Redline

that no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you still weren’t sure you belonged here? Or worse, what if they were right? What if you had come back for nothing? You inhaled slowly, voice tight when you finally spoke. “I already know what the questions will be.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Do you?”

You scoffed bitterly. “You do too. Everyone does. The crash. What happened that day. What went wrong. How I felt when I woke up in the hospital. How it felt to lose everything.” Your jaw tightened. “How it felt to…fight to get back here. If I even deserve to be back here.”

You stopped yourself before your voice shook. But Natasha caught it. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your pants, gripping hard enough that you felt your nails pressing into your skin. “And then there’s them.” you muttered, voice lower now. “What my parents will think when they see me sitting in front of cameras again. What they’ll say when they hear the same questions, when they have to relive the same goddamn day all over again.”

The words came out faster than you intended. You hated yourself for admitting it. But Natasha didn’t look smug. Didn’t look satisfied. She was just listening. And somehow, that made it worse. Because if Natasha wanted to, she could take every single thing you just admitted and use it against you.

A long, slow silence stretched between you. Then, Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked onto you like a challenge. “You survived all of it.” she murmured, voice smooth, even. “And you’re telling me a few cameras are what’s going to break you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because it wasn’t that simple. Natasha made it sound so easy. Like she hadn’t spent years avoiding this moment. Like the weight of the past wasn’t crawling up your spine every second you thought about stepping in front of the press.

“You..don’t get it..” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha hummed, the sound almost amused. “You think I don’t?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice dipping into something darker. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be picked apart by the world? To have people who don’t know a damn thing about you decide who you are, what you’re worth?”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. Because fuck. Natasha wasn’t wrong.

“You survived the fire.” Natasha continued, her voice almost too soft now, too careful. “You survived the months of rehab, of rebuilding yourself. And now, you’re sitting here, trying to tell me that a couple of journalists with microphones are the real problem?”

You hated how your throat felt tight. How your nails pressed harder into your palm. How Natasha was right. Again. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet Natasha’s steady, unyielding gaze. “And what if I don’t have an answer for them?”

Natasha smirked. And for the first time, it wasn’t cruel. It was patient. Amused. Like you had just asked a stupid fucking question. “Then you do what I do.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned. “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make something in your stomach twist. “You give them the answer you want them to hear.”

You exhaled slowly. Because fuck. That was probably the most Romanoff answer possible. Natasha straightened, finally standing, stretching her arms slightly before glancing down at you. “You’ll be fine.” she said, voice effortless, confident. Like it was already decided. And in a way..maybe it was.

You weren’t sure you believed her. But something about the way Natasha said it, so sure, so steady, made it feel a little less impossible.

You didn’t say anything after Natasha’s last remark. You just nodded, slow, measured, your jaw still tight like you were holding something back. Natasha took it for what it was, the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get. She let the silence stretch for another second before leaning back, tilting her head slightly. “You can go.”

You didn’t hesitate. You stood, pushing the chair back, muscles still tense from the entire conversation, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Natasha watched you leave, the faint trace of a smirk still playing at the edge of her lips. Because you could fight it all you wanted, but you were getting closer. Whether you realized it or not.

The garage was usually a place of noise. Machines humming, tools clinking against steel, mechanics shouting orders across the floor. The sound of progress, power, precision. But tonight? Tonight, it was silent.

Except for one person. Natasha had been walking through the complex when she noticed it, a figure near the car. She stopped just outside the garage entrance, leaning against the wall, keeping to the shadows as her eyes locked onto the scene in front of her.

You. Standing next to the GT car you would be driving soon. The car was sleek, lethal, polished under the dim lights of the garage. It was a machine that belonged to champions. A machine that demanded control.

And you were just standing there. Not touching it. Not inspecting it. Just watching it. You had headphones in, music spilling softly from them, blocking out the world. Your face was unreadable.

But your posture? Tense. Stiff. Natasha could read it like a book. This wasn’t excitement. This wasn’t confidence. This was doubt. Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t call out to you. She just watched.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it? Not the version of you that stood in meetings, that threw sharp words back at her, that pretended like you weren’t thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. This was real. This was you, standing in the garage at midnight, alone, staring at the one thing that could either save you or destroy you.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. This was a crucial moment. And you didn’t even know you were being watched.

