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ginnsbaker · 20 hours ago

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All Of Your Pieces (27 - Anywhere But Home)

Chapter Summary: If you stopped running—if you tried to live—would she see it as betrayal? Would she be disappointed?

Or would she just be sad that it had taken you this long?

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, mentions of smut

A/N: Is it the last chapter yet? :p Writing Part 3 is giving me headaches // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

One of your favorite memories in Scotland with Wanda was a small, ordinary miracle—one you never thought you’d get to experience. It happened on Valentine’s Day, a holiday both of you usually found a bit cliché, but you had planned something special anyway.

It started in the late afternoon. You had surprised Wanda by insisting she dress up for the evening. Nothing fancy—just a cozy sweater dress she loved, paired with a slightly worn jacket, her hair pulled back in that effortlessly messy style that always drove you insane in the best possible way. You chose an outfit you knew would make her raise an eyebrow and smirk—a fitted shirt under a soft jacket, decent jeans, and that cologne she had once idly mentioned made her toes curl.

Your heart fluttered in a way you couldn’t quite name when, halfway through getting ready, Wanda paused in front of the mirror to check her reflection. She turned to give you a pointed, playful look, silently asking if she looked all right. You met her gaze and nodded, warmth spreading across your chest as you realized, This is our life now.

You led her to an old-fashioned cinema nestled between a bakery and a bookstore, the sort that still used a marquee with changeable letters to announce showtimes.

“Did you plan this?” Wanda asked softly as you approached the theater, glancing at you with a curious smile.

“Guilty,” you admitted, hoping your cheeks weren’t turning too red. “Figured maybe it’s time we, uh, actually go on a date.”

She looped her arm through yours. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to be romantic,” she teased.

“I’m not,” you argued, blushing at being called romantic. You never thought of yourself as one. You were practical—almost to a fault.

The small lobby smelled of popcorn and worn carpet. The walls were lined with posters of classic films that Wanda ogled like a child in a candy store. You made a mental note to get her one of those posters for the bedroom (okay, maybe you were a little bit of a romantic).

Wanda had giggled when you had offered to pay for everything, leaning in to whisper that you should at least let her buy the drinks. You had refused, and she had rolled her eyes but let you handle it.

By the time you had guided her to two seats near the back—best view in the house, in your opinion—the lights had already begun to dim. You had settled in with popcorn balanced on your knees, and to your surprise, you had realized you were actually a little nervous. Never mind that you had done everything up to this point in reverse, having slept together before any semblance of a first date. You’d chosen the movie, and you were hoping she’d like it.

Halfway through the movie, you had become acutely aware of how close Wanda was moving toward you. Inch by inch, she had slid nearer until her thigh had pressed lightly against yours. You had nearly forgotten the film’s plot entirely because all you could focus on was the soft sound of Wanda breathing, the warmth of her body, the subtle spice of her perfume. At one point, she had reached for your hand, interlacing her fingers with yours, and you had sworn your heart had nearly pounded its way out of your chest. It was unfair how much Wanda could still make you feel this way—even though she was the person you had always felt most comfortable with, the one who had made it easy to be yourself without reservation.

When you had risked a glance down at her, you had caught the corner of her mouth quirking up in a small, secret smile—one that said, I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

The glow from the screen had illuminated her features, and for a moment, you had to look away because the sight of her was overwhelming.

She was happy. You were happy. And—

You woke up—not from the pain, but because sleep wouldn’t hold without another pill.

The remnants of your dream clung to you, painfully warm, like Wanda’s fingers tracing lazy circles on your palm in that old Scottish theater. You knew you’d been smiling in your sleep; you could still feel the ghost of it lingering at the corners of your lips.

But the moment your eyes opened, it was gone.

You exhaled sharply, rolling onto your side—the one that didn’t make your ribs scream in protest. Your arm draped over your stomach, fingers clenching briefly around the thin blanket before you forced them to relax.

