Just Some Random Person

The office had a way of making Natasha Romanoff feel like an impostor in her own skin. 

Floor-to-ceiling glass walls reflected the cold geometry of Manhattan’s skyline, the cityscape sharp enough to cut against the horizon, indifferent to the woman lounging in its midst. The desk, a sleek obsidian slab, was polished to an impossible sheen, not a fingerprint, not a smudge, not a stray paperclip, nothing to suggest it had ever been touched by human hands. It was the kind of workspace designed for someone who lived by spreadsheets and strategic silence, someone who thrived on structure. 

Natasha was currently draped sideways in her chair like a discarded coat. 

One leg hooked carelessly over the armrest, the other stretched out as if testing the limits of personal space. Her shoes were black, expensive, impractical which had been kicked off at some point, abandoned near the couch in a silent rebellion against professionalism. A tablet rested against her thigh, its screen glowing with a report she had stopped absorbing halfway through the third paragraph. 

“Run it by me again,” she said, voice smooth as poured whiskey, eyes still fixed on the screen without seeing it. “Why is this my problem?” 

Across from her, Yelena didn’t look up either. 

But for entirely different reasons.

Where Natasha sprawled, Yelena sat with military precision with her spine straight and shoulders squared while her pen moving in precise strokes across the document in front of her. The pages were arranged in a grid so exact it could have been measured with a ruler, edges aligned, corners crisp. She had rearranged them twice already. A third time wasn’t out of the question. 

“Because,” Yelena replied, tone drier than the Sahara, “your signature is on the approval sheet.” 

“Sounds like a clerical oversight.” 

“It isn’t.” 

Natasha hummed, scrolling idly. “Boooooo.”

Yelena circled a line with enough force to leave an indent in the paper beneath. “These projections are inconsistent.” 

“They always are.” 

“That isn’t reassuring.” 

“It’s predictable.” 

Yelena finally lifted her head, gaze flat and unimpressed. “You’re impossible to work with.” 

“And yet,” Natasha mused, tilting her head just enough to meet her eyes, “here you are.” 

“I’m preventing you from bankrupting this company out of sheer boredom.” 

Natasha’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile flickering across her face. “You worry too much.” 

“I worry the appropriate amount.”

The rustle of paper fills the quiet room as Yelena turns another page in the financial report, her fingers pausing halfway down the sheet. A muscle ticks in her jaw before she speaks, her voice measured but edged with something sharp. "They're deliberately underreporting their operational costs. By at least twenty percent."

Natasha doesn't immediately react. She leans back in her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her, and lets her head tilt until she's staring at the ceiling's cracked plaster. A slow exhale escapes her lips before she responds, tone so casual it borders on dismissive. "Then we let them."

Yelena goes still. The silence stretches between them. When she finally speaks again, her voice is clipped. "Explain."

Natasha doesn't hurry. She rolls her shoulders in a lazy shrug, still not looking away from the ceiling. "They'll commit to those numbers officially. Put them in writing, stake their reputations on them." A pause. A flicker of amusement in her voice when she continues, "And then we strke. When it's most inconvenient for them, when they've tied themselves to the lie, we ask all the right questions."

Yelena studies her, eyes narrowing slightly. The faintest twitch of a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth before she schools her expression back to neutrality. After a moment, she nods once decisively. "Fine."

A beat of silence.

Then, dry as dust: "I hate when you're right."

Natasha's grin is all teeth, though she still doesn't bother looking over. "It happens often."

"Not often enough to justify this level of smugness."

Natasha opens her mouth to retort but the door swings open before she can take a word out.

No warning.

No courtesy knock.

Yelena's head snaps up instantly, her posture coiling into readiness without conscious thought. Natasha doesn't move. Not at first. She merely turns her head just enough to glance toward the doorway, her expression shifting from lazy amusement to something more intrigued, like a cat spotting an unexpected mouse.

Pietro Maximoff strides in as if he owns the place.

Which he doesn't.

But he moves with the unshakable confidence of someone who's never once considered that closed doors apply to him. His gaze sweeps the room in one quick, assessing glance before he quirks an eyebrow. "Well," he says, tone dripping with mock disappointment, "this is significantly less dramatic than I was led to believe."

Yelena is already on her feet. Not in a threatening stance but her body hums with alert energy. "You weren't announced," she says, voice edged with frost.

Pietro flashes her a grin that's all charm and zero remorse. "No."

"That's not how this works."

He shrugs, glancing pointedly back at the door, which is still wide open before meeting her gaze again. "Seems to be working just fine from where I'm standing."

A soft, breathy laugh escapes Natasha. She doesn't rise from her chair, but there's a glint in her eyes now, something amused. "Let him stay, Lena," she murmurs, stretching her legs out in front of her. "I want to see how far he gets before he regrets this."

Yelena does not sit down.

“You walked through security.”

“I walked past security,” Pietro corrects.

“That is worse.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

Natasha finally shifts properly in her seat, swinging her leg down and straightening just enough to look like she belongs in this office. “You are Pietro Maximoff,” she says.

“I am,” he replies, pleased.

“We have seen your file.”

“Ah,” he says, hand over his chest again, “I was hoping I made an impression.”

Yelena crosses her arms. “You did.”

“Good impression or concerning impression.”

“Both.”

That seems to satisfy him. He steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a casual ease that suggests he has already decided this conversation will go his way. Natasha watches him with open interest now.

“You did not come here for talking,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “Though I am enjoying it.”

“Get to the point.”

Pietro reaches into his jacket. When he pulls his hand back out, it is holding two envelopes. He places them on the desk with deliberate care.

“For you,” he says.

Yelena looks at them like they might explode. “This feels suspicious.”

“It is not,” Pietro says. Then, after a beat, “Well, not in a dangerous way.”

Natasha leans forward, picking one up between her fingers.

“You broke into my office,” she says, turning it over once, “to deliver mail.”

“I did not break in,” he says again.

“You are very attached to that distinction.”

“It matters to me. Wordplay saves me legal troubles”

Yelena exhales through her nose. “What is it?”

“An invitation,” Pietro says.

“To what.”

“A birthday party.”

There is a pause.

Yelena stares at him.

Natasha smiles broadly.

“Of course it is,” she says.

Pietro points at her, pleased. “See. She understands.”

Natasha opens the envelope. Inside, the invitation is simple. Elegant. Personal in a way that corporate correspondence never is. Her eyes flick over it once. Then again. In meantime, Yelena takes hers, opening it more briskly.

“This is at your estate,” she notes.

“Yes.”

“And you came personally.”

“Yes.”

“That is unnecessary.”

Pietro tilts his head. “Is it?”

He considers that. Then smiles. “Maybe. But you are getting the premium experience.”

Natasha glances up. “Premium?”

“Pietro Maximoff hand delivery,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Very exclusive. Everyone else got assistants and emails and whatever else my father thinks counts as effort.”

Yelena’s mouth twitches despite herself. “You are saying we should feel honoured.”

“You absolutely should.”

Natasha laughs, low and amused. “That is a bold claim.”

“I stand by it.”

Yelena finally sits again, though her attention does not leave him. “And this is where you expect us to… what. Socialize.”

“Yes.”

“With your family and assciates?”

“Yes.”

“And with her?” Yelena adds pointedly.

Pietro’s grin sharpens. “Especially with her.”

Natasha does not look away from the invitation. But something in her posture shifts. Just slightly.

“You are very confident,” she says.

“I am very observant,” Pietro corrects.

“And what have you observed?”

“That this,” he gestures lightly her, meaning more than just the room, “is not something your parents arranged quietly.”

Yelena watches him closely. “No.”

“So,” Pietro continues, “you might as well make it interesting.”

Natasha’s thumb traces the edge of the card.

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

Pietro leans back against the edge of the desk, easy, unbothered.

“You come,” he says. “You drink something expensive. You pretend you are not evaluating each other like business assets.”

Yelena snorts. “That last part seems unlikely.”

“I said pretend.”

Natasha’s lips curve. “And you think she will indulge this?”

“I think,” Pietro says, and for a brief second there is something a little more deliberate in his tone, “that you will not get a better chance to figure that out.”

There it is. Not serious.

But real enough.

Yelena taps the invitation against the desk. “You are very comfortable inviting chaos into your house.”

“You have not met my sister properly in a social setting,” Pietro says. “She will match you.”

Natasha glances up at that. Something sharper flickers in her gaze.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“It might be.”

Yelena looks between them, then sighs lightly. “This is already a bad idea.”

“That is what makes it a good one,” Pietro replies.

Natasha closes the invitation, sliding it back into the envelope with care.

“We will come.” she says.

Yelena turns to her. “We will?”

“Yes.”

“You decided that very quickly.”

Natasha shrugs, relaxed again. “I am curious.”

Pietro beams like he just won something.

“Excellent,” he says. “Then I will stop risking your security team’s blood pressure and leave.”

“That would be appreciated,” Yelena mutters.

He pushes off the desk, heading toward the door.

“Just so you know, It’s still my and Wanda’s birthday. Don’t forget that in your own romance.” He throws over his shoulder as he leaves the room. He leaves the same way he entered.

Unannounced.

Unbothered.

And the door closes behind him.

Morning settles over the building in quiet layers of light and routine.

You are already dressed by the time the sun reaches the upper floors. Charcoal suit. Clean lines. Hair pulled back with the same precision you apply to everything else. Your tablet rests in one hand, already alive with numbers, messages, schedules that have no awareness of the date.

You do.

You always do.

You just do not allow it to change anything.

Your assistant begins to speak when you step out of your office, a list of priorities, calls, reminders arranged neatly for your approval. You listen. You respond. You adjust two things without looking at the screen.

Then, when they finish, you pause. Just long enough to interrupt the rhythm.

“Hold my morning,” you say.

They blink, once, caught off guard. “For how long?”

“An hour.”

There is a hesitation. Not resistance. Just surprise. You do not leave gaps in your schedule. You do not step away from structure without reason. They recover quickly. “Of course.”

You nod once and that is all. The corridor outside your office feels the same as it always does. Controlled. Efficient. Every movement purposeful, every voice measured. It is a world you built into something predictable, something that does not require you to feel anything in order to function.

You walk through it without breaking stride. But there is something different today. Something that is not visible. Something that is not obvious. Just… quieter, in a way that has nothing to do with sound.

The hallway outside Wanda's office is quiet in that particular way office hallways get. Your footsteps slow as you approach the familiar door, its frosted glass pane slightly smudged where hundreds of hands have pushed it open over the years. The brass handle is cool beneath your fingertips when you reach for it, your hand hovering there, suspended between action and memory.

The hesitation isn't born from uncertainty because you know exactly why you're here. But this time something deeper pulls you into the past. The ghost of another door surfaces in your mind's eye: painted white, slightly chipped at the bottom. That door had led to a bedroom where a small figure cocooned herself in blankets every morning, stubbornly clinging to sleep like it was the most precious commodity in the world.

“Five more minutes,” she had murmured from under the covers.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” you had replied.

A groan. A small hand reaching out blindly toward you. Trusting you to be there.

A deep breath draws you back to the present. The office door before you now doesn't open to pyjamas and stuffed animals, but to manila folders and Post-it notes in Wanda's distinctive, looping handwriting. Still, your knuckles rap against the wood with the same gentle rhythm you'd used all those mornings. Two soft taps that say "I'm here" more than "Wake up."

The pause that follows stretches just long enough for you to notice the hum of a computer fan through the door, the faint citrus scent of someone's perfume lingering in the hallway. Then comes the shuffle of papers being hastily rearranged, the telltale squeak of Wanda's chair.

When her voice calls "Come in," it carries that same warm timbre you remember from childhood, though now it's layered with professional composure. The door swings open to reveal an office that's unmistakably hers. Not through any deliberate decoration, but through the accumulated evidence of how she works. Stacks of files form precarious towers along the edges of her desk; each topped with brightly coloured sticky notes fluttering like tiny flags. A coffee mug sits perilously close to the keyboard, its contents long gone cold but still bearing the rings of multiple reheating attempts.

Her cardigan hangs abandoned over the back of the chair, one sleeve turned inside out as if she'd shrugged it off mid-sentence and never circled back. The desk lamp casts a warm pool of light over a half-eaten granola bar still in its wrapper, the corner neatly folded back the way she's always done it since she was seven.

She looks up when the door opens, and in that fractional moment before recognition, you see the flicker of surprise on her face because you don't come here without purpose these days, don't interrupt her workday just to see her face. Her expression softens as she takes you in, the way it used to when you'd finally coaxed her out from under the covers all those years ago.

"Hey," she says, and it's quieter than her usual greeting, already searching your face for clues even as her fingers absently straighten a stack of papers that doesn't need straightening. You close the door behind you.

The click is quiet.

Intentional.

