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Yours Always

Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader

Summary: what happened after Wanda’s defeat in MoM

The mountain was silent when Wanda finally stopped running. Her legs buckled, her lungs clawed for air, and her magic—once endless, a storm that bent reality itself—was nothing but embers dying in her chest. She collapsed into the wet grass, the taste of dirt and blood in her mouth.

Alive. She was alive, though she had no right to be.

For a long time, Wanda lay still, listening to the hum of the forest. She thought maybe this was what dying felt like—quiet, cold, a fading world. She welcomed it. She wanted it. But her body, stubborn thing that it was, kept clinging on.

That’s how you found her.

You had gone to fetch water from the stream that cut across your land, bucket swinging loosely in your hand. When you saw the figure in the grass, for a moment you thought you were seeing things—a body broken, face streaked with grime, eyes half-shut against the light.

She looked dangerous. There was something about her, even in that ruinous state, that warned you not to get too close. And yet, you couldn’t walk away.

“Hey,” you called softly.

The woman stirred, her body jerking with the effort of staying conscious. Her eyes opened a fraction—red-rimmed, wary. She tried to push herself upright, but her arm gave out, and she fell back with a sharp breath.

“Don’t touch me,” she rasped, though you hadn’t moved. Red mists sparked around her hands then fizzled the next second. As though you were only imagining it.

You crouched a few feet away, keeping your voice steady. “You’ll die if I don’t.”

“I should,” she whispered, barely audible.

The words cut something through you—an echo of your own thoughts from nights past, the ones you never spoke aloud. But you swallowed it down, straightening your shoulders.

“Lucky for you, I don’t take requests like that,” you muttered, stepping forward before she could protest again.

She tried to shove you away when you slid her arm over your shoulder, but her strength was gone. The fight drained from her, leaving only trembling limbs and shallow breaths. By the time you dragged her inside your farmhouse, she was more weight than willpower.

You laid her down on the worn couch by the hearth. She flinched when you pulled back her sleeve to check her arm—ugly bruises bloomed beneath pale skin, a fresh gash torn across her shoulder.

“Don’t,” she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.

“You need stitches,” you said simply, reaching for your kit. “And water. And food. Unless you’d rather bleed out on my floor.”

Her glare was sharp, but it wavered. She said nothing when you cleaned the wound, though her body went rigid beneath your hands. She didn’t thank you. Didn’t ask who you were. She only stared at the ceiling with a hatred so raw it made your chest ache.

When you finished, you pressed a cup of water to her lips. “Drink.”

“I don’t want—”

“Good thing I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

Her eyes flicked to yours then—tired, furious, but also… lost. She drank, if only to shut you up.

Later, when the fire dimmed and her breathing steadied, you sat at the edge of the room and studied her in the half-light. Whoever she was, she wasn’t just a traveler who’d stumbled too far. There was a weight to her, an aura of grief that filled the air.

But you didn’t ask. You didn’t speak at all. Because if she stayed, even for one night, maybe the silence in your house would feel a little less heavy.

And if she left in the morning… well, you were used to being alone anyway.

~~~

It was raining the following morning. The farmhouse roof groaned against the steady drizzle, and the fields outside glistened in muted gray. You had always liked the rain. Until you stopped liking anything.

You stirred from the floor where you had slept awkwardly, your neck stiff, and found the door to your bedroom ajar, just how you left it the other night.

You peered inside quietly, slightly hoping it was only a part of your imagination, hoping she had already left.

But there she was. Alive and breathing under your blankets.

A stranger from the dark. Someone who once belonged to another life, another world, before ruin carved her down. Her body twitched faintly in restless dreams, her brow furrowed.

You fetched a basin of fresh water, and set it on the table beside her. By the time you returned with a loaf of bread, she was awake—sitting up too quickly, hissing in pain as her shoulder pulled.

“You should rest,” you said, voice careful.

Her eyes snapped to yours, sharp and wary. “I should leave.”

You set the bread down. “You won’t make it past the road in your condition.”

“Then I’ll crawl.”

The bitterness in her tone might have driven anyone else off. But you only tilted your head, unimpressed. “Suit yourself. Though I’d hate to see the trail of blood on my floor. I just scrubbed them.”

Something flickered across her face then—annoyance, yes, but also fatigue. Her pride warred with her body, and her body was losing. Slowly, grudgingly, she leaned back against the headboard.

You tore off a piece of bread and handed it to her. “Eat.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“No,” you agreed. “But you’re here. That’s enough for me.”

She took the bread, eventually, chewing with a stiffness that made you wonder when she had last eaten.

The hours passed with her watching you. You could feel her eyes follow as you moved about the house—sweeping, tending the fire, mending a shirt with frayed cuffs. At first, her stare was hostile, as though daring you to slip, to reveal why you were doing this. But gradually, the sharpness dulled, curiosity seeping through.

Finally, she spoke. “Why do you live alone?”

Your hands paused over the fabric in your lap. For a second, you almost told her the truth—that the silence was easier than people, that the world had been too heavy, too loud, and you’d nearly let it drown you. But the words stuck in your throat.

“It’s quieter this way,” you said instead, keeping your voice even.

She didn’t believe you. You saw it in the slight narrowing of her eyes. But she didn’t press.

By nightfall, her breathing was shallow again, the effort of healing draining what little strength she had. She tried to rise at one point, mumbling about leaving, but you guided her gently back down.

“Stop fighting me,” you murmured.

She stared at you then, truly stared, as though trying to read the edges of your soul. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Your throat tightened. “And you don’t know what I almost did.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Wanda’s gaze sharpened, but you turned away, busying yourself with the fire. The silence between you grew heavy, thick with unspoken truths.

For the first time since you’d found her, Wanda didn’t argue.

She simply lay back, closed her eyes, and let you keep watch.

~~~

The days bled into one another. Rain gave way to weak sunlight, and the woods beyond your land thickened with the scent of pine and damp soil. Wanda’s wounds knit slowly, stubborn as she was, and though she still tried to push her body harder than it could bear, she no longer collapsed every time she stood.

There was one time you swore you saw the plates hovering in front of her as she ate.

You noticed she didn’t thank you. Not once. But she didn’t leave, either.

It happened one afternoon when you were stacking firewood by the door. Wanda leaned against the frame, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“You don’t… know me?” she asked, almost carefully.

You glanced up, wiping your hands against your trousers. “Should I?”

Her jaw tightened. “The Avengers. The news. Sokovia. Westview.”

The names fell between you like stones, heavy with meaning you didn’t reach for. You squinted at her, head tilting. The face was familiar, yes—you’d seen it once or twice on grainy TV clips, fiery eyes, scarlet power blazing. But recognition didn’t stir awe in you. Only a dull ache.

“I think I’ve seen your face before,” you admitted. “But heroes never meant much to me.”

Something flickered in her expression—confusion, maybe anger. “Why?”

You picked up another log, tossing it onto the stack. “Because none of you ever showed up when it mattered. And even if you had… some things can’t be saved.”

Her silence was sharp, but when you looked up, you found her watching you differently—not with suspicion, but with something like wariness. As if she couldn’t decide whether your indifference was a kindness or an insult.

“My name is Y/n,” you added.

“Wanda.”

You nodded. “Beautiful name. Sokovian?”

She didn’t reply.

Later, when you stepped out to fetch water, Wanda wandered through the quiet farmhouse. She didn’t mean to pry—at least, that’s what she told herself—but her eyes caught on the edge of the shelf, a picture frame on the floor. She picked it up and noticed the glass was broken. But what caught her attention was the photograph.

A younger you. Smiling, arms wrapped around a girl with dark hair, the two of you kissing, blurred sunlight painting your faces gold.

Wanda’s chest tightened. She stared too long, until the sound of your boots on the porch pulled her back. She turned sharply away, but the image clung to her mind like smoke.

That evening, over the quiet crackle of fire, you insisted again she eat more, drink more, rest more—your usual gentle demands.

Something in her snapped.

“I’m not interested,” she bit out suddenly, slamming the cup onto the table. Her voice was sharp, colder than the night air.

You blinked, taken aback. “Interested?”

“In you,” she spat, though her eyes betrayed the crack in her certainty. “In… girls.”

The words hung heavy, jagged between you.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t defend. You only studied her for a moment, then said quietly, “I never asked you to be.”

And then you stood, carrying the dishes away without another word, leaving her alone with the fire and the echo of her own fury.

Wanda pressed her hands to her temples, heart pounding. She hated how shaken she felt—not by you, but by the mirror you had unwittingly held up.

~~~

You didn’t take her anger to heart. Not really. You’d lived too long with your own bitterness to mistake hers for truth. So you carried on as you always had—warm, steady, gentle in the ways she pretended not to need.

When she refused your help, you offered it anyway. When she turned her face away from your cooking, you set the plate down in reach. When her voice sharpened with edges meant to cut, you met her with the same even calm.

And when silence pressed in, you filled it with stories.

You told her about the orchard at the back of the property, where the trees grew wild and dropped fruit faster than you could gather. About the stubborn rooster who terrorized the hens until you finally learned to swing a broom at him. About the winters so brutal the pipes froze, and how you survived on soups and layered blankets until spring thawed the land again.

Wanda rarely responded, but she listened. You could tell by the flicker of her gaze, the small tilt of her head.

One evening, as the fire dwindled low, you spoke of the stars—how you used to lie out in the field as a child, counting them until your eyes blurred. How you once swore you’d leave this place behind, follow them somewhere brighter.

And to your surprise, Wanda answered.

“I used to do that too,” she murmured, her voice soft, distant. Her eyes stayed fixed on the flames. “My brother and I… when we were children, before the war. We thought the stars were wishes, scattered across the sky. He said if we counted enough of them, we’d be safe.”

The ache in her voice stilled you. She didn’t often speak of herself. You wanted to ask more, but the look on her face warned you not to press.

So you simply said, “Then you must have counted a lot. Because you’re here.”

She glanced at you then, something unreadable in her gaze, before turning back to the fire.

For the first time since you’d found her, the silence between you felt less like a wall and more like a bridge.

But the next morning, she was cold again.

She rose before you, wrapped in the same brittle pride as when she first arrived. She moved about the house without a word, refusing breakfast, her answers clipped when you spoke.

It was as though the night before hadn’t happened, as though the small fracture she’d shown you had been sealed shut.

Still, you didn’t let it wound you. You only smiled faintly and set her untouched plate on the table. “It’ll be here if you want it.”

Her back stiffened, but she said nothing.

You knew better than to expect her to stay open. People like you—and like her—didn’t let their walls fall all at once. They cracked, slowly, piece by piece.

And you had time.

~~~

The storm rolled in before dusk, a low growl across the mountains that rattled the shutters. You were used to nights like this. The old farmhouse creaked and groaned with every gust of wind, but it had stood longer than you had lived, and you trusted its bones to hold.

Wanda didn’t.

She lingered near the window as the rain hammered down, arms folded tightly across her chest. Every crack of thunder pulled her gaze sharper, her body rigid as if preparing for an attack. You watched her from the hearth, concern threading through you.

“It’s just weather,” you said gently.

Her eyes cut to you, sharp and defensive. “It sounds like war.”

Your heart twisted at the rawness in her voice. You set aside the book you hadn’t been reading and rose, crossing the room. “Then we’ll treat it like war. Candles, blankets, supplies—sound like a plan?”

For a moment, she stared at you like she couldn’t quite believe you’d turned her fear into something manageable. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

When the power snapped out, plunging the house into shadow, you were ready. Candles flickered to life, bathing the room in gold. You pulled blankets from the chest, spreading them over the couch. The storm outside raged, but here, in the small circle of light, it felt almost… safe.

The wind blew the candles out. And then a flicker of scarlet appeared from her fingertips and it floated towards the candle. It danced with the wind.

You weren’t imagining things.

Wanda sat stiffly, wrapped in a blanket like armor. You settled across from her, cross-legged on the rug, letting the fire’s glow paint her in shades of amber and shadow.

“Storms used to terrify me,” you admitted, voice low, almost swallowed by the rain. “When I was little, I thought the sky was angry. I used to hide under the bed until it passed.”

Her lips twitched faintly, though she tried to smother it. “You don’t seem like the hiding type.”

You smiled, leaning back on your palms. “You learn to stop hiding when no one comes looking for you.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them. You froze, but Wanda only studied you, her gaze unreadable in the candlelight.

