"It was nice to meet you, Agnes," I called out.

  "Toodles!" she waved, practically skipping down the driveway.

  We stood there for a moment, watching her go.

  "She is..." Wanda started, searching for the word.

  "A hurricane in a floral dress?" I suggested.

  "Intense," Wanda decided. "But... nice. She brought scones."

  "She seems very invested in our marital status," I noted, closing the door.

  Wanda looked down at the floor, a small smile playing on her lips. "She thinks we are a couple."

  "She thinks we’re 'living in sin'," I corrected, walking toward the kitchen to deposit the basket. "Which sounds much more exciting than 'roommates who watch sitcoms'."

  Wanda followed me. "She is a nice neighbor. It is... normal. To have neighbors who bring baked goods."

  "Yeah," I said, setting the basket down. "Very normal."

  Too normal, I thought. Suspiciously normal.

  I looked at the scones.

  "So," I said, turning to Wanda. "We have clothes to put away. The mountain awaits."

  "Yes," Wanda said. "The mountain."

  We carried the bags upstairs to my room.

  "Okay," I said, dumping the last bag on the bed. "This is everything. I officially have more clothes than closet space."

  "We will organize," Wanda said, her eyes gleaming with that same 'General' energy she had in the kitchen. "I will fold. You hang."

  I paused. I looked at her.

  "Actually," I said, tapping my chin. "I just remembered something. While we were out... I saw a specific kind of juice at the corner store. Tart Cherry. Supposed to be great for... sleep. And inflammation. And generally being alive."

  Wanda looked confused. "You want to go buy juice? Now?"

  "It’s haunting me, Wanda," I said solemnly. "If I don't get it, I’ll be thinking about it all night. It’s the 'Lemon' situation all over again."

  She smiled, shaking her head. "You and your cravings, Aryan. Fine. Go. Hunt your juice."

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  "You sure?" I asked. "I can stay and help… "

  "Go," she pushed me gently toward the door. "I work better alone anyway. Your folding technique is... chaotic."

  "Hey! My folding is abstract art!"

  "Go," she laughed.

  "I’ll be back in twenty," I promised. "Don't throw away my hoodies while I’m gone."

  "I make no promises," she called out as I walked down the hall.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  She listened to the front door close. She heard the car start up and pull away.

  She was alone in his room.

  It was different from the rest of the house. The rest of the house was "staged" for guests. This room was lived in.

  It smelled like him. That faint scent of ozone that seemed to cling to him after the rain.

  She turned to the pile of clothes on the bed.

  She picked up the maroon turtleneck. The wool was soft. She held it up, imagining him wearing it again.

  "He looks good in this," she whispered to the empty room.

  She began to fold.

  She folded the shirts with precision. She hung the suit in the closet, pushing aside his old flannel shirts to make room for the new "Aryan."

  It felt intimate. Touching his things. Invading his sanctuary.

  She looked around the room. It was minimalistic. A bed. A nightstand with a lamp and a stack of books. And a dresser.

  He really did just restart his life, she thought. He has no past here.

  She finished putting the clothes away.

  She looked at the bed.

  The duvet was rumpled from where he had slept the day before yesterday. The pillow still bore the indentation of his head.

  She walked over to it.

  She sat down on the edge. It was soft.

  She lay back.

  Her head hit the pillow.

  The scent engulfed her. It felt like he was wrapping his arms around her.

  She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

  "Just five minutes," she murmured. "I am just... testing the mattress. Then I will go downstairs."

  She curled onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was warm. Safer than her room. Safer than the world.

  Her breathing slowed. The rhythm of the house lulled her.

  Within minutes, she was fast asleep in the middle of his bed.

  [Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  I walked down the street. I turned the corner, out of sight of the house. The street was quiet. Westview was napping in the late afternoon sun.

  I stopped by a large oak tree.

  "Okay," I said, looking directly at you. "Let’s address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the witch in the floral dress."

  I leaned against the tree, crossing my arms.

  "Agatha Harkness. She has the Darkhold in her basement. And She’s currently planning to absorb Wanda’s chaos magic and leave her a husk. In the original timeline, this leads to a massive CGI battle in the sky, lots of rune casting and Wanda realizing her true potential through trauma."

  I shook my head.

  "I don't like that script. It’s messy. And frankly, it upsets my roommate."

  I reached out with my mind.

  I found her.

  She was in her basement… the creepy dungeon she hid under the suburban fa?ade. She was standing over a cauldron (classic), muttering in Latin.

  She was plotting how to isolate Wanda. How to get rid of the "annoying husband figure"… me.

  "Rude," I murmured.

  I focused on her existence.

  Select: Agatha Harkness.

  Action: Delete.

  [Perspective: Agatha Harkness]

  "Sceleratum... purpura..." she chanted, the purple energy coiling around her fingers.

  She grinned. The Scarlet Witch was ripe for the picking. And that boy she was living with? A distraction. She would swat him aside as soon as…

  Suddenly, the purple light flickered.

  She frowned. "What the..."

  She tried to summon the energy again.

  Nothing happened.

  She looked at her hands. They looked... translucent.

  "What is this?" she hissed. "Who is doing this?"

  She looked around the basement. The stone walls were fading as well.

  Fear gripped her heart.

  "No," she gasped, her voice sounding hollow, like it was coming from a great distance. "I am Agatha Harkness! I am… "

  She reached for the Darkhold on the stand.

  Her hand passed through it.

  "NO!"