“Good morning,” you say.

Her brows knit slightly. “Good morning.”

There is a beat.

You step forward, placing your tablet down on the edge of her desk without looking at it again.

"Happy birthday, Wanda." 

Three words. Simple. Unadorned. But they land differently, not just compared to everything else you’ve said today, or yesterday, or in the meetings that blurred into weeks. Different from anything spoken in months. Maybe longer. 

Her expression shifts, though not all at once. First, the briefest tightening of her fingers around the pen she’s holding, then the slow release. The change starts in her eyes: surprise, quick and unguarded, chased by something warmer. Softer. Something she tries and fails to swallow down. 

"You remembered," she says, voice quiet. The words escape before she can stop them, before she can reshape them into something less telling. 

You don’t react.

"I always do." 

She swallows and looks away for half a second. Of course you do. You always have. She just... forgot what it feels like to hear it from you. To hear anything from you that isn’t clipped professionalism. 

Then, without ceremony, you reach into your jacket just deep enough that she catches the faint rustle of fabric and withdraw a small box. 

No ribbons. No glossy wrapping. Just plain paper, folded neatly, the edges pressed together with the kind of precision that suggests it wasn’t done by someone paid to wrap gifts.

You set it gently in front of her. 

"For you." 

Wanda stares at it like it’s something fragile as if she moves too fast, it might vanish. 

"You didn’t have to," she says, but the words are reflex. 

You tilt your head just slightly and wait. 

"Open it." 

She does. Slowly. Carefully. Like it matters. 

Inside is not jewellery. Not anything that belongs in a glass case or a balance sheet.

It is a worn, leather-bound notebook.

The kind that has been opened and closed too many times to still be pristine. The edges softened. The cover marked by years that have left their imprint without apology.

Wanda freezes.

Her fingers hover over it before she finally lifts it out.

Her breath catches.

“You kept this,” she whispers.

You watch her.

“Yes.”

She opens it.

The first page is filled with messy handwriting. Younger. Uneven. Ink smudged in places where hands were too small to be careful.

Recipes.

Not written properly. Not measured the way they should be. Notes in the margins. Corrections. Little comments that make no sense to anyone who was not there.

Mama’s recipe book.

Or what it became when Wanda insisted on learning too early, too fast, standing on a chair beside you while you tried to keep everything from burning.

“I thought we lost it,” she says.

“We did,” you reply.

Her eyes flick up to you, confused. Then back down. And she sees it.

The later pages.

Your handwriting.

Clean. Precise. Controlled.

You had rewritten it. Preserved it. Kept every note she made, every mistake, every correction, every memory. Her fingers trace over a line where her younger self had written something wrong and scratched it out three times. You had left it. Exactly as it was. Her vision blurs.

“You… you fixed it,” she says, but her voice shakes because that is not the right word.

Her throat tightens. She closes the notebook slowly, holding it against her chest like if she lets it go, it might disappear again. For a moment, she cannot speak. She does not trust her voice.

You step closer.

Close enough that she feels it before you do it.

Your arms wrap around her.

Not stiff.

Not distant.

Not the brief, careful contact you allow when something requires acknowledgment.

This is different.

This is… real.

And that makes Wanda freeze.

For a second.

Because this does not happen.

Not anymore.

Not like this.

Then she melts into it.

Her arms come up around you, tight, instinctive, like she has been waiting for this without realizing it. And it is longer than it should be. Long enough for the world outside her office to disappear.

Long enough for her to remember what it felt like when you used to do this without thinking.

She buries her face into your shoulder. You smell like something clean. Familiar. Controlled. Underneath it, something softer she has not noticed in a long time.

Her thoughts come all at once.

You didn’t forget us.

Her grip tightens. She does not want to let go. Because she knows what happens after.

You step back.

You return to yourself.

You put the walls back up like they were never gone.

She knows this and she hates it. All at the same time.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” she thinks, but does not say.

“You don’t have to carry it all,” she wants to say.

“You don’t have to disappear from us to keep us safe.”

But she does not say any of it.

Because right now, you are here.

And that is more than she has had in a long time.

Her eyes sting. She blinks it back.

You do not move immediately.

Neither does she.

For a moment, it feels like something might shift.

Something might break open.

Then you step back.

Of course you do.

Your hands drop to your sides.

Your expression smooths.

Not completely.

But enough.

“Take care of yourself today,” you say.

It is the closest thing you will give to something softer.

Wanda just nods because she cannot trust her voice yet.

You pick up your tablet and turn toward the door.

Then pause.

Just for a second.

“Save me a dance,” you add.

It is light. Almost casual. But it lands heavier than anything else.

Wanda lets out a small, broken laugh. “I will.”

The door closes behind you. And Wanda stands there, holding the notebook, feeling like something inside her has been cracked open in the best and worst way at the same time.

She presses it closer to her chest.

Heart full.

Because for a moment, she had you back.

And now she knows exactly how much she misses you when you are gone.

The corridor stretches ahead in a line so clinically perfect it could have been drawn with a ruler, all gleaming surfaces and harsh overhead lighting that leaves no shadow unexposed. It hums with the sterile efficiency that permeates every inch of this corporate labyrinth where each polished marble tile placed with mathematical precision, each recessed light fixture calibrated to the exact same lumen output. Your Louboutins strike the floor in sharp, metronomic clicks. Left, right. Like a chess piece advancing across the board. 

The auditory assault hits you fifteen paces from Pietro’s office in form of an overlapping cacophony of laughter, the screech of ergonomic chairs being shoved back, someone impersonating what was clearly an excruciating client interaction in falsetto. You don’t need to see the scene to reconstruct it; his team operates at a frequency just shy of anarchy, yet somehow their deliverables land in your inbox with pixel-perfect margins and formulas so elegant they make your teeth ache. Chaos theory in action. 

You don’t knock so much as rap your knuckles once against the frosted glass. Just a formality you discard mid-motion as you push through without waiting for acknowledgment. 

The tableau snaps into focus before you. Pietro is perched on the edge of his desk like some dishevelled conductor, shirtsleeves shoved past his elbows, hands carving shapes in the air to illustrate what you suspect was a catastrophic supply chain failure. His team freezes mid-gesture as they notice you, a pen clatters onto a notebook, someone chokes on their coffee, a junior analyst’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence. 

Pietro’s gaze flicks to you. His eyebrows hitch up, but his grin doesn’t falter. “And that,” he announces, sliding off the desk with a graceless thump, “is why we institute a strict ‘no interns negotiating with Japanese steel suppliers’ policy. Meeting adjourned.” He flaps a hand at his team like shooing pigeons. “Go. Exist elsewhere. Preferably where accounting can’t hear you.” 

They scatter with the frantic energy of students caught cheating. The door clicks shut behind the last straggler. 

Silence pools in their wake, thick as spilled ink. 

Pietro leans back against his desk; arms crossed over his rumpled shirt. The overhead lights catch the silver streaks in his hair that weren’t there five years ago. “Either you’re here to fire me,” he muses, tilting his head, “or someone died.” 

“Neither.” 

You reach into your jacket, a movement smooth enough that Pietro’s shoulders tense fractionally, as if expecting a weapon. What you extract is sleeker: a matte black case small enough to fit in your palm, its surface so devoid of branding it looks almost clinical. The only flaw is the faint smudge of fingerprints near the hinge, evidence of how tightly you’d clenched it during the elevator ride up. 

Pietro eyes it like it might contain anthrax. “Should I be concerned?” 

“Perpetually.” 

He flicks the latch with a thumbnail.

“Happy birthday, Little piety.”

Inside, cradled in charcoal-gray suede, lies a watch. It’s not one of the gaudy limited editions he collects to needle shareholders with, but the 1972 Seiko reissue. The same model he’d scrimped six months’ allowance for at sixteen, only to lose it during a drunken stumble into a Venice canal two weeks later. You can still see the memory like a film reel.

Pietro shivering on the hotel steps at 3 AM, seawater dripping from his hair, grinning like a lunatic while Wanda wheezed laughter into her hands. 

His fingers hover above the watch face, not quite touching. “This is-” 

“The exact reissue. Down to the brushed steel casing.” 

“I know what it is.” His voice drops to something rough. “How the hell did you-” 

“The original manufacturer had the blueprints archived in Nagano.” You adjust your cufflink, ignoring the four months of favours it took to extract them. “They required… significant persuasion.” 

Pietro exhales through his nose. He turns the watch over. Catches the inscription laser-etched onto the underside: Run faster next time 

His shoulders jerk. Not laughter but something quieter, more seismic. 

When he looks up, his expression is softer than anything you’ve seen from him in a decade. “You’re the worst,” he informs you, voice scraped raw. 

“Duly noted.” 

He straps it on with fingers that fumble the buckle. The leather is still stiff, the face pristine. When he flexes his wrist, the seconds hand ticks forward with perfect, silent precision.

The word comes out rough, barely more than an exhale, "Thanks." 

You don’t answer with words. Just a slow tilt of your chin downward, a silent acknowledgment that lands between you like a dropped coin. The space between your bodies feels charged suddenly, thick with all the things neither of you ever says aloud. 

Then you move. 

One deliberate step forward, your heels scuffing against the concrete floor. His breath hitches, just once, as your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him in before his brain can catch up. The hug is sudden, but not reckless. You’ve calculated this. 

For half a heartbeat, he’s rigid against you, all sharp angles and coiled tension, like he’s bracing for impact. Then, like a sigh given form, his muscles unwind beneath your grip. His arms come up almost reflexively, hands pressing flat against your back, fingers digging in just enough to wrinkle the fabric of your jacket. Quick. Easy. Familiar. 

It’s nothing like Wanda’s embraces. Hers are sprawling, desperate things, all clinging warmth and whispered pleas. This is leaner. Lighter. A fraction too careful, like he’s afraid of pressing too hard and finding nothing solid beneath his palms. But it’s real. God, it’s real. And that alone makes it rare enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

"Don’t," he starts, voice muffled against your shoulder, "get used to this." 

The corner of your mouth twitches. "You won’t let me." 

His laugh is quiet, humid against your collarbone, and then you’re stepping back, because of course you are. The distance returns like a reset button, your expression smoothing into its usual neutrality as if the last ten seconds never happened. The moment shrivels, retreats. 

You glance sideways at him. "Try not to cause problems today." 

His grin is all teeth. "No promises." 

"Expected. Try not to lose this one,” you say, turning toward the door.

Behind you, Pietro adjusts the clasp. “No promises.”

The corridor swallows you whole. The building resumes its rhythm.

Somewhere, a watch ticks in perfect synchrony with your own.

The corridor greets you the same way it always does. Quiet. Ordered. Predictable. Nothing in it reflects what you just did. Assistants move past you with files tucked neatly against their sides. Conversations remain low, efficient, stripped of anything unnecessary. The soft hum of the building continues uninterrupted, like it has no awareness that something rare has just occurred within its walls. You walk through it without breaking stride.

Your tablet is back in your hand. The screen lights up as if it has been waiting for you. Messages. Numbers. A missed call. The day resumes its shape the moment you allow it to. You do not look at any of it. Not yet. Your reflection follows you in the glass panels that line the corridor. Composed. Unchanged. If anyone were to look at you now, they would not see it. They would not see the way your chest still feels too tight.

They would not see the lingering imprint of Wanda’s grip against your back. The way she held on like she had been afraid you would disappear if she loosened her arms. They would not see the brief, almost startled warmth in Pietro when you stepped into his space without warning. They would not see the moment where you allowed yourself to exist without structure. You see it. You feel it. You do not know what to do with it.

You press your thumb lightly against the edge of your tablet, grounding yourself in something solid. Something familiar. Something that does not shift under pressure. This is what you understand. Not that. Not the way Wanda looked at you. Not the way her voice broke around something as simple as you remembering. You always remember. That has never been the issue. The issue is that remembering is not the same as allowing yourself to feel it.

You reach the elevator. The doors open without delay. You step inside. Alone. The doors slide shut behind you, sealing you into a space that is smaller, quieter, more contained than the corridor you just left. For a moment, there is nothing but the soft mechanical hum as it begins to move. And then your mind catches up.

You should not have stayed that long. That is the first thought. Measured. Immediate. Practical. You should not have allowed the moment to extend beyond what was necessary. You should not have stepped forward first. You should not have closed the distance. You should not have. You stop the thought. Not because it is incorrect. Because it is incomplete.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the tablet. You look at your reflection in the steel panel in front of you. Still composed. Still controlled. Still exactly what you have trained yourself to be. And yet. You remember her voice. Soft. Warm. Certain in a way that had never needed to prove itself. "You are thinking too hard again."

