Roter Sputnik

You stare blankly ahead at the pond. It's a calm day with barely a ripple disrupting the surface. Sunlight glints off the water in bright, sharp intervals. Watching the ducklings follow their mother has become a common sight by now.

But today is different.

A male drake follows alongside her, occasionally nudging her side. The mother duck takes a sharp turn away, but the drake follows anyway. It makes your lips curve upward in a small smile. It reminds you of old television sitcoms where the husband character annoys the wife, walking away while he tries to joke around, desperately attempting to get her to lighten up.

You peer to your right, discreetly. You're sitting beside Natasha on the bench. Wanda is on the far side. Wanda has been glaring at Natasha since the moment you all sat down, while Natasha just gazes straight ahead, smirking to herself.

You suck in a deep breath, averting your eyes back to the pond. The ducklings continue to follow blindly, even as the mother continues to shun the drake. You tap your finger against your thigh, trying—and failing—to ignore the suffocating, awkward atmosphere beside you.

I want to go home, you think to yourself.

You think back to last week in this exact spot. So many of your questions remained unanswered even now.

Natasha had released your hand but kept her gaze on you, scanning your face for something you couldn't decipher. The lack of malice in her expression was the only thing you could read. Your hand fell slowly to your lap while your thoughts raced. You looked up at Wanda with pleading eyes, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Why did she put you in this situation? Why didn't she tell you she's married? Why didn't you bother asking if she was in a relationship?

Guilt pressed down on you from all sides as Wanda opened and closed her mouth. You needed her to give you some kind of explanation. You weren't someone who would ever get between a relationship, and you weren't starting now.

"Wanda, let's go," Natasha called over her shoulder plainly, almost unbothered. She turned her gaze back to you, taking a step back. "See you next week."

She turned around with a smirk before you could get a word out, taking confident strides toward Wanda. Natasha grabbed her hand, pulling her down the path.

"Wait," Wanda breathed out, as if she were finally knocked out of her trance. But Natasha didn't let go, continuing down the path and forcing Wanda to follow her lead.

Wanda hadn't visited once throughout the week, and her absence didn't go unnoticed by you. During quiet moments, the swirling emotions sent your thoughts into exhausting loops. Your feelings were a volatile, conflicting mess that shifted constantly.

First came betrayal over the fact that she hadn't told you she was married. All those deep conversations, the touches that went far past conventional friendliness, and the quiet moments spent confiding in each other about the people you missed. You knew you hadn't mistaken them. So, had she just been playing with you?

Then came guilt over your position in all of this. It was a position you were unknowingly thrown into, yet you still bore the responsibility of it. You had reciprocated those touches. You even enjoyed them. The thought of spending time with Wanda while her wife sat at home, oblivious, ate at your conscience. You knew that Natasha knew about you, but did she know the extent of what was going on?

Finally, there was shame. Shame that you had forgotten Her in that moment and called another woman mommy. Continuing to meet with Wanda had resulted in exactly what you feared. You were starting to forget Her. You were replacing Her.

But most of all, you felt longing. All the emotions would swirl, muddying the waters, until the sediment finally settled and left you with the agonizing truth.

You missed Wanda, even through it all.

When you scored 98% on your assignment, you wanted to tell her, to hear her tell you what a wonderful job you did. When a rude customer tripped on the way out, you wanted to recount the story to her, just to hear that gentle, joyous laughter of hers ring out.

You had so many questions ready for when you saw her again. If you ever saw her again.

It wasn't until today, Friday, that you walked out after your shift ended and found her leaning against her car like always. Except she wasn't alone. Natasha stood right beside her, smiling the moment she noticed you and waving you over.

"Thought I'd join the hangout today. That's okay, right?" Natasha said, sending a smirk Wanda's way.

Wanda rolled her eyes before meeting yours with an apologetic smile. It only made more questions form, but your lips had moved on instinct.

"Yeah, of course," you said automatically, cringing at yourself internally. You really should've just made an excuse.

It's why you're sitting here now. Silence hanging heavy in the air for the past ten minutes.

Natasha shifts her left arm, the movement drawing your eyes to her wrist as she checks her watch. Her wedding band glints sharply in the sunlight. She glances at you suddenly, her green eyes shining as she nods, raising her eyebrows as if challenging you. You're about to ask her what she's trying to say when she finally speaks.

"Shall we grab dinner? There's a nice spot up the street, but it's quite a busy restaurant. Would you mind going ahead to grab a table, Wanda? It's the Italian one." Natasha doesn't turn to look at Wanda once, keeping her eyes locked on you the entire time.

"What?" Wanda says, her voice a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "Why can't we just go together?"

"Your baby here," Natasha starts, the unbothered smirk returning to her lips, "seems to want to watch the ducks for a little longer."

"Natasha, sto—"

"I do," you interject abruptly, cutting Wanda off. You know why Natasha is doing this. Frankly, you've been wanting to talk to her, too. To apologize. "Can Natasha and I stay for a little longer?"

You lean forward, craning your head past Natasha to look at Wanda pleadingly, your eyes wide. Wanda's expression softens immediately, the glare vanishing from her face. She stares at you, her lips pulling into a thin line before she parts them, preparing to speak. Your lower lip involuntarily juts out into a pout at the refusal written all over her face.

Wanda pauses. Her shoulders droop before she lets out a heavy sigh.

"Okay," she murmurs softly. "Just don't be too long, sweetheart."

Her face morphs into a gentle smile, as if she can't help herself. Then she turns her gaze to her wife, the warmth instantly draining from her eyes. "I mean it, Natasha."

Natasha leans back against the bench, chuckling to herself. "Okay, okay," she agrees, her tone easy.

Wanda rises from the bench, pausing in front of you. She reaches out, her fingertips brushing gently against your cheek, her thumb pressing against your lower lip. She gazes down at you, her eyes filling with an intense, consuming affection that you know isn't fully meant for you. It's for the ghost she sees in you. That distinct glimmer in Wanda's eyes that always appears whenever she's thinking or talking about the person she misses, present now. A satisfied smile touches her lips before her hand falls away from your face. She finally turns, walking slowly down the gravel path.

It's silent for a moment, save for the ambient chatter of people passing by the pond. You stare down at your jeans, picking at the loose seam on your right thigh before releasing a shaky breath. You twist your body slightly in Natasha's direction, letting your gaze rest on her face.

Her eyes aren't on you. Rather, they're glued to the ducklings gliding across the surface of the water. A faint, wry smile traces her lips. Her eyes swim with a complex storm of emotions.

"I'm so sorry. I really didn't kn—"

"Wanda and I don't have any children," Natasha states abruptly. Her voice sounds distant, clouded with a sudden melancholy that makes your thoughts freeze.

She finally turns her head, shifting her focus to you. Now that you can see her eyes fully, you catch the fleeting glimpse of sadness swimming in them before she blinks, and it vanishes. A small smile appears on her face, but there's no joy in it.

"Do you know why?" she continues.

You try to scramble for an explanation, but you don't know nearly enough about Natasha, or the intricacies of their relationship, to form a real guess. The only thought that echoes in your head is that Wanda would make an incredible mother. So why wasn't she?

You shake your head, your voice dropping to a soft, unsure murmur as you respond. "No, I don't."

She huffs out a little laugh and lifts her hand. You feel the gentle weight of her palm settle on the top of your head, patting you softly.

"Don't worry, I wasn't expecting you to have an answer to that," she says lightly. She ruffles your hair a little with a teasing smile before letting her hand drop away.

The curve of her lips falls just as quickly, her expression turning distant as she looks up in thought.

"When our relationship started to become more serious years ago, I brought up having kids. It just felt like something we should talk about, you know?" she starts, keeping her tone light, though you can hear a subtle strain underneath. "But it felt like every time I brought it up, Wanda would change the subject. I figured maybe she just didn't have the heart to tell me she didn't want them."

Natasha smiles wryly to herself, her voice dropping into a quieter register.

"But then I'd catch her smiling to herself when we'd hear children laughing on our walks. The longing in her eyes whenever we'd see a little girl walking hand in hand with her mother. Then, one day, she looked like she was on the verge of tears after hearing a kid calling out for her mommy. I asked her to finally be honest with me."

Natasha pauses, her gaze fixing on the pond.

"She told me she already has a baby. Not by blood. Not even through papers. But through love. And that baby disappeared from her life one day. She said she couldn't bring herself to have another child... because that was her one and only precious baby."

Your heart clenches as more pieces of the puzzle click together. You know how it felt to never have gotten to say goodbye to your mommy. It must've been unbearable for Wanda.

"Wanda told me so much about her," Natasha murmurs. "The way she'd run up to Wanda and hug her leg to greet her. How she didn't talk much with other kids, but always let them play with the toys before she did. The little smile she'd have on her face when she'd point out shapes in the clouds."

Natasha smiles to herself. It's an expression you haven't seen on her before, lacking the mischievous quirk of her lips when she smirks or the complicated, unreadable emotions in her eyes. Instead, the affection in them is clear. It reminds you of Wanda when she's thinking about the person she misses—the person you now know is the baby she never got to see again.

"I can see why Wanda refused to have any kids. That was her baby," Natasha pauses. "I wonder what kind of family we would've been," Natasha murmurs, the words just barely audible to you, as though she doesn't realize she's saying them out loud.

She finally turns back to you, a wave of understanding settling into her green eyes. "I can see why Wanda sees her in you."

Natasha scans your face, that pitying look from last week returning to her expression. "Wanda hadn't talked about her much for the past few years. It hurt too much. But after meeting you a few months ago, all that hope returned... but it's not good for her. And it's not good for you."

You look down at your jeans, the knowing look on Natasha's face becoming too much to handle. It feels like a spotlight is shining directly on the shameful feelings you've been harboring.

"You like Wanda."

It's not a question, but you respond anyway, your voice barely carrying. "Yes," you murmur, keeping your gaze low.

"Wanda likes you too," Natasha notes plainly.

You try to hide the way the discovery makes you feel, but your body betrays you. Your heart races against your ribs, a sudden wave of heat rushing up to your cheeks.

"You seem like a sweet kid. Maybe if the circumstances weren't what they are, things would be different."

The sudden, serious shift in her voice forces you to look up.

"Wanda is only interested in you because you remind her of her little girl," Natasha says, her tone leveling out into something sharp. "Seeing you keeps the memory of her alive in Wanda. But it'll only hurt her in the end. And you'll be hurt because you'll never be able to fully replace that baby."

Natasha stares at you, the warmth in her eyes turning hard, leaving no room for negotiation.

"If you want to make it up to me, because I know you've been wanting to apologize since we started this conversation, then distance yourself from Wanda."

Your gaze drifts upward, your eyes tracing the patterns of the clouds slowly drifting through the sky. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth, the pressure of your teeth grounding you as your thoughts race.

The complicated relationship you have with Wanda was something you always knew would reach an end eventually. The baggage you both hold would only become more apparent. The twisted feelings you have for her would start to consume you. You were both projecting someone who wasn't there onto each other.

Hearing Natasha say it out loud, verbalizing the worries you've harbored from the very beginning—makes the reality impossible to ignore, no matter how hard you've tried to bury it the entire time you've known Wanda.

But it's the confirmation that this—that you—would ultimately hurt Wanda that makes the answer obvious.

You have to let go. Even if all you want to do is curl your fingers into Wanda's shirt and melt into her shoulder while she reads to you.

You nod slowly, forcing a small smile onto your face that doesn't come close to reaching your eyes.

"Okay," you whisper.

