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The produce section smelled like citrus and damp earth, the clean kind that came from misted greens and wooden crates instead of refrigeration hums. A faint bell chimed somewhere near the front door as another customer came in, boots brushing snow from the mat.

Mila guided the cart toward the strawberries out of habit, slowing when she reached them. They sat in shallow baskets instead of plastic towers, handwritten signs tucked into the display.

“These,” she said quietly, more to herself than anything, turning the carton once before setting it in the cart. “They’ll get eaten first.”

She moved on without rushing, fingers brushing over apples stacked in slanted wooden bins, then bunches of winter greens tied with twine. Everything felt slower here—no loud announcements, no fluorescent buzz—just soft lantern light and the low murmur of familiar voices.

Her mind kept doing that careful balancing act it had been stuck in for days now—hope on one side, reality on the other, both held gently so neither tipped too far.

At the butcher counter, the cold crept through her jacket. The glass case fogged slightly where her breath touched it. She paused, reading labels she already knew by heart, nodding once at the man behind the counter who knew her order without asking.

“Chicken for tacos,” she murmured, lifting one wrapped package, then hesitated before adding another. “And beef. Just in case.”

Prepared, not presumptuous. She reminded herself of that distinction often.

The cart rolled into the frozen aisle—shorter than most stores, quieter, the doors trimmed in white wood instead of steel. The hum was softer here, almost polite. She stopped in front of the waffles without meaning to.

Of course she did.

She smiled, small and private.

“Not for the bed,” she said under her breath, reaching for a box anyway. “For plates. For mornings.”

She set them carefully beside the strawberries, then rested her hands on the cart handle, thumbs tapping once, grounding herself.

“This is fine,” she said softly. “We’re fine.”

She nudged the cart forward again, the aisle stretching ahead—freezers giving way to pantry staples and handwritten signs—letting the moment stay light, even with everything quietly waiting just beneath it.

Micah had been walking half a step behind her, like always when they did these kinds of grocery runs. Not because she needed him to follow—but because it gave him a better view.

Of her, not the fruit.

Something about the way Mila moved through this store—like she already knew what belonged in the cart and what didn’t—made him feel like he’d wandered into a life someone had already made room for him in. She touched apples like she respected them. Picked chicken like she had a plan. Looked at waffles like they were sacred.

He loved her most in places like this. Where nothing was staged and everything was soft and real and hers.

She didn’t notice he’d paused a second longer at the strawberry display, watching her fingers lift one basket, examine it, set it gently in the cart like it might bruise if she moved too fast. And then that little smile by the freezer door?

Killed him. Every time.

Micah stepped up beside her, hands sliding casually into the front pocket of his hoodie. He glanced at the waffles—then at her—and fought back a grin.

“You know,” he said, voice low and warm, “you say ‘not for the bed’ like that’s not already a core memory.”

He bumped her gently with his shoulder, not enough to move her, just enough to remind her he was there. That he saw her, the version of her she didn’t always let other people see—the one that quietly carried hope like it was glass and she was trying not to trip.

His eyes dropped to the cart, where the waffles sat next to the strawberries like they were meant to be together. He pointed at them, mock serious.

“These,” he said, echoing her earlier tone, “are for mornings where you remember I exist before coffee. Because I live for those.”

He let the joke land just long enough to lighten the moment, then let the edge soften.

Micah wasn’t oblivious. He’d seen the way she hesitated with the second pack of chicken. The way her thumb tapped the cart handle like it was sending out Morse code only she could read.

He didn’t crowd her. He just stepped a little closer, hand brushing hers on the cart. Not grabbing. Just there.

“You do know we’re already good, right?” he asked, voice quiet enough to match the aisle. “Waffles or no waffles. Chicken or beef. One baby, two, or just the ones we’ve already got wrapped around our fingers.”

His hand found hers—gentle, certain—and linked their fingers together.

“Still choosing this,” he added. “Still choosing you.”

He nudged her cart forward with his other hand and gave her a sideways grin.

“But seriously. If you want me to take waffles off the bed menu, I’m gonna need that in writing.”

