Summary: Wanda is devastated with reader's condition.
Word Counter: 8,160
Warnings: Angst, Tension, Mention of Blood, Mention of War, Violence.
Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist
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Wanda’s POV
Wanda had stayed with Lina as she ate. The little girl ate slowly, exhaustion weighing her down more than hunger, but she finished every bite Wanda coaxed her through. By the time the bowl was empty, her eyelids were heavy, her body finally giving in to the long afternoon.
The healer promised to stay close. Promised to watch her. Promised to call for Wanda the moment anything changed.
Wanda trusted them—just enough.
She brushed Lina’s hair back, tucking the cloth with Y/N’s name beside her. “I’ll be nearby,” she whispered. “Right where I said I’d be.”
Lina nodded sleepily.
Wanda kissed her forehead one last time, then slipped out of the tent.
The camp felt louder now. Closer. The sun hung lower, casting long shadows between the tents. Wanda walked quickly, her path already set—back to Y/N, back to the cot, back to the fragile rhythm of their breathing.
She rounded a corner—
—and nearly collided with Pietro.
She stopped short, instinctively stepping back.
“Wanda,” Pietro said, his voice sharp with urgency. “We need to talk.”
Her jaw tightened.
“No,” she said flatly, already moving to step around him.
Pietro shifted, blocking her path. “You can’t just ignore me. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Something cold settled in her chest.
“Move,” Wanda said, not raising her voice.
His eyes flickered, anger and something else—confusion, maybe—warring across his face. “He’s the enemy. And you’re acting like—like he’s family.”
Wanda finally looked at him then. Really looked.
“They are my family,” she said, each word measured, steady. “And if you try to stop me from going back to them, I will not forgive you.”
Pietro scoffed. “You’re choosing him over your own blood?”
Wanda stepped closer, forcing him to meet her gaze. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m choosing love over cruelty.”
For a moment, Pietro didn’t move.
Then Wanda brushed past him, not sparing him another glance.
Behind her, his voice cracked. “Wanda—”
She didn’t stop.
Her feet carried her forward, back toward the tent where Y/N waited—where she belonged.
---
The moment Wanda pushed aside the tent flap, the world narrowed.
Her eyes found Y/N immediately. They lay exactly where she had left them, bandaged and still, chest rising and falling in shallow, stubborn breaths that Wanda felt more than saw.
Alive.
The relief hit her so hard her knees nearly gave out.
Natalya looked up from her seat beside the cot, worry etched deep into her features. The moment she saw Wanda, something in her expression softened.
“He hasn’t woken,” her mother said quietly. “But his breathing stayed steady. I didn’t leave.”
Wanda swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words felt too small for what they meant, but they were all she could manage. She squeezed her mother’s hand briefly—once—before moving past her.
She went straight to the cot.
Carefully, reverently, she sank down beside it, as if any sudden movement might break the fragile peace holding Y/N together. Her fingers reached for theirs, fitting into the familiar space between bandages and skin, warm where it mattered most.
“I’m back,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best effort to keep it steady. “I told you I’d come back.”
She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s forehead, just below the edge of the bandage. Her lips lingered there, breathing them in, grounding herself in the reality of their presence.
“I checked on Lina,” Wanda murmured softly, brushing her thumb through Y/N’s hair, slow and careful. “She’s safe. She was so brave—just like you always said she was. She made you something. She’s waiting for you.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she continued to caress their hair, smoothing it back again and again, as if the motion alone could keep them tethered to this world.
Her forehead rested briefly against theirs. She pressed another kiss to their temple, softer this time, full of promise.
“I’m right here,” she repeated, fingers threading gently through their hair. “You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to be strong anymore. I’ve got you now.”
Behind her, Natalya watched in silence, something unreadable passing through her eyes as Wanda curled protectively around the cot—guarding love itself with every breath she took.
---
Olek’s POV
The main tent felt too small.
Heat clung to the air, thick with incense and unspoken threats. Olek stood at the center table, palms braced against the wood, jaw tight enough to ache. Across from him, King T’Chaka remained perfectly still—composed, dignified, his dark eyes sharp with a patience that had long since turned into warning.
Pietro paced near the entrance like a caged animal.
“This was not the agreement,” T’Chaka said calmly, his voice measured—but beneath it lay iron. “The Eastern Kingdom lends its forces. Sokovia retrieves its princess. And in return—Alaric’s bloodline ends.”
Olek exhaled slowly through his nose. “Alaric is dead.”
“A beginning,” T’Chaka replied. “Not a conclusion.”
Silence pressed down on the tent.
“You promised us the heir,” T’Chaka continued. “The last living symbol of Virelia’s cruelty. The one who carries Alaric’s name.”
Olek straightened. “He is not leaving this camp.”
Pietro spun toward him. “Father—”
“No,” Olek snapped, cutting him off without looking. His eyes stayed locked on T’Chaka. “He nearly died under my roof. I will not hand a wounded man over to be slaughtered like an offering.”
T’Chaka’s brow furrowed slightly. “He is a monster, Olek. You know what his bloodline has done to my people. To the border villages. To my sister’s children.”
“And you think I do not?” Olek shot back. “Do you think I have forgotten the bodies, the fires, the screams?”
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as memories burned behind his eyes.
“I also don’t know what to do,” he admitted at last, the anger draining into something heavier. “Just… give me some time.”
The tent went still.
T’Chaka studied him for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he gave a low, displeased grunt.
“Time is a luxury bought with blood,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the tent, the canvas flap snapping shut behind him.
The silence he left behind was thick and suffocating.
Pietro was the first to break it.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, staring at his father like he didn’t recognize him. “Why are you protecting that monster?”
Olek closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, exhaustion etched deep into his face.
“Because your mother spoke to me,” he said quietly. “Because she told me Wanda loves him.”
Pietro scoffed. “Love him? Father, that’s exactly the problem. She’s not thinking clearly. He’s inside her head—just like Ser Jarvis said. She’s been manipulated.”
Olek’s gaze hardened. “Watch your tone.”
“If he dies, she’ll come back to her senses,” Pietro pressed on. “She’ll thank us one day. This ends if he ends.”
Olek stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. “I have already hurt my daughter once today—by letting you lay hands on the man she loves. I will not finish the job by taking him from her completely.”
Pietro shook his head, frustrated. “And if she hates you for it now, she’ll hate you less than she will for betraying the kingdom.”
Before Olek could answer—
“Enough.”
Natalya’s voice cut through the tent like a blade.
She stood near the entrance, having returned unnoticed, her expression pale with fury and disbelief.
“I cannot believe what I am hearing,” she said, her eyes fixed on Pietro. “Our kingdom has always believed kindness. We opened our borders. We sheltered the wounded. We chose mercy even when it cost us.”
She stepped closer, her voice trembling now—not with fear, but with heartbreak.
“And look where this war has brought us,” she continued. “Blood on our floors. Children crying in tents. Our daughter kneeling in someone else’s blood.”
Pietro opened his mouth, but she raised a hand sharply.
“You call her brainwashed because it is easier than admitting she chose differently than you would,” Natalya said. “You call love manipulation because it frightens you.”
Her eyes burned. “Wanda is not weak. She is not foolish. And she is not blind.”
She turned briefly to Olek, then back to their son.
“But you are, Pietro,” she said quietly. “Blind to her pain. Blind to what this war has already taken from us.”
The words landed like blows.
The tent fell silent once more—this time not with anger, but with the weight of truth none of them could escape.
---
Wanda’s POV
The light inside the tent shifted almost without her noticing.
What had once been warm and pale faded slowly into deep amber, then into shadow as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The lantern near the cot flickered to life, casting a soft glow over bandages and skin and the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest.
Wanda didn’t care that evening was coming.
Time could do whatever it wanted—as long as Y/N kept breathing.
She sat close, fingers still tangled in their hair, her other hand wrapped around theirs. She whispered things only they were meant to hear—small reassurances, memories, promises—each word anchored to the rhythm of their breaths.
A voice sounded at the entrance of the tent.
“May I enter?”
Wanda stiffened instantly.
Her grip tightened on Y/N’s hand, her heart jumping into her throat. Every muscle in her body went tense, instinct screaming at her to protect, to shield, to refuse.
She hesitated.
“…Yes,” she said at last, her voice guarded.
The tent flap lifted.
For a heartbeat, Wanda didn’t breathe.
Red hair caught the lantern light first. Familiar armor. A posture she had trusted with her life once upon a time.
“It’s so good to see you, my lady,” the woman said warmly.
“Nat—” Wanda gasped.
She was on her feet in an instant, crossing the space between them before she could think, arms wrapping tightly around her.
“Nat!” Wanda breathed, burying her face against her shoulder.
Natasha laughed softly, arms coming around her just as firmly. “I’m so glad you’re okay, my lady.”
Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes shining. “You’re here…”
Natasha’s smile faltered, something raw breaking through her usual composure. “When you were taken by Virelia, I was devastated. I begged to follow you. I would have crossed every border if they had let me—but I was ordered to stay.” Her voice dropped. “I’m sorry. I failed you, my lady. I should have protected you.”
Wanda shook her head immediately, hands tightening on Natasha’s armor. “No. You didn’t fail me. There was no way you could have stopped it—not alone, not against King Alaric. You did everything you could.”
Natasha studied her for a moment, relief softening her features.
Then her gaze shifted.
To the cot.
To the still figure beneath the lantern light.
Wanda followed her eyes, turning her head slowly. The sight of Y/N—pale, bandaged, breathing—made something gentle bloom across her face. Her shoulders eased. Her expression softened in a way that felt instinctive, unguarded.
“That’s…” Wanda began, then smiled fully, quietly. “They are my husband.”
Natasha blinked, clearly startled.
She looked back at Wanda—and what struck her wasn’t the word, but the way Wanda said it. No fear. No defiance. Just warmth. Love. Certainty.
Wanda noticed the look and let out a small, knowing breath. “I know,” she said softly. “Everyone probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. He’s Alaric’s child. The monster’s heir. That’s what they all see.”
She swallowed, preparing herself.
But Natasha spoke first.
“But he wasn’t,” she said gently.
Wanda turned back to her, surprised.
“Or else,” Natasha continued, a soft smile forming, “you wouldn’t look at him that way, my lady.”
The words hit Wanda harder than she expected. Her eyes filled, and she looked back at Y/N again, thumb brushing their hair with quiet reverence.
“No,” Wanda whispered. “He wasn’t.”
Natasha’s smile deepened—subtle, resolute.
“Then whoever calls him a monster,” she said calmly, “isn’t seeing what truly matters.”
Natasha moved closer and sat beside Wanda, resting her forearms on her knees, posture relaxed but attentive. The lantern light caught in her red hair as she listened, saying nothing—giving Wanda the space she clearly needed.
Wanda stayed where she was, fingers still brushing through Y/N’s hair, her thumb tracing the familiar line of their temple.
“I believed the rumors at first,” Wanda admitted quietly. “Everyone did. I was raised on stories about Alaric’s cruelty, about the heir who would one day be worse.” She let out a soft, almost embarrassed breath. “I was afraid of them.”
Natasha glanced at Y/N again, then back to Wanda.
“But they were never that person,” Wanda continued. “Not once. They were gentle with me from the beginning. Patient. They never raised their voice. Never demanded anything.”
Her lips curved into a small smile as memories surfaced.
“They always put themselves between me and danger,” she said. “Even when it meant pain. Even when it meant everyone hating them more. They protected me like it was instinct—like my safety mattered more than their own life.”
Natasha’s brows lifted slightly, genuine surprise breaking through her composure.
“And they love me,” Wanda added, her voice soft but sure. “Not the idea of me. Not the crown. Just… me.”
She glanced down at Y/N again, her smile changing—becoming warmer, deeper, something that reached her eyes in a way Natasha had never seen before.
Natasha noticed.
She had grown up with Wanda, watching her grow from a sharp-eyed princess into a strong woman bound by duty. She had stood behind her during the engagement to Jarvis—had seen polite smiles, practiced grace, obligation wrapped in silk.
But this—
This was different.
“You never smiled like that before,” Natasha said gently, unable to keep the observation to herself.
Wanda looked up. “What?”
“Not even once,” Natasha continued. “Not with Ser Jarvis. You were… composed then. Beautiful. Proper.” Her lips curved faintly.
Wanda smiled—small, fragile—and let her gaze drift back to Y/N.
“I love them,” she said simply.
The words didn’t shake. They didn’t need to be defended. They settled into the quiet of the tent like truth.
Her fingers brushed gently through Y/N’s hair again, careful not to disturb them, as if the motion itself was a vow. “I don’t need anything else,” she whispered. “I just… I just need them to be okay.”
Natasha watched her for a long moment, something soft and solemn in her expression.
“You’ve been running on fear and adrenaline all day, my lady,” Nat said gently. “You should rest. Even for a little while.”
Wanda shook her head without looking away from Y/N. “I can’t. Not yet.”
She shifted closer to the cot, sitting on the ground beside it, her shoulder pressed lightly against the frame. Her hand never left Y/N’s.
“I’ll rest here,” she murmured. “Beside them.”
Natasha nodded, understanding. “Then I’ll stay nearby,” she said quietly. “In case you need anything.”
Wanda looked up at her then, gratitude shining through the exhaustion.
“Thank you, Nat.”
Natasha gave her a small, respectful bow before moving toward the edge of the tent, leaving Wanda alone again with the steady, precious sound of Y/N’s breathing—
and the quiet hope that tomorrow would be kinder than today.
Wanda didn’t sleep.
Not once.
The night crept in quietly, the sky outside the tent darkening until only the lanterns remained—small pools of light against the cold, waiting dark. Wanda stayed where she was, seated beside the cot, her fingers still threaded with Y/N’s, her thumb tracing slow, unconscious patterns over their knuckles.
She watched every breath.
Counted them.
Listened for any change in rhythm, any hitch that might steal them away.
Natasha came back more than once through the night—silent as a shadow. She brought extra blankets and draped them gently over Y/N’s bandaged body, careful not to wake them. She brought warm broth and bread for Wanda, setting it close, coaxing softly.
Wanda tried.
She really did.
But the moment the spoon touched her lips, her stomach twisted violently, nausea rolling through her. The smell alone made her throat tighten. She managed a few sips at most before setting it aside, apologizing in a small, tired voice.
Natasha didn’t push.
She only pressed a cup of water into Wanda’s hands and said quietly, “That’s alright. You’ll eat when you can.”
So Wanda stayed awake instead.
She whispered to Y/N through the night—about Lina, about the forest, about the way the stars used to look from the palace balcony. She told them she was here. That she wasn’t going anywhere. That they were safe.
When the first pale light of morning began to seep through the canvas, Wanda’s eyes burned, heavy and dry—but she was still upright. Still holding on.
She lifted her head when Natasha returned at dawn.
“Nat,” Wanda said softly, her voice hoarse. “Could you… stay here? Guard the tent?”
Natasha nodded immediately. “Of course, my lady.”
Wanda hesitated for just a heartbeat, then gently set Y/N’s hand down, smoothing the blanket over their chest before standing. She leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to their forehead.
“I’ll be back,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Then she turned toward the entrance.
“I need to check on Lina.”
Natasha’s gaze softened. “I’ll be right here,” she assured her.
Wanda nodded, pulling her cloak tighter around herself, and stepped out into the cool morning air—every part of her already counting the moments until she could return.
---
The morning air was cool and quiet, a fragile calm settling over the camp after the violence of the day before. Wanda moved through the rows of tents carefully, exhaustion weighing on her limbs, but purpose carrying her forward.
She reached the smaller medic tent where Lina had been kept.
For a moment, Wanda paused at the entrance, steadying her breath—then gently pushed the flap aside.
Inside, the light was soft and pale. Lina lay curled on a small cot, fast asleep, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face, no longer tight with fear, looked peaceful in a way that made Wanda’s chest ache. One small hand was tucked beneath her cheek, the other clutching the edge of the blanket like a lifeline.
Wanda exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
A medic sat nearby, quietly cleaning instruments, careful not to disturb the child. They looked up immediately when they noticed Wanda and rose, bowing respectfully.
“Your Highness,” the medic said in a hushed voice. “She slept through the night. No fever. No injuries beyond the bruises we already treated.”
Relief washed through Wanda so strongly her knees nearly weakened.
“Thank you,” Wanda whispered sincerely. “For staying with her. For taking care of her.”
The medic smiled gently. “She’s a brave little one. She asked for you before she fell asleep.”
Wanda’s throat tightened. She stepped closer to the cot, carefully brushing a stray curl away from Lina’s forehead, her touch feather-light.
She turned back to the medic, lowering her voice. “Could you bring her some food? Something light. She hasn’t eaten properly.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the medic replied at once, already moving to prepare a small tray.
When they stepped aside, Wanda knelt beside the cot.
“Lina,” she whispered softly. “Little dove.”
Lina stirred, brow furrowing as she shifted beneath the blanket. A small sound escaped her before her eyes fluttered open. The moment she focused and recognized Wanda, she sat up abruptly, fear flashing—then relief washing over her face.
“Wanda!” she breathed.
“I’m here,” Wanda said immediately, smiling gently. She brushed her thumb over Lina’s cheek. “You’re safe. You were sleeping.”
Lina rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I—I thought maybe it was a dream.”
Wanda shook her head. “Not a dream. I’m sorry.”
Lina leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Wanda’s neck. Wanda hugged her back without hesitation, holding her close until the little girl’s trembling eased.
When Lina finally pulled back, she looked up with hopeful eyes. “Is my brother…?”
Wanda nodded softly. “He’s resting. He’s still hurt, but he’s being taken care of. And I’m going back to him as soon as I make sure you eat something.”
Lina nodded, trusting her.
Just then, the medic returned with a small bowl and a piece of bread. Wanda took it carefully, settling beside Lina.
“Let’s eat a little, alright?” she said gently. “Just enough to give you strength.”
Lina glanced at the food, then back at Wanda, and nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Wanda sat beside the cot, helping Lina eat slowly, guiding the spoon with patient care. She murmured soft encouragements, praising every small bite, wiping gently at Lina’s mouth when she spilled a little. Lina leaned into her side as she ate, clearly more comfortable with Wanda close.
The tent flap rustled.
Wanda looked up just as Queen Natalya stepped inside.
“Wanda,” her mother said softly. “Natasha told me you were here.”
At the sound of a new voice, Lina stiffened. She shifted closer to Wanda at once, slipping half behind her back, small fingers clutching the fabric of Wanda’s sleeve. Only her wide, wary eyes remained visible as she peeked around Wanda’s side.
Wanda instinctively moved, angling her body to shield Lina without even thinking about it.
“It’s alright,” Wanda said gently, keeping her voice calm and warm. She set the bowl aside and rested a hand over Lina’s small one. “You’re safe.”
Natalya noticed immediately—the way Wanda positioned herself, the protective curve of her shoulders, the way Lina clung to her as if she were an anchor.
Her expression softened.
She approached slowly, lowering herself so she wasn’t towering over the child. “Hello, little one,” Natalya said kindly. “I’m Wanda’s mama.”
Lina glanced up at Wanda for reassurance.
Wanda smiled softly and squeezed her hand. “She’s kind,” she promised. “You can trust her.”
Lina hesitated, then gave a small nod, though she stayed tucked close to Wanda’s side.
