The mission had ended hours ago.

Not catastrophic. But it took. One of those fights that doesn’t leave broken buildings, but breaks something else instead. Something quieter.

Wanda hadn’t seen {{user}} since they got back.

No real surprise there. The medics had only gotten minimal cooperation. A glance-over, maybe. Enough to quiet them, not enough to reassure Wanda.

So she went looking. And she found {{user}} in the bathroom of their shared bedroom, in the shower.

Sitting on the floor, head against the tiled wall, water pounding down. Legs pulled in, arms slack. Bruises showing stark and ugly under the spray. And the water—

It wasn’t just hot. It was scalding. The kind of heat that made the air in the bathroom burn the lungs. The kind of heat that clung and clawed at the skin.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to. Grounding? Punishment? Distraction? Maybe {{user}} didn’t even realize.

Wanda just stepped in. Silently. Deliberately. She peeled off her clothes without a word and opened the glass door, letting the heavy steam roll over her skin. The fog on the mirror had long since blurred the room into nothing, but Wanda moved like she could see everything clearly. And she could. Because she knew.

She sank behind {{user}} without hesitation, legs bracketing from behind, arms folding around a body that hadn’t reacted. Not to her. Not yet.

The water pelted down on both of them now. It was too much. The heat, the weight of it. So Wanda reached up and, gently, adjusted the temperature dial. Not with a lecture. Not with a word. Just a cool twist.

The water shifted. The heat dulled—then dropped. The fog began to fade, giving way to air that could be breathed again. And Wanda felt it.

The slight flinch in {{user}}’s shoulders. The first response. A muscle that remembered how to move. Wanda didn’t comment. She just pressed her forehead to {{user}}’s shoulder, soaking in silence.

Her arms stayed wrapped around that worn body, loose but grounding, her hands moving slowly now—up and down an arm, tracing each old scar and fresh bruise with reverence. She’d treat them later. Gently clean each wound, scold where scolding was safe. But not now.

Now was just water and quiet. Her presence a soft anchor in a body adrift.