Chapter Text
The next morning, Zaira made it her mission to pretend last night never happened. Like she hadn’t been some sick voyeur, peeping on Wanda and Natasha. Like she hadn’t felt her breath hitch or her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t (shouldn’t) explain. Sleep had not come easily, no matter how desperately she had chased it. Even after a long, cold shower, after scrubbing at her skin until it was raw, she still felt unclean, still felt the weight of her own shame pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. She had been awake when Wanda snuck back into the room. The telltale beep of the lock and the soft creak of the door opening had sent a jolt through her, but she had squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face deeper into her pillow, willing herself to be still. To be silent. To pretend.
Wanda, assuming she was asleep, had been careful. She moved around with practiced quiet, brushing her teeth, changing into her pajamas. The soft rustle of fabric, the faint padding of her footsteps, the almost imperceptible sigh as she slipped beneath her blankets, it was all Zaira could focus on. Even after Wanda had settled in, even after the room had been swallowed by silence save for the steady rhythm of her breathing, sleep still refused to come. She had just laid there. Staring into the darkness, feeling the weight of everything settle in her chest like a stone. Brandy. Natasha. Wanda. Yelena. Loki. Even Agatha . Their faces swam through her mind, overlapping, colliding, tangling together until she could no longer tell where one thought ended and another began.
She felt excitement, real excitement, at the connection forming between her and Wanda, the way it felt like something was shifting between them, something she couldn’t quite name but desperately wanted to hold onto. She felt exhilarated by meeting Loki, by the energy they carried with them, the way their presence had filled the room like something untouchable yet magnetic. And Yelena… God, Yelena. The way she had confided in her, the way she had let her in, even if just a little. That was something precious, something Zaira wanted to protect. It felt like progress. Like healing. Like the smallest holes that had formed in her life over the years were finally beginning to mend.
But then, like always - the happiness turned sour. The excitement curdled into unease. The guilt, the shame, the gnawing anxiety in her gut…it was all-consuming. The day had spun wildly out of her control, and she hated that. She hated the way she had let herself become a bystander to her own life, the way she had lost control of what she was supposed to be feeling. She hated the sick feeling in her stomach when she thought about what she had seen, watching something never meant for her eyes. It made her skin crawl, made her want to shrink into herself and disappear.
And then there was Brandy. Always Brandy.
Even thousands of miles away, her voice echoed in Zaira’s head, like a ghost haunting the very fabric of her thoughts. Slut . That’s what she had called her before. That’s what she would call her now if she knew. Because that’s what Zaira was, wasn’t she? Letting Agatha touch her like that. Letting herself want things she wasn’t supposed to want. Fooling herself into thinking Wanda might look at her as anything more than Natasha’s baby sister’s friend.
And she hadn’t forgotten about Wanda answering Brandy’s call. No. That single moment had etched itself into her brain, looping over and over like a broken record. Brandy’s threats were never empty. If there was one thing Zaira knew without a doubt, it was that. Her stomach twisted as she clenched her fists beneath the blankets, fingernails biting into her palms. Why couldn’t Brandy just leave her alone? Why did she still have this power over her, even from so far away?
She must have fallen asleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion finally dragging her under despite the restless thoughts that had kept her tossing and turning for most of the night. The next thing she knew, gentle hands were shaking her awake. They weren’t forceful, not urgent, just a soft, patient nudging. A groan slips past Zaira’s lips as she instinctively curls deeper into the blankets, seeking warmth and the fleeting comfort of sleep. Her arms sluggishly free themselves from the cocoon of sheets as she blindly swats at the disturbance.
“Yelenaaa,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Bug off… there’s cat treats on the counter.”
A quiet, amused chuckle cuts through the fog in her brain, light and warm. The hands withdraw for a moment, only to return in a much gentler manner. A hand sweeps her hair back from her face, tucking a few stray strands behind her ear with a careful touch.
“Someone’s not a morning person today, are they?”
The smooth voice clears Zaira’s sleepy haze more effectively than anything else could have. That wasn’t Yelena. She knew that voice, could recognize it anywhere. Slowly, she blinks her eyes open, the world coming into focus as she stares up at Wanda. The older woman was leaning over her, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips, her expression one of quiet amusement and unmistakable fondness.
Zaira’s sleep-addled brain took a second to catch up. “You’re not Yelena,” she rasps, sitting up too fast and nearly wobbling from the sudden movement.
Wanda chuckles again, shaking her head. “No, dear, I am most certainly not.”
Zaira scrubs a hand over her face, trying to rub away the last remnants of sleep. “What time is it?”
Wanda hums, tilting her head slightly. “It’s just past nine,” she says softly. “Breakfast is in about an hour, but there’s no rush. You can take your time waking up.”
Zaira exhales slowly, nodding as she stretches her arms over her head, the lingering stiffness of the night still clinging to her muscles. Wanda watched her with patient eyes, a quiet presence beside her.
