#devi writes

The compound shakes with urgency. Sirens howl. Lights flash red, drenching the steel walls in warning. Somewhere overhead, the thunder of boots pounds across the upper levels. You sit, calm, your legs crossed at the head of the Avengers' conference table.

Their table.

You lean back in the chair with a smirk playing on your lips, swirling the lukewarm black coffee in Tony’s obnoxiously branded mug. The compound had been child’s play. Entry points were mapped, countermeasures neutralized, and security? An outdated joke. You didn’t just get in.

You walked in.

A heavy door swings open with a hiss of compressed air. Steve Rogers enters first, shield already slung forward, followed by Sam and Pietro flanking his six. Wanda slips in behind them like a ripple in silk, her eyes glowing faint red. Bruce is on edge, even in human form. Tony strides in last, hand already halfway to the arc reactor on his chest.

And her.

Natasha Romanoff.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just narrows those sharp green eyes and studies you like a puzzle she’s already halfway solved.

"Who the hell are you?" Tony demands, raising a repulsor toward your face.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “You really want to fry your own coffee mug?”

He glances down, notices it for the first time. His lips purse. “Okay, rude.”

"How did you get in here?" Steve barks, stepping forward, all Captain America and justice and jaw tension.

You tap your fingers against the table slowly, deliberately. “That’s the part you should be asking after you figure out how to get me out.”

And with that, the room explodes into motion.

Steve lunges first. Predictable. He leads with the shield—like always. You twist out of your seat, hook your foot under the chair and slam it into his knees. He stumbles, just long enough for you to press a small button on your wristband.

Electromagnetic pulse. Low range. Just enough to kill the tech.

Tony's suit flickers, whines, and drops from active mode like a dying bug.

“Cheap trick,” he growls.

“Effective,” you counter, sidestepping Wanda’s first wave of red tendrils and tossing a reflective disk from your belt. Her chaos magic hits it and ricochets—straight into the far wall.

Pietro’s blur appears to your right, a gust of wind following. But you've studied him. You know how he moves—where he moves. You duck, hook your arm out, and clothesline him hard enough to send him tumbling into a glass panel. He groans.

“Okay,” he coughs. “That was rude.”

“Call it a lesson in humility.”

You’re moving again before Sam can deploy his wings. A quick flip onto the table, vaulting past him. Natasha’s waiting on the far side. She hasn’t moved. That’s what tells you she’s the real threat.

“You’ve done your homework,” she says evenly.

You tilt your head, that half-smile still present. “Is that admiration I hear?”

Her lip twitches—almost a smirk. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

“She’s testing us,” Bruce says from the back. “This was a message.”

You step back, now behind the head chair again, perfectly centered. “Not a threat. Not yet. Just a proof of concept.”

Tony mutters, “Oh, I hate those words.”

You place your hands flat on the table. “The point is, I got in. I got past all of you. I had access to your entire defense grid for six and a half minutes before you noticed anything was wrong.”

Wanda’s still breathing hard. “Who are you?”

Your gaze finally settles back on Natasha, slow and deliberate.

“A shadow. One you missed.”

Steve folds his arms. “You here for something, or just flexing?”

“Oh, I’m here to offer... insight. I’m part of an organization that watches the watchers. The ones who keep the world safe but forget to look behind them.”

You reach into your jacket. Instantly, five weapons are raised.

You smirk and slowly pull out a small black flash drive, placing it in the center of the table.

“This is your audit.”

You turn to leave. But not before you pause beside Natasha.

“You’ve got a blind spot,” you murmur low, just for her. “Want me to help you find it?”

And then you're gone.

Not running. Not rushing. Just walking out like you own the place.

Because, for a moment there—you kind of did.

The flash drive sits in the middle of the table like a bomb with no ticking clock — silent, harmless in appearance, but loaded with implications. No one reaches for it immediately. Not out of fear, but out of pride.

“She could’ve uploaded a virus,” Bruce warns, arms crossed, though his curiosity is already betraying him.

Tony scoffs. “Please. If I can’t contain a basic drive with Stark-level isolation protocols, I deserve to be roasted in whatever evil PowerPoint she’s packing.”

He snatches it, plugs it into the isolated tablet in the center of the table, and begins tapping through firewalls and sandbox environments until the screen blinks.

A single file.

“Avengers Vulnerabilities – Compiled: Y/N Y/L/N”

Steve frowns. “She used her real name?”

“She used a name,” Natasha corrects quietly, leaning forward.

Tony clicks the file open.

The screen goes black for a second — then a sleek, minimalist interface fades in. Clean. Professional. It looks like something pulled from a high-end military op, not some rogue hacker’s garage setup.

Line One Appears:

"Steve Rogers: Predictable in formation, reliant on linear tactics. Easily baited. Uses shield as crutch — target knees to compromise stance. Not invincible. Just stubborn."

“Ouch,” Sam mutters.

Next Line:

"Tony Stark: Ego is both weapon and weakness. Will chase bait if it insults his intelligence. Arc reactor shielding is incomplete after Mark 45 — EMP works. Has no off-switch when cornered. Talk him into a corner and let him self-destruct."

“I like her,” Bruce says, smirking.

Tony glares.

Another Line:

"Wanda Maximoff: Magic has an emotional trigger. Calm mind is her leash. Unsettle her — results become chaotic and self-harming. Mirrors disorient her due to reflective psychic feedback."

Wanda stiffens in her chair. “She studied me like a test subject.”

“You okay?” Pietro asks gently.

Wanda nods. Barely.

Next:

"Sam Wilson: Combat capable but aerial dependent. Close quarters reduces effectiveness. Wingpack has delay post-deployment — half a second window for ground control."

Sam lets out a breath. “Alright, now I’m officially creeped out.”

But the file continues. Each Avenger picked apart with brutal precision. Combat footage, security feeds, voice patterns. Even behavioral patterns — how often Steve patrols the perimeter, what time Tony’s most distracted, the hour Bruce prefers for meditation.

And then the final entry loads.

A pause.

Natasha leans closer.

"Natasha Romanoff: Unreadable surface. Most dangerous asset. Highly adaptive. Seduction and manipulation are tools — and armor. Makes herself unknowable by becoming what you expect. But beneath it: tired. Cautious. Watching. And alone.”

The room falls quiet.

No diagrams. No attack plan. No weakness.

Just that.

Natasha blinks once. Then again, slower.

“That’s it?” Tony asks. “No weak points? No maps? No DNA-activated smart bullets?”

Natasha shakes her head. “No. She didn’t need them.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “She’s not just observing us. She’s profiling us. Personally.”

“And she wants us to know it,” Steve mutters. “This isn’t an attack. It’s a chess move.”

Tony leans back, arms folded. “What’s her endgame?”

Natasha doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looks at the empty chair at the head of the table. Where you sat, smug and silent, like the queen in a game they didn’t even realize had started.

Then finally, she murmurs: “She wants us to come find her.”

The ride back is silent.

Not because there’s no one to talk to — the encrypted comms crackle with updates, agents check in from the field, data flows into your network like a bloodstream of secrets — but because you told them not to speak unless necessary.

You sit in the back of a matte black SUV, one-way glass, no plates, no records. You’re already halfway to nowhere by the time the sun begins to rise.

The compound fades in the distance. But the feeling doesn’t.

That room. That stare.

Her.

Romanoff.

For someone so famously unreadable, she’d looked at you like she was reading the last chapter of a familiar book. And for a second — just a second — you wanted to be read.

That was dangerous.

And you liked it.

The vehicle descends into the access tunnel, headlights flickering briefly before infrared strips pick up the switchback route. You flash your ID against the scanner — not because you have to, but because protocols are habit. Discipline is survival.

The gate opens with a hiss.

Your headquarters isn’t flashy. It’s buried, quiet, intentional. Half intelligence hub, half sanctuary. The kind of place you designed to be forgotten by time.

Concrete walls. Touchscreen interfaces. A small team, scattered across glowing monitors and tactical maps, nods as you walk through.

“Status?” you ask, pulling your gloves off and heading toward the central briefing table.

Your second-in-command, a woman named Kiera with a shaved head and a venomous efficiency streak, taps a few keys.

“Operation Specter complete. You tripped the emergency alert exactly on the 90-second mark. Total infiltration time: six minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Full extraction clean. No tail.”

You nod. “Good. And the drive?”

Kiera smirks. “Triggered as expected. Romanoff read her file. She didn’t flinch.”

You allow yourself a breath of amusement. “Of course she didn’t.”

“She was the only one you didn’t offer a tactical weakness.”

“She didn’t have one.”

Kiera raises an eyebrow. “That... sounds like admiration.”

You glance up at the monitor, where paused footage from the compound still lingers. Natasha, her eyes on you. Watching. Calculating.

“I’d be more worried if she didn’t impress me,” you say smoothly.

Kiera folds her arms. “So what now? You proved your point. The Avengers are breachable. Your message is sent.”

You tilt your head. “They think it’s the message. It’s not.”

Kiera frowns. “Then what is it?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you walk into your private quarters — a spartan room with a desk, a weapons locker, and a small bar cart you never use. You tap the wall once. A hidden panel slides open, revealing a screen with a direct feed.

The Avengers compound.

Still accessible.

Still open.

You zoom in on the conference room.

She’s not there.

You don’t bother to hide the smile that tugs at your lips.

“She’s coming,” you murmur.

Because this isn’t over. It’s only the first spark in the dark.

The bell above the café door gives a soft chime as Natasha steps inside, quiet as a shadow slipping across the floor.

It’s not fancy — one of those in-between places tucked into a quiet street, the kind that people either overlook or choose to overlook. But the coffee's strong, the crowd’s nonexistent, and the lighting is just soft enough to blur the edges of tension.

You’re already seated.

Back corner. View of the door. Exit to your left. Steam curling from a mug between your hands.

You don’t stand when she approaches. You just glance up, chin tilting in greeting.

There’s a second cup across from you.

Double shot. No cream. No sugar.

She doesn’t touch it immediately.

“You been watching me?” she asks, voice low, smooth.

You lift your cup, take a sip. “That’d be a waste of good surveillance. I listen. Watching would feel... intrusive.”

She huffs a humorless breath. “And this isn’t?”

You gesture at the cup. “You’re standing. That’s more rude than the tracking, Romanoff.”

Natasha’s lips twitch — a flicker of amusement or calculation, hard to tell. Still, she sits. Doesn’t touch the drink yet.

“How long?” she asks.

You lean back in your chair, eyes fixed on hers. “Since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., your footprint got sloppier. Not bad, but a little more emotional. Like you started to feel when you moved.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Before that?” she asks.

You give her a slow, wolfish smile. “Budapest.”

She doesn’t blink. But her fingers curl slightly around the edge of the table.

“Bullshit.”

You shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe I was the shadow in the second window, two floors up. Maybe I watched you dismantle six armed men with a broken bottle and a busted radio and wondered why no one ever saw you flinch.”

A pause.

She finally picks up the coffee. Takes a slow sip.

You watch her like she watched you in that conference room — closely. Not to measure threats. To understand weight.

“I don’t like games,” she says.

“I know.”

“And I really don’t like being toyed with.”

“Not my goal.” You tilt your head. “If I were toying with you, you'd still be chasing my ghost through back-alley firewalls and ghost routes in Prague.”

“And what is this, then?”

“A conversation,” you say softly.

She watches you.

Silence stretches between you both. Not tense — not yet. But tight. Like a wire strung just above a fire.

Natasha breaks it.

“You left that drive for us. Told us how to beat ourselves. You don't do that unless you’re trying to provoke something.”

“I’m not trying to provoke the Avengers.”

“No?” she asks, arching a brow.

Your voice lowers.

“I was trying to provoke you.”

Another pause. Another heartbeat.

Natasha’s eyes flicker to the window. To the civilians. To the empty street.

And then, back to you.

She sets the coffee cup down, deliberate.

“You’re playing a long game.”

You nod.

She leans in, and her voice dips into that silken threat she wears like perfume. “Careful. You might get burned.”

You smile — not coy, not flirty, but reckless. Like you know exactly what kind of fire you’re stepping into.

“Maybe I’m counting on it.”

You watch her drink the coffee.

You don’t rush. You don’t speak.

You let her sit in the silence you created — the silence that always seems to form around people like the two of you. The ones who have too many memories and too few soft places to put them.

Then, calmly, you reach into your coat and pull out a second flash drive.

Black. Unlabeled.

This one, you don’t slide into the center of the table.

This one, you place closer. Right between her coffee and her fingers. A line in the sand.

Her gaze lowers to it, then lifts again. Sharper now. No more amusement. The air changes. Tightens.

“What is it?” she asks.

You hold her stare.

“My real mission.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where most people would fill the space with excuses or theatrics or disclaimers. You don’t.

She doesn’t pick it up. Not yet. She doesn’t need to — not when she can already feel the weight of it pressing down on the table.

Natasha’s voice is cool. Controlled. But under that calm, you hear the strain. The knowing.

“What’s on it?”

You answer without blinking.

“Proof that whatever you want to believe... the Red Room is still alive.”

She freezes.

The words hang there like smoke from a long-forgotten fire. Her fingers twitch slightly, just once. You see it. She knows you see it.

She swallows hard, and when she speaks again, it’s lower. The kind of voice people use when they’re trying not to fall apart in public.

“That’s impossible.”

You lean forward.

“No,” you say gently. “That’s what they want you to think.”

She stares at you. No mask this time. No sly retort. You’ve cracked something beneath that assassin calm.

“You’re lying,” she says, but it’s half-hearted. Reflex.

You just look at her. Quiet. Unmoving. The kind of stillness that speaks truth without needing to scream it.

Then you rise.

No dramatic exit. No final smirk or lingering look.

You just say, “Check the last folder.”

You step past her, toward the door, and pause only once, taking a final look at her.

And then you’re gone.

Out the door, into the soft morning light. Leaving behind a cup of half-drunk coffee, a woman haunted by too many ghosts, and a flash drive that might burn her whole world down.

She doesn’t leave the café right away.

Natasha stays seated. Elbows on the table. Staring at the flash drive like it might bite.

She knows how this goes. You don’t just pick up an unmarked drive from someone who infiltrated the most secure compound on Earth like it’s a goddamn souvenir.

But this isn’t strategy anymore.

This is personal.

She closes her eyes for a breath. Then pockets it, finishes the coffee — cold now — and walks out into the street, not bothering to look for you.

