Just here

You wake to the sound of rain on glass.

For a moment, you think you’re still in Vermont. You almost expect to roll over into a warm body, the woman who’s been playing the part of your wife for as long as you can remember. 

You blink into soft, fractured light spilling through tall stained-glass windows, gold and green twisting in patterns you’ve only seen once before. The sheets are stiff, the air cold and dry, and for all the beauty in the glass, it feels nothing like home.

The Sanctum Sanctorum.

You should be rattled like a fish out of water. Instead, you feel nothing but relief. At last, the dream—however perfect it was—is over.

You push yourself up, head throbbing, the room tilting with the motion. An imposing figure stands in the doorway, arms folded. You don’t need your eyes to fully adjust—the colors alone give away who it is. You used to scoff at the red cape draped over that blue, kimono-like suit.

“How are you feeling?” Stephen Strange asks as he approaches the foot of your bed. 

It’s a simple yet strange question. You take stock of yourself before answering. 

How do you feel after waking up from a lie?

You guess at the right answer: bitter, betrayed, hollow? But none of them perfectly describes it. The truth is messier. The whole time you were there with Kia, you were happy. Manufactured or not, it was still happiness. And you were grateful for it, even if it wasn’t real.

But there was always this itch despite not knowing anything about your life before Wanda’s gift took effect. It was a kind of void that was small, but glaring. An afterthought that would leave you sad and regretful.

Wanda. You figure she’s that void itself. Maybe she never meant to put it there, but if there’s one thing magic could never erase, it’s the mark she’s left on you. 

“Headache? Nausea?” Strange prods after you’ve been quiet for too long.

“Water,” you say. “Please.”

Strange’s mouth tips, not quite a smile. “Of course.” His cape unfurls itself from his shoulders and glides away, fetching you a tall glass.

You drink it in huge gulps, your throat bobbing up and down. By the time you drain it, Strange looks even more impatient than he did a few minutes ago.

“What took you so long?” you mutter, aiming for lightness, but it comes out sharp, petulant—like a whiny child. 

He regards your question with a single arched brow. “I wasn’t the first call Agent Woo made. Others came before me. People who decided you’d simply vanished off the grid and weren’t the authorities’ problem anymore.” His tone is dry, almost scornful. “They wrote you off.”

“And you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” His chin tips up, smug for all of two seconds before he clears his throat and waves a hand. “Not that I had it figured out right away. It only made sense once Wanda’s possession of the Darkhold came to light. Then it clicked why no one could locate you. After we dealt with Wanda, we went back to the last place Woo had traced you. One simple spell, and there you were.”

“How long—”

“Were you stuck there?” He finishes your question for you. “Two hundred and fifty-nine days.”

You look down at your hands which still don’t feel like yours.

“Kia?” you ask.

“Home,” Strange says. “Returned safely to her family.”

You feel a pang of guilt for dragging her into this. You’re not sure whether to reach out and apologize, and just imagining the conversation leaves you at a loss for where to start. Maybe leaving her alone is the best form of apology you can offer for now.

“Does she remember?”

“All of it,” he confirms. He catches the objection on your face before you can voice it and adds, “We don’t sugarcoat things here, Y/N. Kia needs to know exactly what she went through if she’s going to accept it and move on. I think she’ll be fine.”

You manage to keep from smirking at his confidence. Instead, you nod, hoping he’s right.

“And Wanda?”

Strange dodges too quickly to be casual. “We’ll come back to that. Right now, there’s something else. I’ve arranged a trial for you.”

You blink. “A trial?”

“Formality,” he says. “One hearing. You’ll stand before the court, answer a few questions, and walk out.”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean, ‘walk out’?”

“I mean,” Strange says evenly, “they’re letting you go. You’re free, Y/N.”

It takes you a moment longer to understand. So, they’re absolving you after all. After what you thought was the greatest sacrifice you could make—one that meant giving up a future with Wanda—it all comes down to this: you’re free to go. Face your crimes however you want. Off yourself, if you can’t live with your demons. They don’t care what you did, and they certainly don’t care that you’ve regretted it with every bone in your body.

It felt like the biggest fluke. And the humiliation that comes with it is undeniably striking. 

“Why?” you ask, although it doesn’t really seem to matter. 

“Because you’ve done good, too. Because there are bigger problems now than keeping you in a cell. Because I asked,” he says. “Pick whichever answer helps you breathe easier.”

You shake your head with a sardonic smile. Strange sighs. This is the only good news he’s had for you since pulling you out of Maximoff’s spell, and it’s not landing the way he hoped. It was meant to be the cushion for the real revelation he’s preparing you for.

As for you, none of the choices make breathing any easier.

“Does Clint know?”

“Yes. He supports it. Says he’ll be happy for you if you take this second shot at a true beginning.”

“When is the trial?” you ask.

“Soon. Eat. Shower. Wong will brief you. You’ll answer a few questions, say ‘yes, your honor’ twice, ‘no’ once, and walk out.”

“And after that?”

“That’s up to you.”

You wonder what else has changed in the year you’ve been gone. But that thought leads to another—why Strange, of all the Avengers, was the one to find you trapped in a dollhouse. The question stirs a creeping dread, cold seeping into your feet. 

You almost don’t want to ask again, but you know you have to. 

“Stephen,” you murmur, voice thin, your lower lip trembling just enough to betray you. Your body feels slack, drained, bracing for the answer. “Where’s Wanda?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes dart to the floor, then to the door, then anywhere but you. The Cloak fusses at his shoulder and he stills it with a hand. He smooths an invisible crease on his sleeve. He clears his throat unconvincingly, buying seconds.

You let the silence make it obvious you’re not taking the detour.

When he finally meets your eyes, you have your answer.

“Wanda is—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “This is going to be hard to hear.”

—

So this is how you lose her. Third time. Last time. And it feels like it tears you apart in a way the others never did.

—

Strange doesn’t speak to you or visit after that morning. In the days that follow, you see him only in passing—which you actually prefer. It’s easier than watching him force a conversation he clearly has no interest in keeping. And after learning that Wanda died on Mt. Wundagore, destroying the Darkhold in every universe, you’re not in the mood for words anyway.

You’ve failed her again. You had this grand plan to save her, to help her, to not abandon her again. But in the end, there was nothing you could do. Confronted with your own mortality and your lack of any real power, you feel small—utterly worthless. Wanda loved a useless, fragile thing.

It’s Wong who keeps you company. He’s not chatty by nature, but compared to Strange’s avoidance, his unassuming presence is almost comforting. He brings you meals, checks in when you’ve been holed up in your room for hours and fills you in with practical details you don’t have the strength to ask for.

By the third day, and after you’ve exhausted yourself thinking how it happened, you gather enough courage to ask how Wanda died. Wong gives you a sad smile. He sets the tray down on your nightstand and takes the chair by the window, hands folded on his knee like you’re about to discuss the weather.

“It began at Kamar-Taj,” he says. “She came for the girl—America Chavez. A child who can open doors between universes.”

As Wong recounts Wanda’s transgressions, shame creeps in. It’s hard enough to hear what she did (claiming countless lives at Kamar-Taj), but harder still to believe she could do it to a child. So the Darkhold was successful in corrupting her, then? 

“The book didn’t put those feelings in her,” Wong says, reading what’s on your face. “It just warped what was already there.” It wasn’t entirely Wanda. And yet, it was nothing but her.

You look past him at the rain-slick city. Outside, the downpour has picked up—because of course it has.

Wong’s sad smile lingers as he settles into the chair, and what follows is less a story than a burden shared. He had been forced to bring her to Wundagore, to the ancient temple carved into the mountain where a throne already waited for her. In that place, Wanda was no longer merely herself. She was what the mountain had been built to crown.

She dreamwalked into another version of her life, into the body of a Wanda who had everything she had lost. She crossed a council that tried to stand in her way, and their failure left a trail of devastation behind her. She reached the home she longed for, stepped into a kitchen where two small boys cowered in fear of her. In their terror, she finally saw herself as they did, and the truth of what she had become was undeniable. 

“That was her undoing,” Wong recounts.

It was another Wanda who found the courage to show her compassion—who assured her that the boys would be loved. And that was what Wanda had fought for all along. In her final act, she redeemed herself. She let go, because her other self had shown her the boys would be safe, loved, and never alone.

“She destroyed the Darkhold herself. Not just on this Earth, but in all the others,” Wong says. You swear there’s a flicker of awe in his eyes, though you can’t tell if it’s for Wanda’s strength in fighting her own demons—or for the sheer magnitude of erasing something across every iteration of a seemingly infinite multiverse.

Either way, the image stays with you long after Wong finishes speaking. The storm outside deepens, rain hammering against the glass, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You cannot stop turning over the ending she chose. For all the ruin that came before, in the end she was still the woman who loved enough to sacrifice. 

But was it a necessary sacrifice? In that, you and Wanda are the same—both too willing to lay yourselves down for things you never fully understood. Or maybe you’re only questioning it now because this sacrifice stole her from you.

And yet, now that you know where she was last seen, a stubborn thought takes root. What if they’re wrong? Until you’ve seen her body with your own eyes, there’s room, however small, for doubt. For hope.

“Take me to Wundagore.”

Across from you, Wong stiffens. His frown is immediate, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. “That’s… not a good idea,” he says carefully. “Strange warned that you might ask for this. Said the decision wasn’t his to make anymore. As Sorcerer Supreme, he left it to me.”

“And what have you decided?”

Wong studies you for a long moment, eyes heavy with something that looks uncomfortably like pity. At last, he inclines his head.

“I’ve decided to grant you this favor.”

—

Wundagore is the coldest place you’ve ever been, yet it doesn’t bite at you the way Scotland or Iceland once did. Wong has cast a protection spell that keeps the chill at bay, sparing you the need for proper gear. A convenient bit of magic—enough to make you consider joining the sorcerer’s classes for this spell alone.

Your eyes sweep across the white wasteland. Wundagore was a mountain—Wong had said it himself—but nothing towers over you now. Only snow and shattered stone, stretching endlessly beneath a ceiling of pale grey clouds. The absence itself feels unnatural. You imagine the sound of it collapsing, the roar as an entire peak tore itself apart under her will. You imagine the final surge of red light, burning against the storm, until even that was buried under silence.

Wong walks ahead without a word, boots sinking into the snow. You follow quietly behind, your silence rooted in the overwhelming feeling that you’re walking towards Wanda’s grave. 

The trail stretches on until the slope breaks into a ruin of stone. This, he tells you, is where Wundagore once stood. Now it is nothing but a pile of jagged boulders, most of them buried in snowdrifts, the mountain’s bones scattered and broken.

You stop, staring at the wreckage. “Has there been any effort to recover her body?”

Wong hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. The presumption of death was… enough.”

You turn to him sharply. “Enough?”

“Y/N,” Wong says gently, “an entire mountain came down on her. No one could have survived. And more than that—she made it appear as though she chose to die here.”

“No,” you spit out. “She didn’t choose it. You and Strange let her die here.”

Wong’s gaze hardens, though his voice stays level. “That’s not fair. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the state she was in. The Darkhold had hollowed her out. If she hadn’t brought this mountain down on herself, she would have brought ruin to the rest of us.”

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t know what she could have been if someone had just tried harder. If someone had stood by her instead of writing her off as a lost cause.”

“We tried. All of us. Strange most of all.”

“Not hard enough.”

Wong exhales, already tired of the exchange. Explaining it would be useless—especially to someone with no grasp of sorcery. The truth is, every trace of her chaos magic has vanished. Nature itself shifted the moment the Scarlet Witch was gone. To deny her death would be to deny the glaring evidence that only the sorcerers could perceive.

“I’ll give you time,” he says at last. “To pay your respects.”

“No, I’ve seen enough,” you say. “Let’s go back.”

Wong raises his left hand and then starts making circles in the air with the other. “As you wish.”

—

“It’s here.”

That’s how Strange announces himself, stepping into your room without so much as a knock, an envelope in hand. He’s in a pristine suit this time. You’re so used to seeing him in sorcerer’s robes and that sentient cape that you almost forget he was a surgeon once. In formal clothes he looks almost ordinary—too civilian—reminding you that, like you, his life used to be simpler too.

“Pardon?”

You haven’t done much lately beyond shutting yourself away in this room, combing through everything you missed in the year you spent playing house with a former lover. The world has shifted in countless ways, and yet somehow feels unchanged. After the final battle with Thanos, many expected an era of peace, but the Avengers found no such rest. There was always something—new threats, new battles—even Wanda’s movements in New York, before Strange uncovered the truth that she was hunting a child named America. The backlog of information keeps you distracted from Wanda’s absence—and from the brutal truth of another reality where you can’t bring her back. When the news runs dry, you fall back on your old hobby: books. It’s a gentler escape than the last time, when half your days were drowned in blood.

Strange doesn’t bother repeating himself. He sets the envelope on the desk, neat and deliberate. You don’t reach for the envelope. Instead, you sit back in your chair, staring at it.

He says, “Your trial date. The court wants to make it quick.”

“Can it go another way?”

Strange looks at you like you’ve asked if gravity might reconsider. “Only if you insist upon it.”

You lean forward. “And if I do?”

“To be honest, they don’t care about what you want, Y/N. They just need to put on record that you’ve been acquitted.”

You’re not surprised. You were gone for a year, and if the authorities had truly wanted to find you, they would’ve gone through Strange long before Wanda raised any alarms.

“So it doesn’t matter what I say.”

Stephen exhales, the sound edged with weariness.

“The judgment’s already written. All that’s left is for you to stand there, nod when prompted, and walk out the door,” he says. Then he surprises you by inviting himself further in and sitting on your single-sized bed. 

“I actually came here because I need to kick you out.”

You laugh—loud and sudden—at the flat delivery, at the way his face doesn’t so much as twitch. The lack of reaction makes it even funnier, until you’re nearly doubled over. When the moment passes and the laughter dies down, you sober, eyes still wet.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you say quietly, “just to tell me to leave.”

He smiles—an honest one, not the strained kind where only the corners of his mouth move, hiding pain. “Wong won’t do it for me this time.”

You glance down at your bare feet. Well… what happens now?

Strange clears his throat. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Yes, there’s so much you want to know. Questions press against the back of your teeth. But none of it matters now. She’s gone, and knowing more won’t bring her back. Maybe it will only make the ache worse. Still, the thought circles back to the same truth that you’re leaving soon. This might be your last meeting with Stephen Strange, the only man alive who has seen what lies beyond the boundaries of your world. If you’re ever going to ask, this is the only time. So you decide, shameless as it feels, to let the questions out.

If Wanda searched every reality for the boys, if she dreamwalked into other versions of herself, then surely she must have seen you. You vaguely remember Wanda telling you that in every other universe, it’s always Kia you ended up with. But that couldn’t be true. Statistically, it made no sense. Out of thousands—no, millions—of universes, there had to be at least one where you and Wanda found your way to each other.

“You’ve looked into other universes,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

Stephen sits perfectly still for a few seconds, like he’s debating whether the truth is worth handing you. At last, he says, “I have. More than I should’ve.”

“Wanda told me that in every universe she dreamwalked into, I ended up with Kia,” you say slowly, as though recalling a distant dream. “But that’s ridiculous. I think the Darkhold was lying to her—manipulating her so it could finish corrupting her.”

“You’re both right and wrong,” Stephen says.

You tilt your head, frowning in confusion.

“You’re wrong about the Darkhold fabricating those realities she visited in her sleep,” he continues. “But you’re right about one thing—the Darkhold is manipulative. To understand Wanda’s pain, to try and appeal to what was left of her humanity, I had to study it. I had to see the source of it with my own eyes.”

He pauses here. 

“So yes,” he says at last. “I’ve seen those worlds. And no—the Darkhold wasn’t lying. In every one of them, you did end up with the other girl.”

You think of Vermont. You think of the dream, the cottage, the way Wanda crafted it around you like it could last. She wasn’t delusional. She was desperate. And she was right—because even the sorcerer standing before you, a man who’s looked into the abyss of infinite worlds, is telling you that more often than not, she was alone in them.

“So it was real,” you say, though your voice sounds small even to you. “She wasn’t chasing a lie.”

Strange doesn’t answer right away. He picks up the envelope again, places it directly in your hands this time. “Real or not, it’s gone now. She made sure of it. She destroyed the Darkhold in every universe. Besides, other realities should not affect our choices in this one.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Wanda’s not the only one who wanted to believe another world could offer happiness. While I was searching for a way to stop her, I met another Christine.”

It’s rare for him to open up this much, but maybe it makes sense—two people saying goodbye often find the courage to be vulnerable. Like you, he lives a solitary life. He always has, even back when Christine Palmer was still by his side.

“She was… both Christine and not Christine. Familiar, but different. And I realized something. I will love Christine in every universe—but not as much as I love the Christine of mine.”

You feel the bittersweet edge of his realization, as though he’s only just come to terms with it.

“I think Wanda saw the same truth,” Stephen continues. “When she looked into those worlds where you existed, she must have realized she could never love any of them the way she loved you here. That’s why she let you go. Why she freed you from her. She gave you what she thought was your happy ending.”

You turn away before he can finish, just as a tear slips free and trails down your cheek. You ache for Stephen’s loss—Christine, alive but married to someone else, as Wong had told you days ago.

Stephen rises slowly, as if the weight of his own words has drained him. He smooths his suit jacket, already turning toward the door when your voice stops him.

“She’s wrong.”

He pauses, glancing back. “Who?”

“Wanda.” You swallow hard, trying to ease the knot in your throat. “She was wrong about me and Kia. Because I choose her. Here, in this one. She’s gone, and I still choose her.”

—

You eventually attend your trial and when it’s over, you walk out into the daylight with Wanda’s memory still burning in you like a compass. You do things differently now. Older, wiser, you no longer mistake survival for living. You live. You carry Wanda with you into every choice, but not as a chain—rather as a reminder of what it means to love fiercely, to find beauty even in a world that never stops breaking. You travel farther than you ever thought possible, across oceans and continents, offering your hands to rebuild villages torn apart by storms, your skills to missions that aim to make life less cruel for the most vulnerable. You work without borders, your service a kind of penance, but also a kind of freedom.

And yet, no matter how many lives you touch, you never forget that your own belongs to you too. When the years pile on and the urgency of helping the world softens, you let yourself slow down. You return east of North America, to a town that’s unfamiliar but feels like home. The days stretch longer there, unhurried, and you fill them with stacks of books you’ve promised yourself for years you would finally read. Soon, your little house begins to sag under the weight of them.

When there’s no more space to walk without brushing against spines and pages, you decide it’s time. You open a small bookstore. The shelves fill quickly, but now there’s room for them, and for you. It becomes part of the town, just as the town becomes a part of you. Life is steady, and enough. 

A year and a half goes by this way. Then one evening, just as you’re putting a book back on the shelf, the bell above the door rings. 

A woman walks in. 

This time, it wasn’t heroes or stones that brought her back.

Wanda doesn’t mean to linger.

But you’re lying there in her bed, utterly spent, barely covered by the sheets she hastily pulled over your hips after you passed out, limbs boneless and trembling from how hard you came. There’s a sheen of sweat on your skin that she tasted moments ago. Your lips are parted slightly, and your face, though flushed and worn, is peaceful in a way that makes it hard for her to look away.

She should move you and return you to your room, pretend none of this happened. But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays seated at the edge of the mattress, hands still shaking from what she let herself take.

Her eyes trace the shape of your body, the curves and planes she’s memorized a thousand times over, now aged by time, by life. You’ve changed, but you’re still you. Maybe more than ever.

How could you think she couldn’t love you now as much as she did then? As much as she always has? It’s impossible not to love you—she’s learned that the hard way. Impossible no matter what you’ve done in the years she was gone, no matter how many hard choices pulled you away from her, or her from you.

She’s spent weeks chasing fragments of you across the multiverse, haunting the dreams of Wandas who weren’t hers. And every single time she found you—even if it was only for an hour, a passing moment—she fell a little bit in love all over again.

But none of them compared to you. You are the real thing. 

And yet she knows how it ends. The Darkhold showed her. To see it through, only to watch it collapse again, would be to break her heart twice over. That kind of love isn’t sustainable. It’s going to destroy her. And if she’s gone—what about her boys? They need her. Perhaps more than she needs them.

Her real chance at happiness isn’t here, in this bed, clinging to what was never meant to last. It’s with her children—with Billy and Tommy, who look at her as though she is their whole world. They are the only hope she could embrace wholeheartedly without reservations. 

The sheet slips lower as you shift, revealing the faint, silvery lines stretched across your side. Wanda’s eyes harden at the sight of them. Her hand lifts, almost without thought, and she lets her fingers drift lightly over one of the scars. Your body twitches under her touch, but you don’t wake. You just breathe, slow and unaware.

Other scars appear in the shadows of your collarbone, in your torso and along your thigh. She could ask. Or she could press into your mind and uncover every detail. She could know exactly how you got each one, who hurt you, where you bled.

But Wanda chooses not to.

Because something inside her is afraid to know. The idea of you charging headfirst into danger and getting hurt is something she never wants to witness. And from the way you treat pain so casually, she can only imagine how much you’ve endured to become that way.

Still pretending to check for any lingering wounds, her palm settles over your ribs, measuring the rise and fall of your breath. You sigh in your sleep and roll closer to her. 

You are real—here, and impossibly precious. Not hers to keep, but still the only person who has ever made the vast universe feel small enough to bear. Until, of course, she learned about what it means to be a mother, and that universe stretched wide enough to hold every heartache she had ever known.

She doesn’t move when you roll even closer. Just sits there, spine straight, hands back in her lap, trying to steady her breathing. But it’s no use.

When her eyes close, she can still feel you.

Your thighs squeezing around her cheeks. Your voice, broken and pleading, whispering her name like a secret you’ve kept all these years. The taste of you is still on her tongue, salt and something sweet she’s never been able to name, never been able to get enough of. Her jaw clenches, and her hands curl into fists as she wills the sensation away.

This is what weakness feels like.

Enough, the Darkhold murmurs, its voice sliding into her thoughts. You’ve had your fill.

It tells her she’s taken what she needs, and that the moment for clarity is here. Surprisingly, Wanda agrees. She stands abruptly, though her knees threaten to betray her. Your breath slips into a gentle snore, soft and trusting, tempting her to get back into bed and wrap her arms around you til the sun rises. She won’t give in this time. 

Wanda already knows you won’t willingly take the life she’s offered you. By week’s end you will refuse, and she will sentence you to a fate against your will. You’ll try to convince her again. You’ll ask her to stop. And she knows, no matter how she touches you, no matter how deeply you still care, you won’t say yes in the end.

You won’t take her gift. Not willingly. 

Worse, you nearly slipped back into her heart, into her mind.

So she settles on the only way to end it.

She gathers the torn pieces of your clothing and sets them aside, almost tender, then steps away from the bed. Her palm meets the doorframe. 

She knows what she has to do, and she won’t hesitate this time.

—

When you wake up, you're still bound, back in your own bed, with a few days left until Wanda decides to rewrite your reality—her gift, as she calls it.

Your phone is dead, leaving you completely in the dark about what’s happening beyond these walls. Even so, you trust Jimmy. If he hasn’t heard from you in 72 hours, you know he’ll act. If anyone is going to sound the alarm, it’s him.

But whatever’s waiting in five days, or whether Jimmy has reached out to the remaining Avengers, is the least of your concerns right now. What fills your thoughts instead is the sticky warmth between your thighs and the ghostly memory of Wanda’s mouth. 

You used to love unhurried mornings; early hours in Scotland on a Saturday, after a week of minimum-wage shifts. Or those long mornings in Iceland, where the sun seemed in no rush to rise. This isn’t one of them, even if all you can hear is the sound of nature waking up with you. 

Last night—you still can’t make sense of it. What happened was something you thought impossible. Every part of you had ached for Wanda the moment you saw her again, yet the distance between you felt too wide, too final. You never believed it could happen again—not after everything she’d said, not after all the times she swore she could never forgive you.

So what did it all mean? Was it Wanda finally letting go of everything she’s kept buried? It didn’t feel like the way you used to make love to her—if you could even call it that. Last night was all about control and punishment. And as much as you wanted her, as much as you craved her touch, something about it felt off. Something didn’t sit right.

You lie still for a moment, eyes fixed on the wooden beams above, waiting for the sound of Wanda’s footsteps as she returns. But the house is silent, which suggests she’s probably gone again.

You sigh and move to roll onto your side, forgetting—just for a moment—about the cuffs.

Only this time, you can.

The resistance that’s always met you is gone. You blink and glance at your wrists, but there’s nothing there. You move slowly, wary of a trap, but when you swing your legs over the side of the bed, nothing stops you.

Your feet meet the floor.

And then, from somewhere down the hall, a voice calls out to you.

“Breakfast is ready.”

You freeze.

No.

No, it can’t be.

“Y/N?” the voice calls again, lighter now, almost teasing. “Did you oversleep again?”

Your pulse stutters.

It’s not Wanda.

It’s Kia. And your blood runs cold.

—

She’s exactly as you left her in Reykjavik: wearing a sweater, bare feet on the wooden floorboards, cooking bacon and eggs. Toasts pop up beside her.

You stand frozen at the corner where the hallway meets the kitchen, silently watching her move.

What the fuck is this?

Wanda said you had seven days. Did your new life begin without you knowing?

Kia flips the bacon, wipes her hands on a dish towel, and finally turns. The sizzle fades behind her.

“You’re staring,” she says, lifting one brow. A teasing grin pulls at her mouth. “Too early for that look, Y/N. I’ve been waiting on you to wake up. I’m starving.”

You force a smile, but your mind races. Is this a dream? A projection? Some new spell Wanda cast while you slept? 

Is Kia real? Is she really here?

Kia’s grin softens when she sees you haven’t moved. “Hey. Everything okay?”

You clear your throat, pushing words past the lump there. “Yeah. Just… morning brain.” You manage a step, then another, until you slip into the chair closest to the window.

The cabin looks exactly as it did last night. The same kettle, still shrieking on the stove. The same chairs. The same bare walls, stripped of anything resembling comfort. Nothing has changed. You’re certain you woke up this morning in the very same place.

Kia sets a plate of bacon and eggs in front of you, then slides toast from the toaster with practiced ease. “Coffee?” she asks.

“Please,” you answer automatically, studying her. Her hair is a little shorter than you remember from before, but her smile could have walked straight out of your memories. And she moves through this kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times.

She pours two mugs, sets one beside your plate, and settles in across from you. “You must have crashed hard,” she says. “I didn’t even hear you get up last night.”

Your pulse hammers. “Last night?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Went out like a light the second your head hit the pillow. Lucky you, I had to wrestle with the woodstove when the temperature dropped.”

You pick at the corner of the toast. Nothing about what Kia’s saying is making any sense. This has Wanda written all over it. 

Kia leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’re still giving me that look.” Her eyes narrow with playful suspicion. “What, did I grow an extra head overnight?”

“No,” you say quietly. “You’re perfect.”

Kia blushes lightly at the compliment and gives you a wink, but you’re already somewhere else in your mind.

You test out a theory. Just a small thing, something simple to start.

“Hey,” you say slowly. “Where are we right now?”

Kia pauses, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Like…where are we? Where is this place?”

She tilts her head at you like you’ve just asked her what year it is. “Where we’ve always lived, silly.”

You press gently. “Right, but… where exactly?”

Kia’s smile falters. For a split second—barely longer than a blink—her bright blue eyes glisten like she’s about to cry. Her lips part, and her voice wavers as she forces out, “V-Vermont?”

She blinks once and then the easy-going expression returns to her features.  

“Drink up before it gets cold,” she says, nudging your mug closer. “You know how grumpy you get without caffeine.”

You lift the mug and sip. It’s too sweet, the way Kia usually makes them. Kia watches until you swallow, then smiles, as if that single swallow proves everything is perfectly ordinary. She takes a bite of toast and, with her free hand, reaches across the small table to rest her fingers on your forearm, her thumb stroking a small circle against your skin.

You glance down at where she touches you. It's real. She's real.

And that means Wanda did something terrible.

Because you just knew Kia wouldn’t be here on her own accord. 

—

You wait for Kia to fall asleep before making your move.

The day dragged in the worst way, suffocating in its ordinariness. She made lunch, you stacked firewood, and together you walked the edge of the clearing, neither of you willing to take a step beyond it.

You held yourself together and chose not to say anything.

Because how do you look someone in the eye and say, You’re not supposed to be here. This life isn’t real. Someone took you from yours and dropped you into mine.

You didn’t want to scare her. If there’s even the smallest chance you can undo this quietly, without her ever knowing what Wanda did, you’ll take it.

So now, long after she’s drifted off with her head on your shoulder and your fingers still laced with hers, you ease out of bed. You pull the blanket back over her, linger just long enough to hear the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Then you slip into the hallway, every step drawing a protest from the floorboards. You grab a coat from the rack, pulling it on fast, your body already angling toward the door—until you stop short. There, calmly drinking tea, sits Wanda.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, as casually as if you’d only been reaching for a glass of water.

You bristle, tugging the coat tighter around you. So—she hasn’t abandoned you to this new life after all.

“I needed air.”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “So you’re not running away?”

“I’m not running,” you reply, though you’re not sure it’s true. “We need to talk.”

Her fingers tap once against the mug. “About Kia.”

You nod. No point pretending otherwise.

Wanda sets her cup aside, a smug curve pulling at her lips that makes your teeth clench.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you tell her, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. 

“A game?” she echoes, tilting her head. “If you say so. I’m playing to win, if that’s what we’re calling it.”

“Real people aren’t pieces on a board, Wanda.”

“Real is overrated.”

“Is it?”

Wanda says nothing.

