Wanda’s playlist still playing in the background. Natasha’s voice calm. Your hands still remember her skin. But now? Now it’s ‘just friends.’

⸻

The morning after didn’t feel like morning.

It felt like the air was holding its breath.

Natasha was already up by the time you made it to the kitchen. She stood near the coffee maker in one of your shirts—black, oversized, familiar—but it felt like a ghost was wearing it now. Like the weight of the night before still clung to the fabric, and you couldn’t breathe without tasting it.

“Morning,” she said, as if she hadn’t fallen asleep tangled in your sheets. As if her hands hadn’t mapped out every inch of you twelve hours ago. Her voice was steady, her face unreadable—perfect spy form.

You wished she would say something real instead.

You nodded, tried to smile, but it felt crooked. “Hey.”

You didn’t sit at the kitchen island. You didn’t dare. Because that was where she’d kissed you, perched on the stool like it meant nothing, like it was just a whim. But it hadn’t been nothing. Not to you.

You leaned against the counter instead, watching her pour the coffee. Her movements were smooth. Casual. Like it was just another day at the compound. Just another friendly morning. Just another heartbreak.

“You sleep okay?” she asked.

You couldn’t answer that. Because you’d woken up alone. Because you’d spent hours listening to the silence where her breathing used to be. Because you’d traced your own skin trying to feel where she’d touched you.

Instead, you said, “Fine.”

She handed you a mug without meeting your eyes. Her fingers brushed yours, and it was almost cruel how easily she let go.

There was a pause. A long one. You didn’t fill it. Neither did she.

And then she said it. Too calmly.

“So… we’re good, right?”

You blinked. “Good?”

She looked at you, and there was something too bright in her eyes. “We’re going back to being friends. Like before.”

Like before. Before the hallway kiss. Before her laugh in your neck. Before her hand tugged you back into bed when you tried to leave.

“Sure,” you said, voice breaking in a place you hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Back to being friends.”

But all you could see was her mouth on yours. All you could feel was the echo of her skin against yours. Every glance at her was a memory. A flash. A mistake you didn’t regret.

She was sipping her coffee now. Talking about training schedules. Something about Steve wanting everyone up early tomorrow. Something normal. Something safe.

And all you could think was:

How can we go back to being friends… when we just shared a bed?

You nodded along, smiling at the right words, pretending not to notice that her voice faltered every time you got too close. Pretending not to notice her eyes lingered a second too long on your lips.

Friends. Right.

You burned your tongue on the coffee just to feel something else.