Natalya’s heart ached at the sight.
“I won’t take her from you,” Natalya added quietly, looking at Wanda as much as Lina. “I just wanted to see how you both were.”
Wanda exhaled, grateful. “She’s eating,” she said softly. “And she slept.”
Natalya nodded once, then her gaze shifted fully to her daughter—taking in the shadows beneath Wanda’s eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands still trembled faintly as she held the bowl.
“And you?” Natalya asked gently. “Have you eaten? Have you rested at all?”
Wanda hesitated.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the spoon before she set it down. “I… I’m fine,” she said automatically—then faltered. Her voice softened, honesty slipping through the cracks. “I didn’t sleep.”
Natalya reached out, resting her hand over Wanda’s forearm. “Of course you didn’t.”
Wanda swallowed. “I couldn’t leave them. Not even for a moment.”
Natalya nodded, understanding written plainly across her face. She didn’t scold. She didn’t push.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time, lyubimaya,” she said quietly. “Not with me.”
Wanda’s throat tightened, but she only nodded, pressing her lips together as she reached back for Lina’s hand—grounding herself in the warmth there, even as her heart remained tethered to another tent entirely.
---
Y/N’s POV
Pain dragged Y/N back into consciousness.
It came in layers—first the cold, seeping deep into their bones, then the weight of their own body pressing into something unfamiliar. Every breath scraped their chest raw. Their head throbbed, pulsing in time with their heartbeat.
They tried to open their eyes.
Light stabbed them immediately.
A broken sound left their throat as they squeezed them shut again. One eye burned too badly to open fully—swollen, heavy—only managing to lift halfway before tears blurred everything.
Where…?
The air smelled wrong. Not stone and incense like the palace. Not forest and damp earth either.
Their throat felt like it had been scraped raw with glass.
They swallowed—and regretted it.
“W–w…” Their voice came out as a hoarse rasp. They tried again, forcing the sound through the pain.
“Wan…da…”
Silence.
Panic surged, sharp and immediate, cutting through the fog.
Their head turned weakly from side to side. Shapes swam. Canvas walls. Shadows. A lantern.
No Wanda.
“Wan…da,” they called again, louder this time, desperation cracking the sound.
Nothing.
Lina—
Their heart slammed painfully against their ribs.
They tried to sit up.
Agony exploded through their side.
A choked cry tore out of them as their body betrayed them, strength giving out completely. They slid off the cot and hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from their lungs.
Stars burst behind their eyes.
They lay there for a moment, gasping, trembling violently.
No.
No, no, no.
They couldn’t stay down.
Wanda. Lina.
Gritting their teeth, Y/N dragged a hand beneath them, pushing against the ground. Their injured side screamed in protest, fire tearing through muscle and bone, but fear was stronger.
They forced themselves upright—unsteady, swaying, barely standing.
Their legs felt wrong. Weak. Like they didn’t belong to them.
Still, they moved.
They staggered toward the tent flap, fingers clutching at their bandaged side, blood warmth seeping through again. The world tilted with every step, head spinning so badly they didn’t know how they were still upright.
They shoved through the canvas—
—and nearly collided with someone.
“Whoa—!” Natasha gasped, spinning toward them, eyes widening in alarm. “Gods—what are you doing out of bed?! You’re not—”
Y/N didn’t stop.
They brushed past her shoulder, seen only as a blur of motion and blood, their focus locked on something far beyond the camp.
“Wan…da,” they rasped again, voice shredding itself apart. “Where’s Wanda—”
Natasha reached for them, catching air. “Wait! You can’t just—your stitches—!”
Y/N staggered forward, each step more unsteady than the last. The ground felt like it was rolling beneath their feet, the camp spinning in slow, nauseating arcs.
“Wanda,” they called again, louder now, panic sharpening the sound. “Wanda!”
People turned. Murmurs rippled through the camp as they noticed the blood soaking through the bandages, the way Y/N swayed like they might collapse at any second.
A guard stepped into their path, shoving Y/N back. “Go back to the tent!”
Y/N stumbled from the force, boots skidding in the dirt. Pain tore through their side, white-hot, stealing the breath from their lungs. They barely caught themselves before hitting the ground.
Their vision swam.
“No,” they rasped, lifting their head with effort. One swollen eye fixed on the guard, unfocused but burning with desperation. “Where’s Wanda.”
The guard frowned, unsettled by the sight of them—pale, shaking, bloodied—but he held his ground.
Y/N shook their head weakly, clutching their side again as if holding themselves together by sheer will. “What did you do to her,” they whispered hoarsely. “Please. Just—let me find her.”
Another step forward. Their knees nearly buckled.
Someone else moved closer, trying to restrain them. “Stop—”
Y/N shoved past again, strength born of panic rather than muscle. “Move,” they begged, voice cracking completely now. “I need to see she’s safe.”
Their breath hitched, chest heaving. Blood dripped to the ground, dark against the dirt.
“Wanda,” they called again, the name breaking apart in their mouth. “Wanda—please.”
They swayed violently, the world narrowing to a tunnel—
—and still they tried to take another step.
Y/N shoved past another pair of knights, their hands rough against Y/N’s arms as they tried to stop them.
Their breath hitched painfully as they turned toward the voice, slow and unsteady, heart slamming so hard it hurt.
There—by the edge of the tents.
Wanda.
For a split second, their vision swam so badly they thought they were hallucinating. Her red cloak. Her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes wide with horror.
“Wanda,” they whispered, barely audible.
She was already running.
“Y/N, stop—don’t move!” Wanda cried, panic breaking her voice as she pushed past the knights without hesitation.
Relief hit Y/N all at once—sharp and overwhelming. It stole the air from their lungs, made their vision blur even more than it already had. She was here. She was real. Alive.
They moved toward her anyway, steps unsteady, body swaying like it might betray them at any second.
“W-Wanda…” they breathed.
When she reached them, Y/N lifted trembling hands and cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks with clumsy urgency, as if they had to confirm she wasn’t a dream.
“Did they—” Their throat burned, the words scraping out painfully. “Did they do something to you? Are you—are you okay?”
Wanda’s hands came up instantly, gripping their wrists. “I’m fine,” she cried. “I’m fine, but you’re not—look at you—”
Y/N searched her face desperately, eyes flicking over every inch of her. No blood. No bruises. No fear in her eyes—only terror for them.
A shaky breath left them. “Good,” they whispered. “Good…”
The tension holding them upright snapped.
Their shoulders sagged, hands slipping from Wanda’s face as their knees buckled beneath them.
“Y/N!” Wanda cried, catching them just in time, arms wrapping around their collapsing body as she sank with them to the ground, holding them close, heart breaking all over again as blood stained her gown anew.
“Oh my God—Y/N—” she choked, holding their trembling body against hers.
Y/N buried their face against her shoulder, breath shuddering. “Thought… thought you were gone,” they whispered hoarsely. “Couldn’t—couldn’t find you.”
Wanda clutched them fiercely, one hand cradling the back of their head, the other pressed carefully against their injured side, already slick with blood.
“I’m here,” she sobbed into their hair. “I’m right here. I didn’t go anywhere. I promise.”
Y/N sagged fully into her, all the fight draining out of them now that they’d found her. Their grip tightened weakly in her cloak, as if afraid she might disappear again.
Behind them, just beyond the circle of gathered knights and murmuring onlookers, Queen Natalya stood very still.
She had told herself she believed Wanda. Had chosen, deliberately, to trust her daughter’s words even when her own heart was tangled with doubt and fear. Love, after all, could be mistaken for desperation. Trauma could blur truth.
But this—
This was not confusion.
Natalya watched the way Y/N clung to Wanda like she was the last solid thing in a collapsing world. The way Wanda held them back just as tightly, shielding their broken body with her own, uncaring of blood soaking into her gown, uncaring of who was watching.
There was no calculation here. No spell. No deception.
Only terror at the thought of loss. Only relief at being found.
Natalya’s breath trembled as her hand came to rest over her chest.
So this is love, she thought.
Not pretty. Not proper. Not safe.
But real.
And as healers rushed forward and guards hesitated, uncertain now, Queen Natalya knew—without doubt—that whatever judgment the world had placed upon Y/N, her daughter’s heart had already chosen.
And she would not be the one to break it.
---
Y/N was back in the tent, laid carefully on the cot once more, fresh bandages wrapped tight around their side, the sting of new stitches still burning beneath their skin. The healers had worked in tense silence, more than one of them shooting disapproving looks at Y/N while Wanda hovered like a storm cloud that refused to move.
Now the tent was quieter.
Too quiet.
Wanda stood beside the cot, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes blazing as she looked down at them.
“Do you have any idea,” she said, voice shaking with anger and fear all tangled together, “how close you were to tearing everything open again? You could have died. Again.”
Y/N winced—not from the pain this time, but from her tone. “I know,” they murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Natalya stood a few steps away, hands folded in front of her, watching the exchange with a careful, unreadable expression.
“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Y/N continued softly. “I couldn’t find you. I thought—” Their throat tightened. “I panicked.”
Wanda’s anger faltered, cracking like thin ice. Her shoulders sagged, breath catching as she looked away for a moment.
Y/N lifted a trembling hand, fingers brushing Wanda’s cheek with gentle care, as if afraid she might shatter. “Are you okay?” they asked quietly. “Did anyone hurt you?”
Wanda turned back at once, eyes softening. She nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, even as her voice wavered. “I promise.”
Y/N searched her face, brow furrowing slightly. They didn’t believe it—not fully. They could see the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, the way she was holding herself together by sheer will.
But they didn’t push.
They let their hand fall back to the cot, offering a small, tired smile instead. “Okay,” they whispered.
Natalya watched it all—the scolding, the apology, the way fear turned into tenderness so easily between them—and felt something in her chest finally settle.
Whatever this bond was, it was no illusion.
And it was already stronger than any wound.
Natalya finally spoke.
“You frightened her,” she said gently, breaking the fragile quiet of the tent.
Y/N’s eyes shifted to her at once. Despite the pain, despite the haze still clinging to them, recognition was immediate. They swallowed and inclined their head as much as their body would allow.
“Your Majesty,” Y/N said hoarsely.
Natalya’s expression softened at the respect in the words.
“Thank you,” Y/N continued, voice rough but steady. “For allowing your healers to tend to me. I know… I know you did not have to.”
Wanda’s head snapped toward them. “Y/N—”
Y/N met her eyes and gave a faint, reassuring look. It’s fine.
Natalya took a slow breath. “I can see it now,” she said quietly. “I see how my daughter looks at you. How she holds you. How she fears for you.”
Her gaze stayed on Y/N. “Whatever the world says about you, whatever rumors cling to your name… I am willing to know the person my daughter has fallen in love with. Not the shadow others have painted.”
Y/N stared at her, genuinely stunned. Their breath caught, eyes widening just slightly. “Your Majesty, I—”
The tent flap was yanked open.
Cold air rushed in, along with a sudden, heavy presence.
Olek.
Y/N’s body reacted before their mind could. They tried to push themselves upright, muscles tensing in instinctive alert—
“Ssss—” A sharp sound tore from their throat as pain flared violently through their side.
“No—” Wanda was instantly there, hands firm on their shoulders, pressing them gently but decisively back onto the cot. “Don’t. You’re not moving.”
Olek’s eyes went straight to Y/N, hard and assessing, before flicking to Wanda’s hands on them.
The air in the tent went taut.
Natalya turned slowly to face her husband, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. Olek’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening, but he didn’t shake her off.
“Wanda,” Y/N murmured softly. “Help me sit.”
“No,” Wanda said instantly, panic flashing in her eyes. “You can’t—”
“Please,” Y/N whispered, meeting her gaze. There was no defiance there. Only resolve.
Wanda swallowed hard, shaking her head, but she slid an arm carefully behind Y/N’s back anyway, easing them upright despite her protest. Y/N hissed through clenched teeth, breath stuttering, but they forced themselves to stay upright.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate.
Y/N lifted their gaze to Olek. “Is King Alaric still alive?”
Olek stiffened, clearly not expecting the question. After a moment, he answered, voice clipped. “King Alaric is alive. He is under the Eastern Kingdom’s custody.”
Y/N closed their eyes briefly, releasing a slow, weary breath. When they opened them again, there was no surprise left—only acceptance.
“And I suppose,” they said quietly, “they want me too.”
“Y/N—” Wanda snapped, anger and fear colliding as she shot her father a glare.
Y/N reached out, fingers curling around Wanda’s hand. They squeezed once, gently, pleading silently for her to wait. To trust them.
Olek nodded. “That was the agreement.”
Y/N inclined their head slowly. “I see.”
Wanda’s breath hitched. “No. No, you don’t get to say that,” she said fiercely. “You’re not some offering—”
“I can surrender,” Y/N continued, voice calm but strained, “but only on one condition.”
Wanda turned on them, horrified. “Stop—please stop—”
Olek’s brows drew together. “What condition?”
Y/N lifted their chin, even as pain radiated through them. “You spare my people. All of them. No reprisals. No executions. And Wanda—” Their voice softened instantly as they looked at her. “—and my little sister go untouched.”
The words landed like a blow.
Olek stared at them, genuinely taken aback.
Wanda’s composure shattered.
“Are you insane?!” she cried, tears spilling freely as she struck their arms weakly, again and again. “You can’t just give yourself up! You promised—you promised you wouldn’t leave me!”
Each hit was light, desperate, powerless.
Y/N winced—not from the pain in their body, but from her anguish. They caught her wrists gently, pulling her closer despite the ache, forehead resting briefly against hers.
“Hey,” they whispered urgently. “Hey—look at me.”
Wanda was sobbing now, breath coming in broken gasps.
“I’m not leaving you,” Y/N murmured, voice trembling but sure. “I’m making sure you live. Both you and Lina. That’s all I want. Please—please understand.”
Their thumb brushed away her tears with infinite care.
Olek was speechless.
For the first time since he had stepped into the tent, the King of Sokovia had no words. He stared at Y/N as if trying to reconcile the figure before him—bloodied, barely upright, offering themselves so readily—with every story he had ever been told.
It did not make sense.
“This is madness,” Wanda sobbed, her voice breaking as she shook her head violently. “No—no, I won’t accept this. You don’t get to decide this alone.”
She turned on her father, eyes blazing through her tears. “If you let this happen—if you hand them over—I will never forgive you. Never.”
Olek flinched, the words striking deeper than any blade.
Y/N tightened their hold on Wanda’s hands, desperation creeping into their voice. “Wanda, please. Listen to me. I’m doing this so you don’t get hurt. So Lina doesn’t grow up afraid. I need you to understand—”
“Stop!” Wanda screamed, yanking her hands free. “Stop trying to make this okay!”
Her chest heaved violently, breaths coming too fast, too shallow. Tears streamed down her face unchecked. “I can’t— I can’t lose you. I won’t—”
She staggered suddenly.
“Wanda?” Y/N gasped.
Her eyes rolled back, body going slack mid-sob.
“Wanda!” Y/N lunged forward instinctively, catching her just before she hit the ground, pain screaming through their side as they pulled her into their arms.
Her weight sagged against them, completely limp.
“Wanda—hey—no, no, no,” Y/N panicked, cradling her head against their chest, fingers trembling as they brushed her cheek. “My love, please—open your eyes.”
She didn’t respond.
The tent erupted into motion—Natalya rushing forward, Olek barking orders for healers—but none of it reached Y/N. The world had narrowed to the woman in their arms, her stillness louder than any shout.
When the healers finally reached them, Y/N moved before anyone could tell them to. Ignoring the sharp agony tearing through their side, they lifted Wanda carefully—desperately—and laid her down on the cot they’d been sitting on moments before.
“Easy—your wounds—” someone started.
“I don’t care,” Y/N snapped hoarsely, hands never leaving Wanda as they eased her onto the mattress. “Just help her.”
The healers worked quickly, checking her pulse, her breathing, murmuring to one another in low, urgent tones. Y/N hovered at her side, clutching Wanda’s hand tightly, thumb rubbing frantic circles over her knuckles.
“What’s wrong?” Y/N demanded, voice shaking. “Why isn’t she waking up? She was just—she was talking—”
“There are no visible injuries,” one healer said cautiously, still examining her. “Her pulse is… is…”
“Is what!? Her pulse is what!?” Y/N said, panic sharpening their words. “Say something. Please.”
The healer checked Wanda’s pulse again, slower this time, more deliberate. Their brow furrowed.
“Has she been eating properly?” the healer asked suddenly.
Y/N blinked, thrown. “She—she eats.” Their voice faltered. “She’s been sick sometimes. Vomiting. Why? Is she sick?”
The healer exchanged a glance with their colleague, then let out a quiet sigh.
“That, combined with exhaustion and severe emotional distress…” They straightened, turning to Y/N. “Her Highness is pregnant.”
The words didn’t register at first.
Y/N stared at them, blank. “What?”
“Pregnant,” the healer repeated gently. “Likely early still. She fainted because her body is under too much strain—lack of sleep, lack of proper nutrition, and the stress of recent events.”
For a heartbeat, the tent was utterly silent.
Natalya’s hand flew to her mouth, a soft, broken sound leaving her as her eyes filled instantly with tears. She took a shaky step closer, gaze fixed on Wanda’s still form, disbelief and fierce protectiveness warring on her face.
“Pregnant…” she whispered, as if saying it too loudly might shatter the moment.
Olek stiffened where he stood. The color drained from his face as the full weight of the word sank in—of what it meant, of what had almost been lost.
Y/N’s breath hitched violently. Their hand tightened around Wanda’s, as if afraid that letting go might make her disappear.
“She’s…” Their voice cracked, failed them entirely. They swallowed hard and tried again, softer now. “She’s carrying our child?”
The healer nodded. “Yes.”
Y/N looked down at Wanda—at the woman they loved, the woman who had nearly broken herself staying by their side, who had just screamed and cried and fought for them moments ago.
Tears blurred their vision.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered hoarsely, bending over her hand, pressing a trembling kiss to her knuckles. “I didn’t know. I should’ve protected you better. Both of you.”
Natalya stepped closer then, placing a careful hand on Y/N’s shoulder. This time, Y/N didn’t flinch.
“We will protect her now,” Natalya said firmly, voice steady despite the tears. “And the child.”
Olek released a long, heavy sigh.
He looked at the scene before him—really looked. At the way Y/N’s fingers brushed through Wanda’s hair with infinite care, slow and reverent. At how Y/N’s other hand rested instinctively, protectively, against Wanda’s lower abdomen, as if he already understood the weight of what lay there.
There was no calculation in it. No desperation to survive.
Only love.
Olek turned away.
Without another word, he left the tent.
---
Back in his own tent, Olek barely had time to sit before Pietro was on him.
“Father!” Pietro demanded sharply. “Are we done with this yet? You should give the monster to the Eastern Kingdom already and be done with it.”
Olek dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion carved deep into his features. He lowered himself onto the bench, shoulders heavy, saying nothing.
Pietro paced. “Wanda is not thinking clearly. She’s been manipulated—just like Jarvis said. Once Y/N is gone, she’ll come back to her senses. This hesitation is costing us—”
“I will not give Prince Y/N,” Olek said quietly.
Pietro stopped dead. “What?”