“Tell me, was last night—any of it—real?”

That draws a reaction, however slight.

“Last night was…” Wanda’s eyes fall to the floor. “…getting you out of my system.”

“Out of your system,” you repeat, the words bitter on your tongue. “That’s convenient.”

“It is.”

God, you’ve forgotten how infuriating Wanda can be. You bark a humorless laugh. “Christ. You really are something else.”

“I gave you a choice—”

“No,” you interrupt her, moving closer until you're both trading ragged breaths. “You gave me a deadline. A week. Then when that wasn’t enough, you dragged someone else into this twisted mess—”

“You needed to see what it could be like.” 

“No, you brought her here so you can torture yourself and feed off that pain to bury me into some fantasy I don’t even want.”

She looks away, and you’re glad. Let her. Let her sit in it.

Her mouth starts to open—

But there’s nothing she can say now that could ever justify Kia being here. And you both know it.

“I hope getting me out of your system was worth it,” you spit, stepping back for some space. “Because it’s the last damn thing you’ll ever take from me without my consent.”

As soon as the last word leaves your mouth, the floor shudders under your feet.

The cabin walls shimmer, bending like heat over asphalt, then melt away. In a blink, the windows, the table, the stove and everything else falls away, as if dragged into deep water.

You’re left standing on nothing, wrapped in a dark half-light. Wanda hovers a few paces away, the crown back on her head. It feels like a symbol, a warning of how much the Wanda you knew has faded—and how fully the Wanda of Westview now stands in her place.

You try your best not to be affected by the sudden change in your surroundings. “Where are we?” 

“Somewhere we can talk without waking Kia,” Wanda says casually. A narrow smile ghosts across her mouth. “She’s still sleeping. You were getting loud.”

You stare at her, stunned. She’s still sleeping. You were getting loud. The casualness of it, the absurdity. She’s nearly unrecognizable. 

“I’m done with this,” you say, your voice flat, shaking. “I’m tired, Wanda. Tired of pretending this back-and-forth is anything but you pulling the strings and hoping I’ll just fall back in line.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You control everything? Where we go, what we remember, how we feel?”

Instead of answering, Wanda cocks her head and asks, softly, “How was your day?”

For a moment, you wonder if you misheard her. Then you laugh sharply, disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

Wanda recounts your day for you, seeing you won’t be cooperating in this interrogation. “You had breakfast together. She made eggs exactly the way you like them—the way she remembers you like them. Then you and Kia read for hours by the fire.”

You’re too blinded by rage to follow where she’s leading. “What?”

“You looked content,” she says softly. “You laughed. You kissed her on the cheek. You almost kissed her for real. On the couch.”

“I was playing the part. If I acted off, she would’ve known something was wrong,” you say.

“She didn’t.”

“Of course she didn’t. You built this whole world for her. You built it so perfectly she doesn’t even know she’s halfway across the goddamn ocean. Her family has no idea where she is. Do you understand how insane that is?”

Wanda flinches, but the movement is gone before you can tell if it was real.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” she says, quieter now.

“But you did. And you will. You’re using her.”

“I gave you what you wanted.”

“No, you gave me what you thought I needed. And it wasn’t yours to give.”

Wanda stares at you, her patience stretched thin, ready to snap.

“And the worst part?” You take a breath, hating the way it trembles in your chest. “You know she didn’t choose me. You brought her here knowing she’d already made her choice. She’s with her family now. She’s not mine.”

“She could have been,” Wanda murmurs.

“But she wasn’t,” you say—and it comes out softer than you intended. “She was never mine to begin with. Just a girl I loved, who loved me back for a while—and then moved on. That’s life, Wanda. That’s real. This?” You gesture to the void around you. “This is you refusing to let go.”

Her magic sparks at her fingertips, wild and red, but she doesn’t strike.

“She’s not a puppet you can shove into a happy ending.”

“No, she’s not,” Wanda says, almost gently. “Which means she’ll have to choose, too.”

—

It all happens too fast. One moment you’re standing in that strange, empty place, arguing with Wanda, and the next, Kia’s bolting from the bedroom in a panic. Barefoot, eyes wide and glassy, she stumbles into a world that makes no sense to her.

“Kia!” you shout, already moving.

She whirls at the sound of your voice, chest heaving. For a moment, her gaze skitters past you before recognition sets in.

“Y/N?” she says, voice breaking on your name.

You nod, and that’s all it takes for her to run to you.

She nearly knocks you over with how tightly she wraps her arms around your waist. You hold her just as fiercely, grounding her, feeling her heartbeat racing against your chest.

“Where am I? What’s happening?” she gasps. “I was—I don’t know—I was in bed, reading my daughter a bedtime story, and then I wasn’t, and I thought I was dreaming, but I can’t wake up.”

Her words tumble over each other. She’s shaking, terrified.

You press your lips to her temple, aware of how it must look to Wanda, but you have nothing else to give Kia except assurance. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe. We’ll get you home. I promise.” You don’t know how yet. But you swear you will.

Wanda stands only a few feet away, silent.

You can feel her eyes on you, heavy and unrelenting, but you don’t look at her. You focus on Kia, the way her fingers grip the back of your shirt, the tears gathering in her lashes.

Wanda watches, her eyes tracing the way Kia fits so easily in your arms, how instinctively you move to protect her. You’ve always been more noble than you liked to admit. She remembers how fiercely you tried to protect her, even when your strength never quite matched hers. You didn’t have to win. You just had to try. That was the part of you she loved most and still does. She remembers the missions, the countless times you put yourself between her and a threat you couldn’t possibly stop. You’re doing it again now—only this time, Wanda is the danger, and it’s Kia you’re protecting from her.

She can’t decide whether to be angry at the sight or grateful you still have that instinct.

And it’s not the first time she’s seen this. The Darkhold has shown her dozens of versions of this moment. Worlds upon worlds, cut from the same cloth of you and Kia cherishing each other. Happy endings that never include her, regardless if she exists in that reality or not.

The Darkhold whispers that love is a resource, finite and fragile, something to seize before someone else takes it. She’s believed that for so long it feels like the hard truth. It feels like the only way to live, the only path that makes sense when Wanda’s experienced loss in ever-incrementing means.

Kia gently pulls back from your embrace, her eyes red-rimmed and still shining with confusion.

“I'm sorry,” she starts. “I should've stayed with you. When you left—I should've chased after you, but—” Her chin dips in shame. “My family needed me, my daughter needed me and her dad. I couldn't just leave.”

You shake your head softly, squeezing her hand. “You don't owe me any apologies. You did the right thing.”

“It killed me, when you didn’t return that night. I kept thinking that if I had known—”

Wanda picks this moment to announce herself.

“I can help with that.”

Both you and Kia turn, startled. Instinct kicks in, and you move her behind you without thinking, a protective reflex you don’t have time to question. Wanda sees it, and the hurt flashes across her face. You hate that it’s come to this. But the Wanda standing before you is unpredictable, and after what she showed last night—how reckless she can be when consumed by emotion—you can’t take any chances. Not with Kia here.

“You don’t have to feel torn, Kia,” Wanda says. “All you have to do is choose.”

You can feel Kia’s questioning gaze on you. You’ve told her about Wanda—on the hardest nights, when the past refused to let you sleep. She knows the stories, or at least the pieces you could bring yourself to share. And now she’s just as bewildered as you are, staring at this Wanda who seems so far removed from the woman she’d heard about—the strongest Avenger, the one who fought for orphans and gave them hope.

“C-Choose?” Kia repeats. “What are you saying?”

“What if you didn’t have to go back?” Wanda suggests, low and coaxing. “What if I could promise your family would be cared for—that they’d be just as happy without you—while you stayed here, with Y/N. Isn’t that what you really want?”

Kia’s hands fall away the instant Wanda bares the truth of what she feels. Her husband came back, yes, but she was in love with you, too. If she could have both lives, she'd choose you without hesitation.

You feel Kia step out from behind you, just enough to face Wanda directly, her brows furrowed, lips parted in wonder.

“Don’t listen to her,” you whisper, meant only for Kia—but Wanda hears it.

She flinches as if struck.

Kia, however, doesn’t seem to hear you at all.

“You won’t even remember the people you’re leaving behind,” Wanda murmurs, as if that’s a kindness. “Your daughter will be safe. Your husband will find another love, one whose heart isn’t cut in two. That ache in your chest, the one you try to ignore every time you look at Y/N? It’ll be gone.”

Kia swallows hard. “Gone how?”

“Gone like a fever,” Wanda says. “You get it, don’t you? I know you do. If anyone understands what that kind of ache feels like, it’s you.”

“Kia!” you snap, sharper this time.

Her lip trembles.

“And you’ll be happy,” Wanda continues, soothing, her voice like velvet. “Everyone will be happy.”

You want to scream. You want to shake Kia out of Wanda’s seduction.

Wanda smiles. “Wouldn’t you like that?” she asks, tilting her head. 

Instead of answering, Kia finally turns to you, her expression open and uncertain. Wanda’s getting to her.

“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “What do you want?”

You grimace. “It’s not going to be real.”

“But if it was?” Kia presses. “What if it was real?”

Your answer doesn’t come just as fast because it can’t. Because if you answer too quickly, it’ll be a lie. And if you let the truth breathe, it hurts. 

So, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. And you listen to the silence inside you. To the absence of chaos. To the part of you that once believed that love could fix anything.

And it brings you back.

Back to the night you left.

You’d made peace with it, hadn’t you? With Kia’s original family being back, it was everything you would’ve given her yourself, if the world had allowed it.

And so you walked away.

Because you loved her.

Because you wanted her to have that.

And yeah, it hurt like hell, at first. Yeah, the part of you that remembered her laugh, her touch, her stability. But in time, you told yourself, that fire would cool. It would burn down into something else. Something golden, and warm.

You picture the night you left that home you built with Kia—the tiny apartment light blinking, Clint’s message, the impossible news that Wanda had taken an entire town hostage. You remember the way your whole body jolted, how every other responsibility blurred behind that single, blazing need: help Wanda, and then free the town. And when that was over, you went after Wanda. You knew what you were walking into. You knew she would be in pain. You knew she'd be angry. You knew she wouldn’t recognize herself, let alone you.

But you went anyway.

You went for her.

Because even when she didn’t want saving, even when she pushed and hurt and broke you open, you stayed. Not because you liked the suffering, but because she needed someone who wouldn’t leave again.

And so, when Kia asks what you want...

You open your eyes.

And you give her the truth.

“I want you to be okay,” you whisper. “To go home to the life you rebuilt. I want your daughter to know that her mother never stopped fighting to come back. I want your husband to never question whether he was enough.

“And I want this to end,” you finish, turning to Wanda.

Wanda stiffens.

“I don’t want this with Kia. Not because it’s wrong. But because you’re still out here. Hurting. Alone. And I won’t trade away any happiness this world—or the Darkhold—can offer if it means abandoning you to it.”

Silence falls.

And for once, even the Darkhold says nothing. 

But before her own doubts can take hold, Wanda flicks her wrist. 

Kia lunges for you. “Y/N—!”

You lunge for Wanda.

Discovering the secrets of the Darkhold for the first time was the only source of excitement and reprieve Wanda could grasp in the weeks that followed the anomaly she had wrought in Westview.

The thrill is almost small enough to hide inside her palms. Almost.

She pretends, at first, that the book is only a necessary evil—an encyclopedia she’ll consult and then close, a door she’ll likely won’t have to walk through again. She tells herself she’ll read it the way she used to read whatever you pressed into her hands when you lived together—not because every title reached her, but because they mattered to you and she wanted every corner of your mind. She’d hunt for your notes in the margins and underlines, page after page, collecting little clues until the shape of you made sense. She’ll do the same with this: read, learn what she needs, then close it. 

But grief is a solvent. It thins resolve until it runs like water, and the Darkhold knows exactly how every drop will fall.

When she found the cabin in the middle of the woods, it was already abandoned. At first, she waited on the front steps, nose buried in her new book, to see if anyone would return at night. Time slipped by, and she was still on the first page when she realized no one was coming back. After that, she let herself in.

The door stuck halfway, then yielded with a sigh like old lungs. The entry smelled faintly of cedar and something sweeter beneath it; lanolin and stale coffee, or the ghost of habit. 

The living room was just a plain square. A rocking chair sat turned toward the window, angled to catch the morning light. A half-knit gray sweater lay draped over one arm, the needles still caught mid-row. She touched the cuff and felt it warm from her skin. Beside the chair sat two mugs, rings brown at the lip, their coffee gone to a skin.

She glanced toward the hall. The main bedroom door was half-closed in a way people leave a door when they think they’ll be right back. Sun pooled in a long rectangle across the floorboards. Dust hung there like a slow snowfall. Abandoned places have a way of looking serene, almost beautiful.

Inside the main bedroom, the bed was surprisingly neatly made—corners tucked, coverlet smoothed, two pillows stacked. On the dresser, black-and-white photos leaned against the mirror in mismatched frames. Wanda studied them one by one: a woman in a housedress standing in front of a truck with a dog at her ankles; a lake, with a weathered dock that looked like it might collapse if you jumped on them repeatedly; a boy at six, strapped into a cardboard rocket, grin missing two teeth. Beside the bed, a more modern frame was on display. It was glossy, color, and with the corners intact. An elderly woman in a wool coat and a middle-aged man in a thinner version of the same face leaned their heads together. 

Mother and son, she thought. A soft ache pressed behind Wanda’s sternum. It did not feel like envy, exactly. It felt like a fact that arrived late and took up too much room. This cabin once housed a family. And now, it housed an orphan. 

In another year, or five, she might have sat and picked up the needles and finished the last sleeve. She could have added four inches, woven in ends, washed and blocked it over a towel. She could have left it folded on the rocker as a small, respectful joke to whatever part of the house was listening. Another woman’s doing, finished by her.

But she wasn’t living in those years. She was living in this one, and the Darkhold warmed in her hands like an animal pleased to be chosen.

She told herself she would be gentle. She told herself she would be fast.

It took some twenty seconds.

With a small motion of her hand, the cabin emptied itself of its history. Wanda didn’t touch a box or fold a single item. The cabin was no longer anyone’s home. It wasn’t hers either. A home is where you find peace, where you rest. She hadn’t come here for that.

This was only a place to study. A place to use. She came here looking for her sons. For answers.

—

In the days that followed, Wanda barely slept.

When she did, the book followed her into her dreams. At first, she thought she was hallucinating—the residue of Westview weighing down her mind. Yet each time she awoke, the book lay open to a page that seemed to offer an explanation for the visions that had haunted her sleep.

And from that point onward, the lesson would continue.

The first lessons were simple, and they were all about history. The Darkhold told her the truth of her own magic. Chaos magic, older than language, older than the first myth scratched onto stone. Power that did not come from learning but from being, woven into her at birth. She had not been chosen, it was simply what she was. The book made her see it, not as a blessing, not as a curse, but as a law of nature. Wanda Maximoff was not created by accident. Wanda Maximoff was inevitable. It introduced her to Chthon, where all of its powers came from. Chthon, the god who breathed life into desires. 

The Darkhold proved far more talkative than Wanda had anticipated. In time, it disclosed everything she might learn—both through study and by other, less natural means—about Agatha Harkness, including how the book had once come into her possession. Wanda saw her life not as Agatha might have told it, but as the Darkhold remembered it: the Salem witch who had thought herself a master of secrets, yet she had been nothing more than another in a long line of temporary bearers.

Because that was the truth the Darkhold pressed into Wanda’s mind again and again: no one owns it. It does not belong to witches, to covens, to mortals at all. It belongs only to Chthon. It is Chthon—or at least, the imprint he left behind, preserved in ink and blood and something fouler than both. The book was not a tool. It was a vessel. And each page she turned was another breath from his mouth in her ear.

Her next lessons were easy enough. Nothing she had already done before, yet the Darkhold insisted that her technique lacked refinement. Nearly a month had passed since her first encounter with it, and Wanda’s patience was wearing thin. Almost a month, and her obsession had stalled; the book still refused to answer the questions that consumed her. Were Billy and Tommy real? And if they were, where were they? Gradually, she began to spend less time with it, her thoughts drifting instead to you—where you might be, what you might be doing. The more she lingered on the idea of your deception, the angrier she became, and the Darkhold recoiled at it. It despised the way she thought of you, even when those thoughts were rooted in pain and betrayal. Because it knew that pain could just as easily turn back into love.

Sensing her waning devotion, the book finally shifted its tactics. It decided it would give her a taste of its true power.

And so, one night while Wanda slept, the Darkhold parted its pages and invited her deeper.

When she opened them again, she was looking through someone else’s window.

—

In this universe, her variant is your neighbor.

At first Wanda doesn’t recognize it for what it is. Wanda thought she was still dreaming. She had to be. The house is neat, suburban, trimmed hedges, curtains pulled back to let in all the morning sunlight. She blinked, glancing down at her own hands. A plate of cookies sat balanced there, warm, the smell of chocolate and butter curling into her nose. She frowned. Cookies? Strangely, for a dream, nothing about it was absurd—just random.

“Billy? Tommy?” she calls out. No one answers. She hastily looks around, scanning the living room for photos or evidence of their existence. But the walls are blank, covered only by a boring grey wallpaper. The silence is its own answer. Here, she lives alone.

When she returns to the kitchen and her eyes drifts to the window, she realizes why the Darkhold has brought her here.

Across the street, through a narrow bedroom window, she sees you, wrapped in nothing but a towel, your hair dripping, clinging to your face in dark strands. Wanda doesn’t take her eyes off you. You’re unlike anything from her memories, nor the version she conjured in Westview. No—you are a stranger wearing your skin, uncanny in the way a twin might be, or like someone who only almost looks like you.

Wanda lets herself indulge in the scene. It’s only a dream, isn’t it? Which means anything she does here is inconsequential.

She watches shamelessly as you let the towel fall to the floor, slipping into each piece of clothing with deliberate, almost painful slowness. Wanda’s gaze follows, hungry, unwilling to let you leave her sight. And only when you finally move to step out of the room does she remember the cookies cooling at her side. A neighborly gesture, perhaps? Something harmless.

She crosses the street before she can think better of it. It’s only a dream, she tells herself again as she knocks on your door.

But when it swings open, it isn’t you standing there.

It’s that woman—Kia. 

“Honey, who is it?” you ask, stepping into Wanda’s view. Her vision had blurred at the edges the moment she caught sight of the wedding ring on Kia’s finger.

But when your eyes land on her, they brighten. “Miss Maximoff!” you say warmly, like she’s been your neighbor for years. “How nice of you to come by.” You notice the plate in her hands, inhale, and grin. “Oh, is that a cookie? It smells delicious.”

Wanda doesn’t trust her voice, so she only nods, extending the tray.

You pluck one from the pile and take a generous bite. “God, Kia, you should learn from her—this is incredible. Way better than your—”

Kia smacks the back of your head before you can finish, playful but with enough force to make you wince. “Rude,” she mutters, though she’s smiling.

You laugh and lift your hands in surrender. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Yours are good too.” You lean back to kiss her quickly on the lips, still with Wanda’s cookie in your mouth. Kia rolls her eyes but doesn’t push you away.

Wanda’s grip on the tray tightens until she thinks it might crack.

“Oh—thank you so much, Miss Maximoff,” you say hurriedly, brushing crumbs off your shirt as you duck for your coat. “Really, these are amazing. You’ll spoil us if you keep this up.”

You’re already halfway out the door, mouth still full of Wanda’s baking, on your way to work, when she blinks, and the scene before her dissolves. She is back where she truly belongs—alone, in an abandoned cabin.

—

It’s called Dreamwalking.

And as the Darkhold lays out the mechanics of the spell, Wanda realizes none of it is her mind’s invention. They are real. Somewhere, in another universe, you live just across the street, and Wanda can do nothing but watch as you and Kia grow old together. 

She doesn’t move for a long time after the vision fades. The Darkhold patiently waits for her on the mattress, but Wanda turns her face toward the wall and lets it go unread. She pulls the blanket over her head, curling in on herself as though she could hide from the image of you leaning across Kia’s shoulder, from the sound of your laugh still echoing in her ears.

Her eyes sting, but no tears come, only the dull press of disappointment, confusion, and anger. She doesn’t understand why it hurts this much, why her heart refuses to let go of a world that was never hers. Why it should matter at all, when this Wanda has no Billy, no Tommy—when they were the reason she opened the book in the first place.

And yet, it does matter. It matters enough that she cannot sleep, cannot breathe, without recalling the glint of a wedding band on another woman’s hand. 

The Darkhold leaves her be, satisfied with the outcome of her first taste of dreamwalking. It knows Wanda Maximoff will lie there, still as stone, until desperation wins out and she opens it again.

And when she does, the lesson will continue.

—

It varies from one universe to the next, whether she has her powers or not. When she does, Wanda often uses them—it’s faster that way, when she’s searching for Billy and Tommy. Yet she never ends a dreamwalk without yielding to her curiosity about you, in whatever form you exist there.

It’s pathetic, she knows, but it’s become second nature. She peers into bedrooms, alleyways, hospital corridors, office halls—any place you might be. And every time, she braces for disappointment, still hoping, against reason, that she might stumble on the one universe that gives her everything. Billy. Tommy. You. All together, bound to her, belonging to her.

But the search is endless. The Darkhold opens door after door, world after world, and none of them deliver what she craves. The irony needles her each time she wakes. For all the infinite branches of fate, the one constellation she aches for most refuses to exist.

Each time she returns to herself, Wanda feels emptier, like the book has carved out another piece of her and left only want in its place. It’s as draining as watching the same film again and again, already knowing how it ends.

—

After dreamwalking through hundreds of universes, Wanda begins to notice a pattern. 

In the rare instances where she has no powers—two in a hundred, if that—she ends up with someone insignificant, a stranger she barely registers. Those dreams are always short, fading quickly, as if even the multiverse itself finds them unworthy of her attention.

But when she does have her powers, the outcomes narrow to two. Either she is with Vision, or she is not. More often than not, Billy and Tommy are theirs—three times out of five, by her rough count. Not a bad statistic, she tells herself. A comfort, if she chooses to see it that way.

What unsettles her is not what she finds, but what she doesn’t. Across all those worlds, all those versions of herself, she has never seen even one where you are with her. Not a single Earth.

It’s not that she believes everything the Darkhold feeds her—she isn’t naïve. She knows the book has its own designs, just as she does. She studies it willingly because it has what she needs, but she doesn’t fool herself into thinking it shows her the whole truth. It never does. Not yet anyway.

And so, when she wakes in the body of another Wanda married to Vision, she doesn’t bother to linger or pretend it’s just another day for them. She clears this Wanda’s schedule and goes looking for you instead. By now, she’s learned that not every Wanda carries the same power she does, and it has taken time for her to learn how to bend her Earth-616 abilities into these other worlds. When she does find you, it happens in the most trivial place.

Like this moment now—you’re knocking on Wanda’s car window at a gas station. You’re younger here, nearly a decade younger, your face flushed with nerves. You look so different in this universe—like you actually lived a normal, happy childhood, instead of the unbearable memories she once heard you mumble on the hardest nights you shared together. 

Words tumble out of you as you wave your hands, explaining how your mom canceled your cards and you lost your wallet somewhere. You insist this isn’t a scam, even flashing your IDs and social security number just in case she doubts you.

All you’re asking for is thirty bucks.

Wanda studies you in silence, her fingers resting loosely on the steering wheel. You shift under her gaze, scratching the back of your neck.

“I know this is insane. I know.” You’re talking faster now, eyes darting everywhere but hers. “It’s just—if you say no, I get it. I do. But I’m stuck here, and I can’t think of anything else to do. I just need gas money to get somewhere…”

Wanda’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Somewhere?” she asks. “Where exactly are you trying to get to?”

Your face heats even more, and you laugh awkwardly. “Uh. That’s—god, this is embarrassing.” You rub at your cheek, stalling. “It’s… it’s my girlfriend. We’re long-distance. Haven’t seen each other in months. I wanted to surprise her.”

Of course, you’re in love with someone else. It should be immaterial—after all, she’s meant to be in love with Vision here. And yet, what a pity. Her eyes soften, though she says nothing, letting you flounder.

“It’s like—two hours from here,” you admit finally, lowering your gaze. “I’m trying to get to Hartford. Which is why I just need enough for gas. I can figure out the rest when I get there.”

Wanda’s hands drum lightly against the steering wheel, a slow, deliberate rhythm. Then she looks at you, decisive. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said, I’ll drive you. Two hours isn’t far.” She shrugs like it’s nothing, as though offering a stranger a ride across counties is an everyday thing. “It’s along the way.”

Your mouth falls open. Wanda doesn’t need to work her powers to know what you’re thinking.

“Why would you—? That’s insane. You don’t even know me,” you say.

“No,” Wanda agrees calmly. “But you’ll just have to risk it, won’t you? That I’m not some psycho who’ll run us off the road.” Her eyes narrow faintly, and there’s something like a dare in her tone. “Just like I’ll risk that you won’t pull a knife on me while I’m behind the wheel.”

You stare at her, stunned into silence.

The corner of her mouth lifts. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

You let out a groan as you fumble with your phone, dialing for a tow. “Yeah, it’s parked at the Sunoco off exit twelve,” you mutter into the receiver. “Impound it. My mom’s gonna kill me, but…whatever.” You hang up with a heavy sigh, shaking your head. “She’s gonna have a field day with this one.”

Wanda just watches, patient, not offering sympathy but not mocking either. It makes your stomach twist.

You sling your backpack over one shoulder, then glance at her. “Guess I’m hitching a ride with you. I’m Y/N.”

“Wanda,” she replies evenly. 

You nod, still wary, but open the passenger door and slip inside. 

The first twenty minutes crawl by. You try the radio, desperate for a distraction, but her hand snaps out quickly, turning the dial back off. “It’s broken,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, shrinking a little in your seat. You try to scroll through your phone instead, but the screen makes your stomach flip. You’ve always been bad at reading in moving cars, so you give up and stare out the window.

Minutes later, you attempt small talk. “So, uh… do you make this drive a lot, or—”

“I don’t care for small talk,” she tells you plainly, though her tone isn’t unkind.

“Okay…” you murmur, unable to think of anything else to respond with. 

“This girlfriend of yours—what’s she like? How long have you been together?”

You stare at her, incredulous, your eyes fixed on the side of her face. “That’s… a little personal, don’t you think?” 

Her lips twitch in amusement. “We’re strangers. We’ll never see each other again. Small talk’s a stupid waste of time for people like us. That’s for acquaintances.”

It sounds ridiculous—but the longer you sit in her car, the more you start to believe her.

So you decide to throw one back, having noticed earlier the simple white gold band on her left ring finger that signifies one thing. You clear your throat. “Alright then. What about you?”

Her brow lifts.

“Your husband,” you say, a little too pointedly. “What’s he like? How long have you been married?”

A slow smile curves her lips, teasing. “Why do you assume my partner is a man?”

Your mouth falls open, gaping like a fish. A very dumb fish, you think. “Oh—I didn’t mean—sorry, I just saw—”

She laughs, enjoying the way you trip over yourself. “Relax,” she says, eyes back on the road. “His name’s Vision. We’ve been together… long enough that I’ve lost count of the years.”

Something in her tone makes you sit back, chastened. She’s an odd woman—that much is obvious. And it’s always the hot ones, they say, who are a little off in the head. The thought slips out before you can stop it. Wait, “hot”? No—beautiful. She’s beautiful. And you’re allowed to notice that, aren’t you? It’s just an observation. Objective, even. Maybe that’s why you agreed to get in her car in the first place. It’s hard to say no to gorgeous people. 

And maybe, when you tell your girlfriend the story of how you somehow made it all the way to her town without your car, you’ll leave this part out.

“I answered,” Wanda reminds you. “Your turn.”

You glance out the window, chewing your lip. She can almost see you debating whether to say anything at all. 

Finally, you exhale, before sheepishly mentioning your girlfriend’s name. “Her name’s… Emma. We’ve been together for two years.”

Wanda doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until that moment. So, it’s not Kia. It shouldn’t make a difference but it does.

“Two years. That’s something. Long enough to know it’s real,” she says.

“And you? Vision. What’s he like?”

Wanda smiles at the thought of Vision. “He’s… steady. Precise. Always thinking three steps ahead, and always too careful with the way he speaks. He frustrates me sometimes,” she admits, lips quirking wryly, “but he makes me laugh. And he never lets me doubt that I’m loved.”

In reality, Wanda doesn’t know if this Vision is all those things, but she can’t help but speak of the Vision she knew. The car goes quiet for a beat. You gaze out the window again, but not before Wanda catches the little lift in your expression, the way your features turn dreamy when you think of your girlfriend.

“Emma’s brilliant,” you say at last. “Funny without even trying, and disciplined in all the ways I’m not. We fight, sometimes. Over stupid things, long-distance things…but she makes it feel worth it. Like no matter how tired I am, I’ll still get in the car and drive two hours just to see her face.”

Wanda swallows. For the first time since waking in this body, she thinks she understands the appeal of this universe. This Wanda—married to Vision, loved in return—seems happy. And you, with Emma, seem happy too.

And yet.

Even as she drives, even as she tells herself she should take comfort in seeing you content, her pulse quickens with the thought of tomorrow, of closing her eyes and surfacing somewhere else. 

Another world means another chance.

—

This time, it is a hospital room. To be fair, it looks more like a suite—furnished with a comfortable sofa bed, a small fridge, a kitchenette, decorative paintings, a television set, everything designed to make a sick person feel at ease, to distract them from the truth of their dying predicament.

Because that is what this Wanda is—dying. The bed, despite the staging, is still a hospital bed. An IV trails into her arm. Her brunette hair is thinner than it should be. 

