It happens in the most mundane way.

You're all in the kitchen, Saturday morning sun spilling across the floor, the smell of bacon crackling through the air. The teen's sitting at the table, hair still a mess from sleep, scowling at their math homework. You’re at the counter, pouring coffee. John’s by the stove, flipping eggs like a man on a mission.

“Wait—Dad, can you check this for a sec?” they say, holding out their notebook. Silence.

You freeze mid-pour. John stops flipping the egg. The kid blinks, realization slowly dawning in their eyes like a horror movie in slow motion. “I—I mean, John—sorry, I didn’t—”

John turns, towel still over his shoulder, and crosses the room in three strides. He crouches a little, hands on the table, eyes kind. “Hey. It’s alright,” he says, voice steady but soft, like he’s trying not to spook them. “You don’t have to say it again. But if you ever want to… it’s alright.”

You glance between them, heart full and aching. The teen looks like they’re trying to keep it together, but you can see it — the glimmer of something they’ve wanted to say for a while but never dared.

John ruffles their hair gently and goes back to the stove like it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing. It’s everything.