Chapter Text
Natasha Romanoff had never been the kind of person who liked to admit defeat.
She was meticulous, sharp, the one who spotted cracks before anyone else even noticed the foundation shifting. That was her reputation at Stark Industries, and she had built it through sleepless nights, through living on takeout cartons and bottomless coffee mugs, through saying “yes” to projects that should have belonged to entire teams. Natasha didn’t crack. Natasha didn’t falter. Natasha kept going.
But lately—even she had to admit—something was wrong.
The numbers on her monitor blurred at the edges. The spreadsheets she’d once been able to parse in minutes took her hours. Yesterday she’d sent the wrong files to a client, a rookie mistake she would’ve once scolded an intern for. And this morning, in the elevator up to the forty-second floor, she’d caught sight of her reflection in the chrome: eyes ringed dark like bruises, hair pulled back with little care, lips pressed thin in a way that made her look more like her own ghost than a woman alive.
She hadn’t had a proper holiday since 2018. Not that anyone really had, back then. A pandemic, a crisis of markets, restructuring, and Tony—visionary that he was—had leaned hard on his most trusted employees. Natasha had leaned harder on herself. She’d kept promising she’d take a week, then a long weekend, then maybe just a day, after the next contract was finalized, after the next project wrapped. But there was always another “after.”
And now here she was.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as if the words might simply type themselves. They didn’t. She blinked, realized she’d been staring at the same line of data for nearly fifteen minutes, and dragged her hands through her hair.
“Romanoff.”
The voice cut through the low hum of the office. Not sharp, not angry, but weighted in a way that made her stomach tighten.
She turned. Tony Stark was leaning against her cubicle partition, his tie undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he’d come straight out of a meeting. He didn’t often wander down to where the analysts sat; if Tony Stark came to you personally, it usually meant trouble.
“Boss,” she said carefully, straightening in her chair.
He studied her in silence. He was good at that—at reading people, peeling them apart with nothing more than an arched brow and a tilt of his head. For a long beat, the only sound was the low hum of keyboards around them.
Finally, he sighed. “Come with me.”
Natasha’s throat went dry. She rose, legs stiff, and followed him down the corridor.
His office was glass and steel, high above Manhattan. A skyline view worth millions, a desk scattered with prototypes and half-finished sketches, a space meant to inspire genius. Natasha had been in here dozens of times before, but never had it felt so much like stepping into a principal’s office.
Tony gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
She sat, spine straight, hands folded in her lap.
He lowered himself into his chair with a groan, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “You look like death microwaved.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“Sure. And I’m a kindergarten teacher.” He dropped his hand, fixing her with a look that was equal parts concern and exasperation. “Nat, you’ve been on my payroll long enough that I know when you’re circling the drain. The last week alone, you’ve made three mistakes I wouldn’t expect from an intern, let alone you. You’re not fine.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I can fix it.”
“I don’t want you to fix it.” His tone sharpened. “I want you to stop before you break yourself in half.”
Her lips parted, then shut. She hadn’t realized until that moment how tightly she’d been wound, how close to snapping the elastic band inside her chest had become.
“I can’t take time off now,” she tried. “We’re in the middle of the Barton deal, and the French contract—”
“And you think the company is going to implode if you’re not here to babysit it?” He spread his hands, incredulous. “Newsflash: Stark Industries will survive one Romanoff-shaped vacation. What we can’t survive is burning out the people who actually keep this place running.”
She swallowed. “I don’t need a vacation.”
Tony leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “When’s the last time you saw sunlight that wasn’t filtered through bulletproof glass?”
Natasha’s silence was damning.
He pointed a finger at her like he was sealing a deal. “You’re done. Starting today. Mandatory leave, effective immediately. Take a week, two weeks, hell, take a month. Go sleep in, eat something that doesn’t come in a paper bag, and maybe—crazy thought—talk to an actual human being who isn’t in accounting.”
Her stomach sank. The idea of walking away, even briefly, twisted something in her chest. Work was what she had, what she was good at, what kept her moving forward. Without it, what was left?
