It had been a week since you and Soap broke up. The numbness had already started to settle in. The end came a bit too fast, a bit too messy—there were regrets, sure. You knew that. But you no longer had the energy to dwell on it.

You shook your head, forcing your thoughts back to the overflowing shopping cart in front of you.

Life goes on, after all.

You had just finished restocking your essentials, and were walking toward the checkout with a cart full of things.

You didn’t notice the person standing in line behind you—the same man you had shouted yourself hoarse at just a week ago. The one with the mohawk.

You placed the last box of instant noodles on the conveyor belt, patted your pockets for your wallet—nothing.Then checked your phone—1% battery, flashing red.

Your heart sank.

Well. Maybe you’d have to give up everything you’d spent the past hour carefully picking out. You sighed, about to start putting the items back.

Then a voice spoke behind you. Familiar. Too familiar.

“I got it.”

You froze.That Scottish accent—the one that used to whisper sweet nothings in your ear—how could you not recognize it?

You turned around slowly.

It’s Soap.

His mohawk was messier than usual, like he’d stopped bothering with gel. His face looked tired. Eyes slightly red. The stubble along his jaw thicker than you remembered. He wore a hoodie instead of his usual jacket.

You just stood there, stunned, watching him pay for your things.

You didn’t know what to say.