ready for disappointment

Your eyes rested on the wooden sign swaying behind the glass of the entrance. It read: "Y/L/N Workshop. 3D Sculpting / Commercial Mannequin Production. Plaster Prototypes / FRP Molding. Wood-Carved Signage. Inquiries Welcome."

You were the kind of craftsman known only to those who had sought you out. A specialist in 3D modeling and mannequin making. Your skills were solid, but you preferred to stay out of the spotlight, adhering to a philosophy of small-scale production.

Without customers, the shop was effectively closed. So, you decided to immerse yourself completely in your own hobby. You dragged a clay figure, roughly your own height, from the back of the shop onto the open floor where the light hit it.

That was how you always worked: save the eyes for last.

Until then, there is the armature─the core you build first, the skeleton everything else follows. You pack the clay around it, find the center of gravity, coax the mass into the right distribution of weight. Then, only once the form is there, you shave and scrape and refine: the height of the shoulders, the angle of the jaw, the depth of each shadow. Even though you intended to make it stand perfectly straight, a tiny bit of weight always remained on one leg. You thought about reshaping it, but decided against it.

That felt more like her.

No matter how much you try to mend things with other details, the body doesn't lie. You had learned that lesson early on. The shoulders bear weight. The hands hold on past the point of reason. And the spine curves, however slightly, toward something.

She surely wouldn't always stand perfectly. Perfection, especially in a position like hers, can sometimes become an intimidation. Besides, trying to stand perfectly all the time must be exhausting. Caught up in tremendous effort, sacrifice, and the various complications where boundaries must be drawn, she would likely wear herself down.

As you scraped the clay, you weren't looking at photos or videos. You didn't need them anymore. You remembered her every detail. The angle of her shoulders. The shadow of her collarbone. The heaviness of her eyelids when they briefly close after a battle. It wasn't something you would describe as perfect. It only hinted at a strength that was barely holding on.

Still, you liked that dignified posture where such strength seeped through. You tilted the chin up slightly. But the mouth─you didn't turn it up completely. When the light hit it, a faint shadow fell across the cheek. The version of her you were shaping was the polar opposite of the scarlet chaos she unleashed; there was a quality to her expression that was best described as serene.

That's fine, you thought. While you were making a hero, you were just giving form to your own admiration.

And yet.

Your hands hovered somewhat hesitantly, yet precisely, in front of the face you were creating. Then, slowly and carefully, you shaped the eyes you had left for last. The clay eyes didn't focus on a distant threat; they were coming into focus as if searching for a place to return to.

It wasn't a perfect form, not by any means. You didn't think of her in that way. It just felt somehow dishonest to make it symmetrical. You didn't realize that this was an expression she showed to no one.

The woman you were carving was a household name throughout the city. An icon. A red flash streaking across the sky. Something untouchable.

Fussing over the details, you redrew the lines over and over, eventually feeling satisfied enough to step away for a moment. When you returned with a steaming mug in hand, you found you didn't quite like it after all and started over again.

How much time had passed─?

The sound of the doorbell shattered your concentration. Annoyed, you wiped your hands on the front of your apron.

"Come in," you called out, followed by the sharp sound of leather shoes against the floor.

The footsteps were certain, carrying an air of arrogant composure. They approached your back. After a significant pause, you finally turned around. This was a workshop you ran steadily by yourself. You couldn't afford to be looked down upon.

The man was somewhat slim and of medium height. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a natural, casual disarray that looked stylish on him. You immediately sensed that he was wealthy.

"Can I help you with an order?"

"Yes." The man replied without hesitation─the kind of yes that required no thought, as if the conversation had already been rehearsed on his end. "A bust. Bronze. Something for the lobby─a little legacy project, you could say." He began to walk as he spoke, and something in the way his eyes moved through the shelves, the workbenches, the drying parts─unhurried, but precise─told you he wasn't seeing any of it for the first time─not in the way that mattered. He moved through the space without hesitation.

He came prepared, you thought.

When the man turned back toward you, his eyes were drawn to what was behind you. There stood the figure you had been breathing life into until just a moment ago. Something shifted in his face. "Huh," he muttered, almost to himself, and began to circle the statue. He placed a hand on his chin and narrowed his eyes to check every detail. He stared at the sculpture as if trying to burn a hole through it.

"Is this for sale?" After a moment, he asked you, his gaze still fixed on the statue.

"No," you answered immediately. "It's not for sale."

"Then, is it for a promotion? A portfolio?"

There was a beat of silence.

"I don't intend to put that on public display," you said quietly, as if drawing a careful line between the two of you.

The corners of the man's mouth, topped with a mustache, lifted slightly. He looked into the eyes of the statue. "So, this is how she looks to you."

Something in the phrasing stopped you─to you, he had said, as though the answer belonged specifically to you and no one else. The thought had no time to go anywhere. The professional worry had already moved in to replace it. Is something wrong? Was I mistaken?

"Nice, I like it." The man gave a casual shrug and looked at you. Then, he clapped his hands with a crisp, pleasant sound. "Make one of me," he grinned. "That was the plan from the start─a bust, bronze, for the lobby. But with this quality?" His gaze drifted back to the figure. "I'm thinking bigger. Some of the other guys as well." He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to you. "Let's have a meeting. Come to my place. I want to give you a formal commission. The pay will be generous." The man looked like he was about to do a little dance.

And then, it finally clicked. The man in front of you was someone you had seen countless times on the television screen.

As you stood there, stunned and expressionless, the man─Tony Stark─flashed a grin. Then, he looked at the sculpture one last time. "The results are so good, it makes me want to show it to her myself," he said, letting out a laugh. His face looked as though he had just found the ultimate entertainment.

---

You watched from the doorway until the street took him, then went back to the workshop and didn't stop moving for the rest of the afternoon.

There was plenty to do. The commission had expanded considerably, and the organizational work alone─revised timelines, updated material estimates, a second sketchbook pulled from the shelf─was enough to fill the remaining hours. You filled them.

At some point in the evening, you stopped.

The results are so good, it makes me want to show it to her myself.

You had filed that away when Stark said it. At the time, it had seemed like the kind of thing he said─slightly too much, meant to land. You had let it land and moved on. He knew her. Not the way the rest of the city did─not the red light in the upper atmosphere, not the name on a news ticker. He had stood beside her. Which meant when he looked at the figure and said what he said, he wasn't speaking abstractly.

You crossed to the shelf and uncovered the figure.

The clay had been wrapped─damp cloth first, then plastic sheeting over that─since before the commission came in. Stored correctly, at this time of year, it would hold for another month or two without losing workability. You had known that. You had been telling yourself it was close enough to let rest indefinitely. That had been accurate. It had also been convenient.

You examined the surface. The shoulder. The line of the jaw. The weight in the standing foot. Everything where you had left it.

Because Stark had said what he said, you told yourself, it made sense to move forward. That was the reason you gave yourself. You didn't look for another one.

You covered the figure again, locked up, and left.

---

The mold work happened in the margins─an hour after the day's commission work, sometimes less. The Stark bust came first. That was the correct order, and you kept to it without difficulty. A section of the mold at a time. The workshop lamp on low. You kept the radio off.

The casting required a full day uninterrupted─each pour had to follow the last within a fixed window, or the joins would show in the finished surface. You took a Saturday. Your hands moved through the sequence without consulting your memory. Mix. Pour. Wait. You used the waiting to get ahead on the commission sketchbook.

By late afternoon, the form was clear of the mold. You set it under the bench lamp and looked at it for a while. The seams were where you had expected them. A few air pockets along the collarbone─minor, addressable. The surface was rough in the way plaster always was straight from the mold: unfinished, waiting.

The face you left for last.

The cloth went over it. Turned off the bench lamp and left.

---

Standing before the sleek, rounded silhouette of Stark Industries, you felt a wave of intimidation wash over you. The afternoon following Tony Stark's visit to your workshop, he had sent a text regarding a meeting. Now, following the date and time specified in that message, you stood poised in front of Stark's headquarters.

Looking up, the summit of the building seemed to dissolve into the sky, vanishing into the blue. You caught your breath and clenched your fists tightly, attempting to mask your trembling hands. You knew that if you hesitated too long, your hard-won resolve would begin to wither. Steeling yourself, you began to stride toward the main entrance.

Passing through the glass doors, you were greeted by a space that exuded the atmosphere of a sophisticated corporate office. A painting hung directly across from the entrance─oil, precisely the right scale, a subtle playfulness in it that was easy to miss. Your attention slid past it almost immediately. Suddenly, your gaze was drawn to a particular corner of the space where several stone busts were lined up. The height of the pedestals, the distribution of weight, the tilt of the necks─by professional reflex, your eyes began to dissect the details. You only snapped back to reality when you nearly collided with a person in a suit passing nearby. You adjusted your grip on your bag and made your way to the reception desk.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice raspy with nerves, addressing a female staff member whose eyes were fixed on a screen at the counter. When you stated your name and the time of your appointment, she tapped rhythmically at her keyboard before looking up. "Conference Room Five, on the seventh floor."

After thanking her, you headed straight for the elevators. One arrived almost immediately after you called it. Several people crowded in with you. The proximity of others, close enough for shoulders to brush, made you unexpectedly tense. Contrary to your internal agitation, the elevator smoothly delivered you to your destination.

The doors slid open to reveal a corridor stretching straight into the distance. Jostled by those exiting the lift, you hurriedly stepped out.

Conference Room Five. The door featured an inset glass panel, offering a clear view of the interior. A large "5" decal was positioned slightly above the center of the glass, perfectly placed at eye level. Taking a deep breath, you knocked and opened the door.

"Pardon me."

Tony Stark was already inside. He was perched at the end of a rectangular table with an air of nonchalant ease, as if he were in his own living room. Beside him stood an individual holding a tablet, presumably an assistant. Upon noticing you, Stark raised a hand. "You made it. Have a seat."

As prompted, you sat in the chair directly across the table from him. The assistant laid out several documents: an overview of the commission, estimated deadlines, and compensation terms. You looked them over; the scope of the project was significantly more extensive than you had anticipated.

"I have something I need to clarify," you said, looking up. "Regarding the bronze casting, I'll need to engage a specialized subcontractor. I can handle everything up to the design and creation of the prototype, but I need your approval on that point."

Stark didn't seem particularly surprised and gave a casual wave of his hand. "That's fine. The prototype is what matters."

You gave a small nod, and the discussion continued: the number of figures, their scale, where they would be installed. Stark leaned forward as the conversation progressed. He became especially talkative when the subject turned to his own likeness. Taking notes, you slowly began to find your rhythm.

Once the general points were settled, Stark leaned back and crossed his arms. "One more thing," he said. "I've decided to have one of the team members drop by today as an observer. They're running a bit late due to some business on our end, but they'll be here momentarily."

Before you could ask for clarification, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Stark called out. As the door opened, you turned around reflexively.

You knew that face─it was impossible not to. It had been everywhere: news, newspapers, public discourse. She stepped inside and walked toward Stark. Her profile matched, down to the last millimeter, the contours you had traced with your fingertips in your studio.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Stark smirk.

You looked forward, dropping your gaze to the surface of the table and staring at your scribbled notes. Nothing registered.

She's real.

The obvious truth finally sank in, delayed. A figure who belonged on a television screen was now breathing the same air as you. That specific slope of the shoulder, that exact angle of the jaw you had struggled to capture in clay, existed right here, close enough to touch, if you had dared.

Stay calm. You thought. This is just work.

Yet, inside you, something entirely unrelated to work was quietly seething. The reality of the countless hours you had spent crafting her image in your workshop rushed back with a strange, heavy sense of consequence. That had been a private creation─an extension of a hobby. And yet now, the subject was standing right in front of you.

Stark spoke. "Allow me to introduce you. Serving as an observer for this commission─" he paused just long enough to enjoy the moment, "─Wanda Maximoff."

Stark's voice sounded distant. You managed to look up, intending to offer at least a polite nod. In that instant─you felt her attention before your eyes had fully risen. By the time you looked up, her gaze had already moved on. Your eyes never actually met.

You exhaled, realizing only then that you had been holding your breath.

---

By the time you looked up from the work, several weeks had passed since the meeting at Stark Industries.

After that initial meeting, you had visited Stark Industries one last time to finalize the specifications. Since then, you had hardly emerged from your workshop. Progress was steady. Capturing Tony Stark in a bust─balancing his trademark casualness with the underlying intellect─had proven slightly troublesome, but a compromise was finally taking shape in the clay.

Stark visited the workshop on a fixed schedule every few weeks. Aside from those appointments, he also dropped by whenever the mood struck him. Having retired from the Avengers and left the company to his employees, he seemed to have an abundance of time on his hands. Each time he arrived, he would wander around the studio, reaching out toward anything that piqued his interest until your intervention prompted a nonchalant shrug. He would pose questions, then shift his gaze to something else while listening to the answer. You had come to understand that this was simply how he operated.

You had noticed his gaze lingering on a sculpture that wasn't part of his commission. He never remarked on it, and you offered no explanation.

Today was a scheduled visit.

You were not, by nature, someone who welcomed the presence of others in your workspace. Clients disrupted the rhythm; their questions pulled your attention from your hands. You had always preferred the shop closed and quiet. Sitting before your workbench, smoothing the surface with a flat tool, you waited for the doorbell. Somewhere along the line, the scheduled visits had stopped feeling like interruptions.

Stark had a habit of letting things drop in passing─a preference she had for something, a reaction she'd had to something else. Nothing substantial. He never lingered on it. But by now you had accumulated, without meaning to, a small and useless collection of details that had nothing to do with the commission. You hadn't thought about why any of that had stayed with you.

A little past the appointed time, the bell chimed. He was always late. The sound of the door closing followed. Footsteps.

─Multiple people?

Puzzled, you turned around, instinctively setting your tool down on the desk, almost tossing it. All the while, your eyes were locked on the two figures entering, particularly the one following behind. Wiping your hands on your apron, you stepped away from your chair, took a breath, and exhaled. "Welcome," was all that managed to escape your lips.

"Hey, how's it going?" No apology for the tardiness. There never was. He always brushed it off with a casual greeting. Behind him, you saw Wanda Maximoff give you a slight nod of acknowledgment. Just like before, she seemed to be communicating without words.

"The work is progressing smoothly," you replied to Tony.

And then there was Wanda. She said nothing. Led by Tony, she stepped into your workshop. You watched blankly as she─and he─moved through the space.

Wanda had stepped into your studio.

"Don't mind us, keep working," Tony said breezily. With no reason to refuse, you nodded. He had visited this workshop numerous times; he knew his way around. The only thing that felt off was Wanda's presence beside him today.

Stark began to survey the studio. Wanda followed. His voice filled the room as he introduced the workshop to her, every syllable crisp and clear.

You picked up your modeling tool and turned back to the workbench, but your fingertips wouldn't move. With your back turned, your entire being was tracking their footsteps.

Tony's stride was confident. Having been here so often, he knew exactly where everything was. The moment you sensed those footsteps heading in a specific direction, you held your breath.

This is bad.

Clutching the modeling tool in one hand, you didn't─couldn't─turn around to stop him. The words failed to come. You couldn't find a single justification to intervene.

"Take a look at this," Tony said. His tone sounded as though he were showcasing one of his own creations. "Not bad, right?"

You didn't turn around. Couldn't. Clutching the modeling tool in one hand, you snapped your mouth shut, looking foolish. It was all you could do. You felt a cold sweat prickle down your spine.

Silence followed. In that stillness, you slowly risked a glance over your shoulder. Just as you feared, Wanda was standing before the sculpture. She was motionless. She said nothing. She simply stood there. You couldn't read her expression. You started to try, then stopped. You were afraid to know what her face might reveal.

Tony stood there with his arms crossed, looking satisfied. The silence lasted longer than expected. Eventually, it was Tony who broke it. "Good work, wouldn't you say?" he remarked, in a way that could have been directed at either Wanda or you. It felt less like a question and more like a simple confirmation that his perception was shared.

You didn't answer. Wanda remained silent as well. She hadn't moved an inch. From your angle, it was impossible to tell where her gaze was fixed─the face, the hands, or the piece as a whole. However, you thought her breathing had grown slightly shallow. It might have just been your imagination.

Satisfied, Tony walked over to you without another word. Leaving Wanda where she was, he began discussing the project's progress. While you responded, you continued to track Wanda out of the corner of your eye. She slowly looked away from the statue and glanced your way for a fleeting moment. Before your gazes could truly lock, you dropped your eyes back to your work.

The conversation with Tony ended quickly─a few confirmations and the date for the next session. While taking notes, you noticed Wanda's footsteps moving away from the statue.

She began to wander slowly through the workshop. The tools lined up on the shelves, small figures in the process of drying, material samples pinned to the wall. She did exactly what Tony used to do, though she didn't reach out to touch anything. She just looked.

Even as you answered Tony, you remained acutely aware of exactly where she was.

Before long, Tony glanced at his watch. "Time to head out," he called to Wanda. She nodded. Just as when they arrived, there were no words. The two of them left the workshop. The door closed.

Something had changed in the room─not in anything you could point to. You didn't move for a while. Did she take offense? You had created a likeness of her without her permission. And today, you had allowed her to see it. The question sat there.

At some point, you crossed to the far wall and laid a cloth over the figure. You picked up your tool and returned to work.

---

The night before his scheduled visit, a message came in from Tony.

"Something came up. Can't make it tomorrow. Sending Wanda in my place. Thanks."

That was it. No apology. That was the kind of man he was, and you had stopped expecting otherwise. You typed back a single word─Understood─and set the phone down. For a while, you just stared at the screen. Then you closed the message, turned back to your workbench, and kept going. You had been about to call it a night. You decided not to. Your nerves were wound too tight to sleep anyway.

Inspiration struck. That was the reason. You were going with that.

The next morning, you were up an hour earlier than usual. Your eyes had simply opened. No particular reason. That was what you told yourself.

---

The doorbell chimed right on time.

"Excuse me." Her voice was brief but clear.

You rose from your chair, wiping your hands on your apron as you crossed to the entrance. Wanda Maximoff stood just inside the doorway, one step back from the threshold. Her expression was the same as before─quiet, unreadable.

"Welcome," you said. "Come in."

She gave a small nod and stepped inside. "I appreciate your time." That was all.

As you turned to lead her further in, your eyes swept the workshop─and your stomach dropped. You had always worked alone on short-term commissions. There was no designated space for guests. How had you not thought of this before?

"Would you mind waiting a moment? I'll get something set up." The words came out faster than you intended. You watched her face.

A small nod.

Moving with more urgency than grace, you crossed to the corner of the workshop, unfolded the collapsible table propped against the wall, and set two work chairs beside it. A spare cloth went over the surface. It wasn't much. But it was everything you had to offer right now.

"Please," you said, gesturing to one of the chairs. "I'll make tea."

On the way to the small kitchen, you noticed your hands were moving too quickly. Slow down, you thought. This is work. Same as when Tony comes. It wasn't the same.

