“Welcome to small-town efficiency,” he says, voice flat but smirking. “You look ridiculous with that cap low like a spy, by the way.”
I snort, tugging the brim lower. “I am a spy. Mission: Survive Public Interaction.”
“And the mission is going well?” he asks, eyebrow quirking.
“Debatable,” I mumble, then jab at him with the pepper. “You’re not helping. You’re enabling me.”
He catches my wrist, steadying it with a patience that is infuriatingly attractive. “Enabling you is my specialty. Consider it a favor.”
“Yeah, well, keep your favors. I’ll carry my own panic.”
He laughs quietly, low and steady, and I resist the urge to melt right there between the broccoli and organic lettuce. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
I snort again, tugging my cap even lower, muttering, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
By the time we reach the checkout, my arms full of things I almost definitely don’t know how to cook, my chest feels a little lighter. Chaos is still my default, but somehow, standing here with him calmly navigating my mess, it’s… tolerable.
There’s a small bell tinkling over the cashier’s counter, stacked with half-empty candy jars and local ads. The older lady behind the register looks up, squinting through her glasses.
“Mr. Maddox,” she says, like she’s just spotted royalty instead of a man in a flannel and jeans.
I tilt my head, eyebrows high. “Mr. Maddox? Interesting. Is everyone in this town that formal?”
Ethan’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Only Mrs. Watson,” he says dryly.
I glance at the woman, who’s already bagging groceries with deliberate care. “Ah,” I say, amused. “Noted. I like her style.”
Then the lady peers at me, one bushy eyebrow raised. “And you, young lady—are you Mr. Maddox’s guest?”
I freeze for half a second too long. My brain scrambles, because guest sounds like invitation, like explanation, like who even are you?
“No,” I say finally, quick and clipped, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. I don’t elaborate. Not gonna happen.
Ethan notices the subtle stiffening and leans a little closer, low enough that the cashier can’t hear. His voice is calm but firm:
“You’re fine, Lucky.”
I swallow, grateful, and he smoothly shifts his focus back to Mrs. Watson. “So, how’s the weather treating you today?”
The change is seamless. My panic eases just a fraction; the conversation rerouted without me having to defend my existence or explain my face in public.
I mutter under my breath about small-town nosiness, but it’s drowned out by the sound of plastic bags rustling and Ethan handling it like he’s done this a thousand times before.
I glance at him, impressed and slightly exasperated. “You make it look too easy,” I mutter.
He shrugs, smirking faintly. “Experience.”
I cock my head, teasing. “Experience or creepy superpower?”
“Maybe both,” he replies dryly. “Depends on who you ask.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide a grin. Then I lean against the counter, curious. “Do you ever, you know, just… let people see you?” Half-teasing. Half-serious.
He raises an eyebrow, smirk in place. “Not my job to make you comfortable with strangers.”
I tilt my head, trying to look unimpressed, but inside, I’m grateful. “Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, but my fingers unconsciously relax from the bag.
Ethan catches the shift in me, notices the little signs I’m too polite—or too scared—to admit. Without a word, he continues chatting lightly with Mrs. Watson, joking about the weather, the quality of the town’s tomatoes, something mundane. And somehow, I feel like I can breathe again, like my chaotic, paranoid brain is allowed a tiny break.
