Natasha continued to avoid Xander. Not out of malice, but out of a burgeoning need for self-preservation.
Xander, bless his oblivious heart, tried everything. He'd leave thoughtful notes on her doorstep, poems penned in his shaky handwriting. He'd subtly shift his schedule to coincide with hers, appearing at the coffee shop, the park, or the grocery store, hoping for a glimpse, a word.
He'd even start leaving little gifts on her husband's doorstep, knowing it was a way to reach her indirectly. But each attempt was met with a polite but unwavering refusal. She was the silent guardian of her own space, and Xander, despite his best efforts, couldn't penetrate the invisible wall she built.
One evening, the air hung thick with the scent of simmering stew. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, mirroring the storm brewing inside Natasha. She was home alone. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. A jolt of surprise, a flicker of hesitation, and then, a slowly, measured step towards the door.
It was Xander. He stood there, his face etched with a mixture of apprehension and determination. He was holding a single perfect rose, its crimson petals glistening in the dim light. He didn't say anything, just held it out, a silent offering in the face of her carefully constructed distance.
Natasha hesitated. He hadn't try to force his way in, hadn't tried to explain. He simply stood there, a silent testament to his friendship, his understanding. For a moment, the storm within her quieted. She took the rose, the cool petals, a tangible connection in the otherwise fractured space between them.
Suddenly, Reynolds appeared from nowhere. Xander and Natasha were lost in the moment that they didn't hear him coming.
Reynolds found Xander standing awkwardly in the entrance to the living room with Natasha.
"Hey," Reynolds said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "What's going on here?"
Xander shifted his weight, avoiding eye contact. "Just stopped by to see how Natasha was doing"
"Just stopped by to see how my wife was doing?" Reynolds questioned Xander.
Natasha looked subdued, almost fragile. "Yeah, just catching up," she mumble, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh," Reynolds paused "I see." He looked into Natasha's eyes and then Xander's eyes, as if looking for hidden answer.
A wave of unease washed over Reynolds. He knew Xander cared about Natasha, but this felt off. He felt like he walked into a scene, one he wasn't meant to see. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Acting on an impulse he couldn't explain, Reynolds took a step towards Natasha. He raised his hand, hesitant, and placed it on her shoulder. He felt the soft silk of her blouse beneath his palm, the warmth of her skin.
It was a simple touch, almost insignificant, but it felt monumental, like he was breaching a barrier he hadn't even know existed.
Natasha gasped softly, her eyes widening. She looked up at him, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across her face; surprise, confusion, and hope. A flush of warmth spread through her cheeks and she visibly relaxed under his touch.
After all this time, the man she got married to was finally seeing her. Seeing not just his wife, but the woman who craved his attention, his affection, his connection. For so long, she had carried the quiet disappointment of a marriage unfulfilled. This simple, unexpected touch felt like a promise, a possibility.
Xander cleared his throat, the sound sharp and intrusive. "Right, well, I should probably get going," he said, backing away. "Good to see you, Reynolds." He gave Natasha a quick, almost apologetic glance and hurried out of the door.
Reynolds removed his arm and walked away. Natasha, still loving the moment grabbed his hand. He turned back and faced her, then he spoke, and the fragile bubble burst.
"Don't get any ideas, Natasha," he said, his voice a low murmur that only she could hear. "That stunt back there was purely for show. Remember why we are married."
The words were like shards of ice, piercing the nascent hope in her chest.
He continued, his gaze flitting around the room, never truly meeting hers. "Besides," he added, his tone dismissive, almost cruel, "you know I'm not… attracted to your type."
The words, so simple, so brutal, landed with the force of a physical blow. The world tilted. She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her skin cold and clammy.
"Spec?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What does that even mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?"
He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "It's the truth, dear wife." he paused "I've always told you, you aren't my type. You know, my ideal type." He gestured vaguely, as if describing a piece of furniture he didn't quite like. "I'm only doing you a favor by constantly reminding you. You're great, dear wife, really. But you're just not it."
"But why?" Natasha asked. "If Xander was a stranger, I would understand, but he isn't" she paused trying to find the right words. "Don't you think your actions now just showed you were jealous?"
Reynolds chuckled. "Me? Jealous? Of what?"
The question hung in the air. The man who had just momentarily seemed like a protector, like a husband, was gone, replacing by the cold, nonchalant drunkard.
As he turned away, drawn back into the social fray, Natasha's heart shattered. She was still invisible, still a pawn in her father's game. The brief flicker of hope had been a cruel illusion, a reminder that some wounds never truly heal.
Tears started to flow, a relentless torrent of heartbreak. She rummaged in her bag, finding only a crumpled tissue which she used to dab at her own swollen eyes. The world felt cold and hostile, and she longed for the comfort of her own home.
She cried until her throat was raw, her head throbbed, and her body ached. The pain was a physical thing, a heavy weight crushing her chest.
Eventually, the exhaustion overwhelmed her. The sobs subsided, morphing into ragged breaths. She drifted off to sleep, curled up on the couch, a broken shell of the woman she had been, the echo of Reynolds' cruel words still ringing in her ears: You're just, not my type."