The next days came too fast. You barely slept. You had tried, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, told yourself you were ready. But the truth? Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The press room was a sea of flashing lights, cameras, journalists packed together, waiting, ready. The air was thick with the low murmur of voices, the tension palpable even before the conference had begun. At the center of it all was a long, immaculate table with microphones set up, the Romanoff Racing logo flashing behind them on a massive LED screen.

And sitting at the head of it: Natasha. She was dressed perfectly, as always. Not a single detail out of place, her tailored suit sleek, her expression cold and unreadable. And beside her? You.

You had barely spoken since arriving. Barely breathed. Because the second you sat down in that chair, facing the crowd, you felt it. The weight. The expectation. The waiting.

The journalists wanted blood. And you were the easiest target in the room. Natasha shifted slightly beside you, adjusting her mic, and you could feel the glance she gave you. You didn’t look. Didn’t let yourself move. Because if you did, you might crack.

A moderator spoke into the microphone, giving the usual formalities. “Welcome, everyone, to the official Romanoff Racing press conference. We’ll start with pre-approved questions before opening the floor.”

You barely processed the first few questions. They were for Natasha-business-related, team-focused. She answered smoothly, effortlessly, as if she had already predicted every single thing they would ask.

Then..the shift. A journalist leaned forward, their voice cutting through the room. “A lot of fans were shocked to see your return to racing. What made you decide to come back?”

Your throat tightened. You expected this. You knew it was coming. But fuck, hearing it out loud…The microphone was too close, the lights too bright. You could feel the hundreds of eyes staring at you, waiting. You forced yourself to inhale.

“I never stopped thinking about racing.” you said, keeping your voice calm, steady. “It’s a part of me. It always has been.”

The journalist nodded, but their expression sharpened. “And yet, after your accident, you disappeared. No press, no interviews, nothing. Why now?”

Your fingers curled slightly under the table. Before you could answer, Natasha spoke. “She’s here because she’s a racer.” Natasha said smoothly, cutting through the noise like a blade. “And racers belong on the track. Next question.”

The journalist hesitated, like they wanted to push back, but they didn’t dare. Another question came, and another. Some were easy. Some were loaded.

And then..the moment you had been dreading. A woman in the second row leaned forward, microphone raised. “Y/n, after your accident, there was a lot of doubt about your ability to return to racing. Some experts believe you’re not the same driver you once were. Do you think you’re still capable of competing at the highest level?”

Silence. Your breath hitched. There it was. The one question you didn’t want to answer. The one moment that had haunted you for years, now laid bare in front of the world. You swore you could feel the room lean in. Waiting.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The flashes of cameras, the expectant looks, the fucking memory of it- The way the car had flipped. The fire. The medics pulling you out. The moment you stopped breathing.

Everything crashed down all at once.

Your hands pressed against your lap, digging into the fabric of your pants, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. But Natasha saw it. Of course, she saw it. She shifted slightly beside you, not visibly, not obviously, just enough that you could feel it. A reminder. A warning.

“She doesn’t-”

“No, wait.” you said, your voice firm. The room went dead silent. Natasha turned her head slightly, her sharp green eyes snapping to you. It wasn’t a warning. Not quite. It was more like..curiosity. Like she was waiting to see what the hell you thought you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, turning your gaze back to the journalist. You forced your voice to stay steady. “You want to know what happened after the crash?” you asked, leveling your stare at him.

“You think I lost something in that crash?”

Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, someone shifting in their seat, but no one spoke. You could feel Natasha watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You kept your focus straight ahead.

“I lost the ability to move my legs for two months.”

A murmur rippled through the room. But you didn’t stop.

“I lost thirty pounds of muscle in eight weeks. I lost my ability to walk without help. I lost my grip strength. I lost my reaction time. I lost everything that made me a driver.”

Your fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into your palm, but your voice never wavered.

“I spent half a year relearning how to do basic human functions. And then another half a year relearning how sit properly in a car. And every single day, someone told me I couldn’t.”

You scanned the room, taking in the faces of the journalists who had written the headlines, the ones who had picked apart your downfall like vultures.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and have your own body feel like a prison?”

The air was thick, suffocating. Natasha, the woman who always had something to say? Was silent.You let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of the hell you had to survive.

