There is a masculine urge that transcends reality bending power sets. It is the refusal… the absolute refusal to make two trips from the car to the house when carrying groceries.

  I was currently acting out this universal law.

  I stood at the front door, my fingers turning white from the circulation being cut off by approximately fifteen plastic bags. A baguette was tucked under my armpit like a thermometer. A sack of potatoes was resting precariously on my left foot while I tried to fish the keys out of my pocket with my right pinky.

  "You know," I grunted to the invisible camera that I liked to imagine was floating near the porch light. "In the comics, Wanda Maximoff is often portrayed as a vegetarian. Or at least, very conscious about life."

  I finally snagged the key loop.

  "But here? In the MCU? Or whatever adjacent reality this is?" I chuckled, the sound straining as the bags dug into my skin. "She eats Chicken Paprikash. She eats Tandoori. She decimated that Poha this morning. I'm pretty sure if I put a biryani in front of her, she'd thank me."

  I managed to shove the key into the lock.

  "I have a theory. Disney doesn't like vegetarians. They think it's bad for the theme park turkey leg sales. It's a corporate conspiracy. 'Make the Witch eat meat, it makes her more relatable to the mid western demographic.'"

  The door clicked open. I kicked it wide, stumbling into the hallway with my bounty.

  "Wanda, I'm home!" I announced, dropping the bags on the floor with a series of heavy thuds and crunches. "And I brought half the agricultural output of New Jersey!"

  The house was quiet for a second.

  Then, I heard footsteps.

  Wanda appeared at the top of the stairs.

  She was back in her oversized grey sweater and jeans, but something about her looked... different.

  I squinted, rubbing my sore hands.

  Her hair was the same. Her face was the same. But the air around her felt... clearer.

  Usually, Wanda carried a fog of grief that was palpable. It hung off her shoulders like a wet coat. But right now? There was a spark in her green eyes that looked less like 'I am surviving' and more like 'I have conquered.'

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Maybe she really did clean the hell out of the upstairs, I thought. Maybe Swiffering is the cure for depression. I should write a paper on that.

  "You bought the store again," she observed, walking down the stairs.

  "I bought the essentials," I corrected, leaning against the wall and shaking out my hands. "And by essentials, I mean I panicked in the produce aisle because everything looked green and healthy and I felt guilty about the amount of butter we consumed yesterday."

  She reached the bottom step and looked at the pile of bags.

  "That is... a lot of green," she noted, peering into a bag filled with spinach that was already trying to escape.

  "It's a metaphor, dear reader," I thought, watching her fight a bag of kale. "I'm trying to bring healthy stability into her life, but it's just making a mess in the hallway. Also, I'm pretty sure I bought enough spinach to feed a small army of rabbits, which is probably a foreshadowing of the sheer amount of work I have to do to keep this story going."

  "We are going to be so healthy, Wanda," I promised. "We are going to glow. We're going to photosynthesize."

  She smiled.

  And there it was. That change again. Her smile looked... possessing. Like she was looking at the groceries and me… and stamping a little invisible label that said 'MINE'.

  She must be tired, I reasoned. Cleaning an entire floor of a house by hand takes it out of you. Or maybe she's just hungry.

  "But," I said, raising a finger. "Because life is about balance and because I am a benevolent roommate..."

  I reached into the one insulated bag I had kept separate from the chaos.

  I pulled out two tubs.

  "Ben & Jerry's," I declared, holding them up like holy relics. "Chocolate Fudge Brownie. The doctor prescribes a high dose of serotonin."

  Wanda's eyes widened. She stared at the ice cream, then up at me.

  "You bought... chocolate?" she asked softly.

  "I figured we deserved a treat," I said, feeling a sudden flush of warmth at her reaction. "You for the cleaning, me for surviving the parking lot. It's a peace treaty with our calories."

  She took a step closer. She reached out and took one of the tubs. Her fingers brushed mine softly.

  "Chocolate is... my favorite," she whispered.

  "I know," I said, without thinking.

  She froze. "You know?"

  Crap. Pivot. Pivot!

  "I mean, who doesn't like chocolate?" I laughed, a little too loudly. "It's a statistical probability. 99% of people love chocolate. The other 1% are lying. I just played the odds."

  Wanda looked at the tub in her hand. She ran her thumb over the condensation on the cardboard lid.

  "Thank you, Aryan," she said. And the way she said my name… made the hair on my arms stand up.

  "Let's eat it before it melts," I said, grabbing two spoons from the kitchen drawer (which she had reorganized, bless her). "Groceries can wait. Ice cream is urgent."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  The ice cream was cold against her palm.

  She sat on the living room rug with her legs crossed, the tub in her lap. Cause Aryan had insisted the couch was "too formal for ice cream"

  She watched Aryan struggle to open his lid.

  He had brought her chocolate.

  She had just spent the last hour in the room upstairs, shattering the mirror, burying his dead memories of the other Wanda and declaring herself the ruler of this house. She had felt a triumphant rush as she locked that door.

  And then he had walked in, looking disheveled and windblown, carrying a mountain of food and her favorite dessert.

  He cares, she thought, digging her spoon into the fudgy surface. He noticed. Even without knowing, he sensed that I needed this.

  It validated everything she had said to the reflection. She was the one he was actively choosing to feed.