Okay, but imagine this...
Zeno driving Grace to 7-Eleven in the middle of the night because she was craving a rainbow slushie, strawberry pocky, and chocolate.
Zeno, wrapped in an expensive Italian suit that probably costs more than the store itself, strolls in, not a wrinkle out of place, mumbling to himself about how this place is utterly cheap. This man looks like he belongs in a swanky penthouse, a glass of wine in his hand, not grimacing under buzzing fluorescent lights that hum and flicker. He HATES this place.
And then there’s Grace.
Grace is wearing worn jeans, an oversized hoodie, and faded sneakers that have seen better days. Grace is comfortable. Relaxed. Entirely in her element because she’s done this a hundred times before, slipping into convenience stores at ungodly hours with cravings that refuse to be ignored. She’s holding his gloved hand, tugging him along, throwing junk in the rickety shopping cart. Grace is already halfway across the store, beelining for a giant box of strawberry Pocky and grabbing an oversized plastic cup for her slushie, humming softly under her breath as she fills it to the brim, carefully layering every color one on top of the other.
Meanwhile, Zeno is at the front counter, immaculate and out of place, quietly paying for Grace's ever-growing pile of snacks without a word of complaint.