Mila huffed out a quiet breath through her nose the second he said it—one baby, two—not sharp enough to be anger, just enough to be a warning. The kind only he ever caught.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Instead, she reached forward and adjusted the strawberries in the cart like they’d shifted on their own, buying herself a heartbeat. The store felt too bright all of a sudden. Too public.

“Micah,” she said softly, not unkind, but deliberate. “You can’t just say things like that in the frozen aisle.”

Then she glanced up at him, eyes warm but shiny in that way she didn’t want noticed by anyone passing with a cart full of cereal and soda.

“I’m holding it together,” she added quietly. “Please don’t make me cry next to the Eggo display.”

Her mouth curved despite herself—because she loved him, because he always did this, because even when he stumbled into the tender parts he never meant harm.

She squeezed his hand, grounding herself before continuing.

“I do hear you,” she said. “And I love that you think like that. I really do. I just…” She exhaled. “I’m trying to stay right here. In the middle. Where hope doesn’t turn into panic.”

She finally met his eyes then, something honest and open there.

“It’s almost three weeks,” she admitted, voice barely above a hum. “I know that. I know the timing. I know what my body’s doing.”

Her thumb brushed over his knuckle, slow and steady.

“And yes,” she added, softer still, “I hope. I really, really do.”

She leaned her shoulder into his again, just like he’d done earlier—returning the gesture.

“But right now,” she said, lifting a brow, “I need waffles to just be waffles. Not symbols. Not destiny. Just… breakfast.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“So you’re allowed to joke,” she finished. “You’re just not allowed to emotionally ambush me next to frozen food.”

She nudged the cart forward herself this time.

“And for the record,” she added, glancing back at him with that familiar mix of affection and warning, “the bed menu is still closed. Permanently.”

Then, gentler, quieter—just for him:

“Still choosing this too.”

Mila slowed the cart to a stop at the end of the aisle, the hum of the freezers filling the space where her words had just landed. She turned toward him then—fully this time—one hand still wrapped around the cart handle, the other lifting to rest against his chest like it had always known where to go.

“Hey,” she murmured, softer now. Steadier.

She leaned in before he could say anything else—before he could apologize or joke or try to carry the moment for her. The kiss was gentle and brief, the kind meant more for reassurance than heat. Just a press of her lips to his, familiar and grounding, like a quiet promise passed between them.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his for a second, eyes closed.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Really.”

Her thumb traced a small, absent circle against his hoodie, right over his heart.

“And thank you,” she added, barely louder than a breath. “For seeing me. Even when I’m trying not to be seen.”

She kissed him once more—quick, affectionate—then stepped back, reclaiming the cart with a small smile that was more real than before.

“C’mon,” she said lightly, nudging the cart forward again. “If we stand here any longer, someone’s gonna think we’re deciding our future over waffles.”

And with that, she rolled them on down the aisle, hope tucked carefully back into place—but warmer now, steadied by him, by the kiss, by the quiet choosing they kept making over and over again.

Micah stood there for half a second after she rolled the cart forward—just long enough for his heart to catch up with everything she’d said, everything she’d not said, and the way she somehow managed to turn a frozen food aisle into a sacred place without even trying.

He watched the back of her for a beat—the familiar set of her shoulders, the way she moved like she already knew where she was going even when she was carefully staying in the middle. Hope tucked away. Panic held at bay. Stronger than she ever gave herself credit for.

He blew out a slow breath and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Not sheepish. Just… aware. Grateful. A little wrecked in the quietest way.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath as he followed after her, “no emotional ambushes near the waffles. Got it.”

He ticked it off on imaginary fingers.
“Add it to the marriage rulebook—somewhere between don’t bring up taxes after 9 p.m. and stop stealing her fancy conditioner like it’s a communal resource.”

He caught up to her by the canned goods and bumped her gently with his shoulder again, easy and familiar, because that was who he was—especially when she said something like thank you for seeing me and then just walked away like she hadn’t cracked him open next to the Eggo display.

