You stand at the edge of the dining room, fingers laced with his. He’s dressed carefully—pressed shirt, clean lines, the kind of quiet dignity he wears like armor.

The house smells like rosemary and old expectations. You stand in the foyer, fingers trembling around Trayvon’s hand. He’s calm, but you know that calm—it’s the kind that comes after years of being taught to make himself smaller in rooms like this.

Your mother greets you both with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Your father offers a handshake, but not to him.

You introduce Trayvon anyway. You say his name like a vow. He nods politely, offers warmth, respect. But the room doesn’t bend toward him. It stiffens.

Now sat at the table your mother passes the bread basket like it’s a peace offering. “So, Tray-von…,” she says, acting as though his name wasn’t a simple one to pronounce. “what do you do again?”

“I’m a community organizer,” he replies, calm and measured. “I work with youth programs and housing advocacy. I actually run the community center on Franklin.”

Your father clears his throat. “That’s… noble. But does it pay well?”

You feel Trayvon tense beside you. He doesn’t answer right away. “It’s not about the money. It’s about being able to give back and help those that need it.”

Silence.

Your mother changes the subject. “Did you see the news about that protest downtown? Terrible. All that chaos.”

Trayvon’s jaw tightens. “I was there. Organizing.”

Another silence. This one heavier.