natasha romanoff x fem!reader one-shots

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 (𝟑/𝟓)

All eyes are on you when you storm back into the house.

Cheeks red, eyes puffy, jaw set stubbornly. Your mom calls after you to stop and talk to her, but you ignore her. Your feet thunder against the steps as you make a beeline for your bedroom. The door shuts behind you, drowning out your mother's voice.

You don't answer when she knocks on your door. You locked it to keep everyone else out, anyway, so you cover your head with a pillow and shut your eyes. The tears are silent, but they soak into the bedsheets underneath you.

After a moment, you hear your mother's concerned voice as she retreats from your bedroom again.

Good. It's better to be alone with your thoughts, even if they're louder than your pounding heartbeat. They swirl together into one confusing mess, with only one clear goal — straying back to Natasha.

An assassin. One half of you is still in denial, the other half can't bring itself to care. Over weeks, you got to know her, after all. You were privileged enough to see the parts of her that aren't affected by this revelation. The sweet parts, the messy parts.

Without being aware the one thing that defines her in so many ways, you were allowed to know her.

The realization that you truly, actually managed to fall in love with her in a matter of weeks makes another sob ripple through you.

Only the sun outside indicates how much time has passed when you finally remove the pillow from your head. The rain has stopped, leaving a clear sky in its wake. Sunlight floods the room and dips it in honey.

Your eyes land on the suitcase next to the dresser. You've already folded a few dresses and gathered all of your books.

Now, there's nothing left to do but pack. You're leaving tomorrow.

. . .

Your parents wake you up early in the morning.

They make you get out of bed and expertly ignore your puffy eyes as you pick at your breakfast. Your grandma doesn't comment on your appearance, either. You know one thing: secretly, they're all glad this is over. No one's there to sabotage your future anymore.

You want to leave and you also can't bear the thought of it. Going back to New York used to be a relief — back to your friends, your life there. Now, it fills you with dread.

You won't return to this beloved little town for an entire year. By that time, Natasha could be god knows where. And now you're left with nothing but a phone number that surely belongs to a burner phone. Or, if not, Natasha's SIM swapping.

You keep pushing your food around on your plate and decidedly ignore the lack of attention directed at you. The murmur of the conversation is quiet, the clinking of dishes even quieter. At some point, everyone starts getting up.

You say goodbye to your grandparents. Finally, you sit in the back of the car. It's like a familiar movie, watching the neighborhood roll by. The trees' branches seem to wave at you — next year, same time?

You're not sure you want to return.

You rest your head against the window and watch the scenery pass by like a melancholic reel. The diner is a particularly painful sight, and you almost close your eyes. But when you suddenly spot a figure out of the corner of your eye, standing right in front of the building next to it, you're glad you didn't.

It's her.

You quickly sit up straight as your gaze locks with hers. The storm in her eyes is unmistakable, but too complex to decipher from a distance. She doesn't move, doesn't try to signal, but your heart leaps into your throat.