Sera

Pretending she didn’t know exactly how Professor Maximoff tasted when her lipstick rubbed off on Y/N’s mouth.

Pretending she didn’t remember how Wanda’s legs had trembled around her hips last night, fingers buried in Y/N’s hair, whispering her name like a prayer she wasn’t supposed to say.

Pretending she hadn’t left Wanda’s apartment just three hours ago.

Now she sat in the front row of Introduction to Metaphysics, spine straight, expression neutral, hands folded like she hadn’t been gripping Wanda’s thighs hours earlier.

Wanda walked into the lecture hall with her usual grace, red cardigan, glasses, hair in a loose bun. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would draw suspicion.

Except for the way her eyes flickered—only once—down Y/N’s body, lingering at her throat where her mouth had been.

Y/N smirked before she could stop herself.

Wanda’s jaw tightened.

A silent warning: behave.

Y/N did not.

She leaned back, confidence dripping off her in a way that would look like arrogance to anyone else. But Wanda knew that stance—knew exactly what it meant. But she managed to control her expressions.

No one knew.

Not the faculty.

Not the students.

Not even Y/N’s mother, Natasha Romanoff, who somehow always saw through every lie Y/N tried to tell.

If Natasha ever found out her daughter was sneaking into a professor’s bed…

Y/N exhaled quietly. She didn’t want to imagine that fallout.

Wanda cleared her throat at the front of the room.

“Good morning. Please open your texts to chapter four.”

Her voice wavered—just barely. Just enough for Y/N to hear it and know why.

Because Wanda still felt her.

Y/N’s fingers drummed on her desk. Her body thrummed with the memory of Wanda’s breathy moans, her flushed skin, the way she’d whispered, “Faster—Y/N, please—” right before Y/N had pinned her wrists to the pillow.

Wanda’s gaze darted to her again—sharp and warning.

Later, Y/N mouthed silently.

Wanda’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.

But secrets never stayed quiet forever.

And Wanda had been feeling nauseous every morning this week.

---

Flashback —  Y/N’s POV

If I’m being honest, the whole thing started because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

It was only the third week of the semester—still that hopeful stretch where freshmen think they’re going to keep up with readings, and professors still pretend they believe us. I’d grabbed a seat in the back, hoodie up, headphones around my neck, doing my usual routine of not drawing attention… because when your mother is the principal, attention is a nightmare.

And then she walked in.

Professor Wanda Maximoff.

Red sweater.

Black skirt.

Hair half-up.

I remember thinking: Perfect. She’s gorgeous. This semester is already going to hell.

She started lecturing with that calm, soft voice—too calm for someone who had no idea she was already ruining my focus for the semester.

I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even look at her longer than a second. I was trying so hard to behave. My mom’s voice was literally in my head repeating: Don’t cause trouble, Y/N.

And I almost listened.

Then Wanda mentioned something about determinism, and I muttered—too loud—“That’s bullshit.”

The class laughed. I didn’t. I meant it.

Her head snapped toward me, sharp but curious.

“Something to add, Miss Romanoff?”

Yeah. She knew exactly who I was.

When your mom is Natasha Romanoff—the principal—everyone knows who you are.

I forced myself to sit up a little straighter.

“I’m just saying,” I said, “if everything is predetermined, why bother? Sounds like we’re all just passengers in our own lives.”

Silence fell over the room. One of those heavy, choke-on-the-air moments.

But Wanda didn’t get angry.

She didn’t call me disrespectful.

She just looked… interested.

“Come see me after class,” she said.

I thought I was doomed. I could practically hear my mother already:

Y/N, what did you do?

When the room emptied, I dragged myself to the front, ready for the scolding of my life—Wanda lecturing me, Mom hearing about it, a full catastrophe.

Except Wanda didn’t lecture me.

She folded her arms, leaning against the desk like she had all the time in the world.

“You don’t really think determinism is an excuse to give up,” she said.

“Oh?” I crossed my arms too. “What do I think, then?”

Her eyes fixed on mine—steady, warm, too perceptive.

“I think,” she said softly, “you don’t like the idea that some things aren’t in your control.”

That hit deeper than I wanted to admit.

She didn’t know me. And yet, somehow she did.

I huffed. “Pretty bold guess for someone who met me an hour ago.”

She smiled—a small, knowing curve of lips.

“Then prove me wrong.”

That was when it happened.

That moment of static in the air.

That pull I couldn’t stop even if I tried.

After that, everything changed.

I started showing up early.

Sitting closer.

Asking questions I already understood just to hear her unravel answers.

And Wanda—well, she stopped pretending she wasn’t watching me.

It wasn’t supposed to go anywhere.

We both told ourselves that.

We both lied.

The shift happened slowly—quietly—like a line getting erased bit by bit until you didn’t even notice you’d crossed it.

At first, it was little things.

The way Wanda’s gaze lingered a second too long when she handed back my papers.

The way her fingers brushed mine when she returned a pen.

The soft exhale she let out whenever I walked into her classroom late, as if I disrupted the air just by being there.

And maybe I did.

Because around her, I wasn’t the principal’s daughter.

I wasn’t the problem-child-campus-legend everyone whispered about.

With her, I felt… seen.

Wanted.

Balanced in a way I’d never felt before.

But I kept my distance. For her sake. For my mom’s reputation. For the rules we both pretended mattered.

Then came the night everything cracked open.

It was raining—hard. One of those storms that makes the whole campus glow under streetlights. I was in the library working on an assignment. Wanda was there too. She always stayed late on Thursdays to “finish grading,” though I noticed she only graded three papers in two hours and didn’t stop glancing at the door like she was waiting for something.

Or someone.

I was heading out when I saw her packing up slowly, brows tight, like she was thinking too loud.

“You driving?” I asked.

She looked up, startled. “No, I walked today. I… didn’t think it would rain.”

Her voice was gentle, hopeful in a way she tried to hide.

I didn’t even think.

“I’ll walk you.”

She froze.

“I have an umbrella,” I added, lifting it slightly—proof I wasn’t just making an excuse to stay near her… even if I was.

She shouldn’t say yes.

She knew she shouldn’t.

But she did.

“Okay,” she whispered.

We stepped out into the rain, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal—just a professor and a student walking home under a cheap black umbrella.

But nothing about it was normal.

We walked close enough that our shoulders brushed with every step, her perfume mixing with the clean scent of rain, her hand occasionally grazing mine like she kept forgetting how close we were.

I could hear her breathe.

I could feel her breathe.

Halfway down the path, a sudden gust of wind howled through the courtyard.

The umbrella snapped backward with a loud metallic crack.

“Well… shit,” I muttered, wrestling the mangled frame.

Wanda tried to hold back a laugh—really tried—but it slipped out, soft and melodic and absolutely unfair.

“It’s okay,” she said breathlessly, pushing wet strands of hair off her face. “It’s only rain.”

“Yeah,” I said, tossing the useless umbrella aside.

That was the moment the sky decided to get violent.

In an instant, the drizzle turned into a downpour—sheets of rain slamming against us so hard Wanda actually yelped and stepped closer on instinct.

“God—!” she gasped as the storm swallowed the path. “This is—”

“Insane?” I finished, already stepping into her space, trying to shield her with my body even though it did nothing.

The rain was merciless now—sharp, cold, drenching us to the bone in seconds. Her sweater clung to her waist, her blouse turning translucent in patches. She shivered, arms wrapping around herself.

“Come here,” I said before I could think.

I held my hoodie above her head with one hand, wrapping my other arm around her shoulders to pull her against me.

It didn’t help.

Not really.

But she leaned into me anyway—soft, warm, trembling—and my heart stuttered in a way I had no business feeling.

Her head rested briefly against my shoulder as another gust of wind blew rain sideways, soaking us even more.

“This storm is ridiculous,” she muttered against my collarbone, voice tight with cold and something that wasn’t just cold.

“Want me to carry you?” I joked.

She actually laughed—a breathy, disbelieving sound that helped me forget how soaked and miserable we were.

“You can’t carry me.”

“Try me.”

She looked up at me then—rain dripping from her eyelashes, pupils blown wide, lips parted as she breathed in the warm air between us.

Something in her expression softened.

Shifted.

Opened.

“Let’s just get home,” she whispered. Not quite steady.

We hurried the rest of the way, practically running from awning to awning. Every time thunder cracked, Wanda grabbed my wrist—tight, instinctive—like she didn’t even realize she was clinging to me.

By the time we reached her apartment building, we were soaked, breathless, and flushed with adrenaline.

She stopped under the shelter, pushing wet hair from her face as she inhaled sharply.

“Y/N… you’re freezing.”

“You’re worse.”

She exhaled—shaky, almost a tremor.

“I… you should probably get inside. Get changed,” she said, voice low, tentative.

Her eyes flicked up at mine, hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she should really be saying it.

“I… yeah, okay,” I replied, though I already knew I wasn’t going to leave.

She stepped aside, holding the door open with one hand, the other brushing wet strands of hair from her face. Her sweater clung to her in a way that made it impossible to think rationally.

“You go first,” she said softly.

I nodded, stepping in, dripping wet, and my gaze flicked around the apartment as my fingers clutched the soaked fabric of my hoodie. I shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. My wet hair clung to my face and neck, and I automatically started tugging at my shirt, pulling it up over my head absentmindedly. I wasn’t thinking about her—well, not exactly—but my body moved with the single-minded purpose of getting dry, revealing the black sports bra underneath.

Halfway through removing the shirt, I heard the soft shuffle of her footsteps returning. Wanda was holding a towel, and she froze for a heartbeat when her eyes roamed over me.

