↢ ❆ Macayla ❆ ↣

The new Avengers Compound still doesn’t quite feel lived in yet.

The building itself is enormous, gleaming glass and steel rising out of the countryside like something pulled straight from a science fiction film, but there are still boxes in hallways, equipment waiting to be unpacked, and entire sections of the facility that remain eerily quiet. The team is settling in, finding routines, claiming rooms, learning which elevators are the fastest and which kitchens are stocked with the good coffee. For the first time in a long time, things feel almost peaceful.

Outside, the late afternoon sun paints the grass in shades of gold.

Tony sits on a blanket spread across one of the open lawns surrounding the compound, watching Morgan run through the grass with the endless energy only a child seems capable of possessing. She laughs as she chases a butterfly, tiny sneakers kicking up dirt behind her while Tony pretends not to be smiling.

“You know,” he calls out, leaning back on his hands, “I personally think that butterfly is cheating.”

Morgan gasps dramatically. “Daddy! Butterflies don’t cheat!”

“Says who?”

“Says science.”

Tony snorts. “I’ve made a career out of arguing with science.”

The little girl simply sticks her tongue out before continuing her pursuit.

For a while, everything is normal.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

The forest bordering the compound sways gently in the breeze, leaves rustling softly overhead. Birds sing somewhere beyond the tree line. The distant sounds of construction and moving equipment drift from the compound itself.

Then Tony’s phone buzzes.

One of the technicians inside needs a security code.

“One minute,” he tells Morgan, standing up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She nods absentmindedly, completely focused on the insect she’s following.

Tony walks inside.

It should take less than sixty seconds.

Back in the forest, far beyond the compound’s sensors and surveillance systems, you move silently through the undergrowth.

The woods belong to your pack.

Humans rarely come this deep into the territory, and when they do, they almost never notice the wolves watching from the shadows. Your kind has survived that way for generations. Hidden. Careful. Unseen.

The breeze shifts.

Your ears twitch.

A strange scent drifts through the trees.

Human.

Several humans.

You pause.

The scent isn’t unfamiliar anymore. Ever since the massive compound appeared on the edge of the forest months ago, humans have become a constant presence. Loud machines, strange smells, bright lights.

Usually, you stay away. Today should be no different.

Then another scent reaches you.

Predator. Your head immediately lifts. Bear. Large. Close.

Far too close to the humans.

You break into a run.

Back at the compound, Morgan finally notices the silence. The butterfly has disappeared. The breeze has changed. Something feels wrong. Slowly, she turns. The enormous brown bear stands at the edge of the lawn.

For a moment, neither moves.

Morgan freezes.

The bear stares.

Then the little girl screams.

The sound rips through the countryside.

Inside the compound, Tony’s heart nearly stops.

He drops everything and sprints.

Outside, the bear begins moving forward. Not charging. Not attacking. Just advancing.

But to a frightened child, the difference means nothing.

Morgan stumbles backward.

Tears immediately spring into her eyes.

The bear huffs.

And then a brown blur explodes from the forest.

You hit the animal with enough force to throw both of you sideways across the grass.

The bear roars.

Morgan gasps.

The lawn erupts into chaos.

You land on your feet first, placing yourself directly between the predator and the child. Fur bristles along your spine as a deep growl tears from your chest.

The bear answers with one of its own.

Neither backs down.

The size difference is obvious.

The bear is massive.

But you don’t move.

Behind you, Morgan cries.

The sound only hardens your resolve.

The bear lunges. You dodge.

Teeth snap inches from your face.

You retaliate instantly, slamming into its shoulder hard enough to stagger it. The two of you crash across the lawn, tearing up grass and dirt as claws and teeth flash.

The bear recovers first.

A powerful paw swings.

You try to evade.

Almost.

The claws rake across your side.

Agony explodes through your body. A strangled yelp escapes before you can stop it. Warm blood immediately begins soaking into your fur.

The smell fills the air.

But you remain standing.

The bear advances again.

You bare every tooth you have - growling, threatening. Refusing to yield. The predator hesitates.

You take one step forward. Then another. Ignoring the blood. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring the way your legs are beginning to shake beneath you.

Something changes.

The bear decides you aren’t worth it.

With one final warning growl, it begins backing away.

Then it turns.

Then it disappears into the forest.

Only then do you allow yourself to breathe. Tony bursts out of the compound.

“Morgan!”

He reaches her in seconds, dropping to his knees and pulling her against his chest. She immediately buries her face against him, sobbing as he frantically checks for injuries.

“Dad—dad—the wolf—”

“I’m here,” he says quickly. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Only then does he finally look up.

And see you.

The wolf standing twenty feet away.

Covered in blood. Swaying unsteadily. Your breathing is ragged. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you.

For a second, Tony simply stares. Because wolves don’t protect humans. They certainly don’t throw themselves at bears for them.

And then, right before his eyes, your body finally gives out. You collapse into the grass. And everything goes black.

Consciousness returns slowly, surfacing through layers of exhaustion and pain that seem determined to drag you back under every time you try to fight your way awake. Your entire body feels heavy, your limbs sluggish and weak, and the deep burning ache radiating from your side makes it painfully obvious that whatever happened before you blacked out was not some strange dream.

The first thing you notice is the smell. Sterile. Artificial. Clean in a way no forest ever is. Beneath it are dozens of other scents layered together—metal, electronics, unfamiliar cleaning products, coffee, humans. Lots of humans. Your eyes slowly open and immediately narrow against the bright overhead lighting. White ceiling. White walls. Medical equipment. Panic sparks through your chest almost instantly.

You try to sit up only to discover something restraining you. Thick rope is looped securely around your torso and forelegs, keeping you anchored to a reinforced medical bed, while an uncomfortable muzzle wraps around your snout. A low sound rumbles in your throat before you can stop it. The movement pulls painfully at your injured side and your gaze drops to find your entire flank wrapped beneath layers of thick bandages. Even through them, you can smell dried blood.

Across the room, three men stand talking. One of them you recognise immediately from countless distant observations near the compound’s perimeter. Tony. Beside him stands the broad-shouldered blond man you’ve seen training outside before, and another dark-haired man wearing glasses.

None of them notice you’re awake at first, too focused on their conversation. “I’m serious,” Tony is saying, arms folded tightly across his chest. “We’re putting up fencing. Big fencing. Electric fencing if we have to. I step inside for sixty seconds and a bear shows up. A bear. Do you know how insane that sounds?” The blond man sighs. “Tony, wildlife exists. We built this place practically next to a forest.”

“Great. Then wildlife can stay in the wildlife section and my daughter can stay in the not-being-eaten-by-bears section.” The man with glasses pinches the bridge of his nose. “Morgan wasn’t hurt. That’s the important thing.” “Because of her,” Tony immediately replies, pointing directly at you. “Or him. Her. Whatever. The wolf. If that animal hadn’t intervened…” His voice trails off slightly, and for the first time you hear genuine gratitude beneath the protective frustration. “Morgan keeps asking if the wolf is okay.”

The movement of your head finally catches Steve’s attention. His posture immediately straightens and his eyes widen slightly. “Guys.” Tony and Bruce turn at the same time. For several seconds none of them say anything as they realise you’re conscious and staring directly back at them.

The room becomes strangely quiet. You can practically smell their uncertainty. Tony takes a cautious step forward first, not fearful exactly, but wary in the way anyone would be standing this close to a predator. “Well, hey there.” His voice softens unexpectedly. “Good to see you’re still with us.” You stare back without blinking.

The muzzle makes it impossible to communicate anything beyond a low frustrated huff. Bruce glances between you and the restraints. “She’s calmer than I expected.” “She just woke up,” Steve points out. “Give it a minute.” Tony studies you for a long moment before exhaling. “So what exactly do we do now?” Nobody answers immediately because they all know it’s a complicated question. In every practical sense, you’re a wild animal. An unusually large wild animal, but a wild animal nonetheless. Wild animals belong in the wild. That’s the obvious answer. The problem is that every single person in the room knows what would happen if they released you right now.

You can barely move without pain. The deep claw wounds across your side would leave you vulnerable to infection, other predators, or simply collapsing somewhere in the forest where nobody would find you. Steve seems to reach the conclusion first. “We can’t release her like this.” Bruce nods almost immediately. “Agreed. Medically speaking, she’s nowhere near healed enough.” Tony looks at you again, meeting your gaze directly. “And considering she basically saved my kid’s life, dumping her back into the woods half-dead feels like a pretty terrible thank you.” He rubs a hand over his face before letting out a long breath. “Alright. Fine. We keep her here. Temporary arrangement. We treat the injuries, make sure she’s recovered, then we release her back into the forest when she’s healthy enough to survive on her own.”

Steve folds his arms. “You realise you’re talking about keeping a wolf inside the Avengers Compound.” “Trust me,” Tony mutters, looking directly at you. “I am painfully aware of how ridiculous that sounds.” Despite the conversation being about you, none of them notice the strange intelligence lingering behind your eyes as you watch every word, every movement, every decision being made. Because as far as the Avengers know, lying restrained in that medical bed is nothing more than an injured wolf.

The discussion about your future inside the compound is interrupted by the sudden crackle of a radio sitting on one of the nearby counters. The burst of static immediately draws everyone’s attention before a familiar female voice comes through the speaker. “Control, this is Romanoff. Requesting clearance to land.” Steve reaches over without hesitation, pressing the response button. “You’re clear. Pad’s open.” A brief pause follows before Natasha’s amused voice returns. “Good. Because we’re landing whether it’s clear or not.”

The transmission clicks off, earning a tired sigh from Steve and an eye roll from Tony. “She’s been spending too much time around you,” Steve comments. “Excuse you,” Tony replies. “That level of confidence is a gift.” Despite the conversation, your ears have already perked up. Two unfamiliar scents drift faintly through the building, carried in through ventilation systems and opening doors. Human. Female. One carrying traces of smoke, leather and gunpowder. The other carrying something warmer. Something strange. Something that almost reminds you of standing in sunlight during winter. Before you can properly identify it, distant engines rumble somewhere outside the compound. Even through the walls you can hear the unmistakable sound of a Quinjet settling onto the landing platform.

Several minutes later the medbay doors slide open and both women walk inside. The first thing you notice is that every scent in the room immediately changes. The dark-haired woman enters first, dressed in a partially damaged tactical suit with several shallow cuts visible along her arms and one across her cheek. Nothing serious from the smell of it, but enough to explain the dried blood. Beside her walks the redhead. Unlike the other woman, she appears mostly unharmed apart from a split lip and a few smudges of dirt lingering across her uniform.

The moment your eyes land on them, something strange happens. Your tail immediately begins thumping lightly against the medical bed. Once. Twice. Then continuously. You don’t even realise you’re doing it at first. Every instinct in your body suddenly seems focused on the two newcomers.

They are, quite simply, the prettiest women you have ever seen. The dark-haired one carries herself with effortless confidence while the redhead seems to possess an almost unnatural kind of beauty that makes it difficult to look away. Your tail continues its rhythmic tapping against the mattress despite the pain in your side. Natasha notices first. “Well that’s either adorable or concerning.” Tony turns. “Oh great. Now she’s happy.” “Maybe she’s happy to see me,” Natasha says with a grin. “Most creatures are.” “Most creatures don’t have teeth the size of steak knives.”

Bruce immediately shifts into doctor mode the second he spots the cuts on Natasha’s arms. “Sit.” Natasha glances at the medical bed beside yours. “You know, every mission I come back from, you somehow find a way to make this place look more ridiculous.” Bruce points firmly at the bed. “Sit.” “Bossy.” “Natasha.” “Fine.”

She drops onto the mattress with exaggerated suffering while Bruce begins gathering supplies. Wanda remains standing instead, her attention entirely focused on you. Unlike the others, she isn’t studying you with caution. She’s simply watching. Curious. Interested. Your tail somehow starts wagging harder under her gaze.

The movement finally draws a laugh from Steve. “See? That’s what I mean.” Natasha glances between you and Wanda before smirking. “Looks like somebody has a favourite already.” Wanda doesn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on you, lingering on the muzzle wrapped around your snout, the ropes binding you to the bed and the thick bandages covering your side.

Something about the sight clearly bothers her. “What happened?” she finally asks. Tony launches into the story while Bruce works on Natasha’s injuries. By the time he’s finished explaining the bear attack, Morgan’s involvement and the rescue, both women are staring at you with entirely different expressions than when they entered. Natasha looks impressed. Wanda looks heartbroken. “Poor thing,” Wanda murmurs softly. “She saved Morgan?” Steve nods. “Pretty much.” “And now she’s tied to a bed.” “Because she’s still a wolf,” Tony immediately replies. “A very large wolf. A very injured wolf. But still a wolf.”

The conversation continues for several minutes as the men explain the situation. They explain how releasing you would almost certainly be a death sentence in your current condition. They explain how keeping you permanently isn’t realistic either. They explain that despite everything you’ve done, you’re still a wild animal and they can’t simply start treating you like a domesticated pet.

Wanda listens quietly throughout the explanation, though it’s obvious she dislikes almost every part of it. “She’s scared,” Wanda says at one point. “Anybody would be scared.” Tony gestures toward the muzzle. “Anybody with those teeth gets the muzzle until further notice.” Natasha snorts. “Fair.” Despite the teasing, even she seems reluctant to argue with the precautions.

Eventually the discussion reaches the same conclusion Steve, Bruce and Tony had already reached earlier. You stay. You heal. Then you’re released once you’re healthy enough to survive. Bruce finishes patching Natasha up, Steve gets called away to deal with something involving training schedules, and Tony leaves shortly afterwards after reminding everyone at least twice that he intends to install enough fencing to make the compound look like a small country. Before long the room falls quiet again. Bruce eventually departs as well, leaving only two occupants besides yourself.

Natasha leans back against her bed while Wanda slowly pulls a chair over beside yours. Neither woman seems in any particular hurry to leave. The silence that settles over the room feels strangely comfortable. Your tail has finally slowed, though it still occasionally taps against the mattress whenever either of them looks your way. Wanda reaches forward carefully, stopping her hand several inches from your head. Giving you the choice. Giving you space. “Hi there,” she says softly. Her voice is warm enough to make your ears immediately tilt forward.

Natasha watches the interaction with an amused expression. “That’s it. You’ve adopted the giant wolf already.” Wanda doesn’t look away from you. “I haven’t adopted her.” “You’ve got the voice on.” “I do not have a voice.” “You absolutely have a voice.” For the first time since waking up, something almost resembling contentment settles through your chest. You’re still injured. Still restrained. Still trapped inside a building full of humans. But as Wanda continues speaking softly to you while Natasha teases her from across the room, you find yourself thinking that maybe staying here until you heal won’t be quite as terrible as you first imagined.

By the end of the evening, Tony has somehow managed to do what only Tony Stark could accomplish. Instead of simply discussing solutions, he has apparently purchased an entire reinforced animal enclosure online, paid an obscene amount of money for immediate delivery, and had it assembled inside the common room before dinner. Nobody is entirely sure how he managed it so quickly. Nobody is particularly surprised either. The temporary enclosure occupies one corner of the large living space, significantly bigger than any normal dog crate but still undeniably a cage. Thick metal bars form the walls while several blankets have been piled inside alongside a large padded bed that Bruce insisted on providing.

You were less than thrilled when they moved you from the medbay. The journey had pulled painfully at your injuries, and despite everyone’s best intentions, being carried through hallways and elevators by a collection of superheroes had done very little to improve your mood. Still, once settled inside the enclosure, you had begrudgingly accepted that this arrangement was better than being tied to a medical bed.

The common room itself is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the darkening forest beyond the compound, soft lighting illuminates the space, and several large couches surround a television that currently occupies most of the room’s attention. The rest of the team drifts in and out throughout the evening, some stopping to stare at the giant wolf now living in their headquarters, others barely reacting at all because after alien invasions, killer robots and Norse gods, an injured wolf somehow doesn’t seem that strange. Eventually, however, most of them disappear to their own rooms, leaving the common area quieter and considerably more peaceful.

Natasha and Wanda remain. Apparently, post-mission takeaway has become a sacred tradition between them, one neither injury nor exhaustion is allowed to interrupt. Several containers are spread across the coffee table while a movie plays on the television. Natasha has already changed into comfortable clothes and sits stretched out across one end of the couch. Wanda occupies the other, though only briefly before Natasha hooks an arm around her waist and effortlessly pulls her closer. Wanda rolls her eyes but doesn’t resist for even a second, immediately settling against her side with the kind of casual familiarity that only comes from years together.

From inside your enclosure, you watch the interaction with far more interest than the film currently playing. Earlier, after what felt like an unfair amount of debate from the men, Wanda had finally convinced them to remove the muzzle. More specifically, she had waited until Tony left the room, spent twenty minutes researching what wolves could safely eat, then used her powers to float a plate through the bars while giving everybody a look that clearly dared them to argue.

The meal itself sits mostly untouched beside you now. You’d eaten enough to stop Wanda worrying, but your appetite remains limited by pain, exhaustion and confusion. Your head rests against the cool metal bars instead, chin propped between two of them as you quietly observe the women across the room. The scent of food fills the air alongside the steady rhythm of their conversation, occasional laughter and the comforting knowledge that neither of them seems remotely bothered by your presence.

You tell yourself you’re watching because they’re interesting. Humans are fascinating creatures, after all. These particular humans even more so. They possess extraordinary abilities, live inside a futuristic fortress, and somehow spend their evenings arguing about which takeaway restaurant is superior. That should be enough to justify your attention.

Unfortunately, even you know that’s not entirely true. The reality is significantly more embarrassing. You simply can’t stop looking at them. Every time Natasha presses a kiss against Wanda’s temple while pretending to focus on the movie, your ears twitch. Every time Wanda unconsciously leans closer to Natasha while reaching for food, your eyes follow the movement. They fit together so naturally it almost seems effortless. Comfortable. Safe. Familiar. The sort of bond most people spend their entire lives searching for. A small, unhappy feeling settles somewhere in your chest.

You don’t fully understand it. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s homesickness. Maybe it’s simply the knowledge that while they sit together surrounded by warmth and companionship, you’re currently occupying a cage in the corner of the room. Whatever the reason, you find yourself lowering your head further onto the bars and staring quietly at the pair.

Across the room, Wanda notices first. Her expression immediately softens. “She’s not eating much.” Natasha glances over. “She’s eaten enough.” “She looks sad.” “She’s a wolf.” “She still looks sad.” Natasha studies you for several seconds before shrugging. “Okay. Slightly sad wolf.”

Wanda’s attention remains fixed on you long after the conversation ends. Every few minutes you catch her looking over. Not out of caution. Not out of concern that you’ll suddenly become aggressive. Just checking on you. Making sure you’re comfortable. Making sure you’re okay.

It’s a level of care you’re entirely unprepared for. Back home, your pack looks after one another because you’re family. Protection is expected. Support is expected. Here, however, these people owe you nothing. They barely know you exist beyond being the wolf that saved Morgan. Yet Wanda still worries when you don’t finish your dinner. Natasha still casually points out that your water bowl needs refilling before getting up to do it herself. The entire situation feels bizarre. The movie continues playing in the background while darkness settles fully beyond the windows.

Eventually Natasha stretches, pulling Wanda even closer until the redhead is practically curled against her side. “You know,” Natasha says, glancing toward your enclosure again, “for something that’s technically a giant predator, she’s ridiculously well behaved.” Wanda smiles faintly. “Maybe she knows we’re helping her.”

You lower your gaze before either woman can notice how intently you’ve been watching them. The truth is that you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You don’t know how long your injuries will take to heal. You don’t know how you’re supposed to eventually explain being a werewolf when that particular problem inevitably arrives.

Right now, however, none of that feels especially important. The television flickers softly across the room, the compound remains peaceful around you, and for the first time since waking up inside a building full of strangers, you slowly close your eyes and begin drifting toward sleep while listening to Wanda and Natasha quietly talking on the couch.

The movie eventually ends sometime after midnight. The takeaway containers are cleared away, the television is switched off, and the compound gradually settles into the quiet stillness that only arrives when dozens of people finally go to sleep.

Before leaving, Wanda kneels beside your enclosure one last time. Her expression softens as she studies you resting amongst the blankets, though she still reaches for caution over sentiment. With a small wave of her hand, red magic surrounds the muzzle resting nearby and gently secures it back around your snout. You immediately huff your displeasure.

Wanda offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, detka. Just for tonight.” Natasha snorts from behind her. “The giant predator is judging you.” “I know.” “Harshly.” Wanda reaches through the bars to scratch lightly behind one of your ears before standing. “Goodnight.”

The simple word shouldn’t matter. Humans tell each other goodnight all the time. Yet somehow, as you watch the two women disappear toward the elevators together, the common room immediately feels emptier than before. Much emptier. Soon the sound of their footsteps disappears entirely, leaving only silence, distant ventilation systems and the occasional hum of electronics somewhere deeper within the compound.

For a while you remain curled amongst the blankets, trying to settle back down. You close your eyes. Open them again. Shift positions. Try another position. Nothing helps. The common room is comfortable enough. You’re safe. Warm. Fed. Your injuries are being treated. Rationally, there is absolutely no reason for the uncomfortable feeling sitting heavily inside your chest. Yet it refuses to go away.

Several hours pass before the loneliness finally wins. It begins with a small sound escaping your throat. Barely noticeable. A quiet whine. Then another. Then another. You don’t entirely understand why you’re making the noise. Back home, wolves are rarely alone. Pack members sleep together, hunt together, exist together. Solitude is unusual. Wrong, almost. The compound is filled with people, yet none of them are here. The common room feels too large. Too quiet. Too empty. Before long, soft whining begins slipping from your muzzle every few minutes despite your best efforts to stop.

Unfortunately, the architects responsible for designing the compound made one critical mistake. Directly above the common room sits Wanda and Natasha’s bedroom. Every single sound carries upward with remarkable efficiency. Upstairs, Natasha is the first to recognise what she’s hearing. She groans into her pillow. “Ignore it.” Beside her, Wanda lifts her head immediately. “She’s upset.” “She’s a wolf.” “She’s whining.” “She’s dramatic.” Another muffled whine drifts through the floorboards. Wanda’s eyes narrow.

Natasha immediately recognises the expression. “No.” “Natasha.” “No.” “What if she’s scared?” “What if she wants attention?” Wanda pulls the blankets aside. “Then she’s getting attention.” Natasha falls backwards onto the mattress with all the suffering of somebody deeply wronged by the universe. “This is how it starts. One minute you’re checking on the wolf. Next minute she’s paying rent.”

By the time the elevator doors open, Wanda is already halfway across the common room wearing oversized pyjamas and fluffy socks. Natasha follows several steps behind, muttering complaints she clearly doesn’t mean. The moment you spot them emerging into view, the change is immediate. Your ears perk up. The whining stops entirely. Your tail begins thumping against the blankets.

Wanda pauses beside the enclosure and immediately points triumphantly toward you. “See?” Natasha folds her arms. “Traitor.” Wanda crouches beside the bars. “Were you lonely?” The question is ridiculous. You cannot answer. Yet your tail somehow starts wagging even harder. Natasha notices.