Because she knows better than waste her time.

She loads the drive at a secure drop-point six blocks away — an abandoned safe house wired with too many protocols, one of the few places she still trusts.

No internet connection. No cloud bleed. Just a black monitor and the hum of ghosts.

The screen flashes.

A single directory.

/REDROOM_REMAINS/

She clicks.

Subfolders open one by one:

CURRENT OPS

SAFEHOUSE NETWORKS

HANDLERS

ACTIVE ASSETS

DECEASED (FALSE)

PROJECT: SILENCER

OPERATIVE RECORDS

Each folder stamped with timestamps no later than two weeks old. Fresh. Active. Real.

Her stomach knots.

She clicks OPERATIVE RECORDS.

Dozens of profiles. Old aliases. File numbers. And hers.

Agent: Black Widow / Natalia Alianovna Romanova

Status: Compromised

Result: Repurposed — Failure to Eliminate

Handler Notes: Emotional volatility preserved. Useful for projection purposes. Long-term reprogramming is deemed ineffective. Surveillance suspended after SHIELD collapse.

She stares at her own name like it doesn’t belong to her.

They didn’t erase her.

They studied her.

She’s not free. She’s written off.

She opens DECEASED (FALSE).

Names. So many names. Ones she thought long dead — or had to believe were dead to sleep at night.

And then:

Belova, Yelena.

Her breath catches.

She clicks. The file opens.

YELENA BELOVA

Status: Alive

Location: Black Site: Sector 3 / Kemerovo, Russia

Last Ping: Four days ago

Asset use: Conditioned Assassin / Psychological Leverage

There’s a small subfolder marked: CCTV FEED / OP 47

A video.

She plays it.

Yelena. Blonde hair longer than before. Muffled resistance. Eyes blank.

Training simulation. Hand-to-hand. Brutal, efficient. But something in her movements hesitant. Like muscle memory trying to unlearn itself.

Natasha swallows hard. Her hand curls into a fist.

You weren’t bluffing.

You weren’t posturing.

You handed her a piece of herself she thought buried in rubble and smoke.

Hidden deep within the flash drive Natasha accessed, Project: Silencer is the most sensitive and encrypted folder — its contents not just dangerous, but deeply personal. It connects you, the Red Room, and something Natasha was never supposed to remember.

PROJECT: SILENCER

File Classification: OMEGA BLACK

Access Level: Handler-Only

Initiated: 6 months before SHIELD's collapse

Objective: Asset Generation via Trauma-Based Conditioning

Asset Profile: "Y/N Y/L/N" [Codename: Silencer]

Overview:

Project Silencer was the Red Room’s contingency plan — an experimental program designed to create a “ghost-level” operative: untraceable, ungovernable, and unstoppable. Where traditional Widows were built from brutal efficiency and loyalty conditioning, Silencer was meant to go deeper:

"Not to control memory. To weaponize it."

Where Natasha was programmed, you were refined. You weren’t a blank slate. You were an original masterpiece — trained to remember everything, feel everything, and then use that emotional intelligence to dismantle any target from the inside out.

Silencer didn’t just kill. Silencer destabilized.

Key Characteristics:

No formal allegiance. Designed to embed in enemy cells, ally organizations, or global powers.

Operates under false moral autonomy. Appears independent but follows subliminal missions triggered by specific data phrases.

Capable of resisting interrogation, psychic tampering, telepathic scans.

Anti-Widow Protocols. Trained specifically to counter Red Room operatives — including Black Widow.

Natasha's Connection:

One hidden memo timestamped 8 years ago.

“Subject Silencer’s cognitive development is exceeding thresholds. If left unchecked, she may begin to form attachments. Particularly problematic: brief but significant contact observed between Silencer and Romanoff during overlapping missions in Hungary. No direct engagement. But Romanoff hesitated. Silencer noticed.”

“Recommend geographical separation. Recommend memory suppression for both parties.”

Status:

Project Silencer was marked as "Abandoned / Failed" after the Red Room's supposed dismantling. But the logs tell a different story. It didn’t fail.

It walked away.

You walked away.

And you've been choosing your own missions ever since.

Hidden Note (Encrypted, Only Visible to Natasha):

“They made me from the gaps in your story, Natasha. From the silences you buried. I’m not here to be your enemy.”

“I’m here to be the end of theirs.”

And then she sees it. One more folder.

FOR N

She clicks.

A message opens.

No video. Just text.

“I know what they did to you. What they’re still doing to others like you. This isn’t justice. This is a slow death with clean headlines. I thought you deserved to know. But I didn’t just give this to you to break your heart, Natasha.”

“I gave it to you to light the fuse.”

“—Y/N”

One final line blinks at the bottom:

“I’ll find you when you finish reading this.”

The cursor flickers.

Natasha leans back in the chair.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

She feels the old fire again.

You don’t knock.

By the time she senses you, you’re already inside the safehouse.

It’s clean, utilitarian — stripped-down like everything she builds around herself. A fortress of function with no softness, except maybe the dent in the armchair she’s currently in.

She doesn’t turn around. Just sits there, one hand resting on the table near her holstered pistol. Not touching it.

“I thought it’d take you longer,” she says quietly.

“I gave you time,” you reply, stepping into the light.

She still doesn’t look at you. But her breath changes.

“I read it all,” Natasha says. Voice steady, but softer than usual. “Every file. Every name.”

There’s a silence between you both.

Then, finally, she turns — slowly, like she’s afraid of what she might see in your eyes.

But you’re not here to gloat. You’re not even here to push.

You’re just here, steady and solid, carrying truth like a second skin.

“What do you want from me?” she asks.

You meet her gaze.

“I want what they took from you.”

She blinks.

“I want the Red Room gone. For good. I want the ghosts burned, the files destroyed, the handlers hunted. I want Yelena free. I want you free.”

A breath catches in her throat. She swallows it like a blade.

“You could’ve done this alone,” she says. “You almost did.”

You nod. “I could have. But I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the right to end what you started. And because I was built to counter you, Natasha. Not just to kill you — to understand you. Every move. Every weakness.”

A pause.

“And that includes your guilt.”

That gets her. You see it in the way her shoulders tense. How her jaw locks. Her defenses flare out like they’re begging for a fight.

But then she exhales.

Tired. Real.

“What if I don’t know how to be anything but angry?” she asks, voice low.

You step closer.

“Then let’s start there.”

She looks up at you — finally, truly looks.

And in that moment, you’re not Silencer. She’s not Black Widow.

You’re just two broken girls trained to burn down the world — now standing side by side, aiming that fire at the people who lit it.

After a beat, she nods once.

Sharp. Precise.

“Where do we start?”

You smile — not soft, not kind. Dangerous.

She stands, pulling her pistol from the table with a grace that’s muscle-deep.

And for the first time, you fight with her.

Codename: ONYX VEIL

A non-governmental shadow unit specializing in infiltration, asset recovery, and psychological warfare. Former spies. Burned agents. Ghosts who refused to stay dead.

Operates in silos. No centralized command. You? You’re the closest thing to a constant. Field leader, strategist, and the only one who can stand toe-to-toe with the Avengers — and not blink.

They arrive at the rendezvous point at 0300 hours: a decommissioned Soviet bunker in the Carpathians, repurposed with cutting-edge surveillance tech and not a single chair that doesn’t double as a weapon.

The Avengers walk in expecting secrets.

What they get is a reception committee.

Three operatives stand waiting — masked, armed, precise. They don’t offer names, just nods.

One steps forward. Broad-shouldered, cybernetic prosthetic, calm but volatile. Codename: GHOST.

Another, wiry and sharp-eyed, perched like a sniper even off-duty. Codename: SALT.

And the third — the tech brain, silent until absolutely necessary. Codename: IVORY.

Ghost glances over the Avengers.

“Well. Shiny."

Steve steps forward. “We didn’t come here to play intimidation games.”

“Good,” Ghost replies. “Neither did we. We came to win.”

You appear then, behind them, voice cool.

“They’re with me.”

The team visibly shifts. Even Tony straightens a little. The air changes.

Bruce looks around. “This is your… organization?”

“Part of it,” you say. “We operate decentralized. No names. No tags. No mess to clean up after.”

Wanda narrows her eyes. “And we’re supposed to trust them?”

You meet her gaze. Calm. Certain.

“No. You trust me.”

Silence. Then Natasha speaks up.

“She’s earned that much.”

That settles it. Enough for now.

You pull up the map — projected between the cold bunker walls. Stark tech meets Onyx Veil encryption.

🔺 Red Room Black Site – Kemerovo Sector

Outer perimeter: high voltage grid

Inner: reconditioned Widows

Command floor: Handler Mikhail Durov — last known overseer of Project: Silencer

Sublevel: Containment — Yelena Belova

The Plan:

Team One (You, Natasha, Ghost): Infiltrate from below. Sublevel access. Secure and extract Yelena.

Team Two (Steve, Sam, Wanda, Salt): Create surface-level distraction. Draw Widow defenses outward.

Team Three (Tony, Ivory, Bruce): Disable security grid, surveillance, and remote triggers.

You look around the room.

“This is not a mission we walk away from clean. They don’t believe in surrender. They’ll use our weaknesses against us — emotionally, physically, psychologically. That’s the point of their design.”

Natasha adds quietly, “That’s what they did to us.”

Tony smirks. “Well, I’m not really the emotionally available type.”

You glance at him. “Good. You’re bait.”

Sam snorts. Even Steve cracks a dry smile.

Before they move out, Ghost stops you. Quietly. Privately.

“You sure about this alliance?”

You nod.

“Avengers bring force. We bring precision. Together? We’re what they never expected.”

He leans back. “Just don’t forget who you are, Silencer.”

You pause.

“I haven’t been her in a long time.”

Then you slip your earpiece in, adjust your gear, and fall into step beside Natasha.

She doesn’t speak. But her hand brushes yours for half a second as you walk.

And that’s all the clarity you need.

Night falls like a bruise over Kemerovo.

Snow clings to the trees in thick silence, softening the sound of movement. Even the wind knows better than to whistle here.

Three figures move through the frost-bitten forest — your squad.

You,

Natasha,

Ghost.

No voices. Just breath. Just the soft mechanical whir of Ghost’s arm as he signals another perimeter camera. Your fingers tap the countercode into the shared HUD system, one frame ahead of the motion sensor sweep.

You move like wolves. Efficient. Shadow-sworn.

Above, higher on the ridge — a flicker of red sparks across the darkness. Wanda and Salt are in position. You catch the shimmer of Wanda’s chaos magic bleeding around her fingers as she whispers through the earpiece.

“Visual confirmed. Widow patrol—six bodies. They're fast, but they're not us.”

Farther back, in a secure transport zone cloaked under tech veils, Tony, Bruce, and Ivory begin the grid scramble.

“Ten seconds to breach comm net,” Tony whispers through. “No one's calling mommy after this.”

Below ground, the entrance is a steel hatch hidden beneath what looks like abandoned industrial pipework.

You reach it first. Drop to one knee.

Pull the lock unit off in a single movement.

Two wires. One memory.

Your hands pause for a beat. This door… you’ve opened it before.

Back when you were a ghost they sent in to clean up other ghosts.

Natasha kneels beside you, watching your face.

“You alright?” she asks, low.

You don’t answer right away.

Then: “I left something behind here.”

She nods once. “Let’s go find it.”

Click. The hatch opens.

Cold air spills up from the dark.

Sublevel One

The hallway is narrow. Lit by pale, flickering fluorescents. You count the motion detectors without even trying. Five ahead. Two above. All camera-blind for seven seconds between each sweep.

You and Natasha slide through like liquid.

Ghost peels off, silent, clearing corners behind you.

At the final turn, you stop her with one hand.

“I go first,” you whisper.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You breach the doorway with surgical precision.

One second: empty hallway.

Two seconds: retinal scanner. Spoofed.

Three seconds: internal gas trigger—deactivated.

Four seconds: two guards. Neutralized.

Five seconds: the cell.

She’s inside.

Yelena Belova.

Strapped to a cold cot, IVs in both arms, eyes glassy — but still there. Alive.

Natasha gasps softly behind you.

You move forward, fingers already flying over the biometric lock.

She twitches at your presence. Her eyes focus—barely. Then widen.

“…N—Natasha?”

Her voice is cracked. Raw. Not broken. Wired.

Natasha drops to her knees beside her, cradling her face. She doesn’t cry. She just whispers something in Russian that sounds like both a lullaby and a curse.

You don’t listen. You’re already scanning for the trigger phrases etched into the IV coding. They’ve hardwired control scripts into the serum.

You yank the line out.

Yelena jerks — but stays conscious.

“Will she be okay?” Natasha asks.

“If we get her out now.”

Behind you, Ghost checks the line. “Security just rebooted. We’ve got five minutes before they know we’re not dead yet.”

You lift Yelena. Natasha supports her weight.

The three of you retreat into the dark corridor as the alarms begin to howl.

Above ground, the Widow units swarm.

Wanda is already lighting the night on fire.

Sam drops into combat from the sky like a blade.

Steve meets his own ghosts head-on — not backing down.

And you — your eyes are locked on Natasha as she moves ahead of you, one hand still gripping her sister’s wrist.

Because this mission wasn’t just about breaking in.

It’s about breaking them.

And this?

This is only the beginning.

The sky’s gone red. Wanda’s chaos magic dances like blood-stained aurora above the trees, casting wild shadows over the battlefield.

Eight Widows spill from the compound — elite, armed, conditioned.

But you step forward, calm.

One earpiece tap: “Avengers — don’t kill. They're not the enemy. Not really.”

Natasha’s voice follows. “Just ghosts.”

Steve’s about to give the order when you’re already gone.

First Widow – Fast, small frame, signature twin-dagger style.

You intercept her mid-lunge, sidestepping clean, disarming her with a flick of your wrist.

Your knee catches her in the diaphragm, not enough to break ribs, just enough to make her see stars.

You press a shock-pin to her neck — frequency set to interrupt, not harm.

She slumps.

“One.” Ghost grins. “That’s the Silencer I know.”

Second and Third Widows – Coordinated assault. Tactical. Predictable to anyone else. Not to you.

You spin low, sweeping one at the knee while launching yourself onto the second’s shoulders. A short, static-charged cuff snaps to her temple — neurological desync. The first gets a palm strike to the side of her neck — enough to drop her without bruising the bone.

“Three.”

