He navigated to the movie.

  "Lights?" he asked.

  "Do we have to?"

  "It's the law, Wanda. Horror movies must be watched in the dark. Otherwise, the ghosts can't see you."

  He reached over and clicked the lamp off.

  The room plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the glow of the TV screen.

  Wanda moved just an inch closer to the center of the couch.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  "I regret this," I whispered to the darkness as the opening scene started. "Why did I fight for this? I hate jump scares. I'm a coward. I have the power of a god and I'm afraid of loud noises."

  But I couldn't back down now. My masculinity and my plan to get Wanda to sit closer… depended on it.

  The movie started. It was eerie. Lots of whispering and creaking doors.

  "Why is the house so big?" Wanda whispered. "It is inefficient to heat."

  "It's a mansion in 1945," I whispered back. "Insulation wasn't a priority. Ghosts were."

  We watched in silence for a while.

  I could feel Wanda's tension returning. The anticipation tension. Every time the music swelled, she stiffened.

  And every time she stiffened, she leaned a little closer to me.

  It's working, I thought, suppressing a triumphant grin. The oldest trick in the book. The 'scary movie cuddle trap'. I am a genius.

  Then came the scene. The séance scene. The table shaking. The voices.

  On screen, the medium screamed.

  BANG. A door slammed in the movie.

  "Ah!" Wanda gasped.

  She launched herself.

  She buried her face in my shoulder, her hands clutching the fabric of my t-shirt. Her legs curled up and suddenly, she was pressed against my side, a ball of trembling witch.

  I froze.

  Her hair was under my nose.

  My arm, which had been resting on the back of the sofa, instinctively dropped down to wrap around her shoulders.

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  "It's okay," I whispered, rubbing her arm. "It's just a movie. It's just sound effects."

  She kept her face hidden in my neck.

  "Is it gone?" she mumbled into my shirt. "Is the old woman gone?"

  "She's gone," I lied. (She was definitely still on screen, looking creepy). "She went to get groceries. She's in the produce aisle fighting Mrs. Higgins."

  Wanda let out a shaky laugh, the vibration traveling through my chest.

  "You are lying," she accused, but she didn't move.

  "I am protecting you from the narrative," I murmured.

  I looked down at her. The Scarlet Witch. The most powerful being in the universe. The woman who could rewrite reality with a thought. And here she was, hiding from a fictional ghost in the arms of a guy named Aryan.

  The irony was beautiful.

  I tightened my hold on her just a fraction.

  "You're safe," I said softly. "I've got you. No ghosts allowed in this house. I have a very strict 'no haunting' clause in the lease."

  I know, I know, I thought to the audience, looking down at her trembling form. It's the oldest cliché in the book. The 'scary movie hug'. But look at her! She's actually scared. If this is how I have to get the Scarlet Witch to embrace me, I will watch 100 more jump-scare movies. Even if I have to sleep with the lights on for a week.

  She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the flickering light of the screen. Her face was inches from mine.

  "You promise?" she whispered.

  "I promise," I said.

  For a second, the movie was forgotten. The screaming on the TV faded into background noise. It was just us. The air between us was electric.

  She looked at my lips. I looked at hers.

  Kiss her, the audience screamed in my head. Do it, you coward.

  No, I countered. Not yet.

  "Turn it off," she said softly.

  "What?"

  "The movie," she said. "Turn it off. I do not want the meat anymore. I want the top bread."

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

  "Right," I said, my voice husky. "Top bread. Back to Dick Van Dyke."

  I reached for the remote, but I didn't move my arm from around her shoulders.

  And she didn't ask me to.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  We watched two more episodes of Dick Van Dyke. Wanda stayed tucked under my arm. It was... domestic bliss.

  Eventually, the sun began to dip lower outside, casting long shadows across the living room floor.

  "Okay," I said, gently untangling myself from the human pretzel we had become. "My eyes are turning square. We need fresh air. We need to touch grass."

  Wanda sat up, fixing her hair. She looked a little flushed.

  "Grass?" she asked.

  "The garden," I said, standing up and stretching. "It's evening. The golden hour. The plants get thirsty around this time. They start whispering if I don't water them."

  "Your plants whisper?" Wanda asked, standing up.

  "Metaphorically. But sometimes I think they judge me."

  I walked to the sliding glass door.

  "Come on," I said. "Let me introduce you to the crew."

  We stepped out onto the patio. The air was cooling down, the heat of the day dissipating. The backyard was bathed in a warm glow.

  My garden was my pride and joy. I had used a tiny bit of reality bending to make sure the soil pH was perfect, but the rest was hard work.

  "Okay," I said, walking down the steps onto the grass. "Wanda, meet the family."

  I pointed to a sprawling hydrangea bush that was currently exploding with blue and purple flowers.

  "This," I introduced, "is Sir Drinks a Lot. Because no matter how much water I give him, he looks dramatic and wilted two hours later."

  Wanda walked over to the bush. She touched a bloom gently.

  "Hello, Sir," she said seriously.

  I moved to a prickly rose bush that was climbing a trellis.

  "This is Robert," I said.

  "Robert?"

  "Robert the Rose. He stabbed me last week when I tried to prune him. We have a complicated relationship. He's beautiful, but he has boundary issues."

  Wanda smiled. "Maybe Robert just wants to be left alone."

  "Robert wants attention," I argued. "He's just playing hard to get."

  I walked over to a sad looking cactus in a pot on the retaining wall.

  "And this," I sighed. "Is Karen."

  "Karen?"

  "She's a cactus. She's supposed to be impossible to kill. But look at her." I pointed to a brown spot. "She's judging me. She's complaining to the manager about the humidity."