Ethan stood outside his house, his breath held deep in his lungs. A familiar nervousness crept up his spine. He let the air out in a long sigh.
"Three weeks…" he muttered to himself. "I said I'd be back in a few days, and it's been three whole weeks. I'm so screwed."
His hand clutched the warm paper bags—one filled with his mother's favorite crispy fried chicken, the other with his father's comfort food, braised pork belly with steamed rice. His secret weapons of apology. With a smirk, he muttered, "Alright. I've got this."
He raised his hand and knocked.
From inside, muffled voices echoed through the hallway. A man and a woman, bickering with that same timeless rhythm.
"I told you to open the door!" came a sharp voice. His mother, Elise.
"And I told you I'm watching Goreamon! You go open it," grumbled Arthur, his father.
Ethan chuckled. "Some things never change."
"You're seriously still watching cartoons? You're a grown man!" Elise snapped, her irritation rising.
