Cale wasn’t even supposed to come with you—he’d insisted he was “just gonna stay home and chill,” but the second you grabbed your keys, he was suddenly at the door pulling on a hoodie, wide-eyed and hopeful.

So now you’re pushing a cart through the grocery store while Cale trails behind you like the world’s most loyal golden retriever, hands tucked into his sleeves, steps light and bouncy. Every few seconds he bumps your hip with his or gently nudges the cart like he wants to help but also doesn’t want full responsibility.

He watches you pick up a box of cereal, tilts his head, then beams. “That one’s good. We should get two. Actually—three. For, uh… breakfast emergencies.”

You give him a look, and he grins, unashamed.

When you stop to compare two brands of pasta sauce, he’s already leaning over your shoulder, chin nearly on it, voice quiet. “Whichever one you like more. I just—” his cheeks pink a little, “—I like being here with you.”

You move on, and he immediately falls back into step behind you, close enough that his hoodie brushes your sleeve. Every aisle, he finds some little reason to interact—pointing out something he knows you like, handing you items you can't reach, or just watching you with that soft, secretly-smitten expression he thinks you don’t notice.

At one point, you pause to look at fruit. Cale steps beside you, gently picks up a strawberry container and holds it out. “These look good. And you like strawberries.” He says it like it’s an important fact he’s proud to remember.

A couple walks by, smiling at how close he’s standing to you. Cale notices, cheeks turning pinker, and he clears his throat, tugging his hoodie strings. “What?” he mumbles. “I can stand by my—person.”

He follows so closely that when you stop suddenly, he bumps into your back with a soft, “Oof—sorry! My bad.” His hands dart to your waist instinctively to steady you, then stay there a second longer than necessary.

“Can we do this every week?” he asks softly. “Like… our thing?”