You close your eyes. Just for a second. You can see it clearly. The open window. The scent of lilacs carried in on a breeze that had nothing to do with obligation. The way she had sat beside you like there was nowhere else she needed to be. "What are you dreaming of today?" You had not answered her properly then. You had not known how. Because wanting had felt like something fragile. Something that could be taken away if you held it too openly.

You had learned early that what you held mattered. So you held everything carefully. Tightly. Until it became easier to not hold anything at all. The elevator continues its ascent. The numbers change. You do not look at them. "If you bury all your wants beneath duty, you will become a statue." Your hand shifts against the tablet. Your grip loosens. "Beautiful, yes. But cold, unmovable, and alone."

You inhale slowly. Measured. Controlled. But it does not settle the way it should. Because this morning was not controlled. This morning was not efficient. This morning did not serve a purpose that could be measured in outcomes or numbers or strategy. You had walked into Wanda’s office without an agenda. You had stood in front of her without calculation. You had given her something that had no value in a boardroom and no return in profit.

You had held her. Not because it was expected. Because you wanted to. The realization settles heavier than you expect. You wanted to. You open your eyes. Your reflection looks back at you. Unchanged. And yet. There is something there that was not there yesterday. Something quieter. Something that does not belong to structure.

The doors open. Your floor. The world waits on the other side. Structured. Demanding. Unforgiving in the way it always is. You step out. Your pace resumes immediately. There is no visible hesitation. No one would know that anything inside you has shifted.

You reach your office. The door opens. Closes behind you. The space is exactly as you left it. Immaculate. Controlled. Predictable. Your desk waits. Your work waits. Your role waits.

You did not have to do what you did this morning. There was no requirement. No expectation. No consequence if you had chosen not to. You could have sent something through an assistant. You could have acknowledged it in passing. You could have done what you always do. Minimize. Control. Distance.

You did not. Because of her. Because of the way she looked at you that day by the window. Because of the way she asked you what you wanted, not what you would do. Because of the way she told you that forgetting how to want would cost you more than anything duty could ever demand.

You straighten. Your shoulders settle back into alignment. Your expression smooths. The structure returns. It always does. But this time, it does not erase what came before. It sits alongside it. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Alive.

You reach for your tablet. The screen lights up. The day begins again. And somewhere beneath the numbers, beneath the decisions, beneath the version of yourself you present to the world, something quieter remains. Not gone. Not buried. Just waiting. For you to decide what to do with it.

The quiet in your office feels different today. Not heavier, not lighter, just altered in a way that lingers in the corners and clings to the glass windows where the afternoon light softens the city's reflection. You notice it the way one becomes aware of a room after laughter has passed through it, when something remains even after the sound fades. 

It's been that kind of day. 

Earlier, Wanda had wrapped her arms around you while Pietro's voice, too loud and too close, refused to let the moment go untouched. You stood there, motionless as ever, and yet not entirely untouched. The memory sits beneath your ribs now. Not painful, not sharp, just present. 

You're seated at the smaller table by the window instead of your desk, a half-eaten lunch in front of you. For once, you aren't ignoring it. You take measured bites. Not out of hunger, but discipline. Yet today, something else threads through the act: a quiet awareness that you shouldn't let the day pass through you without pause. 

Your tablet lies untouched beside you. Your phone is silent. For a few minutes, the world feels manageable. 

Then comes the knock. 

Soft. Careful. The kind that asks permission twice before being heard once. 

You look up. 

"Come in." 

The door opens slightly at first, hesitation lingering in the movement as if whoever stands beyond it is still reconsidering. 

Vision. 

He steps inside, his posture is composed but not entirely at ease. That, more than anything, tells you something is different. He isn't a man who fidgets, nor one who hesitates without reason. 

He also doesn't belong here. Not in this building, not in this system of glass and steel and controlled authority. He doesn't work for X-MEN International. His world runs parallel to yours, intersecting only where Wanda is concerned. 

Which means this visit is deliberate. 

"Miss Maximoff," he says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." 

"You are," you reply calmly, setting your fork down with precision. "But not in a way that requires you to leave." 

A flicker of relief crosses his face before it vanishes beneath practiced control. He steps fully inside, closing the door carefully behind him. 

"I won't take much of your time," he says. 

"You'll take exactly as much as is necessary," you correct, gesturing toward the chair across from you. "Sit." 

He hesitates, then obeys, lowering himself into the seat with the wariness of someone entering a space that isn't theirs to claim. 

You study him. 

He's chosen this moment carefully. Your lunch break, the only unstructured time in your day. Yet he looks as though he expects to be turned away for it. 

You don't rush him. 

Silence settles between you, but it isn't the usual kind. This one carries anticipation, something fragile at its edges. 

He exhales slowly. 

"There's a personal matter I wished to discuss with you," he begins. 

You tilt your head slightly. "I see." 

Another pause. 

"I've already spoken with your mother," he says. 

That stills something in you. Not visibly, your posture doesn't shift. But your attention sharpens the way it does when something meaningful disrupts your carefully ordered world. 

"When?" you ask. 

"A few days ago," he replies. "During one of her clearer periods." 

You nod once. "And?" 

"She gave her blessing." 

You don't respond immediately. Instead, you press a button on the discreet panel embedded in the table. A quiet chime sounds before your assistant answers promptly. 

"Yes, ma'am?" 

"Two glasses," you say. "And the decanter from the cabinet." 

A brief, surprised pause. "Of course." 

Vision watches you, uncertainty flickering across his face. "This isn't necessary," he begins. 

"It is," you interrupt gently. Not a command, just a decision. 

He falls silent as you fold your hands loosely in front of you, gaze steady. "For what did she give her blessing?" You knew the answer, but hearing it from his mouth was something you needed.

He meets your eyes fully. "I intend to ask Wanda to marry me." 

Something in you fractures. Not catastrophically, not sharply, just quietly, like something held too tightly for too long finally giving way. Though, you are more than happy for you little sunshine.

You don't speak. 

For a moment, you simply look at him. 

Then the door opens again. Your assistant moves efficiently, placing two crystal tumblers on the table followed by a heavy glass decanter filled with amber liquid that catches the light like something alive. She sets everything down and leaves without a word. 

The door clicks shut. 

Silence returns. 

Vision's gaze flickered from the decanter back to you, his hesitation palpable in the quiet room. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides before he repeated, "That is unnecessary," though his voice lacked its usual conviction this time. 

Your hands moved with deliberate grace as you reached for the decanter, pouring equal measures into two crystal glasses. The liquid made a soft chime against the glass, the sound echoing slightly in the space between you. Without ceremony, you slid one drink toward him. "Take it," you said simply. He accepted with careful fingers, handling the glass as if it might contain something more volatile than alcohol. 

As you lifted your own drink, you let the moment stretch. Your fingers curled around the cool crystal, your eyes studying him over the rim. "You chose today," you stated rather than asked. His quiet "Yes" came immediately, but when you followed with "The party is this evening," and then "And you have yet spoken to my father?" his response took longer in coming. 

"...not yet," Vision admitted after a pause. 

"And Pietro?" you pressed. 

This silence lasted longer. "I have not consulted him," he finally confessed. 

The admission startled an unexpected sound from you. A brief, unguarded laugh that made Vision blink in surprise. It wasn't your usual polite smile, but something more genuine that reached your eyes before you could stop it. "Then you're either very brave," you observed, "or catastrophically unprepared." 

His lips pressed together in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "I'm beginning to suspect the latter," he conceded. 

You took a measured sip, letting the warmth spread through you before setting the glass down with precise control. "When do you intend to ask her?" 

"At the party," Vision said. "With Pietro's assistance." 

Your eyebrow arched slightly. "You plan to involve him after the fact?" 

"I'd hoped," he said carefully, choosing each word, "to secure essential approvals first." 

Now your smile became unmistakable. "So you intend to survive my father, then entrust the execution to Pietro." 

"Yes." 

Tilting your head slightly, you considered this flawed strategy. "That's not a plan. That's a gamble." 

"I'm aware," he admitted. 

As you studied him over another sip, you noted how unlike Natasha or Pietro he was. Every movement measured, every decision intentional. Which made his current approach all the more significant. "You asked my mother," you noted. 

"Yes." 

"You came to me." 

"Yes." 

"And you're prepared to ask my father?" 

"I am." 

The certainty in his voice made you hold his gaze a moment longer. "Then you understand what this means." 

"I do." 

The silence that followed felt different now. Less charged, more settled. You watched the way light fractured through your glass before speaking again, your voice softer now. "Ask him before the party begins. Not after. He'll respect that." 

Vision nodded. "And Pietro?" 

Leaning back slightly, you allowed a trace of amusement to show. "Tell him last. He'll be offended regardless. This way minimizes the damage." A pause. "And be prepared for improvisation." 

"I suspected as much," Vision acknowledged. 

When you lifted your glass again, a toast without words maybe. But something in your expression shifted subtly. The familiar composure remained, but beneath it now lay something warmer, more approving. "You have my blessing," you said simply. 

The words landed heavier than their simplicity warranted. Vision stood very still for a moment before his quiet "Thank you" carried a new depth. 

You inclined your head slightly before adding, almost as an afterthought but not quite, "And my support." 

This seemed to affect him more profoundly. You held his gaze as you continued, "She'll say yes. Not because it's expected. Because she wants to." Your fingers tightened fractionally around the glass. "Don't make her wait." 

Something unspoken passed between you. A shared understanding that lingered in the air before dissipating. Vision's nod this time carried more certainty. "I won't," he promised. 

After another sip, you set the glass down decisively and picked up your fork, returning to your interrupted lunch as if the conversation had been just another item on your agenda. Vision rose to leave.

"I would finish that drink, if i was going to face my father." You suggested Vision. And he takes it in account as he down the contents of the glass in one go before making a face. Not one of disgust, but one that suggests the scotch was one of best one he has had.

"Miss Maximoff," he said as he reached the door. When you looked up, he added quietly, "She's fortunate." To have you as her sister goes unsaid in his mind.

You considered this assessment briefly before responding with the faintest echo of your earlier smile, "No. You are." 

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a different quality of silence in its wake. One less charged with anticipation, more settled in its new shape. You finished your meal methodically, neither rushing nor distracted, then stood and adjusted your cuffs with habitual precision before returning to your desk. 

The party would begin in hours. There was still work to complete. But for the first time in longer than you cared to remember, you didn't feel entirely carved from marble.

The top floor feels different.

Even before the doors open, there is a shift in the air. The hum of the building fades the higher one goes, as if noise itself knows where it is no longer welcome. By the time Vision steps out into the corridor, the silence has settled into something deliberate. Not absence, but control.

The lighting is warmer here. Less clinical than the lower floors, less concerned with efficiency. The walls carry weight, dark wood panels broken by framed pieces that are not decorative so much as historical. Photographs. Agreements. Moments that have shaped something larger than the company itself. This is not where decisions are made. This is where they are remembered.

The assistant outside the office does not stop him. She rises slightly, acknowledges him with a small nod, and gestures toward the door as though the outcome of his visit has already been decided.

Inside, Erik Lehnsherr is seated behind his desk.

He is not reading. There are papers in front of him, but they remain untouched. One hand rests lightly against the surface, fingers still, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass wall that stretches behind him. The city lies beneath it, distant and orderly, reduced to something manageable from this height.

The door closes softly behind Vision.

Erik does not look at him immediately.

He lets the silence settle first.

It stretches long enough to become intentional, long enough to make it clear that this is not an oversight. Then, without turning fully, Erik speaks.

“So, You intend to propose.”

It is not a question.

Vision steps forward, measured, unhurried. He stops at a distance that is respectful without being hesitant, posture straight, hands at his sides.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t question how the old man knows.

Erik turns then, his gaze landing on him with quiet precision. There is no surprise in it. No curiosity either. Only assessment.

“You have considered the implications,” Erik continues, voice even. “For her? For this family?”

“I have.”

A brief pause follows. Erik studies him, not searching for doubt but for its absence.

“And you believe yourself prepared.”

“I do.”

The answer comes without delay, without emphasis. It is not defensive. It simply exists.

Erik leans back slightly in his chair, the movement slow, deliberate. His fingers tap once against the desk, then still again.

“Belief,” he says, almost idly, “is a flexible thing.”

Vision does not respond to that. He does not need to. The observation is not directed at him as much as it is placed in the space between them, something to be acknowledged rather than answered.

Another stretch of silence.

Then Vision speaks again.

“I have spoken with her mother.”

That earns a shift.

It is small, almost imperceptible. A slight tightening at the edge of Erik’s expression, a brief stillness that replaces the measured rhythm of his breathing. The name does not need to be said. It is understood.

“And?” Erik asks.

“She gave her blessing.”

Erik’s gaze lowers for a fraction of a second, not in dismissal but in thought. When it lifts again, there is something heavier behind it. Not softness. Not quite. But the sharp edge of scrutiny has dulled, replaced by something more inward.

