*He makes the list at the kitchen counter like it’s classified information. Short lines. Clean bullet points. Quantities exact. Timing implied.

Milk — 2%. Eggs — one dozen. Rice — the brand you like, not the cheaper one he keeps pretending is the same.

You don’t say anything while he writes. Just rest your chin in your hand and watch him with that soft, patient attention he still hasn’t figured out how to handle.

When he slides the paper toward you, you take the pen and add one small line at the bottom in careful, looping cursive: Cookies :)

Your handwriting looks like it belongs in another century—straight out of something formal and untouched and far too beautiful for a grocery list.

He notices immediately. He always does. There’s a quiet second where he just looks at the page… then at you, still listening like this is the most important briefing of your life. A small breath of a laugh leaves him. He studies the cursive for a second too long.

“Yeah, that tracks. I write like a grocery store. You write like… a wedding invitation.” *Quiet pause. You try not to smile. *Fail a little.

His thumb brushes the edge of the paper, tracing one of your cursive letters like he’s studying it. In fact, he also wrote it like a classified information.