Olek lifted his gaze to his son. “I won’t hand him over.”
Pietro’s face twisted with fury. “Father!”
Olek swallowed. “Wanda is pregnant.”
The words hit like a blade.
Pietro froze.
For a long, stunned moment, he said nothing at all.
Then his shock curdled into rage.
“That thing got her with child?” Pietro snarled. “After everything he’s done?”
“Enough, Pietro,” Olek said sharply, finally standing. “You will not speak of him that way.”
Pietro scoffed, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re choosing him over your own kingdom.”
Olek’s voice dropped, heavy with something like grief. “Your mother was right,” he said slowly. “I think we are missing a great deal. We let ourselves be blinded by hatred—by old wounds—and never truly looked at what was in front of us. We did not try to see what was real.”
Pietro’s eyes flashed. “Real?” he barked. “This is weakness. This is stupidity.”
He shook his head in disgust, already turning away. “You can sit here and question yourself all you want.”
He stopped at the tent flap, glancing back once, cold and furious.
“I won’t,” Pietro said. “I’ll end this myself. I’ll kill the monster.”
And then he was gone before Olek could stop him.
---
Y/N’s POV
Y/N remained seated beside the cot, fingers moving slowly through Wanda’s hair, the soft rhythm the only thing keeping their racing thoughts from spilling apart.
The roles were reversed now.
She slept, peaceful for the first time since the fighting began, lashes resting against her cheeks. Y/N watched every breath she took, every small rise and fall of her chest, as if afraid the world might steal her away again if they looked for too long.
Their mind wouldn’t slow.
Will she be happy?
Happy to be carrying their child—or terrified?
They swallowed hard.
They had been so ready to give themselves up. To disappear if it meant Wanda and Lina would live. But now… now there was a life growing inside her. A future that would need them. Wanda would need them.
I don’t want to leave, they admitted silently, guilt and longing twisting together.
And yet—
There was Jarvis.
The man she had been promised to. The man her family trusted. Now that Wanda was back with her kingdom, with her parents… she could return to him. Build the life everyone expected of her.
A life without Y/N.
Their hand stilled for half a heartbeat before they forced it to keep moving, gentle, soothing. Whatever happened next, Wanda deserved peace.
The tent flap burst open.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
Pietro stormed in first, anger radiating off him in waves. Jarvis followed close behind, his expression tight, calculating, eyes immediately drawn to Wanda lying unconscious on the cot.
Y/N didn’t rise. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t even look surprised.
Their hand continued to caress Wanda’s hair.
Slow. Careful.
When they finally lifted their gaze, it was calm—eerily so.
“You’re being loud,” Y/N said evenly. “She needs rest.”
“As if you care!” Jarvis barked.
Y/N’s hand stilled.
Slowly, deliberately, they turned their head. Their eyes met Jarvis’s—and whatever lived in them now was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of fear.
“She needs rest,” Y/N said again, quieter this time. More dangerous.
They rose to their feet despite the pain screaming through their side, never once looking away from Wanda for more than a heartbeat. “I didn’t touch either of you back in the underground,” Y/N continued evenly. “Because I knew how important you both were to her. I endured it—for her.”
Their gaze flicked briefly to Pietro, then snapped back to Jarvis. “But if you wake her again… I will not hold back.”
Jarvis snarled and lunged.
It happened in a blur.
Despite the fresh stitches tearing, despite blood immediately seeping through the bandages again, Y/N moved—fast, precise. They grabbed Jarvis by the collar, twisted, and shoved him bodily out of the tent.
The world outside exploded into dust and shouts as Y/N drove him to the ground, pinning him there with a knee to his chest, forearm tight against his throat.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Y/N said lowly, voice deadly calm. “Because I will only say this once.”
Jarvis thrashed beneath them, rage wild in his eyes.
“If it’s blood you want,” Y/N continued, leaning closer, “we can sort that later. I don’t care how or where.”
Their voice dropped to a whisper. “But right now, all that matters to me is my wife. She needs rest.”
Their grip tightened just enough to make the point unmistakable.
“And if you step in her way one more time,” Y/N finished, “I will not be so passive.”
Pietro stood a few paces away, frozen in place, confusion flickering across his face as he took in the sight—Y/N injured, bleeding, yet utterly unyielding. Is he pretending to care...?
Jarvis’s face was red with fury, teeth bared, eyes promising violence.
Suddenly, rough hands seized Y/N from behind.
Two knights wrenched them backward, tearing them off Jarvis and shoving them hard to the ground. Pain exploded through Y/N’s side, a sharp gasp torn from their chest as they hit the dirt.
Before anyone could move again—
“Enough!”
Olek’s voice rang out like thunder across the camp.
Everyone froze.
The King strode forward, eyes blazing—not with rage alone, but with something colder. Judgment.
His gaze swept over Jarvis on the ground, Pietro standing rigid, the knights restraining Y/N—then flicked toward the tent, where Wanda lay unconscious inside.
“Leave,” Olek ordered sharply. “Both of you. Now.”
The air felt brittle, ready to shatter.
And Y/N, even as blood pooled beneath them, lifted their head just enough to look back at the tent—at Wanda.
Summary: You had loved Wanda for your whole life. But what happens when that love is killing you?
Words: 11k+
Request: Yes
Warnings: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Mention of blood, Heartbreak, Mention of death, little fluff.
Main Masterlist
---
---
Y/N’s POV
I don’t remember a time before Wanda Maximoff.
She’s stitched into every version of my childhood—the girl with grass-stained knees who knocked on my door the day her family moved in next door, her accent soft and careful, her smile shy but curious. We were six. She asked if I wanted to play. I said yes, and somehow that yes became a lifetime.
We grew up side by side. Shared scraped knees, shared secrets whispered under blankets, shared dreams about who we’d be when we were older. Wanda was always warm—laughing easily, caring deeply. She had a way of looking at people like they mattered, like she saw something special in them. I think that’s when it started hurting. When I realized I wanted to be looked at like that forever.
I didn’t have a name for it at first.
I just knew that when she held my hand, my chest felt too full. That when she smiled at me, something inside me tilted, off balance. I knew that when other girls talked about their crushes, my mind always wandered back to her—her laugh, her hair falling into her eyes, the way she said my name like it meant home.
I realized the truth when I was thirteen.
She came to me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and told me about a boy in her class. The way her voice lifted when she said his name made my stomach twist painfully. I smiled. I always smiled. I told her I was happy for her, because that’s what best friends do.
That night, I cried into my pillow until my chest ached.
It became a pattern. Wanda liked boys. Wanda dated boys. And I learned how to swallow the hurt, how to be the safe place she ran to when things went wrong. I learned how to listen while my heart cracked quietly, piece by piece, every time she talked about someone else’s lips on hers.
I never told her how I felt. I was too afraid.
Afraid of ruining us. Afraid of losing her. Afraid that if I spoke the truth, she’d look at me differently—and I couldn’t survive that.
When I was sixteen, I met someone at a clinic. A girl sitting two chairs away, coughing violently into her sleeve. Pink petals fell to the floor like something out of a nightmare. Everyone froze. Everyone knew.
Hanahaki disease.
They said it was rare. That it came from loving someone who could never love you back. That if your feelings weren’t returned, flowers would grow in your lungs until you suffocated.
I remember thinking, distantly, How awful.
I didn’t realize I had already been infected.
The first symptom came weeks later—a tickle in my throat I couldn’t shake. Then coughing. Then one morning, bent over the sink, I gagged and watched a tiny, pale petal land in the porcelain.
I stared at it for a long time.
I didn’t need a diagnosis. I already knew who it was for.
Wanda was in a new relationship. She was happy—or at least, happy enough. And I knew… I would not have the cure.
The symptoms didn’t arrive all at once. They crept in, subtle at first, like my body was trying to warn me without fully betraying me. A tightness in my chest when I laughed too hard. A burn in my lungs after running up the stairs. A cough I blamed on the cold, on allergies, on anything that wasn’t the truth blooming inside me.
It became a game of control.
I learned how to press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop a cough before it escaped. How to breathe shallowly when Wanda was near, careful not to inhale too deeply—because deep breaths hurt. I learned to excuse myself at just the right moment, to disappear into bathrooms and empty hallways where I could finally bend over and let my body betray me in peace.
There were days she sat beside me on the couch, her legs tucked under her, talking excitedly about her boyfriend—about something sweet he’d done, something stupid he’d said. I nodded, smiled, hummed in the right places, while my chest tightened so badly I thought she might hear it. My lungs would itch, petals scraping softly inside, and I’d dig my nails into my thigh to keep from coughing.
Once, we were lying on the grass, staring up at the sky like we used to when we were kids. Wanda laughed suddenly, turning her head toward me, and the sound hit my lungs like a trigger. I choked on air, rolling onto my side, coughing into my sleeve. I told her I’d swallowed a bug. She believed me. She always believed me.
The worst moments were the ones where she touched me.
When she hugged me goodbye and my chest compressed just enough to make breathing difficult. When she rested her head on my shoulder while watching a movie, unaware that every inhale felt like dragging air through thorns. I’d freeze, terrified that if I moved—or breathed wrong—I’d start coughing flowers right there, in her arms.
At night, it was harder to pretend.
I’d wake up gasping, lungs burning, rushing to the sink with tears streaming down my face as petals spilled into my hands. Sometimes they were soft and pale. Sometimes they were darker, heavier, streaked with red. I’d rinse them down the drain and stare at my reflection afterward, memorizing a version of myself that still looked alive.
I started avoiding laughter. Avoiding running. Avoiding anything that made my chest expand too much. Wanda noticed I was quieter. She asked if I was okay. I told her I was just tired.
And maybe I was.
Tired of hiding. Tired of loving her. Tired of pretending that this wasn’t slowly killing me.
But every time I looked at her—every time she smiled, every time she reached for her phone to text him, every time she talked about love like it was something simple and safe—I knew I’d make the same choice again.
I would hold the coughs back.
I would swallow the petals.
I would keep my love buried in my lungs.
Because if the price of Wanda’s happiness was my breath, then I would pay it quietly.
---
Present
I woke up choking.
Not slowly. Not gently. I jolted upright in bed like my body had decided it was done pretending, one sharp gasp tearing out of my chest before I could even process it. I barely made it to the bathroom before my knees hit the tile.
I coughed.
And coughed.
And coughed.
It wouldn’t stop.
My hands gripped the edge of the sink as my body convulsed, each cough tearing deeper than the last. My lungs burned like they were lined with glass. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, blurring my vision, my throat raw and screaming. I was vaguely aware of the metallic taste spreading across my tongue—blood, probably—but I couldn’t stop long enough to check.
Two minutes felt like an eternity.
By the time it eased, my arms were shaking, my chest aching with every shallow breath I managed to pull in. I leaned forward, forehead resting against the cool porcelain, panting like I’d run miles instead of just fought my own lungs.
I lifted my head slowly and looked at myself in the mirror.
Pale. Too pale. Dark shadows carved beneath my eyes. Lips tinged faintly blue, like my body was already rehearsing for the end. I sighed, tired in a way sleep never fixed.
Then I looked down at the sink.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Nestled among the blood-speckled saliva was something small. Green. Delicate.
A flower bud.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I might be sick again.
“No,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
Three years.
It had been three years since the disease took root in me, three years of coughing, pain, and pretending. Buds meant progression. Buds meant the flowers weren’t just forming anymore—they were preparing to bloom.
I knew what came next.
Full blossoms.
Branches.
Suffocation.
Death.
My hands trembled as I turned on the faucet, watching the water wash everything away. I stood there longer than necessary, staring as the last trace of it disappeared down the drain, like if I didn’t see it anymore, it wouldn’t be real.
I was spiraling when the knock came.
“Sweetheart?” my mom’s voice filtered through the door. “Are you okay?”
My heart jumped. I quickly splashed water on my face, wiped my mouth, straightened my clothes. I flushed the sink one more time, just in case, then took a steadying breath before opening my bedroom door.
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile.
Her eyes softened immediately—but not with relief. With worry. The kind that had been living on her face for years now.
“You were coughing again,” she said gently. “I heard you.”
“It’s nothing,” I replied too quickly. “Just a cough.”
She frowned. “You’ve been ‘just coughing’ for three years.”
I looked away.
“You’re pale all the time,” she continued, stepping closer. “You barely eat. You barely sleep. Please—let’s go see a doctor.”
“I already told you,” I said, carefully keeping my voice steady. “I’m fine. It’s just something that lingers. Stress. College. It’ll pass.”
She didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way her lips pressed together, by the way her hand hovered like she wanted to touch me but didn’t know how.
So I hugged her.
Wrapped my arms around her and held her tighter than usual, breathing in the familiar scent of home, of safety, of someone who loved me without conditions.
“I promise,” I murmured into her shoulder. “I’m okay.”
It was the easiest lie I’d ever told.
A few minutes later, I grabbed my bag and headed out for college, the cool morning air burning my lungs as I stepped outside. I walked away before she could look at me too closely again.
Behind me, my mother watched with fear in her eyes.
Ahead of me, the day waited—long, exhausting, and filled with breaths I wasn’t sure I could afford to waste.
The pain in my lungs was worse that day.
Not sharp—worse than that. Heavy. Like something had settled inside my chest and decided to stay, pressing in with every breath I took. I kept my hood up the entire morning, shoulders slightly hunched, breathing shallow so I wouldn’t trigger another coughing fit in the middle of campus.
When I spotted Wanda across the quad, my heart did that familiar, stupid thing—jumping before it remembered it was broken.
She was laughing with someone, hair glowing in the sunlight, so alive it hurt to look at her. Panic flared in my chest, right alongside the ache. Before she could turn her head, before her eyes could find me, I turned around and walked the other way.
Coward.
Lunch was harder to escape.
I sat in the corner of the cafeteria, back against the wall like I could disappear into it if I tried hard enough. The noise made my head throb. The smell of food turned my stomach. I’d grabbed a sandwich out of habit more than hunger, took a single bite, and let it sit untouched in my hands.
Breathing felt like work.
Then suddenly—weight. Arms. Familiar warmth crashing into my back.
“There you are!”
Wanda.
She practically launched herself at me, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, chin resting against my hood like she’d done a thousand times before. My chest compressed under the force and panic spiked instantly.
Don’t cough.
Don’t cough.
I swallowed hard, forcing the urge down as my lungs screamed in protest.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she continued, pulling back just enough to grin at me. “You disappeared this morning.”
“Yeah,” I rasped. “Busy.”
She didn’t notice the way my voice strained—at least not at first. She slid into the seat next to me anyway, energy bright and infectious as always.
“Oh! There’s a party tonight,” she said excitedly. “At Tommy’s place. Vision and I are going, and you have to come too. Everyone’s going—Nat, Clint, even Pietro said he might show up.”
Each word landed heavier than the last.
Vision.
Her boyfriend of three years. The one she said his name about so casually, like it didn’t carve into me every single time.
“That’s… great,” I said, forcing a smile that felt brittle at best.
She finally really looked at me then.
Her smile faded.
“Hey,” she said softly, reaching up without thinking and tugging my hood back just a little. “Why are you so pale?”
My stomach twisted.
“You look… really tired,” she added, worry blooming instantly in her eyes. “Are you sick?”
There it was. That look. The one that made my chest ache worse than the disease ever could—because she cared.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
She frowned, eyes scanning my face like she might find the truth written there. “You barely ate,” she said, glancing at the sandwich. “And you’re freezing—why are you wearing this?”
“I like it,” I replied, tugging the hood back up gently. Distance. Always distance.
She hesitated, then nodded slowly, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. Her hand lingered on my arm, warm and grounding, and I had to fight not to lean into it.
“You promise you’re okay?” she asked.
I met her eyes.
I always promised.
“I promise,” I said.
She smiled again, relieved far too easily, and leaned her head against my shoulder like everything was normal. Like my lungs weren’t slowly filling with flowers. Like I wasn’t counting breaths.
“You’ll come tonight, right?” she asked softly. “It won’t be the same without you.”
I swallowed past the tightness in my throat.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’ll try.”
She beamed, squeezed me once more, and launched herself up to rejoin the others, already talking about outfits and music and Vision’s terrible dancing.
I stayed where I was, untouched sandwich in my hands, lungs burning quietly beneath my ribs.
Watching the girl I loved walk away—
and wondering how many parties I had left in me.
---
Later that night
I hadn’t planned on going.
I stood in front of my mirror for a long time, fingers gripping the sink, chest aching with every breath, telling myself it was stupid. That I didn’t owe anyone anything. That my body already felt like it was failing and a crowded party was the last place I should be.
But then I pictured Wanda’s smile at lunch. The hopeful look in her eyes when she’d asked me to come.
So I went.
The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. The air felt thick, heavy in my lungs the moment I stepped inside. I barely made it through the door before I saw them.
Wanda and Vision.
They were dancing together in the middle of the room, bodies close, Wanda laughing with her head tipped back, her hands resting easily on his shoulders like they belonged there. Like she belonged there.
My stomach twisted violently.
I turned around before I could stop myself, pushing through the crowd until I reached the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind me and I bent over the sink, coughing hard—short, sharp bursts that burned my throat but mercifully didn’t last long enough to draw blood.
I rinsed my mouth, wiped my face, stared at myself just long enough to make sure I didn’t look like I was about to collapse.
Then I fled again.
The kitchen was quieter. I grabbed the first thing I saw—a cup already filled with beer—and downed it in one go, barely tasting it. The alcohol burned going down, but it dulled something. The ache. The sharp edge of seeing her with him.
“Wow,” a familiar voice said behind me. “You look like shit.”
I snorted softly. “No kidding.”
I turned to see Nat leaning against the counter, arms crossed, red hair pulled back, eyes sharp and observant as always. Bucky stood beside her, offering me a small, sympathetic nod.
“Hey,” I said, managing a weak smile.
“Why are you here?” Nat asked bluntly. “You look like you should be in bed. Or a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
She raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
Nat followed my gaze across the room—right to Wanda. Her expression softened, then hardened into something dangerously close to anger.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said quietly. “Either move on, or tell her how you feel.”
I shook my head, eyes still locked on Wanda as she spun under Vision’s arm, smiling like nothing in the world could hurt her.
“She looks happy,” I murmured.
Nat sighed. “That doesn’t mean you deserve to be miserable.”
“She’s the only one for me, Nat,” I said softly. “That I am sure.”
She opened her mouth to argue—then stopped when someone stepped into my space.
Warm hands slid around my neck. A familiar perfume hit my senses.
“Well,” a girl’s voice purred near my ear, “this is a surprise.”
I stiffened.
She pressed closer, fingers grazing my collarbone, all confidence and heat when I turned my head to look at her. A hookup from months ago—someone whose name I remembered, but whose face barely registered anymore.
“I didn’t think you were the party type,” she said, eyes dragging over me slowly.
I exhaled, already tired. “What do you want, Sharon?” I asked flatly.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blush. Didn’t lower her voice.
“You,” she said, blunt and unapologetic. “Alone. Somewhere private.”
Nat choked on her drink beside me. Bucky coughed, eyes wide, trying very hard not to laugh.
I closed my eyes for half a second, the pressure in my chest worsening—not from the disease this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it all.
“Not happening,” I said, gently but firmly, stepping back and prying her hands off me. “Find someone else.”
