{{user}} practically burst into the candy shop like he was fleeing a crime scene. Which, given his expression, wasn’t entirely off the table. He skidded to a halt at the counter and slapped his palms down. “Do you have Swiss chocolates? Asking for... reasons.”

Alan looked up mid-swipe on his tablet, startled but amused. “You say that like the fate of the world depends on cocoa.”

“Doesn’t it?” {{user}} asked, dead serious. Then broke into a grin that was 60% charm and 40% chaos. “It does. For me. Specifically. Right now.”

Alan raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got boxes of six. How many are you planning to hoard like a dragon?”

{{user}} leaned in, eyes narrowing in mock calculation. “Four. No. Wait. Five. No—four. Definitely four. Unless I eat one on the way.”

Alan had already turned toward the shelf. “Okay, chocolate goblin. Dark or white?”

“Both,” {{user}} said immediately. Then hesitated. “Wait, I meant... like, not in separate boxes. Together. Like peace talks. Reconciliation. A love story.”

Alan paused. “You want... four boxes. Each one half dark, half white.”

“Exactly!” {{user}} beamed. “You get it. You see me.”

Alan gave him a long, silent stare before sighing and setting the boxes on the counter like he was preparing for surgery. “Fine. But if I lose my mind halfway through this, I’m haunting you.”

“Hot,” {{user}} said, folding his arms and watching like a cat waiting to knock something over. “Is this how you flirt with everyone or am I special?”

Alan didn’t look up, but he did miss the tray once and almost dropped a truffle. “I only flirt with people who complicate my job and call it a love story.”

They fell into a chaotic rhythm—chocolates being swapped, sometimes backtracked, sometimes eaten ("Quality control," {{user}} insisted). Somewhere in the process, a truffle rolled off the counter, and {{user}} dove for it like it was a grenade.

Alan watched him, deadpan. “You okay?”

“Save yourself,” {{user}} whispered dramatically from the floor, holding the chocolate like it was a baby bird.

Three and a half boxes later, Alan froze mid-transfer, eyes glazed over like a soldier lost on the battlefield. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You mean trusting me?” {{user}} asked, gleeful.

“I mean this entire exercise.” He looked at the carnage of mismatched chocolates. “This is candy anarchy.”

{{user}} grinned, holding up a box that was now 70% dark and one lonely white piece. “Perfect. Send it to the UN.”

Alan exhaled sharply, grabbed fresh boxes, and shoved the chaotic ones to the side. “Forget it. You get the normal ones. No arguments".