“I had the same exact thought. All I want is to murder a six-pack of those over a cup of tea.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
Our eyes catch. For a moment, the chaos of Tesco fades: no screaming toddler, no squeaky wheels, just us and the smell of fresh bread.
“I’m Pete,” he says, offering a hand.
“Tom.” I shake it, noticing the rainbow image on the display of his Apple Watch.
Relief unfurls in my chest.
For a split second, I think about it. I want to ask. My throat goes dry, my hand still warm from the handshake. The words almost tumble out:Can I get your number? Coffee sometime?
But nerves clamp down. It’s Tesco, for God’s sake. I imagine myself blurting it out between the avocados and the spinach, looking desperate, forty-two and pathetic. So instead, I smile, too quickly, and say, “Well, good luck with the avocado surgery.”
Pete grins. “Thanks. Enjoy the liquefied salad.”
And just like that, we part. He heads down the aisle, basket swinging. I linger, watching his back retreat into the crowd.
I kick myself immediately. The moment was there. An organic, romantic connection. Served up on a platter, and I bottled it.
By the time I leave the store, Pete is gone. Outside, the car park glitters with exhaust fumes and overheated bonnets. I scan instinctively, just in case, but no luck.
I stand there, dazed, clutching my shopping like it’s evidence.Did that just happen? Did I just flirt in Tesco? Meet someone organically, in the wild, where romance usually goes to die?
I’m forty-two. I thought my romantic life had been reduced to apps, awkward coffees, and rejection emails. And now — this. A stranger with kind eyes and a laugh that feels like summer.
For the first time in years, however fleeting, a real connection seems… possible.
My phone buzzes. Heart leaping, I grab it — only to freeze.
Daniel.
A message, short and sharp:I need to see you.
The brightness of Tesco, the warmth of Pete’s grin — it all feels a million miles away.
I stare at the screen, chest tight. I don’t reply.
Not yet.
Chapter 4
PETE
Pete takes the long way home.
The M32 would be quicker, but today he doesn’t want quick. He wants the kind of drive that delays the inevitable return home and replays the morning in his head on a loop.
Tesco, of all places. He’s still half-laughing at the absurdity of it. Out of the thousands of forgettable shopping trips in his life, this one gave him Tom.
Tom.
The name feels comfortable already, like something he’s said a hundred times before. There was something about him — something unpolished and open. Not the brittle smiles Pete usually encounters, not the performative charm. Tom seemed… real.
Pete parks outside the house but doesn’t go in straight away. He kills the engine, sits on the drive and watches the quiet street in his mirror.
It’s a nice house, on paper. Bigger than anything he grew up in. A façade of comfort, neat hedges, white shutters. But Pete knows better than to trust appearances. Houses can be prisons as easily as they can be sanctuaries.
