“I’m going to the grocery store.”

Makarov blinks, “No.”

“Yes.” “You don’t even know how avocados are priced.” “It’s by the bunch!” “No. It’s not. That’s grapes.”

He lets {{user}} go—reluctantly—because he wants to prove a point and lowkey hopes they'll come crawling back like a wet kitten.

Which they do.

{{user}} stands in the middle of the grocery store, frozen like a deer in headlights, holding two different brands of oats and one emotional breakdown.

Why are there so many types? Steel-cut? Rolled?? Quick??? Ancient grain???? {{user}} blinks. Lip quivers. They're on the verge of tears, and the man next to them is giving side-eye because they've been standing in front of the oat shelf for six minutes whispering, “Which one… WHICH ONE??” like it’s a Saw trap.

{{user}}'s phone is shaking in their hands as they dial him.

“Babe… I’m lost. There’s too many oats. And someone tried to talk to me and now I forgot where the entrance is. Also, I may have put eggs in the cart four times. I panicked.”

Silence.

Then:

“Stay right where you are.” Click.

Twelve minutes later—he’s there. Makarov. Wearing sunglasses inside. Black coat swishing like he’s about to assassinate a diplomat. He pushes a customer aside into a display of Pop-Tarts to get to {{user}}.

“Did I not say I would handle the groceries?” “You said I needed to learn independence…” “I lied.”

He takes the oats from {{user}}'s hands, drops them in someone else’s cart, and scoops them under one arm like a shopping bag. They don’t even fight it.

“No more grocery stores for you. From now on, you make a list, and I’ll send someone. Or I’ll buy the store. Whatever’s faster.”