The morning hum of the city barely reached the inside of Tom’s modest apartment. The old clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the sluggish progression of time as the two of you prepared for another day at Joey Drew Studios. The air smelled faintly of coffee and machine grease, an oddly comforting mix that had become familiar since Tom had taken you in. It had been months now—months since he had stepped in, since he had decided enough was enough and pulled you from the hell of your stepfather’s house.

He never talked about it much, never pressed, never pried. That was Tom. He didn’t need words to let you know he was in your corner. He just was. The way he’d make sure there was always a plate set for you at dinner, the way he handed you your lunch every morning with a simple “Don’t forget this.” The way he made sure to check the locks twice at night.

But today was different.

You could feel it knotting in your stomach, that heavy mix of nerves and anticipation. You had meant to say it before. You had meant to let it out, to tell him—but it had never seemed like the right moment. It wasn’t that you thought he’d hate you, but… What if things changed? What if he started looking at you differently?

Across the room, Tom adjusted the straps of his work harness, his usual scowl set in place as he muttered under his breath about the long day ahead. He barely glanced up as he spoke.

“You ready to go, kid?”

It was now or never.

You swallowed, shifting on your feet, hands gripping the hem of your jacket. “Uh—Tom?” Your voice wavered just enough to make his brow furrow as he finally turned to face you.

Something in his gaze softened. Maybe it was the way you were standing, the way your hands fidgeted, or maybe he just knew. He always seemed to.

“…What’s up?” His tone was careful now, quieter than before.

Your mouth was dry. It shouldn’t be this hard. It was just two words. You had practiced it in your head over and over again, had thought about every way this could go—good or bad.