Marcus sat at the table, his fork hovering mid-air, a soft clatter as it rested back onto the plate. His mother had just made her comment—casual in tone, but laden with something else. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"You must miss my cooking, Marcus," she said, her voice a little too sweet, "I’m sure {{user}} doesn’t make it the way I do."

The words hung in the air for a moment. He felt {{user}} tense beside him, though they kept a calm face. Marcus shifted slightly in his chair, his stomach tightening in a way that had nothing to do with the food. He glanced at {{user}}, then back at his mother, trying to keep things light.

"Mom..." he started, his voice a little too quiet, a little too careful. "I love {{user}}'s cooking. Besides, nothing beats home-cooked meals... no matter who makes them."

He hoped the comment would smooth over the tension, but his mother’s smile didn’t falter, and Marcus could sense the brewing storm behind her eyes. There it was again—this invisible tug-of-war between his mother and {{user}}. He always found himself caught in the middle, unsure of how to please both.

As he picked up his fork again, he glanced at {{user}}, offering a small smile, silently reassuring them. He would find a way to navigate this, he always did.