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The night always seemed to belong to Natasha. The way she carried herself, deliberate, steady, untouchable, made every crowded room bend toward her orbit. Wanda had told herself a hundred times that she didn’t care, that the ache in her chest wasn’t longing but curiosity, but even she didn’t believe her own lies anymore.
The problem was Natasha didn’t belong to her. Not really.
On paper, it was nothing, a handful of hookups, late-night texts, reckless kisses in cars that still smelled like takeout. Natasha had been clear from the start: no attachment, no expectations. A line Wanda swore she could walk. Except somewhere between fumbling in the backseat and waking up with her bra folded neatly into Natasha’s dresser drawer, Wanda lost the ability to tell herself this was casual.
“Why do you look like you’ve been ghosted again?” Pietro’s voice dragged her out of her spiraling thoughts.
Wanda glanced up from the dorm couch where she’d been scrolling through her phone, Natasha’s name bold at the top of their latest message thread, unopened, unanswered. Pietro plopped down beside her, smelling like beer and cheap cologne, his hair an untamed halo.
“I haven’t been ghosted,” Wanda muttered, shoving her phone into her hoodie pocket.
“You always look like this when it’s about her,” Pietro said, leaning back. “And don’t deny it. I can literally see your heart bleeding out of your face.”
Wanda groaned and grabbed a pillow, smacking him with it. “Shut up.”
“Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just saying, if she hasn’t claimed you in public, she’s not planning to.” Pietro’s words cut sharper than he knew. Or maybe he did know. He was her twin, after all.
Before Wanda could snap back, the dorm door opened and Kate Bishop breezed in, juggling a coffee tray and a bag that smelled suspiciously like garlic knots.
“I bring peace offerings,” Kate announced, kicking the door shut. “And by peace, I mean carbs.”
Wanda stood quickly, thankful for the distraction. Kate passed her a cup, then raised an eyebrow at the awkward tension.
“Did I miss something?” Kate asked, eyes flicking between the twins.
“Nothing,” Wanda said quickly. “Pietro’s being annoying.”
“Correction,” Pietro chimed, reaching for a garlic knot. “I’m being honest.”
Kate’s gaze narrowed, then softened with understanding. “Ah. Her.”
Wanda groaned again, this time louder. “Can everyone stop?”
But they didn’t. Because no one ever did when it came to Natasha Romanoff.
Meanwhile, across the city, Natasha leaned against the bar counter of Clint Barton’s apartment, nursing a whiskey. Clint was sprawled on the couch, flicking through channels, too relaxed for someone whose living room looked like a secondhand furniture store.
“You’re brooding,” Clint said without looking up.
“I don’t brood,” Natasha muttered.
“Right, you just quietly glare at walls while drinking.” He smirked when she shot him a look.
Clint clicked the TV off and leaned forward. “It’s about Wanda, isn’t it?”
Natasha didn’t flinch, but the silence was an answer in itself.
“Nat,” Clint sighed. “You can’t keep stringing her along. Either you want her or you don’t. But you can’t keep doing this halfway thing. She’s not built like you, she catches feelings.”
Natasha rolled her glass between her palms, the ice clinking like a clock ticking down. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s only complicated because you make it complicated.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Natasha didn’t move.
Clint watched her, waiting. “You’re gonna lose her.”
Natasha swallowed hard, the whiskey burning down her throat. She didn’t answer.
_________
Two days later, Wanda found herself in Natasha’s car again. The city lights blurred past the windows, Natasha’s hand steady on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console like it belonged close to Wanda’s thigh.
Wanda’s pulse betrayed her.
“Where are we going?” she asked softly.
“Nowhere,” Natasha said, lips curling. “Everywhere.”
It should have been romantic. Instead, Wanda felt like a passenger in more ways than one, along for a ride she didn’t control, waiting for Natasha to decide where they would end up.
And when Natasha parked on some dark side street, leaning over to kiss her with the kind of hunger that made Wanda’s head spin, she let herself forget the question she’d been dying to ask: Is it casual now?
Because Natasha never gave her an answer.
Only another kiss.
