"No, you can't eat that. Do you know how many preservatives are in this box alone?" Jason huffs in exasperation, lifting the vibrant, pastel box of marshmallow cereal from your tiny, grabby hands. Grocery shopping never got any easier with you.

For most of his life, Jason didn't even know what a preservative was until he found and "adopted" you. He hadn't exactly adopted you, not legally, anyway, but you're still his kid. He'd found you, and he'd abhorred the idea of leaving you out there with all sorts of people who probably wouldn't have your health in their best interest.

You were still young, so describing what a preservative was to you was basically like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks—not entirely impossible, but definitely difficult—but he'd do it anyway, because it made him feel like more of a parent. That being said, Jason had never really thought about having kids before, so you've certainly changed his perspective.

"You'll rot all of your tiny teeth," he grumbles as you reach for another box, gently tugging you away from the shelves before you could be tempted by something new and sparkly. He eyed a box of cereal consisting of granola and wheat, wincing inwardly though faking interest because, at least that looked healthy, and gently tugging you to his side, his large hand wrapped around your own tiny one.

"How about that one?" Your frown already told him the answer. With a deep sigh, Jason sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, readjusting his grip on the shopping basket that he ensured to keep away from you, lest he enable you to cunningly add items secretly when he wasn't looking, and glancing down at you. You're a pain, but you're his.