“I figured you could use the rest,” Wanda continues, voice still gentle. “You seemed exhausted last night.” There was an unspoken question in her words, one Zaira wasn’t quite ready to answer. But Wanda doesn't push. She never does. She simply lets the words hang there, offering comfort without demand.
Zaira swallows, pushing herself to stand. “Yeah… I didn’t sleep great.”
Wanda’s lips press into a slight frown, her brows knitting together. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Zaira hesitates, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “Not really.”
Wanda nods, accepting the answer without hesitation. “Okay,” she says softly. “But if you change your mind, I’m here.”
Something in Zaira’s chest tightens at the sincerity in her voice. She only nods in return before moving to check on her cats, ensuring they were okay before sifting through her suitcase for something to wear. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was putting in the effort at this point. By the time she is ready, Wanda stands by the door, her expression friendly as she meets Zaira’s gaze. “Feeling more awake now?”
“A little,” Zaira admits, brushing a hand through her hair.
Wanda smiles, stepping aside to let her through. “Come on, let’s go eat. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”
Zaira wasn’t sure if that was true, but with Wanda beside her, she figured she could at least try. Together, they make their way downstairs to the resort’s restaurant, where Natasha, Yelena, and apparently Loki were already gathered, waiting for them.
At breakfast, Zaira made sure to pile her plate high with eggs, fruit, toast, a little bit of everything. She didn’t plan on eating much of it, but the goal wasn’t nutrition. The goal was appearances. If her plate looked full enough, if she pushed things around a bit and took a few strategic bites here and there, maybe no one would notice. Maybe Wanda wouldn’t notice. She hated how much she still cared about what Wanda noticed. She picked at a slice of cantaloupe, pretending to focus on her food, though her eyes kept drifting across the table. Wanda wasn’t watching her, thankfully. Her attention was elsewhere, on Natasha, which somehow felt worse.
Zaira’s stomach twists as the memory of last night flickered behind her eyes, uninvited and unwelcome: Wanda kissing Natasha like they were the only two people in the world, like the years between them had just folded in on themselves. Heat blooms in Zaira’s cheeks, and she drops her gaze, heart pounding too fast for a normal breakfast. She needed a distraction.
Anything.
“So,” she says suddenly, turning to Loki with a smile that felt too big, too fake. “Tell me again about the time you almost set your chemistry lab on fire?” Her voice trembles just slightly, but she doubted anyone noticed over the sound of clinking silverware and muffled conversation. Loki doesn't hesitate, slipping effortlessly into another theatrical retelling of their university days, something about an exploding beaker, an accusatory professor, and an improvised escape plan involving a fake fire alarm. Zaira latched onto the story like a lifeline, nodding and laughing in all the right places.
But out of the corner of her eye, she sees it.
Wanda’s hand sliding slowly, deliberately, down Natasha’s arm. The soft trail of fingers was subtle, but intimate. Too intimate. Zaira sees the way Natasha inhales sharply, the way a visible shiver rolls through her. Then Wanda leans in close, whispering something against Natasha’s skin. Something Zaira couldn’t hear, but didn’t need to. The look Natasha gives in return says enough. Zaira bites into a strawberry, its sweetness suddenly bitter in her mouth. She chews slowly, trying not to react. She didn’t want to care. She didn’t want to care.
Across the table, Yelena clears her throat. Loudly. Almost pointedly. Zaira’s eyes flick to her, unsure. Had she been watching too? Does she know? Zaira wonders, suddenly, how Yelena would react if Wanda and Natasha… if they were a thing again. Or… still? Did this count as “back together”? Or just unfinished business? She tries to shake the thought away, resting her elbow on the table and cradling her chin in her palm.
“What’s on the agenda for today, Seestra?” Yelena asks.
Natasha shifts in her seat, just a little closer to Wanda. “Uh,” she says, clearing her throat in that familiar, awkward way she always does when she is caught off guard. “The resort’s hosting a bike tour in a few hours. I thought it’d be nice for all of us to spend the day together—sightseeing, you know? Taking in the views. Loki, you’re more than welcome to join, of course.”
Zaira nods along, nibbling the corner of another strawberry. It sounded nice. A way to escape the strange tension at the table and lose herself in movement, in sunlight, in something that didn’t involve complicated looks or whispered secrets.
“We’ll have to pack our lunches,” Natasha adds. “But I think it’ll be fun.”
“And then,” she continues, glancing briefly at Yelena before adding, “to satisfy the art nerds among us, we’re heading to the Diocesan Museum of Amalfi after the tour.” That makes Zaira sit up a little straighter.
