Giving Kenzi a cursory look and an amused huff at her remark about the wine, he keeps his attention on the pasta. Looks like they're either out of farfalle or it's further down the aisle. Rumlow is about to take a step forward when Kenzi's arms snake around him. He hums a note, a smile automatically settling on his lips. He reaches back for her, hand stroking down her side.

It's all sweet and affectionate and domestic; all that shit -- until she suggests conchiglie. His brows grow sharp and he pulls out of her arms to look down at her with obvious (and over-dramatized) disgust. Really? Conchiglie for a pasta primavera? He might have hit his head and gotten amnesia, but he hasn't forgotten something so important as choosing the right kind of noodle.

"If you wanted a poorly distributed sauce and vegetables."

Rumlow snatches the box of fettuccine and puts it in the cart.