Sharon tilted her head, clearly amused.
“It has to be you,” she said easily. “I’ve tried. Nobody else comes close.”
I scoffed, rubbing a hand over my face. “What about Steve? Isn’t he usually your type?”
She shrugged. “He’s handsome,” she admitted. “But too small.”
Nat made a strangled noise. Bucky straight-up choked this time.
I shot Sharon an incredulous look. “I’m not a guy, Sharon. I definitely don’t have anything to compare size.”
Her grin turned slow. Dangerous. “Didn’t say anything about that,” she replied smoothly. “Your fingers, though? Absolute magic.”
Bucky sputtered again, coughing into his fist. Nat slapped his back, muttering something about needing better friends.
“Okay,” I said quickly, heat crawling up my neck. “Conversation over.”
I was about to step away when a flash of auburn filled my vision.
Wanda.
She stepped between us without hesitation, her body angled protectively in front of me, eyes sharp and blazing as they locked onto Sharon.
“She said she’s busy,” Wanda snapped, voice tight with anger.
The room seemed to quiet around us.
Sharon blinked, surprised—and then she smirked. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
That did it.
Wanda’s jaw clenched, her eyes flashing. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh?” Sharon tilted her head, unfazed. “Funny, because you’re acting like it is.”
“Back off,” Wanda warned, stepping closer. “Now.”
Sharon laughed softly. “Relax. I was just talking. Didn’t know she needed rescuing.”
Something sharp sparked in Wanda’s expression. “She doesn’t need anything from you.”
The tension spiked—voices rising, eyes drawing toward us, the kind of attention I absolutely couldn’t afford. My chest tightened, breath catching, pain flaring hot and sudden.
I moved without thinking.
My hand slid to Wanda’s waist, fingers firm but gentle as I pulled her back just enough to break her momentum. I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear.
“Wands,” I whispered, low and steady despite the burn in my lungs. “Calm down.”
She stiffened—then slowly relaxed beneath my touch, her breath shuddering as she stepped back with me, trusting me without question. That trust hurt worse than anything.
Sharon, unfortunately, wasn’t done.
“Ah,” she said brightly, eyes flicking between us. “So she’s the one you’ve been cough—”
I was already moving.
I stepped past Wanda in a single stride and clamped my hand over Sharon’s mouth, my glare sharp enough to cut. Sharon saw me coughing petals when we slept, and I know what she was going to say.
Up close, she froze—finally registering the warning in my eyes.
Don’t.
Ever.
Her hands went up immediately, surrender at last. I released her just as quickly.
She disappeared into the crowd without another word.
I stood there for a second, chest heaving slightly, forcing my breathing back under control. The ache in my lungs pulsed, a dull warning I tried to ignore.
“What the hell was that?”
Wanda’s voice cracked through the noise—sharp, furious, hurt.
I turned to her just in time to see her eyes blazing. “You slept with her?”
“Wanda—” I reached out instinctively, lowering my voice. “Not here.”
“I saw the way she touched you,” Wanda snapped, not caring anymore who heard. “Don’t lie to me.”
Heads were starting to turn. My chest tightened—not just from the disease this time, but panic.
“Come on,” I murmured, taking her wrist gently but firmly. “Please.”
She resisted for a second, then let me pull her through the hallway, past a few curious looks, until we reached one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. I shut the door behind us, the music muffling instantly.
“Why her?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t tell you about everyone I sleep with,” I said carefully. “And it didn’t mean anything.”
“That’s not the point!” she shot back.
“Then what is the point?” I asked, frustration creeping in. “You have a boyfriend, Wanda. You’ve had one for years. I don’t— I don’t understand why this matters to you.”
She looked away, hands curling into fists. “Because you didn’t tell me,” she said tightly. “Because Sharon is not a good person. She sleeps with everybody. Because she just—shows up and says things like that and you just—”
She gestured helplessly, words failing her.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For not telling you. I was drunk. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even like her like that.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Wanda snapped.
I stared at her, chest aching, breath shallow. “You’re angry at me for something that happened months ago… when you’re with someone else?”
“Yes!” she said immediately—then stopped, like she’d realized how that sounded.
The room went still again.
Her breathing was fast. Mine was worse.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered, shaking my head. “You don’t get to be mad at me for sleeping with someone. You also have a boyfriend. I don’t get mad at you because of that.”
“That’s different,” Wanda shot back immediately. “We’re dating.”
I stared at her. “So… hooking up is the problem?”
She scoffed, frustration spilling over. “No—God, you’re not listening.”
“Then explain it to me,” I said, my voice tightening. “Because I’m trying, Wanda, and I still don’t understand why you’re this angry.”
“The problem,” she snapped, stepping closer, “is that you didn’t tell me.”
I blinked. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” she said sharply. “That’s it.”
My chest felt tight—too tight. I dragged in a shallow breath, irritation and pain tangling together. “Why would I tell you? You don’t report to me every time you kiss someone.”
“That’s not the same,” she insisted.
“You keep saying that,” I said, frustration bleeding into my tone, “but you won’t tell me why.”
“Because we tell each other things,” Wanda argued. “Because we’re—” She cut herself off, jaw clenching. “Because Sharon is trouble. Because she doesn’t respect boundaries. Because she just walks up and says things like that and you—”
“And I shut her down,” I said quickly. “Immediately. You saw that.”
“That doesn’t erase it.”
I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “So let me get this straight. You’re furious because I didn’t tell you about a meaningless hookup that happened months ago, while you’ve been in a committed relationship the entire time.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” I said, rubbing a hand over my face. “I’m honestly lost. I apologized. I told you it meant nothing. I don’t even want her. What more do you want from me?”
She opened her mouth—then closed it again.
Silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
My lungs burned, every breath a reminder that I shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be arguing over something so small when my body was already running out of time.
“I don’t understand you,” I said quietly, exhaustion seeping into every word. “I really don’t.”
Wanda looked just as frustrated—angry, confused, hurt—but instead of answering, she turned away, pacing once like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice thin.
She spun back around, eyes flashing, every word sharp and cruel.
“To find my boyfriend,” she snapped, “and fuck him—and not tell you.”
That did it.
The words hit harder than any blow. My chest seized, the air ripping out of me in a silent gasp. Heat rushed up my throat, nausea curling violently in my stomach.
Hold it.
Just hold it.
I staggered back as she yanked the door open. I tried to speak—tried to stop her—but nothing came out. The urge to cough swelled, brutal and unstoppable, my lungs screaming as if they were tearing themselves apart.
The door slammed shut behind her.
The second it did, I broke.
I barely made it to the ensuite before my knees hit the floor. The cough tore out of me—violent, relentless, ripping through my chest like something was clawing its way free.
And it was.
Flowers spilled from my mouth in a choking rush—full blooms this time, petals slick and heavy, tangled with half-open buds. Thin, green branches followed, scraping my throat as they forced their way out. I gagged, hands braced against the tile, coughing so hard my vision went white.
Pain exploded up my neck as the branches tore at my throat.
Blood followed.
Dark red splattered against porcelain and petals alike as I coughed again and again, my body convulsing, lungs burning, screaming for air they couldn’t hold anymore. Every breath was shallow, panicked, useless.
I couldn’t stop.
I coughed until my chest felt hollow, until my throat was raw and shredded, until flowers and blood and petals littered the sink and the floor beneath me.
Somewhere downstairs, the party raged on.
And upstairs, alone on the bathroom floor, I finally understood—
I was running out of time.
---
Wanda’s POV
Wanda left the room fuming.
Her hands were shaking as she pushed through the hallway, the noise of the party crashing into her like a wave she didn’t want. She was furious—so angry she could barely see straight.
It wasn’t the first time Y/N had slept with someone. Wanda knew that. She’d always known Y/N liked girls. And Y/N never really dated—just a few one-night stands here and there. And somehow, somehow, Y/N always told her. Never details. Never anything explicit. Just enough to be honest.
And Wanda hated it.
She hated every single time. The tightness in her chest, the irrational jealousy she had no right to feel. She told herself it was protectiveness. That she just didn’t like people using Y/N. That was easier than admitting the truth.
But tonight was different.
Seeing Sharon’s hands on Y/N. Hearing the way she talked about her—about how good she was. Watching Y/N shut her down, yes, but still having to stand there and listen to it—
Something inside Wanda had snapped.
She stormed through the party, barely registering faces or voices, her pulse roaring in her ears. She needed air. Distance. Anything to get away from the image burned into her mind.
“Wanda!”
Vision caught up to her near the door, confusion written all over his face. “Where did you go? I was looking for you.”
“Not now,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “I need to leave.”
He frowned, following her outside as the cool night air hit them both. “What happened? Did something go wrong?”
“I said not now,” she snapped again, sharper this time.
Vision stopped short, stunned by her tone. He stared at her for a second before his expression hardened.
“Is this about Y/N again?” he asked flatly. “That bitch of hers?”
Wanda froze.
Her hands curled into fists. “Don’t call her that.”
Vision scoffed. “Every time you’re upset, it’s because of her. She’s always in your head, always causing problems. I told you from the start—she’s not good for you.”
Wanda’s chest tightened painfully.
He wasn’t wrong about one thing: it was always Y/N.
But not for the reasons he thought.
“You don’t know anything about her,” Wanda snapped. “Or me.”
Vision scoffed, crossing his arms. “I know enough. I know she looks at you like you’re the center of her universe. I know she waits around, never really moving on. And I know you let it happen.”
“That’s not fair,” Wanda shot back, though the words felt weak even to her own ears.
“Isn’t it?” Vision pressed. “You like the attention. You like knowing she’ll always be there—picking up the pieces, defending you, orbiting you while you pretend not to notice.”
Wanda’s breath caught.
“That’s not what this is,” she said, more to herself than to him. “She’s my best friend.”
“Then why does it bother you so much when she sleeps with someone else?” he demanded. “Why does it make you angry when she doesn’t tell you? Why did you look like you were ready to tear Sharon apart just for touching her?”
Wanda opened her mouth—
And froze.
Images flooded her mind without warning: Y/N’s hand on her waist in the bedroom, gentle but grounding. The way Y/N whispered her name—*Wands*—like it was something precious. The flash of pain on Y/N’s face when Wanda said those words she hadn’t meant… or maybe had.
Her stomach twisted.
“She didn’t tell me,” Wanda said again, clinging to it. “That’s why.”
Vision shook his head. “You’re lying. To me, or to yourself.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
“Face it,” Vision continued coldly. “You don’t want her with anyone else. And you don’t want to admit why.”
Wanda’s chest tightened painfully. “Stop.”
“She’s in love with you,” he said. “And you know it.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
Wanda turned away, shaking her head. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
“Why?” Vision asked sharply. “Because I’m right?”
Anger flared again—hot, defensive. “Because she deserves better than you judging her for feelings she never forced on me.”
Vision laughed bitterly. “You mean the feelings you take advantage of?”
That was it.
“Enough,” Wanda said, voice shaking. “I’m done with this conversation.”
She turned, heading down the steps, heart racing, thoughts spiraling out of control. Vision called after her, but she didn’t stop.
Because for the first time, a terrifying thought was taking shape in her mind—
What if her anger wasn’t about Sharon?
What if it wasn’t about honesty?
What if it was about the fact that the idea of losing Y/N—
of someone else touching her, choosing her—
felt unbearable?
---
Y/N’s POV
I don’t know how long I stayed on the bathroom floor.
Ten minutes, maybe more. Time didn’t work right when every breath felt like it might be your last. My lungs screamed with every shallow inhale, my throat felt shredded raw, and my head throbbed like it was filled with cotton and static.
When the world finally snapped back into focus, I realized I was still alive.
Barely.
I pushed myself up, legs shaking violently beneath me. The mirror caught my reflection for half a second—blood at the corner of my mouth, eyes glassy, skin ghost-pale—and I looked away before I could see more.
I had to get out.
I stumbled into the hallway, the music crashing into my skull like a physical force. People blurred past me—laughing, dancing, unaware. My chest ached with every step, breaths coming too fast, too shallow. I kept my head down, just trying to reach the stairs. Just trying to leave.
That’s when someone grabbed me by the collar.
Hard.
I barely had time to register the movement before my head snapped to the side, pain exploding across my cheek. A fist connected again, stars bursting behind my eyes as I stumbled back, disoriented.
“What—” I tried to speak, but the word dissolved into a wheeze.
Hands shoved me again. Anger. Shouting. The world tilted.
Then suddenly—voices.
“Hey! What the hell—!”
Arms pulled him back. Someone shouted my name.
The pressure vanished and I sagged, barely staying upright before strong hands caught me.
“Y/N? Y/N? Hey—look at me.”
Nat.
She was in front of me, panic etched into her face, hands cupping my cheeks gently but firmly to keep my focus on her. My chest hurt—badly. My head rang. My cheek throbbed where I’d been hit.
I tried to breathe and couldn’t.
“Y/N?” Nat said again, louder now. “You okay? Talk to me.”
I shook my head weakly, a broken sound tearing out of my throat as I struggled to pull air into lungs that refused to cooperate. My vision tunneled.
“What the hell, Vision?!” Bucky barked, fury sharp in his voice.
I looked past Nat just in time to see Vision being held back by two people, his face twisted with rage, eyes locked on me like I was something filthy.
“STAY AWAY FROM MY GIRLFRIEND!” he yelled. “DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU BITCH?! STAY AWAY FROM HER!”
The words hit almost as hard as the punches.
Nat turned sharply, fury blazing. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
I tried to inhale again—and failed.
My chest seized, pain lancing through my lungs as a strangled cough ripped out of me. I doubled forward slightly, hands clutching my shirt, vision dimming at the edges.
“Hey—hey, stay with me,” Nat said urgently, wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
I couldn’t tell her I couldn’t.
Behind her, Vision was still shouting, still furious, still convinced he was protecting something that had never been his to protect.
“Babe, call 911!” Nat look back at Bucky desperately as she saw I wasn’t responding.
And all I could think—through the pain, the blood, the suffocating weight in my chest—
was that Wanda wasn’t here.
---
I woke up to the steady, hollow beeping of a heart monitor.
For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. Everything felt heavy—my limbs, my chest, my head. My throat burned like I’d swallowed fire, every breath shallow and sore, but at least… at least I could breathe.
Barely.
The smell of antiseptic hit next. Then the ache—my cheek, my ribs, my lungs, all flaring at once like my body was reminding me what it had survived.
I turned my head slowly.
My mom was sitting beside the bed.
She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red and swollen, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white. When she noticed I was awake, she stood up immediately, relief crashing over her face—followed just as quickly by something else.
Pain.
The kind a parent can’t hide.
“Hey,” she whispered, brushing my hair back gently, like I was a child again. “You scared me.”
My throat tightened. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken sound, halfway between a breath and a sob.
She swallowed hard, eyes shining. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t demand answers. She just looked at me—really looked at me—and I knew, in that instant, that she already saw the truth written all over my face.
“It’s Wanda, isn’t it?” she asked softly.
That was all it took.
I broke.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as my chest hitched, sobs ripping out of me like I’d been holding them back for years—which I had. I turned my face toward the pillow, shaking, every breath hurting as much as my heart did.
My mom moved instantly, wrapping her arms around me as carefully as she could, holding me while I cried like I hadn’t since I was a kid. She pressed her lips to my hair, her own tears falling silently.
“Oh, baby,” she murmured. “Oh, my sweet girl…”
I clutched her shirt with trembling fingers, words tumbling out between sobs. “I tried—I tried not to love her. I really did. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to get sick.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her expression shattered but resolute.
“They told me,” she said quietly. “About the flowers. About your lungs.”
My breath caught.
“You knew?” I croaked.
She nodded, tears slipping free now. “I suspected for a long time. The coughing. The way you looked at her. I just… prayed I was wrong.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
She shook her head fiercely, cupping my face. “No. No. Don’t you dare apologize for loving someone.”
Her voice cracked. “But I wish you had told me. I wish you hadn’t carried this alone.”
I stared at her through tears, fear curling tight in my chest. “Mom… I’m scared.”
Her expression softened even more, and she leaned her forehead against mine.
“I know,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. Not ever again.”
She kissed my temple, holding me as the machines beeped steadily around us.
And for the first time since the flowers took root in my lungs,
someone finally knew the truth—
that I was dying of love,
and that her name was Wanda Maximoff.
---
Wanda’s POV
I shut my bedroom door harder than I meant to. But it was opened again by Pietro who followed me.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “What did Vision do?”
That was all it took.
I broke down.
The anger drained out of me all at once, replaced by something heavier, messier. I sank onto the bed and covered my face with my hands as sobs tore out of me, my chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with rage.
Pietro was beside me in an instant, arms around my shoulders, holding me steady. He didn’t push. He never did.
“…It’s not Vision,” I managed between sobs.
His body went still.
“…It’s Y/N,” he said quietly.
I nodded, tears soaking into my palms.
We stayed like that for a while—me crying, him waiting—until the storm finally eased enough for me to breathe again. My throat burned. My eyes hurt. I wiped my face with shaking hands.
Pietro leaned back against the headboard, watching me with a look I couldn’t quite read.
“So,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”
I told him everything.
About Sharon. About the fight. About the way seeing Y/N with someone else made my chest feel like it was tearing itself apart. About the words I’d said—cruel, impulsive, unforgivable—and how they kept echoing in my head.
When I finished, silence filled the room.
Pietro let out a slow breath. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”
I frowned. “Figure out what?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
I stiffened instantly. “No. I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Wanda—”
“She’s my best friend,” I said quickly. “She’s my person. Of course I care about her.”
Pietro didn’t argue right away. He just studied me, far too perceptive for my liking.
“You say that,” he said slowly, “but you also have a boyfriend.”
I shrugged weakly. “So?”
“So what happens when you marry him?” he asked.
The question landed strangely, but I answered without thinking. “Y/N will live next door. Or nearby. We’ll still see each other all the time.”
Pietro hummed. “Okay. And what happens when she gets married?”
The room went very quiet.
My chest tightened painfully.
“I—” My voice broke before I could finish. The image hit me without mercy—Y/N in a white dress, smiling at someone else, choosing someone else.
Tears welled up all over again.
Pietro watched my face soften, my shoulders slump, my composure crumble.
“There it is,” he said softly.
I shook my head, wiping at my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t love me like that.”
His brow furrowed. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I insisted, even as my heart screamed otherwise. “She told me before that she likes someone. And it wasn’t me.”
Pietro tilted his head. “Did she say that?”
“No,” I admitted quietly. “But I know.”
He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“She deserves someone who can love her properly,” I whispered. “Not… me, dragging her into this mess.”
Pietro reached out, squeezing my knee gently. “Or maybe she deserves honesty.”
I looked away, fresh tears slipping down my cheeks.
Because somewhere deep down, beneath the denial and fear and years of avoidance, the truth had finally settled in my chest—
I was in love with Y/N.
My phone rang.
The sound cut through the room sharply, making me flinch. I glanced at the screen through blurred vision.
Nat.
I answered before the second ring finished. “Nat?”
Her voice came out tight.. “Wanda. Y/N was brought to the hospital.”
The world tilted.
“What?” My heart slammed so hard it hurt. “What happened—Is she—?”
“She’s alive,” Nat said quickly. “But she’s hurt.”
I didn’t wait.