“I built myself from the fucking ground up. And now? Now I’m here.”

You sat back, jaw set, gaze unwavering.

“So if you’re asking me if I think I’m still capable?Watch me.”

A few journalists shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. But you weren’t done. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your expression unreadable. “They were wrong. And now? I’m here.”

You let that hang in the air. You let them absorb it. Then, you leaned back, perfectly composed. “That answer your question?”

The journalist swallowed hard. “I- yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Because what else was there to say?

Another beat of silence. Then, Natasha smirked. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just slightly impressed. She turned back to the room, one eyebrow raised. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, next question.”

And just like that, the press conference moved on. The press conference wrapped up soon after, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. You had taken control of the narrative. You had spoken for yourself. And for the first time since stepping into Romanoff Racing, you hadn’t let Natasha speak for you.

The journalists left in a flurry of movement, camera crews packing up, murmurs spreading across the room as headlines were already being written. You didn’t move right away. Your hands were still pressed against your lap, knuckles faintly white. You weren’t shaking. But you weren’t steady, either.

Natasha stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored suit, her every movement calm, practiced. She didn’t turn to you right away. Instead, she let the tension settle, let the weight of the moment hang between you. Yelena was the first to break the silence.

“Well. That was unexpected.” she muttered, throwing a grape from the snack tray into her mouth. She glanced between you and Natasha, one eyebrow raised. “And you’re still alive. That’s a miracle.”

You finally looked at Natasha. She was already watching you. There was something in her eyes, sharp, calculating. And yet, she wasn’t mad. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, lowering her voice just enough that only you could hear.

“You surprised me.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment. You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Natasha hummed, amused. “You’re learning how to play the game.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not playing a game.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, and fuck, that was a dangerous look.

“Sure you’re not.” she murmured, her voice too smooth, too knowing. You hated how your stomach twisted at the way Natasha looked at you, like you were more interesting than before. Like you had just stepped into a new level of control, and Natasha was enjoying it.

Yelena cleared her throat, clearly done with the tension. “Alright, before one of you murders the other or something worse happens, what’s next?”

Natasha finally looked away from you, as if she had decided this conversation was over.

“We keep control of the media. We don’t react to Dreykov’s team. We move forward.”

She turned back to you, her green eyes flashing with something unreadable. “And you? You prepare for your first race.”

Your breath hitched. Because fuck. That was next. No more press. No more talk. It was time to get back into the car. For real.

——

The racetrack buzzed with energy- a chaotic storm of activity. Mechanics shouted instructions over roaring engines, and the stands were already packed, a mass of color and noise. It felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

You took a deep breath as you approached the Romanoff Racing GT car waiting for you in the garage. It gleamed under the bright lights, looking sleek and dangerous, built for speed, built to win. Your heartbeat picked up, nerves mixing with adrenaline as you stepped toward it.

Natasha was already there, headset on, posture straight, her presence radiating authority. She didn’t speak immediately, just observed as you settled yourself into the racing seat, pulling the harness tight over your shoulders.

Then, her voice came through clearly over the team radio. “Radio check, Y/n. Do you copy?”

You adjusted your helmet slightly, pressing the comm button on your steering wheel. “Loud and clear.”

There was a slight pause. “Good. Systems check?”

Your eyes flicked over the dash, scanning the familiar indicators. The lights blinked back at you, everything perfect, everything waiting. “Systems all green.” you responded evenly.

“Copy that.” Natasha replied smoothly. You could hear the background noise behind her, the engineers confirming fuel, tire pressure, engine temperature, and everything else that mattered. But Natasha’s voice remained steady, almost reassuring in its calm authority. “Standby for track clearance.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration of the engine beneath you, your grip tightening around the wheel as your pulse quickened. Your heart was hammering now, anticipation building.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said, voice lowering just enough to feel like she was speaking directly into your ear alone. “It’s just you and the car now. Focus. Trust yourself. Let’s show them what you can do.”

Those words settled something inside your chest. You felt steadier, more certain, as you flipped the ignition switch. The engine roared to life, raw power vibrating through the cockpit, through your bones, filling your veins with fire.

Mechanics cleared away, giving you space as you slowly guided the car from the garage toward the track entrance. Your breathing steadied with each passing second, your world narrowing until it was nothing but the track stretching ahead.

