The Village Market is a cozy neighborhood staple that feels both timeless and welcoming. Its red-brick exterior is accented by a deep green awning and bold cream-colored signage that reads VILLAGE MARKET in classic block letters. Beneath the awning, wooden crates and bushel baskets brim with vibrant produce—ruby-red apples, golden grapefruits, bundles of kale, and sunflowers in a galvanized vase—all thoughtfully arranged to invite passersby with color and abundance.

The wide front windows offer a peek inside at the neatly stocked shelves and soft lighting that give the market its signature warmth. A simple “OPEN” sign hangs in the glass door, which bears the address 5627 in delicate white numbers. Just to the side, a bench and stacked crates create a makeshift resting spot, perfect for someone sipping cider or chatting with a neighbor.

Whether you’re picking up fresh herbs, chatting with the owner about the ripest peaches, or simply wandering in for the smell of just-baked bread, the Village Market is more than a grocery—it’s a gathering place, woven into the rhythm of the town itself.

The automatic doors slid open with a whoosh of too-cold air and that faint grocery store smell—part citrus cleaner, part damp cardboard, part something unplaceably nostalgic that reminded Rowan of her mom humming through the aisles with coupons clipped to the front of the cart.

She stepped inside with purpose anyway, sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile, hoodie sleeves tugged down over her hands, and belly stretching beneath the fabric like a quiet, steady drumbeat that never let her forget who she was shopping for.

Get oat milk. Red onions. The specific herbal tea her mom swore fixed everything from cramps to emotional damage. And no, they weren’t here to “browse.” This was a tactical mission.

“We’re sticking to the list,” she said under her breath, almost like a prayer—or a warning—as they passed the wall of stacked shopping baskets and lurched toward the carts. “In. Out. No bakery detours. No holiday displays. And absolutely no talking to the man handing out free samples of turkey bacon. I mean it.”

She didn’t have to look at Mason to know he was already grinning. She could feel it radiating off him like static.

“I know that smirk,” she added, leveling him with a side-eye as she jerked the cart free from the jammed line. “Whatever chaos you’re thinking? Don’t.”

He raised both hands in faux surrender, but his eyes were already scanning the overhead aisle signs like they might lead him to buried treasure. Or peanut butter pretzels.

Rowan exhaled hard through her nose and pushed forward—past the floral display, past the pastry case, past the temptations that had derailed their last three trips and ended in $60 worth of cheese and a single bag of shredded lettuce.

Not today.

Today, she was the list.

The list was her.

And if Mason behaved, maybe—maybe—he could pick out a cereal. But only if it wasn’t the kind that came with a prize.

Probably.

Mason didn’t even pretend to look innocent.

Because how could he?

Rowan was marching through the automatic doors like a girl on a mission—battle-ready and beautiful, her tote bag declaring Soft doesn’t mean weak like it was gospel, and Mason? Yeah, he was completely gone for her. Fully, irreversibly ruined in the middle of a produce section.

The cool air hit him first, crisp and citrusy, and he shoved his hands into the front pocket of his worn-in hoodie—light grey, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, still faintly smelling like her dryer sheets. His black t-shirt underneath clung just enough to make her glance linger that one extra second earlier when he pulled it on. His jeans were cuffed at the ankle, spring dust on the hem, and his sneakers were exactly as scuffed and chaotic as she expected.

But none of it mattered—not the shopping list, not the budget, not even the icy warning shot she fired over her shoulder—because Rowan was here.

And she was glowing.

Not in a flashy way. Not in the way strangers would stop to comment on. But in that quiet, fierce way that made Mason feel like the luckiest idiot alive just for pushing the cart behind her.

His grin tugged wider as she yanked one free with a muttered threat about bakery displays and bacon samples. He raised his hands in surrender, leaned into the wheel like it was a getaway vehicle.

"Okay, okay, I hear you," he said, voice warm, teasing. "No bacon guy. No detours. No risky produce aisle negotiations. This is serious business. You’re terrifying and radiant and possibly the grocery general I never knew I needed."

Rowan gave him a look.

He winked.

Then leaned closer and added, low enough for just her to hear, "But if we happen to pass the cereal aisle and a certain someone happens to accidentally toss a box of honey oat clusters into the cart without eye contact or commentary, I feel like that’s a diplomatic gray area."

He nudged the cart forward, navigating past the flower buckets and towers of strawberries, then shot her a look over his shoulder.

"Besides, babe," he said, voice softening now, “you’re carrying our daughter and still looking like you could body-check a linebacker with a cart of kale. You can have every aisle you want. I’m just here to reach the high shelves and keep you laughing.”

