[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  I walked out of the bathroom, feeling significantly more human. The nightmare had receded to the back of my mind, boxed away with the rest of the trauma I refused to unpack before coffee.

  I walked into the hallway.

  At the exact same moment, the door to the guest room opened.

  Wanda stepped out.

  She looked... suspiciously put together. Her hair was smooth. Her face was fresh. She was wearing the same comfortable clothes as yesterday, but she looked like she'd been up for hours.

  "Good morning," she said. Her voice was a little high.

  "Morning," I said, leaning against the doorframe of my room. "You're up early. Did the birds wake you? They're aggressive in Jersey. Very vocal."

  Wanda blinked. "The birds. Yes. Very... loud birds."

  She glanced at my chest, then quickly up to my eyes. I knew she was checking the rhythm.

  "I was just about to head down," I said. "I'm thinking... pancakes? Something sweet. I feel like I need a sugar rush to combat the Monday blues. Even though it's Tuesday."

  "Pancakes sound... acceptable," she said. She seemed to relax slightly, seeing that I wasn't hyperventilating or dying.

  "Great. Meet you in the kitchen? I need to put on pants that aren't pajamas. Society demands it."

  She nodded. "I will... start the coffee."

  She turned and headed for the stairs. I watched her go.

  She definitely felt the nightmare, I thought. She looks like she's ready to fight a demon on my behalf.

  "Cute," I whispered again.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer, The Kitchen]

  The kitchen was filled with the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling butter.

  "So," I said, flipping a pancake with a flourish (and successfully catching it this time). "What's the plan for the day? World domination? Knitting? staring ominously at the neighbors?"

  Wanda was sitting at the island, chopping strawberries. She was wearing the blue apron again.

  "I was thinking of... cleaning," she said.

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  "Cleaning?" I raised an eyebrow. "Wanda, you reorganized the entire kitchen yesterday. The house is spotless. I'm pretty sure the dust bunnies filed for eviction."

  "There are other rooms," she said, not looking up from the fruit. "The living room needs... alignment. And the upstairs hallway."

  "You're a machine," I laughed. "But hey, if you find joy in Swiffering, who am I to stop you?"

  I slid a stack of pancakes onto a plate and placed it in front of her.

  "Eat," I commanded. "Fuel for the cleaning crusade."

  We ate. The conversation was light. I told her a story about a patient I had in my "old life" who swallowed a monopoly piece because he wanted to be the car. She laughed, that beautiful sound I was becoming addicted to.

  But underneath the banter, I could feel her watching me. Every time I took a breath, I felt that faint tug in my chest. She was calibrating. She was making sure I was still there.

  "I have to go out," I said, wiping syrup from my mouth.

  Wanda's fork paused. "Out?"

  "Grocery run part two," I explained. "We bought spices and towels, but we forgot vegetables and meat. Unless you want to survive on dry pasta and scented candles."

  She stood up immediately. "I will come with you."

  "No, no," I waved her down. "You stay. Relax. You just moved in. Enjoy the house. I'll be back in an hour. It's just a quick run to the butcher and the farm stand."

  Wanda hesitated. I could see the conflict in her eyes. She didn't want to be separated from her anchor.

  "But..." she started.

  "Wanda," I said gently. "I'm a big boy. I can buy spinach without supervision. Besides, you have your... cleaning mission."

  She looked at me. She looked at the house.

  A strange look crossed her face.

  "Fine," she said slowly. "I will stay. I will... clean the upstairs."

  "Perfect," I said, grabbing my keys. "I'll be back before you can say 'dust mite'."

  I walked to the door.

  "Aryan," she called out.

  I turned.

  "Drive safe," she said. Her eyes were intense.

  "Always," I promised.

  I walked out the door, whistling.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She watched him drive away, the modest black sedan disappearing down the street.

  The house grew quiet.

  But this quiet was a warm quiet. The air still hummed with his presence, with the faint scent of his coffee and his body wash. And the heartbeat... she could still feel it, moving away from the house.

  He is safe, she told herself. He is just shopping.

  She stood in the hallway, looking up the stairs.

  She hadn't lied about cleaning. Not entirely. But there was something else.

  Last night, when she had sent her magic seeking his heart, she had felt the layout of the second floor.

  Her room. His room.

  And one other room.

  It was at the end of the hall. It was locked.

  A Secret, she thought.

  She walked up the stairs. The wood felt warm under her socks.

  She reached the landing and walked past her room, past his room, until she stood in front of the black door.

  She reached out a hand.

  Click.

  Her chaos magic, which rewrote probability, simply decided that the probability of the door being locked was zero.

  The handle turned.

  She pushed the door open.

  The air inside smelled of old paper and dried flowers.

  She stepped inside.

  The walls were lined with shelves. And on the shelves were photos. Hundreds of them.

  Wanda's breath hitched in her throat.

  She walked closer, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  There, in a silver frame, was a picture of a young woman. She had auburn hair, green eyes and a smile that lit up the world.

  It was her.

  But it wasn't her.

  This Wanda was wearing a sun dress. She was holding a basket of apples. She looked... unburdened.

  Next to it was a photo of a boy with silver hair. Pietro. He was laughing, his arm thrown around the shoulder of a young man.

  Aryan.

  Wanda picked up the frame with trembling hands.

  Aryan looked younger. He looked happier. He wasn't the tired doctor with the shadows in his eyes. He was beaming.