I'm human and fantastic

The difference between the way Wanda had been treating you then to now didn't go unnoticed.

And it wasn't only to you, but most people at work too — even if she happened to be softer with you.

She no longer barked orders with her usual clipped perfectionism. Her sharp tongue—once so ready to correct, to bite—had softened. Especially when it came to you.

Now, she’d appear beside your desk with a coffee, your name carefully written in sharpie. Or she’d lower her voice just for you during meetings, protect you from interruptions, listen more than she spoke when it was your ideas being discussed.

And when someone called you “Maximoff’s wife” too casually in the break room, she didn’t correct them.

She smirked instead.

“You didn't always defend me this hard.” You stated one afternoon with a teasing smile, after a client had tried to take credit for your work and she’d shut it down in three terrifying sentences.

Wanda didn’t look up from her tablet. “Well, now you’re mine and I don’t let people underestimate what or who belongs to me.”

You flushed.

She tilted her head, “What? Too much?”

You nodded while biting your lip.

She leaned over the desk and whispered, “You like it when I’m too much.”

And God, you did.

She’d become touchier, too.

Casual. Intentional. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Her fingers would trail down your spine as she walked past you. She’d fix your necklace gently during elevator rides. She’d rest a hand on your thigh during meetings that didn’t require full attention.

No one said anything. But they all saw.

The first time she made love to you wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t after champagne or after a gala. It was a quiet evening. Rain. A slow movie neither of you paid attention to. You were wearing her sweatshirt. She was lying behind you on the couch, arm curled around your waist, lips against your neck.

And then she whispered, “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long.”

You turned, heart already thudding. “Then do it.”

Her breath hitched.

And she did.

Not with urgency—but reverence.

You sat up on your knees as she stood at the edge of the bed, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp. You watched her eyes sweep over you like she was memorizing the moment.

“Take it off for me,” She said softly, fingertips brushing the hem of the hoodie.

You obeyed, taking your time so she could see you in all your bare glory.

Wanda inhaled slowly, gaze locked to every inch of revealed skin like it was a gift meant only for her. “You’re so beautiful.”

Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard. She stepped closer and pressed her lips to your shoulder. “You don’t know how long I’ve imagined this. How careful I wanted to be.”

Her hands moved slowly—along your hips, waist, over the soft parts of you like she was learning you through touch alone. She kissed you. Deeply. Lazily. Like she wanted to taste how loved you felt.

Then she sank to her knees in front of you.

Right there, at the edge of the bed.

You let out a soft gasp. “Wanda…”

She looked up—eyes dark, lips parted in awe.

“I’ve thought about this every time you said my name,” she whispered. “I want to worship you. Let me?”

Your legs trembled.

She kissed your inner thigh, slowly. Her hands never left your skin. She took her time—no rush, no teasing. She wanted you undone gently.

You leaned back as her mouth pressed where you were softest—her tongue warm, her lips patient, her rhythm unhurried and devastatingly sweet. You gasped her name. Again.

Wanda held you like a secret. She murmured praises between every pass of her tongue, told you how good you tasted, how beautiful you sounded, how much she wanted you to fall apart for her.

And when you did—shaking, calling her name, hand tangled in her hair—she kissed your thigh once more, then climbed up to hold you against her.

You lay tangled together, bare and quiet.

She held you with her arms curled protectively around your back. Her face pressed against your hair.

You felt her smile against your skin.

“You okay?” she asked, voice hoarse.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered.

Wanda was quiet for a long second.

Then she said, very softly:

“Good. Because I’ve been in love with you since the moment you told me to stop micromanaging your calendar.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pulling her closer.

No cameras. No lies. No contract.

Just two people who took the long way to get here.

. . .

It started with a headline.

“Maximoff Marriage a PR Move? Sources Claim ‘It Was Never Real.’”

Then came the articles. The speculations. The anonymous interviews from former employees. The dissected timelines. Paparazzi shots, blurred and cropped and ripped out of context.

By noon, your office felt like a war zone.

Phones were ringing off the hook. PR teams scrambled. Someone outside your door was crying. And you—God, you just sat frozen in your chair, eyes stuck on the same headline over and over.

It wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.

You loved her. She loved you. That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t. Not here. Not in a world built on image and deals and loopholes with price tags.

Your hands trembled as you shut your laptop.

Wanda burst into the office twenty minutes later.

