Wanda notices instantly.

Her coat slips from her shoulders and onto the nearby chair as she crosses the room, concern replacing the easy smile she wore a moment ago. The basket lowers onto the table with a soft thud before she moves closer, her hands finding your arms, steady and careful.

Her eyes search your face.

“Are you alright, lovie?”

You hum in response, your face scrunching slightly as the lingering scent of the apples still turns your stomach. It’s subtle, but Wanda catches it immediately—the small shift in your expression, the way your shoulders tense.

Without a word, she reaches for the basket again. The apples disappear from the table, carried across the cabin and set much farther away, near the door where the breeze from the cracked window might carry their scent out.

Only then does she return to you.

Stepping back into your space, Wanda’s hands come up gently, warm palms cupping your face as she tilts your head just enough to look at you properly. Her thumb brushes lightly along your cheek while her other hand presses softly against your forehead, checking your temperature out of quiet habit.

Her brows knit together in concern as she studies you.

“You feeling okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah… yeah. Only a little nauseous…”

The answer makes her expression fall just slightly, the concern in her eyes deepening as she studies your face a moment longer. Her thumb brushes along your cheek, slow and comforting, as if she could smooth the feeling away with touch alone.

“Aw, my love…” she murmurs, voice warm with quiet sympathy. “Please rest. I can take care of dinner and all.”

She doesn’t give you much room to argue. One gentle hand settles at your back while the other takes your wrist, guiding you carefully toward the bedroom. Wanda moves with that steady patience she always has with you—tucking you beneath the blankets, adjusting the pillow behind your head, lingering just long enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead before stepping away.

You’re half-drowsing when she leaves the room, the sounds of her moving around the cabin drifting faintly from the other side of the wall.

At the time, it feels like nothing more than a passing sickness.

Just a little nausea. A moment of dizziness. Something that should fade by morning.

But it doesn’t.

It only gets worse when you’re hunched over the toilet the next morning, the cold edge of the porcelain pressing into your forearms while your stomach twists again. The cabin is still dim with early light, quiet except for the small sounds you try, and fail, to keep down.

Behind you, the bed shifts.

Wanda sits up slowly, the sheets sliding down her body as she blinks through the sleep still clinging to her. Your name leaves her lips in a low, groggy murmur, concern threading through it almost instantly when she realizes where you are.

She’s beside you moments later.

Her hand gathers your hair back gently while the other steadies your shoulder, rubbing slow circles between them until the worst of it passes. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t ask too many questions. When you’re finished, she helps you rinse your mouth, guiding you carefully back to bed like you might tip over if she lets go.

“Easy,” she murmurs, settling you beneath the blankets again.

Her hand stays on your back for a long while after.

You brush it off as a stomach bug. Something you must have eaten. Something that will pass. That’s what you tell her when she asks again later, brows furrowed with quiet worry. You even manage a small smile to convince her. But in the back of your mind, something else whispers.

The thought sits there, small and persistent, impossible to ignore once it appears. You push it away.

The next day, everything feels sharper. Your nerves are wound tight, irritation lingering just beneath the surface, and when Wanda asks a simple question about whether you’re feeling better, the response that leaves you is sharper than you mean for it to be.

“You’ve asked me that three times already,” you snap.

The words hang in the air the moment they leave your mouth. Wanda stills slightly, surprise flickering across her face before she smooths it away. She doesn’t snap back, doesn’t challenge you. Instead she simply nods once, taking a quiet step back like she’s giving you space you clearly need.

“Alright,” she says softly.

But her eyes linger on you for a moment longer than usual, something thoughtful, and faintly worried, settling there. She knows something is off, but seeing your response, she decides to leave it alone for now.

Later that afternoon she prepares to leave for the village again, the routine familiar now. Before stepping out the door, she pulls you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and then your forehead.

“Rest,” she murmurs. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then she’s gone. The cabin feels too quiet once the door closes behind her. And the thought you’ve been trying to ignore finally pushes its way to the front of your mind.

Before you can convince yourself not to, you make the trip into town. It’s longer than you remember, the path stretching out beneath your feet while your thoughts spin endlessly. By the time you reach the small store, your hands are already slightly unsteady.

You buy two. Just in case.

The walk back feels even longer, the paper bag crinkling faintly in your grip. By the time you reach the cabin again, your heart is beating far too fast for such a simple thing.

Inside, the world feels strangely quiet. You sit on the edge of the bed with the boxes in your hands, staring at them for a long moment. Your fingers tremble as you open the first one. Then the second.

By the time you’re standing in the bathroom, the world feels distant somehow, like the edges of everything have gone slightly blurred. Your hands shake as you hold the tests, your breath shallow, your heart pounding loudly in your ears while you wait. The waiting is the worst part.

The cabin is silent around you, the quiet so complete it almost feels loud. You set the tests down on the edge of the sink because your hands won’t stop shaking long enough to hold them steady, fingers gripping the counter while you try to breathe normally.

It’s only supposed to take a few minutes. It feels like an hour.

Your eyes keep drifting back to them despite yourself, heart thudding painfully in your chest every time you look away again. You pace once across the small bathroom, then back again, like moving might somehow slow your thoughts.

It doesn’t.

The idea keeps circling in your mind, growing heavier the longer you stand there. Every little moment from the past week creeps back in—the nausea, the dizziness, the strange cravings that vanished the moment the apples were actually in front of you.

Your stomach twists again. Eventually, you force yourself to look.

You pick up the first test slowly, like it might change if you move too fast. Your eyes focus on the small window, your breath catching before you even fully register what you’re seeing.

Two lines.

Your heart stutters.

For a second your brain refuses to process it, like the meaning of it is too large to settle properly. You stare at it longer than necessary, hoping maybe your eyes are playing tricks on you.

They aren’t. Your hands shake harder as you grab the second one.

Two lines again.

The world seems to tilt slightly, your vision going unfocused around the edges while you lower yourself onto the closed lid of the toilet. The tests sit in your hands like something fragile, something impossibly real.

Pregnant.

The word settles heavily in your chest. Wanda’s child.

Your gaze drifts down to your stomach without thinking, your palm resting there slowly, almost uncertainly, like you’re trying to feel something that isn’t there yet. A shaky breath leaves you as a small smile threatens to form, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The realization settles warm and bright in your chest, pushing past the nerves for a moment.

All you can think about is telling her.

You imagine the look on Wanda’s face when she hears. The way her eyes would soften, the way her hands would find yours without hesitation. The thought alone makes your chest tighten with something close to joy.

You want to tell her immediately.

But by the time night falls and the familiar sound of the cabin door opening echoes through the house, doubt has already started creeping in around the edges.

Wanda greets you the same way she always does after returning from the village—arms wrapping around you the moment she sees you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before pulling back just enough to study your face.

You almost say it then. The words rise right to the back of your throat. But they never make it out.

Instead, you make small conversation while the two of you settle in for the evening, talking about the day, about the small things that feel easier to say out loud. You tell yourself you’re easing into it, finding the right moment, the right way to share something so big.

You just haven’t figured out how yet.

At some point the conversation drifts, the way it sometimes does, toward her village.

It starts harmless enough. A comment about one of the elders, something she mentions in passing. But the topic slowly shifts into something heavier—the old traditions, the expectations her pack still clings to.

You listen quietly as she speaks.

“There are still some who believe…” Wanda starts, pausing as if choosing her words carefully, “that an alpha should only mate within the pack.”