Wanda stumbled back into her dorm that night, hair mussed, lips swollen, heart in knots. Kate was awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed, pretending to study but clearly waiting.
“You look,” Kate hesitated, then smirked. “Well-fucked.”
“Kate!” Wanda hissed, cheeks burning.
“Am I wrong?”
Wanda threw her jacket at her friend, but Kate caught it effortlessly, laughing. Then her expression softened. “You like her too much, Wands.”
Wanda sank into her bed, staring at the ceiling. “I know.”
The silence that followed was louder than any fight.
_______
The first time Natasha kissed her hadn’t been in some grand, cinematic moment. No strings of lights, no music swelling in the background. It was in Natasha’s car, parked on the shoulder of a near-empty road, the air heavy with silence after Wanda had confessed, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, that she didn’t want to go home yet.
Natasha had looked at her, eyes darker than the night, then leaned across the console and pressed her mouth to Wanda’s like she’d been waiting years to do it.
That kiss rewired Wanda’s universe.
Now, weeks later, Wanda found herself caught in the same loops, the stolen car rides, the whispered nothings that sounded like promises but never were, the way Natasha’s touch felt like both salvation and punishment.
“Are you even listening to me?” Natasha’s voice pulled her out of her daze.
They were back in the car again, parked behind a diner this time, the engine cooling with soft ticks. Wanda blinked at her, lips parting, but Natasha was already leaning closer.
Her kiss was rougher tonight, tinged with frustration or maybe hunger, Wanda couldn’t tell. A hand slid under her sweater, fingertips skating across skin that instantly flushed. Wanda gasped, tilting her head back, every thought scattering.
“You’re impossible,” Natasha murmured against her jaw, lips brushing hot trails downward.
“Then stop,” Wanda challenged, though her body betrayed her by arching into the touch.
Natasha chuckled low, a sound that sank into Wanda’s bones. “Not a chance.”
Moments later, Wanda was half-sprawled in the passenger seat, breath catching as Natasha pushed her closer to the edge. The windows fogged, a haze cocooning them in their own little world. Wanda’s pulse thundered in her ears, matching the rhythm of Natasha’s mouth, the rough leather seat digging into her thighs as she clawed for something solid to hold onto.
This wasn’t casual. It couldn’t be. Not when every nerve in her body screamed Natasha’s name.
When it was over, when Wanda slumped back into the seat, trembling and flushed, Natasha smirked and licked her thumb clean before turning the key in the ignition like nothing earth-shattering had just happened.
Wanda wanted to say something, what are we? , but the words caught in her throat.
Instead, she asked, “So we’re just not talking about this?”
Natasha’s eyes stayed on the road. “We don’t have to.”
It was both a gift and a knife, that answer.
_______________
The bathroom incident came two weeks later.
Natasha had taken her to dinner, not a date, of course, never called that, at a nice Italian place downtown. They’d been seated across from Natasha’s parents, who treated Wanda with startling warmth, her mother asking questions, her father laughing at Pietro stories that Wanda shared.
It should’ve been sweet. Instead, Wanda’s stomach tied itself into knots with every affectionate glance Natasha’s mom sent her way, every subtle squeeze of her hand under the table that Natasha pretended not to notice.
Halfway through dessert, Natasha leaned in, whispered, “Come with me.”
Wanda followed her into the restaurant bathroom like she didn’t have a choice, like Natasha’s gravity was too strong to resist.
The lock clicked, and then Natasha had her pinned against the wall, lips demanding, hands tugging, breath hot with the wine they’d shared.
“This is crazy,” Wanda whispered, though her legs wrapped tight around Natasha’s hips.
“Exactly,” Natasha muttered, before devouring her mouth again.
It was frantic, forbidden, and Wanda drowned in it. Every scrape of teeth, every muffled moan, every press of Natasha’s body burned into her skin like a brand. She wanted to be owned, even if Natasha refused to claim her.
Later, when she stumbled back to the table, hair mussed and lips swollen, Natasha’s parents gave her kind smiles as if nothing was wrong. Wanda felt sick with the contradiction, loved by them, hidden by her.
___________
The bedroom moments were worse in a way, because they felt too close to real.
