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AMBROSE: Add espresso. I’ve run out. And if I hear Elias shake instant again Iwillbuy out Nestlé’s stock just to burn it.

RIVEN: The muffins weren’t on the list, no. But they matter.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, another smile crawling up before I can fight it. This is what it’s like, shopping for a band of sins disguised as men. Rationality doesn’t apply. Neither do lists.

I type back quickly.

LUNA: Last chance. You get five more additions. No duplicates. No riddles. No flirt threats. Use them wisely.

SILAS: That’s sexy. Threaten me again.

ELIAS: I rescind my earlier ask. I want whatever Orindoesn’twant.

ORIN: I want peace.

SILAS: Okay never mind. I want war

AMBROSE: Add clementines. The good kind. The ones without that waxy residue.

LUCIEN: Add pistachios. Salted. Lightly. You know the ones.

Of course I do. He likes them shelled and neat, but only if I buy them. If someone else does, he won’t touch them. Something about the wrong energy.

LUNA: Pistachios. Clementines. Muffins. Espresso. One more. Choose carefully.

Nothing. For once, silence. Then:

RIVEN: Rosemary. For the lamb.

I pause. My thumb hovers over the handle of the cart, breath catching low in my chest. They want muffins and chaos and espresso-fueled threats, but they also want rosemary. Fresh. For something slow-cooked and real.

For dinner.

Forme.

And I will go home, arms full, heart fuller, and feed them like I always have, one need at a time.

The rosemary’s fresher than usual, still damp near the roots, its sharp scent clinging to my skin as I tuck a bundle into my cart. I scan the shelf for the next thing, Lucien’s pistachios, Orin’s barley, Silas’s absurd muffin selection, and I feel it before I see him.

The drag of attention. That too-long gaze. Not the kind I’m used to,danger-slick and saturated with knowledge, but something more mundane. Eager. Curious. Still irritating.

“You shop like you’re planning a feast,” a voice says behind me, low and smooth, like it's practiced, sounding harmless.

I glance back over my shoulder. He’s tall. Too tall to pretend he isn’t used to being looked at. Dark hair, slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it on purpose. His skin is sun-warmed, jawline sharp enough to leave a mark, and those eyes, startlingly blue. Too blue. Movie star blue.

He grins when I don’t respond. “Sorry, was that weird? I just… You caught my eye. Had to say something.”

I don’t return the smile. “I’m not interested.”

He blinks like he didn’t hear me right, or more likely, like women don’t usually say that to him. “Ouch,” he says, chuckling. “You could let me finish my line first. I swear it was charming.”

“I’m sure it was,” I reply flatly, reaching for the pistachios. “Still not interested.”

He leans against the shelf, unbothered. Too comfortable in his body. He’s probably the type who gets handed napkins with numbers written in lip gloss. “You live around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

Because I don’twantto be seen, I think.

“I don’t give out personal information to strangers in the nut aisle,” I say, tossing the bag into the cart with more force than necessary. He still doesn’t flinch.