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The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed a quiet, sterile tune, casting a bright glare over the polished linoleum floors.
Logically, you and Max didn't need to be here.
Max had a team of people who could orchestrate a full pantry restock with a single text message, but you had insisted. To you, love wasn’t just built in the quiet corners of his Monaco apartment or amidst the deafening roar of the paddock; it was built here, arguing over breakfast brands in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. It was the only place where no one expected him to be a champion—just a guy holding a wire shopping cart.
Max had whined about it the whole way down, of course, offering a theatrical sigh as he grabbed a cart. But you knew him. You saw the way his shoulders dropped the moment you walked through the sliding glass doors, the way he subtly shielded you from the occasional wandering glance of a stranger. He loved the mundane reality of it just as much as you did.
Right now, you were anchored in the frozen aisle, standing before a wall of glass freezers lined with a colorful mosaic of frozen comfort food. You pulled open the heavy door, a rush of artificial winter spilling out against your skin. You reached in and grabbed a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, a box of breakfast sausages, and a sleeve of frozen hash browns, stacking them neatly in your arms.
"We don't need all of that, schat," Max said from behind the cart, his hands loosely gripping the handlebar. He looked entirely out of place among the frozen peas and waffles, yet completely at home next to you.
"I don't need it, but you do," you countered, sliding the freezer door shut with your elbow before drifting toward the next section. "Have you seen the inside of your fridge lately? Because I have. It looks like a vending machine sponsored exclusively by Red Bull. It’s becoming hazardous to your health. What would your trainer say?"
Max let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, rolling the cart a few inches closer to follow your steps. "And you think processed food is a health cure?"
"Don't complain," you smiled, opening another freezer door and unceremoniously tossing a pack of premium hot dogs into the cart. They landed with a dull thud right on top of the hash browns. "I know for a fact you eat these when you think I'm not looking."
Max opened his mouth to defend his honor, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. He let out a soft huff, a quiet surrender. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They're efficient."
You let out a laugh—hearty, light, and completely unbothered by the chilly air of the aisle. It was a sound that seemed to cut right through his usual guarded exterior, and you watched the remaining tension leave his jaw. He melted, his expression softening into that private, boyish warmth he only ever showed you.
"You're very lucky I love you," he murmured, shaking his head as he nudged the cart forward, his eyes locked onto yours.
"I should hope so," you teased, turning around to face him fully, a playful glint in your eyes. "You did just asked me to marry you a few weeks ago. It would be a bit awkward if you changed your mind over frozen sausages."
Max rolled his eyes—a dramatic, harmless gesture—but the sudden, bright flash of the silver band on your finger caught the grocery store light, making him smile anyway.
"I love you," you added softly, your tone shifting from teasing to something deeply tender as you reached out to lightly tap the tip of his nose.
"I know," he said, catching your hand for just a brief second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go so you could keep scanning the shelves. He followed a step behind you, content to be the keeper of the cart, navigating the small, ordinary aisles of a life you were building together, one grocery trip at a time.