Page 195 of Can't Always Get What You Want

We keep strolling, bumping hips like we’re drunk on each other—except we’re completely sober and ridiculously obsessed. Obnoxiously into each other.

In front of the limes, he slows to a stop.

Too slow.

I clock the shift in his body. The way his fingers twitch on thecart handle. The weird way he’s staring at me, lips silently moving like he’s rehearsing something in his head.

“What?” I ask, half-laughing. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing. Just wondering if we need limes or not.”

I shrug. “I don’t particularly want any, but if you do—grab a few.”

He gives a jerky nod, then moves to the limes, hand poised above them but not grabbing a single one.

I put my hand on his forearm. “Babe?”

No response.

“Luca? You okay?”

I wave a hand in front of his face.

Nothing.

I lean in to him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re totally being weird.”

He clears his throat and grabs two limes in the most unnatural, robotic motion I’ve ever seen. Like he’s never touched citrus before in his life.

I bite back a grin. “Great. Limes secured. Can we move on?”

He nods mechanically. “Yeah. Tortilla and beans aisle.”

We turn the corner, and he starts walking faster, pushing the cart like he’s on a mission—which, okay, he usually is because no one wants to be in the grocery store longer than necessary but this feels different.

And then?—

He stops cold in front of the refried beans.

Bends at the waist, hands on his knees while he reads the labels, scanning our options like he’s picking out a rare bottle of wine and not—you know—theexactsame beans we’ve bought when we make tacos or rice bowls.

I watch, brow raised.

“You good down there, Ace?” I put my hand on his back. “Babe?”

It’s not until I follow his gaze up the shelves that I notice the white, square lacquered box.

At first, my brain doesn’t compute—I think it’s someone’s lost AirPods case.

Or an item someone was too lazy to put back on its proper shelf. You know how when you find a bottle of shampoo next to the cans of soup because people are monsters?

That.

But then I glance at Luca again—at the way he’s nervously shifting his weight, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them not to combust—and something in my stomach twists.

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