“Okay,” I say slowly, suspicious. “Now you’re just trying to impress me.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
And that’s the moment. Not the teasing. Not the touch. But the way he looks at me when he says it. Like this matters. Like what I want on our couch matters. My chest aches in the best way.
He pushes the cart while I fill it with little things I never thought I’d be allowed to care about—vases, placemats, an obnoxiously soft blanket I fall in love with on the spot. He throws in a popcorn bowl that says I’m here for the snacks and doesn’t even blink when I toss a set of absurdly overpriced linen napkins in after it.
And somewhere between the hand soap aisle and the checkout line, I realize I’m falling harder.
Not because he’s sexy. Not because he’s good in bed or kisses like he owns my mouth. And not because I might be pregnant with his baby.
But because this man— this gruff, flannel-wearing, whiskey-sipping, strong-silent-type man— is pushing a cart full of nonsense without a single complaint. And looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever made sense to him.
I watch him laugh with the cashier when she asks if we’re newlyweds. Hear him say, “Not yet,” without even hesitating.
And it hits. This is what forever could look like. A truck bed full of throw pillows and bad coffee from the store café. His hand in mine while we talk about curtain rods. That warm, steady presence beside me every damn day.
And I want to tell him.
I almost do.
But instead, I reach for his hand as we walk into the parking lot and squeeze. He squeezes back. Like he already knows.
The drive to the pharmacy is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Like the air between us knows what we’re about to do.
Will doesn’t push. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, eyes on the road, jaw tight in a way that tells me he’s thinking but waiting for me to set the tone.
When we pull into the lot, he parks but doesn’t turn off the engine.
“I can go in,” he says, already reaching for the door handle.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll come.”
We walk in together.
The overhead lights are too bright. The aisles too quiet. It’s the middle of the day on a weekday, so the only other shopper is an older woman browsing vitamins.
We find the test aisle, and suddenly, every box feels like it’s shouting.
Will leans down next to me, his voice soft. “Any preference?”
“Uh…” I blink at the rows. “One that doesn’t feel like a billboard?”
He chuckles quietly and grabs a small, no-frills box. “This one says it’s over 99% accurate and doesn’t look like it’s trying to upsell us on a stroller.”
I take it from him and nod. “Perfect.”
At the checkout, the clerk doesn’t even blink. Just scans it, bags it, and says, “Have a good day.”
We walk out hand in hand.
Neither of us says anything until we’re back in the truck.
“You good?”
I nod.
Back at the house, everything feels louder. The creak of the floorboards. The hum of the fridge. The thunk of the bathroom door when I close it behind me.