Hours bled together in the storm. You traded quiet stories—harmless things, mostly, though once she mentioned Sokovia again, her voice barely above the patter of rain. You didn’t press.

It was later, when thunder cracked so loud the walls shook, that she flinched violently, pulling the blanket tighter. Without thinking, you reached across the space, your hand brushing her wrist.

She jerked as though burned, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

“I’m not—” she began, but her voice faltered.

“I know,” you said softly, holding her gaze. “It’s just… you don’t have to sit through this alone.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she let your hand linger. Not grasping, not holding—just touching.

The thunder rumbled again, but neither of you flinched this time.

The storm finally eased toward dawn, leaving the house damp and hushed. You had drifted against the couch sometime in the night, half-asleep, the warmth of Wanda’s presence close enough to feel but not close enough to claim.

When you woke, she was gone from the couch, standing at the window with her back to you, staring out at the pale light breaking over the wet fields.

You said nothing. And neither did she.

But the air between you was different now, charged in a way you couldn’t name.

~~~

It had taken you days to convince her. Wanda hated the idea of going into town, bristling every time you suggested it. “Too many eyes,” she said. “Too much risk.”

But you persisted, gentle as always. “No one’s looking for you here. And if they were, they’d never see past a disguise.”

She scoffed at that, but when you draped a faded scarf around her hair and handed her your old jacket, something softened in her expression. She didn’t thank you. She only muttered, “This is ridiculous,” as she tugged the fabric close.

And yet she came with you.

The town was small, ordinary. A place where neighbors nodded at one another and gossip lingered longer than the weather. You led her down the modest rows of stalls, the scent of fresh bread and fruit filling the air. Wanda’s eyes darted restlessly at first, but when no one stared—when not a single person called her by name—her shoulders eased.

“They don’t know me,” she murmured, almost surprised.

You smiled faintly. “Told you.”

For the first time, she let herself linger at a stand, fingers brushing over apples, lips parting slightly as though the simple act of choosing fruit felt foreign. Watching her, you realized how long she must have lived on the edge of survival, where even ordinary moments like this became luxuries.

Inside the little grocery store, you headed for the shelves while Wanda trailed close. The clerk, a boy in his twenties with a too-bright grin, looked up from behind the counter. His eyes flicked to Wanda, and his smile widened.

“Afternoon,” he said, leaning a little too casually on the counter.

Wanda startled, then—hesitated—and smiled back. Small, but genuine.

You blinked. It was the first smile you’d seen on her face that wasn’t laced with bitterness or exhaustion. And it wasn’t meant for you.

When you brought the basket to the counter, the clerk’s gaze never left Wanda. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said, clearly flirting.

“Visiting,” Wanda answered quickly, her cheeks flushed.

You dropped the money on the counter, sharper than you intended. The clerk barely noticed. His eyes were still on her as he handed over the bag.

The walk back to the farm was quiet. Wanda carried the basket, her expression unreadable. You kept your eyes on the road, fighting down the hollowness twisting in your chest.

Straight as a ruler.

The thought stung more than you wanted it to. You told yourself it didn’t matter. She was your guest, nothing more. A wounded stranger you’d taken in, someone who would leave as soon as she healed.

You had no right to want anything else.

And yet, when you glanced at her—at the way she tilted her head to watch the sky as if searching for something—you knew you cared anyway.

That was the problem.

~~~

Wanda hadn’t meant to stay. Her powers had gone back, alive yet weak. But she had nowhere else to go.

Vision. Her children. All gone as they were created.

No one would dare invite her at their house knowing what she had done.

But there was you.

The rhythm of the farm steadied into routine. You chopped firewood in the mornings, the crack of the axe splitting through the still air. Wanda usually lingered nearby, pretending to busy herself with small tasks—folding blankets, cleaning dishes already clean.

That morning, she didn’t pretend.

She sat on the porch, wrapped in her scarf, eyes following the swing of your arms as you brought the axe down again and again. Your muscles shifted beneath your shirt, sweat gleaming across your skin in the sunlight. It should have been mundane, but something in her chest stuttered.

She hadn’t felt this before. Not with Vision—never with Vision. He had been gentle, constant, but his body had been made of circuitry and vibranium. There was no pulse to quicken beneath her touch, no warmth to radiate from skin to skin. Watching you, flesh and blood and human, Wanda felt something stir she thought she’d buried with him.

She forced her gaze away, nails digging into her palms.

Maybe it was the loneliness. It had been too long since she had touched herself.

Later, you called her inside to change her bandage. She grumbled at the fuss, but didn’t resist as you sat her down and carefully unwound the gauze from her shoulder.

Your fingers brushed her skin, feather-light, careful not to press too hard. Wanda’s breath caught before she could stop it. She told herself it was just the sting of healing flesh, just the ache of the wound. But when your hand steadied her arm, grounding her, the jolt that shot through her was something else entirely.

Your head was bent in concentration, lips parted slightly as you worked. You didn’t notice the way her eyes lingered too long on the curve of your mouth, the soft line of your jaw.

When you tied the fresh bandage in place, you looked up, smiling faintly. “Better?”

“Fine,” she muttered too quickly, pulling her arm back.

But her heart was pounding, a treacherous rhythm she couldn’t ignore.

The next morning, she was distant again. Cold. She wanted to leave.

But she also hated the thought of leaving. She had grown accustomed to the presence of you.

Wanda avoided your eyes, refused your help with breakfast, retreated into silence whenever you tried to speak.

You let her.

You’d learned not to take it personally. Wanda’s moods shifted like the weather—warm one night, icy the next. Whatever storm raged inside her, it wasn’t one you could chase away with stories or smiles.

So you gave her space, chopping firewood alone, letting her keep her distance.

Even if part of you ached at how quickly the closeness had slipped through your fingers.

~~~

The wound on her shoulder healed slower than the rest. No matter how many times you cleaned and dressed it, the angry scar refused to fade. Wanda muttered once, bitterly, that it was dark magic—damage that lingered, as stubborn as her guilt.

You didn’t argue. You only kept tending to her, bandage after bandage, refusing to let her rot.

When you needed more supplies, she came with you. Maybe it was boredom, maybe the need to see the world outside the farm again. She said nothing as you split away, promising to be quick while she lingered near the edge of the market.

That’s when she saw him.

The clerk from the grocery store. He lit up when he spotted her, weaving through the crowd with that same eager smile.

“Hey,” he greeted, a little shy this time. “I, uh… wanted to say sorry. For being so forward before.”

Wanda blinked, caught off guard.

“I didn’t know you were… dating Y/N.”

The words hit like a slap. Confusion flared, then anger. Her voice cut sharper than she intended. “We’re not.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh—I just… she told me. When I asked.”

Before Wanda could reply, you returned, bags in your arms. She said nothing, not then. But the silence on the walk back to the farm was suffocating, heavy with something unspoken.

The confrontation came as soon as the door closed.

“What the hell did you tell him?” Wanda snapped, eyes burning.

You froze, then set the bags down with deliberate calm. “That you were taken. So he wouldn’t waste his time trying to find his way here.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “So you decided for me? Answered for me like I’m—what—your responsibility? Your property?”

“No.” Your voice was steady, but your chest ached. “I was protecting you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she spat, stepping closer, her face twisted in disgust. “And I don’t need you pretending there’s something between us. I’m not—” her breath hitched, anger trembling through her—“I’m not gay.”

The words fell like a blade, cutting deeper than she knew.

You swallowed, keeping your voice quiet. “I never said you were. I never wanted anything from you, Wanda. Not like that. But if you’d rather have some boy showing up at the farm, sniffing around—fine. Next time, I’ll let him.”

Her eyes flared, but she didn’t answer. She only turned away, shoulders rigid, as though furious at you, at herself, at everything she couldn’t name.

You stood in the kitchen long after she left the room, the taste of her rejection thick in your throat.

You told yourself again: She’s just a guest. She’ll be gone soon.

But it didn’t stop the wound from bleeding.

~~~

The farmhouse felt colder the next morning.

You still chopped wood at dawn, tended the fire, swept the floors, moved through every task with the same practiced rhythm. But you didn’t speak. Not to her. Not in the way you used to.

No gentle questions. No stories to fill the quiet. No soft smiles when you caught her watching.

Only silence.

Wanda noticed.

At first, she told herself she preferred it—no fussing, no hovering, no warmth she didn’t deserve. But as the hours stretched on, each quiet moment scraped rawer against her skin.

When you sat across from her to change her bandage, your hands were careful but distant. Efficient. Professional. Gone was the gentle brush of fingers that steadied her arm, the murmured reassurances. You did the job and tied it off, meeting her eyes only briefly.

“Better?” you asked, your tone flat.

She nodded, throat tight. “Fine.”

And that was it. No more.

By evening, the weight of it pressed harder than any wound she carried. She found you on the porch, staring out across the fields as the sun bled into the horizon.

“You’re quiet,” she said finally, standing in the doorway.

You didn’t look at her. “Guess I ran out of stories.”

The words stung more than they should have.

Wanda clenched her fists, fighting the urge to snap again, to tear down whatever wall you had built between you. But this time, you weren’t reaching across the silence. You were leaving it there.

And for reasons she didn’t want to name, that unsettled her more than the storm, more than the clerk, more than the shadow of her own past.

For the first time since she’d crawled out of the rubble, Wanda Maximoff felt… abandoned.

~~~

Wanda searched for you that afternoon. You hadn’t come back from chopping wood, and the yard was strangely empty. For a heartbeat, panic seized her chest—until she caught sight of ripples glinting in the distance.

The lake.

She slowed as she reached the water’s edge, the hush of the forest wrapping around her. There you were, waist-deep in the silver-blue water, head tilted back, eyes closed. The sun caught on droplets rolling down your skin, the surface broken only by the slow movement of your arms.

Wanda stopped, frozen.

It should have been innocent. A dip to cool off after work. But something about the stillness in your face unsettled her—like you weren’t swimming for relief, but for release. She didn’t know the truth. That moments before, you had slipped beneath the surface, lungs burning, pulse racing, welcoming the ache of water filling your chest. You had surfaced only because instinct, cruel and stubborn, dragged you back.

You hadn’t seen her watching. Wanda turned away, forcing the tension in her shoulders to ease. You’re imagining it, she told herself. Just swimming. But she carried the image back with her, unable to shake it.

That night, the silence stretched again, heavy at the dinner table. For once, it was Wanda who broke it.

“My father,” she began, the words halting, foreign, “he used to tell stories about Sokovia before the war. About the summers, when the orchards were full and the air smelled like… like earth and sugar.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard.

She didn’t look at you, staring instead at the flicker of the fire. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because you remember,” you said softly.

Wanda’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. She went on, voice low, remembering fragments of her past—the nights under a broken roof with Pietro, the taste of bread from the market, the lull of a language that had nearly disappeared.

You listened, quiet as always, but something inside you cracked. She was opening up, slowly, painfully. And all you could think of was how you almost let yourself sink beneath the water that very afternoon.

You wanted to tell her. To say you were drowning in ways she couldn’t see. But instead, you just nodded, letting her words wash over you, trying to keep your own hidden.

But later, alone in your room, the lake called again. The thought of slipping under, this time for good, pulsed through you like a promise.

And Wanda, in her room across the hall, lay awake—restless, unsettled—haunted by the way she had seen you floating in the water, too still, too silent.

Neither of you knew how close the other was to breaking.

~~~

The knock came just as the sun began to bleed into the horizon.

You opened the door to find a girl—young, maybe not far from your own age—dirt-smudged, her pack slung heavy on her shoulders. She looked lost, exhausted, and when she asked in a trembling voice if there was any place nearby to rest, your heart clenched.

“Come in,” you said without hesitation. “You’ll stay the night. I’ll make you something warm.”

The girl’s relief was immediate, her gratitude spilling from her lips as she stepped inside.

Wanda, sitting at the table with her bandage half-loosened, stiffened. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the stranger cross her threshold.

Dinner was simple—vegetable stew and bread. You laughed lightly as the girl ate like she hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. You asked her questions. She was traveling alone, running from something she didn’t name.

You gave her the spare bed, offered blankets, assured her she was safe.

All the while, Wanda stayed silent. Her face was impassive, but her jaw worked, her fingers tight around the spoon she never lifted to her lips.