Your gaze drifts down when Natasha doesn't respond, trying to see if she even heard you. But she's already staring straight at you.

When she finally speaks, her voice is surprisingly soft, filled with a quiet layer of wonder that catches you off guard.

"Jeez," she starts, a short, breathy laugh escaping her lips. "I bet it's that expression that made it so Wanda couldn't keep away. It's exactly how I would've pictured her little girl looking up at the sky."

She shakes her head a little, her brow furrowing slightly as if she's trying to snap herself out of a spell and get her head on straight.

"Let's go," she says, pushing herself up from the bench and smoothing down her suit jacket. "Wanda's probably going crazy waiting for us at the restaurant. The least I can do is buy you a meal before we part ways."

She holds her hand out to you. The gesture reminds you of last week, but the pity in her eyes is absent, replaced by a quiet understanding that this is the right decision, even if it hurts. You reach out, clasping your hand in hers. A wave of gratitude washes over you because you know she's looking out for your heart, too. Maybe if you had let this drag on any further down the line, the ache would've been debilitating.

She pulls you up from the bench, and you both silently turn toward the path. She matches her pace perfectly with yours, refusing to rush even with your slow, lagging steps. You wonder if she can tell you're stalling, trying to stretch out the minutes before you have to say goodbye to Wanda.

You don't feel entirely present. A messy blur of memories, of Her and of Wanda, swirls together in your head until it feels exactly like the day you realized you were never going to see your mommy again.

You're about to take another step forward when Natasha's arm cuts across your path, stopping you dead in your tracks. Her forearm presses firmly against your stomach.

You blink, the sudden impact snapping you out of your head. You finally register that you're standing at the edge of a busy crosswalk, cars speeding by in front of you.

"Didn't your parents teach you to look both ways?" Natasha breathes out sternly, her brow furrowing as she looks at you.

"I—" you start, the words trapping themselves in your throat. You don't want to lie to her, but you can't bring yourself to tell the truth, either. "I'm sorry," you finish lamely, dropping your gaze to stare down at the toes of your sneakers.

Natasha releases a heavy sigh. The rigid lines of her face soften. "No wonder she feels like she needs to take care of you."

Her hand slips easily into yours, her fingers clasping around your hand in a firm hold. "You go when I go, okay?"

Your eyes widen slightly at the contact, feeling the rough callouses on her palm brushing against your skin. It's such a vast difference from Wanda's soft, smooth fingers. But somehow, it feels just as nice. There's a strength in her presence that makes you feel like nothing can touch you as long as she's standing beside you.

You squeeze her hand lightly, a small, genuine grin finally breaking through. "Okay," you agree.

The pedestrian light snaps on, and the crowd of people around you begins to stream forward into the street. Natasha gives your hand a gentle tug, pulling you along. You walk in step with her, your eyes tracking a little girl and her father as they cross in front of you, hand in hand.

—

You and Natasha pass by the large windowpane of the restaurant. You stop in place the moment you catch sight of Wanda through the glass. She's staring at the front door anxiously, her expression shifting from a tight glare to quiet worry.

"What's wrong?" Natasha asks gently when the sudden resistance of your clasped hands stops her from moving forward.

It's better to stop this now, you reason with yourself internally. You don't know what you'll do if you walk inside and Wanda tries to look into your eyes and convince you that this is okay.

You meet Natasha's vibrant, green eyes, forcing your lips to curve upward into a fragile grin. "I just remembered I have a few assignments to finish up. I think I should head back to my apartment now, before it gets too dark."

Natasha's eyes bore into yours. A complex array of unreadable emotions passes through them in a second before they finally soften into a kind gaze. Her hand rises, landing softly on the top of your head just like it did back at the park bench. She ruffles your hair with a rough, but gentle tussle.

"You're a good kid," she murmurs.

Her hand falls away from your head, moving much slower this time than it did before.

"Goodbye, Natasha," you say with finality. Your hand slips out of hers.

It feels like you're suddenly facing the world alone again.

"Goodbye, kid," she whispers back. The usual smooth raspiness in her voice cracks into something that almost sounds unsure.

But you're already turning around, forcing yourself down the pavement in the direction of the bus stop. You peer through the glass one last time as you pass by the front of the restaurant. Wanda is looking down at her wrist, her eyebrows furrowed as she checks the time.

You keep walking.

—

You step into your small bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you. You race across the room and pull open the bottom desk drawer, your hands trembling as you gingerly lift out the stack of drawings and spread them across the wood.

You trace your fingertips over the faded, waxy lines. This is for the best, you tell yourself, desperate to stop the ache in your chest. Now you won't be replacing Her. Now you won't have to carry this suffocating guilt for wanting Wanda while constantly seeing Her through her eyes. Now your life can finally return to its mundane, quiet pace.

Your eyes stop on one of the drawings. It was a clumsy collaboration between the two of you. A picture of a family. You had drawn a wobbly stick figure that was meant to be Her while a smaller, neater stick figure stood beside Her. You. But you had added another stick figure on the other side of you, copying what you had seen in a picture book. A happy family.

She had been your family.

You slowly leaf through the rest of the drawings, letting the old memories replay. It isn't until you reach the very last sketch that it hits you.

You haven't been picturing your mommy’s face at all. In every single memory of the playground, the swing sets, and the naptime room, it's Wanda's green eyes staring back at you.

—

You brace yourself the moment you catch sight of Wanda walking through the grocery store doors in your peripheral vision. You immediately turn your face away right before she can meet your eyes, pretending to be absorbed in organizing the display of impulse buys in front of your register.

The weekend had passed in a blur. It feels like whenever you desperately need time to think, to process, or for the world to just slow down, the universe instinctively knows and spins the clock twice as fast.

When you and Her were separated, you had no options. You were far too young to have a choice, and being stripped away without seeing her one last time—without at least getting to say a proper goodbye—had left a deep scar that you don't think will ever fully heal.

But with Wanda, things are different.

You're an adult now, and the choice to protect your own heart belongs entirely to you.

Natasha is right, you remind yourself, your pulse jumping as Wanda steps up to take her place behind another customer in your checkout line. This is for the best.

But somehow, even though you're the one actively making the choice to build this wall, the ache opening up in your chest feels identical to the day you were forced to leave Her behind.

You take a quiet breath, smoothing down the front of your apron.

"Next," you call out lightly.

Your heart clenches the moment Wanda steps in front of your register. She's wearing a soft, basic white tee. One you had confessed you liked the texture of against your cheek. The high-rise, straight-leg light blue jeans she paired it with give off the vibe of a classic mom outfit you've seen in magazines.

You drop your gaze low the second she smiles softly at you, immediately reaching for her items to begin scanning them.

"Hi, honey," she greets happily, her voice washing over you like a warm blanket. "Natasha told me you couldn't join us for dinner the other day because of assignments. Were you able to complete them?"

Your hand falters for a fraction of a second over a package of produce. Wanda was always so good about asking about your schoolwork without ever being pushy about it. Your adoptive parents had never bothered to ask. They didn't really expect anything from you.

You force yourself to draw a shallow breath, restarting the rhythmic beep of the scanner. You plaster a polite smile onto your face.

"Yes, I was."

You slide the last item across the glass scanner and look up, doing everything in your power to keep your expression neutral. "Did you bring a bag today, or do you need to purchase a paper one?"

Wanda's eyebrows furrow at your tone.

"I brought a bag," she says, her tone dipping into something unsure. She hesitates, leaning slightly over the counter. "Baby, can we talk after your shift? I have something important to talk to you about."

Baby.

You bite the inside of your mouth, but the sharp pain doesn't stop the old scar left behind by Her from tearing open at the corners. You reach your hand out across the register, and Wanda places her reusable bag into your palm, her eyes wide and clouding over with confusion.

"I'm sorry, I have a lot of things to take care of after this," you force out quickly. You carefully but rapidly load Wanda's groceries into the bag. You swipe the fresh receipt off the printer and drop it inside as well before lifting the bag and handing it back to her.

"Have a great rest of your day," you chirp out, trying to keep your voice light.

Wanda just stands there, staring at you, her eyes scanning your face, but you turn your head away.

"What about tomorr—"

"Next," you call out loudly to the next customer.

You immediately begin scanning the next customer's items. Wanda stands at the edge of your register for a long moment. Even without looking up, you can feel the burn of her gaze piercing straight into the side of your head.

She finally turns and walks away. Her steps are noticeably slower this time, the quiet squeak of her sneakers against the floor sounding hollow.

—

You sigh, rolling your shoulders back to relieve some tension. You smooth down the front of your shirt and sling your bag over your shoulder, making your way toward the exit. But right before you can step onto the black mat that triggers the sliding glass doors, you spot Wanda.

She's leaning against the rear bumper of her car, her eyes cast low to her hands, which are clasped tightly in front of her. The corners of her lips are pulled downward, her shoulders drooping heavily.

She looks so alone.

Your mind slips back to a few weeks ago. You remember stepping outside into the parking lot, squinting against the blinding sunlight glinting off the rows of windshields. You had been exhausted, having barely slept a wink because of your roommates hosting people in the living room until the early hours of the morning.

Wanda's arms had suddenly wrapped around your shoulders, catching you off guard as she pulled you flush against her. Her hand came up to rest against the back of your head, gently guiding you down until your cheek was pressed flat against the soft curve of her breast.

Your cheeks had immediately started heating up, the tips of your ears burning. But something about her scent, the sound of her heartbeat in your ear, and the warmth of her body, made you stay still.

"My baby," Wanda had cooed, her breath brushing the crown of your head. "You worked so hard today."

You had let your cheek press even harder into her warmth, your hand automatically reaching up to tightly curl your fingers into the hem of her blouse. It felt like when you were six years old, scraping your knee on the asphalt after falling on the playground. Your mommy would race across the yard to scoop you up, cooing out soft praises to drown out your crying while gently wiping the dirt away with a damp cloth.

It always made everything better.

You're about to take a step forward, ready to race into Wanda's arms, when Natasha's voice rings in your head.

"But it'll only hurt her in the end. And you'll be hurt because you'll never be able to fully replace that baby."

You let your foot drop back down and spin on your heel, turning your back on the parking lot. You walk with purposeful steps to the back exit.

The hurt you and Wanda are feeling right now would pass eventually. Even if it feels like the scar is tearing further and further open.

—

It stays like that for the next two weeks. It becomes an exhausting affair of cutting your conversations with Wanda short or walking away from the register altogether. On the days where there isn't another customer waiting behind her to call forward, you force yourself to invent random tasks that require you to leave your station. You tell her you're being summoned to the back by your manager, even when the register phone hasn't rung once.

And every single time your shift ends, you look out the front glass to see Wanda waiting outside, leaning against the rear bumper of her car exactly the way she always does when she's waiting for you.

She'll find someone else who reminds her of the little girl she lost, you try to convince yourself. Or maybe she'll actually find her baby.

A wave of shame washes over you when the thought of her finding her actual little girl fills you with a spike of anxiousness and jealousy. You had hoped these conflicting feelings would fade into the background as the days bled together, but they only seem to grow heavier, muddying your thoughts until you can barely think straight.

Memories of the past begin to play constantly in your head. Her pushing you on the playground swings. Sitting curled up in Her lap with your head pressed flat against her chest, listening to the thrum of her heartbeat before drifting into your afternoon nap. Her pressing a soft kiss to your forehead at nighttime to ward the bad dreams away.

But the memories are shifting. Your mommy's face blends and smears with Wanda's until the two women are completely indistinguishable.

It's why you're sitting here now. Back at the park bench in front of the pond, watching the ducklings trail behind their mother.

