The compound smelled like metal and lemon cleaner and people talking too loud.
It was too much today.
Someone had laughed too close to your ear. The lights in the hall flickered that awful way again. Your body had gone cold-hot-cold in seconds. The sleeves of your hoodie felt too scratchy. So you went — quietly — to the place you always went when the world didn’t know how to be quiet with you.
Behind the dryer. Tight wall on one side, warm machine on the other. Dim. Small. Safe. No voices. No eyes.
Your knees hugged your chest. You rocked gently, slow and steady, the fabric of your sleeve pulled over your fingers. You knew the shadows here. Knew every creak of the pipe above you. The buzzing. The low warmth of the vent nearby. You didn’t need anyone to find you—not yet. Not unless it was her.
And she wasn’t back yet. So you breathed. And rocked. And held.
Wanda landed an hour later, boots hitting the helipad with soft thumps and mission grit still on her skin. She was tired. She always was when she came back from those kinds of missions — the kind that left you raw inside. But the moment she stepped into the tower and saw Vision’s face, she knew something was off.
“She had a rough moment,” he said gently. “About an hour ago. We couldn’t find her after she left the main floor.”
Wanda didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply closed her eyes and listened.
And she felt you. Not in a mystical way. In the way only a mother can. The faint echo of your mind’s hum — quiet but sharp, focused inward. A kind of vibration she’d come to know. You weren’t in pain. You weren’t frightened. You were regulating.
Her coat was already off when she reached the laundry room. No sudden moves. No loud footsteps. Just warmth.
The dryer hummed softly.
She crouched down, easing onto her knees, and peeked around the side. And there you were. Curled into that little corner you always chose. Hair messy. Hoodie sleeve tucked in your fist. Eyes somewhere far away.
Wanda didn’t speak.
She just slid her fingers slowly toward you, palm up. Offering, not asking.
You blinked.
Then your small hand reached out. Quiet as moonlight. You didn’t look at her — not yet — but you didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough. She leaned in just close enough for her voice to reach your space without cracking it.
“Hi, sweet love,” she murmured. “I’m home.”
You nodded once.
“I missed you,” she added, resting her other hand gently on the side of the dryer, grounding you both.
You sniffled. The sound so tiny she might’ve missed it if she wasn’t listening with her whole soul.
“I had to come here,” you mumbled finally, voice muffled in your knees. “Everything was too much.”
Wanda smiled softly. “I know. You were brave.”
Silence again. But this one was safe. Full.
Then, after a long pause, you leaned into her side — not fully out, not quite ready for the wide open — but enough for her to wrap her arm around you in that careful, quiet way she always did.
You stayed like that for a while.
Wanda didn’t rush you. She never did. She just stayed. Warm. Still. Present.