When your eyes met hers across the table, she looked away sharply.

The girl left at dawn, after breakfast, hugging you briefly in thanks before she disappeared down the dirt road. You stood at the door, watching her vanish into the trees, something wistful tugging faintly at your chest.

When you turned back, Wanda was there, arms crossed, eyes like ice.

“You seemed to enjoy the company,” she said, her voice cool, laced with venom she didn’t bother hiding. “Maybe if you want someone to talk to so badly, you should have left with her.”

The words slammed into you, harsher than any blade.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. For once, you didn’t try to explain yourself, didn’t soften your tone to soothe her moods.

You only nodded once, sharply, and brushed past her, leaving Wanda rooted to the floor—angry, unsettled, and unable to understand why the thought of you leaving with someone else made her chest ache like loss.

Wanda knew she had to leave. Before it would all come too much, she wouldn’t be able to.

~~~

It began with a cough.

Then another. By the next morning, Wanda was pale, her body shivering beneath sweat-damp sheets.

You had seen the signs—the way her voice rasped, the way her shoulders sagged as if carrying more than the wound alone. She tried to dismiss it, as always. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

But by evening, she was curled in bed, trembling despite the fire roaring in the hearth.

You brought broth she barely touched. You pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, and she swatted it away weakly.

“I don’t need your fussing,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’m the Scarlet Witch.”

“You need rest,” you replied evenly, replacing the cloth. “And medicine. Which I got because I fuss.”

She closed her eyes, unwilling to argue, but her body betrayed her. The fever climbed. The fire could not keep the cold from her bones.

Sometime past midnight, her teeth chattered hard enough to wake you. You came quickly, kneeling by her side, but the blanket did nothing, nor the fire.

“Wanda,” you whispered, urgent now, “you’re burning. Your body can’t regulate the fever.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped through clenched teeth, trying to roll away.

Something in you hardened. “Fine. Then I’ll ride into town. I’ll fetch the doctor. And when he asks why your wounds don’t heal the way they should, maybe I’ll tell him—oh, I don’t know—that you used to be an Avenger.”

Her eyes shot open, panic slicing through the fevered haze.

“You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” you cut in, firm. Then, softer, “Or you let me help you the only way I can.”

She swallowed, weak and cornered, and finally gave the smallest nod.

So you slipped beneath the blankets beside her, the heat radiating from her skin near unbearable. Carefully, gently, you wrapped your arms around her trembling frame.

At first she was rigid, every muscle tense, her breath sharp with resistance. But gradually, the warmth of your body began to soothe the violent chill wracking hers.

Her forehead pressed against your collarbone, damp with fever-sweat. Your hand rubbed slow circles across her back, grounding her.

Then—

“Don’t think this is some… way to get into my pants,” she muttered, her voice cracked but edged with sarcasm.

A startled laugh escaped you, soft and breathless. “God, Wanda.”

The sound hit her unexpectedly, a balm even warmer than your touch. She felt it vibrate through you, felt how unguarded it was. It tugged at something deep in her chest.

She wanted to hear it again.

Before she could stop herself, a small, shaky laugh escaped her too, low and fragile, but real.

And in the dark, with fever still clinging to her and your arms holding her steady, she realized how long it had been since she laughed with anyone. How much she had missed it. How beautiful your laugh was—and how dangerous it felt to want it.

~~~

Morning broke with the faintest streaks of pink, brushing against the farmhouse windows.

Wanda stirred slowly, awareness seeping back into her fever-fogged body. Her first sensation wasn’t the ache of sickness, nor the chill that had plagued her—it was warmth. Real warmth. Your arms were still around her, steady and protective, her cheek resting against your chest.

Your breathing was deep, even, threaded through with sleep. And for a dangerous moment, she let herself stay there. She felt the rise and fall of your ribcage, the gentle weight of your hand that had fallen against her waist. The world outside could have been nothing, rubble, silence—but here, she was held.

Her throat tightened.

How easy it would be to close her eyes again, to pretend. Pretend she wasn’t Wanda Maximoff, wasn’t a woman haunted by destruction and blood. Pretend she was only a fevered guest in the home of someone kind. Pretend she could be wanted, even now.

But as your breath shifted, as though you were waking, Wanda panicked. She slipped from your arms, careful not to wake you, retreating back to the edge of the bed. Her skin burned with more than fever—it was the memory of laughter, of wanting something she had no right to want.

By midday, the fever had broken. She moved through the rooms with her usual steadiness, her mask firmly back in place. When you offered her tea, she took it without looking at you. When you asked if she felt stronger, she muttered a noncommittal “fine.”

It was the coldest she’d been since the fight in town.

Later, you found her by the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the trees. “You don’t have to hover anymore,” she said flatly. “I’m not fragile. I don’t need you watching me.”

Something in her tone dug sharp into you, but you only nodded. “Alright, Wanda.”

You turned, leaving her in the quiet.

Only when you were gone did her shoulders slump, the mask slipping for the briefest second. Because the truth was simple, cruel, undeniable—

She missed the warmth already.

~~~

For two days, Wanda kept her distance.

She told herself it was necessary—that last night, the fever, the warmth in your arms, had been nothing more than weakness. She’d been vulnerable, delirious. Nothing more.

And yet.

Her eyes betrayed her. Every time you walked past, every time she heard your footsteps in another room, she found herself listening closer.

At dinner, she ate quickly, but lingered afterward just to hear the sound of your spoon tapping against the bowl. When you rose to clean, she wanted to follow. She didn’t.

At night, when she lay awake, she caught herself straining for the faint creak of floorboards down the hall, proof that you were there. Still there.

On the third evening, she gave in.

You were on the porch, mending an old fishing net by lantern light. The air was cool, the kind that carried the faint smell of damp earth after rain.

Wanda stepped out quietly, meaning to pass through—to breathe, to remind herself she wasn’t tethered to this place. But her feet didn’t carry her further. Instead, she hovered near the railing, her eyes tracing the rhythm of your hands working the knots.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice calm, without looking up.

She swallowed. “No.”

Silence stretched, soft but fragile. Then—hesitant, almost begrudging—she added, “You… laugh too loud.”

You glanced at her, startled. “Do I?”

Her lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. “Yes. But… it’s not unpleasant.”

Something in your chest loosened. You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

To her own surprise, Wanda’s laugh slipped out—quick, unguarded, real. She pressed her lips together as if to catch it, but it was too late. The sound lingered in the air between you.

She looked away quickly, pretending to study the dark line of the trees. But her hands gripped the railing tight, as though holding herself back from stepping closer to you.

Because she knew it. Some part of her had already started leaning.

~~~

The house was quiet in the gray hush before dawn. Wanda hadn’t slept much—her body restless, her mind circling the strange gravity pulling her toward you. She gave up on sleep, wandering the hallway, intent on making tea.

That’s when she heard the bathroom door creak open.

She turned— And froze.

You stepped out, steam curling behind you, a towel wrapped around your body. Water still clung to your shoulders, trailing down the line of your collarbone. Your hair, damp and heavy, carried the faint, clean scent of soap and shampoo, drifting warm into the narrow space between you.

Wanda’s breath caught.

She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the punch of heat low in her stomach, the sudden thrum in her veins. For a split second, she was back in the fever-night—your warmth, your body against hers—but this time you weren’t holding her because she was sick.

This time, it was you, bare, real, alive.

Your eyes widened when you saw her. “Wanda—sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was up yet.”

You moved past her, casual, completely unaware of the storm inside her. But Wanda couldn’t stop staring—the droplets of water slipping down your skin, the warmth radiating from you. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms until it hurt.

“Cover yourself,” she snapped suddenly, harsher than she meant.

You froze, glancing down at the towel. “I—sorry. I was just heading to my room.”

“You shouldn’t—” Her words stumbled, biting at themselves. “You shouldn’t walk around like that.”

You blinked, hurt flickering in your eyes. “It’s my house, Wanda.”

The air between you was tight, humming with something neither of you wanted to name.

Finally, Wanda tore her gaze away, storming past you toward the kitchen, every nerve on fire.

She hated it— How her body betrayed her. How your scent clung to her even as she left the hallway.

She hated that she wanted.

~~~

You avoided her the rest of the day.

Not obviously—you still chopped wood, stoked the fire, tended to the chores—but you moved around her as though she were something fragile you dared not touch. No laughter, no soft questions, no stories to fill the silence.

Just distance.

Wanda noticed. She noticed everything.

At lunch, she tried to sit at the table across from you, but you kept your head bowed, eating quickly. When she asked, stiffly, if the wound on her shoulder needed tending, you only said, “I’ll leave the bandages on the counter. You can do it yourself.”

Her chest tightened at the flatness of your tone.

That night, she caught sight of you outside, hauling wood to the shed. Your shoulders were tense, your movements mechanical. For once, you didn’t look warm, didn’t look inviting. You looked… small.

Her words from that morning replayed, sharper each time. Cover yourself. She’d meant it as a shield, a defense against the fire in her veins. But what if you thought it was disgust?

The thought sliced through her, deeper than she expected.

She lay awake long after the fire burned low, listening for your steps in the hallway. They never came.

By dawn, the house was silent but for the sound of you in the kitchen, moving with careful restraint. The distance between you was no longer silence filled with possibility—it was silence filled with absence.

And Wanda hated it.

Because if you thought she was disgusted by you— If you thought she couldn’t stand the sight of you— Then maybe you’d stop looking at her the way you once did. Stop offering warmth. Stop staying.

And for the first time, the idea of you leaving felt unbearable.

~~~

It happened quickly. One misstep, one slip of the blade while you were chopping wood. The sting came sharp and hot, blood rushing down your arm before you realized the cut was deep.

You pressed a rag to it and stumbled back inside. You didn’t call for Wanda—you never would. You set the rag on the table, reached for the bottle of alcohol, and hissed as it burned through the wound. Your hands shook as you tried to wrap it, the cloth slipping, blood smearing across your fingers.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice snapped through the room like a whip. Wanda stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the crimson staining your arm.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, fumbling with the bandage.

“Nothing?” She crossed the room in seconds, snatching the bottle and cloth from your hands. “You’re bleeding like that, and you call it nothing?”

“I can handle it.”

“You can’t even tie it properly.” She shoved you down into the chair, not unkindly but firm, her expression fierce. “Sit. I’ll do it.”

You tried to argue, but the words died as she dipped the cloth into alcohol and pressed it gently to the wound. The burn shot through you, and a hiss escaped before you could swallow it.

Wanda’s lips curved, a sharp little smile. “Oh? You hiss from this, but you used to dab alcohol into my shoulder like it was nothing. And I didn’t complain.”

Your breath caught—not just from the sting, but from the warmth in her tone. Teasing, soft. Something almost fond.

She worked carefully, wrapping the cloth around your arm, fingers brushing your skin with deliberate precision. The same way you had done for her.

For the first time, you didn’t fight her help. You let her tend to you, let her hands steady yours.

And you didn’t admit the truth—that you weren’t even sure if it had been an accident. That maybe, just maybe, you were losing yourself again, slipping too close to the edge you’d almost gone over before.

Wanda tied the bandage snug and leaned back, studying her work. “There. Better.”

You met her eyes, saw the flicker of worry she tried to hide. And in that moment, you wondered—if she knew just how close you were to breaking, would she still look at you like this?

Would she still choose to stay?

~~~

Wanda lingered after bandaging your arm, her fingers still resting lightly against your skin. Too long, maybe, for it to be just care.

You shifted, uneasy. “It’s fine now. You don’t need to hover.”

But she didn’t move. Her green eyes searched your face, sharp yet soft, like she was reading the things you weren’t saying.

“What happened?” she asked even if she already knew the answer.

You stiffened. “It was an accident—”

Her hand slipped away from your arm, curling into her lap. “Quit lying.”

The air thickened. You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

Wanda’s voice dropped lower, quieter, as if afraid of the answer. “Did you mean to hurt yourself?”

Your heart thudded painfully. For a moment, you hated how much she could see. How her gaze cut through the layers you wrapped around your pain.

You forced a faint laugh, brittle at the edges. “You think too much.”

But Wanda didn’t smile. She leaned closer, eyes steady on yours. “No one ‘thinks too much’ when they see someone they care about bleeding like that.”

The word hung between you—care.

Your throat tightened. You looked away, staring at the fire. “Drop it, Wanda.”

Silence stretched, heavy and fragile. Then, softly—“You don’t have to carry it alone, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your nails into your palms, forcing the words back down. Because if you opened your mouth now, if you told her the truth—that some nights the lake still called to you—you weren’t sure you’d stop.

So you only nodded once, brisk, shutting the door on the moment.

Wanda let it go, but not completely. You could feel her eyes linger on you long after.

And in her chest, something twisted—because she knew what it was to drown in silence, and she wasn’t sure she could watch someone else sink the way she once had.

