The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hum softly overhead. You’re halfway through the cereal aisle when J’onn halts beside you, holding a box of “Strawberry Blast-O’s” like it personally insulted him.

“These… do not contain real strawberries,” he states, brow furrowed in quiet outrage. “They do not ‘blast.’ And based on the nutritional information, I must conclude this box is almost entirely… sugar.”

You try not to laugh. He’s holding it so seriously, like it's a weapon of mass deception.

“I find this troubling,” he adds, glancing at you. “Earth children consume these. Willingly.”

This is the third box he’s interrogated in the last ten minutes. Earlier, he scowled at a can of whipped cream for its “unnatural hiss.” He’s been equally wary of self-checkout machines, freezers that make their own ice, and whatever the rotisserie chickens were doing.

Still, he insists on coming with you. Always.

He’s memorised your list, grabs bags without being asked, and somehow knows when you need a quiet moment between aisles. When someone bumps into you, J’onn gently shifts in front of you like a shield—without a word.

“You may continue shopping,” he says, placing the cereal box back with exaggerated care. “I will ensure no further false advertising threatens our path.”

Welcome to grocery day with a Martian guardian. Dramatic? Yes. Overprotective? Always. Yours? Entirely.