The store was warm and quietly crowded, a typical Sunday hush settling between clinking shelves and soft jazz.
Sarah stood in front of the shelves, wearing a blush pink midi dress, light and airy, frowning at a collection of frying pans like they'd personally offended her.
Non-stick. Cast iron. Ceramic. With lids. Without lids. One pan boasted "chef's choice," and another had an alarming sticker that said Sear Like a Pro.
She muttered under her breath, "I just want to flip eggs without ruining my life."
"Then that one's a terrible choice."
She stiffened.
The voice was smooth, low, and far too familiar.
Her heart jumped. She turned—too fast.
And there he was.
Eric.
Leaning slightly against the metal shelf, arms crossed, dressed far too well for a kitchen aisle, looking like he'd stepped out of a black-and-white ad for expensive espresso machines.
Sarah blinked. "You're—what are you doing here?"
"Fate," he said. "Or poor city planning. Depends how you look at it."
Her green eyes narrowed just slightly. "Are you… following me?"
He raised a brow. "In a store? Public space? Bold accusation, toaster girl."
"I'm not buying a toaster today."
"Shame. That four-slice model in your cart deserves love."
She instinctively glanced down at her cart—ugh. Busted.
He stepped closer, nodding toward the frying pans. "You don't want that one. The handle gets too hot, and the coating wears in six months."
She glanced back at the pan in her hand. "And you know that because…?"
He didn't answer. Just plucked a different one off the shelf with annoyingly confident fingers.
"This," he said, holding it out, "is what you want. Triple-layer non-stick, oven-safe, ergonomic handle. I have two at the bakery."
"I'm not running a bakery."
"Doesn't mean you need bad cookware."
Sarah looked at the pan Eric held out — the one with the professional seal of approval, the confident gleam of someone who knew what he was talking about — and made a snap decision.
"Nope," she said, putting it back on the shelf. "Too shiny. Suspicious."
Eric blinked. "Suspicious?"
"I don't trust cookware that looks like it came with a user manual and a lifetime commitment."
Then she grabbed a different pan entirely — one with a bright red handle and a sticker that screamed Budget Buy! Great Value!
Eric stared at it like she'd just chosen to adopt a feral raccoon as a kitchen pet.
"That pan," he said slowly, like trying not to offend a delicate ego, "warps when it sneezes near heat."
"I like rebellious cookware."
"It's not rebellious, it's unreliable."
"Perfect. We'll get along just fine."
Eric let out a low, exaggerated sigh. "You're doing this to spite me."
"I am doing this because I like the color."
"I knew it," he muttered. "Toaster girl has no mercy."
She didn't answer and turned to drop the pan in her cart.
But before she could, he casually reached over and plucked it out of her hands.
"Hey—!"
"I can't, in good conscience, let you take that home."
"It's my pan!"
"It's a bad pan."
She crossed her arms. "Do you always insert yourself into people's shopping choices?"
"Only when they're making tragic mistakes," he replied easily. "You were one spatula away from culinary regret."
She shot him a dry look.
Then turned down the next aisle, determined to ignore the six-foot culinary shadow now trailing her like a smug consultant.
She reached for a box of tea towels.
"Too thin," Eric said behind her.
"They're decorative."
"They won't survive a single kitchen disaster. Get the waffle weave ones. You'll thank me."
She narrowed her eyes. "I didn't realize this trip came with a running commentary."
"It's complimentary," he said with a wink.
She set them down with a sigh. "Why are you even here?"
"I live dangerously. Grocery store on a Sunday. No list. No plan."
She exhaled through her nose. He moved like he belonged in the aisle, like the cookware itself would sigh in relief if he approved.
When she picked up a cutting board.
"Too small."
She grabbed a whisk.
"Flimsy."
She reached for measuring spoons.
"Plastic?"
"You're impossible," she snapped, spinning on her heel. Her grip tightened slightly on the edge of the cart.
He held up his hands, palms out. "Just trying to save your future pancakes."
She stared at him, really stared—like maybe if she looked hard enough, she could find the off-switch. But his expression was maddeningly neutral. The same unreadable calm he always wore, like nothing really ruffled him.
"Well, I like these," she said stubbornly, dropping the whisk in her cart.
He shrugged. "Your pancakes, your funeral."
She huffed and turned the corner.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're fun when you're defensive."
She didn't responed, just told herself to ignore him. Then she told herself again. And again.
Yet...he still walk with her.
It wasn't just the walking.
It was the way he walked. Like every aisle could wait. Like her growing irritation was background music. Like he'd already decided she was interesting enough to follow, and the rest of the world could take a number.
