[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The kitchen was a stage and I was currently improvising the most high stakes performance of my life. The audience? One incredibly powerful witch and, well... you guys.

  I stood by the kitchen island, feeling the cool granite under my palms, trying to ground myself. Wanda was standing a few feet away, looking at the array of ingredients like they were an alien puzzle she was trying to decode.

  "Alright, first rule of the Spencer kitchen," I announced, breaking the silence that was threatening to turn awkward. I reached into the pantry and pulled out a fabric bundle I had stuffed in the back. "Safety gear is mandatory. And by safety gear, I mean this."

  I unfurled the apron. A pastel pink thing covered in cheerful daisies. It was something a grandmother would wear while baking cookies for a church fundraiser. I had bought it as a gag gift for myself during a bout of late night online shopping boredom, never thinking it would see the light of day.

  "Put this on," I said, holding it out with the solemnity of a knight presenting a shield.

  Wanda stared at it. Her green eyes tracked the pattern of the daisies, then flicked up to my face. One of her eyebrows arched.

  "You are serious," she stated.

  "Deadly," I replied, keeping my face straight. "Tumeric is a vengeful spice, Wanda. It doesn't care if you're a superhero or a doctor, it will turn your clothes yellow and laugh about it. And don't get me started on the marinade. It has a mind of its own."

  She hesitated for a split second, then reached out and took the apron. Her fingers brushed the rough cotton.

  "It is... very floral," she noted dryly.

  "It actually brings out the green in your eyes," I said, the words slipping past my mental filter before I could stop them. Abort. Abort. You are flirting with a nuclear warhead. I cleared my throat, pivoting hard to salvage the moment. "…In an artistic contrast sort of way, obviously. It's 'Suburban Daisy' meets 'Existential Dread.' A very bold aesthetic. It's called ironic couture."

  To my immense relief, the corner of her mouth quirked upward. She slipped the loop over her head and tied the strings behind her back. Seeing the Scarlet Witch wearing a daisy print apron in my suburban kitchen was an image so surreal I wanted to take a picture and frame it. But I refrained.

  "Now," I said, clapping my hands together. "Rule number two. No sneezing near the cumin. It's a Grade A hazard. One wrong breath and we'll be smelling like a spice rack until the next decade. I'm serious. It gets in your soul."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "I will try to control my respiratory functions," Wanda said, stepping up to the counter. She looked ready to work. "What is the mission?"

  "The mission," I said, moving to the fridge, "is Chicken Tandoori. The King of Roasts. The Emperor of Smoke."

  I pulled out the heavy glass bowl. The chicken had been marinating in a red paste of yogurt, Kashmiri chili, ginger, garlic and my secret blend of garam masala. I set it down on the counter with a heavy thud.

  "We need garnishes," I said, sliding a wooden cutting board toward her. I placed the bag of lemons she had brought, along with a red onion and a bunch of cilantro. "We need thin slices. We want the juice to hit the heat and caramelize, not just boil the meat."

  I handed her a knife. It was my favorite knife… Japanese steel, balanced perfectly.

  "You're on slicing duty," I told her. "I'll handle the skewers. Try not to intimidate the vegetables."

  Wanda took the knife. She weighed it in her hand, testing the balance. "I think I can manage."

  I turned away to grab the metal skewers, but I kept my peripheral vision locked on her.

  "Look at that," I thought, playing the role of oblivious narrator while keeping my face turned toward the sink. "She's holding that knife like a weapon, but her grip is gentle."

  I started threading the chicken onto the skewers. The meat was coated in aromatic yogurt.

  Squish.

  "Nice sound," I muttered to myself.

  I heard the first cut.

  Thwack.

  It was a sharp sound. The knife hitting the wood.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  The rhythm was steady.

  I glanced over.

  Wanda was slicing the lemons. Each slice was exactly the same thickness. Perfect circles falling away from the blade like coins.

  My hands stopped moving. The skewer hovered in mid air.

  It hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

  [Flashback]

  Sokovia, 2014.

  My kitchen.

  The rain battered the windows.

  My Wanda was standing exactly where this Wanda was standing. She was humming a folk song, cutting lemons for tea.

  "You cut them too thin," I teased her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.

  "I cut them perfectly," she had argued, leaning back into me. "So the flavor melts."

  [Back to reality]

  She held the knife the exact same way. Index finger resting on the spine of the blade. Thumb guiding the fruit.

  The memory was so vivid that the smell of the marinade in front of me momentarily vanished, replaced by the scent of rain and her shampoo.

  I stared at Wanda's hands. The hands of the woman I loved, yet not the woman I knew. The same, but different.

  My throat tightened. I felt that familiar crushing weight in my lungs… the grief I usually kept locked behind a wall of humor and indifference. It was leaking out.

  Don't cry, I commanded myself. Do not cry. If you cry over a lemon, you are going to look insane. She's a telepath, for god's sake. Pull yourself together, Spencer.

  I forced my lungs to expand. I forced my hand to grip the skewer. I forced a smile onto my face, though it felt like a ceramic mask that might crack.

  "Those slices, Wanda..." I said. My voice wavered just a fraction, a tiny tremor that I prayed she wouldn't notice. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder and brighter. "They're magnificent."

  I leaned over, pretending to inspect her work, keeping my face just out of her direct line of sight so she wouldn't see the glassiness in my eyes.

  "If the superhero thing doesn't work out, you have a bright future in garnishing. Though, I should warn you, the pay is mostly in leftover crusts and head pats."

  Wanda paused mid cut.

  "I will keep that in mind," she said softly.

  Did she hear the crack in my voice? Did she sense the sudden spike in my heart rate?

  Please say no, I begged the universe. Let me just be the quirky neighbor.