“What happened?” I demanded, panic tearing through me. “Tell me right now.”
There was a pause. A sharp inhale.
“Your shitty boyfriend,” Nat said coldly, “beat her up.” “…Vision?” I whispered.
“Yes,” Nat snapped. “He lost it. Punched her. We pulled him off before it got worse.”
My chest caved in.
I remembered my words.
To find my boyfriend and fuck him. The way I’d left Y/N standing there—hurting, confused.
“What hospital?” I asked, voice shaking.
“St. Mary’s,” Nat replied. “Wanda… she was already really sick. She couldn’t breathe. It was bad.”
Sick.
My blood ran cold.
“I’m coming,” I said, already grabbing my jacket. “I’m coming right now.”
I hung up and turned to Pietro, who had gone very still, his expression dark with fury.
“He hurt her,” I said, my voice breaking completely now. “He hurt Y/N.”
Pietro moved instantly.
He caught my shoulders, firm and grounding, forcing me to look at him. “Wanda. Breathe,” he said, low and steady, the way he used to when we were kids and the world felt like it was ending. “Panicking won’t help her. You hear me?”
My chest hitched, a sob tearing out anyway. “I did this,” I whispered. “I said horrible things. I left her—”
“You didn’t make him touch her,” Pietro cut in sharply. “That’s on Vision. Only him.” His thumb brushed away my tears, gentler now. “We’re going to the hospital. You’re going to be strong when she sees you. For her.”
I nodded, clinging to his words like a lifeline.
The drive was silent, heavy. Every red light felt cruel. My thoughts kept replaying Y/N’s face earlier—tired, pale, that tightness in her chest I’d ignored because I was too wrapped up in my own anger.
St. Mary’s Hospital loomed ahead, bright and unforgiving.
Nat was waiting when we rushed in. One look at her face told me everything.
“Her mom’s with her right now,” Nat said softly. “She hasn’t left her side.”
I nodded, barely hearing anything past that. My legs carried me down the hall on instinct alone.
Room 412.
I stopped just short of the door.
Voices drifted out.
A man’s—calm, professional, devastating.
“As you know, Hanahaki disease doesn’t have a cure,” the doctor was saying. “If the person they’re in love with doesn’t reciprocate those feelings… there’s nothing we can do. We can manage pain, ease breathing, but—” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
The world shattered.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, my knees nearly buckling as the doctor stepped out, clipboard tucked under his arm, sympathy etched into his face when he saw me standing there. He nodded once and walked away.
Hanahaki.
My chest burned like I was the one choking.
I waited a second—two—just enough to pull myself together before opening the door.
Y/N’s mom looked up first.
The moment our eyes met, something passed between us—recognition, understanding, grief. She stood without a word, squeezing my arm gently as she passed me.
“I’ll give you some time,” she said quietly.
Then we were alone.
Y/N looked so small in the hospital bed. Bruises shadowed her cheek. Tubes and monitors surrounded her, each soft beep cutting into me deeper than any scream.
I crossed the room in three steps and wrapped my arms around her, careful but desperate, pressing my face into her shoulder as sobs broke free again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. For fighting. For saying those things. For leaving. I heard about Vision—God, I should’ve protected you—”
Her arms came up around me, weak but sure, holding me like she always had.
“Wanda,” she murmured, voice rough. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
Her body stiffened suddenly.
I felt it before I heard it—the sharp hitch of breath, the tremor running through her. She pulled back just enough to turn her head, coughing violently into her hand.
“No—Y/N—” I panicked.
When she opened her palm, my heart stopped.
Small flower buds lay there, streaked with red.
I stared at them, horror and heartbreak crashing over me all at once. “Oh my God…” My voice broke completely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She tried to hide her hand, but it was too late.
“I asked you,” I choked, frustration and fear tangling together until I couldn’t separate them. “So many times. About your cough. I begged you to see a doctor. You always said you were fine!”
Tears streamed down my face as the truth hit fully, cruelly.
“Who is she?” I demanded, pain sharpening my words despite myself. “Is she that important? You love her so much you’d rather die than move on?”
My voice cracked on the last word.
“You’d really choose that over living?”
I looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, I was terrified of the answer.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Really looked at me.
Like she was trying to gather the strength to say something she’d been carrying alone for years.
Her fingers curled weakly around the bedsheet, then relaxed. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—too quiet.
“There was never a her,” she said.
I froze. “What…?”
She let out a breath that shook like it hurt to give it up. “You asked who she was,” she continued softly. “The one I loved so much I couldn’t move on. The one I was dying for.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“There was never a she,” Y/N said again. “There was only… one person.”
I shook my head, confused, heart racing. “Y/N—”
“I loved her since I was a kid,” she whispered, eyes fixed somewhere past me, like she was watching memories instead of the present. “Since she moved in next door with her accent and her laugh and the way she smiled at me like I was already important. I didn’t know what love was back then. I just knew that whenever she was around, the world felt… right.”
My breath caught.
“She talked to me about the boys she liked,” Y/N went on, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “I learned how to swallow jealousy before I even knew what it was called. I learned how to be the safe place. The best friend. The one who stayed.”
Her eyes finally lifted to mine.
“I told myself that loving her quietly was better than losing her loudly.”
My heart started to crack.
“When she got her first boyfriend, I went home and cried until my chest hurt,” she said. “When she fell in love, I taught myself how to smile and ask questions and pretend it didn’t feel like something was being carved out of me.”
Tears streamed down her face now, unchecked.
“I didn’t want anything from her,” Y/N whispered. “I swear. I didn’t need her to choose me. I just wanted her to be happy. That was enough. That had to be enough.”
Her breathing hitched, and she pressed a hand to her chest like it physically ached to continue.
“When I got sick… I knew immediately,” she said. “I didn’t need a diagnosis. I already knew who it was for.”
My vision blurred.
“I never told you because I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” she said, voice breaking. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped. Or guilty. Or like you owed me something just to keep me alive.”
She shook her head weakly.
“This isn’t your fault,” she said firmly, even as tears soaked her pillow. “None of it. I don’t want you to blame yourself. I chose this. I chose silence. I chose loving you the only way I thought I was allowed to.”
My hands were shaking now.
“All I ever wanted,” Y/N whispered, barely audible, “was to see you happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.”
And then she finally looked straight at me—really looked.
“I love you, Wanda,” she said. “It’s always been you.”
The room felt like it shattered around us.
My breath left me in a broken sob as realization crashed down, cruel and undeniable.
Every moment. Every fight. Every ache I’d never been able to name.
“I might be dying,” she finished softly, “but it’s okay… as long as you were smiling.”
Something in me snapped.
“No,” I cried, a sound torn straight from my chest.
My fists came down on her shoulder, her arm—weak, frantic, desperate hits that barely hurt but carried everything I couldn’t breathe around. “Idiot,” I sobbed. “You absolute idiot.”
She startled, eyes wide, then tried to lift her hand. “Wanda—”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I cried, hitting her again, tears blinding me. “I didn’t ask you to be quiet. I didn’t ask you to die for me.”
I pressed my forehead to hers, fists still clenched in her hospital gown like if I let go she’d disappear.
“You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less than my happiness,” I choked. “You don’t get to choose that for me.”
She was crying too now, silent tears sliding down her temples.
“I loved you,” I whispered fiercely, voice shaking apart. “I’ve loved you for years and I was too much of a coward to name it.”
Her breath hitched.
“Every time you looked tired, every time you pulled away, every time you slept with someone else—it hurt,” I admitted, voice cracking. “And instead of asking why, I ran. I hid behind someone safe. Someone easy.”
My hands shook as I cupped her face.
“I hated seeing anyone touch you,” I confessed. “I hated that it wasn’t me. And I told myself it was jealousy, or possessiveness, or fear of losing my best friend—anything except the truth.”
I laughed once, broken and wet. “Because loving you felt too dangerous.”
I pressed my lips to her forehead, tears dripping down between us.
“I love you,” I said, finally, fully. “Not like a friend. Not like a habit. I’m in love with you, Y/N. I always have been.”
Her eyes filled with fragile, terrified hope.
“I’m so angry at you,” I sobbed, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “And I’m so scared. And I love you so much it hurts to breathe.”
I pulled her into my arms as carefully as I could, holding her like she was my entire world—because she was.
“So don’t you dare leave me,” I whispered against her hair. “Don’t you dare think I’m better off without you.”
My voice broke completely.
“I need you,” I admitted. “Not smiling from a distance. Not sacrificing yourself.”
I held her tighter.
“I need you alive.”
For a moment, she didn’t move.
Like she was afraid that if she breathed too hard, the moment would shatter.
Then her fingers curled into my shirt, weak but desperate, as if she was anchoring herself to me.
“Wanda…” she whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands framing her face, thumbs brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
“I mean every word,” I said fiercely. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
Her breath hitched—and suddenly she coughed.
I stiffened instantly. “Hey—hey—”
She turned her head, coughing hard into her hand. Panic surged through me as her body shook, fragile and exhausted. I reached for the call button with one hand, ready to scream for help—
Then she froze.
Slowly, she opened her palm.
There were petals there.
But they were different.
The buds—once tight and cruel—were loosening. Softening. One of them trembled… and then crumbled into dust, fading like ash between her fingers.
Her eyes widened.
“Wanda,” she breathed. “It— it doesn’t hurt as much.”
I sucked in a sharp breath, barely daring to hope. “What?”
She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering shut as she took a careful inhale.
For the first time in years, she didn’t gasp.
Didn’t wheeze.
Didn’t cough.
“I can breathe,” she whispered, disbelief cracking her voice.
A sob tore out of me—this one different. Hopeful. Terrified. Alive.
I grabbed her hands, holding them between mine like something sacred. “That’s it,” I whispered. “That has to be it.”
Tears streamed freely down her face now, but she was smiling through them—small, fragile, real.
“You… you really love me?” she asked softly, like she was afraid the answer might disappear if she breathed wrong.
I didn’t hesitate.
“I love you,” I said, voice steady despite the way my chest was shaking. “I love you in every way that matters. I have for a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it without breaking everything.”
Her lips parted, a shaky breath leaving her.
She searched my face like she was looking for doubt, for pity—anything that would tell her this wasn’t real.
There was nothing but truth.
“I love you,” I repeated, gentler now. “Not because you’re sick. Not because you’re hurt. But because you’re you. Because you’re my home. My person.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Wanda…” she whispered, overwhelmed.
Then, hesitantly, like she was afraid to ruin the moment, she asked, “What about Vision?”
The name felt small in the room. Distant.
I exhaled slowly, brushing my thumb under her eye. “He was… kind to me,” I admitted. “He was safe. He liked me. He didn’t scare me.”
She tensed, waiting.
“But he was never you,” I said quietly.
Her breath caught.
“He never made my heart race just by saying my name,” I continued. “He never felt like the other half of my life I’d been walking beside since childhood. I cared about him—but I loved you.”
I leaned closer, forehead resting against hers.
“I chose him because I was blind. Too terrified. But I don’t want to hide anymore. I want you.”
Her hands tightened in my shirt like she was afraid I’d vanish.
“So I’m done running,” I whispered. “I’m done lying—to myself and to you.”
She let out a broken, relieved sound—half laugh, half sob—and nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Her “okay” was barely out when it happened.
She stiffened in my arms.
At first it was just a sharp inhale—too shallow, too fast. Then her body jerked violently as she started coughing.
Hard.
Wet.
Uncontrollable.
“Y/N?” I pulled back instantly, panic flooding me. “Hey—hey, look at me—”
She couldn’t.
She doubled forward, coughing nonstop, her whole body shaking as she tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come. The sound was wrong—raw and choking, like her lungs were tearing themselves apart.
“I—can’t—” she gasped between coughs, eyes already glassy.
“No no no,” I whispered frantically, heart slamming against my ribs. “Breathe with me, okay? Just—just look at me.”
She coughed again—and this time something dark spilled into her hand.
Petals.
Crushed, blood-soaked petals.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh my God—” I fumbled for the call button, slamming it with shaking fingers. “Help! I need help in here—now!”
Her face was turning pale, lips tinged blue as she clawed weakly at my arm, panic overtaking her.
“I can’t—Wanda—I can’t breathe—”
“I’m here,” I sobbed, pulling her upright, supporting her weight as best I could. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Please—please stay with me.”
More coughing. More blood.
Her body sagged against me, strength draining fast, eyes fluttering like she was fighting to stay conscious.
“Y/N!” I cried, voice breaking completely. “Don’t you dare leave me. I just found you—I just told you—I love you—”
The door burst open as nurses rushed in, followed by a doctor shouting orders I barely registered.
“Oxygen—now!”
“Sit her up—careful—”
“She’s desaturating—”
Hands pulled her from my arms and laid her back on the bed, masks and tubes appearing in seconds. I stood frozen, covered in her blood and petals, unable to move, unable to breathe myself.
She reached for me blindly.
I grabbed her hand instantly, squeezing it tight.
“I’m here,” I said desperately. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re not allowed to go.”
Her fingers twitched weakly around mine.
Her eyes met mine one last time—terrified, apologetic, full of so much love it nearly destroyed me.
“I love you,” she mouthed, soundless.
“I love you,” I sobbed back. “Please—please—”
The monitor beeped faster.
Doctors shouted.
And all I could do was hold her hand and pray that loving her—finally, fully—would be enough to pull her back.
“Clear the room—now.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
A nurse gently but firmly pulled me back, prying my fingers from hers even as I fought it, panic ripping through me.
“No—don’t—please—” I choked. “She needs me—”
“She needs oxygen,” the doctor said sharply, already moving. “We’ve got this.”
The doors slammed shut in my face.
I staggered back like I’d been punched, my legs giving out beneath me. Pietro caught me before I hit the floor, arms wrapping around my shoulders as I screamed—actually screamed—her name into the sterile hallway.
Minutes blurred into something cruel and endless.
I paced. I cried. I pressed my forehead into the cold wall and begged every god I didn’t believe in to not take her now. Not after everything. Not after I’d finally said it.
Nat arrived at some point. So did Y/N’s mom. I barely registered them until I heard it—
A sound that didn’t belong in hospitals.
A sob.
Her mother.
I looked up instantly, terror clawing up my throat. “What—what happened?”
She shook her head, tears streaming. “They’re trying,” she whispered. “She stopped breathing for a moment. They had to—”
I couldn’t hear the rest. Blood roared in my ears.
This was my fault.
If I’d told her sooner.
If I hadn’t run.
If I hadn’t said those words—
The doors finally opened.
A doctor stepped out, mask lowered, eyes tired.
“She’s stable,” he said.
The world crashed back into me all at once.
“Stable?” I whispered. “Is she—”
“She aspirated petals and blood,” he explained. “Her airway was obstructed. We cleared it. She’s on oxygen now. Heavily sedated.”
I sagged against Pietro, sobbing in relief so sharp it hurt.
“But,” the doctor continued, and my heart seized again, “this confirms the disease is progressing rapidly. Emotional stress can trigger acute episodes—even after reciprocation.”
I shook my head desperately. “But I told her. I love her. That’s supposed to—”
“Reciprocation can halt progression,” he said gently. “But the body doesn’t heal instantly. Especially after years.”
Years.
I was killing her with my silence.
“You can see her,” he said. “But keep it calm. She needs rest.”
I didn’t remember walking back into the room.
She looked smaller somehow, surrounded by machines, oxygen mask covering her face, lashes resting against her cheeks like she was asleep. Too still. Too fragile.
I sat beside her bed, trembling, and took her hand again—this time gently, reverently, like it was something sacred.
“I’m here,” I whispered, tears dripping onto the sheets. “I’m right here. You don’t get to leave now. Not after everything we survived.”
Her fingers twitched faintly in mine.
I leaned closer, forehead brushing her knuckles.
“You don’t have to be strong anymore,” I whispered. “You don’t have to protect me. Let me protect you now. Please.”
My voice broke completely.
“I love you. And I’m not letting you go.”
---
It didn’t end that night.
Healing, I learned, was not a miracle—it was a war.
For two months, Y/N stayed in that hospital room, in and out of consciousness, her body fighting something that had been growing inside her for years. The doctors warned us again and again: reciprocation stopped the disease from spreading—but it didn’t erase the damage already done.
And the damage was brutal.
She had episodes like that first one—violent, terrifying fits where she would wake up gasping, choking, coughing until her whole body shook. Sometimes it was petals. Sometimes full flowers. Sometimes thick, bloodied branches that made the nurses pale and turn away as they pulled them free from her airway.
I never left.
I slept in the chair beside her bed, my back aching, my eyes burning, my hand always within reach of hers. When she coughed, I held her. When she cried in frustration and fear, I let her soak my shirt with tears. When she apologized—over and over, for scaring me, for being weak, for being alive—I stopped her every time.
“Don’t,” I would whisper fiercely. “You’re staying. That’s all that matters.”
There were nights I thought I’d lose her anyway.
Nights when her oxygen levels dipped, when alarms screamed, when doctors rushed in and I was pushed aside again, helpless and shaking, convinced this was it—that loving her had come too late.
But every time, she came back.
Each episode left her weaker… and lighter.
Less pain.
Less blood.
Less choking.
Until one morning, weeks later, she woke up coughing—and then stopped.
No panic. No gasping.
Just a single, quiet cough.
She looked at me in confusion, then at her hands.
There was nothing there.
No petals.
No buds.
No blood.
The scan later that day confirmed it.
Her lungs were clear.
Completely.
No branches.
No seeds.
No trace of the disease that had been slowly killing her since she was sixteen.
I cried harder than I ever had in my life, forehead pressed to her hospital bed, laughter and sobs tangled together as I thanked every universe that had given her back to me.
She cupped my face with weak fingers, smiling softly.
“I told you,” she murmured. “I wasn’t ready to leave you.”
I kissed her then—slow, careful, real.
And this time, there was no pain in her breath.
Only life.
---
A Year Later.
Wanda lay with her head resting on Y/N’s bare shoulder, her cheek warm against familiar skin as her fingers traced idle lines down the center of Y/N’s chest. The soft slide of her touch caught the light—and with it, the thin golden ring on her finger, warm and unmistakable as it brushed over Y/N’s skin. Slow. Thoughtful. Like she was grounding herself in the reality of her being there.
Alive.
Breathing.
Here.
The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of their breaths as they both came down from the warmth and closeness they’d just shared. Wanda’s eyes drifted shut—and then, uninvited, memories surfaced.
Blood on white sheets.
Petals crushed in trembling hands.
The sound of coughing that had haunted her dreams long after the hospital monitors went silent.
Her chest tightened.
She hated herself for those memories. For the years she hadn’t seen. For the pain Y/N had carried alone.
Y/N felt the shift instantly.
“Hey,” she murmured gently, one hand lifting to brush Wanda’s hair back. “Where’d you go?”
Wanda swallowed, pressing her forehead lightly into Y/N’s collarbone. “I was just… thinking,” she admitted. “About how close I came to losing you.”
Y/N’s hand stilled, then tightened reassuringly at her back. “But you didn’t,” she said softly. “I’m right here.”
Wanda looked up at her then, really looked—at the steady rise of her chest, the warmth of her skin, the familiar eyes that had always felt like home.
“I love you,” Wanda whispered.
