Page 29 of Canned & Coated

“Hey guys!” Milo pops up at the end of the aisle, basket hooked over his arm. “Quick poll.”

I exhale, relief flooding through me. “What’s up?”

Milo dangles a small bottle between his fingers. The label catches the light.

Lubricant.

Heat floods my face. “No. God. Why would we need that?”

Milo’s eyes flick between us, something calculating settling in. “Okay… Thought I’d ask.”

Tanner coughs into his fist, turning away, shoulders shaking as he works to suppress a full out cackle.

Milo tosses the bottle back onto the shelf with practiced nonchalance. “Anyway, found everything for tacos.”

“Perfect,” I mutter, accidentally locking eyes with Tanner and his knowing smirk as I blindly toss my can into Milo’s basket.

Milo glances down. “Beans?”

“They go in tacos,” I say, clinging to the mundane logic of ingredients and recipes because these are things with clear purposes and defined roles.

“I wouldn’t have picked refried, but sure,” he says, shrugging. Then, under his breath, “Are you good?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Why?”

“You grabbed the same can three times.”

“I was comparing brands.”

“Mm. Deep research.” He bumps his shoulder into mine. “Proud of you for keeping it together, though.”

I shoot him a look. “I am together.”

“Absolutely,” he says. “Thriving. Glowing. Not at all vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear. C’mon, domestic king, let’s go pay for your emotional support beans.”

He pivots toward checkout, hooking the basket more securely on his arm. I follow, grateful for the movement, for the simple promise of a beginning and an end.

Behind us, Tanner maintains exactly seventeen inches of distance. It’s close enough that the air between us feels charged, far enough that accidental contact remains impossible.

I count his footsteps without wanting to. I track the subtle shifts when he leans to examine something, the way space expands and contracts around him like a living thing.

This should be easy. We came here for food. We got food. We leave. That’s it. But nothing about this is that simple anymore.

Milo glances back once, then leans in, voice low against my ear. “You know I meant it, right?”

I don’t ask what part. I already know.

I fix my gaze on the ancient cash register ahead, its yellowed keys promising escape.

Normal. Act normal.

Milo nudges me again. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, like he’s both amused and completely serious.

If I hear it enough, maybe it’ll start to feel true.

8

The rain mostly lets up by the time we make it back to camp, tapering into a soft drizzle that taps against the tent. Inside, we fall into old rhythms. Tanner deals cards with that easy flick of his wrist, Milo sprawls across his sleeping bag, and I settle between them, the space smaller than I remember but somehow the same.