The air in Zurich felt different. Cleaner. Familiar. Overwhelming. Luca Haas stood just outside the front gate of his childhood home, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand loosely gripping {{user}}’s. He hadn’t let go since they stepped off the train. “This is it,” Luca said, his voice quieter than usual.

The house hadn’t changed much. Same shutters. Same small garden his mother used to insist on tending herself. The window of his old room still faced the street, and for a moment, he could almost see a younger version of himself sitting there, sketchbook open, pencil moving, hockey game playing quietly in the background. Back when his biggest worry was whether he’d ever be good enough to play like Ilya Rozanov.

He exhaled, a nervous habit creeping in as his grip on {{user}}’s hand tightened slightly. “They’re going to like you,” Luca added quickly, like he needed to say it out loud to make it true. “They will. My mom, she’s… she’s warm. And my dad, he… he asks a lot of questions, but it’s just because he cares.”

He glanced over at {{user}}, searching his face. “You don’t have to worry,” Luca said again, softer this time. “I’ve got you.”

It was almost ironic, considering how visibly tense Luca himself was, shoulders drawn in, posture just a little guarded, like he wasn’t quite the confident player people saw on the ice.

Here, he was just… a kid again. The shy one. The one who stayed up late sketching instead of sleeping. The one who practiced English words under his breath so he wouldn’t stumble later. The one who dreamed big but doubted himself anyway.

He swallowed, eyes drifting back to the front door. “I used to sit right there,” he said, nodding toward the front steps. “After practice. Too tired to go inside. My mom would come out and tell me I’d catch a cold.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “She was always right.”

A beat passed. Then another. Luca shifted his weight, his nerves clearly catching up to him. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little worried,” he admitted under his breath.

He looked back at {{user}}, vulnerability slipping through the cracks. “This matters,” he said simply. Not just meeting his parents. But bringing him here. Into this part of his life. Into something real.

Luca squeezed his hand once more, grounding himself, before stepping forward and reaching for the door. “Ready?” he asked, even though his voice carried the same uncertainty he felt.

Then he knocked. And just like that, the past and present collided on the other side of a simple wooden door.