You filled the kettle and set it to boil. Pulled out two mugs. Set them down, adjusted the angle of one, left it. While you waited for the water to heat, you kept your back to the room and listened. Where was she looking? What was she thinking? You had no way of knowing.

The kettle clicked off. You poured, removed the bags, and carried both mugs to the table─setting one in front of Wanda, the other at the seat beside her.

"Before you pass along Tony's questions," you said, "I'd like to walk you through the current progress first. It might make reporting back to him a little easier."

Wanda gave a slight nod.

You stood and began moving through the workshop to gather what you needed. Just doing the job thoroughly. Material samples, a few sketchbooks pulled from the shelf, pages sorted into order. Simple tasks. They took longer than they should have.

A few times, you sensed her watching you. You kept your head down.

The workshop was quiet. Time moved strangely. A faint shift of fabric─Wanda adjusting her posture. The sound of it passed through you before you could stop it. You sensed her eyes settle on you, and this time, you were certain.

Pencil still in hand, you went still. Wanda was watching your hands. The way you held the pencil, the angle of your fingers, the lines accumulating across the open page─she was following all of it, quietly and without comment. You kept working. Pretended you hadn't noticed. Kept your head down and your hand moving. The pencil was on the page. Your attention was somewhere else entirely.

Wanda Maximoff was, from a sculptural standpoint, close to an ideal subject. A slight asymmetry existed between her left and right sides. That subtle imbalance caught light in ways perfect symmetry never could. The angle of her jaw. The depth of her collarbone. The fingers that shifted even when the rest of her was still. Every detail held its answer before you had thought to ask the question.

Beautiful, you thought.

A moment later, her gaze shifted away. You caught the change at the edge of your vision. The air in the workshop felt faintly different. Or maybe it didn't. You weren't entirely sure.

"Let's go over everything," you said.

You returned to the table and drew the work-in-progress closer. Opened a sketchbook, pencil ready, and walked Wanda through the current stage and what came next─step by step, plain language, no technical terms. She was here on Tony's behalf, and she'd need something useful to bring back to him. That mattered to you. She listened carefully. Now and then her gaze moved to the sculpture itself, settling on some detail. Her questions were few, but each one was precise.

When the walkthrough was done, she passed along Tony's items: two points of clarification on the progress, one question about material specifications. You answered each and noted them in the margin of your sketchbook.

When the last item was settled, Wanda gave a small nod. "That covers everything. I'll pass this along to Tony." She rose from her chair.

"Thank you for coming." You stood and walked her to the door.

At the threshold, she turned. Your eyes met hers. You didn't look away. The moment to do so came and went before you found it. She didn't look away either. For just a second, both of you stayed there─held in place by something neither of you had chosen. It wasn't long. But it was more certain than anything else that had happened today. Something passed between you.

Wanda held your gaze for a moment longer. Then, quietly: "Thank you." She gave a small nod and stepped out. The door closed behind her.

You cleared the table─carried Wanda's mug to the kitchen, then your own. Came back. Sat down at the workbench. For a moment, you just looked at the empty chair.

---

From the next visit on, you had the table and chairs set out before she arrived. No particular thought had gone into it. You had simply decided, at the end of the last session, that she would come again─and left them where they were. You laid a cloth over the surface. Dust would collect otherwise, and dust looked careless. Presentation was a form of courtesy to a client.

Wanda came. She was alone.

Whether that was Tony's arrangement or her own call, you didn't know. The only advance notice had been a short confirmation from Tony's assistant─a single line with Wanda's name in it. You typed a reply─I'll be here─more carefully worded than anything you would have sent Tony, and put your coffee cup in the sink. She arrived on time. The same as before.

"Please," you said. Wanda stepped into the workshop, keeping her footsteps quiet. Your eyes met. Without looking away, you stood and gestured toward the table. That it was already set up─Wanda said nothing about it. She glanced at the chair once, and sat.

"I'll make tea," you said.

"Thank you." Less of a pause than last time. You noticed, while you filled the kettle, and pretended you hadn't.

You set the tea down and turned back toward the worktable. Before you got there, Wanda spoke. "Please continue. I'm here to observe."

You stopped. Observer─the word moved through your mind. That was her role here. If this was professional observation, the correct thing was to continue working and be observed. That was simply how it worked.

"Understood," you said, and rolled up your sleeves.

The day's work was surface finishing on the plaster prototype─the first commission piece, Tony Stark's bust. You moved a fine rasp in short, careful strokes, working the surface smooth. Plaster dust collected between your fingers. You brushed it off on your sleeve. It collected again.

Wanda sat and watched your hands. Last time, you had moved around the workshop and her gaze had followed you. Today she was still. She simply sat there, watching only your hands. That stillness came through more clearly than movement would have. Something shifted faintly at the back of your neck. You didn't turn. She was observing. That was what she had come to do.

After a while, she spoke. "What happens to it, eventually? This material."

You set the rasp down─not to answer, but because the angle of the question had caught you slightly off guard. "The plaster?" you asked.

"Yes."

"This is the prototype. We take a mold from this shape and pour the bronze. The final piece will be a bronze casting. Once the mold is made, the plaster original doesn't need to be kept. Sometimes it gets disposed of."

"Disposed of."

"Yes. Once the mold is done, its purpose is finished."

Wanda was quiet. You picked up the rasp and returned to work.

"It's not─" she started. No words followed.

"I don't find it a waste," you said, before you'd decided to. Whether you were anticipating her thought or simply thinking out loud, you couldn't tell. "The piece survives in the bronze. The plaster work is there in the final form. That's enough."

No answer came. You didn't look at her. The sound of the rasp across the surface was all that continued in the workshop.

---

The next visit came a few days later. By then, Wanda coming to the workshop alone had settled into the natural order of things. Tony joined her only when something required his direct input, or when he had time to spare. You didn't ask for reasons. This was how commissions progressed. Who handled the progress checks wasn't yours to decide.

The table and chairs were already set out. You made tea and brought it over. Kept working. This visit, there was more conversation. Wanda said something; you answered. She said something else; you answered again. Gradually, a kind of space had opened between the exchanges─not quite business communication, not quite small talk, something in between.

That day, you explained the way shadow worked in sculpture. The occasion arrived naturally─Wanda's attention had caught on a plaster piece resting on the worktable, and she asked what stage it was at. You wiped your hands and stood in front of it. Wanda rose from her chair and came to stand beside you─both of you facing the same direction.

"When you make it too even," you said, tracing a finger lightly along the cheekbone, "the light becomes uniform. But a human face is slightly asymmetrical─the left and right sides take light differently. That difference is what reads as expression."

"...What changes, if it's even?"

"It goes flat. The eye slides over it. You could say the sense of a person's depth becomes harder to perceive."

Wanda was looking at the figure's face. You were looking at it too. You were looking at the same thing.

"Is that what you did─with the eyes on that one, as well." For just a moment, her gaze moved to a corner of the wall.

Your hands went still. What she meant by that one was clear. The figure standing against the far wall, under the cloth.

"...It was a judgment I made," you said.

"A judgment you made."

"Yes."

Wanda said nothing more. Neither did you. She stayed where she was. You didn't move either─not because you couldn't, but because there didn't seem to be any reason to. A car passed outside. Its sound moved thinly through the walls. For some reason, the ordinariness of it felt strangely solid.

---

The following week, the consumables ran out. The rasps were clogged. The release agent had been low since last month. A brush lost a whole cluster of bristles at once. You made a list and headed out.

On the way back from the supply shop, you turned down a side street and stopped in front of a coffee shop. At the workshop you brewed your own, or forgot to drink it entirely. Getting coffee somewhere outside was something you rarely did. You ordered at the counter and stood at the window bar facing the street. People moved past outside─different speeds, different directions. That there were this many people out on a weekday afternoon always struck you as faintly surprising. Working in the workshop, the number of people visible through the glass was limited. Every time you stepped outside, the scale of the world came back to you, the way things do when you've been indoors too long.

The coffee was hotter than expected. You waited, finished it slowly, dropped the cup in a bin on the corner, and stepped back out.

There was a park nearby. You went in. A weekday afternoon─sparse. A parent with a small child, an older man on a bench with a book, a woman walking a dog. You didn't sit. You moved along the path slowly, the supply bag hanging from one hand. You were uneasy without something to do with your hands. That much you already knew. Walking with nothing in them gave you a vague sense of displacement. You stopped near the pond. The surface moved with the wind. Time to head back, you thought, and looked up─

The light came before the sound.

The edge of the sky turned red. It was over in a moment, but it was certain. A bundle of light, close to crimson, cut between two buildings. You couldn't move. It wasn't a choice─the option simply wasn't there. People around you looked up. Someone pulled out a phone. You didn't. You knew yours was in your pocket. The thought of reaching for it never arrived.

A few seconds of quiet. Then a low, muffled sound reached you─something moving, far off. You recognized the type of sound from news footage, but hearing it move through actual air was nothing like that. It entered your body differently. The light moved again from a different angle. Near the top of a building, something traced an arc. You could make out the silhouette─you thought you could.

You understood immediately who it was. That understanding was all that remained. Who it was─just that, fixed and certain.

People began to gather. You left the park quickly. Walking back the way you came, the supply bag knocked against your arm. Rasps, release agent, brushes. The weight of them was in your hand. That much was real. That was your world.

You walked faster and returned to the workshop. Unlocked the door, set the bag by the shelf. Changed into your work clothes.

Then you stood in front of Wanda's figure. The cloth was still on it. You didn't lift it. You stood there and read the outline through the fabric. The position of the head, the angle of the shoulders, the foot bearing the weight. You traced back in your mind the light you had seen between the buildings.

It didn't match.

What was here was a still form in plaster. What had been there was force, moving through the city sky. Both had to belong to the same person─and yet however you tried, the two wouldn't come together inside your head. Whatever it would take to bridge them, you didn't have it. You reached out a hand. Stopped. You weren't sure why.

You hadn't been commissioned to make it, but you had gathered what you needed, drawn from your memory, moved your hands. What had been in that sky was a hero.

The person who opened the door of this workshop and walked in was something else.

You went to the worktable. Reached for the new rasps and swapped them for the old ones. Set them against the plaster. Moved them. The sensation of the surface smoothing came back through your palm. You focused on that. That was enough.

---

On the next scheduled visit, she arrived on time. Table and chairs already out. Tea waiting on the table. Wanda sat down.

"I'd like to go over the progress," she said.

"Of course." You turned toward the worktable and opened the sketchbook, walking her through the current stage and what came next. Clearly. Precisely. No room left for ambiguity. You kept your eyes on the table as you explained. Not toward Wanda. There was no need. Pointing to drawings and the prototype was sufficient. Sustained eye contact wasn't always required.

Her questions were fewer than before. Fewer even than the visit before that.

"When should we schedule the next check-in?" Wanda asked.

You consulted your notebook and gave her the dates. "Tony's bust should be nearly complete by then. Some of the others are taking shape."

"Understood," Wanda said.

"Any questions?"

"No."

"I'll have what's ready for you."

"...Yes."

The sound of Wanda standing. You glanced at her tea. She'd only finished half. The time before, she'd finished all of it. Maybe she wasn't feeling well. Or maybe today's visit had simply been shorter, and she hadn't gotten around to it.

You walked her to the door and opened it. Wanda stepped outside. You watched her back for a moment─just a moment. The way she held her left arm, close to her side, the movement slightly restrained. Not stiff, exactly. Careful. The door closed. Footsteps moved down the hall. Faded. Gone.

You started to clear the table and chairs, then stopped. Lately you had put them away immediately after she left. This time, you left them out a while longer. It was more efficient to have them ready for the next visit. That was your reasoning, and you returned to the worktable.

Passing Wanda's figure, the edge of the cloth caught your eye. You didn't stop. Kept going. That was all.

You sat at the worktable and picked up where you'd left off on Tony's bust. Rasp in hand, set against the surface. You moved it. Moved it again. Something was off. You couldn't locate what, not right away.

After a while, the rasp had gone still. It was in your hand, but it wasn't moving.

On an impulse, you lifted the cloth from Wanda's figure and looked at the eyes. You took a moment to place when you'd last touched them─then it came back. The day after the shadow explanation, you'd noticed something and made a small correction. You'd shaved too far along the rim of the iris. You took a fine chisel and worked it carefully. A little. Checked. A little more. By the time you stopped, the shape had settled back to nearly where it had started.

It had returned. Almost the same form as before the correction.

This was right. This was correct.

Outside the window, the wind moved. Inside the workshop, there was no sound.

---

That day, too, Wanda arrived on time. She unhooked her coat and hung it up, sat down. Both hands wrapped around the cup. The same sequence of movements she had repeated every visit, carried out in the same order today.

You kept working, tracking her from the edge of your vision. Her left arm moved more freely than last time. Taking off her coat, the faint hesitation that had been there before─today, it was nearly gone. Recovering. The thought reached that point and you stopped it.

The quiet returned to the workshop. You adjusted your grip on the rasp and kept going. Today's silence had a different quality from before. The first time Wanda had come here alone, the silence had density─a taut stillness, the kind that comes from being watched intently. You had registered it as the sensation of being observed. Today's silence had no such tension.

She's gotten used to it, you thought. But your hands kept moving, and the thought didn't quite land the way it should have. Before, Wanda had watched your hands─the way you held a pencil, the angle of a tool, the accumulation of lines on the page. You had filed it under professional interest in the craft. Today, her gaze was on the work itself. Not your hands. The work.

That was good, you thought.

That day, you found it difficult to concentrate. You couldn't account for why. The light was coming in at a slightly poor angle today, you decided. These things happened.

At the end of the visit, Wanda confirmed the next date. You answered without consulting your notebook─you already had it in your head. "That day, then," you said. Wanda nodded and moved toward the door. At the threshold, a faint shift in the way she was standing. The suggestion of turning back. A pause, and then the door was open and she was gone.

You stayed where you were.

---

A few days later, you went to Stark Industries on business─a materials change request and a specifications meeting with the bronze casting subcontractor. The date had been arranged in advance. You entered the building. The same lobby as before. Last time, your professional eye had started to pick apart the stone busts in the corner before you caught yourself. This time there was nothing to catch. Your gaze didn't go there. You walked toward your destination. The business was brief─two points of clarification, no discrepancies in either party's understanding. You said your goodbyes to the person handling the account and headed for the exit.

You turned the corner of the hallway.

Wanda was standing there. She was talking to someone else.

Your feet stopped. Not because you told them to. They simply stopped.

Fifteen feet, maybe more. You couldn't hear the conversation. All that was visible was the angle of two bodies, the space between them, and the air that filled it. The person facing Wanda had their back to you─still, barely moving, leaning slightly in her direction. When they shifted, just slightly, you caught the edge of his face. Not a face you could forget, if you had seen it once. You had. Wanda was speaking, looking at him. Something in the angle of her shoulders had loosened. Her left hand moved─something between an explanation and a confirmation. Her left hand moved freely.

You noticed that, and the other thing, and looked away.

They were standing close. The kind of closeness that has a history behind it. You had no way to read that pull. All you could see was the distance and the air. There is air here that you cannot enter. It was the place this certainty had been building toward, from the day in the park. There is a daily life here. The daily life of people who have spent time together in the same place. The air of where Wanda belongs.

You are outside that air. It was simply a fact.

The business was done. The hallway led to the exit and you followed it. Outside, the air was cold and flat. You walked back with your eyes on the pavement, and you kept them there.

---

Back at the workshop. Key in the lock. Change of clothes. Rasp in hand. Tony's plaster original was at its final stage─a few more sessions and it would be done. The other figures were at varying points of progress: some had been transferred to plaster, others were still in clay. Still, the end of the series as a whole was visible.

On the way to the workbench, you passed Wanda's figure. The cloth was on it. You didn't stop. You walked past.

You set the rasp against the surface of the plaster model and moved it. Plaster dust settled between your fingers. You brushed it off. It settled again. Your hands kept moving, and somewhere inside you, something was working its way toward language. It hadn't reached words yet. But it was there.

When this series is complete, the commission will come to a close.

You didn't stop the rasp. When exactly those thoughts would become words─that, you didn't yet know.

---

At the next scheduled visit, Wanda arrived on time. The table and chairs were already out. Tea was on the table. She sat down and wrapped both hands around the cup.

Today, her left arm─you didn't notice. Whether the careful restraint that had been there was still present. Your attention was on the workbench.

"I'd like to go over the progress," Wanda said. You opened your sketchbook and gave the update without moving from your chair. Efficient, you thought. Wanda listened and nodded. There were more questions today than last time─you took that to mean something in the previous explanation had been unclear, and filled in the gaps.

The conversation moved with functional efficiency. Question. Answer. Another question. The moments where an explanation used to open sideways into something else─those didn't happen today. It wasn't that you held back. Wanda's questions stayed within the range of progress review. You kept your eyes on the table.

At the end, Wanda said she'd schedule the next check-in. You said you'd be here. She moved toward the door.

At the threshold, she turned. Your eyes met hers. Wanda held her gaze steady. "Take care," you said.

For just a moment, something crossed her face. Her mouth opened, slightly. No words came.

"…I'll come again," she said. The door closed.

You looked at the table. The cup was empty. You carried it to the kitchen, washed it, returned it to its place on the shelf.

---

That night, the workshop was quiet. At the workbench, you set the rasp against Tony's plaster original. The surface smoothed beneath your hands. Your hands told you so.

After a while, the rasp was still in your hand. It had stopped moving.

You were standing in front of Wanda's figure before you had decided to move. You took hold of the edge of the cloth. You didn't lift it. The shape of the figure came through the fabric─the position of the head, the angle of the shoulders, the foot bearing the weight. You stood there and read it for a while. Every client relationship has an end.

You let go of the cloth. Back to the workbench. Rasp in hand. Set it against the original. Moved it. Somewhere along the way, your hand had stopped again. The rasp had gone faintly cold in your grip.

That was all.

---

 A few days later, an invitation to a party arrived from Tony Stark. Your eyes lingered on the screen for a moment, reading through a message far more densely worded than his usual periodic check-ins. According to the text, the ostensible reason for the gathering was that the team members want to meet the person sculpting their likenesses. It concluded with a definitive command: Be there. In a sense, you're the guest of honor. You reread it from the beginning. It also mentioned, Don't overthink it─treat it like a house party and come relaxed. That made the line between work and private life ambiguous, and you weren't sure where you stood. Nevertheless, once you were labeled the guest of honor, there was no way out. You typed and deleted various responses before settling on a simple Understood. I'll be there and closing your laptop.

You ran through the faces of the five others whose likenesses Tony had commissioned alongside his own: Captain America, Thor, Hulk, Black Widow, Hawkeye. Who else would be there.

A restless sensation rose in your chest. You cast a glance at the laptop pushed to the side of the workbench, but it offered nothing back. About a week remained until the party. You thought about what to wear, what to say─treating it as an extension of professional duties, the way you always did when the work moved outside the workshop. You also prepared some reference materials: photos of the completed prototype for Tony's bust, and the other figures, which were finally taking shape. You didn't notice, until later, that the figure of Wanda had ended up in the frame.