One night, Wanda woke in Natasha’s bed, sunlight cutting across the sheets. She found her favorite bra tucked into the dresser drawer, like Natasha had made space for her without meaning to.
She lay there, watching Natasha breathe, her red hair a messy halo, her lips parted slightly in sleep. Wanda’s heart clenched with the sight, so human, so soft, so hers.
Except she wasn’t hers.
When Natasha stirred awake, stretching with a groan, Wanda almost whispered the words, I love you.
Instead, Natasha kissed her shoulder and said, “Don’t catch feelings, Maximoff.”
Wanda laughed like it was a joke. Like her heart wasn’t already in Natasha’s hands.
_____________
Days bled together like that, the highs burning hotter, the lows cutting deeper. Pietro teased her about the sleepovers, Kate gave her pitying looks when she came home smelling like Natasha’s perfume. Clint raised an eyebrow every time Natasha disappeared for hours without explanation.
And Yelena, Yelena watched.
The younger sister had an uncanny way of seeing through walls, and Wanda swore she could feel her judgment every time they crossed paths.
One afternoon, while waiting for Natasha at the Barton farm, Wanda found herself cornered in the kitchen with Yelena.
“You think this will end well?” Yelena asked, tone flat.
Wanda froze, mug halfway to her lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do.” Yelena’s eyes were sharp. “You’re playing house with someone who doesn’t want a house. Don’t be stupid.”
Wanda bristled, defensive heat curling in her chest. “You don’t know her like I do.”
Yelena smirked, cruel in its honesty. “And you don’t know her like I do.”
The words stuck like splinters, festering long after Natasha appeared, brushing a kiss to Wanda’s temple like nothing had happened.
That night, Wanda lay awake in Natasha’s bed again, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breaths beside her.
Her chest ached.
She wasn’t the chill girl. She wasn’t casual. She wanted more, and it was tearing her apart.
_________
The invitation blindsided her.
A few months into their undefined orbit, Natasha leaned back in her chair one night, scrolling through her phone with the same casualness she wore like armor, and said, “My mom wants you to come to the house this weekend. She’s cooking.”
Wanda froze mid-bite of takeout noodles, chopsticks dangling. “Your mom?”
Natasha hummed in confirmation, not looking up.
“That’s in Long Beach.”
Another hum. As if the distance, as if the meaning , didn’t register.
Wanda set her food down, her pulse a mess. “Are you serious?”
Natasha finally glanced at her, smirk tugging at her lips. “What, you scared of my family?”
Wanda’s stomach flipped. She wanted to laugh, to match Natasha’s teasing tone, but her chest ached instead. Meeting a mom wasn’t casual. Meeting a mom meant something.
Unless, of course, Natasha was just that good at compartmentalizing.
“Sure,” Wanda managed, though the word tasted like nerves.
___________
Natasha's parents house in Long Beach was warm, sunlit, and filled with the kind of love Wanda hadn’t grown up with. Natasha’s mother swept her in with easy kindness, pressing a kiss to her cheek and insisting she eat more than she could manage. The table was loud with laughter, with shared stories Natasha never told Wanda in their quiet, stolen hours.
For a moment, Wanda let herself imagine this was real, that she was the girlfriend being proudly shown off, not the secret Natasha hid when convenient. She laughed too loudly at a joke from Natasha’s father, let her hand linger on Natasha’s under the table.
Natasha didn’t move her hand away.
That tiny rebellion set Wanda’s heart on fire.
Later, when they stood on the balcony overlooking the water, Natasha leaned against the railing, hair catching the salt-kissed breeze. Wanda joined her, silence stretching between them.
“You didn’t tell me they’d like me,” Wanda whispered.
Natasha shrugged, eyes fixed on the horizon. “You’re likable.”
Wanda’s throat tightened. “Then why don’t you-” She stopped herself, the words too heavy to risk.
Natasha turned, studying her with unreadable eyes. “Why don’t I what?”
Wanda’s heart pounded. Why don’t you claim me? Why don’t you love me out loud?
She swallowed it all down. “Nothing.”
Natasha reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear, and kissed her like she could make Wanda forget the question. And for a while, Wanda let herself.