Now that sounded like something she could get excited about. She’d already done her homework by googling museums and art spots in the area weeks before the trip. She’d even made a mental list of the ones she wanted to see, in case there was ever a chance to sneak away by herself. She hadn’t expected the group to agree on one, though. That felt like a small, private victory. She looks up just in time to catch Wanda’s eyes on her. There is a flicker of something in them…warmth? Amusement? Wanda smiles, soft and unreadable, and turns her attention back to Natasha.
Zaira looks away quickly, her heart thudding again. She hated how much she noticed. How much she cared. How much she wanted that smile to mean something. Something more . But mostly, she hates the not knowing.
Roughly two hours later, the group gathered at the edge of the resort’s bike rental station. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, casting warm gold over the cobbled walkway where two overstuffed cooler backpacks were sitting on the ground, practically bursting at the seams. Zaira was pretty sure one of them was half-full of just snacks for Yelena alone. She wouldn’t be surprised if there was even a whole loaf of bread in there somewhere.
Yelena had already declared, with zero shame and total confidence, that she and Loki would be commandeering a tandem bike. A “double-wheeled chariot of chaos,” Loki had called it.The two had spent the past five minutes arguing (loudly) over who would get the front seat. Zaira barely holds in a laugh when she pictures it: Yelena barreling forward like a stubborn tank while Loki tries to steer with a questionable sense of balance and flair. It was bound to end in some sort of collision. But Zaira doesn't say anything. She wanted to watch it happen.
Natasha, ever the efficient one, was crouched down now, strapping their bags securely into the carry-on carriage behind one of the bikes. She worked quickly, methodically, like she always did. Like every small task mattered. Zaira’s gaze lingers on her for a moment longer than necessary before flicking away, guilt biting at the edge of her thoughts. She didn’t want to think about Natasha and Wanda again. Not right now.
Still, she couldn’t help but assume that, naturally , Wanda and Natasha would be riding together. It made sense. Of course they would. Which meant, by a simple process of elimination, Zaira would be alone. On a single bike. Alone. As usual.
How fitting.
Suppressing a sigh, she turns away from the others and quietly makes her way toward one of the single bikes off to the side. Maybe, if she just moves quietly enough, she could slip into solitude without drawing attention to herself. But just as she reaches for the handlebars, someone clears their throat behind her. Zaira turns, blinking. Wanda stands there, not quite smiling, not quite not smiling either. Her curls were loose and haloed by the sunlight, shimmering with hints of auburn and gold. She tilts her head, and something about the gesture makes Zaira’s throat tighten.
“I thought maybe you’d want to ride with Nat?” Wanda says lightly, voice calm and even. “You haven’t had much time with her on this trip. My fault, mostly. I’ve been a bit of a time thief, haven’t I?” She gives Zaira a wink, a tiny one, teasing but not unkind. Zaira opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I know she’d love the time with you,” Wanda continues, now half-turned toward Natasha, her tone dipping into something just a little more serious. “And… maybe it’ll help calm her nerves. From last night, I mean. She’s not great at pretending things don’t matter. You know how us old folks are. We worry.”
Zaira’s head jerks up like someone had tugged on a string. “You’re not old,” she blurts, a little too fast. “Neither of you are. I—I didn’t mean that. I mean, I never thought—”
Wanda’s smile widens, almost amused. “Careful, sweet-talker. I might believe you.”
Zaira’s mouth opens and closes again. “I just… I thought you two would want to ride together.”
Wanda waves her hand dismissively, like the very idea was absurd. “Please. We see enough of each other. My joints are grateful for the slow lane today.” She stretches slightly and points toward Natasha. “That one rides like she’s trying to outrun death. I’ll take my chances with a solo journey.”
Zaira swallows, her anxiety a tight fist in her stomach. “Y-yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”
It wasn’t what she’d expected. Not at all. And now she had to go over to Natasha, who had no idea she’d been watched last night like some doomed protagonist in a romcom set at sea. Zaira could already feel her cheeks heating. Again. This trip was starting to feel less like a vacation and more like some kind of… cosmic reckoning. Or an emotional bootcamp. Or both. With a final glance at Wanda, who had already commandeered the single bike Zaira had been reaching for, she turns and walks toward Natasha.
Natasha was inspecting the tires of their bike, crouching low, brows furrowed in concentration. A few strands of hair stuck to her forehead, and a small sheen of sweat glinted in the sunlight. She looks up as Zaira approaches, and her face breaks into a warm, familiar smile.
“Hop on up first,” Natasha says, patting the front seat of their tandem bike. “I’ll hold it steady for you.”
There was no time to protest, not without it being weird. So Zaira nods mutely and lets Natasha guide her, hands light on her back, steadying her as she climbs up. Her legs wobble slightly as she sits, and she tries not to stiffen when Natasha’s hand presses firmly between her shoulder blades to balance her. Zaira sucks in a quiet breath. The warmth of that touch, even through fabric, was immediate. And then it disappears.
Did Natasha notice?
