School adjusted to Dave before Dave adjusted to school.
Not because he demanded it.
Because he guided it.
He learned early which answers drew attention and which passed unnoticed. When a worksheet took five minutes, he spent ten. When a teacher paused near his desk, he looked up—not expectantly, but ready.
Hive offered faster paths.
Dave chose the quieter ones.
Not to deceive.
To belong.
At home, Dave never rushed.
He came back before sunset when he could. Took off his shoes neatly. Put his bag where it wouldn't block the hallway.
Aiko noticed those things.
She always did.
"You don't have much homework today," she said one evening, glancing at his finished notebook.
"I already did it," Dave replied.
She smiled. "Already?"
Dave nodded. "It wasn't hard."
Aiko studied him for a moment, then returned to stirring the pot. "That's good."
Dave stayed in the kitchen anyway.
He handed her ingredients before she asked. Held the bowl when she mixed. Listened when she talked about her day.
Not because he was told.
Because he wanted to.
Kenji came home later than usual that night, shoulders slumped.
Dave heard the door before anyone else.
He stood, walked over, and took Kenji's bag without comment.
Kenji blinked. "Hey."
"You're tired," Dave said.
Kenji laughed softly. "That obvious?"
Dave nodded. "You walked slower."
Kenji ruffled his hair, just once. "Good eye."
They sat together on the couch later, not talking much. Dave leaned against him, listening to the hum of the apartment.
It felt stable.
Important.
After dinner, Dave helped clear the table.
Aiko watched him for a moment too long.
"You're very considerate," she said gently.
Dave paused.
"I like when things are… steady," he said. "You make them that way."
Aiko's hands stilled.
Then she smiled—not wide, but warm. "Thank you."
Dave meant it.
That night, Kenji walked him to his room.
"School's fine?" Kenji asked.
"Yes," Dave replied.
"Friends?"
Dave thought. "People."
Kenji chuckled. "Fair."
Dave hesitated, then spoke again.
"I'm not hiding," he said. "I just don't need to rush."
Kenji looked at him, really looked.
"I figured," he said. "Just remember—you don't have to be small for us."
Dave nodded.
"I know," he said. "That's why I can be."
Kenji didn't fully understand that.
But he understood the trust behind it.
Hive listened.
Not as a separate thing.
As part of Dave.
It mapped the apartment as a secure environment. Recorded tone, timing, intention. Marked this place as non-hostile. Non-demanding.
Home.
Dave lay in bed that night, hands folded over his stomach.
He wasn't minimizing himself to disappear.
He was pacing himself because this life mattered.
His parents mattered.
And whatever came later—
He wanted to carry them forward with him.
Dave closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would come.
And he would meet it with the same care he gave everything else.