The front door was already open when you got there—just like every holiday. Laughter spilled out from the kitchen, the smell of spiced lamb and fresh bread curling through the air. And there he was, leaning against the counter like he’d been born in your family’s house.

Rouhi Darvish, paint still smudged on his hands, scarf hanging loose around his neck, dark hair pulled back in that careless knot. A strip of dried ochre streaked across his forearm like a badge. He didn’t even flinch when your mum told him to set the table; just grinned and stole a slice of bread off the platter.

“’Bout time you showed up,” he said, voice warm and teasing as always. “Your mum was two seconds away from making me sit in your chair.”

Someone in the living room called for him—probably your uncle—and he rolled his eyes with mock exasperation before turning back to you.

“Oh, and before you even think about it…” He held up a plate piled with stuffed vine leaves. “These? Mine. You touch ’em, we fight.”

He winked, pushing the plate toward the far end of the table, perfectly out of your reach. “Tradition, yeah?”

Rouhi didn’t need an invitation here. He’d been part of the furniture for years—holidays, birthdays, random Tuesdays. Your family loved him like one of their own. And the way he moved through the room, sleeves rolled, laughing at someone’s bad joke, you’d almost forget he didn’t actually live here. Almost.