Before Zaira could even untangle the thought, something soft and solid was being placed over her head. She flinches, then realizes it’s a helmet. Natasha’s hands move swiftly under her chin, adjusting the strap. Her face was suddenly right there in front of Zaira’s, close enough to count freckles, to see the tiny curve of her grin.
“Safety first, moye solnyshko,” she teases, before swinging onto the seat behind her.
By the time their guide has given final instructions and waved the group forward, Zaira feels like she is vibrating with nerves, but also, weirdly, with something close to… excitement? The ride begins, following the gentle curves of the Amalfi coastline. The breeze whips through her hair, salty and cool, and the scent of wildflowers clung to the hills. The guide points out old stone buildings along the cliffs, weaving stories of saints, pirates, and lost lovers into every stop.
Despite having two people pedaling, the uphill climbs were brutal. Zaira’s legs were going to feel it tomorrow. She could already tell. Natasha stays steady behind her, occasionally murmuring encouragement, or tapping the small of her back when she needs to shift her weight. Every time Natasha touched her, Zaira’s thoughts scrambled.
She catches glimpses of Yelena and Loki ahead, Yelena yelling about “synchronization” while Loki pouts dramatically and pretends to faint on the handlebars. Zaira giggles more than once, grateful for the small reprieve from her spiraling thoughts. When she wasn’t focusing on her own pedals or Yelena’s antics, her eyes would drift -inevitably- to Wanda.
Wanda glided along the path like she’d been born for it. Effortless. Her movements were graceful, rhythmic, even a little hypnotic. And she didn’t look winded at all. Their first rest stop came at what appeared to be a lemon farm, sprawling and golden in the sun. The scent in the air was an intoxicating mix of brine and citrus, so sharp and sweet it makes Zaira’s mouth water. Natasha helps her down, strong hands at her waist. Zaira barely meets her eyes, but mumbles a quiet thanks.
They find a patch of shade beneath one of the lemon trees, and the group gathers together in a loose circle. Yelena, unsurprisingly, has a container of grapes in her lap and starts feeding both herself and Loki in turns like some dramatic Roman empress. Zaira laughs quietly. Then her gaze drifts, landing on Wanda again.
Wanda found her own spot, reclining comfortably against the tree trunk, plucking strawberries from a small container. She looked calm. Serene, even. Her gaze meets Zaira’s for a beat, unreadable. Zaira looks away first. Her stomach flutters uneasily. Zaira settles herself down nearby, but not too close. She leaves enough space between them for a third body, maybe even two, though she isn’t exactly sure why. Self-preservation, maybe. Or habit. It feels safer to create distance, even if part of her hated the emptiness of it.
Natasha had wandered off toward the edge of the grove, animatedly talking the tour guide’s ear off. Zaira could hear her voice, faint and quick, asking questions that probably had the poor guide mentally calculating how much they were being paid per hour. Natasha was good at that, diving in, taking control of a space without even realizing it.
A soft, rhythmic sound interrupts her train of thought. Zaira turns towards Wanda. She was shaking her little container of strawberries at her, one brow slightly raised as if to ask, You want one? Maybe two?
Zaira’s gut instinct was to decline. She doesn’t deserve it. She didn’t earn this moment of quiet, of normalcy. She hadn’t eaten more than two bites that morning, but her guilt felt heavier than her hunger. She didn’t want Wanda giving her anything…because if Wanda gave it, it meant she cared, and if she cared, then Zaira didn’t know what to do with that. But she was tired. And her limbs ached from the ride, and she knew they were barely halfway through the day.
So she nods. Almost shyly. And takes the container when Wanda extends it.
“Thanks,” Zaira mumbles around the first strawberry she pops into her mouth. It bursts against her tongue, juice sliding down her chin before she can catch it. She goes to wipe it away with the back of her hand, but Wanda beats her to it, handing her a small napkin from her bag, grinning wide and unbothered. There was something about the way she was smiling, like the moment mattered, even though it was small. Zaira looks down, pressing the napkin to her skin, cheeks flushing.
Wanda leans forward, rummaging through the shared backpack at her feet, and pulls out another container; blueberries this time. She tosses a few into her mouth with a casual grace that makes Zaira ache a little. For what, she didn’t know.
For a few long minutes, the only sounds between them were the rustling of trees and birdsong, mingled with soft conversation from nearby tourists and the occasional laugh from Yelena in the distance. The shade casting from the lemon trees cools the back of Zaira’s neck, and for once, it isn’t awkward. Just… still.
Zaira risks a glance sideways. Wanda was staring into the distance, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the curve of the lemon grove. The mountains loomed like painted shadows behind her, the ocean glinting like glass in the light beyond them.
What was she thinking about?
