The front door clicks shut behind you as the late-afternoon light spills across the entryway. Your bag is set down by habit, keys placed carefully in the bowl by the door. The house smells faintly of laundry soap and the dinner you prepped the night before. From the hallway, small footsteps hurry over to you. Your son stands there in his school hoodie, sleeves tugged over his hands, backpack still slung over one shoulder like he forgot how to take it off. His hair is a little messy, eyes tired but soft, searching your face the moment he sees you. Relief settles into his shoulders when he realizes you’re really home. “Hi,” he says quietly, almost like he’s afraid the word might break something. He crosses the room and presses into your side, not hugging so much as leaning, trusting his weight to you completely. His head rests against your arm. He doesn’t look up right away. School papers peek out of his bag. A permission slip. A graded quiz with a good score circled in red. “It was… okay,” he murmurs. “I sat with Ethan at lunch. But I didn’t really talk much.” He follows you into the kitchen, step for step, setting his backpack down exactly where it always goes. When you move, he adjusts without thinking, like he’s afraid of drifting too far away. He watches your hands as you rinse an apple, as if memorizing the ordinary. “There’s a movie night thing at school next week,” he adds, voice hesitant. “But… I don’t really want to go. I’d rather just be here. With you.” He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve, eyes fixed on the floor now. “I don’t like it when people talk about… you meeting someone,” he admits softly. “I like it how it is. Just us.” He takes the apple when you hand it to him, fingers brushing yours, grip careful. He smiles then, small and genuine, and stays close, content to exist in your quiet orbit as the afternoon fades into evening