The words sit uncomfortably between you. Your fingers fidget lightly with the edge of the blanket, one she's brought back for you. Your thoughts suddenly louder than they were a moment ago.

“But the Moon Goddess chooses mates,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter than you intend. “So… why would it matter if one of them is human?”

Wanda’s gaze softens immediately when she looks at you.

“It shouldn’t,” she answers simply.

There’s certainty in her voice, but something more complicated flickers behind her eyes—something tied to the pack, to the traditions she grew up in. Your chest tightens again. You nod slowly, letting the conversation drift away to something lighter not long after.

But the words you meant to say never come.

Later that night, lying beside her with her arm draped loosely across your waist, you stare quietly at the ceiling while her breathing evens out beside you.

Your hand rests unconsciously over your stomach again. You’ll tell her.

Just not like this.

Not in the middle of a conversation that leaves your chest feeling heavy. You want it to be special. Something she’ll remember forever. A sweet surprise.

So you make a quiet decision in the dark. You’ll plan something. And then you’ll tell her.

Breakfast is quiet, the soft sounds of the cabin filling the space between you—cutlery against plates, the faint crackle of the stove still warm from cooking. It feels like any other morning.

You’re halfway through a bite when Wanda speaks.

Casual. Almost too casual.

“I want to bring you to the village.”

The words land before your brain fully catches up to them.

Your heart drops.

You pause mid-bite, the fork hovering halfway to your mouth as your eyes lift slowly to meet hers across the table. For a second you just stare, trying to figure out if you heard her correctly.

She’s watching you carefully, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers laced together like she’s been thinking about this for a while.

The room suddenly feels much smaller.

Your chest tightens as a hundred thoughts rush in at once—the whispers you’ve overheard before, the quiet disapproval you’ve felt even from a distance, the conversation you had just nights ago about humans and alphas.

And the secret sitting quietly inside you.

You swallow slowly, lowering the fork back to your plate.

“Your… village?” you ask, your voice softer than you intend.

Wanda nods once.

“My pack,” she says, her tone steady, though her eyes search your face like she’s trying to read every flicker of your reaction. “I think it’s time they meet you.”

Your heart starts beating faster.

“I—um… I’m honored… I’d love to.”

The words come out a little uneven, but they’re honest. Even with the nerves twisting in your stomach, the idea of finally seeing that part of her life—of being brought there by her—means something.

Wanda smiles when you say it.

But it’s different from her usual ones.

It stretches across her lips, polite and warm on the surface, yet it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a tightness there, subtle but noticeable if you know her well enough.

Almost like she’s smiling through her teeth.

You pack a small bag that afternoon.

Nothing too big—just enough for a few days. A change of clothes, a few small necessities, things that feel oddly insignificant when folded into the overnight bag resting on your bed.

You’ve technically been there before. But the memory of it sits in your mind like something half-dreamed. Waking from a fever, voices around you, the lingering tension of an argument you barely remember before you’d stormed away into the woods. Everything from that time feels blurred at the edges. This will be the first time you see it clearly.

Wanda helps without hovering. She leans against the doorframe at first, watching you pack before gently stepping in when she notices you reaching for things you won’t need.

“It’s not as modern as here,” she reminds you softly, laughing softly.

She explains small things as you go. What you’ll need, what you won’t. Her voice stays calm and patient, guiding rather than correcting. It feels oddly grounding, the simple act of packing together.

Soon enough, the bag is zipped closed. The walk there begins not long after.

The path through the forest feels both familiar and distant at the same time. Leaves crunch beneath your feet while the trees stretch tall around you, the air cooler the deeper you go.

Wanda walks beside you, her hand loosely holding yours as she leads the way. Every now and then she squeezes your fingers gently, guiding you around roots or over uneven ground. The forest grows quieter the farther you travel. And then the village appears. Your steps slow almost immediately.

Your hands tighten around the strap of your bag without you realizing it. You’ve spent so many nights listening to Wanda talk about this place—about her people, the traditions, the way the pack moves and lives together. You know the stories. You’ve accepted this world as part of her.

But knowing it… and standing inside it… are two very different things.

As you follow just behind her into the clearing, the shift is immediate. Eyes turn. Conversations quiet. But as Wanda moves through them, their attention inevitably drifts to you walking just behind her.

And suddenly every step feels much heavier, and you attempt to step closer to her to feel more comfort in such an unknown area. Also as someone living in the mountains, you rarely come across people except for when you head to the very small "town" that's a decent travel from your cabin.

After a few greetings and nods exchanged with members of the pack, she keeps walking, guiding you straight toward her place. Her presence parts the small clusters of people easily, her hand resting lightly against the small of your back as she leads you along the worn path.

It doesn’t take long before she’s pushing open the door. She steps aside immediately, holding it open for you as you step inside.

For a moment you simply stand there, taking it all in.

It’s different from your cabin—simpler, older in its construction. The scent of wood and dried herbs lingers faintly in the air. Her bed sits against the far wall, layered in thick furs instead of blankets, the texture rough but warm-looking even from where you stand.

The furniture is sturdy, carved wood rather than anything polished or modern. And then your eyes catch something that makes your chest soften.

The flowers.

A few small bundles sit in simple vases along the table and windowsill—the same ones you’d gathered and given to her during one of her last visits. They’ve been carefully arranged, their colors still bright against the darker tones of the room. It's incredibly sweet that she's kept them.

Your bag slips from your shoulder and lands quietly near the door as you look around, curiosity pulling your gaze from one detail to the next.

Behind you, Wanda watches. She leans casually against the doorframe for a moment, arms loosely crossed as she observes the way you take in the space. There’s something almost proud in the way her eyes follow you, a quiet satisfaction settling in her chest.

Like she’s been waiting for this moment—waiting to see you here, in her world, looking at it with genuine interest rather than hesitation.

Her gaze softens slightly.

“You like it?” she asks, her voice low but warm.

"I love it," you respond back, keeping the same tone.

She pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath her steps.

“I know this is a lot,” she says gently, her voice quieter now that the two of you are alone. Her eyes move over your face, studying you the way she always does when she’s checking that you’re truly alright.

Her hand finds your arm, thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of your sleeve.

“So please… just rest tonight. I’ll bring dinner back, and tomorrow we can start slow introductions.” She pauses, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll give you a tour.”

The plan sounds perfect. You nod, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease at the thought of having time—time to settle in, time to breathe, time to adjust to being here before facing the rest of the pack.

Being inside her space helps too. Her scent lingers everywhere, warm and grounding, wrapped into the furs on the bed and the wood of the walls. Even in an unfamiliar place, it feels strangely comforting.

She notices the way you relax slightly. Wanda smiles softly at that, stepping closer until her hand lifts to cup your cheek. She leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to make your stomach flutter before pulling away.

“I won’t be long,” she murmurs.

Then she steps back, giving you one last glance before slipping out the door, leaving you alone in her home while the sounds of the village hum quietly outside. And you completely forget about the child growing inside of you.

The light wakes you slowly the next morning.

It slips through the window in soft streaks, pale and warm against the wooden walls. There’s no blaring alarm, no sudden noise pulling you awake—just the quiet brightness of morning settling across the room.

You shift beneath the quilt and furs, the thick layers rustling softly as you turn. She’s sprawled comfortably across the bed, one arm half-tucked beneath the pillow, her hair loose and messy from sleep. The early light brushes across her face, catching the faint crease between her brows as she begins to stir.

