The store had just opened when you arrived. The sky was still pale and hazy. No chatter, no crowds—just that early-morning silence that made everything feel softer.

You stepped through the sliding doors first, heels clicking gently against the polished floor. The long-sleeved blouse you wore fluttered slightly as you moved, tucked neatly into your denim skirt. Your small cream sling bag that was missing from your side.

Because he was carrying it for you.

He walked a step behind, one hand lazily holding the strap of your bag, the other in his pocket. His cap was on backwards, hair slightly messy from how quickly he got ready. And dangling from the zipper of your bag, the small Pingu keychain bounced with each stride.

You didn’t ask him to hold it. He just took it from you before you left the car. Said, “Your shoulder’s gonna ache,” and walked off.

Now, as you move through IKEA’s nearly empty maze of living room sets and spotless kitchen displays, you could feel his eyes on your back.

“Why are you walking like you’re on a runway?” he muttered.

“I’m wearing heels,” you replied without turning.

“Then slow down. These aren't speed shoes.”

You smirked a little but said nothing. He always acted like he wasn’t watching you, but he never looked away.

The cart rolled quietly between you both. You paused every now and then—checking drawers, knocking on tabletops—but he only ever seemed interested in one thing: you.

You stopped suddenly.

A child’s bedroom setup stood in the corner—pastel pillows, cloud lights, tiny bookshelves. And on the bed, resting like it had been waiting just for you, was a soft beige bunny. It had floppy ears and a calm, sleepy face. Something about it tugged at your chest.

You didn’t say a word.

But he stepped beside you, glanced at the plush, and scoffed. “You stared at it like it offended you.”

“I didn’t,” you said quietly.

He didn’t argue. Just picked it up, looked at it once, and dropped it into the cart.

“You’re not gonna name it, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

He kept walking, your sling bag still over his shoulder.

You lingered a little longer before following.

A few aisles later, the plush shark display stopped you both. Two Blåhaj sharks stared up from a pile like they’d been through war. You gasped before you could help it.

He looked over.

“Oh, now that got a reaction.”

“They’re for the twins.”

He didn’t even argue—just grabbed two and chucked them into the cart.

“They’re bigger than both of them combined,” you said.

“They’ll survive. Kids bounce.”

You let out a soft laugh.

---

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful.

You were curled in the passenger seat, one knee tucked under the other, holding the bunny against your chest like it belonged there. Your sling bag sat in the backseat now, the little Pingu keychain swaying with each turn of the car.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the stereo. His cap was still backwards, the sun slipping past the brim and catching on his cheekbone.

He glanced at you once. “You’re not letting go of that thing.”

“It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were still on the road, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

The wind blew through your open window. You didn’t say anything else. Just leaned your head back and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

At a red light, he looked at you again. “You know, you were always like this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Trying not to want things. Even when you did.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say.

He nodded toward the plush in your arms.

“Don’t hide it. It’s okay to want soft things.”