~~~

Snow began to fall the week before Christmas.

It dusted the fields, clung to the branches of the pines, and softened the edges of the farmhouse until it looked like something out of a postcard. You strung a few lanterns on the porch, lit candles in the windows—not for festivity, really, but for light against the early dark.

Wanda noticed, though she didn’t say anything. She only lingered by the windows longer, watching the snow spiral down in the glow of the lamps.

You kept busy with winter chores, chopping wood with one arm bound, stubborn as ever. Wanda hovered at the doorway, pretending to be uninterested, but her eyes never left you.

Every wince you made when your wound pulled. Every time you paused to catch your breath. Every careless moment you shoved your hands into the snow without gloves.

Her jaw clenched tighter each time.

The following day, Wanda woke up before you. She chopped all the wood there was in the shed, red tendrils dancing through the air. She didn’t stop until you had enough supply to last until the next winter.

The look on your face when you saw what she had done was worth it.

When you came back inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, she was waiting with a mug of tea.

“Drink,” she ordered flatly.

You smirked faintly. “Since when do you make me tea?”

“Since you can’t seem to take care of yourself,” she shot back, thrusting the mug into your hands.

But when your fingers brushed hers in the exchange, she didn’t pull away.

At night, she grew restless. The farmhouse was silent, but she found herself awake, listening for the creak of the floorboards, for your soft movements in the other room.

Once, when she passed by, she found you asleep in the armchair by the fire, book fallen open on your chest. The flicker of flame lit your face in warm gold.

She should have turned away. Instead, she pulled the blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over you, fingers brushing your hair before she caught herself.

For a long moment, Wanda stood there, watching your chest rise and fall, her heart tight with something she couldn’t name.

And the thought terrified her.

~~~

You tried again, in the small ways you knew.

The farmhouse smelled of chocolate and cinnamon that night, steam curling from two mugs you set carefully on the table. You carried them out to the porch, where the snow lay deep and the sky glittered clear above.

“Come,” you said, offering one to Wanda. “The stars are brighter in winter.”

She hesitated—she always did when you offered closeness—but something in your eyes disarmed her. She followed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she sank into the chair beside you.

The world stretched quiet around you both. The whisper of wind in the trees, the crunch of snow settling, the endless sweep of stars overhead.

You sipped your cocoa, the warmth seeping through your chilled hands. “It’s easier to count them in December,” you murmured, tilting your head back. “Feels like they come closer in the cold.”

Wanda didn’t answer.

She was watching you.

The firelight from the window spilled across your profile, painting your skin in warm colors, your lashes trembling against your cheek as you gazed skyward. There was a softness to you then, a light she hadn’t noticed—or maybe she hadn’t let herself see until now.

Her lips parted before she could stop herself, the word falling in a whisper meant for no one.

“Beautiful…”

You smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the constellations. “Yes,” you agreed. “They’re beautiful.”

You never saw the way Wanda’s breath hitched, the way she looked away quickly, as if burned. She pressed her mug to her lips to hide it, swallowing the warmth as though it could douse the storm inside her.

For once, she didn’t push you away. She just sat there in silence, shoulder close enough to brush yours, trying not to wonder how much longer she could lie to herself.

~~~

Snow kept falling as Christmas drew closer. You kept the farmhouse warm with firewood and lantern light, not bothering with decorations beyond a small pine you’d cut from the edge of the woods. A few candles glowed on its branches, and though it looked humble, the flicker filled the house with a quiet kind of magic.

On Christmas Eve, you cooked what you could from the pantry—roasted vegetables, bread, and the last jar of preserves you’d been saving. Wanda sat at the table, watching your hands move, her expression unreadable.

You caught her staring once. She didn’t look away.

After the meal, you poured hot cocoa again, and the two of you sat by the fire while the wind howled outside. You leaned back into the chair, tired but oddly content, and Wanda seemed softer than usual, her sharpness dulled by the glow of the flames.

When the clock struck midnight, you whispered, “Merry Christmas, Wanda.”

Her eyes flickered, and for once she didn’t harden. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

The next morning, you found her already awake, sitting at the table with something in her hands. A small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“What’s that?” you asked, still half-asleep, tugging your sweater tighter.

She hesitated, then pushed it toward you across the table. “It’s nothing. Just… something I made.”

Inside was a delicate charm—twine woven through with a bit of copper and crystal, glowing faintly in the light. It hummed against your palm, not dangerous, just warm.

You blinked up at her. “Wanda, this is—”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” she cut in quickly, almost defensive. “It’s just to… keep you safe. From small things. Cuts, burns, accidents. That’s all.”

You smiled, touched in a way you didn’t have words for. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Her gaze flicked to yours, sharp and searching, as if to check whether you were mocking her. But your warmth was genuine. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Wanda’s mouth curved into the faintest smile.

Later that night, you sat outside together again, counting the stars. Your fingers brushed the charm absently in your pocket. Wanda’s shoulder brushed yours in return.

Neither of you said anything, but something shifted—delicate, fragile, and impossibly real.

~~~

The town square glittered with lights and laughter, strings of lanterns swaying above the street as music echoed between the buildings. Children darted past with sparklers, their mittens bright against the snow.

You smiled, almost forgetting the heaviness that usually clung to your chest. “I told you the parade was worth it,” you said as you nudged Wanda’s arm.

She didn’t answer right away. Wrapped in her shawl, she kept her gaze on the marching band, on the colored lights flashing over the snow. But her hand brushed yours briefly, almost unconsciously, and she didn’t move it away.

That was when you saw her—the girl you had once offered shelter on a stormy night. She waved from across the crowd, weaving her way toward you with a bright grin.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you again!”

You smiled warmly, genuinely glad she’d made it back safe. “You too. How have you been?”

Wanda’s posture stiffened beside you.

The girl’s eyes sparkled as she glanced between you both. “I was hoping we could catch up. Maybe dinner after the parade? I owe you for your kindness.”

Before you could reply, Wanda spoke.

“I’m afraid we can’t,” she said smoothly, voice steady but sharp beneath. “My wife cooked turkey for dinner. It would be rude not to eat it.”

The word wife hung in the air. The girl blinked, taken aback. “Oh—I didn’t realize—”

You turned your head sharply toward Wanda, eyes wide. She didn’t look at you.

The girl smiled quickly, though her cheeks flushed pink. “Of course, I understand. Another time, maybe.” She disappeared back into the crowd.

You opened your mouth, confusion tightening in your chest. But Wanda’s face was calm, unreadable, her gaze fixed on the parade as though nothing had happened.

You didn’t argue—not there, not in the middle of laughing children and music and snow. But as you walked home beside her, the word echoed in your mind.

Wife.

And you couldn’t decide if your heart ached from the lie… or from how badly you wanted it to be true.

~~~

The walk home was silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Wanda kept her shawl tight around her, eyes fixed forward, expression unreadable.

You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head. The way she’d said it—calm, certain, like it was the most natural thing in the world. My wife.

By the time you reached the farmhouse, the silence was unbearable. You shut the door against the cold, dropped your gloves on the table, and finally turned to her.

“What was that, Wanda?”

She blinked at you, feigning ignorance. “What was what?”

“In town. You called me your wife.”

Her jaw tightened. She turned away, unwrapping her shawl, moving slowly as if to buy herself time. “It was nothing. Just a way to end the conversation.”

“Nothing?” you pressed. “That girl asked me to dinner, and instead of letting me answer, you—”

“I saved you the trouble of saying no,” she cut in sharply, her voice edged with steel.

“I could’ve spoken for myself.”

Wanda finally faced you, eyes blazing. “And what would you have said? That you’d rather run off with her than come home?”

Your chest tightened. “Why does it matter to you?”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. A flicker of something—fear, maybe, or longing—flashed across her face before it hardened again.

“It doesn’t,” she said coldly. “I just don’t want strangers sniffing around the house.”

You stepped closer, refusing to let her retreat behind walls again. “You could’ve said that. But you didn’t. You called me your wife, Wanda.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between you.

Her lips parted, the word caught on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Instead, she turned away, voice low and tight.

“Don’t read into it. You’re nothing to me.”

The words stung like a slap. But beneath the venom, you swore her voice trembled.

You clenched your fists, forcing your own voice steady. “If I’m nothing to you, then why did you look at me like that? Why can’t you stand the thought of me with someone else?”

Wanda froze, her back still to you. The muscles in her shoulders tensed, and for a moment you thought she might break.

But she only whispered, almost too quietly to hear—

“Don’t make me answer that.”

~~~

The tension in the room never broke. It hung there like smoke, thick and choking, until Wanda finally turned away, her face shadowed in the firelight.

She didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening. She didn’t join you at the table when you reheated the turkey leftovers. She didn’t sit by the fire when you tried to read aloud to fill the silence.

Instead, she vanished into the bedroom.

You told yourself to leave it alone. To let her have her moods, her storms. But when you finally pushed the door open to check on her, you stopped dead in the doorway.

Wanda stood there—naked.

The light from the window showed her skin, tracing the lines of her body in stark relief. Her eyes found yours, sharp, unreadable, almost defiant.

Your breath caught. Heat rushed through you, but not in the way she seemed to expect. Because you saw it, beneath the bravado—the desperation in her stance, the challenge in her gaze.

“Isn’t this what you want?” she asked, voice low, daring. “You keep hovering, caring, watching. Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?”

For a heartbeat, silence roared in your ears. You wanted to reach for her. You wanted to take everything she was offering.

But instead, you grabbed the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight until the fire in her eyes flickered with surprise.

“No, Wanda,” you said quietly, your voice shaking with restraint. “Not like this. Not because you’re angry or confused or trying to prove something.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her hands clutched the blanket around her as though it were armor, her eyes wide, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen.

“You think I’d take advantage of you?” you whispered. “You mean more to me than that.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Wanda just stood there, trembling faintly beneath the blanket. And then she turned her face away, jaw tight, as if the weight of your gentleness was too much to bear.

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “I’ll only ruin you.”

And she walked past you, retreating back into silence, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of her warmth in the air.

~~~

The morning after, Wanda was already awake when you entered the kitchen. She had her shawl tightly wrapped, her shoulders hunched like armor against the world—and against you.

You paused, sensing the storm behind her calm exterior. The blanket from last night lay neatly folded on the bed, untouched. She hadn’t moved it, hadn’t acknowledged it.

“Morning,” you said softly, trying to bridge the quiet.

“Morning,” she replied curtly, eyes fixed on the mug of tea in her hands.

You poured yourself coffee, careful not to make a sound that might provoke her. The warmth of the kitchen couldn’t penetrate the chill between you. Every step, every glance, felt measured—like walking across ice that might crack at any second.

Throughout the day, Wanda avoided the spaces you occupied. When you swept the floors, she sat at the table, pretending to read. When you stacked firewood, she lingered near the windows, watching snow fall. When you passed in the hall, she turned her gaze sharply away, stiff as a drawn bow.

The air was heavy with unspoken words. You wanted to ask her why she’d acted like that last night. You wanted to tell her how much it hurt to see her testing you, tempting and retreating all at once.

But you stayed quiet. Let her walls stand. Let her distance stretch.

Because you knew better than to push.

You’d seen her battles before, the ones she fought alone. And for all the ache in your chest, for all the longing to reach her, you wouldn’t force her. Not yet.

By evening, the fire crackled low, casting shadows across the room. You watched her from the corner of your eyes, distant, tense, but alive. And somewhere beneath that frozen surface, you knew the heat of last night still lingered, buried, waiting.

For now, you let her be.

The silence between you was heavy, yes—but it was also a promise. A promise that you were patient. That you wouldn’t leave.