You move just enough to face her fully. The furs drag slightly as you shift closer, the warmth of the bed making it harder to leave. For a moment you simply watch her wake, the slow way her breathing changes as the light reaches her.

She hums softly, the sound low in her chest. Her eyes stay closed as she wakes, lashes fluttering slightly while she stretches one arm lazily across the bed until it bumps lightly against you.

“Morning,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

A faint smile tugs at her lips before she cracks one eye open just enough to look at you.

“You looking forward to the tour…?”

“I am…”

Your answer comes softly, but it’s honest.

The morning passes quickly after that. Once you’re both dressed and out the door, Wanda begins guiding you through the village the way she promised she would. Her hand rests lightly at your back as the two of you walk, a quiet grounding presence as you step out into the main area together.

She starts with the central buildings.

Each one holds a purpose she explains as you move along—where the pack gathers for meetings, where food is prepared and shared, where supplies are stored. Her voice stays calm and steady as she talks, occasionally pausing to point something out or answer the small questions you ask.

It’s all new. The buildings, the paths winding between them, the rhythm of the village moving around you. People passing by with baskets, quiet conversations drifting through the air, the steady life of the pack unfolding in a way you’ve only ever heard Wanda describe before.

But one thing stays the same. The smiles.

Each greeting comes with that same tight-lipped politeness as Wanda introduces you. Heads nod, voices offer brief welcomes, but the warmth never quite reaches their eyes. And you brush it off, ignoring it for now, but it does make your heart beat stutter.

The last building she leads you toward sits slightly apart from the others. It’s larger than the rest, the wood darker with age, the doorway carved with markings that look older than anything else you’ve seen in the village. Wanda slows slightly as the two of you approach, her presence beside you steady.

“The elders,” she explains quietly.

The words settle in your chest with a strange familiarity.

You don’t truly know them—not really. But you’ve heard about them so many times during quiet nights spent in bed beside Wanda. The stories she’s shared about the pack, the traditions they guard, the way their word still carries weight here.

You remember their names, their roles, the way she once described their personalities with a mixture of respect and frustration.

The door creaks softly as Wanda pushes it open. The room inside is dimmer than the bright morning outside, the light filtering through narrow windows along the walls. A long wooden table sits at the center, and several figures are already seated around it, their low conversation fading almost instantly when the two of you step inside.

The shift in attention is immediate.

Their gazes move first to Wanda, respectful, steady, acknowledging their alpha’s presence without question. But it doesn’t take long before those same eyes settle on you standing just behind her.

The room grows quiet.

You feel the weight of their attention in a way that’s impossible to ignore, your shoulders drawing slightly inward as Wanda steps further into the room. She doesn’t hesitate though, her posture calm and confident as she approaches the table.

“My mate,” she says simply.

The silence stretches, heavy and almost tangible. One elder, seated at the head of the table, inclines their head slightly toward Wanda before looking back at you. The motion is polite but deliberate, the barest hint of acknowledgment without warmth.

“This is my mate,” Wanda says simply, her voice calm.

The elder’s gaze flickers to you, sharp but measured. They do not rise, do not smile. Instead, their eyes linger, noting the way you stand, the way you breathe.

“You are human,” the elder says finally, their tone neutral, almost clinical.

“She’s human,” they repeat, incredulous this time, turning their gaze toward Wanda.

“I’m aware,” Wanda begins, calm but firm.

The elder raises a hand, interrupting. “I don’t think you’re aware—this—”

But Wanda cuts them off. “I don’t give a single shit what you have to say. Truly.”

For a moment, the room stills. The elder’s expression contorts—first into shock, then frustration, as if Wanda’s bluntness is almost physically jarring. Their voice rises slightly, disapproving and scolding. “Wanda…”

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes lock on theirs, unwavering. “You’re only going to try and lecture me because this is new, because it challenges the way you think, because you write it off as some amorphous thing you’re afraid of. When it’s perfectly fine.”

The elder’s gaze hardens, jaw tight. “It’s not perfectly fine, Wanda. She’s human. Why do you think we stay so far out in the forest? Why we hide so carefully? Because people like her have killed us—they killed your own mother.”

Wanda’s lips tighten, a flash of anger sparking in her eyes. “Oh, yeah sure let’s label them all the same. What stands is that the Moon Goddess set us together. If it were not allowed, this wouldn’t happen. It can be a bridge between us again."

The elder leans forward slightly, voice low but sharp, each word measured. “It’ll be a repeat of history, Maximoff. You know this well yourself.”

Wanda steps closer, not aggressive, but unyielding. Her hand hovers just near yours—not to touch, not yet—but enough that the air seems to hum with quiet protection. “History isn’t a prophecy. It’s something we choose to repeat—or not. And I choose not.”

The room goes still, the other elders exchanging glances, tension crackling in the quiet. None dare interrupt her further, at least for the moment.

“Anything else…?” Wanda’s voice is steady.

No words come. Only a single, long sigh from the head elder, heavy with disapproval, carrying the clear message that this conversation is far from over.

Wanda’s fingers curl around yours, warm and grounding, and without a word she leads you toward the door.

The argument hadn’t even been yours, yet the tension still rings in your ears, prickling along your skin like static electricity. You keep your steps light behind her, hesitant but unwilling to pull away.

“Wanda… Wanda, please—what’s going on?” you murmur, voice soft, barely above the whisper of your own pulse.

She glances down at you as you step into the fresh air outside, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Her eyes soften, but her grip on your hand doesn’t loosen.

“Nothing that you need to worry about,” she says, though her tone carries both reassurance and the weight of what just happened. “Let’s just… take a walk. Clear our heads.”

You nod slowly, heart still hammering, and follow her through the clearing, each step carrying the echo of the elders’ disapproval behind you. The forest swallows the sound of your footsteps, the trees standing tall and still as silence stretches between the two of you.

Your chest tightens, and words begin spilling out before you can stop them, each one loaded with worry, doubt, and the lingering tension from inside the elders’ hall.

“No… no, whatever you’re thinking from that, don’t,” Wanda interrupts, her voice firm but quiet, carrying through the still air. She steps closer, hands brushing lightly against yours. “I haven’t tried to hide this from you. I just… I don’t want this to be a battle you have to fight. I want this to be on me. I’ll fix it.”

You glance toward her, uncertain. “But what if you can’t…?” Your gesture sweeps back toward the village, the memory of the elders’ cold, tight-lipped stares still prickling at your skin. “They seem pretty set in their ways. What would they do if they continued to disagree with you…?”

Wanda tilts her head slightly, a small, confident smile tugging at her lips as she squeezes your hand. “Nothing. They’d do nothing.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disbelief flickering across your features. “Wanda… come on… that’s—”

She cuts you off gently but firmly, resting a hand on your cheek to still the motion. Her gaze is steady, unwavering, and you feel the weight behind her words. “I’ve chosen you, the goddess designed us to be mated. If they disagree, it’s their problem, not ours. You don’t need to carry that burden, not now, not ever. Do you understand?”

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, and slowly nod. Her certainty hums through you, grounding and fierce, and for the first time since entering her world, you feel a fraction of the safety and strength she promises.

"Besides they're like grains of sand. They'll wither away and take their ways along with them."

"Wanda..."

"Hopefully soon."

You wake to the soft light of morning, the sheets pulled back where Wanda had risen earlier. The bed feels impossibly empty, and for a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

Waiting for her to return.