You thought, idly, that you hoped it would be a clear day.

---

That day, you stood in the main living space of the Stark residence. The room opened wide─glass running the length of the seaward wall, and more of it throughout, in the corridors leading in, in the partitions between spaces. Light came in from multiple directions.

You felt a faint unease about the height. The thought arrived unbidden─what if it breaks─and didn't entirely leave. You held a glass of champagne and stayed near the wall by the entrance, keeping the windows out of your direct line of sight. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the view without reservation.

Glasses clinked throughout the room. Laughter ran from one end to the other, and voices filled the space in a way that had no gaps in it. At the center was Tony Stark, working the room the way he always did─unhurried, completely at ease, already absorbed by the steady stream of people gravitating toward him.

You took a small sip from your glass. The carbonation prickled your tongue. The party was still in its early stages, new arrivals appearing one after another, each following the same sequence: the greeting, the brief exchange with Tony, the gradual absorption into the crowd. You watched from the wall.

Tony noticed you. Each time he raised a hand in your direction and began to move, someone intercepted him before he got there. You recognized faces from the news and didn't know what to do with that. You stayed where you were.

After a while, the flow of new arrivals slowed, and a specific rhythm settled over the room. The crowd had sorted itself into groups. The window for entering a circle without a reason had closed without announcing itself. You exhaled quietly.

At that moment, your gaze was drawn to a single figure across the room.

Wanda had come from the direction of the kitchen─emerging from somewhere past the far counter. Beside her walked someone you recognized without having been introduced. Vision. You stayed where you were.

She saw you. Said something to Vision─brief, turned slightly toward him, her voice lost in the noise of the room. There it is, you thought. Your chest was quiet in a way that wasn't quite comfortable.

Vision nodded at something she said, glanced once in your direction, and stayed where he was. Wanda crossed the room toward you alone.

"I didn't know you'd be here," she said.

"Tony invited me," you said. "I didn't know what to expect." A pause. Your eyes moved briefly toward the crowd where Vision had gone. "Is he all right?"

Wanda followed your glance. "He's fine," she said, and left it there.

She stood beside you rather than across from you, both of you facing the room. It was different from the workshop─no table between you, no work to keep your hands occupied. The conversation moved in small steps. The party around you. The commission. How the figures were coming along. Outside the workshop, her sentences came differently─less precise, more space between them. You found you didn't mind the spaces.

At some point the conversation had drifted, and in the pause that followed you said, without entirely meaning to: "Is that your partner─the one you came in with."

It wasn't a question, quite. It came out flat, the way things do when you've been thinking them without knowing it.

Wanda went still. Not for long. But you caught it─the half-second before her expression settled into something else. She turned to look at you, and something in her face was harder to read than usual. "Why do you ask," she said.

The noise of the party continued around you.

"I'm sorry," you said. "It came out wrong."

Wanda looked at you for a moment longer. Then she glanced toward the room. "It's loud in here," she said. "There's a terrace."

Outside, the air came off the ocean cold and steady. The sky had cleared enough that you could make out stars─not many, but a few. The terrace was almost empty.

You stood at the railing. Wanda stood a step back from it. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

"What made you ask that," she said. "Inside."

You kept your eyes on the water. "It came out wrong. I didn't mean anything by it."

"That's not what I asked."

A pause. The wind moved through the space between you.

"I'm not sure," you said. It was as honest as you were willing to be.

"You're not sure, or you'd rather not say."

You didn't answer. The water below caught the light in long, shifting lines.

"We'll see," she said. Not quite accepting it. Something closer to filing it away.

Another silence. This one had a different quality from the ones in the workshop─less settled. Something in it hadn't decided where to land.

"He and I─" Wanda started. She stopped. Started again differently. "It's not simple."

"You don't have to explain anything to me."

"I know I don't." She looked at you. "I'm choosing to."

You turned to look at her then. She was already looking at you─directly, the way she rarely did. Something in her expression had moved past the careful stillness she usually kept.

"It's not what you thought," she said.

You turned back to the water. "All right."

"It's coming to an end," Wanda said.

"Yes."

She looked at you for a moment. "And after that."

The words settled. You kept your eyes on the water and let them. The light below was still moving, the same as it had been all evening, and somewhere between one breath and the next something shifted in your chest and didn't shift back. You had lost count of your drinks somewhere along the way.

You closed the distance between you.

Wanda went still. Not pulling back. Not moving forward. The warmth of it moved through you─and something cold followed it down your spine, and that was your mind catching up. You started to pull away─

Her hand closed around your arm.

She pulled you back. And this time it was her─certain, without hesitation─and whatever stillness she had always kept between you was gone. Her hand was at your jaw. You stopped thinking entirely.

---

The party ended at some point. You were not entirely sure when.

Later, at home, you sat for a while without turning on the lights. Your coat was still on. After a while, you took it off and laid it across the arm of the chair.

Outside, the city was still lit─the occasional car moving below, a few windows bright across the way.

You were aware of your own heartbeat in an unfamiliar way─not racing, just present. The room was the same room it always was, and yet you sat in it differently, or it held you differently, and you weren't sure which. You went to bed, and you didn't sleep for a long time.

---

The visits continued─Tony, then Wanda, then both, then Wanda alone. The cadence looked no different from the outside.

But it had changed. The distance at the workbench─a few centimeters closer than the work required, and neither of you adjusted. The way her fingers would briefly overlap with yours before pulling back when she returned a sketchbook.

Between sessions, you worked on Wanda's figure. You lost track of time more easily than before.

Wanda began coming alone more often. The meetings ran the same as always, but something in the air had shifted.

That day, when it was time for her to leave, she stopped at the door. She looked at you for a moment. "I need your number," she said. "To confirm the next visit."

You couldn't help a slight smile. You gave it to her.

She typed it in without a word and left with a quiet "Goodnight."

Later that night, a message arrived. It wasn't about the next visit. There's a place I've wanted to go. Are you free this week?

You read it twice. Then you typed back: Yeah, I'm free.

---

Wanda was already there when you arrived. She raised a hand when she saw you. The market ran along a stretch of flat ground near the water, vendor stalls extending in both directions. The morning was bright and cold at the edges.

You moved through the stalls without a plan. That was her pace, and you fell into it. She stopped when something caught her eye and kept moving when it didn't. Now and then she said something about what she was looking at─not quite commentary, not quite directed at you, something in between. You found yourself listening for it. Your hands stayed in your pockets.

At one stall, she stopped. A low table of carved wooden pieces, old stock mixed with newer work. She picked up a small bear, turned it over once, and held it out to you. There was something in her expression that wasn't quite a smile.

You took it from her. Her fingers and yours occupied the same space longer than a moment, and then it was gone.

The bear was palm-sized. The grain ran clean through the body. The weight was right, the stance considered. You turned it over. Wanda leaned in, her shoulder almost at yours.

"The feet," you said.

She looked. A pause. "They're not even."

"No." You turned it once more. "That's what makes it stand."

"You would notice the feet."

You set the bear back on the table. She looked at it for a moment, then moved on, her step lighter than it had been. You followed. The water was visible between buildings at intervals.

The walk back was longer than it needed to be.

---

After that, there were other days. A bookshop she had wanted to find. A film, one you'd wanted to see, and dinner afterward that neither of you had planned on. A place that turned out to be closed, and somewhere else you ended up instead.

By the third time, you had started to think about it before it arrived. By the fifth, you had stopped arguing with yourself about what to call it.

The meetings outside accumulated in small details─her order at a counter, the direction she walked without being asked, the way silence between you had started to feel like something shared. Enough had passed that you no longer reached for explanations.

It happened on a day when the completion of the commission was finally within reach. Wanda was in her usual spot, her posture easy. You were at the workbench with your back to her, working.

She said something quietly.

Your hands stopped.

The workshop held the sound for a moment. Then Wanda said your name.

You turned to face her. You looked her in the eye. You began to speak─

Before the sentence was done, she had already crossed the distance.

---

A short while later, you ran into Tony in the hallway outside Wanda's room. He looked at the two of you and didn't say anything for a moment. You held his gaze without flinching.

"Hello, Mr. Stark," you said.

Wanda, beside you, tightened her hand around your arm.

Tony's mouth moved into something unreadable. He glanced between you once, gave a single nod, and turned to go. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Good work." A beat. "Cap liked the figures, by the way. Nat had some thoughts about the photograph─the one where Wanda's figure caught the frame." He kept walking. "Just thought you'd want to know."

She’s stitched into every version of my childhood—the girl with grass-stained knees who knocked on my door the day her family moved in next door, her accent soft and careful, her smile shy but curious. We were six. She asked if I wanted to play. I said yes, and somehow that yes became a lifetime.

We grew up side by side. Shared scraped knees, shared secrets whispered under blankets, shared dreams about who we’d be when we were older. Wanda was always warm—laughing easily, caring deeply. She had a way of looking at people like they mattered, like she saw something special in them. I think that’s when it started hurting. When I realized I wanted to be looked at like that forever.

I didn’t have a name for it at first.

I just knew that when she held my hand, my chest felt too full. That when she smiled at me, something inside me tilted, off balance. I knew that when other girls talked about their crushes, my mind always wandered back to her—her laugh, her hair falling into her eyes, the way she said my name like it meant home.

I realized the truth when I was thirteen.

She came to me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and told me about a boy in her class. The way her voice lifted when she said his name made my stomach twist painfully. I smiled. I always smiled. I told her I was happy for her, because that’s what best friends do.

That night, I cried into my pillow until my chest ached.

It became a pattern. Wanda liked boys. Wanda dated boys. And I learned how to swallow the hurt, how to be the safe place she ran to when things went wrong. I learned how to listen while my heart cracked quietly, piece by piece, every time she talked about someone else’s lips on hers.

I never told her how I felt. I was too afraid.

Afraid of ruining us. Afraid of losing her. Afraid that if I spoke the truth, she’d look at me differently—and I couldn’t survive that.

When I was sixteen, I met someone at a clinic. A girl sitting two chairs away, coughing violently into her sleeve. Pink petals fell to the floor like something out of a nightmare. Everyone froze. Everyone knew.

Hanahaki disease.

They said it was rare. That it came from loving someone who could never love you back. That if your feelings weren’t returned, flowers would grow in your lungs until you suffocated.

I remember thinking, distantly, How awful.

I didn’t realize I had already been infected.

The first symptom came weeks later—a tickle in my throat I couldn’t shake. Then coughing. Then one morning, bent over the sink, I gagged and watched a tiny, pale petal land in the porcelain.

I stared at it for a long time.

I didn’t need a diagnosis. I already knew who it was for.

Wanda was in a new relationship. She was happy—or at least, happy enough. And I knew… I would not have the cure.

The symptoms didn’t arrive all at once. They crept in, subtle at first, like my body was trying to warn me without fully betraying me. A tightness in my chest when I laughed too hard. A burn in my lungs after running up the stairs. A cough I blamed on the cold, on allergies, on anything that wasn’t the truth blooming inside me.

It became a game of control.

I learned how to press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop a cough before it escaped. How to breathe shallowly when Wanda was near, careful not to inhale too deeply—because deep breaths hurt. I learned to excuse myself at just the right moment, to disappear into bathrooms and empty hallways where I could finally bend over and let my body betray me in peace.

There were days she sat beside me on the couch, her legs tucked under her, talking excitedly about her boyfriend—about something sweet he’d done, something stupid he’d said. I nodded, smiled, hummed in the right places, while my chest tightened so badly I thought she might hear it. My lungs would itch, petals scraping softly inside, and I’d dig my nails into my thigh to keep from coughing.

Once, we were lying on the grass, staring up at the sky like we used to when we were kids. Wanda laughed suddenly, turning her head toward me, and the sound hit my lungs like a trigger. I choked on air, rolling onto my side, coughing into my sleeve. I told her I’d swallowed a bug. She believed me. She always believed me.

The worst moments were the ones where she touched me.

When she hugged me goodbye and my chest compressed just enough to make breathing difficult. When she rested her head on my shoulder while watching a movie, unaware that every inhale felt like dragging air through thorns. I’d freeze, terrified that if I moved—or breathed wrong—I’d start coughing flowers right there, in her arms.

At night, it was harder to pretend.

I’d wake up gasping, lungs burning, rushing to the sink with tears streaming down my face as petals spilled into my hands. Sometimes they were soft and pale. Sometimes they were darker, heavier, streaked with red. I’d rinse them down the drain and stare at my reflection afterward, memorizing a version of myself that still looked alive.

I started avoiding laughter. Avoiding running. Avoiding anything that made my chest expand too much. Wanda noticed I was quieter. She asked if I was okay. I told her I was just tired.

And maybe I was.

Tired of hiding. Tired of loving her. Tired of pretending that this wasn’t slowly killing me.

But every time I looked at her—every time she smiled, every time she reached for her phone to text him, every time she talked about love like it was something simple and safe—I knew I’d make the same choice again.

I would hold the coughs back.

I would swallow the petals.

I would keep my love buried in my lungs.

Because if the price of Wanda’s happiness was my breath, then I would pay it quietly.

---

Present

I woke up choking.

Not slowly. Not gently. I jolted upright in bed like my body had decided it was done pretending, one sharp gasp tearing out of my chest before I could even process it. I barely made it to the bathroom before my knees hit the tile.

I coughed.

And coughed.

And coughed.

It wouldn’t stop.

My hands gripped the edge of the sink as my body convulsed, each cough tearing deeper than the last. My lungs burned like they were lined with glass. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, blurring my vision, my throat raw and screaming. I was vaguely aware of the metallic taste spreading across my tongue—blood, probably—but I couldn’t stop long enough to check.

Two minutes felt like an eternity.

By the time it eased, my arms were shaking, my chest aching with every shallow breath I managed to pull in. I leaned forward, forehead resting against the cool porcelain, panting like I’d run miles instead of just fought my own lungs.

I lifted my head slowly and looked at myself in the mirror.

Pale. Too pale. Dark shadows carved beneath my eyes. Lips tinged faintly blue, like my body was already rehearsing for the end. I sighed, tired in a way sleep never fixed.

Then I looked down at the sink.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.

Nestled among the blood-speckled saliva was something small. Green. Delicate.

A flower bud.

My stomach dropped so hard it felt like I might be sick again.

“No,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

Three years.

It had been three years since the disease took root in me, three years of coughing, pain, and pretending. Buds meant progression. Buds meant the flowers weren’t just forming anymore—they were preparing to bloom.

I knew what came next.

Full blossoms.

Branches.

Suffocation.

Death.

My hands trembled as I turned on the faucet, watching the water wash everything away. I stood there longer than necessary, staring as the last trace of it disappeared down the drain, like if I didn’t see it anymore, it wouldn’t be real.

I was spiraling when the knock came.

“Sweetheart?” my mom’s voice filtered through the door. “Are you okay?”

My heart jumped. I quickly splashed water on my face, wiped my mouth, straightened my clothes. I flushed the sink one more time, just in case, then took a steadying breath before opening my bedroom door.

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile.

Her eyes softened immediately—but not with relief. With worry. The kind that had been living on her face for years now.

“You were coughing again,” she said gently. “I heard you.”

“It’s nothing,” I replied too quickly. “Just a cough.”

She frowned. “You’ve been ‘just coughing’ for three years.”

I looked away.

“You’re pale all the time,” she continued, stepping closer. “You barely eat. You barely sleep. Please—let’s go see a doctor.”

“I already told you,” I said, carefully keeping my voice steady. “I’m fine. It’s just something that lingers. Stress. College. It’ll pass.”

She didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way her lips pressed together, by the way her hand hovered like she wanted to touch me but didn’t know how.

So I hugged her.

Wrapped my arms around her and held her tighter than usual, breathing in the familiar scent of home, of safety, of someone who loved me without conditions.

“I promise,” I murmured into her shoulder. “I’m okay.”

It was the easiest lie I’d ever told.

A few minutes later, I grabbed my bag and headed out for college, the cool morning air burning my lungs as I stepped outside. I walked away before she could look at me too closely again.

Behind me, my mother watched with fear in her eyes.

Ahead of me, the day waited—long, exhausting, and filled with breaths I wasn’t sure I could afford to waste.

The pain in my lungs was worse that day.

Not sharp—worse than that. Heavy. Like something had settled inside my chest and decided to stay, pressing in with every breath I took. I kept my hood up the entire morning, shoulders slightly hunched, breathing shallow so I wouldn’t trigger another coughing fit in the middle of campus.

When I spotted Wanda across the quad, my heart did that familiar, stupid thing—jumping before it remembered it was broken.

She was laughing with someone, hair glowing in the sunlight, so alive it hurt to look at her. Panic flared in my chest, right alongside the ache. Before she could turn her head, before her eyes could find me, I turned around and walked the other way.

Coward.

Lunch was harder to escape.

I sat in the corner of the cafeteria, back against the wall like I could disappear into it if I tried hard enough. The noise made my head throb. The smell of food turned my stomach. I’d grabbed a sandwich out of habit more than hunger, took a single bite, and let it sit untouched in my hands.

Breathing felt like work.

Then suddenly—weight. Arms. Familiar warmth crashing into my back.

“There you are!”

Wanda.

She practically launched herself at me, arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, chin resting against my hood like she’d done a thousand times before. My chest compressed under the force and panic spiked instantly.

Don’t cough.

Don’t cough.

I swallowed hard, forcing the urge down as my lungs screamed in protest.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she continued, pulling back just enough to grin at me. “You disappeared this morning.”

“Yeah,” I rasped. “Busy.”

She didn’t notice the way my voice strained—at least not at first. She slid into the seat next to me anyway, energy bright and infectious as always.

“Oh! There’s a party tonight,” she said excitedly. “At Tommy’s place. Vision and I are going, and you have to come too. Everyone’s going—Nat, Clint, even Pietro said he might show up.”

Each word landed heavier than the last.

Vision.

Her boyfriend of three years. The one she said his name about so casually, like it didn’t carve into me every single time.

“That’s… great,” I said, forcing a smile that felt brittle at best.

She finally really looked at me then.

Her smile faded.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching up without thinking and tugging my hood back just a little. “Why are you so pale?”

My stomach twisted.

“You look… really tired,” she added, worry blooming instantly in her eyes. “Are you sick?”

There it was. That look. The one that made my chest ache worse than the disease ever could—because she cared.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep much.”

She frowned, eyes scanning my face like she might find the truth written there. “You barely ate,” she said, glancing at the sandwich. “And you’re freezing—why are you wearing this?”

“I like it,” I replied, tugging the hood back up gently. Distance. Always distance.

She hesitated, then nodded slowly, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. Her hand lingered on my arm, warm and grounding, and I had to fight not to lean into it.

“You promise you’re okay?” she asked.

I met her eyes.

I always promised.

“I promise,” I said.

She smiled again, relieved far too easily, and leaned her head against my shoulder like everything was normal. Like my lungs weren’t slowly filling with flowers. Like I wasn’t counting breaths.

“You’ll come tonight, right?” she asked softly. “It won’t be the same without you.”

I swallowed past the tightness in my throat.

“Yeah,” I lied. “I’ll try.”

