Rowan kicked the door shut behind them, his accent crisp even when he was exhausted. “Right. That’s the lot then. The boot was a nightmare — nearly lost the trolley halfway across the car park.”

{{user}} was already laughing before she even took off her shoes. “You actually said boot again.” He gave her a confused look. “What am I supposed to call it? The trunk?” he said, voice dripping with mock disgust. “I’m not American, thank you very much.”

“Oh, you’re definitely not,” she said, grinning. “The cashier probably knew that when you asked where the loo was.” Rowan blinked, dead serious. “What else should I call it? The restroom? Sounds like a hotel brochure.”

That made her snort, nearly dropping the bread. “You sound like Harry Poah on a field trip to Tesco.” He exhaled deeply. “Here we go again.”

She set the bags on the counter and leaned on it, eyes gleaming. “Say it. Say buttah again.” “Butter.” “No, no, like you did at the shop— ‘bu’ah’.” she mimicked dramatically.

Rowan placed the eggs down with a sigh that was far too dignified for the situation. “You’re insufferable, love.” “And you’re Harry Poah, protector of the wo-tah, master of the loo, defender of the boot.”

He shot her a sharp look that failed miserably at hiding a smile. “Keep it up and I’ll throw your crisps straight in the bin.” Her eyes widened. “You mean my chips?” “Crisps,” he corrected with a smirk. “Chips are the thick ones. You eat them with fish, not at 2 A.M. while watching telly.” “Telly— oh my God,” she wheezed, sliding down the counter in laughter. “You really said telly.”

Rowan leaned against the counter beside her, arms folded. “What would you prefer? Television? Sounds like I’m reading the news.” “You’re hopeless.” “And yet, you married me.”

She lifted a finger, still giggling. “Because I didn’t know you’d start saying things like put it in the boot, love, and fetch the rubbish bin.” He grinned faintly, amused by her laughter. “Better than saying trash can, isn’t it?” “No,” she insisted. “Because you sound like a BBC narrator every time you talk.”

He laughed under his breath — that soft, breathy sound he always tried to hide. “If I’m the BBC narrator, you’re my overexcited audience.” “And proud!” she said, still giggling. “Now say biscuit.” He sighed but played along. “Biscuit.” “See? That’s a cookie.” “No, darling. It’s a biscuit. A cookie is—” he paused, eyes glinting with challenge, “—an inferior American invention.”

“You’re impossible.” “You love it.” “You mean I love him, Harry Poah, saviour of the crisps.”

He groaned, half-laughing now. “Merlin’s sake, woman—” “YES, MERLIN!” she yelled, pointing at him with a pack of biscuits. “See?! You’re doing it again!”

Rowan gave up, burying his face in his hands as he started laughing too — properly this time, shoulders shaking. When he looked up, his voice softened. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” “Maybe,” she said between giggles. “But at least you’ll die British.”