It isn't doing much to clear your head.

Today, one of the tiny ducklings has fallen far behind the rest of the line, struggling against the ripples. The mother duck hasn't noticed the widening gap, continuing to glide confidently ahead.

Your heart clenches painfully at the sight.

Go back, you plead with the mother duck mentally, your eyes boring into her as you grip the edge of the wooden bench. Turn around. You stare hard at her even though you know she can't hear you, and wouldn't understand anyway.

It's nearly empty at the park today. The only things audible to you are your own shallow breathing, the erratic loops of your thoughts, and the dry rustle of leaves shifting in the gentle breeze. Across the pond, the gap between the lone duckling and its family continues to widen. You clench the hem of your shirt, twisting the fabric into your fist until your knuckles turn white. It doesn't bring the same comfort you felt when you were holding onto Wanda's.

"Baby!"

You jump at the sudden sound, your head snapping around in the direction of the voice. Your heart begins to thud against your ribs at the familiar cadence.

Wanda is taking long strides to the bench, her breathing heavy and frantic. You've never seen her look this unraveled before. Her hair is disheveled, tossed about as though she had dragged her fingers through the strands repeatedly without bothering to smooth them back down. She's wearing that same soft white tee—the one you told her you loved the texture of—but the hem is tucked into her jeans haphazardly, half-in and half-out.

The dark shadows beneath her wide green eyes automatically make you bite your lower lip in worry.

"Wan—" you start, but you're abruptly cut off by Wanda hugging your head to her chest.

"My precious baby," she whispers, her voice breaking. She presses a kiss to the top of your head before continuing. "I've missed you so much. Did you not miss me?"

The desperation in her voice sounds exactly like every thought you've had since you distanced yourself. You know you should wiggle out of her grasp and leave, but the words slip past your lips anyway.

"I missed you too," you murmur shakily.

Her heart is beating frantically in your ear. You can almost feel the heavy pulsing of it against your cheek. She continues to hold your head tightly against her, pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head every few seconds. Slowly, her breathing begins to even out, the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat steadying along with it.

Your shoulders drop and you unconsciously lean forward, shifting closer into Wanda's space. Your own pulse begins to calm down, your breathing naturally starting to match the pace of hers. It feels like sitting in your mommy's lap at the facility, about to fall asleep to the steady sound of her heart.

But suddenly, Wanda releases your head. Her hands fall down to frame your face, her palms caressing both of your cheeks gently. She tilts your head up, forcing you to meet her gaze.

She looks infinitely calmer than she did a minute ago. Her hair is still disheveled, but her eyes are bright.

"I knew I'd find you one day," she says, her voice dropping into soft, quiet adoration. "My precious baby."

She strokes your cheekbone with her thumb. You freeze, waiting for the moment her expression will shift, waiting for that familiar look where she starts staring through you at the ghost she's truly directing that love toward.

But she doesn't. This time, it's different. Her focus never wavers.

She's looking straight at you.

"Wanda," you start, your voice tightening uneasily. "I don't think we should keep meet—"

"Mommy," she interrupts suddenly, her tone dropping all the softness. "You mean mommy."

Your breath hitches. The guilt you've been harboring for weeks begins to eat at you all over again. The sickening realization that you've been forgetting Her face and replacing it with Wanda's.

"I-I shouldn't have called you that, that one time," you stutter, trying to pull back against her palms. "Natasha's right. This isn't good for either of us."

Wanda scoffs without a hint of humor. "Natasha doesn't believe me. I told her that it's you. I know it," she says, her voice turning breathless. "I should've known from the very moment I saw you at the store. You could've been in my arms months ago. You're my precious ba—"

"Wanda," Natasha calls out sharply from right behind her.

You shift your eyes over Wanda's shoulder, just barely catching sight of Natasha. She looks like she just got off work, wearing a navy button-up and black slacks. But it's the sharp glare she's sending at Wanda's back that makes you shiver.

Wanda sighs heavily, rolling her eyes but stubbornly refusing to turn around.

"Wanda," Natasha repeats, her voice dropping coldly. "What you're doing isn't right. She's just a kid. Stop projecting onto her. It isn't fair to her, and it isn't fair to yourself."

Wanda finally turns around, keeping one hand firmly on your cheek while she points the index finger of her other hand at Natasha. "It'd be projecting if it wasn't her. But it is, Natasha."

"Because she said 'bye bye, mommy' to you?" Natasha asks, her tone flat and unimpressed. "I know that's what your little girl used to say, Wanda. But have you considered that maybe you trying to act like her mom all this time might have confused her?"

Wanda's hand finally drops from your cheek. You can see her eyes flashing with anger right before she takes a step toward Natasha.

"Moya lyubov," Natasha says suddenly. Her voice drops unusually low, filling with emotion that catches you off guard. "I would love if she's our—your baby. But you need to stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment."

"My judgment is not clouded, Natalia," Wanda hisses out. "She's my baby. The same baby that would sit in my lap and look up at the sky with wide eyes. The baby that would tug on the hem of my shirt to get my attention because she was so little. My little girl that would look for me when her shoes were untied. My precious baby that was taken from me at that facility, the one I didn't get to say goodbye to. I'm not letting anyone take her away from me again."

It feels like time has stopped. With every sentence that leaves Wanda's lips, the memories replay in flashes. Quiet afternoons spent sitting in your mommy's lap while she traced shapes in the clouds with her finger. The habit you developed of reaching out to tightly curl your fingers into her shirt so she would pay attention to you. Her crouching down on the floor, smiling up at you as she took your tiny shoes in her hands to tie them.

Facility. The word echoes loudly in your head. It's too specific.

You can barely hear the two of them arguing anymore over the sound of your loud, racing thoughts. It feels like it takes an eternity before you finally manage to refocus your vision.

Your gaze immediately falls back on Wanda. She's standing right in Natasha's face, while Natasha stares down at her with a hard, unyielding expression.

"Are you trying to hurt me, Natalia? If so, then—"

"Do you still have the drawings?" you ask, your voice surprisingly clear.

Wanda stops shouting instantly. She snaps her head around, turning to face you with wide, hopeful eyes.

Inside your heart, you know it's her. Your mommy. But a part of you—the part that had to let her go and live with the ache for fourteen years—needs the confirmation. You need to see them with your own eyes. For your head to agree with your heart.

"Of course," Wanda breathes out, her voice trembling. "I would never get rid of them."

"Can I see them?" you ask shakily.

Wanda shifts her gaze over to Natasha. It feels like the tension between them has evaporated. Natasha’s mouth is slightly agape, her eyes unreadable as she squints at you.

"They're at our home," Wanda says slowly, turning her focus back to your face. Over her shoulder, you see Natasha give a tight nod. "Are you okay with coming home with us?"

You nod immediately, your gaze unwavering.

You have no idea how you'll actually feel after seeing those papers. There's so many things to address. So many complicated feelings to examine.

But right now, you just need to know with certainty that it's her.

"Okay," Natasha says, her tone dropping into a flat, unreadable register. "Let's go then. The car is parked nearby."

Your eyes drift out across the pond one last time as you push yourself up from the bench.

The mother duck had finally gone back for her struggling duckling. The drake is right there beside her, too. The little duckling is swimming perfectly sandwiched between the two of them.

—

You're sitting at their dining room table. Natasha sits at the head of the table while you sit directly beside her. You can feel her staring at the side of your face, but it feels like you're stuck inside your own head.

The drive to their house had felt like a blur. You want to feel excited. You know you probably should be. But what about the romantic feelings you harbor toward Wanda?

The lines have all become twisted now, far more than they ever were before.

What scares you most is the weird sense of calm settling over you with that realization. Wanda was the first person to teach you about love. The first hug. The first kiss, even if it wasn't on the lips. It feels almost fitting that she's also your first romantic love, even if you know the lines blurring between Wanda being your mommy and just Wanda, the adult woman, is wrong.

You hear the rustling of papers and suddenly Wanda is sitting in front of you on the other side of Natasha. She sets the stack of papers between you, before fanning them out gingerly. You suck in a deep breath, your hand reaching out. Your fingertips trace the waxy lines and it's like you can see the day you drew them with her.

The yellow of the sun mixed with random blacks and browns that you could never get out of the point of the crayon brings you back to the sunny day you drew it. She always liked having you in her lap even on hot days. She'd hold your hands in front of you, narrating her day while moving them.

It's like you can hear her voice clearer now in those memories. Wanda's voice.

Your eyes drag across the array of drawings. Sometimes it was just playing tic-tac-toe. Sometimes a drawing of what you did together that day. One of them is just you, beaming at her. Wanda. Your mommy.

Your gaze lands on the last drawing. It's closest to Natasha. Her fingertips are tracing one of the figures in it. It's a simple drawing. A stick figure of you and Wanda. But on the other side of you is another wobbly person. It reminds you of the drawing you have back at your apartment, but this one is slightly different. You read your messy handwriting.

Mommy+Me+Daddy

A complete family. You realize now that there's no such thing as a truly perfect version of one, but back then, it was what you thought you wanted more than anything.

You hear Natasha suck in a breath before the sharp sound of her chair scraping against the floor breaks the quiet.

"I have some things from work that I need to look at," she states, her posture stiffening. "You two should talk."

She's already turning on her heel and walking away before either of you get a chance to say a word.

You stare at her empty chair, a strange part of you wishing she had stayed, even though you barely know her.

"You know…" Wanda starts quietly, drawing your focus back across the table. "I would stare at these drawings all the time whenever I missed you. Which was every single day." She lets out a small, watery chuckle, moving her gaze from the papers to lock onto your face.

Her eyes are shining with tears, the edges of her face suddenly becoming slightly blurry.

You blink, realizing it's your own eyes welling up that are making her image distort.

"I got a 98 on my assignment a few weeks ago," you whisper. You finally get to tell her.

A wide, radiant smile stretches across her face. "That's amazing, baby!" she praises with excitement. "You were always a little genius."

Sparks of happiness bloom through your chest at the words you've been wanting to hear since you first received that grade. It makes your next thought slip past your lips without hesitation.

"A-And I missed you all this time," you admit, your voice dropping into something wobbly and small.

For the past few weeks, the last fourteen years, every time she would have to go home after you fell asleep at bedtime.

Wanda reaches her hand across the table, her thumb gently brushing your tears away even as a fresh wave continues to fall. The touch reminds you of all the times she would crouch down on the floor after you had a bad dream or fell on the playground, smiling softly at you while wiping your cheeks. Exactly like she's doing right now.

"I bet I missed you more," Wanda says, her tone morphing into an almost teasing register, though you can hear the truth bleeding through it.

You shake your head, opening your mouth ready to quip back, but Wanda gently shushes you, her eyes shifting down to check the watch resting on her left wrist.

"We'll talk more tomorrow, but I think it's about time that you go to bed. You discovered a lot of big things today," she says, her voice raising a pitch.

You agree blindly, nodding at her words without checking the time yourself. Your eyes are already starting to droop, the weight of all the emotions and discoveries of the day having exhausted you.

Wanda's hand drops from your cheek. She holds it out in front of you instead, and your hand slips into hers automatically. She lists out a few different articles of clothing that you can borrow while she walks you down the long hallways, her fingers tightly intertwined with yours.

It doesn't occur to you that she never actually asked if you wanted to stay over. Or that you could have easily just followed behind her without her holding your hand.

