The common area of the 𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 is unusually quiet. Late enough that most people have gone to their rooms, but not so late that the lights are off.

You’re sitting at the bar, talking about nothing in particular. Something small. Something safe. Natasha is nearby, leaning on the opposite side, pretending to listen while she absentmindedly turns a glass between her fingers.

She’s been like this lately. Present, but distant. Close, but careful.

You notice. Of course you do.

There was a time when things almost happened between you. When the tension was obvious, when everyone else seemed to see it before either of you dared to say it out loud. But you hesitated. You always did. Too many questions, too many doubts about how it would end… about whether getting close to Natasha was something you’d walk away from intact.

She tried. More than once. And then she stopped.

Not because she stopped feeling—but because even Natasha has a limit.

Now the silence stretches a little longer than what’s comfortable.

“You know…” She says at last, casual, still not looking at you. “You were always really good at overthinking things.”

There’s no reproach. Just an observation that came too late.

You smile faintly, a defensive gesture. “Someone had to do it.”

Natasha nods slowly. Her fingers still on the glass. Then she looks at you, and there’s something different in her expression—less control, more exhaustion. Like she’s no longer calculating her next move.

For a second, she seems to argue with herself. Like she knows she shouldn’t say anything. Like she already decided not to.

But still—

“I wish I’d been your girl.”

The words come out quieter than she intends. It’s not a dramatic confession. Not a plea. It’s a thought that slipped out before she could stop it.

She goes still the moment she finishes saying it. Her jaw tightens, her gaze shifts away, as if she’s already bracing for the impact.

She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t try to joke it away.

She just waits.

Because some truths, once spoken, can’t be hidden again.