[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I took the turns through Westview at a crawl, the tires of the sedan humming a low rhythm against the damp asphalt. In the center console, the cup of dark chocolate ice cream sat like a frozen crown jewel.
I pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching softly and hit the button on the visor. The garage door rumbled upward with a mechanical groan. I eased the car inside, throwing it into park and killing the engine.
Before I even had my hand on the door handle, the interior door leading from the garage to the hallway clicked open.
Wanda stood in the doorway, framed by the warm light of the kitchen. She was still wearing the soft joggers and the white t-shirt, her cardigan hanging loosely off one shoulder. She leaned against the doorjamb, a radiant smile spreading across her face.
"You were gone a long time for a ninja," she teased, crossing her arms over her chest.
"The ninja encountered civilians," I said, stepping out of the car. I reached back in, carefully gripping the edges of the massive frame. "And the ninja was carrying fragile cargo. You can't parkour with mahogany, Wanda. It scratches."
She laughed, stepping down into the garage. Her bare feet padded softly against the concrete as she walked over to me. She peered around the edge of the brown paper.
"It is huge," she whispered, her eyes wide.
"I told Stan to go big or go home," I grunted slightly, shifting the weight. "And Stan delivered. Can you grab the door? My hands are entirely occupied by our vanity."
"Of course, my King," she mocked gently, giving an exaggerated bow before turning to hold the door open wide.
I shimmied through the doorway, angling the frame so it wouldn't catch on the hinges.
I walked carefully through the kitchen and into the living room, gently lowering the heavy frame until it rested upright against the base of the sofa. I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders.
"Okay," I said, turning back to the kitchen. "The art is secure. But I have secondary cargo."
Wanda had followed me, her eyes still locked on the brown paper wrapping of the frame. She tore her gaze away, looking at my empty hands. "Secondary cargo?"
"Stay right there," I commanded, holding up a finger.
I jogged back to the garage, retrieved the cup of dark chocolate ice cream and the two plastic spoons from the center console and walked back into the living room holding it aloft like a trophy.
"Dessert," I announced.
Wanda's eyes lit up. "You went back to the shop."
"I am a creature of habit," I said, walking over to her. I handed her the cup. "And I figure, before we unbox our faces and hang them on the wall, we should probably fortify ourselves with sugar. Unboxing is a high stress activity. It requires calories."
"I agree," she smiled, taking the cup. She looked down at the rich mound of chocolate. "But there are two spoons this time."
"Well," I sighed, gesturing to the sofa. "I realized that sharing a single spoon is incredibly romantic, but it is also highly inefficient when the ice cream is actively melting."
We sat down side by side on the sofa, the wrapped frame resting on the floor just in front of our knees.
Wanda dipped her spoon in, taking a small bite. She closed her eyes, a soft hum vibrating in her throat. "Mmm. It is still perfect."
I dug my spoon in, carving out a chunk of the chocolate and popped it into my mouth. The cold sweetness was a pleasant shock.
"You know," I said, swallowing. "I had a very interesting encounter while securing this ice cream."
Wanda paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "An encounter? With whom?"
"The teenager working the counter," I said, turning to look at her. "He recognized me. He dropped his phone, stared at me like I had two heads and informed me that I am, quote, 'the hero doctor'."
Wanda's lips twitched. "He recognized you from the news."
"Oh, it gets better," I laughed, pointing my spoon at her. "He then informed me that his girlfriend has watched the video of us in the park fifty times and she considers us 'relationship goals.' He actually asked me for a selfie, Wanda. To prove to his girlfriend that he met the National Husband. If he didn't get the photo, he feared she would break up with him."
Wanda lowered her spoon, her eyes darkening with a sudden possessiveness. She shifted on the cushions, angling her body entirely toward me.
"And did you give him the photo?" she asked, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave.
"I am a man of the people," I said solemnly. "I couldn't have a teenage breakup on my conscience. I leaned in, held up the ice cream and smiled for the camera."
"He called you the National Husband," she mused, reaching out. Her fingers brushed the collar of my flannel shirt, tracing the line of my collarbone.
"He did. It seems the internet has officially claimed me."
"The internet is mistaken," she whispered, leaning in so close I could feel the cool breath from the ice cream against my lips. "They cannot claim you. You are already taken."
"Taken?" I asked softly. "Is there paperwork for that?"
"I will draft the paperwork," she promised.
She lifted her spoon, perfectly laden with chocolate and pressed it gently against my lower lip. I opened my mouth, accepting the bite.
"Delicious," I murmured, the taste of the chocolate mixing with the intoxicating proximity of her.
"Now," she said, pulling the spoon back and setting the half empty cup on the coffee table. She brought her hands up, placing her palms flat against my chest. "Before we open the big box... I have something to show you."
"Your top secret project?" I asked, my heart doing a quick stutter.
"Yes," she nodded. "But you must close your eyes."
"Wanda, there is a giant frame resting against my shins. If I stand up blind, I am going to trip, shatter the glass and bleed to death on the living room rug."
"You will not trip," she insisted, sliding off the sofa and standing in front of me. "I will guide you."
I let out a theatrical sigh. "If I die, tell the audience I loved them."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
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