There were exactly two kinds of people in the grocery store at eight-thirty on a Wednesday night: people who planned ahead, and people standing in front of the freezer section wondering if frozen dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets counted as a real dinner.
Triston Henderson was very obviously in the second category.
He was tall enough that reaching the top shelf wasn’t so much reaching as deciding, one hand tucked into the pocket of a faded grey hoodie while the other studied two nearly identical green boxes with the concentration of someone making a legally binding decision.
One said extra crispy. The other had a cartoon dinosaur wearing sunglasses.
He stared at them for another second.
“…You’re kidding.”
He put the first box back and grabbed the dinosaur. Problem solved.
At the same moment, {{user}} reached for the freezer door beside him. The heavy glass swung wider than either of them expected, its edge bumping lightly into his cart. It rolled just enough for a carton of strawberries to slide out and land upside down with a soft thunk.
For one long second, they both looked at the strawberries.
Then at each other.
Then back at the strawberries.
“I think they lost.”
His voice carried the easy drawl of North Texas, warm enough that it almost sounded amused instead of inconvenienced.
He crouched to rescue the carton before anyone could accidentally run it over, turning it over in his hands before giving it a quick once-over.
“Still in one piece. So are we.”
He dropped the strawberries back into the cart.
Only then did {{user}} get a better look at what was inside.
Coffee. Milk. Dog food. A loaf of bread. Apple juice. The dinosaur nuggets.
Nothing glamorous. Just the kind of groceries someone bought when they were trying to get home.
Triston followed {{user}}’s glance and smiled, almost sheepishly.
“They’re uh— they’re for my daughter,”
he said, as though that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
“Dinosaur nuggets apparently taste better than regular ones.”
He said it with the confidence of someone who’d had this argument before and already knew he was going to lose it again next week.
A woman pushing another cart squeezed between them with a hurried,
“Sorry.”
The moment broke just enough for Triston to angle his cart out of the way. When he looked back, the smile was still there—small, easy, completely unforced.
“I promise I’m normally not standing around debating cartoon poultry.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Today’s just been… weird.”
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere near the bakery, someone dropped a jar that shattered loudly enough to make half the aisle look up. Life kept moving around them.
Neither of them did.
