's your name?" I ask to break the silence, even though I know all business is handled and I should leave her in peace now.

She thinks so too, according to her sigh.

"Natasha," she responds.

"Well..., hi."

She looks me up and down.

"Hi," she starts, sarcastically. She copies my pose and crosses her arms as well, green eyes still not leaving mine. Now not only her hip, but her shoulder is leaning against the door frame.

I hate to admit it to myself, but she makes me nervous. Nobody makes me nervous. I hate feeling trapped, anxious, so I just don't make myself feel like that. Simple as that.

I don't like the way she holds my stare like a leopard watching its' prey. I make the mental note to let zero vulnerabilty slip around her. No way I'll let her win this, whatever this is.

See who's more in control?

"So. Just to be clear: I dislike people being careless and noisy and all that," is what she adds after a short pause.

I make a face. "Girl, you made that pretty clear. You don't even know me. As I was saying: I was just talking and laughing after a long day of moving. That's no crime."

"Did you just call me girl?" Her voice is sharp as she narrows her eyes.

My hands ball into fists, subconsciously. I don't do irritation well. I look towards the ground, her fiery eyes on me too much for a moment.

Zero vulnerabity. I look up again, maybe a bit too fast. I open my mouth to say something, whatever, to get back on her level.

It's then the elevator announces its' arrival on the floor. Wanda. Saved by the bell. Kind of.

"Ugh. It is that it's you," my friend mutters as she makes her way towards me, but I still see a soft smile creeping through her grumpy exterior.

"Thanks so much, babe. I'm sorry," I respond. After I've opened the door, grabbed my key in my hand and put my phone in my pocket, I give her her key back.

I give her another kiss on her cheek, thank her another five times, hang over the railing to wave at Paul downstairs yet again.

With a yawn she leaves, nodding towards Natasha as a greeting. I already let her know I was calling from Natasha's (aka the neighbor we just saw, kindly said) phone when I was talking to her.

When Wanda is out of sight, I turn to Natasha again. I spin the key around my finger. "Okay, well, I should go to bed. Thanks again...—" Should I do it? "—...girl." The corners of my mouth curl up, pleased with myself.

1-1.

I walk past her without another word or another glance.

The door falls close behind me, kinda loud.

2-1.

Chapter Text

I saw the sun going down all bright, and see the sun coming up all soft — pastel yellows and cyan and the lightest of orange.

It's only seven thirty in the morning when I'm standing on my balcony, elbows resting on its' railing, eyes closed, face absorbing the early warmth.

The weather's never been so nice this time of the year. Not that I remember, anyway.

Should I try to get some more rest? Yes, totally. Yet my body is so used to my six-hours-of-sleep-is-absolutely-fine routine it's no use.

And, to be honest, it is nice, waking up before most of the world does. It's not that early, but it's a Saturday. Most people sleep in.

Just let me have my main character moment, please. Thank you.

Sunshine, a pretty view, a new home (which just hits differently)... I sigh. 'Savouring the small things' and all that bullshit. I could live with this.

It's still weird though, waking up in another house. It's yours, but it also isn't. Not yet.

I must say that this place feels more as a home already than the apartment I used to live in — even with the unopened boxes and all. The upgraded space was so much needed.

It's the start of something new.

(Ugh, I hate that praise. It's so corny.)

Anyway.

There are a lot of things on my mentally saved to-do list and the first thing is going on my daily run. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn dramatically.

I don't know why, but I catch myself bending over the railing the slightest bit, quickly checking the balcony next to me. Natasha's.

It's decorated with flowers and this type of sitting area. I see or hear no movement. She's probably still busy taking her beauty sleep.

I grand myself one more minute with the sunlight softly tickling my eyelids before I push my weight back to my legs, hands leaving the railing.

I make the mental note to get flowers soon, too.

All I do before running is brush my teeth, wash my face, put my hair in a high ponytail, put my Airpods in my ears and hoist my body into my all-black gear. I'm ready in fifteen minutes.

I make sure I put my keys safely in my pocket before the door falls close behind me.

Yes, I check five times.

