I looked at her in the mirror. She was scrubbing away, looking at her reflection critically.

  I rinsed and spit.

  "So," I said, leaning against the doorframe as she finished up. "What's the plan? You going to hog the shower again? Or are you waiting for a written invitation?"

  Wanda spat and wiped her mouth. She turned to me, eyes narrowing playfully.

  "Are you offering to scrub my back, Doctor?" she asked, stepping closer. "Or are you just fishing for a reaction?"

  I felt the heat rise up my neck.

  Dammit. She's too good at this.

  "I... I was just coordinating schedules," I stammered, backing into the hallway. "Logistics. Purely logistics."

  She laughed, grabbing a towel. "Go, Aryan. Before you melt."

  I retreated to the hallway.

  "I am going!" I called back. "I am retreating to my own territory!"

  I walked into my room, closing the door.

  "Okay," I whispered to the mirror on my closet door. "Get it together, Spencer. She is flirting. She is definitely flirting. Or she's messing with me. Either way, my heart rate cannot sustain this."

  I took a shower. A cold one. It was necessary.

  I dried off and opened the closet.

  There, hanging front and center, were the clothes she had picked out. The maroon turtleneck. The grey flannel.

  I reached for the flannel. It was soft.

  "She picked this," I told the audience, pulling it on. "She stood in that store and decided this is what I should look like. Who am I to argue with her vision?"

  I looked at myself. Jeans. Flannel. Hair styled (by me, not magic, I promise).

  "Not bad," I decided. "I look… handsome."

  I went downstairs.

  The kitchen was empty, but the coffee pot was still warm. Wanda was still upstairs.

  Girl time, I mused. It takes time to look that effortless.

  "Okay," I said, opening the fridge. "Breakfast is long gone. We are in lunch territory. What says 'casual Tuesday' but also 'I am a culinary god'?"

  I scanned the ingredients.

  "Club Sandwiches," I decided. "But not just any club sandwich. The Spencer Special. Three layers. Sourdough. Turkey, bacon, avocado (if Mrs. Higgins didn't curse them) and a secret garlic aioli."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I got to work.

  Bacon sizzled. Bread toasted.

  By the time I heard footsteps on the stairs, the kitchen smelled like savory heaven.

  Wanda walked in.

  She was wearing leggings and one of my old hoodies… the blue one I thought I had lost. It swallowed her frame. Her hair was up in a messy bun. She looked... adorable.

  I stopped buttering the bread.

  "You found it," I said, pointing the butter knife at her chest.

  She looked down at the hoodie. "It was... soft."

  "It looks better on you," I admitted, my voice dropping a little. "Way better. I retire it. It's yours."

  She smiled, pulling the sleeves over her hands. "Thank you. Does it... fit the aesthetic?"

  "The aesthetic is 'Coziness Supreme'," I said. "You nailed it."

  She walked over to the island and hopped onto a stool.

  "It smells like bacon," she noted.

  "Club sandwiches," I announced, sliding a plate toward her. It was a masterpiece of structural engineering, held together by toothpicks. "Eat. Before it topples."

  We ate.

  "So," I said, pointing to the row of five juice bottles lined up on the counter like suspects in a lineup. "We have unfinished business. The Juice Trials."

  Wanda looked at them. Tart Cherry. Pomegranate. Cranberry. Acai. And something green that claimed to be 'Vitality'.

  "You bought the entire shelf," she noted.

  "I needed a sample size," I defended. "Now, we judge. Here."

  I poured a small glass of the Tart Cherry.

  "Sample A," I presented it.

  Wanda took a sip. Her face scrunched up immediately.

  "It is... sour," she rasped. "It tastes like a mistake."

  "It's medicinal!" I argued, taking a sip. "Okay, wow. That is aggressive. That tastes like a cherry that holds a grudge."

  "Next," she commanded, pushing the glass away.

  I poured the Pomegranate.

  "Sample B."

  She sipped. Her expression relaxed. "Better. Sweeter. But... gritty."

  "It's textured," I said. "It builds character."

  We went through the line. The Green Juice was a disaster.

  "It tastes like lawn," Wanda declared. "Like I am grazing."

  "It's kale!" I laughed. "It's good for your soul!"

  "My soul does not want to graze," she stated firmly.

  Finally, we reached the Cranberry Apple blend.

  She sipped. She smiled.

  "This one," she decided. "It is balanced. Tart, but kind."

  "The winner," I announced, sliding the bottle toward her. "The Cranberry Apple takes the gold. The Green Juice will be banished to the back of the fridge to die a lonely death."

  "Agreed," she laughed.

  After lunch, we migrated to the living room. The "Post Sandwich Slump" was real.

  Wanda sat on the sofa, hugging the textured pillow. I sat on the other end, stretching my legs out.

  I looked out the window. It was sunny.

  Too sunny, I thought. Sunny means guilt. Sunny means 'we should go for a walk'. Sunny means leaving the bubble.

  I didn't want to leave the bubble. I wanted to stay here, in this house, with her.

  I glanced at the audience.

  Watch this, I thought. Don't tell her.

  I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. I reached out to the atmosphere again.

  Hey, clouds. Remember me? Round two.

  I pulled the pressure down. I gathered the humidity.

  Drip.

  Drip, drip.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Outside, the sky darkened rapidly.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  "Wow," Wanda said, looking at the window as the first drops hit the glass. "It is raining again."

  She looked at Aryan. He was looking at the ceiling.

  "Climate change," he sighed, shaking his head. "It's getting dangerous out there. Unpredictable weather patterns. The jet stream is wobbly."

  "Is it?" she asked.

  "Oh yeah. Very wobbly. Scientific fact. See? Now it's pouring."

  The rain intensified, drumming a cozy rhythm against the roof.

  Wanda looked at the rain. It was a gentle soak. The kind of rain that demanded blankets and books.

  She looked at Aryan. He looked... full of smiles.

  He wants to stay inside, she realized. He wants us to be trapped together.

  She didn't mind. In fact, she loved it.

  "Well," she said. "Since we are trapped by the wobbly jet stream..."

  "Movie marathon?" Aryan suggested hopefully.

  "No," she said. "Work."

  "Work?" He looked horrified. "Wanda, it's a snow day. Rain day. Whatever."

  "The library," she said, pointing a finger at the closed door down the hall.

  Aryan groaned. "The library is a graveyard of paper. It's dusty."

  "Exactly," she said. "It is next on my list. Yesterday was the clothes. Today is the books."