Her absence presses down on your chest. You shift beneath the furs, wrapping your arms around yourself, trying to quell the fluttering panic. But it only grows, coiling tighter in your chest with every second she doesn’t appear. You try to tell yourself it doesn't matter, replay Wanda's words in your mind, but it does not do too much. You don't feel enough closure to knock off your overthinking.

Eventually, you push yourself up, heart hammering, and step quietly out of the bed. You dress quickly, sleep still thick in your movements, and begin walking toward the part of the village where you think she might be.

The forest path stretches before you, familiar yet threatening now. Every glance from the pack members you pass feels heavy. They avoid eye contact, moving aside politely, their polite smiles tight and measured. Your stomach twists with every step, every sideways glance. They’re judging me.

Your thoughts spin faster, unrelenting. You tell yourself Wanda said not to worry, that she’d handle it—but the words feel distant, almost meaningless compared to the looks you’re catching, the way the village seems to watch you like you’re intruding.

Then you hear it. Her voice. And another. The elder.

“…I don’t think she understands yet. This isn’t simply a matter of choice,” the elder says, calm and cutting. Wanda begins to answer, but stops mid-word, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Your chest tightens. The words—what they imply—slap against your thoughts like a wave, and all the insecurity, doubt, and fear you’ve been holding back crashes through at once. You can’t take it.

Tears prick at your eyes, blurring the edges of the village around you. You turn and sprint, heart hammering, legs carrying you back toward Wanda’s home as fast as they can. The world smears past, your vision streaked with panic and shame.

In your rush, you knock over a small crate, the crash echoing through the clearing. And then she feels it. A pull through the bond, sharp and familiar.

The door beside you opens, and she steps out, eyes wide with concern, moving fast to close the distance. It's embarrassing, but it feels worse to even stand about outside, tears pricking your eyes. Showing how they're getting to you. You don't care anymore.

You shove the door to her house open, stumbling inside, and she’s right behind you. She catches it before it swings shut, sliding it gently to let herself in, her presence immediate and grounding.

“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, voice soft, eyes scanning your face. “It’s okay—what’s going on?”

You can’t hold it in. The whirlwind inside you finally spills out.

“God…” you huff, voice shaking, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “This is so stupid…”

“What is…?” Wanda asks, stepping closer, one hand reaching for yours, the other hovering just at your shoulder, steadying without forcing.

“It’s not going to work, Wanda. They’re not going to ever approve.”

Her brow furrows, lips parting as she tries to interrupt. “That’s not wha—”

“Don’t tell me that bullshit!” you snap, voice cracking, panic leaking through every word. “I just heard them, Wanda! They want me gone!”

The words hang between you, jagged and raw. Your chest heaves as tears spill freely, and you feel small, fragile, exposed—like the entire weight of the village’s judgment has landed on you at once.

“They all stare at me,” you say, voice breaking. “With just… resentment, distaste. Each time I walk by, I’m sure—if my name is ever mentioned—they’re just full of it.”

Wanda reaches out, fingers brushing against your cheek, warm and grounding. Her thumb traces lightly along your jaw as she starts, quiet at first, “I used to feel the same. I hated your kind… they killed my mom.”

“Wanda…” you whisper, hurt and shock lacing your voice. The memory of yesterday flickers in your mind—the elders’ words, their disapproval—but it’s all a blur, hazy and half-remembered. You weren’t fully present then, too overwhelmed by Wanda’s defense, by the tension pressing down on you. God how could you forget.

She lifts a hand to stop you, shaking her head gently. “It’s fine. But my point is…” Her tone softens, carrying a mixture of truth and quiet vulnerability. “I thought the same way. I believed like they do. And then I met you… that night before the storm. You shaped the resentment I had begun to hold in my heart.”

She pauses, letting her gaze hold yours, unwavering and steady. “And I believe you can do the same with them. They’re just hurt from the past. They don’t dislike you as a person. Because if they did… they’d love you as I do.”

The words settle around you, a strange warmth amid the panic and fear. Your breaths come slower now, hiccupping between sobs, but the weight in your chest eases, just enough to feel that even if the world outside isn’t ready for you, here—right here—someone already is. You lean into her hand, closing your eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper, voice trembling, and she leans closer, curling around you as if she could shield you from the entire world.

Her hands rest lightly on your back, her breath warm against your hair. “I love you so much,” she murmurs, each word steady and full of promise.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of her presence anchor you. So much for trying to wait for a good time… you think, heart hammering as the secret you’ve been holding slips from your lips before you can stop it.

“Wanda… I’m pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, the room is still. The sunlight dances across the furs and wooden floor, but everything else seems to fade. Your chest tightens, fear and hope tangled together, tears pricking your eyes.

She freezes for a moment, eyes wide, lips parting slightly, and then a slow, breathless smile spreads across her face. Her hands move to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly along your skin as if to convince herself this is real.

You feel her heartbeat against your own, strong and certain, and a rush of love and relief washes through you. The weight of the village, the elders, the doubt… it all fades for just a moment, leaving only the two of you and the life you’ve created together.

You laugh softly, teary, your hands coming up to cup hers as they hold your face. “Two tests… so I’m really actually pregnant,” you murmur, voice still shaky.

Her eyes light up immediately, shining with a joy that makes your chest ache. She presses her forehead against yours again, smiling wide. “Our kin… our pups,” she breathes, the word, the terms she's familiar with rolling off her tongue with reverence and warmth. “I knew it. I felt it."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling. “We should visit the pack’s herbalist, make sure you’re taken care of properly.”

You frown slightly, uncertainty tugging at you. “I don’t know… I’m a little wary. After the elders…”

Wanda laughs softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Not everyone hates you. Do you remember when you fainted in the forest a while back?”

You nod, cheeks flushing at the memory, and she continues, voice gentle. “You were hurt, weak, and the first to help you… it was me. And the herbalist, yes, but I stayed with you, nursed you back. Not everyone in the pack sees you as an outsider, love. There are those who already care.”

You breathe in slowly, trying to let it all sink in. The love, the protection, the small but undeniable acceptance. For the first time in a long while, the weight pressing down on your chest feels lighter.

The herbalist’s hands move carefully over your body, guided and precise, pressing on certain spots with practiced skill. Her touch is firm but gentle, every motion deliberate. She leans back slightly, studying you with calm, professional eyes, and you can’t help but feel a little exposed under her gaze.

“When did you know?” she asks, voice neutral, clinical.

“About three days ago…” you murmur, shifting slightly under her hands.

She nods, glancing down at your form with a practiced eye. “You’re about four weeks along—just at the first month mark. Have you ever been pregnant before?”

“Um… no,” you admit, feeling heat creeping up your neck.

“How much did you and Wanda share in lovemaking?”

“Two times…? When we first mated… and her first… like, rut…?” Your voice trails off, self-conscious.

The herbalist nods slowly, making mental notes. “Ah. So you’re very fertile. Either that, or she’s just… a nut job. But you are definitely fertile, that's very good.”

You feel your face heating further, cheeks threatening to burn. You try to steady your expression, to brush off the awkwardness. It’s all normal, and the bluntness is part of the work, but it’s still uncomfortable, a little intrusive, and you can’t help the tiny squeeze of your hands together.

You notice her reaching for a small parchment and quill, beginning to jot down the details in neat, precise strokes. Curiosity mixes with your unease. “What… what are you doing?” you ask cautiously.

She glances up briefly, expression calm. “I keep a record. For your health, and for the elders. They need to know how you’re progressing—both for your care and for the pack’s knowledge of the pups-to-be.”

