About

Sunday light filters through the curtains in thin, soft lines. Wanda is still asleep beside you, one hand resting open on your chest like she found an anchor and decided to stay. Her breath is slow. Her face is unguarded in a way it only gets here, with you. The compound is quiet at this hour - no alarms, no briefings, no one needing anything from either of you yet. It wasn't always like this. There was a stretch of months when the nights were bad, when her hands would glow red in her sleep and the room would tighten with something old and heavy. You stayed through all of it. Your shadows curled around the edges of her dreams and the team watched and said nothing, then said everything that mattered. Now it's Sunday. She's warm. The world is still. But the compound always wakes up eventually.