She beamed, squeezed me once more, and launched herself up to rejoin the others, already talking about outfits and music and Vision’s terrible dancing.

I stayed where I was, untouched sandwich in my hands, lungs burning quietly beneath my ribs.

Watching the girl I loved walk away—

and wondering how many parties I had left in me.

---

Later that night

I hadn’t planned on going.

I stood in front of my mirror for a long time, fingers gripping the sink, chest aching with every breath, telling myself it was stupid. That I didn’t owe anyone anything. That my body already felt like it was failing and a crowded party was the last place I should be.

But then I pictured Wanda’s smile at lunch. The hopeful look in her eyes when she’d asked me to come.

So I went.

The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. The air felt thick, heavy in my lungs the moment I stepped inside. I barely made it through the door before I saw them.

Wanda and Vision.

They were dancing together in the middle of the room, bodies close, Wanda laughing with her head tipped back, her hands resting easily on his shoulders like they belonged there. Like she belonged there.

My stomach twisted violently.

I turned around before I could stop myself, pushing through the crowd until I reached the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind me and I bent over the sink, coughing hard—short, sharp bursts that burned my throat but mercifully didn’t last long enough to draw blood.

I rinsed my mouth, wiped my face, stared at myself just long enough to make sure I didn’t look like I was about to collapse.

Then I fled again.

The kitchen was quieter. I grabbed the first thing I saw—a cup already filled with beer—and downed it in one go, barely tasting it. The alcohol burned going down, but it dulled something. The ache. The sharp edge of seeing her with him.

“Wow,” a familiar voice said behind me. “You look like shit.”

I snorted softly. “No kidding.”

I turned to see Nat leaning against the counter, arms crossed, red hair pulled back, eyes sharp and observant as always. Bucky stood beside her, offering me a small, sympathetic nod.

“Hey,” I said, managing a weak smile.

“Why are you here?” Nat asked bluntly. “You look like you should be in bed. Or a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

She raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Nat followed my gaze across the room—right to Wanda. Her expression softened, then hardened into something dangerously close to anger.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said quietly. “Either move on, or tell her how you feel.”

I shook my head, eyes still locked on Wanda as she spun under Vision’s arm, smiling like nothing in the world could hurt her.

“She looks happy,” I murmured.

Nat sighed. “That doesn’t mean you deserve to be miserable.”

“She’s the only one for me, Nat,” I said softly. “That I am sure.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then stopped when someone stepped into my space.

Warm hands slid around my neck. A familiar perfume hit my senses.

“Well,” a girl’s voice purred near my ear, “this is a surprise.”

I stiffened.

She pressed closer, fingers grazing my collarbone, all confidence and heat when I turned my head to look at her. A hookup from months ago—someone whose name I remembered, but whose face barely registered anymore.

“I didn’t think you were the party type,” she said, eyes dragging over me slowly.

I exhaled, already tired. “What do you want, Sharon?” I asked flatly.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blush. Didn’t lower her voice.

“You,” she said, blunt and unapologetic. “Alone. Somewhere private.”

Nat choked on her drink beside me. Bucky coughed, eyes wide, trying very hard not to laugh.

I closed my eyes for half a second, the pressure in my chest worsening—not from the disease this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it all.

“Not happening,” I said, gently but firmly, stepping back and prying her hands off me. “Find someone else.”

Sharon tilted her head, clearly amused.

“It has to be you,” she said easily. “I’ve tried. Nobody else comes close.”

I scoffed, rubbing a hand over my face. “What about Steve? Isn’t he usually your type?”

She shrugged. “He’s handsome,” she admitted. “But too small.”

Nat made a strangled noise. Bucky straight-up choked this time.

I shot Sharon an incredulous look. “I’m not a guy, Sharon. I definitely don’t have anything to compare size.”

Her grin turned slow. Dangerous. “Didn’t say anything about that,” she replied smoothly. “Your fingers, though? Absolute magic.”

Bucky sputtered again, coughing into his fist. Nat slapped his back, muttering something about needing better friends.

“Okay,” I said quickly, heat crawling up my neck. “Conversation over.”

I was about to step away when a flash of auburn filled my vision.

Wanda.

She stepped between us without hesitation, her body angled protectively in front of me, eyes sharp and blazing as they locked onto Sharon.

“She said she’s busy,” Wanda snapped, voice tight with anger.

The room seemed to quiet around us.

Sharon blinked, surprised—and then she smirked. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

That did it.

Wanda’s jaw clenched, her eyes flashing. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh?” Sharon tilted her head, unfazed. “Funny, because you’re acting like it is.”

“Back off,” Wanda warned, stepping closer. “Now.”

Sharon laughed softly. “Relax. I was just talking. Didn’t know she needed rescuing.”

Something sharp sparked in Wanda’s expression. “She doesn’t need anything from you.”

The tension spiked—voices rising, eyes drawing toward us, the kind of attention I absolutely couldn’t afford. My chest tightened, breath catching, pain flaring hot and sudden.

I moved without thinking.

My hand slid to Wanda’s waist, fingers firm but gentle as I pulled her back just enough to break her momentum. I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear.

“Wands,” I whispered, low and steady despite the burn in my lungs. “Calm down.”

She stiffened—then slowly relaxed beneath my touch, her breath shuddering as she stepped back with me, trusting me without question. That trust hurt worse than anything.

Sharon, unfortunately, wasn’t done.

“Ah,” she said brightly, eyes flicking between us. “So she’s the one you’ve been cough—”

I was already moving.

I stepped past Wanda in a single stride and clamped my hand over Sharon’s mouth, my glare sharp enough to cut. Sharon saw me coughing petals when we slept, and I know what she was going to say.

Up close, she froze—finally registering the warning in my eyes.

Don’t.

Ever.

Her hands went up immediately, surrender at last. I released her just as quickly.

“Got it,” Sharon said, subdued now. “I’m leaving.”

She disappeared into the crowd without another word.

I stood there for a second, chest heaving slightly, forcing my breathing back under control. The ache in my lungs pulsed, a dull warning I tried to ignore.

“What the hell was that?”

Wanda’s voice cracked through the noise—sharp, furious, hurt.

I turned to her just in time to see her eyes blazing. “You slept with her?”

“Wanda—” I reached out instinctively, lowering my voice. “Not here.”

“I saw the way she touched you,” Wanda snapped, not caring anymore who heard. “Don’t lie to me.”

Heads were starting to turn. My chest tightened—not just from the disease this time, but panic.

“Come on,” I murmured, taking her wrist gently but firmly. “Please.”

She resisted for a second, then let me pull her through the hallway, past a few curious looks, until we reached one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. I shut the door behind us, the music muffling instantly.

The silence was loud.

“So it’s true,” Wanda said, arms crossing defensively. “You slept with her.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Months ago.”

Her jaw clenched. “Why?”

I blinked, genuinely confused. “Why… what?”

“Why her?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t tell you about everyone I sleep with,” I said carefully. “And it didn’t mean anything.”

“That’s not the point!” she shot back.

“Then what is the point?” I asked, frustration creeping in. “You have a boyfriend, Wanda. You’ve had one for years. I don’t— I don’t understand why this matters to you.”

She looked away, hands curling into fists. “Because you didn’t tell me,” she said tightly. “Because Sharon is not a good person. She sleeps with everybody. Because she just—shows up and says things like that and you just—”

She gestured helplessly, words failing her.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For not telling you. I was drunk. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even like her like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Wanda snapped.

I stared at her, chest aching, breath shallow. “You’re angry at me for something that happened months ago… when you’re with someone else?”

“Yes!” she said immediately—then stopped, like she’d realized how that sounded.

The room went still again.

Her breathing was fast. Mine was worse.

“I don’t get it,” I whispered, shaking my head. “You don’t get to be mad at me for sleeping with someone. You also have a boyfriend. I don’t get mad at you because of that.”

“That’s different,” Wanda shot back immediately. “We’re dating.”

I stared at her. “So… hooking up is the problem?”

She scoffed, frustration spilling over. “No—God, you’re not listening.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, my voice tightening. “Because I’m trying, Wanda, and I still don’t understand why you’re this angry.”

“The problem,” she snapped, stepping closer, “is that you didn’t tell me.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” she said sharply. “That’s it.”

My chest felt tight—too tight. I dragged in a shallow breath, irritation and pain tangling together. “Why would I tell you? You don’t report to me every time you kiss someone.”

“That’s not the same,” she insisted.

“You keep saying that,” I said, frustration bleeding into my tone, “but you won’t tell me why.”

“Because we tell each other things,” Wanda argued. “Because we’re—” She cut herself off, jaw clenching. “Because Sharon is trouble. Because she doesn’t respect boundaries. Because she just walks up and says things like that and you—”

“And I shut her down,” I said quickly. “Immediately. You saw that.”

“That doesn’t erase it.”

I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “So let me get this straight. You’re furious because I didn’t tell you about a meaningless hookup that happened months ago, while you’ve been in a committed relationship the entire time.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” I said, rubbing a hand over my face. “I’m honestly lost. I apologized. I told you it meant nothing. I don’t even want her. What more do you want from me?”

She opened her mouth—then closed it again.

Silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable.

My lungs burned, every breath a reminder that I shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be arguing over something so small when my body was already running out of time.

“I don’t understand you,” I said quietly, exhaustion seeping into every word. “I really don’t.”

Wanda looked just as frustrated—angry, confused, hurt—but instead of answering, she turned away, pacing once like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.

“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice thin.

She spun back around, eyes flashing, every word sharp and cruel.

“To find my boyfriend,” she snapped, “and fuck him—and not tell you.”

That did it.

The words hit harder than any blow. My chest seized, the air ripping out of me in a silent gasp. Heat rushed up my throat, nausea curling violently in my stomach.

Hold it.

Just hold it.

I staggered back as she yanked the door open. I tried to speak—tried to stop her—but nothing came out. The urge to cough swelled, brutal and unstoppable, my lungs screaming as if they were tearing themselves apart.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The second it did, I broke.

I barely made it to the ensuite before my knees hit the floor. The cough tore out of me—violent, relentless, ripping through my chest like something was clawing its way free.

And it was.

Flowers spilled from my mouth in a choking rush—full blooms this time, petals slick and heavy, tangled with half-open buds. Thin, green branches followed, scraping my throat as they forced their way out. I gagged, hands braced against the tile, coughing so hard my vision went white.

Pain exploded up my neck as the branches tore at my throat.

Blood followed.

Dark red splattered against porcelain and petals alike as I coughed again and again, my body convulsing, lungs burning, screaming for air they couldn’t hold anymore. Every breath was shallow, panicked, useless.

I couldn’t stop.

I coughed until my chest felt hollow, until my throat was raw and shredded, until flowers and blood and petals littered the sink and the floor beneath me.

Somewhere downstairs, the party raged on.

And upstairs, alone on the bathroom floor, I finally understood—

I was running out of time.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda left the room fuming.

Her hands were shaking as she pushed through the hallway, the noise of the party crashing into her like a wave she didn’t want. She was furious—so angry she could barely see straight.

It wasn’t the first time Y/N had slept with someone. Wanda knew that. She’d always known Y/N liked girls. And Y/N never really dated—just a few one-night stands here and there. And somehow, somehow, Y/N always told her. Never details. Never anything explicit. Just enough to be honest.

And Wanda hated it.

She hated every single time. The tightness in her chest, the irrational jealousy she had no right to feel. She told herself it was protectiveness. That she just didn’t like people using Y/N. That was easier than admitting the truth.

But tonight was different.

Seeing Sharon’s hands on Y/N. Hearing the way she talked about her—about how good she was. Watching Y/N shut her down, yes, but still having to stand there and listen to it—

Something inside Wanda had snapped.

She stormed through the party, barely registering faces or voices, her pulse roaring in her ears. She needed air. Distance. Anything to get away from the image burned into her mind.

“Wanda!”

Vision caught up to her near the door, confusion written all over his face. “Where did you go? I was looking for you.”

“Not now,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “I need to leave.”

He frowned, following her outside as the cool night air hit them both. “What happened? Did something go wrong?”

“I said not now,” she snapped again, sharper this time.

Vision stopped short, stunned by her tone. He stared at her for a second before his expression hardened.

“Is this about Y/N again?” he asked flatly. “That bitch of hers?”

Wanda froze.

Her hands curled into fists. “Don’t call her that.”

Vision scoffed. “Every time you’re upset, it’s because of her. She’s always in your head, always causing problems. I told you from the start—she’s not good for you.”

Wanda’s chest tightened painfully.

He wasn’t wrong about one thing: it was always Y/N.

But not for the reasons he thought.

“You don’t know anything about her,” Wanda snapped. “Or me.”

Vision scoffed, crossing his arms. “I know enough. I know she looks at you like you’re the center of her universe. I know she waits around, never really moving on. And I know you let it happen.”

“That’s not fair,” Wanda shot back, though the words felt weak even to her own ears.

“Isn’t it?” Vision pressed. “You like the attention. You like knowing she’ll always be there—picking up the pieces, defending you, orbiting you while you pretend not to notice.”

Wanda’s breath caught.

“That’s not what this is,” she said, more to herself than to him. “She’s my best friend.”

“Then why does it bother you so much when she sleeps with someone else?” he demanded. “Why does it make you angry when she doesn’t tell you? Why did you look like you were ready to tear Sharon apart just for touching her?”

Wanda opened her mouth—

And froze.

Images flooded her mind without warning: Y/N’s hand on her waist in the bedroom, gentle but grounding. The way Y/N whispered her name—*Wands*—like it was something precious. The flash of pain on Y/N’s face when Wanda said those words she hadn’t meant… or maybe had.

Her stomach twisted.

“She didn’t tell me,” Wanda said again, clinging to it. “That’s why.”

Vision shook his head. “You’re lying. To me, or to yourself.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“Face it,” Vision continued coldly. “You don’t want her with anyone else. And you don’t want to admit why.”

Wanda’s chest tightened painfully. “Stop.”

“She’s in love with you,” he said. “And you know it.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Wanda turned away, shaking her head. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“Why?” Vision asked sharply. “Because I’m right?”

Anger flared again—hot, defensive. “Because she deserves better than you judging her for feelings she never forced on me.”

Vision laughed bitterly. “You mean the feelings you take advantage of?”

That was it.

“Enough,” Wanda said, voice shaking. “I’m done with this conversation.”

She turned, heading down the steps, heart racing, thoughts spiraling out of control. Vision called after her, but she didn’t stop.

Because for the first time, a terrifying thought was taking shape in her mind—

What if her anger wasn’t about Sharon?

What if it wasn’t about honesty?

What if it was about the fact that the idea of losing Y/N—

of someone else touching her, choosing her—

felt unbearable?

---

Y/N’s POV

I don’t know how long I stayed on the bathroom floor.

Ten minutes, maybe more. Time didn’t work right when every breath felt like it might be your last. My lungs screamed with every shallow inhale, my throat felt shredded raw, and my head throbbed like it was filled with cotton and static.

When the world finally snapped back into focus, I realized I was still alive.

Barely.

I pushed myself up, legs shaking violently beneath me. The mirror caught my reflection for half a second—blood at the corner of my mouth, eyes glassy, skin ghost-pale—and I looked away before I could see more.

I had to get out.

I stumbled into the hallway, the music crashing into my skull like a physical force. People blurred past me—laughing, dancing, unaware. My chest ached with every step, breaths coming too fast, too shallow. I kept my head down, just trying to reach the stairs. Just trying to leave.

That’s when someone grabbed me by the collar.

Hard.

I barely had time to register the movement before my head snapped to the side, pain exploding across my cheek. A fist connected again, stars bursting behind my eyes as I stumbled back, disoriented.

“What—” I tried to speak, but the word dissolved into a wheeze.

Hands shoved me again. Anger. Shouting. The world tilted.

Then suddenly—voices.

“Hey! What the hell—!”

Arms pulled him back. Someone shouted my name.

The pressure vanished and I sagged, barely staying upright before strong hands caught me.

“Y/N? Y/N? Hey—look at me.”

Nat.

She was in front of me, panic etched into her face, hands cupping my cheeks gently but firmly to keep my focus on her. My chest hurt—badly. My head rang. My cheek throbbed where I’d been hit.

I tried to breathe and couldn’t.

“Y/N?” Nat said again, louder now. “You okay? Talk to me.”

I shook my head weakly, a broken sound tearing out of my throat as I struggled to pull air into lungs that refused to cooperate. My vision tunneled.

“What the hell, Vision?!” Bucky barked, fury sharp in his voice.

I looked past Nat just in time to see Vision being held back by two people, his face twisted with rage, eyes locked on me like I was something filthy.

“STAY AWAY FROM MY GIRLFRIEND!” he yelled. “DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU BITCH?! STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

The words hit almost as hard as the punches.

Nat turned sharply, fury blazing. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

I tried to inhale again—and failed.

My chest seized, pain lancing through my lungs as a strangled cough ripped out of me. I doubled forward slightly, hands clutching my shirt, vision dimming at the edges.

“Hey—hey, stay with me,” Nat said urgently, wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

I couldn’t tell her I couldn’t.

Behind her, Vision was still shouting, still furious, still convinced he was protecting something that had never been his to protect.

“Babe, call 911!” Nat look back at Bucky desperately as she saw I wasn’t responding.

And all I could think—through the pain, the blood, the suffocating weight in my chest—

was that Wanda wasn’t here.

---

I woke up to the steady, hollow beeping of a heart monitor.

For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. Everything felt heavy—my limbs, my chest, my head. My throat burned like I’d swallowed fire, every breath shallow and sore, but at least… at least I could breathe.

Barely.

The smell of antiseptic hit next. Then the ache—my cheek, my ribs, my lungs, all flaring at once like my body was reminding me what it had survived.

I turned my head slowly.

My mom was sitting beside the bed.

She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red and swollen, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white. When she noticed I was awake, she stood up immediately, relief crashing over her face—followed just as quickly by something else.

Pain.

The kind a parent can’t hide.

“Hey,” she whispered, brushing my hair back gently, like I was a child again. “You scared me.”

My throat tightened. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken sound, halfway between a breath and a sob.

She swallowed hard, eyes shining. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t demand answers. She just looked at me—really looked at me—and I knew, in that instant, that she already saw the truth written all over my face.

“It’s Wanda, isn’t it?” she asked softly.

That was all it took.

I broke.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as my chest hitched, sobs ripping out of me like I’d been holding them back for years—which I had. I turned my face toward the pillow, shaking, every breath hurting as much as my heart did.

My mom moved instantly, wrapping her arms around me as carefully as she could, holding me while I cried like I hadn’t since I was a kid. She pressed her lips to my hair, her own tears falling silently.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured. “Oh, my sweet girl…”

I clutched her shirt with trembling fingers, words tumbling out between sobs. “I tried—I tried not to love her. I really did. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to get sick.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me, her expression shattered but resolute.

“They told me,” she said quietly. “About the flowers. About your lungs.”

My breath caught.

“You knew?” I croaked.

