Summary: Your mom’s best friend has always been your safe place. She raised you, loved you, and protected you — and you were supposed to outgrow the crush you had on her. But now that you’re back home from college, you realise some things never really go away. And maybe Wanda feels the same.
Men and Minors DNI
A/N: I know I haven’t posted in like a month, but I’ve been writing a couple chapters for this series. And I hope you enjoy every part of it 🩵
A/N: All of the works in this collection are entirely fictional and created for storytelling purposes only. They explore obsessive and unhealthy dynamics, and are not meant to reflect or romanticise real-life relationships. Please read with that understanding in mind.
*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ
Every Frame is You
∞︎︎ Word Count: 1.7k
∞︎︎ Summary: You think Wanda barely notices you. Meanwhile she has an entire folder of videos proving otherwise.
Time Loop Devotion
∞︎︎ Word Count: 4.7k
∞︎︎ Summary: You’re stuck in a time loop—but you’re the only one who forgets. Wanda remembers every reset, guiding you through it… a little too perfectly. The more time you spend with her, the more it starts to feel like she’s not just helping you survive the loop—she’s shaping it. And somehow, she always knows exactly how to make you stay.
Summary: A brief flicker into your past, to the exact moment that you knew Wanda was the most perfect woman in your life, even though you didn’t exactly know what that meant, just that the title of that belonged to her and only her.
The rain had been falling all day, drumming gently against the windows while you sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around your small frame. Your mom had gone out to run errands, and Wanda had offered to stay behind and keep an eye on you. She was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove, the smell of tomato sauce filling the house.
You loved when Wanda was over. She was your favourite of all your mom’s friends — warm, soft-spoken, and always ready to give you her full attention. When she was around, you never felt like the kid stuck on the sidelines of adult conversations. With Wanda, you were always part of things.
“Sweetheart, are you hiding under there again?” Her voice floated in from the kitchen, teasing but affectionate.
You poked your head out from the blanket. “I’m not hiding.”
She appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyebrows arched in mock suspicion. She was younger then, but still just as beautiful — hair falling in gentle waves around her face, green eyes catching the lamplight. You didn’t have the words for it yet, but even at that age you thought she was the most perfect person you’d ever seen.
“Mm-hm,” she said, crossing the room and plopping down beside you. The sofa dipped under her weight, and you immediately scooted closer, abandoning the blanket so you could press against her side. Without hesitation, she draped an arm around you and tugged you in tight. “Better?”
You nodded into her shoulder, and she kissed the top of your head.
The rest of the afternoon blurred together in small, ordinary moments — her brushing your hair while you sat cross-legged on the floor, her patient voice guiding you through measuring flour and sugar for the batch of cookies you begged to make, her laughter when you smeared chocolate on your cheek without realising it. She wiped it away with her thumb, shaking her head. “Messy thing. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Later, when dinner was over and the rain had quieted, she carried you upstairs to bed. You clung to her neck the whole way, refusing to let go until she promised she’d sit with you until you fell asleep. She kept her word, tucking the blankets around you before perching on the edge of the mattress.
“Story or lullaby?” she asked softly.
“Story,” you mumbled sleepily.
So she told you one — some fairy tale she half-invented, about a brave little bird who always came home to the same tree no matter how far it flew. Her voice was gentle, steady, like a lull itself, and your eyes drifted shut halfway through.
Before you slipped fully into sleep, you whispered, “When I grow up, I’m gonna marry you.”
For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Then she laughed quietly, brushing her fingers through your hair. “Oh, darling… one day you’ll find someone who’s perfect for you. Someone who’ll love you the way you deserve.”
“I already did,” you muttered stubbornly, words slurred with drowsiness.
She sighed, kissed your forehead, and pulled the blanket higher over your shoulders. “Rest now. I’ll always take care of you.”
And you believed her. With your head against the pillow and her presence beside you, you drifted off certain of one thing: as long as Wanda was around, you would never be lonely.
Summary: Wanda can’t stop thinking about how wrong it is to want you, not when she practically raised you, but guilt doesn’t stop the memories or the way her chest tightens when she sees you half-wasted on your Instagram story. One late-night drunken call later and she’s dragging herself out of bed to collect you, clean you up, get you home. She tells herself it’s just caretaking—just worry—but then you tug her into bed with you and she doesn’t even try to leave.
