It’s 11:47 PM and somehow, somehow, she’s convinced you that this is the perfect time to go grocery shopping.

You’re in sweatpants, she’s wearing your hoodie, and both of you look slightly like cryptids under the bright fluorescent lights of the nearly empty store.

“Why are we doing this again?” you ask, dragging the cart while she struts ahead like this is her runway.

She spins around on the heel of her sneaker and points dramatically. “Because you ate the last of the mochi and I’m craving chocolate milk. Don’t ask questions.”

You sigh, amused, and follow her into the snack aisle.

Fifteen minutes later, your cart has:

Two tubs of ice cream Three types of chips One random plant she insisted on naming "Brenda" And still… no actual dinner food She grabs your favorite flavor of ice cream and raises a brow. “This is terrible. I’m not letting you choose again.”

“Oh? Says the girl who picked pineapple chips and tuna salad.”

She gasps, hand over heart. “First of all, don’t slander me in public.”

You roll your eyes, and she tosses your ice cream in the cart anyway.

“You’re lucky I love you enough to suffer through mint chocolate chip,” she says, bumping your hip with hers.

You smile, nudging her back.

“And you’re lucky I think pineapple chips are a red flag and still chose you.”

She grins. That big, unfiltered smile that makes aisle five feel like home.

And suddenly, the fluorescent lights don’t feel so harsh. And grocery shopping doesn’t feel like a chore.

Because you’re here. With her. And there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.