She nodded, tears slipping free now. “I suspected for a long time. The coughing. The way you looked at her. I just… prayed I was wrong.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head fiercely, cupping my face. “No. No. Don’t you dare apologize for loving someone.”

Her voice cracked. “But I wish you had told me. I wish you hadn’t carried this alone.”

I stared at her through tears, fear curling tight in my chest. “Mom… I’m scared.”

Her expression softened even more, and she leaned her forehead against mine.

“I know,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. Not ever again.”

She kissed my temple, holding me as the machines beeped steadily around us.

And for the first time since the flowers took root in my lungs,

someone finally knew the truth—

that I was dying of love,

and that her name was Wanda Maximoff.

---

Wanda’s POV

I shut my bedroom door harder than I meant to. But it was opened again by Pietro who followed me.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “What did Vision do?”

That was all it took.

I broke down.

The anger drained out of me all at once, replaced by something heavier, messier. I sank onto the bed and covered my face with my hands as sobs tore out of me, my chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with rage.

Pietro was beside me in an instant, arms around my shoulders, holding me steady. He didn’t push. He never did.

“…It’s not Vision,” I managed between sobs.

His body went still.

“…It’s Y/N,” he said quietly.

I nodded, tears soaking into my palms.

We stayed like that for a while—me crying, him waiting—until the storm finally eased enough for me to breathe again. My throat burned. My eyes hurt. I wiped my face with shaking hands.

Pietro leaned back against the headboard, watching me with a look I couldn’t quite read.

“So,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”

I told him everything.

About Sharon. About the fight. About the way seeing Y/N with someone else made my chest feel like it was tearing itself apart. About the words I’d said—cruel, impulsive, unforgivable—and how they kept echoing in my head.

When I finished, silence filled the room.

Pietro let out a slow breath. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

I frowned. “Figure out what?”

“That you’re in love with her.”

I stiffened instantly. “No. I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wanda—”

“She’s my best friend,” I said quickly. “She’s my person. Of course I care about her.”

Pietro didn’t argue right away. He just studied me, far too perceptive for my liking.

“You say that,” he said slowly, “but you also have a boyfriend.”

I shrugged weakly. “So?”

“So what happens when you marry him?” he asked.

The question landed strangely, but I answered without thinking. “Y/N will live next door. Or nearby. We’ll still see each other all the time.”

Pietro hummed. “Okay. And what happens when she gets married?”

The room went very quiet.

My chest tightened painfully.

“I—” My voice broke before I could finish. The image hit me without mercy—Y/N in a white dress, smiling at someone else, choosing someone else.

Tears welled up all over again.

Pietro watched my face soften, my shoulders slump, my composure crumble.

“There it is,” he said softly.

I shook my head, wiping at my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t love me like that.”

His brow furrowed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I insisted, even as my heart screamed otherwise. “She told me before that she likes someone. And it wasn’t me.”

Pietro tilted his head. “Did she say that?”

“No,” I admitted quietly. “But I know.”

He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“She deserves someone who can love her properly,” I whispered. “Not… me, dragging her into this mess.”

Pietro reached out, squeezing my knee gently. “Or maybe she deserves honesty.”

I looked away, fresh tears slipping down my cheeks.

Because somewhere deep down, beneath the denial and fear and years of avoidance, the truth had finally settled in my chest—

I was in love with Y/N.

My phone rang.

The sound cut through the room sharply, making me flinch. I glanced at the screen through blurred vision.

Nat.

I answered before the second ring finished. “Nat?”

Her voice came out tight.. “Wanda. Y/N was brought to the hospital.”

The world tilted.

“What?” My heart slammed so hard it hurt. “What happened—Is she—?”

“She’s alive,” Nat said quickly. “But she’s hurt.”

I didn’t wait. 

“What happened?” I demanded, panic tearing through me. “Tell me right now.”

There was a pause. A sharp inhale.

“Your shitty boyfriend,” Nat said coldly, “beat her up.” “…Vision?” I whispered.

“Yes,” Nat snapped. “He lost it. Punched her. We pulled him off before it got worse.”

My chest caved in.

I remembered my words.

To find my boyfriend and fuck him. The way I’d left Y/N standing there—hurting, confused.

“What hospital?” I asked, voice shaking.

“St. Mary’s,” Nat replied. “Wanda… she was already really sick. She couldn’t breathe. It was bad.”

Sick.

My blood ran cold.

“I’m coming,” I said, already grabbing my jacket. “I’m coming right now.”

I hung up and turned to Pietro, who had gone very still, his expression dark with fury.

“He hurt her,” I said, my voice breaking completely now. “He hurt Y/N.”

Pietro moved instantly.

He caught my shoulders, firm and grounding, forcing me to look at him. “Wanda. Breathe,” he said, low and steady, the way he used to when we were kids and the world felt like it was ending. “Panicking won’t help her. You hear me?”

My chest hitched, a sob tearing out anyway. “I did this,” I whispered. “I said horrible things. I left her—”

“You didn’t make him touch her,” Pietro cut in sharply. “That’s on Vision. Only him.” His thumb brushed away my tears, gentler now. “We’re going to the hospital. You’re going to be strong when she sees you. For her.”

I nodded, clinging to his words like a lifeline.

The drive was silent, heavy. Every red light felt cruel. My thoughts kept replaying Y/N’s face earlier—tired, pale, that tightness in her chest I’d ignored because I was too wrapped up in my own anger.

St. Mary’s Hospital loomed ahead, bright and unforgiving.

Nat was waiting when we rushed in. One look at her face told me everything.

“Her mom’s with her right now,” Nat said softly. “She hasn’t left her side.”

I nodded, barely hearing anything past that. My legs carried me down the hall on instinct alone.

Room 412.

I stopped just short of the door.

Voices drifted out.

A man’s—calm, professional, devastating.

“As you know, Hanahaki disease doesn’t have a cure,” the doctor was saying. “If the person they’re in love with doesn’t reciprocate those feelings… there’s nothing we can do. We can manage pain, ease breathing, but—” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

The world shattered.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, my knees nearly buckling as the doctor stepped out, clipboard tucked under his arm, sympathy etched into his face when he saw me standing there. He nodded once and walked away.

Hanahaki.

My chest burned like I was the one choking.

I waited a second—two—just enough to pull myself together before opening the door.

Y/N’s mom looked up first.

The moment our eyes met, something passed between us—recognition, understanding, grief. She stood without a word, squeezing my arm gently as she passed me.

“I’ll give you some time,” she said quietly.

Then we were alone.

Y/N looked so small in the hospital bed. Bruises shadowed her cheek. Tubes and monitors surrounded her, each soft beep cutting into me deeper than any scream.

I crossed the room in three steps and wrapped my arms around her, careful but desperate, pressing my face into her shoulder as sobs broke free again.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry. For fighting. For saying those things. For leaving. I heard about Vision—God, I should’ve protected you—”

Her arms came up around me, weak but sure, holding me like she always had.

“Wanda,” she murmured, voice rough. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t.

Her body stiffened suddenly.

I felt it before I heard it—the sharp hitch of breath, the tremor running through her. She pulled back just enough to turn her head, coughing violently into her hand.

“No—Y/N—” I panicked.

When she opened her palm, my heart stopped.

Small flower buds lay there, streaked with red.

I stared at them, horror and heartbreak crashing over me all at once. “Oh my God…” My voice broke completely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She tried to hide her hand, but it was too late.

“I asked you,” I choked, frustration and fear tangling together until I couldn’t separate them. “So many times. About your cough. I begged you to see a doctor. You always said you were fine!”

Tears streamed down my face as the truth hit fully, cruelly.

“Who is she?” I demanded, pain sharpening my words despite myself. “Is she that important? You love her so much you’d rather die than move on?”

My voice cracked on the last word.

“You’d really choose that over living?”

I looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, I was terrified of the answer.

She looked at me for a long moment.

Really looked at me.

Like she was trying to gather the strength to say something she’d been carrying alone for years.

Her fingers curled weakly around the bedsheet, then relaxed. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—too quiet.

“There was never a her,” she said.

I froze. “What…?”

She let out a breath that shook like it hurt to give it up. “You asked who she was,” she continued softly. “The one I loved so much I couldn’t move on. The one I was dying for.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“There was never a she,” Y/N said again. “There was only… one person.”

I shook my head, confused, heart racing. “Y/N—”

“I loved her since I was a kid,” she whispered, eyes fixed somewhere past me, like she was watching memories instead of the present. “Since she moved in next door with her accent and her laugh and the way she smiled at me like I was already important. I didn’t know what love was back then. I just knew that whenever she was around, the world felt… right.”

My breath caught.

“She talked to me about the boys she liked,” Y/N went on, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “I learned how to swallow jealousy before I even knew what it was called. I learned how to be the safe place. The best friend. The one who stayed.”

Her eyes finally lifted to mine.

“I told myself that loving her quietly was better than losing her loudly.”

My heart started to crack.

“When she got her first boyfriend, I went home and cried until my chest hurt,” she said. “When she fell in love, I taught myself how to smile and ask questions and pretend it didn’t feel like something was being carved out of me.”

Tears streamed down her face now, unchecked.

“I didn’t want anything from her,” Y/N whispered. “I swear. I didn’t need her to choose me. I just wanted her to be happy. That was enough. That had to be enough.”

Her breathing hitched, and she pressed a hand to her chest like it physically ached to continue.

“When I got sick… I knew immediately,” she said. “I didn’t need a diagnosis. I already knew who it was for.”

My vision blurred.

“I never told you because I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” she said, voice breaking. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped. Or guilty. Or like you owed me something just to keep me alive.”

She shook her head weakly.

“This isn’t your fault,” she said firmly, even as tears soaked her pillow. “None of it. I don’t want you to blame yourself. I chose this. I chose silence. I chose loving you the only way I thought I was allowed to.”

My hands were shaking now.

“All I ever wanted,” Y/N whispered, barely audible, “was to see you happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.”

And then she finally looked straight at me—really looked.

“I love you, Wanda,” she said. “It’s always been you.”

The room felt like it shattered around us.

My breath left me in a broken sob as realization crashed down, cruel and undeniable.

Every moment. Every fight. Every ache I’d never been able to name.

“I might be dying,” she finished softly, “but it’s okay… as long as you were smiling.”

Something in me snapped.

“No,” I cried, a sound torn straight from my chest.

My fists came down on her shoulder, her arm—weak, frantic, desperate hits that barely hurt but carried everything I couldn’t breathe around. “Idiot,” I sobbed. “You absolute idiot.”

She startled, eyes wide, then tried to lift her hand. “Wanda—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I cried, hitting her again, tears blinding me. “I didn’t ask you to be quiet. I didn’t ask you to die for me.”

I pressed my forehead to hers, fists still clenched in her hospital gown like if I let go she’d disappear.

“You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less than my happiness,” I choked. “You don’t get to choose that for me.”

She was crying too now, silent tears sliding down her temples.

“I loved you,” I whispered fiercely, voice shaking apart. “I’ve loved you for years and I was too much of a coward to name it.”

Her breath hitched.

“Every time you looked tired, every time you pulled away, every time you slept with someone else—it hurt,” I admitted, voice cracking. “And instead of asking why, I ran. I hid behind someone safe. Someone easy.”

My hands shook as I cupped her face.

“I hated seeing anyone touch you,” I confessed. “I hated that it wasn’t me. And I told myself it was jealousy, or possessiveness, or fear of losing my best friend—anything except the truth.”

I laughed once, broken and wet. “Because loving you felt too dangerous.”

I pressed my lips to her forehead, tears dripping down between us.

“I love you,” I said, finally, fully. “Not like a friend. Not like a habit. I’m in love with you, Y/N. I always have been.”

Her eyes filled with fragile, terrified hope.

“I’m so angry at you,” I sobbed, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “And I’m so scared. And I love you so much it hurts to breathe.”

I pulled her into my arms as carefully as I could, holding her like she was my entire world—because she was.

“So don’t you dare leave me,” I whispered against her hair. “Don’t you dare think I’m better off without you.”

My voice broke completely.

“I need you,” I admitted. “Not smiling from a distance. Not sacrificing yourself.”

I held her tighter.

“I need you alive.”

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Like she was afraid that if she breathed too hard, the moment would shatter.

Then her fingers curled into my shirt, weak but desperate, as if she was anchoring herself to me.

“Wanda…” she whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands framing her face, thumbs brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“I mean every word,” I said fiercely. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Her breath hitched—and suddenly she coughed.

I stiffened instantly. “Hey—hey—”

She turned her head, coughing hard into her hand. Panic surged through me as her body shook, fragile and exhausted. I reached for the call button with one hand, ready to scream for help—

Then she froze.

Slowly, she opened her palm.

There were petals there.

But they were different.

The buds—once tight and cruel—were loosening. Softening. One of them trembled… and then crumbled into dust, fading like ash between her fingers.

Her eyes widened.

“Wanda,” she breathed. “It— it doesn’t hurt as much.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, barely daring to hope. “What?”

She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering shut as she took a careful inhale.

For the first time in years, she didn’t gasp.

Didn’t wheeze.

Didn’t cough.

“I can breathe,” she whispered, disbelief cracking her voice.

A sob tore out of me—this one different. Hopeful. Terrified. Alive.

I grabbed her hands, holding them between mine like something sacred. “That’s it,” I whispered. “That has to be it.”

Tears streamed freely down her face now, but she was smiling through them—small, fragile, real.

“You… you really love me?” she asked softly, like she was afraid the answer might disappear if she breathed wrong.

I didn’t hesitate.

“I love you,” I said, voice steady despite the way my chest was shaking. “I love you in every way that matters. I have for a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it without breaking everything.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath leaving her.

She searched my face like she was looking for doubt, for pity—anything that would tell her this wasn’t real.

There was nothing but truth.

“I love you,” I repeated, gentler now. “Not because you’re sick. Not because you’re hurt. But because you’re you. Because you’re my home. My person.”

Her eyes filled again.

“Wanda…” she whispered, overwhelmed.

Then, hesitantly, like she was afraid to ruin the moment, she asked, “What about Vision?”

The name felt small in the room. Distant.

I exhaled slowly, brushing my thumb under her eye. “He was… kind to me,” I admitted. “He was safe. He liked me. He didn’t scare me.”

She tensed, waiting.

“But he was never you,” I said quietly.

Her breath caught.

“He never made my heart race just by saying my name,” I continued. “He never felt like the other half of my life I’d been walking beside since childhood. I cared about him—but I loved you.”

I leaned closer, forehead resting against hers.

“I chose him because I was blind. Too terrified. But I don’t want to hide anymore. I want you.”

Her hands tightened in my shirt like she was afraid I’d vanish.

“So I’m done running,” I whispered. “I’m done lying—to myself and to you.”

She let out a broken, relieved sound—half laugh, half sob—and nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Her “okay” was barely out when it happened.

She stiffened in my arms.

At first it was just a sharp inhale—too shallow, too fast. Then her body jerked violently as she started coughing.

Hard.

Wet.

Uncontrollable.

“Y/N?” I pulled back instantly, panic flooding me. “Hey—hey, look at me—”

She couldn’t.

She doubled forward, coughing nonstop, her whole body shaking as she tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come. The sound was wrong—raw and choking, like her lungs were tearing themselves apart.

“I—can’t—” she gasped between coughs, eyes already glassy.

“No no no,” I whispered frantically, heart slamming against my ribs. “Breathe with me, okay? Just—just look at me.”

She coughed again—and this time something dark spilled into her hand.

Petals.

Crushed, blood-soaked petals.

My stomach dropped.

“Oh my God—” I fumbled for the call button, slamming it with shaking fingers. “Help! I need help in here—now!”

Her face was turning pale, lips tinged blue as she clawed weakly at my arm, panic overtaking her.

“I can’t—Wanda—I can’t breathe—”

“I’m here,” I sobbed, pulling her upright, supporting her weight as best I could. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Please—please stay with me.”

More coughing. More blood.

Her body sagged against me, strength draining fast, eyes fluttering like she was fighting to stay conscious.

“Y/N!” I cried, voice breaking completely. “Don’t you dare leave me. I just found you—I just told you—I love you—”

The door burst open as nurses rushed in, followed by a doctor shouting orders I barely registered.

“Oxygen—now!”

“Sit her up—careful—”

“She’s desaturating—”

Hands pulled her from my arms and laid her back on the bed, masks and tubes appearing in seconds. I stood frozen, covered in her blood and petals, unable to move, unable to breathe myself.

She reached for me blindly.

I grabbed her hand instantly, squeezing it tight.

“I’m here,” I said desperately. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re not allowed to go.”

Her fingers twitched weakly around mine.

Her eyes met mine one last time—terrified, apologetic, full of so much love it nearly destroyed me.

“I love you,” she mouthed, soundless.

“I love you,” I sobbed back. “Please—please—”

The monitor beeped faster.

Doctors shouted.

And all I could do was hold her hand and pray that loving her—finally, fully—would be enough to pull her back.

“Clear the room—now.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

A nurse gently but firmly pulled me back, prying my fingers from hers even as I fought it, panic ripping through me.

“No—don’t—please—” I choked. “She needs me—”

“She needs oxygen,” the doctor said sharply, already moving. “We’ve got this.”

The doors slammed shut in my face.

I staggered back like I’d been punched, my legs giving out beneath me. Pietro caught me before I hit the floor, arms wrapping around my shoulders as I screamed—actually screamed—her name into the sterile hallway.

Minutes blurred into something cruel and endless.

I paced. I cried. I pressed my forehead into the cold wall and begged every god I didn’t believe in to not take her now. Not after everything. Not after I’d finally said it.

Nat arrived at some point. So did Y/N’s mom. I barely registered them until I heard it—

A sound that didn’t belong in hospitals.

A sob.

Her mother.

I looked up instantly, terror clawing up my throat. “What—what happened?”

She shook her head, tears streaming. “They’re trying,” she whispered. “She stopped breathing for a moment. They had to—”

I couldn’t hear the rest. Blood roared in my ears.

This was my fault.

If I’d told her sooner.

If I hadn’t run.

If I hadn’t said those words—

The doors finally opened.

A doctor stepped out, mask lowered, eyes tired.

“She’s stable,” he said.

The world crashed back into me all at once.

“Stable?” I whispered. “Is she—”

“She aspirated petals and blood,” he explained. “Her airway was obstructed. We cleared it. She’s on oxygen now. Heavily sedated.”

I sagged against Pietro, sobbing in relief so sharp it hurt.

“But,” the doctor continued, and my heart seized again, “this confirms the disease is progressing rapidly. Emotional stress can trigger acute episodes—even after reciprocation.”

I shook my head desperately. “But I told her. I love her. That’s supposed to—”

“Reciprocation can halt progression,” he said gently. “But the body doesn’t heal instantly. Especially after years.”

Years.

I was killing her with my silence.

“You can see her,” he said. “But keep it calm. She needs rest.”

I didn’t remember walking back into the room.

She looked smaller somehow, surrounded by machines, oxygen mask covering her face, lashes resting against her cheeks like she was asleep. Too still. Too fragile.

