Receiving groceries

You settle onto the bed, phone in hand, and type to Janelle: "Hey! Should I bring anything for the closet reorg? Snacks? Hangers? My professional opinion? "

Her reply comes in under a minute: "omg yes your professional opinion. also we have snacks covered—my mom is making her brown butter banana bread. wren's bringing hangers. just bring yourself!! "

You type back a thumbs-up and set the phone aside. Banana bread. You're being welcomed into someone's home with baked goods. The normalcy of it makes something warm settle in your chest.

You spend the next few minutes at the vanity, practicing the smoky eye technique LUXE taught you. You wipe it off twice—too heavy, then too patchy—before managing a passable soft gradient on your left eye. The right eye is trickier. You end up with a slightly uneven blend that you smooth out with your fingertip, then decide to leave well enough alone. The peach lip tint stays. The taupe shadow stays. Simple and functional, like you planned.

Good enough for closet work. Not good enough for a date. Progress.

At 10:28am, HAVEN announces: "Miss Chloe, the grocery delivery has arrived at the front entrance."

You head downstairs, the joggers swishing softly with each step, the canvas sneakers quiet on the marble. The front door unlocks automatically as you approach—HAVEN recognizing you without hesitation.

The delivery driver is younger than you expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Stocky build, close-cropped dirty-blond hair, a faded green polo with the grocery store logo stretched across his shoulders. He's holding two reusable bags and a cardboard box, and when he sees you, his eyes do that quick up-down scan that you're starting to recognize.

"Hey—grocery delivery for the Ellison residence?" His voice is slightly breathless, like he jogged from the van.

"That's us. Come on in—I'll show you where the kitchen is." You hold the door wider, tilting your head slightly, letting a small smile play at the corner of your mouth.

He steps inside, boots scuffing the threshold. "Sure, yeah. I'm Gus. New route—haven't been out here before. Place is... wow."

"It's a lot," you agree, walking ahead of him toward the kitchen. You let your hips move naturally—the sway that's become second nature—and you can feel his attention on your back like sunlight. "The kitchen's through here. You can just set everything on the island."

Gus sets down the bags with a thud, then the box. "Cool. Cool. You, uh—you live here alone?"

"House-sitting for family." You turn and lean one hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed. "Big empty house, lots of quiet. It's nice, though."

"Yeah, I bet." He's fidgeting with the delivery receipt, pen clicking. "Need a signature?"

You take the clipboard from him, fingers brushing his knuckles—deliberately, lightly—and sign with a flourish. "All yours."

"Thanks. Hey—this is a weird question, but are you related to the Ellisons? You've got that look."

"Something like that." You smile, enigmatic, and hand the clipboard back. "Thanks for carrying everything in, Gus."

He lingers for half a second too long, then nods and heads for the door. "Anytime. I mean—weekly. It's a weekly delivery. But yeah."

You watch him go, the front door closing behind him, and feel a small electric thrill run through you.

That was fun. Harmless, but fun.

HAVEN's cleaning drones will handle putting the groceries away—you've seen them do it before, efficient little discs whisking items into cabinets and the refrigerator. You grab a banana from the box for the road, check the time—12:15pm—and decide it's time to head out.

The bike ride takes twenty-two minutes. The wind catches your loose face-framing pieces and tugs at the claw clip. The joggers are perfect for pedaling—no skirt bunching, no fabric restriction. You arrive at Janelle's address—a modest two-story colonial with a wraparound porch—at 12:58pm.

A silver Honda CR-V sits in the driveway. The front door is already open, and you can hear music—something upbeat, pop-punk—drifting from inside. Janelle appears in the doorway wearing high-waisted jeans and a fitted white ribbed top, box braids loose over her shoulders, gold hoops catching the light.

"Riley! You're early! Come in, come in—my mom's in the kitchen being embarrassing already." She waves you inside with both hands, grinning wide.