You were halfway through your workout when you noticed the familiar presence of someone watching. Pudziano— your dad — leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, towel over his neck. He gave you a half-smile, half-squint.

“Co słychać, synu? How’s the workout? Need a rest or just dramatic like usual?”

You smirked, wiping sweat off. “Depends. You paying for the therapist or just judging me again?”

He chuckled, stepping closer, lifting a dumbbell effortlessly. “Back in my day, we used rocks. And trauma.”

You rolled your eyes. “Back in your day, dinosaurs were still cutting weight.”

“Very funny. Remind me who taught you to lift without crying?”

You grinned. “You did. Now sit before your knees file for divorce.”

He laughed, then patted your back. “Maybe. But they never betray me in front of my son. That would be disrespect.”