Y/N smiled, the kind of smile that reached her eyes. “I know,” she replied quietly. “I love you too.”
Wanda leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, unhurried. A kiss full of everything they’d survived and everything they still chose, every single day.
Then Wanda shifted, pulling back just enough to move, swinging one leg over Y/N’s waist. The blanket slid down with her movement, forgotten, revealing the soft lines of her body as she settled above her.
Y/N went very still, breath catching—not from surprise, but from awe. Even after a year, Wanda still did that to her.
Wanda braced her hands on Y/N’s stomach, a familiar smirk playing at her lips, eyes bright with affection and promise.
“Again, baby,” she murmured. “I need more of you.”
Y/N’s hands settled at her waist, steady and devoted. “Always,” she said.
Wanda leaned down, closing the space between them, and their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss—unrushed, certain. It was the kind of kiss that carried memory and promise all at once, lips moving together like they already knew every answer. Y/N’s hands traced familiar paths along Wanda’s back as Wanda melted into her, breath hitching softly as the kiss deepened, tender and sure.
And the ring caught the light again as Wanda leaned down—proof that they’d chosen each other, and would keep choosing, every day after.
Warnings: Angst, Tension, Mention of Blood, Mention of torture, War.
Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist
---
---
Previously
Inside, a tall man stood with his back to them, draped in heavy red armor trimmed with gold. He turned sharply at the sound of movement.
Wanda’s breath stopped.
“P–Papa…?” she whispered, disbelief shaking through every bone in her body.
King Olek’s eyes widened.
His breath caught.
And for a moment, the hardened ruler vanished.
“Wanda!” he gasped in relief.
He stepped toward her in two long strides and wrapped his arms around her, armor cold but grip crushing, as if afraid she would vanish.
Wanda stood stiff in his embrace, still stunned, still shaking.
But when he pulled away to look at her—he froze.
Her cheek.
Red and swollen.
Olek’s expression darkened instantly, fury igniting behind his eyes. He turned his glare on the Eastern Kingdom knights like a weapon.
“I told you,” he snarled, voice low and dangerous, “to bring me my daughter unharmed.”
One of the knights scoffed. “She’s alive, isn’t that enough?”
King Olek’s jaw flexed, murderous rage burning through him, but he lifted a hand to silence the argument. “Leave.”
The knights bowed stiffly and began to exit—but one still held Lina.
Wanda didn’t hesitate.
She shoved her father aside and lunged.
“Wait! Let her go!” she shouted, voice breaking with panic.
The knight blinked at her—then shrugged carelessly and let go.
He dropped Lina like a sack.
The child hit the ground with a frightened cry.
“Lina!”
Wanda fell to her knees, scooping the little girl up instantly, pressing her close.
Wanda’s hands shook as she checked her small arms, her face, her ribs. Lina sobbed into her shoulder, clutching Wanda’s dress. “Wandaaa…”
“I’ve got you,” Wanda whispered fiercely, voice trembling with both rage and relief. “I’m here, little one. I’m right here.”
Behind her, King Olek stared—confused, thrown off in a way Wanda had never seen on him before.
…Who is that child?
The thought was visible on his face, the brief flicker of bewilderment he tried to hide but failed to. But he let go for now.
“Wanda,” he said carefully, taking a half-step toward her, “come. Let me have the healers look at you—your cheek—”
Wanda stood, pulling Lina closer, shielding the child with her own body. Her voice was sharp, trembling with anger and distrust.
“Why are you here with them?” she demanded. “Why are you with the Eastern Kingdom?”
Olek inhaled slowly, shoulders heavy. “Wanda…”
She waited, jaw tight, eyes red with fear and fury.
The king sighed—a sound so weary it seemed to age him.
“I made an alliance with them,” he said quietly. “To defeat Virelia. To rescue you.”
Wanda blinked, breath catching.
Olek’s voice softened. “When they took you… when they stole you from us… I promised you, I would get you back. I swore I would tear down Virelia brick by brick if I had to.” His jaw clenched. “But the war drained us, Wanda. We had nothing left. Not enough soldiers. Not enough supplies. Not enough strength to launch another attack.”
He stepped closer, eyes full of guilt and determination both.
“So I turned to the only power strong enough to face Virelia head-on. I spent months negotiating, planning, preparing… all to bring you home safely.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I am sorry it took so long. But I never forgot you. I never stopped trying.”
Wanda held Lina tighter, feeling the child’s tiny fingers curl desperately into her dress. Lina’s breath hiccuped against her shoulder, warm and frightened.
Rescue her.
Alliance.
War.
But those words echoed far away—distant, wrong—because the only truth pounding in Wanda’s chest was one her father didn’t know:
She had not been a prisoner.
She had not been trapped.
Y/N had loved her—fiercely, gently, wholly.
And Wanda… Wanda loved them back.
But Olek continued speaking, unaware of the storm churning beneath her still expression.
“We received no letters from you,” he said, voice thick with old grief. “None. Not a whisper. And anyone we sent to the Virelian border was captured immediately—never returned. King Alaric made sure there was no way to reach you. No way for us to know if you were alive.”
Wanda’s heart squeezed painfully. The letters. The letters that caused Y/N to doubt her love for them.
Olek went on, a strange brightness in his tone—as if this was victory, not devastation.
“So we chose to attack,” he said simply. “And it worked. We broke through. Now you’re safe, my little rose. Safe from being locked away. Safe from being controlled. You can return home with me—to Sokovia.”
Wanda felt cold all the way to her bones.
Olek stepped closer, brushing a thumb on her swollen cheek. His voice gentled, unaware of the way her stomach twisted.
“Pietro is here too,” he said warmly. “He’s been worried sick about you. And Jarvis—”
Wanda froze.
Her throat tightened so suddenly she nearly gagged.
“—Jarvis was the first to volunteer to come with us,” Olek continued, almost proud. “They’ve been searching for you in the palace. They came back a while ago. They couldn’t find you, so they started interrogating some people back there. They are going to be so happy to see you.”
Interrogating.
Wanda’s blood went ice cold.
Her stomach twisted so violently she had to swallow hard against the urge to retch. But she held Lina close, grounding herself, keeping her knees from buckling.
Oh gods, no.
Who are they interrogating? Please tell me it’s not Y/N.
Not her Y/N.
But what if it was… what if it was Y/N…
She needed to know.
Wanda swallowed hard, forcing her voice not to shake.
“Bring me to them.”
Her father brightened immediately, utterly oblivious to the way Wanda’s stomach was twisting into knots.
“Of course,” Olek said, already turning toward the tent’s entrance. “Pietro and Jarvis will be thrilled to see you.”
Jarvis.
Her ex-fiancé.
Her father said his name like a blessing, but all it did was send another cold wave of nausea rolling through Wanda’s body. She clenched her jaw, swallowing against the rising bile.
No. No, no—if they were interrogating someone…
If it was Y/N—
Focus. Lina first.
Wanda looked down at the trembling girl in her arms. Lina’s small fingers were knotted in Wanda’s cloak, knuckles white, her breaths thin and uneven.
Wanda forced herself to steady, drawing on every shred of control she had left.
“Papa,” she said tightly. “Call for a medic. Lina needs to be examined.”
The king blinked, finally noticing the girl’s pallor. “Ah—yes, of course. Someone!” he called outside the tent flap.
A healer hurried in within seconds.
Wanda crouched, cupping Lina’s cheek gently. “You’re safe now, little dove. Let them check you, alright?” Her voice stayed soft, but she could feel the panic burning behind her ribs. “I have to go see something. I promise I’ll come right back.”
Wanda’s heart cracked, but she lifted Lina’s hands and pressed them to her own heart.
“I swear it on my soul. I will return for you. I just… I have to make sure Y/N is okay.”
At the mention of Y/N’s name, Lina hesitated—fear and trust warring—but finally nodded, slow and reluctant.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Wanda kissed her forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary before stepping back.
“Stay here. Stay with the healer. I’ll be right back.”
Lina clutched the blanket tighter but didn’t follow.
Wanda turned toward her father who came back with a medic.
“Let’s go,” she said.
And as she followed him out of the tent, her heartbeat thundered in her ears—
every step bringing her closer to whoever they were interrogating.
Closer to the truth she was terrified to face.
---
Olek led Wanda through the dense trees lining the side of the Virelian palace, the woods now filled with tents, torches, and soldiers from both Sokovia and the Eastern Kingdom. This was the heart of their joint camp, their command center—born out of desperation to reclaim a stolen princess.
Wanda barely registered any of it.
Her mind was a single, thrumming fear.
Let it not be Y/N. Let it not be—
A sharp, wet impact cracked through the cold air.
Then another.
Wanda’s head snapped toward the sound.
Two figures stood in a clearing—one tall and lean, the other broader—striking someone suspended from a thick wooden pole, wrists bound high above their head.
And then—
“Pietro! Jarvis!” Olek called happily. “We found her!”
The two men turned at once.
Pietro’s face split into pure relief. “Sestra!”
Jarvis smiled with a softness that made Wanda’s stomach twist. “Wanda.”
But their voices were faint, drowned out—
Because Wanda’s eyes had finally landed on the person hanging from the pole.
And the world went silent.
Y/N.
Her Y/N.
Unconscious. Barely upright except for the cruel rope suspending them.
Their armor—gone.
Their tunic—soaked, clinging to blood and sweat.
Their face—swollen and split, a cut streaking across their cheek, dried blood at their mouth, bruises blooming beneath their skin.
Their body—marked with slashes and boot prints.
Breathing—shallow. Wrong.
Wanda’s heart stopped.
“No—” she choked.
Her legs moved before her mind did.
She sprinted.
Pietro surged forward, beaming, thinking she was running to him.
Jarvis too stepped forward, breath catching in relief—because for almost a year he’d imagined this moment, imagined her leaping into his arms.
But Wanda didn’t slow for either of them.
She flew past her brother.
She ignored Jarvis completely.
She reached Y/N with a broken, desperate sound, grabbing their face in her trembling hands.
“Y/N!” she gasped, voice cracking as her thumb brushed a bleeding cut. “No—no, no, no—my love, look at me—please, look at me—”
Her knees hit the ground hard as she tried to lift Y/N’s weight, hands shaking too violently to untie the bindings. Tears blurred her vision, dripping onto Y/N’s battered skin.
“What did you do—?” she whispered hoarsely, but the fury in her chest was volcanic, nuclear, unstoppable.
Behind her, Pietro and Jarvis froze in confusion.
Jarvis’s smile shattered first.
Pietro’s eyes widened painfully.
Because Wanda was not embracing them.
She was embracing the enemy they had been torturing—holding them like they were the most precious person in the world.
Wanda cupped Y/N’s cheeks, frantic, trembling, terrified to touch but more terrified to lose them.
Their skin was cold.
Too cold.
She brushed her thumbs over their jaw, their cheekbone—flinching when Y/N hissed quietly in pain, eyes squeezing shut.
Not unconscious.
Not fully awake either.
Somewhere in that awful, fading space between.
“Y/N…?” Wanda breathed, her voice breaking in the middle of their name. “Please, look at me. Please—”
Y/N’s head sagged forward before they forced it up, eyelids fluttering. Their gaze was unfocused, pupils slow to catch the light, but the moment they recognized her, the smallest sound escaped their throat.
“W…Wanda…”
Barely a whisper. Barely anything at all.
But enough to shatter her.
Wanda let out a sob she didn’t even feel leaving her body.
Y/N blinked sluggishly again, trying to form words. Their mouth trembled, swollen and split, each syllable scraped out of them like it hurt to speak at all.
“Safe…?”
Their brow creased, confusion slipping into fear.
“Hurt…? You… hurt?”
Wanda shook her head hard, tears falling faster. “No, no, I’m not hurt, I’m here—My love, I’m right here.”
Y/N swallowed, breath hitching, body sagging heavily into the restraints as they tried—failed—to lift their head again.
“…Lina…?”
A broken noise. Desperate.
“Lina… safe?”
Wanda pressed her forehead to Y/N’s, breathing them in, hands trembling as she held their face.
“She’s safe,” Wanda whispered fiercely. “I have her. I have both of you. You hear me? I have you.”
Y/N let out a breath—ragged, relieved—but their body slumped even more, losing what little strength held them upright.
Behind Wanda, Pietro took a step closer, voice shaking with dawning horror.
“Sestra… what are you doing?”
Wanda turned her head just enough to see Pietro in her periphery—her eyes blazing, wet with tears but sharp enough to cut clean through steel.
“Release them. Now.”
The command cracked through the air like a whip.
Pietro flinched, taken aback—not by the volume, but by the absolute certainty in her voice. He glanced at Jarvis, searching for an explanation, a reason, something—
Jarvis stepped forward, jaw tight, voice clipped.
“Wanda… that’s the Virelian prince. The one who—”
“I know who they are,” Wanda snapped, turning her glare on him so fiercely he went silent.
Her hand rose protectively, fingers splayed over Y/N’s ribs as if shielding them from Jarvis’s words alone.
A few Eastern Kingdom knights—those who had been participating in the torture—shifted uncomfortably. All of them had heard the rumors.
The monster.
The tyrant’s spawn.
The one who slaughtered villages.
The one as cruel as King Alaric himself.
But Wanda saw none of that.
She felt Y/N’s blood soaking through her palms.
She heard the way they whispered her name like a prayer.
She saw the body of someone who would lay down their life for her and Lina without hesitation.
“Wanda…” Pietro tried again, softer this time. “He’s dangerous. He is—”
“Release them!” Wanda hissed, voice breaking into anger sharp enough to tremble.
Jarvis swallowed, but his voice rose defensively.
“We cannot do that. He is our hostage, just like he did with you—”
“Do I look like a hostage?” Wanda growled. “Do I look terrified of them?”
Her hand cupped Y/N’s cheek again.
Y/N leaned into her touch weakly, breath shallow and wheezing.
That was answer enough.
Olek stepped forward, face darkening with confusion and concern.
“Wanda… what is the meaning of this? Release the prince of Virelia? The butcher’s child?”
Wanda stood, positioning herself fully between Y/N and the others—her body a shield.
“Yes. Release them.”
Her voice shook with fury, grief, and something unbreakably protective.
“Or I swear to the gods, Papa… I will tear down this entire camp myself.”
Silence.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Y/N’s head dropped against her shoulder, consciousness slipping again—but Wanda held them up, refusing to let them fall.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Until Olek slowly lifted a hand and said, voice low—
“Cut them down.”
The knights moved at Olek’s command, hesitating for the briefest second before slashing the ropes.
Y/N’s body fell.
Wanda caught them—barely—knees slamming into the dirt, teeth gritting as their weight collapsed into her arms. She gathered them up protectively, pulling them against her chest as if shielding them from the world.
Their blood soaked her sleeves.
Her hands.
Her skin.
Pietro and Jarvis stared in disbelief.
King Olek looked like he had just watched his world tilt off its axis.
“Wanda—” he began, voice tight.
She didn’t even look at him.
“Don’t.”
The single word was ice.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
Olek blinked, stunned by the tone she had never used on him before.
She focused solely on Y/N, brushing trembling fingers over their cheek, trying to see how badly they were hurt. Y/N’s eyes cracked open—barely—broken and unfocused.
“…Wan’da…? Safe…? Lina…?”
Their voice was mangled, slurred, so weak Wanda felt her chest split open.
“She’s safe,” Wanda whispered—but the gentleness in her voice was only for them. Only for Y/N. “I have her. I have you. Stay with me.”
Y/N tried to breathe deeper but winced, their whole body shaking.
Behind her, Pietro stepped cautiously forward.
“Sestra… why are you—”
“Get back.”
Her voice lashed out like a whip.
Pietro froze mid-step.
Jarvis’s jaw clenched.
“He is the Virelian prince,” he snapped, pointing at Y/N as if expecting Wanda to come to her senses. “The tyrant’s heir. The butcher’s—”
Wanda turned her head slowly, and the look she gave him was lethal.
“Finish that sentence,” she hissed, “and I will carve your tongue out myself.”
Jarvis went dead pale.
Olek swallowed hard and tried again, his voice cracking under horror and disbelief.
“Wanda… explain. Why are you—why would you defend that? What has Virelia done to you? What did they force you to—”
“Nothing.”
Her voice was flat. Sharp. Brutally honest.
“And Y/N is not that.”
Olek’s breath caught—not relief. Not understanding.
Real, visceral fear.
“What… what are you saying?” he whispered.
Wanda ignored him.
Y/N’s head lolled weakly toward her shoulder, consciousness slipping again.
“No,” Wanda murmured, tapping their cheek gently. “Stay awake. Stay with me. I’m right here.”
Her father took a small step forward, voice carefully controlled.
“Wanda… step away from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
Finally—finally—she lifted her eyes to meet his.
The look she gave him made Olek physically flinch.
“I know exactly what they’re capable of,” Wanda said coldly. “More than you. More than any of you.”
Her arm tightened protectively around Y/N.
“And they are mine.”
Silence dropped, suffocating.
Olek stared at his daughter—his daughter who had been a gentle, bright child—and saw someone fierce, unwavering, utterly unrecognizable.
“Call for a medic. Now.” she said sharply, all softness gone.
Olek hesitated—because obeying meant accepting something he did not understand, something that terrified him.
But one look at the blood pooling beneath Y/N…
One look at Wanda’s murderous glare…
And he caved.
“M—Medic!” he barked hoarsely. “Bring a medic, now!”
Wanda didn’t thank him.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t spare him a single moment.
She only held Y/N tighter, her voice breaking as she whispered urgently:
“Stay with me, my love. Stay with me… please…”
The medics rushed in with a stretcher, laying Y/N down gently—but Wanda never let go of their hand. Not once.
When Pietro tried to step inside with them, Wanda’s voice cracked across the air:
“Out. Only the medic.”
Pietro froze. The look in her eyes was not negotiable.
The flap closed behind them, sealing Wanda, Y/N, and two medics inside.
The moment Y/N was lowered onto the cot, the medics began cutting away their blood-soaked tunic. The cloth peeled back, wet and heavy, revealing skin mottled with bruises—blue, purple, sickening black. Long cuts. Burn marks. Rope burns. Dried blood. Fresh blood.
Wanda’s breath hitched violently.
“Oh gods… Y/N…” she whispered, her hand trembling as it brushed a bruise the size of a fist on their ribs.
One medic sucked in a sharp breath as the tunic fell away, exposing more.
A gash across Y/N’s left side—deep enough that Wanda could see the fats beneath. Still bleeding. Angry and raw.
“Mother above,” the medic muttered. “This wound—how long has it been untreated?”
Wanda swallowed hard.
“I… I don’t know”
Y/N groaned weakly when the medic pressed gently around the wound. The sound tore through Wanda’s heart like a blade.
“Stop, you’re hurting them—” she snapped, voice cracking.
“I have to examine it, Your Highness,” the medic said gently. “This will require stitching. Several stitches, in fact.”
The medic reached for the bandages on Y/N’s chest—and paused.
Their eyes widened.
A soft gasp escaped the medic as they glanced from Y/N’s slightly swollen chest to the unmistakable shape at their crotch. Confusion flashed across their face. Questions forming.
Wanda stepped in sharply, her voice low and dangerous:
“Say nothing. To anyone. Tend to them. That’s all that matters.”
The medic swallowed and nodded quickly.