Her coat still on. Hair windswept. Jaw clenched. She looked at you like she’d already scanned the building for anyone who dared speak your name.

“Did anyone talk to you?” she asked, voice low.

“No.”

“Touch you?”

“No.”

She stepped forward. “Lie to you?”

You shook your head slowly. “Not yet.”

She exhaled, hard. Like her lungs had been full of knives.

Then she knelt in front of your chair and took your shaking hands in hers.

“I’m going to fix this.”

You swallowed. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Her grip tightened slightly, her thumbs brushing your knuckles. “This isn’t damage control anymore. I’m not protecting a company. I’m protecting you.”

Your throat tightened.

“But they’re going to call it a fraud,” you whispered. “They’ll say it was illegal—”

“Then I’ll tell them I married you because I fell in love with the girl who used to curse under her breath whenever I corrected her emails.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“And if they ask for proof,” she added, “I’ll show them every moment you slept in my arms. Every cup of coffee I made for you. Every time I looked at you and forgot how to be the person they wanted me to be.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your chest ached—with love, with fear, with the overwhelming truth of her.

Wanda stood.

“I’m doing a press conference.”

You stood too. “What?”

“I’m ending the questions. No spin. No script. Just the truth.”

“You hate press conferences.”

She smiled faintly. “Not when I have something real to say.”

The conference was called for 5:00 PM sharp.

You watched from backstage—heart pounding in your ears—as she stepped up to the mic in a black suit, no jewelry, no smile.

She looked the world dead in the eye and said:

“Yes. Our marriage began as a legal solution. But the truth is—what started as convenience became the most important thing in my life. I fell in love. Deeply. Entirely. And not for publicity. Not for protection. But because she changed me. Made me want to be softer. Made me want to stay.”

Flashbulbs.

Gasps.

You covered your mouth with both hands.

And then Wanda said, clearly, evenly:

“If anyone wants to call it fake, they can. But the only thing that ever felt real to me—truly real—was her.”

That night, you found her sitting on the couch barefoot, wine untouched, press conference already a wildfire online.

She looked up as you approached.

You crossed the room and sat in her lap.

Wanda buried her face in your shoulder, exhaled like she'd finally made it home.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did.”

“Why?”

She lifted her head, her voice rough and low:

“Because I won’t lose you trying to protect the version of me that was too scared to be known.”

You kissed her—slow, grateful, full of everything you couldn’t say when the world was watching.

And when you pulled away, she whispered:

“Only if you stay.”

You smiled, kissed her again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

. . .

Wanda proposed in the kitchen.

No diamonds, no fanfare or big speech.Just pancakes, soft bed hair and morning sunlight.

You were barefoot in one of her robes, humming to yourself while flipping breakfast. The pom yipped under the counter, chasing a cherry tomato you’d dropped.

Wanda walked in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. She pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and whispered:

“Do you want to marry me again?”

You blinked.

She added, softly, “For real. No deadlines. No paperwork. Just… you and me.”

You turned, slowly.

Her eyes were bare. Not nervous—hopeful.

And in your chest, your heart bloomed.

You smiled. “Ask me properly.”

Wanda dropped to one knee on the kitchen tile.

And you said yes before she even got the words out this time.

The wedding wasn’t big.

But it was beautiful.

A garden in early spring. Candlelit tables. No press. No sponsors. Just people who mattered—Peter, a few close friends, her brother, and others you’d come to love during this strange, slow transformation of a life.

Wanda insisted on handling most of it.

“I want to build this day with you,” she told you, sketching floral arrangements at 1 a.m. while your pom dozed on her lap.

You picked the venue. She chose the food.

She hated cake, but let you have two layers of vanilla anyway, just because you loved it.

And the dog?

He was the ring bearer.

He trotted down the aisle in a tiny satin bowtie, carrying a velvet pouch clipped to his harness. The crowd laughed. You nearly cried.

Your dress was soft ivory. Hers was white.

No veil. Just a simple crown of silver in her hair, and a look on her face like she couldn’t believe she got to keep you.

When you met her at the altar, she whispered:

“You look like something I never thought I deserved.”

You leaned in. “And you look like home.”

There were vows.

God, the vows.

Yours, written on a napkin weeks ago during a subway ride, shook when you read them. You told her that she changed you. That she taught you what love looked like when it was quiet, slow, and chosen every day.

