Chapter 141

Chapter 141
Anna POV

The grocery store was one of those massive twenty-four-hour places that always felt slightly surreal in the evening light, fluorescent brightness spilling out onto the parking lot as we pulled in. Edward found a spot near the entrance, and I was already reaching for the door handle when I felt his hand on my arm, gentle but insistent.

"What are you making?" he asked, and there was something almost boyish in his curiosity, like a kid being told he'd get dessert if he finished his vegetables.

"Sugar and vinegar spare ribs," I said, ticking off items on my fingers as I mentally reviewed the ingredients I'd need. "Garlic baby bok choy. Seaweed and egg drop soup."

His eyes lit up at that, and I felt a small flutter of satisfaction in my chest at his obvious enthusiasm. "That sounds incredible," he said, and I had to look away before he could see how much his approval affected me, how pathetically eager I was for any sign that he wanted this, wanted to be here, wanted to share this small domestic ritual with me.

Inside, the produce section was a riot of color and abundance, perfectly arranged pyramids of vegetables and fruits gleaming under the bright lights. I grabbed a cart, and Edward fell into step beside me with an ease that felt both natural and slightly strange, like we were playing at being a normal couple doing normal couple things.

At the meat counter, I started examining the spare ribs, looking for pieces with the right ratio of meat to bone, and was surprised when Edward leaned in beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he peered at the selection.

"These look good," he said, pointing to a particularly nice-looking rack, and I had to bite back a smile at how seriously he was taking this.

"You don't know how to pick spare ribs," I said, unable to resist teasing him a little.

"Then teach me," he replied immediately, and there was no defensiveness in his tone, just genuine interest, and something about that—about his willingness to learn, to participate in this small thing—made my chest feel tight.

I showed him what to look for, explaining about the marbling and the color of the meat, and he listened with the same intense focus he probably brought to boardroom negotiations, asking questions and nodding thoughtfully at my answers. The butcher behind the counter watched us with barely concealed amusement, probably wondering what a couple dressed like we were was doing being so invested in spare rib selection, but I found I didn't care.

In the vegetable section, Edward reached for a head of baby bok choy, holding it up like a trophy. "This one looks good," he announced, clearly pleased with himself.

I examined it critically, noting the slightly wilted outer leaves, and shook my head. "You want them tight and compact, see?" I picked up a better specimen, showing him the difference. "The leaves should be crisp and bright green, not starting to yellow at the edges."

"I see," he said, setting down his rejected choice and studying the one I'd selected with the same seriousness he'd brought to the spare ribs. "So basically, I'm terrible at this."

"You're learning," I corrected, and was rewarded with a smile that made something warm unfold in my chest, spreading outward until I felt it in my fingertips.

We moved through the store like that, Edward asking questions and making suggestions, me correcting him or agreeing or explaining, and it felt absurdly domestic, absurdly normal, like we were just two people planning a meal together instead of two people with the kind of complicated, messy history we had.

At the condiment aisle, I reached for sugar and vinegar, and Edward was already moving, anticipating what I'd need next. "Ginger, garlic, and scallions?" he asked, and I nodded, surprised and pleased that he'd been paying attention.

He returned a moment later with everything I'd listed, plus a bunch of cilantro I hadn't asked for. "I thought you might want this too," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he offered it, like he was hoping for approval.

"Perfect," I said, adding it to the cart, and watched his expression brighten in response.

At the checkout, I started to reach for my wallet, but Edward was faster, his credit card already in the reader before I could protest. I opened my mouth to argue, to insist that I could pay for my own groceries, but he caught my hand in his, his thumb stroking across my knuckles in a gesture that was both comforting and quietly possessive.

"Let me do this," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. "Please. Let me do something."

And there was something in his tone—something vulnerable and almost pleading—that made me close my mouth and nod, squeezing his hand in acknowledgment even as I felt that familiar push-pull of wanting to maintain my independence while simultaneously wanting to lean into this, into him, into the possibility of us.

