[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The ice cream was finished, but the sweetness lingered. It coated her tongue, a sugary ghost of the moment they had just shared.
Aryan was sitting next to her on the patio step, the empty cup resting on the stone between them.
The cat (who still needed a name, though "Pirate" was growing on her) was curled in a sunbeam, ignoring them with the practiced indifference of royalty.
She looked at Aryan. He was watching a butterfly land on the hydrangea bush, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked happy.
She leaned in. She pressed her lips to his.
He tasted of chocolate and summer air. He responded instantly, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
She pulled back slowly, her forehead resting against his.
"I have work to do," she whispered.
"Work?" He blinked, his eyes opening slowly. "I thought we declared a moratorium on labor. I thought today was 'Lazy Sunday' on a Wednesday."
"It is... a project," she said, standing up and smoothing her dress. "In the library."
"The library?" He stood up too, dusting off his jeans. "Do you need help? I'm excellent at lifting heavy books and looking intellectual while doing it."
"No," she said, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. "This is a solo mission. Highly classified."
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
"Do not enter," she warned. "Under any circumstances. If I see the door handle turn, there will be consequences."
"Consequences?" He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Like what? You'll tickle me again?"
"Worse," she said solemnly. "You will be sleeping in the Wanda Wing tonight. Alone. With the cold sheets."
Aryan's eyes went wide. He held up his hands in immediate surrender.
"Message received," he said. "Loud and clear. I value my heat source too much."
"Good," she smiled.
She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck for a deep kiss. She poured everything she felt into it…
"Behave," she whispered against his lips.
"I'm an angel," he lied.
She turned and walked back into the house, leaving him in the garden with the cat and the flowers.
She walked into the library and closed the door behind her. She locked it. Just in case.
The room smelled of lemon polish and old paper. The books were aligned perfectly on the shelves.
She walked to the desk. She opened the bottom drawer.
There they were. The stack of newspapers.
She pulled them out, laying them on the heavy oak surface.
WESTVIEW HERALD.
NEW JERSEY TIMES.
THE DAILY POST.
She ran her hand over the front page of the Herald. The photo was black and white, but it was unmistakable. Aryan, on his knees in the mud, focused. Her, beside him, her hand raised.
HEROES.
She felt a swell of pride so strong it made her throat tight.
She opened the bag of supplies she had bought along with the papers, frames, a crafting knife and a mat board.
She picked up the crafting knife.
She started with the Herald. She cut carefully, slicing along the edge of the photograph.
Shhhhk.
The sound of the blade cutting through the paper was satisfying.
She cut out the headline.
LOCAL HEROES SAVE LIFE.
She cut out the sub headline.
POWER COUPLE OF WESTVIEW.
She arranged them on the mat board.
She picked up the New Jersey Times. This one had the photo from the party. The one where they were laughing.
She cut around Aryan's profile. She cut around her own smile.
She picked up a frame. It was a simple black wood frame.
She held her hand over the paper clippings arranged on the board.
She summoned a tiny amount of chaos magic. Red mist curled around her fingers.
The magic seeped into the fibers of the paper, fusing them to the board.
She placed the glass over the collage. She sealed the frame.
She held it up.
It was beautiful.
She moved to the next one.
She cut out the article that called him a "medical prodigy." She framed it alone.
He deserves this, she thought, slicing through the newsprint. He deserves to be recognized.
She worked for an hour. The rhythmic snip, snip, snip of the work was meditative. She created five frames.
The Rescue.
The Party.
The Article about his graduation (she saved the photo of him in his cap and gown).
A collage of the headlines calling them a "Power Couple."
And one small clipping, from the society page, that simply said: "The Spencers were seen enjoying the festivities."
The Spencers.
She ran her thumb over the name.
"Mrs. Spencer," she practiced the whisper. It tasted sweet. Like honey cake.
She stood up. She looked at the empty wall space between the bookshelves.
She walked to the wall behind the desk.
"Here," she decided. "Where he sits to read."
She lifted the first frame with her mind. The red energy cradled it, floating it up to the wall.
The frame settled against the wood paneling, held in place by friction and will.
She floated the others up. She arranged them in a gallery wall. A timeline of their victory.
She stepped back to admire the work.
The afternoon sun hit the glass, making the images shine.
There he was. Her hero. Her doctor. Her husband (according to the neighbors).
She felt a tear slide down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.
She touched the glass of the center frame… the one of them holding hands.
She turned away from the wall, feeling lighter than she had in years. She unlocked the door.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I stood in the garden for a long time after she went inside. The sun was warm on my face, but the phantom pressure of her lips lingered on mine, a ghost of sweetness that refused to fade.
"You lucky bastard," I told the cat, who was currently trying to murder a bumblebee.
The cat ignored me.
I turned and walked back into the house. The living room was quiet.
I looked toward the library door. It was closed. I could almost hear the hum of her focus from here.
No entry, she had said.
I respected the boundary. Mostly because I didn't want to sleep in the Wanda Wing alone.
PS: Sorry for the delay in the bonus chapter. I was busy with hospital paperwork because of the March ending (financial year stuff, haha).
PS: There are 30+ Advance chapters available on the Patreon for those who want to read ahead. www.patreon. com/Drrajnovel