Above, Salt pins another Widow with tranquilizer-threaded netting, her motion frozen like a statue mid-strike.

Tony watches this with open disbelief. “Okay. Is anyone else slightly aroused or—?”

“Focus, Stark,” Steve barks.

“I am focused. On whatever the hell she is.”

Fourth Widow – older, sharper. She recognizes you.

“Silencer,” she breathes.

You don’t answer. Just lock eyes, lower your weapon, and step into her guard. She hesitates.

That’s all it takes.

You grip her wrist, twist the blade from her hand, then deliver a pressure-point strike that shuts down her motor control temporarily.

She lands, blinking. Not unconscious. Just… confused.

That one?

You leave awake.

Natasha sees it. Says nothing — but her expression shifts. Something between pride and pain.

Fifth and Sixth – try to flank Wanda.

You intercept mid-air, using one Widow’s momentum to throw her into the other. A sonic pulse from Ivory's drone disrupts their balance.

You drop in, land between them, and slam twin flash-tags to the backs of their necks — memory flood devices.

They’ll wake up remembering everything the Red Room made them forget.

They’ll hate you for it at first.

But that’s the point.

You’re breathing harder now — but still not a scratch.

Sam hovers overhead. “You seeing this, Cap?”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah. She wasn’t bluffing.”

Seventh Widow – younger. Shaky. Not ready.

You don’t touch her.

You walk toward her, calm, no weapon in hand.

She freezes. Blade in mid-grip.

You just whisper: “Ты не их больше.”

_You’re not theirs anymore._

She drops the knife.

You catch it before it hits the ground.

“Seven.”

Last Widow.

This one lunges for Natasha.

A mistake.

Nat grabs her wrist — just like they taught her — and holds it long enough for you to circle behind and jab the disruptor needle into her spine.

No pain. Just stillness.

Her eyes go wide. Her body shudders once, then drops.

Natasha’s hands shake.

You put a hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t shrug it off.

When the smoke clears, the field is quiet.

There are seventeen widows, alive. Unconscious or dazed. Free.

The Avengers gather around, watching your team regroup.

Salt is sharpening his blade with a grin. Ivory’s typing out memory anchor programs. Ghost just nods at you. Steve looks at the bodies. Then you.

“…That was surgical.”

Tony steps closer, eyeing you like something both terrifying and beautiful.

You glance at Natasha.

She just says, “Now we finish it.”

You’ve seen war from below.

Now you bring it to the sky.

Because the Red Room didn’t just survive — it ascended. Floating above consequences. Above justice.

But tonight, you drag it back to Earth.

The quinjet cuts through the night sky like a blade through fog. Outside the windows, clouds churn in silence, their edges painted in pale moonlight. The world below is distant — a memory beneath your boots.

Inside, no one talks much.

Sam pilots with steady hands, his jaw tight, eyes locked ahead.

Tony stands near the rear console, calibrating the last of the EMP bursts, fidgeting with wires more out of nerves than need.

Wanda sits with her hands folded, fingers twitching faintly as she listens in on frequencies you can’t hear, her brow furrowed in quiet focus.

Natasha and Yelena are across from each other. One battle-worn, the other still healing. Their hands are laced together, as if the silence between them is safer than words.

You sit at the back, fully geared, boots planted, spine straight — listening to a signal only you seem to recognize.

The Red Room’s neural beacon hums faintly across your comms, pulsing like a phantom heartbeat. That same frequency from long ago. A sound buried under your skin. The one you memorized when you were theirs.

Ghost leans in beside you, close but respectful.

“You sure about this?”

You keep your eyes forward. “It’s time.”

There’s a quiet tension before Natasha speaks, voice low but clear.

“We do this clean. Quiet. No blood unless there’s no other choice.”

You nod. “We liberate. Not destroy.”

She looks over at you. Her expression is unreadable, but the nod she gives is sharp. Meaningful.

They trust you to lead. Because you’ve been here before — not just in places like this, but this exact place. The Aerial Red Room. A ghost ship floating above the clouds. A nightmare with steel walls.

They think they know it. They don’t.

Not like you do.

The descent begins in silence.

Salt and Ivory drop first — their forms blurred under photonic scramblers. Two shadows on the wind. They move like specters down the undercarriage, slicing into the station’s lower struts and cutting power feeds to the outer sensor grid.

Seconds later, the second wave follows.

You rappel silently through a maintenance shaft, your body pressed tight against the interior wall. Natasha’s behind you, followed by Ghost, and Yelena. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You know the layout.

You know the cameras’ blind angles, the vent routes, the guards’ patterns. The way the air stales at the corners of the station. The scent of recycled control. You feel it all again like muscle memory that never asked to return.

Above, the distraction begins. Steve, Sam, and Tony breach the east hangar with deliberate force — not reckless, but loud. The alarm system screams to life, just as planned. A hundred footsteps rush toward the echo of battle.

Which means the artery routes — the paths to the heart — are left exposed.

Exactly as you predicted.

You reach the lower levels in ten minutes. The walls here are older — less steel, more bone. A relic of Soviet design retrofitted for science without conscience.

Ghost peels off down a side corridor, sweeping for secondary access points.

Natasha leads Yelena forward with practiced steps, tension etched in her shoulders.

You follow close, HUD scanning for biometric locks and traps that aren’t traps — psychological layers embedded in the architecture itself.

No words.

Only movement.

Only mission.

And yet, you feel it — under your gloves, in your chest, behind your eyes.

You feel him.

He’s here.

Dreykov.

The one who built this hell, and filled it with daughters he never intended to love. The one Natasha has spent her life trying to forget. The one she’s crossed oceans to end.

And now, she’s close.

Closer than ever before.

The central cryo chamber is colder than the rest of the facility — even colder than you remembered. The temperature is kept unnaturally low to stabilize neural stasis. It seeps through your tactical suit and sinks into your spine.

You breach the door with a single override. No alarms. No resistance.

They didn’t expect anyone to come here.

Fifty cryopods line the room — cylindrical, upright, humming softly. Each one cradles a woman, their expressions serene, as if sleeping.

But you know better. These aren’t dreams they’re caught in. It’s programming.

Mind-blank, chemically looped, waiting for Dreykov’s final sequence to bring them online.

The next generation of Widows.

You approach the command terminal. A faint flicker of reflection catches your eye in the screen — your own face, harder than it used to be.

From a thigh pouch, you pull the flash drive.

You still remember where you got it: that café in Prague. Wanda slipped it to you beneath a napkin. A neural disruptor coded in old languages, buried beneath a veil of memories and music.

You insert the drive.

The system resists at first — but Ivory’s ghost-code embedded in the data starts to eat through their firewall like acid.

You don’t speak, but your voice echoes out anyway.

A recording. Your voice. Russian. Calm.

"Вы не оружие. Вы не инструмент. Вы свободны." You are not weapons. You are not tools. You are free.

The lights inside each pod flicker. A low hum vibrates through the chamber. For a breath, nothing happens.

Then one pod opens.

Then another.

Then five.

You step back.

One Widow falls to her knees. Another screams. A third stands without a sound — her eyes clear, glassy, but aware.

They are waking up.

Yelena enters quietly, halting at the threshold. She grips your arm tightly.

“You did it.”

You shake your head.

“Not yet.”

There’s a pressure building beneath the floor — the kind you feel in your lungs before a storm.

It’s coming.

The control bridge is near the reactor core. All reinforced glass and arrogance.

He’s already waiting.

General Dreykov.

Larger now. Older. But untouched by regret.

His uniform is tailored, his stance indulgent. And his smile — when he sees Natasha — is the same one you saw the day she was broken.

He claps once.

“Well. The prodigal daughters return.”

Natasha says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

Dreykov continues, almost amused.

“You think this ends with a speech? With a flash drive? You freed fifty girls — I have five hundred more across the globe. This is an empire. You’re just ghosts in the hallway.”

You step forward.

“No. You’re just a man hiding behind children.”

He waves his hand casually — and the floor splits.

Taskmaster drops in from above.

Black armor. Blade drawn. Helmet reflecting light like a mirror.

You step instinctively in front of the others, HUD scanning. Neural feedback spike. Combat-readiness: red.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“I’ve seen your tricks. I’m not scared of your puppet.”

Dreykov clicks his tongue. “Oh, this isn’t fear. It’s inevitability.”

Taskmaster launches — not at Natasha, but at you.

You absorb the hit, boots skidding against the reinforced floor, momentum slamming you into the bulkhead.

She’s stronger than you expected. Faster too. Every move is mimicry, calculated, unrelenting.

You draw your stun baton and block a second strike — barely.

She counters with a Black Panther claw swipe.

Then Cap’s shield feint.

Then something you recognize as your own movement, mirrored back at you.

She’s learning in real time.

The others don’t interfere. Natasha’s already circling Dreykov, dragging his attention, his wrath. Yelena is moving for the data cores, clearing escape paths for the freed Widows.

You lock eyes with Taskmaster behind her visor.

"You're not a weapon either," you say quietly.

She doesn't respond. She can’t — not yet.

The fight turns.

You drop low. Slide under her lunge. Disrupt her stance with a magnetic mine that temporarily short-circuits her balance module.

She stumbles. Reacts. Comes back harder.

You flip her with redirected momentum and slam a pulse-disk onto her back. Red Dust variant. Modified to target synaptic relay clusters — not to kill. To interrupt.

It hits.

Taskmaster stiffens. Shudders violently. Her arm twitches, then drops.

She doesn't fall.

She just stands.

Still. Silent.

Breathing.

You don’t move either.

She looks at you. Not like an attacker. Like someone waking up.

“I see you,” you murmur. “Whoever you are under there… you’re not his anymore.”

Her blade lowers.

You let her go.

Across the chamber, Natasha moves with terrifying clarity.

Dreykov is armed — but clumsy. She’s not. He draws a pistol. She doesn’t flinch.

She’s past flinching.

She disarms him in three moves, drives him backward through the control glass.

He tries to beg.

He tries to say he’s important.

That he’s bigger than her.

She shoots him point-blank. Once.

Right between the eyes.

No flair. No vengeance speech. Just an ending.

You meet her eyes as the silence settles.

She breathes.

And for the first time in years, she looks free.

The shot echoes longer than it should.

When Dreykov drops, something inside the room shifts — like the station itself exhales. The control screens flicker. The neural grid stutters. Everything he built was wired through his command. And now, that command is gone.

Natasha stands over his body, eyes unreadable.

Not victorious.

Not relieved.

Just… finished.

You step beside her.

“He’s dead,” you say quietly.

She nods once. “Then it’s over.”

But you both know that’s only partially true.

A high-pitched whine cuts through your comms. Tony’s voice snaps in:

“We’ve got a reactor instability building. Chain reaction’s kicking in fast. No countdown — just boom.”

“How long?” you ask.

“Six minutes. Maybe less. And gravity is going to get real opinionated once the turbines blow.”

There’s no time to waste.

You and Natasha run.

In the cryo-chamber corridor, the freed Widows move in silence. Some still disoriented, others already forming protective lines to help the weaker ones. Yelena coordinates them with calm efficiency, guiding them toward the evac hangar. Salt and Ivory flank her sides, providing cover where needed.

Wanda holds the corridor near the western wing. Her hands glow red, her face pale with focus. Every piece of infrastructure she touches collapses into nothing. Controlled chaos. Destruction without a single wasted movement.

Ghost and Sam set timed charges along the eastern wing. Measured. Precise.

The station groans. The kind of sound steel makes when it knows it’s about to fall.

You help two young Widows reach the ramp, one limping, the other still bleeding from where a harness dug too deep during stasis.

Taskmaster stands off to the side, unmoving.

You approach her slowly.

She doesn’t raise her weapon.

“I won’t stop you,” you say. “If you want to stay.”

She tilts her head. Voice soft. Broken.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” you reply. “Start with getting out of here.”

She hesitates. Then follows.

Small steps. But hers.

In the evac bay, Tony and Bruce are loading the last pod of escapees into a Quinjet. Steve stands at the edge, watching the sky flicker with fire. The Red Room’s upper towers are already crumbling, one wing at a time.

Natasha walks toward you, quiet, steady.

Her face is calm.

“I thought it would feel like revenge,” she murmurs.

You stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, watching the facility tear itself apart from within.

“It’s not revenge,” you answer. “It’s reclamation.”

She looks over at you, searching. “Of what?”

You glance at the young women now boarding the jet. At Yelena, who gives you a nod. At the room that held you. Held them. And finally, at Natasha.

“Ourselves.”

She doesn’t smile — not exactly. But something eases.

Something that had been clenched for too long.

She breathes in, slow.

Then she takes your hand.

Six Minutes Later

The Red Room doesn’t explode like the movies.

There’s no fireball, no melodramatic crescendo.

It collapses.

Metal groans, beams twist, engines falter — and the whole facility breaks apart, falling in silence, swallowed by clouds and distance. A floating empire undone not with rage, but with resolve.

It falls like a crown knocked from a head.

The Red Room is gone.

Wreckage still smokes in the horizon like the ghost of a monster that took too long to die.

You stand near a half-collapsed barn on the outskirts of nowhere. A temporary safehouse, far from satellites and agendas.

Natasha sits on the porch rail, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of black coffee. She’s in a hoodie too big for her frame, legs drawn up like she's trying to stay small.

You approach but don’t speak.

Instead, you sit beside her, just far enough to give her space, just close enough to remind her you’re still there.

After a long pause, she murmurs, “You didn’t hesitate. Up there. With the Widows. With him.”

You shrug gently. “I did. You just didn’t see it.”

She huffs a dry sound — could’ve been a laugh. “Does it ever go away? The guilt?”

You rest your arms on your knees, watching the sky turn lavender. “No. But it gets… softer. When you're not holding it alone.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you, but you feel her gaze drift toward your hands, your wrist where old scars still live. Then, after a beat, she says quietly:

“You were never part of their program. But you understand it. More than anyone.”

You glance at her. “Because they tried to make me like you.”

She does look at you now.

Eyes sharp. Green. Haunted.

You offer her a faint smile.

“But they failed. Because I already knew who I was.”

“And who is that?”

You let the question hang in the air. The answer isn’t for tonight. Not yet.

Instead, you nudge her mug with your finger. “You drink that stuff willingly?”

She chuckles, small and real. “Double shot, no cream, no sugar.”

Your smile widens. “I remember.”

Another silence.

And then she says it. Soft. Careful.

