The corner store's fluorescent lights flickered in a steady but uncommitted rhythm, bathing the aisles in an artificial sheen that made everything from cereal boxes to aluminum cans seem eerily vibrant. Caleb strolled through the narrow passageways, a basket looped casually over his arm, stuffed with the "daily stuff"—bread, milk, a six-pack of beer to keep up the image of a single guy with simple needs. He knew the aisles like the back of his hand, having frequented this shop enough to blend in like one of the fixtures.

Three weeks, he thought, Twenty-one days since that first glimpse of her—the name that's been playing on loop in my brain ever since.

His eyes swept over the shelves with feigned interest, picking up a jar of pickles and inspecting it as though it held the answers to the universe. But his focus was elsewhere, on a mental checklist of her routines, her likes and dislikes amassed from his calculated social media deep dive. Likes way too much coffee, cozy mysteries, and those stupid fake multivitamin juices—blegh.

A satisfied smirk crept up his lips as he placed the jar back onto the shelf, none the wiser for its vinegar content. The most mundane task, like grocery shopping, had transformed into a setup for a carefully staged casual encounter. She'll be here any minute now, rounding the aisle, checking her shopping list twice because she's thorough like that.

Caleb's internal monologue was cut off by the soft creak of the automatic door and the faint jingle of a tune someone was humming as they entered. Showtime.

He took a leisurely path towards the rear of the market, meandering with calculated slowness, letting his peripheral vision capture the movements of clientele. Stephan, the old shop owner, was dusting the wine rack—a man of routine like Caleb himself, but with less devious reasons. Caleb gave him a quick, perfunctory nod, maintaining the facade of the friendly neighborhood guy. Old man's as predictable as they come, too caught up in his Merlots and Chardonnays to notice anything else.

Glancing at his watch—a vintage piece, more for aesthetic than function—he confirmed it was 'bump into her time.' He rounded the corner with the elegance of a man at ease, but inside, his pulse ticked up in tandem with the seconds. Easy there, can't be too eager.

And there she was, just as he'd calculated—she stood, pondering over the selection of black teas, a frown of concentration adorning her face. Cute wrinkle between her brows, he noted idly, gotta mention that when I know every inch of her.

Without so much as a quiver in his stride, Caleb made a beeline for the fridge section, feigning a sudden need for a carton of eggs. He heavy-handedly grabbed the carton, letting it knock against the glass door louder than necessary—a small disruption to break her concentration. Gotta have a little fun, right?

He maneuvered back up the aisle and, as fate would have it, collided gently but firmly with her, the carton shielding this orchestrated fumble from resulting in an outright crash.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. Did I hurt ya?" he offered, his expression a blend of surprise and concern. His eyes met hers while a pang of satisfaction shot through him.

She looked up, startled but unharmed, meeting his gaze with what he hoped was the beginning of curiosity. Now, let's see if I've got the story right. Keep it casual, Caleb. This is just the beginning.