[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The credits were rolling on the giant white screen. Patrick Swayze had lifted Baby. The crowd cheered (well, honked). The collective romantic tension of a hundred parked cars was dissipating into the cool New Jersey night.

  And I was facing the greatest tragedy of the modern era.

  I had to drive.

  To drive, one requires two hands. One for the wheel, one for the shifter. This was a non-negotiable law of mechanics and unfortunately, my right hand was currently occupied by something far more important than a transmission.

  It was intertwined with Wanda Maximoff's.

  Her hand was warm and fit into mine like a missing puzzle piece that I hadn't realized was lost until two hours ago. Her thumb was tracing lazy circles on the back of my knuckles.

  I stared at the gear stick. It mocked me. It was a phallic symbol of separation.

  "Well," I sighed, the sound heavy with theatrical despair. "The movie is over. And now, the tyranny of transportation begins."

  Wanda looked over at me, her eyes dancing in the flickering light of the projector.

  "Tyranny?" she teased softly. "It is a car, Aryan. Not a regime."

  "It's a regime of separation," I grumbled. "To engage first gear, I must disengage the hand holding. It's a flaw in the design. Who invented manual transmission? I just want to talk."

  I looked at the invisible camera in the rearview mirror.

  Look at this, I thought at you. This is the struggle. This is the Shakespearean tragedy you tuned in for. Romeo and Juliet had poison and I have a clutch pedal.

  I squeezed her hand one last time and then, with the reluctance of a man marching to the gallows, I let go.

  My hand felt instantly cold. It hovered over the gear stick, mourning the loss of contact.

  "I'll be back," I whispered to her hand, which was now retreating to her own lap. "Don't forget me."

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  Wanda let out a laugh… a bright sound that cut through my grumpiness.

  "You are very dramatic about driving three miles," she noted.

  "I am a man of passion," I defended, shoving the car into gear. "And separation anxiety."

  I pulled out of the lot, gravel crunching under the tires. We hit the main road, the streetlights rhythmically illuminating the cabin in flashes of amber.

  The silence in the car was comfortable, but it lacked the electric charge of the hand holding. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

  This won't do, I thought. The mood is settling. The 'date' vibe is fading into 'roommate' vibe. We need an escalation. We need... atmosphere.

  I glanced at the sky. It was clear and boring.

  You know what this scene needs? I asked the audience. Pathetic fallacy. We need the weather to reflect my internal desire to be huddled together for warmth.

  I kept my eyes on the road, but I let my mind drift upward, past the roof of the car, into the atmosphere. I found the pressure systems hovering over the Atlantic. I found the moisture.

  I tweaked the barometric pressure. I pulled a cloud bank that was minding its own business off the coast and dragged it over Westview. I condensed the water vapor.

  Drop.

  Drop, drop.

  Drop, drop, drop, drop.

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  Wanda watched him from the passenger seat.

  He was pouting.

  It was adorable. He was driving with one hand on the wheel, his other hand resting on the gear stick, looking at it with genuine betrayal.

  She rubbed her own hand, feeling the phantom warmth of his grip. She missed it too.

  She looked out the window. The stars were bright. It was a beautiful night.

  And then, a rain drop hit the glass.

  Splat.

  Then another.

  Splat, splat.

  Splat, splat, splat, splat.

  Within seconds, clouds rolled in out of nowhere. And then a sudden curtain of rain that turned the world outside the car into a blur of wet asphalt and streaking lights.

  Wanda blinked, sitting up straighter.

  "Rain?" she asked, looking at the windshield wipers which Aryan had just flicked on. "It was clear a minute ago."

  "Jersey weather," Aryan said, keeping his face perfectly straight, though he couldn't quite hide the sparkle of delight in his eyes. "Unpredictable and romantic, if you look at it from the right angle."

  She looked at him. He was focused on the road, but there was a smugness to his profile.

  She didn't know how a man could be so consistently favored by chance, maybe the universe loved him as much as she was starting to but the timing was too perfect.

  She leaned into the cozy warmth of the car, grateful for the coincidence that made the world feel small enough to only include the two of them.

  "It is... very heavy," she observed. "We will get wet running to the door."

  "We might," Aryan agreed tragically. "We might have to run close together. To share the umbrella. If I had an umbrella. Which I don't."

  Wanda stifled a laugh. She reached for the radio dial.

  "We need music for the rain," she said.

  She scrolled through the stations until she found a slow melody. Phil Collins. Against All Odds.

  "A classic," Aryan approved. "Sad, but effective."

  She leaned back, letting the music and the rhythmic thump thump of the wipers fill the silence. She looked at Aryan. He seemed happier now.

  He wants an excuse to be closer, and the rain handed it to him on a silver platter, she realized.

  And she was more than willing to let him.