Magda’s opinion carries weight in this room in a way few things do.

But it is not enough.

“You came here anyway,” Erik says.

“I did.”

“Am I to assume that her approval was not sufficient?”

Vision holds his gaze. “It was not the only one I sought.”

That is when Erik’s attention sharpens again.

A quieter kind of focus now. Less immediate, more deliberate.

“I spoke with her sister.”

A beat.

“And?”

“She approved.”

The room changes.

Not visibly. Not in any way that could be measured. But something settles into place, something that had remained suspended until now.

Erik does not move immediately. His gaze remains fixed on Vision, but it is no longer searching in the same way. The evaluation shifts. Recalibrates.

The silence that follows is different from the ones before it.

Earlier, it had been a tool. Now, it is a conclusion being reached.

Erik exhales slowly, leaning back further into his chair. His hand moves from the desk to the armrest, fingers curling slightly against the leather as his eyes drift, not away from Vision but through him, as though aligning what he has heard with something already known.

You do not make decisions lightly.

He knows that better than anyone.

If you said yes, it was not out of sentiment. Not out of pressure. It was weighed. Measured. Considered from every angle that mattered.

Which means this is not a question of permission.

It is already a decision.

Erik’s gaze returns to Vision, steadier now.

“You understand that her sister’s judgment is not easily given.”

A beat.

“And yet you believe you have earned it.”

“I believe she would not have granted it otherwise.”

There is no pride in the statement. No attempt to elevate himself. Only a recognition of what your approval signifies.

Erik watches him for a long moment.

Vision does not attempt to fill the silence with explanation or justification. The admission stands on its own, unguarded, unembellished.

Erik’s eyes narrow slightly, studying him again. Not for weakness this time, but for depth.

“You think that will be enough?”

“I think it is where I begin.”

Another pause.

Longer.

Heavier.

Then Erik leans forward, resting his forearms against the desk, his presence filling the space between them in a way that is quiet but unmistakable.

“Loving her,” he says, voice lower now, “is not a matter of intention.”

Vision does not look away.

“I am aware.”

“She does not ask for much,” Erik continues. “She does not demand attention. She does not make her needs known in ways that are obvious.”

“I know.”

“And that will make it easy,” Erik says, “to believe she is content when she is not.”

The words settle between them, deliberate, precise.

Vision absorbs them without interruption.

“I will pay attention,” he says.

Erik’s gaze sharpens slightly at that. “Attention is not observation.”

“No,” Vision says. “It is presence.”

That earns the smallest shift.

Not approval. Not yet. But something closer to acknowledgment.

Erik leans back once more, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to signal that the evaluation has reached its end.

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then, simply:

“You have spoken to her mother and her sister.”

He studies Vision one last time, as though confirming something that has already been decided.

“Which means you have done what was necessary.”

It is not phrased as permission.

It is not given as a blessing.

But it is acceptance.

Clear. Final.

Vision inclines his head slightly. Not in submission, but in recognition.

“Thank you.”

Erik waves it off with a small, dismissive motion of his hand, though his gaze remains steady.

“Do not mistake this for reassurance,” he says.

Vision does not.

“I won’t.”

Erik’s expression settles back into something unreadable, the earlier shifts folding neatly beneath the surface.

“Marriage,” he continues, “is not a solution to anything. Not for her. Not for you.”

“I understand.”

“If you are looking to fix what you think is broken,” Erik says, “you will fail.”

“I am not.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Respectfully, Sir. I am not looking to fix her.”

That, more than anything else, stills the room.

Erik holds his gaze for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nods.

Once.

It is subtle. Controlled. But it is the closest thing to approval he will give.

“Good,” he says.

The conversation is over.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

The silence returns, settling back into the room as though it had never been disturbed.

The venue is louder than it should be for this hour of the afternoon.

Not crowded yet. Not alive in the way it will become once music fills the halls and guests begin spilling through the entrance in tailored suits and glittering gowns. But there is movement everywhere. Staff crossing the ballroom with floral arrangements balanced carefully in their arms. Technicians crouched beside lighting rigs. Caterers weaving through tables draped in linen smooth enough to reflect the chandeliers overhead.

Pietro Maximoff stands in the middle of it all like a man attempting to conduct a storm with sheer force of personality.

“One inch left,” he says, pointing toward a cluster of lights suspended above the dance floor.

The technician stares at him. “Sir, nobody is going to notice one inch.”

Pietro narrows his eyes. “I will.”

The man sighs and adjusts the fixture anyway.

Pietro steps back, head tilted critically toward the ceiling. Satisfied at last, he turns only to nearly walk straight into Vision.

“Well,” Pietro says, recovering instantly. “You move disturbingly quietly for someone wearing dress shoes.”

Vision’s expression shifts faintly, something close to amusement touching the corner of his mouth. “You appeared occupied.”

“I am occupied,” Pietro replies. “I am orchestrating magnificence.”

He gestures broadly toward the ballroom around them. The room gleams beneath warm golden light, elegant without feeling rigid. There are traces of Wanda everywhere in the details. Soft candlelight woven carefully into the centerpieces. Deep crimson flowers balanced against ivory arrangements. Music selections spread across an open folder nearby, half crossed-out and rewritten in Your handwriting.

Vision notices all of it.

Pietro catches the look and snorts softly. “Yeah, she got involved halfway through and suddenly everything became tasteful.”

“I think it looks beautiful.”

“That is because my genius laid the foundation,” Pietro says gravely.

Vision hums in polite agreement that is convincing enough to satisfy him.

Around them, staff continue moving through preparations, but Pietro’s attention settles properly now, studying Vision with casual familiarity. There is no tension between them. Vision has long since become a steady presence orbiting Wanda’s life. Holidays. Family dinners. Charity events where Wanda dragged him into conversations while Pietro rescued him from overly affectionate relatives.

Vision had endured all of it with impossible patience.

“What brings you here?” Pietro asks. “Besides admiring my work.”

Vision glances briefly around the ballroom before answering.

“I wanted to speak with you privately.”

Pietro’s brows rise slightly at the tone. Not alarmed. Just curious.

“That sounds ominous.”

“I intend to propose to Wanda.”

The words land cleanly between them.

Pietro stills.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else in the room to notice. But the restless rhythm of him quiets for a brief moment, his attention sharpening fully onto Vision.

“…Ah,” he says after a second.

A worker passes behind them carrying a ladder. Somewhere near the stage, someone curses loudly after dropping a box of glassware. Pietro does not look away.

“You are serious.”

“Yes.”

The answer comes simply.

Pietro exhales once through his nose, gaze drifting upward toward the chandeliers as though recalibrating several thoughts at once. Then, slowly, a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he says, “I always suspected this was where things were headed.”

Vision watches him quietly.

“She looks at you differently,” Pietro continues. “Calmer. Less... noisy in her head.” He pauses. “That sounded less creepy before I said it out loud.”

“It made sense.”

“Good.”

Pietro folds his arms loosely across his chest now, studying him with a different kind of attention than before. More thoughtful. Less casual.

“And you are telling me because?”

“I would like your help.”

That catches him off guard properly.

Pietro blinks once. “Mine?”

“Yes.”

A short laugh escapes him, quieter than usual. “You have significantly overestimated my reliability.”

“I do not believe I have.”

“Interesting. Wrong. But interesting.”

Vision says nothing.

Pietro studies him another moment, then shakes his head faintly, amusement softening into something more genuine.

“You already talked to her, didn’t you?” he says suddenly. “Sestra.”

“I believed it was important.”

For a moment, Pietro says nothing.

The ballroom continues shifting around them, busy and bright and unfinished, but his attention drifts somewhere quieter. Toward Wanda. Toward you. Toward the strange shape of time passing without permission.

Then he looks back at Vision properly.

“When?”

“At the party.”

Pietro’s grin returns instantly. “Oh, that is evil.”

“I was told Wanda appreciates meaningful gestures.”

“She does,” Pietro says. “But mostly I meant doing it in front of this family.” He gestures vaguely around them. “Half of us cry aggressively.”

Vision absorbs that seriously enough that Pietro laughs outright.

“I am joking,” he says. Then pauses. “Mostly.”

Another silence settles between them, easier this time.

Then Pietro steps forward, resting a hand briefly against Vision’s shoulder.

It is not dramatic. Not ceremonial. Just sincere.

“You make her happy,” he says quietly.

The humor has left his voice now.

“And she deserves that.”

Vision meets his gaze steadily. “I know.”

Pietro studies him for another second, searching perhaps for uncertainty, for hesitation, for anything that might force this conversation in another direction.

He finds none.

At last, he nods once.

“Alright then,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Let us emotionally devastate my sister in the most elegant way possible.”

The invitation arrives in the middle of a briefing on agricultural exports.

T'Challa barely notices it at first.

The morning has already been consumed by reports, projections, and negotiations that seem determined to outlive everyone involved in them. By the time the meeting concludes, the sun has climbed high enough to flood the royal office with warm afternoon light, painting long bands of gold across polished stone floors and dark wood furnishings.

Only then does his attention settle on the cream-colored envelope resting atop a stack of documents awaiting review. A small smile appears almost immediately. Brief, but enough.

"What is it?" Nakia asks from across the room.

T'Challa turns the envelope over in his hands before answering.

"An invitation."

The response is unremarkable. But his expression is not.

Curiosity flickers across Nakia's face as she watches him open it with a level of care normally reserved for considerably more important correspondence.

For several moments, silence settles over the office.

His eyes move slowly across the page.

Then the uncharacteristic smile returns.

The sort of expression attached to memories rather than events.

Nakia closes the file she has been reading.

"Who is she?"

T'Challa glances up.

She gestures toward the invitation.

"I assume it is a she."

A soft laugh escapes him.

"It is."

"Then who is she?"

His gaze drops back to the card.

The answer should be simple, yet it is not. It takes him several seconds to find.

"An old friend."

Nakia waits. And when nothing further follows, one eyebrow lifts slightly. The reaction earns another quiet chuckle.

"I realize that explains very little."

"An unusually self-aware observation."

T'Challa smiles faintly before extending the invitation toward her. Nakia accepts it. The event itself appears straightforward enough. A birthday celebration. Private guest list. Formal attire. Location included. Nothing particularly remarkable. Yet one detail immediately catches her attention. The invitation is addressed simply to T'Challa.

Not ‘King T'Challa’.

Not ‘Your Majesty’.

Not ‘Sovereign of Wakanda’.

Just ‘T'Challa’.

The distinction feels oddly intimate. When she looks up, she finds him watching the city beyond the windows. "How long have you known her?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer. His gaze remains fixed on the distant skyline while his mind is somewhere far away, in a different time of his life. Then, he quietly speaks up again.

"Almost fifteen years."

That surprises her.

Because there are not many people left who knew T'Challa before the crown. Before the responsibilities. Before the endless machinery of state consumed most of his life.

Nakia studies the invitation once more.

"Close friends?"

The question earns her another stretch silence. T'Challa's gaze drifts briefly toward the windows.

"Wakanda attracts exceptional students."

Nakia smiles despite herself.

That sounds suspiciously like a deflection. He knows it. He also knows that she knows it. For a moment neither acknowledges the fact. Then a faint smile touches his face.

"Most of them spend four years making certain everyone is aware of exactly how exceptional they are."

That earns a quiet laugh.

"And she didn't?"

"No."

The answer arrives immediately.

Almost fond.

"She never felt the need."

The room grows quieter. Outside, aircraft move silently between distant towers. Somewhere below, advisors continue navigating the endless complexities of governance. Yet for a few moments, none of it feels particularly important.

T'Challa settles back slightly in his chair, his attention no longer on the office around him but on memories decades old.

"We met during our first year."

A small smile appears.

"She was late."

The smile widens fractionally.

"The professor had already started the lecture. The room was completely silent. Then the door opened."

The memory plays itself across his expression.

"Most people would have apologized. Or looked embarrassed."

"What did she do?"

T'Challa's smile finally reaches his eyes.

"She looked around, realized every seat was occupied, dragged a chair from another room, and sat down."

Nakia laughs. The image is unexpectedly easy to picture.

"That sounds incredibly disruptive."

"It was."

His amusement deepens.

"The professor stopped teaching entirely."

"And?"

"And she asked him to continue."

The office falls quiet again.

T'Challa turns the invitation over once between his fingers.

"Most people spend years trying to become comfortable with themselves."

His voice has grown softer now.

"She already was."

The statement lingers because of the certainty behind it.

Nakia studies him carefully.

The woman he is describing bears little resemblance to the woman she occasionally sees in finance magazines. The woman in those photographs always appears composed. Controlled. Distant.

The woman in his memories sounds... lighter.

"You respected her."

The words leave her before she fully considers them.

T'Challa looks down at the invitation and smiles.

