"I guess that's what saying good-bye is always like — like jumping off an edge. The worst part is making the choice to do it. Once you're in the air, there's nothing you can do but let go." – Lauren Oliver


As the sun's rays relentlessly beat upon Steve's broad shoulders, a bead of sweat slowly trickled from his forehead over the contour of his cheek, a stern and focused expression that was usually displayed during combat and in the dark depths of a mission was painted across his face. However his concentration and pace was abruptly interrupted as he caught glimpse of a figure with porcelain skin, but with the form of someone who could not only entice but eradicate anyone in her wake. Although the one outstanding feature was her brazen vermillion tresses that swayed in response to the motion of her hips as she walked. Steve stopped. Over the past few weeks he had frequently found that his mind, when not consumed by the whereabouts of his childhood friend, had taken to being engrossed by the enigma that was Natasha Romanoff. He frequently found himself yearning for the companionship that Natasha had provided through a period of unequivocal betrayal and deception. The way she steadied him without even having to utter a word, just by her mere presence within his vicinity, or a glance from those deep verdant orbs made him feel secure within a time enraptured in inconsistency. Upon instinct Steve sprinted in pursuit of the woman, as he approached her swaying form he felt a surge of hope and expectation press sharply upon his rib cage, and it wasn't until he looked upon the young woman's startled face that he recognised the pain within his chest was now of a completely different nature. It wasn't her.


Natasha landed another blow to the punch bag hanging in her room, and she felt a bead of sweat trickle down the nape of her neck. Although heat radiated off every inch of Natasha a very different story was to be told through the window, as the snow flitted down towards the street below in a twirl of icy splendour. Natasha paused, and scraped her, now dark mahogany, locks away from her face into a scruffy bun, and aggressively grabbed the water bottle settled on the table. Once she met the window she took a swig, and listened to the incessant beating of her adrenalized heart. She looked down on the tenebrous surroundings, lit inadequately by a few street lamps whose glow captured the innocence of the swirling flurry as it rested on the ground below. A low growl that echoed within her ears and the emptiness of the encompassing walls broke her lackadaisical overview of the street below. Turning her head she saw the incoming of a motorbike she identified instinctively as belonging to a certain broad shouldered soldier, who emanated class and the old fashioned values it brought with it. Without knowing it her knuckles on the hand clutching the water bottle had turned a brilliant white, and her breathe had unknowingly caught within her throat. It wasn't until the man removed his helmet revealing a lustrous raven mop of curly hair, that she let out a unexpected long, heavy breathe and she felt the cold trickle of water wrapping around her knuckles due to her overly forceful grip. It wasn't him.


Fighting the sinking feeling within his chest Steve managed to force out a genial apology,

"Sorry ma'm my mistake." Before turning swiftly and breaking out into a run at a blistering pace, with the wish to induce any other physical pain that could override the slight ache that now plagued his heart. He cursed himself inwardly at what had been now the sixth time this week his thoughts had been interrupted by the ruthless red head. He didn't know whether he was more disgusted at the fact he had fallen for the notion that she would be in the same place as he, or the fact he had let himself feel the irrevocable glow of hope at the thought of her return. He had deduced from the little information he had gleaned from Natasha that she was a woman who let the past be the past, no turning back. That was who she was.


Natasha slammed the bottle onto the windowsill and marched with purpose towards the punching bag before swinging her leg and forcefully kicking the centre of the bag and erupting into a whirlwind of kicks and punches. Each blow increased in force each time, accompanied by the aggressive vocals that leaked from Natasha's lips. She had always been taught that any inner emotional conflicts were to be transferred into a physical outlet, whether it be merely exercising or becoming the deadly weapon that many had feared. She was angry at the thought that for a moment she had let the idea of seeing him again take control of her, that was not who she was. She was angry that she could not forget the many ways he had saved her; the way his fingers had entwined with hers; and the way those eyes of true blue had bore into her tortured soul. With that thought she struck the punching bag with a kick so forcible the bag detached from the ceiling landing with a large thud at her feet. This was who she was meant to be.


As Steve walked into his room, the sweat driving out of every pore in his body, he went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and took a sip. He noticed on his table a few sketches he had absentmindedly scrawled during his morning coffee, they were all of female figures and each one had unintentionally captured the unforgiving curves of her form; the way her smile drifted across her lips in a positively charming manner; and the way her eyes sparkled with vicious beauty. With one hand he collected up all the sketches and placed them in the bin. No more. For Bucky's sake.