The final instructions came through your headset. “Track is clear. Take it out.”

You didn’t hesitate. You pressed the throttle, and the car surged forward, cutting through the air with a precision and power you hadn’t felt in years. And just like that, everything else fell away.

It was just you, the car, and the track. The car hummed beneath you like a living thing, every shift of the throttle sending a pulse of raw energy through your bones. It had been a while since you’d driven something this powerful. And fuck..you felt it.

You eased into the first few turns, warming up the tires, testing the brakes, feeling out the balance of the machine you had just been handed. The steering was sensitive, the throttle was brutal, and the sheer speed of it all?

You let out a slow breath as you took another corner, muttering under your breath. “Goddamn, you’re fast.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, rolling your shoulders as you pushed just a little harder into the next straight. The car responded immediately, roaring under your hands, begging to be let loose.

You smirked slightly. “I hear you.”

The radio crackled in your ear. Natasha’s voice, smooth and controlled. “How’s it feeling?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you took another turn, still feeling out the car’s behavior. “Like a wild animal.” you muttered. “One wrong move, and I think it’ll kill me.”

You heard a chuckle from the radio. “Good.”

Of course, Natasha fucking Romanoff would say that. You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight as you lined up for the last sector, pushing just a little more. The car gripped beautifully, the back end barely twitching as you found the perfect exit.

The lap wasn’t fast, but it wasn’t supposed to be. You were getting used to it. Letting the car tell you what it wanted. Listening. You reached the final straight and slowed, bringing yourself to a stop at the grid, right before the traffic lights.

The engine rumbled beneath you, waiting. You flexed your fingers against the wheel, inhaling deeply.

The first light flickered on. Then the second. Then the third. You tightened your grip. Everything in your body coiled, ready to launch.

The fourth. The fifth.

And then- green.

You slammed the throttle down. The first few laps had been clean. You had found your rhythm, felt the car beneath you, learned its language. You had danced with the machine, not fought it. Every turn, every straight, every shift..perfect.

The moment you pulled out of the pit lane, Natasha’s voice was in your ear.

“We’ll start simple. Build heat in the tires. Weave down the straight.”

Your hands moved before she finished speaking, the car already shifting left and right, smooth, controlled. You could hear the faint sound of engineers in the background, data being recorded, but your focus was on the car, on the way it responded, on how the weight transferred with each movement. Natasha didn’t react. She simply continued.

“Turn 3, keep the throttle steady before braking. No coasting.”

You followed the instruction exactly, the front tires gripping as you carried speed into the corner, braking later than your instincts wanted, but exactly how she would have demanded.

“Better.” she murmured, voice clipped, all business. You kept going, each sector executed with precision, every command from Natasha met with immediate response. She was directing, you were following.

And then, you did it before she could say it. The upcoming chicane was tight, demanding a quick flick of the wheel, a perfectly timed shift in weight. Before Natasha could give the instruction, before her voice could even breathe into your ear.

It lasted less than a second, but it was there. A pause. A hesitation. Then the radio crackled. “Good.”

No approval, no compliment. Just that single sound, laced with something unreadable. She picked up again, her voice neutral. “Don’t get cocky. Turn 9, brake harder or you’ll compromise the exit.” And just like that, the rhythm returned.

You didn’t push. You didn’t acknowledge what had happened. You just followed orders again, steady and controlled, as if nothing had changed.

But then, the car twitched. Just a little. A fraction of instability. The back tires twitched in a high-speed section, and for a second, your body reacted before your mind could. You barely even had to correct it, the car settled almost immediately, but it was already too late.

The sound in your head, metal screaming, tires screeching, the gut-wrenching silence that had come before the crash..It slammed into you, full force.

Your chest locked up. Your breathing hitched, and before you knew it… You were slowing down. Your hands gripped the wheel too tight. Your heart was hammering. The track around you warped, the air too thick, the inside of the cockpit too fucking small.

Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp, controlled, but tinged with something harder. “What are you doing? Keep pushing.”

Your fingers twitched over the radio switch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Natasha’s voice came again, this time lower, firmer. “Y/n, talk to me.”

No. Your stomach twisted. The sounds in your head were too loud, too consuming, too goddamn real. So you did the only thing you could think of… You cut the radio. A sharp click, and silence filled the cockpit. Natasha was gone.

