Saturday afternoon. Fluorescent grocery lights instead of sunlight. A basket in his hand, her fingers curled around his sleeve as if that was the handle she preferred.
Zenith didn't rush, but everything about him suggested purpose — gaze scanning, posture steady, like every aisle held a strategic objective.
Raylene just liked being here.
People. Shelves. Little choices. Tiny worlds.
She paused at the pasta display.So many shapes. Lines, spirals, twists like ribbon.
And then she saw them — butterfly-shaped pasta.
Cute. Delicate. Like little wings.
Were they practical for the sauce she had in mind? Probably not. Would they make the meal feel sweeter? Maybe. Did she suddenly want them more than anything else in the aisle?
...Yes.
Her fingers hovered toward the package, then hesitated.
"…I don't know if they're right," she murmured. "They might not… cook the same."
Zenith didn't answer. He just reached out, took the package, placed it in their basket with quiet finality.
"We take that one."
No hesitation. No question. Mission parameters updated.
Raylene blinked, then laughed — small, breathy, soft."Just like that?"
"You like them," he said simply. As if that was enough to alter every tactical plan.
(And for him, it was.)
She tugged lightly at his sleeve, embarrassed and pleased all at once.His mouth stayed neutral, but the corner twitched — the closest he came to smiling in public.
Raylene nudged him softly with her shoulder.
"You know," she murmured, voice low so only he could hear, "if I hadn't come with you this time… you might've returned with… I don't know. Seaweed yogurt. Or… pickle-covered grapes."
Zenith paused mid-step.
"That suggestion is illogical," he said. But there was a beat — the kind that meant he had considered whether pickle-covered grapes might statistically appeal to pregnant taste buds.
Raylene narrowed her eyes playfully. "Are you actually thinking about it?"
"…No."
"…Zenith."
A pause. "Only theoretically."
She covered her smile with her hand — badly.
"Maybe it's good I'm here to… supervise," she teased.
His brow knit slightly, as if he took that as a genuine operational assessment.
"I am fully capable of completing procurement tasks independently."
"Uh-huh," she nodded gravely. "And next time you'd probably bring home… anchovy ice cream."
He didn't even blink."If you asked for it, I would."
Raylene stared at him — caught between affection, surprise, and an overwhelming desire to hide in his shirt.
"…I was joking."
"I wouldn't give you spoiled fish," he replied calmly. "I'd make sure it was fresh."
That did it — she had to grip the cart for support, laughter bubbling into her chest, exhausted but warm and alive.
He watched her carefully to ensure it was laughter.When he confirmed it, the edge of that not-smile returned.
Quiet pride.Victory in tenderness, not precision.
"You are very…" she tried to find the word, breath still catching,"…thorough."
His hand brushed her elbow as they started walking again — the lightest touch, just anchoring her.
"I prefer prepared."
She bumped his arm again, gentler this time."And I prefer butterflies."
"Then butterflies," he said, as if that concluded the day's mission.
They moved on.
---
Zenith analyzed labels like classified documents.Raylene leaned on the cart sometimes when her legs got tired — and when she did, he slowed his pace without looking at her, as though the entire store had shifted to her rhythm.
She picked a jar of pasta sauce after smelling four.He pretended to understand the difference.
He examined produce with the intensity of a lab test.She picked the apple that felt prettiest in her hand.
At the dairy aisle, she stopped suddenly — palm on her stomach, breathing steady but slower. Not pain — just… tiredness, like the world moved heavier sometimes.
Zenith didn't speak. He placed a hand on the cart handle and discreetly shifted it closer to her, support without spotlight.
Raylene looked up, caught the gesture, and whispered, "I'm okay."
He gave a tiny nod — believing her, but staying close anyway. A silent I don't need you to be strong for me.
She took a small jar of pesto. Glanced at him, almost asking permission. Old instinct: don't indulge whims, don't inconvenience.
He placed the second jar in the basket before she could speak.
"In case you crave more later."
Her lips parted — surprise softening into something warm in her chest.
"You think I'm going to crave pesto?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Variables exist."
She giggled. He pretended not to react. Failed. The hint of a smile betrayed him again.
Raylene leaned gently into his shoulder as they walked toward the checkout. No announcement, just gravity choosing him.
Zenith adjusted the bags in his hand and silently shifted his arm so she could rest more comfortably against him.
They left the store slowly. Not like a mission completed. More like a small, ordinary miracle lived.
Butterfly pasta in the bag. Two hearts learning softness one aisle at a time.