Micah glanced down at her, at the small, brave smile she was trying not to wear too proudly, and his own mouth curved into that crooked grin that lived somewhere between charm and devotion.

“You know,” he said casually, like they weren’t fresh off a whispered forehead touch and a kiss meant to steady the world, “for someone who just told me not to be dramatic in the freezer section, you came in hot with the full rom‑com forehead lean and soul‑reset kiss.”

He lifted a brow, eyes warm and amused.
“You realize you can’t just do that to a man and then expect him to calmly debate syrup viscosity in the next aisle, right?”

But even as he teased, his fingers brushed hers again—light, intentional, grounding. Then, without making a thing of it, he hooked his pinky through hers. Not full hand‑holding. Not a statement. Just that quiet tether that said I’m here. I’m with you. You don’t have to carry this alone.

He nudged the cart forward like it was second nature, then leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“And just for the record… bed menu’s still closed for now.”
A pause.
“But I’m a patient man. I’ve read enough bedtime stories, wiped enough sticky hands, and opened enough Capri Suns to qualify for sainthood.”

His grin softened, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“I can wait for waffles. I can wait for bed menus. I can wait for whatever the hell comes next,” he said quietly. “As long as you keep choosing me.”

He reached into the cart, lifted the waffle box with exaggerated reverence, and held it up like it was a sacred artifact.

“To destiny,” he intoned solemnly.
Then, immediately softer: “And also breakfast.”

He dropped it back into the cart, looked at her with that look—the one that said you love me even when I’m annoying, and I know it—and leaned in just enough to murmur:

“But when we do talk baby names again… I’m circling back to ‘Micah Junior.’ You started it. I’m just emotionally preparing myself.”

He winked, stepped around to take the handle of the cart like the gentleman he was pretending not to be, and started pushing them down the aisle.

“Alright,” he said, brightening on purpose. “What’s next? More apples, or do we agree frozen pizza counts as a balanced meal if we cut up fruit on the side?”

And just like that, they kept moving—side by side, pinkies brushing now and then—hope tucked carefully between the waffles and the strawberries, quiet and fragile and warm, carried together without needing to be named.

Mila let out a soft breath through her nose when he muttered about the waffles, the corner of her mouth lifting even as her chest stayed tight in that careful, familiar way. She didn’t look back right away—hope was fragile, and she’d learned how easily it showed if she wasn’t mindful.

“Mm,” she said lightly, hands steady on the cart handle. “Very wise. Waffles are a known emotional hazard.”

When he started listing marriage rules, she shook her head, a quiet laugh slipping out despite herself. She reached back just long enough to catch the sleeve of his hoodie between her fingers as he bumped her shoulder.

“You steal the conditioner because you like how it smells,” she said. “Don’t pretend this is about efficiency.”

She felt his eyes on her then—that steady, attentive look that never felt invasive, only present. When he teased her about the kiss, she finally glanced up at him, expression warm but measured, like she was holding something delicate just behind her ribs.

“I didn’t tell you not to be dramatic,” she replied calmly. “I told you not to spiral in public. There’s a difference.”

His pinky hooked around hers, and this time she didn’t pretend not to notice. She tightened her grip just slightly, grounding herself in the contact as he talked about waiting, about choosing. He always said it like it was a vow he renewed daily, and it made her heart ache in the best way.

“I keep choosing you,” she said quietly. Not reassurance. Not performance. Just truth.

When he lifted the waffle box, she rolled her eyes fondly and nudged it back into place.

“Plates,” she reminded him. “Forks. I’m not raising children in a house where syrup ends up in the sheets.”

Then he said it again.

Micah Junior.

This time, she didn’t dodge it.

Mila stopped the cart completely, the wheels squeaking softly as she turned to face him right there in the middle of the aisle, like she didn’t care who saw. Like this mattered more than canned goods and grocery lists and the hum of the store around them.

Her expression softened—serious without being heavy.

“I know,” she said gently. “And… I want that for you.”

She reached up, thumb brushing his wrist where his hand rested on the cart, grounding them both.

