Thwack, thwack, thwack…

  The sound of the knife hitting the board was the rhythm of the house.

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She was focused. But every now and then, she'd reach for something and she wouldn't look. She'd just reach and I'd slide it into her hand.

  "Hand me the garlic?" she asked.

  I passed it.

  "Pass the chili powder?" I asked.

  She slid the jar across the counter.

  At one point, I turned to grab the oil and she turned to put the onions in the pan. We bumped into each other.

  "Oof," I laughed, steadying her by the waist. "Traffic jam."

  Her waist was warm under my hands. She looked up at me, her face inches from mine.

  "You are in my station, Chef," she teased, her voice low.

  "I own the station," I countered, grinning. "I bought the station."

  "I organized the station," she shot back. "Possession is nine tenths of the law."

  I laughed, letting her go. "Touché. I retreat."

  "God, this is dangerous," I thought to the audience as I turned back to the meat. "I am falling for her. Not the memory of her. But her. This specific ice cream loving version of her."

  "Aryan," she said.

  "Yeah?"

  "The onions are sweating."

  "Right. On it."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  The kitchen smelled of browning onions and searing meat. It was a rich smell that coated the back of her throat.

  Wanda stood by the stove, stirring the pot. Aryan was next to her, rolling out the dough for the Parathas.

  She watched his hands. He dusted the counter with flour. He pressed the rolling pin down, turning the dough, folding it, buttering it, folding it again.

  "Layers," he explained, catching her watching. "The secret is the layers. You trap the butter inside. When it hits the heat, the steam expands and poof."

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  "It is like magic," she murmured.

  "Better," he said, looking at her with a smudge of flour on his cheek. "It's chemistry. Magic breaks the rules. Cooking follows them, but makes them beautiful."

  She reached out. Without thinking, she wiped the flour from his cheek with her thumb.

  His skin was warm. Stubble scratched her finger.

  He froze. He stopped rolling. He looked at her, his eyes wide.

  She didn't pull her hand back immediately. She let her thumb rest on his cheekbone for a moment.

  "You had flour," she whispered.

  "Oh," he breathed. "Thanks."

  He wants to lean in, she thought. I can feel it.

  And she wanted him to.

  But the moment held, suspended in the amber of the kitchen light, until the pot behind her hissed.

  "The peas!" Aryan exclaimed, breaking the spell. "We forgot the peas!"

  He scrambled to the fridge. Wanda turned back to the stove, her heart beating a happy rhythm.

  He is mine, she thought again, stirring the meat.

  "Here," Aryan said, sliding the bowl of green peas next to her. "Rescue mission successful."

  She poured them in. The green contrasted beautifully with the dark brown meat.

  "It looks... finished," she said.

  "Almost," Aryan said. "Garam Masala. The finisher."

  He sprinkled the spice blend over the top. The scent bloomed…

  "Now," he said. "We eat."

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  We sat at the dining table. The Keema was in a serving bowl. A stack of flaky Parathas sat on a plate.

  "This," I said, tearing a piece of paratha, "is the meal of champions."

  Wanda copied me. She tore the paratha and scooped up the meat.

  She took a bite. Her eyes closed. A small sigh escaped her lips.

  "It is..." she chewed, swallowing. "It is wonderful."

  "That's the goal," I said, smiling at her.

  We didn't talk much. The food demanded attention. But it was filled with the sounds of satisfaction.

  "You know," I said, halfway through the meal. "I noticed something today."

  "What?" Wanda asked, reaching for another Paratha.

  "You," I said. "You seemed... lighter. When I came in. Did the cleaning help?"

  Wanda paused. She looked at me over the paratha.

  "Yes," she said slowly. "The cleaning helped. I... put some things away. I closed some doors."

  "Good," I said, oblivious to the double meaning. "Closing doors is important. Keeps the drafts out."

  She smiled. It was a secret smile. One that said she knew something I didn't.

  "Yes," she agreed. "It keeps the drafts out. And it keeps the warmth in."

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on mine.

  "Thank you, Aryan," she said. "For the groceries. For the cooking. For... noticing."

  I looked at her hand on mine.

  "Anytime, Wanda," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "I know," she whispered.

  And at that moment, eating spicy meat and paratha in a sunlit kitchen in New Jersey, I felt like the luckiest man in the multiverse.

  I looked at the imaginary camera.

  "Don't tell me this is going to end badly," I warned the audience, grabbing a piece of paratha. "I know this is a drama. But for the next five minutes, let me enjoy the Keema and the fact that the most powerful witch in existence is laughing at my terrible jokes instead of tearing down the sky. Is that too much to ask?"

  Wanda squeezed my hand. The warmth of her touch and the simple act of connection short circuited my brain. For a moment, all the noise went silent.

  I looked down at our hands, then back up at her face. The afternoon sun caught the gold flecks in her green eyes. She was smiling, a real smile, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  Don't mess this up, I warned myself. This is real. Let this be real.

  I smiled back, a genuine expression. "Thank you," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn't name. "For... being here."

  "Where else would I be?" she asked softly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She let go of my hand to finish her meal. "Eat your Keema, Aryan. It's getting cold."