But then, she stopped.

  She remembered the look on his face. The playful secrecy. And the way he had pushed her toward the couch with that excited energy.

  He wanted to surprise her.

  If she looked... she would ruin it. She would steal that moment from him. And from herself.

  In her life… surprises were rare. Usually, surprises were bombs. Or death.

  But Aryan's surprises were ice cream. They were horror movies that ended in hugs. They were pink aprons.

  Trust him, she told herself, letting the red mist dissipate. Let him be the magician.

  She leaned back against the cushions.

  "I am waiting," she whispered to the room. "I am not looking."

  She focused on the TV. She forced herself to laugh when the audience laughed.

  But her nose was twitching.

  "Why can I not smell the lamb?" she wondered. "He must have the extractor fan on high."

  She waited. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

  Her stomach grumbled.

  "Aryan," she called out, unable to help herself. "Is the meat negotiating? Or has it surrendered?"

  "We are in peace talks!" Aryan shouted back from the kitchen. He sounded breathless. "Give us ten more minutes! The rosemary is being stubborn!"

  Wanda smiled.

  He is ridiculous, she thought fondly. And he is cooking a surprise for me.

  She snuggled deeper into the pillow. The waiting felt like anticipation.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  "Crap. Crap. Crap."

  I was staring at the oven timer. The cakes were done. They were golden brown. They looked perfect.

  I pulled them out, setting the tray on the cooling rack.

  Now I had to glaze them. Honey, walnuts, a touch of vanilla. I dipped each warm cake into the syrup, coating them in sweet glory.

  They looked exactly like hers.

  My chest tightened. A wave of grief hit me so hard I almost dropped the last cake.

  Focus, Spencer, I hissed. This isn't for you. This is for her.

  I arranged the small cakes on a decorative plate. I covered them with a cloth napkin to keep them warm and hidden.

  I took the lamb chops off the heat. They were perfect. I plated them with spinach.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I took a deep breath. I messed up my hair a bit. I put on a sad face.

  I walked into the living room.

  Wanda looked up, her face lighting up with expectancy.

  "Is it ready?" she asked.

  I sighed. A tragic sigh.

  "The dinner is ready," I said, my shoulders slumped. "But... the surprise... it didn't make it."

  Wanda's smile faltered. She sat up straighter. "What happened?"

  "I tried to make... a dessert," I lied, looking at the floor. "A soufflé. Because I'm arrogant. And... it collapsed. It's a tragedy, Wanda. It looks like a sad pancake. I had to toss it."

  I looked up at her with puppy dog eyes.

  "I'm sorry."

  Wanda's expression softened instantly. She stood up and walked over to me.

  She reached out and placed a hand on my arm.

  "Aryan," she said gently. "It is okay. Soufflés are notoriously difficult. Even for doctors."

  "I feel like a failure," I muttered, really selling it.

  "You are not a failure," she insisted, giving my arm a squeeze. "You cooked lamb. You bought ice cream. We do not need a soufflé. We are fine."

  I looked at her. She was comforting me. She was genuinely trying to make me feel better about a fake cake.

  God, she's sweet, I thought. I love her.

  "Okay," I said, managing a weak smile. "Thanks, Wanda. You're a benevolent roommate."

  "Come," she said, steering me toward the dining table. "Let us eat the meat before it gets cold. We will mourn the soufflé later."

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  Dinner was delicious. The lamb was tender, the spinach was garlicky and the conversation was easy.

  But I was vibrating with nervous energy.

  "You are eating fast," Wanda noted, watching me inhale a chop.

  "I'm hungry," I said. "Cooking is hard work. It burns calories. I am in a caloric deficit."

  "You are strange tonight," she observed, narrowing her eyes.

  "I am a man mourning a soufflé," I maintained.

  We finished eating.

  "I will wash," Wanda said, standing up. "You cooked. And you suffered emotional damage."

  "I accept your terms," I said, jumping up. "I'll clear the table."

  While she was at the sink, her back turned, I moved.

  I grabbed the plate of honey cakes from where I had hidden it behind the coffee maker. I walked silently into the living room.

  I placed the plate on the coffee table, right in front of her spot on the couch.

  I removed the napkin.

  The smell (no longer contained by my magic) exploded into the room.

  It was the smell of a Sokovian winter.

  I sprinted back to the kitchen just as she turned off the tap.

  "All done?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to pant.

  "Yes," she said, drying her hands on a towel. "The kitchen is restored."

  "Good," I said. "Let's go sit. My legs are tired."

  Wanda looked at me suspiciously. "Your legs are tired from sitting at dinner?"

  "It's a medical condition," I said. "Restless Leg Syndrome. Very serious. Come on."

  I led the way.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She followed him into the living room.

  She was tired, but in a good way. Her stomach was full. Her mind was quiet.

  She walked toward the couch.

  Then, the scent hit her.

  It was faint at first. A whisper of sweetness in the air.

  She stopped.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  No, she thought. It can't be.

  She took another step. The smell grew stronger.

  It was the smell of the tiny kitchen in Novi Grad. It was the smell of her mother's apron. It was the smell of holidays before the war.

  Her hands started to tremble.

  She looked at the coffee table.

  There, on a white plate, sat six golden brown cakes. They were glazed with syrup. They were sprinkled with crushed walnuts.

  Wanda stared at them. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

  "Medenjaci," she whispered. The word felt foreign and intimate on her tongue.

  She looked at Aryan.

  He was standing by the bookshelf, watching her. His face was soft and hopeful.

  "You said... the soufflé..." she stammered.

  "I lied," Aryan said softly. "I didn't make a soufflé. I made these."

  Wanda walked toward the table. Her legs felt like water. She sat down on the edge of the couch, her eyes locked on the cakes.

  She reached out a shaking hand.

  She picked one up. It was still warm. The glaze was sticky against her fingertips.

  She brought it to her nose. She inhaled.

  Tears pricked her eyes instantly.

  It smelled exactly like her. Like her mother. Iryna.

  She took a bite.

  The flavor exploded in her mouth. Spiced crumb. The floral sweetness of the honey. The crunch of the nut.

  Suddenly, she was ten years old. Pietro was stealing dough from the bowl. Her father was reading the paper. Her mother was laughing, dusting flour off her hands.

  A sob broke from her throat.

  She covered her mouth with her hand, the half eaten cake still clutched in her fingers.