Page 18 of Gap Control

The caption said: "Sometimes the smallest moments say the most."

I stared at it for a long time.

My thumb hovered over the Like button, but I didn't press it.

My phone buzzed again—another text from my sister.

Peggy:If you break his heart, I'm disowning you.

Peggy:Also, Mom saw the sweatshirt on sale. She's "delighted."

I groaned and pressed the phone to my forehead.

This was fine.

Totally, completely fine.

I got up and wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared into it like maybe something had changed since the last time I checked. Still half a bottle of Gatorade, leftover stir-fry, and a questionable yogurt.

I grabbed the stir-fry, forked a few cold bites standing over the sink, then gave up and headed for the couch.

I stared at the ceiling.

My whole life, I'd been good at playing it off. Being funny instead of honest. Keeping things moving, so no one looked too closely.

But this… this thing with Mason—it was still fake. Still a joke that got out of hand.

Except it didn't feel like a joke anymore.

In my head, I heard how he'd told me to ask him again tomorrow.

I closed my eyes and whispered, "So much for keeping it casual."

Then, I tossed my phone onto the coffee table, pulled the throw blanket over my head, and hoped like hell that tomorrow wouldn't come too fast.

Chapter four

Mason

Iliked the grocery store at night. Not late-late, not after ten, when the shelves were half-empty and the lights made everything look a little too bare. Just late enough that the after-work rush had thinned.

It wasn't far from my apartment—seven minutes if the light on Madison cooperated—and I always parked in the back, next to the loading dock, where no one ever looked twice. Not that anyone looked twice at me anywhere, usually. Until now.

I tugged the hood of my coat higher and grabbed a hand basket instead of a cart. Quieter. Easier to steer. I pulled up my list on my phone—clean, efficient, alphabetical by section—and started my circuit.

Frozen fruit. Plain yogurt. Protein water. Oat milk. Not because I liked it, but because it lasted forever and made me feel like I was doing something healthy. Almonds, toothpaste, and one of those overpriced cold brew bottles I'd pretend not to enjoy.

I moved with purpose. Eyes down. Shoulders back. No distractions.

In the store, I could breathe. There were no teammates throwing elbows or fans waving signs.

Only ambient music, half-stale air, and the satisfying rhythm of checking items off a list.

I paused in the dairy section, examining expiration dates, when a toddler two carts over dropped a cereal box and burst into tears. I winced.

The mom muttered an apology. I nodded once, politely.

Before the week of TJ and the hug and the internet's favorite accidental romance, it would've been a normal Thursday. Now, even here, next to the sour cream, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone might be watching.

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