The mansion had surrendered to the velvet hush of the midnight hour. Most of the lights had been dimmed to a soft amber glow, and the staff had long since retreated, leaving the corridors to the ghosts of the Spencer legacy. Outside, the garden was a masterpiece of silver and shadow, the moonlight painting the marble paths with a ghostly radiance.
Wanda stepped into the cool night air, her arms folded loosely across her chest. She spotted him at the far end of the garden—a solitary figure etched against the darkness. Aryan sat on a stone bench, a cup of black coffee in his hand, looking less like a billionaire and more like a statue of a forgotten god.
He didn't startle when she approached. "You don't have to look like it's going to attack you," he said. "It's just a bench."
She glanced at it, then back at him. "In my experience," she replied, "things that look harmless usually aren't."
"Fair point. But this one's only crime is being uncomfortable."
She hesitated, then sat down slowly, as if testing reality itself. Nothing happened.
Aryan relaxed. "See? Still alive."
For a second she tried to stay serious—but a small laugh slipped out, surprised and almost embarrassed. She covered her mouth instinctively, as if she hadn't meant to let it escape.
"I forgot what that sounds like," she admitted quietly.
"Laughing?"
"Being normal."
Wanda looked up at the sky, then at him. "You always talk like this after rescuing strangers?"
"No," Aryan said honestly. "Usually I'm worse."
That did it. She laughed again, softer but real, and this time she didn't try to hide it.
"When did you join... that place?" she asked.
Aryan took a slow sip of his coffee. "Earlier than you."
Wanda frowned. "That doesn't answer anything."
A faint smile crossed his lips, "It answers more than you think, Wanda."
She watched the dark surface of his coffee ripple. "There are rules to the castle," he continued. "Some things can be taken out. Knowledge. Tools. Fragments of a logic that shouldn't exist here."
Her eyes lit up with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "What else can you bring out?"
"Things this world isn't ready for," he replied. "And things it may never be."
"That's dangerous."
"Yes."
Wanda hesitated, "Why did you help us? Truly?"
Aryan looked up at the stars, as if he were reading a map of the heavens. "Because I've seen a future where you help me."
Her breath hitched. She turned to face him fully, her brow furrowing. "You're saying this like it's already decided. Like we're just characters in your book."
"It isn't decided," he said quietly. "That's why I intervened. I saved you because the future where I didn't... was a wound I couldn't allow to happen."
"And what am I to you in that future?"
Aryan went silent. The steam from his coffee curled between them like the fog of the Sefirah Castle. Finally, he spoke, choosing his word with surgical care. "An anchor."
Wanda didn't know why that word made her chest ache, as if it were both a title and a burden. She stood slowly, feeling the cold air nip at her skin. "You're not telling me everything."
"I won't," he admitted. "Not yet."
She nodded, accepting the mystery as one accepts the rising tide. Before turning back toward the house.
As she walked away, he watched her silhouette merge with the shadows of the mansion.
———-
Pietro stood by the bedroom window, his forehead pressed against the glass with such intensity it was a miracle it didn't shatter.
Down in the garden, the moonlight was doing that annoying, cinematic silver thing. And there they were. Aryan was sitting on a stone bench, looking perfectly still—like a statue or one of those people who pretends to be a statue for money.
Then came Wanda. She was walking toward him with a slow, cautious grace.
Since when does she walk like that? Pietro's jaw tightened.
He watched her sit beside him. Not too close, but definitely not "stay away from my sister" far. There was a gap between them, but it was a comfortable gap. A conversational gap.
They aren't laughing. They aren't even touching, Pietro noted, his eyes narrowing into slits. They're just… talking. Intimately. Quietly. "That's worse," he hissed to the empty room. If they were fighting, he could intervene. If they were laughing, he could join in and ruin the joke. But quiet talking? Quiet talking was where the real damage happened.
He crossed his arms, feeling like a puzzle piece that had been sat on by a heavy toddler.
Are they in love? The thought hit him like a freight train. He recoiled from the glass. No. Impossible.
Or… a horrifying new thought surfaced, Are they afraid of me?
He thought back to his behavior over the last hour. He had been there. Always there. Guarding. Watching. Hovering like a particularly muscular and overprotective fruit fly. Maybe he was the reason they were whispered. Maybe he was the villain in this Rom-Com.
He leaned his head back against the pane with a dull thud.
I should say no, he decided. It was his signature move. No strange men. No mysterious billionaires. No billionaire-owned castles in the sky. It was a solid, reliable "No."
But then he looked at Wanda again. She looked… calm. Not the "I'm-holding-this-ruined-building-together" calm, but something softer. Like a person who had actually remembered to breathe for the first time in years.
When was the last time she looked like that? Before the war? Before hunger? Before I started treating every man who looked at her like a target for target practice?
He swallowed hard. Do they want my approval? Is that why they're being so weirdly polite?
The idea that he was the "Grumpy Father" figure in this scenario—despite only being minutes older—was deeply unsettling. He felt like he had arrived at a party three hours late, only to find out it wasn't a party, it was a wedding, and he was the only one not wearing a suit.
How much does she care about him? The question stung. It suggested that there was a part of Wanda's heart that he didn't have a VIP pass for. She was trusting Aryan with the things she used to whisper only to him.
Have I been neglecting her? he wondered, a sudden wave of guilt washing over him. I've been so busy being the shield, the runner, the guy who catches the bullets… maybe I forgot to be the brother who actually listens.
He looked down one last time. Wanda laughed. It wasn't a big laugh, just a soft, brief little sound that carried on the wind and stabbed Pietro right in his overprotective soul.
I'll watch, he decided, straightening his shirt with unnecessary aggression. I'll wait. I'll be the shadow in the hallway. The silent judge in the kitchen.
And if he's actually a good man… Pietro's jaw worked. Then I'll have to accept that my little sister doesn't need me to be her entire universe anymore.
The thought was more terrifying than a Stark missile.
He turned away from the window, muttering to himself, "But if he doesn't have the right kind of coffee tomorrow morning, he's dead."
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