Wanda Maximoff had forgotten what it felt like to breathe without the weight of red chaos pressing against her ribs.
She sat alone on the edge of a windswept cliff in Scotland, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The sea crashed far below—relentless, indifferent, beautiful in its violence. She let the salt air sting her eyes until they watered, pretending the tears were only from the wind.
Pietro was gone. Vision had tried to be enough, but love could not be built on guilt and grief. She had walked away from the compound months ago, seeking silence, seeking something that didn't remind her of everything she'd destroyed.
And still, her thoughts kept circling back to him.
Alex Kane.
Not the drones, not the speed, not the quiet interventions that saved lives no one else could reach. Just… him.
The first time she truly saw him was in the Sokovian relief camp years earlier—young, steady, handing out blankets like it was the most natural thing in the world. He never looked at her like she was broken glass. Never flinched when red flickered at her fingertips. He simply sat beside her one night, offered tea, and asked nothing.
Then again during Ultron's madness—when the city rose into the sky and everything screamed, he had appeared beside her under a collapsing building. Lifted the beam she couldn't hold alone. Looked at her—not with awe, not with fear, but with something quiet and sure.
"You're not alone in this," he'd said. Simple. Certain.
She had never forgotten those words.
Now, months after Sokovia fell, after the Avengers fractured, after she walked away from Vision's gentle, impossible hope, she found herself wondering what Alex was doing.
Was he still in Queens? Still protecting the small circle of people he refused to lose? Still loving the girl he spoke of with such unguarded warmth?
Wanda pulled the burner phone from her coat pocket—the one he'd slipped into her bag during the last relief drop, no note, just a single number programmed.
She had kept it. She didn't know why.
Her thumb hovered over the call button for a long time.
Then she pressed it.
It rang once.
"Wanda."
His voice—soft, surprised, warm—hit her like a hand against her chest.
"Alex," she whispered.
A small exhale on the other end. "I wasn't sure you'd keep the phone."
"I wasn't sure I would either." She closed her eyes. "But I did."
Silence stretched—gentle, not heavy.
Then he asked, voice low: "Are you okay?"
The question cracked something open inside her.
"No," she admitted, voice trembling. "I'm not. I don't know how to be okay anymore."
She heard him shift—maybe sitting down, maybe leaning against a wall in Queens.
"I know that feeling," he said quietly. "Like everything you touch breaks. Like you're too much and not enough at the same time."
Tears slipped down her cheeks now—real ones, not wind.
"Yes," she breathed. "Exactly that."
"I've been there," he continued. "I woke up in this life with power I didn't ask for, memories of a world I lost, and the terror that I'd ruin this one too. The only thing that kept me going was refusing to let anyone else feel that alone."
Wanda pressed the phone harder against her ear, like she could pull him closer through the line.
"You make it sound simple," she said.
"It's not," he answered. "But it's worth it. Every time I see someone smile because they're still breathing, it's worth it."
She laughed—small, broken, real. "You're too good at this."
"No," he said softly. "I'm just stubborn. And I remember what it felt like to need someone to stay."
Wanda wiped her face with the back of her hand.
"I miss you," she blurted—raw, unplanned, terrifying.
A long silence. Then, quieter than she'd ever heard him:
"I miss you too, Wanda."
Her heart stuttered.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered. "I don't know if I'm allowed to feel this."
"You are," he said firmly. "You're allowed to want something gentle. Something safe. Even if it scares you."
She swallowed hard. "What if I break it?"
"Then we pick up the pieces together," he answered. "I'm not afraid of your red. I'm not afraid of your chaos. I'm only afraid of you thinking you have to face it alone."
Tears fell freely now.
"I want to see you," she said, voice cracking. "I want to sit next to you again. Not in a war zone. Just… somewhere quiet."
"I want that too," he said, and she could hear the ache in his voice. "More than anything."
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Queens. Home. Waiting for the world to stop breaking long enough to breathe."
She smiled through tears. "Then maybe… soon… I'll come breathe with you."
"I'll be here," he promised. "No matter how long it takes."
She ended the call gently, pressing the phone to her chest like a heartbeat.
The red energy coiled around her fingers—soft now, almost tender.
For the first time since Pietro died, since Sokovia burned, since Vision couldn't be the answer, Wanda felt something new.
Hope.
Not loud. Not certain.
But real.
Somewhere across an ocean, a man with borrowed powers and unbreakable stubbornness was waiting—patient, steady, unafraid.
Wanda stood.
The wind caught her hair.
She turned back toward the cottage.
One step at a time.
One crack in the wall.
One chance to let someone stay.
(Word count: 1008)