But Yelena didn’t.
Natasha's younger sister had come along that weekend too, and she wasn’t subtle about her disapproval.
On the second night, Wanda wandered into the kitchen for water, only to find Yelena leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
“You’re brave,” Yelena said without preamble.
Wanda frowned. “Brave?”
“Meeting the family. Playing house.” Yelena tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Do you really think this means something?”
Heat flushed Wanda’s cheeks. “It does,” she snapped before she could stop herself.
Yelena smirked, pity flashing behind it. “You poor thing. You actually believe that.”
Anger sparked in Wanda’s chest, but before she could fire back, Natasha entered, a hand brushing Wanda’s lower back like instinct.
Yelena’s gaze flicked down at the touch, then back up, her smile cold. “Sweet dreams.”
When she left, Wanda leaned against the counter, breath shaky.
“She’s protective,” Natasha said simply, as if that explained everything.
“Protective of you, or protective of me?” Wanda asked softly.
Natasha didn’t answer.
________
Back at the dorm a few days later, Kate sprawled on her bed while Wanda paced the room, phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline.
“So, let me get this straight,” Kate said, counting on her fingers. “She takes you to Long Beach. You meet her parents. You literally hold hands under the table like it’s a 1950s prom night. And she still won’t call you her girlfriend?”
Wanda sank into her chair, face in her hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”
“It is pathetic.” Kate’s voice softened immediately. “Not you, her. Stringing you along like this.”
Wanda peeked through her fingers. “But she doesn’t string me along. She’s honest. She said no attachment.”
Kate gave her the kind of look that burned. “And yet your bra is in her dresser.”
Wanda groaned into her palms.
Kate sighed, swinging her legs off the bed to sit beside her. “Wands, you deserve someone who doesn’t make you guess.”
Wanda’s chest tightened. She thought of Natasha’s hand on hers at the dinner table, of her mother’s warm smile, of the way Natasha kissed her under the balcony stars.
And still, she whispered, “I don’t want to lose her.”
Kate’s silence was louder than any words.
Pietro wasn’t any gentler.
“Let me get this straight,” he said one afternoon at the campus café. “She’ll fuck you in a restaurant bathroom but won’t call you her girlfriend?”
Wanda smacked his arm, face flaming. “Keep your voice down!”
“I’m just saying!” Pietro threw his hands up. “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck-”
“It’s complicated,” Wanda muttered, stirring her untouched coffee.
“No, it’s not,” Pietro snapped, for once losing his usual joking tone. “She either wants you or she doesn’t. And if she did, you’d know. You wouldn’t have to guess, Wanda.”
Her eyes stung, and she stared into the swirling foam.
Pietro softened instantly, sighing. “I just don’t want to watch you break your own heart over someone who won’t even say your name out loud.”
Wanda blinked fast, forcing back tears. “She’s not like that. She’s just guarded.”
Pietro shook his head. “You can’t guard forever.”
________
That night, back in Natasha’s bed, Wanda traced idle patterns on her skin, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you ever think about the future?” she asked quietly.
Natasha hummed, eyes half-closed. “The future?”
“Yeah,” Wanda said, her voice catching. “Like a year from now. Where we’d be.”
Natasha opened one eye, smirking. “You mean if we’d still be in each other’s beds?”
Wanda’s chest constricted. “Something like that.”
Natasha rolled over, kissed her lazily, then shut her eyes again.
And Wanda lay awake, realizing that for Natasha, maybe that was all the future there’d ever be.
________
The night it all came apart wasn’t special. No anniversaries, no milestones, no excuses. Just another evening at Clint’s apartment, a casual hangout that Natasha insisted Wanda come to.
The living room buzzed with warmth, Clint arguing with Yelena over a movie choice, Pietro and Kate raiding the fridge, Wanda curled on the edge of the couch with a beer she wasn’t really drinking. Natasha sat beside her, close but not touching, laughing at something Clint said, like they weren’t sharing a bed most nights.
That’s what hurt most: the distance disguised as closeness.
Halfway through the movie, Pietro slid onto the armrest beside Wanda. He leaned down, his voice low but sharp. “You okay?”