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The drive back to my apartment felt different somehow, charged with a quiet anticipation that made the air between us feel thick and warm despite the air conditioning. The sun had dipped lower now, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange and deep purple, and the city was beginning to light up around us, buildings transforming from concrete and glass into glowing monuments against the darkening sky.

I found myself watching Edward's profile as he drove, the way the fading light caught the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows that suggested he was thinking about something, the capable way his hands rested on the steering wheel. And I thought about the grocery bags in the back seat, about the ingredients we'd selected together, about the meal we were going to share, and felt a strange, almost painful sense of déjà vu.

This could have been us, I thought, the realization hitting me with unexpected force. This could have been our life—coming home together at the end of the day, stopping at the store, going back to our place to cook dinner together. This simple, ordinary thing that somehow felt more intimate than any of the grand gestures or expensive gifts or carefully orchestrated social events we'd participated in during our marriage.

The thought made my heart race and my palms go clammy, made something that felt dangerously like hope bloom in my chest even as my rational mind tried to shut it down, tried to remind me of all the ways this could go wrong, all the reasons I shouldn't let myself believe in this fragile, tentative thing growing between us.

At a red light, Edward glanced over and caught me staring. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice soft in the quiet car.

"Nothing," I said automatically, looking away, but he reached over and caught my hand where it rested on my lap, threading his fingers through mine in a gesture that felt both casual and deeply significant.

"Liar," he said, but there was no accusation in it, just a sort of gentle amusement, and he brought our joined hands up to rest on the center console, his thumb resuming that slow, soothing stroke across my knuckles that seemed to be becoming a habit.

The light turned green, but he didn't let go of my hand, just shifted slightly so he could drive one-handed while keeping me tethered to him, and I found I didn't want to pull away, didn't want to break this small connection that somehow felt larger than it should.

As we pulled up outside my building, the streetlights were just beginning to flicker on, casting pools of warm light onto the sidewalk. Edward parked and turned off the engine, but neither of us moved immediately, both of us seeming reluctant to break the spell of the moment, to return to the real world where things were complicated and messy and uncertain.

Finally, Edward squeezed my hand once more before releasing it to grab the grocery bags from the back seat, and I led the way up to my apartment, hyperaware of his presence behind me, of the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, of the way he waited patiently while I fumbled with my keys, my hands still slightly unsteady from everything I was feeling.

Inside, I flicked on the lights and immediately moved toward the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands, some task to focus on that would help me process the strange, overwhelming feelings churning in my chest. Edward followed, setting the bags on the counter and then just standing there, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"You can sit," I said, gesturing toward the small dining table in the corner. "This is going to take a while."

But he shook his head, rolling up his sleeves in a gesture that was both practical and somehow incredibly attractive. "Put me to work," he said. "I want to help."

And so I did, assigning him simple tasks—washing the vegetables, peeling ginger, measuring out ingredients—and watching as he approached each one with the same focused intensity he brought to everything, asking questions when he wasn't sure, following my instructions with a precision that made me want to both laugh and cry.

We worked in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the running water, the rhythmic thunk of my knife against the cutting board, the occasional clink of bowls and measuring spoons. And gradually, I felt myself relaxing into it, into this simple shared activity, into the domestic intimacy of cooking together in my small kitchen as the evening deepened outside my windows.

When I finally slid the ribs into the oven and set the timer, Edward was at the sink washing the last of the prep dishes, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hair slightly mussed from where he'd run his fingers through it. He looked rumpled and real and utterly unlike the polished, untouchable Edward Frost I'd married, and something in my chest twisted at the sight.

He turned and caught me staring again, and this time I didn't look away. "Thank you," I said quietly. "For helping. For being here."

He dried his hands on the dish towel, then crossed the small space between us in two strides, his hands coming up to frame my face with a gentleness that made my breath catch. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he said, his voice rough and sincere, and then he was kissing me, soft and sweet and unhurried, like we had all the time in the world, like this moment—this ordinary, perfect moment in my tiny kitchen with the smell of cooking ribs filling the air—was exactly where we both belonged.