__________________

As soon as I leave the building the sun starts warming my hair and face again and it's like this energetic pulse starts flowing through me.

This is what I need to wake up.

If I'd be a Spice Girl it would definitely not be Sporty Spice by all means, but my stamina is pretty great. So is my agility. You'll beat me at every team sport you could come up with, but I'm more than a decent runner.

I know most of the neighborhood, but the plan is to try a new route every other day until I find the one that's perfect.

The paths I used to take at my former place ended at Reveri, this local coffee bar. From this way it could be a possible end stop too, since the place is pretty much halfway inbetween my old and new apartment.

So, that's where I'm headed.

My body heaths up from both the inside and the outside and by the time I reach the familiar setting I'm a little bit out of breath and my hair looks like it's been through at least two wars.

I make myself catch my breath first before I walk towards the door.

It's only then, when the door shuts behind me and I look up from my phone — Wanda sent a text in my friends' groupschat — I see her.

You've got to be kidding me.

Her body is clad in tight nylon leggings and a cropped, matching top. Appearently she runs, too.

Is that why her legs are to die for?

Without me fully realizing, I untie my hair and let it fall down my shoulders, hastily correcting the mess.

The way she only smiles at Sarah (she smiles?) and the woman starts pouring almond milk into a cup without asking for her order lets me know she isn't here for the first time.

Okay, a quick heads-up: Sarah was one of the girls I met at this club and functioned as a regular bootycall. She's the one that finally appeared the way she was; blonde hair instead of the soft auburn locks I used to imagine while having sex.

It sounds cruel but hey, it is what it is. Coping mechanism and all.

She's nice, but it's never been more than hooking up. I still see her here, making coffee, from time to time. All is good. We don't sleep together anymore. It just faded into this lowkey friendship kinda thing.

Lowkey. We don't know too much about one another, in fact.

She sees me as soon as I walk in. Natasha doesn't.

I put my Airpods back in their case, put my phone away and Natasha turns her head my way when I greet Sarah. I make sure not to look at her, making it seem like I don't notice. "Hey!"

Why, exactly? I don't really know. I feel like I need to prove myself. A dog marking its' territory.

(I try.)

"Y/n!" Sarah greets me with her usual enthusiasm. She always makes me think of summer: light hair, faint freckles, this bright personality that's infectious.

I smile, making my way to the counter.

"Haven't seen you in a while," I respond, the smile still faintly on my lips. It's only then I decide to give Natasha attention.

"You're a local here," I state matter of factly.

Instead of actually making conversation, sharing some details, she nods. It's not like I greeted her with a 'hi' anyway, I give her that.

"Yes." And that was that.

It seems like that's her thing — only responding to what is necessary, not adding anything more that could give some details away. If only.

Why? To make her appear mysterious? To make her look like this God-like person nobody seems to get their finger around?

The fact that it actually works is even more annoying.

The mystery thing. Not the God-like thing. I refuse to give her that credit.

"I'm here a lot, too," I start, not letting her constant mood ruin mine. "My former apartment is not too close to our building, but my usual run route passes this place. I've never seen you here before."

I would've noticed.

There's that sharp gaze again. The green in her eyes gets this kind of icy, like frozen grass. She narrows them in what looks like a warning.

She definitely needs her coffee first.

I roll my eyes mentally and focus on Sarah instead.

"You know eachother?" I ask, making this wave-y gesture between Natasha and Sarah, specifically asking the blonde.

"She's a distant relative," Natasha answers before Sarah has a chance to open her mouth anyway.

Oh. Oh.

"Ah."

Sarah laughs softly and Natasha raises her brow at that, but she lets it go.

"You know I was busy with moving to another place, right?" I ask while following Sarah's hands working on the coffees. I see her nod. "Well, turns out Natasha is my new neighbor. She loves me."

I hear her scoff.

In the meantime I catch up with her. She starts working on my order — don't have to say anything either — as soon as Natasha grabbed hers.

I make sure not to look at the redhead, but when Sarah puts my coffee on the counter after a couple of minutes I can feel her eyes going over me. Because of a slight tremble in my arm I almost drop the cup, just saving it from spilling over the floor.

