[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  "Okay," I said, clapping my hands together and creating a sound that echoed slightly in the high ceilinged kitchen. "The sitcom marathon was productive. We learned that the Brady family has serious boundary issues and that I Dream of Jeannie is basically a cautionary tale about dating a reality warper. But now, we face a new crisis."

  Wanda was leaning against the counter, her arms crossed over the blue apron she was wearing. She looked relaxed, her hair slightly messy from where she had been leaning against my shoulder during the horror movie.

  "And what crisis is that, Doctor?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

  "The crisis of the empty stomach," I declared. "Lunch was hours ago. The structural integrity of the Paratha has been compromised by digestion. We need dinner."

  "We have the lamb," Wanda pointed out, gesturing to the fridge. "And the spinach."

  "Correct. Lamb chops and sautéed spinach. A classic combination." I walked over to the fridge and pulled out the butcher paper packages. "But here is the twist in tonight's episode."

  I placed the meat on the island and turned to face her, putting on my most serious face.

  "You are fired."

  Wanda blinked. Her eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

  "Fired." I made a 'shooing' motion with my hands. "I am evoking executive privilege. Tonight, the kitchen is a restricted zone. Clearance Level: Aryan Only."

  Wanda narrowed her eyes, but the amusement in them was unmistakable. She took a step forward, challenging my space.

  "I thought we were partners," she said smoothly. "I thought I was the Lemon Queen. You cannot depose royalty."

  "It's a coup," I admitted. "A culinary coup. Listen, I have a vision. An artistic vision for tonight's meal that requires absolute concentration and zero distractions. And let's be honest, Wanda, you are a very distracting sous chef."

  "Distracting?" She tilted her head. "Because I critique your knife skills?"

  "Because you stare at the vegetables like you're interrogating them," I lied. "It makes the spinach nervous. It wilts under pressure."

  "Spinach wilts because you apply heat, Aryan," she countered, crossing her arms again. "It is physics, not anxiety."

  "See?" I pointed a finger at her. "This. This logic. It kills the vibe. I need to vibe with the lamb, Wanda. I need to whisper sweet nothings to the rosemary. I can't do that with an audience."

  "You want to talk to the meat alone," she summarized, her tone dry.

  "It's a private conversation," I insisted. "Between a man and his protein."

  I walked around the island and gently placed my hands on her shoulders. I turned her toward the living room.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Go," I commanded gently. "Sit on the couch. Hug the textured pillow. Watch Family Ties. I will call you when the magic happens."

  Wanda resisted for a second, her heels digging into the floor mat. She looked over her shoulder at me.

  "You are planning something," she accused.

  "I am planning dinner," I said, giving her a gentle push. "Now go. Or I will invoke the 'No Haunting' clause again."

  She let out a huff, but she started walking.

  "Fine," she said. "But if I smell burning, I am intervening. I will not let you ruin the lamb."

  "Have a little faith!" I called after her.

  "I have faith," she called back without turning around. "Just not in your ability to multitask."

  I watched her walk into the living room and settle onto the couch.

  Once she was gone, I turned back to the kitchen. The smile dropped from my face, replaced by a look of focused determination.

  "Okay," I whispered to the spice rack. "Operation: Nostalgia is a go."

  I wanted to make The Dessert.

  In my previous world… my Wanda had a sweet tooth that defied medical explanation. She loved chocolate, yes, but there was one thing she loved more. A small honey spiced cake her mother used to make in Sokovia before the bombs fell. Medenjaci. The cake-like glazed with a walnut and honey syrup.

  She had taught me the recipe one rainy afternoon in 2014. It was messy. We had ended up with more flour on the floor than in the bowl. But the taste...

  I closed my eyes for a second, summoning the memory of that taste.

  "I can do this," I told the invisible audience. "I have the ingredients. And I have about forty five minutes before she gets suspicious."

  I moved quietly. I pulled out the flour, the baking powder and the spices. I grabbed the jar of dark honey I had bought specifically for this, hiding it behind the coffee maker earlier.

  "Silent mode," I muttered.

  I used a wooden spoon and elbow grease. I mixed the dough, careful not to clang the bowl against the counter.

  I glanced at the living room. I could see the back of Wanda's head over the sofa. She was still.

  Don't look back, I pleaded silently. Just watch Michael J. Fox be charming.

  I rolled the dough into small balls, flattening them slightly. I placed them on a baking sheet.

  Now, the tricky part.

  The oven.

  The smell would give it away. The moment these hit the heat, the scent of cinnamon and honey would permeate the house.

  "Okay, Reality Bender powers, don't fail me now," I whispered.

  I slid the tray into the oven.

  I closed the door.

  And then, I cheated. Just a little.

  I placed my hand on the oven door. I warped the air inside the kitchen so that the smell wouldn't travel beyond the kitchen island.

  "Stay," I commanded the smell.

  I turned my attention to the lamb chops. I had to cook the actual dinner too, or my cover story would fall apart.

  "Sear. Flip. Rest," I recited, the mantra a rhythmic anchor against the frantic beating of my own heart. I watched the edges of the lamb chops transform from raw to a caramelized mahogany, the fat rendering down and popping against the cast iron like tiny fireworks. I tossed a bruised sprig of rosemary and a crushed garlic clove into the pan, the scent blooming.

  "Easy. Most things in life are easy if you don't overthink them. It's the people that get complicated. The ones on the couch, specifically."

  I leaned over the pan, the steam curling around my face like a warm shroud, and shot a quick look at the space where I knew you were watching the grease splatter.

  "Are you taking notes?" I muttered to the empty air above the stove. "Medium rare is the only acceptable answer. Anything more and you're just eating expensive leather."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  The living room was quiet, save for the laugh track coming from the TV.

  Wanda hugged the cream pillow to her chest. She stared at the screen, but she wasn't really watching Alex P. Keaton argue with his parents.

  She was listening.

  She could hear Aryan moving in the kitchen. The soft thump of a bowl. The sizzle of meat hitting a pan.

  But there was something else. A tension in the air.

  He was hiding something.

  She felt the itch in her fingertips. Her chaos magic wanted to reach out. It wanted to slide through the air and see what he was doing.

  Just a peek, the voice in her head whispered. He is acting strange. What if he is hurt? What if he is... leaving?

  She raised her hand slightly. A wisp of red mist curled around her fingers.

  I could just check the reflection in the window, she reasoned. I could just sense the ingredients he is using.

  She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.