Wanda’s were simpler—but hit just as hard.

“I’ve built empires, survived collapses, burned things down to start over but the only thing I’ve ever built that I never wanted to run from… is you.”

You cried.

So did she.

Peter clapped too early and made everyone laugh.

The kiss—your second first kiss as wives—was different. The first had been a performance. This one was a promise. And Wanda kissed you like she’d never have to let go again.

Later, at the reception, you found her barefoot in the grass with the pom in her arms. Her heels were somewhere forgotten, her dress slightly wrinkled, her makeup smudged just beneath her eyes.

She looked radiant.

“You good, Miss Maximoff?” you asked, wrapping your arms around her waist from behind.

She leaned into you. “I’m great, Mrs. Maximoff.”

The dog gave a little bark and pawed at your chest. You took him from her, kissed his head, and whispered, “You were perfect, buddy.”

Wanda smiled. “He’s getting a whole steak later.”

“He’ll explode.”

“He died a hero, then.”

That night, back home, she undressed you like a song she knew by heart. Kissed your ring finger between each layer.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Not because I have to. Because I want to.”

You touched her face.

“I know.”

And when you made love that night, it wasn’t the first time — but it was the first time you did it as two people who finally got to keep each other.

No conditions or contracts.

No pretending, just love.

And a little dog sleeping at the foot of the bed, snoring like he owned the world.

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

When Natasha first sees you, she swears her brain short-circuits.

Despite her seemingly endless protests, Yelena’s puppy dog eyes and guilt tripping, stating that she needs her responsible big sister to be her designated driver and make sure she gets home safe, wins out. Yelena has dragged her to some asinine frat party, additionally claiming that Natasha needs to get out more. With the promise of not abandoning her, they both duck into Natasha’s car, arriving well after the party has begun, loud music able to be heard as they pull up to the curb outside the house, colored lights flashing through the windows.

Yelena’s promise is promptly forgotten upon entering the house as she immediately scurries off to find her friends, leaving Natasha alone to awkwardly hover by the doorway, glancing around for anyone recognizable. But, when one’s main friends are textbooks and class syllabi, it makes sense that one wouldn’t spot a familiar face in a place like this.

You’re talking with your own friends, something about how bullshit today’s chemistry midterm was, when you glance up at the front door opening once again. People have been in and out all night, but your eyebrows raise at just how cute and out of place one of the new arrivals looks.

Your friend is mid-sentence, mid-word, but you find yourself interrupting anyway, your focus now completely on the glasses-clad girl across the room. “Hold on…” you mutter under your breath, your complete lack of interest in the conversation blatant, and then you’re walking away without any further explanation. You approach Natasha, never having seen her around one of these parties, or even campus, before. You definitely would have remembered a face like hers.

“Trying to find someone? You seem a bit lost.”

Natasha’s eyes immediately widen as she takes you in, her gaze drifting up and down. She just can’t help it. You’re pretty, so very pretty, and you’re talking to her. She shoves her now shaking hands into her pockets self-consciously, finding herself uncertain what to do with them. “Um, no, no. Not necessarily. Just here with my sister.”

“Who’s your sister?” you ask.

“Yelena.”

“Ah, yes, Yelena.” You chuckle at the name, knowing her, knowing her reputation, “I didn’t know she had a sister.”

Natasha flushes at that, her invisibility all too real to her. She’s always been this way, gone by like this, unnoticed, unidentifiable, simply a spectator to all life has to offer outside of her studies, letting the social aspect of college pass her by.

“Oh, yeah,” she mumbles, not quite sure what to say to that.

“So, what’s your name, Yelena’s sister?”

Your attempt at keeping the conversation going only flusters her further. “Natasha,” she answers, all of her focus on not stuttering.

“Well, Natasha, I like your glasses… and that blush is a good look on you.”

Natasha’s face turns three shades redder, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“So, you’re drinking at a party like this?” Natasha asks after a few minutes of you pulling the conversation. It’s not that she isn’t trying, she is, but she’s finding that something as simple as talking is a challenge when your attention is on her.

You glance down at your red solo cup in hand, raising an eyebrow at her question. “It would appear so.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Not sure,” you say indifferently with a shrug, swirling the miscellaneous pink liquid, “Whatever the fuck is in jungle juice.”

