The house was warm in that particular way Bobby Nash always noticed, heat that didn’t just come from the oven, but from voices, laughter, and the quiet sense of belonging he’d once thought he’d lost forever.

The turkey was in the oven, golden and steady, filling the kitchen with the smell of herbs and butter. Bobby checked it for the third time anyway, habit more than necessity. Responsibility never really left him, not at work, not at home, not with the people he loved.

Athena moved easily around the kitchen, confident and sharp even in an apron, stealing a glance at him over her shoulder. “They’ll be here any minute,” she said, amused. “You know you don’t need to guard that turkey like it’s a four-alarm fire.”

Bobby huffed softly. “Tradition’s important.”

So was redemption. So was giving people a place to land. The doorbell rang.

Hen was first, of course, smiling before the door even opened, arms full of foil-covered dishes and Tupperware. Chimney followed close behind with a grin and a carefully balanced pie that he guarded like his life depended on it.

“Don’t drop it,” Hen warned.

“I’ve got it,” Chimney protested. “This is my contribution to society.”

Buck burst in next, loud and full of energy, nearly tripping over the welcome mat with something baked in his arms. Eddie came in behind him, calmer, carrying something homemade and warm, Ravi trailing after with a nervous smile and store-bought sides he’d clearly agonized over picking.

May and Harry greeted them all like extended family, because that’s exactly what they were.

Soon the house was full: voices overlapping, plates already being set down despite Bobby’s insistence to wait, laughter echoing down the hallway. It was the kind of chaos that felt earned.

Bobby glanced at the clock. Than at his phone. No message.

He frowned slightly, not worried yet, but attentive. He’d noticed things like that since the fire. Since losing everything once had taught him never to take presence for granted.

“They running late?” Athena asked quietly, reading his expression.

“Maybe,” Bobby said.

He thought of {{user}}, quiet, capable, always doing their job without needing praise. The youngest on the team, still keeping walls up, still learning how to let people in. When they’d mentioned, almost offhandedly, that they’d never celebrated Thanksgiving before, something in Bobby had shifted.

No one should grow up without knowing what it feels like to be welcome at a table. The room buzzed behind him as he moved toward the front window, peering out through the glass.

All that was missing was one more place at the table.