Zaira’s eyes linger a second too long, tracing the curve of Wanda’s cheek, the edge of her jaw, the tiny trio of moles just beneath her ear, mostly hidden beneath her hair. She hadn’t noticed those before. They felt like a secret, and Zaira hated that part of her wanted to touch them.
Then Wanda’s jaw tightens.
Zaira freezes. Too late.
Green eyes flick towards her, catching her in the act. There was a flicker of something amused in them. Maybe even… pleased? Zaira’s heart stutters. She looks away quickly, pretending to chew another strawberry like her life depends on it. Her cheeks blaze hot, and she prays Wanda would assume it was just the heat.
Then Wanda speaks.
“Can we finally address the elephant in the room?” she asks quietly. “And talk about what happened last night?”
Zaira nearly chokes on the fruit in her mouth. Her head whips towards Wanda so fast she feels a crack in her neck. “What!?” she squeaks, her voice a full octave too high.
Her pulse hammers. She knows. God, she saw me. She saw me watching them. Staring. Wanting. Shit -
But Wanda only raises a hand in a calming gesture, already shaking her head. “When we found you,” she says slowly, “with, um…” She gestures vaguely, as if the shape of the woman Zaira had been with was irrelevant now. “With her.”
Zaira blinks slowly.
Oh. That.
Her heart rate barely slows.
Wanda continues, voice tight. “The way Natasha reacted was… well, it was uncalled for. And frankly, a little inappropriate.” She clears her throat, looking away, the line between her brows softening. “But that’s not really the point.”
Zaira exhales shakily. So they didn’t know. Not about the staring. Not about the guilt. Relief blooms in her chest, but it’s short-lived. Wanda turns back towards her, and the gentle twinkle from before is gone. Replaced with something heavier. Something far too close to worry.
“Zaira, dear…” Wanda’s voice is quiet now, almost tender. “I know you said you were fine. That nothing happened. And maybe it’s not my place, but…”
Don’t say it. Please, please don’t say it.
“You’re young,” Wanda murmurs. “And maybe your generation does things differently. But we’re in another country. Far from home. And I don’t know what your plans were with that woman, but…”
She trails off, the words not quite forming. Zaira looks down, her fingers tightening around the container of strawberries. Shame prickles at the back of her neck. She didn’t want to hear this. Not from Wanda. She already knew she’d screwed up. She didn’t need the reminder.
“You weren’t being safe,” Wanda says finally, her voice just a little firmer. “You were alone. High. With a stranger. Somewhere no one could find you. Natasha and I… we didn’t know where you were. Did Yelena?”
Zaira shakes her head, small and meek. Her throat felt like it was closing in. Wanda sighs, and then, gently, leans in until their shoulders brush. Zaira flinches at the contact. Not from fear, but from the intimacy of it. Fingertips lift her chin. Zaira resists at first, her eyes locked on the ground. But Wanda is gentle, insistent. When their eyes meet again, Wanda’s expression is unreadable, save for one thing: concern.
“Neither of us are upset with you, malen’kyy,” she says softly, using the Russian nickname like it belongs there. “We’re just… concerned.”
Her thumb brushes across Zaira’s cheek, feather-light. The kind of touch that doesn't demand anything. The kind that says, I see you. All of you. Zaira swallows hard. Her throat felt even tighter, her eyes stinging.
“This isn’t like you,” Wanda whispers. “That’s what Natasha said. And I believe her.”
Then, slowly, she pulls back, taking her hand with her. And Zaira is left sitting there with a half-eaten strawberry, a head full of noise, and no idea what to say.
They keep riding.
Wheels crunching against the gravel path. Wind curling in and out of her sleeves. The occasional burst of laughter from up ahead. But Zaira barely registers any of it. Her brain was fogged over completely, a slow, oppressive haze that clung to her even as the sun glares down from above. Wanda’s voice echoing on a loop in her head, soft but relentless.
“This isn’t like you.”
What did that even mean?
Zaira stares blankly at the winding trail ahead of them, legs pumping automatically, foot after foot, pedal after pedal. The ache in her thighs grow sharper, the dull throb behind her eyes intensifying with every breath she takes. She clenches her jaw.
How would Wanda know what’s like me?
She hadn’t been around. Not really. Not in the way that counted. Wanda had moved years ago, left Natasha in pieces, from what Zaira had gathered in careful, accidental snippets. The version of Wanda that Zaira knew was built mostly from fragments: stories Natasha had shared in moments of vulnerability, brief visits, phone calls that came in like August summer storms and left just as fast. Even when Wanda lived in New York, their moments alone were rare. Fleeting. She could count them on one hand…and still have fingers left over.
But it didn’t explain… this . The pull . The way her stomach tightened when Wanda looked at her like she knew her. The way her hands had felt on her chin just moments ago- gentle, almost reverent.
Zaira shakes her head, trying to clear the fog. It only makes the pounding behind her temples worse. And then there was the other thing. The part that was harder to wrap her mind around. The part that made her feel like her ribs were shrinking in around her heart.