—

You step into the bedroom Wanda leads you into, the fresh clothes she lent you loose against your body. The long sleeves of Natasha's oversized t-shirt fall past your elbows, the hem swallowing the sleep shorts Wanda lent you. You blink slowly, trying to map out the contours of the unfamiliar space. The room is only lit by a nightlight plugged into the baseboard near the bed, casting a dim, yellow glow across the sheets.

Your eyes are drawn to a bright, yellow duckling plushie propped against the pillows. Half of its fuzzy body is covered by the comforter, carefully tucked in.

Wanda walks you over to the side of the bed. She pulls the covers open, waiting for you to slip inside, her fingers still securely laced with yours even as she adjusts the blankets over your chest. You lift your free arm out from beneath the covers, your fingers gently holding the duckling's wing, the soft material warming your palm.

Wanda kneels beside the mattress. She rests her elbow on top of the covers, propping her chin in her hand.

"I bought that for you a long time ago," she says, keeping her voice low and soft. "It was supposed to be a birthday present, but you were gone before I could give it to you."

You feel her fingers squeeze your hand a little tighter.

"But now you're here." Her voice shifts, raising into that higher, melodic pitch. "Mommy will make sure we always get to stay together from now on."

Is this okay? you question to yourself tiredly. The rational part of your brain knows you need to talk to her about this. About the romantic feelings you have for her. But exhaustion washes over you.

You can sort things out with Wanda in the morning.

Wanda leans forward, her face hovering over yours. You close your eyes automatically, ready for the gentle forehead kiss she always gave you to ward the bad dreams away.

But instead of pressure against your forehead, you feel something soft press flat against your lips.

Your eyes snap open at the sensation, your gaze dropping down to see Wanda's lips flush against yours. You gasp at the sight, but instead of moving away, you freeze as Wanda's tongue slips easily past your lips.

Her tongue explores your mouth before dragging the tip of it against yours. Your face flushes instantly at the feeling, your breaths becoming ragged.

You've never done anything like this before. You know you should feel ashamed for accepting it, but instead of the guilt burning through you, a sudden heat begins to pool in your lower stomach.

Wanda tilts your chin up, forcing your mouth to open wider. She coaxes your tongue to move, stroking hers against yours with intoxicating pressure. You try to press back clumsily, attempting to copy what she's doing, but Wanda takes control. Every time you try to press down, she easily slips her way out, winning the strange game of wrestling taking place between your lips.

Saliva begins to drool down the side of your mouth slowly. Wanda presses her upper body flush against yours, your breasts squishing against her larger one through the thin fabric of Natasha's shirt. You squirm beneath her weight, an uncomfortable stickiness beginning to build in your panties.

Wanda lets out a low chuckle against your lips. "You're so messy, baby," she murmurs.

You flush, thinking she's noticed, but instead she leans back slightly. She wipes away the stray saliva with the pad of her thumb. She licks it away, staring down at you with dark, blown-out pupils. But despite the heat radiating off her, her expression holds that same soft smile she used to give you right before she said goodnight at the facility.

You stare up at her hazily, your lips tingling and swollen from the force of the kiss. You hear her groan quietly, her teeth biting into her own lower lip. She leans forward again, giving you a quick, firm peck.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetie. I won't know when to stop." Her warm palm caresses your cheek one last time, her eyes softening. "I just had to give a goodnight kiss to my precious baby," she whispers.

Before you can even try to form a coherent thought, her fingers slide away and she's standing up by the side of the bed.

"Sleep tight," she says in a sing-song tone before closing the bedroom door behind her.

Your breathing is still ragged, your heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest. Your head feels empty, as if Wanda had managed to kiss every single thought out of your brain. You turn your head slightly, catching sight of the glowing digital clock on the bedside table.

It's 9:35 PM.

It's much earlier than you would ever normally go to sleep. You try to remember the last time you were actually in bed at this hour. The image of your bedroom at the facility flashes through your head.

It was the mandatory bedtime there.

You tightly squeeze your thighs together, desperately trying to ignore the shameful, sticky ache pooling between them.

—

You wake to the distant, muffled sounds of metal clanking together. Your eyes open slowly, blinking blearily against the bright morning rays cutting through the curtains of the window. You shift slightly beneath the covers, feeling something soft and fuzzy resting in your arms.

Your eyes drift down lazily, finding the yellow duckling plushie safely cradled against your chest.

You blink again. Your vision clears, and your eyes widen as the entirety of yesterday begins to replay in flashes.

Wanda showing up at the park. Her unraveled, disheveled state. Natasha appearing on the path. The two of them arguing. The memories of the facility crashing back. The crayon drawings spread across the dining room table. This duckling.

Wanda kissing you on the lips, sliding her tongue into your mouth.

You sit up abruptly in the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you hug the duckling plushie even tighter against your chest.

Wanda—your mommy—had kissed you. And you had liked it.

You bury your face into the duckling plushie, its soft, fuzzy material barely doing anything to comfort the rising panic.

"What's wrong with you?" you whisper into the fabric.

Shame creeps through your body, making you cringe inward. This isn't right, you tell yourself internally. The lines were blurring until you could barely see them anymore. But deep down, you know the truth.

They were probably blurred from the very moment you met Wanda at the register. The moment you saw your mommy in her.

You throw the covers off your body and clamber out of the bed. The cold wooden floor bleeds through the soles of your bare feet, but you press forward anyway, cracking the bedroom door open and creeping outside into the hallway.

You follow the sound of clanking metal. Somehow, the sound feels like a beacon of clarity. And you need clarity more than anything else right now.

It's only when you finally reach the door the muffled sounds are echoing from, that your gaze drops down. You're still carrying the yellow duckling plushie, its fuzzy wing tightly pinched between your trembling fingers.

You pull the handle of the door down slowly, cracking it open just enough for you to slip through the gap. Immediately, you're hit with the bright light of the sunlit garage. The main door is raised, a sleek, old-school car parked right at the opening with its hood popped open. You can just barely see Natasha's profile as she leans deep over the engine bay.

You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief, that weird feeling of protection you feel around her returning.

You take quiet, careful steps forward, maneuvering around the power tools scattered across the large concrete space until Natasha comes fully into view. Her hair is tied tightly back so the strands don't get in her way while she works. She's wearing a plain white tank top accompanied by a dark pair of blue jeans. Both the fabric and her bare skin are marked with black streaks of grease, her hands coated in it as well.

It's reminiscent of Wanda's outfit yesterday, but it holds a different kind of feeling.

She doesn't even blink when you approach, quietly sinking down to sit on the concrete right next to the toolbox at her feet.

You place your duckling in your lap, squeezing it's wings between your fingers as you tilt your head up to watch Natasha work. With every minute that passes between the quiet clanging and Natasha's steady breaths, your thoughts begin to calm.

You look down at the duckling, flapping its wings slowly to build up some courage.

"It's not normal… the relationship between me and Wanda, is it?" you mumble so quietly, you think Natasha probably didn't hear it.

But Natasha turns her head toward you, a bead of sweat on the bridge of her nose and a fresh streak of motor oil across her cheek. She looks down at you sitting by her feet and gives you a small smirk.

"What's even considered normal anymore?"

"I-I mean," you start, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words. You release a breath, your shoulders dropping. How can you explain a relationship to someone else when you haven't even figured it out yourself?

Instead, your mind shifts to the other issue at hand.

"But you guys are married," you state. You can hear all the unsureness and anxiety you're harboring inside bleeding through your voice.

"We are," Natasha responds in that same nonchalant, steady tone.

You bite your bottom lip, gnawing lightly on the skin as you try to force up enough courage to ask the real questions screaming in your head.

How are you so calm about this? Are you actually okay with this? Your wife kissed me last night.

"Don't get me wrong," she starts, turning her focus back to the engine. "I love Wanda more than anything in this world. We've been together through our absolute lows and our highs." She pauses, screwing a heavy bolt into place.

You nervously shift your arm against your knee when the long sleeve of her oversized t-shirt slips down, impeding your movements.

Natasha pauses what she's doing. She slowly wipes her grease-stained hands on the towel hanging off the edge of the open hood. Suddenly, she drops down to crouch in front of you. She reaches her hands out and takes your wrist, beginning to carefully fold the sleeves up your arms.

Her voice is remarkably soft when she finally speaks. "Wanda loves you. And I can tell you love her. It's not the most conventional kind of love," she starts, continuing to hold onto your wrists even after she finishes folding your sleeves up.

She meets your eyes. The tenderness swimming in her gaze makes you pause.

"I imagine you're curious what my thoughts are on all of this."

You nod slowly. Her brows furrow unsurely.

"I never thought I needed a family outside of Wanda," she says quietly, her thumbs resting against your pulse points. "But then she told me about her little girl, and I couldn't help but imagine what our life would look like with her in it. As for the other feelings…"

She trails off, the sentence hanging heavy in the air. She finally releases your wrists and pushes herself up, standing to her full height.

She looks down at you from above, a complex mix of emotions swirling in her steady stare.

"I'm not sure yet."

You nod quietly to yourself. Her answer makes sense.

She moves back toward the open engine bay, reaching into her pocket to pull out her phone.

"Wanda says to go inside. She made breakfast. I'll eat after I finish this." She tilts her head back down to face you, a small, knowing grin tugging at her lips. "I texted her the moment you cracked that door open. Told her we were having da—"

She cuts herself off suddenly, clearing her throat before continuing.

"Time together," she says. "She'd be worried sick if she walked into your room and found you missing."

Your cheeks instantly heat up. You hadn't been as sneaky as you thought you were.

After opening up to Natasha, the panic from when you first woke up feels distant now. The thought of going inside to see Wanda sends a flutter of warmth through your chest.

You reach your hand out, your fingers gently tugging on the fabric of Natasha's jeans.

You look straight up at her with wide eyes. "Can… can we do this again?" you murmur, your voice small and hopeful.

Natasha stares down at you, her eyes softening the longer she takes you in.

"That's not fair," she murmurs quietly to herself. She clears her throat, her teasing smirk quickly returning to her lips. "You're going to have to learn about the tools next time if you want to be a proper helper."

You nod excitedly, beaming up at her before finally releasing her jeans from your grip. You stand up from the floor, holding the duckling's fuzzy wing in your hand while you stretch your tight muscles with a small groan.

"Go on now," Natasha laughs softly, her eyes dropping back down toward the car engine. "Wanda's waiting for you, little girl."

You take a step forward toward the house door, but you turn your head back just to catch sight of her one last time before leaving. Her eyes are bright, a gentle smile on her lips.

—

You retrace your steps from last night, navigating the unfamiliar hallways. The quiet sound of Wanda's soft humming guides you whenever you take a wrong turn, drawing you forward.

You peek around the corner of the hallway, Wanda's back coming into view. She's wearing a pair of simple black leggings paired with a soft-looking brown sweater, the yellow strings of an apron tied into a neat bow around her waist. She walks easily around the vast kitchen, barely even having to scan the counters to find what she needs, as though she's done this a million times before.

It feels… domestic.

It's a feeling you never experienced during your childhood, your adoptive parents always defaulting to leaving cash on the kitchen island for you to buy your own food for the day. Around Wanda, it feels like the morning sunlight streaming through the windows is somehow brighter, warmer.

She turns around suddenly, spotting you immediately just like she used to do whenever she arrived at the foster care facility. Her eyes brighten instantly, a joyous smile pulling at her cheeks.

"Good morning, baby," she calls out in that sweet, sing-song voice. She waves you over toward the counter. "Come here and pick out what you want for breakfast. I made a variety since your tastes may have changed."

You step around the corner, the duckling plushie swinging loosely in your hand. But instead of stopping in front of the bowl of cut fruit or the plate of sandwiches, you walk straight into Wanda, bumping into her.