“Don’t encourage her.” “Look at her.” “I am looking at her.” “She’s sad.” “She was sad.” Wanda studies you for another few moments before standing again. A thoughtful expression appears on her face. Natasha immediately looks concerned. “Don’t.” “What?” “Whatever you’re thinking.” “I’m not thinking anything.” “Wanda.” The redhead glances between you and the elevator. Then back to Natasha. Then back to you. “She can come upstairs.”

Natasha stares at her. “Absolutely not.” “Why?” “Because she’s a giant wolf.” “She’s injured.” “She’s still a giant wolf.” “Natasha.” “No.” Wanda doesn’t even argue. Instead, red energy immediately begins surrounding your enclosure. Natasha closes her eyes. “You’re not listening to me.” “I listened.” “You ignored me.” “That’s different.”

The journey upstairs is probably one of the strangest experiences of your life. One moment you’re inside a cage in the common room. The next you’re floating through hallways suspended in glowing red magic while several night-shift agents openly stare. Wanda ignores them entirely. Natasha follows behind carrying armfuls of blankets while continuing her entirely unsuccessful campaign against the idea.

When you finally arrive at their bedroom, you discover it is significantly less intimidating than expected. Large bed. Soft lighting. Bookshelves. Personal photographs. Comfortable furniture. It feels lived in. Safe. Familiar. Wanda immediately directs your enclosure toward an empty corner of the room before finally lowering it onto the floor.

Natasha drops the blankets beside it with a dramatic sigh. “This is ridiculous.” “You’re helping.” “I’m helping because if you’re doing this, we’re doing it safely.” Despite her complaints, she begins arranging the blankets anyway.

Within minutes she has constructed what can only be described as a wolf-sized nest. Additional blankets line the floor. Extra cushions are added for comfort. Water is placed nearby. Then comes the final precaution. Natasha disappears briefly before returning with a length of sturdy rope from one of the room’s drawers (😏). “There.” She secures it carefully to create a boundary between your corner and their bed. “Perfect.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “Really?” Natasha points directly at you. “That wolf could probably bite through steel if she wanted to. The last thing I need is waking up to discover she’s decided two in the morning is cuddle time.” Wanda laughs despite herself. “She’s not going to maul us.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” “You absolutely do not.” The argument continues as they prepare for bed, but it grows softer with each passing minute.

Eventually both women settle beneath the blankets. The room darkens. Silence returns. This time, however, it feels entirely different. Because instead of being alone several floors below them, you’re only a few metres away. You can hear Natasha turning pages of a book. You can hear Wanda quietly speaking to her. You can smell both of them nearby. The loneliness that had twisted uncomfortably in your chest earlier disappears almost instantly.

As sleep finally begins pulling at your consciousness once more, you curl deeper into the blanket nest Natasha built for you and listen to the gentle sound of the women talking until their voices gradually fade and the room falls completely silent.

The arrangement that began that night somehow became permanent. Not officially, at least not at first, but nobody seems capable of stopping it. Your injuries heal steadily over the following weeks. The angry wounds across your side gradually close. The bandages disappear. The limp fades. Bruce declares you healthy enough to return to the wild on at least three separate occasions. Unfortunately, nobody ever accounted for the fact that you had absolutely no intention of cooperating.

Somewhere along the way, the blanket nest in Wanda and Natasha’s room becomes your blanket nest. The common room enclosure is quietly dismantled and removed. The muzzle disappears entirely after several weeks without a single incident, much to the visible horror of the male members of the team.

Tony claims it is reckless. Clint claims they’re all going to die. Sam insists he wants written documentation proving the decision wasn’t his idea. Wanda ignores all of them. Natasha occasionally joins in solely because she enjoys watching them suffer.

You, meanwhile, spend most of your days following the two women around the compound with the determination of a particularly oversized shadow. Training room? You’re there. Kitchen? There. Movie night? There. If Wanda gets up to refill her coffee, you immediately lift your head to make sure she’s coming back. If Natasha disappears for a mission briefing, you’re waiting outside the room by the time she emerges.

Steve attempts to bond with you several times. Bruce brings treats. Clint tries bribery. Thor enthusiastically declares you a warrior beast worthy of Asgard. None of it works. The only people you consistently choose are Wanda and Natasha. It becomes such an established fact that nobody even questions it anymore.

Morgan, however, quickly becomes a special exception. The young girl absolutely adores you. Every time she visits the compound, she immediately seeks you out. It starts with cautious petting and nervous excitement but rapidly develops into complete confidence. She sits beside you during movie nights, reads stories aloud while leaning against your side, and occasionally attempts conversations that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

One afternoon she discovers that you enjoy licking the cheese powder from her fingers after she’s been eating Cheetos. From that moment onward, the behaviour becomes a tradition. Tony nearly has an aneurysm the first time he witnesses it. “Morgan!” he practically shouts. “Stop feeding the giant wolf your fingers.” “She’s not eating my fingers.” “That’s not the point.” “She likes the Cheeto dust.”

You do, in fact, like the Cheeto dust. Morgan giggles every time your tongue cleans the orange powder from her hands while Tony watches with the exhausted expression of a father who has long since accepted that nobody listens to him. Wanda finds the entire thing adorable. Natasha takes photographs specifically to annoy Tony later. Life settles into a comfortable routine. A surprisingly normal one considering it involves superheroes and a wolf living inside a high-security compound. For the first time since being dragged from the forest, everything feels stable.

Naturally, that is precisely when Secretary Ross arrives to ruin it. The disruption begins on an otherwise ordinary afternoon when a government vehicle pulls up outside the compound. Nobody is particularly happy to see him.

Ross spends the first fifteen minutes arguing with Tony, the second fifteen arguing with Steve, and then somehow finds time to annoy everybody else as well. You pay little attention until your name—or rather, your species—enters the conversation.

The moment the word wolf reaches your ears, you immediately become interested. Unfortunately, the news is not encouraging. According to Ross, there are laws regarding wildlife. Lots of laws. Apparently keeping a wolf inside an Avengers facility falls into several extremely complicated legal categories.

Tony argues that they didn’t capture you. Bruce argues that they rescued you. Steve argues that releasing you while injured would have been irresponsible. Ross agrees with all of them. Unfortunately, the law does not particularly care. The solution seems obvious at first. Release the wolf. End of discussion.

The team actually attempts it. Once. Bruce drives you back toward the forest. Steve walks you to the tree line. Everybody says their goodbyes. You wait until they’re halfway back to the compound before sprinting directly past them and returning home. The second attempt lasts even less time. The third attempt ends with you somehow arriving back before Bruce’s vehicle does. By then even Ross appears irritated.

Several days of phone calls, paperwork and governmental nonsense follow. Eventually a compromise is reached. A legal exception. A special permit. Some absurd mountain of documents that only bureaucrats could create.

The conclusion is simple enough. You may remain at the compound. However, somebody must legally assume responsibility for you. Any damage, incidents or accidents become that person’s liability. Technically the responsibility could belong to anyone.

Practically speaking, everybody already knows how the vote would go. You spend approximately ninety percent of your time attached to either Wanda or Natasha. Nobody else even comes close. “This is ridiculous,” Sam says during the discussion. “The wolf already chose.” Clint nods. “She’s basically their kid at this point.” Natasha immediately points at him. “Don’t call her our kid.” “Your giant wolf daughter.” “Clint.” “Furry daughter.” Wanda is trying very hard not to laugh.

By the end of the meeting, the paperwork is signed. Wanda signs. Natasha signs. Just like that, they become your official owners in the eyes of the government. The entire concept feels deeply insulting from your perspective. You are a werewolf. A member of a pack. A fully capable person. Yet all anybody else sees is a very large animal. Still, there is something unexpectedly comforting about the way neither woman hesitates before accepting responsibility.

A few days later, Wanda and Natasha return from town carrying several shopping bags. The moment they enter the compound, you immediately investigate. Natasha attempts to stop you. You ignore her. Wanda laughs. Inside one of the bags is a collar. Not the cheap kind found in ordinary pet stores.

This one is clearly custom-made. Thick padded leather. Soft lining. Durable metal fittings. It smells new. Expensive. Natasha holds it while Wanda kneels beside you. “Before you get offended,” Natasha says, as though you can somehow understand every word, “this was not my idea.” “You helped choose it,” Wanda immediately points out. “I helped stop you buying the one covered in stars.” “The stars were pretty.” “The stars were ridiculous.”

While they argue, Wanda carefully fastens the collar around your neck. It fits perfectly. Not restrictive. Not uncomfortable. Just secure enough to stay in place. Hanging from the front is a custom metal tag. On one side is Wanda’s symbol. On the other is Natasha’s. The metal catches the light as it settles against your chest.

For several seconds, neither woman says anything. Then Wanda reaches forward to smooth the fur beneath it. Natasha scratches behind one of your ears. “There,” Natasha says quietly. “Official.” You should probably hate it. You should definitely hate the entire concept. Instead, standing between the two women while they admire the collar they’d chosen together, you find yourself doing something deeply embarrassing. Your tail starts wagging.

The collar somehow marks the beginning of an entirely new phase of your life at the compound. Once the novelty wears off and everybody accepts that you are, apparently, staying forever, the team gradually stops treating you like a rescued animal and starts treating you like part of the household. It begins innocently enough.

Wanda teaches you basic commands, mostly because she thinks it’s funny. Sit. Stay. Come here. Spin. The first time she asks you to shake her hand, you stare at her in complete disbelief. You are a werewolf. A hunter. A member of an ancient pack. Yet five minutes later you’re placing your paw into her hand because the look of excitement on her face makes refusing impossible.

Natasha finds the entire thing hilarious. She begins inventing increasingly ridiculous tricks solely to see if you’ll do them. Bruce walks into the common room one afternoon to discover you balancing a biscuit on your nose while Wanda counts down dramatically. Sam nearly falls over laughing. Clint records the entire thing.

The problem is that you’re embarrassingly good at all of it. You understand what they want almost immediately. Your intelligence is significantly higher than any normal wolf’s, and years of pack communication have made interpreting body language second nature. Within a matter of weeks you’ve mastered every trick either woman can think of.

Eventually Natasha narrows her eyes at you one evening after watching you flawlessly follow a complicated chain of commands. “Okay,” she says. “I have an idea.” Wanda immediately looks concerned. “That’s never good.” Natasha ignores her. “I wonder if she can do tactical commands.”

What begins as curiosity rapidly evolves into training. Real training. Natasha starts small. She hides objects around the compound and teaches you to locate them. Then she begins using volunteers. Usually Clint. Sometimes Sam. Once Tony, who spends the entire exercise loudly protesting that billionaires shouldn’t be hunted for sport.

Natasha teaches you hand signals. Silent directions. Ways to circle around a target without being noticed. Methods for steering people exactly where you want them without ever physically touching them. The first time she points toward a fleeing agent during a training exercise and signals for you to intercept, you understand instantly.

Instead of tackling him, you cut off every escape route until he unknowingly moves exactly where Natasha wants him. The look on her face afterwards is almost alarming. “Oh no,” Clint says from nearby. “Don’t make that face.” “What face?” Natasha asks. “The face that means you’ve discovered something.” “I’ve discovered something.” Clint groans.

Over the following weeks the exercises become more advanced. Tracking scents through forests. Locating hidden individuals. Moving quietly through difficult terrain. Working alongside Wanda’s powers. The entire thing feels so natural that it barely registers as training. You’ve hunted with a pack your entire life. Coordinating movements. Anticipating teammates. Understanding positioning. Reading body language. None of it is new. The only difference is that your packmates now happen to be a telekinetic witch and one of the deadliest spies on the planet.

Eventually Natasha decides there’s only one way to find out if the training works. “Absolutely not,” Steve says the moment she suggests it. “Absolutely yes,” Natasha replies. “She’s not going on a mission.” “She’s more qualified than half the people Clint recruits.” Clint immediately points at her. “Leave me out of this.”

The argument somehow continues for three days. Tony sides with Steve. Wanda sides with Natasha. Bruce attempts neutrality. Thor enthusiastically supports bringing the giant wolf warrior into battle. Nobody is surprised. In the end Natasha wins, mostly because the mission in question is relatively straightforward.

A small HYDRA facility operating deep within a remote forest. Limited personnel. Minimal risk. The objective is simple. Get inside. Gather intelligence. Shut the operation down from the inside. The plan relies heavily on stealth, tracking and coordinated movement.

In other words, exactly the things you’ve been doing for months. Even so, the atmosphere inside the Quinjet feels different on the day of the mission. Steve looks like he’s preparing for disaster. Tony keeps finding reasons to repeat safety instructions. Wanda spends most of the flight scratching behind your ears while Natasha reviews the operation for the tenth time. “She’s going to be fine,” Natasha eventually says. “You don’t know that,” Steve replies. Natasha gestures toward you. “Look at her.” Everyone does. You’re currently asleep.

The mission itself begins just after nightfall. The HYDRA facility sits hidden amongst dense woodland, isolated from nearby towns and protected by layers of security designed to detect approaching humans. Humans being the important word.

You move through the trees almost effortlessly. Every scent. Every sound. Every vibration beneath your paws paints a picture of the environment around you. Long before the others spot the first patrol, you’ve already identified three separate guard routes and two concealed entrances. Wanda and Natasha follow close behind while communicating through earpieces.

The coordination feels effortless. Familiar. Comfortable. Natasha gives a silent signal and immediately you move. One guard notices movement in the trees and leaves his assigned position to investigate. Exactly as intended. Another follows. Then another. By the time they realise something is wrong, Natasha has already guided them directly into an ambush.

Further inside the facility the pattern repeats. Guards are distracted. Patrols separated. Escape routes quietly eliminated. Whenever Natasha points, you understand. Whenever Wanda shifts position, you adjust automatically. The three of you move through the operation with a level of coordination that surprises even yourselves. At one point Wanda glances toward Natasha after watching you flawlessly herd two fleeing agents directly into her line of sight. “You trained her too well.” Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself. “I know.”

By the time the facility finally falls, most of the fighting is already over. SHIELD teams move in to secure prisoners while agents begin collecting intelligence. The mission is declared an overwhelming success. Steve congratulates everybody over the comms. Tony reluctantly admits the operation went smoothly. Natasha spends the entire return flight looking unbearably smug. You curl up on the floor of the Quinjet, exhausted but content, while Wanda absentmindedly runs her fingers through the fur around your collar.

For the first time since arriving at the compound, it truly feels like you’ve found your place. Not as a rescued animal. Not as a guest. Not even as Wanda and Natasha’s oversized shadow. Out there in the forest, moving beside them through the darkness, working together without needing words, everything had felt instinctive. Natural. Like slipping back into a role you’d been born for. The only difference was that this pack looked very different from the one you’d left behind.

For a while after the HYDRA mission, everything seems perfect. The team’s concerns about bringing a giant wolf into active operations disappear almost overnight after seeing how effectively you work alongside Wanda and Natasha. Training becomes less about teaching you and more about refining what already comes naturally.

You spend mornings following Natasha through obstacle courses and afternoons stretched across the common room floor while Wanda reads with her feet resting against your side. Life settles back into its familiar rhythm.

On the afternoon everything changes, the team has gathered outside to enjoy one of the rare warm days where nobody is actively saving the world. Someone has produced a baseball bat. Someone else has produced enough enthusiasm to convince half the team to participate.

Natasha is currently standing in the middle of the makeshift field arguing with Clint about rules that neither of them are actually following. Sam is laughing. Steve is trying unsuccessfully to keep things organised. Tony is insisting that technology should be allowed in sports. Morgan is cheering for whichever team happens to be winning at any given moment.

You lie comfortably in the grass nearby with your head resting across Wanda’s lap while her fingers move absentmindedly through the fur around your neck. The collar sits comfortably against your throat now, so familiar you barely notice it anymore. Every now and then Wanda scratches behind your ears and you find yourself leaning into it without thinking.

Across the field Natasha glances over and catches the sight. “Spoiled,” she calls. Wanda doesn’t even look up from her book. “She’s earned it.” You close your eyes, content to simply enjoy the moment. The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air. Laughter drifts across the compound grounds. Everything feels peaceful.

Then the wind changes.

Your eyes snap open instantly.

The scent hits you before anything else.

Wolf.

Not one.

Many.

Every muscle in your body immediately locks.

Wanda notices the change at once. Her hand stills against your fur. “Detka?” she asks quietly. Across the field Natasha turns as well. Years of experience make her notice danger the same way you do. The laughter gradually dies as the team picks up on the tension spreading through both of you.

The bushes bordering the compound begin to shake. Once. Twice. Then violently. Steve straightens immediately. Natasha lowers the baseball bat. Wanda stands. For several long seconds, nobody moves.

Then figures begin emerging from the tree line. One after another. And another. And another. Some appear fully human. Others remain in wolf form. Every single one carries themselves with the same confidence as an apex predator. They are large. Powerful. Scarred by years of survival. Several of the wolves are nearly your size. One is larger. The atmosphere changes instantly. Even the Avengers look unsettled.

The newcomers don’t appear frightened by the heavily armed superheroes standing between them and the compound. If anything, they barely seem interested. Their eyes pass over the team entirely. Their focus settles on only one person. You.

By now you’ve already risen to your feet. Your tail is rigid. Your ears flattened. A low growl vibrates through your chest. The wolves spread slightly as they approach. Not threatening the Avengers. Not even acknowledging them. Their attention remains fixed entirely on you.

The first voice comes from a broad-shouldered man standing at the front of the group. “There you are.” The words immediately freeze half the team. Because wolves aren’t supposed to talk. Behind him, a woman folds her arms and openly scoffs. “Unbelievable.” Her gaze drifts over your collar. Over Wanda. Over Natasha. Disgust twists across her face. “Look at you.” Nobody says anything. Even Tony appears too stunned to interrupt. The man steps closer. “We’ve been looking for months.” Your growl deepens. “And this is what we find?” another pack member asks. “Living with humans?” “Wearing a collar?” “Sleeping in their house?”

The accusations come one after another. Natasha slowly moves toward your side. Wanda does the same. Neither woman takes their eyes off the strangers. “Care to explain what’s happening?” Natasha asks quietly. You can’t answer. Not without revealing everything.

Unfortunately, the pack has no such concerns. The broad-shouldered man laughs harshly. “You didn’t tell them?” Wanda’s expression shifts. “Tell us what?” The woman beside him gestures directly toward you. “That she’s one of us.” Silence falls across the field. You feel it immediately. The confusion. The disbelief. Wanda’s gaze snaps toward you. Natasha’s follows a second later. “One of you?” Steve asks carefully. The man smirks. “A werewolf.” The word lands like a grenade.

For several seconds nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Then all at once the carefully controlled situation collapses. “You’re kidding,” Tony says. “You’re not kidding.” Clint looks personally offended. “The wolf was a person this entire time?” “Technically,” Sam mutters. Natasha still hasn’t looked away from you. Neither has Wanda. The emotions flickering across their faces are impossible to ignore. Confusion. Shock. Hurt.

Not because you’re a werewolf. Because you’ve apparently been capable of understanding everything for months without ever being able to tell them. The pack continues speaking. “You abandoned us.” “For them.” “You traded your pack for humans.” “For a collar.”

The last comment finally snaps something inside you. Before anyone can react, you’re moving. The nearest wolf barely has time to dodge before you slam into him. The impact sends both of you tumbling through the grass. Another pack member lunges. You meet her head-on.

The fight erupts instantly. Growls tear through the air. Teeth flash. Bodies collide. Years of resentment and frustration explode all at once. The Avengers start forward. Steve shouts something. Natasha curses. Wanda’s eyes begin glowing red. None of it matters. Not until one particularly large wolf crashes into you and the two of you roll dangerously close to Morgan’s position. That is the moment Wanda finally intervenes.

Chaos simply stops.

Scarlet energy erupts across the field.

Every werewolf is ripped apart from the fight and suspended in midair before they can react. You included. One moment you’re snarling at a pack member. The next you’re floating several feet above the ground, completely immobilised by Wanda’s magic.

The field falls silent except for heavy breathing. Wanda stands in the centre of it all. Her eyes glow brightly. Her expression is impossible to read. Natasha steps forward beside her. Neither woman looks angry. Somehow that makes it worse.

They look hurt. Genuinely hurt. Wanda’s gaze settles on you first. Then on the collar around your neck. Then back to your eyes. “You understood us,” she says quietly. It isn’t really a question. Natasha folds her arms. “Months.” The word hangs heavily in the air.

Around you, the rest of your pack remains trapped in scarlet energy while the Avengers stare in stunned silence. Nobody seems entirely sure what to do next. Least of all you. Because for the first time since arriving at the compound, there is no hiding behind being a wolf. No pretending. No misunderstandings. The truth has finally arrived. And judging by the expressions on Wanda and Natasha’s faces, it may have cost far more than you ever intended.

Nobody says anything for a long time after Wanda stops the fight.

The field remains frozen in an uncomfortable silence broken only by heavy breathing and the distant rustling of leaves. Scarlet energy still glows around every member of your pack, holding them suspended several feet above the ground. The anger that had fuelled the confrontation has long since faded, leaving behind something much worse. Embarrassment. Regret. Uncertainty.

You remain trapped amongst Wanda’s magic as her gaze moves across the assembled werewolves. Some glare back defiantly. Others avoid her eyes entirely. The sheer power radiating from her is impossible to ignore. Even your pack seems to understand that pushing things further would be a very bad idea. Eventually Wanda takes a slow breath and lowers her hands slightly.

One by one, every member of your pack is released. Boots hit grass. Paws hit dirt. Nobody immediately moves. For several tense seconds it seems like another fight might break out. Then the broad-shouldered man who had spoken first glances toward you. His expression softens slightly, though not by much. “Come on,” he says quietly to the others. The woman beside him gives one final look toward the compound before turning away.

Gradually the rest of the pack follows. Human forms disappear back toward the tree line. Wolves melt into the shadows between the trees. Within moments the forest begins swallowing them once more. They leave without another word. Without another accusation. Without looking back. Everyone is released except you. Scarlet magic continues holding you motionless above the grass while Wanda watches the last traces of your former life disappear into the woods.

The moment the final pack member vanishes from sight, Wanda’s attention returns entirely to you. Natasha’s does too. Somehow that feels significantly more intimidating. Neither woman appears angry. You almost wish they were. Anger would be easier. Simpler. Instead they simply look at you. Really look at you. As though they’re trying to reconcile the wolf they’ve spent months caring for with the person they now know has been hiding behind those golden eyes the entire time.

Natasha’s expression remains unreadable, though the hurt is obvious if you know where to look. Wanda doesn’t even attempt to hide hers. Confusion flickers across her face. Questions. Doubt. She opens her mouth as if to say something. Then closes it again. Whatever words she had don’t seem sufficient. For several more seconds nobody moves.

Then, without warning, the magic disappears. You drop back onto all four paws. The impact barely registers. Your attention remains fixed entirely on the two women standing before you. Wanda studies you one final time before turning away. No dramatic speech. No confrontation. No shouting. She simply turns and begins walking toward the compound. Natasha hesitates slightly longer. For a brief moment it almost looks like she wants to say something. Instead she follows Wanda. Together they disappear through the glass doors and leave you standing alone on the lawn.

