Kara woke up to the smell of coffee and the faint hum of tension in the air.

  Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft m light filtering through the curtains of her S.H.I.E.L.D. guesthouse. She stretched, feeling the familiar warmth of her growing power beh her skin. Teleportation was getting easier. Her heat visio sharper. And she retty sure she could bend the entire bedframe into a pretzel if she really wao.

  But the real surprise wasn’t her powers.

  It was the sight of Natasha Romanoff standing in her kit, brewing coffee, weariactical gear like she was ready to storm Normandy Beach.

  Kara blinked. “Good m to you too… Did you sleep in my bushes st night?”

  Natasha gnced over her shoulder, eyes cool but lips twitg in amusement.

  “You don’t o know where I slept.”

  Kara smirked, sitting up. “So, in the bushes then.”

  Natasha didn’t dignify that with a response, but Kara caught the subtle flush on her cheeks.

  She was starting to get used to this dynamic—flirting with a deadly assassin first thing in the m. It was weird. But good weird.

  Kara stood, yawning as she approached the ter.

  “Please tell me you didn’t sneak in to poison me.”

  Natasha slid a mug toward her. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up.”

  Kara raised her eyebrows. “Hot.”

  Natasha coughed into her coffee.

  As they sat across from each other—Kara sipping her coffee, Natasha pretending she wasn’t monit every possible exit—the Bck Widow id out the new rules.

  “All future trips outside will be authorized by me. No exceptions.”

  Kara raised a brow. “Not even for pizza?”

  Natasha didn’t blink. “Especially not for pizza.”

  Kara snorted. “God, you’re strict. What’s ? A curfew?”

  Natasha’s silence was too long.

  Kara stared. “Wait… seriously?”

  “You’ll be back here by 8 PM sharp,” Natasha tinued, voice even. “And… I’ve reassigned most of the agents who were w near you.”

  Kara leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly—but not in anger.

  “Oh… I get it now.”

  “Get what?”

  Kara grinned. “You’re marking your territory.”

  Natasha stiffened. “That’s not—”

  Kara leaned in, l her voice.

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind. It’s kind of hot.”

  Natasha opened her mouth—then closed it again, face turning noticeably red.

  Later that day, Natasha’s phone buzzed with the one name she couldn’t ignore.

  Nick Fury.

  She answered with her usual professionalism, but his voice was already gravelly with suspi.

  “Romanoff… Did you reassign half my female field agents because of the Kryptonian?”

  Natasha straightened in her chair. “Security adjustments.”

  Fury sighed. “Look, I don’t care if you date her. Just keep her from leveling Manhattan.”

  Natasha almost choked. “It’s not like that—”

  The li dead.

  She stared at her phone, mortified.

  Date her?

  The thought had crossed her mind before—in those te moments when Kara’s teasing lingered in her head like a song she couldn’t shake.

  But hearing it from Fury made it feel real.

  And worse? It didn’t sound bad.

  Over the few days, Kara noticed it more and more.

  Every time she stepped out, Natasha was right there—like a red-haired shadow with guns aional issues.

  The female agents who used to stammer when they brought her coffee? Gone.

  The nurse who blushed every time she checked Kara’s vitals? Transferred.

  Kara saw how other women flinched when Natasha was nearby, and she ected the dots quickly.

  Her first instinct had been .

  But her sed?

  She liked it.

  There was something exhirating about being wanted so fiercely.

  Powerful women fighting over her?

  She could get used to that.

  The pheromone effect was still alive and well.

  Female cashiers blushed when handing her ge, and one barista spelled her name wrong three times because she was too distracted staring at Kara’s midriff.

  Men, oher hand, remained immune.

  One guy literally handed her coffee with a “Thanks, alien dy,” and walked away like she was a vending mae.

  Kara found it hirious.

  Natasha did not.

  One night, Kara sat alone on the guesthouse baly, looking over the city.

  She thought about Natasha—protective, deadly, blushing whenever Kara teased her.

  And thehought about Wanda—intense, dangerous, promising freedom with every word.

  Both women wanted her. But for different reasons.

  And the weirdest part? Kara liked both.

  She felt powerful in a way that had nothing to do with her strength.

  That night, Kara dreamed.

  She was floating through red mist, the air warm and intoxig.

  Then Wanda was there—draped in crimson, her hand brushing over Kara’s cheek.

  “You deserve more,” Wanda whispered, her voice like silk. “Power is freedom.”

  Kara’s heart raced.

  “You’ll uand soon… and you’ll e to me.”

  The dream lingered on the edge of pleasure and danger.

  When Kara woke, she felt flushed—breathing hard, heart pounding.

  She touched her face, half-expeg Wanda to still be there.

  “God… what is happening?”

  She stumbled to the kit, grabbing a slice of pizza from the fridge.

  Cold pizza was the universal solution to emotional fusion.

  While Kara slept, Natasha sat outside the guesthouse, guing on her knee, eyes sing the street.

  Her mind raced—repying every look Wanda had given Kara.

  She couldn’t let that woma close again.

  She couldn’t let a close.

  Kara was hers to protect.

  Hers to guard.

  Hers.

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