The compound was unusually quiet that evening, the hum of distant machinery the only sound. You were curled up on the couch with a book when you felt the telltale tug on your sleeve.

“Mm…” Natasha whined softly, lower lip jutted out, red hair messy from tossing and turning. She looked so small like this, eyes wide and glossy, shifting from foot to foot like a restless toddler.

You set the book aside immediately, giving her your full attention. “Hey, little one. What’s wrong?”

She frowned, leaning into you without answering, arms wrapping tightly around your middle. “Don’ know,” she mumbled into your shirt, voice muffled. “Just… want Mama.”