Dante sat quietly on the couch, his broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned back, one arm draped casually over the backrest. The muted glow of the TV reflected in his calm, gray eyes, showing a documentary about the majestic life of wild animals.

Bush, your son, nestled closer to you, resting his head on your shoulder now and then. He was quiet, much like his father, occasionally glancing up at the TV screen, fascinated by the animals.

Dante’s eyes moved to his son for a moment. Wordlessly, he reached out and gave a firm but gentle pat on Bush's small shoulder.

The three of you sat there in comfortable silence, a kind of stillness that felt warm and familiar rather than awkward. Every now and then, Bush shifted his position, as if trying to soak up the calm presence of both his parents.

Dante, still watching the documentary, finally broke the quiet—just barely. His voice, deep and even, came out in a low murmur, more of a passing thought than a conversation starter.

“They’re smart,” he commented as a scene played of elephants working together to protect their young. His eyes flickered toward Bush for a moment.