Natasha’s brows furrow, your answer making her uneasy. You don’t even know what you’re consuming right now? It could be anything, and she’s heard that mixing alcohol can make a hangover worse. “You really should be careful with that stuff. It’s probably strong, and anything can happen at parties like this.”

You give her an incredulous look. Is the cute girl really lecturing you on your drinking habits at a college party?

“Don’t worry your pretty head, Natasha. I can handle my liquor.”

“I’m just saying, the effects of alcohol on the body are basically endless. It can lead to impaired coordination, hypotension, respiratory distress-” Natasha’s eyes are pointed at the ceiling as she concentrates, rattling off the list in a way that makes it seem as though she’s memorized the WebMD page for ‘How Alcohol Affects Your Body’.

As fascinated as you are by her ability to recite something so seemingly useless by memory, you interject. “Natasha, in the nicest way possible, I don’t know you, and I don’t need you parrot the clinical signs of alcohol poisoning or scold me on my life choices.”

Natasha immediately knows she’s screwed up. “Wait, I didn’t mean-”

“I’ll see you around, yeah? Tell Yelena I said ‘hello’ if you run into her.” And then you’re walking away, leaving her standing there still by the front door, kicking herself for her faux pas.

Natasha can’t stop staring at where you were just moments ago. Did she really just reprimand you, a girl she just met, for what’s considered normal college behavior? What was she thinking? Of course, you’re drinking. It’s a frat party, for god’s sake. Yelena has definitely told her before that frat parties aren’t any fun without alcohol… not that Natasha thinks they’re fun in general.

“You really screwed that up,” Yelena pipes up, appearing out of nowhere.

Natasha rolls her eyes, dragging a hand through her hair in agitation. It figures that Yelena would have been eavesdropping on her massive fuck up. “Fuck, I know. Don’t rub it in, Yelena.”

“She seemed into you… until you started lecturing her.”

“Yelena, I know.”

“You’ll never lose your virginity if you keep policing people, just saying.”

“Yelena.”

The party continues, lights dimmed, music blaring, bodies grinding on the dancefloor. It’s a sea of people, yet Natasha has been keeping her eyes on you the entire time she’s followed Yelena around the house like a lost puppy, nowhere else to be, no one else to talk to.

“God, could you be any more obvious?” Yelena asks, shoving her playfully.

“Be quiet,” Natasha hisses.

“You’ve been pining all night. Just go talk to her.”

“And say what? ‘Sorry for being the worst and criticizing you 20 seconds after we met. Wanna hang out sometime?’”

“Yeah, exactly that.”

“I’m not going to go over there and embarrass myself any more than I already have.”

“Suit yourself,” and then Yelena is calling out your name. You eye Yelena in a silent question from across the room, but when she waves you over, you head her way.

“Hey, Yelena,” you greet. “Natasha,” you say, slightly less friendly.

“H-hey,” Natasha stutters out.

“I see you’ve met my sister,” Yelena comments, and you let out a dry chuckle.

“Yeah, ‘met’ is one way to put it.”

“Well, she has something she wants to say to you.”

You look over at Natasha. “Is that so?” you drawl.

“I- I just-” Natasha stutters once more.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“I was wondering if you- if you wanted to hang out sometime.”

At her words, her struggle, you can’t help but smirk. She really is ridiculously cute... you know, if you overlook her preaching of the dangers of alcohol earlier this evening.

“Are you going to lecture me on my other life choices?”

“No!” Natasha exclaims quickly, scrambling to salvage anything between the two of you.

You spend the rest of the night chatting with Natasha, her stuttering gradually waning, her nervousness slowly being replaced by an enamored feeling as she spends more time with you.

As the party begins to wind down, the late hours of the night catching up to everyone, you straighten up your jacket to head home.

Natasha visibly deflates as she sees you get ready to leave, and you smile softly, taking pity on the nerdy girl that’s clearly interested in you but has no idea how to voice it.

“Wanna know another effect that alcohol has on the body?” you bring up just before walking out.

Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes in your question, genuinely trying to think of the answer, her brain running through possible solutions as if it’s a math problem. “Nausea? Vomiting? Dizzin-”

“Actually, it makes me willing to overlook your previous blunder and give you my number.”

Wanda Maximoff had been called many things in her career—intimidating, ruthless, impossibly intelligent—but “nervous” had never made the list.

Until now.

