The hum of the automatic doors whooshed behind you as you stepped into the grocery store, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was a far cry from the noise and dust of deployment, but somehow, James looked more uncomfortable here than he ever did in the middle of a blast zone.

He pushed the cart stiffly, like it was foreign equipment he hadn’t been trained on, glancing at you for silent instruction.

“So…” he began, dragging the word out. “What exactly are we buying again?”

“Food,” you said with a smile, already reaching for a basket of apples.

“Right. But like… all of this is food,” he said, gesturing vaguely down the produce aisle. “Do we need… green stuff? Or just… regular stuff?”

You bit back a laugh. “Green stuff is regular stuff.”

He frowned at the apples in your hand. “Okay, but… how many? One? Two? A bag? What’s the rule here?”

“There’s no rule,” you explained, dropping a few into a bag. “We just buy what we’ll eat this week.”

That seemed to puzzle him even more. He followed behind you, cart squeaking as he rolled it unevenly, asking questions at every turn—why there were so many brands of cereal, whether you were supposed to weigh the bananas before checkout, if “2-for-1” actually meant you were required to take two.

For all his fearlessness in uniform, William James in a grocery store was a different kind of reckless—bumbling, out of place, but trying for your sake. And even when he grumbled about “too many choices” or muttered that he’d rather be dismantling bombs, the way his eyes lingered on you between aisles made it clear he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.