The tension started at the dinner table.
A forced "family dinner."
Both sets of parents.
Neutral ground.
White tablecloths. Fake smiles. Too much wine.
Mek's father sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes burning holes into Pete.
"Is this a phase, Mek?"
Mek didn't blink. "No."
"You used to date girls."
"And I used to believe in Santa. We move on."
Pete nearly choked on his wine.
Mek's mother reached for his hand, voice brittle. "Sweetheart, you can't live like this. What about children? What about your reputation?"
"What about my happiness?" Mek shot back. "Or do I not get that anymore?"
Pete's father slammed his glass down. "This relationship is a disgrace."
Pete stood up, voice ice-cold. "Don't talk to him like that."
"Oh? And what are you going to do?" his father spat. "Throw away everything we built? For this charade?"
Pete smiled darkly. "Funny. I thought you were the one who threw it all away—when you taught me to hate who I was."
Silence.
Pete's mother looked like she might cry.
"Mek," his mom said softly, "I know you're a good person. But this? It's… too much. Too dangerous."
"Then don't look," Mek said. "But I'm not leaving him."
Mek's father stood too now, fist on the table. "You'd disobey us for him?"
And Pete—calm, cold, full mafia boyfriend mode—walked around the table.
He stood beside Mek. Hand in his.
"I'm not taking him from you," Pete said. "You are pushing him away with your own hate."
"You think you can protect him from the world?" Mek's dad barked. "From us?"
Pete smiled, but his eyes were war.
"I don't think. I promise."
---
After the Dinner
They sat in the car, both silent.
Mek stared out the window, breathing slow, like if he stopped, he'd cry.
Pete didn't say anything.
Just reached across the console and held Mek's hand.
"You okay?" Pete whispered.
"No," Mek whispered back. "But I will be."