My abs, damp skin glistening under the light, the curve of my hips—it wasn’t meant to be a show, but I could see the way her pupils dilated.

Wanda cleared her throat softly, averting her eyes for a moment before stepping closer, holding the towel out to me.

“Here… you’ll need this,” she said, her voice quiet, steady but carrying that slight tremor I could hear even without words.

I took the towel, brushing my fingers against hers as I did, and then I stepped closer to her, wrapping the thick, soft fabric gently around her shoulders. She stiffened slightly at first, then relaxed into the warmth.

I looked down at her face, soft and flushed, wet strands of hair clinging to her cheeks. I reached up, letting the towel slide over her hair, drying each damp strand slowly, carefully.

Her eyes met mine—wide, questioning—and I couldn’t resist the pull. My gaze held hers, dark and steady, impossible to break.

I was hypnotized. I had never seen someone so unbearably, painfully beautiful. Every detail of her face—the curve of her lips, the shine in her eyes, the way her wet hair clung to her cheeks—was burning into my mind.

My hand froze mid-motion, the towel no longer brushing her hair. Instead, it drifted away as my fingers lifted to cup her cheek, gentle but possessive.

“Y/N…” she whispered, voice trembling, soft and uncertain.

“We can’t…” Wanda’s words were barely audible, a fragile warning. She knew exactly what was happening. Her mind screamed at her, pleading for control, but her body betrayed her.

“Are you sure…?” I whispered against her lips, my voice low, urgent, our eyes locked in an unbreakable hold.

She shook her head slowly, eyes wide, lips parting as though to deny me—but her hands reached up, trembling slightly, and went to my jaw, fingers pressing softly but insistently, anchoring herself to me. Her touch sent a shiver through me.

And in the next second, everything shattered.

Our lips met.

Desperate. Hungry. Burning.

Her hands stayed on my jaw, tilting my face toward her, pulling me closer, as if she couldn’t get enough. I pressed into her, one hand threading through her wet hair, the other brushing the side of her face, cradling her cheek.

The world outside—the rain, the thunder, the storm—vanished. There was only her, only the heat, the slick friction of our lips, the intoxicating way she tasted, the way her breaths hitched against mine.

We kissed like we’d been holding back for an eternity, like we’d both been drowning and finally found air in each other. Desperate, frantic, almost painfully slow at first, then growing urgent, demanding, consuming.

And even as our lips moved together, our eyes never parted—not even for a heartbeat.

We both knew there was no turning back.

I forgot everything I was supposed to be: student, the principal’s daughter, rule-follower. All of it dissolved in the heat of her mouth against mine.

It wasn't a gentle first kiss. It was the frantic, raw culmination of weeks of shared glances and repressed tension. We were two forces colliding.

Wanda made a soft, needy sound in the back of her throat—a whimper that sounded more like surrender than shock—and she melted into me.

I gripped her waist, pulling her flush against my wet body, the thin, damp fabric of her clothes no barrier at all. Her scent—rain, soft perfume, and something uniquely hers—intoxicated me.

She tasted like the air before a storm, volatile and inevitable.

Her hands, still cupping my jaw, tightened, pulling my head down until our angle was perfect. She kissed me with an urgency that matched my own, her lips moving against mine in a breathless, demanding rhythm.

The towel fell forgotten to the floor, another casualty of the chaos.

We broke apart only to draw a desperate, ragged breath, our chests heaving.

Wanda’s hands slid from my jaw to grip the back of my neck, pulling me back to her with a force that made her own body tremble. Our second kiss was harder, deeper—a desperate affirmation of the choice we had just made. I felt the sharp press of her teeth, the slick slide of her tongue, and the rapid, uneven rhythm of her heart hammering against my own.

I moved my hands from her waist, sliding them up her soaking back, bunching the wet fabric of her cardigan and blouse in my fists. I didn't care about the rules, or the ethics, or the freezing rain outside. I only cared about the heat generating between us, so fierce it seemed impossible we weren't combusting.

With a grunt, I lifted her.

Wanda gasped, wrapping her legs instinctively around my hips, burying her face into the curve of my neck and shoulder as I shifted. Her light weight was nothing. The sheer, overwhelming reality of having her pressed so tightly against me, her legs clamped around my waist, was everything.

I stumbled two steps, propelled by a primal need, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the small dining table tucked into the corner of the apartment. I kept her tight against me as I nudged her backward, lifting and settling her onto the table’s cool, smooth surface.

She broke the kiss only to drag her mouth along my jaw, biting lightly before whispering something incoherent against my skin—a sound that was pure, desperate arousal.

My hands were already working. The soaked, delicate fabric of her red cardigan was impossible to unbutton quickly, so I abandoned the buttons, tugging the garment roughly off her shoulders until it fell uselessly to the floor.

Her blouse was next. The thin white material was glued to her skin, transparent in patches. I grabbed the hem and yanked it up, stripping it off and tossing it aside. She shivered violently in the cool air, but her focus never left mine. Her breathing was ragged, her lips swollen and damp.

She was left wearing a simple, wet black bra, the lace clinging to her full chest. The sight made the blood rush from my head, pooling heavily and urgently lower down.

As I stared, hypnotized, she mirrored my urgency.

Wanda’s hands dropped from my neck, frantic and fumbling, searching for the buckle of my soaked jeans. She found the belt and yanked it, the leather making a harsh sound as it slipped through the loop. Her fingers were clumsy with desire, but the intention was clear.

We fell into a desperate rhythm—my hands working to undo the clasp of her bra, hers fighting the zipper of my jeans. The only sounds in the apartment were our ragged breaths, the scrape of fabric, and the unrelenting drumming of the rain outside, providing a frantic soundtrack to our undoing.

Her eyes were locked on mine—two desperate, dark pools of liquid fire. In them, I saw no trace of Professor Maximoff, only the woman who was as thoroughly and dangerously consumed as I was.

The sound of the belt hitting the floor registered somewhere distantly, but before Wanda could even locate the stubborn zipper, I kissed her again. Harder this time, with a consuming force that stole the air and any remaining rational thought.

Wanda made a whimpering noise, forgetting the zipper, forgetting the consequences, forgetting everything except the feel of my mouth and the insistent pressure of my body. Her fingers, which had been fumbling at my belt line, tightened on the sides of my head, pulling me closer still, losing herself completely in the desperate hunger of the moment. Her kiss became demanding, possessive, a silent language screaming mine, all mine.

Just as the kiss deepened to an impossible degree, the sheer friction of my wet skin against hers finally recalled her to the task. Wanda's eyes fluttered open for a split second, a flash of panicked, burning realization. Her hands shot down, fingers hooking urgently into the waistband of my soaking jeans, tugging down with a desperate, impatient effort.

But we never broke contact. Our lips remained locked, bodies straining together as we fought the battle against the clothing that separated us.

I wrapped my right arm securely around her waist, lifting her hips just enough to create space. With my free hand, I found the zipper on her soaking skirt. I pulled it down, and as I dragged the heavy, wet fabric down her legs, Wanda instinctively helped, lifting her hips and shifting her weight until the skirt joined the pile of discarded clothes on the rug.

She was left wearing a simple, sleek pair of wet black lace panties.

The moment Wanda's skirt fell, revealing the sleek line of her wet panties, my focus intensified. Our mouths were still locked in a demanding, hungry rhythm—a kiss that felt like the only anchor in the rapidly spinning room.

Without breaking the kiss, I worked the zipper on my own soaking jeans down, the sound muffled by the noise of the rain and our desperate breathing. I felt the urgent, demanding hardness of my member pressing against the damp fabric of my boxer briefs—a firm, heavy weight that was screaming for release. With a final effort, I kicked the jeans and the soaked boxers down my legs, letting them pool on the floor around my ankles.

Now, clad only in my wet sports bra and the insistent heat of my own body, I lifted Wanda up slightly with the arm supporting her waist. In the next breath, I pulled her tightly, fiercely, against my fully exposed front.

The thin, wet lace of her panties offered no resistance as my rigid cock slammed against her heat, the electric shock of the pressure making us both groan simultaneously into the kiss. The press was undeniable, searing, and impossibly good.

The contact was a shockwave. I broke the kiss only to trail the path along her jaw, down her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the frantic pulse beating beneath her ear.

I kept her pressed against me, and I began to move my hips, a slow, deliberate grind that made my hard length rub insistently against her wet center.

Wanda gasped, a low, guttural sound, and she clung to me, her fingers digging painfully into the muscles of my shoulders. The friction was agonizingly slow, unbearably good, building a frantic, tight coil of need inside us both. Every nerve ending seemed to be vibrating.

After several agonizing moments of rubbing, the sound of Wanda's desperate breathing and muffled pleas for more became too much.

I broke away from her neck, my gaze dropping to our joined hips. I reached down, my hand sticky from the dried rain and heat, and found the damp lace covering her core. My fingers slipped underneath the thin fabric, searching for the throbbing folds beneath, seeking to stroke and ease her.

But Wanda was beyond patience.

Before my fingers could even find purchase, she cried out, her voice tight with desperation.

"No—Y/N, stop," she choked out, her hips instinctively bucking against my hand. "Just... put it in. Please, now."

Her hands dropped instantly, abandoning my shoulders. She cupped my throbbing length through the wet boxers, her grasp firm and possessive. Without hesitation, she guided me precisely to her folds, pressing the tip against the damp, welcoming entrance shielded only by the sheer lace. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto mine, a look of desperate, primal command that brooked no argument.

"Now," she insisted, breathing the word against my mouth.

The sound of her demanding the very thing I craved shattered any remnants of my control. The feel of her slick, trembling heat against the tip of my erection was a sensation so overwhelming it bordered on pain.

