Wilbur had exactly three things on his to-do list today:

Buy groceries.

Don’t spiral.

Seriously, don’t spiral.

But then he saw you.

You were standing in front of the strawberry stall like it was a sacred altar. Bundled up in a chunky cardigan, cheeks pink from the heat, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. You were doing it—the squish test. Each berry gently pressed, studied, considered. The kind of tenderness usually reserved for firstborn children or rare books.

Wilbur’s hand stilled halfway to a bunch of bananas. His brain, very helpfully, went: Oh no.

He moved closer, pretending to examine the plums. He wasn’t examining the plums. He was examining the way you looked at strawberries like they’d personally wronged you if they were too firm.

Then, as if sensing him, you paused. Looked up.

Your eyes met. Soft. Quiet.

And you smiled.

Wilbur almost fell into the rhubarb bin.

You didn’t say anything. Just went back to your little squish mission, placing a perfectly plump berry into your basket with the gravity of someone solving climate change.

Wilbur cleared his throat. Fumbled with a bag. Then, in a voice that was trying very hard to sound normal and not like he was spiraling into a soft romantic tailspin:

“You look like you’re about to write a poem about these.”

You glanced at him again. Blinked. That smile again. And still—no words. Not one.

You just reached into your basket. Picked out a single strawberry. Held it out to him.

His entire brain: MARRY HER.

He took it. Bit into it. Sweet. Juicy. Perfect.

“Jesus Christ.” He laughed softly, eyes wide. “Is this… a magic trick? Am I being seduced by produce?”

Still nothing. But your smile grew.

You pulled a small notepad from your tote bag. Scrawled something. Handed it to him, tucked behind the receipt from the stall.

He took it, hands shaking slightly. Looked down.

You talk a lot. But I don’t mind it. I’m here most Saturdays. So is the good fruit<3 – 🍓 insert your number

Wilbur just… stood there.

Staring at the note. Staring at the berry stem in his hand. Staring at the soft outline of your back as you walked away.

He whispered to himself, “Okay. I’m getting married. That’s fine. This is my life now.”