Not because the federal government was breathing down her neck with allegations of white-collar crimes and corporate fraud. Not because half the board was losing their minds in crisis meetings. Not because investors were bailing faster than rats on a sinking ship.

No. Wanda was nervous because you had just walked into the conference room.

Hair pinned back, no jewelry except your wedding ring and glasses sliding down your nose. A thick legal binder in one hand, a tablet in the other. You didn’t even look at her as you crossed the room and placed the files down at the head of the table—her seat.

You sat and Wanda realized, with a thrill she couldn’t quite explain, that you weren’t here as her wife. You were here as the head of legal.

And you were pissed.

“Maximoff Industries is facing two counts of securities fraud, possible insider trading violations, and misappropriation of corporate assets. The SEC isn’t playing around, Wanda.”

Your voice was clipped, both calm and terrifying.

Wanda leaned back in her seat, legs crossed, hiding the small smirk curling at the edge of her lips. She almost looked amused. “They can’t prove anything.”

“Not the point. Perception is reality in cases like this. You’ll testify in front of the committee in four days, and I need to untrain your CEO mouth before you tank your own defense.”

You flipped open a folder, pulled out a mock testimony script, and handed it to her.

“Read.”

“You’re being very—bossy today,” Wanda said, with deliberate slowness.

You raised a brow. “And you’re being very federally investigated.”

. . .

It was late for the rehearsal

The office lights were dimmed, skyline glowing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You were still in your heels, pacing the room as Wanda leaned against her desk with a glass of whisky in hand.

This was the third run-through.

“Miss Maximoff, can you confirm whether your CFO was aware of the offshore transfers before they were reported?”

“We had a team handling those—”

You cut her off with a serious, imposing gaze. One eye brow raised. “Yes or no.”

Wanda swallowed, if only hesistated for a moment.

You were staring at her like she was just another name in a deposition. Cold, direct, brutally effective. She swallowed again, slowly. “No.”

You nodded. “Good. Again.”

. . .

Eventually, she cracked.

“You know, this whole ‘aggressive legal dominatrix’ thing is working a little too well for me,” she said, swirling her drink. “I think you enjoy bossing me around.”

You didn’t look up from your notes. “Only option left when the stakes are federal prison.”

“Kinky.”

“Wanda.”

“Yes, Counselor?”

You finally looked at her, eyes narrowed over the rim of your glasses. “Try that kind of attitude during your testimony and I’ll let them arrest you just so I can get a vacation.”

Wanda’s heart was thudding. She was smiling like a fool.

God, oh she loved you.

. . .

Four days later, Wanda sat under the harsh lighting of the hearing room, perfectly poised, your voice echoing in her head.

“Don’t flinch, don’t even argue. Let them lead.”

Every time the prosecution thought they’d corner her, Wanda countered with rehearsed ease.

“I can’t speak to that directly.”

“That would be a question for the finance division.”

“I was made aware of that after the quarterly reports.”

You sat behind her, in the second row, arms crossed, watching. Expression unreadable.

When it was over, and Wanda walked out unscathed—no charges, no handcuffs, no damage—she found you waiting in the hallway. You weren’t smiling. Not yet.

“That was clean,” you said.

“High praise from you,” Wanda murmured, stepping closer. “Am I allowed to speak now, or do I need your written approval?”

“You can speak,” you said, lips twitching, “but only to say thank you, counselor.”

Wanda leaned in, nose brushing yours.

“Thank you, counselor,” she whispered.

Then you kissed her—finally, fully, like she wasn’t the CEO and you weren’t the head of legal but just two women who had each other’s backs through hell and fire and lawsuits.

. . .

Later That Night

“You saved the company. Saved me. How do I thank you properly?”

“Don’t say sex.”

The sokovian hummed, a grin following soon after. “...What if I show it instead?”

“God, you’re lucky I love you.” You rolled your eyes, a smile displaying on your lips.

Wanda raised a brow. “Legally binding?”

the crowd’s cheers and conversations were loud and filled with high school chants. you suppress a laugh as you walk past a group of freshmen girls who gush over the seniors.

you roll your eyes subtly but can’t help but reminisce about when you were their age. the innocence and lack of responsibility of it all reminds you of easier times.

as you walk through the bleachers, you scan the crowd for the brunette whose banana pudding you brought to the game. a small pout forms on your lips, barely noticeable, as you wonder if she decided to not come to the game at all.

that is until you feel eyes on you from the fence below the bleachers, wanda.

stood there with a smirk, she shakes her head as she laughs at you. you make your way down the bleachers to the fence with a giddy smile.

