He huffs and takes it from me with long-suffering patience, replacing it with one he selects in two seconds flat. “You choose by vibes.”
“Vibes matter.”
“Not to fruit.”
“They do in Mexican cooking,” I counter. “Mamá would say the fruit tells you when it’s ready.”
He pauses, eyes softening. “She actually said that?”
“In Spanish. With more drama.”
He smiles properly then, something genuine and a little reverent. “Next time we see your mom, we need to ask her to teach us how to cook a couple more meals.”
My heart flips unexpectedly. “She’d love that.”
We move through the aisles with more purpose now—cilantro, limes, tomatoes, jalapeños. I grab a bag of dried chilis and hold them up.
“Chicken tinga,” I say. “Or maybe enchiladas if you behave.”
“I always behave,” he says.
I snort. “That is objectively false.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You bruise me.”
The flush that creeps up his neck is immediate and deeply satisfying.
There’s that blush again. It started this whole thing once, years ago in a locker room corridor. It still gets to me now.
“Behave,” he mutters.
“Never.”
We add tortillas, crema, and cheese to the cart. The familiarity of the ingredients steadies me in ways I didn’t expect. It feels like bringing a piece of my childhood into the life we’re building now. Mamá teaching me in a warm kitchen, music playing, her correcting my knife skills while telling stories about her own mamá. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that until this moment.
A few people stare as we move through the store. One teenage kid nearly collides with a display of paper towels because he’s watching us instead of walking. His mother hisses his name in embarrassment. I give her a polite smile so she doesn’t think we’re offended.
Ollie nudges my hip lightly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you pretending this is stressful.”
“It is stressful.”
“You’re six-foot-four and built like a tank.”
“Doesn’t make me invisible.”
That lands more seriously than either of us intended. He’s right.
I reach for his hand without thinking, threading our fingers together in the middle of the aisle. He looks down at it, then back at me, something steady and grateful in his expression.
“No,” I say quietly. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little, and we keep moving—toward the checkout, toward dinner, toward something that feels more and more like a real life.
At the register, the cashier avoids direct eye contact but trembles slightly when scanning the basil. I thank her like she’s not standing three feet from a story she’s probably read about a hundred times.
Outside again, the cold slaps back into place. The photographers get their shots—Ollie carrying too many bags because he refuses to let me do it like I’m some fucking damsel. Vinny opens the trunk, movements efficient and unobtrusive.