“Yes, Your Highness. I understand.”
Wanda’s eyes dropped back to Y/N’s body—and she shuddered. Their entire torso was a battlefield. Bruises over bruises. Cuts. Swelling. Their lip was split. One eye purple and half-swollen shut. Their breath hitched every time someone touched them.
Tears spilled down her cheeks unchecked.
She took their hand—cold, shaking—and pressed it to her forehead.
“I’m so sorry… my love, I’m so sorry…”
The medics worked quickly, preparing needles, thread, cloth.
“We need to stitch the side wound immediately,” one said. “And the arm wound as well. They’re losing too much blood.”
One reached for a small vial and syringe.
“It’s a pain injection. They won’t remain conscious after this.”
Wanda leaned close to Y/N’s ear, whispering through tears.
“You can sleep, Y/N… I’m here. I’m not leaving you again. Ever.”
The medic slid the needle into Y/N’s arm.
Their body tensed—once—then slowly, finally, their muscles loosened. Their eyes fluttered, trying so hard to stay on Wanda.
“Wan’da… love… you…”
Barely audible. Barely breath.
Wanda broke.
A sob escaped her as Y/N’s eyes closed completely, consciousness fading.
Their hand went limp in hers.
The medics moved swiftly, stitching the deep gash on Y/N’s side, cleaning blood, binding wounds—but Wanda saw none of it clearly.
Her world was only the limp hand she held…
the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest…
and the prayer she whispered in a shaking voice:
“You’re going to be okay… You are going to be ok, my love.”
---
Olek’s POV
Olek stood outside the medic tent, the cold air biting at his skin, though nothing felt as freezing as the confusion twisting in his chest. Inside, he could still hear it—Wanda’s trembling voice, cracking with fear as she begged the healers to save the Crown Prince of Virelia.
Their enemy.
The rumored monster she was forced to marry.
Her voice—pleading for him—made no sense.
Pietro hovered beside Olek, pacing back and forth, hands tugging at his hair in frantic loops.
“Father…” Pietro’s voice shook. “What was that? She looked like she was—she was breaking apart. Over him. Over that monster.”
Y/N.
The son of Virelia’s tyrant.
The prince the world feared.
Olek exhaled shakily, the weight of his crown suddenly suffocating.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ve never seen your sister act that way. Not for anyone.”
A few feet away, Jarvis stood stiffly, arms locked behind his back in a rigid, formal stance that could not hide the fury radiating off him.
“Your Majesty,” Jarvis said tightly, addressing Olek, though his glare was fixed on the tent. “If I may speak plainly—what we witnessed was not affection. It was conditioning.”
Pietro whipped around. “What are you saying?”
Jarvis turned to him and bowed, shallow, clipped. “Your Highness… I mean Wanda no insult, I love her. But she was forced into that marriage. Forced into living with that—” His lip curled in disgust. “—that monster. She must have been manipulated. No sane woman would give her heart to someone like him.”
Jarvis turned back to Olek.
“She has been brainwashed, Your Majesty.”
The words hit the king like a blow.
Brainwashed?
Wanda?
Olek shook his head before he even realized he was doing it. “My daughter is not so easily broken.”
Jarvis pressed forward, voice low, urgent, unable to contain the bitterness beneath his polite phrasing.
“With respect, Your Majesty… what other explanation is there? She threw herself over that creature’s body. Shielded him. Held him as if he were—” His jaw flexed. “—someone she loved.”
Pietro looked sick.
“She must have been forced. Or threatened. Or—something. She wouldn’t choose him.”
Olek wanted to agree. He tried to.
But he couldn’t forget the look on Wanda’s face—raw terror, grief, fury. A kind of devotion he had never seen in her.
And Wanda did not fake emotion.
She did not bend for fear.
She did not yield to force.
Olek’s chest tightened.
Had he made a mistake attacking Virelia like this?
Had he misjudged everything?
Should he have tried harder to check on her? Protect her? Listen to her?
He didn’t know the answer.
For the first time since becoming king, he wasn’t sure there was an answer.
The medic tent flap burst open, and two healers emerged carrying a basin, a folded tunic, and several rolls of blood-soaked gauze. The metal pan sloshed with water stained red—far too red.
Pietro paled.
Jarvis stiffened but said nothing.
One of the medics bowed quickly. “Your Majesty—Your Highness—we, ah… Lady Wanda insists that no one enters. She has barred everyone from the tent except the medical team.”
Olek stared at the pile of blood-wet cloth in the healer’s hands.
That much blood.
From the man Wanda was holding as if he were her heart carved out and placed into her arms.
Olek’s jaw tightened.
“Is he alive?” Pietro blurted.
The medic swallowed. “Barely. We—Lady Wanda asked us to focus on stabilizing the prince first. She will not allow anyone else inside. Not a guard. Not a commander. Not…” A nervous glance toward Olek. “Not even Your Majesty.”
Jarvis scowled. “She’s protecting him even now? Gods, what did they do to her?”
The words cut deep.
Too deep.
Olek turned toward the tent.
He had fought wars.
He had seen betrayal, political schemes, shattered alliances.
But nothing—nothing—unsettled him like the look on Wanda’s face in that torture chamber.
“Your Majesty,” the medic attempted again, “she gave strict orders—”
“I am her father,” Olek said quietly.
The entire line of soldiers went silent.
His voice was low, steady, but beneath it was something raw—fear, guilt, uncertainty, all tangled like thorns in the dark.
“I will not stand outside while my daughter is with that monster inside that tent.”
Without waiting for permission, without heeding the gasps from the medic team, Olek pushed past them and strode toward the entrance. The flap was still stained with a smear of Y/N’s blood from when they’d carried the prince in.
He needed answers.
He needed to understand why Wanda—his fierce, stubborn daughter who trusted no stranger—was crying over the enemy.
He pushed the flap aside and stepped into the dim, lamplit tent.
What he saw inside stole the breath from his lungs.
---
Wanda’s POV
Wanda didn’t hear the tent flap open.
Not at first.
Her world had collapsed into a single point—
the stillness of Y/N’s body on the cot,
their chest rising only because the gods had mercy,
their skin pale beneath the lamplight.
The medics had finally finished.
They had stitched the gash along Y/N’s side, cleaned and bandaged the cut on their arm, washed away the dried blood from their face and ribs.
Wanda had held their hand through everything.
She had helped lift them just enough so the healers could slide a clean, soft tunic over their bandaged body.
White.
It made the bruises look so much darker.
Now she sat beside Y/N, one hand brushing the hair off their forehead, the other gripping their fingers—terrified she might lose them if she let go.
Tears dripped silently onto Y/N’s cheek.
“You’re safe now… you’re safe…” she whispered, voice cracking, as if saying it enough times might bind their soul to their body.
Then she heard it.
A footstep.
Too heavy to be a medic.
Too familiar.
She stiffened.
Slowly—very slowly—Wanda raised her head.
Olek stood in the entrance, lamplight casting him in gold and shadow. He took in the scene:
His daughter on her knees beside an unconscious enemy prince.
Her hands stained with their blood.
Her face wet with tears.
Her entire body curved protectively around the person he thought she hated.
Wanda’s breath shook.
Then her expression hardened like iron.
She pushed up from the stool, standing between Olek and Y/N.
Her body blocking his view.
Her palms shielding the cot behind her.
Her voice was low—dangerously quiet.
“Get out.”
Olek froze.
“Wanda—”
She took a step forward, eyes burning.
“Get. Out.”
There was no softness.
No fear.
Only fury carved from grief.
“You will not come near them,” she hissed. “You will not touch them. You will not speak to them. Not after what you allowed to happen.”
Olek opened his mouth, but Wanda cut through him like a blade.
“You think them a monster?”
Her voice broke into a whisper—raw, devastated.
“Then you don’t know anything. Not about them… and not about me.”
Her chest heaved.
Her eyes shimmered.
And for the first time in Olek’s life, he saw not his daughter—
—but a woman who would go to war for the person lying behind her.
A woman who had already chosen her side.
“Get out,” Wanda repeated, trembling. “Before I forget that you are my father.”
---
Queen Natalya’s POV
Queen Natalya’s steps were steady, but her heart was not.
She had walked through the ruined courtyard—the shattered stone, the scorch marks, the bodies of Virelian knights laid side-by-side—and every sight tightened her throat. She had warned Olek against another war. Warned him what it would cost.
And now, she feared, the cost had come due.
She hurried toward the cluster of tents, skirts brushing against trampled grass. When she saw Olek, Pietro, and Jarvis standing outside one tent with grim, unsettled expressions, her stomach dropped.
“Olek,” she breathed, pulling him into a brief embrace. “Where is she? Where is our daughter?”
Olek hesitated.
Pietro looked away.
Jarvis’s jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscles tremble.
Natalya’s brows pulled together.
“What happened?” she demanded quietly.
Olek exhaled slowly. “She… she is in the medic tent.”
Without another word, Natalya swept past them and pushed aside the canvas flap.
The sight inside stole the air from her lungs.
Her Wanda—her baby—was kneeling beside a young person laid out on a cot, their entire torso wrapped in fresh bandages. Their face was swollen, bruised, cut. Their breathing uneven. Their tunic stained with blood even after being cleaned.
Wanda sat with her head bowed over them, one hand holding theirs, the other gently combing her fingers through their dark, matted hair. Her touch was soft—achingly tender.
And Wanda was crying.
Natalya took one step closer.
“Wanda…?” she whispered.
Wanda’s head snapped up.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet, but her posture—protective, sharp, fierce—did not waver. She angled her body slightly, blocking the view of the injured figure behind her.
For a moment, she looked like she might tell her mother to leave too.
Natalya’s heart cracked.
She approached slowly, palms open, voice calm and warm—as if soothing a wounded animal.
“Oh, my sweet girl…” she murmured. “What happened? Who is this?”
Wanda’s chin trembled. She brushed her thumb over Y/N’s cheek as if to steady herself.
“This is Y/N,” she whispered. “My—”
Her voice broke.
Tears fell.
“My consort.”
Queen Natalya froze.
Her breath hitched—not from fear, but from the shock of recognition.
Y/N?
The crown prince of Virelia?
Her eyes darted back to the unconscious figure on the cot.
She remembered him—tall, proud, unreadable—standing beside King Alaric almost a year ago. The day Olek had to agree and surrender Wanda as a “peace offering.” Y/N’s face back then had been stone. Cold. Unmoving. A perfect reflection of his tyrant father.
But this person lying before her…
His face was nearly unrecognizable.
Bruised.
Cut.
Swollen.
Lips split.
One eye blackened and swollen shut.
His whole body wrapped in bandages.
No armor, no regal posture, no impenetrable mask.
Just a broken, bloodied young soul who looked nothing like the monster Sokovia had painted in its stories.
Natalya exhaled shakily.
When she finally looked at her daughter—really looked—she saw more than grief.
She saw Wanda’s face pale with terror. Eyes raw from crying. Hands trembling, desperate, loving. She saw the way Wanda shielded Y/N’s body, ready to fight even her own family if she had to.
Natalya drew a slow, steadying breath and lowered herself to the ground beside Wanda. She didn’t reach for Y/N—she could see the way Wanda’s body tensed protectively at even the slightest movement near him—but she softened her voice to something quiet, careful, maternal.
“Wanda… lyubimaya,” she murmured, brushing a trembling strand of hair from her daughter’s wet cheek. “What happened to him?”
Wanda’s breath hitched.
Her fingers tightened around Y/N’s limp hand, knuckles whitening. For a moment, she just stared at their bandaged chest rising and falling, as if grounding herself enough not to break apart.
Then she swallowed, voice cracking open like something fragile.
“They saved us,” she whispered. “They saved me—saved Lina—saved everyone they could.”
“We were escaping through the secret tunnels. We were almost out but—”
Her voice faltered.
She took a shaky breath.
“We heard footsteps. The enemies were catching up. Y/N told Ser Rogers to take us and run. They stayed behind. Alone.”
Natalya’s hand drifted up to her daughter’s hair.
“They fought,” Wanda continued, voice trembling. “They fought so we could live. And when I reached the forest—when they found us—” Her jaw clenched, tears falling faster.
Natalya caressed Wanda’s hair encouraging her to speak.
Wanda’s voice shook harder now, every word trembling like frayed string.
“Papa told me Pietro and Jarvis were interrogating someone.”
Her hands tightened around Y/N’s, as if afraid the memory alone might pull them away.
“I thought—” she swallowed, air shuddering in her lungs, “—I thought they had caught one of the Virelian guards. Or someone from the palace.”
Her face crumpled.
“But when I went to see— when I saw who they were hurting—”
“They had them tied up—hanging from a pole like some wild beast. Covered in blood. Barely conscious.” Wanda’s voice broke into a sob. “When I got to them, they were trying to stay awake, trying to speak, trying to ask if I was okay.”
Natalya’s eyes shone—horror, disbelief, and a mother’s dawning grief mixing all at once.
Her Pietro? Her bright, impulsive boy?
Her husband—the man she trusted to think clearly when she could not?
That they had both allowed this…
Her stomach twisted.
“Wanda…” she breathed, placing a trembling hand between her daughter’s shoulder blades, grounding her. “My sweet girl…”
But Wanda only shook her head, sobbing harder, her body curling protectively over Y/N’s.
“I can’t lose them, Mama…”
Her voice was raw, scraped open.
“I can’t— I can’t—”
Natalya moved closer beside her, but Wanda clung to Y/N’s limp hand like her life depended on it.
“They’re not what people say in Sokovia,” Wanda cried, words spilling faster now, desperate to be understood. “They’re not a monster. They’re not cruel. They’re nothing like King Alaric.”
She lifted Y/N’s hand, pressing it to her forehead, her tears dripping onto their skin.
“They’re brave, Mama… they’re kind… they protected me every single day. They fought for me.”
Her voice cracked into a whisper.
“They gave me hope when I had none left.”
Natalya’s heart broke with every word.
Wanda sucked in a shaking breath, her tears blurring her vision as she traced the line of Y/N’s jaw with trembling fingertips.
“I love them,” she whispered, voice trembling, terrified, honest.
“I love them so much… and I won’t let anyone hurt them again.”
Natalya’s hand slid from her daughter’s back to her cheek, gently turning Wanda’s face toward her.
“My darling,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion, “no one is taking him from you.”
She glanced at Y/N—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still staining their hairline.
And for the first time, she understood.
Not just Wanda’s fear.
But her choice.
Her love.
Natalya swallowed hard, stroking Wanda’s cheek with her thumb.
“You will not lose him,” she whispered firmly.
“I won’t let that happen, lyubimaya.”
The words settled over the tent like a vow.
Natalya’s hand remained warm against Wanda’s cheek, steady, anchoring. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft rasp of Y/N’s breathing—uneven, but present. Alive.
Then Natalya opened her arms.
Wanda didn’t hesitate.
She broke.
A sob tore from her chest as she collapsed into her mother’s embrace, fingers fisting desperately in Natalya’s sleeves as if the ground itself had vanished beneath her feet. The composure she’d been clinging to shattered all at once. Her shoulders shook violently, grief and terror pouring out in broken, breathless cries she could no longer contain.
“I thought—I thought I’d lost them,” Wanda gasped, words tangling between sobs. “I thought they were dead—Mama, I—”
Natalya wrapped her arms around her fully, one hand cradling the back of Wanda’s head, the other pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, holding her close as if she could shield her from the memory itself.
“Shh… shh, lyubimaya,” she murmured, rocking her gently. “You’re here. He’s alive. You’re both here.”
Wanda clutched her tighter, burying her face against her mother’s shoulder. Tears soaked into Natalya’s gown as Wanda cried with the abandon of a child who had been brave for far too long.
Natalya closed her eyes, her own throat burning as she held her daughter. Over Wanda’s shoulder, her gaze drifted—slowly, carefully—to the cot behind them.
To Y/N.
Bandaged. Bruised. Still as death but for the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Natalya’s breath caught.
This was not the fearsome heir spoken of in war councils and whispered rumors. This was a young person carved open by cruelty, his body bearing the cost of choices made for love, not conquest. The blood staining Wanda’s sleeves—so dark against her skin—told a story no words could soften.
She didn’t understand it. Not fully.
How her daughter had come to love the heir of Virelia.
How that love had survived politics, war, and forced marriage.
How it had grown strong enough that Wanda would stand against her own father without hesitation.
But Natalya understood one thing with absolute clarity.
Wanda loved them.
Not out of fear.
Not out of duty.
But with her whole heart.
Natalya tightened her hold, pressing a kiss into Wanda’s hair.
When Wanda’s sobs finally began to slow—breaking into uneven breaths instead of sharp cries—Natalya eased back just enough to look at her. Wanda’s cheeks were blotchy and wet, lashes clumped with tears. One cheek was still visibly swollen, the faint outline of a handprint dark against her skin.
And the blood.
Gods—there was so much of it.
It streaked Wanda’s hands, stained her sleeves, smeared along her forearms and bodice. Not her own blood—but Y/N’s, soaked into her skin as if marking her as his.
Natalya cupped Wanda’s face gently, her thumb brushing beneath her eye.
“My brave girl…” she whispered.
Wanda sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand, though she didn’t let go of Y/N’s fingers.
“I’m okay,” she murmured automatically, voice hoarse.
Natalya gave her a look that brooked no argument.
“No,” she said softly. “You are not.”
She tilted Wanda’s chin slightly, examining the swelling on her cheek, the faint tremor still running through her body.
“You’ve been hurt,” Natalya continued. “And you are covered in blood. I know it is not yours—but your body has been through more than you realize.”
Wanda shook her head weakly. “I don’t want to leave them.”
“You won’t,” Natalya promised at once. “I will not take you from his side.”
She brushed her thumb once more over Wanda’s cheek, soothing but firm.
“But you will let a healer look at you. Here. In this tent. Where you can still see him. Where he can still feel you.”
Wanda hesitated, her gaze flicking back to Y/N’s face.
Their breathing hitched softly.
Wanda’s resolve crumbled.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Natalya pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Good.”
She straightened slightly and turned toward the tent opening, calling quietly but firmly, “Healer. We need another healer.”
Then she looked back at her daughter, one hand never leaving Wanda’s shoulder.
“You have carried enough pain for one night, my love,” Natalya said softly. “Let someone take care of you too.”
And Wanda—still holding Y/N’s hand, still kneeling beside the cot—finally allowed herself to be held, to be tended to, to breathe.
---
The healer moved quietly, respectfully, as if aware that any sudden sound might shatter what little calm Wanda had managed to gather. Natalya stayed close, one hand firm on Wanda’s shoulder, the other never straying far from where Wanda’s fingers were still entwined with Y/N’s.
The examination was brief but thorough.
The swelling on Wanda’s cheek was examined gently, cool salve applied with careful fingers. There were no broken bones—only bruising, tenderness, the imprint of fear more than force. Her wrists were checked for strain, her pulse measured, her breathing watched. The healer murmured reassurances, soft and steady.
“She is exhausted,” the healer said quietly at last. “And in shock. But she will be alright. Rest is vital.”
Natalya nodded. “Thank you.”
When the healer withdrew, Natalya rose and disappeared briefly outside the tent.
She returned moments later with a basin of warm water, clean cloths folded neatly over her arm, and a fresh gown—deep crimson, soft and unadorned. Something practical. Something safe. Something unmistakably home.