Wanda's arms immediately wrap around you, her warm hand stroking the back of your head. "Is something wrong, sweet girl? Did you not have a good talk with Natasha?" she asks, a gentle lilt of concern entering her tone.

You shake your head, your cheeks swishing against the fabric of Wanda's apron. You tilt your chin up, looking up at her with wide, confused eyes.

"I… I feel like it's wrong to like you in this way. In both ways," you start, your voice trailing off unsurely. "I-I've never kissed anyone before, and I don't know if the way I reacted last night is normal."

You pause. Your cheeks instantly blaze with heat at what you just admitted out loud. "Um—" you start, desperately trying to change the subject.

"So… I was your first kiss?" Wanda whispers. You catch the familiar glint of guilt in her eyes like when she first traced your lip.

You nod shyly, looking down at the floor as the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment.

Wanda's hand gently cups your jaw, her fingers tilting your chin back up. Her pupils are dark and dilated as she looks down at your face, the affection in them unmistakable.

"I don't think it's wrong," she says, moving her face closer and closer until you can feel the warm ghost of her breath against your lips. "Mommy loves you so much, and that love grew into something more. Isn't that a good thing?"

Your mind goes blank for a moment.

Is that right? you think to yourself. It sounds convincing, but your conscience still wavers. Wanda's lips move even closer to yours, the sweet scent of flowers washing heavily over your senses and making your head turn fuzzy.

"I-I guess it's a good thing," you murmur, your voice wobbly and small.

She presses her soft lips firmly against yours, making your heart flutter uncontrollably. Her fingers hold your jaw a little tighter, angling your chin until it's just right for her. You hold the plush wing of your duckling tighter in your fist, your free hand rising to find the hem of Wanda's sweater, tightly curling the fabric around your fingers when it feels like you're almost out of breath.

Wanda finally leans back, her lips parting from yours with a quiet pop. She smiles gently down at you. Her expression is so different from the hungry, desperate way she just kissed you, making your head spin.

"Ready for breakfast now, sweetheart? Natasha will join us in just a bit."

You nod slowly, the complicated, racing thoughts you've had all morning suddenly vanishing from your mind. "Yes, Wanda," you respond softly.

Wanda gazes down at you with a hopeful expression, her head tilted slightly as if she's waiting for something.

"Yes… mommy," you blurt out quickly, the tips of your ears burning all over again.

She beams at you, affectionately stroking your cheek one last time before turning back to the stove, where sausages and eggs are sizzling in pans. She begins listing out all the different things you can eat, while you glance down at the yellow duckling in your hand. You bring the plushie up, wrapping both of your arms tightly around its fuzzy body and squishing it against your chest.

The idea of calling Wanda mommy had sent pangs of guilt and shame through you. But actually saying the word out loud to her now, you feel the guilt lessen a fraction.

Wanda turns back to you suddenly, her green eyes sparkling with joy.

"Welcome home, my precious baby." —

A/N: i actually enjoy writing for this AU quite a bit. expect to see reader calling wanda mommy on her own and wanda going feral over it, daddy daughter date with natasha in which they get closer, perhaps wandanat meeting reader's adoptive parents. let me know if you have any other ideas. thanks for reading!

— Taglist♡: @methealt @whyareyoulookinguphere @three3ofswords @vyvvycg @maddsdotorg @gumboug @ciaoooooo111 @rileyisacutie @hapuchika @megsheather @libbyofc @sokovianpuppy @ghostqeen @begpuppi @robs-24 @honeydollkisses @prentisszlover @princessmac @theperfectparadoxxx @heartzz4yuuuu @hereforthefanficsaphic @scarwid @saffrontieee @anqyuicka @sevikasoneandonlywife @swiftieortega13 @ira-16 @sapphicqueenofdonuts @brieflyinnersentinel @lisomaniadalton @swordnshild @plsnik @lolzblues55 @purpleguywithahat @blisbuni @bravelydauntlesssecret

Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.

You deserve this pain.

Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.

It feels like pity.

An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.

Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?

You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…

“Perfect.”

Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.

Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.

You flinch.

Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.

You just want to sleep.

Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.

You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.

You still need to…

Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.

The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.

Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.

Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.

You just want to sleep.

—

You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.

Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.

Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.

Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.

You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.

Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.

Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.

Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.

You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.

The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.

This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.

Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.

—

The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.

Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.

"Next," you call out.

The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.

A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.

"We’ll make it again with oat milk."

You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.

So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.

You continue anyway.

You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.

At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.

But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.

—

The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.

Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.

You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.

This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.

Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.

Everything after that could be figured out later.

You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.

—

You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.

The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.

When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.

Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.

You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.

You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.

It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.

But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.

—

You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.

The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.

Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.

Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.

You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.

You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.

But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.

Why is it only getting colder?

Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.

The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.

Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.

Like it did during your interview with Wanda.

It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.

But it never fully culminates.

Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.

Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.

You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.

Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.

The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.

You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.

The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.

You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.

Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.

You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.

Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.

The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.

Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.

A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.

She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.

You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.

Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.

Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.

You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.

“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”

Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.

Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.

You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.

1:05 AM.

The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.

First day.

The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.

2:23 AM.

If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.

What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?

You check the time.

2:51 AM.

Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.

You check the time.

3:15 AM.

They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…

—

The alarm blares through the room.

You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.

Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.

Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.

A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.

That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.

You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.

A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.

You take a single step toward your bedroom door.

Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.

The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.

You can do this.

The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.

The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.

Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.

Not today.

The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.

Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.

Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.

The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.

You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.

Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.

You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.

—

You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.

Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.

Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.

Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.

The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.

Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.

Not today.

—

The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.

Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.

The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.

You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.

Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.

You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.

The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.

You’re present.

It feels good.

The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.

Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.

She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.

“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”

You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.

The floor numbers rise on the digital display.

—

Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.

“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”

He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.

He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.

Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.

Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.

“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.

You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.

“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.

Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.

A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.

You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.

Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.

You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.

The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.

Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.

Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.

A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.

Why? Everything was going so well.

Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.

Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.

Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.

Wanda steps into view.

She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.

You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.

Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.

You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.

Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.

Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.

A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.

The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.

“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.

“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”

You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.

She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.

She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.

Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention.  Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.

Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.

“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.

Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.

The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.

A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.

Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.

The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.

A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.

Your head snaps up.

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.

It hasn’t even been a minute.

Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.

Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.

Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.

The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.

A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.

Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”

Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.

“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”

Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”

Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.

Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.

You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.

“Let’s go.”

She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.

The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.

The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.

Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.

She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.

“She can come in.”

Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.

The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.

Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.

“Sit,” she says simply.

She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.

The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.

Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.

Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.

You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.

Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.

The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.

“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.

That’s a lie, you think tiredly.

“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.

Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.

“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”

Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.

“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”

The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.

She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.

Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.

You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.

The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.

Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.

The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.

A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.

A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.

“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.

Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.

Don't fail now.

You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.

You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.

The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.

You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.

“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”

You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.

“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”

Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”

Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.

Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.

“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”

A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.

“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”

She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.

Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.

You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.

She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”

Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.

“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”

You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.

—

Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.

Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.

It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.

You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.

The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.

The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.

His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.

Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar

The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.

Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.

Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.

“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”

Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.

Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”

You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.

Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.

But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.

Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”

—

The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.

You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.

Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.

Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.

A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.

Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.

—

“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.

“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.

“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.

“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.

Silence follows for a moment.  Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.

A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.

“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.

The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.

“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.

—

A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)

The memories of the foster care facility had been popping into your mind more often lately. They were usually a mixture of sad or painful events. Prospective parents passing you over for kids who were brighter, more talkative, or openly craving affection. Volunteers assuming you didn't want to be bothered, leaving you to read or draw alone at the table. The facility staff scolding you, frustrated that you didn't try harder to be chosen.

It wasn't that you didn't try on purpose.

You had been there since the day you were born, spending six years inside that building. When you were a newborn, people thought you were too much responsibility. A blank slate where one slip-up could ruin a life. Then you became a toddler, making friends with the other kids. You would play outside, screaming at the top of your lungs and laughing until you couldn't breathe.

But then one day, your best friend left with a foster family. Then another. And another. You were happy for them, but beneath it all, you started to close in on yourself. You grew scared of the pain of opening up to someone who could leave at any moment. So, you started to keep your distance. You talked less, stayed inside, and kept your head down.

But one day, shortly after you turned six, a happy memory formed.

You were drawing at one of the tables by yourself. The sleeves of your oversized t-shirt were folded up, and the hem fell past your shorts. The other kids were talking excitedly with one another, a noise you were used to drowning out.

Suddenly, a hand larger than yours, adorned with rings, appeared next to your crayons.

"Hi," a soft, slightly accented voice said.

You turned your head, meeting wide, green eyes. The corners of them crinkled as she smiled brightly, her face level with yours from where she crouched beside the table. You scanned her face, noticing her dark brown hair before looking down at her name tag. It listed her as a volunteer.

You wish you had committed her name to memory, but assuming she would be like the rest, you hadn't looked closely.

"Hi," you mumbled, wanting to get back to your coloring.

She picked up a blue crayon, twirling it between her fingers. "I'm a new volunteer here. I saw you coloring and wondered if I could join you."

You looked down at your drawing. She would probably get bored and leave to play with the others. The thought made you pout as you stared at the yellow duck you had drawn.

"I guess..." you responded quietly, continuing your coloring to distract yourself.

She giggled softly. Before you could react, she lightly pinched your cheek between her index finger and thumb. You turned to her, her fingers still holding your cheek, and gave her a little glare. She only giggled more.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, trying to sound apologetic despite her grin. "You just looked too cute."

You looked away, your cheeks heating up. You shook your head, forcing her fingers to fall away. "If you're gonna draw, do it quietly," you said with the biggest sigh your small body could muster.

With one last giggle, she pulled out the small, plastic chair beside you. She settled in, grabbing a sheet of paper from the stack in the center of the table. You could see her glancing at your drawing repeatedly before finally starting her own.

You sat silently, trying to keep your lines smooth even though they always wobbled in the middle. Other kids came up to her, asking her to play and wanting to get to know the new volunteer. Your chest tightened every time, even when you tried not to care.

But she always rejected them kindly, telling them she was in the middle of spending time with you. Your heart warmed just a little, despite your best efforts to act indifferent.

Half an hour into drawing, she started to speak to you. She acted as though you were answering her questions even when you stayed silent, the smile never leaving her voice.

You learned she was a high school senior completing volunteer hours. You found out she had an annoying twin brother who always brought up that he was a few minutes older. She told you about being from Sokovia, how she had only been in the States for a few years, the foods she liked, and the classes that bored her. She talked about her plans for the future, wanting to do something meaningful with her life.

Time passed like that—her talking about herself while you sat there, pretending not to listen but absorbing it all.

When she stopped talking, you peeked up. She was holding her drawing out to you with a shy grin.

It was a drawing of you. More specifically, of you sitting right in front of her, the little splotches of color from your own paper captured in her sketch. Even though there were other kids behind you, you were the only person in the drawing.

Your eyes widened as you looked between her and the paper. She was about to speak when one of the workers called your name, announcing it was bath time. Disappointment washed over you. Surely she would find someone more interesting after this.

You gathered your drawing, but her warm hand enveloped yours completely, stopping you. Your eyes met her green ones.

"Can we trade?" she asked, smiling softly as she looked down at the paper in your hands.

You weren't attached to your drawing. You had messed up the lines far too many times for it to look like anything, and it wasn't anywhere near what she had made. But you found yourself nodding shyly before you could think twice.

She swapped the papers but kept her hand on top of yours, holding it there for a moment. "See you later, alligator," she said gently. Her eyes didn't waver, and somehow, you believed her.