And perhaps, in her own way, Wanda was aware of that.

~~~

The days following the parade and last night’s incident stretched long and quiet. Wanda kept her distance, but tiny fractures began to show—gestures too small to admit, yet too sharp to ignore.

One morning, you found her in the kitchen before you, silently clearing the table of breakfast dishes. Her movements were precise, careful, but when she glanced up and caught your eyes, she froze, fingers tightening on a plate for a moment longer than necessary.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you said softly, approaching.

“I… I’m fine,” she replied, voice clipped, but her eyes flicked toward the stack of heavy dishes you’d been about to lift.

That evening, she appeared in the doorway of your room with a small bundle. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.

“I… thought you might like this,” she murmured, handing it over.

Inside was a simple scarf, hand-knit, soft and warm—more delicate than anything she’d ever made for herself. You ran your fingers over it, noticing the uneven stitches, the little imperfections that made it perfect.

She looked away, shifting on her feet. “It’s… not much. But, uh… you might need it in town tomorrow.”

You met her gaze. She blinked, then swiftly turned back toward the hall, as if fleeing a mistake.

You smiled softly. “Thank you, Wanda. I’ll wear it.”

These moments—small, almost accidental—pulled at something inside you. And somewhere in her, Wanda felt the fire of connection, dangerous and frightening. Every touch, every glance, every soft word chipped away at the walls she had built, leaving her exposed and unsteady.

She didn’t know it yet—but she was beginning to care.

~~~

The morning after Wanda slipped away from the couch, the homestead was quiet, still wrapped in winter’s breath. You went about your chores as usual—splitting firewood, hauling water, checking the small fence near the treeline that had started to sag under the snow.

But the cold had made the ground slick, and your boot caught on the ice as you carried a bundle of wood back inside. The world tilted sharply—then a crash. Glass shattered as you struck the ground, a jagged cut slicing deep into your palm from the broken jar you’d been carrying.

The sound jolted Wanda awake. She rushed from her room, eyes wide, her bare feet slipping against the wood floor. “Y/N?”

You were crouched on the floor, clutching your hand, blood dripping between your fingers. You tried to laugh it off, but it came out strained. “Guess I’m clumsier than I thought.”

Her breath hitched. She dropped to her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she reached for yours. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s just a scratch—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice breaking. Carefully, she pried your hand open, her touch gentle but desperate. Her fingers hovered just above your skin, trembling, as if she wanted to heal you with magic but feared what it might do.

Instead, she pressed a cloth against the wound, her eyes glistening. “You shouldn’t… you can’t keep doing this alone.”

You swallowed hard, the closeness dizzying. “I’ve been alone for a long time, Wanda. It’s what I know.”

Her grip tightened, fierce now. “Not anymore. Do you hear me? Not anymore.”

The words rang through the small cabin, raw and unguarded. For the first time, she wasn’t hiding behind coldness or distance. Her voice cracked, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I can’t lose you. Not after everything.”

Your heart hammered, stunned into silence. Her eyes burned into yours, green and wet with emotion, and you saw the walls she’d built shatter like glass.

For a moment, you thought she might finally close the space between you. Her lips parted, her breath brushing yours—but then she faltered, pulling back just enough to hold onto control.

Still, the truth was there now, out in the open, undeniable.

Wanda Maximoff, who had rejected and resisted every kindness you’d given, was no longer pretending she didn’t care.

And you both knew it.

~~~

The night was heavy, the cabin hushed except for the whisper of firewood popping in the hearth. You sat at the table, your injured hand resting on a towel while Wanda fussed over it with bandages and salve.

Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, though her movements trembled. She kept her eyes down, focused on the wound, but every now and then they flickered up to your face—quick, guilty, hungry.

You hissed softly as the alcohol touched raw skin. She flinched at the sound. “Sorry,” she whispered, dabbing carefully.

You smiled faintly despite the sting. “Funny… you never apologized when you clean my wounds.”

That made her pause. Her lips parted, her gaze lifting fully to yours. For a heartbeat, silence filled the air—thick, charged, fragile. Then she bit her lip, a flicker of heat crossing her expression before she quickly looked away.

She didn’t even realize she’d done it, not at first. But you saw it. The way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. The way her shoulders stiffened, as though she’d betrayed something she’d buried too long.

You broke the quiet, voice softer than the crackle of the fire. “Wanda…?”

Her fingers faltered against the bandage. She pulled her hand back sharply, clutching it against her chest as if it might shield her. “I—” She stopped, breathing uneven.

Her eyes locked on yours again, luminous with a storm of want and fear. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I didn’t… I didn’t think I could ever want someone like this again. Not after everything. Not after him.”

The rawness of it sliced through you. Her confession was not loud, not complete, but it was real.

You leaned forward just slightly, giving her the space to retreat if she needed. “And now?”

She bit her lip again—harder this time—her eyes flickering to your mouth before darting back up. The hunger there was unmistakable, even as she shook her head, fighting it. “Now… I don’t know how to stop.”

The words lingered between you, heavy as the snow outside. Her hand trembled in her lap, caught between reaching for you and clinging to restraint.

For the first time, Wanda Maximoff wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding. She was teetering on the edge—and you could feel every beat of her struggle, every heartbeat pulling her closer.

~~~

The fire had burned low, casting the cabin in long shadows. You sat at the table still, bandaged hand resting on the wood. Wanda had finished tending it, but she hadn’t moved far. She lingered across from you, her hands gripping the edge of her chair like if she let go, she might reach for you instead.

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it thrummed with the echo of her words. I don’t know how to stop.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, green eyes flicking to your mouth and then jerking away like she’d touched something forbidden. She bit her lip again, holding herself hostage with restraint, and it made your pulse race.

You spoke softly, afraid to break the moment but needing to reach her. “Wanda, you don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, raw, vulnerable. “Don’t,” she whispered, the word trembling with desperation. “Don’t make it sound easy. Don’t make me want this more.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Is it so wrong to want something for yourself? Just once?”

Her breath caught. She pushed her chair back slightly, distance a shield she was desperate to keep. “You don’t understand. If I cross this line… if I let myself—” Her voice cracked, breaking into silence.

The air between you pulsed like a live wire. You could see it in her—the way her body leaned toward you even as her words shoved you away, the way her fingers trembled against the wood as if itching to touch.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back. “I should go to bed.”

You let her go, though your chest ached with everything unspoken. She lingered at the doorway, her back to you, shoulders rigid.

Then, just before slipping into the hall, she whispered so faintly you almost missed it:

“I don’t know how much longer I can stop myself.”

The words left the room heavier than the silence that followed.

And then she was gone, leaving you with the crackle of the fire and the racing of your heart, knowing that the dam was breaking—slowly, painfully—but it would break.

~~~

Wanda hadn’t spoken to you all day. She busied herself with chores that didn’t need doing, her silence a wall you didn’t dare press against.

But when evening came, you found her by the fire, sitting on the rug with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hair fell in soft waves over her face, her expression shadowed by something fierce and fragile.

You hesitated in the doorway, then crossed the room and lowered yourself beside her. “You’ve been quiet today.”

She didn’t look at you. Her eyes fixed on the flames, reflecting back their gold. “I had to be.”

“Why?” you asked, gently.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, in a whisper like confession, she replied, “Because every time I look at you… I forget who I’m supposed to be.”

Your breath caught. “And who are you supposed to be, Wanda?”

Her head turned slowly then, green eyes locking with yours, unflinching despite the tremor of her body. “Someone who doesn’t fall into this. Someone who doesn’t ruin everything she touches.”

You reached for her hand—not forcing, just offering—and to your surprise, she didn’t pull away. Her fingers were cold, but they curled against yours like she’d been starving for the contact.

“Maybe you don’t ruin things,” you whispered. “Maybe you just need someone who sees you. Not the Scarlet Witch. Not the Avenger. Just… you.”

Her breath hitched, sharp and trembling. You saw the moment she broke—the way her lips parted, her eyes flickering down to your mouth, her restraint fraying thread by thread.

And then she moved.

Her hand slid up your cheek, tentative at first, like she was terrified you’d vanish. But when you didn’t—when you leaned into her touch—she closed the distance, pressing her mouth to yours in a kiss that was equal parts hunger and fear, need and apology.

It was not careful. It was not soft. It was a surrender.

When she pulled back, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice was ragged. “God help me… I don’t think I can stop anymore.”

You smiled faintly, breathless. “Then don’t.”

The fire cracked, the night hushed, and for the first time, Wanda Maximoff let herself want.

~~~

The kiss lingered only a second before Wanda surged forward again, fiercer this time, her hands fisting in your shirt like she’d been holding this back for years. Her mouth moved against yours with a hunger that made your head spin.

You gasped softly when her teeth caught your bottom lip, and she groaned at the sound—a low, needy sound that vibrated straight through you. Her body pressed closer, knees brushing yours as if she couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.

Your hands found her waist, tentative at first, but when she didn’t recoil—when she leaned into your touch—you pulled her closer, and she nearly collapsed against you.

“Wanda…” you breathed, breaking just long enough to taste her name.

Her reply was a whisper, desperate and certain: “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you said, before you could think.

Something in her broke completely at that. She kissed you harder, like she wanted to drown in you, to erase every line she’d drawn between you with heat and touch. Her hand slid into your hair, tugging lightly, pulling a gasp from your lips that made her shudder.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered between kisses, her voice rough, hungry. “The way you look at me, the way you laugh—do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

Her confession burned hotter than the fire beside you. You pulled her closer, your hands sliding beneath the hem of her sweater, feeling the heat of her skin, the soft shiver that raced through her as your fingers grazed her waist.

She broke from your mouth just long enough to drag her lips down your jaw, then to your neck, her breath hot, her tongue tasting the sensitive skin there. You gasped again, clutching her tighter, and she groaned like she couldn’t stand how much she wanted you.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered against your skin, though her hands betrayed her, roaming, trembling with need.

You tilted her face back up, meeting her eyes—wild, vulnerable, blazing. “I’ll never tell you that.”

Her lips crashed back to yours, sealing the promise.

And for the first time since she arrived at your door, Wanda Maximoff wasn’t fighting herself. She was fighting to have you.

~~~

Wanda’s hands were restless—everywhere at once, like she needed to map your body with touch, to claim it, to memorize it. Her lips devoured yours, her breath ragged as she pressed you back against the rug, the firelight painting your skin in gold.

You barely had time to think before she was straddling your lap, grinding down against you, her moan muffled by the desperate kiss. The heat of her body bled through every layer of clothing, her movements raw with need.

“God,” she gasped, pulling back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead against yours. Her green eyes blazed, dark and wild. “I want—” She cut herself off, shivering like the words were dangerous, but her body spoke louder, rolling her hips against you again.

Your hands roamed her back, slipping under her sweater, pushing fabric higher until her skin met the cool air. Wanda trembled beneath your touch, a sharp inhale escaping her lips.

You whispered, voice rough with hunger, “You’re so beautiful, Wanda.”

Her lip caught between her teeth, her body tightening like she was holding onto control by a thread. But then she kissed you again, deeper, fiercer, tugging your shirt over your head with impatient hands.

The sight of you made her exhale shakily, her gaze drinking you in. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” she murmured, before kissing down your throat, tongue and teeth marking a path that made you whimper.

Her hands slid down, finding the edge of your waistband, pausing there, trembling. She looked at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “Tell me if this is too much. Tell me if I—”

You silenced her with a kiss, guiding her hands with your own. “I want you, Wanda. I want all of you.”

Something broke in her then, and she obeyed the pull. Clothes fell away between gasps and hurried touches, leaving only skin and the blaze of the fire. Wanda pressed against you fully, her breath hot, her body needy, her mouth everywhere—shoulder, chest, lips returning to yours with unrelenting hunger.

Every moan, every shuddering gasp, every whispered plea tangled between you until the night was nothing but fire and want.

Wanda Maximoff wasn’t holding back anymore. She was consuming—and being consumed.

~~~

The fire cracked, sparks drifting into the air, but neither of you noticed. Wanda’s body pressed you into the rug, her skin hot against yours, her lips desperate and unyielding. Every kiss stole your breath, every scrape of her teeth sent shivers racing down your spine.

Her hands roamed like they had a mind of their own—tracing your ribs, gripping your waist, sliding lower until you arched beneath her touch. She groaned at the way you responded, low and throaty, her restraint gone with every sound you made.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice breaking, though she didn’t even know what she was begging for—only that she needed more.

