Page 99 of Reeves

“I’m just looking,” he says, already halfway down the row.

Reeves chuckles under his breath, and the sound unexpectedly takes me back to simpler times. Good times, not the fights and the pleas.

“Your PopPop likes those?” he asks.

“He pretends he doesn’t,” Benjy says. “But Mom catches him.”

Reeves smiles, and for a second, I see the version of him that used to lean across a counter and look at me like he had all night.

I look away first.

We keep moving. Buns. Cheese. Bacon. He reaches past me for a pack of slices, his hand skimming the edge of my wrist when I shift at the same time.

Neither of us says anything.

Benjy talks, filling the space with details about fries and what makes them “the really good kind,” and Reeves listens, answering him easily, but every now and then, I catch his attention shift back to me.

Quick. Controlled. Gone before I can meet it.

I push the cart toward the checkout, focusing on the list in my head instead of the way my awareness keeps drifting sideways.

This is temporary. One night doesn’t change anything.

It doesn’t rewrite the way this ended or what he chose.

But when Benjy grabs his hand as we step into line, talking about ice cream like this is an outing we do all the time, the sight of their fingers linked together tugs at me.

And this time, I don’t look away from it fast enough.

The cashier starts scanning our items, and I automatically reach for my purse.

My fingers find the zipper of my wallet just as Reeves’s hand moves past me.

“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, sliding his card across the counter before I can even get my wallet fully open.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s fine, Charli.”

“Reeves, really.”

“Food for all of us.” He keeps his attention on the conveyor belt as the cashier scans the last few items. “I can handle buying dinner.”

The words are casual, but there’s an undercurrent there. It isn’t stubborn pride or male posturing. It’s simply the quiet certainty in his voice, as if paying for groceries when we’re all eating together is the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’ll be thirty-eight fifty,” the cashier says, a tired-looking woman with graying hair and kind eyes.

I start to tuck my wallet back into my purse just as Reeves reaches toward the counter for the receipt, and in the narrow space beside the register, we move at the same time.

His arm brushes mine when I shift to step back, and for a brief second our bodies press together before either of us can adjust.

The contact barely lasts a second, but my body registers it instantly. I catch the faint scent of soap and salt from the beach, and it takes me a moment to realize he smells like my shower, like something that belongs in my house.

“You folks have a nice evening,” the cashier says, handing Reeves the receipt with a smile.

He folds the receipt without looking at it, drops it on the counter, and tucks two fifties into the tip jar by the register without breaking stride.

The cashier blinks.