“Will,” Abbie said as they walked through the supermarket’s bright, white entryway. “I … I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings. I do … care about you very much, you know. I always have. You’re—well, you’re one of the best men I know.” Since she was Abbie, she started this speech with her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. But since she was also brave, she turned to look at him partway through, her jaw set and her expression determined. “You’re very special to me, and I hope we—” She paused. Blinked. Squinted at him from behind her glasses. “Are you wearing a fake moustache?”

He smiled. It wasn’t his best attempt, current feelings considered, but it was mostly hidden by the hunk of synthetic hair on his face, so he probably got away with it. “Yep.”

“You are wearing a fake moustache,” she repeated, “over your … actual moustache.”

“I don’t have a moustache,” he said. “I have stylish two-day stubble.”

“Oh my fucking God,” she muttered, but there was a smile teasing at the edges of her lips, and that was all he wanted right now.

“What?” he asked as they wound their way through harried shoppers. “You don’t like it?”

“The dead-mouse look? It’s not your finest moment,” she replied, “but somehow, you’re actually pulling it off.”

Will winked.

She bit back a grin, and her gaze slipped away from him. “I have to tell you, though: if you’re hoping not to be recognised, you might want to go with a better disguise.”

“It’s the week before Christmas, Abbie,” he said confidently. “People have their own shit going on. No one’ll bother looking twice at me.”

She snorted. “If you say so.”

“I’m serious. I haven’t been hot property since, what, 2016? Only fans recognise me, and I doubt we’ll bump into any. This is just a precaution.”

“Noted,” she said dryly. And when she looked at him again, he knew he wasn’t imagining the gratitude in her gaze. A moment of unspoken agreement shimmered between them: it was easier to forget the upheaval and just get on with things, to be the way they’d always been. At least, it was easier for Abbie.

They swerved neatly around a toddler having a meltdown next to a promotional display of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges—Will didn’t blame the kid—and entered their first aisle. “Got the list?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered, pulling Ms Tricia’s hastily scrawled-on notepaper from her pocket. The handwriting was smooth and flowing and elegant and kind of impossible to read; Abbie had always been the best at deciphering it. “Grandma apparently decided that grouping by categories was unnecessary, so we’ll have to go through each aisle and hope we don’t miss anything.”

“I’ll tell you where we’re at, you tell me what we need. Teamwork.”