He wasn’t kidding either.

This wasn’t just a grocery run to him. This was the moment. One of the thousands of little ones that would build their life—the kind they’d joke about later, the kind that would blur into ordinary but still mean everything. Because she was here. Because they were doing this.

Together.

And if he had to make a full grocery store his personal love story backdrop to prove it? So be it.

He bumped his hip gently against hers as they passed the endcap of tempting baked goods. “You’re doing great, by the way. Even if we only leave with oat milk and a sense of accomplishment.”

Then, just to keep her grounded in the moment—but also to let her know he saw her, really saw her—he added with a crooked smile:

“You’re the list, Starling. And the reason I keep showing up for it.”

Rowan didn’t even look at him at first.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did—if she let herself meet that grin, the one that curled like it knew all her soft spots—she’d lose her edge. And today, she needed the edge. They were on a mission. A grocery list mission. One her mother had written in three different colors and underlined twice at the bottom like do not come home without eggs and cilantro was a threat.

So she tightened her grip on the cart, steered it past the display of lemon cakes with laser precision, and murmured, “We’re not here for sweet talk, Mason. We’re here for onions. Focus.”

But God, it was hard to stay sharp when he kept looking at her like that.

Like her messy bun and tote bag and tired ankles were his whole religion.

She huffed out a breath—half laugh, half surrender—and paused by the bell peppers, scanning for the right ones like it was a test she didn’t want to fail. “Three red. One green. No bruises,” she muttered under her breath. “If we bring home bruised produce again, my mom’s gonna revoke our kitchen privileges.”

She reached for a pepper, gave it a quick once-over, then glanced sideways.

He was still watching her. Still smiling.

Still there.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away. Just dropped the peppers into the bag and handed them to him with the kind of look that meant you’re lucky you’re cute. Then, quieter now—quieter than the aisle deserved—she said, “You know… I used to hate this part.”

He tilted his head.

“The errands. The groceries. The picking out cilantro and arguing about peanut butter brands like it meant something. It always felt like a placeholder. Like real life was somewhere else.”

She reached past him for a bunch of parsley. “But now?”

A pause. Her voice softened.

“Now I get it.”

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Because he smiled again—less crooked this time, more reverent—and took the bag from her hand like it meant more than it should.

And maybe it did.

Maybe this wasn’t about the groceries at all.

Maybe it was about the fact that they were here, together, in a fluorescent-lit love story with bruised produce and aisle debates and a baby girl on the way.

And maybe—just maybe—Rowan didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Mason didn’t move at first.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there holding a produce bag full of hand-inspected bell peppers like it was a crown she’d just entrusted him with.

Because damn.

She was in full list mode—hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp, jaw set like she was ready to throw down over cilantro quality—and he was pretty sure he’d never seen anything hotter.

Not dramatic-hot. Not movie-scene-hot. Just her.

Her in spring sunlight. Her with a grocery mission. Her with a baby under her hoodie and too much on her mind and still taking time to sort the parsley from the flat-leaf imposters like her life depended on it.

Mason’s heart did that thing again—twisted low and tight in his chest like it couldn’t hold how much he loved this girl. How much he loved her fire and her focus and the way she dropped quiet truths in the middle of the produce aisle like they weren’t about to change his entire week.

Now I get it.

That’s what she’d said.

No fireworks. No speech.

Just a quiet realization folded into the rhythm of bell peppers and breath and the soft sound of her voice when she wasn’t trying to armor up.

He stepped closer.

Didn’t say anything at first—just tucked the bag of vegetables under one arm and reached for her free hand, brushing his fingers gently over the curve of her palm before he laced their hands together.

Then, soft and low:

“You know I used to picture forever like some big moment, right? Rings. Speeches. Fireworks. That whole ‘this is it’ scene.”

He watched her, and she didn’t look away.

“But it’s not like that. Not really.”

He smiled—crooked and stunned and sincere.

“It’s this. It’s you, arguing with your mom over cilantro and letting me carry peppers like I’m doing something noble. It’s grocery lists and tired ankles and you looking at me like I belong here.”

He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to her temple—nothing showy, nothing loud—then squeezed her hand again.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes twinkling now, “you’re totally right about peanut butter. But I’m still going to argue with you about it every single time, because I like the way you look when you win.”

She rolled her eyes.

He beamed.

Then pushed the cart forward with his free hand like it was something they were steering together—down the aisle, into the next chapter, through the ordinary magic of a Sunday that wasn’t ordinary at all.

Because yeah.

This was it.

Fluorescent lights. Grocery lists. Quiet truths.