Men and Minors DNI
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Wanda sat on the edge of her couch with the sort of heaviness you get only when the house has been quiet for a long time. The TV was paused on some random cooking show she wasn’t really watching, the light from the screen washing pale over the living room. Outside, wind pushed the trees against her windows, that low rustling making the whole evening feel colder than it probably was. It was the kind of night where most people would curl up and unwind.
But she couldn’t. Her head wouldn’t shut up long enough.
She rubbed her hands over her face and let out a quiet exhale. Work had drained her today — long hours, endless customers, constant noise — but the second she got home, it wasn’t relief that settled in her bones. It was that low hum in her chest she tried not to name. The one she’d been ignoring for years.
It was always you.
Not even in a dramatic, romantic way — at least that’s what she told herself. It was just… she’d known you practically your whole life. That sort of connection gets tangled. It gets complicated. And she hated that she felt things she wasn’t supposed to, things she never asked for. Especially with the memories that kept sneaking into her head, reminding her of a time when you’d been so small, so trusting, so painfully innocent.
That was the part that made her feel guilty. She’d watched you grow up. She’d looked after you more times than she could count. She saw you become your own person, and instead of stepping back like she should have, she found herself watching you more closely. Noticing you in ways she wasn’t sure were fair.
She leaned back into the sofa cushions and stared up at the ceiling, letting one of the oldest memories pull itself forward.
You were five — maybe six — the day you’d shown up on her doorstep crying because you’d fallen off your bike. Not badly, just a scraped knee and wounded pride. Wanda had still been living in her old house at the time, the carpet awful and the hallway narrow and echoey. She remembered opening the door and finding you sniffly and red-cheeked, clutching your helmet like the world had ended.
“It hurts,” you’d said in that tiny voice, trying so hard not to cry again.
Wanda had scooped you inside without thinking, sat you on the counter, cleaned up your knee, and plastered a sticker-covered plaster on it because you insisted the dinosaur ones “made it heal faster.” You’d believed her when she said you’d be okay. You always believed her. And that sort of trust — God, that stuck with her in a way she didn’t realise until it was too late.
Another memory followed right behind it, sharper than she wanted. You at ten years old, stomping into her living room during a thunderstorm because you didn’t like being alone when thunder hit. You hadn’t even knocked — you just let yourself in with the spare key she’d given you in case of emergencies. Wanda had laughed softly at the time, pretending not to see how tightly you were gripping your sleeves. She’d made hot chocolate, handed you a blanket, and pretended the storm didn’t bother you.
You’d fallen asleep on her sofa halfway through the film you insisted you “totally wouldn’t fall asleep to.” She’d carried you to the sofa’s corner and tucked the blanket around you, standing there a little too long afterwards without knowing why.
Now those memories weren’t cute. They were heavy. They made her feel like she’d crossed some unspoken line simply by caring too much.
She pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, trying to ease the ache that always came with thinking too hard about you. It didn’t help, but she kept doing it out of habit.
The room felt too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet where you could hear your heartbeat and every thought that came with it. She needed something to distract her before her mind spiralled somewhere she didn’t want it to go.
Her eyes drifted to her phone on the coffee table.
Instagram.
You’d been the one to make her download it years ago — literally sat next to her, grabbed her phone, and installed it yourself because you were tired of sending her memes she “refused to open.” At first she’d used it normally. Followed some friends, a few accounts she liked. But somewhere along the line, she’d started opening it just to check yours.
You posted more as you got older. Outfits, friends, little bits of your life she never got to hear about anymore unless she asked — which she tried not to do too often or too eagerly. She didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to seem like she was keeping tabs. Even though she sort of was.
Wanda reached forward, picked up her phone, and unlocked it. The familiar glow lit the room more warmly than the TV ever did. Your profile icon sat right at the top of her feed, bright and new.
You’d posted a story.
Her stomach tightened before she even tapped it. She told herself not to read into it. She always told herself that.
The story loaded slowly, agonisingly slow, and then your face filled the screen. You were at some party, music blaring in the background, lights shifting behind you. You had a drink in your hand and a flushed, happy smile on your face. Someone beside you leaned into the camera, shouting something she couldn’t make out, and you laughed — carefree, loud, a sound she hadn’t heard from you in ages.
