#mitch keller

'The corners of his lips twitched—ours.'

“We came here for dinner and pie ingredients, Sam, not mugs with cheesy lines.” You reminded him for the umpteenth time with an exasperated smile as you browsed the baking aisle for vanilla extract, briefly frowning when you noticed that your usual, cheaper option was sold out like hotcakes. 

‘Fall baking season’ and all.

“C’mon, humour me.” He pouted, holding two stupidly cute autumn-themed mugs, matching with their own, beige-y with cursive ‘cuddle weather’ written on the front.

So, you did, eyeing the mugs, playfully critical before snorting softly, “Really, Sam?”

They weren’t terrible, but it didn’t.. feel like the two of you.

Sam’s eyes dropped down to the mugs once more, assessing the same way you did before he nodded with a touché look, “You’re right.”

He placed the mugs back before taking the cute ghost-shaped mugs with little ‘o’ expressions, already grinning as he showed them to you.

“Huh?” He persisted with a waggle of his brow.

“Is it really necessary?” You asked, though not as reluctantly as you were when you and Sam arrived at the quiet supermarket a while ago.

“I’m paying.” He responded in a sing-song manner, drawling his reminder as he subtly shook the mugs in his hands in an attempt to tempt you further. His smile was already widening more than it was possible, knowing he was getting through you.

You sighed, though nowhere near annoyance or the like. Just amused, touched, that this knucklehead of yours had a habit of looking at anything and thinking about you, one way or another, “In the basket, Flynn.”

Whispering a triumphant ‘yes!’, he placed the matching mugs in the basket before he came up to you, perching his chin on your shoulder and arms around you as he looked at the vanilla extracts in your hands, the only ones that remained in stock.

“How’s it going?” He asked, no rush at all.

“Not my usual…” You murmured, looking at the one in your left hand, then the right, both bottles interesting and something you wouldn’t mind substituting for your usual.

… If not for one thing, something he knew always held you back.

He hummed in understanding, “I did say anything you want, beautiful.”

He did say that, didn’t he?

Or maybe…

“And no, we can’t get vanilla extracts instead. I’m not letting you.” He tightened his arms around you, reminding you, playful but also firm.

You pouted because, of course, he knew what you thought for a moment there.

He let you think it through once more before you raised one of the two, “Could we?”

“That what you want? Sure?” He asked, glancing at both price points, “Not taking it because it’s cheaper?”

You shook your head. Well, not the main reason why. The one you favoured, being a tad cheaper, was a bonus, but no, it just looked better than the other one.

And… well, you were trying. For Sam, the man who wanted nothing more than to spoil you in every way possible, and that included things that you wanted.

He playfully narrowed his eyes at you before kissing your cheek, then cocked his head to the basket, “Alright, pretty girl. Whatever you want.”

You missed the way his eyes followed as you placed the bottle in the basket, between the other ingredients and the pair of ghost mugs, another addition to his container-bunker home—dare he say, now, becoming yours, too, since you started leaving your clothes two months ago.

The corners of his lips twitched into a small smile—ours.

Always has been. 

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