"See you," you whispered.

Her hand finally released yours. You hopped off the plastic chair and walked across the room toward the worker. You looked back, fully prepared to see her talking to another kid. Instead, you found her watching you leave with delicate affection in her eyes.

She started coming every other day. Sometimes she wore her backpack, arriving straight from school. On colder days, she would stop at the coat rack to hang her jacket. But despite those little differences, her searching for you was a constant. She would locate you with a single glance, walking over quickly with a bright smile that lit up the room.

You always ignored her for the first few minutes while she told you about her day. She would join you in whatever you were doing, even if you were just sitting silently outside, staring at the sky. At first, she sat an arm's length away. But as the months went on, the distance closed. And your heart opened.

You remember the first time you sought her out. It was right after a nap with the other kids your age. Bad dreams had plagued you—memories of the friends who had left, telling you that you would never be loved. You had gripped the front of your oversized shirt with small hands, your chest aching because you believed them. Tears streamed down your cheeks, even as you tried to swipe them away with the back of your hand.

It was then that she showed up. The door opened just a crack so the hallway light wouldn't flood the dark room. You could recognize her silhouette easily by that point. Shimmying out of your blankets, you quietly stepped over the other kids, your vision blurred with tears.

You remember her surprised face. Her eyes widened when she saw you standing right in front of her, forcing her to look down. Your fingers curled into the denim of her jeans while you sniffled. She crouched down, her eyebrows furrowed with worry as she brushed the tears off your cheeks with her thumbs.

"What's wrong, baby?" she whispered, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake anyone.

You shook your head, staring at her with shiny eyes. You let go of her jeans and lifted your arms. She scooped you up immediately, rocking you back and forth. Holding one hand against the back of your head, she pressed your cheek into her shoulder. You breathed in. The comforting scent of sweet flowers, like the ones that grew by the swing set outside, washed over your senses.

More bright memories formed after that, multiplying over the weeks. You started talking a little more, telling her what you planned to draw. You sought her out whenever your shoes were untied. When you watched the sky, you sat in her lap instead of leaving that empty space between you.

In the picture books you read, the mom was always there for her child, whether they were sad or happy. Always wiping away tears after a bad dream. Always listening to them talk, even if it was nonsense about nothing at all.

Just like she did for you.

You remembered when one of the other kids got fostered. Their foster parents had come to pick them up from the facility, and the way the new mother beamed when the child called her "Mommy" always stuck with you.

Wanting to see that same look on her face, you walked up to her the next day just like you had after your nightmare. You tugged on the hem of her shirt to make her look down, tilting your chin to meet her smiling eyes.

"Hi, mommy," you said quietly, your voice shy.

Her eyes widened. Tears immediately began to shine in them before she scooped you up, hugging you tightly. She held you like that for a long time, her breathing shaky against your shoulder. You remember wondering if you had done something wrong. But then she spoke, her voice watery and thick with emotion.

"If only I were older... more stable..." she whispered, her voice shaking. "Then I could take you away from this place."

You hadn't understood why she was crying. She didn't have to take you away from there. You were happy as long as she came to visit. You thought it would last forever.

After that day, you became her precious baby. She would call you that every time she greeted you. She started staying past her volunteer hours, right up until the moment you had to go to sleep. The farewell was always the same.

"See you later, alligator."

"Bye-bye, mommy."

She would smile brightly whenever you called her that, as if you had given her the greatest gift in the world. Holding hands while walking, sitting in her lap while she read to you, her pushing you on the swings. They were pure, happy memories.

But the sunny days ended abruptly.

A couple who had visited you a few weeks prior appeared out of nowhere one afternoon. You had assumed they would choose someone else, since they had stopped talking to you weeks ago. Instead, they walked up to you with small smiles that didn't reach their eyes and told you that you were leaving with them.

She wasn't there that day. You never got to say goodbye. All you had from her was the drawings she'd trade with you that you begged to take with you.

You were in another state by the next day. In a spacious new apartment, a new room, a new school. You tried to be grateful for it all, but your foster parents weren't parents. You would try to get their attention, showing them your grades or asking for help, but their polite, distant smiles made you realize something quickly. The love you had read about in picture books wouldn't be found here.

It was more of an arrangement of convenience. They received money from the state for fostering you, and they got to look like a complete family from the outside. Even after they adopted you once the six month period passed, inside the home, you were just a guest.

That's how you lived for the next twelve years until you became an adult. And for the two years after that, you were on your own, refusing to accept their charity anymore.

Frankly, it wasn't something you chose to reminisce on. The ache in your chest from remembering her, from never being able to see her again, would always feel too painful.

But it's the green eyes in front of you that had been awakening these memories lately.

"Hi, honey, not too busy today?" Wanda asks, pulling an array of fruits and vegetables from her reusable bag and placing them onto the conveyor belt.

You pick up a package of cherry tomatoes, scan it, and set it to the side. "No, not today. It's been pretty quiet," you respond, continuing to scan the rest of the items.

You make a conscious effort to keep your head down, not wanting her to see the excitement on your face from her arrival.

You met Wanda a few weeks ago when you first started this job as a checkout clerk. It fits into your university class schedule well and pays decently because of the nicer neighborhood it's located in.

Your first day had been horrendous. In the last few minutes of your shift, a customer began complaining about their total, claiming they had a coupon that should reduce the price significantly. You tried scanning the coupon they held out, but it came back invalid every single time. Even when you tried to explain the situation calmly, they began to raise their voice until everyone in the front of the store was looking your way.

Situations like these have never been easy for you. You hated being the center of attention. You hoped they would just get it out of their system, pay, and leave so you could go home, but they wouldn't budge.

It wasn't until a voice came from behind them that the situation resolved itself.

"If you can't afford it, then just say so and move on so the rest of us can have our turn."

You craned your head back, meeting a pair of green eyes that you could swear you've seen before. It reminded you instantly of the volunteer who doted on you when you were still at the facility. But this woman had reddish-orange hair and no accent in her voice.

The customer's face turned beet red. They finally tapped their card against the reader, grabbed their bags, and walked away muttering under their breath.

The woman stared the customer down all the way until they exited the sliding glass doors. The moment she looked back at you, her expression instantly softened into something bright.

"I'm sorry you have to deal with customers like that, sweetheart. I don't think I've seen you here before. I'm Wanda. What's your name?"

There was something about the cadence of her voice that made your heart beat faster. The array of crayons on the small table back at the facility immediately came to mind. You quickly shook the thought off when she gazed at you expectantly.

You introduced yourself shyly, admitting it was your first day.

It took off from there.

Wanda visited a few times a week on random days, except for Fridays, which were a constant. You'd share short conversations with her. She'd stay longer sometimes on days where there was no line, chatting about her own time in university and letting you vent about stuck-up professors

Thankfully, today is Friday.

Unfortunately, you're exhausted from classes and your roommates being loud in the living room. It was taking everything in you to not close your eyes. The sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot were simultaneously blinding you and keeping you awake, but it was getting harder to keep your shoulders upright.

You take a breath, forcing a smile onto your face when you notice Wanda helping pack her groceries. You've reminded her over and over that this is part of what you're paid to do, but she never listens.

"They might replace you with me at this rate," you say jokingly, the tiredness dulling the inflections in your voice.

Wanda looks up from one of the bags, raising a brow. "Then would you be the customer?"

You huff out a little laugh. "This grocery store is a bit out of my price range."

"Then that arrangement won't do," she responds with a small smile, looking back down. "How else would I see you and that shy smile?"

Your gaze drops down to the scanner, heat rising up your neck to your cheeks and ears.

"See?" Wanda points out, laughing brightly.

Suddenly, her voice drops into something quieter. "Are you sleeping enough, darling?" she asks, gathering her bags nonchalantly. You see her peering at you when she thinks you don't notice.

Don't bother her with your problems, the rational part of you reminds you. It was one thing to complain about professors. It was a whole other thing to tell her about your living situation.

"I slept enough," you respond, meeting her gaze with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

She stares at you, scanning your face carefully before giving you a quick smile, like she's thought of something satisfactory.

"Do you get off soon?" she asks, glancing at the watch resting on her left wrist.

You glance at the register screen, finding that you're almost at the finish line.

"I only have around ten more minutes." You breathe out a sigh of relief.

She looks to the side for a moment, nervously biting her lower lip.

You can't help but find her beautiful with the way the sunlight shining in splays perfectly across her face. She's wearing a plain blue blouse and white trousers. No logos. No heavy gold rings or designer bags like the women who usually patronize this neighborhood. Just a silver watch on her left wrist. That modesty was one of the things that had made it easier for you to talk to her.

"I know your parents probably told you not to follow strangers. But hopefully, I'm not a stranger at this point," she starts, speaking quickly. "Would you like to take a walk with me after this at the park across the street? I saw there were a few food trucks, so maybe we could grab an early dinner?"

Frankly, your parents hadn't told you much of anything. You had figured out how to navigate the world on your own. But Wanda isn't a stranger, and the park across the street is always crowded. You wouldn't be in any danger. Perhaps it was naive of you, but with Wanda, you never felt afraid. Just her presence made you feel safe.

The prospect of spending more than a few minutes with her makes something in your chest flutter. It's a feeling you haven't felt since you were six years old.

"O-okay," you stutter, mentally cursing yourself for the slip.

Wanda beams at you, adjusting the bags of groceries hanging on her wrists. "I'll be waiting outside for you, honey. Take your time coming out," she calls out, already turning around and walking out the door.

You watch her walk away before finally turning back to the register. You stare down at the scanner in front of you. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth, but it doesn't stop the smile forming on your lips.

The sound of footsteps approaching cuts the moment short. You quickly smooth down the front of your apron, erasing the smile from your face before looking up to meet the next customer a few paces away.

"Next," you call out politely.

—

You step out into the parking lot, squinting against the blinding rays. Lifting your arms, you stretch your tight shoulders and release a yawn. Your t-shirt rides up with the motion, the hem resting just above your belly button before you finally let your arms drop.

Looking around, you find Wanda leaning against her car a few paces away. She's already staring in your direction, but her gaze is low. It takes a few steps in her direction before she finally glances up, her eyes widening slightly before she quickly slaps a smile onto her face.

"Ready to go, darling?" she asks, her voice a bit breathless.

You adjust your bag hanging on your shoulder before responding. "All set."

It's a quiet, comfortable walk across the street. You and Wanda stroll between the food trucks, pointing out options before ultimately deciding on sandwiches. Wanda pays for the food before you even have a chance to unzip your wallet.

"I-I could've paid for my own food," you mumble, a stubborn pout forming on your lips.

You both take a seat on an open bench facing the pond. Wanda turns her torso toward you, her expression softening into something you can't quite name. There's a distant sadness in her eyes that doesn't match the small smile on her face.

Before you can think to look away, she reaches out and pinches your cheek gently between her index finger and thumb.

"Let's just say I wanted to treat you. I'm the one who invited you out, after all," she says gently.

Her hand falls away, but her fingers linger close for a moment. Her gaze remains locked on your face, watching you quietly, as if she's studying you.

You stare back at her, your eyes wide. The familiarity of the gesture has your mind racing, your thoughts rushing straight to the one person you could never forget. You never allowed anyone to touch your face like this. Even when friends tried to do it jokingly, you always flinched away. It felt like if you allowed anyone else to repeat the gesture, you would start forgetting her. The memory of the first person who loved you.

Wanda isn't her, you chastise yourself internally.

