"Wanda?" Aryan's voice was right next to her. He was kneeling beside the couch.

  She turned to look at him. Her vision was blurred with tears.

  "They taste..." she sobbed, the tears flowing freely now. "They taste like hers."

  She couldn't stop. The grief she had been holding back… came pouring out.

  She dropped the cake onto the plate and threw herself at him.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

  "Thank you," she wept into his shirt. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

  Aryan's arms came around her instantly. He held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair.

  "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  I held her while she cried.

  I could feel her shaking against me. Her tears soaked through my shirt, hot against my skin.

  My own throat was tight.

  I was holding the woman I loved, comforting her over a memory that I shared with a ghost.

  It tastes like hers, Wanda had said.

  I know, I thought, closing my eyes and resting my cheek against the top of her head. I know because I baked them for her too. On rainy days.

  Every sob that wrecked her body felt like a crack in my own armor. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to scream, 'I know because I was there! I know because I loved you in a world where we were happy!'

  But I couldn't.

  So I just held her. I rubbed circles on her back. I let her ruin my shirt.

  "It's okay," I murmured. "You're okay."

  After a long time, the sobbing subsided into quiet hiccups. She rested her head on my shoulder, breathing heavily.

  "I am sorry," she whispered, her voice thick. "I am... a mess."

  "You're not a mess," I said, pulling back slightly so I could look at her face. Her eyes were red, her lashes wet, her nose pink. She looked beautiful. "You're human. And you're eating cake. It's an emotional experience."

  She let out a watery laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  "This is the best thing..." she hiccuped. "The best thing I ever had in my life. Since... since Sokovia."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "High praise," I smiled, reaching for a tissue from the box on the table and handing it to her.

  She blew her nose. Then, she looked at the plate.

  She picked up the cake she had dropped… the one with the bite taken out of it.

  She looked at me. Her eyes were searching.

  "Here," she whispered, holding it out to my lips.

  I froze.

  "Wanda, you don't have to… "

  "Eat," she commanded softly. "Please."

  I opened my mouth.

  She fed me the cake. Her fingers brushed my lips.

  I chewed.

  The taste hit me.

  [Flashback]

  2014.

  The kitchen in Novi Grad.

  My Wanda laughing as I tried to steal a walnut.

  Smack.

  Her wooden spoon caught my knuckles with the precision of a sniper.

  "A thief gets no honey, Aryan," she'd teased, her green eyes crinkling in that specific way that meant I was already forgiven. Her laugh was bright.

  [Back to reality]

  It tasted like love. It tasted like loss.

  For a second, the Westview air felt fake. I was a refugee again, standing in the ruins of a life that had been deleted, tasting a memory that shouldn't exist here. I swallowed and blinked back my own tears.

  "It's good," I managed to say, my voice rough. "Really good."

  Wanda smiled. A sweet smile.

  "You are a wizard, Aryan Spencer," she whispered.

  "Just a cook," I said.

  She picked up another cake. She took a bite, then held the rest out to me.

  "Share with me," she said.

  I leaned in and took a bite from her hand.

  We sat there on the floor, leaning against the couch, passing the small honey cakes back and forth.

  "Aryan," she said, after the last crumb was gone.

  "Yeah?"

  She leaned her head on my shoulder again.

  "You really are terrible at soufflés, aren't you?"

  I laughed, wrapping my arm around her.

  " The worst," I agreed. "Absolute garbage. Never ask me to make one."

  "I won't," she promised, closing her eyes. "Just make these. Every day."

  "That might be bad for your teeth," I noted.

  "I have a doctor living with me," she murmured, her breathing slowing down as exhaustion took over. "He will fix it."

  "Yeah," I whispered. "He will."

  I looked at the empty plate, then back at her. Her eyelids were drooping, the weight of the memories finally pulling her down toward sleep.

  I slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her from the floor. She was lighter than she looked, a fragile bundle of grief and honey. Her arms looped around my neck instinctively, and her eyes stayed locked on mine. She was studying me like a map of a country she'd forgotten existed.

  I reached the "Wanda Wing" and laid her down on the white duvet. She sank into the mattress and pulled the blanket up to her chin, her gaze still tracking my every move as I smoothed the edge of the covers.

  "Goodnight, Lemon Queen," I said softly, stepping back toward the door.

  "Goodnight... Baker," she mumbled, her voice already thickening with sleep, the name a soft exhale that nearly broke my resolve.

  I pulled the door shut, the click of the latch sounding far too final in the quiet hall. I turned to the empty air, narrowing my eyes at the "lens" you're currently staring through, my jaw tight.

  "Oh, wipe that look off your face," I whispered, leaning my back against the wood of her door. "I know exactly what you're thinking. You're leaning in, aren't you? Hoping I'll turn around, walk back in there, and crawl under those covers. It's the obvious move, right? The 'grand romantic gesture'."

  I let out a frustrated breath, rubbing my face with both hands.

  "Give me a break. I want to be in that bed more than I want my next breath. I want to stay in that room until the sun comes up and then some. But what's my excuse? 'I'm afraid of the dark, Wanda?' 'The floor in my room is too loud, Wanda?' She's the most intuitive woman in the world. She'd see right through a pathetic line like that. I have zero legitimate reasons to stay that don't end with me looking like a total creep."

  I pushed off the door and started toward my own room, shooting a judgmental look at the empty hallway.

  "I'm going to my own bed, where I'll probably stare at the ceiling and think about those cupcakes until 4 AM. Are you happy now? Does my internal suffering provide enough entertainment for your boring Tuesday? Honestly, get a hobby. Stop living vicariously through my romantic tension."

  I reached my door and gripped the handle, glancing back at the "audience" one last time.

  "Goodnight, audience. Try to dream about something other than my life for once. It's getting a little obsessive."