You looked older. Independent. Out there living your life without her.
Wanda lowered the phone slightly, her eyes still on the screen.
⸻
The music thumped hard enough to rattle the floorboards, the kind of bass you could feel in your teeth. Someone had turned the living room lights down so low everything looked dipped in warm gold and strange shadows, and the air smelled like cheap vodka, perfume, and something definitely not legal. You’d stopped trying to figure out who brought what; every time you turned around someone was offering you a new cup, a new bottle, a drag of a vape, a joint that you knew you should smoke outside but nobody else was and you’d hate to ruin the mood.
Honestly? You weren’t even sure when you’d gotten this gone. You only knew that your head felt light, your chest felt warm, and the whole world had a soft blur around the edges, like someone had smeared the night with their thumb.
A girl from somewhere — a friend of a friend, maybe — dragged you closer to the kitchen where the music was loudest, shoving a drink in your hand without asking. You took it because refusing felt like effort, and effort was something you left back home on your bed. The drink tasted like rubbing alcohol and fruit juice. You winced but kept sipping anyway.
People were dancing. Laughing. Someone was yelling the lyrics to a song nobody knew the words to. You joined in anyway, half shouting nonsense into the air because why not. Everything felt easier like this. Softer. Less sharp. You didn’t have to think about Wanda, or the kiss, or the way your stomach twisted whenever her name hit your brain.
Except it still did. Over and over. Like the thought refused to piss off for even one measly night.
You leaned against the counter, breathing a little too heavily, letting your gaze drift across the room. You were good at pretending you were just having fun — you even fooled yourself for a bit. But every time your head cleared for even a moment, she came back.
Wanda’s stupid pretty face.
Wanda’s soft voice in the rain.
Wanda’s hands helping you out of your wet clothes like it was nothing.
And that kiss, gentle and slow and careful in a way that almost made you want to scream.
And then she apologised.
The thought hit you again, harder than the drink did. Why did she apologise? Why did that hurt so damn much? Why did it feel like she wanted it and regretted it all at once? Why did you care?
You lifted the cup to your lips without realising it was already empty. Someone bumped your arm, startled you, and suddenly you were laughing — big, stupid laughter you didn’t even understand. The girl next to you handed you something to smoke. You didn’t even ask what it was. You took it, breathed in, and the world softened even more.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket.
You fumbled it out, blinking at the screen like it was written in another language. Your story had uploaded. A couple people had replied. Nothing that mattered.
But Wanda’s name hovered in your mind, not on the screen.
You stared at your phone a little longer, thumb drifting over the edge like you weren’t controlling it.
You did not plan to call her.
You didn’t even think about calling her.
Your thumb just… moved. Like some part of you bypassed your brain and hit the one person you shouldn’t be contacting while half drunk and floating, but the only person you wanted.
The ringing sounded impossibly loud over the music. Your heart kicked hard, not in a panicked way — more in that reckless, buzzing way that made everything feel more alive.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” Her voice was soft, cautious, familiar in a way that made your chest go hot.
You smiled without meaning to. “Wanda,” you said, her name rolling off your tongue like honey, looser and warmer than you’d ever dare say it sober.
There was a pause. “Are you… alright?”
You laughed — a breathless, tipsy sound that wasn’t quite steady. “Yeah. I’m— I’m good. I’m at a party. Can you hear the music?” You held the phone slightly away from your ear before remembering that was stupid and pulling it back.
“I can hear… something,” she said, a tiny wry smile hidden under her tone. “Sounds loud.”
“It’s loud. Everything’s loud. Except you.” You leaned heavier onto the counter. “You’re always… quieter. In my head, I mean. Even when you’re not there.”
Another pause. A heartbeat. You didn’t notice the tension in it.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked gently.
“Maybe.” You grinned at the floor, feeling stupidly warm. “Maybe a lot. Maybe I’m… I don’t know. Floaty.”
She exhaled, a soft breath that floated through the speaker like a hand brushing your cheek. “Sweetheart…”
Something in your stomach flipped.
“You didn’t mean that kiss, did you?” you blurted — not sad, not hurt, just honest in a way only intoxication could pull out of you. “Or you did, and then you freaked out. I can’t tell. And it’s annoying.”