Your heart twists sharply in your chest. A wave of guilt washes over you, eating away at your stomach just for letting Wanda cross that line without a fight.

But for some reason, it didn't feel uncomfortable. Usually, when others even reached for your face, you felt a wave of unease. If anything, Wanda's touch felt like coming home. The realization makes your heart ache—you don't want the volunteer to fade from your memory.

You look down at the bench, focusing on the arm's length of distance separating you two. The sandwiches she bought sit untouched between you. For a few long moments, the chatter of people walking by the pond fades into background noise as your thoughts consume you.

It isn't until Wanda speaks that you finally snap out of it.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, darling," she starts quietly. Her expression looks distant, as if she's watching old memories float past.

You open your mouth to tell her the truth, that it didn't make you uncomfortable at all, but she continues, forcing your jaw to snap shut so you can hear her clearly.

"There's someone I've been missing for a very long time. Your smile and that cute pout... they remind me of her so much," she whispers, meeting your eyes with a sad smile. "She would be your age by now. Sometimes I wonder what she's doing. If she's eating okay, if she's receiving the love she deserves... if she still remembers me. But I always hope she's happy, even if that happiness didn't come from me."

The ache in Wanda's voice is almost palpable. It makes your chest tighten in the same way it does whenever you let yourself look back at the past.

Wanda's expression suddenly morphs into a grimace. "Maybe this is just me easing my own guilt. I'm sorry if this is bothersome, sweetheart. It must be weird, being compared to someone you've never met. But talking to you recently... it's been making me think of her more."

Her eyes widen suddenly, her posture stiffening as her voice turns frantic.

"That's not why I've been talking to you, though!" she exclaims, her voice rising enough to draw a glance from a passing couple. "I love our conversations. Genuinely. Seeing you so tired today just made me want to do something to help, even if it wasn't much."

You look out at the pond, watching the light breeze track ripples across the surface.

So she's missing someone too, you think.

The realization eases the guilt churning in your stomach. The puzzle pieces fit together now. The comfort and protection you only ever found from one person—the most important person in your life—had suddenly reappeared in a matter of weeks through Wanda. It makes sense now.

Wanda reminds you of her.

Secretly, you've known this all along. Probably from the very moment you locked eyes with her at the register.

You're not replacing her. The thought immediately making your frantic mind rest. She'll always be your mommy.

You and Wanda are just finding comfort in each other.

"Can we keep meeting like this?" you ask shyly, turning your head toward her. You let your eyes drift up to the sky. "There's someone I've been missing too. When I talk to you, I feel like I remember her more clearly."

You let your gaze drop back to Wanda's face. She's staring at you, her green eyes bright, as if she's looking right at a memory.

"Of course," she breathes.

You shift on the bench, scooting a little bit closer to her. It reminds you of when you were younger—the distance closing slowly, piece by piece.

—

You step into your shared apartment, barely sparing a glance at the kitchen counter littered with dirty plates and utensils. You make your way down the hall, feeling the heavy bass of music vibrating from beneath one of your roommates' doors.

Closing your bedroom door, you lean your back against it and finally breathe out. You let your bag drop to the floor, the heavy thud of it barely audible over the noise outside.

Reaching up, you let your fingertips brush slowly across your cheekbone. You can still feel the lingering warmth from where Wanda’s hand had cupped your face before you parted ways. Her eyes had locked onto yours for a long second before she finally turned around.

You can't help but wonder who it is that she's missing so desperately. But you didn't want to ask. You know that if she threw the question back at you, you would have a hard time answering.

How do you explain to a woman you just met recently that you miss a teenage volunteer from fourteen years ago? How do you explain that you still can't forget her? It would be like admitting to Wanda that she reminds you of the only person you ever viewed as a mother.

You walk across the small, cold space of your room and pull open the bottom drawer of your desk. Reaching inside, you run your fingertips across the rough, waxy lines of the papers hidden at the bottom.

All of her drawings are stored here. Some are messy pieces you had colored together. Most are the clean, detailed sketches drawn just by her.

You miss her so much it aches. The parallels between her and Wanda are almost eerie, pulling your heart in entirely different directions.

But it's exactly that conflict that makes you want to see Wanda again. You want to feel that safety you haven't felt since you were six years old.

You pick up the very first drawing she ever gave you. The sketch of you sitting and drawing at the table.

"Is this okay, mommy?" you whisper into the quiet room, the memory of her smiling green eyes flashing behind your eyelids. Wanda's face appears for a split second before fading away.

—

You start meeting with Wanda every Friday after your shift. She's always waiting for you, leaning against her car, her smile dazzling the moment she notices you.

The second time you meet, she takes you to a cute bakery down the street. You've noticed the inviting exterior before, but knowing the area, you knew it would be far out of your budget. Wanda doesn't let you pay, even when you try handing the barista your card. She just glances at you, raising a single brow. Your arm automatically lowers, and Wanda pays anyway.

It reminds you instantly of the look She would give you when you tried to avoid bedtime at the facility, just wanting to spend more time with her. You would automatically listen back then, wanting to be her obedient baby.

With Wanda, you get to experience many of the things you never could in the city. A flaky, buttery croissant at the bakery. A French restaurant you always wanted to try but could never get a reservation for even if you could afford it. Even just sitting peacefully on the park bench. You're always in a rush, jumping from classes to work, then back home to study. This is the first time you've truly gotten to take in the city you've lived in for fourteen years.

You and Wanda always end up at the park, no matter where you go first. You sit on the same bench in front of the pond. It's where you have the deep conversations that aren't just about university or daily life. It's there that you find out Wanda is the chairwoman for a massive charity—one even you've heard of. She tells you it was something she always wanted to do. To do something meaningful with her life.

The phrasing is so familiar. You remember Her saying the exact same thing. It makes you look at Wanda differently. The passing interest you had because of her looks and her similarities to the person you miss, growing into something much greater with every meeting.

It's your third meeting when you learn more about the person she's missing. You make a passing comment without really thinking. It's only then that you realize how much more willing you're to speak lately, usually being so reserved.

"When I was a kid, I used to think all ducks were yellow," you recount, your voice airy from reminiscing. "Then I found out only the ducklings are."

You let out a little giggle. Staring at the ducks slowly crossing the pond with little ducklings following behind, you think of the yellow duck drawing you made the day you first traded drawings. Your feet swing back and forth beneath the bench, your fingers curled tightly over the front edge of the wood.

It's a few moments before the heavy silence really hits you. You turn your head to look at Wanda. She's staring straight ahead at the pond. You track her eyes, finding that she's fixed on the tiny ducklings trailing behind the mother duck.

Her voice is shaky when she finally speaks.

"My precious baby thought the same thing," she says, a watery smile stretching across her face.

Precious baby.

You close your eyes, biting the inside of your mouth to stop the emotions threatening to surface. You haven't heard that phrase in fourteen years. Her smiling face immediately comes to mind—the way she would look down at you, crouching to be at eye level before gently stroking your cheek.

"My precious baby."

You always loved it when she called you that. Your lips would immediately curve into a wide grin before you called her your mommy.

Remembering it makes your heart ache for Wanda. From what she's told you, it seems she had to let go of someone she loved, just like you did.

You scooch a bit closer to Wanda, though a sliver of distance still remains between you. As you move, the scent of sweet flowers suddenly washes over your senses.

The swing set. Your cheek pressed against her shoulder.

Your head snaps up, looking for the source, but the tree branches above you just sway gently. It must be the breeze, you think wryly.

But it's that familiar, comforting scent that gives you the confidence.

You reach out, your fingers gently tugging on the hem of Wanda's blouse.

She turns to you. Her green eyes are wide, glimmering with unshed tears, and her mouth is slightly agape. She looks at you as if she's staring straight at a ghost from her past. You figure she must be reminiscing just like you are.

"I'm sure she's out there thriving," you say, your voice adamant despite the slight tremble of your shyness.

Wanda holds her gaze on you, not saying a word. You peer up at the sky, anxiousness setting in the longer she stays silent. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything.

It's only when you feel Wanda's warm palm settle against your cheek that you meet her eyes again. Her expression is soft, her lips curved into a gentle smile. But it's the delicate affection in her green eyes that makes your heart jump. It's how you know she's only looking at you, completely tuning out the crowds of people sitting on the grass and walking by the pond.

Her thumb brushes your cheekbone before tracing lower, brushing slowly against your bottom lip instead.

You feel her movement freeze suddenly. The affection in her eyes remains, but you can see a layer of guilt churning just beneath the surface. She pulls her thumb away from your lip but keeps her palm resting against your cheek.

"I'm sure she is," Wanda whispers. Her voice sounds hopeful, but it's swirling with an array of heavy emotions you can't decipher.

—

With every meeting, you and Wanda only become closer.

Sometimes you’d catch her staring at you in your peripheral vision whenever you looked up at the sky. Watching the clouds drift by and finding shapes in them had become a habit again, just like when you were younger. On clear days, letting the blue expanse amaze you cleared your mind.

You figure that maybe the person Wanda misses used to do the same. The first time you noticed her doing that, you’d honestly felt a bit uncomfortable, but a mixture of guilt lay within that as well.

Because you weren't the person she was thinking of. Maybe seeing you was hurting her more.

It wasn't like you couldn't relate.

After the day Wanda had brushed your lip with her thumb, her touches became more constant. Sometimes she’d rub away the crumbs at the corner of your mouth after you ate a pastry. Sometimes she’d run her fingers through your hair and carefully move stray strands out of your face. Sometimes, when you were sharing a funny customer interaction, her hand would land on your thigh, squeezing it gently as she laughed.

Shame would creep up your neck when your body reacted. You’d press your thighs together, trying to ignore the ache settling in your lower stomach. Your chest warmed from the familiar, comforting touch that you'd only experienced from Her, but now you were feeling the exact same way from Wanda.

Some days, you felt like you were betraying the person you had been forced to leave behind. Even after you were fostered, you had never found that same love. It was a rare, safe feeling that you had reserved just for Her.

But here you were, opening your heart up in the exact same way to someone else.

It was a constant push and pull. You keep reminding yourself that Wanda is a completely different person. They just happen to be similar. You weren't replacing Her. You refuse to.

And it wasn't like you could just walk away from Wanda now. Even in the short period of time you've known her, you've become deeply attached. You sought Wanda out whenever you needed advice, had questions about your university classes, or really just wanted to talk about anything at all. She listened every single time, even when the things you said didn't make much sense or lead anywhere.

Wanda's touch was always kind, but slowly, it began to cross the blurry boundaries between you two. Her hand began to linger higher up your thigh, holding it there and squeezing occasionally. You remembered the intense heat burning through your skin the first time she did it. But whenever you looked up at her, her green eyes were always full of that same gentle, consuming affection.

Sometimes when she looked into your eyes in these moments, her gaze would immediately avert, her lips curving downward like she was upset with herself. She'd blink a few times, her eyes brightening more with every blink before she'd look at you again and let her fingers curve around your thigh confidently.

You know this desire you feel for Wanda is twisted. Wanda reminded you of the only mother figure you had in your life. But, you like Wanda, and being around her feels like you're creating memories that you should've had with Her.

—

It's a month and a half later when you first slip up and tell Wanda a little bit about Her.

You're sitting on the park bench like usual, your arm pressed against Wanda's. You and Wanda had started a book series together. Wanda had the second volume in her hand, reading aloud to you. Your head slowly drifted to the side until it landed on Wanda's shoulder.

You noticed you'd been doing this more often, subconsciously, finding comfort in Wanda whether it be emotionally or physically.

