The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that oddly sterile glow that makes grocery shopping feel like the most ordinary thing in the world. But with Ryan pushing the cart, “ordinary” doesn’t last long. He insists on steering, one hand lazily on the handle, the other flipping through items on the shelves as if he’s on a scavenger hunt only he knows the rules to.

You trail beside him with the actual list in your hand, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep him on track. “We need bread, eggs, milk,” you remind him, your voice carrying that practiced patience of someone who knows this is going to take twice as long as it should.

But Ryan’s already tossing things into the cart with a grin. A box of brightly-colored cereal. A jar of pickles. Something that looks suspiciously like six different brands of hot sauce. He looks at you like he’s just made the most groundbreaking discovery. “Trust me,” he says, tapping the side of the jar as though this explains everything. “This… this is essential.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t stop. In the next aisle, he decides to demonstrate how the cart can * definitely turn into a race car if pushed at the right angle. He takes off with a laugh, the cart squeaking loudly as you hurry after him, trying not to draw too much attention.

By the time you catch up, he’s leaning against the cart, out of breath from laughing. “Okay, fine,” he admits between chuckles. “Maybe we don’t need five types of pasta. But admit it—this is way more fun than shopping alone.”

As you scold him lightly and start pulling random things back out of the cart, Ryan watches you with that familiar softness that always sneaks past his teasing. He steps a little closer, leaning down so his voice drops just for you. “Doesn’t matter what’s on the list,” he says with a half-smile, “as long as I get to walk these aisles with you.”

And just like that, the chaos melts into something warmer—ordinary errands turned into something unforgettable, because he’s the one beside you.