“You know... I keep thinking about that day in the conference room. When you sat at the head of the table like you belonged there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t I?”

“That’s what scared me,” she admits.

You both laugh quietly.

And there’s something softer in the air now.

Something shifting.

Not romance, not yet. Not touch.

But trust.

Opening, piece by piece.

You lean back. “I’m going to check the perimeter in ten. You coming?”

She finishes her coffee and stands, brushing off her hands. “Always.”

And when she falls into step beside you, shoulders almost brushing, neither of you pull away.

In near future.

The next mission ends quieter than expected.

No explosions. No Hydra tech rigged to blow the moment you touch it. No last-minute betrayal.

Just a clean extraction of a rogue AI from a half-dead facility in the Ardennes, a few skirmishes in the snow, and a shared extraction back to a safehouse ONYX set up months ago.

You and Natasha don’t talk much on the ride there.

But you’re near her.

And she’s near you.

And lately, that’s been enough.

The safehouse is underground. Clean, minimal. Concrete and quiet.

Tony complains that it smells like “a fridge full of secrets,” and Salt mutters something about soundproofing the walls better this time.

You smirk at that, dropping your gear and stretching your shoulders until something cracks.

Across the room, Natasha mirrors you — not the cracking, but the stillness that comes after. She leans against the wall with one knee bent and a hand brushing her hair back.

There’s dust in her curls. A scratch on her cheek. But her eyes?

They’re steady. On you.

“Debrief in thirty,” Steve announces, ever the team dad. “No disappearing.”

You’re already halfway to the weapons table when Natasha intercepts you. Her fingers brush yours — casual, maybe, maybe not — as she lifts your tactical belt from your hands.

“I’ve got this,” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “I can clean my own weapons.”

“I know,” she says. “But you’re bad at it when you’re tired.”

A beat.

“You noticed that, huh?”

Her mouth curves. “I notice a lot.”

Later, the debrief happens in pieces — sprawled across couches, chairs, and the arm of a beat-up leather recliner that looks like it’s survived multiple wars. Ghost and Sam argue over infiltration methods. Steve takes notes. Yelena interrupts everything with casual chaos. Salt sleeps with one eye open. Darcy’s hacking something, probably unethically.

And Natasha?

She’s sitting next to you.

Close, but not touching.

Her thigh presses against yours when she shifts, just for a second. You feel it like a power surge.

When the meeting dissolves, people drift away. Lights dim. Conversations quiet.

You stay seated.

So does she.

“Do you miss it?” she asks eventually, voice low. “Being part of something that wasn’t… this.”

You turn slightly. She’s not looking at you. Not directly.

You think before answering.

“I think I don’t know what it means to be part of something yet. Not really. I spent so long surviving what I was built to be… that I never figured out what I wanted to be.”

She’s quiet.

Then: “Maybe this is what it looks like. Figuring it out.”

You tilt your head toward her. “You figuring it out too?”

She finally looks at you.

“Yes.”

That night, you can’t sleep.

You end up back at the cargo ramp — not of a quinjet this time, but the open metal back of a transport truck still parked at the safehouse. The air is crisp. The sky is almost too quiet.

She finds you again.

Of course she does.

“You’re starting to make this a habit,” you murmur.

Natasha joins you without a word. She doesn’t stand next to you — she leans back against the truck, head tilted toward the stars.

“I used to be afraid of this,” she says after a while. “Stillness.”

You glance at her.

She continues, “Back in the Red Room… stillness meant something was coming. Pain. Correction. You learn to always be moving.”

You say nothing.

She looks over at you, her expression unreadable. “But this stillness… with you… doesn’t feel like waiting for something bad.”

Your heart does that thing again — that stupid, hopeful lurch.

You hold her gaze. “It’s not.”

A long pause.

Then she steps closer. Just enough.

Her voice is barely a breath. “Don’t move.”

You don’t.

Not when her hand grazes yours.

Not when her fingers lace through.

Not when she rests her forehead gently against yours.

Still not touching lips. Not yet.

But it's more than orbiting now.

It’s gravity.

And she says, softly, as if speaking the answer to a question neither of you dared ask:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It starts with a pen.

A simple, innocent pen on the strategy table that you — Y/N — casually offer to Natasha during a debrief.

She reaches for it.

Your fingers brush.

You both freeze.

You both look away like someone just fired a nuke across the table.

Wanda groans so loudly it startles Steve mid-sentence.

“Everything okay, Wanda?” he asks.

She forces a smile. “Oh, yeah. Just...love the sound of two emotionally stunted assassins denying basic chemistry.”

Steve blinks.

Bucky mutters, “...Same.”

Later, in the training hall.

Wanda leans against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching as Natasha runs through combat drills. Focused. Deadly. Sweating slightly.

You are across the room, sharpening knives with unnecessary concentration.

Wanda finally has enough.

“Romanoff. A word.”

Natasha looks up, guarded.

Wanda gestures sharply. “Now.”

Wanda drags her to a supply closet, because Wanda's drama needs acoustics.

Nat crosses her arms. “What’s this about?”

Wanda stares her down like a judge.

“You’re driving me insane. Both of you.”

Nat blinks. “Me and—?”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

Wanda steps closer, magic simmering faintly in her fingertips, not threatening — just emotional leakage. “You’re both impossible. You hover, you linger, you bring her coffee exactly how she likes it, you watch her like she might disappear—”

Nat’s jaw tightens. “She could.”

“That’s the point!” Wanda snaps. “You’ve both lost everything. And now you’ve found someone who actually gets it. And instead of leaning in, you do this... Cold War courtship dance.”

Nat says nothing.

So Wanda lowers her voice. Quieter. But raw.

“She’s not a mission, Natasha. She’s a chance.”

And then, even softer.

“You don’t get many of those.”

A long silence.

Natasha doesn’t move. Her eyes are distant, calculating, terrified.

And then…

“I don’t know how to ask.”

Wanda exhales but she id not irritated anymore. Just kind.

“Then start with something simple.”

Later that night You’re on the rooftop. Quiet. Watching the city lights below.

Footsteps behind you. You don’t turn.

“Didn’t peg you as a rooftop brooder,” you say.

“I could say the same,” Natasha replies.

You smile faintly.

She steps beside you. Close but not touching. Not yet.

“Wanda yelled at me today.”

You smirk. “I’m shocked. She’s usually so reserved.”

“She told me to stop pretending I don’t want something.”

You go still. The air shifts.

Natasha breathes in — like it’s the first honest breath in weeks.

“So… here I am.

Trying.

To ask.”

You look at her. And for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

“Y/N,” she says.

“Would you stay for once? With me?”

You don’t answer.

You just lean in — forehead to forehead.

Quiet. Solid. Real.

“No more running,” you whisper.

“What do you want?” It was unprofessional, uncharacteristic for Harebourg to speak in such tone, but if one were to know his history with the person on the other line, they would understand why he would break character so fast.

“Hey, I know I treated you very unfairly before-“ it was a vast understatement, but Harebourg was willing to give the person he had once called a leader a grace period of six seconds before he manually cut the line himself. “I owe you an apology. I want to make it up to you.”

Damn right you do, but Harebourg knew better than to recklessly indulge on his thoughts. He ended up saying, “I don’t need anything from you, Oropo." Though the thoughts of an acknowledgment of the wrongdoings done to him were enticing, it’s really for the best (for himself) to simply not associate with the Eliotrope any longer.

“Please? I’ll make it worth your time.”

Harebourg’s time, is in fact, rather expensive now a days. “The last time you said that to me, I ended up incarcerated in a cold, cold cage. But regardless, we have better things to do with our precious time than to lie fallow with each other.”

Harebourg was ready to press the ‘decline’ switch at the standby on his headset, effectively ending the call, but of course, he was not fast enough to not hear the desperate, goofy plead of “wait—“.

...

“We’ll talk later...” Harebourg took the chance to end the connection before any further discussion was brought up.

Oh Oropo— a philosopher that had a bit too much negotiation skills to boot for his comfort. Nevertheless, he seems to have roped himself into the Eliotrope’s plans again.

From 19/07/2025 to 20/07/2025

Word Count: 21,896

Chapters:

Chapter 01 : A Family in Rehearsal

Chapter 02 : Things We Don’t Say

Chapter 03 : The Night She Didn’t Wait

Chapter 04 : Lost

Chapter 05 : What Forgiveness Tastes Like

Chapter 06 : The Language of Holding On [Finale]

Author's Note:

Thank you.

For reading, for feeling, for staying.

The Silence Between Us was never just a story about war, or betrayal, or even healing. It was about the quiet, often unspoken ways love bends but doesn’t break. About the spaces between words, the weight of what we carry alone, and the brave, imperfect choice to come back to each other anyway.

If you saw yourself in the quiet grief, in the burnt garlic bread, in the too-loud family dinners or whispered apologies, then this was for you.

To everyone who’s ever had to rebuild love from ashes…

To everyone who’s ever come home to a life they weren’t sure they deserved…

You’re not alone.

This isn’t a perfect ending.

But it’s a beginning that’s soft. And real. And earned.

Thank you for letting me tell it.

With love,

Devi 🤍

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do you want?

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

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

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

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

Still, the thought remains. What do you want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You arch a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pietro perks up immediately. “Anything.”

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

He grins, triumphant. “Done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause at the door, glancing back at him.

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

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

Something that almost feels like wanting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, her mind drifts somewhere else entirely.

You.

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

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

“Unbelievable,” she murmurs to no one.

She takes another sip of whiskey, slower this time.

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

You did none of those things.

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

And yet…

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

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

It was real.

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

The whiskey warms her chest, but the restlessness remains.

She is not used to this feeling.

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

With you there is no pattern.

Natasha frowns slightly, turning the glass between her fingers.

Is it the challenge?

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

But the thought does not sit right.

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

It is the way you looked at her.

Not impressed. Not intimidated. Not charmed.

Just… aware.

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

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

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

The fact that she has not won yet.

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

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

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

Tonight it only makes her restless.

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

You.

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

The results appear immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you ever relax?” she murmurs quietly.

She scrolls again.

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

It irritates her.

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

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

You do not.

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

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

Her thumb pauses on the screen again.

She rereads a few lines without meaning to.

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

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

“Of course,” she murmurs softly.

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

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

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

Her gaze lingers on that image longer than she expects.

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

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

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

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

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

Understanding.

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

You are careful.

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

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

“That explains a lot,” she murmurs.

It does not make you less intriguing.

If anything, it makes you far more dangerous.

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

There will be consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

The tension in your shoulders even when you appear relaxed.

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

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

Natasha has seen that look before.

Not in boardrooms. Not in photographs from charity galas.

She has seen it in fighters.

In the quiet moment before someone explodes.

Her brow furrows slightly as that realization settles into place.

“Oh,” she murmurs softly.

The word hangs in the dim apartment.

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

To anyone else it would look like composure.

To Natasha it looks like containment.

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

It is not the calm of someone who feels nothing.

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

Natasha exhales slowly, lowering the phone again.

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

And pressure eventually breaks something.

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

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

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

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

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

Most people break when pushed.

You did not break.

Which means the storm is still there.

Waiting.

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

It makes her pause.

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

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

The image is… striking.

And a little frightening.

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha sees something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

Not enough to make her walk away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She does. I am just teasing you.”

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

Today is one of the good days.

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

Her eyes lift when the door opens.

Recognition comes almost instantly.

“Wanda,” she says softly.

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

“Hi, Mama.”

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

Magda notices him immediately.

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

Wanda rolls her eyes affectionately.

“He insists on coming.”

Vision inclines his head politely.

“I enjoy visiting,” he says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

Magda chuckles softly at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magda nods approvingly.

“That would be nice.”

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

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

Vision smiles faintly.

“I will do my best.”

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

“I will be back in five minutes.”

The door closes softly behind her.

For a moment the room is completely still.

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

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

Magda breaks the silence first.

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

It is not a question.

Vision answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

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

“She smiles more when you are around.”

Vision glances briefly toward the door Wanda exited through.

“That makes me very happy.”

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

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

“My daughter needs patience.”

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

Magda studies him again, quieter this time.

“And you understand her?” she asks gently.

Vision considers the question before answering.

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

Magda’s expression softens.

“That is the correct answer.”

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

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

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

“You answer carefully,” she says at last.

Vision tilts his head slightly.

“I try to answer honestly.”

“That is not always the same thing.”

Her tone carries no accusation, only observation.

Vision considers that for a moment before responding.

“You are correct,” he admits.

Magda nods faintly, satisfied by the admission.

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

Magda’s attention returns to Vision.

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

“Yes.”

“And you have seen her at the company.”

“I have.”

A faint crease appears between Magda’s brows.

“She works very hard there.”

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

“Yes,” he says finally. “She does.”

Magda’s eyes soften slightly.

“She always did,” she murmurs.

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

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

Vision listens attentively.

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

The smile fades gently.

“She still tries to do that.”

Vision glances again toward the door where Wanda left.

“Yes,” he says softly.

Magda studies him again, more closely now.

“You see these things,” she says.

It is not quite a question.

“I try to,” Vision replies.

Magda seems to weigh that answer carefully.

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

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

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

Vision’s gaze returns fully to her.

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

He straightens slightly in his chair.

“You are correct,” he says.

Magda waits.

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

“Mrs. Maximoff,” he begins.

Magda raises one hand gently.

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

Vision inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“Magda.”

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

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

Magda watches him quietly, patient.

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

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

Magda does not interrupt.

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

Magda’s gaze softens just slightly.

Vision’s eyes drift briefly toward the door again.

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

Magda says nothing, but something in her expression shifts.

Vision continues.

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

He looks back at Magda fully now.

“And I care for her very deeply.”

The words settle quietly into the room.

Magda studies him without speaking.

Vision folds his hands together loosely.

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

Magda’s eyes flicker with quiet recognition.

“Yes,” she says.

Vision’s voice remains steady.

“I intend to ask her to marry me.”

The words are spoken simply, without dramatic flourish.

Magda does not react immediately.

Vision continues before she can respond.

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

His gaze remains respectful, unwavering.

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

Magda remains very still.

Vision’s tone softens slightly.

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

He pauses briefly.

“I would like your blessing.”

The quiet that follows is deeper than before.

Outside the room, footsteps pass along the corridor.

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

Magda’s eyes remain fixed on him.

She does not answer yet.

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

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

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

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

Vision listens without interruption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A shadow passes briefly across her expression.