Get it together.

With simple goodbye's and the promise to be there again soon to talk for a bit longer (Reveri is popular, especially during mornings, so there's a line), I leave. So does Natasha.

"I didn't like you calling me girl yesterday. Twice," she speaks up when both of us make our way to the exit.

So it did get to her.

She reaches the door earlier, going through it first.

"Jesus Christ. It's not that big of a deal. Don't be so... childish."

Something seem to have triggered her, because suddenly she's close. Really close. She managed to get my body between the door and her arm (hand still holding onto the door handle). Just for a second.

I swallow.

"Don't do it again."

She lets go of the handle, the door falling shut just behind my body. I frown, watching her walk off. She goes into the other direction I came from, to God knows where.

"I don't like you!" I state, calling after her.

I feel myself shiver.

"Good," is all she yells back.

I do roll my eyes now, take sip of my coffee and curse because it's still too hot, and start making my way back home.

There's a lot to do.

I'm a master in quick words, witty remarks and shameless flirtation. It is how I deal with pretty much everything.

It is how I'll deal with Natasha, too.

(Ha.)

Chapter Text

It’s somewhat of a universal experience and agreement that it feels like good things always come to an end too soon. Trips, a party, or, in my case, the last glorious day off of work. Time just flies by.

After my run, quick grab of coffee and short bicker with Natasha as the sun rose on Saturday, I spent the rest of the late morning and afternoon unpacking stuff. Most of the night, too.

Sunday I ran again. I didn’t go to Reveri this time and instead enjoyed a cappuccino from my own machine once I got back. With warmth on my face and the pretty view from my new balcony. Continuing decorating the house and putting stuff in their places, I granted myself a hot shower and a good night of sleep before my first shift after days of—semi—freedom.

I didn’t see Natasha again.

Not that I was paying attention.

The hum of the hospital stays long with me after I clock out. Even when the door of my car clicks shut and embraces me in its delicious silence, my ears are still buzzing with the sound of beeping machines and footsteps rushing down hallways.

And it’s nothing I complain about, nothing new. I’m used to it.

It’s even something fulfilling, somehow. Most of the time—at some point during my walk or ride back home—the switch flips inside my brain and it’s back to its normal quiet again. Apart from the sudden thoughts that then creep in about what to have for dinner, or the annoying chorus from a song that repeats itself for ten minutes straight, at least.

But those are normal thoughts, normal sounds.

It’s just something that hits a bit harder now that I’ve had a week off. And even though that time was filled with some heavy lifting and a tight schedule as well, it’s a different kind of sore that tackles your body than after a shift at Starks.

My hand finds my hair and the tight ponytail it’s in, and with stiff fingers I manage to slide the tie out of my locks and shake them free. Better. Massaging the crone of my head with my fingertips, I sigh contently as soon as the tension loses a bit.

Time to go home.

After spending the last two days rushing through the boxes left to unpack, it already feels more like a home. It’s pretty cozy. Almost everything is in place. Wanda and Vis even came by yesterday for a couple of hours to help with putting some things up on the wall.

I know a thing or two about interior, but I definitely don’t know my way with a hammer or drill. A round of applause for Vis, always the hero.

I drive my way back home in silence, not bothering to put music on. It’s late anyway; my shift was supposed to end at ten, but it ran out until after midnight. There’s barely any traffic, the streets empty. Which is definitely a good thing, as I’m quite the—let's decently say—impatient driver. Oops.

I’m at the entrance of the building’s parking in less than fifteen minutes. Swiping my card against the scanner, the barrier shoots up to let me in. After the years of struggle of finding a free place around my old apartment, I’m more than happy this place came with its own spot in an underground, private garage.

The garage is filled with clusters of my neighbor’s cars, soft but ugly lights blinking on as soon as I enter. I park next to a bold, white pick-up. Curiously, I side-eye the car that has to belong to Natasha. Even though I’m not up to date on brands, I can tell the thing is expensive. A B&W? Probably?

