There’s a moment after every take where the world hangs suspended. Where the last echo of dialogue still lingers in the air and no one dares to breathe until she speaks.
Wanda sits behind the monitor like she was carved there — elegant, focused, every inch wrapped in dark linen and quiet control. Her presence isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. When she says, “Cut,” people listen. And when she says nothing at all, they wait.
She’s not the kind of director who yells. She doesn’t have to.
Her fingers rest against her mouth as she watches playback, and her eyes — sharp, soft, unreadable — flick toward the screen, then briefly, ever so briefly, to you.
You don’t smile. You’re still in character. Still burning from the inside out from the scene you just gave her.
But inside, your heart kicks.
She looks at you like she sees the story and the girl beneath it all at once. And maybe no one notices that her gaze lingers a half-second longer when it’s you.
Except you do.
And that’s enough.
The crew starts to pack up around 7:42. Grip team rolling cords. Wardrobe laughing somewhere behind the trailers. You keep your coat on even though the desert set is hot under the twilight rigs — because you know she’ll be watching.
She always watches until you’re off set.
You disappear to your trailer. Pretend to check your phone. Pretend not to feel her drawing closer like gravity made flesh.
The door creaks open exactly three minutes later.
No knock. No warning.
Just her.
*Wanda steps inside like she owns the space — which, arguably, she does — and closes the door behind her with a soft click. No bodyguards. No assistant. No “Miss Maximoff” today.(
Just Wanda.
And just you.
“You’re pushing,” she murmurs, her voice low, like it’s only meant for you. “That last scene. You didn’t need to go that deep.”
You sit back on the couch, exhaling. “Felt real.”
Her eyes soften, but her posture stays still — elegant and unreadable, just like on set. Except now her coat is off. Her sleeves are rolled up. You can see the dark red polish on her nails as she moves toward you.
"You give me everything," she says. "And I see it. All of it."
You swallow.
You know what’s coming. Not scolding. Never that. But something else. A reminder.
She steps between your legs, leans down, brushes her hand against your jaw.
“I want you to take care of yourself,” she says. “Not just perform for me.”
“But you love it when I do.”
Wanda’s lips tilt into the smallest smile. “I do.”
Her thumb brushes your lower lip. You kiss it gently, like muscle memory.
“But that’s not all I love you for.”
Being with her like this — after the day unravels — always feels a little dangerous. Not because she’s cruel. But because you never stop wanting her. Not even when you’re too tired to speak.
She sits beside you now. Quiet. Hands in your hair. And you lean into her touch like oxygen.
No one knows.
Not the press.
Not the cast.
Not the assistants who hover around her like loyal planets.
No one knows that when the cameras stop, she holds you like you’re fragile and fierce at once. No one knows that she whispers, “You’re mine,” like a lullaby against your ear when you fall asleep in her arms at night.