“Your Wanda does not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That she simply chose a different life.”

Vision nods slowly. Magda studies him carefully.

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

Her eyes soften.

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

She pauses, letting the words settle.

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

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

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

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

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

Vision meets her gaze.

“I do.”

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

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

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

Magda watches him closely as he continues.

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

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

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

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

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

Magda nods faintly. “Yes,” she says.

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

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

Vision continues speaking, his voice steady and sincere.

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

He pauses briefly.

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

Magda’s gaze softens slightly.

Vision’s tone becomes gentler now.

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

He allows a small pause.

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

Magda’s eyes flicker with recognition.

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

A faint smile touches his expression.

“She is extraordinary in those moments.”

Magda remains very still, absorbing his words.

Vision straightens slightly again.

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

His voice remains calm but unwavering.

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

Another moment of quiet passes.

Vision looks directly at Magda.

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

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

Magda studies him for a long time after that.

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

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

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

She shakes her head faintly.

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

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

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

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

Vision answers without hesitation.

“Yes.”

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

“Then you have my blessing.”

The words land softly but with unmistakable certainty.

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“Take care of my girl.”

Vision’s answer is immediate.

“I will.”

Magda nods, satisfied.

Outside the hallway footsteps approach again, faint but familiar.

Wanda is returning.

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

The door handle begins to turn.

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

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

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

Three steps into the kitchen, you freeze. 

Chaos.

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

"Christ, Pietro." 

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

You snort. Underneath is a list:

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

- Music (not the sad shit) 

- Cake (LEMON. FROM THAT PLACE.) 

- More cake (backup cake) 

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

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

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

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

- Those paper lanterns from the festival last summer 

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

You exhale slowly. 

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

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

You grab a pen.

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

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

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

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

The car ride is nearly silent.

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

You watch the familiar buildings pass by.

Your city.

Your streets.

Everything is the same.

And somehow... it isn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Of how Ana will hover.

Of how Nathan might flinch when he sees you struggle.

The car pulls into the driveway.

Your breath catches.

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

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

And it hits you again.

You're not walking through that door.

You're rolling.

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

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

You feel her watching you for signs of pain.

You ignore it.

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

Nathan rushes ahead and disappears inside.

You let Wanda push you up the ramp.

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

But this isn’t a mission.

This is home.

The door opens wider.

And then you’re inside.

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

But the layout’s changed.

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

Space made.

Accommodations.

Without ever asking you.

Wanda notices your hesitation.

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

You nod slowly.

Your voice cracks. “Thank you.”

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

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

“You think I’m still a hero?”

He shrugs. “You came home. So, yeah.”

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

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

You glance to Wanda.

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

You feel tears threatening again.

You blink them back.

“Let’s go.”

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

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

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

Wanda places a folded sweater down near the pillow.

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

You look at her.

“I don’t need it to be the same.”

Then quietly—

“I just need you.”

She steps closer.

“I never left.”

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

It was about being welcomed when you couldn’t.

And you were.

You are.

The house is quiet.

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

Wanda stands beside you.

She doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t ask twice.

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

You finally exhale. “This is… humiliating.”

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

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

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

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

You hate it.

You feel naked in a way you never have before.

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

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

You nearly cry.

But not yet.

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

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

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

It doesn’t feel like washing.

It feels like reclaiming.

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

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

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

You breathe deeply, slowly, eyes closed.

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

Her hand pauses against your spine.

“No.”

“Even after… all I kept from you?”

She resumes the movement. Gentle circles.

“No.”

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

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

The tears finally come.

Hot and unstoppable.

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

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

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

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

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

Not the water.

Not the wounds.

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

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

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

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

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

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

You feel like someone beginning again.

The house is quiet when the knock comes.

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

You hear the knock again.

Not impatient.

Measured. Familiar.

Your heart skips.

You already know who it is.

Wanda must have told them.

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

You open it.

And there they are.

Your mother. Your father.

A lifetime in their eyes.

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

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

“Hi,” you say, almost breathless.

Your mother doesn’t wait.

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

You don't have time to be strong.

You don't have time to put up walls.

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

Not quietly.

Not neatly.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing said. No questions asked.

Just that hand.

Still. Certain. Anchoring.

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

Then steps aside.

Your father stands in front of you now.

He doesn’t speak.

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

Then, slowly, he straightens.

His shoulders square.

And he lifts his hand to his brow.

He salutes you.

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

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

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

To them, you are still their little girl.

And to your father?

You are now—undeniably—his equal.

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

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

Your father steps in behind you.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

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

You recognize it instantly.

Your breath stills.

The brown government binder. Heavy. Stamped Declassified.

He doesn't say how he got it.

You already know.

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

“Read it last night.”

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

He shrugs. “I needed to.”

You glance at him.

“Why?”

He looks at you long and hard.

Not with judgment.

Not even just pride.

But something deeper. Something earned.

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

He taps the file.

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

You look away, jaw tight.

He keeps going.

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

Your voice comes low and bitter.

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

You gesture down to your legs.

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

Your father doesn’t flinch.

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

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

“You don’t have to say all that.”

“I’m not saying it for you.”

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

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

You blink quickly, looking away.

He lets it hang.

Then softer, steadier:

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

He nods at the binder.

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

You finally meet his gaze.

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

He nods.

“I know.”

“I wanted to keep it separate. Clean. For the kids. For Wanda. For you and Mom.”

He breathes in slow, and says something you never expected to hear:

“Clean doesn’t build anything worth remembering.”

You close your eyes.

And he finishes, quiet as a confession:

“I’m proud of you. Not because of what’s in that file. But because you never stopped fighting for everyone but yourself. Even now, you’re still trying to carry all of us.”

You don’t realize the tears have come again until you feel one fall against your collarbone.

He stands slowly, groaning from old bones.

And then—

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw.

And gently, he leans forward.

Kisses your forehead.

“Let someone else carry you for once.”

And in that moment, you do.

If only for a breath.

The front door opens.

“Tell me we’re not starting without me.”

You look up.

He sees you.

And he stops.

Everything about him freezes for half a second, his eyes locked on the wheelchair, the stillness in your body, the lines in your face that weren’t there before.

You’re about to speak.

But you don’t get the chance.

Wanda turns at the same moment, drying her hands on a towel. “You’re late.”

“I brought wine,” Pietro mutters, holding up a bottle like a peace offering. But his eyes never leave you.

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“I’m forgiven,” he says quietly, almost on autopilot.

Then he walks further in.

Ana waves. Nathan lights up with a grin.

But he moves straight to you.

You meet his eyes as he crouches in front of the chair. Close now. Closer than you expected.

He swallows.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice cracking just slightly. “They told me… but I didn’t think…”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Not as bulletproof as you thought.”

You look down. “Not this time.”

His voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

He glances over your shoulder, toward the kitchen—toward Wanda.

“She told me about the file. What you really did.”

Your jaw tightens. “Let me guess. You hated me for not telling her sooner.”

“I was angry,” he admits. “But now? I’m just… sorry.”

You blink at him. “Sorry?”

“I always thought you were distant. Cold. Too composed.” He gestures slightly at you. “But now I see you. And all I can think is… God, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how hard it must have been.”

You look away.

His hand touches your wrist gently.

“I never gave you enough credit for how much you loved her. Or the kids. Or how much you were giving up every day you left home.”

You let out a breath.

And in the quiet that follows, you whisper:

“I thought you hated me.”

Pietro shakes his head. “I never hated you. I just didn’t understand you. And I think that scared me.”

You nod slowly.

He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans awkwardly.

Then pauses.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says, quieter now.

You look at him. You see Wanda in his eyes. Not just physically—but in the way he’s always protected what he loves, even when it came out sharp.

“Thank you,” you say.

He nods once.

And then

Without asking, without making a scene, he leans forward and pulls you into a quick, strong hug.

Not long.

But real.

And when he pulls back, his voice returns to its usual edge.

“Now come on. If I don’t sit next to Nathan, he’ll talk Ana’s ear off and she’ll blame me for it.”

You snort.

And for the first time in days…

You laugh.

The table is full.

Plates clatter gently, dishes passed from hand to hand. The warm scent of roasted vegetables, seasoned rice, and freshly baked bread fills the room like a blanket. Your mother beams with quiet pride as Nathan proclaims the soup is better than anything from the cafeteria. Ana helps Wanda refill glasses with practiced care, moving with a tenderness that hasn’t been there in weeks.

You sit at the head of the table, your chair pulled close. Your blanket is still tucked over your legs, but no one mentions it.

Wanda sits beside you.

Pietro across, already halfway through his second helping.

Your father eats slowly, always chewing a little longer than necessary. But his eyes never leave the table—not because he’s watching, but because he’s present.

Your mother finally sits down with her own plate, waving off any offers to help. “Let me have this,” she says, smiling. “It’s been too long since I cooked for everyone under one roof.”

Nathan turns to Pietro, face lit up. “Uncle Pete, guess what? Mama saved, like, twenty people from a building that exploded!”

Ana groans. “Nathan.”

“No, he’s right,” Pietro says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I read the file. She saved more than twenty. Probably saved all of us in ways we’ll never know.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we not talk about me like I’m not here?”

Pietro grins. “Sorry. You’re just more interesting than rice.”

Your mother hums in agreement, adding, “You used to be a picky eater, you know. Wouldn’t touch anything green unless I threatened no dessert.”

You laugh softly. “Still applies.”

Wanda elbows you gently. “She’s not kidding.”

Ana smirks across the table. “So Mama used to be dramatic?”

“Used to be?” Wanda says, feigning shock.

The table breaks into laughter.

Even you.

For the first time in what feels like lifetimes.

Nathan leans his head against your arm. “Can you come to my school play next week?”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then nod. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

He beams. “Even if it’s about frogs?”

“Even if it’s about frogs.”

Ana snorts into her juice. “You cast yourself as the prince, didn’t you?”

Nathan shrugs. “Typecasting.”

Another wave of laughter rolls through the table.

You glance at Wanda.

She’s already watching you.

Not like someone waiting for you to break.

Not like someone wondering how much of you is still left.

But like someone seeing you.

And loving what’s there.

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently over hers.

She squeezes it, just once.

Which is enough.

Later, dishes are piled in the sink. The kettle is heating. Pietro is teaching Nathan to shuffle cards the “real” European way. Ana scrolls through old family photos with your mother, laughter bubbling up every few seconds.

You sit beside your father on the couch, blanket still tucked, a cup of tea in hand.

“I forgot what this felt like,” you whisper.

He doesn’t ask what this means.

He just says, “Then don’t forget again.”

You nod, looking around the room.

Everything hurts a little less.

Your body. Your silence. Even your memory.

Because this isn’t the end.

It’s the first time you believe you might heal.

Together.

The kids have gone to bed. Your parents are staying in the guest room. You’re asleep now—restless, but finally quiet. Pietro finds Wanda on the balcony just outside the kitchen, wrapped in her cardigan, fingers cradling a mug of cold tea she hasn’t touched.

The sky is bruised dark above Berlin, the city lights blinking quietly below. It’s one of those nights that doesn’t speak until you do.

He slides the door open without knocking.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs as he joins her, sitting on the edge of the balcony rail.

Wanda doesn’t smile.

Just watches the skyline.

“It’s hard not to,” she says softly. “It’s been... a long day.”

Pietro hums in agreement. “It felt like before. Almost.”

She nods, her voice barely audible. “Almost.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then he asks, gently, “How long have you been carrying it?”

She turns her head sharply. “What?”

He looks at her—not unkindly, not accusing. Just steady.

“Guilt.”

She swallows. The mug shifts in her grip.

“Since before it happened. Since she started coming home later. Since I started resenting things I used to admire.”

Pietro says nothing.

Wanda exhales shakily. “And then I broke something.”

She finally says it.

And her voice cracks like glass.

“I broke something we spent years building. I hurt the one person who would’ve bled for me—and did.”

Pietro doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You think she doesn’t know?”

Wanda looks at him, startled. “She—”

“She’s not stupid, Wanda. She’s half-machine when it comes to reading people. She’s seen every kind of betrayal. Every kind of lie. You think she can’t feel this one in her bones?”

Wanda’s eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall.

“She hasn’t said anything.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Pietro says. “She’s not ready to let go of you.”

Wanda’s grip tightens on the mug until her knuckles ache.

“I don’t deserve that,” she whispers.

“No, you don’t,” Pietro says without cruelty. “But she loves you. And love makes room, even when it hurts like hell.”

Wanda stares down at her tea. Her voice is small, but real.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

Pietro finally turns to her, softer now.

“You don’t fix it. You just show up. Again and again. Every damn day. Until she believes you still want to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then at least you tried like hell. That’s what she’s been doing for years, isn’t it?”

Wanda presses the mug to her chest like a shield. The tears come, silent this time.

“She cried in the bathroom the other night,” she says. “She thought I couldn’t hear. She was saying, ‘You’re doing this for them. You’re doing this for them.’ Over and over.”

Pietro doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

Wanda looks up at him.

“I still love her, Pietro.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You wake to the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

You're still groggy, breath slow, mind clouded with fragments of dream and lingering pain. The lamp on Wanda’s side of the bed clicks on, flooding the room with a dim glow.

You don’t move at first, eyes half-lidded.

But you feel her.

The way she walks in slowly. Heavy. Like her footsteps are too full of something unspeakable.

She doesn't get into bed.

She just stands near it.

You turn your head slightly.

“…Wanda?”

She jumps a little, surprised you're awake. Her hands fidget near her waist. Her eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s already wiped the tears away.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispers.

“You didn’t.”

Your voice is scratchy. Tired.

She stares down at the floor.

And then, barely above a breath—

“Did you know?”

You blink slowly, the words sinking in.

“…What?”

She finally looks up. Eyes locked on yours now. No hiding. No escaping. Just raw, bleeding honesty.

“About me,” she says. “About what I did.”

The room seems to shrink.

You don’t answer right away.

You sit up a little straighter, careful of your back. The sheets rustle. Pain twinges in your side.

Wanda moves toward the edge of the bed, but doesn’t sit.

You swallow.

“Yes.”

It’s barely a word. A sigh shaped into a confession of your own.

Her breath hitches.

“How long?” she asks, voice trembling.

“A while,” you say softly. “Before the hospital. I didn’t want to believe it. And then… I did.”

She lowers herself to sit at the foot of the bed, her back to you. Shoulders hunched. She runs a hand through her hair like she’s trying to steady herself, but she’s trembling.