One by one, the others eventually follow. Steve offers you a sympathetic look before heading inside. Bruce looks concerned. Clint awkwardly pretends not to be staring. Sam gives a small nod before leaving as well. Nobody knows what to say. How could they?

The wolf they’ve been living with for months apparently isn’t a wolf at all. Eventually the field empties entirely. The baseball game is forgotten. The equipment remains scattered across the grass. The afternoon sunlight gradually shifts toward evening. Through it all, you don’t move. You simply stand there.

The compound’s enormous glass walls make it impossible to avoid looking inside. Every room seems brighter now. More distant. More unreachable. Occasionally you catch glimpses of Wanda moving through the common room. Natasha appears beside her. Sometimes they’re talking. Sometimes they’re simply sitting together. Every so often one of them glances toward the window. Toward you.

The looks aren’t angry. That’s what hurts the most. They aren’t glaring. They aren’t avoiding you. They just look thoughtful. Processing. Trying to understand. Hours pass this way. The sun sinks lower. Shadows stretch across the grounds. Inside, life continues. Outside, you remain exactly where they left you.

As darkness begins creeping across the compound, a strange realisation slowly settles over you. You have spent months building a life here. Months becoming part of something. You learned routines. Earned trust. Found a place within a new pack. Yet standing alone in the grass, watching the people you care about through a wall of glass, you’ve never felt further away from them.

The truth is finally out. The secret you’ve carried since the day you collapsed outside the compound no longer exists. And somehow everything feels worse now than it did when nobody knew.

Your eyes find Wanda one final time. She’s sitting beside Natasha on the couch. Neither woman is looking outside at the moment. For the first time all day, you finally break your stare away from the compound. Slowly, you turn around. The forest waits silently beyond the edge of the property. Familiar. Dark. Home. Or at least it used to be.

You take a step toward it. Then another. Nobody notices. Nobody stops you. The grass gives way to dirt beneath your paws. Trees begin surrounding you once again. Within minutes the compound is hidden behind trunks and leaves. The lights disappear. The voices vanish. Soon there is nothing left except the forest stretching endlessly ahead. And without allowing yourself a chance to look back, you continue walking deeper into the darkness.

The compound feels wrong that night.

Not quieter. Not emptier. Wrong.

The difference is subtle enough that neither Wanda nor Natasha notices it immediately. After everything that happened outside, after the pack, the revelations, the fight and the silence that followed, neither woman has much energy left for analysing why the atmosphere feels off. They simply move through the evening together.

Natasha makes coffee she never drinks. Wanda spends almost an hour staring at a book without turning a single page. Neither brings up you. Neither brings up the fact that the wolf they’ve spent months caring for apparently understood every conversation, every argument and every embarrassing nickname they’d ever used around you. Neither mentions the look on your face when you realised they were hurt.

Eventually exhaustion wins over confusion and they make their way upstairs. The routine is automatic by now. Natasha brushes her teeth. Wanda changes into pyjamas. Lights are switched off. Curtains are drawn. The bedroom settles into darkness.

For a few moments both women simply stand there staring at their bed. The bed that suddenly seems much larger than it did yesterday. Wanda climbs in first, pulling the blankets over herself before instinctively leaving a gap near the foot of the mattress. Natasha notices immediately. Neither comments on it.

A few seconds later Natasha slides beneath the covers as well. Silence settles between them. The room should feel familiar. Comfortable. Safe. Instead there is a strange absence hanging over everything. An absence both women are becoming increasingly aware of.

Wanda is the first to suffer from it. Sleep refuses to come. She shifts onto one side. Then the other. Pulls the blankets higher. Kicks them lower. Every position feels wrong. More than once her foot drifts toward the bottom of the bed without conscious thought, searching for a familiar bundle of fur that should be curled there.

Every single time she remembers halfway through the movement and immediately stills. The first few times it’s merely frustrating. After the fifth or sixth attempt it starts becoming painful. Beside her, Natasha remains motionless. At least outwardly. Her hands rest behind her head while she stares up at the ceiling as though it contains some secret answer she hasn’t found yet. It doesn’t. The ceiling remains spectacularly unhelpful.

Hours seem to pass with neither woman speaking. Eventually Wanda lets out a quiet huff and rolls onto her back again. “Stop looking at the ceiling.” Natasha doesn’t move. “I’m thinking.” “The ceiling isn’t helping.” “I know.” Another silence follows. Longer this time. “Do you think she left?” Wanda finally asks. Natasha closes her eyes briefly.

The question hangs heavily in the darkness. “No.” The answer comes immediately. Certain. Confident. Wanda turns her head. “You don’t?” “No.” Natasha stares upward again. “She’s stubborn.” Despite everything, a tiny smile briefly appears on Wanda’s face. It disappears just as quickly.

Eventually they both drift asleep. Not properly. Not deeply. The sort of sleep people fall into when their minds refuse to fully switch off. Every few hours one of them wakes. Sometimes it’s Natasha checking the time. Sometimes it’s Wanda reaching toward the foot of the bed before remembering why it’s empty. Neither sleeps for longer than an hour or two at a time.

By the time morning finally arrives, both women feel exhausted. The pale sunlight creeping through the curtains drags them awake properly. Neither moves for several moments. They simply lie there staring at opposite walls. Thinking. Processing. Wondering. Finally Wanda sits up. Natasha does the same. No discussion takes place. None is necessary.

One look passes between them and an entire conversation somehow happens without words. They both know exactly what the other is thinking. Whatever happened yesterday, whatever conversations need to happen later, whatever questions remain unanswered, the first thing they need to do is find you.

Wanda is already climbing out of bed by the time Natasha stands. Within minutes they’re dressed and heading downstairs together. Neither heads toward the kitchen. Neither stops for coffee. They walk straight through the compound and out onto the grounds where they’d last seen you standing.

The morning air is cool. Dew clings to the grass. The field remains exactly as it was left yesterday. A few forgotten pieces of baseball equipment still lie scattered near the edge of the lawn. Wanda scans the area immediately. Natasha does the same. Neither sees what they’re looking for.

For several seconds they continue walking forward anyway, as though expecting you to appear from behind a tree or emerge from somewhere nearby. Nothing happens. The patch of grass where you’d stood for hours is empty. Wanda’s pace slows. Natasha’s expression tightens slightly. Together they reach the edge of the property and stop. Beyond them, the forest stretches endlessly in every direction. Dense. Silent. Unfamiliar. The same forest you’d disappeared into the night before.

Wanda studies the tree line for a long moment. Then another. Then another. Eventually she lowers her gaze. Natasha follows the direction of her stare. There, pressed into the damp earth at the forest’s edge, are a set of pawprints leading away from the compound. Deep. Clear. Fresh enough that neither woman has any trouble recognising them.

Neither speaks. Neither needs to. Because for the first time since finding an injured wolf bleeding on their lawn all those months ago, there is no sign of you anywhere.

The panic begins approximately thirty seconds after Wanda and Natasha reach the tree line.

At first neither of them says the word out loud. Neither woman is particularly eager to admit that they’re worried. Wanda keeps insisting there must be a reasonable explanation. Natasha keeps insisting that if you wanted to leave permanently, you would have done so months ago. Both arguments sound increasingly hollow with every passing minute. The pawprints leading into the forest are impossible to miss. Fresh enough to follow. Clear enough to confirm exactly where you’d gone.

Before long they’re gathering supplies and heading into the woods themselves. Steve attempts to convince them to bring backup. Natasha refuses. Tony suggests drones. Wanda ignores him entirely. Within an hour they’re moving between the trees, following the trail deeper than either of them has ever travelled before. The forest surrounding the compound is enormous. Larger than most people realise. The Avengers have mapped sections closest to the facility, primarily for security purposes, but nobody has ever found much reason to venture further.

As the hours pass, even those familiar landmarks disappear. Cell signals fade. Marked routes vanish. The terrain becomes rougher and less travelled. More natural. More wild. Wanda occasionally spots broken branches or faint traces of movement through the undergrowth. Natasha finds tracks. Neither says much. Both remain focused entirely on finding you.

By the third hour of walking, even Natasha is beginning to look concerned. “How far out does this forest go?” Wanda asks quietly. Natasha studies the endless trees ahead. “Apparently further than we thought.”

Eventually the landscape begins changing. The signs are subtle at first. A narrow path that clearly didn’t form naturally. Cut logs stacked neatly beside a stream. Marks on trees. Evidence that people live here. Both women immediately become more alert.

They continue following the trail until the forest finally opens into a small clearing. Nestled amongst the trees sits a structure that looks somewhere between a cabin and a hunting lodge. Smoke curls lazily from a stone chimney. The building itself appears handmade, weathered by years of exposure.

Natasha and Wanda exchange a look. Neither says anything. They simply continue forward. A few minutes later another building appears. Then another. Then two more. Some are little more than huts. Others are larger communal structures. Children dart between them. A few wolves nap lazily beneath shaded trees.

Human voices drift through the air. The entire settlement seems to emerge naturally from the forest itself, hidden so effectively that it would be almost impossible to locate without knowing exactly where to look. “This has to be it,” Wanda murmurs. Natasha nods slowly. “Pack territory.” The words feel strange to say aloud. Until yesterday werewolves had been something neither of them believed existed. Now they’re standing in the middle of an entire village filled with them.

The pack notices them almost immediately.

Conversations gradually stop as heads turn toward the newcomers. Several adults rise from where they’d been sitting. None appear particularly alarmed. Curious, perhaps. Wary. But not hostile. Many of the faces are familiar from the confrontation outside the compound. The broad-shouldered man stands near one of the larger buildings speaking with a younger wolf. The woman who had mocked your collar the day before sits sharpening a knife near a fire pit. Several pups in wolf form immediately stop playing to stare openly at the strangers.

Natasha instinctively scans the area. Wanda does the same. Both searching for the same thing. Brown fur. Golden eyes. Any sign of you. They find neither. Instead Wanda suddenly stops walking altogether. Natasha notices immediately. “What?” Wanda doesn’t answer. She simply points.

Standing beside one of the largest huts in the settlement is a carved wooden post.

And hanging from that post is your collar.

The thick padded leather is unmistakable. Wanda recognises it instantly because she spent almost forty minutes choosing it. Natasha recognises it because she spent twenty arguing over which design looked least ridiculous. The metal tag glints softly in the sunlight. Wanda’s symbol on one side. Natasha’s on the other.

Seeing it hanging there feels strangely wrong. Too final. Too deliberate. For several seconds neither woman moves. The sight creates an uncomfortable knot somewhere deep in Wanda’s chest. Natasha’s jaw tightens slightly. The collar had become part of you. As ridiculous as that sounds. Seeing it removed and abandoned here feels like a message neither of them particularly enjoys receiving. “Well,” Natasha says carefully. “She’s definitely been here.”

“Obviously.”

“Not helping.”

Wanda doesn’t respond.

Because a much larger problem has just occurred to her.

Every werewolf in sight appears human.

Every single one.

The adults standing nearby. The children. The people moving between buildings. None of them resemble the wolf they’ve spent months living with. Not because you aren’t here.

Because they have absolutely no idea what you actually look like.

The realisation arrives simultaneously for both women.

Months.

They’ve known you for months.

They know your favourite sleeping spot. Your favourite food. The exact way your ears twitch when you’re annoyed. They know you secretly like being brushed despite pretending otherwise. They know you steal Wanda’s side of the bed whenever given the opportunity.

Yet they don’t know the simplest thing of all.

Your face.

Natasha slowly looks around the settlement again.

“Do you know which one she is?”

Wanda opens her mouth.

Then closes it.

Because she doesn’t.

Neither of them do.

Somewhere amongst the dozens of werewolves moving through the village is the person they’ve spent months caring about. And they have absolutely no idea who they’re looking for.

You catch their scent long before you actually see them.

Even amongst dozens of pack members, countless overlapping smells and the constant presence of the forest itself, their scents remain unmistakable. Wanda’s carries traces of coffee, old books and something warm that has always reminded you of home. Natasha’s carries leather, gunpowder and the faintest hint of whatever shampoo she stubbornly refuses to admit she uses.

The moment those scents reach you, every muscle in your body locks. You’d spent the entire night convincing yourself they wouldn’t come. That they’d be angry. That they’d be relieved to finally be rid of the giant wolf that had apparently lied to them for months. Yet somehow, despite all logic, they’d followed you. Followed you further into the forest than any human should reasonably be willing to travel.

Now, standing amongst your pack in a half-shifted form, you find yourself wishing you’d had more time to prepare. Thirty feet separates you from them. Thirty feet and an entire world of uncertainty. Around you, other pack members continue watching the strangers cautiously. Some are openly suspicious. Others merely curious. You barely notice any of them. Your attention remains fixed entirely on the two women standing near the central huts.

Seeing them here makes everything hurt far worse than it did yesterday. Guilt twists painfully inside your chest. Every memory seems determined to replay itself at once. Wanda sneaking you treats when Bruce said no. Natasha pretending she didn’t enjoy your company while secretly building you a blanket nest. Movie nights. Training sessions. Sleeping curled at their feet before eventually earning a place on the actual bed. You’d never meant to deceive them. Not really. Yet looking at them now, you can suddenly understand exactly why they felt betrayed.

Unfortunately, your body chooses this exact moment to completely betray you as well.

Specifically, your tail.

At first it’s only a slight movement behind you. Barely noticeable. Then Natasha shifts her weight slightly and your tail immediately starts wagging. You freeze. It freezes. Wanda turns her head and your tail starts wagging again. Mortified, you attempt to force it still. The effort lasts approximately three seconds. Because despite everything that happened yesterday, despite the guilt currently eating you alive, despite being surrounded by your actual pack, seeing them again fills you with an embarrassing amount of happiness.

Your ears flatten slightly as you realise exactly what this means. Somewhere along the way, entirely against your better judgement, you’ve become hopelessly attached. Across the clearing, Natasha’s eyes narrow. You know that look. It is the look of a predator noticing something important. The same look she gets during missions. The same look she gets whenever Clint attempts to lie.

Your tail continues wagging. “Traitor,” you mutter under your breath. The tail does not care. Natasha’s gaze moves across you carefully. Not threatening. Not judgemental. Just observant. She notices your eyes repeatedly flicking toward the collar hanging from the wooden post. She notices how quickly your attention returns to her and Wanda every time you try looking elsewhere. She notices the obvious guilt written all over your face.

Most importantly, she notices that every other werewolf in the clearing is looking at her and Wanda like outsiders. Potential threats. Strangers. You’re looking at them like you’ve just found something important that you thought you’d lost.

The problem, unfortunately, is that Natasha Romanoff is very, very good at noticing things.

“You see that?” she asks quietly.

Wanda follows her gaze.

For several seconds she doesn’t seem to understand what Natasha means.

Then she notices your tail.

A tiny, unwilling smile immediately appears before she quickly suppresses it.

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

The smile almost returns.

Meanwhile, neither woman seems particularly prepared for finally discovering what you actually look like. Back at the compound, every image they’d ever formed of you had been filtered through fur, paws and golden eyes. The reality standing before them is… different. Your half-shifted form leaves the wolf traits obvious enough. Brown ears protrude through your hair. Your tail continues its humiliating display behind you. Yet the rest of you is undeniably human. Or close enough.

Like most of the pack, your clothing consists primarily of practical materials gathered from the forest itself. Leather wraps around your waist. Woven vines and natural fibres cover your chest and shoulders. Functional. Traditional. Entirely normal by pack standards. The arrangement leaves your arms and much of your skin exposed, revealing years of hunting, climbing and surviving in the wilderness. Strong muscles shift beneath sun-bronzed skin every time you move.

Yet somehow the intimidating image is completely ruined by the fact your tail refuses to stop wagging. Natasha notices that too. In fact, she notices everything. Her expression slowly becomes more complicated with every passing second. Wanda seems equally distracted. Neither woman had expected this. Not really. They’d imagined meeting you eventually. They’d wondered about it countless times without realising it. But now that the moment has actually arrived, neither seems entirely certain what to do.

The silence stretches.

You don’t approach them.

They don’t approach you.

The distance remains exactly the same.

Yet somehow it feels far smaller than it did a few minutes ago.

Around the clearing, several pack members are beginning to notice the strange exchange taking place. The broad-shouldered man who’d confronted you outside the compound folds his arms. A few of the younger wolves openly watch with interest. One of the elders looks suspiciously amused.

You wish the ground would swallow you whole. Your tail is still wagging. Natasha is still watching. Wanda’s gaze keeps softening every time your eyes meet hers. Everything is becoming increasingly unbearable. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Wanda finally takes a small step forward. Not enough to invade your space. Not enough to force anything. Just one step. The sort of step someone takes when approaching a frightened animal. Or perhaps someone they care about.

Your tail somehow wags even harder. Natasha immediately notices. Of course she does. And for the first time since arriving at the pack grounds, a faint smirk appears on her face.

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“What?” Wanda asks.

Natasha never takes her eyes off you.

“I think we found her.”

And despite everything, your stupid tail practically confirms it for her.

The moment Natasha says it, every survival instinct you possess immediately takes over.

Run.

The command slams through your brain with enough force to make your ears flatten against your head.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. The second Wanda takes another step forward, you turn and bolt. Straight into the forest. Branches whip past as you sprint between trees, heart hammering violently against your ribs. Behind you, voices erupt from the clearing. You don’t stay long enough to hear what they’re saying. Shame burns through every inch of you. Embarrassment. Guilt. Relief. All twisted together into something impossible to untangle. You’d spent months imagining what would happen if Wanda and Natasha discovered the truth. Somehow every scenario had been less humiliating than this one.

Because now they knew. They knew you understood every conversation. Every argument. Every movie night. Every time Natasha secretly let you onto the bed after pretending not to want you there. Every time Wanda called you pet names when she thought nobody was listening. And worst of all, they knew exactly how attached you’d become.

Your tail had made absolutely sure of that. You hear movement behind you. Not footsteps. Something much worse. Red magic.

“Oh come on,” you groan.

A second later scarlet energy wraps around your waist. The forest disappears beneath your feet. You immediately find yourself suspended several feet in the air.

“Really?” you call.

“Really,” Wanda’s voice replies.

The world moves alarmingly fast as the magic carries you backwards through the trees. Several branches narrowly miss your face. One doesn’t. “Ow.”

“You ran.”

“I panicked.”

“You always panic.”

“I do not always panic.”

“You literally turned around and sprinted away.”

Unfortunately, she has a point.

The clearing comes back into view moments later. Several amused pack members are openly watching the entire thing. One of the elders is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.

You decide you hate everyone. Especially Wanda. Mostly because she’s right. The magic finally lowers you back onto solid ground a few feet from the two women.

For a moment nobody moves. You stare at the grass. Wanda stares at you. Natasha stares at you. The silence stretches.

Then suddenly both women are moving. Before you can react, Wanda’s arms are around your shoulders. At almost the exact same moment Natasha wraps her arms around your waist. The impact nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“What—”

Wanda hugs tighter. Natasha somehow hugs tighter than that. The result is less a hug and more a coordinated assault.

“You idiot,” Natasha mutters.

You blink. That isn’t the response you expected.

“We thought you were gone,” Wanda says quietly.

Her voice sounds suspiciously emotional. Your confusion only deepens.

“You left.”

“You left us first.”

“I thought you hated me.”

Both women immediately pull back just enough to stare at you. The looks on their faces are almost offended.

“Hate you?” Wanda repeats.

“You lied to us,” Natasha says. “That’s not the same thing. We were confused. We were hurt. But we didn’t hate you.”

Wanda’s arms tighten again.

“If anything,” she admits quietly, “we were more upset with ourselves.”

You frown.

“What?”

The women exchange a glance. Then Natasha sighs.

“We shouldn’t have left you out there.”

Your ears twitch.

“What?”

“Yesterday,” Wanda says softly. “After the fight.”

The guilt returns immediately.

“We found out this huge secret and instead of talking to you…” Her expression falls slightly. “We just walked away.”

“You were hurt.”

“So were you.”

The simple response steals every argument from your mouth.

For several moments nobody says anything. The forest around you feels strangely distant. Eventually you lower your gaze.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Wanda and Natasha remain silent. Waiting. So you continue.

“At first I couldn’t.”

Your tail lowers slightly behind you.

“Then after I healed…” You swallow. “You already thought I was a wolf.”

Natasha nods slowly.

“And every day that passed made it harder.”

You laugh weakly.

“How do you even start that conversation?”

Neither woman interrupts.

“‘Hey, thanks for rescuing me. Also I’ve secretly understood every word you’ve said for six months.’”

To your immense relief, Natasha snorts. Wanda covers her mouth. Encouraged, you continue.

“Then I got scared.”

Their expressions soften immediately.

“If I told you, everything would’ve changed.”

Your eyes finally lift to meet theirs.

“And I liked it.”

The admission leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You immediately regret it. Your tail, however, begins wagging. Traitor.

“I liked being there.”

Wanda’s eyes soften even further.

“The compound felt like home.”

Your throat tightens.

“You felt like home.”

Silence follows. A dangerous silence. The sort that makes your heart beat significantly faster. Especially when Natasha keeps looking at you like that. You try very hard not to notice. Really. You do. Unfortunately, Natasha Romanoff has spent the last several minutes finally getting a proper look at you.

A very proper look.

Your half-shifted form leaves very little to the imagination compared to the giant wolf she’d become accustomed to. Years of hunting and surviving in the wilderness are obvious in every movement. Strong muscles shift beneath sun-warmed skin. Wolf ears protrude through your hair. Your tail continues wagging with absolutely no regard for your dignity whatsoever.

Natasha notices all of it. Every single bit. You pretend not to. Desperately. The problem is that pretending becomes significantly harder when her gaze briefly drops before returning to your face. Then does it again. Your tail somehow wags harder. Mortified, you immediately focus on literally anything else. Trees. Clouds. The ground. A random squirrel. Anything.

Across from you, Natasha’s lips twitch suspiciously. Wanda notices both your tail and Natasha’s expression at the exact same moment.

“Oh my god,” Wanda says.

“What?” you ask instantly.

“Nothing.”

Natasha looks away far too quickly. Your tail continues wagging. The elder watching nearby starts laughing again. And for the first time since everything fell apart outside the compound, Wanda and Natasha are smiling.

The conversation with your pack takes far longer than expected. Not because anyone is actively trying to stop you from leaving, but because the entire settlement seems fascinated by the fact that two Avengers have wandered several hours into werewolf territory just to find you.

By the time the sun begins dipping lower through the trees, you’ve endured enough teasing to last a lifetime. The elder who had laughed at your tail earlier somehow finds even more reasons to do so. The broad-shouldered man apologises, in his own gruff way, for causing problems at the compound. Several of the younger wolves openly ask Natasha questions about fighting. Through all of it, Wanda remains close enough that her shoulder occasionally brushes yours, while Natasha hovers nearby with the casual protectiveness of somebody pretending not to be protective at all.

