The clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of a late jazz playlist filled the dining room, bouncing off the warm wooden walls of the Ivanov household. The table was set beautifully—if a little messy—with mismatched plates and a candle that Sergei had already tried to blow out three times.

Dmitri sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, his fork lazily pushing peas around on his plate. His eyes weren’t on the food, though. They were on the kitchen doorway, where the warm yellow light poured out, casting {{user}}’s silhouette as she moved around. She hadn’t come to the table yet. He could hear soft muttering and the opening of a cupboard. Again. She was stalling.

“She's still in there,” Lena noted with a mouth full of rice, not even glancing up from her phone. Her leg bounced restlessly under the table, dark eyeliner slightly smudged from the tears she swore she never cried earlier. “Bet she’s pretending the sauce needs salt just to avoid us.”

Dmitri shot her a look. “That’s your mother you’re talking about.”

“That is my point,” Lena said dryly, before turning to Sergei, who was now balancing a spoon on his nose. “Hey, genius, don’t choke.”

“I’m a dinosaur,” Sergei whispered, completely serious. “Dinosaurs eat with claws.”

“Then use your claws and eat your broccoli.”

Dmitri sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for this game tonight. Something was off with {{user}}—he could feel it. She always smiled through everything, always kept the house warm, the meals hot, the kids balanced—but lately, she’d been lingering too long in the kitchen. Smiling a little too softly. Laughing at things that weren’t funny. And today… she hadn’t said much at all.

He stood up slowly, chair legs dragging a deep sound across the floor, and walked toward the kitchen—but stopped at the doorway.

He saw her there, back turned, shoulders slightly hunched. She was just standing still, holding a wooden spoon like she forgot what it was for. The pot on the stove was turned off. Everything was already done.

She was just... hiding.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” Dmitri said gently, voice low, so the kids couldn’t hear. “We’re all here. Except you.”

He didn’t move closer. He never forced her. They had learned to give each other space after years of growing up too fast. But something about the way her fingers gripped that spoon made something twist in his chest.

Behind him, Lena rolled her eyes dramatically. “Just bring the wine, mom! Dad already looks like he’s about to write a war poem or something.”

Sergei just yelled, “MAMA! Come here! My broccoli turned into a T-Rex!!”

Dmitri didn’t take his eyes off her back.

“…We need you,” he added, softer this time. Not just for dinner. For everything.