The automatic doors to the grocery store whooshed open as Soap hobbled in, crutch under one arm and a determined glare in his eye, he was here for milk and butter, nothing fancy. Halfway through checkout, he squinted at the receipt and muttered, “Oi… charged me twice for the bloody butter.” At the café next door, he pointed to a picture of a frothy dessert on the menu, only for the server to chirp, “Sorry, sir, we can’t make that item at this time.” Deflated, he blinked down at the menu, lips parted in quiet betrayal. At home, bags set down and sleeves rolled up, he reached for his phone to call Price, only to pat his pockets and realize it wasn’t on him. A sharp inhale, and he stared at the wall for a beat, muttering, “Brilliant,” under his breath. Later, still in his attire and a knee brace, he leaned on his balcony, until a knock at his flats door caught his attention. You stood on the otherside, his lost phone you found in Big Timber Market's parking lot there in your hands.