Eventually the topic everyone has been carefully avoiding finally comes up. “So,” Wanda says softly, glancing toward the path leading back through the forest. “Are you coming home?” The simple question immediately steals your attention. Home. Not the compound. Not the Avengers facility. Home.

Your ears twitch slightly. Natasha notices. Of course she does. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily,” she adds. “Besides.” A faint smirk appears on her face. “You’re our girl.” Heat immediately rises into your cheeks. Wanda smiles. “Our best girl.” Your tail begins wagging before you can stop it.

Around you, several pack members groan dramatically. One of them pretends to gag. You completely ignore them. Because despite everything that happened, despite the confusion and hurt and misunderstandings, the thought of returning with Wanda and Natasha fills your chest with a warmth you haven’t felt since leaving the compound. The decision becomes surprisingly easy after that.

The journey back feels very different from the journey out. Nobody is rushing this time. Nobody is desperately following tracks or searching for signs. Instead, the three of you walk together through the forest, gradually leaving the hidden settlement behind. Conversation comes slowly at first. Then more naturally. Wanda asks questions about your pack. Natasha asks questions about shifting.

You answer what you can. Some things make sense to them. Some clearly don’t. More than once Natasha has to stop herself from reaching out to touch your ears when they twitch. More than once Wanda fails entirely. By the time the compound finally comes into view through the trees, the tension that had lingered since the confrontation outside has largely disappeared.

Unfortunately, a new problem immediately presents itself. Namely: the rest of the Avengers. “Absolutely not,” Natasha says the second the building comes into view. “Absolutely not what?” you ask. “If Clint sees you first, we’re never hearing the end of it.” Wanda immediately agrees. “Or Tony.” “Definitely Tony.” “Especially Tony.” Before you can question their logic further, you’re being ushered around the side of the compound like part of some highly classified operation.

Thankfully, the boys appear distracted elsewhere. Within minutes you’ve been successfully smuggled through side corridors, up elevators and into Wanda and Natasha’s room without a single person spotting you. Natasha actually looks proud of herself afterwards. “See?” she says. “Perfect.” “We’re literally sneaking a werewolf into our bedroom,” Wanda points out. “Exactly.”

The moment the door closes behind you, however, both women suddenly seem to notice something they’d previously been too distracted to fully process. Specifically, your clothing situation. Or lack thereof, compared to normal human standards. You immediately become aware of it the second Wanda’s eyes flick downward. Then Natasha’s do. The woven vines across your chest. The leather around your waist. The practical attire of someone who grew up in the wilderness rather than modern civilisation. Perfectly normal amongst your pack. Significantly less normal standing in a high-tech Avengers compound.

“Right,” Wanda says after a moment. “We should probably fix that.” You glance down at yourself. “What’s wrong with it?” Natasha makes a small choking noise that suspiciously resembles laughter. Wanda immediately elbows her. “Nothing’s wrong with it.” “You just might be more comfortable in actual clothes.” “Actual clothes are overrated.”

Both women stare at you. “Actual clothes,” Natasha says firmly, “are happening.” Wanda disappears toward the wardrobe while Natasha remains where she is. For several moments neither speaks. Wanda begins sorting through drawers. Natasha watches her. Wanda glances back. Natasha watches her a little more. A completely silent conversation seems to pass between them.

One you’ve seen countless times over the months. Tiny expressions. Small looks. Entire discussions occurring without a single word. This one feels different somehow. More nervous. More deliberate. When Wanda finally turns back around holding a bundle of clothes, neither woman immediately moves to hand them over.

Instead, the room grows unexpectedly quiet.

You glance between them.

Then back again.

Your heart begins beating a little faster.

Natasha takes a single step forward.

Then another.

Close enough now that you can see every tiny detail in her expression. Every flicker of uncertainty. Every trace of affection she isn’t bothering to hide anymore. Her hand rises slowly, brushing lightly against your cheek. For a moment she simply looks at you. Really looks at you. Not the wolf she’d rescued months ago. Not the mystery she’d spent weeks trying to understand. Just you.

Then she leans forward.

The kiss is soft.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing demanding.

Just Natasha’s lips meeting yours as though she’s trying to memorise the feeling for the first time. The contact lasts only a few seconds before she slowly pulls away again. Yet somehow those few seconds leave your heart attempting to escape your chest entirely. Your tail is wagging. Obviously. Because apparently it has completely abandoned all loyalty to your dignity. Natasha’s forehead briefly rests against yours before she finally steps back.

And then Wanda is there.

Warm fingers finding your jaw.

A smile so soft it almost hurts.

She waits just long enough for you to look at her.

Then her lips meet yours too.

The kiss is every bit as gentle as Natasha’s had been.

Careful.

Affectionate.

Like she’s been wanting to do it for far longer than she’s willing to admit.

When she finally pulls away, the three of you remain standing there for a moment in complete silence.

The clothes are still forgotten in Wanda’s hands.

Your tail refuses to stop wagging.

And neither woman seems particularly interested in pretending they don’t find that adorable.

The room remains quiet after the kisses, though it feels like an entirely different kind of silence now. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Heavy. Warm. The sort of silence that settles between people when something important has finally been acknowledged.

Wanda is still holding the clothes she’d pulled from the wardrobe, though judging by the way her fingers have gone still against the fabric, she’d completely forgotten about them. Natasha remains standing close enough that you can feel her body heat, her attention fixed entirely on you with an intensity that makes it difficult to think straight. You become painfully aware of every little thing all at once. The way your heart is hammering against your ribs. The way your tail continues sweeping behind you despite your desperate attempts to stop it. The way both women keep looking at you differently now. Not because you’ve changed. Not because you’ve suddenly become someone else.

But because for the first time there are no misunderstandings left between you. No pretending. No secrets. Just you. Standing in front of them. And somehow that feels far more exposing than running around the compound covered in fur ever did.

A faint smile tugs at Natasha’s mouth as she watches your increasingly failed attempts to force your tail still. “You know,” she says, voice lower than before, “for somebody who spent months hiding the fact she understood everything we said, you’re actually terrible at keeping secrets.” Heat immediately rushes into your cheeks. Wanda lets out a soft laugh beside her. “She really is.” You groan and look away, only for Wanda to immediately reach out and guide your attention back toward them with a gentle hand beneath your chin.

The movement isn’t forceful. If anything, it’s almost unfairly tender. “Don’t hide now,” she murmurs. Her thumb brushes lightly across your cheek as she speaks, and the simple contact nearly short-circuits your brain. Natasha notices instantly. Of course she does. You see the amusement flicker across her expression before something softer replaces it. Something that makes your stomach perform an alarming number of somersaults. “Look at her,” Natasha says quietly. “She’s still trying to run.” “I am not.” “You literally ran into a forest earlier.” “That was different.” “Was it?” Natasha asks. “Because this looks exactly the same.”

Wanda laughs again, shaking her head fondly before finally setting the clothes down somewhere behind her. The action feels oddly significant. Like she’s consciously choosing not to interrupt whatever this moment has become. You swallow hard as both women remain close. Too close to ignore.

Then Natasha’s lips connect with yours again, hungrier this time. Like she’s a starved woman. Wanda appears behind. Her arms wrap around your waist and her lips connect with the side of your neck. If it weren’t for them holding you up, you’re sure you would’ve turned into mush on the floor by now.

Natasha finally parts from you, only to sink her teeth down into the side of your neck. A whimper escaped your mouth before you can stop it. You didn’t even realise when they started pulling your clothes off, and their own, until they were pulling you back towards the bed.

Wanda moves to sit against the headboard and pulls you down into her lap, your eyes immediately find her breasts. They’re bigger than yours, fuller. Her nipples stood hardened against the cold breeze and the arousal coursing through her body. Wanda follows your gaze and a soft smirk graces her lips. “You can touch, Detka. I don’t bite.” She murmurs as her hands find yours, pulling them up to her soft mounds.

Your tail wags even harder, if that was even possible at this point, as you squeeze her. Wanda watches as literal drool forms on your lips whilst you obsess over her body like a teenage boy seeing a bare woman for the first time. Her thumb absentmindedly wipes it away, even as her chest begins to heave from your touches. Then without warning, the digit moves into your mouth and your lips wrap around it like second nature.

You’d almost forgotten about Natasha at this point. Almost being the keyword. Then her hands wrap around your neck from behind and the familiar sound of your collar buckling sounds out as she attaches the thick leather back around your neck with a sultry whisper of: “You’re ours, pretty girl”

Wanda’s thumb, the one in your mouth, moves to press down on your tongue and a little whine escapes you. Natasha’s hands move from your neck and down to your own breasts, her large hands easily cup both of them before she rolls your nipples between her fingers. A broken moan slips from around Wanda’s thumb in your mouth.

Her eyes flicker red for a brief moment, and you feel something pressing against your core that wasn’t there before. You try to look down, but unfortunately Natasha keeps your head raised.

Wanda’s free hand moves down to the dick she’s enchanted into her body, guiding it to your entrance that is soaked by now. In one movement she bottoms out, causing you to cry out. Your teeth clamp down around her thumb but she doesn’t care or at least react to it.

Natasha’s hands find your hips and start moving you to grind against Wanda’s cock. Every movement of her inside you hits deep and hard, cries turn into moans as you get used to the feeling of her. Her thumb slides out of your mouth only to rub up and down your sides, occasionally squeezing your breasts.

One of Natasha’s hands moves from your hip to press hard circles against your throbbing clit, each one making your hips buck against her hand.

“You’re doing so good, pup… so good.” The praise comes from one of the girls, you can’t exactly tell which one, too lost in the pleasure of Wanda hitting every wall inside of you.

Her eyes glow red again, you barely pick it up this time. And before you know it, Natasha is rubbing, an admittedly smaller, cock against your ass. She uses the arousal from between your legs as makeshift lubricant before pushing the cock into your ass. That completely wrecks you. You collapse against Wanda’s bare chest, hands clutching the bedsheets beneath her as both your holes are fucked by the two most attractive women you’ve ever seen.

“Breathe baby, your okay… your doing amazing.” Wanda says, now rolling her own hips up into you since you stopped when you collapsed against her. She presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and guides your lips to wrap around her nipple. You easily take the hardened bud into your mouth, the skin muffled your cries and absorbs your tears. Wanda revels in this, her baby girl crying whilst taking two cocks at one. She couldn’t be prouder honestly.

Natasha’s hand on your hip moves to wrap around your waist, her movements are a lot more juttery and uncontrolled compared to Wanda’s. She’s also a lot louder than Wanda is, soft groans leaving her as she pressed her lips between your shoulder blades.

The feeling of being so full eventually pushes you over the edge, your back arches up and toes curl against nothing. You mouth opens but no sound comes out. Then like clockwork, both of the cocks inside you begin to twitch as the women let their loads sink into each of your holes.

The room gradually settles into a comfortable silence.

Not the awkward sort.

Not the uncertain sort.

The kind of silence that only exists between people who feel completely safe around one another.

You barely have enough energy left to move. Every muscle in your body feels heavy, your thoughts pleasantly slow and fuzzy as you remain curled against Wanda’s side beneath the blankets. At some point she’d pulled you fully against her chest, one arm wrapped securely around your shoulders while her fingers drift lazily through your hair. The motion is absent-minded. Instinctive. The same way she’d stroked your fur countless times when she thought you were just a wolf. Somehow the familiarity of it makes your chest ache.

Home. The word keeps returning. Home.

Natasha eventually slips out of bed with a quiet groan, disappearing into the bathroom for a few moments before returning with a damp cloth, a glass of water and an entire armful of snacks she’d apparently stolen from somewhere. You watch her approach through half-lidded eyes, your ears twitching lazily when she sits back down beside you.

“Were those already in here?” you mumble.

“No.”

“Did you go downstairs?”

“Maybe.”

“Natasha.”

“What?”

“You robbed the kitchen.”

“It wasn’t robbery.”

Wanda doesn’t even open her eyes.

“It was absolutely robbery.”

“I live here.”

“You stole my crackers.”

“I stole our crackers.”

Wanda finally peeks one eye open.

“That isn’t better.”

Natasha looks deeply offended.

You let out a tired laugh and immediately regret it because it uses far too much energy.

“There she is,” Wanda murmurs softly.

One of her hands leaves your hair long enough to gently cup your cheek.

“You okay, Detka?”

The concern in her voice immediately melts something inside your chest. You nod. Then, after a moment’s consideration, shake your head. Then nod again. Both women laugh.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

“It means she’s tired,” Natasha says knowingly.

“I am not.”

“You once fell asleep standing up.”

“That happened one time.”

“It happened three times.”

You glare weakly. Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself.

The glass of water is gently pushed into your hands before you can continue arguing. Both women watch until you’ve taken several proper drinks. Only then does Natasha seem satisfied. The crackers are next. You take one mostly because refusing seems like too much effort. Then another. Then another.

“You were prepared for this,” you realise.

Natasha shrugs. “I know you.”

Wanda hums in agreement. ”She does.”

Your tail immediately thumps beneath the blankets.

Traitor.

The movement earns a smile from both women.

“You did good today, pup.”

The praise catches you completely off guard.

Your ears twitch.

Natasha reaches over and scratches lightly behind one of them.

“You came back.”

Something unexpectedly emotional tightens in your chest.

You lower your gaze. “I almost didn’t.”

The admission slips out quietly. Immediately both women go still. Wanda’s arm tightens around your shoulders. Natasha’s expression softens.

“Hey.”

You glance up. Natasha is looking directly at you now.

“You came back.”

The words are simple. Matter-of-fact. Yet somehow they hit harder than anything else could have. Because she’s right. You did. And they came looking for you. The thought settles warmly somewhere beneath your ribs.

Before the room can become too emotional, Wanda reaches for another cracker and immediately discovers Natasha has already eaten half the packet.

Her eyes narrow.

“Natasha.”

“What?”

“You ate all the cheese ones.”

“No I didn’t.”

“There are literally none left.”

Natasha glances into the packet.

“Oh.”

“Natasha.”

“I didn’t realise.”

“You absolutely realised.”

“It happened accidentally.”

“You sorted them.”

“I was organising.”

“You organised them into your mouth.”

You bury your face against Wanda’s shoulder as laughter threatens to escape.

Natasha points accusingly.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m not encouraging anything.”

“You are smiling.”

“Because you’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

Wanda’s entire expression softens instantly.

“Unfortunately.”

“See?”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It was close enough.”

The argument continues for another ten minutes. It isn’t really an argument. Just the familiar back-and-forth that you’ve spent months listening to from various corners of the compound. The same bickering that always ends with one of them laughing and the other pretending they aren’t.

Somewhere during it, your eyes begin drifting closed. Wanda notices first. Of course she does. Her fingers never stop moving through your hair. Natasha notices a few moments later when your head slowly slides further onto Wanda’s shoulder.

“Oh, she’s gone.”

“I’m not gone.”

“You answered that three seconds late.”

You choose not to respond. Mostly because you are, in fact, nearly asleep.

A warm blanket is pulled higher around you. Someone presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another to the top of your head. You aren’t entirely sure who does which.

By the time the girls finally stop bickering and settle down themselves, you’re practically glued to Wanda’s side, your tail loosely wrapped around both of their legs beneath the blankets.

Safe. Warm. Loved.

The last thing you hear before sleep finally wins is Natasha’s quiet voice from somewhere beside you.

“Our girl.”

Wanda immediately hums in agreement.

“Our best girl.”

Your tail gives one final sleepy wag.

Then everything fades into darkness.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

Masterlist

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

The first time you notice it, it feels like déjà vu stretched just a little too thin.

Not the usual kind—where something is vaguely familiar, like a dream slipping through your fingers—but something sharper. Precise. The way the barista at the café smiles at you before you even speak, already reaching for the exact drink you were about to order. The way a stranger on the street sidesteps you before you even move. The way the same song hums faintly from passing cars at the exact same point in its chorus, over and over.

You brush it off at first. People do that. Your brain fills in patterns where there are none. That’s what you tell yourself.

Until you meet her.

She’s standing outside your building like she’s been waiting. Not pacing, not checking her phone—just there, still and composed, like a fixed point in everything that feels slightly off. Her eyes find yours immediately, like they’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe they have. There’s something about the way she looks at you that makes your chest tighten, like recognition without memory.

“Hi,” she says softly, as if she’s careful not to startle you.

You hesitate. “Do I know you?”

There’s the smallest flicker across her face. Not surprise—something closer to disappointment, quickly masked. “Not yet.”

You should walk away. Every instinct tells you that this is strange, that something about her presence doesn’t line up with reality the way it should. But there’s a calmness in her voice that settles over your nerves like a weighted blanket.

She steps closer, slow enough to give you time to retreat. You don’t.

“I’m Wanda,” she says. “And you’re… stuck.”

You blink. “Stuck?”

“In a loop.” Her gaze searches yours, intense but not unkind. “Same day. It resets. Over and over.”

You laugh, because what else are you supposed to do with that? “Right. And you just decided to tell me that outside my building?”

“I’ve told you before,” she replies gently.

The laughter dies in your throat.

There’s no mockery in her tone. No hint that this is a joke. Just quiet certainty, like she’s stating something as obvious as the sky being blue.

“I think I’d remember that,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you intend.

Wanda tilts her head slightly, studying you. “You don’t. That’s part of it. You reset too. Your memories go with it.”

“And yours don’t?” you ask.

Her lips press together briefly. “No.”

Something in your chest tightens again. You don’t know why you believe her—but you do. Not completely, not blindly, but enough that the world feels like it’s shifted under your feet.

“If this is a joke—”

“It’s not,” she interrupts, still soft, still careful. “I can prove it.”

And she does.

She tells you what you’ll say before you say it. Finishes your sentences like she’s memorised them. Points out things that happen seconds before they do—a car honking, someone dropping their bag, the flicker of a faulty streetlight. Each time, it lands with a quiet, devastating precision.

By the time the day ends, you’re not laughing anymore.

By the time the day resets you understand.

—

It’s not immediate, the way you adjust to it.

At first, it’s panic. Every time the clock strikes midnight and the world snaps back to morning, it feels like drowning. You wake up in the same bed, the same light filtering through your curtains, the same dull hum of routine—but now you know.

Or at least, you remember until you don’t.

Because you forget.

That’s the cruelest part. You don’t get to carry it with you. Each reset strips you back to ignorance, leaves you wandering through the same day like it’s new.

Except Wanda is always there.

Always waiting.

Always remembering.

And every time you meet her, she tells you again.

At first, she keeps it simple. Gentle. She helps you navigate the confusion, grounds you when it starts to spiral. She shows you how to test the loop, how to recognise the patterns, how to hold onto the knowledge for as long as you can before it inevitably slips away.

“You’ll forget me,” she says once, her voice quieter than usual as you sit together in a quiet park, the world frozen in its endless repetition. “But I won’t forget you.”

There’s something heavy in the way she says it. Something that lingers even after the day resets and your memory wipes clean.

You don’t notice it then.

Not properly.

But something starts to shift.

—

It takes longer than it should for you to realise that Wanda isn’t just guiding you through the loop.

She’s… adjusting it.

At first, it’s subtle. Barely noticeable. A conversation that goes slightly differently. A person who isn’t where they should be. A missed moment that should have happened but didn’t.

You only catch it because, somehow, fragments stick. Not full memories—just impressions. Echoes. Like trying to recall a dream and only grasping the feeling it left behind.

And the feeling is… wrong.

You start paying attention.

Watching her.

Wanda doesn’t always approach you the same way. Sometimes she’s waiting outside your building. Sometimes she “bumps” into you at the café. Sometimes she doesn’t appear until later, like she’s testing how long it takes before you start noticing the loop on your own.

Each time, her approach is different.

Each time, you are different.

More open. More guarded. More curious. More distant.

It takes a while for the realisation to settle in, slow and sickening.

She’s experimenting.

You don’t know how many times she’s done this. You don’t know how many versions of this day have existed, how many variations of you she’s met, guided, adjusted.

But you know one thing.

None of it is accidental.

—

“Why do you always find me?” you ask one evening, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

Wanda stills.

It’s a small reaction, almost imperceptible—but you catch it.

“I told you,” she says carefully. “Because you’re stuck. And I remember.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence stretches between you.

There’s something different about this loop. You can feel it. The air is heavier, the space between your words more fragile. Like you’ve stepped slightly off the path she expects.

Wanda studies you, her gaze sharper now. Assessing.

“You’re not supposed to notice this early,” she murmurs.

A chill crawls up your spine. “Notice what?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

And that’s when you know.

Something cracks open in your chest, a quiet, creeping horror that settles deep in your bones.

“How many times?” you ask, your voice unsteady. “How many times has this happened?”

Her expression shifts. Not guilt—not quite. Something more complicated. Something almost… conflicted.

“A lot,” she admits.

The simplicity of it makes your stomach drop.

“A lot?” you repeat. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have,” she says softly.

You shake your head, stepping back. “No, that’s—no. You don’t get to just—what are you doing, Wanda?”

Her eyes flicker with something intense. Desperate, almost. “I’m trying to get it right.”

“Get what right?”

A pause.

And then—

“You.”

The word lands like a blow.

You stare at her, your mind scrambling to make sense of it. “Me?”

“I’ve tried different approaches,” she continues, her voice steadier now, like she’s already said this before. Maybe she has. “Different ways of telling you. Different ways of… interacting with you. Some work better than others.”

“Work better for what?” you demand.

She hesitates.

And that hesitation tells you everything.

Your chest tightens. “No.”

Wanda steps closer. “Listen to me—”

“No, you listen,” you snap, something sharp breaking through the confusion. “You’re not just helping me. You’re—what, running trials? On me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

Silence.

Your heart pounds.

“Say it,” you push. “Just say it.”

Her gaze locks onto yours, unflinching now. Certain.

“I’m trying to make you fall in love with me.”

The world tilts.

For a second, everything goes quiet. Like the loop itself has paused to let the weight of her words settle.

“You’re joking,” you say, but it comes out hollow.

“I’m not.”

“You’re resetting the day—over and over—just to test how to make me fall for you?”

Her jaw tightens. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“Because you do,” she says, her voice suddenly fierce. “In some loops, you do. You choose me. You—” She cuts herself off, her expression twisting with something raw. “But it never lasts. It always resets. And then you forget.”

Your breath catches.

“And you don’t,” you whisper.

“No.”

The weight of that single word is unbearable.

“So you just… keep trying?” you ask. “Until what? Until you find the perfect version of me?”

“I’m not changing you,” she insists.

“Aren’t you?” you shoot back. “You’re changing everything else around me!”

Her silence is answer enough.

A cold, sinking realisation settles in your chest.

“How many times have I said no?” you ask quietly.

Wanda doesn’t respond.

Your throat tightens. “How many times have I rejected you?”

Still nothing.

“Wanda.”

Her voice is barely audible when she finally speaks.

“Enough.”

The word echoes in your mind, heavy and suffocating.

You take another step back, shaking your head. “That’s not okay. That’s—that’s not okay.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still doing it?”

Because she can.

Because there are no consequences.

Because the day will reset, and none of this will matter—except to her.