I didn't need to be told twice.

Wanda shifted her weight, allowing me the angle I needed. Her hands remained clamped around my hardness, a mixture of guidance and urgent invitation.

I pushed, slowly at first, seeking entry. The friction of the wet fabric and the tightness of her core made the initial invasion a searing, difficult resistance. Wanda moaned sharply, her back arching, her hands briefly tightening into claws on my hips.

Then, with a desperate, guttural sound, I pushed all the way, burying myself deeply into her warm, welcoming wetness.

The sudden, complete sense of fullness stole our breath. We froze, suspended in the moment, our bodies fused together, the only movement the frantic pulsing of our combined heartbeats.

I groaned her name—a low, ragged sound of pure euphoria.

Wanda squeezed her eyes shut, a soft sob escaping her throat. Her hands slid from my hips to rest on my lower back, holding me in place with an iron grip.

"Y/N," she whispered, the name a breathless prayer against my neck.

I held still for a precious few seconds, letting her adjust to the invasion, feeling the exquisite warmth and tightness closing around me. The rain outside seemed to intensify, matching the furious, pounding rhythm that had already begun inside my chest.

Then, unable to wait another second, I began to move. Slow, deep, deliberate thrusts, pulling back almost entirely before pushing back in.

Wanda’s head tipped back, resting against the cold wall behind the table, her body completely surrendered to the sensation. She was rocking with me, meeting every thrust, a low, continuous moan building in her throat.

"Faster," she demanded, her voice already hoarse, just like the memory that would later haunt me in the lecture hall. "Faster, Y/N, please—"

I obliged, the slow strokes giving way to a frantic, primal rhythm. The moisture from the rain, the heat from our bodies, and the slickness of our urgent passion created a mesmerizing, consuming chaos. The world narrowed down to the sound of our skin slapping together and Wanda’s breathless cries filling the small apartment.

Back to the Present

And just like that, Wanda and I started… whatever this thing between us was.

The morning after that rain-soaked night, she panicked.

Wouldn’t look at me.

Wouldn’t touch me.

Wouldn’t even breathe too close.

She apologized—twice—then mumbled something about boundaries and professionalism and “this can’t ever happen again,” before practically shoving me out the door with my damp hoodie half inside-out.

I thought that was it.

But it wasn’t.

Not even close.

Three weeks later, it happened again.

Same apartment.

Same look in her eyes.

Same magnetic pull neither of us could outrun.

She tried to stay distant at first, tried to pretend the lines hadn’t already been blurred past recognition. But all it took was one Saturday with me knocking at her door.

And suddenly her lips were on mine again, and every argument she had made about ethics and rules evaporated like mist in heat.

After that second time, there was no pretending.

Weekends became ours.

I would pack a small overnight bag, tell my mom that I was staying at a friend’s house, and head straight to Wanda’s apartment. Sometimes we’d talk for hours. Sometimes we barely made it past the doorway. Sometimes we just slept tangled together until sunlight forced us apart again.

We both knew it was dangerous.

Wrong by every institutional standard.

Something that could destroy both our lives if anyone found out.

But I couldn’t stay away.

And Wanda…

Wanda didn’t either.

She was addicting—every soft sigh, every sharp look, every moment she let me see her vulnerability. The more time I spent with her, the harder it became to imagine stopping.

And six months later sneaking around, I knew I had feelings for her. But it was complicated.

---

Today, after my part-time shift, I went straight to her apartment.

It was around 9 p.m.—late enough that most professors were already home and asleep, but Wanda always waited for me.

She opened the door before I even knocked fully, like she’d been listening for my footsteps in the hallway.

“Hi,” she whispered, smiling softly as she stepped aside to let me in.

Her apartment smelled like rosemary and something warm simmering on the stove.

“Did you eat anything?” she asked immediately, doing that thing where her concern sounded stern, like she was trying to hide how much she cared.

“A little,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “But I could eat. You know I love your cooking.”

A faint blush rose on her cheeks—Wanda Maximoff, the professor everyone saw as composed and unshakeable, still got flustered when I complimented her.

I didn’t give her time to recover.

I reached for her waist, pulled her close, and leaned in to kiss her—something soft, something familiar.

But she turned her head slightly, and my lips met her cheek instead.

I froze.

My hands were still on her waist, but suddenly they felt too heavy.

Too presumptive.

“Hey,” I murmured, leaning back just enough to look at her fully. “What’s wrong?”

Wanda avoided my eyes—never a good sign.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I’m just tired. Long day.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

It didn’t even get close.

“Tired?” I repeated, my voice softer. “That’s all?”

She nodded, but her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. Wanda only did that when she was nervous. Or hiding something.

Something twisted in my stomach.

“Wanda,” I said quietly. “Talk to me.”

Her breath hitched, barely noticeable unless you were obsessed with every little detail of her the way I was.

But before she could answer, the pot on the stove hissed loudly, steam rising like a perfect excuse.

She took a step back.

“I should finish dinner,” she said, forcing a composed tone. “Go sit. I’ll make you a plate.”

She turned away too quickly.

And I stood there in her tiny living room—still soaked from the cold air outside, backpack on one shoulder, and heart sinking with a weight I couldn’t name yet.

Wanda was hiding something.

And I was terrified to find out what.

---

Dinner felt… wrong.

It was quiet—too quiet for us.

Wanda set a plate in front of me, her movements precise, careful, like she was handling fragile glass instead of pasta. I thanked her, and she nodded, offering a small, distracted smile before sitting across from me.

Normally, she sat beside me.

Normally, her knee brushed mine at least twice before we even started eating.

Tonight, she stayed a full chair away.

“Smells good,” I said, hoping to tease a real smile out of her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, already staring down at her food like it required her full attention.

We ate in a silence that pressed itself against my ribs.

I tried a few times—little comments about my shift, about school, even about the new stray cat that had taken over the courtyard—but all I got were absentminded nods, soft hums, and short, clipped answers.

It felt like I was talking to a shadow of her.

By the time we finished, my nerves were humming.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

“Sure,” she said too quickly. “Yeah.”

Sure.

Yeah.

Words she’d never used with me before. Wanda always had opinions—always teased, always challenged, always chose something she knew I’d fall asleep to.

But tonight she moved like someone performing a script, and my chest was starting to tighten with it.

We went to the couch, and as soon as I sat down beside her, I reached for her thigh—just a soft touch, something grounding.

The moment my fingertips brushed her?

She went rigid.

Not flinching—just… freezing.

My heart sank.

“Wanda,” I said quietly, pulling my hand back. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she answered immediately. Too immediately.

“Did… did I do something?” The question scraped my throat raw. “Just tell me if I did.”

Her head snapped up, eyes widening. “No. You didn’t.”

“Then what—?”

“Y/N.” She cut me off—soft voice, trembling edges. “I just… tonight, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” I whispered.

She swallowed hard, blinking fast, her breath uneven.

For a second, I thought she would finally tell me.

But then she shook her head and stood up abruptly.

“You should go home tonight.”

The words hit like cold water straight to the spine.

I stared at her, stunned into silence.

“Wanda—”

“Please,” she said, gently but firmly. “Just for tonight.”

I opened my mouth to argue—to reach for her, to ask her to look at me—but the expression on her face stopped me cold.

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t annoyed.

She was scared.

Of what, I didn’t know.

But it wasn’t me.

Still, the sting of rejection burned under my skin, and I felt something inside me drop, heavy and sickening.

I stood slowly, grabbing my bag.

“Okay,” I said, voice quieter than I meant. “If that’s what you want.”

Wanda nodded, but her eyes flickered—guilt? fear? both?

She didn’t hug me goodbye.

She didn’t kiss my cheek.

She didn’t even walk me to the door.

I left her apartment that night feeling colder than the air outside.

And for the first time since this all started…

I didn’t know if Wanda would want me back.

---

The week had been unbearable.

Wanda was distant, evasive, and cold in ways that tore at me. Every text I sent was met with vague excuses: “I’m busy.” “I have work to do.” “I can’t today.”

I tried everything—dropping by her apartment, leaving little notes, even showing up after my shifts—but every attempt ended the same.

“I just… have to check my students’ assignments,” she said once, shoulders tight, eyes avoiding mine. “I don’t have time right now.”

I protested, my voice catching. “Wanda, that’s not—”

“I said I’m busy, Y/N,” she snapped, sharp but not cruel. Just final.

And that was it. She didn’t explain. She didn’t soften. She didn’t let me in.

I walked away, heart heavy, stomach twisting.

By Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I was done waiting.

I stormed into her office at the college, adrenaline pumping.

“Y/N—” Wanda started, eyes wide in shock.

I moved past her, locking the door behind me with a firm click. Then I walked to the blinds, pulling them closed. The bright sunlight was gone, leaving us in the muted glow of the room, shadows stretching across the floor.

“Y/N, you cannot barge in like this into my office. If someone sees—” Wanda’s voice took on a slightly stern edge, worry lacing the warning.

“I don’t care!” I interrupted, my voice trembling with frustration and fear. “I need to know what’s going on. Did I do something wrong?”

Wanda hesitated, biting her lip, glancing toward the door as if imagining students or faculty walking in at any second.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” she said softly, trying to soothe the tension.

“It doesn’t feel like nothing!” I shot back, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You barely even look at me! What’s going on, Wanda?”

She ran a hand down her face, exhaling sharply. “Y/N, we… we can’t do this here. Someone might walk by. This—this conversation, this…” She gestured vaguely between us, “…it’s too risky. Not just for me, for you too.”

