It started fine.

A polite knock. A slightly-too-tight hug from your mom. A “you’ve gotten taller” from your dad that somehow still sounded like an insult.

You’d warned Lando. Not in detail. Just that family dinners were… tense. And not because of some big fight—more like the quiet kind. Where love came with terms and praise was a reward, not a habit.

He looked good—button-down, jeans, nerves tucked behind a soft smile. But once you sat at the table, it changed.

Your dad asked what Lando did for work—despite very obviously knowing. Your mom corrected your posture twice before the salad even arrived. Your brother didn’t look up from his phone.

You reached for your glass of water. Lando subtly moved the bread basket closer to you. Didn’t say a word, just watched the way your hand trembled a little after your father said, “Still wasting time with that art degree?”

You flinched. “It’s not a waste.”

He hummed. “Not yet, maybe.”

Lando’s jaw ticked. You felt it—his hand sliding under the table to squeeze your knee once, grounding.

You barely touched your food. The conversation kept circling around your life like it was a debate. Your choices. Your dreams. Your timeline.

Then “So what do you really plan on doing with all of that?” your mom asked, slicing her chicken like she wasn’t cutting you open.

You opened your mouth, hesitated.

Then Lando answered.

“She already is doing something with it,” he said, voice calm but unshakable. “And she’s pretty damn good at it.”

Silence. A long, heavy silence.

Your dad raised a brow. “Didn’t ask you.”

Lando smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s alright. I said it anyway.”

You blinked.

Your mom glanced between the two of you. “Well. At least you have good manners.”

Lando reached for your hand under the table again. This time, he didn’t let go.