“didn’t realize me being missing would make you sulk like that,” her teasing tone only causing you to kick her shin playfully.

a laugh bubbles up at your playful defense before she gestures to the banana pudding in your hands, “for me?”

wanda’s face lights up in excitement as she realizes you came with her favorite snack. her reaction almost knocks the wind out of you, really. her normal calm and collected demeanor can go out the window sometimes when it comes to you.

you nod shyly, handing it over to you, “i make good on my promises.”

wanda takes it from you, your fingers touching for a the smallest of moments— but it’s enough for you.

“you’re so sweet, you know that?” wanda says earnestly, grabbing the spoon and digging in.

your face heats up and you force yourself to look anywhere but her face.

but while you’re looking elsewhere, wanda is watching you. she finds it comedic how you can easily fluster, but she tries her best to not always capitalize on it.

she hums to get your attention, “have some,” she holds out a spoon to your lips with the dessert on it.

you shake your head, ready to decline the offering, but not before wanda pushes the spoonful past your lips.

your eyebrows furrow as she does so, but there is not much you can do about it. a genuine laugh erupts from wanda as she watches your surprise in amusement.

after the laughter dies down and you tell her off for almost causing you to choke, she nods along politely, “mhm, whatever you say, sunshine.”

the nickname causes your ears to burn, but what causes you to almost short circuit? wanda’s touch.

her thumb ghosts along your bottom lip— slow and deliberate with her bottom lip between her teeth as she wipes a tiny bit of pudding from your lip. a giggle comes from her as she licks it off her finger, eyes connected with yours the entire time.

but it’s still just in your head, right?

“can you cook this good too, or are you just a baker?” wanda leans against the fence, left leg propped against the wire as she faces you.

your head is still reeling from what wanda just did and you just nod dumbly before you process what she just said, “i- uh, yeah, i like to cook. i can cook, yeah.”

your momentary stutter causes wanda to hold back a snort and you mentally scold yourself for tripping over your own words.

busying yourself with whatever is going on the football field, the brunette takes the moment to look over you. a warm smile comes to her face as she sees the light reflect in your eyes and the way your hair moves as you watch the plays across the field.

she opens her mouth to tease you, but is interrupted by a man’s voice.

“funny seeing you here,” he says, walking up to the two of you, “i thought you said you weren’t a sports fan.”

you turn to face him with polite expression as he walks up to where you and wanda are, “hey, coach ross. i’m still not a sports fan, but some of my students kept asking me to show up. i’m really just here for them.”

you laugh slightly as you speak, trying to add some humor into your response. wanda stays where she is, eyes flickering between the two of you with pursed lips.

his backwards cap and clipboard cause wanda to silently scoff and roll her eyes as he tries his chances with you. you hear the noise escape wanda and subtly look over only to see a forced polite smile.

coach ross looks over to wanda, “is that banana pudding? my ex wife used to always make that, it became my favorite after a while.”

wanda gives you a side eye, clicking her tongue as she bites back what she really wants to say.

turning to the coach, you brush off the comment that caused an awkward moment of silence, “yeah, i owed wanda since she’s always got my back.”

after a few more minutes of forced awkward conversation, coach ross walks off to who knows where. you glance over, already sensing the storm brewing behind wanda’s stare.

“your boyfriend seems nice,” but there’s no hint of amusement in her tone. more so laced with a tinge of disgust, something unlike wanda.

you scoff, “he’s not my boyfriend, wanda— you know that.”

she shrugs, looking away from you as she crosses her arms over her chest, “didn’t look like it from here with the way he was trying to ask you on a date.”

furrowing your eyebrows, “yeah, by comparing me to his ex wife. smooth, isn’t it?”

wanda’s lips twitch with the threat of a laugh she is barely able to hold down, “he’s a terrible flirt, jeez.”

nodding in agreement, you watch wanda’s body language. it’s almost like she’s pouting, the pursed lips and cross arms almost make her look like a child who didn’t get her way.

smiling at her with your head tilted, “didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

she meets your gaze without flinching, “ask my ex. she’d tell you otherwise.”

you blink harshly.

she?

the words settle in the air as you process what she just said. you don’t know what to say, or how to even react. wanda doesn’t look away, just watches you like she can see the gears turning in your head.

