Aryan blinked, watching her go.

  "That was weird," he noted. "She went from flirting to dehydration in three seconds."

  He turned to Wanda.

  "You okay?"

  Wanda took a sip of her cider. She smiled over the rim of the cup. It was a satisfied smile.

  "I am fine," she said sweetly. "She just realized she was thirsty."

  Aryan looked at her. Then he glanced toward the punch bowl, where Becky was now chugging a cup of juice with the desperation of a marathon runner. He looked back at Wanda, who was calmly taking a sip of her cider, the picture of innocence.

  He reached out under the table. His hand found hers. He laced their fingers together, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her knuckles.

  "You know," he whispered, leaning so close his breath ghosted against her ear, "that sweater is a menace."

  Wanda turned her head slightly, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light of the gazebo. "The sweater?"

  "Mmm," he confirmed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Every time you move, I get distracted. It's a public safety hazard. I almost dropped the puffs when we got here."

  Wanda felt a delicious warmth spreading from where his hand held hers.

  "Then you should be more careful, Doctor," she whispered back, her voice a little breathless.

  "I'm trying," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "But my new stylist has terrible taste in non-distracting clothing."

  She squeezed his hand.

  "Good," she whispered.

  …

  The laughter of the neighbors faded into a dull murmur behind them as they stepped away from the glowing gazebo.

  Wanda tightened her hold on Aryan's arm, the heavy wool of his sleeve solid and reassuring against her fingers. The evening air was biting at her cheeks, but the heat radiating from him kept the chill at bay.

  Neither of them spoke as they navigated the quiet streets of Westview, the rhythmic click of her heels and the soft thud of his shoes were the only sounds in the stillness.

  When Aryan pushed the front door open, the silence of the house rushed out to meet them, thick with the scent of the sandalwood candles she had lit earlier.

  They climbed the steps together, their shoulders brushing in the narrow space. With every tread, Wanda felt the weight of the house increasing, the "public" version of them (the smiling couple) slowly stripping away.

  Wanda stopped in front of her door, her hand hovering over the wood, but she looked at Aryan. He was standing by his own door, his silhouette tall and dark against the dim hallway light.

  The space between their doors (barely six feet of carpeted floor) suddenly felt like a vast canyon.

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

  Wanda glanced at the knob of her room, then back at him.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  I stood there, my hand frozen on the brass knob of my bedroom door. I looked at Wanda, then I looked at the six feet of hallway carpet.

  Option A: I go into my room like a "respectable" roommate and spend the night staring at the ceiling fan while my bed feels like an ice box.

  Option B: I acknowledge that we basically slept in the same bed last night and ask her if she wants to do it again.

  "Well," I said, my hand finding the back of my neck. "Big day. Socializing. Small talk. I'm exhausted."

  Wanda was studying the pattern of the rug as if it were a high stakes puzzle. "Yes," she whispered. "It was... a lot."

  "Right. So... sleep."

  "Sleep," she echoed.

  We stood there for five seconds. Ten. The silence was so thick it was a physical weight, pressing against my chest. Neither of us moved.

  "Goodnight, Wanda," I said finally, the words sounding like a white flag of surrender.

  "Goodnight, Aryan," she said softly.

  I closed the door and leaned my back against it.

  "You idiot," I whispered to the empty room. "You absolute moron. Why did you leave? You had the momentum! You were the power couple!"

  I walked over to the bed. It looked huge.

  "I can't sleep here," I told the audience, pacing the floor. "I've been spoiled. I need the cuddle. I need the scent of cherries. I have developed a dependency."

  I looked at the water glass on my nightstand.

  An idea formed. A flimsy idea.

  "Okay," I said. "This is going to be humiliating. But desperate times call for desperate lies."

  I grabbed the glass of water. I walked to the bed.

  I tilted the glass. I poured about a teaspoon of water onto the corner of the duvet.

  "Oh no!" I gasped theatrically. "A flood! A disaster! The structural integrity of the mattress is compromised!"

  I looked at you.

  Don't judge me. It's method acting.

  I put the glass down. I messed up my hair to look distressed.

  I walked out of the room and crossed the hallway.

  I stood in front of her door.

  Knock. Knock.

  "Wanda?" I called out, putting a tremor in my voice. "Emergency."

  "Come in," her voice floated out.

  I opened the door.

  She was lying in bed, reading a book. The lamp cast a warm glow over her. She looked up.

  "Emergency?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "You're not going to believe this," I said, wringing my hands. "I was... drinking water. Like a responsible adult. and... I tripped. Clumsy feet. The curse of the Disc O King."

  I took a deep breath.

  "I spilled it. everywhere. The bed is soaked. It's a wetland, Wanda. I can't sleep there. It's medically inadvisable to sleep in a swamp. Mildew and pneumonia. The risks are endless."

  I looked at her with pleading eyes.

  "So... I was wondering... since your bed is... dry..."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She looked at him.

  He was wearing his pajamas. He looked panicked.

  She looked at his shirt. Dry.

  She looked at his hands. Dry.

  He spilled a glass of water, she thought. And he thinks that destroys a king sized bed?

  It was the worst lie she had ever heard.

  And it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

  He was inventing a disaster just to be near her.

  She wanted to laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself.

  "A swamp," she repeated gravely. "That sounds serious."

  "Deadly," he nodded vigorously. "Mold spores act fast."

  She closed her book and set it on the nightstand.

  She looked at him.

  "Well," she said. "We cannot have you getting pneumonia."

  She lifted the corner of the duvet. It was an open invitation.

  "Come here, you clumsy idiot."

  The relief on his face was blinding. He practically sprinted to the bed.

  "You are a lifesaver," he said, scrambling in. "Truly. A saint."

  "Turn off the light," she commanded, hiding her smile.

  He clicked the lamp off. Darkness fell.

  They lay side by side.

  "It is... cold tonight," she whispered. (It was 72 degrees).

  "Freezing," Aryan agreed immediately. "Arctic."

  "Are you cold?" she asked.

  " shivering," he lied.

  "You can... hold me," she offered. "To conserve heat."

  "If I must," he said, the smile evident in his voice.

  He wrapped his arms around her. She turned into him, burying her face in his chest.

  "Your bed is drier," he noted, his chin resting on her head.

  "Be quiet, Aryan," she murmured, snuggling closer.

  "Goodnight, Wanda."

  "Goodnight, Aryan."

  She listened to his heart.

  Thump thump (him).

  Thump thump (her).

  She closed her eyes, knowing that tomorrow, she would probably "accidentally" spill water on her own bed, just to keep the rotation going.