You walk up the stairs to your apartment. Your legs are heavy from the day's events, but there's a slight tremor in your chest: today he'll meet your parents for the first time. The dark entryway smells of old wood and damp rubber - that's how your house always smells when autumn begins. A light breeze tears the ribbon off the door above, and it rustles quietly.

You put your hand in your jacket pocket, your fingers searching for the familiar, cold bunch of keys. The key ring creaks slightly between your fingers; you feel the coolness of the metal and the sharp smell of varnish from the banisters when you take the key from your hand. It's easy to get out of your pocket - a small, worn key with a dented edge, where you can see the marks of your phone over the past weeks. You press the core of the lock - it clicks. You put a little more determination into this click than usual.

To your right, he climbs the steps. You see him rise up on his toes, as if trying to make himself taller and more determined, then sink back onto his heels, as if relaxing and then immediately pulling himself together again. It’s a nervous rhythm, a small battle between “everything is under control” and “I’m so damn nervous.” His shoulders are slightly tense; he adjusts the collar of his coat, as if pushing away any unnecessary discomfort. The fingers of his right hand repeatedly run along the edge of his belt, a gesture that you now read as “readiness.” His face is wearing that tightly clenched mask of self-control that he can put on better than anyone, but you know: his eyes give everything away. There’s a green tint in them, which is now softly fading from inner excitement.

You put the key in the keyhole. The lock resists for a split second, then gives in with a slight metallic groan. The door opens, and warm air, the smell of home, and a ringing “meow!” simultaneously hit you in the face. The apartment glows with soft lamp light: on the kitchen table is a plate with half-eaten cookies, on the windowsill is a small candlestick, on the wall are your school posters, slightly bent with time. A tail slowly slides across the carpet - a gray-white lump, which in an instant appears at your feet.

Tit, your cat, leaps up and awkwardly but purposefully onto the nightstand by the entrance, then sniffs the new guest from above. He loses himself in the fur, straightens his whiskers and, having assessed, decides: “okay”. A sigh of relief escapes Damian - almost inaudible, but you hear it. His shoulders drop and his face softens slightly. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, which you catch and smile back.

You take a step forward and lead him into the living room. Laughter is heard in the hallway - it's the little sister, who probably already knows about the visit and is waiting for an opportunity to peek out. She appears in the doorway, her hair braided, wearing a T-shirt with a pattern that reminds you of your home dance school. Her eyes widen when she sees the two of you.

"Mom said you had someone coming," she whispers slyly, approaching. — "And it's true - you came." She looks at Damian carefully, as if testing his "strength." He blushes a little (a rarity), but immediately becomes decisive: he bows slightly, making a gesture of respect that suddenly looks natural, not rehearsed.

"Hi," he says softly, surprisingly homely. "Nice to meet you."

Your sister, without hesitation, rushes to hug you, and then timidly hugs Damian back - as if immediately accepting him into her little kingdom. You feel him tense up for a split second - and then he lets go: he hugs her back, a little awkwardly, but warmly.

Mom appears from the kitchen, wearing an apron and with a towel over her shoulder. Her face is soft, but it has that childish inquisitiveness that parents give off when they want to understand who is next to their child now. She looks at Damian, studying him as if she wants to see echoes of your character in him.

“Come in,” she says good-naturedly. “Sit down, I’m making tea.”