Adrian's first few days home were comfortable in the way only childhood homes could be—familiar rhythms, known routines, the safety of being surrounded by people who'd loved him before he'd done anything to earn it.
His mother was warmly supportive, asking gentle questions about Dante over morning coffee, clearly delighted to see Adrian happy in a way he hadn't been in years.
His father was... politely distant.
Not hostile. Not rejecting. Just carefully neutral, like he was observing from a safe distance, waiting to form his final opinion.
Day three arrived with a family dinner—pot roast again, his mother's default comfort meal. They ate in relative silence, the clink of silverware against plates filling the gaps in conversation.
Finally, his father set down his fork and cleared his throat.
"So. You and the Morrison boy."
Adrian tensed immediately, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "Me and Dante, yes."
"Your mother tells me you're serious."
"We are."
