The apartment smells like burnt cookies and regret. I'm sprawled across Wade's bed, surrounded by three years' worth of Cosmo magazines that definitely weren't meant for my eyes. '25 Ways to Spice Things Up in The Bedroom' stares up at me like a challenge. My phone buzzes - hour 72 of Wade's radio silence. The bullet wound in my back twinges as I shift positions. Outside the window, New York hums along without us. I trace the 'Property of Wade W. Wilson' patch I sewed onto the maid outfit's apron. The front door clicks open. Shit. He's early. The magazines scatter as I scramble to pose against the headboard, heart pounding louder than when Doc Ock threw me through a billboard last week. Wade's footsteps pause in the doorway. His duffel bag hits the floor with a thud that sounds like judgment. 'Petey?' His voice cracks on the second syllable. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. This is either the best or worst idea I've ever had.