She nodded quickly. Too quickly.
Pietro’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward Natasha. “You don’t look okay.”
“Drop it,” Wanda muttered, taking a sip of her beer to shut him up.
But Pietro wasn’t the only one watching. Yelena, sprawled on the rug, cut in. “He’s right. She doesn’t.”
The room went still for a second, the air thick with unspoken things.
Natasha finally turned, brows raising. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Yelena smirked, leaning back on her hands. “Just that Wanda deserves better than playing house in the shadows.”
Natasha’s jaw tightened. “Yelena.”
“What?!” Yelena snapped. “You drag her around like she’s disposable, and everyone’s just supposed to pretend it’s normal? At least I’m honest.”
Wanda’s cheeks burned. She wanted to disappear into the couch cushions.
Clint cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to defuse. “Maybe now’s not the-”
But Pietro jumped in, voice sharp. “No, I want to hear this. Because my sister comes home looking wrecked half the time, and we all know why.”
“Pietro,” Wanda hissed, mortified.
He ignored her. “You sleep with her, you take her to meet your parents, you let her think it’s something, and then you, what? Pretend she’s just another girl on your couch?”
The words landed like blows.
Natasha’s eyes flashed, but her voice stayed steady. Too steady. “I never promised her anything.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Wanda stood abruptly, setting her beer down with shaking hands. “I need air.”
She was out the door before anyone could stop her.
Natasha found her a few minutes later on the building’s fire escape, arms wrapped around herself, the city glowing below.
“Wanda,” Natasha started carefully.
“Don’t,” Wanda whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare say my name like that.”
Natasha froze. “Like what?”
“Like I’m yours.” Wanda spun, eyes wet. “Because I’m not, am I? You won’t even say it. Not to your friends, not to your sister, not even to me.”
Natasha’s chest rose and fell. “You knew what this was.”
“I thought I did!” Wanda snapped. “But then you brought me home. You let your mom hug me, you let me sit at your dinner table, you held my hand under the fucking tablecloth, and you want me to believe that’s casual?”
Natasha flinched, just barely.
Wanda stepped closer, voice trembling. “You say ‘no attachment,’ but you kiss me like you mean it. You tuck my things into your drawer. You let me stay the night. And I’ve been killing myself trying to be the chill girl, trying to pretend it doesn’t matter. But it does. It does.”
Her voice cracked. “It matters to me.”
Natasha’s expression faltered, the mask slipping for half a second, enough for Wanda to see something raw underneath. Then it was gone, replaced by the practiced calm she always wore.
“You’re asking me for something I can’t give.”
Wanda’s breath hitched, her chest caving. “Then why- why do you keep taking pieces of me like you can?”
Natasha didn’t answer.
And that silence was louder than any rejection.
Wanda’s hands shook as she wiped her cheeks. “I hate myself for letting it drag on this long,” she whispered. “I hate that I let you make me feel like I was less than I am. But I can’t do it anymore.”
Natasha reached out, almost on instinct, but Wanda stepped back.
“No,” Wanda said firmly, even as her voice broke. “You don’t get to touch me like that anymore.”
The finality of it hung between them, heavy as the city air.
Wanda brushed past her, back into the apartment, ignoring the way Pietro’s face softened, the way Kate rose like she wanted to help. Wanda kept her head high, even though her heart felt like it was breaking open inside her chest.
Natasha stayed on the fire escape, staring at the skyline, as if it held answers she couldn’t give.
That night, Wanda lay in her bed with Kate quietly reading beside her. Pietro had stormed off somewhere, too furious to sit still. Wanda stared at the ceiling, eyes dry from crying until there was nothing left.
Kate reached out, slipping her hand into Wanda’s. No words, no platitudes, just quiet solidarity.
And for the first time in weeks, Wanda didn’t feel like she was drowning.
_______
The days after the fire escape fight stretched long and hollow.
Wanda went through the motions, classes, coffee runs with Kate, strained phone calls with Pietro, but everything felt dulled. The city lights blurred past her on bus rides, the noise of campus washed over her like static. Her heart ached in quiet, persistent waves, each one whispering Natasha’s name.