Forever.

Rowan didn’t say anything right away.

Didn’t need to.

Not with his hand still wrapped around hers like he meant it. Not with his words still echoing somewhere between her ribs and her throat, warm and steady and devastating in that way he always was when he got serious out of nowhere.

It hit her harder than she expected.

Because he wasn’t joking. Not this time.

He wasn’t teasing her about peanut butter or being overly dramatic about the bell peppers—though God knew he’d probably do both before they even made it to checkout.

He was just… here.

In it.

In this aisle, in this moment, in this life with her.

And it did something to her chest.

Rowan blinked down at the cart, then back up at him, and managed a small shake of her head—half smile, half disbelief. “You really don’t make any sense,” she muttered, grabbing the list again with the hand that wasn’t being held hostage by his warmth. “You romanticize vegetables.”

He gave her a look like, yeah, and what about it?

She sighed, cheeks warming, and tapped the paper with her nail. “Okay, come on. Milk, rice, frozen blueberries, bagels, and if you even glance at the bakery display, I swear I will leave you in this store.”

But her voice was softer than usual. Not biting. Not pushing him away.

And when he didn’t let go of her hand as they turned the corner—just adjusted his grip and followed her stride like it was the most natural thing in the world—Rowan didn’t stop him.

Didn’t pull away.

She just… let it happen.

Let the moment settle like sunlight through a window. Warm. Uncomplicated.

And when they reached the dairy section, and he lifted the exact oat milk her mom liked without asking, Rowan looked at him again—really looked—and whispered, just loud enough to hear:

“This is the part I didn’t know I needed.”

Then she took the oat milk from his hands, dropped it into the cart like it was just another task done, and moved toward the next item on the list with her shoulders a little looser than before.

Mason didn’t react right away.

Didn’t throw a smirk or a line or even one of his usual, over-the-top flourishes about being the world’s most thoughtful grocery date. He just… stood there for a second, carton still warm in his hand, watching her walk ahead like she hadn’t just rearranged his entire universe with ten quiet words.

This is the part I didn’t know I needed.

God.

He knew she wasn’t trying to wreck him—but damn if she didn’t nail it anyway. Because Mason had imagined a million versions of love. Big ones. Loud ones. Fireworks and falling and all the cinematic moments you’re supposed to chase when you’re young and dumb and dreaming hard.

But this?

This was different.

Rowan—with her list and her focus and her stubborn loyalty—was different.

And somehow, she’d made a simple aisle between oat milk and freezer doors feel like the center of everything that mattered.

He didn’t say anything as he caught up. Just fell into step beside her, their hands brushing again like they’d been made to find each other over and over in the smallest ways.

And yeah—he was still gonna reach for the stupid mini donuts if she gave him even half a chance. He was still gonna mess up the blueberries and probably get the wrong bagels. But she wasn’t walking ahead of him anymore.

She was walking with him.

Mason looked sideways—at her flushed cheeks, her slightly-wrinkled list, the way her tote bag bounced against her hip—and smiled, soft and helpless.

Then, low and easy, just for her:

“You make a mean grocery general, Starling. But you? With a shopping list and a soft look like that? You might actually be my favorite version of forever.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond.

Just bumped her shoulder lightly and grabbed the rice like it was a grand romantic gesture. And when she rolled her eyes but didn’t fight the grin tugging at her mouth?

Yeah.

That was the win.

Not the list. Not the oat milk. Not even surviving the bakery aisle untouched.

Just this.

A girl who’d stopped running.

And a boy who’d never let go.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

Couldn’t, really—not with her throat doing that ridiculous tight thing and her heart all tangled up in the way he said forever like it wasn’t a risk, just a truth.

So instead, she grabbed the pen from her back pocket and crossed off the rice.

Methodically. Steadily. Like the act of completing the list might keep her from melting entirely in front of the jasmine shelf.

But her hand was shaking. Just a little.

She tucked the pen away again, exhaled through her nose, and glanced over at him—at the boy who still couldn’t resist the impulse to make her laugh in public and mean it in private. The boy who said things like you’re my favorite version of forever with that dumb-soft grin that never asked for anything back.

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in mock innocence like what? I’m just being helpful, and she could’ve screamed at how deeply she loved him.

“Mini donuts and forehead declarations,” she muttered, bumping her shoulder into his in retaliation. “You really are a menace.”

He grinned. Victory.

Rowan rolled her eyes, but her fingers slipped into his again like it was instinct. Like it had always been instinct. “Next aisle’s cereal,” she warned. “Don’t even think about those honey cluster things.”