She forced her voice steady. “Tony, I don’t want—”
“I don’t care.” His tone was gentler this time, but final. “This isn’t a negotiation, Nat. You’re one of the best people I’ve got, but you’re running yourself into the ground. I’ve seen it before, and I’m not watching it happen to you. Pack up. Go home.”
The word hit her like a hammer: home.
A word that meant an apartment on the Upper East Side, the walls lined with bookshelves, the faint scent of cinnamon from Ophelia’s endless candles, laughter sometimes filling the rooms. She thought of her girlfriend, of warm evenings curled on the couch, of a bed that didn’t know the shape of her body anymore because she hadn’t been in it long enough to leave an impression.
That was supposed to be home. And yet the thought of going there made her chest tighten, made her throat feel raw.
Still, she knew when a battle wasn’t worth fighting.
She rose slowly. “Fine.”
Tony gave a short nod, as though confirming some unspoken bet with himself. “Good. Go before I have Happy escort you out like a drunk at a gala.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile, though she didn’t quite manage it.
She turned for the door.
Her desk looked small when she returned to it, stripped of its purpose. She shut down her monitor, slid her files into a neat stack, and tucked a single notebook into her bag. Around her, coworkers cast sidelong glances, whispering in tones they thought she couldn’t hear. Natasha ignored them.
By the time she stepped into the elevator, her hands were shaking.
She told herself it was just exhaustion. That once she slept, once she reset, she’d be fine. But she couldn’t shake the unease curling low in her stomach, the sense that she was leaving something more than a job behind.
The drive back to her apartment blurred, traffic lights bleeding together, the rhythm of horns and engines nothing more than background noise. She kept her grip tight on the wheel, as if letting go would mean unraveling entirely.
She thought about what Tony had said—about home, about sunlight, about speaking to people who weren’t on a conference call. She thought about Ophelia, about the text she’d sent that morning promising she’d be late, again.
Natasha hadn’t noticed until now that Ophelia hadn’t replied.
For a moment, she told herself it was nothing. Maybe her girlfriend was asleep, or at yoga, or had left her phone on silent. Maybe.
Still, the unease followed her all the way uptown, a shadow in the passenger seat that no amount of coffee or rationalization could banish.
When she finally pulled into the garage beneath their building, the clock on the dash read 8:42 p.m. The city above was still thrumming, alive, neon and restless, but Natasha felt oddly detached, as though she were watching it all through glass.
She cut the engine, sat for a long moment with her forehead resting against the wheel, and exhaled. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she’d figure out what it meant to not be at Stark, to have hours stretching out in front of her with no deadlines to fill them.
For now, she just had to make it upstairs.
She locked the car, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the elevator that would carry her up to the apartment she hadn’t seen properly in weeks.
The doors slid shut, cutting her off from the world outside.
And in the silence, Natasha Romanoff realized for the first time in years that she didn’t know what waited for her on the other side of the door she called home.
The key turned in the lock with its usual, familiar click.
Natasha’s hand lingered on the knob for just a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t hesitation—she wasn’t the type to hesitate—but there was a strange weight in her chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the gnawing guilt for not answering Ophelia’s texts more often, maybe Tony’s words echoing in her head: Go home.
Home.
She pushed the door open.
The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla candles and wine, a sweetness clinging to the air. The kind of scent that used to mean comfort, warmth. Tonight, it felt… too heavy. Cloying. Natasha dropped her bag by the entryway, slipped her shoes off with mechanical precision, and let her shoulders relax for the first time in hours.
“Ophelia?” she called softly.
No answer.
The lights in the living room were dimmed, just the glow of a lamp spilling across the couch. Two empty wine glasses on the coffee table, one tipped on its side, a dark red stain bleeding into the coaster beneath it. Natasha frowned.
Her chest tightened.
She moved down the hallway, quiet, instinctual. Like stalking a target. The door to their bedroom was half-closed, light spilling through the crack. Shadows moved.
Her gut knew before her mind caught up.
She pushed the door open.
And the world came apart.
Ophelia was there, tangled in the sheets. Her dark hair a mess, her pale skin flushed. Her laughter—low, breathless—died the moment her eyes caught Natasha’s. Next to her, nestled in the bed that Natasha had paid for, that Natasha hadn’t slept in enough nights to make it her own, was a stranger: a redheaded woman with sharp cheekbones and lips still swollen from kisses.
