Sunday morning came for me like a rude notification.
I was halfway through a dream that involved Tiana, a velvet throne, and a suspiciously attractive bakery worker, when someone knocked on my door.
"Dali?" Aunt Fiona's chipper voice. Always chipper. Even before 9 a.m., which should be illegal. "Sweetheart? Are you awake?"
"I am now," I grumbled, rolling over and slapping my alarm clock like it owed me money.
She cracked the door open, peeked in like a sitcom mom. "Can you do me a favor? Raven needs to pick up some things for his apartment—and we're out of detergent and some food. Would you mind going with him to the store?"
I blinked at her. "You mean… like… ride in a car? Together? In the same vehicle?"
Aunt Fiona smiled. "It'd be helpful. And you two used to get along so well."
Used to. Right.
"Sure," I said, because I'm a people-pleaser in recovery.
⸻
Fifteen minutes later, I was semi-dressed, semi-brushed, and fully caffeinated when Raven pulled up in a forest green car that looked like it should belong to a guy who reads philosophical novels for fun.
I slid into the passenger seat, immediately assaulted by the smell of eucalyptus and something like pine wood. Of course his car smelled like an expensive forest.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," I echoed, clutching my water bottle like it was pepper spray.
We pulled out of the driveway. The car was quiet—except for the soft hum of tires and my thoughts doing a conga line of chaos in my skull.
"So," Raven started after a few minutes, "how's school?"
And just like that, I was transported back to thirteen. Sobbing in Algebra. Writing English essays with tragic metaphors about clouds and emotional resilience. Sitting in the Simmons' living room, trying not to breathe too loudly whenever he walked past.
"It's fine," I said carefully. "You know, high school. Tests. Quizzes. Soul erosion."
He laughed. "Still hate math?"
"Only when it tries to ruin my life."
He nodded. "It gets better in college."
I side-eyed him. "That's what they said about puberty. And yet, here I am. Traumatized and still growing weirdly shaped eyebrows."
He smirked. "Seriously though. If you ever want help with stuff—essays, science, whatever—I've got time this week."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth wanted to say, Thanks, that means a lot. My ego wanted to say, I'm fine, Grandpa. Instead, I went with:
"I'm more of a freestyle student. I like to see how close I can get to failure without actually enrolling in summer school."
He chuckled again.
A few more minutes passed in companionable silence. Then he glanced over.
"So…do you have a boyfriend?"
My brain exploded.
"What?" I asked, even though I'd heard him perfectly.
"You know. Boyfriend. Anyone you're seeing?"
I looked straight ahead. At the road. At life. At choices.
"For me to get a boyfriend," I said slowly, "it would have to be the last two people on Earth situation. Me and some guy. No distractions. No competition. No social media. No alternatives. Like a romance apocalypse."
He barked out a laugh. "You're not giving yourself enough credit."
I didn't answer. Because what was he doing? Making small talk? Genuinely curious? Seeing if I was attached before setting me up with some other brotherly figure?
"I've been busy," I added lamely. "School. Sarcasm. Emotional labor."
"You're definitely not thirteen anymore," he said suddenly, almost to himself.
I stiffened.
But before I could ask what that meant, he turned on his blinker and pulled into the store parking lot.
"Let's make this quick," he said, grabbing a list from the console. "We're on a mission."
___________
There's something about fluorescent supermarket lighting that makes every social interaction feel five times more awkward. The overly bright aisles. The elevator music from 2006. The fact that every cart has a squeaky wheel designed specifically to drive you to madness.
Raven grabbed one without checking. It squeaked. Of course it did.
I grabbed the list from his hand. "Okay, so what are we looking for? Let me guess—pre-workout powder, beard shampoo, and one emotion, lightly used?"
He smirked. "Close. Trash bags. Oats. Frying pan. Also something called… 'microfiber madness mop'?"
"That sounds like a children's band."
"Or a cult."
We rolled into the produce section like two badly disguised spies on a domestic errand. I tried to walk like I belonged there. Chill. Indifferent. Unshaken.
Raven stopped at the apples.
I stopped next to him, pointing at a wrinkly, deflated one. "This apple looks like it's been through divorce and unpaid taxes."
He picked it up. "That's you if you keep skipping breakfast."
"Oh, I am breakfast. I bring drama, sugar, and potential regret."
He blinked. "What?"
"Forget it. Add your sad fruit to the cart, grandpa."
He did. The cart groaned like it hated its job, which, same.
We made it halfway through the store before the real bickering started.
"Why do you need two different brands of pasta sauce?" I asked, holding up jars.
"Because flavor matters."
"They're literally the same."
"One has roasted garlic."
"The other just has regular garlic. You're not making a Michelin-starred meal, you're trying to survive Tuesday."
He took both. "I'll taste-test."
"That's serial killer behavior."
Next up: detergent. A minefield of weird colors and scent names like Rainstorm Dreamscape and Moisturizing Calamity.
"This one smells like rich aunt," I said, shoving a teal bottle under his nose.
He sniffed. "I don't hate it."
"This one smells like laundry anxiety."
He sniffed again. "That's just what adulthood smells like."
I held up a third. "This one smells like my childhood trauma."
He took it. "Perfect. We're building your brand."
By the time we reached homeware, the cart looked like it had been packed by someone undergoing a nervous breakdown.
Three kinds of mugs. Two different sponges. One impulse-buy LED desk lamp shaped like a moon.
I pointed at it. "Seriously?"
He shrugged. "Aesthetic matters."
"So do rent payments."
"You mocking my moon lamp?"
"Yes. Viciously."
But I was laughing now. So was he.
It was so easy—easier than I expected. Like we'd been doing this forever. Except we hadn't. Not like this. Not with me being almost-adult and him… whatever he was now. Somewhere between familiar and completely unknown.
As we stood in line, Raven glanced down at me. "You always this opinionated when shopping?"
"Only when I'm paired with questionable cart strategies and poor garlic decisions."
He chuckled. "You know, you're more—" he paused. "You're a lot more vocal than you used to be."
"Trauma'll do that," I deadpanned.
He smiled, but not in a pitying way. "Nah. I think it's good."
And I didn't know what to do with that.
So I turned and started scanning impulse candy. "Want gum? Or should I just start chewing it passive-aggressively near you?"
He reached past me, tossed a bag of sour gummies into the cart. "Compromise."
My hand brushed his wrist when he passed the bag back.
Just for a second.
He didn't flinch.
Neither did I.
But my heart sure did.