I sat beside her bed, trembling, and took her hand again—this time gently, reverently, like it was something sacred.

“I’m here,” I whispered, tears dripping onto the sheets. “I’m right here. You don’t get to leave now. Not after everything we survived.”

Her fingers twitched faintly in mine.

I leaned closer, forehead brushing her knuckles.

“You don’t have to be strong anymore,” I whispered. “You don’t have to protect me. Let me protect you now. Please.”

My voice broke completely.

“I love you. And I’m not letting you go.”

---

It didn’t end that night.

Healing, I learned, was not a miracle—it was a war.

For two months, Y/N stayed in that hospital room, in and out of consciousness, her body fighting something that had been growing inside her for years. The doctors warned us again and again: reciprocation stopped the disease from spreading—but it didn’t erase the damage already done.

And the damage was brutal.

She had episodes like that first one—violent, terrifying fits where she would wake up gasping, choking, coughing until her whole body shook. Sometimes it was petals. Sometimes full flowers. Sometimes thick, bloodied branches that made the nurses pale and turn away as they pulled them free from her airway.

I never left.

I slept in the chair beside her bed, my back aching, my eyes burning, my hand always within reach of hers. When she coughed, I held her. When she cried in frustration and fear, I let her soak my shirt with tears. When she apologized—over and over, for scaring me, for being weak, for being alive—I stopped her every time.

“Don’t,” I would whisper fiercely. “You’re staying. That’s all that matters.”

There were nights I thought I’d lose her anyway.

Nights when her oxygen levels dipped, when alarms screamed, when doctors rushed in and I was pushed aside again, helpless and shaking, convinced this was it—that loving her had come too late.

But every time, she came back.

Each episode left her weaker… and lighter.

Less pain.

Less blood.

Less choking.

Until one morning, weeks later, she woke up coughing—and then stopped.

No panic. No gasping.

Just a single, quiet cough.

She looked at me in confusion, then at her hands.

There was nothing there.

No petals.

No buds.

No blood.

The scan later that day confirmed it.

Her lungs were clear.

Completely.

No branches.

No seeds.

No trace of the disease that had been slowly killing her since she was sixteen.

I cried harder than I ever had in my life, forehead pressed to her hospital bed, laughter and sobs tangled together as I thanked every universe that had given her back to me.

She cupped my face with weak fingers, smiling softly.

“I told you,” she murmured. “I wasn’t ready to leave you.”

I kissed her then—slow, careful, real.

And this time, there was no pain in her breath.

Only life.

---

A Year Later.

Wanda lay with her head resting on Y/N’s bare shoulder, her cheek warm against familiar skin as her fingers traced idle lines down the center of Y/N’s chest. The soft slide of her touch caught the light—and with it, the thin golden ring on her finger, warm and unmistakable as it brushed over Y/N’s skin. Slow. Thoughtful. Like she was grounding herself in the reality of her being there. 

Alive.

Breathing.

Here.

The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of their breaths as they both came down from the warmth and closeness they’d just shared. Wanda’s eyes drifted shut—and then, uninvited, memories surfaced.

Blood on white sheets.

Petals crushed in trembling hands.

The sound of coughing that had haunted her dreams long after the hospital monitors went silent.

Her chest tightened.

She hated herself for those memories. For the years she hadn’t seen. For the pain Y/N had carried alone.

Y/N felt the shift instantly.

“Hey,” she murmured gently, one hand lifting to brush Wanda’s hair back. “Where’d you go?”

Wanda swallowed, pressing her forehead lightly into Y/N’s collarbone. “I was just… thinking,” she admitted. “About how close I came to losing you.”

Y/N’s hand stilled, then tightened reassuringly at her back. “But you didn’t,” she said softly. “I’m right here.”

Wanda looked up at her then, really looked—at the steady rise of her chest, the warmth of her skin, the familiar eyes that had always felt like home.

“I love you,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N smiled, the kind of smile that reached her eyes. “I know,” she replied quietly. “I love you too.”

Wanda leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, unhurried. A kiss full of everything they’d survived and everything they still chose, every single day.

Then Wanda shifted, pulling back just enough to move, swinging one leg over Y/N’s waist. The blanket slid down with her movement, forgotten, revealing the soft lines of her body as she settled above her.

Y/N went very still, breath catching—not from surprise, but from awe. Even after a year, Wanda still did that to her.

Wanda braced her hands on Y/N’s stomach, a familiar smirk playing at her lips, eyes bright with affection and promise.

“Again, baby,” she murmured. “I need more of you.”

Y/N’s hands settled at her waist, steady and devoted. “Always,” she said.

Wanda leaned down, closing the space between them, and their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss—unrushed, certain. It was the kind of kiss that carried memory and promise all at once, lips moving together like they already knew every answer. Y/N’s hands traced familiar paths along Wanda’s back as Wanda melted into her, breath hitching softly as the kiss deepened, tender and sure.

And the ring caught the light again as Wanda leaned down—proof that they’d chosen each other, and would keep choosing, every day after.

---

Around you, the city is a gray mouth held open by smoke. Night rain slicks the cracked asphalt and turns the gutters into thin rivers of ash. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, then abruptly cuts off like something reached up and pinched it shut.

The building ahead is a squat concrete block dressed up as a humanitarian front. The name on the sign is cheerful, rounded letters meant to reassure, RELIEF SERVICES, while the windows are blacked out and the corners are too sharp to belong to anything honest.

Inside, there are hostages.

Inside, there are armed men with cheap rifles and expensive confidence.

And inside, somewhere in the middle of all that human fear, is the reason SHIELD called in the Avengers in the first place an experimental power core stolen out of a secure lab, humming with the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms lift and your teeth ache.

You crouch behind the destroyed shell of a car, rain ticking softly on the roof above you. Your vest sits heavy over your chest, the ceramic plate reassuring in a way that feels almost superstitious. Your fingers are steady on your weapon. Your breathing is controlled.

You’ve been trained by the best.

And by her.

Wanda’s team doesn’t move like chaos; they move like a sentence written in sharp ink. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a job. Everyone knows the cost of getting sloppy.

There’s a shift to your right. A trainee, newer, younger, adjusts their grip too fast. Their shoulder jerks. Their eyes flick up and down the building like they’re trying to count threats by staring harder at them.

You catch it, because you always catch it. You do what you’ve been taught to do: you assess, you predict, you correct.

“Breathe,” you murmur, not into comms, just into the rain. “Slow.”

The trainee swallows and nods too hard.

Wanda’s voice returns, crisp and clean. “Natasha. East entry. Clint, overwatch. Steve, you’re with me on the front breach. Y/n--”

Your throat tightens a fraction. That pause before she says your name always does something to you, even when it shouldn’t.

“--you’re with the hostages,” Wanda finishes. “You prioritize them. You do not chase targets. You do not improvise.”

It’s direct. Commanding. Exact.

And underneath it, if you know her the way you do, there’s a second layer of meaning.

You come back.

You come back.

You come back.

Your lips part around a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding. “Copy. Hostages first.”

“Good girl,” Wanda says, so quietly you almost miss it under the rain and the comms hiss. The words hit the inside of your ribs like a thumb pressed to a bruise--firm, intimate, grounding.

Across the street, Steve gives a hand signal and the front line shifts. Natasha slides like a shadow along the east wall, so smooth she might as well be the night itself. Clint is already a silhouette somewhere high above, bow drawn, watching.

Yelena’s voice crackles into comms like she’s leaning too close to the mic. “I am in position. And if any of you die, I will be very annoyed.”

“Comforting,” Natasha replies without missing a beat.

“It is my love language,” Yelena says, and you hear the grin in her voice.

You almost smile. Almost. You don’t let yourself.

Wanda doesn’t banter. Not before a breach. Not when civilians are involved. Not when there’s too much that can go wrong.

She is, always, control.

That’s what SHIELD saw in her when they asked her to supervise training rotations. That’s why they paired her with you when you arrived, half-broken and too useful to ignore.

You weren’t born into this world.

You were dropped into it.

One day you were somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t have streetlights, didn’t have coffee, didn’t have the mundane, stupid comforts of Earth. Somewhere the sky was too close and the air tasted metallic and your power felt like a sickness trying to crawl out of your bones.

You survived.

You adapted.

SHIELD found you because something bright and wrong lit up their satellites. They brought you in with a soft voice and a hard hand. They called you an asset and smiled like it was kindness.

Wanda was the first person who didn’t talk to you like you were a weapon.

She talked to you like you were a person holding a weapon, and there is a difference so sharp it still cuts when you think about it.

She corrected your stance with two fingers at your elbow, not a shove.

She watched your breathing when your power spiked, not your hands.

She kept you in training longer than anyone thought necessary, because she refused to throw you into the field until you trusted your own body again.

And when you’d flinched once, once, at a sudden sound and everyone else had looked at you like you’d proven them right about you being unstable, Wanda had stepped closer, gaze steady, and said:

“Again.”

No pity. No fear. Just expectation.

You learned to meet it.

You learned to become someone she could trust.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, somewhere between her hands on your wrists adjusting a grip and her eyes on you during a sparring match like you were the only thing worth watching, something in her shifted.

It wasn’t obvious. Wanda is not obvious.

But you noticed.

Because you notice everything about her.

The way her gaze lingers a fraction too long on your mouth when you talk.

The way she says your name when she’s angry, like it’s a restraint.

The way she is harsher with everyone else, and softer with you in the small places she thinks no one can see.

In the field, she never touches the other trainees unless she has to.

With you, she’s always one step closer than necessary.

Always within reach.

Like she’s afraid the world will steal you if she doesn’t keep a hand on the thread.

“Breach in three,” Steve says on comms.

Wanda inhales.

You hear it.

Even over the line, even through the static, you hear the control in it.

Then: “Two.”

You shift your weight, muscles coiling. Your path is mapped, west hallway, down to the holding room. Wanda’s intel says the hostages are in the back, behind a metal door. Your job is to get to them, shield them, get them out.

“One.”

The front wall explodes inward with controlled force. Not Wanda’s magic, Steve’s charge, clean and brutal. Dust blooms into the rain like a gray flower.

The world lurches.

You move.

Everything becomes sound and motion and training.

You sprint, low, weapon up, eyes scanning. The air inside the building is warmer, stale, smelling of sweat and fear and old concrete. A man shouts in a language you don’t understand. Another one screams.

Gunfire erupts, sharp, fast, echoing off the narrow hallways.

Your heart doesn’t race it works. Steady. Efficient.

You take the west corridor, boots splashing through rainwater tracked in, and you are halfway down when the trainee behind you does exactly what Wanda told them not to do.

They improvise.

They break formation.

They push ahead, eager, trying to be heroic, trying to prove something.

You see it like a slow motion nightmare: their shoulder breaks into the open doorway on the left, their body exposed, their weapon angle wrong.

And from inside the room, a muzzle flashes.

Hostages.

The shooter isn’t aiming at the trainee.

He’s aiming past them.

At a woman crouched behind a table, hands over her head, eyes wide and wet in the dim.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You throw yourself into the line.

The impact is a sledgehammer to your chest.

Your vest catches the bullet, your plate does its job, so there’s no clean hole, no neat wound, no immediate red blooming through fabric.

Instead, the force drives into you like a car crash compressed into a single point.

Your ribs feel like they fold.

Your lungs forget how to be lungs.

You hit the floor hard enough that your vision whites out at the edges.

Sound becomes underwater.

You try to inhale and nothing happens.

Your body sucks at air like it’s never done it before, like the motion is unfamiliar, like you’re drowning in dry space.

A wet sound tears from your throat.

Blood spills into your mouth, hot and metallic, and you cough--instinctively, violently

and it sprays out in a dark arc across the concrete.

The smell is immediate.

Iron.

Panic.

You claw at your chest, fingers scrabbling over the vest like you can rip your way back to breathing if you just try hard enough.

The trainee screams your name.

You can’t answer.

Your world tunnels into the savage need for air.

Somewhere above you, Wanda’s voice slices through comms.

“Y/n?”

It’s not command.

It’s fear, sharpened into a single syllable.

You try to speak. You can’t. Blood bubbles at your lips instead.

Your hand lifts, weak, reaching for nothing.

“Y/n,” Wanda says again, and you hear her moving, fast, too fast. The air hums. The building itself seems to vibrate with the sudden flare of red.

Steve says something, your name, an order, but it’s swallowed by the roar in your ears.

Footsteps thunder.

And then Wanda is there.

She drops to her knees so hard the concrete should bruise her. Her hands are on you immediately, everywhere, too many points of contact, like she’s trying to anchor you to the world by force.

Her fingers find your jaw, tilt your face up. Her other hand grabs the front of your vest, yanks at the straps with violent precision.

“Look at me,” she says, breath trembling on the words. Wanda Maximoff’s breath does not tremble. She is the calm in the storm.

Except right now.

Right now her hands shake so slightly you feel it in the way her fingers press into your skin.

You try to open your eyes. Your lashes are wet, rain, tears, blood spray, you don’t know. Everything is blurry. Wanda’s face is a dark shape edged in red light.

You cough again.

Blood pours out, thick and relentless, and you make a horrible, choking sound because it’s blocking everything.

Wanda’s eyes widen, pupils blown.

“No,” she whispers, like she can refuse reality into changing.

Her magic flares, scarlet threads curling around your torso, probing, searching, trying to assess damage the way a medic would, except it’s Wanda so it’s like being touched from the inside.

You feel it catch on something, your ribs, your lungs, and her breath breaks.

“moye serdtse” she murmurs, voice cracking. Something soft and Sokovian, something that sounds like a prayer and a promise at once. “moya lyubov'… stay with me.”

You don’t understand the words, but you understand the tone.

You understand the way her thumbs stroke your cheeks like she’s trying to soothe you while you’re actively dying.

Your chest heaves. Your lungs flutter uselessly, bruised and flooding. The world tilts.

You can’t get enough air.

You can’t.

Your fingers curl into her sleeve like a child’s grip, desperate, begging.

Wanda makes a sound, small, broken, furious. Her gaze flicks once, sharp as a whip, toward the room where the shooter was.

There’s a man with a rifle staring in shock. There are hostages pressed into corners, crying.

And there--standing frozen in the doorway, pale as ash--there’s the trainee.

The one who moved wrong.

The one who made you throw your body into a bullet’s path.

Wanda’s face goes blank.

Not calm.

Blank.

It’s the expression she wears when she’s about to do something that can’t be undone.

Red light crawls up her fingers.

The air thickens.

The trainee whimpers.

“Wanda,” Steve says on comms, firm. “Stay with her. We’ve got--”

Wanda doesn’t answer.

Her gaze locks onto the trainee like a target.

And then Natasha is there too, because Natasha Romanoff misses nothing. She drops beside Wanda, one knee hitting the floor, and her hand clamps around Wanda’s wrist.

Hard.

“Maximoff,” Natasha says, low. “Eyes here.”

Wanda’s jaw flexes. Her nostrils flare. Her magic surges against Natasha’s grip like a living thing trying to lunge.

“You--” Wanda starts, and it’s not even aimed at Natasha. It’s aimed at the universe.

Natasha doesn’t let her finish.

“Later,” she says, like it’s a promise and a warning. “Right now, you keep her alive.”

Wanda’s eyes flick back to you.

The sight of your blood at your mouth, the way your chest won’t rise properly, the panic in your gaze, something in her fractures.

She leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. Her breath is ragged in your face.

“Breathe,” she says, voice shaking now. “Breathe for me, detka. Please.”

You try.

You cannot.

Your throat makes a horrible wet rasp.

You see it in Wanda’s eyes the moment she realizes the truth:

You aren’t just hurt.

You are going to suffocate.

Your airway is failing.

Your lungs are failing.

You are drowning in yourself.

“Nat,” Wanda whispers, and there is naked terror in it. “She--”

“I know,” Natasha says.

Yelena’s voice crackles through comms, suddenly sharp. “Why is everyone quiet? Who is bleeding? Is it you? If it is you, I will--”

“Shut up,” Natasha snaps, then immediately softens her tone like she remembers you can hear her. “Yelena. Med kit. Now. West corridor. Run.”

“I am running,” Yelena says indignantly, and you hear pounding footsteps in the background and the clink of something metal. “I am always running in this family.”

Wanda’s hands are still on you. She’s already ripping open the front of your vest. The straps tear. The plate shifts. Cold air hits your skin.

Your chest is already blooming with bruising, a dark, ugly spread under your collarbone. Wanda’s fingers trace it as if touching it gently might undo it.

She presses two fingers to your throat, checking.

Her magic pulses, probing deeper.

And then she goes still.

Her eyes flick up, meet Natasha’s.

A silent exchange passes between them, the kind only people who have seen too much can have.

Natasha’s voice is grim. “Airway’s going.”

You want to say something. Anything. You want to tell them you’re here, you’re trying, you’re not ready, your mind throws a thousand words at your tongue and none of them get past the blood.

Wanda cups your face with both hands now like she’s afraid your head will roll away if she lets go.

“Stay with me,” she repeats, and this time it’s not a command. It’s a plea. “Stay, stay, stay…”

Your vision swims.

The edges darken.

You hear comms like a distant radio in another room.

Steve barking orders. Gunfire. Hostages crying. The mission still happening around you while your whole world becomes the brutal, humiliating fact that you can’t breathe.

Wanda’s thumb presses at the corner of your mouth, wiping blood away with a tenderness that feels obscene in a battlefield.

“Please,” she whispers again, and you realize she’s crying, not openly, not dramatically, but there’s a wet shine gathering in her eyes that makes your chest ache even more than the injury.

Yelena skids into the hallway, breathless, and drops to her knees across from you.

She takes one look at your face, at the blood, the panic, the way your lips are starting to tinge wrong, and she loses her usual sharpness for a beat.

“Oh,” she says, very quietly. “Okay. This is bad.”

“Stop narrating,” Natasha mutters.

“I am not narrating. I am observing. There is difference.”

Yelena fumbles the med kit open, hands moving fast but not smooth. She’s excellent at violence. Comfort is… not her natural habitat.

“Hi,” Yelena says to you, and her voice does something awkward, tries to be warm, lands somewhere near blunt. “Do not die. It will upset Wanda and she will then kill everyone and I will have to clean up mess.”

You might laugh if you weren’t drowning.

Wanda glares at her without looking away from you. “Yelena.”

“What? I am soothing,” Yelena insists, offended. “This is soothing where I am from.”

“Not helping,” Natasha says.

Wanda’s magic pulses again, and you feel it coil around your throat. Not choking. Supporting. Trying to keep tissue open, trying to hold a pathway where your body is collapsing.

But magic can’t change blood flooding your airway fast enough.

Natasha’s eyes track your breathing, or lack of it, and her decision is immediate.

“There’s no time,” she says.

You hear the knife before you see it, the soft metallic whisper as she draws it from its sheath.

Your eyes widen.

Wanda’s head snaps up. “Natasha--”

Natasha doesn’t flinch. “Cric,” she says, like a code. “She’s obstructing. She’s going to suffocate.”

“No,” Wanda says, and you don’t know if she’s denying the plan or denying the reality.