You guided her hand lower, giving permission without words. Her fingers slipped past fabric, brushing heat, and the sharp gasp you let out nearly undid her. She bit her lip hard, watching your face as her touch grew bolder, teasing, exploring.

The first true sound you gave her—a breathy moan—made her eyes flutter shut. “God, you’re… you’re perfect,” she murmured, kissing you again, swallowing every noise you made as she worked you with trembling but eager fingers.

Your hips bucked against her hand, and she gasped at the slick heat meeting her touch, her thighs clenching in response. She moved faster, her lips never leaving yours except to moan into your mouth, matching your rhythm until you broke apart beneath her, crying out her name in the firelight.

But she didn’t stop. Not yet.

“Again,” she whispered, almost commanding, her voice ragged with want. Her eyes glowed red. And it was supposed to scare you. But nothing about Wanda could ever scare you now.

She shifted, straddling you fully, guiding your hand up her thigh until you felt how soaked she was through. The realization made your head spin—Wanda Maximoff undone for you.

You slid fingers under her, and she gasped—sharp, needy—her body jerking at the first touch. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder, muffling a cry as she rocked against your hand, chasing friction, chasing release.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, voice breaking. Scarlet tendrils danced around the room, the fire flickering and bursting in the hearth. “Please, don’t you dare stop.”

Her movements grew frantic, desperate, until she shattered in your arms with a broken moan of your name, her nails digging into your skin, her body trembling against yours.

And when she finally stilled, breathing ragged, she collapsed against you, her lips brushing your collarbone.

The fire burned low, but between you, the heat was endless.

~~~

The first thing you felt was warmth. The fire had died sometime in the night, but Wanda’s body remained curled against yours, her arm draped possessively across your waist. Her breath fanned over your collarbone, steady, almost peaceful.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling beams, your thoughts tangled. The night before played in fragments—her lips, her cries.

And how much you’d loved every second of it.

A faint movement stirred at your side. Wanda shifted, eyes blinking open, green irises glowing faintly in the morning light. For a moment she looked disoriented, vulnerable. But then her gaze found you, and the corner of her mouth tugged into the faintest smile.

“Good morning,” she whispered, voice hoarse from everything you’d shared.

You brushed her hair back gently. “Morning.”

She leaned up to kiss you, slow, tender—a stark contrast to the fire and frenzy that had ruled her hours before. But when your hand slid along her back, she shivered, and something darker flickered in her eyes.

She kissed your neck lightly, murmuring, “You look at me differently now.”

You swallowed. “Because last night I saw you. All of you.”

Her lips curved against your skin. “And you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Her fingers slid up your side, teasing, almost playful. But then her grip tightened suddenly, pinning you back against the mattress. She hovered over you, her hair falling like a curtain, her eyes glowing faintly again.

“Good,” she breathed, her tone laced with promise and warning. “Because I don’t share. And I don’t let go.”

You trembled, not with fear, but anticipation. Because in her gaze you saw both Wanda and the Scarlet Witch—lover and ruler, tenderness and fire—and you knew both belonged to you now.

And maybe, just maybe, you belonged to her even more.

~~~

The day passed in a gentler rhythm than most. After breakfast, Wanda insisted on helping with the chores, though you caught her sneaking little flicks of red magic to make things easier when she thought you weren’t looking.

You let her.

There was something strangely sweet about seeing her stack wood with one hand and stir the simmering stew with the other, humming faintly under her breath.

In the afternoon, the snow outside grew thicker, muting the world in a blanket of white. You both sat near the fire, mugs of cocoa warming your hands. Wanda leaned against you, her head resting on your shoulder, as if the closeness had always been natural.

“You’re too good at this,” she murmured suddenly, her voice low.

“At what?” you asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“This.” She gestured vaguely at the cabin, the fire, the quiet comfort surrounding you both. “Making me forget. Making me feel… normal.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening. “Maybe that’s all you need right now. To feel normal for a while.”

Her eyes lingered on yours, heavy, unreadable. For a moment you thought she’d say more, but instead she pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, lingering just enough to make you shiver.

Evening fell, and the two of you cooked together—her chopping vegetables with quick, precise movements, you stirring the broth. When dinner was ready, you ate by candlelight, the glow casting Wanda’s face in soft amber, making her look impossibly beautiful.

Later still, you ended up by the window, wrapped in a single blanket. Wanda’s hand found yours under the wool, her fingers threading between yours with quiet certainty.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

For the first time since she’d stumbled into your life, Wanda looked like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

It was peace. Borrowed, fragile, but real.

And both of you clung to it as if it could last forever.

~~~

The day began playfully. After breakfast, you both bundled in coats and scarves, stepping out into the fresh snowfall. The world was quiet and white, a fresh sheet over the farm, and for once, Wanda laughed—bright, unguarded—when you threw the first snowball at her shoulder.

She retaliated with surprising accuracy, her powers guiding her throw, and soon the yard rang with laughter, shrieks, and the sound of snow thudding against wool and skin. You chased her until you both collapsed into a drift, breathless, cheeks flushed from cold and joy.

For a little while, it felt like freedom.

Later, you led her toward the shed to fetch more firewood. The air inside was colder, heavy with the smell of wood and earth, the faint golden light of afternoon filtering through the cracks. You bent to lift a log—when you felt her eyes on you.

When you turned, Wanda was standing just inside the doorway, her breath uneven, lips parted. That flicker of red in her gaze again—the same one you’d seen the night before.

“Wanda?” you asked softly, setting the log down.

She didn’t answer. Instead, with a subtle flick of her hand, the door clicked shut behind her, the latch glowing faintly with magic. Your heart pounded as she crossed the space between you, eyes fixed on you like she was starving.

“Do you have any idea,” she murmured, her voice low, dangerous, “what you do to me?”

You swallowed hard, your back pressing against the wall of the shed. “Wanda—”

Her magic flared, scarlet wrapping around her fingers as she conjured it—the strap, solid and real, pressing against her thighs. She stepped closer, her breath warm against your ear.

“You think I can just watch you bend over like that? Pretend I don’t want you every second?”

You shivered, your body already yielding as her hands pinned your wrists above your head against the rough wood. Splinters bit at your skin, straw crunching under your boots.

And then she was inside you, fast and hard, her body driving yours against the wall. The shed filled with the sound of your cries, the sharp slap of hips, Wanda’s growls against your throat.

You gasped her name, and she bit your shoulder—not cruel, but possessive—her magic tightening around your wrists until you thought you’d come undone from the pressure alone.

She buried herself in you with every thrust, raw and unrelenting, the Scarlet Witch breaking through in flashes of red in her eyes, in the force of her dominance. And yet her other hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly against your skin, grounding you even as she wrecked you.

When you finally shattered around her, she followed, trembling against you, forehead pressed to yours. The strap dissolved into sparks, the magic dispersing into the cold air, and the only sound left was the ragged, uneven breaths you shared.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Wanda kissed you—slow, aching, almost apologetic.

“Mine,” she whispered, barely audible, before resting her head against your shoulder.

And you held her there, against the wall of the shed, knowing she meant it with every fiber of her being.

~~~

By the time you made it back into the house, your legs were shaky, your lips swollen, and straw still clung stubbornly to your coat. Wanda kept close behind you, silent, her expression unreadable as if she didn’t know whether to apologize or claim you all over again.

You went straight for the kitchen, tugging off your gloves, your cheeks still burning with a mixture of cold and everything she’d just done to you. “Well,” you said, a laugh slipping out, bright and unguarded, “that’s one way to split wood.”

Wanda froze in the doorway, her eyes flickering with red, her lips parting like she expected anger, fear, maybe even disgust. Instead, she saw your smile—your laughter.

“You’re laughing,” she said softly, almost accusing.

“Of course I am.” You leaned against the counter, grinning even as you caught your breath. “I think I’ve just discovered my favorite chore.”

Wanda blinked at you, stunned, as if your joy didn’t compute. “You… you’re not afraid? After what I just—”

“Wanda,” you cut her off gently, stepping closer. “You forget—I’ve seen both sides of you. The woman who makes cocoa with too much cinnamon. And the Scarlet Witch who could bring the world to its knees.” You touched her cheek, soft, reverent. “I like both. Maybe even need both.”

Her lips trembled at that. For once, she didn’t try to hide it.

You laughed again, softer this time, brushing your thumb over her skin. “I guess I get two Wandas in one. Twice as much to love, huh?”

Her breath hitched—sharp, startled—and then she kissed you. Not with dominance, not with hunger, but with something fragile and unspoken. Her hands clung to your waist, holding you like she didn’t quite believe you were real.

When you finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against yours, whispering, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

But from the way her body melted against yours, from the way she let herself smile at last, you thought maybe you did.

~~~

The cabin smelled like cinnamon and melted butter. You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, while Wanda frowned at the mixing bowl like it was an enemy she needed to outwit.

“Not too much flour,” you warned, watching her scoop with a little too much force. “Unless you want cookies hard enough to chip a tooth.”

Her lips twitched. “I’ve faced gods and monsters, but apparently flour is my undoing.”

You laughed, sliding behind her to guide her hand, your chest brushing her back as you tilted the scoop. Wanda froze at the contact, then relaxed into you almost unconsciously, her breath warm against your neck.

“Like this,” you murmured, your hands steadying hers.

When the dough was finally ready, Wanda flicked a bit of it at you with her finger, smirking at your shocked gasp. You retaliated with a dusting of flour across her cheek. Soon enough, the kitchen rang with laughter and playful squeals, both of you dusted white, your cheeks sore from smiling.

When the cookies finally emerged golden from the oven, Wanda bit into one, her expression instantly softening. “Perfect,” she admitted, licking a crumb from her lip. “Though maybe it’s because you made them with me.”

Your chest warmed at her words. For a moment, the two of you just sat there, sharing cookies and cocoa, looking for all the world like a couple in love.

The next day, you both ventured into town for supplies. The streets were busy with people finishing their New Year errands, stalls bustling with chatter and color. Wanda wore her scarf pulled high and a hat low over her hair, but her beauty was impossible to hide completely.

You were scanning the shelves in the grocery store when the owner appeared. He smiled a little too wide when he spotted you, offering you both a friendly greeting.

His eyes lingered on you before flicking to Wanda. “How’s life up at the farm?”

You answered politely, your usual warmth smoothing the exchange. But Wanda stepped closer, sliding her hand into yours with deliberate ease.

“It’s fine,” she said coolly, her Sokovian lilt sharpening. “We have everything we need.”

The owner’s smile faltered under her piercing gaze. He muttered something about stocking shelves and quickly retreated.

You glanced up at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Wanda… were you just—”

“Protecting what’s mine,” she interrupted, her voice low, almost a growl. Her grip on your hand tightened, eyes still glowing faintly with the embers of possessiveness.

Your lips parted, a teasing smile forming despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “So I’m yours now, am I?”

She looked at you then, her expression softening just enough to show the truth beneath the fire. “You always were.”

And in the middle of the busy shop, your heart stumbled, knowing she meant every word.

~~~

Snow began to fall again by the time you and Wanda trudged back from town, bags of flour, sugar, and medicine tucked under your arms. The air was sharp, the kind of cold that cut through coats, but it carried with it a hush that made the whole world feel smaller—like it belonged only to the two of you.

Once inside, you shook off the cold, set the groceries down, and stoked the fire until flames licked warmly at the hearth. Wanda draped her scarf over a chair, her cheeks flushed from the walk, and collapsed into the couch with a sigh.

“You glare at men like that often?” you teased lightly, unloading the flour onto the shelf.

Her green eyes narrowed at you, though her lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Only the ones who forget where their eyes belong.”

You rolled yours, amused, but your heart beat faster anyway.

By the time dinner was finished—simple stew and bread, nothing fancy—you both found yourselves back by the fire, wrapped together beneath one blanket. Wanda rested her head on your chest, her legs tangled lazily with yours, and for once there was no sharpness in her, no distance.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I sat like this?” she asked quietly, watching the flames dance.

You brushed your fingers through her hair. “How long?”

She hesitated, her voice almost fragile. “Since before Westview. Before Vision. Before… everything.”

You tightened your hold around her, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair. “Then we’ll sit like this as long as you need.”

She tilted her head up at you, her lips twitching. “Careful. I might make you keep that promise.”