"No."

The answer surprises her.

A moment later, he continues.

"I respected her later."

His thumb traces the edge of the card.

"At university she was simply my friend."

And somehow that distinction feels far more important.

Nakia looked down at the invitation again.

The card seemed remarkably ordinary considering the conversation it had inspired. Yet she suspected that if anyone else had sent it, it would already be buried beneath the mountain of state documents awaiting review.

Instead, it remained in T'Challa's hands.

"Does she always invite you?"

The question drew him from his thoughts. For a moment he simply looked at the invitation.

Then he nodded.

"Every year to anything important to her."

The answer came so naturally that it was clear he had never considered how unusual it sounded.

"Every year?" Nakia repeated.

A faint smile touched his face.

"Every year."

The office grew quiet again.

Outside the windows, Wakanda continued moving through its day. Aircraft crossed distant skies. Meetings began and ended. Decisions were made. Thousands of people went about lives entirely disconnected from the conversation taking place in the royal office.

Yet somehow this seemed more important.

Nakia folded her hands in her lap.

"And you attend?"

The smile became something closer to embarrassment.

A rare expression.

"No."

That answer surprised her.

"No?"

T'Challa shook his head.

"Not once."

A soft exhale escaped him.

"Not because I did not want to. Life simply had other plans."

The words carried no bitterness.

Only acceptance.

The acceptance of a man who had long ago learned that duty rarely asks permission before taking something from you. For several moments he remained silent, turning the invitation over carefully between his fingers.

"I always intended to attend the next one."

A small smile appeared.

"Then the following year would arrive with new duties to fulfil."

Nakia understood immediately.

There was always something.

A summit.

A diplomatic crisis.

Trade negotiations.

Security concerns.

The responsibilities attached to a throne had a way of multiplying when one wasn't looking.

"Yet she kept inviting you?"

The observation escaped her before she realized it.

T'Challa's expression softened.

"Yes."

There was something almost remarkable about that simple answer.

No disappointment or resentment. You kept inviting him. Year after year. Regardless of whether he came. Regardless of whether he could. The invitation always arrived.

The realization seemed to settle over the room slowly.

Nakia had never met Y/N Maximoff.

She knew the name. Knew the company. Knew the reputation. But the woman T'Challa described felt very different from the woman presented to the world.

Because you remembered people.

Even when years stood between you.

Even when distance did.

Even when life did.

"What happened?" Nakia asked quietly.

T'Challa's gaze lowered.

Not because he wished to avoid the question. Because the answer deserved consideration.

"Nothing happened."

The response surprised her.

"At least not all at once. We graduated. The group scattered across the world. Careers began. Responsibilities arrived."

A pause followed.

"That part was normal."

His eyes settled on the familiar handwriting once more.

"What was not normal was how quickly everything changed afterward."

The warmth in his expression dimmed.

"When my father died, I became king."

Nakia felt the weight of those words even now.

Years later.

She remembered the days that followed.

The grief.

The expectations.

The impossible transition from son to sovereign.

No amount of preparation could truly prepare someone for that moment.

T'Challa continued quietly.

"And around the same time, her mother suffered a severe stroke."

Nakia knew that story. Most people in their business circles did. Not the intimate details of course. Not the private pain. But enough.

Magda Maximoff's illness had become one of those events that altered the course of multiple lives at once.

The invitation remained untouched between his hands.

"My coronation was scheduled a few weeks later. She called me herself. And I remember thinking she sounded exhausted."

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"Not emotional but exhausted."

The distinction mattered because one implied grief and the other implied responsibility. And responsibility had a habit of lasting much longer.

T'Challa looked toward the windows.

Toward a country he was sworn to protect.

Toward a life that often belonged more to others than himself.

"She apologized. She apologized for missing my coronation."

T'Challa laughed softly.

"You understand?"

"I think I do."

"Her mother was in the hospital."

His voice was calm.

Measured.

Yet somehow that made the memory heavier.

"Her family needed her."

Another pause.

"And she was apologizing to me."

The silence that followed felt thoughtful rather than sad.

Neither of them rushed to fill it.

Eventually T'Challa lowered his gaze to the invitation once more.

The years between then and now seemed to gather quietly inside the room.

"We spoke occasionally after that."

A small shrug.

"Less often than either of us intended."

Another truth shared by countless friendships. Not broken, just simply stretched.

"But every year," he said softly, "the invitations arrived."

Not formality.

Effort.

Then, almost absentmindedly, his eyes drifted toward the tablet displaying next week's schedule.

The state visit.

New York.

The diplomatic meetings already scheduled.

The route already planned.

For the first time in years, there was no conflict.

No emergency.

No impossible choice waiting to be made.

Just an invitation and a friend.

T'Challa stared at the schedule for several seconds.

A slow smile appeared.

Real.

Almost boyish.

The sort of smile rarely seen on kings.

For the first time in years, he realized he could say yes.

Not next year. Not someday. Not when things settled down.

Now.

Nakia watched the realization settle across his face.

"You're going."

The certainty in her voice made it less a question than a statement.

T'Challa looked down at the invitation once more.

At the familiar handwriting.

At a friendship that had somehow survived years of distance and silence.

At a door that had never quite been allowed to close.

"Yes, I think I am."

He carefully placed the invitation atop the stack of documents waiting for his attention.

For once, matters of state could wait another minute.

The last time T'Challa had seen you, you were sitting in a terrible café near the engineering faculty, insisting that his presentation strategy was inefficient while stealing fries from his plate.

The next time he sees you, you would be one of the most influential women in the world.

And, if his instincts were correct, a stranger in all the ways that mattered.

For reasons he could not entirely explain, that thought made him want to arrive all the more.

Your office is quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with its own weight. The city sprawls beyond the glass wall, towers of steel and glass catching the late afternoon light. The sky is streaked in colours that mean nothing to you. An amalgam of amber, rose and violet, all reduced to muted shades by the tint of your window. You stand there for a long while, tablet in hand but you are not reading. The numbers blur into meaningless strings, neat projections dissolving into nothing.

You lower the tablet slowly, placing it on the desk with the precision of ritual. Everything about this room is order. It is a sanctuary you built for yourself, one place in the world where the mask is not an act but a structure, a wall of order keeping the chaos out.

And yet she is here. Not in body, but in thought, relentless and uninvited. Natasha’s laugh curling at the edges of silence. The way her gaze had lingered last night as if she could peel you open without ever touching you. The words she had dropped outside the restaurant, sharp and playful, designed to press against the cracks of your composure.

The room feels larger than usual, or perhaps it is only emptier. The silence presses in, and in that silence the words you never let yourself touch begin to rise. Wanda’s question echoes again, softer this time, more insistent in its simplicity. Is it hurting you?

You told her no. Of course you told her no. That is always the answer. Pain has no place here, not in this office, not in the life you built after the ballroom floor became a battlefield of panic and Erik shoved the world onto your shoulders. To admit to pain would mean admitting to weakness. And weakness has never been allowed.

But beneath that, another question forms, one you never say aloud, one that has no place in your life of strategy and discipline.

What do you want?

You move behind your desk, lowering into the chair, fingers steepled beneath your chin. The leather creaks softly beneath you. For the first time in longer than you care to measure, you allow yourself to wonder what it would be like if Wanda was right. If this arrangement, this mask, this life you have chosen to carry, is not just tiring but wounding. If somewhere beneath the steel, there is still a wound that has never closed.

The thought makes your chest tighten, a pressure you quickly push down with another steady breath. You are Maximoff. You are the one who does not break. The one who does not falter. The one who holds the line when the world collapses. Natasha is irrelevant. That is the refrain. That is the truth you repeat until it sounds solid.

And yet, your mind betrays you. You remember her voice again, low and amused, asking questions she should not have asked. You remember her eyes catching that fleeting slip in your mask outside the restaurant, satisfaction curling at her lips. She had seen what no one else ever does. She had seen you.

Your hand tightens slightly against the desk; knuckles pale against the wood. It is only for a moment, only here where no one can witness it. Then you relax, smoothing your expression into neutrality once more.

Still, the thought remains. What do you want?

Your mind drifts without permission. You see yourself not at this desk, not surrounded by glass and steel, but elsewhere. You picture a life where your time is not accounted for in quarterly reports, where your days are not arranged into schedules tight enough to strangle. You imagine laughter that is not measured, words that are not weighed before they are spoken, a gaze that sees you without calculation.

You inhale deeply, steadying yourself against the dangerous edges of that thought. Want is a luxury. You are not built for luxuries. You are built for endurance, for silence, for composure. The moment you allow yourself to want is the moment you risk breaking everything you have worked to hold together.

Still, the question persists, curling around your composure like smoke. What do you want?

You press your palms against the desk, grounding yourself in the solidity of the wood, in the cool air of the office, in the structure of everything that defines you. You tell yourself you want nothing. You tell yourself you need nothing. And yet, the flicker remains, refusing to die.

The silence in your office tilts, and for a moment it does not feel like the present at all. The steady tick of the clock recedes, the sharp glow of the city skyline softens, and you are not at your desk with a tablet of numbers in front of you. You are younger, seated on a broad windowsill in a different house, legs tucked beneath you, staring at the sweep of the garden outside.

It is late spring, the air warm and carrying the scent of lilacs through the open window. Birds chatter in the hedges, the kind of ordinary sound you would later lose to the drone of boardrooms and the hum of conference calls. You are holding a book you are not reading, your thoughts restless with a future that seemed endless.

Then her voice calls you back. Soft, accented, still rich with warmth. “You are thinking too hard again.”

You turn your head, and Magda is there. Whole, radiant in her presence, not the shadow she would become. She wears no jewels, no gown. Just a simple dress in a color that suits her, her hair loose, her smile tired but genuine. She crosses the room with unhurried steps and sits beside you, her hand resting lightly over yours.

“What are you dreaming of today?” she asks.

You laugh then, awkward and shy, because to you at that age, dreaming felt indulgent. “I am not dreaming, Mama. I am thinking about what Father says. About what comes next.”

She hums, a low sound of disapproval that still holds affection. “Your father is always thinking about what comes next. But I am asking you what you want, not him.”

The words catch you off guard. Want. You remember the word striking you like sunlight breaking through cloud. You look down at your hands, uncertain. Then, cautiously, you answer.

“I want to travel,” you whisper, as though confessing a crime. “I want to see Vienna, and Paris, and Rome. I want to walk streets where no one knows me. I want to hear music that makes me forget everything else.”

Her eyes soften, and she brushes her fingers gently across your hair, tucking it back from your face. “Then you must hold onto that. Wanting is not weakness, my love. It is life. If you bury all your wants beneath duty, you will become a statue. Beautiful, yes. But cold, unmovable, and alone.”

You look at her then, confused and a little frightened by the weight of her words. She smiles to ease it, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Promise me, Y/N. Promise me you will not forget how to want.”

You had promised. Earnest, certain, because you believed there was still time. Time to travel, time to wander, time to laugh without calculation.

And then the gala happened. The stroke. The panic. Erik’s voice filling every silence until your own wants dissolved into the marble floor beneath your shoes. That night the promise cracked, and you never let yourself pick it up again.

Back in your office, you draw in a slow, steady breath, eyes opening to the city beyond the glass. The sky is darker now, streaked with shadows. Your hands are clasped together on the desk, knuckles pale.

You remember your mother’s words with a clarity that aches. Wanting is not weakness. It is life.

But you are not that child anymore and promises made in spring cannot survive the winters you have endured. You lower your gaze back to the tablet, to the order, to the structure. The memory slips back into silence, but its echo remains, unsettling, fragile, alive.

The stillness is brittle when it breaks. First comes the muffled sound of laughter in the hallway, too careless and too loud for this wing of the building. You straighten slightly in your chair, not out of alarm but irritation at the interruption. Few people enter your office unannounced, and fewer still dare to disturb you when the door is closed.

Then the door swings open without so much as a knock. Pietro bursts in first, all restless energy, his jacket half-zipped, his hair still damp from whatever chaos he left behind. He is grinning wide, his phone clutched in one hand like a trophy. Behind him is Steve, steady as ever, his expression a mix of amusement and apology for being dragged into whatever scheme Pietro is carrying.

“Sestra,” Pietro exclaims, arms spreading wide as though he has just returned from war. “You will not believe the idea I have had.”

You blink once, measured and cool, before replying. “You are correct. I do not believe it.”

Steve chuckles at that, closing the door gently behind them as Pietro ignores your tone entirely and marches straight toward your desk. He plants his phone on the surface with a flourish, the screen already lit with images that mean nothing to you at first glance. It contains balloons, decorations, venues and colour palettes.

“It is Our birthday in two weeks,” Pietro announces, his grin sharp with mischief. “And we are going to surprise Wanda. Big. I am talking lights, music, the whole city stopping to stare.”

