Wanda

In the narrow alleys of Brooklyn, where the smell of fresh bread mixed with the wail of police sirens, Peter Parker sat on the edge of a rooftop, staring at a photo of Uncle Ben. His spider-webs still dangled from the fight the night before, as if the city itself clung to him and wouldn’t let go. His spider-sense tingled for a moment—not from danger, but from a familiar presence. Wanda Maximoff, her faded red cloak fluttering, landed on the rooftop beside him. The wind tousled her auburn hair.

“Punishing yourself again?” Her voice was soft, but there was a tremor in it that reminded Peter of Mary Jane—before everything fell apart.

Peter slipped the photo into his pocket. “How do you know?”

Wanda sat next to him. “Because I think of Pietro every night. If I’d been just a second faster…” She reached toward Peter, but the red tendrils of her magic only curled around her fingers for a moment before fading. “We’re both guilty, Peter. Just in different ways.”

That night, in an abandoned warehouse in Queens, they fought side by side. Peter swung his webs; Wanda bent reality. In one moment, a bullet streaked toward Peter; with a flick of her wrist, Wanda turned it into petals. Peter laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard from himself in ages. “Gotta learn that one.”

Wanda smiled, but her eyes glistened with tears. “You can’t. It’s mine. It belongs to someone who’s lost everything.”

After the fight, they sat on the warehouse roof. Peter pulled off his mask. His face was bruised, but his eyes sparkled. “You know, I always thought if I could save everyone, I wouldn’t be alone anymore. But you… you’re not alone, Wanda. Not anymore.”

Wanda looked at him. “Neither are you, Spider-Man.” And then, without thinking, she pressed her lips to his. It tasted of blood and gunpowder, but beneath it was something sweet—a promise.

Days passed. In Peter’s tiny Brooklyn apartment, he’d watch Wanda brew coffee with her magic, laughing as the cups danced around them. In Avengers Tower, Wanda thought of Vision—how her love had turned into a machine—and then of Peter, whose heart still beat.