"I'm a doctor. Or I was." He replied with a shrug. "I hung up the stethoscope because I realized spices are much better for the soul than prescriptions. Now I'm just a specialist in neighborhood hospitality."

  Wanda rolled her eyes, a genuine smirk breaking through. "A specialist in neighborhood hospitality? Is that what they're calling 'unemployed' these days?"

  He gasped, clutching his chest. "Ouch. That's low, Wanda. Technically, I've earned my time off, but professionally? I am still a specialist. Would you like to book an appointment? I have an opening at dinner time."

  Wanda let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "I think I will skip the waiting room." She watched him for a moment. "Still... for a 'specialist,' you seem to know your way around a kitchen."

  "Doctors need to eat too," he shrugged. "And hospital cafeteria food is a violation of the Geneva Convention. I learned to cook out of self defense."

  "And the Tandoori?" she asked. "Is that a medical necessity?"

  "Absolutely," he grinned. "Spices stimulate the endorphins. It's basically edible therapy. I'm prescribing you a heavy dose."

  Wanda looked at him. He was leaning casually, ankles crossed, trying to look relaxed. But she saw the way his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the granite.

  "I think..." she started, then hesitated.

  "You think?"

  "I think I could use some therapy," she admitted softly.

  Aryan's smile softened. It lost the manic edge and became something gentler.

  "Well, lucky for you, the doctor is in. And he accepts payment in the form of lemon slicing labor."

  He reached for a spoon on the counter. He dipped it into the leftover marinade bowl… the one he hadn't put raw chicken in.

  "Here," he said, holding the spoon out toward her. "Quality control. Every chef needs a second opinion."

  It was an intimate gesture.

  Wanda hesitated. In the last few weeks, she had barely eaten. Food tasted like ash.

  But this...

  The smell was overwhelming.

  She leaned in.

  Aryan held the spoon steady.

  She opened her mouth and tasted it.

  The flavor exploded on her tongue. The sharp zing of lemon. The warmth of ginger.

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  It tasted... alive.

  "Oh," she whispered, stepping back.

  "Well?" Aryan asked, looking at her with bated breath. "Give it to me straight. Does it need more zest? Or are we ready for the Hall of Fame? Be honest… my ego can take it."

  Wanda swallowed, the warmth traveling down her throat.

  "It is..." she searched for the word. "It is loud."

  Aryan blinked. "Loud?"

  "Yes," she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "It has... personality."

  Aryan laughed, throwing his head back. "Loud food! I love it. I'm putting that on the restaurant sign. 'Aryan's Loud Kitchen. Bring earplugs.'"

  He looked at her, his eyes twinkling. "But is it good loud?"

  "Yes," Wanda said, meeting his gaze. "It is good loud."

  "Then we are in business, Lemon Queen."

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  Lemon Queen.

  I said it. I actually said it.

  "Why am I like this?" I asked the ceiling fixture. "Why do I give nicknames to the most powerful being in the universe within an hour of meeting her? Do I have a death wish?"

  She stood there, wearing that ridiculous pink apron and looked... lighter.

  The tension that had been radiating off her in waves in the grocery store had receded. It wasn't gone. I knew grief like that didn't just vanish. But it was quiet for now.

  The timer on the oven beeped.

  "Showtime!" I declared, grabbing the oven mitts.

  I pulled the tray out.

  Steam billowed up, carrying the scent of roasted meat and charred bread. The chicken was a vibrant red, charred at the edges. The naan was golden brown, glistening with butter and cilantro.

  "Behold," I said, setting the tray down on a cooling rack. "The fruits of our labor."

  Wanda leaned in, her face illuminated by the steam. She looked hungry. Not just for food, but for the experience of something normal.

  "It looks..." she started.

  "Don't say loud," I warned, pointing a tong at her.

  She smirked. "It looks delicious."

  "That's what I like to hear."

  I started plating. I piled the chicken onto a large platter. I stacked the naan. I put the sliced onions and lemons… her lemons… on the side.

  "Grab the plates," I instructed, nodding toward the cupboard. "And the forks. Though, traditionally, this is a hand to mouth operation. Utensils are for the weak."

  Wanda grabbed the plates. She moved with a grace that was innate, a fluidity that even a bulky apron couldn't hide.

  We carried the food to the small dining table.

  I sat down. She sat opposite me.

  The empty chair… the one I usually talked to… was now occupied.

  I looked at the food. Then I looked at her.

  "Wait," I said. "We forgot the drinks."

  I jumped up. "I have juice. Or water. Or... I think I have a bottle of wine that I conjured… I mean, bought… last week."

  "Water is fine," Wanda said.

  I grabbed a pitcher of water and two glasses. As I poured, I looked at the camera… or where the camera would be if this was a sitcom.

  "You guys seeing this?" I thought. "I am having dinner with Wanda Maximoff. We made Tandoori. She laughed. I didn't die."

  If this is a dream, don't wake me up. Seriously. If I wake up in that hospital bed again, I'm going to be so pissed.

  I sat back down.

  "To the neighbors," I said, raising my glass of water.

  Wanda raised hers. Her eyes held a mixture of sadness and gratitude that made my chest ache.

  "To the neighbors," she echoed softly.

  We clinked glasses. The sound was a clear note in the quiet house.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She watched him over the rim of her glass.

  He was smiling, but his eyes were scanning her face, looking for signs of discomfort, ready to retreat or crack a joke at the first sign of trouble.

  He was kind.

  He was hiding something… she knew that. The pain she had glimpsed earlier was too deep. And the way he moved... he moved like someone who knew the world could break at any moment.

  But tonight, he was gluing the pieces back together with garlic butter and bad jokes.

  She looked at the pile of chicken. She looked at the perfectly sliced lemons.

  My lemons, she thought. His chicken.

  It was a partnership.

  She put the glass down.

  "Aryan," she said.

  He looked up, mid reach for a piece of naan. "Yeah?"

  "Thank you," she said.

  He paused. His expression softened, losing the mask entirely for a brief second.

  "Anytime, Wanda," he said quietly. "Anytime."

  She picked up a piece of the naan. It was warm.