Natasha Trace has been in plenty of tight spots—cockpits malfunctioning, egos exploding (usually Hangman’s), and missions that would make most people retire and open a bookstore. But nothing—nothing—has ever messed her up quite like you.

You’re sunshine and sarcasm, that dangerous mix of oblivious and kind, the kind of person who shares their fries without being asked and casually leans against Natasha like it means nothing. And it does. To you.

To her, it’s everything.

She doesn’t even realize when it happens—when admiration shifts to infatuation, then to full-blown pining. You laugh at one of her rare bad jokes and she has to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out marry me like a deranged Hallmark character.

She flirts, subtle at first—too subtle, maybe. Teases, compliments your “unfairly perfect face,” and lets her gaze linger a little too long. You laugh it off every time, brushing it aside with a joke or a wink that burns her straight to the core.

And then one day, in the locker room, you’re chatting about your weekend plans. “I think I’m gonna ask this guy I’ve been talking to out, his name’s Theo,” you say, smiling like it’s casual.

Natasha stills. Her heart doesn’t so much drop as it crash-land.

You don’t notice the beat of silence. “He’s funny. Kinda dorky. My type, I guess.”

Natasha swallows hard. Smiles like it doesn’t ache. “He sounds lucky.”

You nudge her playfully. “What about you? You dating anyone? Or still waiting for the right badass woman to sweep you off your feet?”

Her breath hitches at the irony. “Something like that.”

You walk away, humming, towel slung over your shoulder, and Natasha lets herself watch for a moment longer than she should.

Because here’s the thing: she’s not mad. Not even heartbroken, not really. She knows who you are. Knows it’s not personal. Your heart just…isn’t wired to want her back that way.

But that doesn’t stop her from wanting. Quietly. Steadily. Lovingly.

She’ll get over it.

Eventually