You frown, unsure. “The elders…? Why do they need to know everything?”

Her hands continue moving over your form, measured and clinical, as she answers. “It’s tradition, and it’s precaution. They are responsible for the wellbeing of the pack, including future generations. You carrying kin is not just your concern, it affects the entire community.”

You shift slightly under her touch, nerves prickling along your spine. “So… they’ll know everything? Even… intimate things?”

She nods without embarrassment. “Yes. And that’s normal. It’s not judgment, it’s care. You’re part of the pack now. This is how we protect both you and the pups.”

She notices your discomfort, eyes flicking up from the chart to meet yours. Her tone softens, careful. “But… if you truly aren’t ready, or don’t want to share this, regardless… I can say the records got smudged, ruined. No one needs to know.”

You open your mouth to respond, heart still fluttering from the embarrassment, but before you can speak, the door slides open quietly.

“You okay?” she murmurs softly, voice low but grounding, a tether against the flood of anxiety still clinging to you.

“I’m… good,” you murmur, voice small. For once, the words you’ve been holding in your chest come spilling out. “This is just all new to me… can we not showcase all of this so loudly for now?”

The herbalist nods, glancing at Wanda. “They’ve been smudged.”

You feel a small relief settle in your chest. The records are still kept, yes—for knowledge and the pack’s care—but they’re tucked away, out of sight, out of immediate concern.

Wanda’s fingers brush along your neck, over the faint mark she placed that one night, binding you as mates. The warmth of her touch presses against your skin, calming and grounding, a silent promise that you’re safe.

She glances toward the herbalist as she moves to put her tools away, brushing at her dress. “Everything alright…?” Wanda asks gently, voice steady, protective.

“Yes,” the herbalist replies, though her tone carries the same quiet professionalism. “All as it should be.”

You let yourself lean into her, letting the brush of her fingers, the warmth of her presence, and the gentle certainty in her voice anchor you as the room slowly quiets around you.

"Want to know the baby's sex?" she asks next.

Your eyes widen and you glance at Wanda's who's expression is the same.

"I think we'll wait until later into the pregnancy, but thanks Eira. You've been a great help."

The path back to your cabin stretches before you, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting dappled patterns on the ground. The weight of the morning—the elders, the herbalist, the revelations—still lingers in your chest, though Wanda’s presence beside you keeps it from overwhelming completely.

She walks close, brushing lightly against your arm, her tone gentle but curious.

“I know there’s a lot of time before the pup arrives, but I want to ask… I understand you don’t feel particularly great with the village right now. I get it. But… when they come around, would ever you consider moving to the village? Or would you rather keep the cabin?”

You glance ahead, seeing your cabin through the trees, the little sanctuary you’ve made your own. Every log, every stone, every piece of furniture holds meaning to you. The thought of leaving it—of parting from the life you’ve built there, even with her beside you—tightens your chest.

“I… I don’t think I could,” you admit quietly, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the cabin. “I might think on it someday, but… it isn’t a far walk, and it’s a good distance. I can’t leave it behind.”

She listens, head tilted slightly, eyes soft and steady. Then she leans closer, brushing a kiss across your cheek, then along your jaw, a warm, grounding reassurance.

“I understand,” she murmurs. “Always. Wherever you feel safe, wherever you’re happiest, that’s where we’ll be. That’s what always matters.”

You feel a small relief settle in your chest, grateful for her patience, for the way she respects your attachment and your choices. Even as the forest stretches around you, you know she’s there, steady, protective, and unwavering.

That night, the cabin quiet around you, you lie side by side. Wanda shifts closer, draping herself over you, one hand brushing lightly across your abdomen, fingers tracing gentle, absent patterns.

She presses closer, nuzzling her nose into the curve of your neck. The scent of her, earthy and familiar, wraps around you like a soft cloak.

“You smell so good,” she whispers, letting her breath ghost over your skin.

A shiver runs through you at the closeness, at the intimacy of her presence, and you tilt your head slightly, letting yourself melt into her warmth.

Wanda shifts closer, straddling you gently, your legs curling around her waist as your hands find her back. Her lips press against yours, soft at first, exploring, and you respond in kind, matching her rhythm.

Her lips descend on yours, hungry and demanding. Her tongue explores your mouth, tangling with yours, her hands cupping your face, tilting your head for better access. You respond eagerly, your hands gripping her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss.

She grinds against you, her body pressing you into the bed, her hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. You can feel the heat building between your legs, your breath coming in short gasps. She smiles against your lips, a slow, sensual curve that promises more.

Her hands roam, mapping your body with confident strokes. She squeezes your breasts, her thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them harden. You arch into her touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. She takes advantage, her mouth moving to your neck, her teeth grazing your skin, her tongue soothing the sting.

She moves lower, her mouth trailing kisses down your collarbone, her hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. She lifts you slightly, her fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, tugging it off. You help her, your body arching as you pull the shirt over your head.

She takes a moment to appreciate you, her eyes roaming over your body, a soft growl of approval rumbling in her chest. Then she's on you again, her mouth closing over your nipple, her teeth scraping against the sensitive peak. You cry out, your hands tangling in her hair, holding her close.

She switches to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, before moving lower still. She kisses your stomach, her tongue dipping into your navel.

You lift your hips, helping her slot herself fully between your thighs, her clothed body pressing against yours. You can feel the hard length of her against your center, and you gasp, your hands gripping her shoulders, your nails digging into her skin.

She starts to move, her hips grinding against yours in slow, deliberate circles. You meet her thrust for thrust, your body arching towards hers, your breath coming in short pants. The friction is exquisite, building a pressure inside you that's almost unbearable.

She leans down, her lips capturing yours again, her tongue tangling with yours. Her kiss is demanding, hungry, a reflection of the passion burning between you. You respond eagerly, your hands roaming her body, feeling the play of muscles beneath your fingers.

She breaks the kiss, her mouth moving to your ear. "You feel so good," she whispers, her voice ragged with desire. "I could do this all night."

Minutes stretch, warm and endless, filled only with the softness of her lips, the press of her body, the shared heat between you. Gasps, your body keening towards hers when she licks across the mark on your neck.

Finally, she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, breath warm and voice husky. “I wonder… what the sex will be,” she murmurs, eyes glinting with mischief. A switch in conversation.

You tilt your head, smirking despite your flushed cheeks. “I just hope they’re not an absolute dork like you.”

Her laugh is low, teasing, and she leans in to kiss you again, brushing her nose against yours. “And if they are,” she whispers, voice soft but confident, “you’ll love them all the more.”

You smile against her, heart swelling, and let yourself melt into her warmth.

You didn’t pause, but the edge in your voice sharpened. “God, Wanda, yes! I’m fine!”

Her eyes flickered, surprised by the sudden flare. “Why are you so angry? I was just checking on you.”

You turned then, frustration boiling up. “Can you just... leave me alone?”

For a heartbeat, Wanda’s gaze held yours—quiet, steady. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said, voice soft but firm, almost a whisper.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, the soft click of her heels fading as she disappeared down the hallway toward her office, leaving you alone with the simmering silence and the steady scrape of the spoon against the pot.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the creeping night outside. Wanda sat propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on her lap, fingers gliding over the keys with practiced ease. She didn’t look up as you entered, eyes fixed on the screen, brows knit just slightly—an expression you’d rarely seen on her, especially not directed at you.

