Savannah nodded and dropped them into the cart. No hesitation after that. No checking their face.
Tilly felt the release of it low in their chest. Small. Quiet.
They moved on.
“Do we need lemons?” Savannah asked.
Tilly checked the list on their phone. Savannah’s handwriting transferred into neat bullet points, stars next to things she cared about.
“Yeah. Two.”
“Two lemons,” Savannah said, satisfied. “Like a reasonable person.”
Tilly snorted. “You bought eight limes last time.”
“We used them.”
“For drinks.”
“That still counts.”
Savannah bumped her shoulder lightly into Tilly’s, deliberately.
“You’re lucky I’m charming.”
Tilly glanced at her. Savannah wasn’t watching for a reaction. She was already turning back toward the cart.
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “I am.”
Savannah smiled like she hadn’t expected the answer to land that easily, but she didn’t deflect it. She just kept walking.
They picked up pasta. Sauce. Vegetables. Savannah held up two boxes of penne.
“Too much?”
“Jamie eats like she’s planning for a famine,” Tilly said. “Erin pretends she doesn’t.”
Savannah laughed. “Good intel.”
At the dairy case, Savannah stalled.
“I hate this part,” she said.
“Milk?”
“There are too many kinds.”
Tilly reached past her and grabbed the carton they always bought.
“This one,” they said.
Savannah stared at it for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. That one.”
Checkout was uneventful. Savannah bagged. Tilly paid. Their hands brushed once at the handle. Neither of them jumped.
Outside, the cold hit sharply. Savannah inhaled and looped her arm through Tilly’s without looking.
Tilly thought, briefly, of the night everything had cracked. One word. One assumption. How fast fear could rewrite a story.
