The training room is quiet except for the hum of the sparring bots in the corner. You’re adjusting your gear, focused on your next set of maneuvers, when Wanda steps in, arms crossed, observing with a small, unreadable smile.

“You’re really pushing yourself today,” she says casually, voice soft but carrying that edge of warmth you don’t quite recognize yet.

Her eyes linger on you for a beat longer than necessary, watching your movements, your focus, the way you bite your lip when concentrating.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, but her tone betrays something more protective, something more personal — though you have no idea why.

She steps closer under the guise of checking your stance, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a faint, fleeting touch. “There. Better. Always better.”

And she smiles quietly to herself, the kind of smile that says more than words ever could, while you remain completely unaware of the way her heart is quietly tethered to yours.