“I want to give you your boy,” she said, honest and calm. “Not because you need it—but because you deserve it. Because you’d be so good at it. And because I love the idea of someone running around with your name and your heart.”

She held his gaze for a beat longer, letting that land, letting herself feel the hope without rushing it.

“I don’t know yet,” she added quietly. “But I’m hopeful. And I’m not just hoping for me.”

Then—gently, deliberately—she turned back to the cart, easing the moment back into motion without undoing it.

At the apples, she reached for a few, selecting them with care, letting the ordinary steady her again.

“And for the record,” she added, softer now, “frozen pizza absolutely counts as a balanced meal if we cut fruit on the side.”

She nudged the cart forward, pinky still brushing his, hope tucked carefully between the waffles and the strawberries—fragile, faithful, and carried together without needing to be named.

Mila let the cart roll into the snack aisle, the shelves bright and loud in that familiar, slightly overwhelming way. Chips stacked too high. Cookies in colors that felt aggressive before noon. She slowed without thinking, eyes scanning out of habit more than intention.

“Okay,” she said quietly, mostly to herself, fingers tapping the cart handle. “This is where the plans either get very reasonable or completely unhinged.”

She reached for a box of crackers first—the safe choice. Something the girls would demolish in the backseat before they even pulled out of the parking lot. She set it in the cart, then paused, hand hovering a second longer than necessary.

“And these,” she added, picking up a bag of pretzels, “are for afternoons when everyone’s hungry but no one wants what I suggest.”

Her mouth curved into a small smile as she glanced sideways at Micah, catching the way he was watching her again—not the snacks, not the shelves. Just her.

She pretended not to notice. Mostly.

Her hand drifted toward the cookies next, then stopped. She exhaled softly, amused and a little tender all at once.

“We don’t need these,” she said, then tilted her head. “But I do feel like optimism requires at least one fun snack.”

She grabbed the cookies anyway and dropped them into the cart with a decisive little nod, like that settled something internal.

At the end of the aisle, she reached for granola bars—plain, practical—and stacked them neatly.

“Balance,” she murmured. “That’s what this is called.”

She rested her forearms on the cart for a moment, grounding herself again, letting the fluorescent hum fade into the background. The store smelled faintly like cardboard and sugar here, and it felt oddly comforting.

“This part always gets me,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “Because it feels like we’re shopping for a future that might already be here… or might still be waiting.”

She swallowed, then softened her tone, deliberately lighter.

“But either way,” she added, nudging the cart forward again, “we’re definitely prepared for a car ride meltdown. Which feels like the right priority.”

She glanced over at him finally, eyes warm, hopeful without being reckless.

“And if nothing else,” she said with a small smile, “we’ve got snacks. Which, historically, has gotten us through worse.”

She pushed them toward the end of the aisle, letting the moment stay gentle and moving—hope walking beside them, quiet and steady, one shelf at a time.

Micah didn’t say anything right away.

He just walked beside her, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, watching the way she moved through the snack aisle like she was navigating something bigger than labels and packaging. Her fingers lingered just a beat too long on the crackers. Her voice dropped when she mentioned balance like she wasn’t talking about pretzels and granola bars at all.

And him? He didn’t pretend to browse. Didn’t pretend to debate chip flavors or sneak anything absurd into the cart like he sometimes did just to make her roll her eyes. He just let himself look at her—really look—like she was the only thing worth seeing in a store full of sugar and noise.

It wasn’t just love. It was reverence. It was the way her hope lived just below the surface now, fragile but fighting. It was how she’d reached for those cookies like choosing a fun snack was a quiet form of resistance. Of belief.

It knocked the wind out of him a little.

She reached the end of the aisle, still talking softly about the car ride and the meltdown insurance and the snack-stash-as-life-plan, and Micah finally reached out and grabbed one thing—just one—off the endcap as they passed. A bag of those ridiculous cinnamon bears he always swore were terrible for his teeth but never stopped buying anyway.

He tossed them into the cart with zero shame. “Optimism,” he said, straight-faced, “demands cinnamon bears.”