You told yourself to stop doing this. Stop waking up expecting her to be there. Stop chasing sleep just to be with her again.

But some nights—most nights—it was all you had left.

Three days after you’d slipped away from Doctor Kia’s ward, leaving behind a crumpled wad of bills worth more than your entire treatment, you returned to your shoebox rental. The bed squeaked whenever you shifted, and the windows rattled each time a truck passed on the street below. Not exactly a place to rest and recover, but it was better than being disturbed every few hours by strangers in white coats.

Clint hadn’t contacted you again. Most people would have worried, but you’d trained yourself to expect the silent spaces in your life, the long stretches of not knowing if your only ally in this godforsaken fight was alive or dead. You tried not to care. But you were never good at lying to yourself; a part of you felt uneasy, a restless energy crawling under your skin. You tested your body’s limits daily. It started with small walks around the block—pushing through the ache in your ribs, ignoring the protest of bandages that were still damp and sullied come afternoon. The first time you circled the neighborhood, you managed maybe two blocks before a spike of white-hot pain radiated through your side, forcing you to sit on a curb and catch your breath. Today, you made it a mile before your vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges.

And still, you refused the painkillers—at least for a while. Every day, you told yourself you could go without them, that you needed to feel just how broken you really were. But the threshold always crept up: your ribcage catching fire, your lung seizing, your shoulder burning from bullet trauma that hadn’t healed as cleanly as you’d hoped. And every time, when the pain got bad enough to make your teeth clench and sweat bead along your brow, you reached for the bottle anyway.

That was the point you reached tonight. After dry-swallowing the tablet, you stared at your reflection in the smudged bathroom mirror, taking in the hollow eyes, the slight gauntness in your cheeks. Wanda wouldn’t even recognize you. You wondered what she’d say. You wondered if she’d be disgusted enough to leave you.

You sank onto the lumpy couch—an ugly green thing that smelled faintly of mildew—and tried to focus on something other than your throbbing body. Memories of Wanda floated back unbidden, teasing at the ragged edges of your consciousness. You thought about that old theater again, the way she’d linked her arm through yours, as if you were something precious worth guarding. Her smile in the darkness, the soft brush of her breath. You remembered the jolt of nerves when she’d caught you looking.

You closed your eyes. Maybe if you could just hold onto that recollection, you wouldn’t feel so damn trapped. But the moment you pictured her face, your eyes flew open, and the colorless walls of your rental apartment mocked you. Wanda was gone. Clint was gone. You were alone.

And the pain, even dampened by medication, reminded you that living was its own form of punishment.

—

It’s business as usual a week later, when Clint showed up at your doorstep unannounced, to personally hand you a fresh list of names to hunt down. You stared at Clint leaning in the doorway, your mouth hanging in surprise.

He tossed a thin manila folder onto your tiny kitchen table. “Fresh intel,” he said.

You cast a wry glance at the papers, then back at him. “You could’ve just texted,” you said, smiling weakly. “Didn’t have to drop by and grace me with your presence.”

Clint’s gaze swept over you, from the bruised shadows under your eyes to the careful way you stood. It felt like a silent assessment, the same way a hunter might eye a wounded animal to judge if it was still worth chasing. Finally, he shrugged. “Wanted to see if you were still standing,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not here to check if you’re okay. I just need to know if you can handle the job—or if I’ve gotta do it myself.”

“I’m good,” you bit out.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Sure you are.”

He brushed past you into your cramped rental, tossing a glance at the unwashed dishes in the sink, the worn blankets spilling off the couch. His lips twitched in what might have been a grin if it didn’t look so tired. The man had a decade on you, at least, but objectively, he looked way better than you did.

“Close the door,” he said simply. “Might as well talk inside. People around here got eyes in the back of their heads.”

You shut the door and clicked the flimsy lock into place.

Clint perched on the arm of your squeaky couch, crossing his arms. “You look like you’re about to keel over.” He didn’t say it like a concern, more like an observation.