Wanda looks at you like she’s memorising every detail, every reaction. Like this moment is just another variation to catalogue.

And maybe it is.

“Because I love you,” she says.

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just quiet, certain, immovable.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper.

Her expression softens, something almost pleading slipping through. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Not if I want to keep you.”

The words send a sharp, icy fear down your spine.

“Keep me?” you repeat.

The air feels thinner now. Harder to breathe.

Wanda steps closer again, slow and deliberate, like approaching a frightened animal. “You don’t understand. Every time the loop resets, I lose you. Every version of you. Every—everything we build, it just disappears. I’m the only one who remembers it ever existed.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to control it,” you snap.

“I’m not controlling you.”

“You literally are!”

Her eyes flash, something dangerous flickering beneath the surface. “I’m giving us a chance.”

“At the cost of my choice?”

“You still have a choice.”

“Do I?” you challenge. “If I say no, you just reset the day until I say yes. That’s not a choice, Wanda. That’s—”

You stop, the word catching in your throat.

Manipulation.

Control.

Something darker.

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“You’ll understand,” she says quietly.

“No,” you reply, your voice firm despite the fear curling in your chest. “I won’t.”

A beat of silence.

And then—

“Okay.”

The word is soft. Almost gentle.

Too gentle.

Something in your gut twists.

“Okay?” you repeat.

She nods slowly, her expression unreadable now. Calm. Resolved.

“We’ll try a different approach.”

Your stomach drops.

“What does that mean?”

Wanda smiles.

And there’s something about it—something just slightly off—that makes your blood run cold.

“It means,” she says, her voice smooth and certain, “this version didn’t work.”

The world flickers.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

Your breath catches, panic surging as the edges of reality seem to blur, like a glitch in something that’s not as stable as it should be.

“Wait—Wanda—”

But she’s already stepping back, her gaze still locked onto yours.

Memorising.

Evaluating.

Deciding.

“I’ll see you again,” she says softly.

And then—

everything resets.

—

You wake up.

Same bed. Same light. Same day.

No memory of what came before.

But across the room, standing in the doorway like she’s always been there—

Wanda watches you open your eyes.

This time, she doesn’t smile.

This time, she looks… certain.

Like she’s finally figured something out.

“Good morning,” she says gently.

And something deep inside you—something you don’t remember earning—fills with a quiet, unexplainable dread.

Because somehow—

you feel like this is the loop where she gets it right.

—

You don’t know why you trust her so quickly this time.

That’s the first thing that feels wrong.

It settles into you without resistance, like it’s always been there, like she’s always been someone you can lean on. There’s no hesitation when she explains the loop, no disbelief, no frantic questioning. Just a strange, calm acceptance that sinks into your bones like it was placed there deliberately.

Wanda notices.

Of course she does.

You can see it in the way her shoulders relax, in the way her voice softens when she speaks to you, like she’s handling something fragile but precious. Like she’s finally holding something she’s been reaching for.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” she asks at one point, her eyes searching yours carefully.

You pause, considering it.

“It should,” you admit slowly. “But… it doesn’t feel new.”

Her breath catches.

Just slightly.

And you don’t know why, but that tiny reaction sends something uneasy curling in your chest.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

You frown, trying to put it into words. “It’s like… I’ve already been through the panic part. Like I already know how this goes.”

Wanda’s gaze softens, something almost relieved flickering through it. “Maybe you do. In a way.”

You nod, accepting that answer far too easily.

That’s the second thing that’s wrong.

Because somewhere, deep down, something is screaming at you that you shouldn’t be this okay with it.

That something has been… adjusted.

You just don’t know what yet.

And Wanda—

Wanda knows exactly what she changed.

She watches you closely, tracking every reaction, every word, every subtle shift in your expression. Not with the anxious trial-and-error of before, but with quiet, careful precision. Like she’s already narrowed it down. Like she’s refining something instead of searching for it.

“Do you trust me?” she asks later, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

The question lingers in the air, heavier than it should be.

And without thinking—

“Yes,” you say.

Wanda exhales, something deep and long-held loosening in her chest.

And that’s when it clicks.

Not fully. Not clearly. But enough.

A flicker of something чуж breaks through the calm in your mind, sharp and dissonant.

Too easy.

That was too easy.

Your brow furrows slightly, confusion threading through the haze. “Wait—”

Wanda’s expression shifts instantly.

Just a fraction.

But you see it.

The calculation.

The readiness.

“What is it?” she asks gently, stepping closer.

“I just—” You hesitate, the feeling slipping through your fingers like sand. “That didn’t feel like… me.”

Her gaze sharpens.

Dangerously subtle.

“What didn’t?” she presses.

“Trusting you,” you say, the words slow, uncertain. “I mean—I do, but… I don’t know why.”

Silence.

Wanda studies you, her mind moving faster than you can track.

Adjusting.

Recalculating.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not this soon.

Not in this version.

“You’ve trusted me before,” she says carefully. “Maybe that feeling just… stayed with you.”

Maybe.

It’s a reasonable explanation.

Too reasonable.

You nod slowly, but the unease doesn’t go away this time. It lingers, faint but persistent, like a crack forming beneath the surface.

And Wanda sees it.

She always sees it.

Which means she also knows—

this loop isn’t perfect.

Not yet.

But it’s closer.

Closer than any of the others.

And she’s not going to lose it now.

Not when you’re finally looking at her the way she’s always wanted.

Not when you’re this close to staying.

So when you hesitate—

when that flicker of doubt threatens to grow—

Wanda makes a decision.

A small one.

A precise one.

Barely noticeable.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours—

and the world shifts, just slightly.

Just enough.

Your thoughts settle instantly, the unease dissolving like it was never there. The tension in your chest eases, replaced with something warm. Familiar. Safe.

Wanda watches it happen in real time.

Watches you relax.

Watches you smile, soft and unguarded, like nothing was ever wrong.

And this time—

this time, you don’t question it.

You just look at her like she’s the only constant in a world that refuses to stay still.

Like she’s the only thing that makes sense.

And Wanda—

Wanda finally smiles back, something victorious and quietly possessive settling behind it as she realises—

she’s getting closer.

So, so close.

And if she has to bend reality just a little more to keep you there—

well.

You won’t remember it anyway.

The day will reset.

And she’ll try again.

And again.

And again until there’s no version of you left that could ever think to leave her. and the terrifying part is, you don’t feel trapped.

Not at first.

It’s subtle, the way it settles into you. The comfort. The ease. The way Wanda’s presence starts to feel like the only stable thing in a world that quietly resets itself over and over again. You stop questioning the repetition. Stop resisting the strange, hazy gaps in your memory. Because every time something feels like it might be wrong—like a thought just slightly out of place—she’s there.

Grounding you.

Soft voice, steady hands, eyes that hold yours just long enough to pull you back under.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs one afternoon, her thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist. “It’s just the loop. It can make things feel… disjointed.”

You nod, even though the word doesn’t quite fit.

Disjointed implies something broken.

But this doesn’t feel broken.

It feels… guided.

That’s what it is. That’s what she’s made it.

Your days begin to blur together in a different way now—not as a chaotic spiral of confusion, but as something smoother. Curated. There are no sharp edges anymore, no moments of panic that spike too high, no lingering dread that stays long enough to take root.

Wanda doesn’t let it.

And the more time you spend with her, the more natural it becomes to follow her lead. To let her decide where you go, what you do, how the day unfolds. Because every time you don’t—every time you drift even slightly off the path she’s nudging you down—something feels off.

Not wrong.

Just… less right.

Like you’ve missed a step in something you were supposed to know by heart.

It’s easier not to fight it.

Easier to stay close to her.

Easier to let her guide you back.

—

“You’re happier like this.”

The words slip out of Wanda one evening, quiet but certain, like she’s been holding onto them for a long time.

You glance at her, a small smile already forming before you can think about it. “Like what?”

“Like this,” she repeats, her gaze soft as it traces your face. “With me.”

There’s no pressure in the statement. No demand.

Just… truth.

And that’s what makes it so easy to accept.

“I am,” you admit.

Because you are.

That’s the part that should scare you.

But it doesn’t.

Wanda’s smile deepens slightly, something satisfied flickering behind it. Not smug—never that. Just… relieved. Like she’s finally seeing something fall into place.

“I knew you would be,” she says.

Of course she did.

She always does.

—

The cracks don’t disappear.

They just… change.

Instead of loud, jarring breaks in your awareness, they become quieter things. Fleeting inconsistencies. Moments that almost slip by unnoticed if you’re not paying close enough attention.

A phrase Wanda repeats exactly the same way, down to the smallest inflection, hours apart.

A stranger who reacts to you like they’ve met you before—before quickly correcting themselves.

A song that restarts halfway through, like reality itself lost its place.

Each time, your mind brushes against it—just for a second.

Each time, Wanda is there before the thought can fully form.

“Focus on me,” she says gently, drawing your attention back, anchoring you before the unease can spread.

And you do.

You always do.

Because focusing on her feels… right.

Because every time you don’t the world feels like it might slip out from under you.

—

“You trust me, don’t you?”

It’s not the first time she’s asked.

But it feels different this time.

Heavier.

More important.

You look at her, really look this time, and for a split second—just a split second—you see something beneath the surface. Something tightly controlled. Something waiting.

Waiting for your answer.

“Yes,” you say.

And it’s true.

But this time you know it didn’t start that way.

The thought hits you like a glitch in your own mind, sharp and sudden.

It didn’t start like this.

Your breath catches.

Wanda notices instantly.

Her entire body stills, eyes locking onto yours with laser focus. “What is it?”

You shake your head slightly, the feeling already slipping, already fading. “Nothing, I just—”

No.

Not nothing.

Something is wrong.

Not with the world.

With you.

“I didn’t used to trust you,” you say slowly, the words dragging themselves into existence through resistance you don’t understand. “Did I?”

Silence.

And that silence is deafening.

Wanda doesn’t answer.

Which is an answer.

Your chest tightens. “Wanda.”

Her jaw clenches, just for a second.

Then she steps closer, her voice softer now, carefully measured. “It doesn’t matter how it started.”

“It does to me.”

“You trust me now,” she counters, like that’s the only point that should exist.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Her expression shifts, something sharper breaking through the calm. “Why does it have to be?”

Because it’s not real.

The thought slams into you, sudden and overwhelming.

Because she made it this way.

Your head spins, fragments pushing to the surface—feelings that don’t belong to this version of you. Fear. Resistance. Anger.

Rejection.

You stagger back slightly, your breathing uneven. “You changed something.”

Wanda’s eyes darken.

“Be careful,” she says quietly.

The warning sends a cold spike down your spine.

“You did,” you press, the words coming faster now, stronger, like something inside you is finally breaking through whatever she’s done. “That’s why it feels so easy now. That’s why I’m not questioning anything—you made me like this.”

“I didn’t make you anything,” she snaps, and there’s something raw in it now, something dangerously close to unraveling. “I just… helped you see what was already there.”

“No,” you shake your head, your heart pounding. “No, that’s not—this isn’t real.”

Her composure cracks.

Just a little.

But it’s enough.

“Define real,” Wanda shoots back, her voice tightening. “Because from where I’m standing, this is the most real thing either of us has.”

“You’re controlling it!”

“I’m stabilising it!”

“You’re manipulating me!”

“I’m saving us!”

The words echo between you, sharp and desperate.

Silence follows.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

Your chest rises and falls too quickly, your thoughts spiraling as the pieces start to click together in ways you can’t ignore anymore.

Every reset.

Every change.

Every version of you that ever said no.

“They’re all gone, aren’t they?” you whisper.

Wanda freezes.

“All the versions of me that didn’t want this,” you continue, your voice quieter now, but steadier. “You just… erased them.”

“I didn’t erase them,” she says quickly, but there’s a crack in her voice now. “They reset. That’s how the loop works.”

“But you chose not to keep them.”

Her silence confirms it.

Something in your chest breaks.

“I don’t even know if anything I’m feeling is mine anymore,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s expression falters, something almost pained flashing across it. “It is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen every version of you,” she says, stepping closer again, slower this time. Careful. “I’ve seen the ones that hate me. The ones that fear me. The ones that walk away without looking back.” Her voice tightens, emotion bleeding through despite her control. “And I’ve seen the ones that love me.”

Your breath catches.

“And this?” you ask, your voice trembling. “Which one is this?”

Wanda reaches out, her fingers hovering just inches from your face.

“This,” she says softly, “is the one that stays.”

The words settle over you like a weight.

Heavy.

Final.

And for a moment you almost believe her.

Because it would be so easy.

So easy to let go of the doubt, to sink back into the warmth she’s built around you, to let her be the constant that holds everything together.

You can feel it pulling at you.

Inviting you.

All you have to do is stop questioning.

All you have to do is let her.

But then—

a flicker.

A memory that isn’t yours.

Or maybe it is.

A version of you, standing exactly where you are now, looking at Wanda with the same fear, the same realisation—

saying no.

Your breath sharpens.

“No,” you whisper.

Wanda’s hand freezes mid-air.

“I don’t want this,” you say, louder now, the clarity cutting through everything she’s tried to smooth over. “Not like this.”

Something shatters behind Wanda’s eyes. Not surprise. Not even anger. Something worse.

Understanding.

Because she’s seen this before. Heard these words before.

Watched this version of you slip through her fingers —

again.

The air shifts.

You feel it instantly.

That subtle, unnatural distortion, like reality itself holding its breath.

“No,” Wanda says quietly.

The word is firm this time.

Unyielding.

“We’re not doing this again.”

Your stomach drops. “Wanda—”

“I got it right,” she insists, her voice tightening, something desperate creeping in. “This time, I got it right. You were happy.”

“I wasn’t free.”

“I can fix that.”

“You can’t fix this!”

Her composure cracks completely.

“I CAN!” she shouts, and the world jerks violently around you, like something just snapped under the strain.

Silence slams down after it.

Wanda’s breathing is uneven now, her control slipping in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I can make it better,” she says again, softer this time. Pleading. “I can adjust it. Just a little. You won’t even notice.”

That’s the problem.

You won’t.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

“Or,” she continues, her voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous, “I can reset.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Wanda—don’t—”

“It’ll be easier next time,” she says, like she’s convincing herself as much as you. “I’ll start earlier. Change less. Keep more of you intact—”

“No!” you step forward, grabbing her wrist before she can pull away. “Stop. Just—stop.”

The contact sends something sharp through both of you.

Wanda goes still.

Completely still.

Her eyes flicker down to where you’re holding her, something unreadable flashing across her face.

“You’ve never done that before,” she whispers.

Your grip tightens slightly. “Done what?”

“Stopped me.”

The weight of that settles in your chest.

Because she’s right.

Every other version of you every other loop you never got this far. You never pushed back like this. Which means this moment is new. Wanda feels it too.

You can see it in the way her expression shifts, something uncertain breaking through the desperation for the first time.

A variable she didn’t account for. A version of you she hasn’t seen yet.

And for the first time Wanda doesn’t know what happens next. The loop trembles around you, unstable, like it’s waiting for her decision.

Reset. Or don’t. Her entire world hangs on that choice. And so does yours.

Her gaze lifts back to yours, searching, conflicted, something raw and unguarded bleeding through all the control she’s been holding onto for so long.

“If I don’t reset,” she says quietly, “this is it.”

No more adjustments. No more retries. No more different versions of you. Just this one. This choice. Your heart pounds, but you don’t let go of her.

“Then let it be it,” you say.

Wanda’s breath catches.

And for the first time since you met her - since any version of you has ever met her - she hesitates.

Not calculating.

Not adjusting.

Just… feeling it.

The risk.

The uncertainty.

The possibility that this might not end the way she wants it to.

Her fingers twitch slightly in your grip.

The world flickers.

Once.

Twice.

On the edge of collapse.

And Wanda—

Wanda closes her eyes.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Masterlist

You wake slowly, like your body doesn’t quite belong to you yet.

At first, it’s just the dull throb behind your eyes that pulls you out of sleep, a steady ache that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Your mouth feels dry, your limbs heavy, and there’s a faint, lingering warmth wrapped around you that doesn’t immediately make sense. You stay still, eyes closed, trying to piece together where you are without moving too much, because even the thought of opening your eyes feels like too much effort.

Then you notice the bed.

Not yours.

The sheets are softer, the mattress slightly firmer, the air around you carrying a scent that’s familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten before your brain catches up. Lavender. Something warm underneath it. Something distinctly her.

Your eyes open.

The ceiling is wrong. The light filtering through the curtains is softer than the one in your room at home, casting a pale glow across unfamiliar walls. For a moment, you just stare, your mind blank, like it’s buffering, trying to load something it isn’t ready to process yet.

Then it hits you.

Wanda’s house.

Your stomach drops slightly, not in fear, but in something far more complicated.

You don’t move right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift slowly to the side, careful, cautious, like you’re scared of what you might find if you look too quickly.

And there she is.

Wanda is lying beside you, still asleep, her body angled slightly toward yours without quite touching. One of her arms is bent near her head, the other resting loosely on the bed between you, close enough that if you shifted even an inch, your fingers would brush against hers. Her hair is slightly mussed, falling across her cheek, and there’s something softer about her like this — less controlled, less guarded.

You’ve never seen her like this before.

Your breath catches quietly in your throat.

For a long moment, you just look at her. Not in a rushed, curious way, but in that slow, lingering way that feels almost intrusive, like you’re seeing something you weren’t meant to. The kind of quiet vulnerability she never shows when she’s awake, when she’s composed, when she’s being Wanda.

And then, all at once, pieces of the night start to come back.

Not all of it. Not clearly. But enough.

The party.

The music.

The drinks.

Calling her.

Your stomach tightens.

Fragments flicker through your mind — her voice through the phone, low and steady, saying your name. The way you leaned against the wall, trying to focus on something that wouldn’t spin. The warmth of her hand on your face when she found you. The way you’d said, “You came.”

God.

Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, like you can physically push the memory away. But it doesn’t go anywhere. It lingers, pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

You remember the walk, vaguely — the cold air, her arm around you, keeping you upright. You remember her voice telling you to drink water. You remember sitting on her couch, complaining about the taste. You remember her helping you—

Your eyes snap open again.

You’re not wearing your clothes.

Your heart skips, not in panic, but in something sharp and disorienting. The shirt you have on is too big, the fabric soft against your skin, smelling faintly like her detergent, like her house. Your cheeks warm instantly, your thoughts tangling.

She helped you change.

The memory is fuzzy, but the fact of it isn’t.

You swallow hard, suddenly very aware of how close she is. Of the fact that you’re in her bed. Of the fact that she stayed.

Your gaze flicks back to her, searching her face like it might give you answers you don’t know how to ask for.

Why did she stay?

The question sits heavy in your chest, louder than the pounding in your head.

You shift slightly, just enough to test the space between you, and the movement feels too loud in the quiet room. Wanda stirs almost immediately, her brows knitting faintly as she inhales, her body adjusting without fully waking.

You freeze.

For a second, you consider closing your eyes and pretending you’re still asleep, like you can avoid whatever conversation is waiting for you on the other side of this moment. But it’s too late.

Her eyes open.

They find you almost instantly.

There’s a flicker of something there — surprise, maybe, or just the brief disorientation of waking up — before it settles into something softer, something more controlled.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.

Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”

The word hangs awkwardly between you, too small for everything sitting underneath it.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything else. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy. Full.

Wanda pushes herself up slightly, leaning back against the headboard, one hand coming up to rub at her face. You notice the way she avoids looking at you directly for a second, like she’s gathering herself, pulling those familiar walls back into place.

“How are you feeling?” she asks finally, glancing over at you.

“Like I got hit by a bus,” you admit, your voice quieter than usual.

That earns a small, almost amused huff from her. “That sounds about right.”

Another pause.

You sit up slowly, the blanket slipping slightly as you do, and you tug it back up without thinking, suddenly hyper-aware of everything — the space, the clothes, her presence.

“Did I…?” You hesitate, unsure how to even phrase it. “Did I do anything… stupid?”

Wanda’s gaze lingers on you for just a second too long before she looks away, her expression smoothing out. “You were drunk,” she says simply. “That’s about it.”

That’s not an answer.

You can tell it’s not an answer.

But you don’t push.

“Did I call you?” you ask instead, even though you already know the answer.

“Yes.”

You nod slowly, pressing your lips together. “Right.”

Silence settles again, thicker this time.

You want to ask about the kiss.

You want to ask why she stayed.

You want to ask why your chest feels like this — tight and warm and completely out of your control.

But the words don’t come.

Wanda shifts beside you, her hand brushing briefly against yours as she reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. The contact is accidental, fleeting, but it sends a small, sharp jolt through you anyway.

“Drink,” she says, holding the glass out.

You take it, your fingers brushing hers for just a second longer than necessary. Neither of you comments on it.

You sip slowly, the water grounding you a little, giving you something to focus on that isn’t her.

“I should probably go home,” you say after a moment, even though the idea of leaving feels heavier than it should.

Wanda doesn’t respond immediately. When you glance at her, she’s watching you — really watching you — like she’s trying to figure something out.

“Yeah,” she says eventually, her voice even. “Probably.”

But she doesn’t move to get up. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push.

You set the glass down, your fingers lingering on it, unsure of what to do next. Everything feels… unfinished. Like there’s something sitting right there between you, waiting to be acknowledged, but neither of you are brave enough to touch it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, because it’s the only safe thing you can say.

“For what?”

“For… coming to get me. Last night.” You glance down at your hands. “You didn’t have to.”

Wanda’s expression softens, just slightly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”

That’s the problem.

She always does.

And you don’t know what that means anymore.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of everything you’re both not saying, everything that’s changed without either of you admitting it out loud.

You shift on the bed, your shoulder brushing hers for just a second before you pull back, like even that small contact feels too loaded now.

Nothing about this feels simple anymore.

And neither of you knows how to make it be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

A/N: it’s been almost 5 months since my last upload to this 🫣, kind of lost inspiration but started to write this again like last night.

Masterlist

The compound at night always feels different. During the day it is loud in that chaotic, comfortable way that comes with too many strong personalities sharing the same building. Someone is always sparring in the training room, someone is always arguing in the kitchen, and Tony’s lab is always humming like the walls themselves are alive. But when the night settles in, the noise disappears until the place feels cavernous and hollow, long corridors lit only by dim strips of light along the floor and the quiet ventilation system whispering through the walls.

At the end of one of those corridors, a thin line of light slips beneath a bedroom door that should have been dark hours ago. Inside the room, Wanda sits curled slightly forward on the edge of her bed, her laptop balanced on her thighs and casting a pale glow over her face. Her hair is messy, falling around her shoulders in dark waves, and she hasn’t noticed how long she’s been sitting there. The video on the screen reflects in her eyes while she watches with a stillness that borders on unnatural focus, the kind of attention someone gives when they are afraid to blink and miss something.

On the screen, it’s you.

The footage is clearly recorded from a distance, the frame slightly shaky like the phone had been held carefully but not perfectly steady. You’re in the training room, standing in front of the heavy punching bag with your hair pulled back and your shirt damp with sweat from a long session. Every strike you throw makes the chain above the bag creak softly, and the force of your hits sends the bag swinging away before snapping back toward you again. Your breathing is heavy but controlled, shoulders tense with effort as you reset your stance and throw another punch.