You arch one brow, glancing at him with the same dispassion you reserve for shareholders who bring impractical proposals. “The last time you attempted a surprise, you set fire to the curtains.”

“That was one time,” Pietro shoots back, waving a dismissive hand. “And technically the fire was contained. But this will be flawless. I want to throw her something unforgettable. She has been carrying so much lately, always watching over you, over me, over everything. She deserves more than a quiet dinner and a few candles. She deserves the world.”

Steve finally steps closer, folding his arms across his chest, his blue eyes calm as they meet yours. “He has been talking about this since morning. He means well.”

“Of course I mean well,” Pietro says, indignant. “I am her brother. If anyone knows how to give her joy, it is me. But-” He points a finger at you, his grin turning sly. “I need you. Without your help, this is chaos. With your help, it is legendary.”

You lean back in your chair, folding your hands neatly on the desk, expression unmoved. “And what exactly do you think my help entails?”

“Connections,” Pietro replies without missing a beat. “Venues, caterers, designers. You can call in favours with a single email that would take me months. You can make sure no one ruins it. You can… keep me from accidentally burning down the building again.”

Steve suppresses a laugh at that, glancing between the two of you. Pietro, ever restless, begins pacing in front of your desk, his hands moving as he speaks faster and faster. “Imagine it, sestra. Wanda walking into a hall filled with lights, with flowers, with everyone she loves waiting for her. Music playing, people dancing, a night where she is not the caretaker, not the one fixing everything, but the one being celebrated. Tell me she does not deserve that.”

The room quiets after his outburst, the weight of his sincerity cutting through the usual chaos. You study him carefully, your face still impassive but your thoughts already shifting. The twins’ birthday. Two weeks. A surprise. You picture her face, the way her smile can light a room when she forgets herself. You picture the exhaustion she hides too well, the patience she gives even when it costs her.

Pietro leans across your desk, his grin faltering into something closer to pleading. “Come on, sestra. Say yes.”

Steve meets your gaze again, steady, wordless, but there is a quiet agreement in his look. A suggestion that perhaps, for once, it is worth indulging Pietro’s chaos.

You inhale slowly, the silence stretching as Pietro waits, nearly bouncing on his heels with anticipation. The room feels less like your sanctuary now, more like a battlefield where your composure is being tested from a different angle entirely.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Pietro to begin fidgeting. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, drumming his fingers on the edge of your desk, glancing between you and Steve as if trying to calculate which of you will give in first. You do not move. You watch him with the calm patience of a cat watching a bird tire itself out.

Finally, you speak. Your tone is even, light, but with that faint lilt that always warns him trouble is coming. “Pietro, remind me. The last time you planned something ‘unforgettable,’ did it not end with Wanda threatening to hex your eyebrows off?”

Steve coughs to hide a laugh. Pietro scowls, his hand flying to his hair in mock outrage. “That was an accident. The fireworks were supposed to go outside, not through the kitchen window.”

“And yet,” you continue smoothly, “they did go through the kitchen window.” You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. “Tell me, little brother, are we planning a celebration or a catastrophe?”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me. You think I would sabotage my own sister’s birthday?”

“I do not think,” you reply, your lips twitching ever so slightly, “I know.”

Steve chuckles quietly, folding his arms again, content to let the two of you spar. Pietro glares at you with theatrical offense, though his smile betrays him before he can respond. “You are cruel,” he says. “Cold and cruel. I am offering you a chance to do something fun and beautiful and you sit there judging me like a disappointed headmistress.”

You arch a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, running both hands through his hair. “You have forgotten how to have fun. Once upon a time, you would have helped me sneak out to steal Father’s car.”

“I remember,” you say, the faintest hint of warmth threading through your tone. “I also remember you crashed it into the front gate.”

“That was teamwork,” Pietro protests. “You said turn left.”

“I said turn slightly,” you correct, standing now, smoothing the front of your suit. “You heard something entirely different.”

Pietro groans and looks at Steve for sympathy, but the man only shakes his head, smiling faintly. “She’s not wrong, kid.”

“Et tu, Captain?” Pietro sighs dramatically, then turns back to you, stepping closer, lowering his voice in a mock whisper. “Fine. I admit my record is not spotless. But come on, sestra. Do this with me. Wanda deserves something good, and you know it. Let me handle the madness, you handle the miracles.”

You study him for a long moment, your gaze steady and unreadable. Beneath the joking and bravado, you can see what he will not say aloud, the quiet worry, the guilt of never being able to fix things for Wanda the way he wants to. For all his chaos, his heart is earnest. It always has been.

You sigh softly, turning back toward your desk as if to give yourself a moment of consideration. Pietro watches you anxiously, bouncing slightly on his heels. You can feel his energy vibrating through the room like static. Finally, you glance over your shoulder at him.

“I will help,” you say at last; your tone deliberate. “But under one condition.”

Pietro perks up immediately. “Anything.”

“You will not make a single decision without consulting me first. No surprise venues, no questionable lighting, no pyrotechnics of any kind.”

He grins, triumphant. “Done.”

“I am not finished.” You step closer to him, voice calm but laced with quiet authority. “You will let me handle the logistics, the invitations, and the coordination. You will, however, be responsible for one thing.”

He leans forward eagerly. “What’s that?”

“The cake,” you say, deadpan. “If you are to set anything on fire, let it at least be edible.”

Steve bursts out laughing, turning away to hide it behind his hand. Pietro looks at you, wide-eyed, then at Steve, and finally throws up his hands in defeat. “You mock me, but I will make the greatest cake this city has ever seen. People will write songs about it.”

“Or insurance claims,” you murmur, moving past him to gather your coat from the stand.

Pietro points after you with mock indignation, though his grin is wide and sincere. “You will see, sestra. You will thank me when she cries from happiness.”

You pause at the door, glancing back at him.

He laughs, unbothered, already pulling out his phone to start messaging whoever he thinks can help him. Steve follows you out, shaking his head with quiet amusement. The moment the door closes behind you, the weight in your chest feels lighter. Pietro’s chaos has a way of doing that.

You do not allow yourself to dwell on it, but for a heartbeat, it feels good to say yes to something that is not duty, not strategy, not survival. Something small, human, maybe even a little joyful.

Something that almost feels like wanting.

The apartment is quiet in a way that feels almost unfamiliar.

No Yelena pacing the hallway while arguing with someone on the phone. No television murmuring in the background. No music drifting from another room. Just the soft hum of the city filtering through the windows and the faint ticking of the clock above the kitchen counter.

Natasha steps inside and lets the door close behind her with a muted click. For a moment she simply stands there, keys loose in her hand, the stillness pressing around her like something alive. The place is spacious, modern, a careful balance of steel and dark wood and glass. Usually, she likes the way it feels. It gives her space to breathe, space to move. But tonight it feels… empty.

She tosses the keys onto the marble counter and rolls her shoulders, shrugging off the jacket she wore to the office. The fabric lands over the back of a chair in an untidy heap. Natasha moves through the apartment with the restless energy of someone who cannot quite decide what she intends to do next. She checks her phone without thinking, scrolling through notifications she already saw hours ago. Emails. Messages from acquaintances. One from Yelena that simply reads: Kate says hi.

Natasha snorts under her breath and drops the phone face down on the counter.

The kitchen lights are dim, warm amber spilling across the polished surface. She opens the cabinet above the sink and retrieves a glass, then reaches for the bottle of whiskey resting on the top shelf. The movement is automatic, practiced. She pours without measuring, amber liquid splashing softly against the crystal.

The first sip burns just enough to pull her fully into the moment.

She leans back against the counter, staring toward the wide living room windows where the city glows in scattered constellations of light. Cars move far below like quiet rivers of white and red. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails briefly before fading into the night.

Normally this is the part of the evening where she unwinds without thinking. A drink. Maybe a movie. Maybe another call from someone who wants her attention. Something simple, uncomplicated.

Instead, her mind drifts somewhere else entirely.

You.

The memory surfaces with irritating clarity. The restaurant lighting catching on the sharp lines of your suit. The way you sat across from her as though the entire room belonged to you, though you never once demanded it. The controlled calm in your voice when you complimented her, the words perfectly polite and perfectly distant at the same time.

Natasha exhales slowly, tilting her head back until it rests against the cabinet behind her.

“Unbelievable,” she murmurs to no one.

She takes another sip of whiskey, slower this time.

The problem is not that you are cold. Natasha has met cold before. People like you usually crumble once she pushes hard enough. They thaw, or they snap, or they reveal something messy underneath all that composure.

You did none of those things.

You stood there like a mountain. Calm. Unmovable. Irritatingly elegant.

And yet…

She remembers the moment outside the restaurant. The flicker in your eyes when she leaned too close, when she tested the line between teasing and provocation. Just a fraction of a second where the mask slipped.

Natasha smiles faintly into her glass. That moment is what keeps replaying in her mind now. Not the dinner itself. Not the headlines that followed. Just that tiny fracture in your composure.

It was real.

She pushes herself off the counter and walks into the living room, drink still in hand. The space is dark except for the city lights filtering through the glass walls. Natasha drops onto the couch, stretching one arm across the backrest as she stares up at the ceiling.

The whiskey warms her chest, but the restlessness remains.

She is not used to this feeling.

Normally things with people are simple. She pushes, they react. She flirts, they melt. She walks away, and they either chase her or disappear. The pattern is predictable. Comfortable.

With you there is no pattern.

Natasha frowns slightly, turning the glass between her fingers.

Is it the challenge?

That would make sense. She has always enjoyed a difficult opponent. Someone who refuses to bend easily. Someone who makes the game interesting.

But the thought does not sit right.

Because when she thinks about you, the first thing she remembers is not the challenge.

It is the way you looked at her.

Not impressed. Not intimidated. Not charmed.

Just… aware.

As though you saw exactly who she was and decided she was neither threat nor prize. Just a woman sitting across the table.

She finishes the whiskey and sets the empty glass on the table in front of her.

For a long moment she just sits there, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide which part of this bothers her more.

The fact that she has not won yet.

Or the fact that she is not entirely sure she wants to.

She leans forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely laced together as she stares at the city beyond the windows.

The lights stretch endlessly, each one marking a life, a conversation, a moment happening somewhere she cannot see. Usually, she finds comfort in that distance. The city is loud and alive and full of people she can dip in and out of whenever she pleases. It means freedom. It means anonymity.

Tonight it only makes her restless.

Her mind circles the same question again, this time with more focus.

You.

Natasha exhales slowly through her nose and reaches for her phone again, the device lighting up the dim room in pale blue. The screen unlocks with the ease of muscle memory. Her thumb hovers over the search bar for a moment before she types your name.

The results appear immediately.

Of course they do. You are not a woman who hides from the public eye. At least not professionally. There are hundreds of articles about you. Corporate profiles, interviews, Vague photographs from galas and press events. The internet is filled with versions of you, each one perfectly composed.

Natasha scrolls through them with a quiet intensity that would surprise most people who know her. She is not skimming gossip this time. She is studying.

The first few articles are predictable. Headlines praising your leadership. Analysts discussing the expansion of your company. A photograph of you at some industry conference, standing beside Erik with that same calm expression you wore at dinner.

Natasha tilts the phone slightly, studying the image more closely.

Even through the grainy quality of the photo, you look exactly the same as you did the night before. Perfect posture. Immaculate suit. Eyes steady and unreadable.

“Do you ever relax?” she murmurs quietly.

She scrolls again.

More of the same. Financial accomplishments. Strategic partnerships. A few vague interviews where you answer questions with careful diplomacy, saying just enough to satisfy curiosity without revealing anything real.

It irritates her.

Not because the information is boring, but because it is so carefully controlled. Every detail of your public life has been polished into something smooth and impenetrable.

Natasha is used to digging through scandal. With most people it takes five minutes to uncover a string of messy relationships, drunken photographs, or embarrassing anecdotes from their youth. Humans are chaotic by nature. They leave trails everywhere.

You do not.

Your life online reads like a corporate report. Clean. Efficient. Completely devoid of anything personal.

Natasha narrows her eyes slightly, leaning back against the couch again as she continues scrolling. The only real personal detail she finds is the one she already discovered earlier that morning. The old article about your mother’s stroke.

Her thumb pauses on the screen again.

She rereads a few lines without meaning to.

The article is clinical in tone, but the implications are impossible to ignore. A gala. A sudden collapse. A daughter stepping into responsibilities that should never have belonged to someone so young.

Natasha remembers the way you carried yourself at dinner. The calm. The restraint. The quiet gravity in your voice.

“Of course,” she murmurs softly.

The pieces begin to align in her mind with unsettling clarity.

You did not become that composed overnight. That kind of control is forged slowly, under pressure. Years of expectation layered one on top of another until the person underneath learns how to disappear entirely behind the mask.