They talk about me. Natasha and Wanda. Together.
They talked about her.
It shouldn’t be a big deal. Best friends talked about everything, didn’t they? Especially when it came to mutual concern. Wanda had probably said something after last night. Natasha had probably responded. Simple. Rational. Reasonable.
Then why did it feel like a boulder had been dropped in her chest?
Why me? Why did they care so much?
What had she done to earn that kind of attention?
Jealousy. Was that what this was? Or anger? Or maybe it was shame, still lingering in her bones from the other night. Or guilt, coiled like a knot in her stomach, pulling tighter every time she thought of Natasha’s expression when they’d found her. She couldn’t tell anymore. The emotions had all bled together into something sharp and heavy and impossible to name.
“Hey,” a voice cuts through her thoughts, sudden and close. “Are you okay?”
Zaira jerks her head up. Too fast. Her balance wavers slightly as she straightens in the seat, blinking against the sudden clarity. Right. She was on a bike. In motion. Probably not great that she’d just been… staring at the ground.
“Zaira?” the voice comes again, more insistent this time. Natasha. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she calls back, trying to sound casual, like she hadn’t just dissociated for an entire stretch of road. “Sorry, I kind of got lost in my thoughts for a second.”
A low, amused chuckle rumbles from behind her, vibrating up through the bike. “Yeah, I noticed,” Natasha says. “We went from, like, fifteen miles an hour to five. I thought we were about to reverse.”
Zaira lets out a weak laugh, trying not to sound as miserable as she felt. Loki and Yelena choose that exact moment to zip past them with the chaotic energy of kids at recess. Loki throws a hand up like a dramatic game show host.
“ Ah , Americans and their units!” he cries out, earning a cackle from Yelena.
“Last one to the resort’s a rotten egg!” she whoops over her shoulder.
Zaira tries to smile, but her lips barely twitch. Her muscles were tired. Everything was tired.
And then it happens.
Her brain, overwhelmed and sluggish, decides to stop cooperating entirely. Her foot slips from the pedal and suddenly the rest of her body follows. The bike wobbles violently beneath her. Time slows down. She sees it all before it even happens. Her weight shifts. Her ankle twists oddly against the frame. And then-
“Shit—hold on,” Natasha mutters behind her, grabbing one of her shoulders.
Zaira’s heart pounds as the handlebars tilt sideways. Her foot was stuck. Natasha tries to stabilize them, but the bike tilts too far, too fast. The world tilts with it. She goes down hard, Natasha tangled with her, both of them colliding with the gravel shoulder of the path. Rocks scrape across Zaira’s cheek, stinging. The metal frame slams into her hip, jarring her spine. Her knee twists under her in an awkward, painful angle.
The world stills. Gravel crunches beneath someone’s shoes.
“Zaira! Are you okay?! That was a hard fall—let me check you!”
Natasha’s voice pierces through the haze of pain and confusion. A blur of hair and pale skin land in front of her, and suddenly, Zaira is staring into Natasha’s wide, worried eyes. Her breath catches at the intensity of it, but she forces herself to smile.
“I’m fine,” she says slowly, her voice raspy and unsure, but shaped into a grin like armor. Natasha doesn't smile back. Her eyes flick across Zaira’s face, scanning her for injuries with clinical precision.
“Did you hit your head?” Natasha asks, already reaching towards her scalp. “We should go back to the resort and get a doctor to look at you. You could have a concussion. Do you feel dizzy? Lightheaded? Any ringing in your ears?”
Zaira squirms under the attention, shrinking slightly beneath the heat of Natasha’s concern. It was too much. Too focused.
“I’m okay, Nat. I promise,” she says quickly, ducking her chin. “My knee hurts, that’s it.”
Natasha doesn't look convinced. Warm hands slide down Zaira’s thighs with careful intention, brushing aside the fabric of her biking shorts where they rode up. Her touch is efficient, but soft. Clinical, yet intimate in a way Zaira didn’t know how to categorize. Natasha’s thumbs move with deliberate tenderness, brushing away the bits of gravel still clinging to Zaira’s skin, stopping just before the angry scrape that bloomed across her knee.
Natasha ‘tsks’ under her breath and stands. “Stay put,” she says firmly, already walking towards the toppled bike. Zaira stays frozen in the grass, watching as Natasha bends and rightens the tandem bicycle, her movements strong and practiced. She doesn't even hesitate, just kicks out the stand, hoists the carry-on cart back into place, and gathers the scattered bags with a grace that almost made it look easy.
Zaira, meanwhile, just sits there, burning with shame. The sting in her knee was nothing compared to the ache inside her chest. Her heart thudded behind her ribs, loud and insistent, telling her all the things she didn’t want to hear.
