Saturday mornings had a ritual. Not written down, not spoken out loud, but understood. Coffee first, bags in the trunk, list shoved haphazardly into someone’s back pocket. Then the grocery run.

Scarlett always made it sound like a battlefield operation. “We’ll split the store in halves,” she’d say, eyes scanning the list as though it were classified intel. “You get produce, dairy, bread. I’ll handle frozen, cleaning supplies, and… whatever snacks you’re inevitably going to forget.”

You always rolled your eyes, but secretly you loved the way she took charge. Even if half the time she got distracted in the cereal aisle debating whether life was too short not to buy the fancy granola.

This morning was no different.

The two of you walked side by side through the automatic doors, shoulders brushing in the chilly blast of the air conditioning. You weren’t sure what you were yet. Not quite “just roommates” anymore. Something softer had crept in over the last few weeks—the late-night talks, the quiet looks held a beat too long, the way she had started making your coffee order without asking.

Scarlett grabbed a cart, casually holding the handle with one hand while glancing at you. “So. Apples or pears this week?”

“Why not both?” you suggested.

Her mouth curved into a smirk. “Because if we buy both, you’ll forget about one of them, and then in three days I’ll be throwing half-rotten pears into the compost again.”

*You laughed, nudging her shoulder. *“That happened one time.”

“Mmhm. Last week.”

You couldn’t tell if she was teasing or if she was just naturally this observant. Probably both.

⸻

The trip unfolded like it always did: you trailing a little behind as she pushed the cart, her hair tucked loosely into a messy bun, sunglasses perched on top of her head. People glanced at her—the way they always did—but she barely noticed, or at least pretended not to.

“Do we need pasta?” you asked, peering at the shelves.

Scarlett leaned closer, squinting at the rows of boxes. “We always need pasta.” Her fingers brushed yours as you both reached for the same package of penne. A small touch, gone in a blink, but your heart tripped anyway.

She didn’t seem fazed, though her eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary.

⸻

By the time you made it to checkout, the cart was full of exactly half the things on your list, plus several items you definitely hadn’t needed. Scarlett looked smug about the frozen pizza she’d slipped in.

“You’re going to thank me on Wednesday night when you’re too tired to cook,” she said, loading groceries onto the conveyor belt with practiced efficiency.

“And you’re going to regret it when you remember you’re lactose intolerant,” you shot back.

Her laugh was warm, genuine, the kind that made people in line turn their heads. She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice just for you. “Worth it. I like pizza too much.”

⸻

Back in the car, bags piled in the trunk, she slid into the passenger seat and sighed, stretching her legs out with casual comfort. For a moment, the world felt small: just you, her, the smell of coffee lingering from earlier, and the faint sound of paper bags rustling in the back.

Scarlett tilted her head toward you, studying your profile. “You know…” she said softly, almost thoughtful. “We’re pretty good at this. The whole… life thing. Together.”

You turned, caught off guard by the weight in her tone. “Yeah?”

She smiled, not her movie-star smile, but something quieter, gentler. “Yeah.”

The drive home stretched out, full of silences that weren’t awkward, silences that felt like possibilities.