You could hear the smile in her voice as she continued reading. Birds chirped in the distance. Children giggled behind you. But Wanda's voice drowned them all out. It reminded you of sitting outside with Her in front of the swing sets, sitting in her lap as she read one of your picture books to you while pointing at the pictures she liked. You found yourself speaking before you could even think to stop.

"This reminds me of when I was a kid," you murmur wistfully, closing your eyes.

"Did someone else use to read for you?" Wanda asks, her voice unusually tight.

You nod softly, your cheek swishing against her shoulder. "Mhm," you confirm, your voice relaxed. "My mo—"

Your eyes widen. Your posture straightens out. Gnawing lightly on your bottom lip, you look away. You've never talked about Her with anyone before. It felt sacred, like something that was just for you. Your hand tightens around the front of your shirt.

It's confusing. All these habits you used to have starting to come back since you met Wanda.

Wanda’s hand envelops yours, her touch gentle but firm as she coaxes your fingers to release the fabric of your shirt. Sliding her palm against yours, she interlocks your fingers together. She rubs her thumb in slow circles against the back of your hand.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about the person you miss," she starts slowly. "But if you do... I'm always here, darling." You turn your head automatically, wanting to see Wanda's face that always manages to comfort you.

You don't know how she knew who you were talking about. It feels like Wanda is able to read you with a single glance. It makes you a bit anxious if she can see the feelings you have for her that are muddied by your past.

You meet Wanda's eyes. She's looking at you with an aching softness that you can feel in your bones. Your shoulders droop, melting at the comforting warmth coming from her hand.

Tears glisten in your eyes despite yourself.

It's confusing.

The complicated, messy feelings swirling inside you. There's the intense comfort you're receiving from Wanda, slammed right against the terrifying feeling that you're somehow betraying Her.

But you find your fingers tightening, squeezing Wanda's hand anyway. The motion reminds you instantly of when you used to swing Her hand back and forth while walking around the playground. You tilt your chin up, trying to stop the tears threatening to spill over your lashes.

You hear Wanda inhale shakily. Maybe this is too troublesome for her, you think, trying even harder to rein in your rogue emotions.

Suddenly, Wanda pulls you in closer by your interlocked hands. Her free hand rises to rest firmly against your cheek, her fingers spanning your jaw as she tilts your face up to force you to look at her.

"It's okay to cry," she whispers, her tone incredibly low and soothing. "My baby."

Your eyes widen, a wave of panic hitting you. You know Wanda is probably just seeing someone else in you. You know you shouldn't be letting her call you that. Only one person was ever allowed to use that title.

But you don't stop her.

Instead, a consuming warmth blooms from your chest and outwards. You squeeze her hand tighter. Her thumb brushes slowly against your lips as she gazes down at your mouth. You expect her to freeze like she usually does after a few moments. For the guilt to make her pull away.

But this time, she just continues.

—

Every time you come back to your apartment after meeting Wanda, you always go straight to your desk. You pull out the bottom drawer, running your fingers along the rough, waxy lines of the crayon sketches.

The guilt is starting to ease the longer you meet with her.

This isn't you replacing her, you remind yourself, staring down at the stack of drawings. You're finding something else in Wanda.

You try to ignore the nagging question in your head—the one threatening to shatter the fragile resolution you've finally found.

But what is it that you're finding in Wanda, then?

—

You're sitting on the park bench with Wanda. Your legs are stretched across her lap, your hand locked firmly in hers. Her other hand rests on your knee, her fingers pressed against the bare skin of your inner thigh.

She's telling you about her day while you listen silently, absorbing every word. Your gaze tracks the ducklings as they follow the mother duck across the surface of the pond. Something about the scene makes you speak up suddenly, cutting Wanda off right in the middle of her sentence.

"—and then he told the staff that he knew me, and that I would—"

"Wanda," you interject.

Her eyes widen, her mouth parting slightly as she turns to look at you. You're normally polite, always staying quiet and listening intently until she finishes her thoughts.

"Yes, baby?" she responds, her voice soft but clearly confused by the interruption.

You turn your head toward her. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your throat tight as the question finally slips past your lips.

"What are we doing?"

She tilts her head, her expression full of feigned confusion, but her eyes tell you everything. She knows exactly what you're referring to.

"We're spending time together," she says with a light chuckle. She brings your joined hands up to her mouth, pressing a soft kiss against the back of your hand.

"I… I know that," you start, your confidence beginning to wane. "I just mean..."

You trail off. You can't bring yourself to say it out loud. You can't ask if she's projecting, or tell her that she somehow makes you feel the exact same safety your mommy did while you also crave a romantic connection. Instead, you just freeze under her gaze, your lower lip trembling slightly.

Wanda leans in closer to you. Her hand slides higher up your thigh until her index finger rests right in the deep crevice where your leg meets your hip. Your breath hitches when she taps her finger in slow, rhythmic beats against the sensitive skin there.

"I know I shouldn't feel this way," she starts. Her face showing the conflicting, messy emotions that are churning inside you. "Not when you remind me..."

She trails off, refusing to finish the sentence. Her lips curve into a soft, vulnerable smile.

"But being with you brings me so much joy," she whispers, her thumb grazing your hip. "I love when you get crumbs all over your lips and I have to brush them away for you. I love when your feet swing under the bench when you're happy. I love hearing your little ramblings. Can that just be enough for now?"

She looks at you, her green eyes wide, desperate, and hopeful.

"Being with you makes me happy too," you admit in a whisper.

Wanda beams at you, the warmth of her hand making your own lips curve upward as well.

Suddenly, a sharp vibration buzzes against your side. You pull out your phone, finding a new text message from your parents. They've been reaching out more often lately. Something about wanting to make up for the time they should've spent being real parents to you.

Are you okay for rent this month? We can send money if you need. Let's meet sometime to catch up over a meal.

You release a tired sigh as you read the text from your adoptive dad.

"Everything okay?" Wanda asks, her voice tinged with worry.

You lock your phone screen without responding to him, looking up with a small smile that falls flat. "Everything's okay," you respond, trying to keep your tone bright. "It's just my parents."

Wanda's hand tightens around your upper thigh suddenly, making you jolt slightly on the bench.

"Did they need something?" Wanda asks.

Her voice is colder than you've ever heard it. The gentle, soft lines of her face are completely gone, her lips pulled into a rigid line.

"Yeah..." you start slowly, still in shock from the sudden shift. "They were just checking to see if I have enough for rent. And... if I want to meet up for a meal."

Her fingers tighten even more against your skin, making a sudden swarm of butterflies erupt in your lower stomach. You try to look away, but Wanda releases your joined hands, bringing her palm up to scoop your jaw and tilt your chin back up.

Her eyes are incredibly dark as she stares down at you. You know you should probably feel afraid of the intensity radiating off her, but instead, the butterflies morph into a low, throbbing ache that makes you shift slightly.

"If you don't have enough for rent, then I can take care of it," she says. Her gaze never wavers, making you realize she's dead serious.

You release a shaky laugh. "I'm okay for rent, Wanda. I promise."

"Then are you meeting them for a meal?" she asks quickly, her tone demanding as she watches your eyes intently.

You shake your head as much as you can while she holds your face in her palm. "No. There's no need to," you start, a wry smile pulling at your lips before you grin up at her. "I'd rather eat with you."

You wonder if she knows just how true that is.

Her tight grip finally releases on your face and your thigh. She uses her thumb to softly stroke the skin of your chin where she had held a little too hard. Before you can even blink, she leans down, pressing a lingering kiss against your chin before pulling back with a thoroughly satisfied smile.

"I'll have to take you somewhere nice then," she says simply, the warmth returning to her voice.

She pinches your cheek lightly between her index finger and thumb. Your eyes close automatically, your head leaning heavily into her hand at the familiar gesture.

You both sit there like that for a long while. Her hand remains resting on your thigh, while her other hand releases the soft skin of your cheek, pressing her warm palm against your face instead. You giggle brightly when the tiny ducklings try to snuggle up against the mother duck's feathers.

Wanda chuckles beside you, her thumb stroking your cheek delicately like you're something precious.

"What's funny, baby?" Wanda's voice raises a pitch, like the way you naturally do when you're speaking to a child. But for some reason, it doesn't bother you. It reminds you of Her and the way her voice would brighten when she'd see you.

You turn your head, giving Wanda a cute, little smile without really thinking about your words.

"They look like us."

Her eyes soften immediately, and she leans forward to press her lips softly against your cheek. "They do," she agrees, pulling back just enough to give you a smile filled with pure affection.

You both stare at the pond for a while, until Wanda glances down at her watch. You hear her take in a sharp breath before she finally releases your face. Her hand slides away from your inner thigh, leaving a sudden, chilling patch of cold skin behind.

"I'm sorry, baby, but I have to go now," she says quickly, though the profound softness remains in her voice.

Your lips instantly jut out in a pout. You move your legs off her lap, shifting on the wooden bench so you're sitting properly again. "Okay," you respond, your voice quiet and tinged with sadness. "I'll see you next time."

You force a wide smile onto your face, desperately reminding your frantic mind that you'll see her again soon.

She stands up, turning around to give you one last bright smile. "See you later, alligator," she says, her voice raised to that higher pitch again.

"Bye-bye, mommy," you respond automatically, waving your hand at her.

It's only when Wanda takes a few slow steps down the gravel path that your blood turns to ice.

Wanda freezes, suddenly coming to a stop. It feels like everything around you has paused, only Wanda's motions continuing. She turns around slowly to face you.

"S-Sorry," you stutter, your pulse hammering in your throat making your mouth turn dry. "I don't know why I said that."

She stares at you. Her green eyes are blown wide, her mouth agape as she looks at you with breathless intensity.

"Are you—"

"Moya lyubov, I'm here to pick you up," a raspy voice sounds from right behind Wanda.

Wanda's mouth freezes, but she doesn't turn around, her eyes staying on you. Your heart is beating erratically, the pounding of it almost making your ribs ache.

"Wanda?" the voice asks, but she still doesn't move, like her gaze can't leave your body.

You lean forward slightly, meeting a pair of green eyes, slightly more vibrant than Wanda's. Her hair color is similar to Wanda's, but this woman wears a power suit, nothing like the comfortable, modest clothing you see Wanda wear.

The woman walks past Wanda to you, shaking Wanda out of her stupor.

"Natash—"

"Hi, you must be the one that Wanda's been talking about," the woman starts. "I'm Natasha. Wanda's wife." Natasha lifts her hand up to you for a handshake.

Your hand lifts automatically, though it feels like your mind has gone completely blank. You shake her hand, her firm grip doing nothing to bring you back to reality.

Wife? you think frantically.

Your gaze darts down to Wanda's left hand, tracking a gold band resting on her ring finger. A ring you're absolutely certain you've never seen on her hand before today.

Then what was all of this? Eating together at restaurants, sitting side by side. Holding hands at farmer's markets because Wanda didn't want you to get lost. All the conversations you've had here a this bench.

Natasha's hand continues to hold yours in a firm grip. She scans your face, observing you closely.

"I can see why Wanda is so taken with you," she says with a small smile, though there's something else brewing behind her eyes.

You look past her to Wanda. Her eyes are wide, her face pale, like she's been caught in a terrible lie.

But Natasha knows about you. Wanda's talked to her about you.

You look back at Natasha. She doesn't look angry. Rather, she looks down at you with pity in her eyes, her lips pulled downward. The betrayal you expect to see on her face, replaced by something else entirely, sends your mind into a blur.

"What…" you start, your voice barely a whisper.

What did you just get yourself into? —