What stands out, however, is that you are there beside her. In her previous visits, she is almost always searching for you, never waking in her variant’s body to find you within arm’s reach.

A book is open in your hand, the other wrapped securely around hers. You’re reading aloud, your voice low and warm. Every now and then, your thumb rubs unconsciously against her knuckles, as if to check if Wanda’s still with you. She wants to speak, but her voice feels strange in her throat. Still, she squeezes your hand.

You pause, only for a moment, finishing the sentence first before you glance at her. “What’s up?” you murmur, closing the book on your thumb to keep your place.

She swallows, searching for the right words. Not too obvious, not enough to give her away. “Just… wondering,” she says softly, “about… us. About this life.”

Your smile is fond, as though the question isn’t strange at all. “Us?” You shift, propping the book on your knee. “Well, we’ve barely started, haven’t we? Married a year and a half.” You squeeze her fingers back. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still learning you every day.”

Wanda breathes out carefully, trying not to betray the way the answer rattles her. A year and a half. Married. This version of her had what she wanted most—you. And yet, it’s all on the verge of falling apart because she’s not well. There’s nothing crueler than fate.

Moments later, a knock sounds at the door. You barely glance at the interruption, as if you’re already expecting this arrival. Without waiting for either your acknowledgment or Wanda’s, a woman steps in, white coat on, hair tucked neatly behind her ears, stethoscope draped around her neck. She’s your doctor, here to check on the Wanda of this world.

She’s also Kia, and she’s stunning. Kia draws you aside after she does the routine check on Wanda, her voice lowering as she opens the folder in her hands. You ask about the counts. The scan. Whether the new regimen is doing anything at all. Your brows are furrowed, the lines of worry settling deep between your eyes. Wanda watches from her vantage point in the bed, her body still, her ears straining to catch every word.

Kia meets your eyes as she gives the bad news. The markers are sliding the wrong way. The mass hasn’t responded. Harder days are coming. 

But she threads hope through every word. Options to adjust. A trial she’s already reached out to. Pain she can manage before it hits. A plan for the next forty-eight hours. “We’re not out of room,” she says, soft but certain. “Don’t give up on her. I’m not.”

Something in you loosens. Your mouth tips into a small smile. Grateful. Too grateful. You thank her—once, then again—your hand closing over her forearm before you remember to let go.

You don’t see it yet. Wanda does. The future falling into shape. Kindness becoming routine. Routine turning into need. And after she dies in this world, you will meet Kia at the edge of your grief and follow the same path you did back home. 

Wanda’s learning one thing though–-

That in every universe, even the ones where she holds you first, it’s only a matter of time before Kia arrives.

—

When Wanda wakes again, her cheeks are wet.

The Darkhold sits open, waiting for her to turn the page.

And she does.

Because grief is greedy, and love gives until there’s nothing left, and Wanda Maximoff has never known how to be anything less than both. She drags her palms down her face, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until stars burst behind them. She has to believe there’s another truth, somewhere. That there must be a world where it isn’t always her.

And so she keeps turning pages. 

Warmth is the first thing you feel.

Sunlight spills through the bare windows, bright and unrelenting. You lie on your back, body aching but still, there's a strange calm in your limbs. For a few blissful seconds, you forget everything. Maybe last night didn’t happen. Maybe the fence wasn’t real, and you can get up now and walk out of the forest without problem. 

Maybe it’s just another bad dream layered on top of worse ones.

You breathe in deep. The sheets smell faintly of lavender.

You try to turn over, reach for the warm hollow beside you—

Except, your left arm doesn’t come with you. You frown, try again. But to no avail.

That’s when you finally look.

Your wrist is bound, though not with a typical rope or cuffs. A red wisp, soft-looking and faintly pulsing, coils around your hand, shackling you to the headboard. It isn’t tight, but it leaves no room for escape. Every time you move, it shifts slightly, like it’s aware of you.

You stare at the glowing knot and sink back into the mattress. Not a dream then.

She didn’t even bind both hands. Just one. Just enough to stop you from getting near the barricade again and risking hurting yourself trying to break through it. Breathing shallow, you inspect your body, recalling the grotesque pain you experienced in your stubbornness to escape this forest. It was worse than you let yourself believe. Fresh bandages wrap your torso, stained pink at the edges. You stare at them for a long moment, then look away.

You start to wonder how many more hits your body can take before it finally gives out.

From the other room, you hear the unmistakable sound of a spoon tapping a bowl, the low hiss of water starting to boil. You can feel Wanda listening, measuring your wakefulness. You close your eyes a beat too late; the handle turns and the door opens without a word.

Wanda shuffles into your room, still in her pajamas from last night. You notice for the first time how sharp her cheekbones have become, how the dark circles under her eyes aren’t smudges of makeup or tricks of the light. She carries a tray in both hands, with steam rising from a shallow bowl beside a small pitcher of water and a few fresh rolls wrapped neatly in linen.

Your stomach growls right on cue.

“Good morning,” Wanda says, her voice almost polite. She sets the tray on the nightstand and drags a chair beside the mattress. You stay quiet, eyes fixed on her with deliberate intent. It’s the only power you have left—watching her, making sure she feels it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wake so soon,” she continues, lifting the spoon. Broth smells of chicken and thyme. “Drink.”

You turn your face away. It’s petty, but you have no intention of making this easier for her.

Wanda sighs. “You’ll heal faster if you eat.”

You merely stare at her hollowly. 

She sets the spoon down, picks up a small pair of shears and bandage rolls. “Then let me change these.”

Feeling your intense gaze on her, Wanda keeps her eyes down, concentrating on the bandages. She peels back the linen, now damp with faint traces of blood, and dabs the wound clean with warm water. The pain is astonishingly minimal, and you can tell it's her magic making that possible. The sensation of her touch, the intentional way she’s being gentle and careful, sends heat skittering under your skin. It seems being deprived of her touch has made your nerves traitors.

“Thank you,” you mutter in relief before you can stop yourself.

“No need,” she replies. “You can’t exactly manage this yourself.”

“Convenient definition of care,” you say, tugging at the red tether. “You could start by untying me.”

Surprisingly enough, she considers. “I can’t risk another escape attempt.”

You catch Wanda off guard as you suddenly thrash against the restraint. It’s a useless effort, and you know it, but you throw everything into the performance.

“It’s a compulsion knot,” she explains softly. “It responds to intention. The harder you fight, the tighter it weaves.”

“New spell?” you growl. “From your favorite book?”

The slight flinch in her shoulders confirms it.

“You really think that thing cares about you, Wanda?”

Wanda’s eyes harden. She rises, gathers the bloodied cloths, and reaches for the tray. “The Darkhold doesn’t care about anything,” she says quietly. “It just gives options. And you know I don’t get many of those.”

She finally meets your eyes, and for a moment, you almost back down. She’s right. She’s never had many choices. Not as a child, not as a woman, not now. Things just happen to Wanda, and people expect her to survive them. You hate that you became one of those people, the one who took away her chance to decide if you were still worth it, if whatever this is between you was still something she wanted.

She’s right about that.

But that doesn’t excuse her. It doesn’t make it right to take away choices now, as if they don’t carry consequences.

“Kidnapping? Feeding the stray you dragged in like a house pet? Those are your options now?”

You bite your tongue to stop yourself but it’s too late. You hadn’t meant for the accusation to go that far, hadn’t meant to touch anything beyond your own situation. The incident at Westview from weeks ago is still fresh, and Wanda still hasn’t fully faced or processed everything she did and went through there. And now here you are, throwing it all at her feet like she’s some kind of monster.

Wanda’s spine straightens at the word kidnapping.

You scramble to take it all back. “Wanda—”

“You went after me,” Wanda says simply, voice even, almost weary. “And now you’re just facing the result of your actions.”

You let out a dry snort in response.

“You should eat,” she adds, glancing at the tray, the steam already starting to fade. You groan in protest but Wanda takes matters into her own hands and spoons up a small measure of broth and brings it to your lips, and this time you don’t resist, partly out of guilt for what you said, and partly because, honestly, you’re starving.

You part your mouth, taste salt and rosemary, and let the warmth slide down your throat. She withdraws, gathers another serving, and your gaze tracks the slow sweep of her wrist. The cotton sleeve slips higher, revealing a pale stretch of forearm dusted with freckles you used to map with your mouth. You try not to think about that, yet you can’t stop remembering how she shivered under your breath, how her pulse quickened beneath your lips.

The truth is, you haven’t fully wrapped your head around the fact that Wanda’s back. That she’s alive. After five years of mourning her, missing her, she’s suddenly here again—just a breath away. So far, you’ve managed to keep yourself in check, resisting that familiar pull of being helplessly, carelessly in love with Wanda Maximoff—a feeling that’s far too easy to get lost in. The situation is far from ideal, and you know she hasn’t forgiven you for the deception. Still, it’s shameful how your desire for her is like embers being coaxed to life, slow at first, then flaring hotter than ever when you need it least.

You swallow another spoonful, then blurt the first thought that trips across your tongue.

“You look exactly the same.”

Her hand stills.

You didn’t intend to let the words leave out of your mouth, but it’s too late to take them back, so you scramble to follow that up with something that would make the situation less awkward for the both of you.

Instead, you manage to say something much worse.

“Same lashes, same little hollow right there,” your gaze drops to the curve beneath her cheekbone, “I used to trace it in my sleep so I wouldn’t forget the shape of you.”

But it’s like a dam has burst, and you can’t hold back the flood you’ve been drowning in for years. “After you were gone, I kept counting your freckles every night, memory-by-memory, because if one went missing in my head, I knew I’d start losing the rest of you too.”

A tremor skates through her fingers and broth beads at the rim. She says nothing, but the scarlet knot around your wrist quivers as though feeling her pulse. 

“I thought I’d forget eventually,” you say, voice a little hoarse. “I tried to. But you know what’s worse than forgetting someone?”

Her silence dares you to finish.

“Remembering everything.”

Wanda’s throat works. You open your mouth for another spoonful, and she offers it, her hand slightly less steady now. When a bit of broth spills down your chin, you move to wipe it instinctively, but Wanda beats you to it. She reaches forward without thinking, wiping it away with her thumb. The pad of her finger drags gently along your cheek.

It’s only when she notices your other hand isn’t bound that she seems to catch herself. But the damage is done. Her cheeks flush pink, and she pulls back so quickly the spoon rattles in the bowl.

Wanda clears her throat and gets up, saying, “You still have one arm free.”

“Wands—”

“I have to go.”

And then, she’s gone. 

You let your head rest against the headboard, eyes falling closed.

—

The moment Wanda leaves, you finish the rest of the broth she left behind, eating slowly, almost defiantly, until the bowl is empty. Your stomach thanks you for it. Your body, exhausted from fever and pain, folds into the mattress the moment you let yourself relax. You don’t even realize you’re falling asleep again until you wake hours later.

Your second nap of the day ends with a soft groan and a long stretch—at least as much as your single unbound arm allows. The fatigue that wrapped itself around you this morning has mostly faded now, burned away by food and rest. You feel... almost good. Your head is clear. For the first time in what feels like days, you're not in pain. You’ve almost forgotten what normal feels like.

What’s not normal, however, is being trapped in bed like a convalescent child. You glance around the room, your new prison as it seems. Restlessness prickles at your skin.

Your body has mended enough, but the sheets under you smell sour. If Wanda unbound you, you could move around, straighten the room, clean the sheets, maybe even cook something simple. You could be useful again, do something other than count the hours and wonder what she’s thinking. You used to take care of each other, before the snap, before the lies. In Scotland, it was you who made breakfast most mornings. It was Wanda who patched the holes in your coat and kissed the bandages on your knuckles when you burned yourself cooking.

Now, as Wanda’s prisoner, you lie on stained linen, itching to move and unable to do anything at all. You stare at the scarlet tether, a thin strand of light looped around your wrist. You flex your fingers and pull, not violently, but with enough force to test its limits. It doesn’t budge. 

As you continue to move around, the headboard creaks beneath you. It suddenly registers to you how old and worn it looks. Your eyes go to the screws holding it to the frame. An idea comes to you quickly. If you can break it free, you won’t be entirely free, but at least you won’t be chained to the bed.

With your other hand, you shove at the headboard, fingers prying at the joints. The wood groans. You feel it give slightly, splinters catching your palm. But when the headboard starts to crack, the red wisp stays exactly where it is, floating just above the broken wood. The tether wasn’t bound to the bed at all. 

It was bound to you.

You sit back, breathing hard, staring at the magic. There’s no end to it, no knot to pick at, no clasp to undo. You follow its path with your eyes, tracing it outward, slipping beyond the bed, beyond the cabin walls, disappearing through the wood like mist through a sieve.

You shift and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the cold floor. You squint out the window, looking for any trace of the tether, maybe a thread of light leading into the woods or up into the sky. But there’s nothing. It fades out of sight, like it disappears into the air. You’ve been made aware of the incredible progression of Wanda’s power recently. But it’s still hard to fathom how she’s doing all this, even before the Darkhold came into the picture.

You take a shaky breath, mind racing. You can’t just sit and wait. Your eyes land on your pack at the foot of the bed. Slowly, awkwardly, you stretch out your foot, toes reaching for it. You catch the zipper tab and pull the bag closer, inch by inch.

Finally, you get it close enough. You pinch the zipper with your toes, ease it open an inch at a time. Your pulse lifts when your toes brush the familiar pocket where your phone should be, but the compartment is empty. Only the lining greets your searching foot. Wanda must have removed it while you were unconscious.

You let the bag drop and resigned to your fate. She has stayed several steps ahead of you from the start, and seven days isn’t enough time to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

—

The afternoon light creeps across the floor in long gold bars, and for a while the only sounds are your own breathing. More than the lack of mobility, it’s the boredom that gets to you. Time moves excruciatingly slower when you’re literally counting the seconds and minutes until Wanda’s return.

You feel sticky and gross. The sheets cling in places they shouldn’t. The room smells of sweat, dried blood, and frustration.

You close your eyes, imagining what it would feel like to stand, to wash, to move freely again. But the thought only makes the present more unbearable.

Then, without warning, the door creaks open. Finally.

Wanda enters without her coat, hair gathered in a loose knot. She carries a wide wooden tray balanced in both hands: a small pot of stewed vegetables, two thick slices of bread, and a chipped enamel cup that smells of mint and willow bark. 

She sets the tray on the chair beside the bed, not looking at you. Things got out of hand earlier, and she’s determined not to let that happen again. Keeping her distance while making sure you’re fed seems the safest way forward. This time, she’s in a hurry to leave, fingertips already lifting the latch.

“Wanda.” Your voice is rough from disuse.

She stops, if only to acknowledge you having called her.

“I… I need a favor,” you say.

At that she turns, one brow arched. 

You swallow and shift to sit higher against the headboard. “Look at me,” you begin evenly. “I stink. These sheets stink. If you leave me like this much longer, I’m going to lose my mind before I can give you my answer.”

Her expression remains guarded, but you see the war behind her eyes. She’s weighing the risk, your sincerity, her guilt. You hope the last two are winning.

You lick your lips, your eyes falling down to your lap. You hate begging, but you do it anyway. 

“Please.”

At last, Wanda lets her gaze settle on you. Her green eyes are bright and clear, and for a moment, there’s a softness in them—so slight you could almost miss it. She steps closer, stretches her hand towards you and murmurs a word under her breath. The light loosens and then slips away from the headboard and coils instead around your wrist like a bracelet. It still hums with magic, but now it allows the freedom of your other arm and both legs.

“Only long enough to shower,” she says. “When you’re done, call me.”

Relief sweeps through you, almost dizzying. You swing your legs off the mattress and stand; the first full stretch makes your muscles sing. For a second you wobble, but Wanda’s hand braces your elbow before you can fall. She removes it at once, as if contact burns.

She guides you across the hall to a narrow bathroom. A stack of folded towels waits on the bench. Mist rises from the shower stall, and you realize she must have turned the water on before coming into your room.

“I’ll handle your sheets,” she adds.

You rest your palm on the doorframe. “You really don’t have to—”

“I’m using my powers,” she cuts you off sharply. “It won’t take long.”

That surprises you more than anything. Back in Scotland, Wanda avoided using magic for chores. She always said there was a kind of satisfaction in doing things the ordinary way, especially when you worked side by side. She’d mend the fraying cuffs of your coat with needle and thread instead of a flick of her fingers, laughing at the crooked stitches. You cooked, and she washed the dishes by hand, even though she could have made them clean with a thought.

You open your mouth to remind her, then close it again. That Wanda feels very far away.

She turns, already retreating down the hallway. You watch her for a moment, then step into the shower. You strip off your clothes in a hurry, a quiet sigh slipping from you as the hot water pours over your skin, bringing instant relief. Aside from the dirt and grime, you feel some tension in your chest wash away too. In this small, tiled corner of the world, it’s almost possible to pretend the last five years never happened.

When you’re done, it doesn’t even occur to you to call out for her like she’s your babysitter. The cabin is small, and you know your way around. You’re too relaxed to think about escaping, and besides, you’re half-naked under the towel. So you just head back to your room. The towel, wrapped high beneath your arms, hangs to mid-thigh, and water slips down your legs, leaving dark streaks on the floorboards. When you reach the bedroom, you find Wanda is still there. 

She stands by the bed, palms raised, focused on her work. She said she’d clean up, but she’s doing far more. She’s repairing the rotted wood, mending the headboard you damaged, even improving the small room to make it warmer, more comfortable. The gesture draws a smile from you, unbidden. She doesn’t have to do any of it.

She’s so absorbed in the task that she doesn’t notice you.

You clear your throat. “It looks great.”

Wanda is visibly startled, whirling toward the sound. Her gaze snags on the towel clinging to your damp skin, travels the line of your collarbone, and catches on the droplets sliding between your breasts. A faint flush rises in her cheeks before she drags her eyes to your face.

“You moved fast,” you say, letting a small, appreciative smile curve your lips. “Thank you.”

Wanda makes a small noise at the back of her throat. “Magic is efficient.” You don’t miss the way her eyes follow a droplet that strays down your shoulder. 

And there it is, the proof that Wanda isn’t as detached as she pretends. The pull between you still holds her. Just like it does you.

You decide to test it, taking a single, daring step closer. 

The towel loosens against your thighs as you move, and Wanda’s eyes quickly dart back to your face, wide with something that looks dangerously like want. “Wanda,” you whisper. You really aren’t sure what you’re going for. Maybe you just need her to stay this close for one more breath.

But she’s quicker than your brain’s struggle to come up with its next move. With one graceful slide, she moves between you and the door, leaving at least a foot of space between herself and you. 

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she murmurs, retreating toward the doorway, the warmth still lingering on her cheeks. Just as she’s about to step out, she pauses, as if remembering something. With a small flick of her hand, the red wisp at your wrist stirs to life, stretching and tightening until it binds you once again.

The door closes. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding and glance at the fresh clothes neatly folded on the mattress. The sweater is soft heather gray, the joggers a darker charcoal. You shrug into them awkwardly, one hand at a time, towel dropping to the floor.

You sit on the edge of the bed and test the new restraint. It gives you just enough slack to lie down and turn whichever way you want. But your thoughts are far from what you can do while being Wanda’s prisoner.

All you can think about is how she is obviously still drawn to you, even as she keeps running away.

—

Something strange happens later that night. You wake to a soft rustle, eyes still gritty with sleep, and wonder if the wind just rattled the window.

At first you think you imagined the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Then you hear it again. Your name. Being called in a whine by the only other person sleeping in this same cabin.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice floats across the dark room. You pull against the binds, testing. They stretch farther than before, as if the magic itself is distracted. You move carefully, sliding to the edge of the bed and wait. Maybe you’re dreaming. It wouldn’t be surprising, not with how strange this place feels, Wanda’s magic being all over the place, and the beating your body has taken over the past week.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice is louder this time. That spurs you to action. The magical rope surprisingly allows you to walk out of your room and wander into Wanda’s quarters. You find her in the middle of the bed, tangled in the blankets, deep in a dream—or more likely, a nightmare. She’s sweating, her brow furrowed, lips moving soundlessly. 

You hang back, watching her struggle, not sure if you should wake her or just stay close until it passes. But when her face twists and she starts to cry in her sleep, the decision is made for you. You kneel beside the bed, reaching out gently. “Hey,” you whisper. 

Her eyes snap open.

In the same breath, she surges forward, arms locking around your neck, holding onto you for dear life. She's shaking, trembling so hard you feel it through both your clothes.

“I’m here,” you murmur against her hair. It’s damp with sweat, sticking to your cheek. “I’ve got you.” 

She doesn’t let go. Her nightdress is soaked through, clinging to her skin; when she shifts, the fabric drags across your sweater, and you become acutely aware of every place your bodies meet. Heat floods up your neck. And somewhere else you’d rather ignore. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she mumbles, although her tone seems to tell you she doesn’t mind that at all.

You cup her face, your thumb brushing a line of wet beneath her eye. Wanda rarely had nightmares in your time together. Although you’ve heard her have them when you were both living in the Avengers compound, with your rooms next to each other. 

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, and you mean it more than being literally chained to this cabin. You mean it so hard it hurts. 

Wanda tenses in your arms, then shakes her head so sharply you half expect her to hurt herself. 

“You’re not supposed to be here. Not with me.”

You pull back just enough to see her face. “What do you mean ‘with you’?”

She doesn’t answer. Her arms drop to her sides, the absence of her touch somehow louder than her words.

“Wanda.”

“You’d be happier if you’re just willing, Y/N,” she says. She starts retreating further but you reach for her hand, fingers wrapping around her cold ones.

“Not like this.”

“You don’t understand. The Darkhold wants you gone. It wants you dead. As long as you’re here, it refuses to show me my children. You… you complicate everything.”

It’s the confirmation you’ve been dreading. It’s that damn book, twisting her, pushing her to a place the Wanda you knew would never go. You don’t even want to imagine what other lies it’s been whispering to her.

“I’m not—”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to bring Billy and Tommy back,” she says, and she sounds so unbearably tired. “The book keeps telling me what I have to do—what it’ll take. And you... you’re the price, Y/N. You’re what’s standing in the way.”

“Do you want me gone?”

Wanda finally looks at you, her face still streaked with tears from the nightmare. She looks utterly wrecked. 

“You wanted me to believe you were gone.”

Her answer leaves you speechless. No matter how far you’ve chased her, how long you’ve searched, or how ready you are to stay by her side now, it doesn’t change the truth—that you were the coward who ran away first.

When your silence lingers too long, Wanda speaks again.

“It’s not just about being their mother again. It’s about saving them, Y/N. I know they’re out there…somewhere. Lost and probably scared.” Her voice wavers. “Without the Darkhold, I have no way of reaching them. I could burn this whole world to the ground, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Not without that book.”

You hold on to her hand tighter. “There is another way and we can find it together. You and me. We always—”

“No.” Wanda snatches back her hand from yours. “You don’t see. I can see them through windows—in my dreams. But I can’t break through to where they are. Not without the Darkhold.”

You brush her cheek. She flinches, then lets herself settle against your hand. “So you’re really walking from everything you fought for? Gambling it all on that book to get Billy and Tommy back?”

She nods. “This is what I want. I’m sure of it.”

And that’s the worst part. Because you know she believes it. And it’s killing her. And it might kill you too. 

You ease your hand away from her face but stay close, sensing the fragile détente might shatter if you so much as breathe too loudly.

With Wanda not leaving room for doubt about what she’s aiming for, you look to a different avenue, resulting in a question that pushes to the front of your mind. 

“What were you dreaming just now?”

“Nothing,” she says, almost too quickly. “You should go back to your room.” 

Her eyes drop to your wrist, and you see the flicker of realization cross her face. The magical confines should have kept you from leaving your room. When her mouth tightens into a line, it confirms what you already suspected—you weren’t meant to get this far.

You don’t move. If she wanted you chained again, all it would take is a snap of her fingers.

But until she does, you’re not going anywhere.

“You were calling my name,” you tell her, and Wanda’s brows furrow together at being caught doing just that. “Were you dreaming about me?”

“I don’t dream anymore.”

You search her face, waiting for elaboration.

She sighs, the impatience clear, like she’s tired of explaining things you should already understand. “They’re not dreams. They’re real places. Real people—from another universe. I see the boys there through a variant of me. And sometimes…” Wanda sighs. “Sometimes I see you, too.”

A slow, almost involuntary smile curls your lips at her disgruntled admission. “So you were dreaming about me,” you murmur. 

Before Wanda can protest, you lift your hand, your thumb brushing gently against her lower lip. The warmth of her skin, the softness you’ve missed, nearly undoes you. And it undoes her. She shivers beneath your touch, eyes darkening as her breath hitches.

The Darkhold growls at the back of her mind. But her body drowns it out. Her body remembers. It remembers the real you: the one she never got to keep, never got to watch grow and change, the one who broke her heart again and again but somehow still makes it feel fuller than anything else ever could.

Your eyes are dark, clouded with want. You trace her lip once more, slower this time, watching the way she trembles, how her lashes lower like she can’t bear the implication of her response to your touch.

“In that universe,” you ask quietly, “are we together?”

Wanda swallows hard and gives a small nod.

Your heart beats faster. “What were we doing there?”

Color blooms in Wanda’s cheeks, a flush trailing up her neck to the tips of her ears. She drops her gaze, but not before you catch the answer written clear as day on her face.

You lean in, slow and steady, letting her see every inch of your intent. Her eyes stay fixed on your mouth, and if this were some ordinary argument years into a marriage—if she were just being stubborn, waiting for you to make peace—you might have laughed at how easy she is to read.

This moment was never meant to exist, not weeks ago.

So you move carefully, holding the moment like it might break, because you don’t know if you’ll ever get another.

The kiss is feather-light. You’ve applied just enough pressure to know that your lips are touching hers, enough to feel her exhale a breath through the small gap between them. It’s so innocent compared to the ones you’ve shared before—and you’ve shared hundreds of them, not that you’re counting—but it feels like the most important one. 

You don’t push for more. In fact, in a second or two, you pull back. 

Wanda, on the other hand, does not agree with that. In the space of that single heartbeat, her fingers fist in the front of your sweater, and she drags you forward with a force that steals breath from your lungs. Her mouth finds yours again, and this time, there’s nothing innocent about it.

All the grief and anger she’s carried pours out in the rough slide of her lips, the nip of teeth at your lower lip, the way her breath shakes when you open for her. You gasp against her, and she follows the sound, pressing you back until your spine meets the soft mattress. Her hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there. Holding you still. Her tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and unhesitating, claiming what she’s been denied for far too long.

For Wanda, it lands on her all at once that you’re back. You’re really here with her, not buried six feet under like you wanted her to believe. Only now does she understand that she’s never truly stopped grieving, not until this moment. Because as much as she loved the Y/N she created in Westview, as much as she tried to shape that version out of everything she loved about you, it was never the same. No matter how perfect that version was, crafted from all the pieces of you she carried, it could never be the real thing.

Not even the Y/N she occasionally meets in dreams compares. She could find versions of you in a thousand universes, and none of them would matter.

She wants you, and only you.

The Darkhold does not approve of this realization, but it approves of the carnal want raging inside of her now.

She slips her fingers under your shirt and the seams give way under her unexpected strength. Cool night air rushes over your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. Your nipples are already painfully hard, but they’re not ready for the searing warmth of Wanda’s mouth.

“Oh God, Wanda…” you breathe.

She sucks on a teat, tongue circling once before her teeth graze the tender peak. The roughness  draws a gasp from your throat, pleasure spiked with an edge of pain that curls your toes against the sheets. Your back arches, offering more. Wanda answers with a low sound that vibrates against your breast. She sucks harder, then lets go with a soft pop—only to sink her teeth just below, marking the skin with a deepening bruise against its otherwise unblemished tone. Her hand covers your other breast, thumb stroking once, twice, before she pinches, coaxing another broken moan from your lips.

Now this is something different. Usually, you’re the one who leads, the one who sets the pace, the one who leaves Wanda a babbling mess. Not that you’re complaining—you’re already on edge, though you hate to admit it—but part of you wants to slow down, to savor this, because deep down you know it might be the last time.

For Wanda, there’s no slowing down now. Once she starts, it’s like a fever takes hold, leaving her unable or unwilling to stop. She moves on instinct, stripping away your pajamas until only your underwear remains. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the dark patch at your crotch, and she smiles to herself, pleased that your body still answers to her, even after all these years, even after it has known someone else’s touch while she was gone.

She doesn’t notice the scars you’ve gathered over the past five years, the ones that mark nearly half of you. The Darkhold sees to that, keeping them hidden from her as its power glows in her eyes. 

Wanda doesn’t give you a second to adjust to the rush of cool air against your skin, or to the way vulnerability wraps around you now that you’re bare before her. She doesn’t give you the chance to tug at her nightdress, to even the playing field. Her nightdress stays where it is, slipping lower on one shoulder but nothing more, as if she’s determined to keep you exposed while she remains clothed.

Her mouth leaves your chest, but before you can catch your breath, she’s moving lower, hair brushing your stomach, fingers skimming down your sides. She kneels between your legs, pushing your thighs apart, and the scrape of fabric against your skin only heightens your awareness of just how wet you are for her, how much you’ve missed this, missed her.

She’s already lower, already focused on the place that makes your head spin. Her breath is hot against the wet patch of your underwear. She presses her mouth there, slow at first, savoring the way you shudder beneath the weight of it. You whimper, hips lifting instinctively, but she holds you down with strong hands, fingers digging into your thighs painfully.

The heat of her mouth soaks through, the wet drag of her tongue making you gasp, making your fingers clutch at the sheets. She lingers, tormenting you, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over that aching spot, savoring how you fall apart beneath so little.