“I tried to pretend I could live with it,” you say, quieter now. “Because I thought maybe I deserved it. For all the years I left you alone with everything. For every time I said ‘it’s classified’ instead of ‘I’m sorry.’”

Wanda lets out a sound that’s part sob, part breath.

You continue, steady but soft.

“But you want to know what hurt the most?”

She nods, without turning.

“It wasn’t the cheating,” you say. “It was realizing that I had made you feel so unseen. So unloved. That you had to find comfort somewhere else.”

She finally turns.

There’s nothing left of her usual composure. Just Wanda. Just the woman you married. The woman who waited. The woman who broke.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” she says, choking on the words. “I was just so… angry. And tired. And lonely. And I hated how easy it was to pretend you didn’t feel like home anymore.”

You nod slowly.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you keep your voice even.

“I understand.”

She leans in, pressing her forehead to your knee—gently, like she’s afraid to touch you too much. Like even this is more than she deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You reach forward, fingers trembling as they brush through her hair. She turns her face into your palm, broken.

And you say the only thing that feels true in this unbearable moment.

“I still love you.”

Because even in the ruin, something has survived.

Not untouched.

But alive.

Wanda hasn't moved.

Her forehead is still resting lightly on your leg, her tears soaking the soft fabric of your blanket. You sit above her, hand in her hair, fingers gently tangled at the nape of her neck. Your body still aches—but that isn’t the weight pulling at you now.

It’s this.

It’s her.

You can sense what she really wanted.

“Wanda,” you whisper, voice barely holding.

She doesn’t lift her head.

“I can’t go back to who I was before,” you continue. “Not just because of this chair. But because of everything. The missions. The blood. The lies.”

You look down at her. Her whole body is trembling.

“But I never stopped loving you,” you say, each word shaped like truth.

She finally raises her head. Eyes swollen. Lips parted like she’s waiting to break all over again.

You search her face. And in a voice steadier than you feel:

“If you can still love me after everything I kept from you… after all the ways I made you feel alone…”

You exhale shakily.

“Then I can forgive you too.”

Her breath catches. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you cut in softly, but firmly. “Because love without forgiveness isn’t love. Not really.”

You let your fingers brush her cheek, wipe a tear away.

“You hurt me,” you say honestly.

She nods, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“And I might never forget that.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“But I still want you,” you whisper. “Not just the version of you who waited. Not just the one who held me through my worst nights. I want the version of you who’s afraid. Who’s guilty. Who’s still here.”

Wanda stares at you like she’s seeing sunlight through the rubble.

Like she didn’t dare hope you’d still reach for her.

“You mean that?” she whispers.

You nod.

“I mean it.”

Her body shudders with a sob she doesn’t release. She just leans forward, slowly, carefully—presses her lips to your knee like a prayer.

And you both sit there.

Not as perfect wives.

Not as broken strangers.

But as two women who were almost lost to silence, but chose to stay.

Even now.

Especially now.

The room has gone quiet again.

Wanda is kneeling beside you, her hand resting over your thigh, her cheek still warm where your fingers brushed it. Her breathing is uneven. Yours matches it.

There’s no music playing.

No candlelight.

Just the soft hum of the radiator, the distant ticking of the clock, and the space between your heartbeats—slowly, slowly syncing again.

She lifts her head.

Her eyes search yours like they did that day you stood under the soft glow of a spring sky, your hands trembling around hers, your vows spoken in a voice thick with joy and disbelief.

But tonight, her eyes are not full of joy.

They’re full of ache.

Full of apology.

Full of love.

And you—

You lean forward.

Just an inch.

Just enough to feel her breath on yours.

You see the flicker of doubt in her gaze.

So you whisper, “It’s okay.”

And that’s when she kisses you.

Not with urgency.

Not with heat.

But with everything else.

A kiss that trembles as much as it calms.

A kiss full of the weight of every sleepless night.

Of every broken apology unspoken.

Of every time you both stayed when leaving would have been easier.

It is a kiss that says, I still choose you.

And as her lips press to yours—soft, reverent, like a prayer whispered under breath—you remember the way she kissed you at your wedding.

The crowd had faded.

The music had blurred.

And all that mattered was her hand on your jaw and the way her lips sealed your vow.

This kiss is the same.

And somehow—

It means even more now.

When you pull apart, your foreheads rest together.

You don’t speak.

You don’t need to.

Because in this breathless stillness, after everything, you are finally in the same place again.

Together.

It’s early afternoon when you and Wanda arrive at the Agency headquarters. The building looms tall and familiar, all steel and tinted glass. For a moment, as the car stops at the security checkpoint, you feel that old weight settle into your chest.

Wanda reaches over and laces her fingers through yours.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, even though your stomach twists. “Just… strange being here like this.”

The air is sharp and sterile, the scent of weapon oil faint beneath the cleaner. You pass familiar corridors. Places where you once barked orders, where you debriefed missions covered in soot and blood, where you once pulled a knife from your ribs in the infirmary and still walked to the situation room an hour later.

People glance at you from behind glass walls.

Some do a double take.

Others pause mid-conversation, eyes wide.

But no one says anything.

You know why you’re here—final debriefings, disability paperwork, official retirement documents.

But it feels like walking into a chapter you never expected to end.

You and Wanda take the elevator to the upper levels. The doors open to the familiar hallway that leads to your old office.

And then—

The lights flicker on ahead of you.

A dozen voices yell at once:

“Surprise!”

You blink.

And freeze.

The hallway has been transformed.

No balloons. No banners. Nothing loud or out of place.

But your entire team is there.

Faces you trained.

Voices you once barked orders to.

Juniors who once stared at you like you were carved from stone, now standing with soft eyes and small smiles.

Your commander steps forward first, arms crossed but eyes glassy.

“We figured you’d try to sneak out like it was just another mission,” she says.

You manage a crooked smile. “That was the plan.”

She gestures around. “Not on our watch.”

Someone hands you a drink—non-alcoholic, because they know your meds—and your favorite snack is already waiting on the small side table someone clearly dragged from the mess hall. There’s even a modest photo board—images from successful missions, blurred for confidentiality, with captions like "Operation Winterglass – 14 saved" and "Riyadh Compound – 6 agents brought home."

You feel Wanda’s hand tighten around yours.

Someone claps gently, and then a junior agent—maybe twenty-three, tops—steps forward.

“You didn’t just train us,” he says. “You protected us. You covered us. And half of us wouldn't be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Another agent chimes in. “You didn’t say much, but you never let anyone feel forgotten.”

You stare at them, unsure what to do with your hands. Or your face.

The commander speaks again, stepping closer.

“You walked in here years ago like a ghost. No attachments. No weaknesses. And somehow, over time, you made us your family. Even if you never said the word.”

She pauses.

“And now, we say goodbye to the best agent this agency ever had. Not because you fell. Not because you failed. But because you gave enough. More than enough.”

You swallow hard.

And when the room falls quiet, you try to speak.

“I never thought I’d miss this place,” you admit.

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the room.

You continue, voice rough.

“But I will. Not the missions. Not the blood. But you. All of you.”

You look around.

Your voice softens.

“I didn’t save you. You saved me. Every time I thought this job would swallow me whole… you gave me a reason to come back.”

Your eyes fall on Wanda, who has tears in hers now.

“And now I finally get to go home.”

Someone lifts a glass.

“To Y/N.”

A chorus follows: “To Y/N.”

You raise yours too.

And for once, you don’t feel like an agent. Or a soldier.

You feel like a person.

You feel loved.

And as Wanda kisses your temple and the room fills with quiet applause.

But you didn’t leave empty-handed.

After the small gathering ends, your commander guides you to a secured room just down the hall. It's quieter here. Dimly lit. Only a few agents follow. Wanda stays close at your side, her presence warm and steady.

There’s a table already set at the front, covered in a dark cloth.

On it: a long, narrow case made of polished oak, and beside it, a display tray covered by a black velvet cloth.

Your commander stands behind it, posture formal now.

“Normally this part happens in silence,” she says. “But I think you’ve earned something more than tradition.”

She opens the first case.

Inside, nestled in precision-cut foam, is a sidearm.

Black. Elegant. New.

Your commander lifts it with both hands and holds it out to you.

“Your final weapon,” she says. “Never to be fired. But always to be kept.”

You take it with care.

It’s heavier than you expected.

Wanda stares at it, eyes wide but unreadable.

Your commander gestures to a sealed ammo box beside it.

“Twenty-five bullets,” she says. “One for every year you gave us.”

The weight of the box is symbolic—your service, distilled into cold brass and steel. You nod silently. You can’t trust your voice.

Then—she pulls back the velvet.

Wanda gasps.

You go still.

It’s rows upon rows of military-grade commendations. Some are standard service medals. Others are rare—almost unheard of. A few are entirely unmarked, reserved only for black ops agents whose missions are never spoken of.

Wanda steps closer. Her eyes flick across the rows, lips parted, breath shallow.

“These were stored with your file,” your commander says. “For obvious reasons.”

She turns to Wanda.

“She never took them home. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t.”

Wanda’s hands hover over the case, trembling.

“How many…?” she whispers.

Your commander folds her hands behind her back.

“Fifty-seven total. Seventeen for valor. Twelve for civilian rescue under fire. One issued posthumously—until she came back breathing.”

Your head bows.

You forgot about that one.

Wanda looks at you. There’s something like awe in her eyes now. Something like heartbreak.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers lightly over the polished medals. Her voice is thick with emotion.

“You never told me.”

You smile, but it’s a tired thing. “I wasn’t allowed to. And after a while… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She kneels beside your chair, hands wrapped around your arm.

Your throat tightens.

Your commander steps forward one last time, placing a closed folder on your lap. Inside: your full service record. Now declassified. Signed and sealed.

“It’s time,” she says.

You glance back at the room—at the walls that watched you come and go for over two decades. You take a breath.

And you nod.

You wheel toward the exit with Wanda beside you, medals boxed in your lap, your honorary sidearm carefully stored under your arm. Agents line the hallway quietly. Some salute. Others offer quiet nods.

No one speaks.

Because they all know what this moment is.

You reach the front doors.

Wanda helps you pause just before the threshold.

You turn back for a final glance.

This place—your life’s battlefield, your cage, your proving ground—fades behind you like the end of a long, impossible winter.

You reach up.

Wipe a single tear from your cheek.

Wanda’s hand finds yours. She’s crying too. But her eyes are soft.

Not sad.

Relieved.

You breathe out, almost laughing.

“It’s over.”

She leans in.

“No,” she whispers. “It’s just beginning.”

And together—

Leipzig – Abandoned Rail Yard, 03:17 Hours

The plan was solid.

Intel, precise. Entry routes clear. Timing perfect.

You had done this dozens of times. Cleared buildings. Extracted high-value assets. Protected civilians in crossfire zones. It was what you were good at—what you were built for.

But plans mean nothing when the enemy adapts faster than the briefings predict.

You realize it two minutes in. The pattern's off. The heat signatures don’t match the number of confirmed targets. There’s movement above that shouldn’t be there. The sound of gunfire ricochets wrong—too sharp, too close.

It’s an ambush.

You move fast. Three steps left, sweep high, fire once—twice. One down. You’re already bleeding. Doesn’t matter.

You clear the stairwell. Shout commands through gritted teeth.

"Get them out. Now. West exit. I’ll cover."

You don’t wait for arguments.

The civilians run.

Your team hesitates.

"GO."

They listen.

And then it’s just you.

You pick off four more before you take the shot to the side. Two to the shoulder. One grazing your thigh. You don’t count how many times you reload. You don’t notice the ache in your lungs or the warmth of your own blood pooling in your boots.

Your hands don’t shake.

You don’t scream.

You just move.

One hallway at a time. One room at a time.

Until it’s done.

Until the silence means you won.

You don’t remember falling.

You lie on your side; cheek pressed against the cool cement.

You can't feel your fingers. Can’t move your legs.

But your chest rises, slow. Still breathing. Somehow.

Voices filter through the fog—someone shouting your name, boots slapping the floor, a medic’s tone urgent in your ear. They’re trying to lift you.

You can’t speak.

But there’s a smile on your face.

A faint one. Barely there. Just the curve of relief.

Because they lived.

Because they got out.

Because this pain means they’re alive.

You close your eyes.

And let the dark take you.

The phone rings just past six.

Wanda doesn’t recognize the number.

She answers anyway, her voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Hallo?”

“Wanda Maximoff?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is Commander Lehnert, German Special Intelligence Division.” A pause. “I’m calling about your wife. Y/N Y/L/N.”

Wanda sits upright in bed, heartbeat hammering already. “What? What happened?”

“She was injured during an operation early this morning in Leipzig. She’s stable, but critical. Multiple wounds, extensive blood loss. We had to— We had to contact you as her emergency next-of-kin.”

Wanda blinks rapidly. “Operation? I—she works in foreign affairs. I don’t understand.”

Another pause.

When the voice returns, it’s quieter. Heavy.

“Mrs. Maximoff… there’s more you should know. I’ve been authorized to brief you on the full scope of her position. She wasn’t in foreign affairs. She’s in recovery at the Bundeswehrkrankenhaus,” the voice adds. “Room 621.”

Wanda’s voice cracks. “Thank you.”

Click.

Silence.

The hospital smells like antiseptic and something colder.

Wanda moves through it on instinct, not even sure how she got there. Her coat hangs loose around her shoulders, scarf forgotten somewhere in the car. She asks for you at the front desk, and someone with a grim mouth and military posture escorts her down a long corridor in silence.

They stop in front of your room.

The door is open.

And there you are.

Pale. Still. Tubes in your arm. Monitors beeping in careful rhythm. Chest rising and falling beneath stark white sheets.

Her knees almost give.

A man in uniform steps away from the window. Commander Lehnert. Early forties. Stern face. Red-rimmed eyes.

“Mrs. Maximoff,” he says, voice low. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

She can’t respond. She’s looking at you, not hearing anything else.

He waits a beat, then speaks again.

“She’s stable. Out of surgery. There was… significant damage to the spinal cord. Thoracic vertebrae shattered. The surgeons did what they could. But I’m sorry. The injury is irreversible. Y/N is paralyzed from the waist down.”

Wanda finally looks at him.

“She can’t—?”

“No,” he says gently. “The paralysis is complete from the waist down. She’ll be awake soon. But I’m not sure how much she’ll want to say, or how much she’ll remember at first.”