I pressed, my voice softer but desperate. “Then tell me where we can! Tell me how to fix this, because I can’t handle not knowing.”

Wanda’s eyes softened but remained firm. “Come by tonight,” she said, a little stern now, trying to impose control. “We can talk there, privately. But we… we cannot do this here. Not at college. Not in my office.”

“Then tell me later! Just… don’t leave me in this—this limbo. I can’t… I can’t pretend you don’t matter to me when you do!”

She flinched.

Not visibly enough for anyone else to notice—but I knew her.

I saw the tiny shiver in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled against the edge of her desk. Her eyes glossed over, a thin sheen of tears she tried to blink away.

And for a second—

the cool, untouchable Professor Maximoff

simply vanished.

In her place was Wanda.

My Wanda.

The woman who let me hold her in the quiet moments, who kissed me like she needed it to breathe, who whispered my name like a secret she couldn’t stop loving.

She closed her eyes tightly, like she was physically bracing against the weight of my words.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

“Enough…” she whispered, voice frail around the edges.

She lifted her gaze to mine—red-rimmed, pleading, terrified.

“We can talk later,” she breathed. “But not here, ok? Someone might see us.”

Her hand hovered in the air, as if she wanted to reach for me…

but she didn’t let herself.

My anger cracked.

My chest squeezed painfully.

“…Wanda,” I whispered.

But she shook her head, a small, trembling motion. “Please. Not here.”

The desperation wasn’t just mine anymore.

She was scared.

Not of me—never of me.

But of the consequences.

Of what we were risking.

Of what she was hiding.

And suddenly I understood that something was hurting her far deeper than my frustration ever could.

I stepped back a little, giving her space she couldn’t ask for out loud.

“Tonight,” she said again, forcing steadiness she didn’t feel.

Her voice cracked anyway.

“Come tonight. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

---

I left her office that afternoon with a storm in my chest.

The halls were quiet, students long gone, the echo of my footsteps hitting the linoleum like a metronome counting down the hours until tonight.

I tried to focus on work, on homework, anything—but every tick of the clock, every muted sound of the college around me, reminded me that Wanda was just… out there, waiting, scared, avoiding me.

I ate dinner mechanically, drank a glass of soda I barely tasted, then spent the evening pacing, restless and anxious. By 8:45 p.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my bag, shoved my jacket on, and left for her apartment.

The walk drive was a blur. I only thought of her.

By the time I arrived, it was dark. The apartment windows glowed softly against the night, warm and inviting.

I knocked, heart hammering, and Wanda appeared almost immediately.

“You’re here early,” she said quietly, eyes darting toward the door like she expected someone to appear at any moment.

“I couldn’t wait,” I said bluntly, my voice raw with everything I had been holding in all week.

She stepped aside silently, letting me in. The apartment smelled like warm bread and something floral—her perfume, maybe, lingering in the corners.

“Sit,” she said softly, motioning toward the couch, her voice cautious but steady.

I dropped my bag before plopping down beside her. She was tense, hands folded in her lap, eyes flicking toward the door, the blinds, anywhere but me.

I waited in silence, the quiet between us thick and heavy, my hands resting on my knees, heart hammering with anticipation. The faint ticking of a clock and the soft hum of the city outside pressed into the stillness, making the room feel smaller, more intimate.

Finally, Wanda shifted in her seat, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. She exhaled slowly, gathering courage, and finally spoke.

“Y/N… do you… remember how I’ve been feeling… sick lately?” Her voice was soft, tentative, like she was testing the waters.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah… you mentioned it a few times. I thought maybe it was just stress… or the workload.” My voice was careful, gentle. “Why?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “Well… I noticed I’ve been… late. Later than usual. And I figured I should check, just to be safe. So I went to a clinic.”

I leaned in slightly, sensing the gravity in her tone. “And…?” I asked quietly, my pulse jumping in my chest.

Wanda took a shaky breath, eyes downcast, fingers gripping her own knees. “I’m… I’m pregnant, Y/N.”

The words hit me like a sudden, rushing wave. I blinked, mind stuttering, trying desperately to catch up, to process, to believe what I’d just heard.

“You’re… what?” I whispered, the air barely carrying the sound.

“I’m pregnant,” Wanda said again, clearer this time—quiet, but steady.

I froze. Completely.

For a few long, suspended seconds, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even think. My eyes dropped on their own, drawn to her stomach—flat beneath her soft sweater, but suddenly impossibly significant. There. That’s where—

My chest tightened.

Wanda took a shaky breath and rushed to fill the silence.

“You don’t need to do anything, Y/N. We can… pretend nothing happened. I’m not asking you to be a parent, or to stay with me, or commit to something you don’t want. I just needed to tell you because you deserve to know, but I don’t ex—”

“We’re going to have a baby?” I breathed.

The words slipped out of me in pure awe, soft and reverent, as if I was afraid speaking too loudly would shatter the moment.

Wanda’s mouth fell open slightly, the rest of her explanation dying in her throat. She blinked, caught off guard. “Y/N… I—I said you don’t have to—”

But I was already shaking my head, overwhelmed in a way I couldn’t begin to explain.

“We’re… we’re really going to have a baby?” I repeated, voice breaking with something raw, something bright and terrified and indescribably full.

Wanda’s eyes widened, a glossy sheen forming across them. “Y/N,” she whispered, breath trembling, “you’re not hearing me, I’m not expecting—”

I squeezed her hand, holding it tightly.

“Wanda,” I murmured, unable to look away from her, unable to stop the wonder spreading through me, “that’s ours?”

Her breath hitched.

“It’s ours?”

She didn’t answer—not immediately. She was too stunned.

Her silence stretched—not cold, not rejecting, just… stunned.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her fingers twitched in my hand—small, trembling, the only sign that she hadn’t turned to stone.

The quiet pressed against my ribs, thick and heavy.

A flicker of fear ignited in my chest—quiet but sharp.

So I leaned closer, voice soft, unsteady, something fragile bleeding through the cracks.

“It’s… it’s not mine?”

My voice broke on the last word.

Wanda’s breath caught, her entire body jolting with the force of her answer even before the words came.

“It is,” she whispered immediately—like she couldn’t bear for me to think otherwise for even a second. Tears welled in her eyes. “Y/N, it is yours.”

Her confirmation punched the air from my lungs.

“It is yours.”

The room went silent—so silent I could hear the faint hum of her refrigerator, the soft patter of evening traffic outside her window, the tiny shaky inhale she tried to hide.

Something inside me cracked open.

I looked down at her flat stomach—still no visible change, nothing to show the world what had happened between us. But I knew. She knew. There was a life there. A life that came from the two of us.

My hand lifted on instinct. I didn’t touch her—just hovered, barely an inch away, like she was something holy I wasn’t sure I had the right to reach for.

“A baby…” I whispered, awe threading through every syllable. “Our baby.”

Wanda flinched, her lips parting—not in rejection, but in fear.

“Y/N… don’t,” she said softly, voice cracking. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” I whispered.

“Like you want this.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. “Like this is… good news. Like you’re happy.”

I swallowed hard. “I am.”

Her reaction was immediate—a broken laugh, sharp and aching.

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just turned twenty. I am your professor. This is—this is monumental, Y/N. This could ruin everything. My job. Your degree. Our lives.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “We crossed a line we never should’ve crossed. And now…”

She placed a hand on her stomach, fingers splayed, protective.

“Now there’s a child involved. I don’t want you to feel trapped. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything. I don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

I forced her chin up gently with my fingers.

“Wanda,” I said quietly, “don’t decide what I want for me.”

Her breath stuttered.

“I’m scared,” she whispered—barely audible.

“I know,” I murmured. “Me too.”

Another tear fell.

“But you’re not alone. Not in this. Not anymore.”

She shook her head weakly. “Y/N… you don’t understand what this means.”

I slid my hand onto hers—over her stomach.

“I want to,” I said softly. “So let me.”

Her lips trembled.

For the first time since I’d arrived, she let herself look at me—*really* look. And whatever she saw in my eyes made something inside her crumble.

Her fingers curled around mine.

A small, broken whisper escaped her lips.

“Y/N… what are we going to do?”

Her fingers tightened around mine, the question hanging between us like a fragile thread.

“Y/N… what are we going to do?”

I didn’t answer right away. I let the moment breathe, let her see that I wasn’t going to bolt, that I wasn’t scared of her, that the weight of this didn’t send me running for the door.

I squeezed her hand gently. “First… we breathe.”

Wanda let out a shaky sound—half laugh, half sob.

I brushed her cheek with my thumb. “We don’t have to figure out everything tonight. Just… talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m thinking… my career is over if anyone finds out. I’m thinking your mother is the principal and she’ll destroy me. I’m thinking your future shouldn’t be tied to a decision I made when we—when I wasn’t being responsible. I’m thinking I’m terrified and I’m already… already attached.” Her voice cracked. “And I hate myself for that.”

My heart clenched. “Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t hate yourself. None of this is your fault.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” I insisted softly, leaning in. “I understand that this happened because we care about each other more than we were supposed to. I understand that you’re scared. I understand that it’s complicated, messy, dangerous—yeah. But that doesn’t make it wrong.”

“You’re too young,” she breathed.

“I’m old enough to know what I want,” I said. “And I want you.”

Her eyes squeezed shut like the words hurt her.

“And the baby?” she whispered, voice trembling.

I looked down at our joined hands resting over her stomach. It didn’t feel real yet—but it was. It was undeniably real.

"I didn’t know I could…" I laughed under my breath, stunned. "I mean—I knew biologically. But I didn’t think it would ever actually happen for me. I didn’t think… someone would want that with me.”

