Stephen spotted you halfway down the cereal aisle at Whole Foods, your face scrunched in concentration like you were solving world peace, not choosing between Honey Nut Cheerios and granola clusters.

He leaned on the handle of the cart—empty, except for oat milk and the oat milk wasn’t even his idea—and lifted his phone. The camera clicked once. Twice. Three times. You didn’t notice. You were wearing his hoodie, sleeves pushed up, one side of your hair tucked behind your ear. The lighting in here was terrible, clinical and way too bright, but you looked so damn cute he could’ve sworn time stopped.

He angled the lens again, capturing you in profile, the way your lips parted slightly as you reached up on tiptoes for a box on the top shelf. The hoodie lifted, revealing a sliver of skin above your waistband. His jaw clenched. That was for him. That skin, that stretch, that sleepy “I-need-breakfast” look in your eyes. All his.

Stephen didn’t post these pictures anywhere. He just liked keeping them. Random little captures of you in the wild. Hair messy, socks mismatched, lip balm half-faded, looking like a painting no one else had the privilege of seeing.

You finally noticed him watching and narrowed your eyes. “Are you taking pictures of me again?”

“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to hide it. “You’re hot. Cereal aisle’s never looked this good.”

You rolled your eyes and tried not to smile. Failed.

He moved closer, camera forgotten, hand brushing against yours as he took the cereal box and tossed it into the cart like he’d helped or something. Then he leaned down and kissed your temple, slow and sweet, inhaling the scent of you—lavender and something sugary, like the cereal you just picked.

Stephen Miller was a lot of things—tall, hot, kind of an asshole to most people, the kind of guy who could throw a punch and file your taxes in the same day—but for you, he was soft. Protective. Obsessed. He paid attention to the little things. He was yours. Fully. Bad boy energy, sure. But good only to you.