“I’ve had worse,” you countered. “This little hole in my lung isn’t half as bad as it looks.”

Clint didn’t look like he believed it, but he didn’t make further comments on your physical status. “We’ve got one last stretch of criminals here in Bangkok,” he began, “They’re a small ring by comparison, but they’ve dug in near the old port district. Word is they’re guarding a shipment headed out next week—weapons, and maybe people, too. Once we clear them out, Bangkok’s done. Clean enough, anyway.”

You nodded. You couldn’t wait to get out of this city. “You sure this is it?”

He nodded. “I’m sure. No more stragglers.”

A heavy pause settled before you spoke again. “So… what’s next?”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “Tokyo. There’s a bigger syndicate out there than we realized. I’ve been picking up whispers, and it’s messy. We’re talking multiple layers of corruption.” He looked up, eyes narrowed. “They’ll be armed to the teeth.”

You managed a humorless grin. “Sounds fun.”

“It won’t be,” he said bluntly. “Question is, can you handle this? You’re not exactly at full strength.” When you didn’t answer, he tipped his head, voice dropping into something softer. “You know you can stop anytime, right?”

You let out a quiet scoff. “Stop? That’s the last thing I want.”

“All right,” Clint said, pushing off the wall. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

—

It took you over a week to carve your way through the final list in Bangkok. The first half went fast enough, scoped out through the lens of a sniper rifle from rooftops you accessed easily with your charm. You sometimes lay still for hours, prone on concrete, sweat drenching your collar as you counted heartbeats between each trigger pull. By the time you’d crossed off target number seven, you knew the remaining names would be on guard, circling their wagons. Stealth and distance weren’t going to cut it anymore.

So you moved in closer. The traditional way.

Even injured, your body somehow kept up—swinging blades and trading punches with a single-minded focus. You felt the pull of your stitches, the flare of old burns, but each fight ended the way you’d intended: another threat off the board. Clint checked in via text a couple of times, never asking how you were holding up—just wanting status updates, wanting to know when the Bangkok chapter was done. You gave him the bullet points he needed and no more.

Tonight, the final name had just breathed his last. You slipped out of a cramped warehouse near the docks, blending into the humid darkness. Your ribs ached with every stride as you replayed the fight in your head, wondering if you’d made too much noise this time. Too many bullets had ricocheted off rusted metal. There’d been a close call or two, but you shrugged it off. It was nothing you hadn’t handled before.

Instead of heading straight back to your rental, you took a detour to your favorite hole-in-the-wall. Cravings weren’t common for you, but after clearing the list, tonight felt like it deserved a small celebration.

Then you heard it—a muffled scream, followed by a string of curses. Your senses snapped to attention. Just ahead, three men surrounded a smaller figure, backs turned to you. Every muscle in your frame tensed, and you found yourself moving before you could think it through.

When the attackers shifted, you caught a brief glimpse of their victim’s face.

Dr. Kia.

A surge of rage flared in your gut, but you clamped down on the instinct to unsheathe your sword. You were too close, and you refused to cut anyone down in front of her—someone who had spent her life stitching people back together, not tearing them apart. She didn’t need to see more blood on your hands than she already had.

You lunged instead, driving your fist into the first man’s jaw. The force rattled through your knuckles, sending him sprawling into a stack of boxes. The second spun around, raising a short-bladed knife. You snatched his wrist, twisting sharply until the blade clattered to the ground, then drove your elbow into his ribcage. He wheezed and doubled over, dropping to his knees.

The last one charged you with a frantic yell. A quick jab to the throat sent him staggering back, gasping for air. A final kick knocked him away from Kia, leaving him crumpled on the pavement.

With the street quiet again, you turned to find Kia still pressed against the wall, her chest heaving, eyes wide. She didn’t look relieved at all to see you there, having done those things.

“Are you okay?” you rasped, surprised by how ragged you sounded.

