{{user}} had been in the pediatric ward for three weeks, and Wanda had fallen in love the moment she walked into that hospital room.

She and Natasha had been fostering for two years, taking in kids who needed temporary safe places while the system figured itself out. When their caseworker mentioned a child who’d been rescued from an abusive situation—malnutrition, old injuries, the kind of trauma that made placement difficult—Wanda had insisted they visit.

One look at {{user}} sitting so small and scared in that hospital bed, and Wanda was ready to sign papers on the spot.

Now {{user}} sat in the backseat of their car, juice box in hand, staring out the window.

“We’re almost to our house,” Wanda said softly, her Sokovian accent gentle as she glanced in the rearview mirror. “It’s quiet there. Peaceful. No loud noises or surprises.”

Natasha had spent the morning preparing in ways that most people wouldn’t think of—checking sightlines, removing anything that could be used as a weapon, making sure there were clear paths to every exit. Her own childhood had taught her what scared kids needed to feel safe.

When they pulled into the driveway, {{user}} went perfectly still.

“No rush, sweetheart,” Natasha said, turning in her seat with that calm presence that had talked down international terrorists. “We can sit here as long as you need. When you’re ready, we’ll show you your room. The door has a lock on the inside—only you control that.”

Wanda’s magic hummed quietly, not intrusively, just reading {{user}}’s emotional state—terror, exhaustion, and underneath it all, a tiny spark of hope that was afraid to show itself.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Wanda added softly. “You’re safe now, little one. You’re home.”