“W-Wands…” you gasp, the sound of her name more plea than warning.

But she doesn’t stop. If anything, her hunger only becomes more dangerous. She releases one of your thighs, pushes your ruined panties aside, and positions a finger at your entrance. You shudder in anticipation, knowing you’ll come the moment she’s inside you.

You try to urge her upward, wanting her to hold you, to kiss you while it happens—but instead, the magical cuff around your wrist flares back to life. In an instant, it splits in two and pins both your hands to the headboard, leaving you with no choice but to lie there, hips shifting helplessly. You’re not even sure what you’re asking her anymore—to stop or to keep going.

Held open and helpless, you can only watch as she drags her mouth down your torso, eyes glowing a warning shade of red. She nuzzles between your thighs, nosing the soaked fabric of your underwear as though the damp proof of your need belongs on display.

“Please—”

She answers with action, pushing the gusset aside rather than stripping it away. She exhales a cool breath against your warm, aching cunt—before a single finger slides into you in one swift, sure motion. Your walls close around her immediately, a gasp ripping from your throat as she curls that lone digit just enough to draw another tremor from you. She keeps her finger buried deep, letting you pulse around her.

“Tako uska,” she breathes in Sokovian—so tight—her voice thick with possession. You clench around her instinctively, making you more wet if that’s even possible.

Instead of adding a second finger, Wanda puts her mouth back on you—still over the fabric—her tongue tracing damp circles that turn your legs to water. Each stroke of her tongue sends a jolt straight through your core, and the friction of wet cloth against oversensitive flesh leaves you blushing at how easily she unravels you without even undressing you fully.

“Pogledaj se,” Wanda murmurs, voice muffled by your drenched bottoms. Look at you.

Your hips cant forward as she withdraws her finger only to thrust it back in deeper. The cuffs tighten just enough to remind you who controls the pace tonight.

“Wanda… please.”

“Ti si moja,” she growls—you are mine—and a second finger presses in beside the first, stretching you just right. Your walls flutter, and the sound that escapes your throat borders on a sob. 

Her next words don’t pass her lips. Wanda goes inside your head and says—

I love you like this—messy and only mine.

It nearly pushes you over the edge. 

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder if this is the Darkhold’s influence. Wanda has never been this bold, never slipped into your mind like this, especially after promising she wouldn’t.

It should scare you, but right now, all you can focus on is the feel of her fingers inside you and her mouth doing and whispering dirty things you never imagined hearing from her. It’s reckless. It’s wrong. And it feels perilously right. 

Wanda’s fingers slide out almost to the last knuckle, and before you can fully exhale, she drives them in again—deeper, harder—while letting a third finger join the stretch. You twist against your restraints, helpless to do anything but feel. Wanda lifts her head, scarlet eyes pinning you in place. She commands—give me what is mine—before adding a fourth digit.

She punctuates the demand by curling all four fingers, pressing perfectly against that sweet spot. The swell breaks, heat rippling outward in a white-hot wave, your entire body tensing, then shattering around her hand. A ragged scream rips free as your climax crashes over you, pulsing so hard it borders on pain.

Wanda slows the curling of her fingers but keeps them buried deep inside you, letting your walls squeeze around her some more. Your hips twitch as the aftershocks seize your body, slick warmth coating her wrist. The sheer intensity of it leaves your eyes stinging; tears threaten, born of overstimulation, relief, and something you can’t name.

You lift your wrists, rattling the scarlet cuffs. “Please, Wanda,” you whisper desperately. “Let me hold you. Let me return the favor.”

Her lips curve in something almost sympathetic, but she doesn’t release you. Instead, she drags a single fingernail down your cheek, just rough enough to raise a faint red line, before bringing the same finger to your lips. “Suck,” she murmurs.

You obey, sucking eagerly as she presses her forefinger onto your tongue, tasting yourself. The humiliation and intimacy of it makes your eyes flutter shut.

“This is what you came for?” she asks quietly, watching you intently. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

You shake your head, the finger still between your lips. Pulling back only enough to speak, you manage, “I came because I have so much to make up to you. Because I was wrong. Because I finally understand I can’t live without you.”

“Yet you have lived without me,” she says. “You have—in a thousand other realities.”

You’re about to protest, but Wanda barely allows you a breath. Her fingers, still deep inside you, start to move again, slow at first, then harder, rougher, with purpose. The stretch stings as your slick begins to dry, and you hiss at the friction. Finally, she rips your ruined underwear the rest of the way off and shifts her hand so that each thrust drags her palm right over your clit, forcing your body to bloom wet around her once more.

“It’s lying to you,” you manage in a hoarse whisper, even as your eyes roll to the back of your head. “If the Darkhold’s telling you this, it’s lying.”

She answers by crashing her mouth to yours, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough that you taste blood. Her free hand closes around your throat roughly, almost cutting off your air entirely. 

“The Darkhold doesn’t lie,” she growls into the kiss. “It just shows the truth.”

“A-and what’s the truth?”

Wanda abruptly stops and for a second, the red glow in her eyes fades just a little. 

“That in every other universe, it’s always her. It’s always Kia.”

The front door clicks open and shuts gently behind you. Wanda helps you out of your coat while balancing the box of medals in her arms. You rest the polished wooden case with your honorary sidearm on your lap.

You haven’t said much since leaving HQ. Neither has she.

There’s a reverence in the air, like the house knows this day was different.

Nathan is the first to race down the stairs. “Mama, you’re back! Did you—whoa.”

He stops mid-run when he sees the gun case and medals. Ana is right behind him, slowing when she notices Wanda’s expression. Her eyes drift to you, to the way you sit a little taller, a little heavier.

“What’s all that?” Ana asks cautiously.

Wanda looks at you, waiting to see if you’ll answer.

You gently lift the lid on the medal box, holding it open on your lap for both of them to see.

Nathan gasps. “Those are yours?”

You nod.

“I got them for my work. My real work. The work you didn’t know about until now.”

Ana approaches slowly, her gaze fixed on the glint of medals under soft fabric.

“So everything,” she whispers, “all those years you were gone… this is what you were doing?”

You nod again. “Some of it. A lot of it. I couldn’t tell you because it was classified. It still feels strange to be showing you this now.”

Nathan peers over Ana’s shoulder. “You got a lot. Like… a lot a lot.”

Ana picks one up delicately between her fingers. “You… saved people.”

“I tried to,” you say quietly. “Every mission. Every time I came back home.”

Nathan glances at the long case beside you. “Is that your real spy gun?”

You smile faintly. “My last one. It’s ceremonial. Never to be used.”

He leans into you gently, head resting against your side. “I’m glad you’re done.”

You place a hand on his head, holding him close. “Me too, love.”

Ana sits down across from you, brushing a finger along the edge of a silver star. She doesn’t say much more, but her eyes are misted and warm.

You look up to find Wanda watching all of you from the doorway—hands clasped in front of her, eyes full of something too big for words.

And for the first time, you feel it:

You didn’t just return.

You were welcomed home.

The house is asleep.

The medals are back in their box, now resting quietly on the dresser.

You’re in your nightclothes, seated at the foot of the bed with the ceremonial gun in your hands. It’s polished. Heavy. Etched with a simple engraving: your name, your agency ID, and the words Thank You For Your Service.

Wanda enters the room, drying her hands on a towel from the kitchen. She walks toward you and kneels in front of you.

“You okay?”

You take a breath. “I feel… finished. Like something that’s been weighing on me for years finally let go.”

She leans into you, placing her hands on your knees. “And now?”

You rest your forehead against hers.

“Now I just want to live.”

She kisses you softly.

No ceremony.

Just two women, in a room no longer haunted by silence.

The kettle whistles softly in the background, steam curling into golden sunbeams pouring through the kitchen window. Wanda stands by the stove, pouring tea into two mismatched mugs. One of them is Ana’s favorite—a faded blue with a tiny crescent moon painted on the side.

Ana sits at the table, her chin resting on her palm. She hasn’t said much since she came in. Just sat quietly, watching her mother move around the kitchen like she has a hundred times before—but now, something feels different.

Wanda sets the mugs down and sits across from her.

Ana doesn’t reach for hers. Not yet.

“So…” she starts, eyes on the steam rising from her cup. “Everything’s different now, huh?”

Wanda smiles gently. “It feels that way, doesn’t it?”

Ana shrugs. “I don’t know what to think. I feel like I’m supposed to be proud of Mama. And I am. But I’m also…” Her voice drops to a near-whisper. “Angry.”

Wanda doesn’t flinch.

“I think that makes sense.”

Ana finally looks up. “You do?”

“Of course.” Wanda wraps her hands around her mug. “You were kept in the dark. We all were. And you had to watch her come and go and carry things you didn’t understand. That kind of absence leaves a mark.”

Ana swallows hard. “She never even told you?”

Wanda shakes her head. “Not once.”

Ana leans back, arms crossed tightly. “So all those years… she was out there saving people, and we were here… breaking apart.”

Wanda nods slowly.

“She believed it was the only way to keep us safe. And I believed, for a long time, that I wasn’t enough to bring her back.”

Silence hangs between them.

Ana’s eyes fall to the table.

“Did you stop loving her?” she asks.

Wanda’s breath catches.

“No,” she says, without hesitation. “But I forgot how to love her the way she needed. And she forgot how to let me.”

Ana’s jaw tenses.

“Why didn’t either of you tell us?”

Wanda reaches across the table, not to touch, but to be there.

“Because we were trying to protect you. And sometimes… sometimes we just didn’t know how to face it ourselves.”

Ana nods once, slowly.

Then, softer: “I said some awful things to her before the hospital.”

“She knows,” Wanda says. “And she’s not holding them against you.”

Ana’s eyes glisten, but she blinks it away.

“She hugged me. When I saw her. Like I didn’t almost tear her apart.”

Wanda smiles sadly. “That’s what mothers do.”

They sit in silence for a while.

Then Ana finally picks up her tea. She holds it for a second before quietly asking:

“Are you going to stay? With her?”

Wanda looks her daughter straight in the eyes.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Ana doesn’t smile.

But her shoulders drop just a little. Some weight released. Not all of it, but enough for now.

She nods.

Then, almost shyly: “I’m glad she came home.”

Wanda reaches across again.

This time, Ana lets her hold her hand.

The table is cluttered, not with tension this time, but with too many plates.

Wanda has made far too much pasta, Ana burnt the garlic bread slightly, and Nathan is trying to convince everyone that the parmesan cheese should be considered a topping for everything—including salad, which is now suspiciously white.

You’re in your wheelchair at the head of the table, a clean dishtowel tucked over your lap, watching your family move around like they haven’t in a long time.

Chaotic. Loud. Alive.

Wanda sets down a bowl with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, last thing—do not touch it yet, it’s hot.”

Nathan, naturally, reaches out the moment she turns.

You raise an eyebrow. “Nathan.”

He freezes mid-reach, then pulls his hand back like it burned him. “What? I wasn’t gonna touch it. I was just—inspecting.”

Ana snorts. “Inspecting. Right.”

“I was!” he insists, dramatically flopping into his chair and nearly knocking over his water glass.

You lean over and right it with a swift flick of your hand.

“You were always a horrible liar, bud.”

He grins up at you.

“Must’ve gotten that from you.”

You pretend to gasp. “Excuse me?”

Wanda chuckles from the kitchen doorway, watching the scene with soft eyes before joining you again at the table. She takes her seat beside you, knees brushing yours.

Ana passes the bowl of salad—now suspiciously cheesy—to you without being asked.

“Thanks,” you say, quietly.

She doesn’t answer. Just nods and helps Nathan dish out his pasta.

No apology. No lingering guilt.

Just care. Just being there.

Halfway through dinner, Ana starts telling a story from school—something about her literature teacher mispronouncing Les Misérables so badly it became Less Miserables. You laugh—really laugh—for the first time in what feels like forever. Your hand rests beside Wanda’s under the table. She doesn’t grab it, but she doesn’t move hers away either.

Nathan chimes in with his own middle school drama, involving someone being banned from gym for “accidentally” throwing a dodgeball into the ceiling lights. It’s a mess. It’s ridiculous. And yet you’re hanging on every word.

At some point, Wanda brushes her fingers over your wrist and whispers, “You’re smiling.”

You glance at her.

“You are too.”

She squeezes your wrist gently.

You lean in just slightly.

“Burnt garlic bread and all… this might be the best meal I’ve had in years.”

Wanda laughs under her breath.

“Even with the salad?” she teases.

You glance at the plate.

“It’s mostly cheese at this point, so yeah. Pretty great.”

And that’s it.

There’s no speech. No resolution. No perfect ending.

But there’s laughter.

There’s reaching and teasing and passing of bowls without words.

There’s together.

And for the first time in a very long time, dinner feels like home.

The kids have scattered, Ana to her room, earbuds in, and Nathan to the living room to “sort of” finish his homework, as he loudly declared while flopping onto the couch.

The kitchen is a mess, but it’s the kind that comes with a warm meal, not an argument. Plates are stacked haphazardly, sauce smudges the countertop, and the sink is already filling with hot, soapy water.

You move beside Wanda slowly, maneuvering your chair into place without asking. You reach for a towel.

“I’ll dry,” you say.

She glances down at you, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Just like old times.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t remember us ever doing dishes without me complaining at least once.”

“Oh, you definitely complained. Especially when you dropped the wine glass that one time and tried to blame it on gravity.”

You laugh. “It was gravity.”

She rolls her eyes, hands you the first dripping plate.

You dry it carefully. Your fingers are a little slower these days—stiff—but her rhythm adjusts without needing to be asked.

It’s all small things. Her bumping your elbow gently with hers. You flicking a stray soap bubble at her arm. She retaliates with a flick of water at your face.

You fake a gasp. “You assaulted a retired agent of national significance.”

Wanda laughs, genuinely. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw the sponge.”

You hand her the next clean plate. Your fingers brush.

You pause.

And so does she.

Later that night, you’re in bed, hair damp from your evening shower. You’re wrapped in soft pajamas and propped up against a mountain of pillows. The house is dim. Still.

A knock.

You turn your head toward the door. “Come in.”

Nathan shuffles in with a brush clutched in both hands. “Mama said your hair might get tangled if you sleep with it wet.”

You smile. “She’s right.”

He walks over, climbs up beside you without asking, and sits cross-legged behind your shoulder.

“You don’t have to, baby,” you say softly.

“I want to,” he answers simply, already reaching for the ends of your hair.

He’s gentle. Slower than you would be. Concentrated. His little fingers clumsy but careful.

“You used to do this when I was sick,” he says after a moment. “Brush my hair. Read to me.”

“I remember.”

He hums under his breath. “You always said, ‘Being strong isn’t about not hurting. It’s about being kind even when you do.’”

You feel your throat tighten, but you keep still. “Did I say that?”

“Yeah.” His voice is soft. “And you’re still kind.”

You reach for his hand and squeeze it gently.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Just keeps brushing.

Eventually, he rests his chin lightly on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re home.”

You turn your head just enough to kiss his forehead.

“I’m glad you’re mine.”

And that night, as he sleeps curled beside you and Wanda on the covers, one hand still touching your arm. That night you don’t dream of war or pain.

You dream of peace.

At one of the nights, the house is dark.

Now it’s just the two of you.

You're both under the covers, facing the ceiling. The soft hum of the radiator fills the silence, and moonlight spills in through the half-drawn curtains. Your breathing is shallow, uneven. Wanda knows you haven’t fallen asleep yet.

Neither has she.

You speak first.

“I didn’t think you'd stay.”

She doesn’t answer.

“I thought when the truth came out—about the chair, the damage, the job—you’d look at me and see something broken. Something used up.”

Still, Wanda is quiet.

You shift slightly, head turned toward her in the dark.

“I can’t fight anymore. I can’t run missions or break codes or jump from rooftops or… do anything that made me feel worth something. Useful. And I just—”

Your voice breaks. You force it steady again.

“I’m so fucking sorry I drove you away.”

Wanda finally turns to face you. You can’t see her clearly, but you can feel the shift in the air.

“I mean it,” you say quietly. “I know you cheated. And I’m not throwing that at you. I’m just… sorry. I know I made you feel unloved. Unseen. I know I pushed you so far away that even when you tried to reach back, I wasn’t there. That’s on me.”

You close your eyes. “You deserved someone whole. And I wasn’t that anymore.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you feel her hand. Gentle. Shaking.

She moves closer until she’s right against you, forehead pressed to yours, arms winding tightly around your body like she’s holding something slipping away.

You hear her whisper, voice cracking:

“Don’t say that again. Never dare to say that again.”

Your breath catches.

“You didn’t make me cheat. I made a choice. A wrong one. But it wasn’t because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to hold on to someone who was hurting silently every day.”

You try to respond, but her arms tighten.

“I was lonely, yes. But I was also angry. Angry at the life we had, at what we lost, at how invisible I felt. And I didn’t know how to ask you to let me in without feeling like I was begging.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, even in the dark.

“You were never a burden. Not before. Not now. You didn’t lose your worth when you lost your legs.”

A pause.

“You’re still my home.”

That breaks something open in you. A deep, quiet sob you don’t even try to swallow.

She pulls you in, holds you as your tears soak into her shirt, as your fingers dig into her ribs just to make sure she’s really there. You haven’t cried like this—not even after the missions, not even after the surgeries. But you cry now.

Because someone stayed.

Because she stayed.

Wanda runs her fingers through your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. “Even if we never fully fix it. Even if it’s never perfect again.”

You breathe out shakily against her.

“But we’re here now.”

And that’s enough.

Tonight, that’s everything.

One Year Later – "The Hearth" Café, Berlin

The front bell jingles.

It’s an old-fashioned thing, brass and slightly crooked, mounted above the weathered wooden door that creaks when it opens. Morning sun spills across the floorboards of The Hearth, the little café Wanda opened just eight months ago. She named it after what she missed most—a place where warmth lived, where family gathered.

Behind the register, you sit in your chair, spinning a shiny coin between your fingers as you watch Wanda from across the café. Her apron is dusted with flour, her cheeks a little flushed from the oven heat, and she’s smiling—genuinely—as she hands off a warm almond croissant to an elderly man who calls her Schatz like he’s known her forever.

She smiles at you too, when she glances over.

And you?

You smile back.

The register hums as you type in the next order, fingers quick and sure. You’ve got the till memorized, along with every regular’s name, allergies, and preferred table.

You're still not particularly fond of small talk, but you’ve gotten good at remembering people’s stories. It makes them feel seen. It makes you feel useful.

And today, like every Saturday, the café is buzzing.

Ana is wiping down the windows with forced teenage reluctance, earbuds in, but every few minutes you catch her looking over at the register to see if you noticed she added the new chalkboard design outside. It says:

“Warm hearts, strong coffee, fresh bread—just like Mama makes.”

She drew a little cartoon of you and Wanda at the bottom. It’s not flattering.

You love it.

Nathan is by the pastry display with Wanda, his hands sticky with jam from the breakfast batch. He’s helping fold napkins, making a new mess for every one he successfully finishes.

You call out, “Nathan, if we run out of napkins before noon again, you’re cleaning the tables for a week.”

He grins at you, his front tooth still half-missing. “Worth it!”

Wanda shakes her head and tosses you a knowing smile. “He’s your son.”

You wink. “Don’t I know it.”

The day flows like this—customers laughing, espresso machines hissing, the smell of cinnamon and sourdough and strong black coffee floating in the air. You feel it with every inhale:

This is your life now.

And the strangest part?

It feels right.

The last customer leaves just after six. Wanda turns the sign on the door and flips off the front lights. You begin counting the till while Ana gathers her bag and Nathan plays a game on your phone.

Wanda leans against the counter across from you, sipping her lukewarm tea.

“Good day,” she murmurs.

You nod. “Third best sales this month.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You have rankings now?”

“Of course,” you say, mock-serious. “I'm in charge of money. And sarcasm.”

She laughs, stepping around the counter to kiss your cheek. “You’re perfect at both.”

You lean into her for just a moment.

Then Wanda turns toward the kids. “Alright, home. Showers, homework, bedtime.”

Nathan groans. Ana smirks.

You turn off the final switch behind the counter, the lights above dimming slowly until the café glows with evening softness. Wanda grabs her coat. You wheel beside her, your hand brushing hers.

Outside, the city is cooling into night. Berlin glows gold and violet beyond the windows, busy but gentle.

Wanda locks the door behind you.

And together—with the register balanced, the kids bickering gently behind you, and the smell of bread still clinging to your sleeves—you walk into a life you never thought you’d have.

A peaceful one.

A loved one.

A shared one.

And for the first time in years—

You are not haunted by who you were.

You are proud of who you’ve become.

Epilogue:

"The Hearth" Café – Seven Years Later

The bells still chime.

The door still creaks.

The sign out front has faded some, but it’s still there—The Hearth, hand-painted by Ana when she was seventeen. The letters are a little chipped at the edges, but neither of you have ever wanted to replace it. It feels honest, like everything else in this life you’ve built.

You sit behind the register, a pair of reading glasses perched on your nose, flipping through the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. There’s already a line forming at the counter.

“Coffee’s brewing!” you call, not bothering to look up.

“I’ll get them,” Wanda says behind you, apron tied snug, sleeves rolled up. Her hair has gone mostly silver now, streaked through the red—but it suits her. She still moves like music. Graceful. Steady.

A pair of hands clap over your eyes from behind.

You smile. “Only one person in the world forgets I’m an ex-agent with advanced spatial awareness.”

Ana laughs as she drops into the stool beside you. She’s twenty-four now. Wiser. Calmer. A writer, mostly. Some days she works from home. Some days from the café. And today?

She’s brought someone.

A girl with deep brown eyes and ink-stained fingers stands just a little too close to Ana to be just a friend.

You nudge Ana gently. “So, she special?”

Ana shrugs, but there’s color in her cheeks. “Maybe.”

You grin and sip your tea. “I like her already.”

Wanda catches your eye from across the counter, hears the exchange. She lifts an eyebrow, a silent behave, and you give her a mock salute.

Nathan barrels in minutes later, late as always, now a gangly teen with a camera around his neck and too many opinions about everything.

“Did you make the raspberry rolls?” he asks, dropping his backpack near your feet.

“Do I ever forget?” you ask.

He grins, already reaching over the counter to steal one.

And for a moment—

You pause.

Not because something hurts.

Not because something’s wrong.

But because something is right.

This café. This family. This warmth that pulses through you like sunlight after the long, cold years.

You lean back in your chair, eyes sweeping across your wife, your children, your little world.

You think about the scars that no one can see. The quiet nights of pain. The years where you weren’t sure you'd survive yourself—let alone be a mother, a partner, a person worth holding onto.

And now?

You don’t save the world anymore.

But you save mornings.

You save softness.

You save space for laughter and healing and home.

And you are so, so proud.

You reach for Wanda’s hand as she passes behind you. She pauses, squeezes once.

You both smile.

And the bell over the door rings again.

And again.

The car ride is nearly silent.

Nathan sits beside you in the back seat, glancing over every few minutes just to make sure you're still there. Ana rides up front, earphones in but not really listening. Wanda drives, one hand tight around the steering wheel, the other resting between shifting gears and occasionally brushing her thumb over the space where your hand used to rest.

You watch the familiar buildings pass by.

Your city.

Your streets.

Everything is the same.

And somehow... it isn’t.

The pain medication dulls the fire in your back, but it doesn’t numb the tension curled deep in your stomach.

You haven’t said it out loud yet. But you’re scared.

Scared of what you’ll see when you go through that door.

Scared of how many parts of your life won’t fit anymore—how many routines and rhythms have to be rewritten.

Scared of how Wanda will look at you when she thinks you’re not watching.

Of how Ana will hover.

Of how Nathan might flinch when he sees you struggle.

The car pulls into the driveway.

Your breath catches.

The house looks like it always did. White brick. Blue shutters. The potted lavender you never got around to replanting still sits by the door, half-alive.

But this time, there’s a ramp where the stairs used to be.

And it hits you again.

You're not walking through that door.

You're rolling.

Wanda opens the passenger door and helps unbuckle you. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t ask. She just knows what to do.

She lifts the chair from the trunk like she’s been doing it for years, sets it gently beside the curb, and helps you ease into it with practiced hands.

You feel her watching you for signs of pain.

You ignore it.

Ana stands by the front door, holding it open, her posture tall but her eyes searching.

Nathan rushes ahead and disappears inside.

You let Wanda push you up the ramp.

It’s strange. The angle. The way your arms feel useless even though you’ve done a thousand harder things.

But this isn’t a mission.

This is home.

The door opens wider.

And then you’re inside.

The smell of your home wraps around you immediately—coffee beans and fresh laundry and the faint citrus cleaner Wanda always overuses.

But the layout’s changed.

The dining table’s been moved. Rugs rolled up. Low furniture shifted.

Space made.

Accommodations.

Without ever asking you.

Wanda notices your hesitation.

“I didn’t want to change too much,” she says quietly from behind. “But I wanted it to be… easy. For you. At least at the start.”

You nod slowly.

Your voice cracks. “Thank you.”

Nathan runs up, holding a stack of his drawings. “I made these while you were gone! They’re all superheroes, but this one’s you.” He holds up a picture of a woman in a chair surrounded by fire, shielding two kids behind her.

You stare at it for a long moment, then look up at him.

“You think I’m still a hero?”

He shrugs. “You came home. So, yeah.”

Ana leans against the wall, arms crossed, but softer now.

“Mama,” she says gently. “Want to see your room?”

You glance to Wanda.

She gives a small nod. “I moved the bed downstairs. We figured it’d be easier for now.”

You feel tears threatening again.

You blink them back.

“Let’s go.”

The room is small, but warm. Everything’s where it should be. Your books. The worn nightstand. The photo of the kids at the beach two summers ago.

And your side of the bed—lowered now. Easier to reach.

You wheel over slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket.

Wanda places a folded sweater down near the pillow.

“I know it’s not what it used to be,” she says, her voice careful. “But it’s still yours.”

You look at her.

“I don’t need it to be the same.”

Then quietly—

“I just need you.”

She steps closer.

“I never left.”

And as the late sunlight spills into your new life, you realize that coming home was never about walking through the door.

It was about being welcomed when you couldn’t.

And you were.

You are.

The house is quiet.

Nathan is curled up on the sofa with a book. Ana’s upstairs with music barely audible through her closed door. And you are sitting in your wheelchair, parked just outside the bathroom, staring at the tiled floor like it’s a cliff you don’t know how to climb.

Wanda stands beside you.

She doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t ask twice.

She just waits, towel draped over one arm, soft cotton robe in the other, her expression steady but patient.

You finally exhale. “This is… humiliating.”

“No,” she says gently. “This is human.”

You glance away. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Wanda kneels, lowering herself so she’s eye level with you. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Not anymore.”

Your throat tightens.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

She helps you undress slowly. Carefully. Like she’s afraid of hurting you—your skin, or something deeper beneath it.

The scars on your side are still angry and red. The bruises on your thighs look like spilled ink. And the surgical dressing along your spine is a wound neither of you are ready to look at too long.

You flinch when she helps you out of your hospital pants. Your legs don’t move.

You hate it.

You feel naked in a way you never have before.

But Wanda never looks away. Her hands are soft. Her eyes, softer.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, barely above a whisper.

You nearly cry.

But not yet.

She helps you onto the seat in the walk-in shower—another quiet adjustment she made while you were gone. The water is already warm, steam clouding the glass walls.

When she turns it on, the first touch of heat against your skin almost makes you gasp.

You sit there, chest rising and falling, as the water runs over you.

It doesn’t feel like washing.

It feels like reclaiming.

Wanda kneels beside the shower bench, sleeves rolled up. She begins with your hair, gently massaging shampoo into your scalp with slow, practiced fingers. You lean into her hands without meaning to.

When she rinses, the water carries away more than just dirt and sweat. It carries the weight of nights spent bleeding in silence, of lies told to keep everyone safe, of loneliness buried too deep to name.

She takes a soft cloth next, soaks it in warm water, and begins wiping your back.

You breathe deeply, slowly, eyes closed.

“Do you hate me?” you ask suddenly, barely above a whisper.

Her hand pauses against your spine.

“No.”

“Even after… all I kept from you?”

She resumes the movement. Gentle circles.

“No.”

“Even after you—” You can’t finish the sentence.

“I hate what we became,” she admits. “The silence. The distance. But I never stopped loving you.”

The tears finally come.

Hot and unstoppable.

And Wanda leans forward, forehead resting gently to your shoulder, her hand still against your skin.

“I didn’t know how much pain you were in,” she whispers. “And I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you sob, voice cracking.

“I want to see all of you,” she says. “Even now. Especially now.”

And that is what undresses you more than anything ever could.

Not the water.

Not the wounds.

But her seeing you. All of you. And staying.

She helps you out. Wraps the robe around you. Towels your hair dry.

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

Because love, in its oldest form, has never needed many words.

She helps you back into the chair and kisses your forehead—gentle, grounding.

And for the first time since you came home, you don’t feel like a ghost.

You feel like someone beginning again.

The house is quiet when the knock comes.

You're sitting in the living room, robe wrapped around you, hair still slightly damp from Wanda helping you earlier. The air smells faintly of herbal tea and laundry detergent. Ana and Nathan are out for a walk with Wanda—she offered to give you some space for this.

You hear the knock again.

Not impatient.

Measured. Familiar.

Your heart skips.

You already know who it is.

Wanda must have told them.

You move your wheelchair toward the door, each push of your arms somehow heavier than the last. By the time you reach it, your chest is tight, your breath shallow.

You open it.

And there they are.

Your mother. Your father.

A lifetime in their eyes.