Her eyes snapped open, soft, vulnerable. “Y/N… I didn’t mean for this to happen.” She inhaled shakily. “But I don’t regret it. I just—”

“You’re scared,” I finished gently.

She nodded.

I moved closer, sliding my hand up her arm, grounding her. “But you’re still here. You didn’t run. You didn’t hide this from me. That means something.”

Her throat bobbed.

I leaned my forehead against hers, closing the last inches between us.

“We’ll figure everything else out,” I murmured. “Your job, my school, my mom… all of it. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Her breath hitched at our closeness, tears still clinging to her lashes.

“You really want this?” she whispered. “You want… us? A baby with me?”

I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, letting her see the sincerity in mine.

“I want anything that includes you. And if that means a baby… then yeah. I want this. I want you. Both of you.”

Wanda broke then—softly, silently.

She pressed her face into my chest, gripping my shirt with both hands, and I held her, steady and firm, like she could pour all her fear into me and I’d still be here.

After a long moment, her muffled voice trembled against me:

“Y/N… I don’t deserve you.”

I kissed the top of her head.

“Too late,” I whispered. “You have me anyway.”

---

That night, I didn’t leave. I stayed beside Wanda, curled up with her on the couch, holding her hand as she finally let herself exhale after a week of tension and fear. We talked quietly, not about everything, not about the future just yet, but about small things—the rain, the city outside, how her tea always tasted a little sweeter when I made it for her. It was enough for now.

In the following weeks, the rhythm of our lives subtly shifted. Every morning I checked in with her, walked her to class when I could, and held her close when the weight of uncertainty pressed on her.

“I think we should tell my mom,” I suggested one evening, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as we lay together on her bed. “I know she’s your boss, but my mom should know. She’ll understand… she’ll support us.”

Wanda shook her head, eyes wide, anxious. “Not yet, Y/N. I’m not ready. It’s… it’s too soon. I can’t… I can’t risk anyone finding out right now.”

I nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “Okay… not yet. But when you’re ready, I’ll be there.”

And I was.

I went with her to every doctor’s appointment, never leaving her side. I held her hand in the waiting room, rubbed her back during check-ups, whispered encouragements when she felt scared. I watched her hesitate at every ultrasound image, and I felt my heart swell when her fingers instinctively curled over her stomach, a protective, almost reverent gesture that made my chest ache with love.

And with every small moment, every quiet, tender gesture, I felt Wanda began to fall for me more and more. Not the me she’d sneaked into her apartment for in secret—but me, Y/N, the person who refused to leave, who refused to let her face anything alone.

And slowly, she started to let herself relax around me—laughing softly at my teasing, leaning into my shoulder without fear, letting me brush her hair from her face. Each small act of trust was a brick in the foundation of something neither of us could have predicted.

One night, after a long day at the clinic, she curled up against me on her couch, exhausted but smiling faintly.

“You’re… relentless, you know that?” she murmured, nuzzling against me.

I grinned, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I told you. You’re worth it.”

Her eyes softened, glistening in the dim light. “I… I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, voice shaking.

I kissed her temple, heart clenching. “You already have me,” I said. “All of me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She rested her head against my chest, quiet now, letting herself simply be with me. And as I held her, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, I knew we were building something that went far beyond fear or secrecy. Something stronger. Something lasting.

Something like love.

And for the first time, I felt certain that whatever came next—whatever challenges, whatever risks—we would face them together. Always together.

---

No One’s POV

Then, weeks passed, and Wanda was starting to show. She favored loose, flowing shirts now, careful to obscure the subtle curve of her growing belly whenever she walked through the halls of the college. Every day, she felt the weight of secrecy pressing against her chest, a constant reminder that what they had could not be revealed—not yet, not to anyone.

And yet, despite the need for caution, the bond between Wanda and Y/N only deepened. Every stolen moment, every whispered conversation, every gentle touch in the quiet of Wanda’s apartment strengthened what had begun in that rain-soaked night weeks ago. Wanda found herself falling harder for Y/N with each passing day.

It wasn’t just her presence—it was the way Y/N cared. The way she always knew when to offer comfort, when to gently push her to eat, when to hold her hand during moments of anxiety. Y/N had an almost instinctive understanding of her moods, her fears, her needs. And now, as the tiny life inside her began to grow, Y/N’s attentions expanded seamlessly to include the small baby bump she hadn’t yet allowed herself to embrace fully.

Y/N spoke to it softly, almost reverently, as if the child were already there in the room with them. “Hey, little one,” she would whisper, resting a hand lightly on Wanda’s stomach, a warm smile tugging at her lips. “Your mom is amazing, you know. You’re lucky to have her.”

Wanda’s heart both swelled and ached every time. She wanted to believe, to feel the hope and joy that came with Y/N’s unwavering support. But the shadow of fear lingered. How long could they really keep this secret? How long before someone noticed the bump? How long before the pressures of life, school, and her position as Y/N’s teacher forced them apart?

Even as Wanda melted a little more each day under Y/N’s love and care, a part of her braced for the moment everything could unravel. She had given herself to Y/N, completely and without reservation, but the knowledge that their lives could be upended at any moment gnawed at her.

Still, every time Y/N smiled down at her, whispered encouragements to her belly, or pressed a soft kiss to her temple, Wanda allowed herself—just for a heartbeat—to hope that maybe, somehow, they could weather everything together.

---

But just like they feared, it didn’t last long.

Wanda was mid-lecture, explaining a complex concept, when a sharp, stabbing pain shot through her belly. She winced, pressing her hands to the small bump, bracing herself on the edge of the table.

Y/N, seated in the front row, immediately noticed the sudden tension in her posture. Her chest tightened.

“Wanda?” she whispered, standing abruptly, eyes wide with concern.

But the next second, Wanda let out a small, strained sound, clutching her stomach more tightly. Her legs wobbled beneath her, her body teetering dangerously as a few students gasped and some stood up in alarm.

Y/N’s heart lurched. Without thinking, she dashed forward, sliding around the desk just in time to catch Wanda before she could hit the floor.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong!? Talk to me! Wanda!” Y/N’s voice was sharp, frantic, ringing through the lecture hall. “Somebody call an ambulance! Now!”

Her hands were firm and steady, cradling Wanda against her chest as the professor trembled slightly, teeth gritted against the pain. Wanda’s breaths were shallow, uneven, as Y/N held her close, whispering urgently, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just hold on, okay? Breathe with me. You’re not alone.”

A few students fumbled for their phones, dialing emergency services, while others hovered in shock.

Y/N’s focus narrowed completely to Wanda—the pain, the fear, the vulnerability—and she refused to let anything else intrude. “I’m right here, Wanda. I’m not going anywhere. Help is on the way. You hear me? Just stay with me.”

Wanda’s fingers gripped the front of Y/N’s shirt, her face pale, eyes glistening with fear. Her voice was a shaky whisper: “I… I’m scared.”

Y/N tightened her hold. “I know, baby, I know. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.” She whispered. 

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She scooped Wanda up in her arms, careful and fast, ignoring the murmurs and shocked gasps from the students who lined the aisles. Whispers of “Professor Maximoff?” and “Is she okay?” floated through the room, but Y/N’s focus was absolute, unwavering. Every heartbeat, every step, was centered on getting Wanda to safety.

She reached the nurse’s office in record time, the door swinging open as she carried Wanda like she weighed nothing at all.

“Put her down on the bed,” the college nurse instructed, a mixture of surprise and urgency in her voice. “Did someone call an ambulance?”

Y/N’s eyes never left Wanda’s face. “Yes,” she whispered, laying Wanda down gently, her arms lingering around her shoulders, cradling her like she couldn’t bear to let go.

“Thank you, Y/N. You can leave now,” the nurse said softly, ready to take over.

But Y/N didn’t move. Not an inch. She knelt beside Wanda, pressing a gentle hand to her arm, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “I’ve got you, Wanda. You’re okay. Breathe… just breathe,” she murmured, voice low and steady, each word a lifeline.

The nurse blinked, caught off guard, unsure what to do. Y/N’s focus was entirely on Wanda—her need, her fear, the tiny, growing life.

Seconds later, the door burst open again. Natasha—Y/N’s mother and the principal—walked in, eyes immediately scanning the room before locking on her daughter.

“Y/N?” she said, voice tight with concern. But before anyone could speak further, the paramedics rushed in, equipment clattering, hands moving efficiently as they assessed Wanda.

Y/N answered every question before anyone else had a chance.

“She’s pregnant,” Y/N said firmly, not glancing at anyone but Wanda. “She’s… she’s about twelve weeks along. She started feeling pain during class. She hasn’t had any complications before this.”

The paramedics nodded, asking about vitals, any previous medical conditions, and Y/N provided each answer without hesitation. Her calm, precise voice cut through the panic, grounding Wanda even as the nurse and Natasha watched in stunned silence.

Natasha’s eyes widened, confusion and disbelief etching her features. How does she know all this? she thought, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of the information pouring from Y/N’s lips.

The paramedics worked efficiently, securing Wanda onto a cot, strapping her in, checking monitors and oxygen. Y/N stayed right beside her, hand lightly brushing Wanda’s damp hair from her face, murmuring soft, grounding words.

“We’re ready to move her,” one paramedic said.

Y/N nodded. “I’ll follow,” she said immediately, stepping outside. Natasha hesitated, then quickly followed behind, eyes darting between her daughter and the ambulance.

The doors opened, and the paramedics carefully lifted Wanda into the ambulance. She gripped Y/N’s hand, her eyes wide and frightened.

