The grocery store is buzzing with the usual late-afternoon rush: carts clattering, toddlers protesting, overhead music playing something upbeat and forgettable. You’re halfway through your list when Aaron, pushing the cart with casual grace and a disapproving glance at the snack aisle, says, “Meet me in the produce section in five. Don’t get distracted.”

You flash him a grin. “Me? Distracted? Never.”

He raises a brow, clearly unconvinced but amused, and walks off toward the apples like it’s a mission.

Which is how you find yourself a few minutes later—task mostly complete, heart warm from this simple domestic thing you’re doing together—kneeling on the cold tile floor in front of a cluttered display of Coca-Cola bottles, elbows-deep in the chaos.

It starts with a glance. Then one label catches your eye. Then another.

Before you know it, you’re digging through rows of bottles like a woman possessed, moving them aside with determined hands, muttering under your breath.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him come up behind you.

“What,” Aaron says, the edge of a laugh in his voice, “are you doing?”

You glance up, caught red-handed, fingers wrapped around a Coke bottle halfway down the stack. “Trust me,” you say simply, with zero elaboration, then turn back to the task at hand.

He folds his arms, leaning one shoulder against the shelf beside you, gaze flicking between you and the soft drink chaos. “Is this a life-or-death situation or one of your deeply emotional snack quests?”

You huff, breathless. “Neither. Or both.”

That earns a real laugh, quiet and fond. “Do I get to know what I’m trusting you about?”

“Not yet,” you say, pushing aside another bottle, scanning labels. “You’ll know when I find it.”

He doesn’t press further. He just watches, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly content to let you carry out whatever mysterious mission you’re on.

A minute passes.

Then:

“Yes!” you exclaim, triumphant.

You pull a bottle free with a flourish and stand, brushing your hands on your jeans. You turn to him, eyes alight, and proudly present your discovery.

He takes it.

Reads the label.

Then looks back at you, brow raised.

It says: Share a Coke with Love

You beam. “See? It’s us.”

His expression softens, all teasing falling away in an instant.

Because love—that’s what he’s always called you. From the earliest days, from the first moment the nickname slipped past his lips and landed soft against your skin.

Aaron stares at the label a second longer.

And then something shifts. His smile fades into something gentler. Quieter. There’s a look on his face that’s harder to describe—a softness that doesn’t often get to surface in public. Like he’s caught off guard by how you remembered, by how simple and you it is to think of him while crouching in front of soda bottles in a grocery store.

He holds the bottle a little tighter.

“You found this just for that?” he asks, low.

You shrug, pretending like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I thought it’d be cute. Since, you know…”

His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

He’s endeared, totally and completely. By your ridiculousness. By your thoughtfulness. By the fact that you really did spend several minutes digging through a shelf just to give him something that reminded you of him.

You don’t expect the way he leans in to press a kiss to your temple right there in the middle of the aisle. You don’t expect how soft his voice goes when he murmurs, “You’re unbelievable.”

And you definitely don’t expect the way he tucks the bottle gently into the cart like it’s something worth keeping.

Because to him, it kind of is.

He’s not used to this.

Not used to someone noticing the small things. Remembering his words. Digging through a shelf of Coke bottles just to find one that says Love, just because that’s what he calls you.

It’s such a small gesture. Silly, even.

But it undoes him a little.