She blinked, then nodded shakily. “Yes, I—I think so.” Her gaze locked on your hands, bruised and trembling at your sides. “You’re hurt. Let me—” She fumbled inside her bag. “I have ointment for those cuts—”

“No,” you cut her off, a surge of anger slamming through you. You didn’t need help. Or gratitude.

She stepped closer. “Please, just—”

You lost it. Your arm snapped out, and before you knew what you were doing, you’d wrapped your hand around her throat, pinning her to the alley wall. Her eyes went huge with shock. She tried to speak, but only a broken gasp emerged.

Realization slammed into you like a freight train. You were hurting the one person here who didn’t deserve any of this—the one person who had shown you even a shred of genuine care.

You yanked your hand away, stumbling back. Kia clutched her neck, leaning heavily against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Anger warred with shame in your chest.

“Don’t—” you snarled, voice shaking. “Don’t follow me, don’t try to help. Stay away from trouble.” Your voice hitched. “Stay away from me.”

She stared at you, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. For a split second, Wanda’s face flashed in your mind—the way she looked that day she patched you up after weeks of silence. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You realized Kia had struck a nerve. Because this—patching you up, tending to your wounds, putting you back together—this belonged to Wanda. It was hers in a way no one else could ever claim.

Even so, Kia didn’t deserve your reaction. You wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. It had been a long time since you’d apologized to anyone. So you proceeded to do the only thing you knew these days.

You pivoted toward the trio of men, still groaning on the ground. Before you left, you slammed your heel into the pavement beside the nearest attacker’s hand, making him jerk away in alarm.

“If I catch you near her again,” you growled, voice low, “it’ll be worse.”

They scrambled back, eyes wide with fear, clutching their ribs and bruised limbs, hurriedly gathering themselves to flee. Satisfied they wouldn’t dare turn on Kia again anytime soon, you spat the last of your anger onto the alley floor.

You turned away, stepping over the groaning men on the ground, forcing yourself to keep moving. Despite feeling Kia’s eyes tracking your every move, you refused to look back.

—

Your suitcase sat packed by the door.

Clint had already texted from the airstrip, asking if you were on your way. You'd stared at the message and told yourself you'd reply soon.

But that was five days ago.

You surprised yourself when you didn’t leave the first morning. And again the second, when Clint’s texts started piling up, questioning, terse, increasingly frustrated. You couldn’t explain why you weren’t on a plane bound for Tokyo.

Now here you were, standing on the street outside Kia’s hospital, feeling like an idiot. You told yourself you were only here to say… goodbye? Thank you? You weren’t really sure. All you knew was that after the night she was nearly assaulted, you needed to see for yourself that she was okay—that you’d done your job, that she’d come out of it unharmed.

You’d been cleansing the streets of criminals, but that never meant saving anyone directly. The good you thought you were doing was always implied, an indirect cause-and-effect. But saving Kia—that was the first time you had stepped in, not for vengeance, not for some faceless idea of justice, but simply to keep someone alive.

After what felt like hours, Kia finally stepped out, white coat draped across her arm. She froze the moment she spotted you, eyes surveying the bruises on your knuckles, checking if they were healing just fine.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said flatly. There was no accusation, just a weary resignation.

“Kia,” you managed, though it came out croaky and unsure. Almost vulnerable.

She stalled, shoulders rigid, then faced you. Her eyes scanned the wreckage on your face, and something in her eased. Without another word, she tilted her head, gesturing for you to follow.

—

Her apartment was a modest space on the fourth floor of an older building. It wasn’t large or lavish—just two cramped rooms and a kitchenette. It smelled of herbal disinfectant and wilted flowers. You welcomed it.

The door had barely latched when Kia spun and caught your mouth. You instinctively froze, just for a second, because the last person you’d kissed was Wanda. It felt wrong—unthinkable—to be standing here now, pressed up against someone else’s body, tasting someone else’s breath.