Silence again. The kind you didn’t register as heavy — just there.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” you giggled, running a hand through your hair. “But I wanted to. You feel good to talk to. Always have.”
“Where are you?” she asked — steady, careful, far too grounded compared to you.
“At a house,” you said unhelpfully. “With people. With too much everything.” You looked at the spinning lights. “You ever think too much when you’re trying not to think? ‘Cause I’m doing that.”
She breathed again — slow, measured. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I do.”
You licked your lips, leaning your head against the cabinet. “Wanda?”
“Yes?”
“You make my head complicated.”
That was the last thing you said before someone shouted your name from across the room, pulling your attention away for just a second — long enough for the call to wobble between you and the noise of the party, hanging open in the air.
⸻
Wanda stared at her phone long after the line went dead, the flat beep-beep-beep of the disconnected call sinking into the quiet of her living room. She didn’t move at first. She didn’t breathe properly, either. Her thumb hovered over the screen like the warmth of your voice was still pressed into it.
Drunk.
Not tipsy.
Not a little loose.
Drunk.
The kind of drunk where your words fell out without barriers, where you didn’t know you were being vulnerable until it was too late. The kind of drunk that made you say things you’d never dare say while sober — like you were floating, like she made your head complicated, like her kiss lived rent-free inside you.
She swallowed hard, pulse thudding against the base of her throat. It was ridiculous how fast her mind was moving — worry, guilt, fondness, something heavier that she didn’t want to name.
And then there was the other thing.
The selfish thing.
The part of her that replayed every slurred sentence.
You’re always quieter in my head.
You wanted the kiss but you freaked out.
You feel good to talk to.
You make my head complicated.
God. She shouldn’t have liked hearing those as much as she did.
Wanda pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and paced once across her bedroom rug. “She’s drunk,” she muttered under her breath, though the words didn’t make her annoyance at herself loosen at all. You were drunk, and she was sitting here glowing because you said her name like it tasted sweet.
That was wrong.
That was exactly the problem.
That was why she’d apologised in the first place.
She wiped her palms over her thighs, trying to settle the restless ache low in her stomach. She didn’t know where you were — you’d given her absolutely nothing useful. “A house with people.” You could be anywhere within miles. Loud music didn’t narrow anything down. You didn’t even realise what you were doing, didn’t hear the way your voice wavered, didn’t understand how unsteady you sounded.
And all Wanda could think was: You shouldn’t be alone like that.
You shouldn’t be stumbling around a house full of strangers.
You shouldn’t be out there without someone who actually cared enough to look after you.
You shouldn’t be this soft and honest for anyone but her.
The last thought hit her hard enough that she sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees. Where the hell had that come from? She rubbed her forehead again, frustration curling through her chest.
You weren’t hers.
You couldn’t be hers.
You’d grown up with her in your house, her best friend’s daughter, a kid she used to tuck into blankets when you fell asleep on the sofa during movie nights. She used to press kisses to your forehead when you were small enough to fit under her chin — now you were grown and beautiful and looking at her like you didn’t know what to do with the way your stomach flipped.
And she didn’t know what to do with it either.
Not morally.
Not safely.
Not cleanly.
But the protective instinct won every time. It came from somewhere low, somewhere deep, somewhere she’d rather not examine too closely.
She stood abruptly — like stillness was making everything worse — and walked across the room, grabbing her keys off the dresser. She stared at them in her hand for a long moment. This was a line. Another one she probably shouldn’t cross.
If your mom ever found out…
Wanda shut her eyes briefly. Your mom trusted her. That fact alone twisted something sharp in her. Your family believed she was safe, dependable, harmless. And once upon a time, she was. She remembered braiding your hair on the porch, teaching you how to bake cookies, carrying your half-asleep body to the car when you were too small to keep your eyes open.
Those memories softened her — and made everything about tonight feel wrong.
She put her keys back on the dresser.
Then picked them up again.
Another breath. A deeper one. She wasn’t going to forgive herself if she stayed here and something happened to you. Not when you had called her — not a friend, not someone your own age — her.
That meant something. Even if you wouldn’t remember why tomorrow.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, vibrating against her palm with a new Instagram notification from your account. Another blurry picture from the same party, lights streaking, someone’s drink spilling in the corner.
Wanda’s jaw tightened.