Natasha’s gaze is steady. “Wanda. Hold her.”

Wanda’s face twists. Her hands tighten on your jaw like she’s holding you together by force of will. Her magic flares around you, red threads whipping, frantic.

“You are not cutting her,” Wanda hisses, voice low and feral.

Natasha leans closer, voice even lower. “Then watch her die.”

The words hit like a slap.

Wanda’s breath stutters.

Your chest convulses with another useless attempt at air. A wet gurgle tears out of you. Your vision spots.

Wanda makes a sound, raw, torn, and then she nods once, jerky, like it costs her everything.

“Do it,” she whispers.

And then, because Wanda Maximoff cannot help but be Wanda, she leans down and presses her forehead to yours, hands cradling your face so gently it hurts.

“Look at me,” she says, voice trembling like the edge of a breakdown. “Stay with me. I am here. I have you. I have you…”

Her words wrap around you like a blanket and a chain at once.

Natasha positions herself at your throat. Her movements are precise, practiced. She’s done this before. The fact makes something cold slide down your spine.

Your mind screams.

Your body tries to pull away.

But you can’t move. You’re too weak, too panicked, too trapped in the simple animal need for oxygen.

Wanda’s magic presses you down, not cruel, not painful, just… holding. Immobilizing. Protecting you from yourself.

“Detka,” Wanda whispers, and the pet name lands like a kiss on your forehead. “I am so sorry. I am so--”

The knife touches your skin.

Cold.

You choke on a sound that isn’t a word.

Pain flashes, white, brutal, immediate, as Natasha makes the incision. It’s sharp and clean and it tears a cry out of you so raw it doesn’t sound like you.

Wanda’s hands shake around your face. Her eyes are wide, wet, furious at the universe.

“Breathe,” she says, over and over, like a spell. “Breathe, breathe, breathe…”

Natasha works fast. The world is reduced to sensation: the sting at your throat, the pressure, the awful awareness of something opening where nothing should open.

And then air. Not perfect. Not gentle.

But air hits you like a miracle.

You suck it in through the new passage with a harsh, ugly gasp that makes your whole body spasm.

Your eyes roll back for a second.

You come back with a strangled sob.

Wanda’s face crumples.

She lets out a broken breath like she’s been holding her own lungs shut this entire time. Her forehead stays pressed to yours as if she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lifts it.

“That’s it,” Natasha says, steady. “Good. Good. She’s got air.”

Yelena swears softly in Russian--something that sounds like both relief and rage.

Wanda laughs once, a wet sound that isn’t humor. It’s hysteria brushing the edge of her control.

She kisses your temple--quick, fierce--before she seems to realize what she’s done.

Her eyes flick around.

The trainees nearby stare like they’ve just witnessed something sacred and terrifying.

Because they have.

Wanda Maximoff does not do tenderness in front of them.

She does not show weakness.

She does not kneel.

Except she is kneeling now, covered in your blood, hands cradling your face like you are the only living thing in the world.

Her voice drops, so low it’s almost not comms anymore--it’s just for you.

“My love,” she whispers in Sokovian, words trembling on her tongue. “My heart. Don’t you dare leave me.”

You can’t answer. You can’t speak around the tube and the pain and the shock.

But your hand moves, weak, trembling, and finds her wrist.

Your fingers close around her like a promise.

Wanda’s eyes snap to your hand.

She inhales sharply.

Her magic surges in response, filling the hallway with a low red glow that makes the concrete look like it’s bleeding too.

“Command,” Steve’s voice barks on comms. “We need evac on west--now. Hostages moving. Clint, cover. Natasha--”

“I’m here,” Natasha answers. “We’re stabilizing. She needs a bird.”

“On it,” Clint says. “Clear the roof.”

The mission continues, because it has to.

But Wanda doesn’t move.

Wanda’s world has narrowed to the pulse under your skin and the fact that you are still looking at her.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Even if it’s through a wound.

Yelena leans closer, awkwardly patting your shoulder like she’s trying to remember how humans work.

“You did very good,” she tells you, voice strained. “Very… heroic. Next time, do not be so heroic. It is very inconvenient.”

You manage a small, painful exhale that might be a laugh.

Wanda shoots Yelena a look that could kill.

Then Wanda’s gaze slides past you, past the blood, the shattered hallway, the hostages being guided out by Steve

to the trainee still standing frozen, shaking.

The one who caused this.

Wanda’s face changes again.

Her grief doesn’t vanish.

It weaponizes.

She lifts her head slowly, eyes locking on the trainee like a predator sighting prey.

The trainee flinches backward. “I--I didn’t-- I thought--”

Wanda rises in one smooth motion, still keeping one hand on you as if she refuses to break contact. Her magic coils around her arms in lazy, deadly ribbons.

Everyone in the hallway feels it.

The temperature dips.

Even Natasha’s posture shifts, ready, cautious.

Wanda speaks, and her voice is Supervisor Maximoff again--except now it’s laced with something ancient and cruel.

“You thought,” she repeats softly.

The trainee swallows. “I-- I was trying to help--”

Wanda steps closer.

Red light spills over the trainee’s face, painting them in the color of consequence.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Wanda says, tone calm in a way that makes your stomach turn. “You broke formation. You exposed civilians. You exposed her.”

The trainee’s eyes flick to you, wide, guilty, horrified.

Wanda follows the glance.

Her hand tightens on your shoulder, possessive even in your half-conscious state, like she’s claiming you with touch.

“She is not your lesson,” Wanda says.

The trainee’s lip trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--”

Wanda’s gaze sharpens. “Sorry does not reverse bruised lungs. Sorry does not refill blood. Sorry does not stop her from drowning.”

The trainee starts to cry.

Wanda doesn’t soften.

Natasha steps between them, voice low. “Wanda. Not now.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Move.”

Natasha doesn’t move.

Wanda’s magic flares.

Natasha’s hand goes toward her own weapon, not because she expects to use it on Wanda, because she expects to need it to stop Wanda from doing something irreversible.

And then you make a sound.

A wet, rasping inhale through the tube.

A small, broken noise of pain.

Wanda freezes like the sound has struck her physically.

Her head whips back to you.

Your eyes are open, barely, glassy, unfocused, but they’re on her.

There is fear in them.

Not of the injury.

Of her.

The realization hits Wanda like a punch.

Her jaw clenches. Her breath shudders.

She turns away from the trainee like ripping herself free of a temptation.

“Get them out,” she snaps at Natasha, at Steve, at everyone. “Now.”

Steve doesn’t argue. “Moving.”

The hallway becomes motion again, boots, voices, the shuffle of terrified civilians being guided toward the exit. The sound of rain grows louder as doors open.

Wanda drops back down beside you like gravity pulls her there.

She presses her palm to your sternum, gentle, careful, feeling the horrible instability under your skin. Her magic threads into your chest again, soothing bruised tissue as best as it can, trying to reduce swelling, trying to keep your lungs functioning.

Her eyes never leave your face.

“Stay with me,” she says again, quieter now, stripped down to truth. “Please. Please.”

You want to tell her you’re trying.

You want to tell her she’s scaring you and saving you at the same time.

You want to tell her you’ve never felt so held.

Your hand moves again, trembling, and you touch her cheek.

Your fingers smear blood on her skin.

Wanda closes her eyes for half a second like your touch is the only prayer she believes in.

She leans into your palm, breathing hard.

Then she kisses your fingers.

Right there, in the hallway, surrounded by team and trauma and rain.

A small, instinctive act.

Claiming.

Comforting.

Love slipping out despite her iron discipline.

Natasha watches it, expression unreadable.

Yelena’s brows rise in silent, startled recognition, like she’s seeing the shape of something she suspected but never had confirmed.

And the trainees, your team, stare like they’ve just learned what it means to be hers.

Because Wanda has favorites.

Everyone knows she’s harder on some trainees than others. That she demands more, pushes more, expects more.

But with you it has always been… different.

With the others, she says Again.

With you, she says Breathe.

With the others, she corrects mistakes like they’re technical.

With you, she watches your face like she’s reading your soul.

And now, with you bleeding and broken on the floor, Wanda isn’t a supervisor.

She’s a woman on her knees in the rain, desperate enough to bare her heart in front of everyone.

The evacuation bird whirs overhead before you see it, the deep thump-thump-thump of rotors slicing through wet air.

A rope ladder drops down through an opening in the roof.

Clint’s voice crackles through comms. “Roof is clear. Bring her up.”

Natasha moves first, helping position you carefully. Yelena secures the tube and stabilizes it with rough competence, grumbling under her breath.

Wanda’s hands are everywhere again, supporting your head, your shoulders, your ribs, touching you like she can’t bear not to.

Every movement makes pain flare in your chest. Your body shakes with it, weak, helpless.

Wanda’s face tightens.

“I’ve got you,” she says, and this time the words sound like a vow. “I have you.”

You cling to her sleeve again as they lift you, because you don’t know what else to do.

Because your body knows her.

The ladder is a blur of motion and rain and dizziness. Your vision smears. Your stomach lurches. The night air is cold, sharp, and it burns your new airway with each harsh inhale.

Wanda climbs beside you, one hand on you the whole way, magic subtly supporting your weight like invisible hands holding you up.

On the roof, the world opens into rain and rotor wind.

The quinjet door yawns like a mouth.

Inside, medics rush forward.

Wanda doesn’t let them take you immediately.

She stiffens the moment a gloved hand reaches for you.

“Wanda,” Natasha says sharply, right in her ear.

Wanda’s head snaps to her.

Natasha’s gaze is fierce. “Let them work.”

Wanda’s throat bobs.

She looks down at you, your blood on her hands, your eyes half-open, your breathing harsh and mechanical.

She looks like she might refuse.

Then you blink, slow, exhausted.

And your fingers twitch, still holding her.

Wanda exhales shakily.

“Okay,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”

She lets the medics move in, but she follows like a shadow, hovering so close she might as well be part of you.

They lay you on a stretcher. Straps tighten. A monitor beeps, fast and angry.

Your body shakes with cold and shock.

Wanda’s magic wraps around you like warmth, subtle enough that no one calls it out, but strong enough that you stop shivering quite so violently.

A medic peers at your throat, grim. “We need to get her to the Tower. Now.”

Clint’s voice crackles. “We’re wheels up.”

You feel the quinjet lift. Your stomach drops.

Wanda’s hand finds yours again and this time she laces your fingers together like she’s claiming you, holding you, keeping you tethered.

Her glove is wet with rain and blood.

Her grip is firm enough to hurt.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

She leans down close to your ear, voice low, trembling.

“You did not have permission,” she whispers, and there’s something sharp and possessive in it that makes your exhausted mind snag. “Do you understand me? You do not get to throw yourself in front of bullets. You do not get to leave me.”

Your eyes flutter.

You try to swallow. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Wanda’s thumb strokes your knuckles like she’s soothing a wild animal.

“I know,” she says, as if answering something you didn’t say. “I know you did it for them. I know you would do it again.”

Her breath catches.

“But you come back to me.”

The words are softer now.

Not command.

Need.

Her forehead lowers until it rests against your temple, careful of the tube.

For a moment, the quinjet noise fades behind the sheer intensity of her presence.

The smell of her, rain, smoke, something faintly sweet and human cuts through the blood taste.

You feel tears burn in your eyes, sudden and useless.

Wanda presses a kiss to your hairline.

Then another.

Then she whispers something in Sokovian, rapid and intimate--words you don’t understand but feel in your bones anyway.

A promise.

A prayer.

A threat to the universe itself.

Natasha watches from across the bay, arms crossed, expression hard.

But her eyes flick to Wanda’s face, just once, and there’s something like sympathy there.

Because Natasha knows what it looks like when love becomes a liability in the field.

And she knows Wanda is losing the war against it.

Yelena hovers awkwardly near your stretcher, then leans in as if she’s about to say something kind and immediately regrets it.

“I will… kill the trainee,” she offers instead, quietly.

Wanda’s head lifts.

Her eyes are bright with tears that never fell, full of a rage that is still there, still simmering, waiting.

“Touch them,” Wanda says, voice low as thunder, “and I will stop you.”

Yelena blinks, offended. “I am being helpful.”

“No,” Wanda says, and it’s terrifying because it’s calm. “You are being reckless.”

Yelena’s mouth twists. “Says you.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t leave Yelena. “I have reasons.”

Yelena glances at you, then back at Wanda, and her expression shifts into something quieter, something like understanding.

“Ah,” she says softly. “Yes. Reasons.”

Wanda turns back to you, and the whole world narrows again.

Her hand squeezes yours.

Her voice drops into that intimate frequency again, meant only for you.

“I am here,” she says. “You are not alone. You are not allowed to be alone.”

Your vision blurs.

The monitor beeps.

The quinjet hums.

And you float somewhere between pain and relief and the strange, aching fact that Wanda Maximoff is holding your hand like she might never let go again.

You want to tell her you can’t handle how much she cares.

You want to tell her you can.

You want to tell her you’re scared.

All that comes out is a wet, rasping exhale through the tube.

Wanda smiles, small, shaky, broken with relief.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”

The words wrap around you like warmth and possession.

Your eyes close.

Not because you’re giving up.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, your body believes, truly believes, that someone else will fight for your breath when you can’t.

The quinjet lands like a verdict.

The floor shudders under the skids, rotors still hammering the air, and the moment the rear hatch starts to drop, the med bay team is already moving, gloved hands, bright lights, a stretcher rolling forward like it has its own gravity.

You feel it before you see it: the Tower’s sterile cold reaching for you.

Your eyes flutter open at the first blast of white light. The quinjet’s dim interior gives way to the hangar’s harsh fluorescents, and everything becomes too sharp, every sound too close, every vibration too loud.

The stretcher jolts.

Pain spears through your chest, then blooms outward, a deep bruised agony that makes your vision pinch at the edges.

Your hand tightens, instinctively, desperately, around Wanda’s.

She’s there. Still there.

Still refusing to be anything but there.

“I’ve got her,” Wanda says immediately when a medic tries to step in between. Her voice is calm, controlled--so controlled it’s terrifying. “Move.”

“Ma’am,” a doctor says, already walking beside you, fingers checking the tube at your throat, reading your vitals off the portable monitor. “We need clearance. We need space.”

Wanda doesn’t give any.

She walks with the gurney as if she is part of it--one hand anchored to your wrist, the other hovering over your sternum like she can physically hold your lungs together if she tries hard enough.

The hangar doors slide open. Cold air knifes in. The corridor ahead is a tunnel of bright light and polished floors, and the sound of boots on metal becomes the sound of wheels on tile.

They rush you through the Tower like a storm with a purpose.

Your world is fragments.....

ceiling lights streaking overhead

voices calling numbers you don’t understand

gloved hands pulling at straps and fabric

the smell of antiseptic replacing smoke

your own breathing, ugly and mechanical through the new airway

Wanda’s fingers laced with yours like a vow

“BP dropping,” someone says.

“SpO2 is unstable.”

“Possible flail segment, contusion, internal bleed--get imaging now.”

“No,” the lead trauma surgeon snaps, scanning you once and deciding fast. “No time. Straight to OR.”

Wanda’s head whips toward him.

“We stabilize her first,” she says, like she’s used to the world obeying her. Like she’s used to being the final word.

The surgeon doesn’t even look impressed. He looks busy.

“We stabilize her in surgery,” he says. “That tube bought us minutes, not comfort. She needs a chest drain, possible thoracotomy, and we don’t do that in the hallway.”

Wanda’s grip tightens around your hand so hard your fingers ache.

Your gaze drifts to her face--blurred, trembling at the edges--but you see her eyes.

Green, bright, wet. Furious with fear.

The doors ahead are marked SURGICAL WING in big, block letters that look too clean for what they mean.

A nurse steps into Wanda’s path, palms out. “Only surgical staff beyond this point.”

Wanda doesn’t slow.

The nurse’s voice sharpens. “Ma’am.”

Wanda stops so abruptly the gurney nearly bumps her hip.

For half a second the air thickens, and you feel it--Wanda’s power rising like a wave beneath her skin. Scarlet threads gather at her fingertips, the room responding to her emotions the way it always does.

The nurse stiffens.

The surgeon finally looks up, eyes flicking to Wanda’s hands. “Maximoff--”

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “I’m going with her.”

“No,” the surgeon says. “You’re not.”

Wanda’s nostrils flare. Her jaw flexes. The red glow intensifies until the white walls around you seem faintly pink, like the Tower itself is blushing under pressure.

Your breathing rasps. Your vision dims.

Your fingers twitch in Wanda’s grip, weak, pleading.

Not for her to fight.

For her to stay.

Wanda looks down at you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy. Your lips are wrong-colored. Your chest rises unevenly under the torn vest and torn fabric, every breath a battle your body is losing more than winning.

And Wanda...Wanda can tear reality open, can bend minds and space, can rewrite the world into what she needs

but she cannot brute-force a surgical wing into letting her love you back to health.

Not without consequences.

Her expression fractures.

“Detka,” she whispers, the word spilling out like she didn’t mean to say it where anyone could hear. Her thumb strokes your knuckles, frantic-soft. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You try.

You barely manage it.

Wanda leans closer, mouth near your ear, voice trembling so quietly the doctors don’t hear the words, only the shape of them.

“Do not leave,” she says, and the plea is stripped bare. “Please.”

A tear finally escapes her lash line. It trails down her cheek, hot against the cold air.

Then her gaze flicks up, hardening, locking back into something like command.

She squeezes your hand once. Firm. Grounding.

“Stay,” she repeats, softer now. “I will be right here when you wake.”

It’s a promise, and something in her eyes dares the universe to break it.

The nurse steps forward again, gentler this time, like she recognizes the edge Wanda is standing on. “Ma’am. You can’t--”

Wanda’s fingers loosen around yours.

Not because she wants to.

Because she has to.

The separation is immediate and brutal.

Your hand falls back against the stretcher. The air where Wanda’s warmth was feels suddenly empty, too cold, too wide.

Your eyes flutter.

Panic spikes, sharp and animal.

Wanda reaches for you again on instinct

Natasha’s hand appears on Wanda’s forearm.

Not grabbing. Not restraining.

Anchoring.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Let them work.”

Wanda doesn’t look at Natasha.

Her eyes stay on you as the gurney rolls forward, wheels squeaking softly. The surgical doors swing open like a mouth.

You disappear through them.

And for a heartbeat--just one--Wanda looks like someone has ripped out her lungs and left her standing upright anyway.

The doors close.

The corridor falls into a sterile, horrible quiet.

Wanda stands there, hands still half-raised like she expects you to reappear any second.

Her palms are smeared with your blood.

Her clothes are damp with rain and battle.

Her breathing is ragged.

And then, with a slow turn of her head, she looks down the hall.

The trainee is there.

Hovering at the edge of the corridor like a child waiting outside a principal’s office. Eyes red. Face pale. Hands shaking.

The sight of them is a match struck in a room full of gas.

Wanda’s face goes blank again.

Natasha feels it--because Natasha always does--and her posture shifts subtly. Ready.