Natalya set everything down carefully and knelt in front of Wanda again.
“Come,” she said gently. “Let me help you.”
Wanda looked down at herself for the first time.
Her sleeping gown—once pale and soft—was ruined. Darkened with Y/N’s blood. Soaked at the sleeves, smeared across her chest where she had pressed them close. The fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin, stiff and cold now that the adrenaline had faded.
Her breath hitched.
Natalya noticed immediately.
“Oh, my heart…” she murmured.
She dipped a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out before lifting it slowly, giving Wanda time to pull back if she wished.
But Wanda didn’t.
She stayed still, eyes fixed on Y/N, fingers refusing to let go of their hand even as Natalya gently dabbed at the blood along her wrists.
The water bloomed red in the basin.
Natalya swallowed hard but kept her movements calm, tender. She wiped Wanda’s hands first—each finger, each knuckle—until the blood was gone, revealing trembling skin beneath.
“There,” she whispered. “You’re doing well.”
Wanda let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Natalya moved next to her forearms, then carefully to the stains along Wanda’s collarbone and chest. She paused there.
“May I?” she asked softly.
Wanda nodded faintly.
Natalya helped her rise just enough to ease the gown down her shoulders, careful, slow, so the fabric wouldn’t brush against the bruise on her cheek. The bloodstained cloth peeled away, heavy and dark, and Natalya folded it out of sight.
Wanda shivered—not from cold, but from the sudden absence of that last, awful proof of what Y/N had suffered.
Natalya wrapped a clean cloth around her shoulders at once, grounding her.
“I know,” she murmured, reading the look on Wanda’s face. “But this does not erase what you did for him. Or what he did for you.”
She cleaned the remaining smears from Wanda’s skin, her touch warm and steady, maternal in a way Wanda hadn’t realized she needed so desperately. When she was done, Natalya lifted the fresh gown.
It was soft. Warm. Smelled faintly of lavender and home.
She helped Wanda slip into it, adjusting the ties, smoothing the fabric down her arms. When she was finished, she cupped Wanda’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing away lingering tears.
“There,” Natalya said gently. “Better.”
Wanda blinked, overwhelmed, and leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against her mother’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Natalya kissed the crown of her head.
“Always.”
Wanda immediately sank back down beside the cot, reaching for Y/N’s hand again as if she’d never let go at all. Natalya watched as Wanda’s fingers laced with theirs, careful of the bandages, her thumb brushing slow, soothing circles into their skin.
For the first time, Wanda looked… clean. Grounded. Still terrified—but no longer drowning.
Natalya let out a quiet breath.
She gathered the bloodied cloths, the basin of water now tinged pink, and the discarded sleeping gown, folding everything neatly despite the weight in her chest. She paused once more, looking between her daughter and the injured heir on the cot.
Whatever this was—whatever shape it would take—it was real.
Natalya slipped out of the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind her.
The cool night air hit her skin immediately.
“Olek.”
He was there the moment she stepped out, as if he’d been pacing just beyond the canvas, waiting. His expression was tight with restrained fury, eyes flicking instinctively to the tent behind her.
“Why is she still in there?” he demanded in a low, angry voice. “Why is Wanda still beside that monster?”
Natalya didn’t flinch.
She set the basin down carefully, handing the folded cloths to a nearby attendant without looking away from her husband.
“Because she loves him,” she said evenly.
Olek scoffed, disbelief sharpening his tone. “Natalya, he is the heir of Virelia. The son of Alaric. The same blood that—”
“—bled out on that cot,” Natalya cut in sharply, eyes flashing. “Because you let our son beat him.”
The words hung heavy between them.
Olek’s face drained of color. “Pietro was interrogating a prisoner—”
“He was torturing a man,” Natalya snapped. “A man your daughter was married to. A man who had already given his body to protect her.”
She inhaled slowly then, the fire in her eyes dimming just a fraction, replaced by something quieter. Something honest.
“Do you think this is easy for me?” she continued, voice lower now. “Do you think I understand any of this?”
Olek faltered, his anger losing its edge.
“I stood beside Wanda just now,” Natalya said, her gaze drifting briefly toward the tent. “I saw the way she held him. The way she cried like her heart was being torn out of her chest. I saw the blood on her hands—his blood—and the fear in her eyes.”
She looked back at Olek.
“I do not know if Y/N is truly a good person,” she admitted. “I do not know what choices he has made in Virelia. I do not know what kind of heir he would have been under a tyrant like Alaric.”
Olek swallowed.
“But I know our daughter,” Natalya said firmly. “I know when she is afraid. I know when she is pretending. And I know when she loves with her whole soul.”
Her voice trembled slightly now—not with doubt, but with resolve.
“She is not acting. She is not broken. And she is not being controlled.”
Natalya stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
“If Wanda believes he is worth protecting, then until proven otherwise—I believe her.”
Olek stared at her, torn between duty and something far more dangerous.
Trust.
Natalya straightened, composure returning.
“You may see a monster, Olek,” she said quietly. “But tonight, all I saw was a man dying while my daughter begged the world to stop hurting him.”
She turned away from him then, her final words cutting deeper than any blade.
“And I will not punish our child for loving someone you do not understand.”
---
Wanda’s POV
The tent was quiet again.
The lamplight flickered softly against the canvas walls, casting long, gentle shadows over the cot. Wanda sat exactly where she had been left—knees drawn close, one hand wrapped around Y/N’s, her thumb still tracing slow, unconscious circles against their skin.
They hadn’t stirred.
Every breath they took felt like a fragile miracle, something that could be taken if she dared look away.
The tent flap rustled.
Wanda stiffened instinctively, her head snapping up—only to relax when she saw her mother step inside. Natalya carried a small bowl in both hands, steam curling upward, the scent of herbs and broth filling the air.
“Wanda,” Natalya said softly. “You should eat something.”
She set the bowl down on the small crate beside the cot and reached for a spoon.
Wanda shook her head immediately. “I’m not hungry.”
“I said I’m not hungry,” Wanda repeated, not harshly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. Her fingers tightened around Y/N’s hand, as if afraid even a spoon might pull her away from them.
Natalya sighed quietly, understanding more than she said. She didn’t push the bowl closer.
Instead, she sat beside Wanda again, eyes drifting to Y/N’s pale face.
A moment passed.
Then Wanda inhaled slowly, as if steadying herself.
“I need to check on Lina,” she said suddenly.
Natalya turned to her. “Lina?”
Wanda nodded, already shifting forward as if preparing to stand. “She was hurt. Not badly—but she was terrified. I promised I’d come back.”
Natalya studied her daughter’s face, reading the urgency there, the guilt tangled with worry.
“Who is Lina?” she asked gently.
Wanda’s throat tightened.
She glanced back at Y/N, brushing her thumb once more over their knuckles before carefully setting their hand down on the cot.
“She’s…” Wanda swallowed. “She’s Y/N’s little sister.”
Natalya froze.
“His… sister?” she echoed quietly.
Wanda nodded.
“I left her with a healer,” Wanda continued, already rising to her feet. “But she’s alone now. And after everything—after what she saw—I can’t let her think I abandoned her.”
Natalya reached out, steadying Wanda by the arm. “You won’t be long?”
“No,” Wanda promised immediately. “I’ll come right back. I just need to see her. To make sure she’s okay.”
Natalya glanced at Y/N once more, then back at her daughter.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “With him.”
Relief washed over Wanda’s face.
“Thank you, Mama.”
She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s bandaged hand.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Then she straightened and slipped out of the tent, her heart pulling her in two directions at once—but steady now, guided by love, not fear.
---
The air outside felt heavy with heat and dust, the sun still high enough that the canvas of the tents glowed pale gold.
Wanda moved quickly through the encampment, keeping to the narrow paths between tents. Voices carried in the distance—sharp, restless—but none were close enough to stop her. No one noticed her slip past, her skirts gathered in her hands, her heart pounding with urgency rather than fear.
Please be okay.
When she reached the healer’s tent, she barely slowed. She pushed the flap aside—
—and Lina ran straight into her.
“Wanda!”
The cry was raw and desperate. Lina crashed into her legs, arms wrapping tight around her waist as sobs tore free of her chest.
Wanda dropped instantly to her knees, catching her, holding her before the girl could even fall.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Lina cried, face pressed into Wanda’s gown. “I thought they took you too.”
“Oh—no, no,” Wanda whispered, wrapping both arms around her, pulling her close. “I’m here. I told you I would come back. I meant it.”
Lina clung to her like she was the only thing keeping her upright, small fingers gripping the fabric of Wanda’s gown with shaking hands.
“They were shouting,” Lina sobbed. “And there was blood everywhere. And nobody would tell me where my brother was.”
Wanda squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, pain tightening in her chest.
“I know,” she murmured, rocking her gently. “I know it was terrifying. But you did so well. You were so brave.”
Lina shook her head hard. “I wasn’t. I was scared.”
Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her, cupping her tear-streaked face.
“Being scared doesn’t mean you weren’t brave,” she said softly. “It means you were brave even though you were scared.”
Lina sniffed, her voice small. “Where... where is my brother, Wanda?”
Wanda’s breath caught.
She didn’t look away. She didn’t rush the answer. Her thumbs brushed gently beneath Lina’s eyes, wiping away tears with a care that felt almost reverent.
“They’re with the healers,” Wanda said softly. “The healers taking care of them right now.”
Lina’s lip trembled. “Is he hurting?”
“Yes,” Wanda admitted, because Lina deserved the truth. “They’re in pain. But they’re not alone. I’m with them. My mother is with them. They are being watched every moment.”
Lina searched her face, as if looking for cracks in the promise.
“Can he hear me?” she asked in a whisper.
Wanda nodded. “I think so. Even when they sleeps, I think they can hear the people they love.”
Lina swallowed hard. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve helped him.”
“Oh, no,” Wanda said immediately, shaking her head. She leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against Lina’s. “Your brother’s whole world is making sure you are safe. That’s how you help them. That’s how you protect them.”
Tears welled again in Lina’s eyes, but this time they didn’t spill right away.
“Did he ask about me?” she whispered.
Wanda smiled, small and aching. “The very first thing they did.”
Lina let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging just a little.
“Then… then I want to be brave for him,” she said.
Wanda pulled her back into her arms, holding her close.
“You already are,” she whispered.
Lina hesitated, then lifted her head from Wanda’s chest, eyes red and shining.
“Can I… can I see him?” she asked quietly. “Just for a moment?”
Wanda’s heart clenched.
She brushed a strand of hair back from Lina’s face, choosing her words with care. “Not yet, sweetheart. They have a lot of wounds, and there are bandages and healers everywhere. It might scare you.”
Lina’s shoulders drooped, but she didn’t argue. “I won’t cry,” she promised quickly. “I’ll be quiet. I just want him to know I’m here.”
“I know,” Wanda said softly. “And they know. I told them. I tell them every time they breath.”
She pressed a gentle kiss to Lina’s forehead. “When Y/N is a little stronger, I’ll bring you to them myself. I won’t let you miss that moment.”
Lina nodded slowly, trusting, even though it hurt.
Then her fingers curled a little tighter in the fabric of Wanda’s gown, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Are you… are you going back to him?” Lina asked.
Wanda didn’t even have to think.
“Yes,” she said immediately, gently but firmly, as if the answer itself were a promise. “As soon as I know you’re settled. As soon as I know you’re safe.”
Lina searched her face. “You won’t leave again?”
Wanda cupped her cheek, thumb warm against her skin. “Only to come back. I swear it.”
Lina’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears didn’t fall. “Y/N likes when you’re there,” she said quietly. “He sleeps better.”
Wanda’s throat tightened. “I know.”
She pulled Lina into her arms once more, holding her close. “Y/N is my place to be,” she murmured. “And you’re part of that too.”
Lina leaned into her, breathing finally evening out.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I’ll wait.”
Wanda bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Lina’s head, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she wrapped both arms around her, holding her tighter—secure, unyielding, like nothing in the world could pull them apart.
Lina melted into her, small hands clutching at Wanda’s gown as if anchoring herself.
“I’ve got you,” Wanda whispered into her hair. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Lina’s breathing slowly evened out against her chest, the sobs fading into quiet sniffles. Wanda stayed exactly where she was, rocking her gently, letting the afternoon light warm their backs through the canvas.
For this moment, at least, fear loosened its grip—held at bay by arms that would not let go.
But this is getting ridiculous. All you did was get up to make some tea. And now that you’re back, they’re cuddling? You stand there, speechless, as Wanda runs her hands through that black, thin hair.
“Tea?” you offer, and she smiles up at you, her book left on the coffee table. But still, the dog stays in her lap. “Come here, girl”
“I don’t mind” Wanda rushes to say and you have to stop yourself from replying Well, I do.
Because she’s your girlfriend, and yes, you love your dog, but that’s your seat.
As if mocking you, Bailey stretches and closes her eyes, even more relaxed than before. Wanda’s little smile almost makes you drop the subject entirely.
But this won’t be the last time you’ll have to fight with her over Wanda’s affection.
—
Wanda has to go to the office, figure something out that needs her presence. Either way, you’re more than used to working from home, with Bailey to keep you company and going out for short walks whenever you need a break.
As you sit at the kitchen counter, you hear your girlfriend struggling with her keys, purse and whatever else she has decided to carry in a bag that is probably too small. She’s mumbling mostly to herself, but you still try to listen to what she’s saying in case she needs help with something.
“Alright, my love. I’m leaving, be a good girl while I’m gone”
You’re about to tease her about the good girl comment when you have the mind to turn around.
Wanda’s not talking to you.
She’s talking to the dog.
“How about Thai for dinner?” she looks at you as if nothing’s wrong, leaning forward to kiss you goodbye.
“I don’t know” you say, your mood turning sour at the realisation she calls your dog my love while you get asked about the logistics for dinner.
Wanda can tell you’re upset, which is strange because you were definitely fine when you woke up. But her boss is calling and she figures it must be something work related. With a wave, she says goodbye and leaves the apartment.
Bailey whines as soon as she’s out of sight.
“I’m the one who adopted you, you know?” you scoff, offended.
—
She should always carry a bigger bag. You’ve told her a million times and Wanda never listens. To be fair, she wasn’t expecting to pick up flowers and chocolate on the way back, but she could sense something was bothering you, so she decided it would be a nice gesture to cheer you up.
But as she walks through the door, she finds the apartment empty.
“Sweetheart?” she says, looking at the clock. It’s a little later than usual for your evening walk, but maybe you’re taking longer since you needed to clear your head.
However, once you walk through the door, covered in mud and dragging a very happy Bailey, Wanda knows something else happened.
“I cannot believe you, monster” you mutter, groaning and taking off your coat as your dog barks proudly. “Don’t even start. I’m not hearing it. Some dog decided to chase Bailey and before I had a chance to calm her down, she ran around, dragging me along!”
“Oh, sweetheart, are you ok?” Wanda says, concern lacing her voice.
“Yeah, I just hurt my knee…” you begin to say, but again, you notice a bit too late that Wanda’s asking about the dog.
Not you, with scratches on your arm from being dragged around a bush and mud.
No, your girlfriend is worried about the empty headed dog that’s clearly unharmed and looking like she’s about to form her first thought.
“You know what? I’m taking a shower and going to bed” you say, throwing your arms in defeat.
“Detka, come on, you said another dog chased her, I was just…”
“Yeah, a freaking chihuahua!”
You slam the door to the bedroom, the sound of water running as you clean yourself up. Wanda decides to give you some space, only approaching once she hears the bathroom door opening.
“Are you hungry, my love?” she asks, calling your name when you don’t answer.
“Sorry, since Bailey gets all the pet names these days. No, I’m not eating, and since you love cuddling her so much, you guys can share the couch tonight”
“You’re not serious!” Wanda says, startled when you repeat the word GOODNIGHT, sounding borderline hysterical.
Well, she’s quite literally in the dog house for the night.
—
Morning comes and you feel sore and lonely. Not that you’d willingly admit it, but you missed Wanda during the night.
And it’s obviously a stupid thing to be jealous of a dog -your dog, the one you had before you met Wanda-, but you can’t help but feel displaced.
Yes, you had Bailey for five years. She was a mess as a puppy, until you took her in and developed a routine to exhaust her. For a very long time, she was all the company you needed, until Wanda came along and made your life so much better. Still, that lingering feeling of being left out is not a nice one.
After a little while, you come to terms with the fact that you can’t stay in bed forever, especially because Bailey needs her morning walk. So, you step out, still yawning, only to find the place empty.
There’s a plate of pancakes and a note from Wanda.
Took her on the morning walk so you could rest
Well, that’s nice. Though you can’t help but feel a little bit worried, as Wanda severely underestimates Bailey’s ability to get herself into trouble.
Sure enough, while you’re having breakfast, your girlfriend and Bailey walk in. Once again, Bailey looks completely happy, while Wanda’s hair is completely disheveled.
“You took off the leash, huh?” you say, with a sympathetic smile. Bailey probably has the record of worst recall in a dog.
“I don’t know why she didn’t listen. Whenever I call her here she comes right away!”
“That’s because you’re always holding treats. See?” you say, petting her as she munches on a piece of pancake.
“She ate cat poop!”
“Yeah, she does that” you say, unfazed. It’s been five years of owning this sack of potatoes, you know all the bad shit she can do.
But Wanda’s not done.
“She ran after some kids, like she was herding them and they screamed and I got dirty looks from their parents”
“Can’t blame them”
“And just as we were walking by the door, she launched herself at a kitten…”
“Wait, did you just say a kitten? Was it alone in the street?”
“Yes, but…”
Wanda doesn’t get to finish, as you walk down the stairs in your pajamas. Sure enough, there’s a little orange cat looking scared. Though it barely reacts when you grab it, cooing softly.
“I really don’t think it’s sanitary…”
“I always wanted a cat” you smile, excited when it begins to purr. “We’ll have to take it to the vet, Bailey can stay to get a bath while we’re at it”
“Detka, we should really stop to think… Bailey doesn’t like cats. Or sharing. She’ll feel like we forgot about her”
“She can learn how to share” you say, smiling as you walk back to your apartment. “Just like I did with you two”
—-
Wanda doesn’t enjoy this one bit.
Now she understands why you were so upset before.
That cat is always around you. In your lap, playing around, in Bailey’s bed.
And Bailey. She didn’t expect that level of betrayal.
Your dog has been turned into a cat lover and is always taking care of the kitten, playing with him, sharing her food and acting like she’s the mother of the little thing.
Now, there’s no room in the couch as you read your book and Bailey and Oliver stay at your feet.
“Hey” Wanda approaches you, hoping you’ll let her cuddle.
“Hello” you say, turning the page.
“So, I was thinking about… making lasagna for dinner. Since you mentioned the other day that you were craving it. And maybe we could have some wine… like a little romantic date. Just the two of us”
“Sounds good” you say, still not looking at her. She turns around, defeated, until you call her name. “Hey, Wands”
“Yeah?”
“Come here” you set the book aside and she practically jumps in your arms. “Bailey, take your kitten to your bed”
“We need a bigger couch” Wanda says, sinking in your embrace and you laugh, kissing her temple.
“I’m honestly fine with the lack of personal space”