Silence again.

Then he reaches into the leather satchel at his side.

“I’ve been instructed to give you these.”

He places two folders on the small hospital table beside the bed.

One is a thin, freshly stamped binder with a red seal now marked DECLASSIFIED. Your name is printed neatly at the top. Y/N Y/L/N – Operative Record.

The second is thicker. Much thicker. Worn at the edges. Tabs sticking out in layers. It’s heavy. The kind of weight you only carry if you’ve saved lives or destroyed them.

That one is still marked CLASSIFIED.

Commander Lehnert taps the second folder once. “I’m not supposed to give you this. But after what she did last night… after who she saved…”

He pauses.

“You deserve to know who she’s been fighting for.”

Wanda stares at it. She doesn’t reach out. Not yet.

He clears his throat and straightens his coat. “I’ll give you some time.”

And then he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

She doesn’t open the declassified one first.

She opens the thick one.

Page after page—incident reports, mission summaries, handwritten notes from people she doesn’t know, people she’ll never meet. Civilians. Children. Aid workers. Names. Photographs.

She flips through operations across continents. Buildings pulled from rubble. Wounded carried across borders. Kill squads dismantled. Ambushes thwarted.

And your name again and again, buried in the margins.

Her hands tremble as she reaches the final page.

A photo clipped to the inside cover.

It’s from last night. Blurry. Grainy. You—on the ground, covered in blood—smiling.

Not from pain.

But relief.

Wanda doesn’t cry.

She closes the folder, lays it carefully on the table, and leans down beside your bed.

Her fingers brush your temple.

“You were protecting us,” she whispers. “This whole time… you were saving the world and coming home like nothing happened.”

Her voice breaks.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see it.”

You don’t stir.

But your chest still rises.

And for the first time in a long time, Wanda wants to stay.

Not out of guilt.

But out of love.

⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

It begins with sound.

A slow, distant beeping. Faint. Rhythmic. Artificial.

Then comes the sterile light through your eyelids, the weight of a room you don’t recognize, the deep ache blooming in your spine like it was planted there long ago.

You open your eyes.

Everything is fog.

You blink, and Wanda is there—blurry at first. Sitting beside you in a hospital chair, her hand gently holding yours. Her lips are pressed together. Her eyes swollen, but dry now.

Her voice comes through like a ripple on water.

“You’re awake.”

Your throat burns. You try to speak, but nothing comes out. Just breath and memory and pain.

You manage a whisper: “Where…?”

“Berlin,” she says softly. “The military hospital. You’ve been out for two days.”

Two days.

You try to sit up. Pain shoots down your spine like a blade being pulled slowly through your bones. You grunt, instinctively moving—

But your legs don’t follow.

You pause.

You try again. Your left leg. Just a twitch. A flex. Something.

Nothing.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Wanda.”

She stiffens.

“Wanda… I can’t…”

Your hand reaches beneath the blanket, desperate, trembling. You slap your thigh—nothing. You dig your nails into the fabric. Nothing.

“I can’t feel them.”

You look at her now. Really look.

Her silence is the confirmation you were afraid of.

You lift the sheets with shaking fingers and stare at what’s still there—bandaged, bruised, intact—but lifeless. As if they belong to someone else. As if your body is no longer yours.

“No, no, no…” Your voice fractures. “Please.”

Wanda reaches for you.

You pull away.

“No.”

You press your palms into your face, breath stuttering, teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches. The walls close in. The silence pounds louder than any gunfire you’ve ever known.

You think of everything you’ve done—every mission, every sprint into fire, every last-second escape—and it hits you all at once.

This is it.

The field is gone. Your legs are gone. Your purpose—gone.

And when the door finally creaks open and the nurse says softly, “She’s awake,” you already know.

You already know.

Wanda’s there before the doctor even gets a full sentence out. Her voice breaks when she says your name.

You don’t look at her.

You’re staring at the blanket bunched at your feet. The feet that didn’t twitch when you tried. The legs that didn’t move when you needed them to.

The doctor speaks, voice a blur of terms and reassurance—“miracle to survive”, “stable now”, “permanent spinal damage”, “incomplete paraplegia”—but you barely hear it.

Your heartbeat is pounding louder than anything he says.

Then Wanda touches your hand.

That breaks you.

You turn to her, slowly. Your voice is dry, cracked.

“They’re gone.”

She nods through tears.

You nod too, as if somehow it confirms the sentence. As if saying it out loud will make your brain believe what your body already knows.

Your lips tremble. You try to say something—anything strong. Anything that sounds like you.

But all that comes out is a hollow whisper:

“I can’t feel them.”

And then your chest collapses around the weight of it.

You cry.

Ugly, broken sobs that rack your upper body while your lower one stays still. You hate the stillness. You hate the sound of your own grief. You hate that you lived.

You hate that part of you feels like you shouldn’t have.

Wanda climbs onto the bed without asking. She holds you, rocking gently even when you push weakly at her arms.

“Don’t,” you choke out. “Don’t hold me like I’m still me.”

“You are still you,” she whispers, kissing your temple.

You press your face to her shoulder and sob harder.

Because you don’t believe her yet.

And when your voice finally breaks into shattered whisper:

“What am I now?”

She leans forward, rests her forehead to yours, and says:

“Still the one who saved them. Still the one who came home.”

You don’t know how long you cry.

The sobs come deep and shaking, dragged from somewhere raw and private. You curl in on yourself as far as the pain allows, clutching at the blanket like it can hold your body together when your soul is already coming apart.

You don’t cry like a soldier.

You cry like someone who just lost the thing that made her feel alive.

Your life—your purpose—bled out before you ever got off that battlefield.

You feel Wanda’s arms wrap around you.

You don’t fight her.

You can’t.

You lean into her like your body has no strength left to stay upright. Her hand cradles the back of your head. Her thumb moves in slow, grounding circles. You feel the wetness of her tears where her cheek meets your temple, but she doesn’t make a sound.

She doesn’t speak.

She just holds you.

Because what words could possibly fix this?

You cry for your legs.

For every mission that you ran full speed into without hesitation.

For the weight of every life you saved.

For the identities you buried and the pain you never let surface.

You cry for your pride—the pride that used to wear silence like armor. That told you sacrifice was noble. That convinced you coming home broken was better than not coming home at all.

And Wanda is there.

Through all of it.

She doesn't flinch when your voice breaks into gasps.

She doesn't pull away when you say, “I don’t know who I am without this.”

She presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, barely audible:

“You’re still mine.”

You close your eyes.

Not in peace.

Not yet.

But in surrender.

To the truth.

To the grief.

To her.

And for the first time since the gunfire stopped, you let yourself be held.

Not as an agent.

Not as a protector.

Just… you.

The sun is higher in the sky now, pale and cold through the window. You’re still in bed, propped up slightly. Wanda sits close, her hand in yours, her other arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders.

The room smells like hospital sheets and disinfectant.

There’s a knock on the door.

Firm.

Not tentative.

You know that rhythm. That weight.

Wanda straightens a little, eyes flicking toward the sound. You don’t speak. You already know who it is.

The door opens.

Commander Lehnert steps inside in full uniform, coat buttoned, boots polished. He removes his cap with quiet respect.

“Y/N.”

You look at him.

He nods once. A soldier’s nod. For everything you’ve done. For everything you’ve lost.

“Commander,” you say, voice low and rough.

His eyes fall to Wanda, and he gives her a brief, courteous incline of the head. “Mrs. Maximoff.”

Wanda nods silently, then glances to you, uncertain if she should stay.

You squeeze her hand.

Stay.

She does.

Lehnert steps closer, folding his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t going to come until you were stronger. But when they told me you woke up, I…” He hesitates. Just for a second. The first crack in the man you always saw as unshakable.

“I needed to say it. Face to face.”

He meets your eyes.

“You saved fourteen people. Six civilians. Eight operatives. And you bought us nearly nine minutes under enemy fire. Every one of them made it out because of you.”

You stare at him, jaw clenched, throat thick.

He goes on. “You knew it was a trap. You still stayed.”

“I couldn’t let them die,” you rasp. “Not when I could stop it.”

He nods slowly. “That’s exactly why you’ll never be forgotten.”

You look down.

The silence lingers.

And then his voice softens.

“I know this isn’t how you thought it would end. No agent ever thinks that.” He gestures slightly to your body—your legs beneath the blanket. “But I want you to understand something.”

You glance back up.

“You didn’t lose your career out there. You finished it. With honor. With impact. With legacy.” He pauses. “Y/N… you won.”

The words hit you harder than the bullet.

Wanda’s hand squeezes yours tighter.

You nod slowly.

It’s not comfort.

It’s not closure.

But it’s something.

Commander Lehnert takes something from inside his coat. A small box. He opens it and places it on the table beside you.

A medal.

Dark silver. Clean. Etched with your name.

Your final commendation.

“You earned this ten times over,” he says. “And it still doesn’t come close.”

You stare at it.

Silent.

The Commander turns to Wanda next. His voice is quieter now. “She never broke, Mrs. Maximoff. Not once.”

Wanda's lips tremble.

She nods.

He replaces his cap. “We’ll be in touch regarding transition and retirement documentation. But today… you don’t need to think about any of that.”

He pauses at the door.

“Take care of her.”

Wanda answers before you can.

“I will.”

And then he’s gone.

The sun has dipped behind the buildings outside. The sky is bruised with late orange and ash-blue. Your hospital room is quiet now, lit only by the dull yellow of a wall sconce and the soft green rhythm of the monitor beside you.

Wanda’s still sitting at your side.

She hasn’t let go of your hand since the Commander left.

You’ve stopped crying. But that doesn’t mean the ache has gone anywhere.

You glance at the medal still resting on the tray table.

It feels distant. Like it belongs to someone else now.

Your voice is a murmur when it finally breaks the silence.

“Wanda.”

She turns to you immediately. “Yeah?”

You study her face—how tired she looks, how close she is, how far she’s been. You’ve held a thousand lives in your hands, but this question feels heavier than all of them combined.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway.

“Is there… still a marriage left to come home to?”

She goes still.

Completely.

You watch her breath catch. You see her eyes widen—just slightly—like you’d peeled open something raw between her ribs.

She doesn’t answer right away.

That hurts more than you expect.

You look down, ashamed. “I know I wasn’t… I know I left you alone. Even when I was there.”

Wanda doesn’t speak.

You try again, voice lower now. “I know I gave everything to a world that asked for too much. And you—you gave everything to us. And I kept leaving you behind to carry that alone.”

Still, she says nothing.

You shake your head. “You can tell me the truth. I can take it.”

Her hand squeezes yours.

It’s almost painful.

When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Cracked.

“I did something… I’m not proud of.”

Your eyes lift to hers.

Wanda’s gaze is wet now. But she doesn’t look away.

“I was angry,” she says softly. “Lonely. I stopped waiting for you to come home, and I found someone else who was already here.”

You close your eyes.

It doesn’t surprise you.

But it still cuts.

She takes a trembling breath.

“I can’t take it back. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But you asked if there’s a marriage left to come home to…”

You open your eyes.

She leans closer, her forehead nearly touching yours.

“There’s a love left. And I want to fight for it. Even if we don’t know how. Even if you’re different now. Even if I’m not who I used to be either.”

You look at her. You really look.

You see guilt, yes. But love, too.

Not the kind that burns wild and fast.

The kind that stays even when everything else has fallen.

Your hand tightens around hers.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

But you don’t let go either.

And that—for now—is enough.

It’s been four days since you woke up.

You’ve been through three meetings with government suits, two attempts at eating solid food, and one extremely awkward sponge bath.

But today?

Today is harder than all of that.

Today, your children are coming.

You’re already in the wheelchair. The nurse helped you transfer over an hour ago. You’ve checked your posture three times. Wanda helped brush your hair. You fought her on it at first, but you were too tired to pretend you didn’t need the help.

Now you just sit there. Hands curled tightly in your lap. The air heavy in your lungs.

You haven’t seen Ana or Nathan since the incident.

They don’t know.

Not about the chair. Not about the career. Not about the gunmetal-slick double life you built beneath their very feet.

Wanda stands by the door, adjusting her coat with nervous fingers.

You break the silence.

“I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Wanda turns.

You don’t look at her. “They won’t understand. Ana will look at me like I failed her. Nathan will be scared. This isn’t what a mother should look like.”

She kneels in front of you.

You do look at her now, because the silence in her face demands it.

“They asked for you,” she says softly. “Not the spy. Not the protector. You.” Her hand comes to rest gently over yours. “They just want to see their mama.”

Your throat tightens.

And then, the knock.

You freeze.

Wanda rises and opens the door.

Ana steps in first. Seventeen, guarded, arms crossed, chin lifted like armor. Her hair is pinned back, neat but practical. Her eyes land on you and don’t look away.

Nathan follows behind her. Twelve. Small for his age. Shoulders tense. But when he sees you, his whole face softens. He makes a small sound—half breath, half disbelief.

“Mama…”

He rushes over.

You barely manage to open your arms in time before he’s hugging you tightly, pressing into your chest with all the force of someone trying to stitch something back together.

You wrap your arms around him. You bury your face in his hair.

Ana still stands near the door.

You turn your head, your voice low and unsure. “Hey, sweetheart.”

She hesitates.

Then slowly, she steps forward.

Her eyes flick to the wheelchair. Linger. Then back to your face.

“I thought you worked in foreign affairs.”

You manage a small, lopsided smile. “Technically… I did.”

Ana stares. “You're a spy.”

You nod once.

“I was.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

Then she folds her arms tighter, her voice cracking just a little. “You should’ve told us.”

You meet her eyes. “I know.”

The room holds that silence. The years of absence. The half-answers. The tension. The ache.

Nathan breaks it, his head still tucked under your chin.

“I don’t care,” he mumbles. “You’re still my mom.”

Ana shifts her weight. You watch her war with herself—hurt, pride, and relief all tightening in her chest.

Then she walks forward.

And she kneels.

Just like Wanda had.

And she takes your hand.

You didn’t know how much you needed that until it happens.

Her grip is steady.

You nod, eyes blurring again.

The door clicks shut as Wanda and Nathan step out into the hallway.

Something about the silence that follows is heavier than before.

You glance toward Ana, who’s standing near the window with her arms folded across her chest, her jaw clenched. She hasn’t looked at you since they left.

You watch her for a moment.