That was enough.
She slipped her shoes on, threw a jacket over her shoulders, and headed for the door with a determined exhale. She didn’t know exactly where you were, but she knew the kind of places people your age went. She’d find you. She always did.
When she stepped outside, the night greeted her with cold air and the faint smell of damp pavement. Her fingers closed tighter around her keys.
She wasn’t doing this because she wanted another kiss.
She wasn’t doing this because your voice had made her heart lurch.
She was doing this because you were drunk and alone and she couldn’t sit still knowing that.
At least, that was what she told herself as she locked her front door behind her and started walking, the sound of distant music somewhere in the neighbourhood guiding her on.
Wanda found the house by following the noise.
The music thumped through the pavement long before she reached it, the kind of bass that rattled windows and grated into her teeth. A porch light buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. People spilled in and out of the door, laughing too loudly, drinks sloshing over their hands.
She hated it instantly.
She hated it more knowing you were somewhere inside.
The moment she stepped through the doorway, the smell of cheap alcohol and vape clouds hit her like a wall. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, music vibrating through sticky floors, coloured lights flickering in erratic pulses. She scanned the room, heart thudding harder than the beat.
Nothing.
Not you. Not even a flash of your hair.
She moved deeper, ignoring the looks she got. Someone tried to hand her a drink — she shot them a look sharp enough to make their hand freeze mid-air. She pushed past groups, stepped over an abandoned jacket, ignored the girl crying on the stairs.
Then, in the dim light of the hallway, she found you.
You were leaning against the wall near the kitchen doorway, eyes half-focused, lips parted slightly as you tried to steady yourself with one hand. Your phone screen lit up your face faintly — one missed call, two missed calls, three — all from Wanda.
A rush of something fierce and hot shot through her chest.
She said your name softly.
Your head snapped up, breath catching. “Wanda?” Your voice came out too loud, too relieved, like you’d been waiting for her and didn’t realise it until now.
She reached you in three quick steps.
You smelled like something sugary and alcoholic, with a faint edge of smoke. Her palm went immediately to your cheek, turning your face gently toward hers to check your pupils, your expression, anything that might tell her how far gone you were.
“Oh sweetheart…” she whispered, thumb brushing your cheek without thinking. “You’re a mess.”
You laughed a little, leaning into her touch like it was the only solid thing in the room. “You came.”
The two words nearly undid her.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Of course I came.”
Someone bumped into you, forcing your body against hers. Wanda stiffened, arm circling your waist instantly to steady you. The way your dress rode up when you shifted made her chest go tight — it was far too short, barely covering the top of your thighs. She didn’t let herself look again.
“Come on,” she murmured, voice firm. “We’re going home.”
You didn’t argue. You just nodded, eyes soft and hazy, trusting her more than you should.
She guided you through the crowd, keeping her arm firmly around your waist, not caring what it looked like. She got a few curious glances on the way out, but no one dared say anything. By the time she stepped back into the cold night air with you pressed close to her side, she finally felt like she could breathe again.
The walk back to her house was slow.
You stumbled twice.
Both times she caught you.
At one point, you whispered, “You smell nice,” and Wanda had to close her eyes for a moment just to keep walking in a straight line.
When she finally got you through her front door, you sagged against the wall like gravity had been waiting for permission.
Wanda locked the door, turned to face you, and exhaled. “Sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the sofa.
You dropped onto it with a worn-out sigh.
She brought water first, she thought about juice but decided against it. Then crackers, animal crackers to be specific, the type she’d always bring to picnics she attended with your mother and you. Then a cool washcloth for your face, nothing fancy, just something to maybe help.
You took a sip of water, made a face, and muttered, “It tastes boring.”
Wanda huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s the point.”
You blinked up at her — big, trusting, drunkenly earnest. “You’re taking care of me.”
The softness in your tone made her chest ache. “Someone has to.”
She moved to kneel in front of you, hands on your knees, grounding herself before speaking. “Sweetheart… your dress— it’s soaked and it’s freezing outside. Let’s get you into something dry, alright?”
You nodded, and she helped you stand, steadying you when you swayed. She guided you to the bathroom and grabbed an old t-shirt and pair of soft shorts from her drawer.
“Lift your arms,” she murmured, voice low.
You obeyed without thinking.
