Soldier Boy looked like a grumpy war vet shoved into enemy territory, arms crossed as he eyed the neon lights and endless aisles like they were landmines. Shopping carts clattered, scanners beeped, and some kid was screaming about Lucky Charms in the cereal aisle.

As much as he complained and was a total b-tch about almost everything, he'd actually do whatever the hell you'd ask him to. He leaned toward you, lowering his voice like this was a classified op.

“So,” he drawled, eyes darting around with suspicion, “where the hell do we go first? The booze section? Or do we have to play by your 'no drinking before 3pm' rule?”