It rattled her nerves more than she wanted to admit.
She was studying a set of ivory ceramic ramekins, thumb brushing the edge of one, debating if it matched her oven-safe wish list.
She didn't notice him right away—not until his hand reached past her for something on the shelf.
His hand was close—too close—and for a moment, her breath caught. The fabric of his sleeve brushed the edge of her shoulder. Just lightly. Just enough.
She blinked. "Eric?"
He held up two matte ceramic coffee cups—one a deep navy blue, the other warm ivory with a delicate ridged pattern. "These are nice."
Without waiting for her response, he turned, walked over to the entrance of the aisle, and grabbed one of the store's hand baskets. Returning, he gently placed the cups inside.
She caught it in the corner of her eye as he placed them gently into his basket.
She didn't comment.
Didn't ask.
But he looked over anyway, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as if he'd caught her glancing.
"What?" he said. "They just looked like they belonged together."
Sarah, without looking at him, replied flatly, "I didn't ask."
He didn't meet her gaze, just adjusted the cups to keep them from clinking.
"You know, everyone needs coffee cups. Especially if they plan on sharing mornings with someone someday." he said, with the kind of seriousness one might reserve for choosing life insurance.
"I still didn't ask anything!"
Her voice was dry, but not harsh—just that careful, unamused tone she used when her patience was thinning.
He just shrugged, his smile slow and annoyingly unbothered.
"Exactly. That's what makes it more fun."
She walked a little faster, determined not to encourage him, and came to a stop in front of the knives.
Her fingers scanned the packaging until she spotted a sleek chef's knife, its handle sturdy, blade balanced and precise. She turned it in her hand, testing the weight, and after a thoughtful pause, nodded and placed it into her shopping cart.
His voice floated over her shoulder. "Well, look at that. You do have taste."
She stared at the shelf a second too long, jaw clenched just enough to be noticed. "I've always had taste."
He stepped closer, leaning slightly as if inspecting her choice like a teacher marking a student's work. "Hmm. Good grip, nice bolster, decent edge retention. That's a real knife—not the plastic-handled tragedy you almost picked five minutes ago."
Sarah cast him a dry glance over her shoulder.
She hadn't invited commentary. She hadn't requested company. And yet, here he was: effortlessly tall, maddeningly calm, inserting himself into her domestic decision-making as if they'd planned this shopping trip together.
Then she stared at the spice rack, the tiny glass jars lined up like soldiers—turmeric, cumin, paprika, cloves.
Eric was still hovering nearby, examining something with mock interest, clearly not in a hurry to leave.
She let out a quiet sigh, more to herself than him.
"I'll come back for these next time," she murmured, turning her cart around. "This is enough for today."
Eric looked up. "Giving up already? You were on a roll."
She gave him a tight smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "I just remembered—I have a low tolerance for unsolicited commentary in grocery aisles."
He raised a brow, following without being asked. "Harsh. But fair."
They walked toward the checkout in silence for a few steps. Sarah's fingers tightened on the cart handle, as if holding it steadied more than just the groceries inside.
Eric shifted the basket in his hand, the two mugs clinking gently together.
"Still glad I picked these." he said to no one in particular.
Sarah didn't respond.
He leaned casually on the cart beside her, then gave a soft, dramatic sigh.
"Your taste in cookware is… heartbreaking."
She didn't look at him. "No one asked you."
"You know," he said, placing his own modest basket on the counter—two elegant coffee cups. "if I hadn't been there today, you'd be going home with utensils that would personally offend your stove."
"I liked what I picked."
"That," he said, glancing at her, "explains a lot."
"Oh my God," she muttered under her breath.
They paid. She grabbed her bag. He took his.
As they stepped out of the store, Eric walked at a leisurely pace, like he had nowhere else to be.
At the curb, he stopped.
"I wasn't planning to shop today," he said casually, looking ahead instead of at her. "But it was worth it."
She turned slightly, sarcastically. "Of course for your elegant cups."
He shook his head, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "For the company."
Sarah blinked. That... wasn't what she'd expected.
Before she could respond, he added—lighter now, "Though your taste in frying pans still needs divine intervention."
Her grip on the shopping bag tightened. "Goodbye, Eric."
But he was already stepping back, walking away with that unhurried confidence, one hand in his pocket.
Over his shoulder, he called, "Next time, don't pick cookware like it's a personality test."
And then he was gone.
Sarah stood there, a breeze catching her hair and a sentence she'd be hearing again in her head long after he was gone.