Then he looked at her, head tilted, eyes warm. “Also, I feel like if I keep watching you shop like this and don’t put something indulgent in that cart, I’m gonna end up proposing again in front of the string cheese.”

He leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “Don’t make me do it, Mila. I will kneel. I will embarrass us both. Right between the gluten-free fig bars and the off-brand Cheez-Its.”

He waited just long enough for her mouth to twitch, then bumped his hip lightly into hers, enough to make her smile without throwing her off balance.

“I’m serious though,” he added, softer this time. “I could spend forever walking next to you like this. Watching you pick out snacks like they’re puzzle pieces. Listening to you narrate hope like it’s a grocery list.”

His fingers brushed the back of her hand again, not grabbing, just reminding.

“Wherever this goes,” he said, “I’m not here for the result. I’m here for the ride. The cart. The aisle. The snacks. You.”

He paused. Then, voice light again:
“And I mean, come on, we’ve been through worse with less impressive snack planning. Like the road trip where Maisie threw an open juice box at my head and Millie swore off apples forever because hers was ‘too wet.’”

He shook his head, mock-traumatized. “You can’t buy resilience like that.”

She looked at him then, full and open, and Micah felt something settle in his chest. Not relief. Not certainty. Just right.

They rounded the corner, the aisle behind them fading into softer light and quieter shelves—paper towels, peanut butter, and the hum of the heater near the back of the store. As they stepped into the next aisle, he let his hand fall gently to the small of her back, grounding, casual, steady.

“So what do you say,” he murmured, “we finish this list, overbuy on fruit snacks, and then let me talk you into a drive-thru hot chocolate on the way home?”

A pause. His grin curved slow.

“No syrup in the bed, no tears in the freezer aisle, but cinnamon bears in the glove box. That’s the life we’re building here.”

And just like that, they kept walking—hope and snacks and the kind of quiet love that knew how to carry its own weight.

Mila felt his words settle slowly—like warmth spreading instead of a spark. The kind that stayed.

She smiled at the cinnamon bears before she smiled at him, shaking her head as she reached into the cart to nudge them into a less precarious spot, like they deserved to survive the drive home.

“Optimism,” she agreed softly. “And questionable dental decisions.”

At his very serious threat of proposing again, her laugh slipped out before she could stop it—quiet but real. She leaned just slightly into the hip bump, steadying herself with the cart.

“Please don’t,” she murmured, eyes bright. “I just got us emotionally regulated. I am not prepared to explain a second public declaration of love next to string cheese.”

But when he talked about walking beside her forever—about being here for the aisle, the cart, the in-between—something in her chest went tender and tight all at once. She didn’t look at him right away. She focused on steering, on keeping the cart straight, on breathing through the swell of it.

“That’s… thank you,” she said quietly. “For saying it like that. For not turning it into a finish line.”

Her fingers brushed his when he touched her hand again, and this time she let them linger just a second longer.

“And for the record,” she added, lighter now, “our snack planning is elite. That road trip would’ve ended civilization without it.”

They rounded the corner together, the store shifting into that calmer back section—less color, more necessity. Paper towels stacked tall. A low hum from the cooler vents. The smell of soap and cardboard.

She slowed near the personal care aisle without fully meaning to.

“Deodorant,” she said, pointing vaguely, like she needed a reason. “And face cream. Because winter in Tennessee is rude.”

She left the cart with him and stepped closer to the shelves, scanning familiar rows. Lavender. Unscented. The one she always bought because it didn’t remind her of hospitals or middle school locker rooms.

Her hand reached automatically for her usual deodorant—then stilled.

Because there they were.

Bottom shelf. Slightly off to the side. Small boxes with too much promise packed into too little space.

Pregnancy tests.

Her breath caught—not sharply, just enough to notice. Her thumb tightened around the deodorant for a second before she forced herself to loosen it.

Don’t rush it, she reminded herself. You said you’d wait.

She reached for face cream instead, picking it up, turning it over like she needed to read the ingredients for the hundredth time. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the plastic shelf edge—calm on the outside, carefully steady.

