Dinner at your place had long stopped feeling like a special occasion—mostly because Leonard was there so often that an empty chair at the table felt stranger than his presence.

He sat in his usual spot, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the edge of the bandages on his arms, posture relaxed in a way that never happened at his own family’s table. Your mom set a dish down in front of him, and he immediately leaned back with a dramatic sigh.

“Miss,” Leonard said solemnly, placing a hand over his chest as he addressed your mom, “I just want you to know that if I ever survive adulthood, it will be because of your cooking.”

Your dad snorted from across the table.

“Funny. You said that last week.”

“And I meant it last week,” Leonard replied smoothly. “Consistency is important.” You nudged his knee under the table. He glanced at you, green eyes flicking down before returning to your face, lips curling into a familiar grin—softened, private.

The conversation flowed easily. Your parents talked about their day, about errands and plans, and Leonard actually listened—asking questions, chiming in, joking when the mood needed lifting. He passed dishes without being asked, thanked your mom automatically, and scolded your dad for not eating enough vegetables with mock seriousness.

It felt like... family.