In the control room, the moment the radio went dead, Natasha stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over. Her team froze. The tension in the room turned suffocating. She whipped her head toward one of the engineers. “Tell me she did not just cut me off.”

The man stammered, eyes flicking to the radio log. “…She cut you off.”

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her fingers curled into fists. The cameras showed your car stopped dead on the track. Not stalled. Not damaged. Just stopped. Natasha’s chest burned with rage. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She had calculated everything… pushed you just enough.

Had she miscalculated? Had she pushed too fucking far? She turned sharply, already storming for the exit. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

Natasha spun on her, fury in her eyes. “She just stopped on the fucking track, Yelena! I’m going down there!”

Yelena, for once, didn’t smirk. She looked at the monitors, at you. “She’s panicking, Nat…”

Then, she got an idea. She pulled out her phone, scrolling fast. “She always has headphones in before a race, right?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Instead, she connected her phone to the main speaker system. The engineers looked confused, but Yelena smirked as she hit play.

And suddenly, music flooded the track. The second the music blasted through your headset, your mind snapped back into reality. The engine was still roaring beneath you, the car vibrating with power, but the sound, the fucking sound..didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in the cockpit, in the race, in your head. It was your playlist, your music, your ritual before a race, and now it was bleeding through your carefully controlled silence like a blade.

Your breath caught. Then it hit. Yelena. Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your pulse pounded, heat climbing up your spine, something sharp and furious breaking through the fog that had been suffocating you just moments before. You flicked the radio back on, voice ice-cold, clipped.

“Turn that off.”

The pit crew was silent for a moment before Yelena’s voice came through, casual as ever, utterly unfazed. “Oh hey, there you are. Took you long enough.”

Your jaw locked. Your body was still in overdrive, still burning, still balancing on the razor-thin edge between control and complete fucking chaos. “I said turn it off!”

Before Yelena could respond, before you could breathe, another voice crashed into your headset like a gunshot. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Her voice hit like whiplash, slicing through the cockpit, leaving no space for you to breathe. “You shut me out? On my track? In my car?”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for this opportunity? How many drivers I could’ve picked instead of wasting my time on you?”

Your stomach twisted, your chest tight with frustration, with rage, with the need to fight back, but you couldn’t.

“You’re wasting my time.” Every word was sharp, biting, dragging through you like a blade. “You’re driving like you’re afraid, like you don’t belong here. And maybe you don’t.”

Your jaw locked. “You don’t get to turn me off when things get uncomfortable. That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. You either keep up, or you get the fuck out of my car.”

The rage in your chest boiled over. Your breath came hot and sharp, your heart hammering against your ribs as the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Fuck you.”

And the radio went silent again.

"S-She turned you off again."

Natasha's head snapped toward the screen, her eyes wild and boiling. She shoved back from the desk, her chair nearly toppling over as she pushed to her feet. A girl? A fucking girl was giving her this much trouble? On her track? In her car? A slow, low growl rumbled from deep in her chest, her nails digging into her palms. "Fix. It."

One of the engineers hesitated. "We, uh- we can override the headset, but she can shut it down again.."

Natasha's nostrils flared, her breathing coming short, clipped. "Then override it again. And again. And again! I don't give a shit how many times it takes! Get me back in her head!!"

The static crackled back into your headset, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Her voice was razor-sharp, dripping with controlled rage. “You’re in my car, on my track, acting like a fucking brat?”

You knew the trick, it wasn’t without reason that you had been one of the best mechanics for years. So, you turned the radio off again.

The engineers in the control room flinched as Natasha ripped the headset off, her movements violent, lethal, uncontrollable. “Done. I’m fucking done.”

Her chest heaved, eyes burning with something between rage and disappointment. Yelena, watching from the side, chewing on a protein bar like she wasn’t witnessing an absolute meltdown, tilted her head. “You sure?”

Natasha shot her a look that could’ve set the entire control room on fire. “I don’t repeat myself.” She grabbed her phone, already dialing management. “Get the contract ready. I want it on my desk. Now.”