The stranger didn’t flinch. She looked at Natasha with something almost smug in her gaze, like she’d expected this moment, like she wanted to be seen.
Natasha’s throat closed. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe.
“Nat—” Ophelia started, scrambling upright, clutching at the sheets as though modesty could fix this.
Natasha’s voice cracked like glass. “What the fuck is this?”
Her chest heaved, lungs refusing to obey, vision tunneling on the sight in front of her: her girlfriend, her partner, the woman she’d trusted with her softness, with the little pieces of herself she didn’t hand out freely—lying in bed with someone else.
“Baby, I can explain—”
“Don’t you dare call me that.” Her voice rose, sharp, raw, louder than she meant. Rage and grief braided together until they were indistinguishable. “Who the hell is she?”
The redhead smirked faintly, lips parting as if to introduce herself.
Natasha’s hand shot out, finger stabbing toward her. “Shut your mouth.”
Silence. Except for the sound of Natasha’s pulse pounding in her ears, her breathing ragged, the roar of betrayal rushing in her head.
Ophelia was crying now, fumbling over words. “It’s not what it looks like—”
Natasha barked a laugh so bitter it burned her throat. “Not what it looks like? You’re in our bed. With her.” Her voice cracked on the last word, splintering under the weight of it.
She stumbled back a step, hand dragging down her face. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to run, to fight, to do something other than stand here while her heart bled out on the hardwood.
“You—” She pointed at Ophelia again, hand trembling. “You don’t get to make excuses. You don’t get to look at me like I’m the one who’s out of line.”
“I was lonely,” Ophelia whispered, so soft it was almost drowned by the sound of Natasha’s ragged breathing. “You’re never here. You’re always working. I needed—”
Natasha snapped.
Her fist connected with Ophelia’s face before she even realized she’d swung. The crack of bone against bone rang out, sickening and final. Ophelia yelped, collapsing back onto the bed, clutching her jaw, eyes wide in shock and pain.
“Needed?!” Natasha screamed, her voice tearing. “You needed what? To stab me in the back? To throw away everything for this?”
Her chest heaved, every breath a battle, tears burning in her eyes though she refused to let them fall. “I gave you everything, Ophelia. Every piece of me I didn’t think I even had left. And you—” Her voice broke entirely, words choked. “You set it on fire.”
She turned away before her knees could buckle. Ripped the closet open, yanked a duffel bag from the top shelf. She shoved clothes into it with shaking hands—warm sweaters, jeans, anything her fingers touched first. The zipper caught once, twice, before she dragged it closed with enough force to tear the fabric.
Ophelia was sobbing now, trying to stand, babbling apologies. “Nat, please, I love you, I didn’t mean—”
Natasha whirled on her, face twisted in fury and grief. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not now. Not ever again.” Her voice rose to a scream, raw enough to shred her throat. “I expect you out of my house when I come back! Do you hear me? OUT!”
The redhead—Sinthia, she caught the name in a muttered breath—was gathering her clothes, eyes darting like a cornered fox, but Natasha barely saw her anymore. The room was nothing but fire and ash.
She stormed down the hallway, bag slung over her shoulder, fists clenched so tightly her nails cut her palms. Her breath came in ragged sobs, though she forced them down, swallowing her pain in great gulps like poison.
The front door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
The elevator ride down was a blur, her reflection in the mirrored walls unrecognizable—a woman hollowed out, her eyes burning, her face streaked with fury she couldn’t contain.
By the time she stumbled into the garage, her legs were trembling, her body running on nothing but adrenaline. She yanked open the car door, threw her bag onto the passenger seat, and collapsed behind the wheel.
For a long moment, she just sat there, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. The sound of her own ragged breathing filled the car, loud, uneven, broken.
Her phone was in her hand before she even realized she’d pulled it from her pocket. Muscle memory guided her fingers, not thought.
The call rang once, twice, three times. Then a voice, rough with sleep but instantly alert, answered.
“Hello?”
Natasha’s throat tightened. For the first time in what felt like years, her voice cracked, fragile, small.
“Hey,” she whispered, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “It’s me… can I stay, for a while?”