If Kia hadn’t initiated it, you wouldn’t have. You were certain of that. And as her lips moved hungrily against yours, you couldn’t stop the way your body answered. It felt good to be this close to someone after years in isolation. You’re overwhelmed by guilt and want all at once, making you kiss Kia back just as fiercely.

In that second, the only thing you wanted was to get lost in someone other than yourself.

You kicked off your boots and slid an arm around her waist, dragging her close. What followed was messy and raw. It lacked the poetry you remembered with Wanda. Kia’s back thudded against the wall. One hand braced beside her head while the other yanked at stubborn fabric, impatience sparking in every tug. She gasped, breath hot against your mouth as your teeth clicked, neither of you bothering with grace. Her fingers curled into your hair, pulling tight enough to sting but spurring you on all the same. Your lungs burned as you tried to breathe between frantic kisses, each one laced with a hunger you hadn’t let yourself feel in too long. You shoved aside the last barrier of cloth, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

She responded in kind, nails raking over your shoulders as she clung to you, pulling you deeper into the moment. You squeezed your eyes shut, shoving thoughts of Wanda aside, forcing yourself to focus on the physical now, the unmistakable heat coiling in your belly.

Afterwards, the sheets tangled around your legs, and you stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering away. Kia lay beside you, breathing unevenly, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. The apartment was stifling; overhead, the ceiling fan ticked through its lazy revolutions. You felt her gaze through half-lidded eyes, fighting sleep, and the effort grated on you.

“Let me see your stitches,” she murmured, propping herself on one elbow. “They might’ve torn.”

You sighed and turned away. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kia released a slow, trembling breath. If your dismissal hurt, she didn’t show it. She pressed her lips together, glancing around like she wasn’t sure what to do next, loose hair sticking to her damp skin in stray strands.

“Do you want something to eat?” she asked, voice soft and cautious, as if you were a skittish animal she might scare off. “Or… anything else?”

You nodded, though you weren’t really hungry. Truth be told, you just needed her to leave you alone for a minute, because you could feel tears building at the back of your throat—hot, stinging, impossible to swallow. If she stayed, you weren’t sure how long you could keep them at bay, and you despised the idea of breaking down in front of anyone.

—

You and Kia fell into a strange rhythm—never truly discussing what you both were, just sliding into each other’s lives whenever you touched down in Bangkok. You bought roundtrip tickets to Tokyo, claiming it was easier to keep your options open, but you both knew the real reason: you wanted a guaranteed way back to her bed.

You told yourself you only returned for sex, that maybe it helped you blow off the steam you’d otherwise drown in. Your arrangement with Kia was unspoken. You hardly texted, and only called if a flight ran late. Most nights you simply appeared at her door unannounced. Her eyes would roam over your body, as if assessing damage—and then she’d let you in. Within minutes, your clothes would be hitting the floor.

It was never gentle, never particularly sweet. You were never going to stay. She never asked you to, not with words. If you ever let yourself wonder why she kept letting you in, you pushed the thought aside. It was convenient. That’s all.

However, there was one thing that Kia kept on doing that blurred this arrangement into something other than sex.

She insisted on tending to your injuries.

At first, you refused to let her touch your bruises, pulling away whenever her fingers came close. You told her you didn't need it—that you were fine. So she started doing it secretly, when you weren’t paying attention.

When she thought you were asleep, she'd quietly patch you up, gently pressing ice packs to swollen skin, smoothing ointment over fresh cuts. You didn't even notice at first, too exhausted or numb to pay attention. But one night, you woke to the soft pressure of a damp cloth on a fresh gash, Kia's face scrunching up as if she were feeling the pain itself.

You should've pulled away. Should've stopped her, stuck to the boundaries you'd built around yourself. But you didn't. Maybe you liked the feeling of someone wanting to take care of you even if you'd never admit it out loud. So you closed your eyes again, and let her continue. After that, you stopped resisting.

Clint eventually picked up on your pattern. One night in a back-alley bar in Shinjuku, he finally brought it up. You’d just finished discussing intel for your next target, when he leaned back on the creaky stool and said, “So how long you staying this time before hopping back to Bangkok again?”

