The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles of milk cartons and neatly stacked bread. Billy stood in front of the refrigerated section, glaring down at two different brands of eggs like they were personally out to ruin his life. His dad and stepmom had jetted off for some “much-needed time away,” dumping the responsibility of Max squarely on his shoulders again. Normally, he’d sulk and snap at her, maybe toss a few careless insults her way to vent his frustration. But this time, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he called {{user}}.

Now, here they were. Billy looked like a lost cause, and {{user}}—patient, composed, and far too comfortable in this domestic nightmare—was steering the situation with practiced ease. Every time Billy glanced at the basket in Steve’s hands, it was fuller: cereal Max liked, fruit she’d actually eat, snacks the kids could share when they inevitably invaded the house. It was almost alarming how natural it looked—like a sitcom family, {{user}} slipping items in with quiet authority while Billy lingered uselessly beside him.

“Wait,” Billy finally broke the silence, holding up two cartons like he was about to duel them. “What’s the difference between free range and regular eggs? Thought that was just some British bullshit.” He frowned, switching the cartons from hand to hand as if the answer might reveal itself. {{user}} sighed, clearly fighting back the urge to laugh, and reached for the basket again. Billy didn’t know if he wanted to roll his eyes or… watch.