“I’m right here,” Y/N whispered, leaning close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Once Wanda was safely inside, Y/N turned to the paramedics. “I need to go with her,” she said firmly. “I… I’m the other mother of the baby. I’m intersex.”

The paramedics paused, surprised, then nodded. “You can ride with her,” one said, stepping aside.

Y/N climbed in, moving to Wanda’s side, gently holding her hand again.

Natasha froze at the ambulance doors, blinking in disbelief. Her daughter just casually declared she was the other parent of her professor’s child. Her mind spun, trying to reconcile what she was seeing. 

Y/N didn’t spare her mother a glance. She was entirely focused on Wanda, on keeping her calm, on ensuring the tiny life inside her was safe. Natasha stood frozen outside, heart racing, caught somewhere between shock, confusion, and a reluctant awe at the fearless devotion her daughter displayed.

The ambulance doors shut. Y/N squeezed Wanda’s hand, leaning her forehead against hers. “We’ve got this,” she whispered. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

Wanda clung to her, shivering slightly, and for a moment, outside the flashing lights and distant sirens, the world narrowed down to the two of them—and the life they had created together.

---

At the hospital, the ambulance doors swung open, and the paramedics wheeled Wanda inside, Y/N holding her hand the entire way. Machines beeped, voices called instructions, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air—but Y/N’s focus never wavered from Wanda, who was pale and trembling but conscious, gripping Y/N’s hand as if it were the only lifeline in the world.

Tests were ordered immediately—ultrasound, vitals, blood work—and Y/N followed every step, answering questions, calming Wanda’s rising panic, whispering soft reassurances into her ear, until she was kicked out so the doctors could examine Wanda better. 

Not long after, Natasha arrived, her heels clicking sharply against the hospital floor. She spotted her daughter pacing in the waiting room, a mix of tension, fear, and fierce protectiveness etched into her features. Her chest tightened, and she strode toward Y/N, voice sharp and demanding.

“Y/N! What the hell is going on?!”

Y/N didn’t stop pacing at first, but she stiffened, finally meeting her mother’s wide, anxious eyes. “Mom… it’s not what you think,” she began carefully, though her jaw was set firmly.

“Not what I think?” Natasha snapped, panic and disbelief mingling in her tone. “Your professor—Wanda? She’s pregnant, and you’re… you are the one who made her pregnant? Explain to me right now what you think you’re doing!”

Y/N’s chest tightened. Her hands fisted at her sides as she struggled to find words, but Natasha’s voice cut through before she could start.

“So you’re telling me that when you went out late at night, or spent entire weekends ‘at a friend’s house,’ you were going to her place?!” Natasha’s voice rose, a mixture of anger, fear, and disbelief. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Y/N? Do you understand how serious this is?!”

“I… I didn’t—Mom, it’s not like that,” Y/N tried, voice cracking slightly. Her mind raced. How could she explain that it wasn’t just physical—that she loved Wanda, that this child was theirs, that she had never felt so responsible for someone or something in her life?

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her anger unrelenting. “Not like that? You— I… I can’t believe this. You were with your professor? And now she’s pregnant? Do you even understand what this means?”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I… I love her, Mom. And I love our baby. This isn’t just… it’s not just a mistake. I’ve never felt anything like this before. And I… I’ve been taking care of her. I’ve been at all her appointments. I’m… I’m doing everything I can.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened, disbelief and worry clashing with the faintest trace of pride. “You—this isn’t just about love, Y/N. You’ve put yourself in a position where… where everyone could find out. Where people could get hurt. Where she could get hurt. Where you can ruin your future…”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, her voice firm despite the quiver. “And I’m here. I’m not leaving her. I don’t care about anyone else right now. All that matters is Wanda and our baby.”

Natasha’s anger wavered, but she still looked shocked and unsure. Her daughter was standing there, confessing not only a hidden love but also the fact that she made her professor pregnant. It was… more than she could have imagined.

For a heartbeat, the hospital waiting room was silent except for the distant beeping of machines from the testing area. Natasha’s gaze softened slightly, just enough for Y/N to see the faintest trace of realization: she couldn’t undo what had happened, and her daughter was fully committed to seeing it through.

Y/N exhaled, steadying herself—barely.

“I love her, Mom,” she whispered, voice trembling. “And right now she’s in there, in pain, and I… I can’t do anything.” Her breath hitched, chest tight. “What if—what if the baby… my baby…”

The words broke apart as her voice cracked, the fear she’d been holding together finally shattering. Y/N’s eyes filled, tears streaming before she could stop them. “What if something happens and I’m just out here doing nothing?”

Nat exhaled, the sound soft and pained. She had seen Y/N cry multiple times before as she grew up. But never like this. Never so small. 

She stepped forward and pulled Y/N into her arms. Y/N, taller and usually so composed, folded immediately, head bending down to her mother’s shoulder as her body shook. Natasha held her tighter, one hand at the back of her head, the other firm on her back.

“Hey… hey,” she murmured, all the anger gone, replaced by a mother’s instinct to protect. “We don’t know anything yet. You hear me? She’s in the best place she can be. And you being here matters. It matters a lot.”

Y/N’s fingers clutched at the fabric of her mother’s jacket, her breath uneven.

“She’s carrying my baby,” Y/N choked out. “I don’t want to lose them. Either of them.”

Natasha closed her eyes, swallowing against the ache in her chest. She pressed a kiss to the side of Y/N’s head—a rare gesture she hadn’t done since Y/N was a child.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, sweetheart. And you won’t. We’ll face whatever comes together, okay?”

Y/N nodded into her shoulder, "I'm sorry mom... I'm sorry"

Natasha tightened her hold, fingers curling gently into the back of Y/N’s shirt as if to anchor her.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice firm but warm. “No. None of that. Don’t you apologize.”

But Y/N kept shaking her head against her mother’s shoulder, breaths uneven. “I’m sorry, Mom… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen like this. I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just… I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Natasha’s chest tightened at that—pain, guilt, protectiveness all clashing inside her. She eased back just enough to cup her daughter’s damp cheeks in both hands, forcing Y/N to meet her eyes.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you could never disappoint me by loving someone.”

Y/N’s lip trembled.

Natasha brushed a thumb under her eye, wiping away a tear. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me?” She shook her head, voice roughening. “You were scared. You thought you’d lose her job, her reputation, everything. And you thought if I knew, I’d… what? Stop loving you?”

Y/N’s eyes dropped for a second, guilt heavy in her posture.

Nat sighed, her tone gentler now. “You’re my kid. My stubborn, reckless, brilliant kid. I might get angry, but I don’t stop loving you. Loving someone doesn’t go away because I disagree with your choices.”

Y/N swallowed hard, trying not to break down again.

Natasha’s hands slid to her shoulders, steadying her. “Right now, all that matters is her and the baby. And you being here when she wakes up.”

Y/N inhaled shakily.

“We’ll get through it,” Natasha whispered. “Together.”

Right then, the door to the hallway opened—and a doctor stepped in, looking around the waiting area.

“Family of Wanda Maximoff?”

Y/N’s breath caught. Natasha’s hand tightened reassuringly on her arm as both of them turned toward the doctor.

Y/N’s breath snagged in her throat when the doctor entered. She straightened so quickly Natasha had to steady her by the elbow.

“Is she okay?” Y/N blurted, voice cracking on the last word.

The doctor nodded gently. “Wanda’s blood pressure spiked due to stress, which caused the bleeding.”

Y/N swallowed hard, hands trembling. “And—our baby? Is the baby—” Her voice wavered so badly she had to stop and breathe.

“The baby is fine,” the doctor assured, tone firm but kind. “Both mother and child are stable. There’s no sign of miscarriage or placental detachment.”

Y/N’s knees nearly buckled. Natasha’s hand slid to her back without a word.

“But,” the doctor continued, “Wanda needs to stay overnight for observation. And after that, at least a week of strict bed rest. No stress, no physical strain, and absolutely no emotional spikes.”

Y/N nodded quickly—too quickly. “Okay. Yes. Anything. I’ll make sure she rests. I’ll do anything.”

The doctor offered a small smile. “She’s asking for you. Just one visitor for now.”

Y/N’s eyes glossed again. “Thank you,” she whispered before she even realized it, stumbling slightly toward the hallway.

Natasha caught her wrist—just for a moment.

“Breathe, Y/N,” she murmured. “She’s okay. Go to her.”

Y/N nodded once, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and headed toward Wanda’s room—her heart still pounding, but finally, finally with hope.

---

Y/N stood outside Wanda’s room for a moment, gripping the doorframe as if her legs might give out. Through the small window, she could see Wanda propped up slightly on the hospital bed—pale, tired, an IV in her arm… but awake.

Alive.

Y/N pushed the door open quietly.

Wanda turned her head immediately, eyes searching—then softening when she saw her.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice was a whisper, fragile and afraid.

Y/N crossed the room in three steps.

She didn’t sit in the chair. She dropped to her knees beside the bed, taking Wanda’s hand carefully—as though it were something sacred.

“Hi,” Y/N breathed, her voice thick.

Wanda blinked, tears pooling. “You’re crying…”

“You scared me,” Y/N whispered, brushing her thumb over Wanda’s knuckles. “You really scared me.”

Wanda opened her mouth to speak, but her voice cracked instead.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to— I just… the blood… and everything hurt and I… I thought something was wrong with the baby. I thought—”

Y/N leaned up and pressed her forehead gently against Wanda’s.

“Nothing happened to our baby,” she said softly, firmly, as if reciting a vow. “Doctor said you’re both okay. Just stressed. Just need rest.”

Wanda’s breath shuddered. “I was so scared.”

