"You don't even like penne."
"I like it when you make it."
Jesse raised an eyebrow, leaning over the grocery cart.
"Baby, you say that about everything. Including that time I made microwaved eggs."
"They were emotional eggs."
He rolled his eyes—fondly.
We were halfway through our Sunday errands, wandering the aisles of our new normal.
Matching hoodies.
Shared grocery list on my phone.
Bickering like an old married couple with a sex tape hidden at home.
---
I stole a kiss beside the refrigerated hummus.
Jesse didn't stop me.
He never stopped me.
Even when we were surrounded by old ladies and sugar-rushed toddlers.
"You keep that up," he muttered, "and we're leaving this cart behind."
"Promise?"
---
Then it happened.
Near the self-checkout, a voice called out:
"Jesse Monroe?"
He turned—slow.
Tense.
The guy looked early 30s. Blond. Polished. The kind of pretty that used to turn Jesse's head before he learned better.
"Oh wow," the guy said. "Didn't think you'd still be in-state. Or, uh… in one piece."
Jesse forced a smile. "Micah's friend?"
The guy laughed. "More like his roommate now. Heard about the garage. Sorry to hear, man."
His eyes flicked to me.
"And this is…?"
Jesse opened his mouth.
I answered first.
"I'm the one he came home to after that fire."
The guy blinked. "Right."
I didn't smile.
Jesse looked at me—warned me, silently.
But I wasn't having it.
"Small towns have long memories," I said, wrapping an arm around Jesse's waist. "But so do good men. And Jesse's the best one I know."
The guy raised his hands. "Hey, no offense."
"None taken," Jesse muttered, grabbing our bag.
But the second we were in the parking lot, I turned to him.
"Sorry if I—"
He stopped me with a kiss.
Soft. Quick. Devastating.
"I've never seen you look more like mine," he whispered.
---
Later, in the truck, I touched the chain around his neck.
"I didn't like the way he looked at you."
"Why? You jealous?"
"No. I just don't like people mistaking your past for your worth."
Jesse exhaled.
Then smiled.
"Guess it's a good thing you're part of both now."
---
That night, he cooked me pasta.
Not penne.
Not emotional eggs.
Just the kind of meal you make when you know exactly what someone likes.
And after dinner?
He didn't take me to bed.
He pulled me into his lap on the couch.
Fed me chocolate from the fridge.
And said—
"This? This is what forever starts to feel like."