You’re crouched in the grocery store aisle, half-wrestling a jar of sauce off the bottom shelf with one hand while trying not to drop your phone or your patience.

Then— A voice behind you. Low. Warm. Familiar.

“Need a hand down there?”

You glance back. Matt Sturniolo stands at the end of the aisle, leaning on his cart like this is a casual meet-cute instead of a midweek meltdown. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, tattoos creeping up his arms — black ink, neat lines, a little chaos under control. His hair’s messy in a way that shouldn’t work but does.

You blink, caught off guard. “Matt?”

He grins. “Hey. Guess we shop at the same overpriced grocery store now.”

It’s strange, seeing him in real life. You’ve known of him for months — mutual friends, a few parties, the occasional DM about some random meme. You follow each other online, like each other’s posts sometimes. But face-to-face? It feels different. Realer.

You stand, clutching the jar. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” he says, pushing his cart closer. “You look like you’re in a crisis with the pasta sauce, though.”

You laugh softly. “My boyfriend wanted the spicy kind. They’re out. Guess I’ll get yelled at later.”

Matt’s smile falters, just slightly. “He’s really that serious about sauce?”

You shrug, trying to make it sound like a joke, but your voice catches anyway. “He’s serious about… everything.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The hum of the freezers fills the silence.

Then Matt bends down, grabs a different jar — same brand, different flavor — and places it in your cart. “There. Crisis averted. If he complains, tell him I picked it.”

You smirk. “And if he doesn’t like that?”

He leans on the cart, tone softer now. “Then maybe he’s not the one buying the sauce next time.”

You look at him — really look — and your chest tightens. He doesn’t mean it like a line. He says it quietly, almost like he’s sorry you’ve settled for less.

You clear your throat, trying to shake it off. “You always this helpful in grocery stores?”

“Only for people I actually want to see,” he says, easy but honest. Then he nods toward your half-empty cart. “C’mon. You still got a list to finish?”

You hesitate, then smile. “Yeah. A few more things.”

“Then I’m tagging along,” he says, like it’s already decided. “Can’t have you getting lost in the cereal aisle.”

You roll your eyes, but when he starts walking beside you — shoulder brushing yours, quiet laughter filling the space between shelves — something in your chest loosens.

And somewhere between the canned soup and the checkout line, you realize you haven’t thought about your boyfriend in ten minutes.