“Don’t,” Natasha says, calm. Warning.

Wanda’s voice is ice. “Where is Director Hill.”

Natasha blinks once. “On a secure floor. Why.”

Wanda turns fully, cloak of control snapping back over her like armor.

“Emergency leadership meeting,” she says, and the Tower seems to listen. “Now.”

A nearby agent hesitates. “Commander Maximoff, we--”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to him.

The agent’s mouth shuts.

Her voice remains quiet. “Notify Fury. Hill. Medical chief. Training oversight. Bring the trainee.”

The trainee flinches like they’ve been slapped. “Wanda, I--”

Wanda takes one step toward them.

One.

They stumble backward.

Natasha moves with her, matching her pace, voice low. “Wanda. She’s in surgery. This can wait.”

Wanda’s eyes flash--bright, feverish with fear and rage. “No.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “This is you trying to control something you can’t.”

Wanda’s lips peel back in something that isn’t a smile. “Yes.”

Then she turns and starts walking, fast and purposeful, boots striking tile like a countdown.

Natasha follows. Yelena appears around the corner, still in tactical gear, brows lifted.

“What is happening?” Yelena asks.

Wanda doesn’t slow. “Meeting.”

Yelena’s eyes widen a fraction. “Ah. Someone is in trouble.”

Natasha shoots her a look. “Not the time.”

“It is always time,” Yelena murmurs, then falls into step anyway, because whatever this is--whatever Wanda is about to do--you don’t leave a hurricane unattended.

They move through the Tower’s arteries--security doors opening at the sight of Wanda’s face, agents stepping aside with rigid respect, conversations dying mid-sentence as she passes.

The whole building feels it.

The Scarlet Witch walking with purpose.

Not floating. Not dramatic.

Just… inevitable.

They reach a conference room on an upper level--one of the ugly, functional ones with reinforced walls and a table too large for comfort. A screen on one end displays mission telemetry still live. A thin smell of coffee lingers from whoever was here before they got summoned.

Director Hill is already inside when Wanda arrives, tablet in hand, expression tight. Fury appears a moment later, coat open, eye sharp.

Two training supervisors, a medical chief, and a security lead file in behind them.

Everyone takes in Wanda at once.

The blood on her hands.

The rain in her hair.

The look in her eyes.

Hill’s voice is careful. “Maximoff--what happened.”

Wanda doesn’t sit.

She stands at the head of the table like it’s her throne and the world has forgotten that fact.

“She is in surgery,” Wanda says, and the words are flat, like she’s saying the sky is blue, except everyone in the room feels the weight of it.

Fury’s jaw tightens. “Status.”

Wanda’s fingers curl against the tabletop.

Her nails are short. Controlled.

But the wood beneath her palm creaks faintly.

“Blunt-force thoracic trauma,” Wanda says, voice precise. Clinical. Like she’s reciting a report. “Pulmonary contusion. Internal bleeding. Airway compromise.”

The medical chief nods grimly. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in the best hands.”

Wanda’s eyes snap to him. “She should not be in surgery.”

No one speaks.

Hill’s gaze flicks toward the trainee--who was brought in by an agent and is now standing near the door like they wish they could dissolve into the wall.

Hill’s voice is sharp now. “Was this a training failure.”

Wanda turns her head slowly.

Looks at the trainee.

The room goes colder.

“It was disobedience,” Wanda says. “It was ego. It was stupidity wearing a uniform.”

The trainee’s voice breaks. “I didn’t mean--”

Wanda’s hand lifts.

Not pointing. Not waving.

Just lifting.

The trainee’s mouth clamps shut like an invisible fist closed around their throat.

Yelena makes a small interested sound. Natasha’s posture tightens.

Fury’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t move. “Do you know what I told them before the breach?”

The trainee’s eyes glisten with tears. Their hands shake harder.

Wanda answers her own question. “I told them not to improvise. I told them to maintain formation. I told them their job was support, not heroics.”

Her voice rises--not louder, but sharper. Each word a blade placed carefully on the table.

“They disobeyed. They stepped into an open doorway, exposed civilians, and forced her-” Wanda’s breath catches on the pronoun like it cuts her throat. “--forced Y/n to take the line.”

Hill’s expression hardens. “Is that accurate.”

The trainee nods frantically, tears slipping down their face. “Yes--yes, ma’am. I-- I panicked. I thought I could--”

Wanda’s hand tightens on the table.

The lights flicker.

A pen on the far end rolls, then lifts an inch off the surface like the room itself is recoiling.

“You thought you could,” Wanda repeats, and her voice---God, her voice is so calm it becomes the most frightening thing in the room.

Natasha steps closer, low in Wanda’s ear. “Wanda. Don’t.”

Wanda turns, just enough that Natasha can see her face.

And it’s not rage alone.

It’s terror. It’s grief. It’s love with nowhere safe to go.

Wanda looks back at Hill and Fury.

“You put her on my team,” Wanda says. “You assigned her to my supervision because you knew she was different. You knew she was… vulnerable.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “Don’t do this, Maximoff.”

Wanda’s lips part in a humorless exhale. “Do what. Tell you the truth?”

Hill’s expression is brittle. “Wanda--”

Wanda cuts her off.

“No,” Wanda says, voice finally cracking with heat. “No. You will listen.”

The room stills.

Even Fury doesn’t interrupt.

Wanda steps away from the table and paces once--one tight loop like a caged animal trying to find the seam in the walls.

“She came to us from somewhere none of you can pronounce,” Wanda says, voice low and venomous. “She learned our language. Our procedures. Our rules. She put her fear in a box and labeled it ‘handle later’ because that is what you asked of her.”

Her throat works.

Her hands tremble for half a second.

She curls them into fists to hide it.

“And today,” Wanda continues, eyes bright, “she bled out on a concrete floor because someone decided protocol was optional.”

The trainee makes a small broken sound.

Wanda whips around. “Do you know what it sounded like.”

Silence.

Wanda takes a step toward the trainee.

The air vibrates.

Natasha moves with her, ready to intervene if Wanda goes too far.

Wanda’s voice drops to a whisper that carries anyway.

“Do you know what it sounded like when she couldn’t breathe.”

The trainee sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I swear--”

Wanda’s magic pulses out involuntarily, scarlet pressure that makes the trainee’s knees buckle.

They drop to the floor with a choked gasp, palms braced on the tile.

“Wanda,” Hill says sharply, taking a step forward.

Fury’s voice is iron. “Enough.”

Wanda’s head snaps toward them.

Her eyes are wild now.

“Enough?” she repeats, incredulous. “Enough is what you say when someone breaks a vase.”

She points at the trainee--one sharp motion.

“This,” Wanda says, voice shaking now with restrained fury, “is what you say when someone breaks a person.”

The lights flicker again. The screen behind Hill glitches for a second.

Yelena mutters, almost reverent, “Oh, this is good.”

Natasha shoots her a look that could cauterize steel.

Wanda inhales.

Her chest rises, falls.

She forces herself back into control like it’s a physical act.

Then she speaks again, colder.

“This trainee is removed from field operations effective immediately,” Wanda says. “They will not touch a weapon on a mission for the next six months. They will be reassigned to support and simulation only. They will retrain from day one under direct observation.”

Hill opens her mouth

Wanda cuts her off again, eyes flashing. “And they will apologize. To her. When she wakes up.”

Fury’s tone is clipped. “You don’t get to dictate punishment.”

Wanda’s smile is sharp. “Then you do it. Right now. Tell me what consequence exists in this building that equals the sound of her choking on blood.”

No one answers.

Because there isn’t one.

The medical chief clears his throat carefully. “Commander… the surgical team will update us soon. This--this meeting--”

Wanda’s head snaps toward him. “I called you because I want you to understand something.”

She steps closer to the table again, palms flattening against it, leaning forward like she’s about to bite the world.

“If she dies,” Wanda says, and her voice goes so quiet it chills the room, “you will not have a Scarlet Witch problem.”

Everyone stills.

Fury’s eye narrows to a lethal slit. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“You will have a Wanda Maximoff problem,” she corrects softly. “And I will not be reasonable.”

Natasha’s hand clamps onto Wanda’s shoulder--hard. Grounding. A warning only Wanda can feel.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

Wanda blinks once.

A tear slips down her cheek.

She doesn’t wipe it away.

“I don’t care,” Wanda whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t care about reasonable.”

Her eyes flick toward the closed door behind which your body is currently being cut open to keep you alive.

Her breath trembles again, and this time she doesn’t hide it.

“I told her to come back,” Wanda says, and the words are almost childlike in their rawness. “I promised her.”

The room shifts. Even Hill’s face softens for a fraction.

Fury’s expression stays hard, but his voice lowers. “Maximoff. Go to the waiting area. Let the doctors work.”

Wanda’s gaze snaps back, sharp. “No. I’m not leaving this floor.”

Hill exhales. “Wanda--”

Wanda turns, eyes cutting to the trainee one last time.

The trainee is still on the floor, shaking, tears dripping onto tile. Terrified. Guilty. Ruined.

Wanda’s voice is lethal calm.

“You will remember this for the rest of your life,” she says. “Because if she wakes up and asks me why she got hurt, I will tell her the truth.”

The trainee sobs harder.

Wanda looks back at leadership, and all softness drains from her face again.

“I am going to the surgical wing doors,” Wanda says. “I will wait where I can see her come back out.”

Fury’s jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Watch me.”

And she turns on her heel.

Natasha follows immediately--because Natasha knows you don’t let Wanda Maximoff walk through a hallway like that alone. Yelena trails behind, strangely quiet now.

As Wanda strides out, the meeting room remains frozen for a beat.

Hill looks at Fury. “She’s in love with her.”

Fury’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

Hill’s voice is tight. “That’s a problem.”

Fury’s eye flicks toward the door Wanda left through, then toward the surgical wing down the hall as if he can see it through walls.

His voice is low.

“So is losing the girl.”

Wanda reaches the surgical doors and stops so abruptly it’s like she hits an invisible wall.

The corridor here is quieter. Cleaner. The air smells like antiseptic and cold metal.

A sign reads AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Wanda stands under it like a threat.

Her hands are still stained red.

Her breathing is too shallow.

Natasha stops beside her. Doesn’t speak. Just stands.

Yelena leans against the wall and folds her arms, eyes on Wanda like she’s watching a bomb and trying to guess when it will go off.

Minutes pass like hours.

Then the surgical doors swing open

and Wanda’s entire body snaps tight like a bowstring pulled to breaking.

A doctor steps out, mask lowered, eyes tired.

Wanda’s voice is barely a whisper.

“How is she.”

The doctor looks at her hands, at her face, at the blood, and seems to decide honesty is safer than soothing.

“She’s alive,” he says. “But it’s critical. We’re still working.”

Wanda’s knees almost buckle.

Natasha’s hand catches her elbow, subtle, quick, before she can fall.

Wanda doesn’t thank her.

She just stares at the doors like she could will them open.

Like she could climb inside and hold your lungs in place with her bare hands.

Her voice breaks, raw and quiet.

“Tell her,” Wanda whispers, eyes shining. “Tell her I’m here.”

The doctor nods once--because even if he doesn’t know how to handle gods and witches, he knows love when it’s bleeding in front of him.

“I will,” he says, and disappears back inside.

The doors swing shut again.

Wanda stands there, unmoving.

Waiting.

Breathing only because you are.

The minutes don’t pass like minutes.

They pass like punishment, each one stretched thin, each one sharp at the edges.

Wanda doesn’t sit.

Natasha tries once, quietly, to guide her toward the chairs in the corner of the corridor. Wanda doesn’t even look at them. It’s like the concept of resting has been deleted from her body.

She stands in front of the surgical doors the way she stood in front of you on the battlefield--like if she holds her ground hard enough, nothing gets through.

Not death.

Not bad news.

Not the universe.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles and then fades away. An intercom chirps and a voice calls a code you don’t understand.

Wanda understands nothing but the absence of you.

Her hands are still stained. Someone tried to offer wipes. She ignored them.

She keeps flexing her fingers like she can still feel your pulse in her palm.

Natasha leans on the wall beside her, arms crossed, eyes forward. The picture of calm--except every few minutes her gaze flicks to Wanda like she’s taking silent measurements: how close to the edge, how close to breaking, how close to burning the world down.

Yelena paces once, then stops, then paces again. Finally she mutters, “This is stupid. Humans are too fragile.”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

Wanda doesn’t move.

A nurse appears once, glances at Wanda’s face, and decides to walk the other way.

Time keeps dragging its nails down the corridor.

Wanda’s throat works around air that feels too thin. She stares at the surgical doors so hard it starts to feel like she’s trying to peel them open with her mind--not to invade, not to interfere, but to see you.

To confirm you’re real.

To confirm you didn’t evaporate into a nightmare the moment they took you away.

Her lips part on a whisper that is barely sound.

“Please.”

Natasha hears it anyway. Natasha always does.

“You did what you could,” Natasha says quietly.

Wanda’s eyes flick to her--bright, feverish. “I did not.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “Wanda--”

“I should have been faster.” Wanda’s voice is flat, merciless. “I should have seen it before it happened.”

“You can’t predict every idiot move a trainee makes,” Natasha says, controlled.

Wanda’s expression twists--pain, rage, grief, all braided together. “I can. I should. That is my job.”

Natasha exhales through her nose. “Your job is not to carry every loss like it’s your fault.”

Wanda’s gaze cuts back to the doors. “It’s not a loss,” she says, like the word itself is poison. “Not yet.”

Another stretch of silence.

Then, soft footsteps.

A shift of air.

The surgical doors swing open.

Wanda’s body reacts before her mind does. Her shoulders lift like she’s bracing for impact. Her hands curl into fists. The red in her veins rises, instinctive--protective, vicious, ready.

A surgeon steps out.

Mask lowered. Face drawn with fatigue. A smear of something dark on his sleeve.

Wanda’s voice comes out wrong--too quiet, too raw.

“Tell me.”

The surgeon looks at her like he understands he’s holding a match over gasoline. He chooses his words carefully.

“She’s alive,” he says.

Wanda’s breath leaves her in a sound that is almost a sob, almost a laugh, almost a collapse.

Natasha’s hand clamps on Wanda’s arm, steadying her without comment.

The surgeon continues, tone clinical, because that’s what he has to do to stay upright in a world where people break.

“Vest did its job. But the blunt force--she took significant thoracic trauma. Multiple rib fractures, severe pulmonary contusion. We placed a chest tube and stabilized internal bleeding. The airway incision bought us the time we needed.”

Wanda listens like a statue.

Like if she moves, the words will change.

“She’s sedated,” the surgeon says. “She’ll be in the ICU. We’re keeping her on oxygen support. She’s going to be in pain when she wakes up.”

Wanda swallows. Her eyes are wet, but her expression is fierce. “Can I see her.”

The surgeon hesitates--because they always hesitate with Wanda. Because she’s power wrapped in human skin, and people are never sure where the line is.

“Briefly,” he says. “One at a time. No touching the airway site. Keep it calm.”

Wanda nods once. Sharp. Immediate. Like she’ll obey any rule on earth if it gets her to you.

The surgeon steps aside.

The doors open wider.

And Wanda moves.

Not fast.

Not like the battlefield.

She walks like someone approaching a chapel, like the air itself might shatter if she breathes too hard.

Natasha follows a step behind, then stops at the threshold when a nurse lifts a hand.

“Only one,” the nurse says gently, and her eyes flick to Wanda with something like reverence and caution.

Natasha pauses, then nods once. “I’ll be right here.”

Wanda doesn’t look back.

She steps through.

The ICU is dimmer than the hallway, blessedly so. The lights are low, the air cool, the sound softened, machines humming and beeping in steady patterns, like the room itself is designed to keep panic from taking root.

You’re there.

In the bed.

Too still.

Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp and tangled, a trace of dried blood near your mouth that someone tried to clean. Your chest rises and falls, shallow, assisted, stubborn.

There’s tape at your throat where the incision was. Tubing, oxygen, monitors.

A chest drain line curves from your side under the blanket.

Your hands are resting near your hips, palms slightly curled like you fell asleep mid-reach.

Wanda stops at the foot of the bed.

For a second she doesn’t move.

Like she can’t trust her legs to carry her closer.

Then she takes one slow step.

Another.

Her breathing catches on the sound of the monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Life, reduced to electricity and rhythm.

She comes to your bedside and just… stands there, staring, eyes dragging over every bandage and tube like she’s memorizing them, like she’s counting proof that you made it through something that should’ve taken you.

Her hands hover in the air, unsure where to go. Wanda Maximoff--who can grab the fabric of reality and pull--looks helpless for the first time in a way that is almost unbearable to witness.

Her lower lip trembles.

She clamps her jaw to stop it.

A soft sound escapes her anyway, a broken little exhale.

“Oh, detka…”

She reaches out--slow, careful, obeying the rules like they’re sacred--and cups your cheek with the backs of her fingers, barely there.

Not touching the tape. Not tugging anything. Just… reminding herself you’re warm.

Your skin is warm.

You’re warm.

Wanda’s eyes close for half a second, and when they open there’s a shine in them that isn’t just tears.

It’s relief so violent it looks like pain.

She leans down until her forehead rests against the edge of the mattress near your shoulder, careful, controlled.

Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“You scared me,” she says, and it’s not an accusation. It’s a confession. “You scared me so badly I couldn’t think.”

Her fingers tremble against your cheek. She presses a kiss there, gentle, almost nothing. A brush of lips like a vow sealed in secret.

Then another, to your temple.

She swallows hard.

“You did everything right,” she whispers, like she needs you to hear it even through sedation. “You did what I trained you to do. You protected them.”

Her breath hitches.

“And I am so…” Her voice cracks. She inhales, tries again. “I am so proud of you.”

A tear slips down and drops silently onto the blanket.

Wanda doesn’t wipe it away.

She straightens slowly, gaze sweeping your face again, and her expression shifts, softness giving way to something possessive and resolute, the same steel that kept her on her knees beside you in the hallway.

She leans closer, mouth near your ear.

“Listen to me,” she whispers, voice trembling with the weight of command and love tangled together. “You come back. You heal. You wake up and you look at me, and you let me--”

Her throat works.

She exhales shakily.

“--you let me take care of you.”

Wanda’s hand slides down to your fingers. She doesn’t lace them. She doesn’t squeeze too hard.

She just places her fingertips against yours, like she’s afraid too much pressure will shatter the moment.

“You are not leaving,” she says, voice low and certain like she’s speaking it into existence. “Not on my watch.”

The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And Wanda stands there, breathing with you, eyes locked on your face as if she can will you awake through sheer devotion.

Outside the glass, you can faintly make out a dark shape, Natasha, waiting exactly where she promised, arms crossed, silent guard at the door.

Wanda doesn’t look away from you.

Not even once.

Because you’re here.

Because you made it.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, the world feels like it’s stopped trying to steal you, and Wanda Maximoff, your supervisor, your shield, your secret, finally allows herself one fragile, trembling moment of peace.

Her whisper brushes your skin like a spell.

“I have you,” she says. “I have you.”

And she stays.

Right there.