The words aren't sharp on the surface.
The edge is under them, hidden, where only I feel it.
Next aisle: cereal and dry goods.
I reach automatically for the brand Drake always ate like it was a religion—big obnoxious box, too much sugar.
He used to call them "night shift fuel" and steal handfuls from the box, grinning when I smacked his hand.
Marie's fingers wrap around the box before mine can.
"Oh, no. Those make him crash. He told me last week."
She puts them back and picks up granola instead. "These are better. More protein. He likes the honey kind."
Drake laughs. "I like both. I'm a complex man."
Something small and sick curls in my stomach anyway.
I move on.
Coffee aisle. Dangerous territory.
I grab the bag we always bought—dark roast, local roastery, Drake once drove twenty minutes out of his way after a double shift to replace it when I spilled.
Marie's hand lands on my wrist, gentle but firm.
"Not that one. Malcolm mentioned a blend we should try. He says it's smoother, less acidic."
"We're not buying coffee for the neighbors."
"No… we're buying for us. Ragon likes smoother. He just never complained because you were the one making it."
I freeze.
Heat crawls up my neck.
She takes the bag from my hand, puts it back on the shelf, and picks another. "You should know this by now. You've been with them long enough to know what they like."
The words are factual.
They still hurt.
"I do know. I've been feeding them for years."
"Then act like it. Grab the good stuff."
I want to scream that I have been. That I've spent years fine-tuning meals around their preferences; that I know who hates raw onion and who will eat anything if it's covered in cheese; that I built a rotation of dinners around their shifts and moods and bad days.
But I can feel a familiar presence at the end of the aisle.
Ragon, comparing prices on rice, his ears clearly tuned to us.
The memory of hardwood under my knees flares hot and insistent.
I bite back whatever was about to come out of my mouth.
Marie moves on, satisfied.
