Wanda didn't buy it. I could see it in her face. She was a telepath, an empath and a woman who knew grief intimately. She knew a deflection when she heard one.

  "It is not the spices," she stated gently. She didn't look away. "You looked... sad. For a moment. You looked like you were somewhere else."

  I looked at her. I could lie. I could make a joke about the fluctuating price of citrus fruit.

  But something about the way she looked at me… made the lie die in my throat.

  "I had... someone," I said. The words came out quiet. "Before. In my life before the Blip."

  Wanda placed her fork down softly. "A partner?"

  "Yeah," I said, looking at the lemon slice on her plate. "She... she loved lemons. She used to put them in everything. She'd eat them raw if I let her, just to see the face I'd make."

  I let out a short chuckle.

  "She used to say that life was bland," I continued, my eyes losing focus on the room and drifting into the past. "That you have to add the sharp things to make the sweet things taste better. She had this... theory. The Lemon Theory. She said, 'Aryan, if you can handle the sour, you earn the sugar.'"

  I looked up at Wanda.

  "Watching you squeeze that..." I gestured vaguely. "It just... it reminded me of her. The way she held it. The way she was so specific about it."

  I rubbed my face with my hand, trying to scrub the vulnerability away.

  "Sorry," I said, forcing a lighter tone. "Didn't mean to bring the mood down. We're supposed to be celebrating the Tandoori."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  Wanda sat perfectly still, her hands resting in her lap, her heart aching in a way that was entirely new.

  She knew.

  She had seen the vision. She knew the woman he was talking about was her. Or rather, the variant of her.

  She loved lemons, she thought. I love lemons.

  It was a small detail, a triviality of the multiverse, but it hit her with the force of a physical blow. In another life, she had been happy enough to have theories about fruit. She had been loved enough to be remembered for how she held a slice of citrus.

  She looked at Aryan. He was rubbing his face, trying to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes. He looked tired and so incredibly broken.

  He was lying to her… to protect her. He didn't want to freak her out. He didn't want to burden her with the knowledge that he had watched her die.

  He is carrying it all alone, she realized. Just like I am carrying Vision.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But he was sharing this small piece. This "Lemon Theory."

  "She sounds..." Wanda started, her voice thick with emotion she couldn't quite suppress. "She sounds like she was very wise."

  Aryan dropped his hand. He looked at her, surprised.

  "She was," he said softly. "She was the smartest person I ever knew. And the wildest. She kept me on my toes."

  "You loved her very much," Wanda said.

  "I did," Aryan whispered. "I still do. That doesn't just go away, does it? Even when the world changes. The love... it stays stuck in your ribs."

  Wanda felt a tear slide down her cheek.

  "No," she said, her voice trembling. "It does not go away. It becomes... part of the furniture. You learn to walk around it, but you always know it is there."

  Aryan looked at her, really looked at her and for a moment, the air between them shimmered with a shared understanding. Two ghosts, sitting at a dinner table, talking about the people they used to be.

  "Well," Aryan said, exhaling a long breath and picking up his glass. "Here's to the Lemon Theory. May we all earn the sugar eventually."

  Wanda picked up her glass. "To the sugar."

  They drank. The water felt cool and cleansing.

  "You know," Wanda said, lowering her glass, a mischievous glint returning to her eye. "If she liked lemons that much, she would have criticized your cutting technique. You left too much pith on the wedges."

  Aryan choked on his water. He coughed, laughing and sputtering at the same time.

  "Wow," he wheezed, wiping his mouth. "Okay. I open my heart, tell a tragic backstory and you critique my knife skills? You are cold, Maximoff. Ice cold."

  "I am just honoring her memory," Wanda said, a genuine smile gracing her lips. "By keeping you on your toes."

  Aryan looked at her, shaking his head in disbelief, but his eyes were smiling. "Touché. Point to the Scarlet Neighbor."

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The plates were empty. The platter was decimated… we had done serious damage to that chicken. The conversation had drifted from heavy memories back to lighter things. the weird architecture of Westview, the exorbitant price of avocados, the fact that I had apparently never seen I Love Lucy (a lie, but I wanted to hear her explain it).

  We were lingering. I was swirling the last dregs of water in my glass and she was tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with her fingernail.

  Neither of us made the move to stand up.

  Because standing up meant it was over. Standing up meant I was just a guy alone in a big house and she was a widow in a cold motel room.

  Finally, the silence stretched a little too long to be casual.

  "I should..." Wanda started, glancing at the window where the darkness had fully settled.

  "Yeah," I said quickly, standing up before she could finish the sentence. "Let me get these. You sit. You're the guest."

  "Nonsense," she said, standing up immediately. She grabbed her plate and mine before I could protest. "I sliced the lemons. I am invested in the lifecycle of this meal. I will help clean."

  "You don't have to… "

  "Aryan," she said, giving me a look that brooked no argument. "I am washing. You are drying. Do not argue with a woman who is holding dirty cutlery."

  "Yes, ma'am," I said, surrendering with a grin.

  We moved to the sink.

  It became a slow rhythm that felt domestic.

  She turned on the tap. She rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie, revealing pale wrists.

  She washed a plate. Handed it to me.

  I took it. Our fingers brushed. The static was there, less jarring now, more like a hum.

  I dried it with a towel.

  "So," I said, needing to fill the air because the intimacy of standing this close to her was making my head spin. "What's the plan? For Westview? You thinking of settling down?"

  Wanda scrubbed a fork aggressively. "I... I do not know. It is a nice town. But..."

  "But it's a little too 'Pleasantville'?" I suggested. "I get it. The neighbors are suspiciously friendly. Arthur Jones waved at me three times this morning. Three times. Who has that much energy?"

  Wanda laughed softly. "It is strange. But maybe strange is good. Maybe normal is... overrated."

  "Normal is a dryer setting," I said, taking the fork from her. "We don't do normal. We do... surviving."

  She handed me the serving platter. It was heavy.

  "Do you think..." she hesitated, her hands submerged in the soapy water. "Do you think it is possible? To start over? When everything you knew is gone?"

  I paused, the towel resting on the ceramic.