You glared at him over the rim of your glass. “What’s it to you?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… if you’ve found a reason to keep going back, that’s okay.”

You stiffened. “It’s none of your business.”

A moment passed. He glanced down at the table, exhaling. “Fine. Forget I said anything.”

But you couldn’t let it go.

“I’m not ‘happy,’ if that’s what you’re implying. I’m—” You hesitated, cursing yourself for sounding so defensive. “She’s just—she’s nothing.”

Clint searched your face for a second. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck off,” you hissed, standing so abruptly that your chair scraped the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was partly true. You weren’t happy because you refused to be. Not without Wanda.

He watched you grab your jacket but didn’t protest. You realized you didn’t truly want to leave—yet the idea of him seeing how deeply he’d struck a nerve by suggesting you were moving on felt unbearable, so you walked away anyway.

—

A couple of months into your no-strings arrangement with Kia, you stopped counting how many times you’d flown in and out of Bangkok. Your spare shirt hung in her closet, a few pairs of your socks folded into her dresser drawers. You realized you’d left enough random belongings strewn around her apartment out of careless habit.

One evening, after arriving jet-lagged and bone-tired, you skipped everything that usually came next. Kia stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of tea. She took a breath and said, “I’m leaving soon.”

You blinked, unsure if she meant a late-night grocery run or something else entirely.

“Leaving… where?”

She shrugged, avoiding your eyes for a second. “Back home.”

It hit you, then, that you had no idea where her home even was. You frowned, crossing your arms. “And where’s that exactly?”

She paused, studying your face as if measuring how much she should say. “Somewhere north of Europe.”

You raised an eyebrow. “North of Europe is… what, Scandinavia?”

Kia chuckled, but her eyes stayed flat. “Iceland,” she said.

Before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Why are you telling me this?” You didn’t even know what answer you wanted—a goodbye, an invitation, or nothing at all.

She gave a small shrug, eyes drifting to the clutter you’ve scattered around—keys, a phone charger, a few shirts. “In case you haven’t noticed, your stuff is everywhere,” she said evenly. “Thought I’d give you a heads up, so you can pack. Unless…” She trailed off, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. “Unless you want to take over the lease.”

You felt a spike of irritation. Or maybe regret. “Thanks for the heads up,” you said curtly, cutting her off.

She nodded, falling silent.

Several tense minutes passed, the silence drawing out like a tightened string. You turned your back partly to her, pretending to be busy with your phone. Kia stayed near the kitchen, arms folded, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point on the floor.

Finally, she spoke. “Aren’t you ever going to ask me?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Ask you what?”

She met your eyes with a steady look. “What I lost in the blip.”

Your stomach twisted, a prickle creeping up the back of your neck. You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you wanted to hear about anyone else’s grief. But Kia wasn’t just anyone—no matter how much you tried to pretend she was.

Kia sighed, as if steeling herself. “I researched you, you know?” she said.

This revelation was not really surprising to you.

“I know you’re not just a wrecking ball chasing trouble. You were an Avenger. I think…” She hesitated, searching your expression. “I think you lost someone important enough to—” She gestured vaguely at you. “—end up like this.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “End up like what?” you asked, almost daring her to say it.

Kia didn’t hesitate this time. “A coward.”

It didn’t offend you.It should have. Maybe two years ago, it would’ve. But now it only stirred a faint nostalgia when Wanda had called you that once, too.

Two people had called you a coward in your lifetime, and they were the only two who had ever really known you. Kia, for everything you’ve kept from her, arrived at the same conclusion.

You thought about your last night with Wanda—when you had admitted you were afraid. Afraid of what would happen if she died. If you died. If both of you made it out of this war and had to figure out how to just be in the aftermath. You had never known what it was to have something worth staying for, until Wanda.

She had made you brave.

And when she disappeared, so did that version of you—the one that had existed solely because she had looked at you like you could be more than just a character in a league of heroes.

