[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
S&M Suite was quiet, save for the steady sound of Aryan's breathing.
Wanda lay on her side, the heavy white duvet pooled around her waist. The early morning light was just beginning to bleed through the gaps in the blinds, painting pale stripes across the bedsheets and across Aryan's bare chest.
She was awake, her mind completely clear, stripped of the usual morning fog. She didn't want to move. If she moved, she might disturb the absolute perfection of the moment.
Aryan was lying on his back, his head turned slightly toward her. His dark hair was a sleep tousled mess against the white pillowcase. His lips were parted slightly, a soft exhale slipping past them.
He is entirely mine, she thought, a possessive warmth unfurling in the pit of her stomach.
She shifted her weight, propping herself up on her left elbow. She raised her right hand, letting her fingers hover just an inch above his face.
She traced the invisible outline of his jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose.
When he was silent, when the constant stream of jokes and witty deflections was paused by sleep, he looked like a man who carried a heavy world, but chose to smile anyway.
She let her index finger drop, lightly brushing the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline.
Aryan let out a low groan in the back of his throat. His brow furrowed in his sleep. Without opening his eyes, his heavy arm swept across the mattress, finding her waist. With a sleepy strength, he yanked her forward.
Wanda gasped softly as she collided with his chest. He wrapped both arms around her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, exhaling a long breath against her collarbone. His grip was tight like a child holding onto a lifeline in the dark.
She melted into his embrace, wrapping her own arms around his broad shoulders.
She ran her hand up and down his bare back in slow strokes. She treated him with a gentle care, rocking him marginally until the tension bled out of his muscles.
Slowly, his grip loosened from a vice to a comfortable hold. His breathing deepened, returning to that rhythmic tide.
She waited until she was absolutely certain he was in a deep sleep.
Carefully, she untangled herself from his arms. She slid a pillow into his grasp to replace her body weight. He grumbled, hugging the pillow tightly, but remained asleep.
Wanda slipped out of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor.
She walked into the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
She turned on the faucet, the rush of cold water loud in the tiled room.
She picked up her pink toothbrush, squeezing a neat line of mint paste onto the bristles.
She spit, rinsed her mouth and reached into the shower to turn the heavy chrome handle.
The water hissed, steam instantly billowing over the glass enclosure. She stripped off her sleepwear and stepped into the scalding spray.
She took her time, letting the hot water massage the lingering sleep from her muscles. She lathered the botanical body wash, the scent of jasmine and eucalyptus filling the small space.
After wrapping herself in one of the sage green towels they had bought together, she dried her hair, rubbing the towel vigorously against her scalp before combing through the damp tangles.
She walked into the closet, pulling out a pair of fitted denim jeans and an oversized burgundy sweater. She dressed quietly, relishing the slide of the fabric against her clean skin.
She left the bedroom, creeping down the stairs.
She walked into the kitchen, tying the daisy print apron around her waist.
She pulled the cast iron skillet from the cabinet, setting it on the burner. She reached into the refrigerator, pulling out the thick cut bacon Aryan favored.
She had just laid the first three strips into the cold pan when a sound shattered the quiet of the house.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
She looked at the digital clock on the microwave. It was 6:45 AM.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
It wasn't a polite neighborly ring. It was frantic.
Along with the doorbell, she could hear a chaotic roar filtering through the thick wood of the front door.
Voices.
Many voices.
Overlapping and loud.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel, untied the apron and tossed it onto the kitchen island.
She walked briskly down the hallway, her bare feet making no sound. She reached the front door, peering through the small glass pane.
The front lawn was covered in people.
There were at least three large white vans parked illegally on the curb, satellite dishes extended from their roofs.
Men and women in sharp suits held microphones bearing the logos of national news networks.
Camera operators had heavy lenses hoisted on their shoulders, aimed directly at her porch.
And behind the press line was a mob. Mostly young women, holding up smartphones, pointing and screaming.
"Is this the house?!" a girl screamed.
"Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer, come out!" another voice shrieked.
Wanda felt a surge of pure rage spike in her chest.
They are coming to my house, looking for my man, she thought, the possessiveness flaring so hot it almost choked her.
She placed her hand on the doorknob. She twisted the lock and yanked the heavy door open.
The immediate flashing of camera strobes blinded her for a fraction of a second.
"It's her! Scarlet Witch!" a reporter yelled, shoving a microphone attached to a long boom pole toward the porch. "Wanda! Wanda Maximoff! Can we get a statement on the rescue in the park?"
"Is Dr. Spencer inside?" a blonde girl in the front row screamed, waving a sign that said MARRY ME ARYAN. "Can we just see him? We drove from Ohio!"
"Wanda, rumor has it you and the Doctor are secretly married!" another reporter shouted, pressing closer to the front steps.
Wanda stood on the top step of the porch.
She stared at them.
The air pressure on the lawn dropped. A heavy silence began to ripple through the crowd, starting from the front row and spreading backward.
The screaming girls faltered, lowering their signs as the sheer intensity of Wanda's glare paralyzed them.
"You," Wanda said. Her voice was calm, carrying over the lawn with crystal clarity. "Are trespassing."
"We just want a quick interview!" the lead reporter argued, though he took a nervous step back. "The public has a right to know about the hero doctor… "
Wanda's eyes flashed. A brilliant crimson red bled into her irises.
Faint wisps of scarlet energy began to curl around her fingertips.
Mine, her mind screamed. He is mine. He is only mine.
She raised her hands, palms facing the mob.
The entire crowd went completely rigid.
The camera operators lowered their heavy lenses. The screaming girls dropped their phones into the damp grass.
Their eyes glazed over, staring blankly at the red energy dancing from her hands.
The crowd turned in unison. Like puppets on a string, the reporters marched back to their vans. The teenage girls picked up their dropped phones, their faces blank and walked toward their parked cars down the block.
Wanda watched them go, her chest heaving slightly, the red energy slowly dissipating from her hands.
She waited until the last news van turned the corner, leaving the street completely empty, before she stepped back inside and slammed the door shut, locking the deadbolt with a sharp crack.