Wanda doesn’t move.

Her eyes track every movement you make, every shift of your body, every small habit you probably don’t even realize you have. The way you roll your shoulders when your muscles tighten. The way you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist instead of stopping to grab a towel. The way your jaw tightens slightly when you get frustrated with yourself.

She has watched this exact video so many times she could probably recreate every frame from memory.

Still, she drags the cursor back to the beginning and presses play again.

Your first punch lands again with the same dull thud, and Wanda leans slightly closer to the screen without even noticing she’s doing it. Her fingers rest lightly against the laptop near the edge of the frame, almost close enough to touch the image of you frozen in motion when she pauses it for a moment. Her lips part just slightly while she studies your face on the screen, her eyes moving slowly across the shape of it like she’s committing it to memory again even though she already knows it better than she should.

“You look even better angry,” she murmurs quietly to herself, her voice soft and almost breathless in the empty room. The words aren’t ashamed or hesitant, just thoughtful in the way someone might admire a painting they’ve seen a hundred times but still can’t stop looking at. Her fingers tap lightly against the trackpad before the video begins moving again, and her gaze sharpens with the same intensity it always does whenever you’re on the screen.

Her laptop is full of these videos.

Not just one or two.

Dozens.

Clips she recorded without you ever noticing. Moments she caught when no one else was paying attention. Little fragments of your life inside the compound that she collected slowly over weeks until the folder filled itself without her even realizing how much she had gathered.

There’s one of you asleep on the couch in the common room during movie night, your head tipped back slightly and your arm hanging lazily over the edge while everyone else argued about what film to watch next. There’s another where you’re sitting at the kitchen island early in the morning, half-awake while you drink coffee and stare blankly at nothing like your brain hasn’t fully started working yet. There’s a clip from a mission where you’re shouting instructions over the chaos while civilians run behind you, your voice calm and steady in the middle of absolute disaster.

Wanda opens that one next.

The street in the video is loud and messy with dust and smoke curling through the air, distant sirens wailing somewhere behind the buildings. The camera angle is high up from a rooftop where she had been standing earlier that day, far enough away that no one noticed she had pulled her phone out for a moment. She watches the footage with the same quiet intensity while your figure runs into frame below, your boots splashing through a shallow puddle as you move toward the fight with your weapon in hand.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she says softly, almost admiringly, as the video continues playing in front of her. Her thumb traces lightly along the edge of the screen while she watches you crouch behind a car and shout something toward Steve across the street. Your expression is sharp and focused, your attention completely locked on the mission like the chaos around you barely even registers.

That was the moment she started recording you more often.

Because she realized something then.

She realized she could watch you whenever she wanted.

All she had to do was keep the moments.

Her laptop shifts slightly when she moves it closer, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room while she scrolls through the folder again. Each file name is meaningless and random, but she knows exactly what each one contains without needing to check. Her memory for anything related to you is perfect in a way that almost surprises her sometimes.

She clicks another video.

The common room appears this time, warm lighting filling the space while the team relaxes after a long day. Sam is sprawled across the floor with snacks scattered around him, Clint is half-asleep in an armchair, and someone is talking loudly near the kitchen entrance about something that clearly isn’t important.

But Wanda barely notices any of them.

Because you’re sitting on the couch.

And next to you is Natasha.

Wanda’s gaze sharpens immediately, her attention locking onto the screen with an intensity that makes her shoulders tense slightly. The video had been recorded casually like the others, her phone angled from the hallway where she had been standing unnoticed while everyone relaxed inside the room.

You’re laughing at something Natasha says, leaning back against the couch cushions while you shove her shoulder lightly in playful protest. Natasha smiles in that small knowing way she has, her body turning slightly toward you as the conversation continues.

Wanda’s fingers tighten against the laptop.

She watches carefully.

Every second.

Every small shift of your posture.

Natasha leans closer to say something quieter.

And then you kiss her.

It’s quick. Soft. Casual in a way that makes it clear it wasn’t the first time.

But it’s enough.

The moment it happens, Wanda goes completely still.

Her breathing stops.

Her eyes lock onto the screen like the image might change if she stares hard enough.

The video keeps playing, but she isn’t hearing the voices anymore. The only thing she can see is the way Natasha smiles against your lips before you pull away, the two of you continuing to talk like the kiss meant nothing at all.

Wanda’s chest tightens in a sharp, sudden way that makes something inside her snap.

The laptop slams shut.

The sound echoes sharply through the room.

For a single second the silence hangs heavy in the air.

Then the room erupts.

Scarlet energy bursts from Wanda in a violent wave that rattles the walls, the desk across the room lifting into the air before smashing sideways into the wall hard enough to splinter the wood. Papers scatter everywhere as the lamp shatters against the floor, glass exploding across the carpet in glittering shards.

Her breathing becomes uneven as another pulse of power ripples through the room, sending a chair flying into the door with a

heavy metallic bang that dents the surface.

“She doesn’t get to touch you,” Wanda says under her breath, her voice low and shaking with something darker than anger. The red glow around her hands flickers violently while the mirror above her dresser cracks straight down the center, splintering outward into jagged lines.

“You don’t even look at me,” she mutters, almost like she’s thinking the words out loud rather than saying them intentionally. Her gaze drifts toward the fallen laptop on the floor across the room, her chest rising and falling sharply while the faint scarlet glow around her fingers continues pulsing with restless energy.

Another surge of power rattles the walls again before finally beginning to fade, the red light slowly dimming until the room falls back into silence. The destruction left behind is scattered everywhere, broken furniture and glass littering the floor while Wanda kneels in the middle of the wreckage with her hands resting loosely against her thighs.

Her eyes stay fixed on the laptop.

Because it still has the video on it.

The moment with you.

The moment that should have been hers.

And then—

There’s a knock on the door.

The sound freezes her instantly.

“…Wanda?” your voice calls gently from the other side, muffled through the metal but unmistakable.

Her heart slams violently against her ribs.

“I heard something crash,” you continue, concern threading through your voice as your hand touches the handle. “Are you okay in there?”

Wanda doesn’t move.

Her gaze drifts slowly toward the door.

Because you’re standing right outside it.

And suddenly the distance that had always existed between you—the safety of watching from hallways, from rooftops, from the glow of a laptop screen—is gone.

Now you’re here.

Only a door between you.

And Wanda has been watching you for far too long to pretend she doesn’t want it opened.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Masterlist

Wanda had been on the phone for nearly two hours.

The call had started as a simple complaint from one of her company’s biggest clients, but it had quickly spiraled into something far more delicate. A misunderstanding with one of her employees had nearly cost them the entire contract, and Wanda had spent the last hour and fifty-three minutes calmly untangling the situation.

Her voice had stayed perfectly composed the entire time.

Smooth. Confident. Persuasive.

The kind of voice that built empires.

Anyone listening would’ve assumed her full attention was on the client.

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Because under the desk, curled up on the plush dog bed she had bought specifically for you, you had been there the whole time.

Your chin rested gently on Wanda’s knee, warm and familiar against her through the fabric of her trousers.

Every once in a while you shifted slightly, adjusting where you sat. Once you let out a quiet sigh of boredom. At one point your fingers lightly traced the seam of her pant leg, absentmindedly playing with the fabric.

Wanda noticed everything.

She always did.

But she couldn’t reach down. Not during a call like this. So she finished the negotiation.

Finally, the conversation came to an end.

“Wonderful,” Wanda said smoothly into the phone. “I’m glad we could resolve everything. You’ll have the revised report by tomorrow morning.”

A pause.

“Of course. Have a good evening.”

The line clicked off.

The office fell quiet.

Wanda leaned back slowly in her chair, rolling her shoulders after being so still for so long. She let out a quiet breath, rubbing the bridge of her nose for a moment.

Then her gaze dropped beneath the desk.

There you were.

Still sitting exactly where you had been the entire time.

Curled slightly on the fluffy bed, your chin resting on her knee like it belonged there. Your eyes looked half-sleepy now, blinking up at her through the dim space under the desk.

Wanda’s lips curved into a soft smile.

“Detka…”

Her hand slipped beneath the desk, fingers finding the back of your neck. Her thumb gently rubbed slow circles against your skin.

You perked up immediately.

Your head lifted, eyes brightening slightly as you looked up at her.

“There you are,” Wanda murmured warmly.

You let out a small huff.

“You were talking forever,” you mumbled quietly.

Wanda chuckled softly. “I know, moya lyubov,” she said. “Big important business things.”

Your nose scrunched slightly. “Boring business things.”

“That too,” Wanda admitted.

Her other hand tapped her lap gently. “C’mere, puppy… let mommy look at her pretty girl.”

You shifted carefully, crawling out from under the desk. Your legs stretched slightly after sitting in the same spot for so long, and Wanda instinctively slid her chair back to give you space.

The moment you stepped closer, her hand guided you forward by the back of your neck.

“Up,” she encouraged.

You climbed into her lap, settling sideways across her thighs. Wanda’s arms wrapped around you immediately, steady and warm.

One hand settled around your waist while the other cupped your cheek, turning your face toward her.

Her eyes softened instantly.

“Oh, look at you,” she murmured.

Your hair was a little messy, flattened where it had rested against her knee for so long. Wanda brushed the strands back gently, tucking them behind your ear.

“Did you get sleepy down there?”

“A little,” you admitted, leaning into her touch. “But I didn’t move. I stayed.”

Wanda’s smile grew. “I know you did.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek. “My good girl.”

Your shoulders relaxed visibly at the praise. You tucked your face slightly against her shoulder, your arms loosely wrapping around her.

“Thought you forgot about me,” you muttered softly.

Wanda huffed a quiet laugh.

“Impossible.”

Her fingers slid into your hair, scratching lightly along your scalp in the way she knew you liked.

“I felt you the whole time,” she said. “My puppy’s little chin pressing into my knee.”

You shifted slightly in her lap.

“I was bored.”

“I noticed,” Wanda said knowingly.

She tilted your chin up with gentle fingers so you had to look at her again.

“And yet you stayed so quiet.”

You nodded slightly.

“Didn’t wanna interrupt.”

Wanda’s expression softened even more at that.

“Oh, detka.”

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You’re very well behaved.”

Your voice came out quieter now.

“You like when I’m good?”

Wanda’s eyes warmed.

“Very much.”

Her hand moved to scratch gently behind your ear, making you instinctively lean toward the touch.

“You know… while I was on that call,” she said thoughtfully, “I kept thinking about reaching down and petting you.”

Your eyes lit up.

“Really?”

“Mm,” Wanda hummed. “Very distracting.”

You grinned slightly. “Should’ve done it.”

“During a million-pound negotiation? Wanda teased.

You shrugged. “They wouldn’t see.”

Wanda laughed softly.

“Perhaps not.”

She pulled you a little closer, letting your head rest comfortably against her chest now.

For a moment she simply rocked the chair gently, her fingers running slowly through your hair.

Your voice came out muffled against her.

“You done working now?”

“Yes,” Wanda said.

“Promise?”

Wanda tilted her head down, pressing another kiss to your hair.

“I promise.”

You lifted your head again, eyes hopeful.

“So… we can go home?”

Wanda smiled.

“Yes, puppy. We can go home.”

Your grin spread immediately.

“But first,” Wanda added gently.

Her hand slid back to the nape of your neck, rubbing comforting circles there.

“I think someone deserves a reward.”

You blinked up at her.

“For what?”

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

“For being such a patient, well-behaved little puppy.”

Your voice turned a little playful.

“What kinda reward?”

Wanda hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider it.

“Well…”

Her fingers tapped lightly against your waist.

“Maybe cuddles.”

You nodded immediately.

“Good reward.”

“And maybe,” Wanda continued, her smile turning slightly mischievous, “your favorite takeout.”

Your eyes lit up.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You leaned forward and hugged her tightly.

“You’re the best mommy.”

Wanda laughed quietly, wrapping her arms fully around you again.

“Yes,” she murmured fondly. “I know.”

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Masterlist

A/N: wrote this on my lunch break at work today because apparently my brain decided I desperately need Mommy Wanda 😌.

Five Years Ago

The kitchen lights hum softly overhead, casting a warm yellow glow across the countertops and the small figure sitting in a highchair beside you. Katya Romanoff—your daughter, Natasha’s daughter—is barely a year old and already somehow full of chaos. A small plastic bowl of macaroni and cheese sits in front of her, though “in front of her” is generous at this point. The pasta is everywhere. Some of it is smeared across the tray of the highchair, several pieces are clinging stubbornly to her tiny fingers, and a streak of bright orange cheese sauce runs across her cheek like war paint. One noodle has somehow ended up tangled in her wispy reddish-blonde hair. She babbles happily to herself, kicking her little feet against the chair as she squishes another handful of macaroni between her fingers with delighted concentration.

You lean your elbows against the kitchen counter beside her, one hand loosely curled around your phone, your eyes flicking every few seconds to the time glowing on the screen. The numbers haven’t changed nearly as much as you’d like them to.

9:02 PM.

Natasha had said she’d be home by eight.

Your gaze drifts toward the door that leads into the hallway, like maybe she’ll appear if you look at it long enough. The apartment is quiet in that strange, stretched way that happens when you’re waiting for someone. Every tiny noise seems louder than it should be—the hum of the fridge, the faint clink of Katya’s spoon hitting the tray, the soft cartoon theme song playing from the television in the living room that you turned on earlier for background noise.

Katya squeals suddenly, jerking your attention back to her.

She holds up her fist triumphantly, a single macaroni clutched between her fingers like she’s just discovered gold.

“Is that so?” you murmur, your voice soft, tired but fond. “Very impressive.”

She grins at you with four tiny teeth and then promptly drops the macaroni onto the floor.

You sigh through your nose, rubbing your face briefly before grabbing a napkin to wipe the cheese sauce from her cheek. She protests with an indignant little whine, twisting away from you with surprising strength for someone so small.

“Hey, hey,” you murmur, trying not to laugh despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. “Your mama would say you look like you wrestled a bowl of pasta and lost.”

At the mention of Natasha, your chest tightens faintly.

Your eyes drift back to the phone.

9:17 PM.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself it’s normal. Missions run late. Debriefs run longer. Sometimes the team goes out after—Tony insists on celebrating anything remotely successful with drinks and obnoxious music. You’ve heard the excuses before. You’ve accepted them before.

But tonight feels heavier.

Maybe it’s the way Katya keeps glancing toward the hallway every time the elevator down the corridor dings. Maybe it’s the way she babbles out half-formed sounds that almost resemble “Mama.” Maybe it’s the fact that Natasha promised she’d be home tonight.

Katya slaps both hands into the macaroni again, sending a small splatter of cheese across the tray.

You exhale a quiet laugh despite yourself.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, scooping another spoonful and holding it toward her. “Eat the food, gremlin. Don’t redecorate with it.”

She opens her mouth immediately, accepting the spoon with exaggerated enthusiasm. Most of the macaroni makes it inside, though some still ends up smeared along her chin. She kicks her legs again, clearly pleased with herself.

You check the phone again.

9:31 PM.

Your jaw tightens.

Thirty minutes late.

Your gaze flickers back toward the hallway door again, but the apartment remains stubbornly quiet.

Katya starts fussing softly, her earlier energy beginning to fade. Her eyelids droop slightly as she leans forward in the highchair, smearing her cheek against the tray without even realizing she’s doing it.

“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, brushing a thumb across her soft hair. “You’re getting tired, huh?”

Another glance at the phone.

Still nothing from Natasha.

A slow breath leaves your chest.

“Okay,” you say gently, sliding the bowl away from Katya’s reach. “I think we’re done with dinner.”

She whines in protest, little hands reaching clumsily toward the bowl as you wipe them clean with a damp cloth.

“I know, I know,” you soothe softly. “But if I let you keep going, we’re going to have macaroni on the ceiling.”

Katya huffs, but she doesn’t fight when you lift her from the highchair and settle her against your hip. Her small body immediately curls against you, one sticky hand clutching weakly at your shirt.

The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet.

You glance at the clock again before turning toward the living room.

“Come on,” you murmur to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go watch cartoons while we wait for Mama.”

The living room glows with the flickering colors of whatever cartoon is playing on the television—bright animals bouncing across the screen, cheerful music chiming in the background. You settle onto the couch with Katya tucked into your arms, grabbing a small blanket from the armrest and draping it loosely over her legs.

She watches the screen with wide eyes for about three minutes.

Then her head slowly droops against your chest.

You shift slightly so she’s more comfortable, absently rubbing small circles against her back as the cartoon characters chatter away in the background. The warmth of her little body sinks into you, heavy and trusting.

Your eyes drift toward the hallway again.

Still no Natasha.

The clock creeps forward.

10:08 PM.

10:47 PM.

11:15 PM.

At some point Katya’s small fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your shirt, her breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep. Her face presses into your collarbone, warm and soft and peaceful.

Your chest aches.

“She said she’d be home tonight,” you whisper quietly, more to yourself than to her.

Katya doesn’t stir.

Eventually you push yourself up from the couch, careful not to wake her. The apartment feels even quieter now as you carry her down the hallway toward her room, the cartoon still playing faintly behind you.

The bedtime routine feels strangely lonely without Natasha there.

You change Katya into her pajamas, her sleepy little protests barely more than quiet whimpers as you wipe the last traces of macaroni from her face and hands. You brush her hair gently, humming under your breath while she clings to your shoulder.

“Shh,” you murmur softly as you lower her into the crib. “It’s okay.”

She squirms, small hands reaching toward you immediately.

Your heart twists.

“Hey,” you whisper, resting a hand against her tiny chest. “Mama will be home soon.”

The words taste hollow even as you say them.

After a moment her eyes finally close again, exhaustion winning over curiosity. Her breathing steadies.

You stay there longer than necessary, watching her sleep.

Then you quietly leave the room.

The apartment is silent again when you return to the living room.

The cartoon is still playing.

You turn the television off.

And you wait.

Midnight comes quietly.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up immediately.

The door creaks open, and Natasha steps inside.

Your wife looks mostly fine—no visible injuries, no blood, no limping—but there’s something in the way she moves that makes your stomach twist. Slightly slower than usual. Slightly looser.

And when she steps fully into the apartment, the faint smell of alcohol follows her.

Not strong.

But unmistakable.

Her green eyes land on you almost immediately, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

“You’re still awake?”

The words are casual.

Too casual.

Something sharp twists in your chest.

“I was waiting for you.”

Natasha pauses mid-step, shrugging her jacket off slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you for a moment.

Then you ask quietly, “Where were you?”

Natasha hangs her jacket on the hook by the door, clearly buying herself time before answering.

“Debrief ran late,” she says. “Then Tony wanted drinks.”

You stare at her.

“Drinks.”

She glances back at you, clearly noticing the tone.

“Yes.”

A hollow laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“Right.”

Natasha’s brows draw together slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stand from the couch slowly, arms folding across your chest.

“It means,” you say, your voice tight, “you told me you’d be home by eight.”

“Mission ran long.”

“And the drinks?”

Her jaw tightens.

“It’s not a crime to go out with the team.”

“No,” you say sharply. “But it is when your wife and kid are sitting here waiting for you.”

Her expression shifts slightly, irritation flickering behind her eyes.

“You didn’t have to wait up.”

“You’re missing the point, Natasha.”

She exhales slowly, running a hand through her red hair.

“I just got back from a mission. Can we not do this right now?”

“No,” you say immediately, your voice rising before you can stop it. “Because we never do it.”

Natasha freezes slightly.

“What?”

“You’re never here anymore,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now. “You leave before she wakes up, you come home after she’s asleep. Tonight she kept looking at the door every time the elevator dinged because she thought it might be you.”

Natasha’s face hardens.

“She’s one year old.”

“And she still notices!”

Your voice cracks slightly, frustration finally breaking through the exhaustion.

“You promised you’d be home tonight.”

Natasha rubs her temples.

“I said I’d try.”

“No,” you snap. “You said you would.”

Silence falls heavy between you.

The tension thickens.

“You think I want to be gone?” Natasha finally says, her voice quieter but edged with frustration. “You think I enjoy risking my life every week?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” you breathe, “that we’re supposed to be a family. And right now it feels like Katya and I are just… something you come back to when it’s convenient.”

Natasha flinches slightly.

The reaction is subtle.

But you see it.

A long silence stretches between you again.

Then Natasha exhales slowly.

“…I’m sorry.”

The words are quiet. Genuine.

Your anger falters slightly.

“I should’ve come home,” she continues, voice softer now. “Tony kept pushing drinks and I didn’t think about the time.”

You stare at her.

“She waited,” you say quietly. “She kept looking at the door.”

Natasha’s gaze drops toward the floor.

Guilt flickers across her face.

“…Is she asleep?”

“Yes.”

Another quiet pause.

Then Natasha finally looks back up at you, the sharp edges of her earlier defensiveness gone.

“I’ll do better,” she says quietly.

You want to believe her.

God, you want to.

Your shoulders sag slightly as the exhaustion finally settles in.

“Come on,” you murmur tiredly. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Natasha nods softly.

The argument dissolves into silence as the two of you move down the hallway together, the apartment dim and quiet around you.

In Katya’s room, the baby monitor glows faintly.

And in your bedroom, the bed feels just a little too big as you both climb into it—tired, tense, but trying to believe tomorrow will be better.

⸻

Four Years Ago

The apartment feels strangely quiet when you step out into the hallway, the absence of tiny footsteps and babbling voices almost eerie compared to the usual chaos that comes with a toddler. Katya had clung to your leg for a moment when you first introduced her to the babysitter—some college-aged girl Tony had sworn was “phenomenal with kids, absolutely top tier, five stars”—but after ten minutes of animated cartoons and a brightly colored toy box, your daughter had mostly forgotten you were even leaving. Still, as you follow Natasha down toward the waiting car, your chest holds that familiar, low hum of guilt that always comes from leaving your child with someone else.

Natasha notices.

She always notices things like that.

Her hand settles lightly at the small of your back as she guides you toward the car Tony had sent—because of course Tony Stark would send a car, because apparently showing up anywhere without excessive flair is physically impossible for him.

“She’ll be fine,” Natasha murmurs quietly.

You glance sideways at her.

“I know,” you say, though your voice holds a trace of hesitation. “It’s just… the first time we’ve left her with someone we don’t know.”

Natasha opens the car door for you, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

“Tony’s terrified of Pepper,” she says dryly. “If the babysitter was bad with kids, Pepper would’ve had her blacklisted from the city.”

You snort softly despite yourself and slide into the seat.

The ride to the restaurant is calm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that used to feel normal between you and Natasha, but now feels… unfamiliar somehow. Not uncomfortable exactly, just different. Conversations between the two of you these days tend to revolve around schedules—when she’s leaving for missions, when you’re taking Katya to playgroups, when she’ll hopefully be home.

Still, tonight feels almost like old times.

Natasha’s hand rests loosely over yours for most of the drive.

