A night breeze drifted through the brownstone steps, carrying the faint hum of New York traffic. Raul Albarado leaned against the railing, his broad shoulders relaxed, his grin small but certain. Beside him, Ethan stood still in his travel jacket, the porch light brushing streaks of gold across his blond hair. For a long while, neither spoke. The echoes of the evening—victory, sweat, the roar of a gym still fresh in their bones—hung in the silence.
Raul finally broke it. "You've really grown strong, Ethan. As expected of my nephew." His tone carried the weight of a man who had lived basketball, not just played it.
Ethan gave a modest smile, not too wide, not too sharp. "Well… I'm trying to be better." He hesitated, then turned his gaze toward Raul, his voice sharpening. "And also… how's Cloud?"
At the mention of his son, Raul's grin deepened with paternal pride. "Cloud? He's in the semi-final too. Worked his tail off for it."