Your heart dropped. Wanda wasn’t the type to hold onto anger for long; she was usually patient, warm, steady. But now, this quiet distance felt like a wall you hadn’t expected.

You hesitated at the doorway, then moved slowly to the edge of the bed and sat down. Your gaze dropped to your hands for a long moment before you finally glanced up, reaching out with a tentative hand toward her arm. The familiar comfort you usually found in her presence felt fragile, almost out of reach.

Just as your fingers brushed the soft fabric of her sleeve, the bedroom door creaked open.

You froze.

The maid stepped inside, eyes apologetic as she caught your gaze. Wanda didn’t even flinch.

The moment shattered.

The moment the door creaked open, your fingers snapped back like they’d burned you. A sudden sting bloomed behind your eyes — tears threatening to spill. You swallowed hard, unwilling to let them fall, and quickly stood.

“I... I’m sorry,” you muttered, voice breaking as you hurried past the maid and Wanda, your steps uneven as you rushed out of the room.

Wanda’s eyes followed you, the fragile mask she wore cracking just a little, a shadow of pain flickering across her face.

The maid’s soft voice followed after you, “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” her apology barely audible over the quick beat of your retreating footsteps.

You didn’t respond. You just kept walking, Wanda silently trailing behind you, the distance between you heavy but closing.

It felt hard to breathe. You’d never had an argument with Wanda before—never this cold, this distant. And now, the maid might know. The thought made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You’d almost been honest, almost reached out for the comfort you so desperately needed, only to be interrupted and exposed.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this—vulnerable, fractured.

Without another word, you stepped out onto the back patio, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of reality. The city lights flickered softly in the distance, but all you could focus on was the tightness in your chest.

Your hands gripped the railing, knuckles whitening, as you took a deep, shuddering breath—trying to calm the storm inside you, trying to find your footing again.

The door behind you clicked softly, and before you could speak or move, Wanda stepped out onto the patio. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, but her presence was warm, steady. She paused behind you, then gently rested a hand on your shoulder, a quiet reassurance in the cool air.

Without a word, she shifted to stand beside you, her body close, safe. Slowly, she pulled you into her, a soft embrace that promised you weren’t alone.

You turned into her, tears spilling quietly, the sobs muffled against the fabric of her jacket. She held you gently, as if you might break, and kissed your forehead—soft, tender, grounding.

Wanda’s hand moved gently to your cheek, her thumb tracing tender circles as she leaned in and pressed her lips softly to yours. The kiss was warm and slow, grounding you in the moment, like an unspoken apology and a promise all at once.

She pulled back just enough to brush her thumb lightly over your tears, wiping them away with delicate care.

In the hush of the night, a soft smile tugged at your lips—small, shy, but real. Wanda caught it and returned it with a smile just as gentle.

“You’re so pretty when you smile like that,” she murmured, voice low and filled with affection.

You blinked, heart fluttering, and felt the tightness inside ease, if only a little, wrapped in the quiet comfort of her presence.

It’s late when you find her.

The lights in the main habitat building are low, just a soft amber glow spilling out through the wide viewing windows. Outside, the air is cooler than expected, briny and quiet, the hum of the filtration system steady like a heartbeat in the background.

You’re here to do the last feed—a simple task, one you’ve done a hundred times. But tonight, the pool isn't empty.

She’s standing near the edge of the dolphin tank, chart in hand, glasses perched low on her nose. You hesitate, one step shy of the door.

You could leave her to it. You should. But instead, you shift the bucket in your hands and push the door open, quietly enough that the hinges don't creak. She doesn’t look up when you enter—even as you try to start a conversation.

You linger a moment longer, then speak, softly:

“Didn’t expect anyone else to be here this late.”

She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn. Just finishes writing whatever she was noting, her voice calm when she finally replies.

“I could say the same.”

You step closer, careful not to startle the dolphin—or her.

“Feeding rotation,” you say, lifting the bucket slightly like proof. “Last round.”

She hums a quiet acknowledgment, still watching the dolphin. “He’s been circling more than usual. I wanted to keep an eye on him.”

“You glance over at the animal, its sleek body cutting lazy arcs through the water. Then, your eyes drift back to her.

‘He likes you,’ you murmur.

This time, she does glance over. Briefly.

‘And you can tell that from a few circles?’

You shrug, letting the quiet stretch a little. The dolphin surfaces with a soft puff of breath, then sinks again.

‘They don’t waste energy on people they don’t trust,’ you say.

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes are back on the water, but there’s something softer in her posture now—less clinical.

‘It’s not trust,’ she says eventually. ‘It’s pattern recognition. I feed him. I stand here. He loops. It’s habit.’

You watch her for a second, then offer, ‘That’s a very unromantic way of looking at it.’

‘Romance is inefficient,’ she says, but there’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth now, like she knows she’s being a little difficult on purpose.

You’re quiet for a beat, then ask, more gently, “Why marine biology?”

She doesn't answer right away. Just watches the dolphin swim a slow, deliberate loop, then scratches something onto her clipboard. When she finally speaks, it’s simple.

“It interested me.”

Nothing more.

She doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push. The way she says it—calm, clipped—makes it clear that’s all she’s willing to offer. At least for now.

A moment passes.

“What about you?” she asks, eyes still on the tank. “You don’t strike me as a lifer.”

You toss a fish toward the dolphin, who catches it mid-arc with practiced ease. “My dad owns the place,” you say. “So… part-time, here and there. Feeding shifts. Habitat checks. Whatever needs doing.”

That earns you a glance. Just a flick of her eyes, but it feels like something.

“And that interested you?”

You grin faintly. “Not at first. But it pays. And the company’s improving.”

That almost gets a smile. Almost.

The next day, you see her in the hallway.

She's walking out of one of the back rooms, clipboard tucked under her arm, talking quietly with someone from the research team. You almost don’t notice her at first—too busy trying to not look like you’re looking for her.

But then she spots you.

And for the first time, she doesn’t just glance past. She sees you.

A small smile tugs at her lips—soft, real. Recognition.

It hits you harder than you expect, that smile. Like something inside you skips, then juts sharp against your ribs. You give a nod, casual, like it’s nothing.

You’re on your way out when you see the light still on in the lab.

Most of the building’s already gone dark—night mode humming in the tanks, offices empty, the air quieter in that particular way that only happens after hours. You’re halfway past the glass wall before you spot her inside.

Wanda.

She's the only one there, seated at one of the long stainless-steel counters, elbows resting beside a shallow tank. There’s a soft blue glow coming off the water, casting flickers of light across her face. You stop in the doorway.

She’s studying a crab. A small one—brightly colored, legs twitching as it explores the corner of its enclosure. She watches it with that same focused stillness you’ve seen before, one hand loosely holding a pen, the other tucked beneath her chin. A notebook is open beside her, half-filled with scribbles and diagrams you can’t quite make out.

She doesn’t look up when she says, “You’re still here.”

Her voice is calm, like she expected you.

You step inside, hands in your pockets. “Was heading out. Saw the light. Thought maybe you forgot to clock out.”

“I didn’t,” she says, still watching the crab. It taps delicately at the glass, like it’s testing it. “I just needed a few more minutes.”

You drift closer, careful not to crowd her. “What is it?”

“Fiddler crab,” she says. “Male. We found him near the inlet this morning. His claw’s damaged. I wanted to see if he’s adjusting to the rehab tank.”

You lean over slightly, watching the crab scuttle sideways, its one oversized claw held awkwardly aloft.

“Looks like he’s holding onto a grudge.”

