Connor is already there before you even fully stop walking.

You’ve barely shifted the bag on your shoulder when he reaches for it, gentle but insistent, fingers curling around the strap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve got it,” he says immediately.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He never really does with this — not in a rude way, just in a quiet, steady, of course I’ll carry that way. He lifts the bag like it weighs nothing, then notices the second one in your other hand and takes that too.

“You know I don’t mind,” he adds, glancing over with a small smile. “I like doing this.”

He walks beside you, just a half step closer than necessary, adjusting his pace to match yours exactly. Every so often he glances over, checking without making it obvious, making sure you’re okay, not tired, not struggling.

When you reach the corner, he shifts the weight of the bags slightly so they’re more balanced on his arms, like he’s prepared to carry them as far as needed.

“I’m good, promise,” he says lightly, noticing your look. “I can do this all day.”

He keeps walking with you instead of stopping, matching every turn, every pause, every slow step.

“It’s not about the bags, anyway,” he admits quietly. “It’s about not letting you do it alone.”

He gives a small smile, eyes soft, still carrying everything like it’s exactly where it belongs.