Almost three weeks, she thought. Close enough to feel it. Too early to know.

She swallowed, then glanced sideways toward Micah—not to see if he was watching, but because she liked knowing where he was. That he was there. That she didn’t have to do this part alone even if she wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

“I’m just grabbing this,” she said casually, lifting the cream a little. Her voice held. Barely. “Then we can finish up.”

Her eyes flicked back to the bottom shelf one more time—hope and restraint pulling in opposite directions—before she stepped back toward the cart, deodorant and cream in hand.

Not today, she told herself gently.
But soon.

And for now, that was enough.

Micah didn’t need to look directly at Mila to know something had shifted.

He’d clocked it the second she paused—right after the deodorant, before the face cream, when her hand stalled just long enough that he felt it, too.

Not a jolt. Not fear. Just a subtle stillness, like a breath held at the edge of a thought.

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he moved a few feet to the right—just enough to give her space, not enough to feel distant. His eyes scanned the shelf in front of him, pretending to debate between two different deodorants he didn’t care about. Same brand. Slightly different packaging. Both smelled vaguely like wood and confidence.

He picked one up, turned it over in his hands, let himself read the label even though he wasn’t processing a word.

He could feel her—more than see her—the way she lingered just a second too long near the lower shelves. The silence that wasn’t quite casual anymore.

Micah shifted his weight, body angled just enough to block the narrow aisle from view in case someone turned the corner. Not obviously. Just… a quiet shield. Letting her breathe.

He didn’t ask.
Didn’t look.
Didn’t push.

He just stood there with a bottle of deodorant in his hand, flipping it once, twice, like it mattered.

And when she stepped back toward him, voice steady but softer—"I’m just grabbing this..."—he glanced up and met her eyes for exactly one beat.

Not questioning. Just here.

He offered her a small, knowing smile—low wattage, the kind that said I’m with you without making it a thing—and nodded once.

“Cool,” he said easily, like they’d just conquered Mount Lotion. “I grabbed this one because it looked the most aggressively named. Pretty sure I’ll smell like a cedar tree with commitment issues.”

He dropped the deodorant into the cart like a man who had definitely made a bold, masculine choice and absolutely wasn’t currently holding his breath for her.

And then, like always, he fell into step beside her.

No follow-up. No emotional landmine.

Just him, the cart, and her quiet.

As they turned out of the pharmacy aisle, his fingers brushed lightly against the small of her back. A barely-there touch. Not a push. Not a pull. Just present.

He didn’t have to say it.
She already knew.

And that was enough.

For now.

Mila felt the steadiness of him before she fully registered her own breath again.

His joke landed—cedar tree with commitment issues—and it helped. It really did. Her mouth curved into a small smile as she slid the face cream into the cart, then the deodorant, careful, deliberate, like if she kept her movements calm everything else would follow.

“Bold choice,” she murmured, soft but amused. “Very… emotionally unavailable forest.”

She let out a quiet breath as they started to move again, but after two steps she realized she didn’t want to steer anymore. Didn’t want to decide the pace or the direction or what came next for even one more aisle.

So she slowed, nudged the cart toward him with her hip, and without making a production of it, traded places.

“Can you—” she started, then stopped herself. She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

She slipped in beside him instead, her hand finding his arm automatically. Then both arms, really—wrapping around one of his like she’d done it a thousand times before, tucking herself into that familiar space between his shoulder and his side. Her forehead hovered near his arm for a second before she leaned in, just enough to feel solid again.

“I just… don’t want to drive for a minute,” she said quietly, honest but light, like she was talking about traffic and not the inside of her chest.

Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie, grounding. Borrowing steadiness without asking for it out loud.

“Thank you,” she added after a beat—not looking up, not making it heavy. Just letting the words exist.

As they walked, she stayed there, pressed close, letting the cart roll ahead of them under his hands. Letting the aisle pass. Letting the moment stay unspoken.

And for now—wrapped around his arm, quiet and held—that was exactly what she needed.