And snacks.
So many snacks I don't even know where to start.
"When's the last time anyone went grocery shopping?" I ask.
Silence.
"And I mean actual grocery shopping," I clarify. "Not a convenience store run for chips. Which don't belong in the fridge, by the way."
More silence.
Phoenix scratches the back of his neck. "We, uh, order in a lot."
"Alot," Rafael echoes.
I close the fridge. Open the freezer. Two bags of frozen pizza rolls and a bottle of vodka.
"Don't you cook?" I ask Phoenix.
"When I have time," Phoenix says with a nervous laugh. "Been… uh…busy."
He looks at both me and Raf when he says that.
If I thought Raf was turning redbefore…
I close the freezer. "We're going to the store."
"Right now?" Phoenix perks up like I just suggested a trip to Six Flags.
"Right now. I'm making a list."
I'm already pulling open drawers, looking for paper. I find a pad of Post-its shaped like skulls—Raf's, definitely—and a pen. Okay, so the ink is gel and the exact color of blood, and now I'm noticing it's topped by a tiny rubber bat with floppy wings, but whatever.
"I'll drive," Phoenix volunteers immediately.
Raf leans against the counter, arms crossed. "I'll come too."
Phoenix raises his eyebrows at Raf. "Have you evenbeento a grocery store? Like, inside one? You know it isn't Hot Topic, right?"
Raf narrows his eyes at Phoenix. "Yes."
Forty minutes later,I'm standing in the entrance of a Trader Joe's, wearing my full disguise plus a baseball cap pulled low and flanked by two alphas in the same disguises they wore to the coffee shop.
A cart is squeaking somewhere and Raf is looking around with his eyes narrowed in concentration like he's never heard that sound in his life.
I'm nowverysure this alpha has never seen the inside of a grocery store.
I pull my list from my hoodie pocket.
Three pages of skull-shaped Post-its, front and back, written in my neatest handwriting that's… drippy, and I'm trying to hold out hope that wasn't actualblood in the pen.
Vegetables. Proteins. Grains. Dairy. Spices. Cleaning supplies. Ice cream, which has been squeezed in between cleaning supplies and spices in Phoenix's handwriting. His giant hands are surprisingly capable of writing in teeny-tiny font.
The basics of a functional kitchen that hasn't been fed exclusively through DoorDash.
And I have the fucking butterflies again.
This is stupid. It's grocery shopping. It shouldn't feel like anything.