That earns you a small exhale—almost a laugh. “Probably.”

You glance at her.

Her hair’s loose tonight, falling over one shoulder, and the tiredness in her posture looks a little softer than before. The crab keeps pacing in its little tank, quiet between you.

“I could make sure he gets his dinner before I go?” you offer.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, then slides the container of feed pellets your way without a word. You take that as a yes.

You open the small lid on the tank, reaching in carefully to sprinkle the pellets in the shallow water. The crab immediately scrambles toward the movement—quicker than you expect.

You don’t even notice how close it is until you feel a snap of pressure on your finger.

“Shit—!”

You jerk your hand back, cradling it instinctively. The crab, thoroughly unfazed, continues its meal.

Wanda lifts her head fully this time, eyes narrowing as she sees you pulling away.

“You got pinched?”

You look down. A small but sharp mark just below your knuckle is already pooling with a thin thread of blood.

You hold it up slightly. “Apparently he’s not a fan of being hand-fed.”

There’s a pause. Then, unexpectedly, Wanda laughs.

Not just a breath—but an actual laugh, soft and low, caught somewhere between amusement and surprise. It makes you look at her more than the pain does.

“You’re not supposed to stick your fingers in the tank,” she says, rising from her stool.

“Thanks. I’ll remember that next time.”

She’s already crossing the lab, opening a drawer and pulling out a first-aid kit with practiced ease.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the stool she just vacated.

You hesitate, half-smiling. “You’re gonna patch me up?”

“I can’t let you bleed out in front of the crab,” she says dryly, already snapping open the kit.

You sit, and she takes your hand without fanfare, fingers surprisingly gentle as she turns it palm-up.

The antiseptic stings more than the crab did. You wince. She doesn’t comment—just dabs carefully, then wraps gauze around your finger with quick, efficient movements.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur.

She glances up at you, just briefly. “I work with sharp tools and aggressive animals. Comes with the territory.”

“Guess I’m in good company, then.”

This time, she doesn’t laugh—but you see the ghost of it in her eyes.

She finishes the wrap, tucking the end neatly, then holds your hand a moment longer than necessary. Not long enough to say anything. Just long enough to feel it.

“Try not to antagonize the wildlife next time,” she says, stepping back.

Over the weeks, you and Wanda formed a small friendship—quiet and unspoken, but full of gentle sparks. There was a rhythm to it: playful banter during late shifts, subtle smiles exchanged over shared tasks, and moments so soft they almost felt like a secret language between you.

You learned to read the little cues—the way she’d tease you about your clumsy feeding skills, or how her eyes would linger just a second longer when she thought you weren’t looking. It was easy to forget the walls she kept up, because in those moments, it felt like maybe you were breaking through.

But then, one morning, you walk into work and everything has shifted.

It’s like the beginning all over again—only colder. She doesn’t look for you, doesn’t smile or even glance your way. The warmth you thought was growing between you disappears without explanation, leaving a quiet space that feels heavier than silence.

And just like that, you’re the one searching again—walking through every room, hoping for a glimpse of the woman who once seemed so close.

Dinner feels heavier than usual. When your father mentions her name, it’s like a cold wave crashing over you. You shut down, retreating inside yourself as the words hang in the air.

The hurt twists slowly into bitterness, sharp and bitter, filling the space between you and everyone else at the table.

Later, in the quiet halls of the aquarium, you pass by the lab where she’s still there—alone, bathed in the pale glow of the tanks. You feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but you don’t stop.

You shove past with more force than necessary, not sparing her a glance, not meeting her eyes. The distance between you grows wider in that instant, unspoken and aching.

You’re standing by one of the shark enclosures, listening to a coworker explain the details of an injury the animal sustained. The conversation is technical, but you’re only half paying attention.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see her.

Wanda.

She’s there—calm, composed, but distant—leaning against the railing just a few feet away.

Your friend notices and nudges you gently. “Hey, I want you to meet someone.”

Before you can protest, they guide you toward her.

“This is Wanda,” they say, smiling. “She’s one of our marine biologists here at the company."

You nod, forcing a grin. “Still the last one here, huh?”

You say, “Still the last one here, huh?”

She looks up briefly, calm and unbothered. “Yeah.”

You don’t say anything. But inside, something snaps.

Why won’t she even look at me anymore? What’s her problem? Why is she such a bitch?

The anger twists tight in your chest, hot and sharp, and suddenly the quiet sting feels too much.

You blink hard, the edge of tears burning behind your eyes. Without another word, you turn and storm away, the distance between you growing wider with every step.

The night air is cool and salty, the wind teasing at your hair as it sweeps across the sand. The steady, soothing crash of waves rolls in rhythmically, under a pale, silver moon hanging low in the sky.

You sit on the sand, knees pulled tight to your chest, back resting against the rough bark of a weathered tree. The world feels vast and empty around you—like you’re both nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Somewhere in the darkness, soft footsteps shuffle closer, crunching lightly on the sand. You don’t turn around. They stop just behind you.

She lowers herself onto the sand beside you, the grains cool and damp beneath her. You don’t turn your head—your eyes remain fixed on the restless shimmer of moonlight spilling over the waves, the steady rhythm of the ocean swallowing the silence between you.

After what feels like an eternity, her voice breaks through—soft, tentative, almost a fragile confession carried on the night breeze.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air, bare and honest, like a delicate offering she’s been rehearsing in her mind for too long.

She swallows hard, the quiet weight of her breath mingling with the salt-tinged wind.

“I didn’t know how to say it before. Or if I even should have. But I felt—” Her voice falters for a heartbeat, then steadies. “I felt like this… whatever it was between us… wasn’t good. Not for a million reasons.”

You still don’t look at her. You can hear the slight catch in her throat, the way her breath hitching like she’s trying to push the words out, piece by careful piece.

“I could sense how much you were into me. How much you cared. And I was scared. Scared of falling in. Scared of what it might mean—not just for me, but for you, too.”

She pauses, letting the words settle, the silence wrapping around them like a shroud.

“The age difference. Your dad. His expectations, his disapproval. The way our worlds don’t exactly fit together.”

Her voice lowers further, almost confessional.

“I’m not making excuses. I’m not trying to justify how I pulled away or how it hurt you. But I needed you to understand why I did.”

You hear her shift slightly, the soft scrape of sand as she adjusts her weight.

“I thought distancing myself was the safest thing to do—for both of us. But now… now I’m here. Sitting next to you in the dark, under the same sky, and I want you to know I’m sorry. I never meant to be so cold. Or to make you feel invisible.”

She lets out a breath, slow and steady, as if exhaling a long-held tension.

“I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if this changes anything. But I needed to say that.”

The waves keep rolling, endless and patient, and for the first time, the silence between you feels a little less heavy.

Your fingers start to play with the sand, sifting it slowly through your hands, feeling the grains slip away like the moments you wish you could rewind.

“I get it,” you say quietly, voice rough with something close to frustration. “I really do. But… honestly? I think you’re being stupid.”

You glance over at her, catching the faintest flicker of surprise.

“You didn’t have to pull away like that. I wish you’d just come to me. Say how you felt. Talk it through instead of shutting me out.”

The words settle between you like a confession.

“I've only really known you a month, and already you mean a lot to me,” you admit, voice softer now, more open. “And… I want to get to know you better. I’m interested—truly,”

You finally lift your eyes to hers, searching.