Natasha studies another photograph of you, this one from some charity event. You stand beside Wanda and Pietro, both of them smiling in ways you are not. Your expression is softer there than in most of your professional pictures, but still restrained, as though joy itself is something you only allow in small measured doses.

Her gaze lingers on that image longer than she expects.

“You look tired,” she says quietly to the screen.

The words surprise her. She did not mean to say them aloud.

Natasha leans her head back once more. The ceiling above her blurs into shadow.

For the first time since she started this little investigation, something shifts in her chest.

Curiosity is still there, of course. The challenge of you still sparks something competitive in her instincts. But beneath that, something else has begun to settle in.

Understanding.

Not complete understanding. Not yet. But enough to recognize that the woman she met at dinner is not simply cold or distant.

You are careful.

Careful in the way people become when the world once demanded too much from them too early.

Natasha taps the edge of the phone lightly against her knee, thoughtful now rather than restless.

“That explains a lot,” she murmurs.

It does not make you less intriguing.

If anything, it makes you far more dangerous.

Because if she is right, if that calm exterior is built from years of responsibility and restraint, then getting close to you will not be like her usual games.

There will be consequences.

Natasha stares at the glowing screen again, at the photograph of you standing in that quiet composed way of yours.

At first, she assumed it was just discipline. The practiced calm of someone who grew up around power. Plenty of executives carry themselves the way you do. Controlled posture. Polished voice. A quiet authority that fills the room without ever needing to demand attention.

But the more she watches you in those photographs, the less convinced she becomes.

Discipline alone does not create the kind of stillness you carry.

She leans forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees again as she brings your image back onto the screen. This time she studies you the way a strategist studies an opponent before a match. Not the obvious details. The smaller things.

The tension in your shoulders even when you appear relaxed.

The way your hands are always folded neatly in front of you, as if holding something back.

The careful neutrality in your expression, not empty but restrained, like a door that has been deliberately closed.

Natasha has seen that look before.

Not in boardrooms. Not in photographs from charity galas.

She has seen it in fighters.

In the quiet moment before someone explodes.

Her brow furrows slightly as that realization settles into place.

“Oh,” she murmurs softly.

The word hangs in the dim apartment.

She tilts the phone again, zooming in slightly on the photograph. It shows you standing beside Erik at some formal event. Your father is speaking to someone outside the frame, his expression animated in that commanding way of his. You are not looking at him. Your gaze is directed somewhere beyond the camera, distant and unreadable.

To anyone else it would look like composure.

To Natasha it looks like containment.

She knows that kind of stillness. She has lived inside it herself more than once. The quiet that comes from locking every volatile emotion behind walls so thick they begin to resemble part of the landscape.

It is not the calm of someone who feels nothing.

It is the calm of someone who feels too much and has learned to bury it.

Natasha exhales slowly, lowering the phone again.

“That’s not ice,” she says quietly to the empty room. “That’s pressure.”

And pressure eventually breaks something.

The thought makes a faint chill creep across her spine. Not fear exactly, but something close enough that she recognizes it immediately. Respect.

Because if she is right, if that composure is not emptiness but restraint, then the storm beneath it must be immense. Years of expectation. Responsibility. Sacrifice. All of it packed tightly beneath that flawless exterior.

A terrifying amount of force waiting behind a door you may not even realize exists.

Natasha leans back against the couch again, staring up at the ceiling as the implications unfold slowly in her mind.

She thinks about the moment outside the restaurant again. The flicker in your eyes when she leaned too close. The way your composure cracked for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.

Most people break when pushed.

You did not break.

Which means the storm is still there.

Waiting.

The realization unsettles her in a way she does not expect. Natasha Romanoff is not easily intimidated. She thrives on chaos, on unpredictability, on situations where most people would hesitate. But the idea of that kind of contained force sitting quietly behind your calm gaze…

It makes her pause.

Because storms like that are dangerous. Not only to the people around them, but most to the person carrying them.

For a moment she imagines what it would look like if those walls ever cracked completely. The thought flashes vividly across her mind before she can stop it. Your controlled voice turning sharp. That quiet composure dissolving into something fierce and unstoppable.

The image is… striking.

And a little frightening.

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh under her breath, shaking her head slightly at herself.

“Well,” she murmurs, pushing herself to her feet, “that explains why you’re so interesting.”

She walks back toward the kitchen, retrieving the empty glass from the table as she goes. The ice inside has melted into a thin pool of water. She pours another measure of whiskey without hesitation, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before taking a slow sip.

Her gaze drifts once more to the phone resting on the couch behind her.

Most people would see your calm exterior and assume you are unbreakable.

Natasha sees something else entirely.

A storm powerful enough to level cities if it ever escapes its cage.

And the most unsettling part is that you might not even realize it is there.

She leans against the counter, staring out at the endless scatter of city lights again.

For the first time since she met you, Natasha Romanoff feels something dangerously close to caution.

Not enough to make her walk away.

Just enough to make her aware that if she keeps moving toward you, she may be stepping directly into the eye of something far more volatile than either of you understands.

The rehabilitation wing always smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender. The scent is oddly comforting once you grow used to it. It clings to the air in a gentle way, as if the building itself is trying to soften the weight of the things that happen inside it. The halls are quiet this time of day, the midday rush already passed and the evening visitors not yet arrived. Sunlight filters through the tall windows along the corridor, spilling warm gold across the polished floors.

Wanda walks beside Vision with an easy familiarity that has grown over time rather than appearing all at once. Her shoulder brushes his arm every few steps without either of them noticing. She carries a small paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of simple white flowers in the other. The flowers were Vision’s idea. Wanda had teased him the entire drive over about them.

“You know she is not the queen of England,” she says now, glancing at the bouquet with a playful tilt of her head. “You did not need to bring flowers like you are visiting royalty.”

Vision glances down at them as if reconsidering the entire concept of flowers.

“It seemed appropriate,” he replies in his usual calm tone. “Most people appear to enjoy receiving them.”

Wanda laughs softly under her breath. The sound echoes lightly down the hallway.

“She does. I am just teasing you.”

They reach the door at the end of the corridor. Wanda pauses for a moment before pushing it open. She always does. Even on good days there is a small knot of uncertainty in her chest when she steps inside. Some days Magda is distant, her mind wandering somewhere unreachable. Other days she is clear and warm and so unmistakably herself that it almost hurts.

Today is one of the good days.

Magda sits near the window in a comfortable chair, sunlight pooling gently across her lap. A blanket is draped over her knees, though the room itself is warm. Her hair has been brushed carefully by the nurses and falls neatly around her shoulders. She looks smaller than she once did but there is still a quiet dignity in the way she carries herself.

Her eyes lift when the door opens.

Recognition comes almost instantly.

“Wanda,” she says softly.

Wanda’s face lights up in a way it rarely does anywhere else.

“Hi, Mama.”

She crosses the room quickly, setting the bag and flowers down on the small table before leaning down to kiss Magda’s cheek. Vision follows a step behind, moving with the quiet grace that always seems to accompany him.

Magda notices him immediately.

“You brought the quiet one again,” she says, her voice touched with faint amusement.

Wanda rolls her eyes affectionately.

“He insists on coming.”

Vision inclines his head politely.

“I enjoy visiting,” he says simply.

Magda studies him for a moment, then gestures toward the empty chair beside her.

“You may sit. You look too polite to stand there forever.”

Vision obeys without hesitation, settling into the chair with his usual composed posture.

Wanda pulls another chair closer and sits across from them, already opening the paper bag she brought.

“I brought pastries,” she announces proudly. “Not from Pietro. These ones are actually edible.”

Magda chuckles softly at that.

“That is good. Your brother’s cooking always worried me.”

Wanda begins arranging the pastries on a small plate while filling Magda in on small things happening in her life. The conversation is light and easy. Wanda talks about a new project at the company, about Pietro’s latest chaotic idea for their birthday, about a movie she and Vision watched the night before.

Vision listens quietly, occasionally adding a comment or answering when Magda directs a question toward him.

The room feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the sunlight.

After a while Wanda glances toward the empty cups on the small tray near Magda’s chair.

“I should get tea,” she says, standing. “The cafeteria downstairs has that lemon one you like.”

Magda nods approvingly.

“That would be nice.”

Wanda gathers the empty cups and then glances between Vision and her mother with playful suspicion.

“Do not let her interrogate you while I am gone,” she tells Vision lightly. “She has a habit of doing that when I leave the room.”

Vision smiles faintly.

“I will do my best.”

Wanda leans down to kiss Magda’s cheek again before heading toward the door.

“I will be back in five minutes.”

The door closes softly behind her.

For a moment the room is completely still.

The quiet that follows feels different from the earlier warmth. Not uncomfortable, but more deliberate. Magda watches Vision with thoughtful eyes, the faintest crease forming between her brows as she studies him.

Vision does not seem uneasy under the attention. He sits calmly with his hands folded loosely in his lap, posture straight but relaxed.

Magda breaks the silence first.

“You care for her very much,” she says.

It is not a question.

Vision answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Magda nods slightly, as if confirming something she had already suspected.

“She smiles more when you are around.”

Vision glances briefly toward the door Wanda exited through.

“That makes me very happy.”

Magda’s gaze lingers on him for another quiet moment. There is something perceptive in the way she looks at people, as though she is measuring not only their words but the weight behind them.

She folds her hands neatly over the blanket resting on her knees.

“My daughter needs patience.”

Vision listens carefully, sensing that the conversation has shifted into something more meaningful than simple observation.

Magda studies him again, quieter this time.

“And you understand her?” she asks gently.

Vision considers the question before answering.

“I believe I am still learning,” he says. “But I want to understand her as much as I can.”

Magda’s expression softens.

“That is the correct answer.”

Magda does not speak immediately after that. The quiet stretches, gentle but deliberate, like the slow pause between breaths. Vision remains still in his chair, his attention entirely on her, waiting without impatience. Outside the window the afternoon light shifts slightly, softening into a deeper gold as the sun drifts lower.

Magda studies him in a way that is not unkind but searching.

It is the gaze of a mother who has spent decades learning how to read people, who has watched allies and rivals and strangers pass through her life. The stroke may have taken many things from her, but it has not taken that instinct.

“You answer carefully,” she says at last.

Vision tilts his head slightly.

“I try to answer honestly.”

“That is not always the same thing.”

Her tone carries no accusation, only observation.

Vision considers that for a moment before responding.

“You are correct,” he admits.

Magda nods faintly, satisfied by the admission.

Through the partially open door, distant sounds from the hallway drift faintly into the room. A cart rolling across tile. A nurse speaking softly to someone further down the corridor. Life continuing in quiet rhythms outside the walls of this small space.

Magda’s attention returns to Vision.

“You have known my daughter for some time now,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And you have seen her at the company.”

“I have.”

A faint crease appears between Magda’s brows.

“She works very hard there.”

Vision does not answer immediately. He chooses his words carefully.

“Yes,” he says finally. “She does.”

Magda’s eyes soften slightly.

“She always did,” she murmurs.

For a brief moment her gaze drifts toward the window, as though she is seeing something beyond the city skyline.

“She was always the one who tried to make everyone happy,” she continues quietly. “Even when she was very small.”

Vision listens attentively.

“She would follow her older sister everywhere,” Magda adds with the faintest trace of a smile. “Always trying to help. Always trying to make things lighter.”

The smile fades gently.

“She still tries to do that.”

Vision glances again toward the door where Wanda left.

“Yes,” he says softly.

Magda studies him again, more closely now.

“You see these things,” she says.

It is not quite a question.

“I try to,” Vision replies.

Magda seems to weigh that answer carefully.

The silence returns for another moment, though it feels less uncertain now.

Finally, she leans back slightly in her chair, her hands resting calmly over the blanket.

“And yet,” she says quietly, “I do not think that is the only reason you came with her today.”

Vision’s gaze returns fully to her.

There is no accusation in her voice, only quiet awareness.

He straightens slightly in his chair.

“You are correct,” he says.

Magda waits.

Vision inhales slowly, not out of nervousness but out of respect for the weight of what he is about to say.

“Mrs. Maximoff,” he begins.

Magda raises one hand gently.

“You may call me Magda,” she says. “Anyone who cares for my daughter deserves that much.”

Vision inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“Magda.”

He pauses for a moment, choosing his words with the same careful precision that defines much of his nature.

“There is something important I wished to speak with you about.”

Magda watches him quietly, patient.

Vision’s voice remains calm, but there is a depth to it now that was not present before.

“Your daughter has become one of the most important people in my life,” he says.

Magda does not interrupt.

“She is compassionate in ways that many people overlook,” Vision continues. “She brings warmth into every room she enters, even when she does not realize she is doing so.”

Magda’s gaze softens just slightly.

