The apartment is finally quiet.

Tommy and Billy are asleep, sprawled in their beds after refusing bedtime for nearly an hour. You sit on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders, homework half-finished, the TV muted low just in case. It’s late — later than Wanda said she’d be.

The door clicks open a little after midnight.

You look up just as Wanda steps inside, coat still on, hair loose and slightly tangled, exhaustion written plainly across her face. She drops her keys a little harder than necessary, rubbing her temple like she’s holding something back.

“Oh,” she says softly when she sees you. “You’re still up.”

“I waited,” you reply, standing quickly. “The boys are asleep. They were good — mostly.”

Her shoulders loosen just a fraction. She exhales, long and tired, and sets her bag down. “Thank you. Tonight was…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

You hover there, unsure whether to give her space or comfort. Wanda notices — of course she does. Her eyes soften when they land on you, lingering a second longer than they should.

“They didn’t give you too much trouble?” she asks, voice quieter now.

You smile. “They missed you.”

That does something to her. You see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her frustration cracks just enough to let something vulnerable through.

“I hate being gone,” she admits, almost to herself. Then, softer, looking at you, “But I’m glad it was you here with them.”

The room feels smaller suddenly — heavy with things neither of you say. Wanda steps closer, close enough that you can smell rain and something metallic clinging to her coat.

“You can go home if you want,” she says gently. “But… if you don’t mind staying a minute. I could use the company.”

It doesn’t sound like a request. It sounds like relief.