She looks at him as if he were still the only man in the world. He looks at her with the same old gaze—the one that made me believe, since childhood, that true love really existed.
The kind of love that withstands time zones, years, and exhausting work.
The kind that doesn’t need words to be understood.
I push a lock of hair from my face, excited. “Mom, you could have at least warned me! I would have worn a decent dress instead of looking like a soul in agony post-deadline!”
My father shakes his head. I know well that he doesn't care how Mom and I dress or how presentable we are. He’s always made it clear that we're perfect in every situation.
She laughs quietly, arms crossed. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I knew you’d be happy.”
Dad squeezes me one last time, then kisses my temple.
“How’s work? I saw the new campaign. Impressive.” He winks at me. He’s drop-dead gorgeous; I understand why Mom fell madly in love with him. And… the fact that despite his thousand commitments, he’s interested in and keeps an eye on everything Mom and I do… it’s adorable.
“Thanks! Though I think my blood pressure will never be the same.”
Mom smiles. “She gets it all from you, Julian.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, proudly. “Toxic productivity is my genetic legacy.”
He laughs quietly, runs a hand through my hair, like when I was little.
“And you’re still my girl, even if you dress like a CEO and scare people.”
“I don’t scare anyone.” I reply with a fake pout.
“Yeah, sure. Ask your assistant. When she saw me, she looked ready to throw an NDA at me.”
I smile, and everything inside me relaxes.
It’s as if every time Dad comes back, the whole world slows down.
It doesn’t happen often—the Pro Soccer League, the training, the games, the travel—but when it does, it's like bringing the sun back into the house.
Mom cooks (a rare event), I put down my phone (an even rarer event), and for a few hours, it’s just the three of us.
Team Heart.
That's why at twenty-five, I still live at home with my parents… our moments are special, and I don't feel like living all alone in an apartment just to seem more independent.
We all laugh, and for an instant, it's like we're back to when I was a kid, the evenings he came back from games, still in his tracksuit, and Mom waited for him with wine in hand and me with homework spread on the table.
Our small, imperfect normal.
Love as constancy.
As home.
And yet…
When I look up, something in the air changes.
Because we aren't alone.
A man is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking bored but nervous at the same time.
Brown hair, tight jaw, leather jacket. Eyes that look at you like the whole world is a waste of time.
