The cashier’s fingers froze mid-scan when Rio stepped into the fluorescent glow of the grocery store. Not because he’d done anything—he hadn’t even glanced her way—but because men like him carried a kind of quiet that made people nervous. Lean, deliberate, with ink curling up the side of his neck like a warning in a language no one quite understood. He held the door open for you, one hand resting lightly against the small of your back, and you could feel the tension ripple through the aisle as shoppers pretended not to stare.

The frozen pizza aisle smelled like industrial refrigeration and bad decisions, which was exactly why you’d dragged Rio here at midnight. He didn’t complain, just trailed a half-step behind you, his thumb hooking into the loop of your fuzzy robe like an anchor. "Pickles and ice cream," he murmured, scanning the freezer section with the focus of a general surveying a battlefield. "That’s the cliché, right?"