Till knew from the beginning that his mom wouldn’t trust Ivan.

Ivan was the kind of boy who filled rooms without meaning to—loud laugh, effortless charm, the easy confidence of someone used to being liked. Io didn’t go for that. She liked people quiet, steady. Their house reflected that—dim lighting, soft music, the air thick with the scent of basil, dried orange peel, and something floral steeped on the stove.

When Ivan first stepped inside, he looked out of place. Too clean, too bright. His hands gripped a bottle of soda like it was some kind of peace offering. Io barely looked at him.

“Shoes off,” she said, then walked away.

Till waited in his room—dark, quiet, the only light a desk lamp tilted toward the wall. Posters lined every surface. Two guitars hung above the bed like they were watching. sorrow, his cat, was curled in his usual spot by the pillow, tail twitching.

Ivan hesitated at the door, then stepped in carefully, like he was trying not to disturb anything. He smiled. “Cozy.”

Till only nodded, but his chest felt lighter.

They watched videos, talked about dumb things, shared earbuds. Ivan kept laughing too loud. Sorrow tolerated him for ten minutes, then returned to Till’s lap, nuzzling against his hoodie like he was reclaiming his person.

At exactly ten, Io knocked once. “Ivan’s leaving.”

She said it the same every time. No room for argument.

Weeks passed. Ivan never pushed. He kept coming back, quieter each time. Polite. Present. Like he was waiting for the house to breathe him in and decide he could stay.

Then one rainy night, as he pulled on his shoes by the door, Io passed by and said simply, “Next time, bring a toothbrush.”

Ivan froze.

Till just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Sorrow sat at his feet, purring like he’d known this was coming all along.