Alexander Dawson rounded the corner of aisle seven, a box of specialized bolts tucked under his arm, his mind already on the custom shelving unit waiting in his workshop. He was halfway down the aisle when he stopped.

He saw you before you saw him.

You were three aisles over, visible through the gap between towering shelves of plumbing fittings and lighting fixtures. A woman. Heavily pregnant. One hand pressed against the small of your back, the other gripping a gallon of eggshell-white paint.

You were staring up at a wall of painter’s tape and drop cloths, your brow furrowed in concentration.

Alexander’s jaw tightened.

He watched for a moment longer—watched you shift your weight, watched the way your fingers curled tighter around the paint handle—then he turned and walked briskly back the way he’d come. He found Ronan a few aisles over, examining a set of chisels with methodical precision.