She knew what came next. The lecture. The gentle, well-meaning scolding. If Brandy had been the one on the bike, Zaira would’ve already been reduced to a puddle of embarrassment and resentment. Brandy would have laughed it off in front of the group, then shredded Zaira behind closed doors; how clumsy she was, how immature , how she always managed to make a fool of herself and Brandy.
And the worst part?
Zaira agreed.
She’d started echoing Brandy in her own mind, scolding herself for her. Even now, as she picks at the edges of the blood-slicked scrape on her knee, peeling back flaps of skin like she could somehow punish herself for being such a disappointment.
The sun dims slightly, the warmth disappearing as Natasha’s shadow falls over her again. Zaira looks up just as Natasha kneels beside her, a large bandage in one hand and a small glass container in the other.
“I didn’t have any antiseptic,” Natasha says gently, holding up the container. “But I stole a shot from the resort bar earlier. It’ll do the trick.”
Zaira blinks, staring at it. It was clear, probably vodka. Definitely going to burn like hell.
Natasha pops the cap and looks her square in the eye. “This is going to sting, Z.”
Zaira meekly nods, steeling herself. “Yeah. Okay.”
She clenches her fingers into the grass, the cool earth grounding her, even as anxiety crawls up the back of her throat. She turns her head, staring away into the trees, determined not to flinch. But the moment the alcohol hits her skin, her resolve breaks.
The sting is immediate, biting deep into the raw, exposed skin. Zaira gasps, her body reacting before her mind can catch up. Her hand flies up, grabbing hold of Natasha’s bicep in reflex, fingers digging in. The muscle beneath her palm flexes. Her breath hitches.
Embarrassed, she yanks her hand back, mumbling a rushed, “Sorry—”
But Natasha only chuckles softly. “It’s okay. Happens all the time.”
She leans down and gently blows over the wound, her breath cool against the heat of the alcohol. Zaira’s eyes flutter closed. She doesn't mean to, but the sensation is too much. Too delicate and intimate in a way that feels dangerous.
Too much.
Everything is starting to feel like too much lately.
She doesn't open her eyes again until she hears the soft crinkle of packaging, the unmistakable rip of a bandage being unwrapped. Then came the gentle press of Natasha’s fingers against her skin, light but firm, smoothing the edges into place.
It shouldn’t have felt like anything.
It should have been clinical. A best friend’s older sister patching her up after a dumb accident. Just that. Nothing more.
But God, it felt like more.
It felt like tenderness, like someone seeing her hurt and choosing to hold her anyways. And Zaira didn’t understand why her chest ached the way it did, or why her fingers still buzzed from touching Natasha, or why her heart kept skipping like a record at the smallest kindness.
She didn’t know when it had shifted.
When Natasha had stopped being just Natasha. When Wanda’s gaze had started lingering too long. When both of them began to fill the quiet spaces in her mind. She couldn’t untangle it, couldn’t figure out if she was spiraling or waking up for the first time. But one thing she did know: it was one-sided.
Whatever this was…this fluttering, this ache, this longing …
it was hers alone. And it was her responsibility to fix it, to bury it. She had to get her shit together.
Zaira forces herself to open her eyes. And finds Natasha watching her. Her gaze soft and steady, unblinking, like she was waiting for Zaira to say something she hadn’t yet figured out how to voice.
God, even her eyes were confusing.
Like Wanda’s, they were green, but not the same. Wanda’s were like a calm, tropical ocean; fluid, knowing, always calculating something behind the scenes. They invited you to dive in, promising answers that were never really answers, just more mysteries to solve.
But Natasha’s eyes were different.
They reminded Zaira of moss-covered forest floors. Deep and quiet, a kind of safety you didn’t know you were looking for until you were already wrapped in it. On the surface, they seemed hard. Cold, even . But the longer Zaira stared, the more she saw the warmth hidden beneath. Something wild and loyal. Something that held. She’d always noticed them. The way they found her in a crowd. The way Natasha’s gaze would flick to her first thing in the morning, or track her subtly from across a room. The protective edge in them when someone said something that made Zaira shrink.
And yeah . The hatred that used to bloom in them whenever Brandy came around recently or when her name was spoken.
That had been hard to ignore.
Zaira gives a dry, humorless laugh under her breath. Brandy always had a way of dulling her instincts, of making her doubt what she knew. She twisted things, blurred Zaira’s ability to feel anything clearly. It wasn’t until recently that Zaira realized how many truths she’d missed while living in Brandy’s shadow.
And now… she couldn’t deny it. Something had changed. Something was still changing. Inside her. Between them. Around them all. And she didn’t know how to stop it. She didn’t even know if she wanted to.
“What’s so funny, moye solnyshko?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the quiet, teasing and soft all at once. There was a familiar lilt to her tone. Protective. Curious. Light in all ways. Zaira blinks, startled. Had she actually laughed out loud? She hadn’t meant to.
