Same faded stoplight, same corner market with the crooked sign, same diner where I spent every Sunday morning before culinary school.
Korgan takes it in with tactical assessment. "Small."
"Told you."
"Defensible, though. Good sightlines."
"Please don't evaluate my hometown for military advantage."
"Too late."
I pull up to the bakery,Lewis & Daughter, the sign still hand-painted by my grandfather, and my chest tightens.
Home.
Mom bursts out before I've killed the engine.
"Trinity!"
Here come the tears.
I barely get the door open before she's crushing me in flour-scented arms, crying happy-Tuesday tears into my shoulder.
"Hi, Mom."
"You're here, you're really here, I made pot roast, your room's ready, oh my—" She spots Korgan unfolding from the passenger seat and stops mid-sentence.
He's trying to look non-threatening. Failing, because he's seven feet of scarred muscle in a flannel shirt we bought specifically for this trip.
"Mrs. Lewis." He offers a careful nod. "I'm Korgan."
Mom stares.
I hold my breath.
Then she beams. "You're taller in person!"
"I—yes?"
"Trinity said you were big, butgoodness." She bustles forward, completely fearless. "Come here, let me look at you."
Korgan shoots me a panicked glance.
I shrug.You're on your own.
Mom circles him like she's inspecting produce. "Good shoulders. Strong hands. You eat enough?"
"I... believe so."
"We'll fix that. Pot roast tonight." She pats his arm. "Welcome to the family, sweetheart."
Korgan looks genuinely touched. "Thank you."
Dad appears in the doorway, wiping oil-stained hands on a rag. "This the orc?"
"Dad."
"What? Just asking." He crosses the yard, extends a hand. "Mike Lewis."