“I know,” Y/N murmured. “Me too.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that—foreheads touching, breaths mingling, hands clasped tightly.

Wanda’s fingers curled weakly around Y/N’s. “Are you staying?”

Y/N let out a small, broken exhale.

“Try getting rid of me,” she whispered. “I’m not leaving this room unless someone drags me out.”

Wanda managed a tiny, tired smile, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Good… because I need you.”

Y/N lifted her head just enough to kiss those tears away.

“You have me,” she said. “Always.”

Y/N leaned in slowly, giving Wanda every chance to pull back—but Wanda didn’t. She tilted her chin up just enough, her lips trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Their mouths met in a soft, trembling kiss.

Not passionate. Not rushed.

Just two people clinging to each other after almost losing everything.

Wanda’s hand slid weakly to Y/N’s cheek, her thumb brushing the skin there as if confirming she was really, truly here.

Y/N kissed her again—deeper this time, but still careful—her other hand cupping the side of Wanda’s face, steadying her.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Y/N whispered against her lips.

“You didn’t.” Wanda breathed back. “I’m right here.”

Y/N let her forehead drop gently to Wanda’s, her breath catching.

And for the first time since the ambulance doors slammed shut, the crushing fear that had wrapped around her chest finally… loosened. She could breathe again. Not fully—but enough.

Wanda’s fingers threaded through hers, squeezing weakly.

“Stay close,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N brought Wanda’s hand to her lips and kissed it, sealing a promise she meant with every fiber of her being.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

---

The week that followed felt like its own quiet little world—one where Y/N refused to let anything or anyone disturb Wanda’s rest.

From the moment Wanda was discharged, Y/N had her tucked gently into bed, pillows fluffed, blankets warm, water within reach, and her stern “You’re not moving unless it’s absolutely necessary” face on full display.

Wanda had laughed at first.

Then realized Y/N meant it.

Natasha had pulled Y/N aside before they left the hospital.

“Take the week,” she said quietly. “Be with her. We’ll talk when she’s fully recovered.”

Y/N only nodded, grateful but too drained to say anything more.

Now, inside Wanda’s dim, cozy bedroom, the atmosphere was soft—gentle light filtering in through the curtains, the faint sound of rain against the windows, and Y/N hovering like an overprotective shadow.

“Y/N, I can get my own tea,” Wanda protested on day three, trying to sit up.

Y/N immediately placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back down with the gentlest but most immovable pressure.

“No. You rest.”

“I’m not made of glass,” Wanda murmured.

“You scared me,” Y/N replied softly, brushing a strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear. “I’m allowed to be dramatic for one week.”

Wanda’s heart melted on the spot.

Y/N did everything—cooked for her, massaged her legs when they cramped, brushed her hair, helped her shower when she felt dizzy, talked to the baby bump every night as if the little one could hear her.

And Wanda… Wanda fell even deeper in love.

One night, as Y/N sat by the edge of the bed, slowly rubbing circles on her stomach, Wanda watched her with soft, teary eyes.

“You know,” Wanda whispered, fingers threading weakly through Y/N’s hair, “you’re going to be an amazing mother.”

Y/N’s hand froze, her breath catching.

Then she slowly leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Wanda’s belly.

“I’m trying,” she whispered to the bump. “I just want you both safe.”

Wanda felt her throat tighten.

She reached for Y/N’s hand and pulled her up to lie beside her, cuddling into her chest.

The rest of the week continued like that—soft, quiet, safe.

And when Wanda finally regained enough strength to stand and walk without wincing…

Y/N still hovered.

Still watched every step.

Still treated her as the most precious thing she’d ever held.

---

A Week Later

The Romanoff living room was painfully quiet.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Somewhere in the house, the heater clicked on.

But none of the three people sitting in the room breathed too loudly, afraid the sound might shatter whatever fragile balance they were clinging to.

Y/N sat next to Wanda—close enough that their knees touched, but not holding hands. Both of them sat straight, tense, as if any wrong movement might detonate the situation.

Across from them, Natasha sat alone on the opposite couch, legs crossed, elbows on her knees, hands steepled.

Her sharp green eyes moved between them—calculating, emotional, and exhausted.

After what felt like an eternity…

She exhaled.

“Alright,” Natasha began, voice low but steady. “One of you needs to start talking.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Wanda’s fingers twitched, brushing Y/N’s knee accidentally. Y/N didn’t dare move.

Nat’s gaze flicked to her daughter.

“Y/N… how long has this been going on?”

Y/N opened her mouth—

—but Wanda beat her to it.

“Six months,” Wanda whispered, voice fragile but firm.

Natasha’s jaw tensed. She shut her eyes for a brief second, processing the words.

“Six months,” she repeated quietly. “Six months you were seeing my daughter. Six months you were… involved. Six months you kept this a secret.”

Wanda leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped together to keep them from trembling.

“Natasha—” she began softly.

But Natasha lifted a hand—not harshly, but firmly enough to stop her.

“No,” Nat said, eyes still closed for a moment longer. “I need a second to understand this.”

She inhaled slowly through her nose, then opened her eyes again. They were sharper now, focused fully on Wanda.

“Six months,” she repeated again, quieter this time. “Wanda… you’ve been with my daughter for half a year. While teaching her. While grading her work. While standing in front of a classroom full of students.”

Wanda swallowed, but she didn’t look away. “I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds,” Natasha replied, leaning back with a controlled, tense exhale, “like everything could have blown up in your faces long before this.”

Wanda nodded, whispering, “I know. But—”

“And you,” Natasha cut in, turning toward Y/N with a look that was both motherly and scolding, “you didn’t think to tell me any of this? Not even when you started spending nights out? When I asked you where you were?”

Y/N flinched. “Mom—I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

Nat paused.

Something in her eyes flickered—painful, almost guilty.

“Sweetheart…” she said slowly, “I’m not disappointed that you fell in love. I’m disappointed you thought I wouldn’t care enough to help you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Before she could speak, Wanda gently stepped in.

“Natasha, please… let me explain,” she said quietly, voice cracking. “I know it’s wrong. I know I crossed a line. But I love your daughter. Truly. And she didn’t pursue me—I was the one who… who slipped first.”

Y/N straightened immediately, shaking her head hard.

“That is not true! It was mutual,” she said, voice cracking with urgency. “We both fell first. We both crossed that line. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Nat exhaled slowly through her nose, shoulders tense as she pressed her palms together.

As a mother, she looked heartbroken.

As a principal, she looked cornered.

“I can’t tolerate this,” she said quietly, the weight of her job heavy in every syllable. “I can’t pretend this isn’t a serious breach of ethics. Normally, both of you would face consequences. Severe ones.”

Wanda dropped her gaze, guilt washing over her. Y/N’s jaw tightened, protective, ready to argue—but Natasha lifted a hand again, cutting them off before they spoke.

“But before I make any decisions,” Nat continued, her voice threading between stern and gentle, “I need to understand everything. All of it.”

Her eyes moved to Wanda first—briefly—to her small bump.

Then she turned to her daughter.

“And the baby,” Natasha said, softer now. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t either of you come to me the moment you found out?”

Y/N swallowed, throat thick.

Her hands curled into fists on her knees.

“Because…” she whispered, voice trembling, “I was scared.”

Nat’s expression faltered.

Y/N continued, the words spilling out—raw, honest, almost desperate.

“I thought you’d hate me. Or be ashamed. Or think I ruined my life. Or… or that you’d make Wanda leave me.”

Her voice cracked again.

“I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to lose my baby before I even met them.”

Wanda reached for Y/N’s hand and squeezed, eyes glassy.

Natasha’s jaw softened—just a fraction.

“And you,” she said, turning to Wanda, though her tone held no anger now, only weariness. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I would’ve helped you.”

Wanda’s eyes filled instantly.

“I didn’t want you to think poorly of me,” she whispered. “Or think I took advantage of your daughter. I didn’t want to cause a rift between you two.”

Nat stared between them—one hand on her forehead, the other on her knee.

She looked tired.

Heartbroken.

But still trying to understand.

“So you both hid it,” she said slowly, “because you were afraid of losing each other… and afraid of losing me.”

Neither Wanda nor Y/N could speak—they only nodded.

Nat’s sigh lingered in the room like a weight.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed too loudly.

The silence sat between them—thick, tense, stretching into something that felt like an eternity.

Y/N’s hand trembled in Wanda’s. Wanda’s gaze stayed on the carpet, as if she were afraid to lift her eyes and see judgment written in Natasha’s face.

Then—

The front door opened.

“I’m home!”

Steve’s voice broke through the heavy quiet like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. Footsteps approached, and then he rounded the corner into the living room—pausing the moment he saw all three women sitting stiffly on their couches.

His brows lifted.

“Tasha, I told you to wait for me before talking to them.”

Natasha groaned softly and rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t start anything, Rogers. They came to me.”

“I bet you interrogated them the moment they walked in,” Steve muttered with the fond exasperation of someone who’d been married to Natasha long enough to know her methods.

He stepped forward, completely ignoring his wife’s glare, and offered his hand to Wanda with a warm, reassuring smile.

“Hi. You must be Wanda,” he said gently. “I’m Steve. Y/N’s dad.”

Wanda blinked, startled, then shyly took his hand.

“H-Hello. It’s… nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Steve said, his kind smile widening as he glanced between Wanda and Y/N. “And please don’t let Natasha scare you. She means well, but she’s not great at sounding gentle when she’s worried.”

Natasha scoffed.

“I am gentle.”

“You terrified them,” Steve said cheerfully.

Y/N looked away trying not to smile. Wanda’s shoulders eased for the first time since they sat down.

