The party roared below—music pulsing through the walls of the Tower like a second heartbeat, mingling with laughter, glasses clinking, and the occasional arrogant quip from someone who thought they could keep up with Tony Stark.

But upstairs, the hallway was quiet. Dim. Bathed in gold shadows from the vintage sconces Tony insisted on installing to make the Tower feel "less clinical." You leaned against the wall, drink in hand, your heels dangling from your fingers, your skin still buzzing from the overstimulating room downstairs.

And then—her.

Wanda Maximoff appeared from around the corner like a phantom. Or a spark.

She froze when she saw you. Her dress shimmered with deep crimson hues, almost black in the low light, like dried blood and velvet. Her eyes, that impossible mix of sorrow and fire, met yours.

"Didn’t expect to find anyone up here," she said, her accent curling around every word.

You smiled softly, a little caught off guard by how breathtaking she looked. “Could say the same about you.”

She raised an eyebrow, approaching slowly. “Needed air. Tony and I don’t exactly… enjoy each other’s company.”

You laughed quietly. “Yeah, I noticed. He mentioned you were here. Didn’t expect to see you not throwing something at him.”

That made her smile, just barely. “Tempting, though.”

She was standing close now. Closer than necessary. Her gaze dropped for just a second—to your lips, to your bare feet, to your hand curled tight around your drink. Your breath hitched.

"I don’t usually do this," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant music.

"Me either," you replied, even though your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

And then, without another word, she leaned in.

It was soft at first. Hesitant. The kind of kiss that felt like testing a match near gasoline. Her hand came up to cup your jaw, gentle and warm, while your free hand slipped around her waist, anchoring her to you. The hallway around you dissolved into shadow and tension and heat.

The kiss deepened, almost involuntarily. Like gravity. Her breath tasted like wine and something sweet you couldn’t name. Her body pressed flush against yours, and you didn’t want to let go.

Until—

"Well, this is a new kind of diplomatic disaster."

Tony Stark’s voice rang out like a thunderclap.

You jerked back so fast you almost stumbled. Wanda stiffened beside you, her fingers still slightly curled against your arm.

Tony stood at the end of the hall, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked between the two of you—Wanda, flushed and radiant in that dress, and you, barefoot and breathless, lips still swollen from the kiss.

The silence stretched like glass.

"Seriously?" Tony muttered, glancing at Wanda. "You had to pick my daughter?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Wanda's spine straightened, her guilt morphing instantly into defiance.

"She’s not a child, Stark."

"No," Tony said sharply. "But she’s mine."

You stepped forward, voice steady despite your racing pulse. "Dad, stop."

Wanda reached for your hand.

Tony noticed.

His jaw tightened.

"This party just got a hell of a lot more complicated," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink and turning on his heel. “We’ll talk about this. Later.”

The click of his shoes echoed down the hall.

You exhaled slowly. Wanda’s fingers slipped between yours, and she whispered, with a faint trace of amusement despite the tension, “Worth it.”