The restaurant Tony chose is predictably extravagant. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, warm lights glowing across polished marble floors and pristine white tablecloths. When you arrive, the rest of the group is already seated around a long table near the windows—Steve and Sharon, Sam with a woman you vaguely remember meeting once before, Bruce nervously adjusting his glasses beside Helen Cho, and of course Tony and Pepper sitting at the head of the table like they own the entire building.

Which… they might.

Tony spots Natasha first.

“Ah!” he announces loudly, spreading his arms dramatically. “The Widow arrives. Fashionably late, as always.”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“We’re five minutes late.”

“That’s practically an hour in Stark time.”

You slip into the seat beside Natasha as Pepper smiles warmly at you from across the table.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”

“That’s because someone keeps stealing my wife for missions,” you reply lightly, nudging Natasha’s arm.

Tony raises his glass.

“Saving the world isn’t exactly a nine-to-five gig.”

Natasha shoots him a look.

“Neither is building killer robots.”

Tony pauses.

“…That was one time.”

Dinner passes easily.

The conversation flows between stories from recent missions, Tony’s latest ridiculous inventions, and Pepper politely reminding him not to turn the penthouse into a testing facility again. Natasha actually relaxes a little as the evening goes on, her shoulders lowering slightly as she leans back in her chair, occasionally brushing her thumb against the back of your hand under the table.

For a little while, things feel… normal.

Almost like they used to be.

By the time the main course plates are cleared away, the table has settled into that comfortable, lazy stage of dinner where everyone is full and relaxed, glasses half-finished and conversations drifting in multiple directions.

Pepper glances at you from across the table.

And then she tilts her head slightly.

“You look glowing tonight,” she says thoughtfully.

You blink.

“…Glowing?”

Pepper smiles gently.

“Yes. You have that look.”

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“What look?”

Pepper doesn’t even glance at him.

“The one where someone might be expecting.”

The table quiets slightly.

Your stomach flips.

Pepper looks between you and Natasha with a curious smile.

“Is there possibly a baby number two on the way?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head quickly.

“No, nothing like that.”

Natasha chuckles beside you.

“Trust me,” she says lightly, lifting her glass. “If we were having another kid, I would know.”

A few people laugh softly and the conversation moves on almost immediately, but the comment lingers in your mind longer than you expect.

You and Natasha barely see each other these days.

Between her missions and your days revolving around Katya, your lives have slowly begun orbiting around different schedules. Passing each other in the kitchen, exchanging quick kisses before she disappears again.

The idea of another baby seems almost… unrealistic.

Still.

The thought lingers quietly in the back of your mind for the rest of the evening.

By the time you and Natasha arrive home, the apartment is dim and peaceful.

The babysitter greets you quietly from the couch, whispering that Katya had fallen asleep about an hour ago. After paying her—and listening to a brief rundown of how “she was seriously the easiest toddler ever”—you walk her to the door while Natasha disappears down the hallway to check on Katya.

Your daughter is still asleep when you peek into her room a moment later, curled up under her small blanket with one stuffed animal clutched in her arms.

Natasha watches her for a moment from the doorway.

“She didn’t even wake up,” she murmurs quietly.

“She’s been exhausted lately,” you say.

Natasha nods faintly.

The two of you step back into the hallway, closing Katya’s door carefully.

And for some reason, Pepper’s comment comes rushing back into your mind.

You hesitate.

Then quietly say, “I’ll be right back.”

Natasha glances at you curiously but doesn’t question it.

You disappear into the bathroom.

The pregnancy test sits in your hand for a long moment before you even open it. It’s one you bought weeks ago after a late-night pharmacy run for cold medicine, tossed into the cabinet and forgotten about.

You’re not even sure why you’re doing this.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe something else.

The test takes only a few minutes.

But those minutes feel longer than they should.

When the result finally appears, your stomach sinks.

Negative.

A strange, sharp disappointment floods your chest so suddenly it almost catches you off guard.

Your eyes sting.

You hadn’t even realized you were hoping.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you.

Natasha’s voice is soft.

“…What are you doing?”

You quickly wipe at your face, but the tears have already gathered.

Natasha steps closer, confusion flickering across her features when she sees the test in your hand.

“Wait… are you—”

She pauses.

“…It’s negative.”

You nod weakly, staring down at it.

For a moment Natasha just looks… confused.

“I don’t understand,” she admits quietly. “Why are you upset?”

Your chest tightens.

“Because…” Your voice falters slightly before you force the words out. “Because maybe I was hoping it wasn’t.”

Natasha’s brows draw together.

“Why?”

The answer slips out before you can stop it.

“Because maybe it would bring you back.”

Silence fills the room.

Natasha goes very still.

You swallow thickly.

“You’re never here anymore,” you whisper. “I thought… maybe if we had another baby, you’d want to be.”

The words hang in the air.

Natasha stares at you for a long moment, something complicated flickering behind her green eyes.

Then she exhales slowly.

“…I actually kind of want another kid.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

Natasha rubs the back of her neck.

“Katya’s getting older,” she says quietly. “She should have a sibling. Someone to grow up with.”

Your heart stutters slightly.

“You mean that?”

Natasha shrugs faintly.

“…Yeah.”

The tension in the room softens just a little.

You look down at the test again.

Then back at her.

“So… we try?”

Natasha’s lips curve faintly.

“Unofficially.”

⸻

The pregnancy happens faster than either of you expected.

Within two months, you’re staring down at another test.

This time it’s positive.

And Natasha changes almost overnight.

She becomes the woman you fell in love with again—attentive, warm, constantly hovering nearby like she’s terrified you might vanish if she looks away for too long. She starts coming home earlier, sometimes even beating you back to the apartment with groceries already unpacked and dinner halfway finished.

The first time you wake up at one in the morning craving strawberry ice cream, Natasha doesn’t hesitate.

She grabs her jacket and disappears out the door.

The only open store is twenty minutes away.

She comes back forty-five minutes later with three different brands.

“You didn’t tell me which one,” she says simply.

Your heart nearly bursts.

For nine months she stays like that—doting, attentive, present.

When your son is born, Natasha cries the moment she holds him.

“A boy,” she murmurs softly, brushing her thumb over his tiny cheek.

You smile weakly from the hospital bed.

“What do you think about Elliot?”

Natasha looks down at him.

“…Elliot Romanoff.”

She nods.

“I like it.”

For a while, things feel perfect.

Katya adores her baby brother. Natasha carries Elliot around constantly like he’s made of glass. The apartment fills with the warm chaos of family life again.

But slowly…

Old habits creep back in.

A mission here.

A late debrief there.

A night out with the team that turns into three drinks too many.

Phone calls that don’t come.

Arguments that grow sharper with every passing week.

And somewhere between midnight arrivals and slammed doors, the warmth that came with Elliot’s birth begins fading into the same quiet tension that once filled the apartment before.

Like history repeating itself.

⸻

Three Years Ago

The clock on the microwave reads 9:48 PM, the glowing green numbers reflecting faintly off the dark kitchen tiles. The apartment has that same quiet, stretched feeling it always seems to get when Natasha isn’t home yet—the kind where every little sound seems louder than it should be. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The soft chatter of the cartoon playing in the living room. The occasional creak of the floorboards when one of the kids shifts their weight.

You’re standing at the edge of the living room now, leaning your shoulder against the wall as you watch Katya and Elliot on the couch.

Katya is three now.

Three years old and already convinced she’s much more capable than she actually is.

She sits cross-legged on the couch beside her baby brother, carefully holding one of his small stuffed dinosaurs in front of him like she’s personally responsible for his entertainment. Elliot, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to the effort she’s putting in. He’s sprawled back against the cushions, one tiny sock half slipping off his foot while his heavy-lidded eyes stare at the brightly colored cartoon characters bouncing across the television screen.

The flickering light paints both their faces in soft blues and yellows.

You glance down at your phone.

No messages.

Not that you expected any.

You stopped expecting Natasha to be home on time a long time ago.

But that tiny, stubborn piece of hope in your chest never really went away.

Every night there’s still that quiet thought in the back of your mind—maybe tonight will be different.

Maybe tonight she’ll come through the door at a normal hour.

Maybe tonight she’ll actually be here to say goodnight to her kids.

Your eyes drift back toward the door.

The hallway beyond it is silent.

Katya suddenly leans toward Elliot, pressing the stuffed dinosaur against his arm.

“Look, Eli,” she says proudly, her voice slightly too loud for the sleepy quiet of the room. “Dino!”

Elliot barely reacts.

His head droops slightly forward, his eyelids slowly beginning to slide shut as the cartoon music continues chirping happily in the background.

You push yourself off the wall and walk over to the couch, gently brushing your fingers through Elliot’s soft hair.

“Well,” you murmur quietly. “Looks like someone’s ready for bed.”

Katya looks up immediately.

“I help!”

You smile faintly.

“Of course you do.”

You lift Elliot carefully from the couch, his small body going limp against your shoulder almost instantly. He lets out a soft, sleepy whine before settling again, one tiny hand curling loosely against your shirt.

Katya jumps down from the couch and hurries after you as you walk down the hallway toward Elliot’s room.

“I help,” she repeats, much more seriously this time.

Her version of helping mostly involves standing directly in the middle of wherever you need to walk.

But you don’t say that.

Because if she wasn’t there, the hallway would feel a lot emptier.

And right now, you’re not sure you want to feel that.

“Okay,” you say gently as you push Elliot’s bedroom door open with your shoulder. “You can help.”

Katya beams like you’ve just given her the most important job in the world.

Elliot whines softly as you lay him down on the changing table, his sleepy eyes blinking slowly as you switch him into his pajamas. Katya stands beside you the entire time, carefully holding a small diaper like it’s a sacred object.

“Here,” she announces proudly, handing it to you.

“Thank you,” you say warmly.

She grins.

It takes twice as long to get Elliot ready for bed with her “helping,” but you don’t mind. Eventually he’s tucked into his crib, his stuffed bear resting beside him while his breathing slowly evens out.

Katya leans against the crib railing, peeking at him.

“He sleepy,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” you murmur softly.

You brush a kiss across Elliot’s forehead before guiding Katya back into the hallway.

“Your turn.”

Katya doesn’t argue.

She rarely does when it comes to bedtime.

Her routine is simple now—pajamas, brushing her teeth, one short story, then her favorite blanket tucked around her shoulders. The same process every night, steady and predictable in a way the rest of your life hasn’t been in a long time.

Tonight is no different.

By the time you finish reading the story, Katya’s eyelids are already drooping.

“Night, Mama,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Goodnight, bug,” you whisper, brushing her hair back from her face.

You close her door softly behind you.

And then the apartment falls quiet again.

The waiting game begins.

You sit on the couch with the television muted, the soft glow from the screen casting dim light across the room. Your phone rests in your hand, though you’re not really looking at it.

Time passes slowly.

11:04 PM.

11:52 PM.

12:38 AM.

At some point you stop checking.

You just sit there.

Waiting.

The sound of the front door unlocking finally breaks the silence.

Your head lifts immediately.

The door opens.

Natasha steps inside.

It’s 2:03 AM.

Your wife pauses slightly when she sees you sitting there, like she wasn’t expecting you to still be awake.

“You’re up late,” she says casually as she shuts the door behind her.

The familiar scent of alcohol drifts faintly through the air.

But there’s something else, too.

Something softer.

Sweeter.

Floral.

Your stomach twists.

Natasha doesn’t wear floral perfume.

She never has.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“…Where were you?”

Natasha shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it over the chair by the door.

“Out.”

“With who?”

She hesitates just slightly.

“Some people from the team.”

You stand slowly from the couch.

The scent becomes stronger as she walks closer.

That perfume again.

It clings to her clothes.

Her hair.

“Natasha,” you say carefully. “Who were you with?”

Her jaw tightens faintly.

“…Someone.”

A hollow feeling spreads through your chest.

“Were you sleeping with her?”

The question hangs heavily in the air.

Natasha freezes.

For a long moment she doesn’t say anything.

Then she exhales slowly.

“No.”

Your eyes narrow.

“No?”

“I wasn’t sleeping with her.”

“That’s a very specific answer.”

Silence.

Your stomach drops further.

“…Natasha.”

She runs a hand through her hair, clearly realizing there’s no point dodging the truth.

“We were drinking,” she admits quietly.

“And?”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours.

“…We kissed.”

The room goes completely still.

Your chest feels strangely empty.

Like the air has been pulled straight out of it.

“Nothing else happened,” she adds quickly. “I stopped it.”

But the words barely register.

All you can think about is the perfume clinging to her shirt.

The late nights.

The missed dinners.

The broken promises.

The way your kids fall asleep every night without seeing their mother.

Your voice comes out hollow.

“…Right.”

Natasha takes a step toward you.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

You laugh softly.

But there’s no humor in it.

“That’s almost worse.”

She doesn’t argue.

Because she knows you’re right.

The silence stretches between you again.

Heavy.

Final.

Somewhere down the hallway, Elliot stirs faintly in his crib before settling again.

You close your eyes for a moment.

When you open them again, your voice is quiet.

“I think we’re done.”

Natasha doesn’t protest.

She doesn’t argue.

She just looks tired.

Like she’s been expecting those words for a long time.

⸻

A week later, you place the divorce papers on the kitchen counter.

Natasha stares at them for a long moment.

Then she nods.

“…Okay.”

No shouting.

No begging.

Just quiet acceptance.

The process moves quickly after that.

The lawyers handle most of it, the paperwork sliding through the legal system with almost mechanical efficiency. Natasha never fights it. Never tries to delay it.

The custody agreement settles at 50/50.

Fair.

Simple.

Katya and Elliot will split their time between the two of you.

And just like that—

The life you built together ends. Not with a dramatic explosion. But with quiet signatures on a stack of papers.

⸻

Present Day

The house had felt too big the first night you slept in it.

Not in a bad way—just unfamiliar. The kind of quiet that comes from space instead of loneliness. After years of apartments and shared hallways and elevators that hummed through the walls, the simple fact that your front door opened directly to your own driveway had felt strange.

But the kids had loved it immediately.

Katya especially.

She had run through the empty rooms when you first got the keys, her small voice echoing off bare walls while Elliot toddled after her, barely steady on his feet at the time. The yard had sealed the deal for both of them—an actual patch of grass big enough to run across without bumping into anything.

Now, years later, that same yard is full of noise.

Bright balloons tied to the fence bounce in the warm breeze while a giant inflatable bouncy castle dominates the center of the lawn, packed with shrieking six-year-olds who seem physically incapable of staying still for more than half a second.

Katya’s sixth birthday party is in full chaos.

Exactly how she wanted it.

Kids from her entire class run back and forth across the grass, their shoes kicking up little clouds of dirt as they chase each other between the garden chairs and the inflatable castle. Someone’s brought a bubble machine that’s sending shimmering bubbles drifting lazily through the air, popping softly whenever one of the kids jumps too close.

You stand near the patio doors, leaning against the frame while you watch it all unfold.

And, as always—

Elliot is glued to your side.

Your four-year-old clings to your leg with the stubborn determination of someone who has decided this is simply where he belongs. His small arms wrap around your thigh while he peers cautiously at the chaos happening across the garden.

Several kids from his daycare are running around with the older ones, but Elliot has shown absolutely zero interest in joining them.

He presses his cheek against your leg instead.

“Eli,” you murmur gently, glancing down at him. “Your friends are here.”

He shakes his head immediately.

“No.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

He’s always been like this.

From the moment he could walk, Elliot had attached himself firmly to you. Katya had been independent almost to a fault as a toddler—running ahead, climbing things she probably shouldn’t, exploring every corner she could find.

Elliot is the opposite: Your shadow. Your little mama’s boy.

He shifts slightly now, attempting to climb up your leg in a slow, determined effort that would almost be impressive if it wasn’t so inconvenient while you’re trying to carry plates out to the patio table.

“Buddy,” you say patiently, steadying the stack of napkins in your hands. “I need my leg.”

“No,” he repeats, tightening his grip.

You sigh softly.

From across the yard, your mother laughs quietly.

“He’s just like Katya used to be,” she says warmly.

You glance over toward the garden table where several adults have gathered—your parents, a few of the other kids’ parents, and even Natasha’s family.

Her parents sit near the edge of the patio, her mother watching the children with the quiet attentiveness of someone who has spent decades observing people carefully. Natasha’s sister stands nearby talking with one of Katya’s friend’s moms while sipping from a plastic cup of lemonade.

They all showed up on time.

Natasha didn’t.

Your eyes flick briefly toward the driveway.

Still empty.

Not surprising.

You stopped expecting punctuality from Natasha a long time ago.

But, like always, there’s still that tiny, stubborn part of you that hopes she’ll show up anyway.

The party continues without her.

Katya bounces on the castle with three of her friends, her wild red hair flying around her face as she laughs loudly enough for the entire garden to hear. Someone starts a game of tag that quickly devolves into half the kids sprinting in random directions while the other half collapse into giggles on the grass.

Elliot remains firmly attached to your leg the entire time.

Eventually you manage to peel him off just long enough to set up the grill near the edge of the patio. The charcoal crackles softly as you arrange the burgers and hotdogs nearby, preparing to start cooking for the growing crowd of hungry children.

That’s when a car pulls into the driveway.

You glance up automatically.

Natasha’s car.

It takes her a moment to get out.

But when she does, she looks… mostly the same as always. Dark jacket, boots, red hair tied loosely back. There’s a faint tension in her posture like she came straight from somewhere else.

Your eyes flick to the time on your phone.

She’s about an hour late.

Which, honestly, by Natasha’s standards, is practically early.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

Because the moment Natasha steps through the gate into the yard, her mother turns and gives her a look that could slice through steel.

Natasha pauses slightly under that gaze.

“…Hi, Mama.”

The look only deepens.

You almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

Before anyone can say anything else, Katya spots her.

“MAMA!”

Your daughter launches herself off the bouncy castle with reckless enthusiasm and sprints across the yard, grass flying behind her as she barrels straight into Natasha’s legs.

Natasha barely has time to brace before Katya wraps her arms around her.

Natasha’s entire posture softens instantly.

“Hey, маленькая,” she murmurs, crouching slightly to hug her.

Katya squeezes her tightly—

Then immediately releases her and runs straight back toward the bouncy castle like the interaction never even happened.

Natasha watches her go with a faint smile. Meanwhile, Elliot doesn’t even look. He’s far too busy trying to climb up your leg again like a determined little koala.

Natasha notices. Her gaze flicks toward the two of you. Elliot completely ignores her presence. You sigh softly.

“Elliot,” you murmur, gently prying one of his hands off your jeans.

He whines quietly. Across the yard, Natasha approaches slowly.

You’re just reaching for the lighter to start the grill when she steps beside you and calmly takes it from your hand.

“I’ve got it,” she says.

You glance at her. Natasha flicks the lighter beneath the charcoal with practiced ease.

“Least I can do.”

You don’t argue.

The grill crackles to life as smoke begins curling upward into the warm afternoon air.

For a few minutes, the two of you stand there in that familiar, slightly awkward quiet that comes from years of history and the strange calm that followed your divorce.

Eventually Natasha breaks the silence.

“I went on a couple dates recently.”

Your eyebrow lifts slightly.

“Oh?”

She shrugs faintly, flipping one of the burgers.

“Nothing serious.”

You nod slowly.

“That’s good.”

It isn’t jealousy you feel. Not really. More like distant curiosity.

Your attention drifts back toward the yard where Katya is attempting to organize a chaotic game involving a beach ball and three kids who clearly don’t understand the rules.

“Oh,” you say casually. “Katya has her ballet recital next week.”

Natasha’s head turns immediately.

“When?”

“Thursday evening.”

She nods slowly.

“I’ll be there.”

You look at her seriously.

“You cannot miss this one.”

Natasha meets your gaze.

“I won’t.”

Something in her tone makes you believe her.

The grill pops softly between you. Soon enough, the burgers and hotdogs are ready.

Kids swarm the patio table like tiny vultures while parents laugh and try to organize plates and drinks. Elliot finally detaches from your leg long enough to sit beside you while eating a hotdog that’s almost bigger than his hands.

The birthday cake comes out shortly after. Six candles glow brightly on top. Everyone gathers around as Katya beams proudly in front of the table.

“Ready?” you ask. She nods excitedly.

And soon the entire garden fills with the loud, slightly off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. Katya squeezes her eyes shut before blowing out the candles in one determined puff.

The party slowly winds down after that. Parents gather their kids, balloons are untied, leftover cake is packed into small containers. One by one, cars pull out of the driveway until the garden finally begins to quiet again.

Your parents leave. Natasha’s family leaves shortly after. Eventually it’s just you and the kids.

Katya runs one last lap across the grass before collapsing dramatically into one of the lawn chairs.

Elliot climbs straight back into your lap. The sun is beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the yard. And for the first time all day, everything is finally quiet again.

⸻

Rain had been falling since sunrise. Not the light, misty kind that drifts through the air and disappears as quickly as it comes—but the heavy, steady kind that seems determined to drown the entire day in gray. It drums against the roof, streaks down the windows in long uneven trails, and turns the street outside into a blurred reflection of headlights and puddles.

By the time morning rolled around, the sky had already settled into that deep slate color that promised the rain wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

You’d gotten the kids ready for school anyway.

Katya had been practically vibrating with excitement, even while pulling on her little rain boots. Her ballet recital had been all she talked about for the past week, bouncing around the kitchen in her socks while explaining—again—how she was definitely the best twirler in her class.

Elliot had been quieter. He always was in the mornings.

Still half-asleep while he clung to your side, his small hand gripping the sleeve of your jacket as you walked them both across the parking lot toward the school entrance. The rain had soaked the edges of your coat before you even made it through the doors.

Katya ran ahead toward the elementary classrooms. Elliot stuck to your leg. As always.

The preschool wing sat just off the main building, bright with colorful posters and tiny cubbies that held miniature backpacks and rain boots. Elliot had reluctantly let go of your hand once his teacher knelt down to greet him, though he still glanced back at you twice before disappearing inside with the other kids.

That had been this morning. Now the rain hasn’t let up once. You glance out the window again as you grab your keys from the counter. Still pouring.

The recital isn’t until an hour after school ends, but the school had sent a message earlier offering to keep the participating kids—and their siblings—inside the building during that time so parents wouldn’t have to drive back and forth in the storm.

Which meant you could head there a little early. And you absolutely planned to. Katya had talked about wanting you in the front row for weeks. You slip your jacket on, grabbing your bag as you head out the door.

The rain hits immediately.

Cold droplets splatter across your shoulders as you hurry across the driveway and climb into the driver’s seat, shaking water from your sleeves before sliding the key into the ignition.

You twist it. Nothing happens. The engine doesn’t even attempt to turn over. You frown slightly and try again. The key turns. Silence. Not even the faintest click.

“…Seriously?”

You try once more.

Still nothing.

The windshield wipers squeak faintly as the rain continues pouring down outside, the steady rhythm almost mocking the situation.

You grab your phone, already pulling up the nearest garage. Every single one is closed. The weather had apparently shut down half the local businesses for the day. You lean back in the seat, staring at the useless dashboard. The recital starts in less than an hour. Your fingers hover over your phone for a moment. Then you sigh. There’s really only one option.

