“I don’t do things to be owed,” I say, voice quiet but firm. “I do them because I want to.”
And I start back toward my own house before I can question why the hell that’s true.
Part of me wants to linger. Wants to see if she’ll challenge it. Wants to know if she understands that she isn’t just a problem to solve.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Still, her presence lingers behind me like a shadow I can’t shake.
Chapter 5
Lucky
Iduckintothesmall-town grocery like I’m on a secret mission, trucker’s cap pulled low enough to hide my face, praying the universe hasn’t scheduled a “recognize Lucky Pink” hour. Every creak of the linoleum, every cough, every squeak of a cart makes my shoulders tense.
The produce aisle is my personal hell. I hover over a pile of tomatoes, brow furrowed, flipping one over like it holds the secrets of the cosmos.
“Are they… ripe?” I mutter to myself, wiggling one in my fingers. It might be ripe. Or it might explode. Or it might just be a conspiracy against me. I honestly can’t tell.
“You’re holding them wrong.”
I whip around, heart in my throat. Ethan. Of course. My brain short-circuits, and I nearly drop the tomato like it’s radioactive.
“Don’t,” I say, waving my hands, but he’s already advancing like he owns the aisle.
Calm, efficient, infuriatingly sure of himself.
“You’re going to squish them. Here, let me.”
Before I can protest, he gently takes the tomato from me, inspects it like it’s a tiny work of art, and sets it down with exaggerated care.
“See? Not tragic.”
“Tragic is a strong word,” I mutter, though the corner of my mouth twitches. He notices, of course. He always notices. That stupid calm smile, like he’s amused by my unraveling in a way that’s somehow comforting. I hate it. Sort of.
I try to vanish behind the broccoli section, crouching slightly to pretend I’m just browsing. “I don’t need help,” I insist, though the zucchini pile in front of me is silently judging my ineptitude.
“Really?” he asks, voice amused. “Because you’ve been standing here staring at these zucchinis for five minutes like they’re the Mona Lisa.”
I glance down. Yep. Five zucchinis, perfectly lined up, none selected. My panic rises like a tide. “I can’t—vegetables are… they’re complicated.”
“Complicated? They’re vegetables, not a Rubik’s Cube,” he mutters, shaking his head, though there’s a flicker of humor in his jaw tick.
I snap back, hands waving like I’m defusing a bomb. “Easy for you to say! You’ve obviously never had to pick a tomato without accidentally creating a puree of regret in aisle three.”
He chuckles softly, bending down to help me pick a bell pepper. His hands are calm, precise, and gentle. I watch him and feel my shoulders unclench a fraction—irritatingly comforting.
“Here,” he says, handing me the green pepper like it’s a peace offering. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust anything in this store,” I mutter, snatching it anyway. “Especially… people.”
“Good,” he says, dry, almost teasing. “Because you just trusted me. Progress.”
I roll my eyes, faint, because yes—faint amusement is leaking out of my chaotic mess. “Fine. But you’re not carrying the groceries to my car.”
“Bold,” he replies, hoisting the bag of produce with one hand like it weighs nothing. “But also wrong.”
“Ugh,” I groan, glaring at him. “I can’t believe I let you turn my five-second panic into a grocery expedition.”