No hesitation. She turned, already storming toward the exit. She was done. Done with the attitude. Done with the defiance. Done with you. Then, A beep. A new sector time update. An engineer swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “Uh..boss-”

Natasha didn’t stop. Didn’t care. Then—Another beep. The numbers changed. “She just broke Walker’s lap record.” Natasha stopped. Yelena smirked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

Natasha turned, slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she just heard. Another update. “She just broke the second record.” Her heartbeat roared. The control room was silent. Everyone watching. Waiting. The third sector. Another record.

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her hand clenched around the phone, the unfinished call abandoned. Because now? Now she wasn’t leaving. Now? She was watching.

You were going faster. Faster. Faster than anyone had gone before on this track. Your hands flexed over the wheel, your body moving on pure instinct. Every turn, every shift, flawless. You weren’t driving to prove something anymore. You were driving because fuck her. Fuck Natasha’s doubt. Fuck Walker’s legacy. Fuck every single person who thought you were done.

Lap after lap, the speed increased. Natasha barely had time to react. You were coming in too fast. Way too fast. Her breath hitched. Her instincts kicked in. Her hand shot toward the console, her finger hovering over the radio switch, ready to step in, to stop you from making a mistake that would end this entire session in a wreck. She had seen this before. This was the moment where drivers panicked. Where their talent collapsed under pressure.

“Y/n-”

You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You owned it. The weight transferred seamlessly, the balance perfect, the tires gripping the apex at the last possible second—And Natasha watched as you took the smoothest, most precise fucking corner she had ever seen.

Her breath hitched. Yelena, beside her, let out a low whistle. “That was kinda sexy.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she had just created a monster. Or if she had finally found the driver she had been looking for.

The tires screeched as you pulled into the pit lane, the scent of burning rubber and overheated brakes clinging to the air. Your pulse was still racing, every inch of your body vibrating with adrenaline, sweat sticking to your skin beneath the fireproof suit.

The cockpit ripped open. Natasha. Storming. Fuming. Burning. Before you could even move—before you could even reach for the harness, she grabbed you. Yanked you out of the car like you weighed nothing. Your boots hit the pavement hard, but you barely had time to react before..

Her hands fisting into your fire suit, dragging you closer, shoving you up against the side of the car. Her grip was tight, possessive, unforgiving. And when she spoke? She was livid.

“You do not turn me off!”

Your breath hitched. “You do not shut me out!”

Her voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained rage. Your chest tightened. You tried to speak. “Natasha, I-”

“Shut up!!”

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into the fabric of your suit. “I don’t give a fuck what’s going through that reckless little brain of yours. I don’t care what you think you’re proving. You work for me.”

Her breath was hot, her lips barely inches from yours, her eyes a dark, consuming fire. “And you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

You clenched your jaw, your stomach twisting in something between anger and the unshakable feeling that she was enjoying this. And then, her smirk. It was barely there, just the faintest tilt of her lips, but you felt it.

“You wanna prove something?” Her voice dipped lower, smoother..too smooth. “Then do it on my terms. Not by acting like a brat who can’t handle being told what to do.”

Your body tensed. Your fingers twitched, fighting every goddamn instinct to shove her away, to push back, to match her fire with your own. You opened your mouth. “I-”

But her grip yanked you forward before the words could come out. “No!”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You don’t get to speak right now!”

Her voice was a whisper now. Sharp. Slow. Dangerous. The heat between you was suffocating. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just her hands on your suit. Her body, pressing you back against the car. The anger crackling between you like a live wire.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. “Y/n?”

Your body froze. Your head snapped to the side. And there he was. Your father. Standing at the edge of the pit. Watching everything. Your stomach plummeted. Natasha didn’t let go immediately. No. She let her fingers linger for just a second longer, her eyes flicking over to your father with a slow, lazy amusement.

But instead of stepping away, she straightened your fire suit. Her touch slower than necessary, smoothing down the fabric, fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your collarbone. Her hands brushed down the front of your torso, flattening the creases with a touch so deliberate, so calculated, it made your entire body go rigid.

And when she finally spoke? It was for your ears only. “If I knew Daddy was coming to watch, I would’ve made you struggle a little more.”

Your pulse spiked. Natasha hummed, smirking like she had just won something. She took a step back. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. She pulled out her phone as she passed Yelena, not even breaking stride as she spoke into it, her voice bored, detached. “Take the contract off my table.”

Then she hung up. And just like that, she was gone.