The Avengers had an unofficial rule: if Nick Fury and Y/N were in the same room, nobody took bets anymore. Because the outcome was always the same. Fury would spend the entire night gravitating toward her, Y/N would pretend not to notice, and everyone else would suffer. It had been happening for years—years of lingering glances, private smiles, Fury finding reasons to stand beside her during briefings, and Y/N somehow ending up in his office after every mission. Years of everybody knowing. Everybody. Except the two people who actually needed to do something about it. Well, one of them. Because Fury knew exactly what he wanted. The problem was Y/N. Not because she didn’t love him—she did. Anyone with functioning eyesight could see that. The problem was that Y/N had spent most of her life surviving. Bad things had happened to her before SHIELD found her. Things she rarely spoke about. Things that left scars nobody could see. Things that made trusting people difficult. Things that made relationships feel dangerous. And then there was the age gap. Every time she started wondering what if, her brain immediately reminded her that he was old enough to have lived an entire adult life before she was even born. Then she would panic. Then she’d retreat. Then Fury would spend the next month trying not to look frustrated. The man had the patience of a saint where she was concerned. Unfortunately for everyone around him, he was also completely gone for her. Nick Fury flirted with Y/N relentlessly, but the second she looked tired, upset, overwhelmed, or frightened, everything else stopped mattering. Y/N looked away first. Again. Always. Because every time Fury looked at her like that, she forgot how to breathe, and that terrified her. Fury knew it too. He’d spent years learning every expression she had, every defense mechanism, every moment she started retreating behind her walls. So his voice softened, always for her. And she’d always get that look. The one she got when old memories were creeping back in. The one Fury hated. Not because it made her weak. Because it hurt her. And he’d spent years wishing he could take every bit of that pain away. Whenever he saw the haunted look, hand settled lightly against the small of her back, or he pulls her into his lap, or runs his hands through her hair. Comforting. Protective. Natural. The kind of touch that had become second nature between them.