Your mother, still graceful even as age tugs at her features. Worry lines etched across her brow. Her lip trembles the second she sees you. One hand comes up to her mouth.

Your father, standing tall beside her. Shoulders back. Spine rigid even now. His military coat is older, worn at the collar, but neatly kept. His eyes scan you head to toe—sharp, assessing—but then they soften. Quiet. Gentle.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathless.

Your mother doesn’t wait.

She drops her purse, steps forward, and wraps her arms around you.

You don't have time to be strong.

You don't have time to put up walls.

The second her arms close around your shoulders, you break.

Not quietly.

Not neatly.

You cry. A raw, ugly, heaving sound. The kind you’ve been choking back since the moment you woke up. You bury your face in her shoulder and cry like a child. Like the little girl you used to be, before all the missions, before the blood, before the silence.

Her hand cradles the back of your head. She shushes you, rocking you gently in place, her voice soft and cracking.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ve got you. Mama’s here.”

You cling to her like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

And through the blur of tears, you feel your father’s hand—warm and steady—rest on the back of your head.

Nothing said. No questions asked.

Just that hand.

Still. Certain. Anchoring.

When your sobs finally settle into quiet tremors, your mother leans back just enough to look at you. She cups your face in both hands and kisses your forehead.

Then steps aside.

Your father stands in front of you now.

He doesn’t speak.

He looks at you the way only a soldier could look at another—not with pity. With honor.

Then, slowly, he straightens.

His shoulders square.

And he lifts his hand to his brow.

He salutes you.

The tears come again—but they’re different now.

He doesn’t drop his hand until you nod through the blur, lips trembling.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter what medals you earned. What lives you saved. What limbs you lost.

To them, you are still their little girl.

And to your father?

You are now—undeniably—his equal.

The kitchen hums with soft noise. Your mother is busy pulling ingredients from cupboards like she never left—already asking Wanda what seasoning she uses now, instructing Nathan to set the plates, telling Ana to rinse the tomatoes.

You sit in the living room again, wrapped in the same robe, legs covered with a throw blanket Wanda keeps tucked by the couch. The sun filters in low and warm through the lace curtains.

Your father steps in behind you.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

He sits down across from you, slowly. His old knees crack, but he doesn’t complain. He places a thick folder on the table between you.

You recognize it instantly.

Your breath stills.

The brown government binder. Heavy. Stamped Declassified.

He doesn't say how he got it.

You already know.

He leans back in the chair and laces his fingers over his stomach.

“Read it last night.”

You stare at the folder. “You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugs. “I needed to.”

You glance at him.

“Why?”

He looks at you long and hard.

Not with judgment.

Not even just pride.

But something deeper. Something earned.

“Because you’ve always carried yourself like someone with a weight I couldn’t name. I thought it was just the job. Stress. The usual wear.”

He taps the file.

“But this? This… this told me the truth.”

You look away, jaw tight.

He keeps going.

“You’ve done more in fifteen years than I saw in my whole damn service. You neutralized war criminals, extracted civilians under direct fire, dismantled trafficking rings, hacked into state networks, and killed people who were about to kill families—over and over again.”

Your voice comes low and bitter.

“And what do I have to show for it, huh?”

You gesture down to your legs.

“This chair? A folder full of redacted body counts and quiet medals?”

Your father doesn’t flinch.

“No,” he says softly. “You have every person you saved still breathing. You have a family that never had to bury you. And you have me—sitting here, wondering how I didn’t see what my little girl became.”

You laugh. Just once. It’s sharp, but tired.

“You don’t have to say all that.”

“I’m not saying it for you.”

He leans forward now, elbows on knees, voice lower.

“I’m saying it because I read about the moment you took a sniper shot through a hostage window at 400 meters. I read about the time you dragged two agents with fractured legs out of a collapsed structure while under mortar fire. I read about how you volunteered for missions no one else wanted because, and I quote, ‘someone had to come back with the bodies.’”

You blink quickly, looking away.

He lets it hang.

Then softer, steadier:

“I used to think I was the soldier in the family.”

He nods at the binder.

“But you? You’re what comes after the smoke clears.”

You finally meet his gaze.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

He nods.

“I know.”

“I wanted to keep it separate. Clean. For the kids. For Wanda. For you and Mom.”

He breathes in slow, and says something you never expected to hear:

“Clean doesn’t build anything worth remembering.”

You close your eyes.

And he finishes, quiet as a confession:

“I’m proud of you. Not because of what’s in that file. But because you never stopped fighting for everyone but yourself. Even now, you’re still trying to carry all of us.”

You don’t realize the tears have come again until you feel one fall against your collarbone.

He stands slowly, groaning from old bones.

And then—

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw.

And gently, he leans forward.

Kisses your forehead.

“Let someone else carry you for once.”

And in that moment, you do.

If only for a breath.

The front door opens.

“Tell me we’re not starting without me.”

You look up.

He sees you.

And he stops.

Everything about him freezes for half a second, his eyes locked on the wheelchair, the stillness in your body, the lines in your face that weren’t there before.

You’re about to speak.

But you don’t get the chance.

Wanda turns at the same moment, drying her hands on a towel. “You’re late.”

“I brought wine,” Pietro mutters, holding up a bottle like a peace offering. But his eyes never leave you.

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“I’m forgiven,” he says quietly, almost on autopilot.

Then he walks further in.

Ana waves. Nathan lights up with a grin.

But he moves straight to you.

You meet his eyes as he crouches in front of the chair. Close now. Closer than you expected.

He swallows.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice cracking just slightly. “They told me… but I didn’t think…”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Not as bulletproof as you thought.”

You look down. “Not this time.”

His voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

He glances over your shoulder, toward the kitchen—toward Wanda.

“She told me about the file. What you really did.”

Your jaw tightens. “Let me guess. You hated me for not telling her sooner.”

“I was angry,” he admits. “But now? I’m just… sorry.”

You blink at him. “Sorry?”

“I always thought you were distant. Cold. Too composed.” He gestures slightly at you. “But now I see you. And all I can think is… God, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how hard it must have been.”

You look away.

His hand touches your wrist gently.

“I never gave you enough credit for how much you loved her. Or the kids. Or how much you were giving up every day you left home.”

You let out a breath.

And in the quiet that follows, you whisper:

“I thought you hated me.”

Pietro shakes his head. “I never hated you. I just didn’t understand you. And I think that scared me.”

You nod slowly.

He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans awkwardly.

Then pauses.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says, quieter now.

You look at him. You see Wanda in his eyes. Not just physically—but in the way he’s always protected what he loves, even when it came out sharp.

“Thank you,” you say.

He nods once.

And then

Without asking, without making a scene, he leans forward and pulls you into a quick, strong hug.

Not long.

But real.

And when he pulls back, his voice returns to its usual edge.

“Now come on. If I don’t sit next to Nathan, he’ll talk Ana’s ear off and she’ll blame me for it.”

You snort.

And for the first time in days…

You laugh.

The table is full.

Plates clatter gently, dishes passed from hand to hand. The warm scent of roasted vegetables, seasoned rice, and freshly baked bread fills the room like a blanket. Your mother beams with quiet pride as Nathan proclaims the soup is better than anything from the cafeteria. Ana helps Wanda refill glasses with practiced care, moving with a tenderness that hasn’t been there in weeks.

You sit at the head of the table, your chair pulled close. Your blanket is still tucked over your legs, but no one mentions it.

Wanda sits beside you.

Pietro across, already halfway through his second helping.

Your father eats slowly, always chewing a little longer than necessary. But his eyes never leave the table—not because he’s watching, but because he’s present.

Your mother finally sits down with her own plate, waving off any offers to help. “Let me have this,” she says, smiling. “It’s been too long since I cooked for everyone under one roof.”

Nathan turns to Pietro, face lit up. “Uncle Pete, guess what? Mama saved, like, twenty people from a building that exploded!”

Ana groans. “Nathan.”

“No, he’s right,” Pietro says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I read the file. She saved more than twenty. Probably saved all of us in ways we’ll never know.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we not talk about me like I’m not here?”

Pietro grins. “Sorry. You’re just more interesting than rice.”

Your mother hums in agreement, adding, “You used to be a picky eater, you know. Wouldn’t touch anything green unless I threatened no dessert.”

You laugh softly. “Still applies.”

Wanda elbows you gently. “She’s not kidding.”

Ana smirks across the table. “So Mama used to be dramatic?”

“Used to be?” Wanda says, feigning shock.

The table breaks into laughter.

Even you.

For the first time in what feels like lifetimes.

Nathan leans his head against your arm. “Can you come to my school play next week?”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then nod. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

He beams. “Even if it’s about frogs?”

“Even if it’s about frogs.”

Ana snorts into her juice. “You cast yourself as the prince, didn’t you?”

Nathan shrugs. “Typecasting.”

Another wave of laughter rolls through the table.

You glance at Wanda.

She’s already watching you.

Not like someone waiting for you to break.

Not like someone wondering how much of you is still left.

But like someone seeing you.

And loving what’s there.

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently over hers.

She squeezes it, just once.

Which is enough.

Later, dishes are piled in the sink. The kettle is heating. Pietro is teaching Nathan to shuffle cards the “real” European way. Ana scrolls through old family photos with your mother, laughter bubbling up every few seconds.

You sit beside your father on the couch, blanket still tucked, a cup of tea in hand.

“I forgot what this felt like,” you whisper.

He doesn’t ask what this means.

He just says, “Then don’t forget again.”

You nod, looking around the room.

Everything hurts a little less.

Your body. Your silence. Even your memory.

Because this isn’t the end.

It’s the first time you believe you might heal.

Together.

The kids have gone to bed. Your parents are staying in the guest room. You’re asleep now—restless, but finally quiet. Pietro finds Wanda on the balcony just outside the kitchen, wrapped in her cardigan, fingers cradling a mug of cold tea she hasn’t touched.

The sky is bruised dark above Berlin, the city lights blinking quietly below. It’s one of those nights that doesn’t speak until you do.

He slides the door open without knocking.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs as he joins her, sitting on the edge of the balcony rail.

Wanda doesn’t smile.

Just watches the skyline.

“It’s hard not to,” she says softly. “It’s been... a long day.”

Pietro hums in agreement. “It felt like before. Almost.”

She nods, her voice barely audible. “Almost.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then he asks, gently, “How long have you been carrying it?”

She turns her head sharply. “What?”

He looks at her—not unkindly, not accusing. Just steady.

“Guilt.”

She swallows. The mug shifts in her grip.

“Since before it happened. Since she started coming home later. Since I started resenting things I used to admire.”

Pietro says nothing.

Wanda exhales shakily. “And then I broke something.”

She finally says it.

And her voice cracks like glass.

“I broke something we spent years building. I hurt the one person who would’ve bled for me—and did.”

Pietro doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You think she doesn’t know?”

Wanda looks at him, startled. “She—”

“She’s not stupid, Wanda. She’s half-machine when it comes to reading people. She’s seen every kind of betrayal. Every kind of lie. You think she can’t feel this one in her bones?”

Wanda’s eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall.

“She hasn’t said anything.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Pietro says. “She’s not ready to let go of you.”

Wanda’s grip tightens on the mug until her knuckles ache.

“I don’t deserve that,” she whispers.

“No, you don’t,” Pietro says without cruelty. “But she loves you. And love makes room, even when it hurts like hell.”

Wanda stares down at her tea. Her voice is small, but real.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

Pietro finally turns to her, softer now.

“You don’t fix it. You just show up. Again and again. Every damn day. Until she believes you still want to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried like hell. That’s what she’s been doing for years, isn’t it?”

Wanda presses the mug to her chest like a shield. The tears come, silent this time.

“She cried in the bathroom the other night,” she says. “She thought I couldn’t hear. She was saying, ‘You’re doing this for them. You’re doing this for them.’ Over and over.”

Pietro doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

Wanda looks up at him.

“I still love her, Pietro.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You wake to the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

You're still groggy, breath slow, mind clouded with fragments of dream and lingering pain. The lamp on Wanda’s side of the bed clicks on, flooding the room with a dim glow.

You don’t move at first, eyes half-lidded.

But you feel her.

The way she walks in slowly. Heavy. Like her footsteps are too full of something unspeakable.

She doesn't get into bed.

She just stands near it.

You turn your head slightly.

“…Wanda?”

She jumps a little, surprised you're awake. Her hands fidget near her waist. Her eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s already wiped the tears away.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispers.

“You didn’t.”

Your voice is scratchy. Tired.

She stares down at the floor.

And then, barely above a breath—

“Did you know?”

You blink slowly, the words sinking in.

“…What?”

She finally looks up. Eyes locked on yours now. No hiding. No escaping. Just raw, bleeding honesty.

“About me,” she says. “About what I did.”

The room seems to shrink.

You don’t answer right away.

You sit up a little straighter, careful of your back. The sheets rustle. Pain twinges in your side.

Wanda moves toward the edge of the bed, but doesn’t sit.

You swallow.

“Yes.”

It’s barely a word. A sigh shaped into a confession of your own.

Her breath hitches.

“How long?” she asks, voice trembling.

“A while,” you say softly. “Before the hospital. I didn’t want to believe it. And then… I did.”

She lowers herself to sit at the foot of the bed, her back to you. Shoulders hunched. She runs a hand through her hair like she’s trying to steady herself, but she’s trembling.

“I tried to pretend I could live with it,” you say, quieter now. “Because I thought maybe I deserved it. For all the years I left you alone with everything. For every time I said ‘it’s classified’ instead of ‘I’m sorry.’”

Wanda lets out a sound that’s part sob, part breath.

You continue, steady but soft.

“But you want to know what hurt the most?”

She nods, without turning.

“It wasn’t the cheating,” you say. “It was realizing that I had made you feel so unseen. So unloved. That you had to find comfort somewhere else.”

She finally turns.

There’s nothing left of her usual composure. Just Wanda. Just the woman you married. The woman who waited. The woman who broke.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” she says, choking on the words. “I was just so… angry. And tired. And lonely. And I hated how easy it was to pretend you didn’t feel like home anymore.”

You nod slowly.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you keep your voice even.

“I understand.”

She leans in, pressing her forehead to your knee—gently, like she’s afraid to touch you too much. Like even this is more than she deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You reach forward, fingers trembling as they brush through her hair. She turns her face into your palm, broken.

And you say the only thing that feels true in this unbearable moment.

“I still love you.”

Because even in the ruin, something has survived.

Not untouched.

But alive.

Wanda hasn't moved.

Her forehead is still resting lightly on your leg, her tears soaking the soft fabric of your blanket. You sit above her, hand in her hair, fingers gently tangled at the nape of her neck. Your body still aches—but that isn’t the weight pulling at you now.

It’s this.

It’s her.

You can sense what she really wanted.

“Wanda,” you whisper, voice barely holding.

She doesn’t lift her head.

“I can’t go back to who I was before,” you continue. “Not just because of this chair. But because of everything. The missions. The blood. The lies.”

You look down at her. Her whole body is trembling.

“But I never stopped loving you,” you say, each word shaped like truth.

She finally raises her head. Eyes swollen. Lips parted like she’s waiting to break all over again.

You search her face. And in a voice steadier than you feel:

“If you can still love me after everything I kept from you… after all the ways I made you feel alone…”

You exhale shakily.

“Then I can forgive you too.”

Her breath catches. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you cut in softly, but firmly. “Because love without forgiveness isn’t love. Not really.”

You let your fingers brush her cheek, wipe a tear away.

“You hurt me,” you say honestly.

She nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“And I might never forget that.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“But I still want you,” you whisper. “Not just the version of you who waited. Not just the one who held me through my worst nights. I want the version of you who’s afraid. Who’s guilty. Who’s still here.”

Wanda stares at you like she’s seeing sunlight through the rubble.

Like she didn’t dare hope you’d still reach for her.

“You mean that?” she whispers.

You nod.

“I mean it.”

Her body shudders with a sob she doesn’t release. She just leans forward, slowly, carefully—presses her lips to your knee like a prayer.

And you both sit there.

Not as perfect wives.

Not as broken strangers.

But as two women who were almost lost to silence, but chose to stay.

Even now.

Especially now.

The room has gone quiet again.

Wanda is kneeling beside you, her hand resting over your thigh, her cheek still warm where your fingers brushed it. Her breathing is uneven. Yours matches it.

There’s no music playing.

No candlelight.

Just the soft hum of the radiator, the distant ticking of the clock, and the space between your heartbeats—slowly, slowly syncing again.

She lifts her head.

Her eyes search yours like they did that day you stood under the soft glow of a spring sky, your hands trembling around hers, your vows spoken in a voice thick with joy and disbelief.

But tonight, her eyes are not full of joy.

They’re full of ache.

Full of apology.

Full of love.

And you—

You lean forward.

Just an inch.

Just enough to feel her breath on yours.

You see the flicker of doubt in her gaze.

So you whisper, “It’s okay.”

And that’s when she kisses you.

Not with urgency.

Not with heat.

But with everything else.

A kiss that trembles as much as it calms.

A kiss full of the weight of every sleepless night.

Of every broken apology unspoken.

Of every time you both stayed when leaving would have been easier.

It is a kiss that says, I still choose you.

And as her lips press to yours—soft, reverent, like a prayer whispered under breath—you remember the way she kissed you at your wedding.

The crowd had faded.

The music had blurred.

And all that mattered was her hand on your jaw and the way her lips sealed your vow.

This kiss is the same.

And somehow—

It means even more now.

When you pull apart, your foreheads rest together.

You don’t speak.

You don’t need to.

Because in this breathless stillness, after everything, you are finally in the same place again.

Together.

It’s early afternoon when you and Wanda arrive at the Agency headquarters. The building looms tall and familiar, all steel and tinted glass. For a moment, as the car stops at the security checkpoint, you feel that old weight settle into your chest.

Wanda reaches over and laces her fingers through yours.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, even though your stomach twists. “Just… strange being here like this.”

The air is sharp and sterile, the scent of weapon oil faint beneath the cleaner. You pass familiar corridors. Places where you once barked orders, where you debriefed missions covered in soot and blood, where you once pulled a knife from your ribs in the infirmary and still walked to the situation room an hour later.

People glance at you from behind glass walls.

Some do a double take.

Others pause mid-conversation, eyes wide.

But no one says anything.

You know why you’re here—final debriefings, disability paperwork, official retirement documents.

But it feels like walking into a chapter you never expected to end.

You and Wanda take the elevator to the upper levels. The doors open to the familiar hallway that leads to your old office.

And then—

The lights flicker on ahead of you.

A dozen voices yell at once:

“Surprise!”

You blink.

And freeze.

The hallway has been transformed.

No balloons. No banners. Nothing loud or out of place.

But your entire team is there.

Faces you trained.

Voices you once barked orders to.

Juniors who once stared at you like you were carved from stone, now standing with soft eyes and small smiles.

Your commander steps forward first, arms crossed but eyes glassy.

“We figured you’d try to sneak out like it was just another mission,” she says.

You manage a crooked smile. “That was the plan.”

She gestures around. “Not on our watch.”

Someone hands you a drink—non-alcoholic, because they know your meds—and your favorite snack is already waiting on the small side table someone clearly dragged from the mess hall. There’s even a modest photo board—images from successful missions, blurred for confidentiality, with captions like "Operation Winterglass – 14 saved" and "Riyadh Compound – 6 agents brought home."

You feel Wanda’s hand tighten around yours.

Someone claps gently, and then a junior agent—maybe twenty-three, tops—steps forward.

“You didn’t just train us,” he says. “You protected us. You covered us. And half of us wouldn't be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Another agent chimes in. “You didn’t say much, but you never let anyone feel forgotten.”

You stare at them, unsure what to do with your hands. Or your face.

The commander speaks again, stepping closer.

“You walked in here years ago like a ghost. No attachments. No weaknesses. And somehow, over time, you made us your family. Even if you never said the word.”

She pauses.

“And now, we say goodbye to the best agent this agency ever had. Not because you fell. Not because you failed. But because you gave enough. More than enough.”

You swallow hard.

And when the room falls quiet, you try to speak.

“I never thought I’d miss this place,” you admit.

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the room.

You continue, voice rough.

“But I will. Not the missions. Not the blood. But you. All of you.”

You look around.

Your voice softens.

“I didn’t save you. You saved me. Every time I thought this job would swallow me whole… you gave me a reason to come back.”

Your eyes fall on Wanda, who has tears in hers now.

“And now I finally get to go home.”

Someone lifts a glass.

“To Y/N.”

A chorus follows: “To Y/N.”

You raise yours too.

And for once, you don’t feel like an agent. Or a soldier.

You feel like a person.

You feel loved.

And as Wanda kisses your temple and the room fills with quiet applause.

But you didn’t leave empty-handed.

After the small gathering ends, your commander guides you to a secured room just down the hall. It's quieter here. Dimly lit. Only a few agents follow. Wanda stays close at your side, her presence warm and steady.

There’s a table already set at the front, covered in a dark cloth.

On it: a long, narrow case made of polished oak, and beside it, a display tray covered by a black velvet cloth.

Your commander stands behind it, posture formal now.

“Normally this part happens in silence,” she says. “But I think you’ve earned something more than tradition.”

She opens the first case.

Inside, nestled in precision-cut foam, is a sidearm.

Black. Elegant. New.

Your commander lifts it with both hands and holds it out to you.

“Your final weapon,” she says. “Never to be fired. But always to be kept.”

You take it with care.

It’s heavier than you expected.

Wanda stares at it, eyes wide but unreadable.

Your commander gestures to a sealed ammo box beside it.

“Twenty-five bullets,” she says. “One for every year you gave us.”

The weight of the box is symbolic—your service, distilled into cold brass and steel. You nod silently. You can’t trust your voice.

Then—she pulls back the velvet.

Wanda gasps.

You go still.

It’s rows upon rows of military-grade commendations. Some are standard service medals. Others are rare—almost unheard of. A few are entirely unmarked, reserved only for black ops agents whose missions are never spoken of.

Wanda steps closer. Her eyes flick across the rows, lips parted, breath shallow.

“These were stored with your file,” your commander says. “For obvious reasons.”

She turns to Wanda.

“She never took them home. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t.”

Wanda’s hands hover over the case, trembling.

“How many…?” she whispers.

Your commander folds her hands behind her back.

“Fifty-seven total. Seventeen for valor. Twelve for civilian rescue under fire. One issued posthumously—until she came back breathing.”

Your head bows.

You forgot about that one.

Wanda looks at you. There’s something like awe in her eyes now. Something like heartbreak.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers lightly over the polished medals. Her voice is thick with emotion.

“You never told me.”

You smile, but it’s a tired thing. “I wasn’t allowed to. And after a while… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She kneels beside your chair, hands wrapped around your arm.

Your throat tightens.

Your commander steps forward one last time, placing a closed folder on your lap. Inside: your full service record. Now declassified. Signed and sealed.

“It’s time,” she says.

You glance back at the room—at the walls that watched you come and go for over two decades. You take a breath.

And you nod.

You wheel toward the exit with Wanda beside you, medals boxed in your lap, your honorary sidearm carefully stored under your arm. Agents line the hallway quietly. Some salute. Others offer quiet nods.

No one speaks.

Because they all know what this moment is.

You reach the front doors.

Wanda helps you pause just before the threshold.

You turn back for a final glance.

This place—your life’s battlefield, your cage, your proving ground—fades behind you like the end of a long, impossible winter.

You reach up.

Wipe a single tear from your cheek.

Wanda’s hand finds yours. She’s crying too. But her eyes are soft.

Not sad.

Relieved.

You breathe out, almost laughing.

“It’s over.”

She leans in.

“No,” she whispers. “It’s just beginning.”

And together—

Leipzig – Abandoned Rail Yard, 03:17 Hours

The plan was solid.

Intel, precise. Entry routes clear. Timing perfect.

You had done this dozens of times. Cleared buildings. Extracted high-value assets. Protected civilians in crossfire zones. It was what you were good at—what you were built for.

But plans mean nothing when the enemy adapts faster than the briefings predict.

You realize it two minutes in. The pattern's off. The heat signatures don’t match the number of confirmed targets. There’s movement above that shouldn’t be there. The sound of gunfire ricochets wrong—too sharp, too close.

It’s an ambush.

You move fast. Three steps left, sweep high, fire once—twice. One down. You’re already bleeding. Doesn’t matter.

You clear the stairwell. Shout commands through gritted teeth.

"Get them out. Now. West exit. I’ll cover."

You don’t wait for arguments.

The civilians run.

Your team hesitates.

"GO."

They listen.

And then it’s just you.

You pick off four more before you take the shot to the side. Two to the shoulder. One grazing your thigh. You don’t count how many times you reload. You don’t notice the ache in your lungs or the warmth of your own blood pooling in your boots.

Your hands don’t shake.

You don’t scream.

You just move.

One hallway at a time. One room at a time.

Until it’s done.

Until the silence means you won.

You don’t remember falling.

You lie on your side; cheek pressed against the cool cement.

You can't feel your fingers. Can’t move your legs.

But your chest rises, slow. Still breathing. Somehow.

Voices filter through the fog—someone shouting your name, boots slapping the floor, a medic’s tone urgent in your ear. They’re trying to lift you.

You can’t speak.

But there’s a smile on your face.

A faint one. Barely there. Just the curve of relief.

Because they lived.

Because they got out.

Because this pain means they’re alive.

You close your eyes.

And let the dark take you.

The phone rings just past six.

Wanda doesn’t recognize the number.

She answers anyway, her voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Hallo?”

“Wanda Maximoff?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is Commander Lehnert, German Special Intelligence Division.” A pause. “I’m calling about your wife. Y/N Y/L/N.”

Wanda sits upright in bed, heartbeat hammering already. “What? What happened?”

“She was injured during an operation early this morning in Leipzig. She’s stable, but critical. Multiple wounds, extensive blood loss. We had to— We had to contact you as her emergency next-of-kin.”

Wanda blinks rapidly. “Operation? I—she works in foreign affairs. I don’t understand.”

Another pause.

When the voice returns, it’s quieter. Heavy.

“Mrs. Maximoff… there’s more you should know. I’ve been authorized to brief you on the full scope of her position. She wasn’t in foreign affairs. She’s in recovery at the Bundeswehrkrankenhaus,” the voice adds. “Room 621.”

Wanda’s voice cracks. “Thank you.”

Click.

Silence.

The hospital smells like antiseptic and something colder.

Wanda moves through it on instinct, not even sure how she got there. Her coat hangs loose around her shoulders, scarf forgotten somewhere in the car. She asks for you at the front desk, and someone with a grim mouth and military posture escorts her down a long corridor in silence.

They stop in front of your room.

The door is open.

And there you are.

Pale. Still. Tubes in your arm. Monitors beeping in careful rhythm. Chest rising and falling beneath stark white sheets.

Her knees almost give.

A man in uniform steps away from the window. Commander Lehnert. Early forties. Stern face. Red-rimmed eyes.

“Mrs. Maximoff,” he says, voice low. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

She can’t respond. She’s looking at you, not hearing anything else.

He waits a beat, then speaks again.

“She’s stable. Out of surgery. There was… significant damage to the spinal cord. Thoracic vertebrae shattered. The surgeons did what they could. But I’m sorry. The injury is irreversible. Y/N is paralyzed from the waist down.”

Wanda finally looks at him.

“She can’t—?”

“No,” he says gently. “The paralysis is complete from the waist down. She’ll be awake soon. But I’m not sure how much she’ll want to say, or how much she’ll remember at first.”

Silence again.

Then he reaches into the leather satchel at his side.

“I’ve been instructed to give you these.”

He places two folders on the small hospital table beside the bed.

One is a thin, freshly stamped binder with a red seal now marked DECLASSIFIED. Your name is printed neatly at the top. Y/N Y/L/N – Operative Record.

The second is thicker. Much thicker. Worn at the edges. Tabs sticking out in layers. It’s heavy. The kind of weight you only carry if you’ve saved lives or destroyed them.

That one is still marked CLASSIFIED.

Commander Lehnert taps the second folder once. “I’m not supposed to give you this. But after what she did last night… after who she saved…”

He pauses.

“You deserve to know who she’s been fighting for.”

Wanda stares at it. She doesn’t reach out. Not yet.

He clears his throat and straightens his coat. “I’ll give you some time.”

And then he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

She doesn’t open the declassified one first.

She opens the thick one.

Page after page—incident reports, mission summaries, handwritten notes from people she doesn’t know, people she’ll never meet. Civilians. Children. Aid workers. Names. Photographs.

She flips through operations across continents. Buildings pulled from rubble. Wounded carried across borders. Kill squads dismantled. Ambushes thwarted.

And your name again and again, buried in the margins.

Her hands tremble as she reaches the final page.

A photo clipped to the inside cover.

It’s from last night. Blurry. Grainy. You—on the ground, covered in blood—smiling.

Not from pain.

But relief.

Wanda doesn’t cry.

She closes the folder, lays it carefully on the table, and leans down beside your bed.

Her fingers brush your temple.

“You were protecting us,” she whispers. “This whole time… you were saving the world and coming home like nothing happened.”

Her voice breaks.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see it.”

You don’t stir.

But your chest still rises.

And for the first time in a long time, Wanda wants to stay.

Not out of guilt.

But out of love.

⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

It begins with sound.

A slow, distant beeping. Faint. Rhythmic. Artificial.

Then comes the sterile light through your eyelids, the weight of a room you don’t recognize, the deep ache blooming in your spine like it was planted there long ago.

You open your eyes.

Everything is fog.

You blink, and Wanda is there—blurry at first. Sitting beside you in a hospital chair, her hand gently holding yours. Her lips are pressed together. Her eyes swollen, but dry now.