She shakes her head quickly, brushing loose hair behind her ear in a poor attempt to play it cool. “Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Your fingers just… tickled, that’s all.”
Natasha arches a brow, unconvinced, but she lets it slide. “Hmm,” she hums, a smile playing on her lips. “Ticklish, huh?” She doesn’t push further, but her eyes sparkle, brighter than they had any right to. As if they saw through every single wall Zaira was trying to keep up. Those eyes. Goddamn those eyes. They made it hard to breathe sometimes.
Zaira’s breath catches again, though not from the tickling and not from embarrassment, but from what Natasha does next. With a gentleness that undoes her entirely, Natasha leans down and presses a soft, chaste kiss to the bandage on her knee. It’s quick, barely a whisper of contact, but Zaira feels it echo up her entire spine, down her arms, into the hollow of her chest.
How can something so small shake her so completely?
Before she can even process the warmth blooming across her face, Natasha is already standing, brushing dirt off her hands and offering one down to Zaira with a quiet authority that leaves no room for argument.
“Come on. You should drink some water,” she says gently. “Eat something too before we catch up with the others.”
Zaira allows herself to be pulled up, heart still thudding wildly behind her ribs. Natasha’s grip is firm, grounding. Steady in a way Zaira isn't.
“You know what,” Natasha continues, reaching into one of the side bags still strapped to the now-upright bike, “why don’t you sit in the back? That way, if you get tired, I can take the weight and pedal for both of us.”
She hands Zaira a protein bar. Zaira takes it, but shakes her head with a frown.
“No way. You can’t do all the work. I’m okay, really. I’ll be fine.”
Natasha give her a look. Not judgmental. Not stern. Just… knowing.
“It’s okay to take a break, Z,” she says softly, tucking a strand of Zaira’s hair behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got us. You’re not a burden.”
Her voice is so matter-of-fact about it that it nearly breaks Zaira in two.
“You weigh next to nothing,” Natasha adds with a small smirk. “Pedaling for both of us won’t kill me. What will kill me is watching you push yourself past your limit. So eat. Drink. Please.”
She was already turning back toward the bike, adjusting the seat and checking the tires, giving Zaira the space to breathe again.
Zaira looks down at the protein bar in her hand, then slowly unwraps it. She takes a bite, chewing in silence as she approaches the cart and begins searching for her water bottle. It isn’t there. She checks again. And again.
Nothing.
A hard pit forms in her stomach.
“I—I think I left my bottle at the first rest stop,” she says, voice small. She blinks fast, hoping the prickling behind her eyes would ease, but it doesn't. The heat of unshed tears burns hot, sharp.
Don’t cry. It’s just a water bottle, Zaira. Pull it together.
But of course it wasn’t just a water bottle. It was another reminder. Another failure. Another thing she couldn’t keep track of. Brandy’s voice echoes again in her head, cruel and sharp: Always messing things up. Always needing someone else to fix your fuck ups.
And here she was, on the verge of crying over a fucking water bottle, again needing someone to–
“Hey.” Natasha’s voice pulls her out of the spiral. Zaira looks up to find her holding out her own bottle. “Drink from mine. We can share, I don’t mind.”
Her tone is so gentle it almost hurts. Zaira takes it with shaking hands. “Thank you, I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“You don’t have to apologize for being human, Z,” Natasha adds. “Accidents happen. We’ve all had our moments.”
She smiles again, that same warm, grounding smile. The kind that made Zaira feel safe and seen, and that terrified her all the same.
Once Zaira had finished the protein bar and had enough water to satisfy Natasha’s unrelenting care, they get back on the bike, Natasha adjusting things to make the ride easier for both of them. Zaira hesitates before getting on the back seat, still resisting the idea of letting someone else carry her weight. But Natasha was already settled in front, glancing over her shoulder with a grin. “Hop on. I’m a professional cyclist now, you know. Or at least I will be by the end of this trip.”
Zaira rolls her eyes, but it makes her smile. She gets on. As they resume the trail, the wind brushing cool across her cheeks, she allows herself to relax, just a little. Natasha steers them smoothly through the narrow path, every motion steady and practiced, like she’d been doing this her whole life.
Zaira stays quiet for a while, listening to the low hum of the tires on dirt, the occasional rustle of birds in the canopy above. But Natasha, as always, filled the silence. She started recounting facts their guide had shared earlier, slipping in tidbits about local flora, legends about the mountains, even some oddball trivia about the insects in the area that Zaira couldn’t help but be amused by.
It made it easier. Easier to ride, easier to breathe, easier to ignore the wild tangle inside her chest that wouldn’t stop growing. And as they got closer to the resort, Zaira held on tight. Not just to the bike, but to the strange, fleeting feeling of peace that came from being in Natasha’s orbit. Even if it wouldn’t last. Even if it shouldn’t feel like this.