She looks so much like you when you were younger—quiet storm behind steady eyes.

But you’re her mother.

And you know.

You know when she’s trying not to feel.

“Ana,” you say softly.

She doesn’t move.

You let the words settle for a beat, then add gently, “Come here.”

She stiffens.

Your voice is quieter this time. Not an order. A call.

“Sweetheart… come here.”

She turns slowly.

Her eyes glisten, but she’s still holding it in. She walks over, slow and hesitant, each step a tiny surrender.

You open your arms.

She stops right in front of you, still stiff, still trying to be strong.

You reach up, brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and say it simply, like you used to when she scraped her knees or got in trouble at school.

“Come to Mama.”

And that’s it.

She collapses.

She falls into your arms, hard, burying her face in your shoulder, and the dam breaks.

You hold her tight, arms trembling as she cries into you like she’s six again and the world’s just a little too big.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

You stroke her hair, your own tears slipping free now. “No, baby. No. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I said awful things to you. I thought— I thought you didn’t care—”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you were hurting.”

“I was so angry,” she sobs. “And I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what you were going through.”

“I didn’t let you,” you say, your voice breaking. “I thought if I could keep it from you… I could protect you.”

She pulls back slightly, her eyes red and wet.

“But it broke you,” she whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “It did.”

She hugs you again, tighter this time. “But I’m here now. I’m staying.”

And you hold her.

No uniform. No secrets.

Just your daughter. And the love between you.

Real. Raw. Unbreakable.

The door opens with a soft click.

Wanda steps in, her coat draped over one arm and a paper bag in the other. The smell of warm bread and spiced lentil soup fills the sterile hospital air. Nathan trails behind her, holding two juice boxes and carefully balancing a small chocolate bar on top.

She starts to speak before fully looking up.

“I wasn’t sure what you felt like eating, so I got a little of everyth—”

She stops.

Eyes land on you first.

Then Ana.

Your daughter is curled gently into your side in the hospital bed, her head resting on your shoulder, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist. Her face is flushed from crying, but there’s peace there now. The kind that only comes after something long overdue has finally been said.

Your hand is in her hair, stroking softly.

Neither of you speak.

But you don’t need to.

Wanda’s breath catches.

Something in her chest loosens. She didn’t realize how tight it had been until now.

She stands there, frozen for a moment, then gently sets the food down on the tray table. Nathan moves toward you without a word, hopping up onto the other side of the bed, squeezing in beside your hip.

He leans against you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss the top of his head.

Wanda watches all of it.

And for a moment—for the first time in what feels like years—she sees it clearly.

The love between you all.

Messy. Fractured. Healing.

Still whole.

You meet Wanda’s gaze.

You give her a tired smile, small but sincere.

She walks over slowly, setting her hand on the back of Ana’s shoulder, the other brushing your arm.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion.

“Hey,” you say back, just as quietly.

She doesn’t cry.

But her eyes shine.

She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then to Ana’s hair.

And finally to Nathan’s cheek.

And there, in that room filled with beeping machines and healing wounds and old regrets, the four of you sit—

You don’t hear your phone ring the first time.

It’s the vibration that gets your attention. Constant. Disruptive. Your eyes flick down. School – Emergency Line.

You’re on your feet before your mind catches up.

The city blurs by in a rush of pavement and nerves. You don’t stop at red lights. Don’t notice the cold. Your hands grip the wheel like they’re still trained for a rifle. Everything else falls away.

By the time you reach the hospital, you’re out of breath and straining to keep your face still.

Wanda is already there.

She sits in a narrow chair outside the exam room, coat still on, Nathan’s backpack clutched against her chest like a shield. Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, the cool indifference she’s worn like armor these last weeks cracks.

“What happened?” you ask, throat dry.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her voice is thin when it comes. “They said he had a panic attack. During science class. He started crying and couldn’t breathe.”

Your stomach knots.

“Why?”

“He said he dreamed you died.”

You blink. “What?”

“He dreamed your plane exploded. That you never came home. He tried calling you. You didn’t answer.”

You have no reply.

You walk into the exam room and find Nathan sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging a stuffed lion to his chest. He looks up the moment you step in.

“Mama.”

His voice wobbles.

You crouch in front of him. “I’m here.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders before you even reach for him. You hold him as tightly as you dare.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he whispers.

“I was busy.”

“I thought you were gone.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “I will always come home to you. Always.”

It’s a promise you shouldn’t make. But you say it anyway.

Back at home, the weight of the day lingers like smoke in the walls.

Nathan sleeps early, curled against his pillow with the lion still in his arms. Ana doesn’t ask what happened. She barely speaks to anyone. You hear her music through the floor again, heavy with bass, like she’s trying to drown out the world.

You stand in the hallway outside her door. Raise your hand to knock. But you don’t.

Wanda finds you there.

“He’s asleep,” she says.

You nod. “I know.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the wall. Her voice is quiet. “He was shaking when they called me.”

“I got there as fast as I could.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She steps away, toward the kitchen. You follow her without being asked. The lights are dim. The quiet between you both hums with unspoken things.

“I can’t keep doing this alone,” she says, placing her glass down with more force than needed. “I can’t keep covering for you when Ana asks why you’re never there. I can’t keep calming Nathan down from nightmares you don’t even know he has.”

“I’m trying.”

“No.” Her tone sharpens, but her voice stays low. “You’re surviving. You’re going through the motions. You’re not trying. You disappear for days. You come back tired, closed off, pretending this is still a marriage.”

You want to argue. But she’s right.

So you don’t say anything.

Wanda takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

You meet her eyes. “Do you still love me?”

She hesitates.

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s quieter now. And sometimes, I wonder if it’s just a memory I’m holding onto because I don’t know how to let go.”

You nod.

“I want to fix this,” you say, even if you’re not sure how.

She looks away.

“I used to believe you could fix anything.”

You don’t touch her. You don’t reach for her hand or move closer. You just stand there, listening to the rain starting again outside, and to the sound of her walking away.

You’re left in the kitchen with two half-drunk glasses of wine, cooling under yellow light.

You hear Ana in the kitchen. She’s being louder than necessary—slamming the fridge door, clinking glass against marble, letting her boots drag across the tiles. It’s deliberate. She wants you to hear.

You step in quietly, your shadow reaching the doorway before you do. She doesn’t look at you. She pours juice into a glass and drinks it standing, like she’s waiting for a reason to throw it.

“Ana,” you start.

She sets the glass down. Hard. “Don’t.”

You take a breath. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now we need to talk?” Her voice is sharp, bitter. “You haven’t said more than five words to me in weeks, but suddenly you want to talk?”

“I know I haven’t been around—”

“No. You’ve been a ghost,” she snaps. “Showing up when it’s convenient for you, acting like this family hasn’t already adjusted to life without you.”

You stare at her, trying to stay calm. “That’s not fair.”

She laughs, humorless. “Isn’t it?”

“I’m still your parent.”

“Right. A parent who missed my birthday. Who missed my entrance interview. Who can’t even remember what classes I’m taking. You don’t know me anymore.”

You feel that like a blow, but you push through it. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“Then show it! Be here!” Her voice breaks. “Stop disappearing and coming back like we’re supposed to just reset every time.”

You clench your jaw. “You think I want to be gone all the time? You think I’m out having fun?”

“I think you’re a coward,” she spits. “Because whatever you’re doing, wherever you keep going, it’s more important than us.”

Your hands tighten at your sides. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for this family.”

“Then maybe stop making it feel like we’re the sacrifice.”

Silence.

The words hang in the air between you, hot and awful.

Her chest heaves. Yours does too.

“I used to wait at the window for you, you know,” she says, voice quieter now, but no softer. “When I was younger. I thought if I waited long enough, you’d walk through the door smiling like everything was okay.”

You look at her, and suddenly she’s not seventeen and angry—she’s seven and scared.

“I don’t wait anymore,” she says. “I don’t even hope anymore.”

You take a step forward. “Ana…”

“Don’t,” she repeats. “You don’t get to fix this with one dramatic speech and a sad look. You missed too much.”

She storms past you.

You let her go.

The door slams behind her. Not her bedroom door this time.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.

The echo rings in your ears long after Ana’s footsteps fade down the hallway. You don’t follow her. Not because you don’t want to—but because you wouldn’t know what to say if you did.

You’re still standing in the kitchen when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn, and there she is. Wanda.

She stands at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her face unreadable. Her hair’s damp—maybe from a shower, maybe from leaning out the window to look for Ana, maybe just from the weight of everything that keeps building between you.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t move.

She just looks at you like she’s trying to figure out if you heard what she heard—really heard it. If you understand how close you came to losing your daughter for good.

You do.

But it doesn’t help.

You meet Wanda’s eyes for a second, then lower your gaze. You can’t stand the way she’s looking at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed.

Just… tired.

She turns without a word and walks back down the hall. You hear her door close with the soft click of restraint—quiet, like she’s trying not to draw another line between you.

The juice glass is still on the counter. Her fingerprints are on it.

You pick it up, rinse it under the tap. The water runs too loud in the silence. You turn it off halfway and just stand there, watching droplets slide down the curve of the glass.

There are so many things you could have said to Ana.

So many things you never did.

You sit down at the table and stare at the darkened living room. One lamp glows dimly in the corner, casting soft shadows across the carpet. The blanket on the sofa is bunched where Nathan left it earlier. There’s a tiny Lego piece on the floor you hadn’t noticed until now.

You press your thumb into your palm until it hurts.

You’ve had knives in your ribs that were easier to bear than her words.

“She doesn't wait anymore.”

You say it out loud, softly, like repetition might make it feel less final.

But it doesn’t.

The house has fallen into that strange quiet it only knows after a fight—thick, too still, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Ana hasn't come back. Wanda hasn’t come out of the bedroom.

You remain in the kitchen long after the lights should have been turned off.

You sit at the table, hunched forward slightly, hands limp in your lap. You’ve been still for so long your back aches, but you don’t move. There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fix. You don’t even hear the first tear fall.

It slides down your cheek unnoticed.

The second one clings to your jaw before dropping onto the edge of the table. That’s when you realize. Your throat tightens, your breath hitching just once. You press the heel of your hand against your mouth, hard, like you can push it all back in.

But it’s already out.

The sob is silent, and so is the next. The tears come hot, steady. Not violent—but deep. The kind that don’t need sound to tear you apart.

You cry like someone who's still trying not to. The restraint only makes it worse.

You’re so wrapped in holding yourself together that you don’t hear the soft padding of small feet.

When you glance up, Nathan is there.

He stands in the doorway, barefoot in his pajamas, clutching the same lion he held in the hospital. His hair sticks up on one side. His eyes are wide, uncertain.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just watches you. Silently. Like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it.

You try to wipe your face, too late.

“Nathan,” you whisper, voice raw.

But he doesn’t come closer.

He doesn’t run away either.

He just stands there. Watching his mother cry, learning far too young what it looks like when adults fall apart quietly.

You reach out a hand.

He hesitates.

Then he walks over and climbs onto your lap. No questions. No words. He simply leans his head against your chest, and you wrap your arms around him with a shuddering breath.

The tears come again. Slower now. Quieter.

You rest your chin against the crown of his head.

And for the first time in days, you let yourself be held too.

The next morning is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels careful. No footsteps overhead. No plates clattering in the kitchen. Just the muted hum of the refrigerator and the occasional crow call from the balcony rail.

You’ve already left. Nathan heard the door close just after six. He didn’t fall back asleep afterward. He didn’t want to.

Ana wakes late. She moves through the house like a shadow, barely brushing the walls, like she’s still carrying the echo of last night’s shouting in her chest. Her hair is tied up messily. She looks tired. Guilty. But not enough to say it aloud.

Nathan sits at the kitchen table, his cereal bowl untouched in front of him.

Ana stops when she sees him. “Hey, bud.”

He doesn’t answer.

She crosses the kitchen, pours herself a glass of juice without looking at him. When she turns around, he’s staring at her.

His lip trembles slightly, but his voice is clear. “You made her cry.”

Ana blinks. “What?”

“Last night.” He clutches the edge of the table. “You made Mama cry.”

The words hit her harder than any fight, any insult you could’ve thrown at her. She stares at him, frozen.

Nathan’s voice stays steady. “She didn’t make any noise. She was just sitting there. But her face was wet, and she didn’t know I saw.”

Ana’s mouth opens, then closes.

“She always tells me not to cry alone,” he continues. “But she was crying alone. Because of you.”

Ana walks slowly to the table and kneels beside his chair. “Nathan,” she says softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s not that simple.”

“She loves you,” he says, looking down. “Even when you’re mean.”

Ana’s eyes go glassy. Her breath stutters. “I know.”

“I don’t like when you talk to her like that.”

“I know.”

“I think you hurt her.”

Ana nods slowly. “I think I did too.”

Nathan watches her for a moment. Then he does what neither of you could last night.

He hugs her.

Slow. Small arms wrapping around her shoulders. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to.

Ana melts into the hug like she’s been waiting for it. She closes her eyes and buries her face in his shoulder.

She doesn’t cry. Not quite. But her breathing shudders like someone trying not to.

And just beyond the doorway—unseen, unmoving—Wanda stands in the hallway.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t make a sound.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, knuckles white around her sleeves. She watches the two of them—her children—folded into each other like two halves of something breaking and mending all at once.

She doesn’t go in.

Because this moment doesn’t need her.

She watches until Ana pulls back just enough to wipe her face, until Nathan leans forward to press his forehead against hers.

Wanda watches them in silence, pressed into the shadow just beyond the kitchen doorway.

She tells herself she shouldn’t listen. That this is between them. But she can’t move. She can’t look away.

Nathan’s voice is so gentle. So sure. The way he says "She loves you. Even when you're mean."—it cuts through her like glass.

She realizes then how much he's seen. How much he's understood without being told.

And Ana... the anger in her had always been easier to face than this. This crumbling. This softness. It reminds Wanda of when Ana was still small enough to climb into her lap and ask if the world was safe.

Neither of them asks that anymore.

She sees now just how much they’re trying to hold together, in their own ways. Just like she is. Just like you are.

And still, it feels like everything is slipping.

She wants to go to them. To sit down. To say something. Anything.

But what would she say?

So instead, Wanda watches. And carries the ache in her chest like a secret.

Because this—this quiet tenderness between her children—is the only thing left in the house that still feels honest.

And she is so very tired of pretending.