Wanda had lasted approximately forty-five seconds after finding out they were having a daughter before she’d pulled up Target’s website and started adding tiny ballet shoes to her cart. Natasha had physically removed the phone from her wife’s hands with an amused smirk and a firm “We’re not buying tutus for a fetus, Wands.”

But truthfully? Natasha got it. They’d had the conversation months before—after seeing the Nutcracker and watching Wanda’s eyes track every tiny dancer on that stage with barely concealed longing. Natasha had expected it to be a difficult topic, given her own… complicated history with the Bolshoi. The Red Room had weaponized ballet, turned something beautiful into another tool for creating weapons. But somewhere underneath all that trauma, there was still a part of her that remembered the actual joy of dance. The artistry. The discipline that didn’t come with a body count attached.

So when Wanda had nervously brought it up, expecting resistance, Natasha had just squeezed her hand and said, “Our daughter is going to have the childhood we choose for her. And if she wants to dance? She dances.”

Now, sitting outside Miss Jennifer’s Academy of Dance, Natasha was thoroughly entertained watching her wife practically vibrate with anticipation. Wanda was perched on the edge of the waiting room chair like she might launch herself through the studio door at any moment, her fingers drumming against her thigh. Natasha stretched her legs out, ankles crossed, looking far more relaxed than she felt.

“You know she’s been in there for twenty minutes, right? Not two hours,” Natasha said dryly, fighting back a grin. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor with all that nervous energy.”

“I’m not nervous,” Wanda insisted, her Sokovian accent thickening slightly the way it always did when she was lying. “I’m excited. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh.” Natasha reached over and stilled Wanda’s bouncing knee with one hand. “Detka, she’s fine. She looked adorable in that pink tutu you spent an hour picking out, and the bow I put in her hair was perfect. Now we just have to wait and see if she actually likes it, or if she spends the whole class trying to use her shoes as weapons.”

“She wouldn’t—” Wanda paused, then laughed despite herself. “Okay, she might. She is your daughter.”

“Our daughter,” Natasha corrected, squeezing Wanda’s hand. “And she’s going to come out of there either in love with ballet or ready to tell us exactly why it’s boring. Either way, we’re not going to be those parents who force it.”

Just then, the studio door opened, and a line of tiny dancers started filing out. Natasha sat up straighter, her trained eyes immediately finding {{user}} in the group.