“Good,” you replied with a grin.

Her laughter bubbled out, soft and unguarded. It was a sound you’d chase forever if you could.

Later, when she caught you staring at her in the glow of the fire, she arched a brow. “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” you said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for once she didn’t argue or deflect. Instead, she nudged you back against the couch cushions and climbed into your lap, straddling you beneath the blanket.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to be,” she whispered, her forehead brushing yours.

The fire cracked, the snow whispered against the windows, and for that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just you, Wanda, and the steady rhythm of two hearts daring to beat in sync.

~~~

The firelight painted Wanda in gold, shadows dancing across her skin as she straddled your lap. Her hair fell around her face, her breath warm against your lips, her green eyes soft but glowing with something deeper—something that burned just for you.

“Wanda,” you whispered, your hands resting lightly at her waist.

“Shh.” She kissed you before you could say more—slow, tender, nothing like the wild hunger of the shed. Her lips moved against yours like she had all the time in the world, like she wanted to memorize the taste of you in this moment.

Her fingers trailed down your jaw, your throat, your chest, touching you as though she were mapping you, learning you by heart. “I don’t want to rush this,” she murmured against your mouth. “Not tonight.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in her voice. You nodded, letting her set the pace.

She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips lingering, reverent. Her hands tugged at your clothes, not with impatience but with care, stripping you piece by piece until the blanket was the only shield left against the cool air. She slipped beneath it, wrapping you both in warmth, her body pressed flush to yours.

The fire crackled, casting shadows over the room as she explored you with touch and mouth, each kiss and stroke unhurried, deliberate. When she slid lower, tasting you slowly, you realized she wasn’t devouring you this time—she was savoring. Worshiping.

Your moans filled the quiet cabin, mingling with the pop of the fire, and Wanda looked up through her lashes, her lips glistening, her eyes heavy with devotion. “So beautiful,” she whispered, before sinking back into you, her tongue drawing you higher and higher until you broke apart in her hands.

But she didn’t stop there. She climbed back up, kissing you deeply, guiding your hands to her own body, coaxing you to touch her in return. The two of you moved together in a slow rhythm, firelight flickering over bare skin, every sigh and gasp an offering, every kiss a promise.

When release finally came again, it was softer this time—less like an explosion, more like a flood, washing over you both until you were left trembling, clinging, hearts racing in tandem.

Wanda collapsed against you, her face buried in your neck, her voice low and shaky. “You make me feel… alive.”

You held her tighter, stroking her hair as the fire dimmed, and whispered back, “That’s because you are.”

And in the hush of the winter night, wrapped in warmth and each other, it felt—for once—like forever.

~~~

The attic was cold and smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Wanda had insisted on helping you clean it out that morning, claiming she needed to “earn her keep.” You’d laughed and tried to wave her off, but there she was—barefoot in your old sweater, sleeves rolled up, determined.

She was the one who found the box.

Old notebooks, stacked manuscripts, envelopes stuffed with letters. And at the very bottom, a framed photograph. You, a little younger, smiling into the camera with a girl pressed against your side, kissing your cheek.

Your body went rigid when you saw Wanda holding it up. You had almost forgotten that picture was up there.

You set down the bundle of old quilts in your arms, brushing your hands against your jeans. “That was… my ex.”

Something flickered across Wanda’s face. Jealousy, perhaps, but also curiosity. “You look happy.”

You swallowed. The smile in the photo felt like it belonged to a stranger. “I thought I was. I gave her everything I could. My words, my time, my whole heart. But…” You shook your head, forcing a laugh that carried no humor. “Turns out, I wasn’t enough. She left for a guy she met at her job. Said he could give her the future I couldn’t.”

Wanda set the photo down carefully, her eyes never leaving you.

You hesitated, but something about her gaze—steady, unflinching—drew the rest out of you. “I used to be a writer. Still get a little money every month from things I published before. But when she left, the words stopped coming. And… my parents…”

Your throat closed, but Wanda’s hand touched yours lightly, grounding you.

“They kicked me out when I told them I loved women,” you whispered. “Said I was a shame to the family. I thought… maybe if I was quiet enough, invisible enough, it wouldn’t hurt. But loneliness has a way of clawing at you. Some nights, I thought about ending it. Tried, even. Until…”

You trailed off, eyes stinging.

“Until I showed up,” Wanda finished quietly, her voice breaking just a little.

You nodded. “Yeah. Until you.”

The silence in the attic was heavy, but it wasn’t suffocating. Wanda’s hand tightened around yours, and when you finally looked up, there were tears brimming in her green eyes.

She reached out, cupping your face with such care it undid you. “You were never not enough. Do you hear me? Not for them. Not for her. Not for anyone. And especially not for me.”

Your breath caught, and you leaned into her touch, fragile and raw, as Wanda bent her forehead to yours.

For once, you didn’t feel like a burden for telling the truth. You felt… seen.

~~~

Town was bustling that day, still draped in the remnants of holiday cheer. Snowbanks framed the cobblestone streets, children laughing as they tugged sleds behind them. Wanda walked close to you, hood up, her scarf pulled snug. She still wasn’t used to people not recognizing her—still half-expected whispers, pointing fingers.

You’d ducked inside a shop to pick up coffee, leaving her waiting by the corner.

That’s when he came.

A little boy, no older than seven, clutching a battered toy truck in mittened hands. He tugged at Wanda’s sleeve with innocent boldness. “Excuse me,” he said, wide-eyed. “Can you fix it? The wheel fell off.”

Her heart stopped. For a moment—just a fleeting, cruel instant—she thought she saw Billy. Same brown hair, same spark in his eyes.

Her fingers trembled as she knelt, taking the toy from him. She turned it over, willing her magic to stay still, forcing herself to twist the plastic wheel back into place the ordinary way. “There,” she whispered, handing it back.

The boy beamed. “Thanks, lady!” And then he was gone, dashing back to his mother.

Wanda stood frozen, her chest aching, until you returned with the coffees. One look at her face and you knew. You didn’t ask. You just slipped your hand into hers and squeezed.

That night, she barely spoke. You heard her pacing her room, the floor creaking under restless steps. And your heart cracked, knowing there was nothing you could say to bring Billy and Tommy back.

But you could give her something.

The next day, you came back from town carrying a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. Wanda looked up from the couch, confused. “What is that?”

You crouched in front of her, setting the bundle down gently. A tiny gray-and-white kitten blinked up at her with wide eyes, letting out the smallest mewl.

You gave a sheepish smile. “It’s not a child,” you admitted softly. “But for now… it’s all I can give you.”

For a moment, Wanda just stared. Then her lips trembled, and tears spilled over, silent and unrestrained. She scooped the kitten into her arms, pressing her face against its soft fur as a sob broke free.

You reached out, smoothing her hair back. “I just… I don’t want you to feel alone,” you murmured.

Through her tears, she managed a shaky smile, clutching the kitten close. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

And when she finally leaned into you, kitten nestled between you both, you realized something simple but profound. For the first time, Wanda let herself be comforted without guilt.

~~~

It was well past midnight when a sound broke the quiet of the farmhouse.

At first you thought it was a dream, but then a high-pitched mewl cut through the dark again. You blinked awake, rubbing your eyes, and felt Wanda stir beside you. The little gray-and-white kitten was pawing frantically at the bedroom door.

“I’ll get her,” you whispered, brushing Wanda’s arm gently. “Go back to sleep.”

She made a sleepy noise of protest, but you were already up, tugging on your sweater. The kitten nearly tripped you in its enthusiasm as you carried it into the kitchen. You set down a shallow dish of milk, crouching to stroke its tiny head as it lapped noisily.

“Hungry little thing, aren’t you?” you murmured.

When the milk was gone, you found yourself sitting on the floor, letting it climb clumsily into your lap. You laughed under your breath as it batted at your fingers, its claws barely scratching. “You’re a menace,” you whispered fondly, scratching behind its ears.

What you didn’t realize was that Wanda had woken up anyway.

She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you by the soft glow of the kitchen lamp. Your hair was mussed from sleep, your eyes still heavy-lidded, but the way you smiled at the kitten—gentle, patient, endlessly warm—made her chest ache.

You looked like a mother.

The thought startled her, yet it refused to leave. She pictured you cradling something smaller, something human, with that same tenderness in your eyes. She pictured a child with your smile, your laugh echoing in the halls of the farmhouse. She pictured herself beside you, part of it all.

The vision nearly undid her.

When you finally noticed her, you smiled. “Sorry, she woke us. I didn’t want you to lose sleep.”

Wanda stepped closer, crouching beside you. Her hand brushed your knee lightly. “You didn’t have to,” she whispered, but her eyes lingered on the sight of you and the kitten curled together.

“Maybe not.” You grinned softly, letting the kitten climb onto Wanda’s hand. “But it felt right.”

Wanda didn’t answer. She couldn’t—not with her heart thrumming with a longing she hadn’t dared to admit before. A longing for more than comfort, more than survival. A longing for a future.

And for the first time, she let herself wonder if she could have that—with you.

~~~

The kitten’s soft breathing filled the silence of the farmhouse. But Wanda was restless, her pulse drumming with something fierce and unrelenting. She lay in bed watching you sleep, the curve of your lips, the rise of your chest beneath the blanket. And when she finally touched your arm, whispering your name, you woke to the hunger shining in her eyes.

She kissed you before you could ask, slow and searing, her hand at your nape as though she’d waited forever. “I need you,” she whispered against your lips, voice trembling with command.

There was no hesitation in her hands when she positioned herself between your thighs, no faltering in her gaze as her magic shimmered faintly around her, entering you.

At first her rhythm was slow, reverent—her body rocking into yours with measured control, her breath catching at the way you arched beneath her. She watched every change in your face, every gasp, every tremor, her own restraint wearing thinner with each sound you made.

The Scarlet Witch flickered in her eyes when she tightened her grip on your waist, when her groans deepened, raw and uncontainable. Your cries filled the room, your hands clawing at her back, your nails leaving crescents in her skin as pleasure burned through you in waves.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice broke on your name, her forehead pressed against yours, her movements losing their composure. You felt her shudder violently above you, and then—unexpected, startling—you felt something hot, wet, and unbearably intimate spill deep inside you.

Your eyes flew open, but the sensation was drowned almost immediately by the intensity of your own release. Your body shook with hers, your cries tangled with her groans as she held you down through the storm.

When it was over, she collapsed against you, breathless, trembling. She buried her face in your neck, pressing frantic kisses against your damp skin. “You’re mine,” she whispered hoarsely, as though the words were the only anchor she had left.

You curled your arms around her, still shuddering, unable to think past the echo of warmth inside you and the way her voice shook with need. For the first time, you didn’t wonder if she pitied you—you only felt chosen.

~~~

The days that followed blurred strangely.

You told yourself it was nothing—just fatigue, the remnants of winter pressing on your body—but you couldn’t ignore how easily you snapped. Small things irritated you. A creaky floorboard, the kettle whistling too long, even Wanda’s insistence on finishing the chores herself.

And yet Wanda never snapped back. She only touched your shoulder gently, her gaze soft. “Maybe it’s your time of the month?” she said one evening, with a small, knowing smile.

You froze.

That was when the thought hit you—hard, cold. You counted the days in your head, the weeks that had passed since the last crimson mark on the calendar.

You had missed it.

Your stomach dropped.

That night, you told Wanda you needed to head into town for something small—firewood, coffee, anything to avoid her suspicion. She didn’t question you, only reminded you to take her scarf because of the cold.

At the pharmacy, the bright lights buzzed overhead as you stood frozen in the aisle. Your hand hovered before finally grabbing the small, rectangular box, shoving it under the other items in your basket as though hiding it from the world.

On the walk home, your heart pounded with every crunch of snow beneath your boots. You kept glancing at the bundle in your coat pocket, the weight of it heavier than anything you’d carried before.

When you stepped into the farmhouse, Wanda greeted you with a smile, but you barely met her eyes. You muttered something about being tired, excused yourself, and climbed the stairs to the bathroom.

The little box sat on the counter, accusing, waiting. Your hands trembled as you opened it, the instructions blurring through the haze of your panic.