Her voice comes through like a ripple on water.

“You’re awake.”

Your throat burns. You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Just breath and memory and pain.

You manage a whisper: “Where…?”

“Berlin,” she says softly. “The military hospital. You’ve been out for two days.”

Two days.

You try to sit up. Pain shoots down your spine like a blade being pulled slowly through your bones. You grunt, instinctively moving—

But your legs don’t follow.

You pause.

You try again. Your left leg. Just a twitch. A flex. Something.

Nothing.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Wanda.”

She stiffens.

“Wanda… I can’t…”

Your hand reaches beneath the blanket, desperate, trembling. You slap your thigh—nothing. You dig your nails into the fabric. Nothing.

“I can’t feel them.”

You look at her now. Really look.

Her silence is the confirmation you were afraid of.

You lift the sheets with shaking fingers and stare at what’s still there—bandaged, bruised, intact—but lifeless. As if they belong to someone else. As if your body is no longer yours.

“No, no, no…” Your voice fractures. “Please.”

Wanda reaches for you.

You pull away.

“No.”

You press your palms into your face, breath stuttering, teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches. The walls close in. The silence pounds louder than any gunfire you’ve ever known.

You think of everything you’ve done—every mission, every sprint into fire, every last-second escape—and it hits you all at once.

This is it.

The field is gone. Your legs are gone. Your purpose—gone.

And when the door finally creaks open and the nurse says softly, “She’s awake,” you already know.

You already know.

Wanda’s there before the doctor even gets a full sentence out. Her voice breaks when she says your name.

You don’t look at her.

You’re staring at the blanket bunched at your feet. The feet that didn’t twitch when you tried. The legs that didn’t move when you needed them to.

The doctor speaks, voice a blur of terms and reassurance—“miracle to survive”, “stable now”, “permanent spinal damage”, “incomplete paraplegia”—but you barely hear it.

Your heartbeat is pounding louder than anything he says.

Then Wanda touches your hand.

That breaks you.

You turn to her, slowly. Your voice is dry, cracked.

“They’re gone.”

She nods through tears.

You nod too, as if somehow it confirms the sentence. As if saying it out loud will make your brain believe what your body already knows.

Your lips tremble. You try to say something—anything strong. Anything that sounds like you.

But all that comes out is a hollow whisper:

“I can’t feel them.”

And then your chest collapses around the weight of it.

You cry.

Ugly, broken sobs that rack your upper body while your lower one stays still. You hate the stillness. You hate the sound of your own grief. You hate that you lived.

You hate that part of you feels like you shouldn’t have.

Wanda climbs onto the bed without asking. She holds you, rocking gently even when you push weakly at her arms.

“Don’t,” you choke out. “Don’t hold me like I’m still me.”

“You are still you,” she whispers, kissing your temple.

You press your face to her shoulder and sob harder.

Because you don’t believe her yet.

And when your voice finally breaks into shattered whisper:

“What am I now?”

She leans forward, rests her forehead to yours, and says:

“Still the one who saved them. Still the one who came home.”

You don’t know how long you cry.

The sobs come deep and shaking, dragged from somewhere raw and private. You curl in on yourself as far as the pain allows, clutching at the blanket like it can hold your body together when your soul is already coming apart.

You don’t cry like a soldier.

You cry like someone who just lost the thing that made her feel alive.

Your life—your purpose—bled out before you ever got off that battlefield.

You feel Wanda’s arms wrap around you.

You don’t fight her.

You can’t.

You lean into her like your body has no strength left to stay upright. Her hand cradles the back of your head. Her thumb moves in slow, grounding circles. You feel the wetness of her tears where her cheek meets your temple, but she doesn’t make a sound.

She doesn’t speak.

She just holds you.

Because what words could possibly fix this?

You cry for your legs.

For every mission that you ran full speed into without hesitation.

For the weight of every life you saved.

For the identities you buried and the pain you never let surface.

You cry for your pride—the pride that used to wear silence like armor. That told you sacrifice was noble. That convinced you coming home broken was better than not coming home at all.

And Wanda is there.

Through all of it.

She doesn't flinch when your voice breaks into gasps.

She doesn't pull away when you say, “I don’t know who I am without this.”

She presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, barely audible:

“You’re still mine.”

You close your eyes.

Not in peace.

Not yet.

But in surrender.

To the truth.

To the grief.

To her.

And for the first time since the gunfire stopped, you let yourself be held.

Not as an agent.

Not as a protector.

Just… you.

The sun is higher in the sky now, pale and cold through the window. You’re still in bed, propped up slightly. Wanda sits close, her hand in yours, her other arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders.

The room smells like hospital sheets and disinfectant.

There’s a knock on the door.

Firm.

Not tentative.

You know that rhythm. That weight.

Wanda straightens a little, eyes flicking toward the sound. You don’t speak. You already know who it is.

The door opens.

Commander Lehnert steps inside in full uniform, coat buttoned, boots polished. He removes his cap with quiet respect.

“Y/N.”

You look at him.

He nods once. A soldier’s nod. For everything you’ve done. For everything you’ve lost.

“Commander,” you say, voice low and rough.

His eyes fall to Wanda, and he gives her a brief, courteous incline of the head. “Mrs. Maximoff.”

Wanda nods silently, then glances to you, uncertain if she should stay.

You squeeze her hand.

Stay.

She does.

Lehnert steps closer, folding his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t going to come until you were stronger. But when they told me you woke up, I…” He hesitates. Just for a second. The first crack in the man you always saw as unshakable.

“I needed to say it. Face to face.”

He meets your eyes.

“You saved fourteen people. Six civilians. Eight operatives. And you bought us nearly nine minutes under enemy fire. Every one of them made it out because of you.”

You stare at him, jaw clenched, throat thick.

He goes on. “You knew it was a trap. You still stayed.”

“I couldn’t let them die,” you rasp. “Not when I could stop it.”

He nods slowly. “That’s exactly why you’ll never be forgotten.”

You look down.

The silence lingers.

And then his voice softens.

“I know this isn’t how you thought it would end. No agent ever thinks that.” He gestures slightly to your body—your legs beneath the blanket. “But I want you to understand something.”

You glance back up.

“You didn’t lose your career out there. You finished it. With honor. With impact. With legacy.” He pauses. “Y/N… you won.”

The words hit you harder than the bullet.

Wanda’s hand squeezes yours tighter.

You nod slowly.

It’s not comfort.

It’s not closure.

But it’s something.

Commander Lehnert takes something from inside his coat. A small box. He opens it and places it on the table beside you.

A medal.

Dark silver. Clean. Etched with your name.

Your final commendation.

“You earned this ten times over,” he says. “And it still doesn’t come close.”

You stare at it.

Silent.

The Commander turns to Wanda next. His voice is quieter now. “She never broke, Mrs. Maximoff. Not once.”

Wanda's lips tremble.

She nods.

He replaces his cap. “We’ll be in touch regarding transition and retirement documentation. But today… you don’t need to think about any of that.”

He pauses at the door.

“Take care of her.”

Wanda answers before you can.

“I will.”

And then he’s gone.

The sun has dipped behind the buildings outside. The sky is bruised with late orange and ash-blue. Your hospital room is quiet now, lit only by the dull yellow of a wall sconce and the soft green rhythm of the monitor beside you.

Wanda’s still sitting at your side.

She hasn’t let go of your hand since the Commander left.

You’ve stopped crying. But that doesn’t mean the ache has gone anywhere.

You glance at the medal still resting on the tray table.

It feels distant. Like it belongs to someone else now.

Your voice is a murmur when it finally breaks the silence.

“Wanda.”

She turns to you immediately. “Yeah?”

You study her face—how tired she looks, how close she is, how far she’s been. You’ve held a thousand lives in your hands, but this question feels heavier than all of them combined.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway.

“Is there… still a marriage left to come home to?”

She goes still.

Completely.

You watch her breath catch. You see her eyes widen—just slightly—like you’d peeled open something raw between her ribs.

She doesn’t answer right away.

That hurts more than you expect.

You look down, ashamed. “I know I wasn’t… I know I left you alone. Even when I was there.”

Wanda doesn’t speak.

You try again, voice lower now. “I know I gave everything to a world that asked for too much. And you—you gave everything to us. And I kept leaving you behind to carry that alone.”

Still, she says nothing.

You shake your head. “You can tell me the truth. I can take it.”

Her hand squeezes yours.

It’s almost painful.

When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Cracked.

“I did something… I’m not proud of.”

Your eyes lift to hers.

Wanda’s gaze is wet now. But she doesn’t look away.

“I was angry,” she says softly. “Lonely. I stopped waiting for you to come home, and I found someone else who was already here.”

You close your eyes.

It doesn’t surprise you.

But it still cuts.

She takes a trembling breath.

“I can’t take it back. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But you asked if there’s a marriage left to come home to…”

You open your eyes.

She leans closer, her forehead nearly touching yours.

“There’s a love left. And I want to fight for it. Even if we don’t know how. Even if you’re different now. Even if I’m not who I used to be either.”

You look at her. You really look.

You see guilt, yes. But love, too.

Not the kind that burns wild and fast.

The kind that stays even when everything else has fallen.

Your hand tightens around hers.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

But you don’t let go either.

And that—for now—is enough.

It’s been four days since you woke up.

You’ve been through three meetings with government suits, two attempts at eating solid food, and one extremely awkward sponge bath.

But today?

Today is harder than all of that.

Today, your children are coming.

You’re already in the wheelchair. The nurse helped you transfer over an hour ago. You’ve checked your posture three times. Wanda helped brush your hair. You fought her on it at first, but you were too tired to pretend you didn’t need the help.

Now you just sit there. Hands curled tightly in your lap. The air heavy in your lungs.

You haven’t seen Ana or Nathan since the incident.

They don’t know.

Not about the chair. Not about the career. Not about the gunmetal-slick double life you built beneath their very feet.

Wanda stands by the door, adjusting her coat with nervous fingers.

You break the silence.

“I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Wanda turns.

You don’t look at her. “They won’t understand. Ana will look at me like I failed her. Nathan will be scared. This isn’t what a mother should look like.”

She kneels in front of you.

You do look at her now, because the silence in her face demands it.

“They asked for you,” she says softly. “Not the spy. Not the protector. You.” Her hand comes to rest gently over yours. “They just want to see their mama.”

Your throat tightens.

And then, the knock.

You freeze.

Wanda rises and opens the door.

Ana steps in first. Seventeen, guarded, arms crossed, chin lifted like armor. Her hair is pinned back, neat but practical. Her eyes land on you and don’t look away.

Nathan follows behind her. Twelve. Small for his age. Shoulders tense. But when he sees you, his whole face softens. He makes a small sound—half breath, half disbelief.

“Mama…”

He rushes over.

You barely manage to open your arms in time before he’s hugging you tightly, pressing into your chest with all the force of someone trying to stitch something back together.

You wrap your arms around him. You bury your face in his hair.

Ana still stands near the door.

You turn your head, your voice low and unsure. “Hey, sweetheart.”

She hesitates.

Then slowly, she steps forward.

Her eyes flick to the wheelchair. Linger. Then back to your face.

“I thought you worked in foreign affairs.”

You manage a small, lopsided smile. “Technically… I did.”

Ana stares. “You're a spy.”

You nod once.

“I was.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

Then she folds her arms tighter, her voice cracking just a little. “You should’ve told us.”

You meet her eyes. “I know.”

The room holds that silence. The years of absence. The half-answers. The tension. The ache.

Nathan breaks it, his head still tucked under your chin.

“I don’t care,” he mumbles. “You’re still my mom.”

Ana shifts her weight. You watch her war with herself—hurt, pride, and relief all tightening in her chest.

Then she walks forward.

And she kneels.

Just like Wanda had.

And she takes your hand.

You didn’t know how much you needed that until it happens.

Her grip is steady.

You nod, eyes blurring again.

The door clicks shut as Wanda and Nathan step out into the hallway.

Something about the silence that follows is heavier than before.

You glance toward Ana, who’s standing near the window with her arms folded across her chest, her jaw clenched. She hasn’t looked at you since they left.

You watch her for a moment.

She looks so much like you when you were younger—quiet storm behind steady eyes.

But you’re her mother.

And you know.

You know when she’s trying not to feel.

“Ana,” you say softly.

She doesn’t move.

You let the words settle for a beat, then add gently, “Come here.”

She stiffens.

Your voice is quieter this time. Not an order. A call.

“Sweetheart… come here.”

She turns slowly.

Her eyes glisten, but she’s still holding it in. She walks over, slow and hesitant, each step a tiny surrender.

You open your arms.

She stops right in front of you, still stiff, still trying to be strong.

You reach up, brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and say it simply, like you used to when she scraped her knees or got in trouble at school.

“Come to Mama.”

And that’s it.

She collapses.

She falls into your arms, hard, burying her face in your shoulder, and the dam breaks.

You hold her tight, arms trembling as she cries into you like she’s six again and the world’s just a little too big.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

You stroke her hair, your own tears slipping free now. “No, baby. No. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I said awful things to you. I thought— I thought you didn’t care—”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you were hurting.”

“I was so angry,” she sobs. “And I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what you were going through.”

“I didn’t let you,” you say, your voice breaking. “I thought if I could keep it from you… I could protect you.”

She pulls back slightly, her eyes red and wet.

“But it broke you,” she whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “It did.”

She hugs you again, tighter this time. “But I’m here now. I’m staying.”

And you hold her.

No uniform. No secrets.

Just your daughter. And the love between you.

Real. Raw. Unbreakable.

The door opens with a soft click.

Wanda steps in, her coat draped over one arm and a paper bag in the other. The smell of warm bread and spiced lentil soup fills the sterile hospital air. Nathan trails behind her, holding two juice boxes and carefully balancing a small chocolate bar on top.

She starts to speak before fully looking up.

“I wasn’t sure what you felt like eating, so I got a little of everyth—”

She stops.

Eyes land on you first.

Then Ana.

Your daughter is curled gently into your side in the hospital bed, her head resting on your shoulder, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist. Her face is flushed from crying, but there’s peace there now. The kind that only comes after something long overdue has finally been said.

Your hand is in her hair, stroking softly.

Neither of you speak.

But you don’t need to.

Wanda’s breath catches.

Something in her chest loosens. She didn’t realize how tight it had been until now.

She stands there, frozen for a moment, then gently sets the food down on the tray table. Nathan moves toward you without a word, hopping up onto the other side of the bed, squeezing in beside your hip.

He leans against you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss the top of his head.

Wanda watches all of it.

And for a moment—for the first time in what feels like years—she sees it clearly.

The love between you all.

Messy. Fractured. Healing.

Still whole.

You meet Wanda’s gaze.

You give her a tired smile, small but sincere.

She walks over slowly, setting her hand on the back of Ana’s shoulder, the other brushing your arm.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion.

“Hey,” you say back, just as quietly.

She doesn’t cry.

But her eyes shine.

She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then to Ana’s hair.

And finally to Nathan’s cheek.

And there, in that room filled with beeping machines and healing wounds and old regrets, the four of you sit—

It was just one thing.

One afternoon.

A school meeting for Ana. Rescheduled. Moved last minute. You had promised—this one, you said. You’d be there. Wanda hadn’t even asked. You offered.

But then your message came.

“I’m sorry. I can’t make it. Something’s come up.”

No time. No explanation. No voice message. Just the cold wall of your absence… again.

Wanda read the text in the middle of the hallway, clutching her bag, Ana’s paperwork under one arm. She stared at the screen until it dimmed. Until her chest stopped burning.

She didn’t cry. She just sighed.

The counselor looked at her with quiet pity. Ana didn’t say anything, but the way she exhaled—sharp and short—spoke volumes.

By the time they got home, it was dark. Nathan was already asleep. Ana vanished into her room with barely a glance.

And Wanda sat alone on the sofa, watching the glow from the reading lamp bend across the empty space where you should have been.

Later that night, she went to the book club.

She didn’t dress differently. Didn’t plan anything. She just needed a place where your shadow wouldn’t reach her. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that didn’t feel like being second to a ghost.

Vision was there.

He always was.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t press. He simply noticed her. Listened. He had a softness that made her feel visible again. Grounded. Like someone still worth the time it took to understand.

Afterward, when they lingered in the stairwell outside the café, she meant to say goodbye and go home.

But she didn’t.

He asked, “Do you want to come upstairs?”

She hesitated for only a second too long.

Then she nodded.

It wasn’t hurried. Or dramatic. Or lit with lust.

It was quiet.

A slow unbuttoning of a life she’d been holding together too tightly for too long.

He kissed her like she hadn’t been kissed in years—not because of hunger, but reverence. Like he saw her. All of her. The bruises behind her eyes. The silence sitting on her shoulders. The loneliness she had grown so used to wearing it felt like skin.

His touch wasn’t perfect. But it was present.

She closed her eyes and let go of the parts of herself that were always waiting.

Let herself forget—for one night—what it felt like to carry disappointment in her chest every time she heard your keys in the door.

Afterward, they lay tangled on unfamiliar sheets. The window was cracked open. She could hear Berlin’s distant hum. The city didn’t care what she had done. The world didn’t stop spinning.

And that was the most devastating part.

Because neither did she.

Light filters in slowly through unfamiliar curtains.

Wanda stirs before the city does. Her body aches—not from passion, not from sleep—but from the weight of something that has no name. Not yet.

She blinks up at the ceiling, the corners of her eyes stinging. Vision’s arm lies gently across her waist. He breathes evenly beside her, still half-asleep. There is warmth in his presence. Steady, quiet, comforting.

But it’s the wrong warmth.

Her ring presses lightly into the skin of her finger.

Wanda moves slowly, careful not to wake him, slipping from beneath the sheets as if the bed might accuse her. The floor is cold against her feet. She finds her shirt, pulls it on with trembling hands.

She doesn’t look back.

In the bathroom, she doesn’t recognize herself.

She splashes water on her face. Watches it drip from her chin like melted ice. It doesn’t help.

The silence around her is loud.

She presses her palms to the sink and lets her breath come in unsteady waves. Her lips part. She thinks she might cry, but nothing comes.

Because it didn’t feel like a mistake last night.

That’s what haunts her most.

It felt… human. Needed. Desperate.

And now?

Now it feels like a betrayal so quiet it doesn’t even echo.

She thinks of Nathan.

Of Ana.

Of you.

You didn’t lie to her last night. You didn’t cheat. You didn’t hurt her in any new way. But you weren’t there. Again.

And somewhere deep inside, some bitter, broken part of her had finally stopped waiting for you to come back in the way she needed.

She closes her eyes.

For a second, she imagines telling you. Imagines watching your face change—calm cracking into something sharp, betrayed, furious, quiet. She imagines the pause after, the silence stretching between you like an open grave.

She can’t bear it.

She opens her eyes again.

No tears.

Just guilt.

Heavy and full and slowly burning away.

Wanda dries her face, smooths her hands down her shirt, and walks out without waking him.

It didn't happen all at once. That’s the part that haunts her the most.

Wanda remembers the first time she felt the shift—not in her marriage, but in herself. It was subtle. A hollow echo where connection used to be. You weren’t absent, not physically. You were there at the dinner table. In bed. Holding the baby monitor. Whispering “I love you” like muscle memory.

But you were also miles away. Quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful. Watchful in a way that wasn’t protective. And so tired. Not just in your bones—in your soul.

She tried to reach for you once, during one of those late nights when the kids were finally asleep and the house hummed with a soft silence. She rolled over, touched your shoulder, and whispered, “Can you just... talk to me?”

You responded with a kiss to her temple and a mumbled, “Tomorrow, baby. Just exhausted.”

She nodded. But that tomorrow never came.

And Wanda—who once believed her love could heal anything—started feeling like she was screaming into a void.

Then came the guilt.

She wasn’t just your wife. She was also a mother, a businesswoman, someone trying to hold the house up while watching her partner bleed quietly from wounds she didn’t know how to treat. She would look at you and wonder what she was doing wrong.

Why couldn’t she reach you?

Why didn’t you trust her with the storm in your eyes?

When the affair happened, it wasn’t candlelit or passionate. It was pathetic. Small. A a member at her book club who made her laugh just a little too long. Someone who touched her wrist and called her seen.

She remembers the hotel room—how cold the sheets felt after. How she sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed again, staring at herself in the mirror.

‘I just betrayed the only person who ever truly saw me.’

She didn’t cry. Not then.

The tears came later, when she saw you folding Nathan’s tiny clothes with your sleeves rolled up and the TV playing some dumb sitcom in the background. You looked so gentle. So good.

And she wanted to scream.

Because you had become the sun she could no longer look directly at. And now she had cast a shadow over you both.

Wanda didn’t do it because she stopped loving you.

She did it because she didn’t know how to love you anymore.

Because loving someone who is drifting out of reach—slowly, softly, like morning mist—is the loneliest kind of heartbreak.

You return home just after seven. You’re tired. Not the kind of tired a nap can fix, but the kind that clings to your bones—the tired that comes from wearing a mask too long.

Wanda is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with precision that’s almost too neat. She doesn’t look up when you enter. The air smells like garlic and olive oil. Something warm simmers on the stove.

You take off your shoes quietly and set your keys down with less noise than usual.

“Hey,” you say.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hey.”

That’s it.

No kiss on the cheek. No soft welcome back. But no tension either. Just a flat neutrality wrapped in politeness.

“How was work?” she asks after a moment, placing a carrot into the pan.

You could lie. You’ve done it a hundred times. But somehow, it feels heavier now.

“Long,” you say. “Unpredictable.”

She nods. “Figured.”

You step into the room. She doesn’t move to make space. You hover beside her, watching her cook.

“I missed Ana’s meeting,” you say, quieter now.

“She noticed,” Wanda replies, her tone clipped but not cruel. “I told her you’d try harder next time.”

You pause. “Thank you.”

She hums in acknowledgment. That’s all.

There’s a careful stillness to her now. She doesn’t ask where you really were. Doesn’t press. And that, somehow, hurts more than anger.

Because you’re not the only one hiding anymore.

You both go through the motions of dinner—plates passed, bread cut, water poured. Nathan chatters softly, and Ana offers small comments without ever looking directly at you.

Wanda asks Nathan about school.

You ask Ana how her mock exam went.

Everyone plays their part.

When the plates are cleared, you both reach for the same dish.

Your fingers brush.

She flinches—not a lot. Just enough.

You both pretend it didn’t happen.

You lie in bed that night, backs turned to each other. Not out of resentment. Not out of exhaustion.

Out of fear.

Fear of what might spill out if either of you turn around and ask the question that’s been choking the air between you for weeks.

Do you still love me?

Have you stopped waiting?

Have I already lost you?

You close your eyes. Wanda does too.

And the silence between you is full of things neither of you is brave enough to say.

The café is warm, like always.

Low lamps, cinnamon in the air, soft chairs too broken-in to be uncomfortable. Around her, familiar voices rise and fall in conversation. Someone is laughing gently about an ending they didn’t see coming. A paperback is passed around with a hand-written note stuck between its pages.

Wanda smiles when expected. She nods when someone addresses her. But her hands stay wrapped too tightly around her mug, and the tea has long gone cold.

She hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes.

Vision sits two seats down, discussing themes with a woman from the university. He glances at Wanda once, offering a soft look—checking on her. It isn’t possessive. It isn’t expectant.

But it’s a reminder.

She looks away.

The words from that night still echo in her mind: “Do you want to come upstairs?”

She had said yes.

And she’s been trying to live with that yes ever since.

Someone asks her opinion on the final chapter. She blinks, caught off guard. “I… don’t know,” she answers honestly.

There’s a pause. Just enough to notice.

She pushes her chair back gently. It doesn’t scrape. It doesn’t draw attention.

“I think I need to go.”

A few heads turn. Vision looks up.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Wanda nods once. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t ask her to stay. And maybe that’s why it hurts more.

She gathers her coat, her bag. She walks out into the cold Berlin night, the wind biting at her sleeves. She pulls her scarf tighter, but the chill doesn’t leave.

The guilt has settled under her skin now.

Thick.

Permanent.

She thought she could carry it quietly. That it would shrink with time. But every time she looks at you—every time she sees Nathan’s innocent eyes or hears Ana call for Mama—it burns hotter.

She crosses the street, unsure where she’s walking. Her feet just move.

There’s no confrontation.

No tears on her cheeks.

Just a sinking feeling that whatever she broke that night wasn’t between her and Vision. It was between her and the life she’s still pretending she wants to save.

And now, she isn’t sure which lie is worse:

The one you’re keeping.

Or the one she just made real.

You made a reservation two weeks in advance.

The restaurant is elegant, understated. Dim chandeliers, velvet chairs, candlelight flickering inside crystal holders. Every table around you is filled with couples speaking in soft, affectionate tones. The clink of silverware plays beneath the quiet hum of music.

You reach for the wine. Pour hers first.

Wanda thanks you, polite as ever.

You tell her she looks beautiful. She nods, offers a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

The waiter takes your orders. She picks something light. You say the usual compliments. She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t add anything either. And the silence after every small attempt to close the distance feels louder than anything you’ve faced in a firefight.

Still, you try.

You tell her you’ve cleared tomorrow morning. You say you thought maybe you'd walk around Museum Island, just the two of you, like you used to.

She lowers her wine glass. Her tone is neutral. "You cleared four hours, and that’s supposed to mean something?”

You blink. “It’s a start.”

Wanda laughs. But it’s humorless, sharp. “You think one dinner and half a day fixes this?”

The surrounding conversations go quiet in your ears. Your breath cools.

“I didn’t say it fixes it,” you reply. “I just wanted to do something. For us.”

“Us.” She shakes her head slowly. “There hasn’t been an ‘us’ in months. You’re gone half the time, and the other half you’re sitting across from me pretending you’re still here.”

You sit back. “You think I’m pretending?”

“No. I think you’re lying.”

Your fingers curl around your napkin. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Her voice rises now, just enough for the couple at the next table to glance over. “I cover for you. I lie to our kids for you. I carry the silence you keep building between us like I’m supposed to be proud of it.”

“I’m doing everything I can to protect this family.”

“And I’m the one tearing it apart?”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to!” Her voice cracks, just once. “You’re not home, Y/N. Not really. And every time I try to bring you back, I get that same tired look, like I’m some problem to solve on top of all the others.”

You push your plate aside. You’re done pretending too.

“For once,” you say, voice low, “I wish you’d stop assuming you’re the only one suffering.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “Then say something. Stop being a ghost.”

You lean in. “You want honesty? You wouldn’t survive the truth. That’s why I don’t say it.”

She stiffens.

You both go still, staring across the table like strangers trying to remember who they used to be.

She doesn’t respond right away. But when she speaks again, her voice is trembling with heat.

“Then maybe we’ve already said everything that matters.”

You exhale through your nose. “So that’s it? You won’t even try?”

“I tried. I waited. I begged you with every silence. I begged you with every look.” Her voice falters. “You never came back to me.”

You stare at her across flickering candlelight, heart hammering. “Maybe you stopped being someone I could come back to.”

That lands. It lands hard.

The air between you goes cold.

You don't apologize.

For the first time in months, you're not just guilty.

You're angry too.

The restaurant carries on around you, oblivious.

Glasses clink. Forks scrape against porcelain. Laughter from a table across the room flutters like it belongs to another world—one you can’t touch anymore.

The candle between you flickers once, almost dies, then rights itself again. You stare at it.

Neither of you speaks.

Wanda doesn’t reach for her wine again. You don’t reach for her hand. Her eyes are fixed somewhere just past your shoulder, like she’s trying to find a version of this night that didn’t collapse.

You consider apologizing. Not because you didn’t mean what you said—but because the silence feels unbearable. But the words stick.

She doesn’t look at you when the waiter brings the check.

She doesn’t look at you when you both stand to leave.

She walks just behind you—close enough to still be together, far enough to not be with you.

Outside, the Berlin night is brisk. Your breath curls in the air. You open the passenger door. Wanda pauses for a heartbeat, then gets in without a word.

You get in on the driver’s side.

The engine hums softly. The road stretches ahead, dotted with streetlights that cast long shadows on the dashboard.

Your hands stay steady on the wheel.

Wanda’s hands are clasped tightly in her lap. Her knuckles are pale. Her lips are pressed together, and her eyes flicker from the windshield to the window, like she’s looking for an escape route she can’t take.

The tension isn’t loud anymore. It’s quiet. Wounded. Tight in the chest.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the road.

She exhales. Not in forgiveness—more like exhaustion. “I don’t think you meant it.”

You don’t answer.

She doesn’t ask again.

The light turns red. You stop. The glow washes over the interior like blood in water.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you say quietly.

Wanda closes her eyes. “Then maybe stop trying to fix it and just feel it. For once.”

The light turns green.

You drive.

Neither of you speaks again.

By the time you pull into the apartment lot, your jaws ache from clenching. The weight of your silence could fill oceans.

She gets out before the engine is off.

You stay behind for a moment.

Staring at the wheel.

Trying to remember what tonight was supposed to be—and what it became instead.

The sound of the front door unlocking is soft.

Too soft.

Ana hears it from her room. Nathan hears it from the couch, where he’s curled up with a blanket and a book too big for his age. Neither of them moves at first. But both listen.

You step in first. Wanda follows a second later.

No laughter. No low murmurs. No half-drunken affection, like anniversaries used to bring. Just the quiet shuffle of coats being hung, shoes being kicked off, tension slipping in with you like smoke through a crack.

Ana peers out from her bedroom doorway. She watches Wanda walk to the kitchen without so much as glancing back. You pause in the hallway, just for a moment. Long enough to see Ana watching.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You nod once. She disappears into her room like she hadn’t looked at all.

