"Okay," I said, retreating to my side of the island. "Skewers are ready. Now, the main event."

  I moved to the bowl of dough I had prepared earlier. It had risen beautifully, a soft mound of white under a damp cloth.

  "Can you handle the butter?" I asked, nodding toward a small pot on the stove where the garlic butter was melting and smelling like pure heaven. "Just brush it on the naan generously before I slide them into the oven. We're not counting calories tonight. In this house, calories are a myth invented by people who hate joy."

  I grabbed a ball of dough. I flattened it out on the floured counter.

  "Now, the naan," I declared, holding up the piece of dough like it was a sacred relic from an Indiana Jones movie. "It requires 'the flick.' If you don't flick the wrist just right, it becomes a hockey puck. It's all in the wrist action."

  I positioned my feet. I gave her a serious look.

  "Don't try this at home. I am a trained professional."

  I tossed the dough from one hand to the other, stretching it. Then, I went for the big move… the spin.

  I tossed it up.

  It went higher than I intended. Much higher.

  For a second, time seemed to slow down. I watched the disk of dough rotate in the air, soaring toward the recessed lighting fixture.

  Oh no.

  It missed the light by an inch and started its descent. But it wasn't coming back to my hand. It was heading straight for my face.

  I flailed. I admit it. I flailed like an octopus on roller skates.

  "Whoa!"

  I lunged forward, snatching the dough out of the air mere centimeters before it slapped onto my face. I stumbled, hip checking the counter, but I held the dough aloft in triumph.

  "See?" I wheezed, my heart racing for a completely different reason now. "I was just... testing the ceiling's structural integrity. You have to check for drafts. It's an advanced technique."

  I looked at Wanda.

  She was staring at me. Her eyes were wide.

  And then, she let out a sound. A short exhale. Then another. Her shoulders shook.

  She was laughing.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was quiet like an engine that hadn't been turned on in years. But it was real.

  "You are..." she shook her head, a smile finally breaking through the mask of tragedy she wore. "You are ridiculous."

  "I prefer the term 'eccentric'," I corrected, placing the survivor's dough onto the baking tray. "But I'll take ridiculous. Ridiculous gets you fed."

  I stepped aside, gesturing to the tray. "Your turn, Butter Master."

  She moved toward the stove. As she passed me to get to the tray, the kitchen felt suddenly very small.

  Her shoulder brushed against mine.

  A fleeting contact of fabric on fabric, warmth on warmth.

  I froze.

  Do not react, I told myself. Do not hyperventilate.

  The scent of her… filled my personal space. It was intoxicating.

  She didn't pull away immediately. She paused for a microsecond, before stepping up to the tray.

  "Generously, you said?" she asked, dipping the brush into the pot.

  "Drown it," I said, my voice sounding a little hoarse. "Make it swim."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  The kitchen was warm. It was a warmth that seeped into her bones, chasing away the cold that had settled there since Vision died.

  Wanda stood at the counter, the knife in her hand. She watched Aryan flail around with the dough.

  She laughed.

  The sound surprised her. It felt strange in her throat. But seeing him almost wear raw dough as a face mask... it shattered something inside her. The constant ringing of grief paused, just for a moment, replaced by the absurdity of this man.

  "You are ridiculous," she had said. And she meant it. But she also meant. Thank you.

  She moved to brush the butter onto the bread.

  As she passed him, she let herself drift closer than necessary. She felt the heat radiating off him. He was solid. He was alive.

  She brushed his arm.

  She felt him tense up. Not in fear… she knew the taste of fear and this wasn't it. It was... awareness. He was hyper aware of her.

  She liked that. It made her feel real.

  She focused on the task. The butter was golden and rich, smelling of garlic. She painted the dough, watching the liquid soak into the white surface.

  He is trying so hard, she thought, dipping the brush again. He is putting on a show. For me.

  She had seen it earlier. When she was cutting the lemons.

  She had felt the shift in the room's energy. One moment, he was the charming neighbor. The next, he had gone completely still.

  She had glanced up.

  She saw him gripping the skewer. His knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched so hard she thought his teeth might crack.

  And the emotion rolling off him...

  It was a tidal wave of longing.

  He was looking at her hands, but he was seeing someone else.

  The other Wanda, she realized, her heart aching for him. The one he lost. She must have cut lemons like this.

  It was a tiny detail. But it had nearly broken him.

  And yet, he hadn't let it show. He had forced a smile. He had made a joke about garnishing wages. He had protected her from his pain because he thought she needed protecting.

  You are a fool, Aryan Spencer, she thought affectionately, watching the butter glisten on the naan.

  "Is this generous enough?" she asked aloud, keeping her voice steady.

  Aryan leaned over her shoulder to inspect the tray. He was close. His breath ghosted the back of her neck.

  "Perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely perfect."

  He wasn't looking at the naan. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

  He pulled back quickly, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands.

  "Into the fire!" he announced, perhaps a little too loudly.

  He grabbed the tray and slid it into the oven. The blast of heat hit them both.

  "Now," he said, turning to face her, leaning back against the counter. "We wait. Seven to ten minutes. The Tandoor waits for no man."

  Wanda leaned against the island opposite him. She crossed her arms over the floral apron.

  "So, what is it you do here, Aryan?" she asked, her gaze curious. "Besides fighting a dough and losing to lemons?"