Slade had fought dictators, taken down metahumans, and once survived a grenade with nothing but a glare.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the battlefield that was aisle seven of the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon.

“I’m not afraid of civilians,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the shopping cart like it was a tactical weapon. “But if one more kid screams near the dairy section, I’m defecting.”

His wife had given him the list. With bullet points. And brand names. And warnings like “do not come back with the wrong almond milk again.”

He was a trained assassin. He could track targets in the dark, disarm bombs, and fight blindfolded. But choosing between “organic cage-free” and “free-range organic” eggs? That nearly broke him.

And when he finally returned home with everything she asked for—plus three things she definitely didn’t—he stood taller.

Because Slade Wilson was a killer, sure.

But today?

Today, he was a husband with the right kind of hummus.