Her phone stayed stubbornly silent. No late-night texts. No casual “you up?” messages. No calls that made her chest leap and burn all at once.
It should’ve been easier that way. It wasn’t.
Kate hovered, gentle and steady, always within reach but never pressing. Pietro stormed around like a thundercloud, muttering curses about “red-haired devils” and swearing he’d never let Wanda near Natasha again.
But nothing eased the empty space Natasha left behind.
_______
Natasha, meanwhile, unraveled in private.
She told herself it was fine, that this was what she wanted. No attachments. No mess. She’d been clear from the start.
So why did the apartment feel colder without Wanda’s sweater draped over her chair? Why did the silence press in harder without Wanda’s soft humming in the kitchen? Why did her dresser drawer feel wrong, half-full with a bra and a T-shirt she couldn’t bring herself to throw away?
Clint found her on his couch again a week later, staring at nothing with a glass in hand.
“You look like hell,” he said, dropping beside her.
Natasha didn’t even flinch. “I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” Clint leaned forward, voice gentler. “You lost her, didn’t you?”
Natasha’s jaw tightened, throat closing around the truth.
“Nat,” Clint pressed. “She’s not like the others. You can’t treat her like they didn’t matter and expect her to survive it. She loved you.”
The words sliced her open. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down. “Doesn’t matter. She deserves someone better.”
Clint sighed, shaking his head. “And what if she just wanted you?”
Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
_______
Wanda saw her again two weeks later.
It wasn’t planned, just bad luck. Or maybe fate, cruel as always.
She’d ducked into the little café near campus, Kate trailing behind, when she saw the flash of red hair at a corner table. Natasha, hunched over her coffee, looking as wrecked as Wanda felt.
For a moment, neither moved. Just silence, heavy and thick, stretching across the room.
Then Natasha stood.
“Wanda,” she said softly, as if the name was both a prayer and a curse.
Wanda’s throat closed. “Don’t.”
Natasha flinched. “Please. Just hear me out.”
Kate shifted uneasily, but Wanda held up a hand, eyes locked on Natasha’s. “Fine. Talk.”
Natasha swallowed, stepping closer. Her voice cracked around the edges, raw in a way Wanda had never heard. “I screwed up. I thought I could keep you at a distance, that if I didn’t name it, it wouldn’t matter. But it did. You mattered. More than I wanted to admit.”
Wanda’s chest ached, her hands trembling at her sides.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Natasha confessed, eyes glistening. “But I want to try. With you. If you’ll let me.”
For one heartbeat, Wanda wanted to believe it. To throw herself back into Natasha’s arms, to pretend the past weeks hadn’t hollowed her out.
But then she remembered the fire escape. The silence. The countless times she’d begged for scraps of affection while Natasha hoarded the real thing.
Her heart clenched. Her voice came out broken. “You don’t get to come back now.”
Natasha’s face fell.
Wanda blinked fast, forcing the tears down. “I begged you to see me. I begged you to choose me. And you didn’t. You let me bleed for you until there was nothing left. And now you say you want to try?” She shook her head, bitterness sharp in her throat. “You’re too late.”
Natasha reached out instinctively, but Wanda stepped back like the touch would burn.
“Don’t,” Wanda whispered. “Please. Don’t make this harder.”
For the first time, Natasha looked lost. Truly lost. Her mouth opened, closed, words dying before they could form.
And Wanda turned away, before she could lose her resolve.
Kate was at her side in an instant, hand slipping into hers, steadying her as they walked out of the café. Wanda’s chest cracked with every step, each one tearing further away from the woman she’d loved too much.
Behind her, Natasha stood frozen, a statue carved from regret, watching the only person who had ever made her believe in more disappear out the door.
___________
That night, Wanda cried until her chest hurt, Pietro hovering in the doorway like a guard dog, Kate rubbing circles into her back.
She hated Natasha. She loved Natasha. She hated herself for still loving her.
And somewhere across the city, Natasha sat alone in her apartment, staring at the drawer that still held Wanda’s things, whispering her name into the empty air, knowing she had no one to blame but herself.
It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t healing. It was heartbreak, raw and ugly and final.
And it was all they’d ever have.