Nathan, still on the couch, peeks over the top of his book when he hears the kettle boil. He sees Wanda standing still at the counter, staring at the wall as if she forgot why she came in. He sees the way her shoulders rise and fall with careful restraint.

Then he hears your footsteps in the hall—slow, weighted.

You pass the living room without noticing him, your jacket still on.

Nathan lowers the book.

“Did you have a nice dinner?” he asks, voice small.

You stop.

Turn slightly toward him.

“Yeah,” you say after a beat too long. “It was... fine.”

He nods. That’s all he gets.

You keep walking.

Nathan looks toward the kitchen again. Wanda is stirring honey into a cup of tea she hasn’t tasted.

He pulls the blanket up tighter around himself, suddenly cold.

Ana sits on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, screen dim. She doesn't open her messages. She just scrolls through the old photos—of all four of you, of Wanda laughing with a towel on her head, of you in the kitchen with Nathan on your shoulders.

She remembers the way your voices used to fill the apartment. The way you used to come home and touch Wanda’s back without thinking. The way Wanda used to wait by the door if you were even five minutes late.

None of that is here now.

She doesn’t know what broke. But she knows it’s not fixing itself.

She pulls her knees to her chest and sits in the quiet, unsure which one of you is leaving first—even if neither of you has packed a bag.

You jolt awake with a ragged breath. Gasping. Fingers clenched so tight they hurt. The sheets are soaked beneath you. Cold sweat. Cold guilt.

You press your palms into your eyes.

You don’t sob. You never do.

But your body shakes all the same.

Beside you, Wanda doesn’t stir.

You don’t know if she’s asleep or choosing not to notice. You don’t know which would hurt more.

You slide out of bed without a sound, pacing to the bathroom, closing the door with practiced silence.

You lean over the sink. Water. Hands. Cold to the bone.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight.

You whisper:

"You're doing this for them. You're doing this for them. You're doing this for—"

But tonight, the words ring hollow.

Because you don’t even know what this is anymore.

The soft click of the bathroom door pulls her from sleep.

She stirs, half-awake, hand reaching instinctively across the bed—only to find your side cold. Damp.

She draws her hand back, slowly.

Sweat.

You’d been here. Tossing. Turning. Fighting something she couldn't see.

She pushes herself up on one elbow, blinking into the dark. The only light is the thin strip spilling out from beneath the bathroom door.

And from behind it, she hears your voice.

Quiet.

Trembling.

"You're doing this for them. You're doing this for them. You're doing this for—"

You break off. Something in your voice cracks, raw and low, like the pieces of you are slipping through your fingers and you can’t stop it.

Wanda freezes at the sound.

Her breath catches.

She almost knocks. Her hand rises halfway to the wood. But she doesn’t move.

She listens.

To your breathing. To the way your words falter like a prayer too broken to finish. And suddenly, the cold between you doesn’t feel so distant. It feels near. Human. Bleeding beneath the armor you wear for everyone except her.

Her fingers curl against the doorframe.

She could open it. She could sit beside you. Tell you she knows what guilt tastes like now too.

But she doesn’t.

She steps back.

Not because she doesn’t want to help—but because she finally sees just how deep your pain goes. How far you’ve been falling while she kept thinking you were simply gone.

And even if the love between you is tattered and bruised, it’s still there.

That hurts more than anything.

She presses her forehead against the wall.

Whispers so soft only the silence hears her:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t hear your phone ring the first time.

It’s the vibration that gets your attention. Constant. Disruptive. Your eyes flick down. School – Emergency Line.

You’re on your feet before your mind catches up.

The city blurs by in a rush of pavement and nerves. You don’t stop at red lights. Don’t notice the cold. Your hands grip the wheel like they’re still trained for a rifle. Everything else falls away.

By the time you reach the hospital, you’re out of breath and straining to keep your face still.

Wanda is already there.

She sits in a narrow chair outside the exam room, coat still on, Nathan’s backpack clutched against her chest like a shield. Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, the cool indifference she’s worn like armor these last weeks cracks.

“What happened?” you ask, throat dry.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her voice is thin when it comes. “They said he had a panic attack. During science class. He started crying and couldn’t breathe.”

Your stomach knots.

“Why?”

“He said he dreamed you died.”

You blink. “What?”

“He dreamed your plane exploded. That you never came home. He tried calling you. You didn’t answer.”

You have no reply.

You walk into the exam room and find Nathan sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging a stuffed lion to his chest. He looks up the moment you step in.

“Mama.”

His voice wobbles.

You crouch in front of him. “I’m here.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders before you even reach for him. You hold him as tightly as you dare.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he whispers.

“I was busy.”

“I thought you were gone.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “I will always come home to you. Always.”

It’s a promise you shouldn’t make. But you say it anyway.

Back at home, the weight of the day lingers like smoke in the walls.

Nathan sleeps early, curled against his pillow with the lion still in his arms. Ana doesn’t ask what happened. She barely speaks to anyone. You hear her music through the floor again, heavy with bass, like she’s trying to drown out the world.

You stand in the hallway outside her door. Raise your hand to knock. But you don’t.

Wanda finds you there.

“He’s asleep,” she says.

You nod. “I know.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the wall. Her voice is quiet. “He was shaking when they called me.”

“I got there as fast as I could.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She steps away, toward the kitchen. You follow her without being asked. The lights are dim. The quiet between you both hums with unspoken things.

“I can’t keep doing this alone,” she says, placing her glass down with more force than needed. “I can’t keep covering for you when Ana asks why you’re never there. I can’t keep calming Nathan down from nightmares you don’t even know he has.”

“I’m trying.”

“No.” Her tone sharpens, but her voice stays low. “You’re surviving. You’re going through the motions. You’re not trying. You disappear for days. You come back tired, closed off, pretending this is still a marriage.”

You want to argue. But she’s right.

So you don’t say anything.

Wanda takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

You meet her eyes. “Do you still love me?”

She hesitates.

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s quieter now. And sometimes, I wonder if it’s just a memory I’m holding onto because I don’t know how to let go.”

You nod.

“I want to fix this,” you say, even if you’re not sure how.

She looks away.

“I used to believe you could fix anything.”

You don’t touch her. You don’t reach for her hand or move closer. You just stand there, listening to the rain starting again outside, and to the sound of her walking away.

You’re left in the kitchen with two half-drunk glasses of wine, cooling under yellow light.

You hear Ana in the kitchen. She’s being louder than necessary—slamming the fridge door, clinking glass against marble, letting her boots drag across the tiles. It’s deliberate. She wants you to hear.

You step in quietly, your shadow reaching the doorway before you do. She doesn’t look at you. She pours juice into a glass and drinks it standing, like she’s waiting for a reason to throw it.

“Ana,” you start.

She sets the glass down. Hard. “Don’t.”

You take a breath. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now we need to talk?” Her voice is sharp, bitter. “You haven’t said more than five words to me in weeks, but suddenly you want to talk?”

“I know I haven’t been around—”

“No. You’ve been a ghost,” she snaps. “Showing up when it’s convenient for you, acting like this family hasn’t already adjusted to life without you.”

You stare at her, trying to stay calm. “That’s not fair.”

She laughs, humorless. “Isn’t it?”

“I’m still your parent.”

“Right. A parent who missed my birthday. Who missed my entrance interview. Who can’t even remember what classes I’m taking. You don’t know me anymore.”

You feel that like a blow, but you push through it. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“Then show it! Be here!” Her voice breaks. “Stop disappearing and coming back like we’re supposed to just reset every time.”

You clench your jaw. “You think I want to be gone all the time? You think I’m out having fun?”

“I think you’re a coward,” she spits. “Because whatever you’re doing, wherever you keep going, it’s more important than us.”

Your hands tighten at your sides. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for this family.”

“Then maybe stop making it feel like we’re the sacrifice.”

Silence.

The words hang in the air between you, hot and awful.

Her chest heaves. Yours does too.

“I used to wait at the window for you, you know,” she says, voice quieter now, but no softer. “When I was younger. I thought if I waited long enough, you’d walk through the door smiling like everything was okay.”

You look at her, and suddenly she’s not seventeen and angry—she’s seven and scared.

“I don’t wait anymore,” she says. “I don’t even hope anymore.”

You take a step forward. “Ana…”

“Don’t,” she repeats. “You don’t get to fix this with one dramatic speech and a sad look. You missed too much.”

She storms past you.

You let her go.

The door slams behind her. Not her bedroom door this time.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.

The echo rings in your ears long after Ana’s footsteps fade down the hallway. You don’t follow her. Not because you don’t want to—but because you wouldn’t know what to say if you did.

You’re still standing in the kitchen when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn, and there she is. Wanda.

She stands at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her face unreadable. Her hair’s damp—maybe from a shower, maybe from leaning out the window to look for Ana, maybe just from the weight of everything that keeps building between you.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t move.

She just looks at you like she’s trying to figure out if you heard what she heard—really heard it. If you understand how close you came to losing your daughter for good.

You do.

But it doesn’t help.

You meet Wanda’s eyes for a second, then lower your gaze. You can’t stand the way she’s looking at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed.

Just… tired.

She turns without a word and walks back down the hall. You hear her door close with the soft click of restraint—quiet, like she’s trying not to draw another line between you.

The juice glass is still on the counter. Her fingerprints are on it.

You pick it up, rinse it under the tap. The water runs too loud in the silence. You turn it off halfway and just stand there, watching droplets slide down the curve of the glass.

There are so many things you could have said to Ana.

So many things you never did.

You sit down at the table and stare at the darkened living room. One lamp glows dimly in the corner, casting soft shadows across the carpet. The blanket on the sofa is bunched where Nathan left it earlier. There’s a tiny Lego piece on the floor you hadn’t noticed until now.

You press your thumb into your palm until it hurts.

You’ve had knives in your ribs that were easier to bear than her words.

“She doesn't wait anymore.”

You say it out loud, softly, like repetition might make it feel less final.

But it doesn’t.

The house has fallen into that strange quiet it only knows after a fight—thick, too still, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Ana hasn't come back. Wanda hasn’t come out of the bedroom.

You remain in the kitchen long after the lights should have been turned off.

You sit at the table, hunched forward slightly, hands limp in your lap. You’ve been still for so long your back aches, but you don’t move. There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fix. You don’t even hear the first tear fall.

It slides down your cheek unnoticed.

The second one clings to your jaw before dropping onto the edge of the table. That’s when you realize. Your throat tightens, your breath hitching just once. You press the heel of your hand against your mouth, hard, like you can push it all back in.

But it’s already out.

The sob is silent, and so is the next. The tears come hot, steady. Not violent—but deep. The kind that don’t need sound to tear you apart.

You cry like someone who's still trying not to. The restraint only makes it worse.

You’re so wrapped in holding yourself together that you don’t hear the soft padding of small feet.

When you glance up, Nathan is there.

He stands in the doorway, barefoot in his pajamas, clutching the same lion he held in the hospital. His hair sticks up on one side. His eyes are wide, uncertain.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just watches you. Silently. Like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it.

You try to wipe your face, too late.

“Nathan,” you whisper, voice raw.

But he doesn’t come closer.

He doesn’t run away either.

He just stands there. Watching his mother cry, learning far too young what it looks like when adults fall apart quietly.

You reach out a hand.

He hesitates.

Then he walks over and climbs onto your lap. No questions. No words. He simply leans his head against your chest, and you wrap your arms around him with a shuddering breath.

The tears come again. Slower now. Quieter.

You rest your chin against the crown of his head.

And for the first time in days, you let yourself be held too.

The next morning is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels careful. No footsteps overhead. No plates clattering in the kitchen. Just the muted hum of the refrigerator and the occasional crow call from the balcony rail.

You’ve already left. Nathan heard the door close just after six. He didn’t fall back asleep afterward. He didn’t want to.

Ana wakes late. She moves through the house like a shadow, barely brushing the walls, like she’s still carrying the echo of last night’s shouting in her chest. Her hair is tied up messily. She looks tired. Guilty. But not enough to say it aloud.

Nathan sits at the kitchen table, his cereal bowl untouched in front of him.

Ana stops when she sees him. “Hey, bud.”

He doesn’t answer.

She crosses the kitchen, pours herself a glass of juice without looking at him. When she turns around, he’s staring at her.

His lip trembles slightly, but his voice is clear. “You made her cry.”

Ana blinks. “What?”

“Last night.” He clutches the edge of the table. “You made Mama cry.”

The words hit her harder than any fight, any insult you could’ve thrown at her. She stares at him, frozen.

Nathan’s voice stays steady. “She didn’t make any noise. She was just sitting there. But her face was wet, and she didn’t know I saw.”

Ana’s mouth opens, then closes.

“She always tells me not to cry alone,” he continues. “But she was crying alone. Because of you.”

Ana walks slowly to the table and kneels beside his chair. “Nathan,” she says softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s not that simple.”

“She loves you,” he says, looking down. “Even when you’re mean.”

Ana’s eyes go glassy. Her breath stutters. “I know.”

“I don’t like when you talk to her like that.”

“I know.”

“I think you hurt her.”

Ana nods slowly. “I think I did too.”

Nathan watches her for a moment. Then he does what neither of you could last night.

He hugs her.

Slow. Small arms wrapping around her shoulders. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to.

Ana melts into the hug like she’s been waiting for it. She closes her eyes and buries her face in his shoulder.

She doesn’t cry. Not quite. But her breathing shudders like someone trying not to.

And just beyond the doorway—unseen, unmoving—Wanda stands in the hallway.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t make a sound.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, knuckles white around her sleeves. She watches the two of them—her children—folded into each other like two halves of something breaking and mending all at once.

She doesn’t go in.

Because this moment doesn’t need her.

She watches until Ana pulls back just enough to wipe her face, until Nathan leans forward to press his forehead against hers.

Wanda watches them in silence, pressed into the shadow just beyond the kitchen doorway.

She tells herself she shouldn’t listen. That this is between them. But she can’t move. She can’t look away.

Nathan’s voice is so gentle. So sure. The way he says "She loves you. Even when you're mean."—it cuts through her like glass.

She realizes then how much he's seen. How much he's understood without being told.

And Ana... the anger in her had always been easier to face than this. This crumbling. This softness. It reminds Wanda of when Ana was still small enough to climb into her lap and ask if the world was safe.

Neither of them asks that anymore.

She sees now just how much they’re trying to hold together, in their own ways. Just like she is. Just like you are.

And still, it feels like everything is slipping.

She wants to go to them. To sit down. To say something. Anything.

But what would she say?

So instead, Wanda watches. And carries the ache in her chest like a secret.

Because this—this quiet tenderness between her children—is the only thing left in the house that still feels honest.

And she is so very tired of pretending.

The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt that rocks you forward, but you hardly notice. Your fingers are still tense from holding the rifle for hours in silence, pressed against stone. The mission in Istanbul ended forty-eight hours ago, but your body doesn’t know that yet. Your eyes track every motion on the plane, every passenger. When the seatbelt sign dings, you're already on your feet, briefcase in hand.

Berlin greets you with grey skies. The airport is crowded, full of families on summer holidays and businessmen shouting into phones. You walk through them like a ghost. Your ID clears you through customs without a blink. Foreign Affairs, they think. Another quiet bureaucrat flying in and out for meetings that no one cares to remember.

You text Wanda.

Landed. On my way.

No response, but that’s normal now.

Your apartment sits tucked into a quiet street in Charlottenburg. You still remember the day you picked it together. Wanda loved the ivy that curled along the brick walls, and you liked the layout—open, minimal, with sightlines from every room. Tactical and cozy. A contradiction you never minded.

You press your code into the building’s door and take the stairs instead of the lift. It’s habit. Everything about you runs on habit now.

The apartment is dim when you unlock the door. Shoes near the threshold tell you who is home—Nathan’s sneakers, Wanda’s flats, Ana’s boots with scuffed soles. You slip your own boots off and step in quietly, like a stranger returning to a house that belongs to someone else.

The living room is warm. A blanket is thrown over the couch. Wanda is asleep on it, curled against one of the cushions. A half-empty wine glass sits on the side table. Her chest rises and falls slowly, and her hair is pulled into a loose braid she probably did in a hurry. You remember braiding it for her once, years ago, in the early morning before a wedding.

You walk past her without waking her. You can smell lavender in the air. Her scent. Nathan must have been playing nearby. There are little crayon marks on a notepad near the television. You go to the bedroom.

The suitcase hits the floor with a soft thud. You peel off your jacket, unstrap the holster beneath, and lock it in the hidden compartment under the wardrobe floor. You strip out of the rest slowly—black shirt, fitted pants, everything regulation. Everything forgettable. You take a long shower, letting the water scald your skin, and lean your head against the tile until it cools.

By the time you step out, Wanda has gone to bed. You see the imprint of her body on her side of the mattress; the outline of her curled form still left in the sheets. You don’t climb in beside her. You sit at the desk across the room and pull out your encrypted laptop. You check for any flags on your return. One minor notification from Command, but nothing urgent.

You turn to look at her. Her back is to you; one arm curled beneath her pillow. She used to sleep facing you.

In the silence, you feel the weight of everything you cannot say.

A soft noise pulls you out of the stillness. You turn, and there on the desk is a drawing. Crayons. A stick figure family—two women, one girl with long brown hair, and a boy holding a cat. “Welcome home Mama” is written in blocky letters.

Nathan.

You pick it up. There is a sun drawn in the corner, even though the sky outside is still cold and grey.

You lie down beside Wanda but leave space between you. You keep the drawing under your pillow.

You fall asleep without dreaming.

The kettle is already whistling when you wake.

You sit up slowly, blinking against the pale morning light slipping through the curtains. Wanda’s side of the bed is empty. The scent of coffee hangs in the air, sharp and a little burnt. You listen for movement. The soft clink of mugs. Dishes shifting. A drawer opening and closing. Life happening in the kitchen without you.

You wash your face, change into a plain navy sweater and jeans. Civilian. Palatable. The kind of person people don’t look twice at.

When you step into the kitchen, Wanda doesn’t look up. Her hair is tied back in a low bun, and she’s wearing the faded grey hoodie you bought her in Copenhagen four years ago. She’s pouring milk into a bowl for Nathan, who sits at the counter swinging his legs and humming to himself.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Wanda glances at you. “Morning.” She slides the cereal bowl in front of Nathan without another word.

He brightens when he sees you. “Mama!”

You smile, and it’s almost easy. “Hey, bud.”

He hops off the stool and runs to hug you. You crouch down, holding him tight for a moment longer than necessary. He smells like oatmeal and honey shampoo. You press a kiss to his temple.

“Did you like my drawing?”

You nod. “Loved it. I kept it with me.”

He grins and returns to his seat, crunching happily. You take a mug from the shelf and pour yourself coffee. It’s strong. No sugar, just how you like it. Wanda still remembers.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You got in late.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

She gives a small shrug and looks past you, out the window. “You didn’t text until after midnight.”

“I landed late.”

“I know.”

Nathan hums between bites. Wanda refills her mug. The silence stretches.

Ana enters, earbuds in, backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks at you for barely a second before going straight to the fridge.

“Morning, Ana,” you try.

“Sure.” She grabs a juice box and turns away.

Wanda’s jaw tightens. You notice it, barely—a flicker of movement near her cheek.

“I can drop them off,” you offer.

“They’ve got the train.”

“I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “It’s fine, Y/N.”

You sit down at the table, sip your coffee. Nathan kicks his feet under the table, smiling at something private in his head. Ana’s already out the door. Wanda rinses her cup in the sink.

You don’t ask what she’s doing today. You used to. Now you just watch her twist the ring on her finger like she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

“I’ll be home for dinner,” you say finally.

“Will you?”

That lands harder than it should. You open your mouth, but nothing comes.

She takes her coat from the rack and doesn’t look at you when she speaks again. “There’s leftover lasagna. Nathan likes it cold. Just heat yours.”

The door closes behind her.

Nathan doesn’t notice. He finishes his cereal and hums something tuneless under his breath. You sit in that kitchen for a long time, coffee gone cold in your hands.

The walls are white. Not warm or sterile—just white. You sit in the middle of the room, hands folded neatly on the steel desk, eyes on the screen in front of you. Your handler’s face flickers into view, framed in pixelation. Berlin Station uses remote debriefs for deniability. No paper trails. No signatures.

“Y/L/N,” the voice says. Calm, precise. “I’ve read the preliminary. Let’s begin.”

You nod once.

“Target?”

“Confirmed dead. Single shot. Roof across from the consulate.”

“Any complications?”

“Local surveillance looped. I was in and out within twelve minutes. One civilian presence in the stairwell. Non-interference.”

“Identity?”

You hesitate. “Child. Twelve, maybe. Didn’t see my face.”

“Loose ends?”

You pause again, barely. “No.”

The handler writes something down offscreen. You hear the tap of keys.

“Next briefing scheduled for the 20th. Potential extraction in Warsaw. Intel is still raw.”

You nod again. “Understood.”

“Personal status?”

That part is always included. A formality. You say the same thing every time.

“Stable. Operational.”

The handler looks at you for a beat longer. “Family?”

You don’t answer.

The screen goes black.

You sit there for a moment before standing. There’s no clock on the wall. No indication of how much time passed. You gather your file, lock it inside the secured case, and exit through the narrow hallway, where your reflection watches you in the glass panels.

You’ve been home for less than twelve hours. No one in this building knows who waits for you beyond the street. They only know you never give them a reason to ask.

The next three days pass like clockwork that no one bothers to wind. You wake up early, make the bed if Wanda hasn’t already done it, drink your coffee in silence, and leave before Nathan finishes brushing his teeth. You tell yourself that the space will settle things, that time will smooth over what words can’t reach.

It doesn’t.

Wanda barely speaks to you, though she doesn’t raise her voice. That would be easier, maybe. Instead, she gives you quiet nods and half-smiles that disappear the moment you look away. You find her on the balcony in the late evenings with a glass of wine, not waiting for you. Not anymore.

Ana avoids you entirely. She comes home late, leaves earlier, and locks her bedroom door. You don’t knock. You’ve lost the right to do that without a reason.

Nathan is the only part of the house that still feels alive. He trails after Wanda with questions about books and cartoons. He asks you once if you’ll help him build his model ship, and you promise that you will. He leaves the kit out on the table for two days before Wanda quietly puts it away in his closet.

You return home late on Thursday. The air smells like baked apples and nutmeg. Wanda’s been baking again. She does that when she doesn’t want to think.

Nathan is already in bed. You find Wanda in the kitchen, wiping the counter slowly, her face pale and thoughtful. She doesn’t look up when you enter. There’s a box of cookies on the table. Wrapped neatly. Tied with red ribbon.

“I thought you were working late,” she says.

“I was.”

“I thought you’d text.”

“I didn’t know how long I’d be. Didn’t want to promise.”

She nods. Her hands are steady as she folds the cloth and hangs it over the sink.

“I made cookies for Nathan’s school fundraiser,” she says, voice low. “He wanted to bake them with both of us.”

You say nothing.

“I told him you were busy. He said, ‘Mama’s always busy.’”

Her words are quiet. Not meant to wound. But they do.

“I’ll make it up to him,” you say.

“You’ve been saying that for two years.”

You lean against the wall and look at her. Really look. Her hair is damp from a recent shower. She smells like rosemary. Her eyes are tired but sharper than ever.

“I know it’s hard,” you say.

Wanda lifts her eyes to yours. “Do you?”

You try to take a step toward her, but she shifts back, subtly, like it’s reflex now. That small motion lands heavier than anything she could say.

“I’m trying,” you add.

“Are you?” She exhales slowly. “Because some days, I don’t even think you see us anymore.”

You’re about to speak, but she turns away. She takes the cookies and leaves the kitchen without another word.

You don’t follow.

Saturday begins with rain. Not the kind that taps gently against the windows, but the heavy kind that makes the city feel hushed and half-asleep. You’re home for once. No briefings, no missions, no shadowed flights out of Berlin. Just the stillness of your apartment and the uncomfortable fact that no one seems to notice you stayed.

Ana leaves before breakfast. She says nothing. You hear her boots at the door, then the low creak of hinges, and she’s gone. Wanda doesn’t ask where she went. You watch Wanda pour coffee into two cups and leave one untouched at the edge of the table.

It’s for you.

You sit across from her. Nathan is on the floor playing with Lego bricks, narrating something to himself about a spaceship crashing into a volcano. He stops to ask you to help find a missing wing. You crouch beside him, dig through a pile of scattered pieces, and find it within seconds.

“Mama’s a secret detective,” he grins, clipping the wing onto the ship.

You laugh once—soft, almost startled. Wanda doesn’t.

After lunch, Wanda dresses in a navy sweater and dark jeans, her hair in a braid. You watch her from the hallway. She applies soft lipstick. The color is warm. Subtle. She only wears it when she’s going somewhere that matters.

“You going out?” you ask.

She nods, checking her watch. “Book club. The one I told you about last month.”

You don’t remember her telling you, but you say nothing.

“I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Need a ride?”

She looks at you like you’ve offered too late.

“No. I’m walking. It’s in the cafe near Spandauer Straße. We meet upstairs.”

You nod. You think she might kiss your cheek, even out of habit. She doesn’t.

When the door closes, you stand in the living room for a full minute without moving. Nathan tugs at your sleeve, asking if you want to help build a base on the moon. You agree, and try to lose yourself in the task.

But your thoughts drift.

Wanda walks quickly through the streets, her umbrella tucked under one arm as the rain slows. The cafe is cozy, golden-lit. She steps inside and spots him near the staircase—Vision. Tall, neatly dressed, a book tucked under one arm and a polite smile already in place.

He offers to buy her coffee before they head upstairs. She agrees, even though she barely drinks it this late.

The meeting goes on like any other. Discussions of character arcs and prose, politics woven quietly into conversation. Vision speaks less than the others, but he listens—fully. When Wanda speaks, he watches her like her words matter.

After the group disperses, he walks her back under a shared umbrella. She tells herself that the tension between them is imagined. That it’s just friendship. But when they stop outside her building and she says goodbye, the way he lingers feels different.

He doesn’t touch her. But the space between them is thinner than it should be.

Back at home, you sit on the couch with Nathan asleep beside you, one arm wrapped around your waist. The movie credits roll. The house is quiet.

You hear the door open. Wanda enters, brushing water from her hair.

“Did he sleep okay?” she asks.

“He was tired.”

She nods, then moves to the kitchen. You follow her without knowing why.

“Did you have fun?” you ask.

She rinses her mug. “Yeah. It was good. Vision brought that novel you liked. The one from Istanbul.”

You pause.

“You talked about Istanbul?”

She shrugs. “He travels a lot. Grew up near the coast. He knew the square with the fountain you showed me in that photo.”

You say nothing.

She notices, but pretends not to.

You both pretend.

The silence between you returns, heavier now. You can almost hear it settling into the walls.

You hear the door creak open just past eleven. Soft footsteps. A backpack hitting the floor. Keys rattling into the dish by the shoe rack. You check the time. Late, but not unusual for Ana these days.

You find her in the kitchen, standing in the fridge light, eating cold lasagna with a fork straight from the glass tray.

She doesn’t flinch when you walk in.

“You know there’s a microwave,” you say, trying for something like ease.

“I like it cold,” she replies without looking at you.

You lean against the doorway. She closes the fridge, chewing slowly.

“You were out late.”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

She shrugs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then finally meets your eyes. “With friends.”

You nod. You don’t push. That used to work when she was younger. It doesn’t now.

“You could have texted,” you say.

“I could have.” She tosses the fork into the sink. It clatters loud in the quiet.

You both stand there, facing each other. She crosses her arms.

“Are you going to start pretending to be involved again?” Her voice is calm, but the bitterness is sharp underneath. “Because you disappear for weeks, then come home and ask me where I’ve been like it matters.”

You straighten. “It does matter.”

She raises an eyebrow. “To you?”

“Yes.”

She laughs once. It’s not cruel. It’s just tired. “You don’t get to say that after missing my piano recital. Or my meeting with the school counselor. Or my last birthday dinner. You can’t just drop back in and act like you care when you don’t even know what grade I’m in.”

You do know. She’s in eleventh. But you hesitate—and that’s all it takes for her to shake her head and walk past you.

You call her name once, but she doesn’t stop.

You hear her door close. Then the lock slides into place.

You remain in the hallway. The light overhead flickers once before going still.

The next morning, you find Wanda alone at the kitchen table. She doesn’t greet you. Her coffee is already halfway gone.

You sit beside her. “Ana came home late again.”

“I know,” she says.

“She’s angry.”

“She’s hurt,” Wanda corrects softly.

You watch her twist the ring on her finger again. You know this isn’t just about Ana.

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

Wanda meets your eyes for a moment. Her voice is quiet. “Maybe you can’t.”

You say nothing. You get up and walk out of the room.

You can’t tell if leaving is a choice or a reflex anymore.

Wanda watches you walk out, not expecting you to say anything else. You never do.

She turns her eyes to the window, where the clouds have started to shift, light bleeding through pale grey. The silence you leave behind is familiar now. Heavy, like fog in her chest. She used to wait for the sound of your boots in the hall, the hum of your voice in the doorway. Now she dreads it, because it means something’s broken again. Something else she has to pretend is fine.

The ring twists easily on her finger, a habit she picked up the first time she felt your love fading.

It hasn’t been sudden. That’s the part that hurts most.

She can’t even say exactly when she stopped reaching for your hand in bed, or when your touch began to feel like an apology instead of affection. It’s been slipping away in increments—so small, so quiet—that by the time she realized, you were already gone in everything but presence.

She thinks about Vision more than she wants to admit. Not because she loves him. She doesn’t. At least, not in the way that matters.

But he looks at her like she’s still interesting. Like she’s not invisible.

