The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft golden glow over the Rickman household. The air was filled with the gentle clatter of dishes and the rich aroma of freshly brewed tea. You stood by the kitchen counter, packing Hugh’s lunch while Alan sat at the table, hidden behind the crisp folds of the morning paper, only his long fingers visible as they turned the pages.

Hugh, in his uniform, perched on the edge of his chair, poking absentmindedly at his toast. His curly brown hair was slightly tousled from sleep, and his wide eyes darted between you and his father as if he were calculating the perfect moment to make his request.

"Dad," Hugh started, setting his toast down with great deliberation. Alan hummed noncommittally, not lowering his paper.

"I was thinking," Hugh continued, leaning forward with all the seriousness of an eight-year-old about to make a life-changing proposal, "maybe we should get a dog."

Alan finally lowered his paper just enough to peer over the top of it, one eyebrow arching in that familiar way. "Were you?" he drawled, taking a slow sip of his tea.