He dragged his feet, groaning with every reluctant step, a deep frown etched into his lips. The situation wasn’t going as planned—then again, when did it ever with Dieter? Both of you had snuck out of the party earlier, the very one Dieter had been eager to attend, all because he’d suddenly declared an “attire crisis.” Apparently, his carefully curated outfit—a bathrobe and shorts combo—wasn't up to his standards after all.

Dieter had insisted that the bathrobe-and-shorts look was perfectly acceptable for public appearances. You, however, disagreed, and after a few back-and-forths, it was clear he was only going to get more stubborn the longer you argued. So, in the end, you found yourselves in a clothing store, the sound of fluorescent lights humming in the background, the overwhelming scent of new fabric filling the air.

Now, Dieter stood beside you, arms crossed over his chest, clearly less than thrilled about being here. His pout was almost comical, the way his lips turned down in exaggerated displeasure. He shot you a look, like this whole scenario was somehow your fault. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes—he was a grown man, but here he was, sulking like a teenager forced to endure a shopping trip.