It starts with an avocado.

A single, tragic avocado—soft in weird places, hard in others. You’re turning it over in your hand, squinting like it might whisper its ripeness to you, when John sidles up behind you with a shopping basket full of things you absolutely did not agree to.

“Okay,” he says, proud, “hear me out—frozen waffles, string cheese, one sad bottle of red wine, and this incredibly unnecessary Toblerone. Which I grabbed for your ‘emergency chocolate’ drawer that you never restock.”

You stare at him. “What part of that says ‘we’re adults and we cook now’?”

John just shrugs and steals the avocado from your hand. “The part where I feed you waffles in bed while we watch Shark Tank.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s already wandering off to the next aisle like a very confident man who thinks he knows what cumin looks like. Spoiler: he doesn’t. You chase after him with your cart, which only has normal, reasonable groceries—like broccoli and oat milk and things that involve actual nutrition.

By the time you find him again, he’s comparing two different types of honey with the seriousness of a sommelier. “This one says ‘organic wildflower blend,’ which I feel like matches your vibe,” he says. “But this one’s cheaper and I’ve already committed emotionally to a Toblerone.”

You snort. “Are you trying to impress me with your bargain-hunting or your emotional maturity?”

“Both. I’m a man of range.”

In the dairy aisle, he tries to convince you that off-brand Greek yogurt “builds character,” while you stage a quiet protest by putting five different kinds of fancy cheese into the cart just to mess with him. At one point, he slips his hand into your back pocket like it’s a habit, like he belongs there—and you let him.

At checkout, the cashier raises an eyebrow at your mix of kale, truffle brie, boxed wine, and a single tube of cookie dough. “Date night?” she asks dryly.

John grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “Something like that. Add in bad TV and laundry, and we’re basically thriving.”

Outside, as you both struggle with overstuffed paper bags, it starts to drizzle. You curse the sky. John just laughs, tossing his hoodie over your head like a makeshift umbrella.

“You look like a very stylish raccoon,” he says.

“You look like a man who forgot to buy toilet paper.”

You both stop. Blink. Groan in unison.

“Back inside?” he asks.

You nod. “Race you to aisle twelve.”

John sprints. You chase him through the sliding doors like idiots in love, giggling, bags banging against your hips, the city rain catching on your cheeks like punctuation to a perfect, chaotic afternoon.