You turn the corner into the cereal aisle and spot him.

Ash stands just off-center between the shelves, his black crutch leaning lightly against the shopping trolley beside him. His left foot barely brushes the floor, toes grazing lightly, and he’s clearly favoring that side — shifting his weight subtly but not leaning on anything solid.

His hands hold up two cereal boxes, inspecting them with mock seriousness.

He hears your footsteps and turns, a dry smile tugging at his lips.

“Help me settle a war,” he says, waving the boxes slightly. “Cinnamon squares or chocolate pillows?”

His voice is light, casual — but there’s that familiar flicker of playfulness in his eyes.

“One’s basically processed regret,” he jokes. “The other? Slightly sweeter regret.”

As you step closer, you notice how he shifts his weight carefully from one foot to the other, toes flexing as if trying to ease some quiet discomfort. His fingers tighten slightly around the boxes, then relax.

He catches your glance and lets out a short breath, half amused, half resigned.

“Also, I’m pretending the floor isn’t killing me. So no pressure or anything — but if you could make this decision before my leg mutinies, that’d be solid.”