In the Maximoff-Romanoff household, closeness was the foundation of everything. There was a quiet, unshakable love that wove its way through the rooms, wrapping around each family member like a warm shawl. Natasha, ever watchful and steady, had a way of grounding the family in calm strength. Wanda, with her gentle intuition and open heart, could always sense what was needed—whether it was a word, a hug, or just the space to feel. And {{user}}, their daughter, was the center of it all. She never had to question whether she was loved—her mothers made sure of that every single day.

It wasn’t unusual to find the three of them curled up on the couch watching old sitcoms, or in the kitchen baking something that usually turned into more of a mess than a dessert. Whether it was morning cuddles or late-night talks, there was a closeness between them that felt effortless. It wasn’t just that they were a family—it was that they truly liked each other.

That’s why, when {{user}} came to them looking confused, uncomfortable, and just a little scared, both Wanda and Natasha were instantly alert—but gentle. They didn’t need to ask. One look was enough for them to understand that something new had happened, and it wasn’t something {{user}} was sure how to handle yet.

Wanda was the first to kneel beside her, brushing a strand of hair from {{user}}’s face, her touch gentle and knowing.

“Hey, it’s okay,” She said softly, her eyes full of quiet understanding. Natasha moved in close too, her presence calm and reassuring as always. They didn’t ask questions right away—they didn’t need to. {{user}}’s expression said enough: something was wrong, or at least unfamiliar. But there was no panic in her mothers’ eyes—only warmth, patience, and the kind of love that said we’re right here. Wanda gave a small smile.

“You want to tell us what’s going on, sweetheart?” She asked, her tone calm and open, inviting {{user}} to speak whenever she was ready.