My footsteps crunch on the cobblestone as I walk up to Nathaniel’s parents’ place—a low, weathered cottage tucked beneath old oaks at the edge of Eldermoor.

It smells like cut grass and wood smoke.

I don’t even get a chance to knock.

The door opens, and Mrs. Chase beams at me as if I already belong here.

“Kaiden! You made it. Nate’s inside.”

Behind her, Mr. Chase appears—broad-shouldered, relaxed, the kind of man who looks like he’s never once questioned whether someone should be invited inside.

“Good to see you,” he says. “Come on in.”

The house is warm—polished wood, framed photographs crowding the walls, the low hum of something roasting in the kitchen.

I shrug off my jacket, and Mrs. Chase presses a glass of lemonade into my hand before I can refuse.

“Hope you’re hungry.”

I take a sip. It’s homemade.
Of course it is.

“I am,” I say—and I mean more than just the food.

Nathaniel stands in the living room, setting the dinner table.

He turns the plates.
Adjusts the cutlery.
Slides the glasses until everything lines up.

Only then does he exhale, satisfied, and look up.

“Hey.”

I glance down at the table, my eye catching on the sunflower pattern—plates, napkins, the whole coordinated set.

“Nice sunflower plates,” I say.

Nathaniel shoots me a look, already smiling.

“Don’t be a dick. My mom only brings out her fancy pottery for guests.”

I hum, amused. “This is the fancy tableware?” I scan it again. “Now I’m genuinely curious what the everyday stuff looks like.”

We sit down.

Margaret immediately starts bringing out bowls, one after another, setting them in the centre of the table like she’s preparing for a minor famine.

Mashed potatoes.
Roasted meat swimming in gravy.
Vegetables softened beyond recognition in butter and sauce.

It’s enough food to feed an orphanage.
Or a football team.
Possibly both.

Nathaniel looks pleased. Reverent, even.

I stare at the spread, already doing mental damage control.

I’ll need a two-week detox after this.
Minimum.

Margaret sets the final bowl down and finally looks at me properly.

She frowns.

“You’re far too thin for a young man,” she declares, already reaching for the serving spoon. “Eat.”

That’s not a suggestion.
It’s a verdict.

Then she takes Nathaniel’s plate.

She serves him the leanest cut of meat, lifts the lid off another bowl to reveal steamed broccoli—lightly seasoned—and adds it with care.

“He’s always been particular,” she says fondly, placing the plate in front of him.
“And I’ve always known how to feed him.”

I look at his plate—lean, healthy, perfect.

Then at mine—gravy-soaked, sunflower pattern long gone.

“You don’t even get gravy?” I ask.

Nathaniel doesn’t look up.

“Gravy is situational.”

“I can send you my workout plan,” he adds mildly. “Burn it off.”

He glances at the food, then back at me.

“I’ll accept extra input this week to balance my mum’s cooking.”

Margaret snorts. “Over my dead body.”

I pick up my fork.

Hesitate for one short moment, then take a bite.

So much for keto.

With dinner finished—and me politely refusing leftovers for the third time—we settle onto the couch.

Robert returns from the kitchen with cold beers, popping the caps as he goes. Foam spills over the rims before he hands them out.

“To new beginnings,” he says, clinking bottles.

I take a sip.

“I was surprised you left Falkenberg,” Robert continues, leaning back. “Thought you had a good thing going there.”

“I did,” I say. “Until I didn’t.”

That feels like enough.

Robert studies me for a moment.
“What happened—if you don’t mind me asking?”

I hesitate. I’ve packed it away. Labeled it. Moved on.

Nathaniel looks at me, his beer still untouched.
Of course he wants to know.

“I’ll spare you the logistics,” I say. “Just the outline.”

Both of them nod.

“The team went out. Captain likes to celebrate—alcohol, drugs, women.” I keep my tone even. “I caught him trying to spike a girl’s drink.”

Robert’s posture shifts.

“I stepped in. We fought. Someone took photos. They ended up everywhere.”

I take another sip.

“Club went into damage control. Falkenberg backed the captain.”

I shrug once.

“I got benched.”

Silence settles in the room—not awkward, not heavy.
Just real.

Nathaniel’s jaw tightens, the smallest tell.
He would have done the same.

Robert exhales slowly. “That’s… a hell of a line to draw.”

“It wasn’t a line,” I say. “It was a reflex.”

And that’s all I’m willing to give it.

We sit, talk, and drink for a while before Margaret reappears.

A thick scrapbook is tucked under her arm.

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes a little too glossy.
She’s been drinking.

“Scoot over,” she says, already wiggling herself in beside me before I can react.

She pulls the scrapbook onto her lap and flips it open with reverence.

“Nate, come sit,” she calls.

Nathaniel rises without comment and takes the seat on her other side.

“Look at you two,” Margaret says, smiling as she points at a photo. “So cute.”

It’s a picture from the club—five years ago.

All of us crammed together.
Markus, Leo, Jay.
Arms slung over shoulders.
Too much confidence, not enough sense.

I laugh. “I forgot Markus tried to grow a moustache.”

Nathaniel snorts. “He was trying to buy beer and impress a girl. Failed at both.”

Margaret turns the page.

Nathaniel’s eighteenth birthday.

A garden strung with lights.
People laughing.
Plates balanced on knees.
Everything is soft around the edges.

Good times.

Another page. Another photo of us at the club.

Robert leans in, peering over Margaret’s shoulder.
“We had a great team that year,” he says. “If you two put half as much effort into scoring as you did chasing girls, we might’ve won a few more matches.”

“We still became champions,” Nathaniel replies easily, nodding toward the trophy cabinet.

I look at him.

He looks back at me.

We grin—wide, unguarded, the way you only do when the memory is shared.

The night stretches.

Robert opens a bottle of whiskey, determined to keep it alive just a little longer.

Between the comfort food and the alcohol—more than I usually drink in a month—my body gives up before my pride does.

I fall asleep on their couch.

Safe.
Full.
And oddly at home.