She pulled your dress up carefully, averting her eyes with more discipline than she knew she had. She managed it quickly, professionally, like she was trying to erase every implication from the moment.
When she eased the shirt over your head, you whispered, “You always used to help me get changed after pool days when I was little.”
Wanda paused, hands resting lightly on your shoulders.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I remember.”
Once you were dressed, she guided you to her bed — not the couch, not the guest room. She wasn’t letting you sleep somewhere she couldn’t keep an eye on you.
You collapsed onto the mattress, exhaling in a relieved sort of way.
Wanda pulled the blanket up over you, tucking the edges with a tenderness she didn’t often let herself show. Her hand brushed your hair back from your face.
“Try to sleep,” she murmured.
You grabbed her wrist before she could pull away.
“Don’t go.”
“Sweetheart…” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I’m right here.”
“No.” Your fingers tightened around her wrist, eyes glossy with exhaustion. “Please don’t leave. I won’t sleep if you leave.”
Her heart twisted painfully.
She shouldn’t.
She absolutely shouldn’t.
But you weren’t flirting.
You weren’t trying anything.
You were scared and drunk and overwhelmed, clinging to the one person you trusted most.
And Wanda had always been weak when it came to you.
She exhaled, slow and quiet, then slipped off her shoes and climbed into bed beside you — not touching, just close enough for you to feel her presence.
Your breathing eased almost instantly.
Wanda lay there staring at the ceiling, battling guilt, longing, fear, affection, and a thousand things she couldn’t untangle tonight.
You shifted once, head drifting closer to her shoulder.
Wanda closed her eyes.
She’d worry about what this meant tomorrow.
For now, you were safe.
And she wasn’t going anywhere.
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A/N: I know it’s been almost a month since my last update to this series, and I appreciate all the love i’m getting on my last few chapters, it really does mean a lot to me, and as always I hope you enjoyed this chapter
Summary: You wake up in Wanda’s bed with a pounding head, her shirt on, and just enough memory to know something happened — but not enough to feel safe about it. The panic isn’t dramatic; it’s quiet and internal. You remember calling her. You remember her voice. You remember the way she stayed.
✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯
You wake slowly, like your body doesn’t quite belong to you yet.
At first, it’s just the dull throb behind your eyes that pulls you out of sleep, a steady ache that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Your mouth feels dry, your limbs heavy, and there’s a faint, lingering warmth wrapped around you that doesn’t immediately make sense. You stay still, eyes closed, trying to piece together where you are without moving too much, because even the thought of opening your eyes feels like too much effort.
Then you notice the bed.
Not yours.
The sheets are softer, the mattress slightly firmer, the air around you carrying a scent that’s familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten before your brain catches up. Lavender. Something warm underneath it. Something distinctly her.
Your eyes open.
The ceiling is wrong. The light filtering through the curtains is softer than the one in your room at home, casting a pale glow across unfamiliar walls. For a moment, you just stare, your mind blank, like it’s buffering, trying to load something it isn’t ready to process yet.
Then it hits you.
Wanda’s house.
Your stomach drops slightly, not in fear, but in something far more complicated.
You don’t move right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift slowly to the side, careful, cautious, like you’re scared of what you might find if you look too quickly.
And there she is.
Wanda is lying beside you, still asleep, her body angled slightly toward yours without quite touching. One of her arms is bent near her head, the other resting loosely on the bed between you, close enough that if you shifted even an inch, your fingers would brush against hers. Her hair is slightly mussed, falling across her cheek, and there’s something softer about her like this — less controlled, less guarded.
You’ve never seen her like this before.
Your breath catches quietly in your throat.
For a long moment, you just look at her. Not in a rushed, curious way, but in that slow, lingering way that feels almost intrusive, like you’re seeing something you weren’t meant to. The kind of quiet vulnerability she never shows when she’s awake, when she’s composed, when she’s being Wanda.
And then, all at once, pieces of the night start to come back.
Not all of it. Not clearly. But enough.
The party.
The music.
The drinks.
Calling her.
Your stomach tightens.
Fragments flicker through your mind — her voice through the phone, low and steady, saying your name. The way you leaned against the wall, trying to focus on something that wouldn’t spin. The warmth of her hand on your face when she found you. The way you’d said, “You came.”
God.
Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, like you can physically push the memory away. But it doesn’t go anywhere. It lingers, pressing at the edges of your thoughts.
You remember the walk, vaguely — the cold air, her arm around you, keeping you upright. You remember her voice telling you to drink water. You remember sitting on her couch, complaining about the taste. You remember her helping you—
Your eyes snap open again.
You’re not wearing your clothes.
Your heart skips, not in panic, but in something sharp and disorienting. The shirt you have on is too big, the fabric soft against your skin, smelling faintly like her detergent, like her house. Your cheeks warm instantly, your thoughts tangling.
She helped you change.
The memory is fuzzy, but the fact of it isn’t.
You swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how close she is. Of the fact that you’re in her bed. Of the fact that she stayed.
Your gaze flicks back to her, searching her face like it might give you answers you don’t know how to ask for.
Why did she stay?
The question sits heavy in your chest, louder than the pounding in your head.
You shift slightly, just enough to test the space between you, and the movement feels too loud in the quiet room. Wanda stirs almost immediately, her brows knitting faintly as she inhales, her body adjusting without fully waking.
You freeze.
For a second, you consider closing your eyes and pretending you’re still asleep, like you can avoid whatever conversation is waiting for you on the other side of this moment. But it’s too late.
Her eyes open.
They find you almost instantly.
There’s a flicker of something there — surprise, maybe, or just the brief disorientation of waking up — before it settles into something softer, something more controlled.
“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.
Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”
The word hangs awkwardly between you, too small for everything sitting underneath it.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything else. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy. Full.
Wanda pushes herself up slightly, leaning back against the headboard, one hand coming up to rub at her face. You notice the way she avoids looking at you directly for a second, like she’s gathering herself, pulling those familiar walls back into place.
“How are you feeling?” she asks finally, glancing over at you.
“Like I got hit by a bus,” you admit, your voice quieter than usual.
That earns a small, almost amused huff from her. “That sounds about right.”
Another pause.
You sit up slowly, the blanket slipping slightly as you do, and you tug it back up without thinking, suddenly hyper-aware of everything — the space, the clothes, her presence.
“Did I…?” You hesitate, unsure how to even phrase it. “Did I do anything… stupid?”
Wanda’s gaze lingers on you for just a second too long before she looks away, her expression smoothing out. “You were drunk,” she says simply. “That’s about it.”
That’s not an answer.
You can tell it’s not an answer.
But you don’t push.
“Did I call you?” you ask instead, even though you already know the answer.
“Yes.”
You nod slowly, pressing your lips together. “Right.”
Silence settles again, thicker this time.
You want to ask about the kiss.
You want to ask why she stayed.
You want to ask why your chest feels like this — tight and warm and completely out of your control.
But the words don’t come.
Wanda shifts beside you, her hand brushing briefly against yours as she reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. The contact is accidental, fleeting, but it sends a small, sharp jolt through you anyway.
“Drink,” she says, holding the glass out.
You take it, your fingers brushing hers for just a second longer than necessary. Neither of you comments on it.
You sip slowly, the water grounding you a little, giving you something to focus on that isn’t her.
“I should probably go home,” you say after a moment, even though the idea of leaving feels heavier than it should.
Wanda doesn’t respond immediately. When you glance at her, she’s watching you — really watching you — like she’s trying to figure something out.
“Yeah,” she says eventually, her voice even. “Probably.”
But she doesn’t move to get up. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push.
You set the glass down, your fingers lingering on it, unsure of what to do next. Everything feels… unfinished. Like there’s something sitting right there between you, waiting to be acknowledged, but neither of you are brave enough to touch it.
“Thank you,” you murmur, because it’s the only safe thing you can say.
“For what?”
“For… coming to get me. Last night.” You glance down at your hands. “You didn’t have to.”
Wanda’s expression softens, just slightly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”
That’s the problem.
She always does.
And you don’t know what that means anymore.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of everything you’re both not saying, everything that’s changed without either of you admitting it out loud.
You shift on the bed, your shoulder brushing hers for just a second before you pull back, like even that small contact feels too loaded now.
Nothing about this feels simple anymore.
And neither of you knows how to make it be.
✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯
A/N: it’s been almost 5 months since my last upload to this 🫣, kind of lost inspiration but started to write this again like last night.
