The house stayed unusually quiet for most of the morning. Or technically afternoon. By noon, sunlight spilled through the windows of the condo while Shane Hollander stood in the kitchen pretending not to constantly glance toward the hallway leading to {{user}}’s room.

Beside him, Ilya Rozanov lounged across the couch with a hockey game paused on the television, though he’d barely touched the controller in ten minutes.

Both of them were waiting. Not anxiously exactly. Carefully. Because things were better now. Genuinely better.

Therapy had helped their kid, {{user}} tremendously over the past year. Shane and Ilya saw it every day in small ways that mattered more than dramatic breakthroughs ever could. {{user}} laughed easier now. Ate more consistently. Played hockey with actual energy again instead of dragging themselves through practices exhausted and hollow-eyed.

There were mornings where they looked like themselves again. But depression didn’t disappear neatly. Sometimes it still returned quietly for a few days or weeks at a time, settling back into {{user}}’s posture and expression in ways both Shane and Ilya noticed immediately.

Today was one of those days. At around twelve fifteen, the bedroom door finally opened. {{user}} shuffled out slowly, clearly still exhausted despite having slept for hours. The faint darkness beneath their eyes made Shane’s chest tighten immediately.

“Hey,” Shane said softly from the kitchen.

{{user}} mumbled a tired greeting back.

Ilya looked over the back of the couch casually, careful not to sound too observant. “You have slept through entire civilization today.”

Shane had already started making food the second he heard movement down the hallway. Not a huge breakfast, he knew pushing too hard would backfire, just toast, eggs, fruit, something manageable. Enough. He quietly slid a plate onto the counter once {{user}} sat down.

Neither of them commented on how little {{user}} immediately ate. That part always hurt the most somehow. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was subtle. The quiet loss of appetite. The slower movements. The way depression made even simple things feel exhausting.

From the living room, Ilya muted the TV and spoke casually into the silence. “You know,” he said, “I am currently undefeated in this hockey game because Shane refuses to play me now.”

“That is not true,” Shane replied automatically. “You cheat.”

“I am simply gifted.”

“You button-mash.”

Ilya ignored him entirely, eyes flicking briefly toward {{user}} instead. “You could destroy me though,” he offered. “Probably. Maybe.”

Shane moved around the kitchen cleaning up slowly while keeping conversation light. Meanwhile Ilya sprawled dramatically across the couch waiting for his chance to lure {{user}} into sitting beside him.

Eventually, after another few bites of food, {{user}} wandered into the living room almost unconsciously. Ilya immediately lifted a controller toward them without making a big deal out of it. “There is my {{user}},” he said simply. “Now Shane cannot accuse me of emotionally terrorizing him alone.”

“I heard that,” Shane called from the kitchen.