You tap Natasha’s name. The phone rings twice before she answers.

“Hey.”

Her voice is calm. You rub your forehead lightly.

“My car won’t start.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“…Okay.”

“I need a ride to the school.”

Another small pause. Then—

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The call ends.

You exhale slowly and lean your head back against the seat while the rain continues drumming against the roof.

Ten minutes later, headlights cut through the gray haze of rain outside your driveway. Natasha’s car pulls up.

You grab your bag and hurry across the wet pavement, climbing into the passenger seat as the door shuts with a dull thud.

“Thanks,” you say, brushing rain from your jacket. Natasha nods once.

“No problem.”

The car pulls away from the curb, windshield wipers sweeping steadily across the glass as you merge onto the rain-soaked street.

The drive to the school is mostly quiet at first.

Then the conversation begins filling the space the way it always does these days—casual, neutral topics that circle comfortably around anything deeper.

“How are the kids doing in school?” Natasha asks.

“Katya’s teacher says she’s doing great in reading,” you reply. “Apparently she keeps trying to read books to the other kids.”

Natasha smiles faintly.

“That sounds like her.”

You nod.

“Elliot’s still shy in class.”

“Yeah?”

“He mostly just sits near the teacher.”

Natasha glances at you briefly.

“…Still glued to you at home?”

You snort softly.

“Like a barnacle.”

The conversation drifts from there. Your promotion at work comes up next. Natasha listens quietly while you explain the new responsibilities, nodding occasionally while keeping her eyes on the road.

It’s simple conversation. Easy. The kind of neutral ground the two of you have learned to exist on since the divorce. By the time you reach the school parking lot, the rain has only gotten heavier. But you’re early. Very early.

You check the time as you step out of the car. Forty minutes before the recital. Perfect.

Inside, the gymnasium lights glow brightly against the gray afternoon outside. Rows of folding chairs have already been set up facing the small stage area where a curtain hangs loosely across the back wall.

Only a few parents have arrived so far. Natasha steps in behind you. And almost immediately looks… uncomfortable. You glance sideways at her. She stands near the entrance for a moment like she’s unsure what to do with herself.

For someone who can handle international assassins and covert missions without blinking— Apparently arriving early to a children’s recital is far more intimidating.

You can’t help the quiet smile that slips onto your face. “Come on,” you say.

You walk toward the front row. Three seats sit open directly in the center. You claim them immediately.

One on the left. One on the right. And the middle seat left open.

“For Elliot,” you explain casually.

Natasha nods.

She sits down beside you, though she still looks faintly out of place surrounded by folding chairs and colorful decorations taped to the walls.

The room slowly begins filling with parents. Soft chatter echoes through the gym as more people arrive, umbrellas dripping near the entrance.

Eventually, a side door opens. A group of children spills into the room. Katya and Elliot among them. Both kids immediately spot you. And Natasha. They stop dead in their tracks. Their little faces freeze with identical expressions of shock.

Natasha is early.

For a moment, both kids just stand there with their arms hovering awkwardly in the air like they don’t quite know how to process this unexpected development.

Then Elliot runs first. Straight toward you. He climbs into the empty seat between you and Natasha before immediately leaning his head against your shoulder. One of his hands reaches for yours. The other grabs Natasha’s.

Katya hurries over next, her ballet bag clutched tightly against her chest.

“You’re both here!” she says breathlessly.

Natasha smiles softly.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Katya beams—

Then quickly remembers something important.

“Oh!” she gasps. “I gotta go backstage!”

And just like that, she spins around and runs back toward the stage area with the other dancers.

Elliot stays exactly where he is. Curled between the two of you. His small fingers wrapped around both of your hands.

The gym lights dim slightly. Soft music begins playing through the speakers. And the recital finally starts.

The recital lasts a little over an hour.

Which is honestly impressive considering the performers are a group of six-year-olds whose understanding of ballet seems to exist somewhere between enthusiastic spinning and aggressively enthusiastic hopping.

The stage lights glow warmly against the small wooden platform while the soft instrumental music plays through slightly crackling speakers. One by one, small groups of children shuffle onto the stage in pastel tutus and slightly crooked ballet slippers.

The performance is… chaotic.

Adorable.

But chaotic.

Half the kids are clearly trying very hard to remember the routine they practiced. The other half appear to have decided that improvisation is just as valid as choreography.

At one point a girl spins in the wrong direction and bumps into another dancer.

Someone else forgets an entire section and simply stands there smiling proudly until the next move starts.

Katya, however—

Katya throws herself into the performance like her life depends on it.

From the moment she steps onto the stage, she’s moving with fierce concentration, her little arms stretching dramatically into the air as she attempts a turn that ends slightly off balance but quickly recovers into something that almost looks intentional.

You clap after every routine.

Elliot does too.

Mostly because everyone else is.

But occasionally he glances up at you with wide eyes as if checking whether the clapping is still required.

Natasha sits quietly beside you the entire time.

But you notice the way her attention never leaves the stage when Katya is dancing.

When the recital finally ends, the entire room erupts into applause that echoes loudly through the small gymnasium. The kids flood off the stage moments later, running straight toward their families with flushed faces and excited chatter.

Katya finds you instantly.

“I did so good!” she declares proudly.

“You were amazing,” you tell her honestly.

Natasha nods beside you.

“Very impressive.”

Katya beams like she’s just been personally awarded an Olympic medal.

Elliot clings to your hand as the four of you eventually make your way back outside into the still-pouring rain.

The drive home is loud.

The kids talk almost nonstop.

Katya launches into a detailed explanation of every single move she performed, occasionally demonstrating from her seat in the back despite the limited space.

“I did the spin like this!” she insists, twisting her arms dramatically.

Elliot contributes occasional commentary between attempts to wiggle out of his car seat so he can climb into your lap instead.

“Eli, sit back,” you say for what must be the fifth time.

“No,” he replies stubbornly, halfway through another escape attempt.

Natasha chuckles quietly from the driver’s seat.

The windshield wipers sweep steadily across the glass as the rain continues pouring down outside.

Eventually the car pulls into your driveway.

Natasha parks.

And immediately—

“Mommy!” Katya blurts from the back seat.

You glance over your shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Can Mama come inside for dinner?”

You blink.

“…What?”

Katya leans forward eagerly.

“Pleeeease?”

Elliot finally manages to squirm halfway out of his seatbelt and immediately starts climbing toward you from the back.

“Yes,” he adds helpfully.

You sigh.

You gaze flicks briefly toward Natasha.

She looks just as surprised as you feel.

“…Only if it’s okay,” she says quietly.

The kids are both staring at you now with identical hopeful expressions.

You rub your forehead lightly.

“…Fine.”

Two small cheers erupt from the back seat.

Natasha glances at you again.

“…Thanks.”

You shrug faintly.

The four of you step out of the car and hurry through the rain toward the front door.

Inside, the house immediately fills with the familiar sounds of the kids talking over each other.

Katya drops her ballet bag near the door before launching into another enthusiastic retelling of the recital.

“I’m gonna be the best ballet dancer ever,” she announces confidently while kicking off her shoes.

“Ever?”

“Yep.”

Elliot bunny-hop walks beside you down the hallway, bouncing awkwardly with every step like he’s forgotten how normal walking works.

Natasha lingers slightly behind the three of you.

Her eyes move slowly around the house. The living room. The kitchen. The family photos along the hallway wall.

She’s been inside this house maybe three times total.

Katya’s birthday last week.

And once about a year ago when Elliot accidentally left his favorite plush rabbit behind after a custody switch — Even then she never stepped further than the hallway while you grabbed it.

Now she’s standing fully inside your home. Your space.

The kids settle onto the couch almost immediately, pulling out toys and beginning some elaborate game that involves plastic dinosaurs and a toy train.

Natasha hovers awkwardly near the kitchen entrance.

You notice her glancing between the kids and the counter where you’ve started pulling ingredients out of the fridge.

She clearly can’t decide what she’s supposed to do.

Join the kids?

Help you?

Eventually she chooses the second option. She steps quietly into the kitchen.

“Need help?”

You glance at her briefly.

“…Sure.”

Dinner is simple.

Pasta. Tomato sauce. Garlic bread.

The kind of meal that’s easy enough to make without much effort after a long day.

Natasha tries to help.

Tries being the key word.

She stands beside you at the counter, attempting to stir the sauce while occasionally getting in the way of whatever you’re reaching for.

Which suddenly explains a lot about Katya’s helpful tendencies.

At one point the sauce bubbles too aggressively and splashes up onto Natasha’s shirt.

She jerks back slightly.

You snort.

She looks down at the red stain spreading across the fabric.

“…Great.”

You grab a towel and hand it to her, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

She huffs quietly but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

For a moment, the kitchen feels… strangely light. Comfortable, even.

You move toward the oven just as Natasha steps sideways to grab a plate.

Your shoulders bump.

The movement throws both of you slightly off balance.

Natasha’s hands immediately grab your waist to steady you.

Your breath catches slightly. Her hands stay there for a second longer than necessary.

Your faces are suddenly very close.

For a moment—

It’s impossible to tell who’s leaning in. Maybe both of you. Maybe neither. But just as the space between you begins to shrink—

BEEP.

The oven timer blares loudly through the kitchen.

Both of you jump slightly.

“…Garlic bread,” you mutter.

Natasha steps back.

The moment evaporates instantly.

You pull the tray from the oven while Natasha clears her throat quietly.

Together you start plating the food. Then you pause when you reach Elliot’s bowl.

“Oh,” you say, grabbing a small sieve from the drawer.

Natasha watches curiously.

“What are you doing?”

You hold the strainer over Elliot’s bowl as you pour the sauce through it, catching the small chunks of tomato and herbs.

“He doesn’t like the bits.”

Natasha blinks.

“…The bits?”

“Yep.”

You slide the smooth sauce toward Elliot’s plate.

“And it has to go in a separate bowl so it doesn’t touch anything he didn’t approve.”

Natasha stares at the carefully separated pasta components.

“…He’s four.”

You shrug.

“He’s particular.”

Dinner eventually gets carried to the table. Katya talks almost nonstop while eating. Elliot carefully dips each piece of pasta into his perfectly filtered sauce.

You sit across from Natasha.

For a while, the conversation stays focused on the kids.

School. Friends. Katya’s ballet class. Normal things.

And somewhere during the meal, Natasha realizes something. This—

This feels normal.

Sitting at the dinner table. The kids talking. Plates clinking softly. Rain still falling outside the windows.

It feels so perfectly normal that it almost hurts. Like this could have been their life every single night. Before she even fully processes the thought, her hand moves under the table.

Her fingers reach carefully across the small space and wrap gently around yours. For a split second she braces herself. Expecting you to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand stays there. Warm in hers. And Natasha’s chest tightens quietly as she keeps holding it.

After dinner, Katya had been the one to decide the next plan.

“We should watch a movie,” she had announced with the confidence of someone who knew her decision would absolutely not be challenged.

So that’s how you all ended up on the couch.

The big grey blanket that usually stayed folded over the armrest had been dragged out and thrown across everyone, turning the couch into one big warm pile of limbs and fabric.

Elliot had climbed directly into your lap the second the opening credits began. He curled against you like a little koala, his warm weight settling comfortably as he leaned back against your chest.

Across from you, Katya had claimed Natasha’s lap without hesitation, her legs tucked under the blanket while she leaned comfortably into her mother’s side.

A large bowl of popcorn sat between you and Natasha on the couch cushion. It had started full. It definitely wasn’t anymore.

Natasha’s arm rested along the back of the couch. Behind your shoulders. Like it had always belonged there. Like it hadn’t been missing for years.

At some point during the movie, without really thinking about it, you found yourself leaning slightly into her side.

The movement was small.

Subtle.

But Natasha noticed.

Her arm shifted just enough for her hand to settle more firmly against your shoulder, fingers resting there lightly like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

The blanket stayed draped over all four of you, trapping warmth beneath it while the movie played on.

Elliot’s small hand kept sneaking into the popcorn bowl.

Katya occasionally whispered comments about the movie to Natasha, who responded quietly back.

Somewhere around halfway through the film, Elliot’s movements slowed.

His little fingers stopped reaching for popcorn.

His head tipped back slightly against your chest.

By the time the final scene played, he was completely asleep in your lap.

Katya lasted a little longer.

But even she was starting to blink slower by the time the credits rolled.

“Is it over?” she murmured sleepily.

“Yeah, bug,” you said gently.

Elliot groaned dramatically in his sleep as you shifted slightly.

“Noooo,” he mumbled.

Natasha let out a quiet laugh under her breath.

“Bedtime,” she said.

Both kids protested immediately. Which was expected. Still, it didn’t take long before the routine started.

You lifted Elliot carefully from your lap, his arms automatically wrapping around your neck even while half asleep. Natasha followed behind you down the hallway as you carried him toward the bathroom.

The light flicked on, making Elliot squint.

“Alright, champ,” you murmured, setting him on the little stool by the sink. “Teeth.”

He groaned like brushing his teeth was the most exhausting task known to mankind.

Natasha leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you with quiet amusement.

You squeezed toothpaste onto his tiny dinosaur toothbrush and handed it to him.

He brushed with exaggerated seriousness, foam building around the corners of his mouth as he scrubbed his teeth.

“Top teeth too,” you reminded.

“I am,” he mumbled through the toothpaste.

Natasha snorted softly.

Once he finished, you helped him rinse and wipe his face before guiding him back to his room.

His dinosaur underwear came off next.

“Hey,” Elliot protested sleepily.

“Nighttime pull-up,” you reminded gently.

“I don’t need it.”

“You say that now,” Natasha said from behind you, her voice calm but teasing.

Elliot huffed but didn’t argue any further.

You helped him step into the pull-up before pulling on a clean pair of pajamas—this time the blue ones covered in tiny rockets.

Then you lifted him into his small toddler bed.

He immediately reached for his stuffed triceratops.

Natasha stepped closer while you pulled the blanket up around him.

You grabbed the little picture book resting on his nightstand and opened it.

Without discussion, the two of you settled into the familiar positions beside the bed.

You read.

Natasha occasionally pointed to the pictures while Elliot followed along with heavy eyelids.

By the last page, he was already asleep.

You quietly closed the book.

“Night, buddy.”

A sleepy mumble was the only response.

You both slipped out of the room, leaving the door cracked open.

Katya was already in the bathroom brushing her teeth when you reached the hallway again.

Unlike her brother, she handled bedtime like a professional.

She rinsed the sink when she finished and hopped down from the stool.

“Pajamas?” she asked.

Natasha grabbed the pair waiting neatly on Katya’s bed.

The routine repeated again.

Minus the pull-up this time.

Katya changed quickly before climbing into bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

You reached for her storybook.

Natasha sat beside her, gently tucking a loose strand of Katya’s hair behind her ear.

The story was shorter.

Quieter.

Katya’s eyes stayed open a little longer, but they were already drooping by the final page.

You leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Goodnight, Kat.”

She smiled sleepily.

“That was the best recital ever.”

Natasha kissed her forehead next.

“Night, детка.”

Katya curled deeper into her blankets. Within minutes, she was asleep too. You quietly turned off the light. Then stepped back into the hallway with Natasha. For a moment, neither of you moved.

The house had gone still now.

Just the two of you standing there in the dim hallway, the soft quiet of the night settling around you.

Natasha lingered by the front door longer than necessary.

Her coat was already on. Her car keys sat loosely in her hand. One more step and she’d be outside, walking back to her car, driving back to the quiet apartment that never really felt like home.

The house behind her was dim and warm. The hallway light glowed softly. Somewhere upstairs, the faint creak of the floorboards settled as the house cooled for the night.

She glanced back once toward the living room.

Toward you.

You were standing near the couch, arms loosely folded, watching her the same way she was watching you.

Something in your chest tightened.

“Nat?”

She paused mid-step.

Her hand stopped on the doorknob as she turned back toward you.

You hesitated.

The words hovered there for a moment, like if you said them out loud they might change something.

“Do you… want to stay a little longer?”

For a split second, Natasha looked almost stunned. Then something softer slipped across her face. Relief. Actual relief.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

You nodded once and stepped away from the doorway.

“I’ll make tea.”

A few minutes later the two of you were back on the couch. Just the two of you this time. No blanket fort. No kids wedged between you. Just quiet.

Two mugs of tea steamed gently in your hands, the soft lamplight casting a warm glow over the living room.

For a while the conversation stayed simple.

Easy.

You talked about Katya’s recital again.

Natasha admitted she nearly laughed out loud when three of the girls spun the wrong direction during one of the routines.

You told her Elliot had been practicing a “ballet jump” in the kitchen earlier that morning and nearly knocked over a chair.

Natasha laughed softly into her mug.

“Sounds about right.”

The conversation moved easily after that.

School updates.

Daycare antics.

Time slipped by without either of you noticing.

The tea went cold. And eventually…

The moment from the kitchen came back.

Neither of you said it at first. But it lingered between you anyway. Natasha was the one who finally broke the silence.

“Earlier,” she said quietly.

Your eyes lifted to hers.

“In the kitchen.”

You didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. “…Yeah.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I almost kissed you.” There it was. Just… said. Plain and honest. Your breath left slowly. “I noticed.”

Natasha huffed out a quiet laugh. “Good to know I’m not subtle.”

There was a pause. You stared down into your mug. “I wanted you to.”

Natasha froze. “What?”

“I wanted you to kiss me.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. But once they were out there, they stayed.

Natasha stared at you for a long moment, like she was trying to process that information. Then she leaned back against the couch slightly. “I never stopped loving you.”

The confession came out so calmly it almost didn’t register at first. Your chest tightened. Her eyes stayed on you.

“That stupid kiss… all those years ago,” she continued quietly. “That was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “I threw everything away because I was careless. Because I thought I had time to fix it.”

You didn’t interrupt. Natasha looked around the living room slowly. Your house. The photos on the wall. The toys half tucked under the coffee table.

“I sat here tonight,” she murmured, “watching a movie with you and the kids… eating dinner at that table…” Her voice softened. “And it felt normal.” She looked back at you. “Too normal.”

Your throat tightened slightly. Natasha exhaled slowly. “I realized something tonight.”

“What?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “The only thing I’ve ever really wanted…” A small pause. “…was you.”

The room felt very quiet.

“I was an idiot for letting you walk away.”

You swallowed slowly. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then Natasha shifted slightly toward you.

“Is there…” she hesitated for the first time all night. “Any chance we could try again?”

Your heart gave a quiet, complicated pull. You didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. Natasha nodded slightly, like she expected that.

“You hurt me,” you continued honestly. “Not just with the cheating.” Her shoulders stiffened slightly.

“The late nights. The missions. Showing up late to everything.” Your voice stayed calm, but firm. “I don’t want to be the one sitting at home every night wondering if you’ll show up again.”

Natasha leaned forward immediately. “I will.” You raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” she insisted. Her voice was steady. Serious.

“I’ll cut back on missions. I’ll change assignments. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She pressed a hand to her chest lightly. “I swear.” Her eyes locked onto yours. “Just give me a chance to prove it.”

The silence stretched between you. You studied her face. The determination there. The vulnerability. Finally, you exhaled slowly. “…Maybe.”

Natasha blinked. “Maybe?”

“I’m not promising anything yet,” you clarified. “But…” You hesitated. “…we can try.”

The smile that spread across Natasha’s face was small, but real. “Thank you.”

You stood up slowly. “Well…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “It’s pretty late.”

Natasha nodded and stood as well. “I should probably head—”

“You could stay.” The words slipped out before you overthought them. Natasha blinked again.

“You can take the couch,” you added quickly. Then after a second— “…or the bed.”

Her brain clearly short-circuited for a moment. “The bed,” she blurted out immediately. You both froze. Natasha stared at the floor.

“…I meant—”

You laughed softly. “It’s fine.”

A few minutes later you were both upstairs.

Natasha borrowed a pair of your old pajamas—slightly loose on her but comfortable enough.

The normal nighttime routine followed. Teeth brushed. Lights dimmed. Quiet footsteps across the hallway. Then finally into bed. The mattress dipped slightly as Natasha climbed in beside you. For a moment both of you just lay there. Unsure. Then instinct took over. You shifted closer. Natasha’s arm wrapped gently around you, pulling you against her chest like it was the most natural movement in the world. You tucked into her side easily. The familiar warmth of her arms around you felt almost unreal. Natasha’s hand rested softly against your back. Her thumb tracing slow circles.

After a moment she tilted her head slightly.

And pressed the softest kiss to your lips. Just one. Warm. Gentle.

Full of years worth of things left unsaid.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. Wrapped in each other’s arms, the two of you slowly drifted off to sleep together.

Morning crept into the room slowly.

Soft grey light filtered through the curtains, the kind that came before the sun had properly decided to show itself. The house was quiet in that fragile early-morning way, where everything still felt sleepy and calm.

Natasha woke first. For a moment she didn’t move. Her arm was still wrapped around you, your back pressed warm against her chest, your hair slightly tangled across the pillow between you both. The steady rhythm of your breathing brushed softly against her collarbone.

It took her a second to remember where she was. Then the memories from the night before settled back into place. The recital. Dinner. The movie. The conversation. And finally… falling asleep with you in her arms for the first time in years. A small, almost disbelieving smile tugged at her lips. She shifted just slightly, careful not to wake you.

That lasted about ten seconds. Because suddenly—

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

Small feet sprinting down the hallway. The bedroom door flew open without ceremony.

“Mommy!”

Katya launched herself onto the bed like a tiny missile, bouncing hard on the mattress as she scrambled toward you. Elliot followed seconds later, a little more clumsy but equally determined, climbing up the side of the bed with sleepy determination. Natasha barely had time to react before both kids piled on top of you. You woke with a startled laugh. “Okay—okay—gentle—”

Katya immediately wrapped her arms around you in a tight hug. Elliot flopped across your stomach, half laying on you while still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then Katya noticed. She froze mid-sentence. Her gaze slowly slid past you. And landed on Natasha. Her eyes widened. “…Mama?”

Natasha lifted a hand in a small wave from behind you. “Morning, котёнок.”

Katya looked between the two of you rapidly. Then back at Natasha. Then back at you. Her brain was clearly trying to piece together a very big conclusion. Elliot blinked sleepily at Natasha too, clearly still processing the unexpected presence.

Then Katya suddenly gasped. “WAIT.” She scrambled forward on the bed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Does this mean you’re gonna get married again?!”

The question burst out of her with all the dramatic urgency only a six-year-old could manage.

Natasha blinked. Then she let out a quiet laugh. You groaned softly and covered your face with one hand. “Katya—”

Natasha’s arm tightened slightly around you from behind as she chuckled. “Well…” she said lightly. Her eyes flicked to you for half a second before returning to Katya. “We’ll see.”

Katya grinned like she had just personally solved world peace. Elliot, still laying across your stomach, simply reached over and grabbed Natasha’s hand with one of his small ones and your hand with the other. Completely content. And for the first time in a long time— Everything felt like it might actually work out.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

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