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The compound was asleep when Natasha found Carol. She didn't announce herself. She never did. Carol was standing on the balcony, elbows resting on the railing, staring out at the dark stretch of trees beyond the compound. The night air was cool, grounding. She heard the footsteps anyway. "You're awake," Carol said, not turning. Natasha stopped beside her. "You usually are too." They stood in silence for a moment. No tension. Just weight. "She made it home," Carol said quietly. "I knew she would. I just—" She shook her head. "Didn't like not knowing." Natasha watched her carefully. "You weren't here last time." Carol closed her eyes. "I know."

The word again sat between them, unspoken but sharp. Natasha finally turned to face her. Her voice was calm. Even. Deadly in its restraint. "If you break her again," Natasha said, "I won't forgive you." Carol turned then, really looked at her. No defensiveness. No sarcasm. Just truth. "I didn't mean to," Carol said. "Before." Natasha nodded once. "Intent doesn't heal damage." Carol swallowed. "I know." Silence stretched, heavy but not hostile. "I love her," Carol said finally. "Not in a careless way. Not the way I did before. I've learned." Natasha's gaze didn't soften. "Love doesn't make you safe." "No," Carol agreed. "But it makes me careful." Natasha studied her for a long moment, reading posture, breathing, the way Carol didn't look away.

"You leave when things get hard," Natasha said. "You disappear. Athena doesn't stop standing still when you do." Carol's jaw tightened. "I won't do that again." Natasha leaned closer, just enough that Carol could feel the warning in it. "You don't get again," Natasha said quietly. Carol nodded. "Understood." Another pause. Then, softer—but no less serious. "She came back different this time," Carol said. "Quieter. Tired in a way I don't like."

"She's growing up," Natasha replied. "That costs something." Carol looked past her, toward the darkened common room where Athena slept on the couch hours earlier, Morgan tucked against her like an anchor. "I'm not asking you to trust me," Carol said. "Just... let me stay." Natasha straightened. "You can stay," she said. "You just can't fail." Carol met her eyes. "I won't." Natasha turned to leave, then paused.

"She doesn't need saving," Natasha added. "She needs someone who comes back." Carol exhaled slowly. "I can do that." Natasha walked away without another word. Behind her, Carol stayed on the balcony a while longer—watching the lights, steadying herself, knowing she'd just been given something fragile. Not trust. But permission to earn it.