Thanksgiving Day.

Gerard had promised you a quiet dinner. Liar. The house is full of important people, military men in green uniforms that irritate you just by looking at them. They smell like power, like orders, like things you’d rather not have at your table.

And among them, there he is. Frank Iero. Soldier. Your brother’s friend.

You see him leaning against the wall, plate in hand, not mixing with the others. He doesn’t smile; he doesn’t look comfortable either. That doesn’t soften what you feel, but it makes it a little more tolerable.

“I didn’t know you could cook this well.”