But she was already smiling. Already letting herself fall back into step beside him, cart wheels squeaking, list half-finished.

Because yeah—he messed up the bagels and never remembered which brand of oat milk her mom liked.

But he remembered her.

The real her.

The one who’d stopped believing in soft endings until he made every ordinary thing feel like the start of one.

And as they turned the corner—hands still linked, aisle still ahead—Rowan thought maybe this was it.

Not perfection.

But presence.

And the quiet, stubborn, endlessly ridiculous boy who always showed up for both.

Mason felt the bump of her shoulder like a spark.

Not the kind that set anything on fire—no. The kind that lit up the quiet parts of him. The parts he didn’t even realize were still dim until Rowan touched him like that—on purpose, steady, a little exasperated, a lot in love.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She was focused again—sort of. Cheeks pink, lashes low, fingers tucked back into his like she didn’t even think about it. Like her hand just belonged there.

And maybe it did.

Maybe it always had.

God, she was trying so hard to keep the edge today. To stay sharp and grounded and in control. But Mason had known her long enough to recognize the tremble behind the steady. The way her voice dipped when she meant something. The way she wielded that list like armor because sometimes the softness still scared her more than anything else.

And she’d held his hand anyway.

She’d stayed.

He grinned to himself, let her lead the cart into the cereal aisle, and leaned in close enough to murmur, “For the record? If loving you means sacrificing honey clusters for the rest of my life, I’ll do it without flinching.”

She shot him a look.

He smirked. “I’ll still flinch a little. But I’ll do it.”

Her mouth twitched—just barely—but he caught it. Because he always caught it. The little cracks in her sarcasm, the way her smile tried not to bloom and always failed when he got too sincere.

He leaned in again, bumping her shoulder back this time, gentler. "You can call me a menace all you want, Starling. Still gonna show up in every aisle.”

He shrugged, exaggerated. “Even the boring ones. Like paper towels. Or prune juice. Or…” He looked around dramatically, then whispered, “the gluten-free section.”

That earned him a full eye-roll and a shove at his arm.

And yet?

She didn’t let go of his hand.

Mason looked down at their fingers—intertwined, steady, something stupidly sacred in how casual it had become. And he realized, not for the first time, not even close, that this was it.

This was it.

Not the wedding someday or the crib they’d build or the baby that would one day scream her head off in the checkout line.

It was this.

Her hand in his.

Her laugh, even through a sigh.

A grocery list scribbled in her mom’s handwriting and a girl who used to run now walking beside him without needing to.

He looked over, eyes warm, voice soft. “You know… I like this version of us.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The grocery store version. The snack aisle version. The you rolling your eyes while I fall in love with you again in front of the oatmeal version.”

He paused.

Then added, low and certain:

“I’m always gonna show up for this.”

No grand gesture.

No punchline.

Just that.

Because sometimes forever looked like a squeaky cart, a list half-crossed, and a girl who finally let herself believe he meant it.

And Mason?

Mason meant it. Every aisle, every time.

Rowan didn’t respond right away.

Couldn’t.

Because somehow, this boy—this relentless, ridiculous, impossibly steady boy—had just managed to ruin her in the granola section. Again.

She blinked once. Then again. Like maybe the overhead lights were to blame for the heat in her face or the way her chest felt too full for her body.

God, he was so sincere.

And stupid.

And hers.

He was hers.

That was the part that hit hardest. The part she kept trying to get used to and never quite could—like her heart still hadn’t caught up to the fact that it wasn’t waiting anymore. That he’d chosen her. Not the polished version. Not the untouchable one.

Her.

List-wielding, emotionally-backpedaling, soft-once-she-trusts-you Rowan.

And when he said he’d show up for this? For cereal and elbows and aisle seven?

Her fingers squeezed his before she realized she’d done it.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, reaching for a box of plain Cheerios like her insides weren’t completely spiraling, “if you start quoting poetry by the frozen peas, I will leave you.”

But her voice wavered.

And her thumb brushed slow over his.

And when she looked up at him, eyes darker now, quieter, she didn’t try to tease the moment away.

Not fully.

Instead, she softened. Just a little. Just enough.

“You make it hard to keep pretending this isn’t everything,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then, with a look that cracked wide open for just him:
“This is everything.”

She didn’t mean the groceries.

She meant him. Them. This absurd, perfect, ordinary rhythm they’d found between frozen pizza and peanut butter brands.

And as they turned toward the register—his hand still in hers, the list crumpled but complete—Rowan let herself smile.

For real this time.

Because she wasn’t running anymore.

And for once?

She didn’t want to.