It has tinted windows, which is weird, but also not a surprise. It matches her dark, cryptic personality. I huff. Of course.

Keys, bag, elevator, get ready, bed. That’s the mantra I repeat as I step out of my own modest Fiat and dig into my workbag to search for the keys of my front door somewhere at the bottom.

That’s when I hear it. Footsteps.

It’s definitely not the echo of my own, since these are heavier. And slower.

Now that I think of it, wasn’t there a person walking into the garage just before I drove in? My tired head didn’t really process.

Forcing myself to not turn paranoia so soon, I nonchalantly look back over one shoulder. There’s a man, and definitely not one who lives here, for as far as I came to know. Which is weird.

Okay, well, don’t freak out. Just walk to the elevator. Most of the time they’re harmless, just stupid and all talk, anyway.

“Late night?” The man’s voice bounces off the concrete. After taking him in during the one second I turned around, I stare ahead, focussed on the elevator and stairs at the far end in front of me.

I don’t give him an answer.

“Don’t ignore me, sweetheart. I’m just being friendly.”

I stop digging in my bag and quicken my pace almost automatically. This is something that happens frequently, to me and all of my girl friends, so I tell myself to just ignore and keep going.

The man laughs. “What, too good to talk? Come on. A young woman like you shouldn’t be walking alone this late.”

Fucking men. Stupid, horrible, fucking men.

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s unsettling me, I don’t turn around as I open my mouth. “Young women like me know when to keep walking,” I respond with a confidence that I partly force and that’s partly there, but I don’t like this one bit.

He doesn’t back off, for fuck’s sake. The loud shuffle of his feet doesn’t come to a halt. When he speaks again, it’s even closer. “Feisty.” There’s another chuckle. “Let me walk you upstairs. Make sure you’re safe.”

Angling towards the elevator, now pretty close, my heart starts to hammer in my chest. Gathering the courage still buried somewhere, words escape my lips. “Yeah, because following strangers in parking garages at midnight screams safety.”

He’ll leave. I’m sure he’ll leave.

“I don’t bite, honey.”

Finally managing to blindly locate the cold metal of my keys, I curl my fist around them tightly. The sharp teeth of one key bites into my palm, and before I can pull them out, another voice slices through the still air—low and steady.

“She said no.”

Female, familiar.

When I whip my head towards the sound, I’m greeted by Natasha Romanoff, strutting her way from her car towards me, blazer professionally draped over one shoulder. What—

Her eyes lock on the man, unblinking. “You heard me. Leave.”

He shifts, caught off guard. Now I’m not alone anymore and the danger at least decreases by, like, sixty percent, I scan the harassing stranger. Unfamiliar face, light hair, dark eyes. Fully dressed in black. He doesn’t appear drunk—there’s a sharp presence in his orbs that signifies he’s fully there with his mind—and it’s somehow more unnerving.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he tries with another one of his chuckles.

“Wrong,” Natasha responds, tone flat. “It does now.”

The man stares at her for a beat too long, probably weighing his odds. A frown appears on his face, as he’s clearly irritated. After a couple of seconds in silence he mutters something under his breath, then stalks towards the exit.

The silence that follows is almost heavier than before.

My heart thuds so hard I can swear she can hear it from where she stands. Her steps are unhurried as she bridges the last meters between us, like she didn’t just scare away a grown man with nothing more than words.

It’s not like I managed to do that.

“Fuck,” I mutter. My tired brain got a kick from the adrenaline suddenly rushing through it for the last three minutes, and I take a deep breath to regain some control over my body.

Natasha says nothing as she halts next to me.

“You always lurking in garages at midnight,” I say, trying to sound casual, breathing out slowly. “or do I just attract your attention?” There. There’s me again.

Her mouth curves, but it’s not quite a smile. There’s still a warning in her eyes, mixed with something I can’t read. “You seem to attract trouble.”

I bristle at that. “I had it under control.” I didn’t, really.

Her gaze flicks to my clenched fist around my keys, then back up to my face. “Sure. That’s why you practically froze.”

