Now? I just don’t care.
Let them look. Let them whisper. They don’t know the full story. They don’t know about the quiet comfort of Diego’s cooking, or the way Tristan’s real, non-performative laugh can light up a room. They don’t know about Rett’s surprising, secret vulnerability, or the steady, grounding presence of the man walking silently beside me.
We’re halfway down the third row when it happens: the air changes. A hush pulls across the vendor chatter like someone turned down the volume.
Dane senses it first. His hand finds my lower back. “Two o’clock,” he murmurs, not looking. “Long lens. Second at four o’clock.”
Tristan’s smile doesn’t falter, but his shoulders shift subtly. “Ah, Sweetwater’s finest. Wonder which fruit stand they’ll credit with breaking the internet.”
Diego makes a soft sound in his throat. Rett’s eyes go midnight.
I inhale. It would be so easy to let them build their alpha diamond around me, hustle me to the car, disappear in tinted glass. Except that’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want us to be.
“Okay,” I say quietly, smoothing my palm down the leg of my jeans. “We do this my way.”
Four big bodies pivot to me like I just called a play.
“If it’s okay with you…we just…ignore them,” I keep my voice calm. “We look boring. We’re here for tomatoes. That’s the story.” I look up at Rett last because he’s the hardest to sway when his hackles are up. “Let me steer.”
There’s the smallest beat of resistance, then his jaw loosens. A short nod. “You steer.”
“Great.” I turn to the basil vendor nearby and raise my voice just enough to carry. “Do you have any Genovese?”
Her eyes flick from my face to the men flanking me, widening with a mix of nerves and delight. “Oh! Of—of course.” She slides a crate forward.
“Perfect,” I say, leaning in to sniff a handful like it’s the only thing in the world. I angle my body just slightly so the nearest photographer’s line of sight captures basil, not my throat.
The first shutter starts. Then another, catching up. A few passersby realize what’s happening. Phones appear. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, but I hold steady.
Diego catches it instantly. He laughs, warm as sunlight, and tips his head to the vendor. “You have to watch her,” he tells her, loud enough to carry. “If she’s allowed to smell basil for more than two minutes, we leave with the whole crate.”
The vendor laughs, visibly relaxing. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Add the basil,” I say, handing cash to her. “And… could we grab two of your heirlooms?”
Rett steps in. He picks up some parsley, turns it in his hand like it’s the market’s Mona Lisa, and then drops into easy small talk about how rich it is and how the vendor must have really perfected their farming technique.
Tristan grins like he’s been waiting for this his whole life. He gasps, eyes huge. “Is that—oh no—are those kumquats?” He claps a hand over his heart. “My one weakness.” Then he peels off in a trail of charm as he peppers the citrus vendor with absurd, irresistible questions.
Dane doesn’t move more than an inch. One large palm stays at the middle of my back.
I take one last breath and turn toward the closest camera with a look that says: get your shot. And then we’re going back to our shopping.
The shutter chatter spikes, then drops when they realize I’m not going to flinch or sprint or sob. I give them ten seconds of basil and polite nothing, then I turn back to the vendor and ask about recipes for pesto without pine nuts because “we have a nut allergy in the family,” and out of the corner of my eye I see Rett’s mouth twitch.
The crowd ripple softens. The paparazzi get bored and slowly file away. Tristan returns with a paper cup of kumquats he paid three times market price for. He presses one into my palm, murmurs, “You were perfect,” and pops one into his own mouth like he earned it.
“You were loud,” Dane mutters to him, but there’s a ghost of a smile in his eyes.
When we turn down the next aisle, I feel the tiny tremor in Rett’s hand as his fingers brush mine. I lace them together. He exhales, quiet, like I just let out a stitch he didn’t realize he had.
Diego bumps my shoulder gently. “She steered,” he tells Rett softly, as if he still can’tquite believe it. “We followed.”
“We’ll keep doing that,” Rett says.
A blush creeps up my cheeks.
By the time we leave the market, our arms are full of bags, and Diego is practically vibrating with excitement about the meal he’s going to prepare. The sun is high overhead, the day warm and bright, and I feel a contentment that goes bone-deep.