This is impossible, you told yourself. It can’t be…

And yet, deep inside, you already knew.

~~~

You hardly slept. The test was still hidden in the bathroom drawer —its weight pressing on your chest like a secret you weren’t ready to give voice to.

All morning you moved through the house distracted, your thoughts spiraling. Should you tell Wanda? Would she believe you? Or worse—would she leave?

The crunch of footsteps outside broke through your haze. You peeked through the kitchen window, heart lurching when you saw Wanda in the front yard.

She wasn’t alone.

A cloaked man stood with her, his hands folded behind his back. His expression was calm, but Wanda’s wasn’t. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed in red as though she’d been holding back tears or rage. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides, sparks of scarlet flickering like dying embers.

You pushed the door open just enough to hear, the winter air biting your cheeks.

“…Vision,” the man said softly, as if the name itself could cut her open.

Wanda’s whole body went rigid. Her breath came out shaky, clouding in the cold. She turned her face away from him, her jaw tight.

“He’s gone, Stephen,” she hissed, voice low and breaking. “Don’t—don’t bring him here.”

The man called Stephen didn’t argue, only inclined his head, but his gaze flickered toward the house—toward you.

That was when Wanda noticed you.

Her eyes met yours across the yard, still wet, still burning. Something passed through them—anger, grief, confusion. But beneath it all… hesitation.

As if she stood on the edge of a choice.

You, clutching the doorframe with your secret. Her, still caught in the pull of a man who was both memory and ghost.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Not yet.

And for the first time, you wondered—when the moment came, would Wanda choose you? Or would she still belong to the ghost of Vision?

~~~

You lingered longer than usual at the stove, stirring the chicken paprika as if they needed more attention than they did. The silence pressed on you like a weight. Wanda sat at the table, fingers curled loosely around her mug of coffee, staring at the dark liquid instead of drinking it.

You took your place across from her, the wood between you feeling more like a chasm. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you cleared your throat, forcing steadiness into your voice.

“Why was that man here?”

Her head lifted slowly, and for a heartbeat you thought she wouldn’t answer. But then Wanda’s lips parted, the words dragging out heavy, reluctant.

“…Vision,” she whispered, and even the name carried a crack. Her gaze flicked to the window, as though she couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “He’s… back. But not him. Not really.”

You froze, fork hovering halfway to your mouth.

She continued, bitterness sharpening her tone, “They rebuilt him. White. Cold. A weapon for S.H.I.E.L.D. to control. As if he was nothing but… metal. As if the man I loved was just a machine to dismantle, repair, and point toward their wars.”

Her eyes finally found yours, and they shimmered with fury and grief. Scarlet sparks flickered at her fingertips before she clenched her hands into fists.

But then—she inhaled sharply, voice dropping to something more fragile. “Stephen also said… he found them.”

You didn’t need her to say their names. You already knew.

“Billy. Tommy. Not children anymore, but… older. Teenagers.” Her lips trembled on the word. “They’re alive, in some way I can’t understand. And they’re out there. Needing me.”

The air between you grew taut, your own chest aching as you realized what she was asking without asking.

You set your fork down slowly. Forced yourself to look her in the eye, even though your throat burned with words you couldn’t tell her—the test hidden in the drawer, the truth swelling inside you like something fragile and new.

“Then you should go,” you said softly.

The words felt like breaking glass inside you, but you managed a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “If they’re alive… if they need you, Wanda, then you can’t stay here. Not for me.”

Her breath hitched, as if she hadn’t expected you to say it. Her fingers twitched against the table, reaching for you, then curling back before they touched.

And you sat there, your secret locked tight in your chest, wondering if you had just set her free— or if you had just let her slip away.

~~~

Wanda didn’t touch her food. She sat with her hands around her mug, untouched coffee gone cold, her knuckles pale from how tightly she held it.

Her gaze wasn’t on you anymore—it was somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the frost-tipped fields, beyond this quiet life. But you could see the storm in her eyes, the way her breath caught as if she were swallowing down pieces of herself.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said finally, her voice rough as though the words had clawed their way out.

Your chest tightened. You forced yourself not to speak, not to give her an answer too quickly. She needed to say it all.

Her hands loosened around the mug, trembling faintly. “Vision’s gone. I’ve accepted that. What’s out there—it isn’t him. It never will be.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no bitterness this time, only grief worn down to something raw and quiet.

She looked up at you then, eyes glassy. “But Billy and Tommy…” Her voice broke on their names. “They’re mine. They’re my boys. And if they’re lost, if they’re out there and needing me—I can’t just turn away.”

You swallowed hard.

The part of you that wanted to beg her to stay—selfish, desperate—clawed at your throat. But the other part, the one that had learned to love her deeply enough to want her happiness, even if it meant breaking you, kept you still.

She reached across the table then, fingers brushing yours. A small, fragile touch that felt like it held the weight of two impossible choices.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t finish the thought.

And you sat there, silent, your secret burning hotter in your chest: the test, the possibility growing inside you. You wondered—if you told her, would it change her choice? Or would it only make the leaving harder?

For now, you kept it hidden.

Wanda’s hand lingered on yours, her eyes flickering between your face and the window as if she were being pulled in two directions—toward the children she had lost, and toward the home she had begun to find.

~~~

The morning light poured through the kitchen window, pale gold across the wooden counter. You were pouring coffee when you felt it—that shift in the air.

Wanda’s presence behind you. Closer than usual.

Before you could turn, her hands were on your waist, spinning you to face her. Her eyes burned, glassy yet sharp, the kind of look that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Wanda—” you began, but she silenced you with her mouth.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. Her kiss was hungry, desperate, her tongue parting your lips as if she couldn’t get enough of you. She lifted you onto the counter in a sweep, her strength undeniable, her body pressing between your legs like she belonged there.

You clutched her shoulders, confused but unable to resist. Her hands roamed, urgent, claiming you as though she was memorizing every inch. Every touch, every kiss carried an edge of something rawer than desire.

It felt like a storm breaking.

When she pushed into you, the world vanished. Her pace was fierce, almost frantic, as though she needed this—needed you—before time ran out. Your head fell back against the cabinet, cries spilling out of you as she drove deeper, harder. Her face buried against your neck, grunts torn from her chest.

It was everything: overwhelming, intoxicating, the world narrowed to her body claiming yours.

And then—her grip on your waist tightened, her breath ragged, and you felt it. Heat spilling into you, sudden, impossible. She groaned low into your ear, trembling as she released, and you realized—this was no ordinary magic Wanda was wielding.

You shuddered with her, clinging, your body giving in until you came undone around her, tears stinging your eyes.

For a moment, all you could hear was the thundering of your heart and her ragged breathing.

But then, as her forehead pressed to yours, the thought cut through you like glass. This felt like goodbye.

Her hunger, her urgency—it hadn’t been about celebration. It had been about holding on, one last time, before letting go.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes lingered on yours, wet and aching. She kissed you once more, softer this time, and whispered, “I don’t know if I can leave you.”

But you knew. Somewhere deep inside, you knew she was already preparing herself to go.

~~~

The kitchen smelled of coffee gone cold. The counter beneath you was still warm from where Wanda had pressed you, claimed you, loved you like it was the last time she might.

You sat there in silence, the echo of her body still trembling through yours. Wanda stood a few feet away, back turned, one hand gripping the edge of the sink as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders rose and fell, her breath uneven.

Finally, she spoke.

“I have to go.”

The words sliced through the room like a blade.

You blinked, throat dry.

Her knuckles whitened against the porcelain. “To them. To Billy and Tommy. Stephen can take me. He says they’re lost in this world, waiting.” Her voice cracked, her head bowing. “I can’t ignore that. They’re my children.”

Your fingers curled tight in your lap, nails biting into your skin. You wanted to scream What about me? But the words died before they left your tongue.

Instead, you nodded once. Too quickly. Too stiff. “Then you should go.”

Wanda turned then, and the sight nearly broke you. Her eyes were wet, shimmering red in the corners like the magic she kept trying to cage. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said, voice hoarse. “But I don’t know how to stay when they’re out there.”

You forced yourself to smile, though it trembled. “They need you more than I do.”

Inside, your secret burned—the pregnancy test, the truth you hadn’t dared share. Your hand drifted unconsciously to your stomach before you caught yourself, shoving it back to your side.

Wanda’s eyes lingered on you, searching, almost as if she could sense something beneath your skin. But she didn’t ask. She only took a shaky breath, stepping closer, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Don’t think of this as goodbye,” she whispered. “Think of it as me finding a way to come back to you.”

But you already knew. Goodbye was written all over her.

~~~

Wanda was gone.

At first, there had been letters. Folded parchment, your name written in her graceful hand, pressed with faint traces of her perfume. You devoured them in silence, reading them over and over until the paper grew soft at the edges.

She wrote of her search, her fear, her guilt. I’ve found Billy, one letter said, her words shaky. He’s older, but he’s mine. He has power in him, magic, like me. He’s so much like the boy I dreamed of. But Tommy… he’s still missing. I can’t stop. Not yet.

And then, I am afraid, dorogoya. Afraid that if I return to you, if I see you, I won’t leave again. My sons need me. But part of me wonders if I need you more.

Yours always,

W

You traced those words with trembling fingers, your heart aching.

But she never left a return address.

So you couldn’t write back. Couldn’t tell her about the life growing inside you, the way your belly swelled with each passing week, the way your nights grew longer and lonelier without her beside you.

The letters slowed. Then stopped altogether.

And the months bled into each other, until your farmhouse no longer felt like a home but a cage. Every creak of the wood reminded you of her laughter. Every corner whispered the ghost of her touch.

Even the cat noticed her absence.

By the eighth month, your body ached under the weight of the child. Your hands shook every time a contraction rippled faint and false through you, fear clawing up your throat at the thought of being alone when the moment finally came.

You couldn’t stay.

So one morning, you packed. The cat in its cage. Just a few bags. Left the farmhouse behind, its quiet halls heavy with Wanda’s absence.

The city was loud, unfamiliar, but near the hospital. Safer.

You rented a small apartment with thin walls and a drafty window, the kind of place where no one asked questions if you came and went quietly. It wasn’t home. It never would be. But it was where you would bring this child into the world.

Wanda’s child.

Your child.

And as you lay in the narrow bed that first night, one hand curved over your swollen belly, you whispered to the little one inside you,

“You’re not alone. Even if she never comes back, we’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

But your voice trembled, because part of you still prayed she would.

~~~

The days blurred together, each one heavy with waiting, until the moment finally came.

Labor struck like a storm—fast, unrelenting. The sterile white of the hospital walls closed in around you as you cried out, clutching the rails of the bed, your body trembling from effort and fear. And then, through the haze of pain, came the cry. High, fierce, alive.

Your heart broke open.

She was a girl. Small, warm, her skin flushed pink against the hospital blanket. But when the nurse laid her on your chest, you saw it immediately—eyes green as spring leaves, hair dark auburn already curling faint at her crown.

Wanda.

You wept into her tiny face, pressing your lips to her soft head. “You’re mine,” you whispered, choking on the words. “Ours.”

And in that instant, you knew, you would never be alone again. Not truly. A part of Wanda lived here, in the curve of your daughter’s eyes, in the faint red spark that flared once when her tiny fist clenched and then vanished as though it had never been.

Perhaps it was Wanda’s magic that had made her, just as it had once made Billy and Tommy. Perhaps destiny had decided this child would be born.

Whatever the reason, she was yours.

~~~

The tiny apartment became a home. A crib by the window. Blankets folded in the corner. Bottles lined neatly by the sink. The cat lounging on the floor.

Nights were long, but you endured every one, holding her close, rocking her through tears and lullabies. And every time exhaustion threatened to break you, she would look up with those green eyes, so much like Wanda’s, and it was enough.

Days turned into months, months into years.

You watched her crawl across the faded carpet, her giggles filling the air with a joy you hadn’t thought you’d ever hear again. You clapped for her when she took her first wobbling step toward you, falling into your arms.

At two years old, she was quick on her feet, stubborn in her will, curious in every movement. She had Wanda’s seriousness when she focused, her same quiet intensity when her little brows furrowed in concentration.

And when she laughed—oh, when she laughed—it sounded like sunlight through clouds.

You whispered her name softly each night before bed, a name you’d chosen alone but with Wanda’s heart in mind.

Willow.

And as she curled into your chest, her small hand clutching your shirt, yours around the charm Wanda has once gifted you, you whispered too,

“She’s here, Wanda. A part of you is with me. Always.”

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