You had faced down armies. You had fought against forces that should have killed you. By all definitions, that should be what bravery embodies. But Kia was right. You had been running all this time.

Running from the places that reminded you of Wanda. Running from the people who might ask questions you didn’t want to answer.

Running everywhere.

Because you could go everywhere.

Except home.

Wanda had taken home with her.

“The truth is,” Kia began when she realized you weren’t going to say anything to her insult. “I wanted you to come with me.”

Wanted. Past tense?

“When you saved me that night, you didn’t just save me from those people,” she continued.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your hands dropping to your side.

Kia cleared her throat, her eyes darting everywhere. “I was going to end it,” she said quietly, swallowing hard. “I’d been thinking about it for months. Maybe go out exactly like that night you found me. I didn’t care about anything anymore.”

You remembered the alleyway—her body pinned against the wall, her voice trembling under your hand. It hadn’t occurred to you that she might have been courting that danger on purpose.

“But then you showed up,” Kia continued, smiling to herself at the memory like it was something precious. “I don’t know why, but I looked at you and thought, maybe not tonight.”

You swallowed, unable to formulate any kind of response.

Kia let the silence settle for a moment, giving you time to absorb everything. “I ran too,” she admitted a while later. “After losing my husband and daughter, I left home. I thought if I just kept moving, if I threw myself into something good—medical missions, disaster relief—maybe I could…balance the scales somehow. Maybe help with—with the grief.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed on. “But it never worked. No matter how many people I saved, it didn’t bring them back. It didn’t fill the emptiness.”

She looked at you then. “And I think you know exactly what I mean.”

You did.

It sat in your ribs every morning you woke up, in every step you took down a nameless street in a nameless city, in every body you cut down without flinching.

Kia sighed, rubbing a hand over her face like she was so tired of it all. You’d used her—not out of malice, but because you needed her more than she ever needed you. That part was obvious now, perhaps always had been.

“So, yeah. I wanted you to come with me. To Iceland. I thought maybe, I don’t know… maybe neither of us would have to keep running.”

There. She’d said it.

This wasn’t just about sex. At least not for her.

“How old was your—” you cut yourself off, thinking maybe it wasn’t your place to ask.

But Kia smiled at your nascent question. Like she’d welcome any question, any opportunity to talk about them.

“She was four.”

“Were you… was your husband and daughter with you when it happened?”

She shook her head. “They were at home. I was in the hospital, helping out with a minor surgery. Then half of everyone just—” Her hand sliced through the air, mimicking dust scattering in the wind. “By the time I got there, I found no one.”

For a moment, you thought about Wanda’s face, the way the dust had slipped through your fingers, the sickening sense of disbelief that lingered even after she was gone.

“What was her name?”

“Maria,” Kia said, her eyes shining, her smile bittersweet. “She was four, but she thought she was already grown up. Always insisting on doing things by herself. Her father and I used to joke that we’d have our hands full when she became a teenager.”

You nodded, unsure what to say, how to respond to a pain so parallel yet so uniquely her own.

“Thank you,” you said finally. ��For telling me.”

Kia merely shrugged. “I realized I don’t want to forget them. Not anymore. Talking about them… helps me remember the good things, too.”

You nodded. Should you talk about Wanda too? The mere prospect of it was enough to break you. You didn’t think you could utter a single word without falling apart.

In the back of your mind, you weighed your options.

You could go to Iceland. You could stop running. Maybe even try to build something new. It wouldn’t be love—not in the way it had been with Wanda—but maybe it would be enough. Maybe you could teach yourself to want peace instead of vengeance.

Or you could leave, like you always did. Book another flight, chase another war, throw yourself into the next fight because it was easier than stopping.

You wondered if Wanda would forgive you, no matter which path you chose.

If you stopped running—if you tried to live—would she see it as betrayal? Would she be disappointed?

Or would she just be sad that it had taken you this long?

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