Gratefulness makes place for a little irritation as heat rises in my chest. “Thanks for the analysis, Doctor Romanoff.”

“Just an observation.” She moves past me toward the elevator, pressing the button to go up. “You should be more careful.”

“Thanks, mom.”

The elevator doors slide open. I hesitate, debating whether to take the stairs just to avoid being locked in a metal box with her, even just for under a minute. But she already stepped inside, raising an eyebrow at me.

Cowardice isn’t really my thing—yes, there are reasonable exceptions—so I step in too, chin high.

I know I should just thank her and go on with it, but somehow my stubbornness wins and won’t grant her the satisfaction of a thanks. Not while she’s so cocky. And so brilliantly, effortlessly, infuriatingly indifferent.

Now that we’re in a smaller space, her perfume wraps around me. Something dark, subtle, expensive. It’s nice. Too nice. I absolutely hate it. I hate how aware I am of it, too.

Finally, I mutter, “do you always scare people off with death stares, or was that special for me?”

“Hm,” she hums. Then, after a beat: “Most people I confront don’t argue back.”

Fucking ego. I glance at her. I get why some people might find her intimidating, but the fact she’s aware of it and admits it so bluntly is just annoying. “Maybe you’re used to people being scared of you.”

And she doesn’t deny that either. Just holds my gaze with those unreadable green eyes, until I look away first. Damn it.

The elevator dings at our floor, and we step out. She falls into a stride beside me. I’m suddenly extremely aware of how perfect she must look next to me, so I straighten my spine. God, I need to sleep.

We’re both silent, until I reach my door.

Forcing my fingers to steadily turn the key in the slot, I’m pretty sure I hide my slight tremble. “I don’t need you to watch over me,” I say, sharper than I intend.

Her greens flick over my face, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. Then she leans forward slightly, her voice dropping low. “Good. Because I’m not watching over you.”

What was she even doing—

“What were you even doing down there at midnight?” I blurt my thoughts out loud before she can vanish into her own hall. “It’s Monday.”

Natasha pauses, turning slowly, her cool mask still firmly in place. Zero fucking emotion. “Getting home.”

I raise one brow. “From where?”

“My work keeps odd hours,” is all she says as she glances back over her shoulder.

“That’s vague. Normal people don’t just appear in parking garages at the exact right time, at a weird hour like this.”

“You’re bratty,” she says, voice low, a silent warning.

“You’re avoiding my questions,” I respond, somehow still awake enough to fire shots at the woman who just saved my ass, for god's sake.

And I can’t help myself. I can’t help myself. Something about her triggers me to argue, to not let her win.

“So, what are you, a spy? Secretly Batman? Stalker?” I theatrically gasp with the last bit of energy I have, bringing my hand dramatically towards my chest. “You like me after all?”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a cold smirk, and the color in her irises turns icy, sharp. “If I were, do you think I’d tell you?”

I huff, crossing my arms. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re loud,” she counters, strolling back toward me, unhurried. Her eyes are still sharp, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my stomach twist.

She stops close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her. And smell her perfume, curling around me like smoke. “Just say thank you and get over it.”

My body screams to avoid her gaze, but I force myself to look into her eyes. My throat goes dry, but I refuse to step back or look away. She can’t just win everything she wants.

I am absolutely grateful, but she’s still a bitch.

My mind’s foggy with the tiredness from work and the dip after the adrenaline rush, Natasha being so close to me, and her stupid, alluring smell. I definitely need to go.

“Thank me and promise me to watch out,” she says slowly, stern.

The expression on my face turns from firm to confused. I want to tell her to fuck off and slam the door close behind my body, but instead I somehow give in. “Thanks,” I hiss through my teeth.

“Good.” Then she pushes off the wall and walks away, leaving me somewhat pinned against the frame of my own door, fists clenched in frustration. And it’s not the first fucking time.

I hate her.

I hate it was her who helped me.

And she’s absolutely not the reason my fingers travel south down my body once I’m finally in the warmth of my bed, in sudden need to ease the tension that somehow built in my body and core, before I can get to sleep.

Definitely not.