Groceries, Guilt, and Girlfriends

The apartment door burst open, and then they were there.

Sarah and Portia, arms full of shopping bags, laughter bubbling in after them like champagne. Portia had at least six glossy paper bags clutched in each hand and another swinging from her elbow. Sarah followed behind, looking triumphant and windblown, eyes bright with excitement.

Hank stood up from the couch, startled by the whirlwind of motion.

"You two make out like bandits?" he asked, voice rough from an afternoon of silence.

Sarah leaned in and kissed him immediately—no hesitation, no pretense. Her lips were soft, warm, and tasted faintly of iced coffee. It wasn't like the kisses they'd shared that weekend, the ones that felt urgent and transactional. This was slower, lingering, sweet.

He felt it in his chest.

"I missed you," she murmured.

Before he could answer, Portia stepped forward and did a little spin.

"Do you like it?" she asked brightly.

It took him a moment to register what she was talking about. Then his eyes dropped, and—well. Gone were the baggy jeans and old AC/DC tee. Portia now wore a pink top, tight, revealing. Had her breasts always been that big? Her lavender skirt was thin and flowing. Her legs looked long and bare, the skin golden and glowing from the sunlight, ending in a pair of open-toed stiletto heels. It was hard to believe this was the same girl.

"I liked it so much I just wore it out of the store," she added, grinning while put her bags on the ground, grabbed the pleats of her skirt, and curtsied for him.

Hank flushed, looking from Sarah to Portia. "It's, uh… it's lovely."

Portia's grin widened. She looked genuinely pleased. "Good," she chirped. "I was hoping you'd say that. Sometimes having a man compliment what you're wearing shows you made the right choice."

Sarah gave him a teasing glance, as if to say you're not as subtle as you think you are, but then she turned her attention to the bags. "We got groceries, too," she said. "Portia insisted on cooking tonight. Said she wants to thank you properly."

"Not necessary," Hank murmured, but he couldn't help the warmth in his chest. The place suddenly felt alive. Cozy, even.

The girls bustled around the kitchenette, chatting and unloading fresh produce and colorful little boxes of spices. Eventually, Portia disappeared into the bedroom to change. Hank and Sarah retreated to the couch—technically Portia's bed—and settled in.

Sarah curled up next to him, her head resting against his shoulder. "Documentary time," she said, remote in hand. "Hope you like whales."

"I like whatever you like," he said, surprising himself.

She laughed, then looked up at him. "No, seriously. Do you like nature stuff? You seem more like a history guy."

"I… yeah. I like both. I usually just watch sports or the news, but I'm open to whatever."

That seemed to delight her. She asked about his job, what music he liked, whether he'd ever been in a fistfight. There was genuine curiosity behind her questions. Not performative interest. She listened when he answered, nodded thoughtfully, laughed when he made a dry comment about his former assistant at the firm who hoarded pens like a dragon.

And all the while, his brain buzzed with thoughts he didn't want to examine too closely.

This would be the end of their privacy. Portia was here now. No more indiscriminate sex around the apartment, no more falling asleep tangled together without another body in any room they wanted. It felt like a turning point. Something real, as if the **** formality of their relationship made it become more real than a weekend fling.

And what about Joey? Juniper?

Donna?

Eventually, he'd have to go home. He'd have to collect the rest of his things. Have the talk. He'd have to sit Joey and Juniper down, look him in the eye, and explain that his parents were no longer a unit. And Donna—well. She was a lawyer. She'd handle the legal side of things with her usual cold precision. But none of that made it easier.

He didn't want to think about it. Not now.

Sarah kissed his shoulder. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He turned to her, blinking.

"I know it's early, but it's true," she went on softly. "But I don't want to scare you off. And I won't say it again if it's too much. But I'm not going to miss another chance, Hank. Not with you."

He stared at her, amazed.

Did he love her?

He didn't know. Not yet. There was lust, yes. Infatuation. Admiration. Even something close to comfort. But love? It felt too soon. Too dangerous. But he didn't pull away.

Instead, he kissed her temple. "Thanks for telling me."

Sarah didn't seem disappointed. She just smiled and nestled deeper against his side, content with whatever he could give.

And then Portia reappeared.

She was barefoot, wearing an apron over her new outfit—thin white cotton tied at the waist. Her short hair was mussed, and her eyes sparkled.

"Dinner's on, lovebirds," she announced. "I'm making chicken marsala."

Hank blinked. "That's my favorite."

"Good," she said, brushing flour off her arm. "I was hoping I'd pick something you liked. Especially after you've been so generous with me."

There was something sweet in her tone, soft and sincere. Hank knew he shouldn't notice the way her outfit clung to her hips, the way her apron strings cut a bow at the small of her back. Not now. Not with Sarah curled against him like she belonged there. Not when he was trying to move forward with his life, not sink into another mess.

But he noticed.

God help him, he noticed.

Portia vanished again, and he turned his attention back to Sarah and the whales gliding silently across the screen. She exhaled and whispered, "This is perfect."

He swallowed.

"I mean it," she said, kissing his shoulder again. "I'm going to tell you I love you every day, okay? Even on bad days. I think those days you need it more."

He didn't answer right away. He just held her, watching the soft motion of water on the screen, and let himself feel whatever he could feel.

It wasn't love. Not yet.

But maybe, if he let it, it could be.

And for now, what he had was enough.