Watching Wanda shop was like watching a master strategist at work. She knew exactly what the house needed to transform from a 'place I exist' to a 'place we live.'

  And she was right about everything. The towels were soft. The candles did smell amazing.

  We stood in the checkout line. The cashier, a teenage girl with gum snapping in her mouth, looked at the cart.

  "Moving in together?" she asked, scanning the duvet.

  I froze.

  Wanda didn't flinch.

  "Something like that," she said smoothly, placing the mortar and pestle on the belt.

  Something like that.

  My heart did a traitorous little flip.

  "You know I can create as much currency as I want, dear reader," I thought, watching her carefully arrange the glass spice jars. "So I paid. The total was obscene. I didn't care. I would have paid double just to see the look of satisfaction on Wanda's face as she packed the bags."

  We walked out to the parking lot. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. It was evening. We had spent hours in there.

  "I think we bought the whole store," I joked, opening the trunk.

  "We bought essentials," Wanda corrected, lifting a bag that clinked with new spice jars.

  We loaded the car. The trunk was full. The back seat was full.

  I got into the driver's seat. Wanda got in beside me.

  I started the engine. The headlights cut through the gathering dusk.

  "Thank you," Wanda said softly. She was looking out the window, but her hand was resting on the center console, inches from mine.

  "For the towels?" I asked.

  "For... indulging me," she said. "I know I can be... particular."

  "Particular is good," I said, merging onto the road. "Particular means you care. And frankly, the house needed a woman's touch. It was getting too 'sad bachelor cave' in there."

  "It was not sad," she said. "Just... incomplete."

  "Well," I said, glancing at the pile of bags in the rearview mirror. "It's definitely full now."

  "If you're wondering if I used magic to make the trunk bigger," I muttered to the backseat, "no comment. But look at this efficiency. I should be getting paid for this."

  We drove home in silence, listening to Fleetwood Mac. The road stretched out before us, leading back to the house where our lives were slowly tangling together.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  They carried the bags inside. It took three trips.

  The house accepted the new items greedily. The towels went to the bathroom. The candles went to the living room. The kitchen gadgets went to their designated spots.

  Wanda felt a profound sense of relief as she placed the last jar of spices in the rack.

  "Hungry?" Aryan asked, leaning against the doorway. He looked tired but content.

  "Starving," she realized. Shopping was exhausting work.

  "I'm thinking... creamy," he said. "Comfort food. Murgh Makhani? Butter Chicken?"

  Wanda's eyes lit up. "Yes."

  "But," he raised a finger. "We do it your way. With the new whisk. And the mortar and pestle."

  "Is there any other way?" she teased.

  They cooked.

  This time, the dance was even smoother. Wanda knew where the salt was. She knew where the spoons lived. She ground the ginger and garlic in the stone mortar, the rhythmic thud thud thud sounding like a heartbeat.

  Aryan handled the chicken. He sautéed it in butter, the smell filling the kitchen.

  "Pass the cream," he requested.

  She handed it to him before he even finished the sentence.

  He looked at her, a smile playing on his lips. "You're getting good at that."

  "I am paying attention," she said.

  They ate at the island this time, too tired to set the dining table. They ate straight from the pot, dipping pieces of naan into the rich gravy.

  It was messy. It was delicious.

  "This," Aryan declared, pointing a piece of naan at her, "is why I let you reorganize the kitchen. The efficiency dividend is delicious."

  Wanda laughed, wiping a spot of sauce from her lip. "I told you. Logic tastes better."

  They cleaned up together. Wanda washed, Aryan dried with the sage green towels.

  "Okay," he admitted, feeling the fabric. "These are better. You win."

  "I always win," she murmured, handing him a wet plate.

  The night wound down. The house grew quiet.

  They walked up the stairs together. The wooden steps creaked under their weight.

  They reached the landing.

  "Well," Aryan said, stopping at his door. "Big day. We conquered retail."

  "We did," Wanda said, standing at her door.

  She looked at him. He looked soft in the hallway light. His hair was messy. His eyes were warm.

  She wanted to step forward. She wanted to bury her face in his chest and never leave.

  But not yet. It was too soon.

  "Goodnight, Aryan," she said softly. "Thank you for today."

  "Goodnight, Wanda," he said. "Sleep tight. Don't let the new throw pillow bite."

  He went into his room. She went into hers.

  The doors clicked shut almost simultaneously.

  Wanda stood in the dark room.

  She walked to the bed and sat down. She took off her shoes. She crawled under the duvet… the new one.

  She lay down on her side.

  She was facing the wall.

  The wall that separated her room from his.

  She closed her eyes.

  She reached out with the red mist of her magic. It seeped from her skin, invisible in the dark, curling like smoke. It drifted through the plaster, through the insulation, through the wood.

  It entered his room.

  She could sense him. He was lying in bed. He was shifting, trying to get comfortable.

  She felt his breathing. In... out. In... out.

  She felt the heat of his body.

  And then, she found it.

  Thump thump.

  His heart.

  It was strong. A rhythmic drum in the chaos of the universe.

  Wanda focused on it. She let the sound fill her mind, drowning out the static, drowning out the memories of Vision, drowning out the guilt.

  Thump thump.

  She placed her hand on her own chest, over her own heart.

  It was beating faster.

  Sync, she whispered in her mind.

  She gently, ever so gently, nudged her own biology. She used the chaos magic to slow her pulse. To align it.

  Thump... thump.

  She waited.

  Thump... thump.

  She adjusted the rhythm.

  Thump thump. (Him)

  Thump thump. (Her)

  They beat in unison. A synchronized chorus.

  It felt... euphoric.

  It felt like they were one organism. Connected by an invisible umbilical cord of magic and obsession.

  She lay there in the dark, staring at the wall, a small smile on her face.

  "I can hear you," she whispered to the wall. "I am with you."

  "Goodnight, my love," she breathed, the words barely audible even to the silence.i