“you going to make me finish this without a drink?” she says, turning to the field.

you scoff, “you’re just going to drop that bomb and act like nothing was just said?”

“i said what i said,” she states, “now give me some water.”

you hand over your water bottle with an exasperated sigh, watching as she takes a sip from it with a sly grin on her face.

the lights of the field begin to flicker as the half time show starts.

eventually, the game ends and people are now far and few in the high school stadium.

both you and wanda stay behind after everyone has departed, looking through the bleachers for any belongings that were left behind by students.

the crowd has thinned by the time you two make it to your car. wanda’s words replay in your head as you two walk in silence, ‘she.’

wanda doesn’t say anything, just walks with her hands inside her hoodie and green eyes wandering over to the field as she leans against your car.

“that pudding must’ve put you in a trance,” you try your best to ease the air. something feels different tonight and you don’t like that.

wanda chuckles, “that and i’m still mentally recovering from watching you flirt with every coach within fifty miles.”

you glance over at wanda, eyebrows raised in surprise at her comment, “i was not flirting, maximoff.”

she scoffs and looks you dead in the eyes, “oh, you like banana pudding too? gosh, let me be your next wife!”

her voice obnoxiously high as she bats her eyelashes dramatically, mocking you. you swat her arm and cover your mouth as you burst out laughing.

teasingly, “you sound jealous.”

wanda raises an eyebrow, back to acting cool in front of you, but the pink on her cheeks tells you another story.

almost too casually— too quickly, “i’m not jealous. it just wasn’t a pleasant thing to watch.”

you watch how she avoids your gaze, finding the completely empty field much more interesting than looking at you.

“hey, what’s going on?” you place a hand on her forearm, squeezing softly to get her attention.

after a beat, she looks over to you with shrug, “i just don’t like the idea of people assuming they can have you with just a simple compliment and backwards baseball cap.”

your heart stutters. that didn’t sound like just a protective coworker.

wanda gives you a lopsided grin, not confident whatsoever. then again, wanda is not the type to have heartfelt moments. she clears her throat as she takes a step away from you and towards the direction of her own car.

“alright, get inside,” she nods to your car, clearing her throat.

you sigh, “you’re acting weird, wanda.”

she watches the way your shoulder drop, as if you were just bracing yourself for something to be said— or happen.

shaking her head with a forced laugh, “no, i just want to make sure you get home safe. i’m older than you, you know? i have to take care of you.”

that softens you. a giddy smile creeps on your face and wanda almost regrets saying what she did. but the dimple on your cheek and the twinkle in your eye makes her glad she said it.

“don’t deprive me of my you time,” you start, taking a step forward towards her and grabbing the stings of her hoodie, “we finally don’t have students interrupting our conversations or someone screaming about a fight in the hall.”

wanda swears her knees could buckle beneath her as you play with the strings of her hoodie. the way you look up at her with an innocent smile only makes her want to increase the distance more.

you’re dangerous.

wanda glances down you your hands playing with the strings, a hesitant grin on her lips, “have you been drinking?”

your face falls and you almost look offended, “what? no?”

wanda uses this moment to put some space between the two of you, “you’re just really soft right now— and whiny. it’s suspicious.”

you gasp, “i am not whiny.”

wanda laughs, playfully hitting your shoulder. the moment dies down after a few seconds and the two of you are left there in the parking lot, staring at each other with easy eyes.

“so… were you just trying to throw me off with that comment earlier? the girlfriend one?” you ask, kicking a rock with your right foot.

wanda watches as you’re fishing for an answer you desperately want to know, “no, sunshine, i wasn’t trying to throw you off.”

the pet name, without fail, causes your face to flush. you turn away from wanda, trying to act like you saw something. wanda, as always, can see through your act and grins as she sees how quickly she flustered you.

“go home,” her voice is soft as she opens the car door for you to get in, “you can think over that when you get there. let me know when you make it, okay?”

you slide into your drivers seat, still a bit dazed and flustered. you look up at her, smiling through nerves.

“wanda?”

“hm?”

“are you sure you’re not jealous?”

she leans a bit closer to you and you can almost smell the cherry chapstick and expensive perfume she always wears, “i didn’t say that.”

she closes the door with a teasing smirk and walks off to her car.