"So," Aryan said, breaking the silence. "Now that you've conquered the cabinets, what's next, General? The linen closet? The garage?"

  Wanda looked at the counter. "We need supplies."

  "Supplies?"

  "I have... very little," she admitted. "My clothes. My toiletries. But if I am to stay... if we are to cook..." She gestured to the sparse equipment. "We need things. A proper whisk. A spice grinder. Towels that do not feel like sandpaper."

  Aryan laughed. "Hey, those towels exfoliate. It's a feature."

  "It is torture," she corrected. "We need to go to the store. A real store. Not the grocery."

  Aryan stood up. He stretched, his t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing a strip of skin. Wanda's eyes flicked to it instantly, then away.

  "Shopping," he groaned, but he was smiling. "My favorite cardio. Alright. Let's go stimulate the economy."

  He grabbed his keys from the bowl… which she had also moved to a more logical spot.

  "We will take my car," he said. "Your rental smells like bleach and sadness. My car has heated seats."

  "I accept," Wanda said.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The drive to town was short, but it felt... significant.

  We took my car, a black sedan that I had, of course, modified with reality bending to have perfect suspension and an infinite fuel tank (gas prices are the real villain of this universe).

  Wanda sat in the passenger seat. She had changed into jeans and a soft cream colored sweater that looked way too cozy. She was fiddling with the radio.

  "No heavy metal," she warned, scanning the stations.

  "I'm hurt," I said, hands on the wheel. "I'll have you know I listen to classical. And 80s pop. It's a delicate balance."

  She landed on a station playing soft rock. Fleetwood Mac. Landslide.

  Of course.

  "This is acceptable," she decided, leaning back.

  The enclosed space of the car magnified everything. Her scent filled the cabin. I could hear her breathing.

  "So," I said, glancing at her. "The List. How long is it? Are we talking 'grab a few things' or 'rent a U Haul'?"

  "It is... comprehensive," she admitted, pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket.

  I groaned theatrically. "I knew it. You're a list person. My…" I stopped, the word 'Wanda' catching in my throat like a shard of ice. Damn it, Aryan, careful! I swallowed, forcing a quick pivot. "My... partner,"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Wanda turned her head, picking up on the subtle tremor in my voice, the hesitation. "'Your partner?'"

  "She was a list person too," I recovered, keeping my eyes on the road. "She'd make lists for her lists. 'List A: Things to buy. List B: Things to think about buying. List C: Things Aryan is forbidden from buying.'"

  Wanda smiled. "What was on List C?"

  "Swords," I said. "And flamethrowers. And those giant bags of gummy bears that give you stomach aches."

  "She was a wise woman," Wanda noted. "I will add those to my prohibited list as well."

  "Tyranny," I muttered.

  "Absolute tyranny in my own car," I told the steering wheel, knowing the real audience was listening. "At least she has good taste in music, right?"

  We pulled into the parking lot of the Westview Supercenter. It was a massive box store that sold everything from tires to scented candles. The American Dream in concrete form.

  "Ready?" I asked, parking the car.

  "Ready," she said.

  We walked in. The automatic doors slid open.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She walked down the aisles, Aryan trailing behind her pushing the cart like a dutiful husband. The image made her heart squeeze with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

  She picked up a set of bath towels. Egyptian cotton. Sage green.

  "Green?" Aryan asked, leaning on the cart handle.

  "It is calming," she said, placing them in the cart. "And it matches the... feeling of the house."

  "The feeling of the house is 'wood'," Aryan noted. "But sure. Green."

  She moved to the kitchen section. This was the holy land.

  She picked up a heavy stone mortar and pestle.

  "We need this," she said. "For the ginger."

  "We have a blender," Aryan argued weakly.

  "Blenders bruise the herbs," she said, giving him a look. "Crushing releases the oils. You are a doctor, you should appreciate the anatomy of flavor."

  "I stand corrected," he surrendered, putting the heavy stone object in the cart. "Anything else, Chef?"

  "A whisk," she said, grabbing a silicone one. "And new cutting boards. The wooden ones you have are scarred."

  "They have character!"

  "They harbor bacteria," she countered.

  Into the cart.

  They moved to the home decor aisle. Wanda didn't strictly need candles. But she wanted the house to smell like them. Not just him. Them.

  She picked up a jar. "Sandalwood and Vanilla."

  She held it under Aryan's nose. "Smell."

  He leaned in. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

  "Mmm," he hummed. The sound vibrated in her chest. "That's nice. Not too sweet."

  "We are getting three," she decided.

  She wasn't looking at the prices. Aryan had waved a black card at the beginning of the trip and said, "Don't look at the tags, look at the quality. I'm allergic to cheap fabric."

  She knew he was wealthy… or at least, he had resources. But it wasn't about the money. It was about his willingness to let her fill his cart. To let her fill his life with her choices.

  She watched him wrestle a duvet insert into the cart. He was making a joke about it being like stuffing a cloud into a bag.

  He lets me do this, she thought. He complains, but he likes it.

  She saw it in his eyes. The way he looked at the cart filling up with domestic items. He looked... grounded.

  He looked like a man who was happy to have a reason to buy sage green towels.

  "Aryan," she said, stopping in front of a display of throw pillows.

  "No," he said, holding up a hand. "I draw the line at throw pillows. You have to move them to sit down. It's inefficient furniture."

  "But this one has texture," she argued, holding up a knitted cream pillow. "It is for the reading chair. For your back."

  He looked at the pillow. He looked at her.

  He sighed. A long sigh.

  "One," he negotiated. "And if I find it on the floor, it becomes a dog toy. And we don't even have a dog."

  Wanda smiled victoriously and tossed the pillow into the cart.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  "I have been emasculated by a pillow," I told you, dear reader, as I pushed the now overflowing cart toward the checkout. "This is how it starts. First, it's the spice rack. Then it's the towels. Next thing you know, I'm wearing matching pajamas and discussing the merits of potpourri."

  But I wasn't mad.

  Actually, I was happy.