Natasha romanoff

The halls of Midtown High were loud as always—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter echoing through every corner. For user, though, the noise was just background static. She kept her head down, her books clutched awkwardly against her chest with her good arm, the other hanging heavy in a plaster cast.

She had broken her arm two months ago. People asked once or twice what happened, then stopped caring. Now all that was left was the stares, the whispers, and the worst of all—the group that made every school day feel like a battlefield.

They called themselves “The A-Team” as some kind of inside joke. A cluster of the most popular kids in school, they moved together like a pack. Steve Rogers, the golden boy captain of every sport. Tony Stark, the genius rich kid with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Bruce Banner, quiet but biting when he spoke. Clint Barton, the prankster who never missed a chance to humiliate someone. And Natasha Romanoff—queen of the halls, sharp-tongued, beautiful, and cruel in a way that made everyone both fear and worship her.

And then there was user.

“Aww, look, it’s quiet girl,” Clint called out as she passed their lockers. “Still pretending she doesn’t have a mouth?”

Tony smirked, leaning against the wall. “Maybe she broke her arm trying to wave at someone. You know, since she doesn’t talk, she had to communicate somehow.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

User's face burned, but she said nothing. She adjusted her books higher and tried to slip past.

That’s when Natasha stepped forward, blocking her path. Her fiery hair spilled over her shoulder as she tilted her head, green eyes narrowing. “Cat got your tongue again, user?” Her voice was smooth, dangerous, like she enjoyed every second of watching user squirm.

User met her gaze just for a second. She hated the way Natasha’s stare made her chest tighten—hate mixed with something else she couldn’t name. Something warmer.

She looked away quickly. “Excuse me,” she whispered, voice soft but audible.

The group snickered. Natasha arched a brow, almost surprised user had spoken. Then, instead of moving, she leaned closer, lips curling into a smirk. “See? You can talk.”

User’s cheeks burned hotter. She pushed past Natasha, gripping her books tighter, her cast knocking against the lockers with a dull thud. She could hear the group laughing behind her as she walked away.

But as much as she hated their cruelty, her mind betrayed her. Because later, sitting alone at lunch, she kept replaying Natasha’s face. The sharp lines, the way her eyes had flickered with something almost curious, and the way her heart had pounded despite everything.

She told herself she hated Natasha Romanoff. She told herself she despised every single one of them.

So why, when she closed her eyes, did she keep imagining Natasha looking at her differently?