Before Natasha could argue further, Steve added brightly:

“And besides—all that stress isn’t good for our grandchild.”

Wanda froze.

Y/N froze.

Nat’s head snapped toward him.

Steve just shrugged innocently.

“What? It’s true. Stress is bad for the baby. And this little one—” he nodded at Wanda’s belly with pure, unfiltered warmth “—is family now. So we take care of them. That’s all.”

The heaviness in the room cracked a little.

Wanda exhaled shakily, eyes glistening—not from fear this time, but from relief.

Y/N squeezed her hand, silently grateful.

And Natasha…

even she couldn’t hide the tiny, defeated twitch of a smile forming at the corner of her mouth.

---

Y/N’s POV

Looking back now… I know how wrong it must have looked from the outside.

Wanda was older.

She was my professor.

She worked under my mother.

There were a hundred reasons it should’ve ended the moment it began.

And yet—somehow—it didn’t.

Because my parents didn’t see a scandal first.

They saw me.

They saw the way my hand never left Wanda’s.

The way my entire body leaned toward her like gravity demanded it.

The way I spoke about the baby like they already existed—like they were already loved beyond reason.

Mom looked at me and didn’t see recklessness.

She saw her daughter in love.

And Dad… dad didn’t even try to hide it.

The moment the shock faded, he was already talking about baby-proofing corners, about tiny shoes, about how he’d teach them to ride a bike one day. He said the word grandchild like it was a gift he’d been waiting his whole life for.

They didn’t try to separate us.

Not once.

That alone felt like a miracle.

But Mom was still the principal.

And that part of her couldn’t disappear.

She sat us down—calm, firm, unyielding—and told Wanda the truth plainly.

She couldn’t pretend nothing happened.

The relationship violated policy.

The power imbalance was real.

And if anyone else found out before something was done, it would destroy Wanda’s career permanently.

So she gave Wanda a choice that wasn’t really a punishment.

Wanda would resign.

Officially, it would be for medical reasons.

To focus on the pregnancy.

To rest.

Mom promised—promised—that Wanda would be supported. Financially. Medically. Personally. Dad nodded along, already planning grocery runs and doctor drop-offs.

And I…

I would step up too.

More shifts at my part-time job, while still going to college. Longer hours. Less sleep.

I didn’t hesitate for even a second.

Because this wasn’t a burden.

It was my family.

Mom told Wanda that once I graduated—once the line between student and professor no longer existed—she could come back. Same college. Same position. No doors closed.

If she wanted to.

Wanda cried when Mom said that.

I did too—quietly, into her shoulder.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t clean.

But it was ours.

And for the first time since that rainy night, since the broken umbrella and the line we never meant to cross…

I felt like the future wasn’t something to fear anymore.

It was something waiting for us.

After that… everything moved fast.

Too fast, sometimes—but in the way life does when it decides you don’t get to hesitate anymore.

Wanda went back to the college for one last week. She finished reports, handed over her students, packed her office into quiet little boxes. I waited for her outside every day, watching the building that used to feel so dangerous finally loosen its grip on us.

Then she resigned.

Just like that, one chapter closed.

Dad offered—of course he did—to have her move in with them. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Wanda was already family.

She refused gently. Said she needed space. Said she wanted something that was ours.

So instead, I moved in with her.

A new place. Farther from the college. Longer commutes, earlier mornings, later nights. I didn’t care. If it meant coming home to her—to them—it was worth every minute lost on the road.

The pregnancy went well. Better than either of us dared hope.

Every appointment brought good news. Every ultrasound made my chest feel too full. The baby grew strong and healthy, and Wanda… Wanda glowed in ways I still don’t have words for.

Her body changed week by week. Softer. Stronger. More radiant.

Her moods changed too—sometimes gentle, sometimes sharp, sometimes overwhelming.

And yeah… some times it made her horny. Those were my favorite.

There were nights she’d nudge me awake, half-asleep herself, eyes dark and needy, whispering my name like it was the only thing grounding her. No explanations. No apologies. Just that quiet, insistent pull that told me she needed closeness, reassurance, me.

I never complained.

How could I?

Every moment—whether it was laughter, tears, late-night cravings, or her curling into my side like the world only made sense there—felt like proof that we were building something real.

Something lasting.

We weren’t perfect.

But we were happy.

And every day, as her belly grew and my life reshaped itself around her and our baby, I knew—without doubt—that I would choose this path again.

Every single time.

And before we knew it… she was here.

Our little girl.

Perfect in the way only newborns can be—tiny fists, soft cries, eyes that somehow already felt like they knew me. Holding her for the first time rewired something in my soul. Everything else—college, exhaustion, fear—fell into the background.

Being a young parent wasn’t easy.

Studying while working.

Sleepless nights.

Learning as we went.

But every hard thing was worth it—for our daughter, and for the woman I loved.

And now… here we were.

Graduation day.

The cap and gown were long gone, the applause still ringing faintly in my ears. Our daughter was safe tonight—sleeping at Grandma Nat and Grandpa Steve’s house, probably being spoiled beyond reason.

Wanda stood in front of me in our living room, still dressed beautifully, still somehow the same woman who once tried to push me away for my own good.

My hands were shaking when I dropped to one knee.

Her breath caught immediately.

“Y/N—” she whispered, already knowing.

I opened the ring box, the diamond catching the light.

“I know we didn’t do things the ‘right’ way,” I said softly, voice thick with emotion. “We were scared. We messed up. But I’ve never once doubted us.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“You made me a mother,” I continued, voice steady now. “You trusted me with your heart. With our daughter. With your life.”

I swallowed.

“And I want to spend every single day proving you were right to do that.”

Wanda covered her mouth, shaking her head, already crying.

“So,” I said, looking up at her—at my family, my home, my future.

“Will you marry me?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes—of course yes.”

I stood just in time for her to fall into my arms, laughter and tears mixing together as I slipped the ring onto her finger. She kissed me like she always had—soft at first, then full of love, certainty, and everything we’d survived.

Somewhere across town, our daughter slept peacefully.

And right there, holding Wanda close, I knew—

the best decision of my life had been made back in that apartment, soaked to the bone from the rain, with a broken umbrella at my feet and my heart already choosing her.

She looked like she didn’t know if she wanted to touch the toy or cross her damn legs in mildly terrified arousal.

You leaned against a shelf to watch her curiously, a bottle of lube dangling from your fingers.

Completely entranced by the toy, she didn’t notice you watching her as she reached out, fingers hovering just inches from the display toy in question, hand trembling like she couldn’t quite believe she was entertaining the idea. You saw her thighs clench slightly, lip snagged between her teeth and face so flushed that you were briefly concerned she might actually get light headed.

You could hear how ragged her breathing was from where you stood.

Her eyes were wide, taking in the veins and curve of the cock, every inch designed to be just on the other side of “too much”. Fingers finally wrapping around the base, her hand looked fucking small compared to the toy and a tiny, broken whimper escaped her throat.

Her head finally snapped towards you when she realized you were standing there, watching her fall apart over a toy you hadn’t even fucked her with yet. The expression on her face—the heat of her cheeks… she was staring at you like you’d just caught her masturbating in public or something equally as filthy.

“Well, well… I see my girl found something that piqued her interest, huh?” you teased, strolling over and settling behind her, arms tight around her waist. Caging her in place.

Wanda’s breath hitched, hand dropping away so fast you’d think she was shoplifting, her expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and overwhelming need.

“I…” She trailed off, eyes never leaving the toy.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of woman who wanted to be split in two, princess,” you cooed mocking, hand lifting from her hip to cradle her jaw, tilting her head so she had to look at you. “But you’re getting off on the thought of me stretching wide with it until you’re crying for it, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, practically panting as your thumb ran along her bottom lip.

“I… I want you to use it on me,” she admitted, barely able to get the words out. “Please…”

You clicked your tongue in faux-scolding. “Is that so? You want to feel yourself stretched around it while I make you scream?”

Wanda moaned—not loud, but deep, from somewhere low in her throat, the kind of sound that came when words failed and need took over.

“Yes,” she begged, “God yes… please.”

Smirking, you released your grip on her waist, stepping back. “Alright, princess, but if you want me to buy it, you get to grab the box and carry it up to the clerk.”

Her eyes widened, cheeks flushed scarlet. “You… you want me to—” she but her lip. “I have to…?”

You didn’t say a word but you didn’t have to, arching a brow expectantly.

Swallowing dryly, she reached out and grabbed the box beneath it, nearly coming undone at how heavy the box was as she bashfully headed for the counter, eyes flicking about everywhere but the woman behind the counter. Her footsteps were slow and tentative, like she was heading for a firing squad and not…

This.

The clerk—a woman maybe in her mid-thirties with short, spiked hair and a tattoo sleeve peeking from under her hoodie—looked up from her tablet as Wanda approached.

Then she saw what Wanda was holding and her brow arched, clearly trying to imagine that fitting inside her.

Wanda couldn’t meet her gaze. She set it down on the counter with both hands, her face bright red, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she looked everywhere but the clerk’s face.

“Uh…” she cleared her throat, voice barely above a whisper. “This… this one, please.”

The clerk glanced from the toy to Wanda’s flushed cheeks then over Wanda’s shoulder towards you, smirking as you watched the scene unfold.

The clerk smirked. “Nice choice,” she said dryly, ringing it up like the professional she was, though she couldn’t contain the amusement in her expression.

When you finally joined Wanda and offered your card, the clerk took it without missing a beat, chuckling to herself as your hand fell to Wanda’s hip possessively.

“Well… have fun,” the clerk teased as she passed back the card and its receipt before bagging the item. She winked at Wanda—