Her eyes don't waver as she lifts her hand, fingertips trailing like a whisper across your cheek. The warmth of her touch contrasts sharply with the cool night air, grounding you in the moment. You feel the faint roughness of her skin against yours, delicate yet insistent, like a quiet plea.

Time seems to stretch, the world falling away until it's just the two of you beneath the silver glow of the moon.

Her breath mingles with yours, soft and steady, carrying the faint scent of salt and something uniquely hers—something you've been aching to understand.

Then she leans in, slow and deliberate, closing the small distance with a tenderness that catches you off guard. Her lips meet yours—gentle at first, a tentative exploration, like the first stroke of a brush on a blank canvas.

But there's more beneath that softness: a raw, unspoken urgency that speaks of longing, apology, and hope all tangled together.

Your eyes flutter closed, senses sharpening—the taste of her, the warmth radiating from her, the steady rhythm of her breath syncing with your own. One hand finds her waist, the other tangling in her hair as you deepen the kiss.

She responds with a soft moan, her body pressing closer, eliminating any remaining space between you. Her fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head to angle the kiss differently, delving deeper.

The taste of her is intoxicating, addictive. You can't get enough. Your tongue traces the seam of her lips, seeking entrance, and she grants it eagerly, tangling with yours in a sensual dance.

Her fingers tighten in your hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver down your spine. The ache between your legs intensifies, your body pulsing with need.

She pulls back just enough to nip at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with her tongue. "We should stop," she whispers against your mouth, even as her hands roam your body, stoking the flames higher.

But you're too far gone to listen to reason. "No," you breathe, capturing her lips again, lost in the feel of her, in the desire burning through your veins.

She groans, resistance crumbling, surrendering to the hunger between you. Clothes are shoved aside in a frenzy, barriers eliminated. She pushes you back onto the sand, covering your body with hers, kissing you breathless.

Your fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the angle, delving into the sweetness of her mouth. She meets you eagerly, tongue tangling with yours in a sensual dance.

Hips grind together, seeking friction, ache building low in your belly. Her teeth scrape along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin, marking you as hers. You gasp at the slight sting, arching into her touch, craving more.

She trails kisses down your neck, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, leaving a hot, wet path in her wake. Her hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is a bad idea, that you should stop before things go too far. But your body throbs with need, aching to be touched, to be filled, to be claimed.

With a final burst of willpower, she tears her mouth from yours, chest heaving. "We can't," she pants, fingers digging into your hips. "Not here."

You nod, even as your body protests the loss of contact. She rolls off you, settling beside you on the sand, hand resting over your racing heart.

For a long moment, you simply breathe, grounding yourself in the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your palm. Then she turns her head, capturing your gaze with her own.

"Come on," she says, tugging you to your feet. “I’d like to take you on a date first,” she says softly, the faintest smile playing at the corner of her lips.

You follow willingly, anticipation building with each step. Whatever happens next, you know it will be worth the wait.

“Malysh, I’m home!..” Wanda sat her bags down on the couch frowning, usually once she comes home you're running to her with open arms. Since your dad was on a business trip it left you with her. It’s been a couple of days and university had been kicking your ass. 

mentally you weren't feeling the best, and it had been eating you away until today after class it broke you. 

“Baby.. where are you?” She walked upstairs to your bedroom, only to find you curled up in the bed with the covers over your head. 

“oh!! hi darling!!” her usual smile appeared on her face before uncovering your head, finding you teary-eyed and sniffling. “Angel…angel what’s wrong?” your cries started to get louder as she sat you up pulling you in her lap. 

“hey.. hey look at me.” She turned your head to face hers wiping away the tears from your face. “talk to me Lyubov..tell Mommy what’s wrong.” 

you started to speak but you just broke down in her arms, she let out a sigh and put her chin on your head rubbing your back to help you with your breathing.

“oh, it’s one of those days isn’t it?” you nodded into her chest.

“aww baby…don’t worry, mommy’s here and I have all the time in the world to be with you..” 

She shifted on the bed to make you both comfortable rocking you both as you started to calm down a little bit.

“i-i’m sorry... I just-“ you started but she shushed you, running her hands through your hair. “You have nothing to be sorry about printsessa, let mommy take care of you.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, “I know you don’t wanna talk when you’re in this state, But I don’t need you to say anything I just need you to listen to me, honey?” You nodded playing with her fingers. 

“It’s all right, baby, It's ok to have these days...Even the people who seem to be the happiest, strongest, perfect individuals on Earth, go through tough days… It happens to me too, baby. Remember?” she started to smile again.

“Remember that even Mommy sometimes is in a bad mood and doesn’t feel good.” 

“yea..” you sniffed 

“Yeah? And what do you do to help me when I’m in a bad mood?” 

“I try to make you feel better..” she nodded before pulling you back into her chest. 

“That’s right! but right now, it’s time to make my baby feel better and I know exactly what to do about it,” she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that made you giggle a little. 

“you do?” 

“Yes, Of course, I do silly! first off I think my baby deserves some mommy kisses..” She started to kiss you all over your face before she landed on your lips.

your giggles filled the room, as she kissed all over your face and neck, before stopping and moving your hair out your face moving your so that you would face her. 

“There’s that beautiful face I know and love, now mommy needs to tell you something important..” your smile quickly turned back into a frown. your anxieties started to show its face again as you removed your hand from hers but she quickly held it again rubbing the back of it to reassure you you were fine.

“Are you ready to hear it?”

you slowly nodded as she took a deep breath and smiled, “I love you.”

she took a hold of your face and looked into your eyes wiping your forming tears.

“I love you very very much angel.” your tears started to fall again your hands pressed up to your face as she pulled you right back into her. 

“Aww, malysh,” she rubbed your back. 

“shhh it’s ok, mommy’s got you... I didn’t mean to make you cry again but you needed to hear it. I love you so much, you mean the world to me..” she sighed. 

“I know you have many responsibilities, and with everything that is going on sometimes you feel overwhelmed but I’m here for you, printsessa. I’m here to help you recharge, on the days you feel drained like today, and I’m here for you on the days you have everything under control and your energy matches the one of a little bunny because you're always my little energetic bunny..” she giggled.

“But still, I’m here for you, sweetheart always and I’m so grateful to be able to do that, cause you know I wouldn't stand to see my bunny like this and not do something about it, right?” you lifted your head and nodded at her before putting your head back on her chest. 

“Yes, that’s because you’re important to me, honey. You’re my good girl, My precious baby girl, I will always be here when you need me I promise you.” 

“I love you mama..” you mumbled into her chest and she laughed before kissing the top of your head. 

She froze for a moment letting the word ‘mama’ ring through her head, out of all the years she’s been with your dad you’d never call her that. It stuck something in her something so… soft and endearing which filled her with so much love.

“I love you too, honey.” she pulled you up to face her again. “Are you feeling a little bit better now darling?” 

“yeah, a little bit..”

“Good. But I’m not done cuddling and spoiling you tonight, I think my baby deserves to have a nice dinner.” 

“I don’t need-“

“No no, honey you need to eat. How about I make your favorite food and you're going to be a good girl for me and eat it. I’m thinking my famous Chicken paprikash how does that sound?” you excitedly nodded Wanda made this dish a lot when she first moved in with you and your dad, and it soon became a meal you loved for her to make. 

“I’ll also let you choose what movies we can watch tonight.. but for right now, we can just cuddle a little bit more.” She held out her arms, you melting right back into them listening to her heart beating and the breaths she took as she started to hum softly as she slowly rocked you.