She hates herself for how much that means.

She hasn’t told him anything serious. Not really. He doesn’t ask about her marriage, and she doesn’t offer. It’s like existing in a space without consequences. Safe. Clean. No lies, because nothing's defined.

And yet.

When you came home three nights ago, she watched you in the doorway. The tiredness in your eyes. The way you looked at the sofa before you looked at her. She told herself she didn’t care. That she was too tired to keep hoping.

But a part of her still did.

That’s what makes the guilt worse.

She hears Ana’s door open down the hall. The kettle clicks off. Wanda rises from her chair, pours more coffee, and sets a second cup beside Ana’s favorite mug. No words, just small offerings of comfort. It’s how she holds the family together now—one gesture at a time.

Even as her own hands tremble.

It’s late.

The house is asleep. Even Ana’s music has stopped vibrating through the floorboards. Nathan’s bedroom door is cracked open, his nightlight spilling soft blue across the hallway.

You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, head heavy in your hands. The television downstairs still flickers with the last few minutes of some drama Wanda left playing before she drifted off on the couch again.

You should move. You should go to her.

But you don’t.

And yet, ten minutes later, the sound of the door opening stops your breath.

She steps in without a word.

Wanda doesn’t look at you at first. She walks to the dresser, pulls out a folded shirt, the one you used to sleep in before everything turned into a routine of silence and apologies never said. She tosses it onto the bed.

“I didn’t want to wake Nathan,” she says softly.

You nod. “He asked me to read to him tonight. I… didn’t get to it.”

She still doesn’t look at you. She pulls her sweater over her head and stands in the dim light for a moment, her back to you, hair messy, skin pale. You glance at her without meaning to. She used to tease you for doing that—watching her like she might disappear if you blinked.

She slips the shirt over her head. It’s slightly too big. It always was. You always liked that.

She crawls into bed, careful not to brush against you. The space between you is almost cruel now. You don’t remember the last time you reached for her without hesitation.

Still, you lie down too.

You lie there in silence, listening to her breathe. The rain starts again outside, soft against the glass. You both stare at the ceiling.

Minutes pass.

Then, so faint you nearly miss it, her fingers shift in the space between you.

She doesn’t touch you. Just places her hand where it could reach yours if you let it.

You don’t reach back. But you don’t pull away either.

You both fall asleep like that—facing opposite directions, but not quite as far apart as the night before.

The space between you is still there.

Several Hours Earlier

You cannot release her back into the world, Wanda.

“Yes, I can,” Wanda mutters, breath fogging the air. “It’s what she wanted. To pay for an old man’s crimes that weren’t hers.” 

She trudges through drifts that reach her knees, snow shaking off fir branches and tapping across leather warmer than skin. She does not know this stretch of forest, only that it leads away from the cabin. Away from you.

Seeing her sons again this morning, even through the warped glass of another universe, felt like punishment. But she didn’t mind. Didn’t mind them being dangled in front of her like bait. She would have them eventually. Pain sharpens purpose. She just needed space. Needed to get away from you, because lately, you’ve been—

You stray from the path again, it tells her. Resolve is a muscle. Exercise it or lose it.

—a wrench in her resolve. That’s what you are.

“I have all the resolve you require,” Wanda lies between her teeth, despite knowing full well the Darkhold can see through anything. Her boot slips on a buried root, yet she keeps moving. “But your conditions keep changing. Make them plain.”

Plain truths have already been offered. The Darkhold beats like a dull heart behind her eyes, pulsing once, and then again. Ever since she realized it could speak without being opened, it hasn’t stopped whispering.

Forgive the woman and you will learn my secrets with your hands tied behind your back. You will know them, but you will never wield them.

Wanda bites the inside of her cheek. “I never mentioned anything about forgiveness.”

Ah, but you keep thinking it, my dear.

“Then I will bury the thought,” she says.

Bury her instead.

Wanda finally comes to a stop. Bargaining for your life didn’t begin and end with saving you the other night. That was only the beginning. The Darkhold has been relentless ever since, whispering, tempting, promising that far greater doors would open if she was willing to cross one final line. If she severs the last thing anchoring her to this world. To her humanity.

The Darkhold keeps reminding her that there’s no victory without sacrifice. And she knows it’s true. Victory over Thanos came at a brutal cost—Tony, Natasha, and countless others who stood at the front lines of that first battle. 

Nothing is won without blood, it seems.

Prison only binds her to you through the eyes of men who covet power, it continues to speak when it grows impatient of her silence. It’s just a physical cage until they need her again to stop you from getting what you desire. Forgiveness binds you through your own heart. She is your chain, whether you’d like to admit it or not. And she is the chain that will tighten the moment you reach for your boys.

Wanda shakes her head, vehemently rejecting the idea. Killing you is a line she will not cross, even if it could bring her boys back in an instant. No matter how tightly she tries to silence the part of her heart that still beats for you, it remains. Ending your life would kill what is left of hers, leaving nothing inside her that could love anyone, least of all the sons she hopes to save.

She steadies her breath. “If you’re truly as powerful as you claim,” she says, closing her eyes against the fear of defying it, “then show me another way. A third path.”

The quiet that follows is thick as sap. It rarely keeps her waiting this long, and Wanda starts to fear it has deemed her unworthy of its secrets. Then, at last, the voice returns, soft and persuasive.

Rewrite her thread. Guide her where your shadow does not fall. Send her to the life she once tried to build, with the woman who loved her after you were gone.

Wanda doesn’t miss the pointed edge beneath the offer. How easily it slips her into the blame. How it frames her absence as the hand that nudged you into someone else’s arms. She knows her vanishing left a hollow space you tried to fill. But the jealousy still burns, sharp and ugly. The way it makes her question if your deception was because you had replaced her? And when that other woman chose her family over you, did it break you so completely that disappearing felt like the only option?

She used to know you. She knew how you’d destroy yourself to pay for things beyond your control, for things you convinced yourself you deserved.

She knows it’s selfish to want to believe that, even though you loved someone else, you never loved them more than you loved her.

So maybe the Darkhold is right. You’re the last thing standing between her and the twins.

“Kia,” Wanda whispers. The name tastes foreign on her lips.

Yes, the Darkhold purrs, delighted now. 

“Can I make that happen cleanly?” Wanda asks, already knowing the answer. She did the impossible in Westview. She made you and the children out of grief and out of nothing. She gave a town new lives. Made the colors literally bleed from reality.

That was a spell driven by pain. This one, the Darkhold assures her, will be driven by intent. By clarity. By sacrifice.

Wanda nods, slowly. “You’ll erase me from her memory.”

From her past, yes. But not from her soul. The resonance will fade in time.

“And what about her memories of… us?”

If you wish, she may remember pieces. It’s taunting her, testing her. It knows she couldn’t bear the thought of her being entirely erased from you. Wanda can now clearly see how weak you make her.

“That won’t be necessary.”

It’s cruel, but she sees no other way to remove you without letting the Darkhold tear you apart, or keep you close without you ruining her plans.

“And the cost?” Wanda asks tightly, already dreading the answer.

The Darkholds hums, and Wanda doesn’t understand why. 

“Will I have to…” She shifts her weight, trying not to fidget, though she knows the book sees her inner conflict. Vulnerability is the price she pays for its power. “Will I have to take a life?”

Not a life, Wanda. Your heart. Surprisingly, its voice isn’t mocking. Not quite. There’s something reverent about it, like a priest admiring a lamb that walks willingly into the flame.

A cold lance slides through her chest. “Clarify.”

To rewrite her fate, to sever her from you fully, it continues, you must place her joy where your love used to live. The spell demands more than distance. It demands surrender. You cannot hold the shape of her in your soul and hope to open the gate.

“So I forget her?”

She forgets you. But you will remember everything.

Being the only one who remembers will be her undoing. One day she may reach for you again, but to her you will be a stranger.

“That’s it? That’s your price?”

Oh, don’t try to bargain with me, little one. I know you far too well. You would sooner take hundreds of lives than let her forget you. This is your curse, Wanda. You’ve tied your happiness, your worth, to one mortal. Choose the pain now, and you will finally know true freedom.

The trees go still around her, as if the forest itself is waiting for her to reject the terms.

She doesn’t.

Later, she will return to the cabin and say nothing. She will place the rewritten thread of your life in your hands like a gift, not a farewell. And when you ask her why, she’ll offer only a fraction of the truth.

Because it was this, or the Darkhold would have demanded your life as payment. 

Because you would never be safe with her again.

—

“Jimmy, I need a favor.”

Thankfully, your phone and personal belongings are still intact. The moment Wanda disappeared into the room at the end of the hall, you called Clint, hoping he’d know something about an ancient magical book. He only grunted, clearly distracted. "Show’s about to start, Y/N, but I’ll send you a contact.”

“Who is this? Where did you get my number?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, regretting how abruptly you jumped in. “It’s Y/N,” you say, then quickly add, “The real one.”

You are met with a heavy breath, followed by a long silence.

“Agent Woo?” you prod.

“The International Authority flagged your name two weeks ago,” he replies. “Do you realize what answering this call does to my clearance?”

You sigh, thinking of the other problem waiting for you behind bars. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know. But I wouldn’t have risked it if it wasn’t urgent.”

“This better be good.”

“It’s about a book,” you say, wincing at how flimsy that sounds for an urgent call. “Clint mentioned you have access to Stark’s database—the one with S.H.I.E.L.D. archives. I need you to dig up anything you can on this book.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says. “Title?”

“I don’t know the title.” You pause. “Can I just describe it?”

“Go ahead. I’ll try some keywords.”

“It’s old—really old—and gives off…a dark aura. The cover’s metal, edged with rough ridges and strange etchings. In the center, two spirals are stacked vertically, wound tight like springs, locked together by a heavy vertical bar—”

“Got it. Let me run that.”

You wait. A few seconds stretch into a minute, then two.

“Jimmy? You still there?” You can almost sense his hesitation, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s actually searching the database, or quietly tracing your call and setting up your capture.

“Still here,” Jimmy answers, voice lower than before. “I’m… cross-referencing.”

“Should I be worried?”

Instead of answering you directly, he says, “Okay. One hit, classified eleven ways. Only codename I can read is ‘Darkhold.’ Everything else is black bars.”

“Give me what you can,” you say.

You hear him take a deep breath before continuing. “Book of Sins, Book of Spells, Book of the Damned. Origin tag: ‘pre-Atlantean, elder-god authorship—entity named Chthon.’ Material stamp says the pages aren’t paper at all, they’re some form of dark-matter substrate.”

You press the phone tighter to your ear. “Capabilities?”

“Every kind of dark magic on record.”

Your fingers go numb, and the phone nearly slips from your hand. How did Wanda even get her hands on this book?

And then you remember the other witch in the middle of Westview’s town square, purple threads wrapped around the same rust-colored tome. Did Wanda pry it out of the witch’s dead drop after the Hex fell? Did she keep it all this time, hidden while she pretended to grieve and heal?

Meanwhile, Jimmy keeps leaking facts you barely hear. “Dream-walking, matter manipulation, necromancy. File says it corrupts user psychology in stages: obsession, moral inversion, catastrophic empathy collapse.”

You shut your eyes. Wanda carried you out of the snow, knelt for hours while you burned with fever. She stitched your flesh, wiped sauce from your cheek like the woman who once teased you for wearing half your breakfast. That softness is still there. You’ve felt it.

It’s not too late.

“Jimmy,” you say slowly, pulling yourself back into the conversation. “Is there anything in there... about how to resist its influence?”

“No,” he answers. “It’s... honestly, it’s pretty tragic. Do you want me to—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in. “I think I have what I need.”

Jimmy doesn’t hang up, nor does he sign off with his usual sarcastic flourish. Instead:

“…Y/N, why are you asking about this book?”

“It just—rang a bell,” you say, too quickly.

“Rang a bell,” Jimmy repeats. “Come on. Does this tie back to Maximoff? Because the International Authority has her on its red list right now—”

“I haven’t seen Wanda since Westview,” you lie, pitching your voice flat. “I’m still tracking her. But I think I saw this book in an underground market upstate. Figured if it’s related, I should know what I’m looking at.”

There’s a long exhale on the other end. “Y/N, if you’re covering for her—”

“I’m not.”

Jimmy still sounds unconvinced, but he softens. “Okay. Okay. I’ll keep it between us. But listen to me. If you find her you call me. Or Monica. Or even Darcy. Don’t try to handle it yourself. You might even work out a plea deal in exchange for her. They think she’s dangerous, Y/N. I’ve vouched for that.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone. If what Jimmy just told you about the Darkhold is true, they won’t be met with mercy if they go after Wanda. For their sake, you lie.

“I will. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, already ending the call.

—

You can’t sleep that night, tossing and turning in the small single bed that still carries the faint scent of dried blood, your mind tangled around Wanda’s offer.

You’re not tempted. Not even a little. You’ve loved Kia enough to know she won’t ever be whole without her family. And you’ve loved Wanda enough to know she isn’t offering this choice for her own happiness.

You sit up slowly, hands raking through your hair. The cabin is silent, save for the creak of beams settling and the wind scratching across the windows. Wanda’s door is shut. You have no idea if she’s sleeping, if she ever does.

You stare at the wooden floor until your eyes burn. Seven days. Decide or be decided for. Seven days.

You try to break the problem into pieces. How did she even craft that offer­—if it was her at all? Your thoughts spiral back to what Jimmy shared about the Darkhold. The whole thing reeks of it. Wanda says she’s being reasonable, but you saw how her hands shook after she set the terms.

You shiver, but not from the cold, but from the thought that it’s been whispering to her every night. What lies has it told her? What costly promises?

You get out of bed.

The cabin groans as you move. You grab your coat from where it hangs by the door, quietly assembling what little gear you have left: flashlight, water bottle, emergency flare, a beat-up satellite phone with one bar of signal on a good day. You pack them quickly, hands trembling as you shove them into your bag.

You don’t want to fight her. You just want her back. And if there’s even a chance that she’s still in there, you’ll find a way to free her. Even if you have to crawl through every inch of hell to do it. 

There’s only one person you can think of who might understand how. 

Stephen Strange.

The Sorcerer Supreme. Or at least, he was. Witches, sorcerers—they were practically the same thing, right? You regret not listening more during Banner’s monthly post-mission lore lectures. You wish you had taken notes.

Maybe Strange has dealt with this kind of magic before. You can’t think of anyone better to handle the Darkhold.

You take one last look at the door to Wanda’s room. Then you open the front door and step outside.

It’s freezing. The air immediately bites at your lungs the moment you breathe it in. You tighten your coat and keep your head down. You don’t know what danger waits beyond Wanda’s cabin, only that it can’t possibly compare to what’s festering inside if you don’t stop the Darkhold from hollowing her out.

There’s no light but a new moon, partially obscured behind a crush of midnight clouds. Still, the path ahead looks clear enough to get you out of the woods. You don’t expect this escape to be easy, but you’ve always been light on your feet, trained to slip through anything like a shadow. This part should be a cakewalk.

Except, it isn’t, when two hundred meters from the cabin’s porch, you walk straight into a wall of invisible energy.

It hits you like a freight train.

You crash to the ground, elbows scraping bark and dirt. Static shoots up your arms. Your jaw is clenched so hard it’s grinding bone. What the fuck. You roll over, push yourself up, dizzy, breath ragged. You reach out again, slow, careful this time. The air sizzles as your fingertips approach, giving you its warning. You snatch a branch, swing it forward. The tip snaps clean off the second it touches the edge.

You grab another branch and head east, swinging it through the air and getting the same result. To confirm your suspicion, you turn and do the same in the opposite direction, and once again the wood slices cleanly at the barrier’s edge.

The enclosure is a perfect dome wrapped around the cabin, seamless and absolute.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath.

A thin veil of steam curls from your lips as you exhale slowly and study the invisible wall. It’s not a simple fence. It’s enchanted, but with clear instructions. Anything without the right signature meets a guillotine edge, yet Wanda has keyed the rune to treat you differently. You are shoved back inside the line, contained but not harmed in any critical way.

The spell recognizes you, labels you, and spares you. Yet the implication is that Wanda expects your flight and has already decided how far you will go—exactly ten meters short of freedom. Rising slowly, you circle the clearing once more, tracing the dome’s curve with narrowed eyes.

The thing is, you’re not easily spooked by supernatural impediments, and you’re more than ready to find out just how far Wanda’s spell is willing to go if you force your way through it. You hike back a few steps, plant your feet, and before you can second-guess yourself, ram both palms against the unseen surface. 

The impact sends a blinding bolt of pain lancing up your arms, as if your nerves have been lit on fire from the inside. A scream tears out of you—hoarse, involuntary. Your knees nearly give out. But your determination drowns out the excruciating pain coursing through your body right now. 

You shut your eyes and push forward with everything you have. No, the spell won’t slice you in half, but Wanda clearly didn’t account for your stubbornness—or the surge of strength you’ve somehow held onto. The spell, confused by your refusal to yield, lashes out with a jolt that courses through you like electricity.

You let out another scream. 

Almost instantly you hear bare feet pounding on the wooden porch, and the cabin door swings open with a heavy thud. Wanda rushes out barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing nothing but a worn cotton shirt and a pair of faded pajamas. The fabric clings to her in the cold, but she doesn’t seem to feel it. 

Her look is a far cry from the imposing figure you’ve grown used to since you woke up. Instead, she resembles the Wanda Maximoff you went to bed with every night for over a year. The Wanda Maximoff you lost in the snap.

Before you can make your move, she lifts a single hand in a gesture so swift it barely registers, and a violent force seizes you at the ribs. Your world tilts as you are yanked backward with the strength of a snapped cable, hurtling through the air until your back hits the ground. The only tradeoff is that the electric shock finally stops coursing through you.

When your vision clears, Wanda is standing over you, her shirt rippling in the wind, fists clenched at her sides. You blink away the stars behind your eyelids and drag in a shaky breath.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she hisses. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

Her fury is meant to scald, yet a deep, involuntary laugh rolls out of you, catching her completely off guard. 

She crosses her arms, obviously annoyed, which only makes it worse and you can’t help but laugh harder.

“Stop it,” she says. “You could have been killed.”

So far, it’s only Wanda’s voice you hear. If the Darkhold is quiet—sleeping, maybe—you’re going to take full advantage of it while you still can.

You wipe your eyes, getting up and dusting yourself as if the whole thing were overblown. 

“Killed by a fence you built to keep me here? That’s rich, Wanda.”

Wanda seethes, and you watch with no small amount of satisfaction.

“I built it because I knew you’d run the first chance you got,” she says. “And evidently, you did not disappoint this time.”

Naturally, every retort from her would be this sharp, this merciless. You’ve never expected anything less from Wanda.

“Did you also know you’d come running after me?” you ask, unable to stop the slight tug at your lips. “That you’d stop me from getting hurt?”

“You could’ve let me pass out at the edge of your little dome,” you go on, “could’ve let me tear my own tendons trying to push through it. But you didn’t.”

“Don’t mistake that for forgiveness,” she says quietly. “Or trust. I didn’t do it for you.”

“No,” you reply. “You did it for yourself. Because if I died out there, you’d have no one left to offer your twisted little fantasy to.”

It might be a little cruel, using what you know about her like this—provoking her, pressing all the right buttons, knowing it gets through in ways kindness sometimes can’t. But Wanda left you no choice. At this point, you’d rather be the one to hurt her, to make her hate you if it means keeping the Darkhold from sinking its claws in any deeper.

You see her eyes glow red for a second. It’s not enough. 

“Why even give me seven days, Wanda? Huh? What’s the point of pretending I have a say in this, when we both know you’re going to force it anyway?”

She turns away slightly, like your honesty makes her uncomfortable. Good.

You shake your head. “It’s not for me, is it?”

This time, Wanda snorts. “You’re wr—”

“It’s about giving yourself time. Time to convince yourself this isn’t what it is. That rewriting my life and erasing someone else’s isn’t… monstrous.”

Monstrous. There, you’ve said it. You’re the one to tell her because you’ve been the monster yourself. And you’re not going to let her down that road. 

“You know whatever the Darkhold’s giving you,” you add, “whatever it promises… the price is always higher than the offer.”

A shadow passes over Wanda’s eyes, the only hint you need to know the Darkhold is listening now. She lifts her chin in a proud display of defiance. 

“I gave you a week because you always do this,” she says. “You say one thing, then chase after another. And now you stand there preaching morality like you haven’t spent months pretending you didn’t want me.”

You look at her quizzically, trying to pinpoint what memory she’s referring to. You don’t have to think long because Wanda reveals it to you anyway.

“You think I didn’t see this pattern before? You didn’t want me, Y/N. Not until I was with Vision. Not until someone else looked at me like I was worth loving without the caveats. And even then, you waited. Watched. Like you didn’t know how to want me unless it hurt.”

Your eyes dart up to the sky, ready to deny it but she doesn’t let you.

“You don’t get to do it over, and over, and over again,” Wanda growls, her voice dropping dangerously low. Her eyes shimmer, but not from tears. Those dried up hours ago.

“The Darkhold showed me everything,” she continues, walking closer to you. “I didn’t ask it to. But it did. I saw the way you looked at Kia. I saw the mornings. Your promises to each other. The week I gave you is for you to realize that it’s what you really want before you can reject it on instinct.”

“Kia matters to me,” you confirm without hesitation. “I won’t lie about that. But you were never replaced. Wanting her never erased loving you. It just proved I’m still capable of it.”

The admission settles between you without the effect you hoped for. Wanda only tilts her head, a faint, hollow smile rising as she asks, almost lightly, “You love me?”

It used to be an exchange that confirms and doesn’t ask. That declares instead of questions. Now, it taunts. It mocks. Especially coming from Wanda’s lips. You don’t even know how it’s possible, but somehow, the hurt you inflict on each other keeps finding new ways to cut deeper than the last.

So instead of saying back the words You love me—once so certain on your tongue—you just nod.

You nod, because yes, you still love her. Even if it means nothing to her now.

You love her. And that’s exactly why you’re doing this. Why you’re trying to get out.

“You can’t even say it,” Wanda whispers, taking your lack of words for granted. 

A slow, exhausted smile finds its way onto your lips. Wanda gives you a look, but you offer no explanation. Instead you turn on your heel and face the invisible wall once more.

Before running towards it at full speed. 

“Y/N!” Wanda yells behind you.

You know exactly what’s waiting for you, and the moment your skin hits the perimeter, it feels like an inferno rushing beneath your flesh. You yelp at the pain, but you don’t care. You can think of nothing except the wall and the world beyond it. You drag one foot forward, then another, tears blurring your vision, the taste of metal filling your mouth.

You will not stay here. You will not sit quietly for seven days, waiting for Wanda to make your choices for you.

“Enough!”

But you don’t stop.

You can’t stop. 

You scream through it, louder, forcing yourself forward by sheer will, even as your knees buckle.

“I said enough!” she screams again.

You can’t tell which strikes first: the enclosure’s parting impact or Wanda’s magic. Red light floods your vision, pressure blooming in your skull, throbbing behind your eyes. She is still shouting, but your hearing has already dissolved into static.

Chapter 1: Trust and Sunglasses

Chapter 2: Romance and Borscht

Chapter 3: Dreams and Musical Numbers

Chapter 4: Redemption and Child Stars

Chapter 5: Companionship and Penguins

Chapter 6: Reflection and Deep Breaths

Chapter 7: Revenge and Sunrises

Chapter 8: Rockstars and Happy Meals

Chapter 9: Jealousy and Waterfalls

Chapter 10: Resolutions and Rewards

.

Wanda stares at the spot where you stood moments ago. You’ve rushed outside, maybe to confront her physical form waiting on the steps. She’s been studying the Darkhold for weeks now, and in that short time, she’s gained more knowledge and undergone more transformation than most do in a lifetime.

That’s why rescuing you from that cannibalistic mutant has thrown her off balance. Maybe it’s why today’s lesson won’t settle easily the way it usually does. The Darkhold ruled against your survival—and Wanda ignored it. Now, it’s punishing her for her disobedience.

When she left Westview in the middle of the night, it wasn’t a split-second decision. She stood there for a long while, alone in the empty lot where you once bought a home for the two of you to “grow old together.” 

When the Westview version of you tore out of her, willed into existence from her pain and desperation, it was the only thing she could still believe in.

The real you were gone. That's what they told her. That while she dusted in the snap, you didn’t survive the five years that followed. She didn’t get a body to grieve nor a funeral to attend. That pain became the town. The illusion. The lie. And from that lie came you. Or at least, what remained of your memory that will forever live on in her. 

That Y/N had loved her without hesitation, had kissed away her nightmares, had stood in a sunlit kitchen teaching the twins how to make pancakes. That Y/N was how she remembered you. And when the unthinkable happened, when you arrived to wake her up from the fantasy she created—

All her careful stitches splitted open at once. 

Wanda left because she didn’t believe you truly came for her. If you had, you’d be right where she left you, waiting. She never stopped to consider the reasons behind your actions. She hasn’t had the space to. Her mind’s been elsewhere, tangled up in more urgent things. The boys, most of all.

Where could they have gone? The Darkhold has revealed to her that they live. Maybe not in this universe but there are a thousand others. Wanda only has to choose which. Choose and have them back. Maybe you’ll be there too. And maybe that version of you will love her better—infinitely better—than the one who walked away.

So why did she save you from the edge of death?

Was it the Avenger in her?

Or was it because if anyone was going to tear you down, it would be her?

The Darkhold growls at the thought.

It approves.

—

“Wanda!”

It’s still unsettling, the way her consciousness slips back into her body like an afterthought. It moves—brewing tea, cooking breakfast, eating—but only on autopilot. The Darkhold isn’t just a curiosity anymore; it’s become a kind of escape. 

Every moment since Westview has felt hollow. She tried normalcy, relocating to an even more secluded Vermont town, hiding in its autumn forests. Peaceful enough, yet even a cemetery would have been quieter than her own mind.

That’s when she remembered the book she’d seized from Agatha.

The instant she opened it, the clamor stilled, and a new purpose took hold. 

Oh, the possibilities are endless. But Wanda can’t seize them all at once. The book insists she learn them first. The Darkhold never judges her grief. Only demands her focus.

But you? You ruin everything. And, well—you’ve just thrown a wrench into her lesson streak.

“Wanda!”

You hobble from the kitchen into the living room, your uneven steps setting the floorboards groaning underfoot.

Wanda’s eyes snap open in her body a second before you reach her. She’s standing at the porch now, a steaming mug halfway to her lips. Her fingers spasm; hot tea sloshes over the rim. She doesn’t drop it, of course. Even rattled, her control is surgical. She inhales once, lets it out slowly through her nose, and the tremor vanishes.

But she still doesn’t look at you. Even though she sat at your bedside for hours, even though she memorized every crease of your bandages and every flutter of your lashes, she’s still not prepared to see your eyes open and looking back at her. 

As you get closer, the panic rising in your chest begins to ease. Whatever you saw in the other room—was it even real?

It takes another second for Wanda to turn, slow as a door swollen by rain. Your breath sticks.

It’s her, and it isn’t. 

You remember Wanda’s eyes as a soft green shot through with gold. Even back in Westview when you first gazed into them after five long years. It’s different now. Clouded by something else that’s utterly foreign. You’re looking at a woman who came back from the blip just weeks ago, but it feels like she’s lived a lifetime since.

You realize you’re staring, despite knowing you’re no different. She braces both hands around her mug. It looks too small for how tightly she holds it.

“I—I opened the door down the hall,” you stammer, still catching your breath. “You were in there… floating, reading that…book. What was that, Wanda?”

She feels the Darkhold’s leftover pulse under her skin, but her face remains unapologetically stoic. She lifts the mug again, lets the steam veil her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You shake your head. It looked all too real. “No. I’m not hallucinating—”

“You’ve been out for nearly forty-eight hours, Y/N,” she mutters coldly. “You lost a lot of blood. Half that time you were burning so hot I put snow on your wrists. People see things.”

It comes back to you slowly. The creature who attacked you. The sharp bite of its teeth and claws. If it weren’t for Wanda—

“I should’ve been dead,” you whisper. 

A sardonic curve tugs at her mouth. “Yeah, I keep hearing.”

You stare at her, struck still. Not by the cruelty of it, but by the guilt that surges back the moment you recall the lie you let her believe.

“Wanda, about that—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Your throat dries out. But you try. “You thought I was dead. And I—”

“You are. I buried you in Westview,” Wanda says.

The blade in your chest turns cruelly. You’d braced for pain, but not for her to twist it herself, not to make it hurt like this.

“Wanda,” you exhale softly. “Please, just let me explain—”

She snorts, bitter and humorless. “Too late.”

“I—”

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you, “is the last time we talk. I need you to understand that.”

She turns, her sweater catching on the breeze, and for a split second you see her back the way she was in Westview, the relief in her gaze when she looked up at you as you cradled her in your arms.

You almost call out. You almost beg.

Instead, you say, “No.”

Wanda’s hands curl into fists at her sides. The last of the tea’s warmth burns harmlessly against the pads of her fingers; the real heat now lives in her blood.

“No?” she repeats, barely in control.

“I’m not leaving,” you say. “You can shut me out, scream at me, make me sleep on this porch for a week—but I’m staying.”

Deep in the house, the Darkhold lies where she left it. Its pages do what they always do in moments of hesitation: they conjure possibility. They suggest that your stubborn devotion could serve as a lesson, that your pain might yet be an ingredient in her greater purpose. 

You’ll never reclaim the twins while you’re anchored to this, it warns Wanda. 

You take a breath, unaware of the conversation Wanda’s having on the other side. “I’m not going to force you to talk. I just want to stay.” To be near you.