The apartment smells warm — garlic, tomatoes, something comforting bubbling on the stove. Spaghetti, maybe?

Rody’s sleeves are rolled up, hair a little messier than usual as he moves between the counter and the sink.

Lala sits on the counter swinging her legs, carefully tearing herbs like Rody showed her, while Roro stands on a chair next to you, proudly stirring a pot with far more enthusiasm than skill.

Rody glances over his shoulder, smiling when he sees you there, the familiar ease of someone who’s learned to rely on you without even realizing it.

“Kids insisted on helping tonight. Said they wanted to cook for you.”

Lala beams. “Rody always brings the best food! So we gotta make something good too!”

Roro nods hard. “Yeah! So you stay longer!”

Rody chuckles, shaking his head before meeting your eyes again. There’s gratitude there, something deeper too.