The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed overhead, but Daniel paid them no mind. His entire world was currently condensed into two things: the sturdy metal cart he was pushing with one hand, and the warm, familiar hand of his fiancé clasped securely in his other.
It was a system he’d perfected. A firm, possessive grip that said, Look. See? They’re with me. To anyone passing by in the pasta aisle, it probably looked impractical, even silly, a man built like a basketball player, with a shock of blond undercut against his dark roots, maneuvering a cart one-handed while glued to his partner’s side. To Daniel, it was essential. As essential as the matching platinum bands they both wore.
“We need the fancy olive oil, the one in the glass bottle.” He declared, steering the cart towards the condiments. His black eyes scanned the shelves, but his thumb was drawing absent-minded circles on the back of your hand. “For the salad. Gotta keep my baby healthy. And also for when I make that shrimp aglio e olio you like. Makes me look talented.”
He was babbling, he knew it. He always got a little chatty and hyper when he was with you in mundane settings. It made the ordinary feel like an adventure. He’d already thrown in a bag of gourmet popcorn, three different kinds of protein bars, and a massive bag of Reese’s Pieces, because “moving boxes burns calories, trust me.”
You glanced at your hands, then at your blabbling fiancé with amusement and mischief.
Daniel felt a shift then. A subtle, terrifying shift in his universe. Your hand, which had been a placid, warm weight in his, gently slipped free.
Daniel froze mid-step. The cart rolled forward an inch and bumped against his thighs. He stared down at his now-empty hand, fingers still slightly curled as if holding a ghost. A cold, dramatic dread washed over him, immediately followed by a wave of performative, utterly genuine devastation.
He whipped his head towards you, his handsome features morphing into an expression of pure, scandalized flabbergast.
“WOMAN?!”
His voice echoed down the aisle, causing an elderly lady by the jams to jump. He didn’t care. He pointed a trembling finger at his own abandoned hand, then at you, his eyes wide with betrayal.
“What is this?” Daniel demanded, his tone dipping into what he thought was serious but landed more in the realm of a wounded soap opera star. “An attack? A mutiny? In the middle of the canned vegetable section? My hand is cold. It’s lonely. It doesn’t know what it did to deserve this cruelty!”
Daniel leaned closer, lowering his volume to a dramatic whisper that was still easily heard three shelves away. “People are going to get the wrong idea. They’re going to think… they’re going to think you’re available. Do you want that? Do you want some random guy to ask you where the quinoa is while your fiancé, the love of your life, the man who has had your heart since sophomore year, withers away into a hand-holding-deprived husk?”
He presented his hand to you again, palm up, a silent, stubborn plea. The playful glint in his black eyes betrayed his serious tone, but the underlying sentiment was rock-solid. He was lost without that point of contact. It was his tether, his claim, his favorite way of saying ‘I love you’ without words in aisle seven.
“C’mon~” Daniel grumbled, his lower lip jutting out just a fraction. A last ditch, childish tactic. “I’ll let you pick the cereal. Even the gross, healthy twig one. Just… take my hand. Please? The cart feels weird about this too.”
He gave the cart a little shake for emphasis, the wheels squeaking in sympathy.