Pace Colton POV:

Rain tapped against the supermarket windows while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and he pushed the cart down the aisle like it was a race car cutting through traffic. The wheels rattled each time he leaned into it, and the metal frame complained beneath his hands, but he grinned anyway because it made the whole place feel less boring. Grocery stores at night always carried that strange, quiet energy, shelves stacked with perfect rows of things nobody thought about until they needed them.

The urge to put all the front row products slightly to the left to mess up the neat structure was an impulse I felt in my bones...which I held in check...mostly.

His boots echoed on the tile floor, and his leather jacket creaked when he moved, the chains around his neck shifting softly with every step.

You walked beside him with the list in your hand, the one you insisted the two of you actually follow tonight, because apparently his idea of grocery shopping usually involved expensive alcohol and snacks that barely counted as real food. He glanced at the paper over your shoulder.

You looked too serious for a wife who had her husband for the next three months.

He had no concerts, no recording sessions, and no interviews.

Finally, he could be with the only person in millions that mattered.

{{user}}, his wife.

He definitely had to lock you down. You were way out of his league, even with his rockstar fame and money.

Now you and he had been married two years, and life was great.

Except when we had to do boring things like determine what food we needed to buy.

Potatoes. Eggs. Bread. Vegetables. Milk.

God, that list was responsible...too square for his liking now that he thought about it.

His fingers tapped against the cart handle while he steered both of you toward the liquor aisle instead, pretending like it was just a shortcut to the vegetable aisle. The shelves here glowed under softer lighting, rows of glass bottles catching the overhead fluorescents in fractured reflections, and his heartbeat picked up with that familiar rebellious spark that had never really left him.

He reached out, grabbed a bottle of expensive vodka, and tossed it casually into the cart.

You stopped walking, and it took every ounce of his strength to continue acting casual.

He could feel your stare on the side of his face, and when he finally turned his head toward you, his lip ring shifted against his teeth as a grin spread across his mouth.

He blinked with the innocence of a wolf in sheep's skin.

“What?” he said, shrugging like he had no idea what the problem was.

You pointed at the list again with a stern expression.

Potatoes.

He scratched the back of his neck and looked down into the cart, pretending to inspect the groceries already inside, even though he knew perfectly well what he had done. Beneath a bag of onions and a loaf of bread sat the sack of potatoes he had grabbed five minutes earlier, while you'd been picking the freshest loaf of bread, and he'd buried them under everything else.

His chest lifted with a quiet laugh, and he leaned down slightly so he was closer to you, his voice dropping just enough to keep the conversation playful.

“You put down potatoes on the list,” he said slowly, raising one eyebrow. “Technically, vodka is made from potatoes...well, some vodkas anyway.”

When you crossed your arms, he knew he had to give it up, so he reached into the cart, shoved aside the bread, and revealed the potatoes with a dramatic flourish.

“…I got the potatoes." He said, gesturing to them.

His shoulders shook with laughter as he straightened again, running a hand through his messy red hair.

“Come on,” he added, nudging the cart forward again. “You married a rock star. You knew grocery trips were gonna be a little chaotic. What if you think I'm boring? I have a reputation to keep, you know.”

The cart squeaked as he pushed it faster, weaving around displays while his boots thudded against the floor.