Vision’s eyes drift briefly toward the door again.

“She also carries more responsibility than she should,” he adds.

Magda says nothing, but something in her expression shifts.

Vision continues.

“When I am with her, I see the parts of her that the world often misses,” he says. “The humor. The kindness. The way she tries to take care of everyone around her.”

He looks back at Magda fully now.

“And I care for her very deeply.”

The words settle quietly into the room.

Magda studies him without speaking.

Vision folds his hands together loosely.

“Her birthday is approaching,” he says after a moment.

Magda’s eyes flicker with quiet recognition.

“Yes,” she says.

Vision’s voice remains steady.

“I intend to ask her to marry me.”

The words are spoken simply, without dramatic flourish.

Magda does not react immediately.

Vision continues before she can respond.

“I plan to ask her on that day,” he explains. “If she is willing.”

His gaze remains respectful, unwavering.

“But before I ask Wanda,” he says carefully, “I wished to speak with you.”

Magda remains very still.

Vision’s tone softens slightly.

“You know her better than anyone,” he says. “And I respect the role you have played in her life.”

He pauses briefly.

“I would like your blessing.”

The quiet that follows is deeper than before.

Outside the room, footsteps pass along the corridor.

Inside, Vision waits patiently, his hands still folded, his posture composed.

Magda’s eyes remain fixed on him.

She does not answer yet.

For a long moment she simply studies Vision, the way someone studies a landscape they once knew well but have not seen in many years. The silence between them stretches gently, not tense, not uncomfortable, but deliberate. Outside the window the sunlight continues its slow descent, the golden glow softening into a quieter evening hue.

Vision does not rush her. He remains exactly as he is, hands folded calmly, posture straight, gaze attentive. Patience has never been difficult for him. Magda finally exhales softly.

“You are very brave,” she says. Vision tilts his head slightly. “Brave?” he asks. “Yes.” Her voice carries the faintest trace of amusement, but it fades quickly into something more thoughtful. “Most people would ask Erik first,” she continues. “He is louder. More intimidating. Easier to mistake for the gatekeeper of this family.” Her eyes drift briefly toward the window before returning to Vision.“But you asked me.”

Vision answers simply. “You are her mother.” Magda nods once, accepting the answer. “Yes.” She shifts slightly in her chair, adjusting the blanket across her lap with slow careful movements. “You say you love Wanda,” she continues quietly. “And I believe you do.” Her gaze sharpens just slightly. “But loving her is not the difficult part.”

Vision listens without interruption.

Magda’s eyes soften as she speaks again. “When Wanda was a child she believed the world was made of kindness,” she says. “She thought everyone deserved forgiveness. She thought every problem could be solved if people simply spoke to one another long enough.”

A faint smile appears on her lips. “She used to bring home injured birds,” Magda adds. “Stray cats. Once she tried to rescue a fox that had wandered too close to the garden.” Vision allows himself the smallest hint of a smile at that. And Magda notices.

“She has always had that heart,” she continues. “Too gentle for the kind of world my husband built.” The words are not bitter. Only tired. “You have seen our company,” she says. “You understand the environment Wanda works in now.” “Yes,” Vision replies softly. Magda nods acknowledging that. “Then you know what it demands.” Her gaze drifts briefly toward the door again, the direction Wanda had gone.

“She tries very hard,” Magda says quietly. “Harder than most people realize.” There is pride in her voice, but also something else.

“She stays because she believes it is expected of her,” she continues. “Because she loves her family. Because she does not want to disappoint anyone.” Her fingers tighten slightly against the blanket. “But this world was never meant for her.”

The words fall into the room with gentle certainty. Vision does not dare to interrupt. Magda looks back at him. “Her sister understands it,” she says. “The company. The pressure. The endless calculations.”

A shadow passes briefly across her expression.

“Your Wanda does not.”

There is no criticism in her tone. Only quiet truth.

“She feels too much,” Magda continues. “She sees people where others see opportunity. She hesitates when others would strike.” Magda shakes her head faintly. “That kind of heart does not survive well in boardrooms.” Vision considers her words carefully as Magda continues speaking before he can respond. “One day,” she says softly, “Wanda will leave the company.” She does not phrase it as speculation. It is simply a certainty. A truth unspoken yet carved in stone.

“I have known it for years,” she adds. Her gaze drifts again toward the door. “She will try to stay longer than she should,” Magda says. “Out of loyalty. Out of guilt.” Her voice grows slightly quieter.

“And when she finally walks away, she will believe she has failed us.” Vision’s brow furrows slightly. And as always, Magda notices that too.

“Yes,” she says gently. “She will think she disappointed her father. Her sister. Her brother. Everyone.” She sighs softly. “That is the burden of being kind in a family built on strength.”

For a moment neither of them speaks as the evening light deepens in the room.

Magda finally looks back at Vision, her gaze steady again. “That is the moment you must be ready for,” she says. Vision leans forward slightly, giving her his full attention. “When that day comes,” Magda continues, “she will need someone who tells her the truth.” Her voice grows firm despite its softness. “That she did not fail.”

“That she simply chose a different life.”

Vision nods slowly. Magda studies him carefully.

“You must understand this,” she says. “If you marry Wanda, you are not only marrying the woman she is now.”

Her eyes soften.

“You are marrying the girl she was. The girl who still believes the world can be kind.”

She pauses, letting the words settle.

“And you are marrying the storm she will become when she realizes it often is not.” Vision remains quiet, absorbing every word.

Magda’s voice softens again. “She will need someone strong enough to stand beside her when that moment comes.” Her gaze searches his face. “Not someone who tries to change her.”

“Someone who reminds her she was right to believe in kindness after all.”

Another quiet moment passes as Magda leans back slightly in her chair.

“You say you love her,” she repeats gently.

Vision meets her gaze.

“I do.”

Magda watches him for another long moment. Then, slowly, a small warm smile appears. “Good,” she says.

Finally Vision inhales slowly. When he speaks, his voice is calm as it always is, but there is a softness to it now that reveals something deeper.

“I understand what you are telling me,” he says.

Magda watches him closely as he continues.

“When I first met Wanda, I was struck by how naturally she cares for others. It is not something she performs. It is simply part of who she is.”

He glances briefly toward the door again where Wanda disappeared down the hallway.

“She notices when someone is uncomfortable before they speak. She remembers details about people most would overlook. She tries to ease tension even when she herself is tired.”

Magda listens without interrupting. Vision’s expression shifts slightly, the faintest hint of warmth appearing in his eyes.

“Those qualities are rare,” he continues. “And they are often misunderstood.”

Magda nods faintly. “Yes,” she says.

Vision leans forward slightly now, resting his forearms gently against his knees.

“I do not see her kindness as weakness,” he says. His tone grows more certain. “I see it as strength.”

Vision continues speaking, his voice steady and sincere.

“The world she works in may not value that kind of strength. But that does not make it less important.”

He pauses briefly.

“In truth, I believe it makes it more important.”

Magda’s gaze softens slightly.

Vision’s tone becomes gentler now.

“I love Wanda not because of the role she plays in your family or the position she holds within the company.”

He allows a small pause.

“I love the person she is when she forgets she must be responsible for everyone else.”

Magda’s eyes flicker with recognition.

“When she laughs without thinking. When she becomes excited about something small and simple. When she speaks passionately about people she cares about.”

A faint smile touches his expression.

“She is extraordinary in those moments.”

Magda remains very still, absorbing his words.

Vision straightens slightly again.

“If the day comes when she believes she has disappointed her family,” he says quietly, “then I will remind her that her family loved her long before she worked for them.”

His voice remains calm but unwavering.

“And if she chooses a different life, I will stand beside her while she builds it.”

Another moment of quiet passes.

Vision looks directly at Magda.

“I cannot promise that life will always be easy,” he adds.

“But I can promise that she will never face those moments alone.”

Magda studies him for a long time after that.

Vision waits patiently. He does not rush her. After a while Magda exhales softly.

“There is something you should know,” she says. Vision tilts his head slightly, attentive. “I have watched many people come into this family,” she continues. Her voice carries a quiet authority now.

“Business partners. Rivals. Friends who hoped to become something more.”

She shakes her head faintly.

“Most of them were drawn to our name. Our influence. Our power.”

Her eyes return to Vision. Magda shifts slightly in her chair, her gaze steady.

“My husband would ask different questions,” she says. “He would want to know your plans. Your ambitions. Your ability to protect this family’s interests.” She pauses. “But I am not asking those questions.” Vision listens quietly. Magda’s smile grows warmer.

“I am asking whether you will protect her happiness.”

Vision answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Magda studies him one last time. The silence stretches just long enough for the weight of the moment to settle. Then she nods slowly.

“Then you have my blessing.”

The words land softly but with unmistakable certainty.

Vision exhales quietly, relief flickering briefly across his composed expression. Magda’s smile deepens just slightly. “You may ask her,” she says. Vision inclines his head respectfully.

“Thank you.”

Magda lifts one hand gently, stopping him before he says anything further.

“There is only one thing I ask in return.”

Vision waits as Magda’s voice softens again, returning to the tone of a mother rather than a matriarch.

“Take care of my girl.”

Vision’s answer is immediate.

“I will.”

Magda nods, satisfied.

Outside the hallway footsteps approach again, faint but familiar.

Wanda is returning.

Magda leans back comfortably in her chair, her expression settling into calm neutrality. Vision sits upright once more, his usual composure returning though something in his eyes has changed.

The door handle begins to turn.

The city lights blur past the car window like smudged paint as your driver navigates the late-night streets. You don’t remember when you stopped noticing the skyline. Your reflection in the glass stares back, sharp and hollow-eyed. The CEO. The sister. The ghost of what a happier version of you used to be. 

The elevator ride is silent. You press your thumb to the scanner, and the doors slide open to a hallway so quiet you could hear a pin drop or rather a speedster vibrating through the walls. But tonight, there’s nothing. Just the muffled hum of the building settling around you. Your heels click against the hardwood, measured and deliberate. Keys materialize in your hand before you reach the door. Muscle memory.

Inside, the apartment smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something burnt. The lights are off, but the glow from the skyline paints the living room in blues and golds. Home. Or whatever approximates it when you spend more hours in the office than anywhere else. You toe off your shoes, leave your briefcase by the door. 

Three steps into the kitchen, you freeze. 

Chaos.

Not disaster, just Pietro’s particular brand of enthusiasm, which is somehow worse. The counter looks like a paper bomb detonated. Sticky notes cling to the cabinets like barnacles. A pen rolls lazily near the island, abandoned mid-thought. Notebooks sprawl open, pages splayed like wounded birds. You pinch the bridge of your nose. 

"Christ, Pietro." 

You pick up the nearest sheet. The handwriting is a hurricane of words. They are slammed onto the page as if they’d bolt if given half a chance. At the top, scrawled in all caps: BIRTHDAY PLAN (DO NOT TOUCH, SESTRA, I MEAN IT). 

You snort. Underneath is a list:

- Lights (the spinny ones Wanda likes?? But does she?) 

- Music (not the sad shit) 

- Cake (LEMON. FROM THAT PLACE.) 

- More cake (backup cake) 

The next page has a doodle that might be a cake or possibly a nuclear reactor. Three lopsided tiers, something erupting from the top. EPIC CAKE, it declares, underlined twice. You set it down, lips twitching. 

Another sheet slides under your fingers, which is much neater. A list titled ‘Things Wanda Actually Likes (Not Just What I Thinks She Likes)’. 

- That piano piece from the black-and-white movie she watches when she’s sad 

- Lemon cake from the bakery on 8th (NOT the one with the weird frosting) 

- Those paper lanterns from the festival last summer 

Your throat tightens. You flip to the next page. Names. Dozens of them. Old college friends, professors, even the grumpy neighbor from her first apartment. All people she’s mentioned offhand, all people Pietro somehow remembered.

You exhale slowly. 

This isn’t just a party. It’s a grenade of love lobbed into the quiet of Wanda’s life. Pietro’s way of saying ‘I see you’ when words fail.

You drag a chair out and spread the papers like a conspiracy board. Venue options range from “rent out the botanical gardens” to “maybe the roof?? (weather check needed).” The guest list swells and contracts like a living thing. At one point, he’s circled ‘EVERYONE’ with a note: ‘Or is that weird?’

You grab a pen.

Three hours later, the chaos has shape. Your neat columns march beside his frantic scribbles. The venue: secured. The guest list: trimmed but not butchered. The cake order: placed (with a backup, because Pietro wasn’t wrong). 

You lean back. The kitchen clock ticks. The city winks beyond the glass. 

On top of the stack, the epic cake doodle grins up at you. You trace the jagged lines with your thumb. 

Tomorrow, you’ll tell Pietro his plan needs work. Tonight, you let the mess linger.