[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  I scrubbed the mud off my knees. I washed the adrenaline out of my hair.

  I put on my pajamas… soft grey pants and a white t shirt.

  I headed back downstairs, the house smelling faintly of the sandalwood candles Wanda had lit earlier.

  She was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a look of quiet contemplation. She'd swapped her muddy clothes for an oversized sweater that swallowed her whole.

  "I am too tired for a culinary masterpiece," I announced, opening the bread box.

  "Toast?" she suggested, her voice still a little soft from the adrenaline crash.

  "Grilled cheese," I corrected. "It's the medical gold standard for post heroic exhaustion. High in comfort, low in effort."

  Wanda asked, a small smile across her lips. "Is that not a cardiac hazard?"

  "In this house, calories are a myth and butter is a food group," I countered, sliding a cutting board toward her. "Help me with the cheddar? I need surgical precision. No more than an eighth of an inch per slice."

  She picked up the knife, "I think I can manage that."

  We worked side by side. The only sounds were the rhythmic thud of the knife against wood and the sizzle of the pan as I dropped a knob of butter onto the heat. I watched her out of the corner of my eye… the way she bit her lip when she focused, the way her hair fell over her shoulder.

  "You did well today, Wanda," I said softly, flipping the first sandwich. The bread was perfectly golden.

  "They didn't run," she whispered, her voice so low I almost missed it over the hiss of the butter. "They saw the red mist, they saw what I am... and they didn't run."

  "Because they saw you saving a life," I said, turning to look at her. "People are simpler than you think. They don't care about the 'how' when their world is being put back together. They just care that you showed up."

  We sat at the island to eat, the cheese stretching between the bread in golden ribbons. We talked about trivial things… how Mrs. Higgins would probably try to bake us a 'thank you' pie that tasted like cardboard, and how the paramedics looked like they wanted to hire me on the spot.

  I caught myself looking at the empty air by the pantry, narrowing my eyes at the "lens" where I knew you were hovering, probably feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Look at you," I muttered to the void, my voice a ghost of a sound. "You're loving this, aren't you?"

  Wanda tilted her head, watching me. "Did you say something?"

  "Just... debating the structural integrity of the crust," I lied, taking a large bite.

  We cleaned the plates together, the warm water and soap bubbles a grounding ritual for the day. We walked up the stairs, the wooden treads creaking under our feet, a familiar melody of a house settling for the night.

  At the landing, we paused.

  "Goodnight, Aryan," she said, her hand lingering on her doorknob.

  "Goodnight, Wanda."

  I turned the handle to my own room and stepped inside, the click of the latch sounding far too loud in the sudden isolation.

  I turned to the bed.

  It was empty.

  Option A: Sleep alone.

  Option B: Be bold.

  I didn't even consider Option A.

  I stood there with my hand hovering over the brass knob, my thumb tracing the cold metal.

  Knock. Knock.

  I froze. My heart did an erratic skip against my ribs. I looked toward the "lens" in the corner, giving you a look that was one part shock and two parts "are you seeing this?"

  I pulled the door open. Wanda was standing there, looking remarkably small in that oversized blue hoodie of mine. She was clutching her arms, her fingers digging into the soft fleece.

  "Wanda?" I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding like I'd just been caught plotting a heist. "What happened? Is everything okay?"

  "I was... I was drinking water," she started, her voice a soft murmur. "I think I was just too tired from the park. My hands were... clumsy. The glass slipped, Aryan. The water fell everywhere. My bed is totally wet."

  She finally looked up, her green eyes shimmering with a mixture of fatigue and a very adorable lie.

  "And you know," she continued, a knowing tilt to her lips, "according to your advice yesterday, it is not a good thing to sleep on a bed that is damp. The mold. The pneumonia. It is a health hazard, right, Doctor?"

  I leaned against the doorframe, a genuine smile spreading across my face.

  "Medical science is very firm on the subject of wetlands," I agreed, stepping back to give her a clear path. "It's a catastrophic environmental hazard. Come in, Wanda. The Spencer Clinic is open for emergency housing."

  She brushed past me, the scent of cherries and warm wool trailing in her wake. And she went straight for my bed.

  She climbed in, the mattress groaning softly under her weight. She slid under the duvet, pulling the covers up to her chin until only her expectant eyes were visible.

  Then, with a slow movement, she lifted the edge of the blanket.

  I looked back at you, my eyes narrowing as I caught your inevitable smirk.

  "Wipe that look off your face," I whispered to the empty air, my voice thick with a mix of triumph and nerves. "I know. She used my move. She took my C grade excuse and improved the delivery. It's flattering, really. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a medical duty to prevent a roommate from catching a chill."

  I walked over to the bed and climbed in beside her. The heat was immediate, a localized summer blooming under the sheets. I moved right to the center, closing the distance until our shoulders touched.

  Wanda turned on her side, her arms finding their way around my waist, her head tucking perfectly into the hollow of my neck. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her back tightly, feeling the solid reality of her against me.

  "Aryan?" she said softly.

  "Yeah?"

  "I like it here," she whispered, her grip on my shirt tightening just a fraction. "In Westview. With you."

  "I like it here too," I said, and I meant it more than I'd ever meant anything in any timeline. "With you."

  I closed my eyes, letting the scent of her hair and the warmth of the bed pull me toward sleep.

  Thump thump (Me).

  Thump thump (Her).

  Our hearts beat in a synchronized rhythm.

  "Goodnight, Hero," she whispered.

  "Goodnight, Witch," I whispered back.